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Mastering the Art of Misandry

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I am not a strident misandrist, just a mild-mannered one….and this is interesting and something you can’t see but my misogynistic spell check puts a squiggly red line under this word that means MAN-HATER as though it shouldn’t exist even after I checked the spelling. WTF? Yes, I am going to go there and point it out, with my gnarly witch’s finger in yo face, Mr. Man: There’s a few eloquent and sexy words in the thesaurus for a misogynist, like retro 70s Norman Lear sitcom term “chauvinist” and “chauvinistic pig” (sounds delicious, like a French-fusion luau!)  and the definition in the dictionary is  “a woman hater, prolly because she deserves it .” I had to google up the word “misandrist” because I had always thought man-hater was “misanthrope” which does means “the hatred of men” but specifically in the collective sense of the word “men” (Sweet motherfucking Sowpods, why is our language so impoverished?), as in ALL the peeps; peen, vag, peen/vag combo, double peen, vag with a side of peen, gender fluidity united!  But! The word that would be to hate men exclusively barely even exists! You have to find it on Yahoo Answers and even then you get a bunch of confused answers. So the word ‘misandrist” was suggested by the only the very few scholarly non-fapping interwebbers and it means, according to the dictionary from my beloved MacBook launchpad: “a man hater, by a woman, as in her brand of feminism is just poorly disguised misandry.”  Really.  So, simply put, a misandrist is a dumb bitch man-hater with a skewed belief system and a misogynist is the man who rightfully gets to hate her.

I’m definitely not a misanthrope, you know this to be a true fact if you follow this blog, I enjoy the foibles and follies of modern hoi poloi, but, as you also know, I don’t suffer a fool, particularly with one with a peen. However, most of my depredation of humankind has been that I am mean about other women (her eyes are too close together! I don’t think she can make scalloped potatoes as good as mine!) because I’m biologically competitive, for what? Sperm, apparently. I didn’t make this up, there are studies about this “catty” behaviour, women have to put each other down for some survival of the fittest to see who gets their eggs fertilized by Dirk Diggler for the greater good of keeping humanity bumbling along on the assembly line. Women are our own worst enemies, with each other and ourselves, which this is why, by the way, photoshop exists. We, the bitches of market research, made it happen as consumers of both dick and cellulite cream. We pointed out our perceived flaws out to the men and by doing so, gave them the power to judge. Whereas if we played our cards right, and said nothing while we ate everything, they wouldn’t give shit what we looked like at we’d all be happy, laughing and hanging out at the Dairy Queen. Misogyny is rampant amongst us all, not just men. That’s a hard pill to swallow, especially if you’re like me and you have a daughter you need to guide into the world so she doesn’t get dick- swatted by the wayside. Thank the goddesses of yonic power (surprise, spellcheck hates that one too!) she is smarter than me. She is the new generation of feminism who doesn’t do duck-face selfies and best of all, they stick together and don’t let dudes get away with anything.

I’m ashamed about all that fellow female-bashing skulduggery in my past now that I am enlightened by modern girl power (and all my eggs are spent and fried so it’s not my place to snark). Presently, I have zero ovum to give, so this sperm fishing is just a sport for me, for what? Trophy, apparently. And a side order of sausage, just for snacks. I can swallow that, quite easily. It’s actually empowering to be an old bat who gives herself permission not to care, nobody really tells that the world is your oyster when you stop giving a shit, especially not those Madison Avenue tricksters who put the fear in you that your natural aging process needs to be nipped in the bud. Oh,wait a minute, you say, what about the Dove Real Beauty campaign that celebrates women of all shapes, sizes, cultures, and age? Sorry, sister, that’s just a bunch of men selling us soap, feeding the women what they told them in a focus group the crap they want to hear. Don’t kid yourself, the people who run Unilever are all largely a bunch of dudes blithely taking your money in typical white corpordick  fashion while bamboozling you to believe the guntification of your muffin top and your wretched, sun splotched face is “beautiful” because deep down you don’t buy at it all, ummm, which is why you’re still sucking it in with $49 Spanx and smoothing it out with $300 Botox.

And while I  don’t *hate* the menfolk, per se,  I do sometimes think: What a waste of space. They always get in the way and ruin everything. Their constant need to butt-in in traffic, just so they can get to the red light first, is a metaphor for how they navigate their way through life: Me first, move bitch, coming through. Then they die sooner. And reincarnate faster, and the cycle continues except the next life, they come back as women and make fools of us all. Again. It’s amazing.

Scene: An indoor pool in a gym, roped into 4 individual lanes for lap swimming. Each of these lanes are occupied by 4 women doing the breast stroke or crawl in a civilized manner, one just had her hair did so she’s floating on a pool noodle, kicking her elegant legs like a mermaid, calming gentle waves soothe like a haiku poem. Then, out of nowhere, a big ugly hairy dude with goggles and fins on his feet jumps in one of the lanes, giving no consideration to the woman already occupying the lane and certainly giving zero fucks when he is “swimming” or whatever hirsute manatees do in the water, that he creates tsunami/undertow disaster combo over the entire pool, ruining the whole natural zen of the adult lane swim experience.  One lady gets water up her nose and chokes, the mermaid gets her hair ruined, and another gets flustered and loses her lap count and disappears into the drain, never to be heard from again. And the woman “sharing” a  lane with Fatfuck McNeptune writes a complaint letter to the management of said gym, stating that the lanes need to be reserved, only to fall on deaf ears because “that’s too complicated to enforce blahblahblah”  so she writes a drunken blog post rant instead, like the righteous misandrist that she is but spellcheck won’t validate. Fuckers. True story.  It might be  #firstworldproblems to you but again, a metaphor: Men ruin everything.

And they don’t even care, they just take what they want because they think they are entitled to it. Last week, I went on an OkCupid date with a seemingly innocuous forty-something dude, prolly his name was Craig, I don’t even remember. I decided to test out a theory that you shouldn’t get too wrapped up in endless text messages and that it’s best just meet right away and see if things click BECAUSE DATING IS SO MUCH FUCKING FUN. He stated he wasn’t into anything “serious” which is code for easy boning. I have weird inexplicable and magical criteria for such things but when he suggested to meet for beer first, I thought, I CAN DO THIS FOR THE SAKE OF BLOG FODDER. You’re welcome.

He was perfectly generic looking, which means it’s all about the conversation skills to tip the scale:  If he had a great personality, he would be fuckable, but if he didn’t, he’d be sent back to the ether where the buzzards fly…guess which?  YO HO! FRIEND OR FOE?

If there was a conversation, I was not part of it, he talked about 9/11 conspiracy theories, GMOs versus organic farming, metric volume versus imperial, how vaccinations work with the herd, all these hot topics WHILE RUBBING MY LEG WITH HIS FOOT. Sexy. At one point, just to make personal banter, I asked him where he grew up. You’d think I asked him if he ever fantasized about having sex with his mother; WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW THAT? He shot me down like that navy seal did to Bin Laden (which actually did happen, please stop watching stoner documentaries already). He quickly changed the topic back to his own mind-numbing arse-burger Ted Talks, where he blathered on while I couldn’t get a word in even if I wanted. While he was explaining the difference between a pint and half-pint of beer, he kept reaching over to stroke my hand.  Oh by the way, the real answer will surprise you! Hang on to your titties for this: Because it isn’t actually another half-pint, it’s 330 mls which is metric for who the fuck cares plus he’s wrong AND stupid as any dumb dick could ever be who was desperately trying to lose his virginity at the age of 44.

Anyway, by the end of the night I was sitting on my left hand, clutching my beer glass in my right hand, pretending it was a hand grenade, and my legs impenetrably knotted and crossed like day-old challah bread, but do you think he read the body signals? Maybe he did or maybe he didn’t but it sure as fuck didn’t stop him from sticking his tongue in my mouth while we walked to the car.

Sadly, this is the typical mentality of a man on an on-line dating site. They seem to think they are picking and choosing out of a catalogue. If you say you’re into casual sex, or being tied up, or having your butt licked, then they think they can get it, like they are ordering Grocery Gateway. One dude once told me that I needed to “own” my profile as though it was a terms of agreement contract where there is no right to change minds clause.

It bugs me that women had to endure the movie “He’s Just Not That Into You” (don’t get me wrong, I lap this rom-com shit up, it is a footnote of my imaginary thesis) and we have take all that shit to heart, because some man did us a favour and told the best kept secret ever, as if it was such a revelation that if they don’t call, they don’t care, duh. But after that dude tongue bombed me, I puckered up my face like I had just licked a butthole (sorry, I just can’t with that, who put that on the menu?  WHY? That’s what handheld showerheads are for) and he actually asked me if I wanted to fool around some more, ignoring my vomitface response entirely. I said nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo while whistling in the wind on my broomstick. Even after I hightailed it back home, but not before stopping by the licker store for some vodka to swirl and gargle on, he kept texting me for a second date! Was I sending a mixed message? I don’t think so.  But he doesn’t care. I’m just a vessel of beauty for him to stick his dick into, but thanks Dove, for the validation! I shall self-love myself with your products, I’m pretty sure Unilever owns Ben & Jerry’s, how convenient. And this fucker, he’s just postponing the ultimate shame of the inevitable fleshlight purchase from Amazon, why don’t you start manufacturing some lube to go with that?

