In these trying times...
Due to a recent scourge in my comments box, I've been kinda under the weather lately. It never fails to amaze me when people are needlessly and violently rude to strangers for no reason at all. It must be an east coast thing. Anyway, I'd like to say thank you to all of the Slammers that came to my aid.
You know you're welcome at the ranch any time. We'll slam some corn squeezin's and tear into some of the polecat jerky I just made. Remember y'all, it's almost time for the annual Labor Day Greased Pig contest. Whoever catches it, eats it. The same goes for the lucky ladies. After the cowchip throwing competition, there'll be a square dance featuring Junior Bearcat and his Jugband Squaw Posse. They come all the way in from Van Buren. You sleep where you fall and watch out for the mud boggin' and the coon hounds.
Again, thanks holmes.


Sex and the Early 80's Girl
So I just pulled a copy of Having It All! by Helen Gurley Brown. Some of you may remember her for making Cosmopolitain magazine into THE bimbo rag of the 20th century. Others may remember her for being a mummy. Having It All! offers timeless adivice on love, success, which I'm guessing means getting married, sex, and money. I also think those last two might be the same chapter. Becuase Ms. Brown is so committed to schooling her readers in the fine art of "The Good Life" she offers helpful tips. Here is a sampling of suggested places to make love:
*Standing up in the Tower of Pisa. Um, with all the rest of the tourists hanging around? Does doing it sitting, or even leaning, suck?
*On the chairlift at Vail. Will any chairlift do? Aren't those things really rickety and, um, open?
*In the New York Jets locker room. Ok, only if I get Broadway Joe.
* Inside a sleeping bag while waiting for the Kentucky Derby. Lets just talk about the Kentucky Derby for a second.
*On the observation deck of the World Trade Center. Ouch.
*In the pilot's compartment of the Goodyear Blimp. Is that with the pilot? Cause I'd want him paying attention. Oh, the humanity.
*On a bed of pine needles in a pine forest. Oh, I'm all sappy and covered in bugs.

There is a separate list for fellatio only. And yes, she calls it fellatio.
*At his desk while he phones.
*While he watches t.v. Nothing gets me hotter than a little Ray Romano in the background.
*At the dinner table during diet time when he hasn't had dessert for days. Huh?

And apparenty all men love hand jobs under the table at all times, even if they're at work or at dinner with their mom.
Guys, can you confirm this?


I H8 New York
So, last night, while my Dude and I were basking in the afterglow of yet another flawless episode of the O.C., we began searching for something else to watch. As you do. We settled on Sex and the City, a show that neither of us have a problem with, really, we just don't ever watch it. Honestly, I can not think of a cast of characters that he and I have less in common with. However, when I watch it I don't want to kick in the T.V., so it can't be all that bad. Right?
That is until last night. Ok, I'm not going to preface this with any type of apology whatsoever. I'm so fucking tired of New York and New Yorkers. True, true the gods have rained some shit on them in the past, but you know what? The gods are not discriminating when it comes to raining shit. Manhattan is not Valhalla and I will step to the plate and argue that with anyone who wants to take me on.
"Anything can happen!! This is New York!!" What a load of shit. Anything can happen anywhere. Remember when that guy got shot and died in the street right outside The World? His last words were about paying the sun god or something like that. Did we shake our heads and smirk, "Only in Tulsa..."? No. Amazingly enough, at all times, all across the globe people are creating beautiful things, giving parties, falling in love, wearing cool clothes, and doing things that make them happy. Do they run around screaming about how Des Moines is the greatest fucking city in the world? Challenging you to disagree. No. You know why? These people realize that other places are wonderful as well, just as they are filled with wonderful people. There are so many people who comment on Sarah's site about what a cool life she has. Well, first of all, she's not doing it alone, and secondly, I know that lots of those comments come from "cool cities". However, I have a feeling that, if pressed, very few people would come to Tulsa for the good times. As a side note, Sarah lives her life just like the rest of us. I've seen her at some pretty greasy, boring times.


Does this outfit make me look famous?
While casting my movie I got to thinking about all the people I've been told I look like. I don't really think any of them are that accurate, especially since many of these comparisons were made by drunk and/or stupid people. Anyway, what do you think.
* My high school boyfriend's dad got super drunk and told me I looked like her. He had his hand on my knee, but it wasn't gross. I don't know why.
* A dumb girl made this comparison. It's wierd now because this girl is dead. I could only find a giant picture.
* Obviously this is the one I'm choosing to go with, even though a creepy internet casanova would call me Willow.
* Finally, this ex-boyfriend told me that he asked me out because he thought I looked like her. I was horrified. I mean, remember when she was married to Jim Carrey? No good.


Coming soon to a theater near you
Perhaps I'm alone here, but I spend an awful lot of time storyboarding the movie of my life. Now, all my pals and stuff know who's going to play them, but I need to work on what sort of adventure we get into. It all starts like this...
After getting off the phone with my parents,
My Dude and I settle in for a quiet evening with The O.C. when Jon stops by and inquires as to whether or not we want to go to the Fetish Ball at Night Trips. Needless to say I am already in my bathrobe and far too stoned to even consider a jaunt to Night Trips and I know that tittie bars make Brian sad, so we have to pass. Besides, Mat DeKinder is on his way over because Julie is out of town and being alone at his house makes him sad. Plus he occasionally thinks his turtle is out to get him. I'm convinced that that is the real reason he sleeps on out couch so often. That and the fact that we have cable.

At this point you're probably thinking that this movie sounds pretty bogus. I agree, that's why, before Jon leaves for Night Trips, Sarah B. comes over and informs us that they just installed an electric bull at Caz's and all the beer is free that night, plus she's driving a cherry Corvair convertible. Well, honestly folks, how can we say no to that? You can't. So we pile in the Corvair and head for the bar.