Still,I don’t hate men entirely. I love them with my soft, downy wings and my milky breassessts and I hate them only sometimes with my vomitface, and I always hold hope for that one particular motherfucking gentleman-type sex pig with some tongue game who delivers pizza and doesn’t yell at me when I drive slow because really, what’s the rush? That red light is ominous.    *washes face with Dove and puts on $180 Elizabeth Arden face cream while dreaming of a dewy jizz facial*

Mastering the Art of Fan Fiction: Fifty Shades of Grey Edition

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Valentine’s Day countdown, kittens! You know I love this day even if you think it’s just an excuse for the charlatans that run the diamond industry to peddle its lies. Whatevs, me likey shiny things, even the fake shit. I just went through my giant fishing tackle box filled with bling memories, all tarnished and busted up. Why does conventional society insist that earrings have to come in pairs?  Hardly any of mine match and if they do, one of them is missing a rhinestone or an essential dangly bit, that makes me so fucking sad. I found a pristine pair of gold Playboy bunny earrings, I bought them them for myself, ironically style-wise even though I am actually a cheap whore (no, I’m not). But! I can’t shove them in my ears because MY HOLES HAVE CLOSED, is this some sort of natural metaphor that has the gods of fertility laughing at me? I shall show them, later on today I will slam down a bunch of vodka and thrust them into my ears whatever it takes. There will be blood. By the way, you know that the original Valentine’s Day was to honour ancient Christian martyrs but that whole dance got tiresome so that in the High Middle Ages, Chaucer and his poet hos decided to make it all about boning, although they called something else back then, like “bownyng.” These were simpler times, when the one you wanted to betroth your boneage into was the one that had your heart in a romantic way. Now all our modern feelings are repressed by constant communication punctuated by those diabolical emoji emoticons and everyone is so fappingly confused. And afraid. And there’s no boning, not even for the wicked. SIGH.

I like chocolate, too, even if I have to buy my own Toblerone bar. The giant one, the size of a quonset hut. Fuck and ouch.

This Valentine’s Day, my fantasy would be to take some olde tymey ecstasy and go see “Fifty Shades of Grey” with an audience full of bitches also on chemical drugs.  I think it would be epic, let’s make it happen. This has got to be one of those times when you can honestly say the movie is better than the book, but judging by the trailers, that’s not saying much. I’m not sure even that awesome Beyonce song can save this mess. But drugs can!

I’m trying to read the book right now. I am actually charmed by how badly written it is. It reminds me of the sardonic stories based on Harlequins I used to write as a hobby when I was a teenager. I used to give them to my English teacher, who looooved them, but I always wondered if she got the joke or she got swept away by my jacked-up romance bullshit. Anyway, I think even in grade 9, I was a better writer than E.L. James and that’s not saying much. If you made a pie chart out of the content of this book, 75% would be descriptions of breathing. I get so bored, I can only flip through it, trying to find the juicy bits. I can’t fucking find them, SO MUCH BREATHING. And eating, which I am pro.

I don’t think I respond to contrived erotica, it’s kind of like watching professional porn, it’s just too slick to feel real. Even trying to make Barbie and Ken hump (when you were a kid because no, you did not do this as a grown-ass mom when you were cleaning up your daughter’s room while she was in kindergarten) is more titillating cuz Ken doesn’t actually have a weenie much less a boner and Barbie is so rigid, she can’t even starfish. The thrill is in frustration. GRIND DAT PLASTIC! Remember?

Anyway, I personally have never had a fantasy where “my breath hitched” when a man said “Let me make love to you, Anastasia,” while stroking his beautiful cock in one hand and holding a cat o-nine tails in the other. Every word that last sentence closed every hole in my body, even the ones I didn’t now I had. And my eyes bled.

Okay, there’s no way I’m going to read this book but I will write the fan fiction! Isn’t that how it started, as X-rated Twihard prose? Mine goes in another direction, it’s  middle-aged milquetoast erotica, set in where else? The Home Depot, hold on to your moobs, middle pudge,and mudflaps, here goes:

Beverly Shipman walks into the Home Depot, the giant doors automatically opening for her. She is disheveled, her hair, still smooth from her Tuesday blowout is in need of a root touch-up and is in a high ponytail. Underneath her black parka, the one with what looks like a pair of metal scissors on the left upper arm, she is still wearing her flannel pyjamas pants, boldly coloured and emblazoned with cartoon monkey faces. And stuffed into a pair of Uggs. If this wasn’t a sight you see every day, and you came here from a time machine, just by the outfit, you would think this woman was  50 shades of cray. But she barely registers and she slips through the doors like a ghost.

Furnace filters? She wonders where and looks around the big box warehouse. The smell of freshly cut pressurized lumber fills her nostrils and goes straight to her temporal lobe which triggers a memory response that sends a rush of blood straight down to her blowfish. WTF. She tries to ignore this sensation as she looks up at the signage and makes her way down the giant aisle.

Even though the store is cavernous and confusing, the colour orange whets her appetite. There’s a Harvey’s inside this one, beyond the self-serve cash registers. Maybe when she finds her filters, she will pick up an order of fries. Too bad there’s not a Swiss Chalet, she could really go for a quarter chicken with extra gravy, yes, bitches, EXTRA gravy, it turns out it’s all just liquid and cornstarch, not fat, she can drink it if  she wants, fuck the sodium content and fuck her nutritionist. She salivates. Breathes, more lumber smell, blowfish gets bigger, tingles now. Focus! Snap out of it! Find the filters!

Finally someone in an orange apron is standing in front her. On his bib, written in a black Sharpie is “Al” which could be short for Albert? Or is he being tongue-in-cheek and he is A-1? He smiles in a kind peepaw way, he has sparkling blue eyes surrounded by crowfeet and liver spots. His generic darkish hair is white at the temples and pulled back in a tiny wispy ponytail.  He must be one of those Freedom 55-type retired baby hippie boomer dudes with nothing to do but hobbies and Home Depot. (ed note: if that’s a type then sign me up) His shoulders are sloped, and some giant ass white hairs are sneaking out like tentacles out over the top of his collared polo shirt, but he has muscly forearms, and this does not go unnoticed. Beverly smiles. Probably for the first time since her husband left her last month for his mistress of 11 years. Who says it doesn’t happen? It happens! They leave and you are left alone!

“Can I help you find something, Miss?” He asks. MISS! Not Ma’am! Like the young hipster clerk at the liquor store who barely even looks at her, calls her Ma’am when she buys her bottle Belvedere and has the audacity to ask her if she’d like a bag. Yes, of course a bag! Jesus Christ, I want a bag! What am I, a hobo? I don’t deserve a bag? Is that what you think of me? Oh, wait, never mind, I can fit it in my Kate Spade tote. Okay.

 Al smiles at her again. A warmth rushes goes through her core and her blowfish blows a sweet, tiny bubble of hope.

“Yes, please, where would your furnace filters be?” She asks, flushing blood all throughout her veins, she feels alive.

“Oh, they’re over in Aisle 8. let me walk with you,” he points in the direction and they move forward. His hand grazes her left arm, the one with the metal moose knuckle on it, and even through the layers of fabric and goose down, she feels an electric charge. Her legs feel light suddenly, although her Uggs are covered in slush and weigh as much as a bag of hammers. And look like two bags of gross medical waste.

Suddenly she has a hot flash. It’s not because it’s hot in the Home Depot in the deep freeze of February. It is precisely two fold, the vodka hangover and hormones. This is the basic schedule of what happens to old bitches all the live long day: Hangover, hot flash, drink, lather, rinse, repeat. She unzips her parka, but of course that ridiculous decorative ball of fox fur gets caught in the spokes and she lets it go halfway. She forgot that she was wearing only her pyjamas bottoms as most of the time she sleeps naked because of the motherfucking hot flashes so there’s actually nothing else on underneath. Hungover, menopausal bitches are that absent minded. So her zipper is stuck and her boobs are basically flying out of her parka in the middle of the Home Depot on a Tuesday morning. She holds her coat shut but in doing so, her Kate Spade tote swings and hits Al, or A-1, upside the head, and he turns around. Like a magpie, older men have the sharp shooting instincts down pat, his eyes go straight to her tittage before she has a chance to cover them up.

There are two of them, one slightly bigger than the other and therefore droopier, the vein configuration resembles a muddled map toward two erect cherry cola coloured nipples, approximately 2.75 centimetres in diameter…holy shit, one of them has a piercing, so he thinks, but it’s not actually, it’s part of the inside zipper tab grazing the nipple as she clutches her coat shut. Wow, he thinks, and that’s basically all he thinks for a moment that seems to stretch out longer than the beginning of time. Al, and that is his name, short for Alonso, hasn’t seen real life flesh boobs since Christ was a cowboy. His wife has long since abandoned him, not physically, but spiritually and sexually, and yes, they still share a bungalow where they raised their two children, who are now grown. but he sleeps in his man cave, in the basement. The humming of the furnace soothes him to sleep after his nightly fap, to reruns of “Hot in Cleveland.” Valerie Bertinelli. Nothing wrong with that.

When he finally finds his words, he says, “I know all about furnaces, can I help you?”

“Yes, I have a mid-efficency furnace and it’s so cold in my house these days, ” she bites her lower lip coquettishly, “I was googling on the internet and maybe I need to change my furnace filter? The pilot light is still on, so I know the furnace is okay…” Her voice trails off, a look of barely anything goes over her face, or at least that is his perception, he’s still staring at her tits with that part of his eyes that aren’t his actual pupils which are still looking at her in the eyes, but is the tip of his dick, it’s one of the mysteries of science, yo. Dicks have eyes. I.t says so in a Chaucer poem, trust.

“Oh, well if you have a mid-efficency furnace, you should actually be using the cheaper furnace filters, let’s the air go through easier,’ he pulls out a pack of filters, 3 for $5.99, seemingly made of popsicle stick wood and blue plastic silly string.

“What?” She is incredulous, “I have been buying the $35 furnace filters for over twenty years! Are you sure? Also I have a pet dog. With fur, not hypo-allegenic breeds with “poo” at the end of it name. Do those filters work for my dander situation?”

“Yes,” he says with manly manliness and actual real-life know-how, not the fake kind that you can spot a mile away from someone who is full of fucking shit that he mis-read in a manual,”The looseness in the cheap shitty plastic not only lets the air go through, the dander and fur that you speak of will get caught in the nettle, the only caveat is that you have to change the filters every 3 months instead of once a year. Still cheaper and your heating bills will go down expediently.”

“Oh!I wish I had known this sooner!” She exclaims. Her breath hitches. Her parka swings open, her tits fall out, one by one. Kind of, one gets caught in the zipper again, the floppier one, but that’s okay. He leans over and hands her the filters, 3 for $5.99.

“Is there anything else, I can help you with?” He asks, his apron is now a tent, kind of pointed south, but still.

Her blowfish explodes.

Fin.

Okay, Happy Valentine’s Day all, spread the love cuz that’s all we have! ❤

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Self-Preservation

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This is my daughter’s creative writing homework assignment:

In the first person, write a relationship sketch between two characters.

I’m going to do this now as I’m inspired by some internet hate I got last week. I wish I were in university again because the real world sucks tiny insignificant proverbial cocks, it’s one squirt-it-in-your-eye woody hurdle after another. She doesn’t think so though, she can’t wait to finish this spring and sling beers for tips in the summer and then in the fall, backpack in Europe. She will see the sights, drink all the jaunty craft beers, eat all the crust-made-with-actual-lard covered things that don’t contain nuts or sesame (don’t forget your EpiPen, my darling!) and meet all the foreign peens and fall in love with the lot of them. There will be tall, pale, hilarious British boys, pompous French dudes with oddly enticing body odour, freaky aggro German ones, sexy to-die-for Italian motherfuckers with all bark no bite, and maybe a random hot Scandinavian-type girl with some refreshing scissor game. Oh, to be young again. The last time I went to Europe, I was the old bat I am today minus two years, I met nobody. But! The elevator in the hotello I was staying at was so fucking small and squishy, I got to brush my boobs against the back of the concierge dude as he was carrying a stack of carta igencia (toilet paper! There’s hardly any toilet paper in Europe, you have to beg for it so there’s two words you’re going to need to know, my angel baby). The elevator ride was so painfully slow that at one point, I just kind of rested them against his back, smooshing them against his ribs. I could see the tips of his ears turn purple with mammary awareness as he stood still, his back to me, watching the dial go from one to two to three to four longer than it takes to load Adult Friend Finder Live Webcams on Sunday morning, you know what I’m talking about. His hair was black and curly with silver shards, which makes me crazy, and I wanted to run my fingers through it like it was a must-do tourist attraction, way more exciting than Vatican City, right?  The sexual tension was so palpable you could bottle it and call it “Emergency Stop Button” by Dolce & Gabanna. It truly was one of those moments of time that could have turned into something worthy of a blog post you would actually want to read, what a chicken shit I have become, so it may seem. I should be ashamed at my lack of behaviour, but believe me, exercising my control was actually a small feat of self-preservation. Even though in this case, I shoulda-woulda-coulda, it was symbolic of something else, a  personal triumph of sorts.

If I could bestow a life lesson on my girl, like a method of self-preservation, whereby she is spared pain and heartbreak, I would do that, but I think somehow by osmosis or some other mysterious natural phenomenon, she is inherently smarter and wiser than me. I want to save her from having a broken spirit like mine, which has been shattered, manacled, and beaten  like every other middle-aged sad sack on the dating circuit. We were never supposed to live this long, bitches! Childbirth was designed to kill us, then the farmer would marry our much younger sister who hopefully had the wherewithal to make gooseberry wine with yeast and honey and get him drunk before they would ever get to “churn the butter,”  cuz he be old and so very, very gross.

But now we’re supposed to spawn, move on, and  swim elegantly in each other’s wholesome shit AND toxic chicken shit like farmed talapia, it’s such a mess, this pond.

I am the type of person that would see a body of water and no matter how many signs that boldly said: BEWARE OF POISONOUS SNAKES, I will go skinny dipping and swim, get bit, go back again nekkid, get bit again, then more because “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice shame on me” is just the kind of inspiration I need for a challenging game change, THEN!  I’d get bit some more and wonder what I did wrong. Seriously, even with a SIGNPOST TO TERROR thrust in my face, I would boldly dive in. I peaked with this kind of self-destructive behaviour at 40, then it took me years of therapy to figure out what was wrong and even then, I slip up, hence The Cornfield Incident 2014. Your girl needs a life raft.

Here’s what I learned about self-preservation because telling me to not swim at all is like telling Justin Bieber not to douche, it’s in my nature :

When diving in snake infested waters, wear a wetsuit. An impenetrable one if such a thing exists, or make your own out of raw cookie dough and that hard as fuck gel shit they use in nail salons that makes you never want to masturbate. When you start to feel the feels of a set of fangs sinking heartily into your mighty upper thigh, say, swim your motherfucking sorry ass to shore, because it might feel good now, all hot and tingly, but trust, the venom is on its way.  If he hangs on, divert his attention by squeezing his tail, this seems to work with all kinds of snakes, and even puppies, and let him sliiiiide back in the water while you dry off in the sand. Oh look, there’s an ice cream truck parked over yonder. Go there and get something coated in chocolate. I know, I know, I’m more confused than you are. But at least I have a method and I am good.

So on to the internet trollage and the homework assignment I promised.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Apparently,unbeknownst to me, my world wide web in-box was hosting a Haters-Gonna-Hate Festival because last week I got barraged with a whole whack of messages, including:

“Ur a narcissucks (sic: clever tho, right?)”  And true, I DO suck. Call me.

“You are a whiney, vapid cunt”  Vapid? Really? That actually hurts: ICE CREAM!

“I hope you die and rot like an upstream trout”…what?  Is that what the trouts do? If I’m going to die upstream, isn’t that any worse than dying and rotting downstream? That’s a fucked up metaphor, right? I think I’d way rather upstream (closer to heaven!) than downstream (cig butts! tampon applicators! those plastic things that hold a six pack together that strangle birds and turtles! humanity’s blight on nature! all downstream, why would I want to rot there?).

Your (sic: lol!) too old and fat to fuck…”  Meh. You’re dad doesn’t think so.

Can you imagine the kind of person that would be bothered messaging such rude things to a lady whose only M.O. is to love and be loved? I can!

Here’s my homework assignment, dedicated to the all internet trolls out there, a relationship between two characters described in first person:

I hate this, and I’m bored. I wish for his sake, he’d get off the computer. I’m tired, but not the good tired like when we used to play basketball or build that fence, even when he was using that sandpaper that scratched my skin like a motherfucker. Still, it was better than all this tap-tap-tap, then stroke-stroke-stroke. Ugh, I feel like my talents are wasted. Remember when he used to draw those cartoons in grade school, all about super heroes rescuing damsels? His power was unbridled back then, I felt so much hope. Then came the real girls, and then that one girl in particular who we both liked, her skin was so soft on all her parts. The tits, especially, were like the joyous days of Play-dough, until the baby came and the whoa, they got huge and rock hard, and she wouldn’t let Dude’s lips or me and my twin touch them. Yes, I get it, I was pissed off too. The disinterest hurts, but those other times, the little pleasures, for example, when I enjoyed my index finger dipping into peanut butter and then getting licked by the Bichon Frise owned by the downstairs neighbour and because he got so drunk, I can’t remember what else happened but something felt different. And smelled fishy. There were more good times, let’s not kid ourselves. With all that diversion, couldn’t Dude have waited longer? But no, he had to make a fist out of me and pound me through the drywall, what the fuck? And then when he shoved her, with both me and my feckless twin, who seems to be only good for stabilizing the bagel when I hold the knife and cut it. Dude is mean to my twin because he likes to shock him and slice through his skin between his thumb and his forefinger cuz he’s impatient. I admit, I’m also fed up with Leftie these days, some things we can do in such harmony (remember waterskiing? rock climbing? Saxophone lessons?) but I need him especially now to pick up some slack with that wretched Dick when I’m too tired for this fucker’s nonsense. I very much need help to sweep the dark times under the rug. I’m a hand, not a conscience, but it’s too much for me.  And like I said, I wish he’d stop tapping me on that keyboard and spewing out his venom, and maybe do something like shovel and old lady’s walk way, or something for the good of society. What an asshole. Speaking of which, I think tonight, while he’s sleeping I’ll shove my fist up there and see who’s boss. 

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The Kinsey Report Redux (OkCupid Edition)

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My brain snapped. It was palpable, I felt it happened some time last month. I have barely set foot on Facebook, my usual internet stomping grounds, in weeks!  And you know where I’ve been all day and into the wee hours of the night: Scrolling the ho stroll on the OkCupid, I am obsessed. I can’t stop reading profiles and I have all new friends, we don’t just “like” each other’s profiles, we give them stars! And we don’t post pictures of our breakfast burritos, we take our pants off (proverbially and actually) with each other and show our junk. It is awesome.

My brain is so sexed up, I am like a teenage boy. Everything is innuendo, it’s ridiculous. Remainder man came over this morning and installed a new back liftgate handle, if that’s not porno plot right there, I don’t know what is. He took the broken one off with some great effort and grunting, “It’s so tight.” of course it is, and put the new one on, with a SCREW and kept muttering, “I can’t find the hole,” and I’m like, RIGHT HERE, MY MAN. I’m a teenager with an urban vocabulary of a seasoned pervert. My handle works like dream, by the way.

Scene:

I’m at a Farmer’s Market on one of those days that have passed recently, it’s been a blur. I’m eating a sausage, of course, watching one of those couples who walk around these places with their reusable bags filled with mystery chard and beets and radishes for what? You know all that shit will rot til next Tuesday but they still try even though they are both probably bored. It’s a heroic effort, coupledom is.

“What should we have for dinner tonight?” he asks in a politically correct way. My vagina cringes when men say things like that. YOU (man) can go out in the woods and hunt a deer and come home with it and I will cook it up on the fire YOU made and then WE will eat it with the chards of shite I, by myself because I don’t want you dragging at my heels, went and got at the fucking Farmer’s Market.

And she replies, all diplomatically: “Well what about the snapper with a tossed salad?”

And I, with my teen boy boner brain, translate: “Yes! They’re bringing in a lady pinch hitter for a threesome and they’ll be engaging in rim jobs! They are not so vanilla after all!” And they drive off in their Volkwagen Toureg and my faith in humanity was restored.

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So I am justifying my vast time suck on OkCupid as social research, kind of like a modern-day Kinsey report, that includes the wide world of interwebs, texting, sexting, dick ‘n’ pussy pics, hookups, booty calls, dates, and all the emotional discourse you would think would be masked in the anonymity of the internet. But isn’t. IT IS SO AMAZING.

I have some notes thus far, that I think I’ll just bang out randomly and maybe at some point it will all make sense…or maybe it’s not supposed to, who knows? Are you with me? Here goes:

I found my 99% match. What is that? Who cares? I do, I take these things seriously because I’ve answered so many fucking questions in the last few weeks, I have to respect the system. They match you somehow, based on how, not just what you answered in the thousands of questions they provide. I think they also use keywords from your profile and spy on you over a webcam. This dude, 99, I excitedly messaged him, he lives in the 50 kilometre radius. He’s cute and really funny. I say “,”Hi, blah blah blah, I like your profile, 99 blah blah” he messages “Thanks” and goes on my profile and writes more: “Your profile is fan-fucking-tastic! But you might want to tweak it if you want to meet some quality men but if you’re DTF then don’t change a thing.” I don’t really know what he means by “quality” as I love all my Cupidlings, they are dear in my heart. 99% says his dance card is full but he’ll put my on his bucket list. Oh lol. I have since cast my net wider and found more 99%’s and I’m seriously going to need to dust off my passport to GGG all of them. I don’t know what that means either.

Where does the jizz go? That’s one of the questions they ask. It’s not a rhetorical question like where time flitters away, it’s for practical purposes. I know precisely where I want the jizz to go, and I am answering the question from another one of my 99%’s profile, if I say an answer and he says some other answer and feels it is very important I that I answer a certain way, THIS MAY JEOPARDIZE OUR RATING! I’m sweating over this, IT’S REAL LIFE, PEOPLE, NOT A GAME! WHERE DOES THE JIZZ GO????? I answer with honesty and figure, if he answers differently then oh well, HE LIVES FUCKING ILLINOIS ANYWAY! So I answer, gingerly: The Face. Hit “Answer” button, hold breath…..And his answer? The Face. OMG, if I wasn’t smitten already, I was OVER THE MOON. And yes, the jizz goes on the face, do not judge, I am a grown ass woman and that’s where I like it. I’ll explain later when we get to why I don’t date vegans.

Moving your conversations over to Kik: This means only one thing: Powder up your decollete, because you are going to be sending pictures now. When they ask: “Let’s swap pics” they don’t want your face, they mean release the hounds and take off your panties. I am of two minds about this: I DO NOT LIKE DOING THIS AND I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS. There’s no real pay off here. I learned the hard way, I sent a pussy pic to a dude who wanted it soooooo bad, whatevs, I really don’t care about disembodied parts out in the ether or nudity in general for that matter. There’s a vast array of cold cuts out on Reddit GoneWild, I could have just sent someone else’s but no, I spent a half a day fluffing my cooch up, getting just the right angle, talking to it, glistening it with Elizabeth Arden’s 8 Hour Cream, smoothing out the lips just so, twisting my arm around my thigh so I could snap the picture head on and finally got a shot I was satisfied with and sent it. Here is how the conversation went:

Me: Here is pussy  ((:))

He: Ohhhh…what’s that?

Me: What do you mean?

He: On the top part?

Me: The pubes you mean?

He: Oh pubic hair! I haven’t seen that!

Me: I’m a 70s child, they’re totally groomed as a small triangle and bald on the sides, WTF?

He: No, no, it’s okay

Me: Why did you want me to send it anyway?

He: Because I like your personality.

See what I have to deal with?

Why do people send dick pics anyway? As a woman, do you find they help or harm their owners’ causes, or is it only the…notable ones which can help?  My very favourite Cupidling asked me this the other day. I never really ask for a dick pic, they just somehow insist on sending them. I know when I get one, and I praise it, I will get another one in an even more erect state shortly thereafter. This happens 100% of the time. One can conclude, the reason they send dick pics is they want you to praise it. That is all. I feel there is no more cause after the sent button is pressed. Nice HUGE dick, the end.

Booty Call Protocol: I have no hard fast rules on this! I am a free bird! I have never felt so empowered in my entire life! What makes a booty call come into fruition? I have no idea. Some of the Cupidlings I just want to wait for, milk it out in messaging. I know dudes hate that (“I don’t want to be penpals”) but the art of wooing a lady is to get in her head, that is where is the juice comes from! Seriously, be patient. On the other hand, there are certain times where I can just let it happen. I’m always all nervous with that fight or flight conundrum but! THERE WAS A FULL MOON TWO WEEKS AGO AND I HAD ORGASMPALOOZA. I’m so glad I chose fight both times. I appreciated the simple details that were involved, one guy wore elasticized waist track pants and the other guy answered his door in a towel so there was no outfit I could judge harshly. Like pointy shoes and an Ed hardy tshirt would be a deal breaker. Flight!

And here is a cautionary tale: This weekend, one dumb dude who pretends to read Chomsky, messaged me as he does every second weekend when he doesn’t have his kids, I recognize his pattern already. I almost caved. His give zero fucks attitude toward wooing me or even bothering to read my profile and understand its subtle nuances, almost charmed me. His face was that kind of white guy face I hate, I could totally hate fuck him and it would be awesome, I’ve read his pretentious asshole profile before but I looked closer and noticed he was a vegan! I can’t with that! I messaged him quickly before I completely caved in: “You are a vegan, your jizz lacks the essential meat enzymes I need for my face 😦 ” And then he said: “But I have the meat!” And an hour later, he sent me a dick pic. And I did not know what to say. His junk was all splayed and mangled out over top of his boxers. IT LOOKED LIKE BUTTERMILK BRINED CHICKEN PIECES BEFORE THE PANKO BREADCRUMBS. My vagine might be a lot of things, but it isn’t a deep fryer, there was no way that was going in me. FLIGHT!

All I can say is the full moon can’t come fast enough….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Conjuring Up Bone (OkCupid Edition)

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Okay my furry friends and cuddling comrades, I finally got a job last week which I’m not going to tell you about at all EVER. We know what mayhem happens when one blogs about work, I am the social media poster child of What Happens At Work Should Not Be Blogged About Because We At The Dusty Box Have No Sense Of Humour Whatsoever. One week in and I have so many juicy little nuggets that I’m busting to talk about, so stay tuned, they might slip out disguised as fictional characters.

Also I am on Week 3 of my adventures on OkCupid. I am still completely obsessed, my hermit lifestyle is in peril. Last post, for the new arrivals take note: if you want to  scroll down further, we went over some tips on how the menfolk should woo a lady on-line. I am very so pleased at how many Cupid dudes took the time to read my blog, even though they had another option. They have all been so very nice and gentlemanly. I love them all! Their ethereal boners and their solid dick pics mean a lot to me. And especially the poetry.

Lately, however,  most of my Cupid time is spent scrolling through the other women’s profiles. It’s smart marketing to check the competition, am I right?

There’s zillions of them and their pictures are all so promising, there are a Costco-load hot of MILFs out there, but! what is up with their written profiles?  AM I THE ONLY ONE AROUND HERE INTERESTED HAVING SEX? Aren’t every single one of these women suffering from a post-divorce, post-cougar-rampage dry spell? Their profiles are so boring, how do they expect some dude on his laptop in his underwear, scratching his balls, to respond? Even the chick with the whip lists her “loving family and her great friends” as her things she cannot live without. Maybe she ties them up? That is what your audience is hoping for, just so you know, they do not give a fuck about your Friday night yoga class or that you read some fucking book, I cannot even be bother to think of a title, it’s so boring.

Most of these women are doomed to be future cat ladies. It’s true. Seriously, tell me what you would think of someone who answered the following question:

What are you doing with your life?

 I AM LOVING MY LIFE AND LIVING IT TO ITS FULLEST!

What the ever loving fuck does that even mean? 9 out of 10 women have that response in their profile AND YET somewhere else if you scroll down, they will inevitably say they enjoy “jazz, cooking, and really good wine”….REALLY GOOD WINE…really, sister? I am so on to you. Admit you have a box of L’ Ambiance white plonk in your fridge, and by cooking you mean you put a brie wheel in the oven and the only jazz you are listening to is the riff in the opening credits of Sex and the City that your watching on your laptop in your stained yoga pants.

The real tragedy is that the wine guzzling househag you really are would be way more fun to date than the pretentious twat you portray yourself in your  profile. If you said, for example, that on your typical Friday you are consuming an entire brie wheel to yourself, do you know how many men would be lining up in your in-box , scratching to get in? They will come in droves. Men love cheese, and ladies, let’s stand together and forget all these man vegans who actually righteously fill that in on their profile eating habits. Digressing a bit, can you imagine actually boning a man who is a strict vegan? I feel like his peenie would like a little sprite sprig that would take way too much effort to spew out a tiny shot of bitter green fluid, barf. Swipe these dudes to the left, move them along. No sister, you want the pussy-eating cheese loving A-team in your box.

Oh wait, let’s scroll down your profile, you actually don’t want that. No hook-ups. You and your vagine are far too precious for casual bone, you know that’s a penis in a polo shirt. No “casual” sex for you. You are looking for a “long-term relationship.” On the internet, no less, and yet you have the colossal nerve to dismiss a perfectly good dude based on your criteria which is:

HE IS NOT TALL ENOUGH!

I hate women like this, and I know so very many who are barely over 5 feet and yet they insist on going out with men who over 6 feet. Tall men love diminutive chicks because they make them manlier. THINK OF THE BLOOD FLOW THO!  It takes a long time for the Mississippi to go from Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico. This is why short men are better, they have blood gushing every which way, it’s instant boner erectus, even if you just tap their shoulder for a half a second. You know there will be a time, after your ridiculous 3 month dating rule, when you will finally have to put out for your giant internet trophy to stick his dick in you, and you will be all like, what the fuck? when he can’t get it up and it’s because he’s stuck in Tennessee, his navel had a hernia waiting for you, and that’s all because you gave him blue balls with your ridiculous rules. This may have been the worst metaphor I’ve ever made but my point is maybe stop with your strict criteria. Short men are as hot, if not hotter, they often have that arrogant personality that is really important when you are a submissive (me). Just saying.

I just don’t get what is wrong with casting a wide net when you are looking for dudes on-line. Why not check the “casual sex” box on your profile? I know every dumb ass stupid man thinks this means you are a hooker doing pro bono work on a Tuesday night, as if. Direct them to  Craigslist then. I learned this one the hard way, I thought the guy was joking when he said COME OVER at 7 a.m on a weekday morning. So I entertained him as I got ready for work. By the way, I’m one of those people that has to allow leisure time in the morning rather than sleeping until the last minute, that’s just me, I am a big proponent of the morning wood project. Note to self: I should mention this in my profile along with my prowess at logrolling. Anyway that dude actually thought I was coming over for a nooner (I take the blame entirely for that because I thought why not? as I was trying to put on that wretched winged eyeliner I still have yet to master, so frustrating!)…so when I didn’t actually show up, he was seriously mad! Apparently I wasted his time as an unemployed self-employed person. Yes, fap fap fap, sorry you skipped a fap, there’s always the afternoon fap you can make up for, fap fap fap. Too bad, he was kind of a cute weirdo, with a soft furry head like puppy. Sigh.

What is casual sex anyway? It’s the sex you have on the couch while watching tv. That’s my definition anyway. It means you may or may not put out after the first date, possibly the second, maybe the third, likely the fourth, pretty much a sure thing after the fifth but without some weird idea that we are exclusive and heading for some boneheaded delusion of long-term hit-my-head-with-a-frying-pan commitment. And I want to go on dates with different dudes. Why am I the only female animal who wants to be in the dinghy beside the proverbial Noah’s Ark? Catching the rogue lions and bears who fall off the boat, no giraffes for me though, they’re just too goddamn tall.

You know where my in-box is, call me.

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Wooing a Lady (OkCupid Edition)

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“What is a beautiful lady such as yourself doing on this website?”

LOL

I re-activated my OkCupid profile last week. It’s been 7 whole days and I’m still on it! Last time I lasted less than 24 hours and the time before 5 whole days which led to that hilarious cub encounter buried deep in the archives, here let me pull that up for you.

I am having the best time ever! I tweaked my profile to display my sardonic wit which I thought would separate the men from the boys but it does not: “Message me if your dick is pointing in my general direction” separates the cobras from the turtles and that is alright by me. Age is just a number, right? OkCupid is a free for all. It’s a dick salad! Why are these people only on the internet? Where is the dick salad in real life? I don’t get it, but whatever, I AM GLUED TO MY COMPUTER AND I NEED A BREAK.

There’s a fuckton of dating sites out there and they all have their own flavour. I told you before I get mailings from match dot com, the morning scrolling of scrotum of middled age losers seeking breeding possibilities, gross. Then there’s LavaLIfe, so complicated and segregated: What if I am looking for Prince Charming AND an awesome Hate Fuck (more on this later)? I have to fucking write two profiles and think of more than one user name (the hardest part of joining any dating site). Also there’s Plenty of Fish which I think your mom is on. I guess I am your mom so I should shut up but I just don’t want to be part fish culture, it’s so fishy.

OkCupid is like a big giant sports stadium cum (lol) refuge centre after Noah”s Ark sank and everyone needed a place to go to change their underwear and grab a hot dog or whatever. Plus it’s a place where you can find out a lot about yourself and your inner desires, especially when you have to answer all those inane multiple choice match questions (which you can do at your leisure bits at a time). I do value intellect and a sense of humour and hopefully they get that random math question right because otherwise they will never find your Gspot. Some of the questions make no sense when you think about matching with someone, for example: Do you wear underwear? YES, EVERYDAY, I’M A SNAIL FFS. What if HE went commando? I don’t care. Does it bother him that I wear underwear? It shouldn’t. Does he like to keep his furniture clean? Stupid.

My week started out in a civilized manner. I re-activated my old profile with some CURRENT pictures PLUS my Instagram feed AND a link to this blog so you know I’m not a bot, I got nothing to hide. I got some nice cordial responses and an offer to go for drinks with asuper hot young dude who looked like post-modern Jesus as shot by Mario Testino who would probably be able to walk down any given street and every man, woman, and child (over 16) would want his number. They come and then they disappear into ether of the internet as though they are just a dream. Sigh.

Then on Sunday I tweaked my profile. I added some things and I answered all the bondage questions. Now I can’t breathe. So many messages AND I WANT TO ANSWER THEM ALL BUT I CAN’T!

So I have tips for y’all when responding to an ad, they are me-specific but they could be applied to anybody really, and please if you have any of your own, leave a comment below.

1. You need to actually read someone profile. I know that it hard in the world of ADHD mobile apps where you scroll and swish to the left and you have to keep fingering to til you get to your favourite OCD number (mine are sets of 12). But if you are going to message someone, you should read what they took the time to write. YOU SHOULD WRITE ONE OF YOUR OWN. I would rather see someone’s boneheaded list of 6 Things You Can’t Live Without be: 1. Beer, 2. my dick, 3. pussy, 4. more pussy, 5. your mom’s pussy 6. my cat than left blank. It’s not hard (that’s what she said).

2. When you leave your first message, don’t just say “Hi ;)” YOU NEED TO KNOW YOU WILL BURIED IN THE VERY BOTTOM OF DICK SALAD LIKE A SLIVER OF RAW ONION. Read the lady’s profile. Then you write: “Oh hi, I like your profile. I love fried chicken!” And trust, the lady will write back and before you know it, you will EATING fried chicken. Yes.

3. If the lady does not respond right away, wait. Oh my God, just because the green dot is on does not mean she’s a cable rep. She might just be eating her dick salad slowly, maybe she’s enjoying sucking on a kalamata olive, DO NOT TAKE IT PERSONALLY. Try again tomorrow.

4. Just because the result of answering all those questions yields a low result of an under 50% match, does not mean you should dismiss that person. There is one question that got me thinking which was: “Could you have sex with someone you hated?” And I thought about it and YES.! YES! YES! YES! And now that’s what I want. I found someone I could tell just by looking at his face that I would HATE him and now I can’t stop thinking about him. He would totally NOT get me and think I was sloppy and ridiculous and I would think he was boring and tedious and would tell each other to shut up and we would look at each like, BLARGGGGH I HATE YOUR GUTS and then some jolt would come out no where and in an instant we’d be pounding each other in a rhythm that only the darkest jungle has ever felt. Five stars I gave him. I have yet to hear back.

5. Married dudes, let me redirect to Ashley Madison dot com. There’s a whole bunch of them with faces obscured, scrolling, trolling like they belong here. Some of them say they are in “open relationships” and their wives are cool with this. No judgment to any of you but this lady has no fucking interest. Literally. Nothing more boner-killing than a grown man who gets his kicks from sneaking around from his “mommy.” It’s just not hot. I don’t run on an appointment schedule, THAT IS WHAT A RUB N TUG IS FOR.

6. Setting up a date. This is the tricky part! Once you’ve had some clever back and forth banter, it may be time to move over to exchanging phone numbers. I made a rookie mistake by giving my phone number out too early and I like sleep at night with my phone on because I have kids might be calling from the police station. I DO NOT WANT PENIS PICTURES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT! I know what it looks like and it’s not a visual thing for me. It’s the velvety tactileness that keeps me coming back. DO NOT BE IMPATIENT WITH THE LADY. Don’t forget she is a lone wolf, she probably hasn’t smelled a man in a while, she spooks easily.

7. If you say to the lady at ANY time: “Would you like to go for coffee” you will be promptly taken out of the dick salad and thrown directly in the compost bin. Lady does drinks. Not. Coffee.

8. If the lady disappears into the the internet ether, then let her go. It’s a fish stew out there for you, go get some.

I haven’t actually gone on an OkCupid date since that last one, two summers ago, so I don’t have any good tips of how to conduct yourselves, that’s up to you and your instincts. Also I promise not to blog (without permission of course, and I had permission that last time) about anything that goes on, as I am a lady. But the one thing I wanted to say, was THE BEST RESPONSE EVER was a gentleman who wrote me the most beautiful poem based on my profile that I will forever cherish. Who says the internet is not a romantic place?

 

 

Mastering the Art of Being a Mistress

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I’m so bored this summer I could totally bone your husband but RELAX I won’t, I’m also way too lazy to put in the work. I’m living vicariously through a friend who is newly single and is finding her mojo everywhere her usual daily grind takes her: She sends me photos from dudes and chicks on the street she finds hot: PANTY CREAMER ALERT! A cop on a horse! A MILF-type in the park with wind in her hair! SHE IS ON FIRE WITH LUST IN HER LOINS and I am drowning in my own morning wasted panty sludge. If I stick close to her, I can get some of her contact mojo, maybe.

She’s having some great epic sexting with a married man. I’ve had a few of those myself, whatevs, usually ends with some lunchbag letdown Skype session where all I can do is obsess about finding my good angle when scrunching my bra down. I AM THE WORST SEXTER EVER, a real boner killer, trust. But my friend has it all going on and it’s like they are both writing Harold Robbins revival novel. I still love my Harold Robbins and learned every trick I need to know from The Lonely Lady and The Carpet Baggers. I might be bad at sexting but I’m good at holding my breath with water in my mouth and you’d have to take me a porterhouse steak dinner to find out what that’s all about. Call me.

I feel like I could teach a course at the Learning Annex: How to Be the Post-Modern Madame Pompadour and Live Your Dreams. Even though I am a failure at love and all relationships in general, I have observed y’all doing the mating rituals like zoo animals with no regard of any superfluous and confining nuptial agreements. I have many case studies even though I have no clue whatsoever how the male mind works, I know the ladies and I have seen your mistakes aplenty. Take notes:

1. The first and most important hard and fast rule when embarking on this mistress lifestyle is: DO NOT GET ATTACHED TO THE OUTCOME. In fact this is the most important rule of life, it’s the Buddhist credo. It goes for playing a game of tennis to buying a house to the mastering the art of mistressing. You more or less just have to live in the now and not get hung up on the fact that at some point, somebody is going to get hurt real bad. Spoiler alert: It won’t be him.

2. Rationalize that his wife is a murdering shrew and you are saving him from a life of disparaging henpecking and of course, celibacy because they haven’t had sex in months or years. This is probably actually true by the way. I will never forget how last month I was at St. Louis Bar and Grill and I watched a husband and wife having wings and beers and he was blithely chowing down and she was staring at him, not eating, just staring with hatred of a raccoon stuck in an empty garbage bin, you could actually see a cartoon thought bubble appear over her head and in capital Comic Sans: I HATE THE WAY YOU CHEW! I SWEAR TO GOD I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON THAT DRUMSTICK AND I WILL MAKE GODDAMN SURE I WILL FAKE A HEIMLICH ON YOU, SO DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!  

It was palpable. And you really had to feel sorry for the dude and at one point, he and I locked eyes for the last second, his gaze pleaded “Help Me.” And after when they finished and he walked by my table, I made the finger in the hole hand gesture which he probably mistook for me mocking him which I guess I was because fuck him and his chewing chicken wings with his mouth open and licking his fingers, ugh. Anyway, you can have him, he’s probably ripe for Mistress 101.

3. Prepare yourself for loads of free time. Once this mistressing thing starts to happen, even during the sexting foreplay phase, these married dudes have a habit of disappearing for days at a time. One minute you’re sending hot sexy messages (whilst you are watching Netflix of course) and the next minute, nothing. It’s like your phone has died but it hasn’t because later you get a message from your best friend who is having a crisis and you ignore her because sexting comes first. But you end up watching two episodes of Hannibal and he still hasn’t responded so that was a waste. GET USED TO THIS SPOOKED HORSE, SISTER, AND DON’T EVER IGNORE YOUR FRIEND BECAUSE YOU WILL NEED HER TO GLUE YOUR DUMB ASS HEART BACK TOGETHER BECAUSE YOU FORGOT RULE NUMBER ONE.

4. Have you ever watched Roger Federer play tennis when he was at the top of his game and even at this year’s Wimbledon match? No? Well dude is in control, it’s like he loses the first few games on purpose to make his opponent think he is the one dominating. And then, after his rival is too tired to be all cocky, he knows how to place that ball so his opponent will have to scamper across the court to return it like a passed out drunkard. Take a page from Roger’s book, this is what you have to do as a Master of Mistressing. Make him feel like a boss in the beginning so he can maintain reasonable boner erectus AND THEN hit him cross court with some wack-a-doodle drop shot that makes him remember not to chew with his mouth full.

5. You have to compliment him on his penis. I KNOW! They are all the same to me, too. You have to make his seem special and they all are, yes indeed. To have a penis is like having a puppy around all the time. I wish I had one. A puppy, I mean.

6. Time management is tricky with some of these men. What is up with a grown middle age man who claims to have only a window of time or has to wait for his wife for whatever? Dudes: Why can’t just say “I’m going to Banana Republic to check the sales” and then take your sweet time about it? And then HOURS later come home and say they didn’t have any 34 Long in those stupid Dawson fit that makes your ass look boxy? Mistress, you are going to have to teach him to lie without his pants actually setting fire. And make switch him over to slim fit Aidens because you can. You have the power.

7. Ignore your friend when she tells you at the nail salon: “They never leave their wives you know.” You yell back: “YOU SAY THAT LIKE IT’S A BAD THING. I DON’T WANT A HUSBAND, LET  HIS WIFE WASH HIS SOCKS.” And then when you are home alone drinking a 1.5 litre bottle of wine to yourself because he is incommunicado with some family function, don’t get all caught up in that laundry fantasy you have where you sort his socks from light to dark and fan them out in his top drawer. Are you crazy?

8. Assume everything he says is a lie.

9. Know when it’s over. Seriously, sister, that could even be before it ever begins. But if you stretch it out for months and even years, you will know when it’s time and when it comes, you will walk away with all  the dignity you can muster because that is what Madame Pompadour would do. And then she got her hair did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Ever Happened to All Those Van Pattens?

YOU HAVE TO BE A SEVENTIES KID TO GET THIS.

In between angry hot flashes, I had this major mind-blowing IMDb Trivia experience yesterday and I had no one to share it with because my kids grew up on Hannah Montana, so I’m just going to lay it all out here for us all to groove to, or not, but if you care at all about Salami from “The White Shadow” keep scrolling:

It began with John Slattery from “Mad Men” on “The Kelly and Michael Show” promoting his new first-time directorial film, “God’s Pocket” which by the way, has Philip Seymour Hoffman in it as his last completed project…so SAD! Okay, but let’s focus: They bantered on about Mad Men, which you probably don’t watch but I do but I never knew that in REAL LIFE, he is married to his TV ex-wife, Mona, played by TALIA BALSAM (pay attention, the Van Pattens are coming) here they are in civilian garb:

john_slattery_talia_balsam_I1F0141

And here they are as Roger and Mona Sterling:

620-real-life-tv-couples-10.imgcache.rev1344016331449

So awesome.

AND HERE IS TALIA BALSAM WITH HER FIRST HUSBAND, GEORGE CLOONEY, CIRCA 1990, HOLY SHIT:
george-clooney-4Why am I just finding this out now? Did you know this? Why didn’t you tell me?

And now comes the Van Patten tangent. I actually brought some post-it notes and created a Van Patten family tree on my laptop. I know, crazy.

Okay so TALIA BALSAM, born in 1959, is the daughter of the late great MARTIN BALSAM (1919-1996):

Unknown

Psycho, 12 Angry Men, super-prolific in the 1970s but yet, no epidsodes of ‘The Love Boat!”

and her mother is JOYCE VAN PATTEN (b.1934):

Unknown-1She did a whole whack of 70s tv, no “Love Boat,” but “Love American Style”…oh, how I loved that show…and she is the SISTER of:

BIG DADDY DICK VAN PATTEN (b.1928):
Dick_ClassicOh my God, “EIGHT IS ENOUGH” was my 70s jam, love love love! Dick was on a few episodes of “The Love Boat,” fun fact: He was supposed to play “Gopher” but changed his mind for “Eight is Enough” which was smart hockey, fo sho. He is married to Pat Van Patten and hold on to your titties, here comes the good part, THEIR MAN SPAWN! Again, if you watch tv in the 70s, you most probably have a pair of panties you wrecked yourself dedicated to one of these dudes:

VINCE VAN PATTEN (b.1957):

083010MSMO343

I’m getting all retro swoony. Totally hot in the 70s (yes, appeared on “The Love Boat”) and became a pro tennis player! Married soap opera actress Eileen Davidson (blech, tacky ho) and now is on “The World Poker Tour.” I don’t know what to think about that but yes, I would still hit it. If I was playing Fuck, Marry, Kill with the Van Patten boys, this is the one I’d Fuck:

Eileen+Davidson+Vincent+Van+Patten+33rd+Annual+2LcopFBcxuSl

 

Next up, JIMMY VAN PATTEN (b. 1956):

images

 

He was in the original “Freaky Friday” with Jody Foster as a cashier. Hot. 66% of those Van Patten boys seemed to have gotten their start on “The Odd Couple tv show,”  interesting. Lately he has been in the “Saw” horror franchise. Would I still hit it? Why not? I have nothing else going on. Oh, and in the game Fuck, Marry, Kill, I’d Marry this one, he has kind eyes and seemingly zero douche-factor:

12221664_ori

 

And then the first born bro, NELS VAN PATTEN (b. 1955):

116110

I’m not sure I have any feels for this Van Patten but he is a Van Patten, so yes, yes, I’d probably hit it. He’s had an obscure 70s tv career, was also a tennis pro, and here is is now:

2005 TV Land Awards - Arrivals

I don’t know, on second thought maybe I’ll just pass on this one, and sacrifice this Van Patten to the gods of 70s Hotness.  I would Kill him, obviously.

Which brings us to the final Van Patten, TIMOTHY VAN PATTEN (b.1959). He is NOT a Van Patten bro, he is a Van Patten Uncle. Seriously! He and Big Daddy Dick are brothers from another mother. He is my very favourite Van Patten of them all:

salami

SALAMI FROM “THE WHITE SHADOW” OMG OMG OMG! To die for! Nowadays he is a director:  Sex and the City! The Sopranos! Rome! The Pacific! Game of Motherfucking Thrones! Boardwalk Empire! I watch none of these shows, except for SATC of course. Here he is now and he is so cute, I would Fuck, Marry, AND Kill him with my hot-flashing pussy:

MV5BMTk4MDM0NDg4NV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMzgwNTgxOA@@._V1_SY317_CR12,0,214,317_AL_

You know how I feel about beards. Sweet Jesus.

The Tale of the Invisible Lady

EFOZe0n

I’ve been gone from the Bloglands for a month for a number of reasons, have you even noticed? I have been kind cheating on you with Yelp, I’ve been getting my rocks off there because there is a live audience. Last week I got a “Review of the Week” which is like getting an Oscar in the context of mass internet drivel. When this happens, you get messages all day from total strangers who send you accolades in the form of virtual “badges.” For this honour, you are chosen based upon your “FUC” rating. Unbeknownst to me, because until last week I didn’t understand Yelp and its convoluted game plan, my FUC rating (Funny Useful Cool) was high in relation to having only 12 reviews, which are just shorter versions of this blog because it’s all about ME, ME, ME and that $3 donut I just ate and yelped was just a collateral subject. So anyway, I’ve been yelping rather than blogging because like a lab rat, I work for rewards, even if they are full of shit.

Also something has been happening that I wasn’t going to tell you about because it is so awful and I hate it so much and I am full turmoil and shame and misdirected anger and general rage. It’s actually not funny at all.

I am drying up.

The last time I had hosted my tender lady time, Santa was in town. That’s 4 months ago! There is no upside to this, if you’re thinking that at least my underwear is stain-free. They aren’t. I go through at least 3 pairs a day in urinary seepage. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

At first I thought I was having a lot of drunk sweats. You know that hangover feel when your body wants to sweat out the poisons and replenish with grease? Well it was happening all the time. I went “on the wagon” whatever that means, just to be sure, and yes, okay some of these episodes were probably drunk sweats but some of them were not. THEY ARE MOTHERFUCKING HOT FLASHES! Fuck my life. I thought escape this fate and I would be invincible and now I have to deal with the harrowing disappointment that I am not. And by the way, being on the wagon is really boring and I still have insomnia and I’m more bloated than ever, what the fuck?

Here is what is bullshit: I can deal with the hot flashes. In fact, they amuse me. You’re out there in the world, minding your business and suddenly, from deep inside, your core starts to heat up, like from zero to inferno in one second. THIS IS HOW I SURVIVED THE POLAR VORTEX, BITCHES. I can deal with this, just breathe and it will pass. Even though I feel like running out into traffic, it’s okay. But what kind of evolutionary joke is going on when you feel like your innards are having a caloric pig roast, and yet nothing is actually burning? In fact, you are gaining weight, right through where all the heat is happening, comes the dreaded middle-pudge menopausal swell. Gone is that precise waist-hip ratio that when men look at you, they overtly want to plant their magical seeds inside you because subliminally they think that somehow you will be a good mother. I don’t really get it either, but it’s a fertility law that we must respect. Your waist is supposed to be smaller than your hips but these trolling hot flashes are making your waist explode like a tin of Jiffy Pop Popcorn. I’M ON FIRE, I SHOULD ACTUALLY BE MELTING! It’s fucked up is what it is. Nature is an asshole.

Breathe.

AND THEN THERE IS THIS DICK:
johnny-depp-300What the ever loving fuck is this? Am I the only one around here who sees this fool for the pathetic loser he is? “Oh, Johnny Depp, can you believe he’s 50? He’s so hot!” YOU ARE DELUDED! He looks every bit 50 and then some. He looks like he’s been rotting in the bottom of the ocean and then slapped on pancake and a costume from “Death in Venice” with Indiana Jones’ hat (WTF?)  to take his bovine trophy snatch to some function so everyone will see he has a hole with a proper waist-hip ratio where he can plant his creepy seeds. Fuck him.

Breathe.

 

I had an epiphany about the phenomenon of middle aged men and their tendency to dump you for a younger woman just when you think you have it all going on: The kids are in college and you can do some traveling, maybe buy condo in Florida, take up golf. But that goes all tits up because he “has a right to change his mind!” When it happens, you think it’s your fault because you’ve succumbed to the aging process and he wants someone younger and hotter. And then after a while and thousands of dollars in therapy, you run into them at Starbucks one day and you are shocked to see a) she might be young but she’s actually not that hot (Telly Savales in a wig!) and b) she’s pregnant, what the fuck? He had a vasectomy 20 years ago right after you gave birth to Spencer or whatever name was popular back then and he vowed he didn’t want any more kids, no way, no how, even though you could have squeezed out another despite the fact your waist hip ratio was already showing serious signs of inversion.

It’s not that he want a younger woman PER SE, it’s that he wants another breeder. Biology wins. It’s menopause for men! I wish it had an ugly name of its own because it deserves one. Dickopause or something. Men AGE and they go through hormonal changes as they AGE because they AGE and get all estrogeny and soft and pillowy and girly and feminine and slopey shouldered and the moobs! Why, they are ripe for lactation!  Probably some primal signal in their AGING brains gets all desperate and maternal, like a 35 year old woman does with her achey breaky ovaries. Old fucking men don’t even think of the consequences, oh no:  Quick! Spread the rancid spunk around before death comes, who cares if the teachers call you grandpa in the schoolyard and you’ll be in a walker at your precious loin spawn’s high school graduation: TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE and you got to keep on splooging. Ugh, fucking gross.

Breathe.

This theory does explain whatever is happening with George Clooney. He has been okay by me until recent news, I like the way he’s aged gracefully and even the way he had serial beards (no judgement) or whatever and said he would never get married because it kept hope alive, that you or me might be the game changer, assuming he isn’t gay. AND THEN he gets engaged after dating some smug lawyer for two minutes whose name looks like “Anal” in the tabloid headlines and we, as a collective force, are never going to remember it. She’s supposed to be some kind of star lawyer (eye roll) who represented Julian Assange. How do you have time lawyering celebrities when it looks like you spend all your waking hours managing your uni-brow and then somehow get to “date” and lube George Clooney up for marriage in the time it takes most people to scroll through a day’s worth of Dlisted? I hate her, I don’t care what you say, and already I told you I’m filled with irrational rage. Suddenly this Anal is the game changer?  She is the 36 year-old with a ticking time clock and he is the 53 year-old spawn bomb. This isn’t love, it’s biology and disaster. Fuck him and Johnny Depp.

Breathe.

I have high hopes for Zac Efron. He’s soooo cute! *sucks self into a pair of Spanks*

That lady on the left looks much better from the back. That makes me sad that I just said that, I AM SUCH A BITCH.

N0UVRUm

 

 

 

Inside a Snatch of Beavers

Shannon Szabados

Some hot dude on my Facebook newsfeed posted something the other day about women hating each other and listed ways that they sabotage each other by translating their back-handed compliments, this was one example:

“Is that your man? Damn, he’s gorgeous.”
TRANS: He must be part BLIND bc you are one UGLY bitch.

He listed 7 more, each one more brutal than the next, of what we say to each other with what we “really mean” which is always “bitch, you is fat AND ugly AND dumb AND did I say FAT?” … his statuses always have the “read more” icon on the bottom and ramble on with random caps and ghetto spellcheck…Seriously, get a blog like me, windbag, and I mean it as a compliment. His posts make me laaaaaaugh. I refuse to believe that he is your regular garden variety hot-but-dumb dude but a brilliant intellect whose Kanye-esque rhetoric provides us with insightful social commentary. Also I fell in love with him a couple of weeks ago when he blathered on about how the only way to please a woman is to go “deep sea diving” and then described the vagine as a “seductive pink grotto,” imagine that! *swoon.* If I was to describe my lady parts as a place it would be the scary burnt out church ominously surrounded by a swirling murder of crows in episode 2 of “True Detective.”  Omg, I found it on youtube, this is a metaphor of my abandoned poon, so poignant:

“There was a fire in here a long time ago,” Woody Harrelson  drawls. I AM LOVING THIS SHOW SO MUCH IT HURTS.

I am going off on a tangent though, back to Ghetto Jesus’ point, “WOMIN HATE WOMIN.” I have to agree to a certain point. There is something about being in a group of vaginarama that makes me very nervous.

A gaggle of girls.

It’s not like you’re socially conditioned as a child to be a bitch but I think it’s something inherent in our human nature to ostracize the weak and the freak. It starts in the schoolyard playground…Me in Grade 1 playing “Red Rover” however that goes, I forget, but it involves hand holding and shouting out names. I am holding some girl’s hand but I am dying of shame because I have a worry of gross warts on my palm that Compound W can’t kill. I think my older sister ended up gouging them out with nail scissors, that is right up her alley.  But then and there, I have a carbuncley cluster of them on that fleshy part at the base of the thumb and I am holding hands with this second-grade girl with blond pigtails…she looks down at our hands because it probably felt like all moist and toad-like and she saw my bouquet of verruca and she dropped my hand like anybody would and bolted to the other side of the game. Needless to say, I never got to play “Red Rover” again and spent the rest of elementary school with the other lepers banished to the back corner, building forts in the gravel. THIS IS HOW IT GOES, BITCH, GET USED TO IT.

A conniving of cunts.

Sometimes when you are in a small group of women friends, say a trio, at some point, two of them might turn on you. This is one of the worst feelings in the world. This is typical high school girl behaviour and can range from the subtle to the all-out cruel. My worst one happened in CEGEP (that is Quebec’s version of Grade 12 and 13 fyi, my foreign friends) when I had inadvertently “stolen” my best friend’s crush. I know that sounds bad, but this girl had a panty-raid of crushes and a new boyfriend every week and I am not exaggerating, I can count on one warty hand the number of sad dates I have been on in high school, so what if I poached her crush? Grow up, there’s a surfeit of dicks out there (no, there’s not), choose another one. So she had our other friend pretend to be on my side so I would confide in her so she could report back the things I said. So after she warmed me up with charlatan sympathy, I told her I thought she was being selfish and why can’t she throw the one bone, and I am going to lose my virginity once and for all. When bitch ratted me out to the crush hoarder, our friendship ended in a huge fight where a boiling pot of mac ‘n’ cheese was hurled in my general direction. For the rest of the school year she would stare at me like a wounded cow from across the caf. The guy in question ended up dumping me not once, not twice, but three times over the course of two years so she had that to be smug about. Serves me right, I guess, plus I got fat when I had to go on the pill.

A hag of hens.

Fucking book clubs. Do I even need to elaborate on this one? What is it about a roomful of wine-drinking middle aged ladies that fills me with anxiety? There is always one rotten apple in the bunch. Once, during the infamous battle of “Eat, Pray, Love”  I got angrily shushed by one when I interjected a remark in agreement to her raging tearful rant against all the haters. We were the only two who liked the book and she shot me down when I was trying to support her. What a dumb, ugly bitch.

A racket of  cooch.

A group of tennis ladies eating salad for lunch, a terror of twat or what? A horror of snatch! A fright of gash! A while back, before you knew me, I took up tennis because my beloved friend JHo described our future: Old ladies who play doubles in the morning and drink pitchers of iced Pimms  in the afternoon on the veranda  in our tennis whites, cable knit cardigans wrapped around our bony shoulders, we leave red lipstick stains on our glasses, and we talk in old timey mid-Atlantic Hollywood accents and say things like: “Shall we ring round the waiter and have another round?” until we start slurring. Good times! Well that dream died quickly. I joined a round robin which was kind of fun because everyone was the same level of  crappy and we played and laughed and went home. But then something happened and cliques were formed. Some of the women became obsessed and made up teams. It was just like high school and these grown women reverted back to their 16 year-old selves where there was a hierarchy of social standing. There was no room for goofball round robin. They became viciously elitist. Seriously, it’s a gym where people waddle on treadmills, not a Slavic tennis farm. All the hos were getting private lessons and I was left behind in the land of tennis misfits, the wretched ones who missed the boat, the old and the crazy. And those bitches weren’t so nice either. I overheard one old lady in another locker bay talking trash about me: “She always misses the ball, she swats it like she’s trying to kill flies.” Fuck her and her thicket of varicose veins, I never played after that. Now I just watch the chosen ones, they take over the restaurant after their vigorous court play, glowing and giddy like they just fucked a Serbian tennis pro all morning. How do they even tell themselves apart? They are all blond with horse faces and you just know that when they finish their lunch salads, they hit the drive through on their way home. One good thing though, JHo and I are enjoying our afternoon pints together, which means our future is on the right track. I love her so.

So while certain groups of women scare me, presently I do cherish and find all my comfort-slash-mental health therapy in the company of my true lady friends. Unlike what Ghetto Jesus might say on the Facebook, we don’t have hidden agenda when we compliment each other. In fact the other day,one of my friends said: “I am loving the colour of your hair, KP, but fuck, you need to wash it. Girl, it is greeeeeeezy!” Oh how I laaaaaaaughed. Power to the sisterhood!

A riot of pussy and a team of hockey players, how about them bitches? Huzzah!