Needless to say, the bar is packed with angry rednecks and they're pissed that all the Coors had been dranked and they ain't about to drink any of those other "faggot" beers. I know, the language, but I really want to portray the gritty realism that is my life. Since this is a movie, and more importantly, my movie, everyone I know is there. Kelly and Aaron and Matt Clayton...and all the other people that I know that haven't already been named. They all have ringside seats for the electric bull (which is gold) and they've saved us seats as well, so we're in like flynn. Sarah makes a beeline for the bull and totally cuts in front of this mean looking Kiowa girl. Kiowa starts to roll up, but Sarah cannily compliments her Rockies and her glistening blue-black braids and Kiowa is 1000% charmed and lets Sarah strap into the bull. Well, this one biker guy is not so charmed that this hoity-toity little snip has cut in line and HE starts to roll up to Sarah, that's when we look at one another and wonder what the hell we're supposed to do since none of us can fight. Fortunately for Sarah, she caught more flies with honey and Kiowa steps up and cold-cocks the biker guy, just as the bull starts buckin'.

None of us really wanted to ride the bull, so after Sarah collected her trophy for Most Outstanding Bull Rider and Cutest Outfit, we go cruise Memorial. Sarah is still driving the Corvair and I'm riding shotgun, which leaves Brian, Mat, and Jon in the backseat. They're passing a bottle of Cisco around while Sarah and I pull pinch hits in the front seat. Since it's a movie no one ever looks at the road and we never get pulled over.
We stop at a stoplight and this Mercury Grand Marquis with bitchin' rims pulls up next to us. D.J. Jazzy Trever rolls down his window and atcually tells Sarah and I to drop the zero and get with the hero. I am appalled at his lack of game, so I jump out of the car and punch him in the face over and over again, until he's all bloody and slack. Of course Lose Yourself will be playing the whole time.

We're spent so we head back to the house. Sarah takes Jon home where she still does not give him a blow job and Mat gets his bedding out of the front room and makes his l'il bed on the couch. Brian and I retire to our phat chambers and make crazy freak love all night long, where we're exquisitely lit, both come seven or eight times, and never bonk heads or do anything un-sexy like that.

Consider this movie to be in the same school as Adventures in Babysitting. A quiet night goes horribly wrong. There is danger, romance, comedy, all that good stuff. Only this one will sweep the Golden Globes.


Two cents from the professional
I'm assuming that most of you read my previous post regarding sucky "literature".
In the spirit of fairness, I'll now outline for you what makes a kick ass book. Get ready, it's not long before you see how shallow I really am. Let's get to it!
$ Suprise girl-on-girl action.
$ Unimaginable violence, coupled with awesome new insults like 'ginch', 'round-heels', and 'taco bender'.
$ Kissing and telling.
$ Lots of sex. That one really goes without saying.
$ Learning how to smoke meat in a hollow log.
$ This isn't a sad book, but it always makes me cry.
$ This one too.
$ Pants pissingly funny.


Things that make a book unreadable
* The true spirit of Christmas is learned.
* At the very end of the book the dad looks out the window at kids playing in the yard and dreams up the Little Rascals.
* When anyone learns a valuable lesson such as "Smoking marijuana is wrong" or "You should be married before you have sex".
* If it's a bodice ripper romance, then the sex has to come before page 45. I'm not reading Scandalous Temptation for the touching parlor scene.
* If it's written by Nicholas Sparks.
* If it's a story about one woman's triumph over adversity. Why are people so into that shit? It makes you wonder if people who actually encounter adversity read it. I'm thinking no.
* Cancer. I'm just paralyzed by not caring very much.
* Any sort of Jesus at all, even ironic Jesus.


It's time for your astrological forecast
Aries: You should find some unsuspecting co-ed and school her in the arts of Sapphic love. (Cheers. I like this forecast. elb)
Taurus: You should resign yourself to a life of being the ugly friend.
Gemini: Whatever you do, avoid the crepe pantsuit.
Cancer: Sometimes your charm is wicked deadly. Many girls are still smarting.
Leo: Try someting new. Perhaps second base.
Virgo: Do it for Johnny!!
Libra: Maybe your no shirt wearing days are behind you. That worked in college and all, but your metabolism has hit the brakes.
Scorpio: Last time I saw you you looked like a bull elk at the end of mating season, all fucked out. Take a little time off. Maybe put some cucumber on your eyes or something.
Sagittarius: You're killin' me. You're goddamn killin' me.
Capricorn: You're on fire in your own cool way. Have you been hanging around the corner of Peoria and Admiral?
Aquarius: Why you gotta be spreadin' rumors? I told you those things in the strictest confidence and now everyone at school thinks I'm gay. And now you come to me wanting to make out? You're wearing a top hat for christsake.
Pisces: Stay gold.


Another day, another dollar
Professions I have considered. Or have considered considering:
$ Heavy equipment operator with an emphasis on cranes.
$ Bride. I guess I achieved this one, although it doesn't pay real well. I'm kinda doing it pro bono.
$ Hair and make-up stylest to the stars. This one fell through when I realized how much fucking work it was. Plus, if actual stars are as asshole-y as the low rent local talent I worked with, count me out.
$ Stripper with a heart of gold. Thanks Mr. DeKinder, but I think a disturbing lack of mammary glands as well as a heart of gold will keep me out of the running.
$ Archivist. Actually, really boring.
$ Rare book librarian. Techically I could still jump for this one, but it's also really boring.
$ Prison librarian. I changed my mind about this one when I realized that the real prisoners probably weren't as hot as the ones on Oz. Plus they'd probably actually rape me.
$ Laura Ingalls Wilder. This one was already taken
$ Smutty romance novelist. This one is entirely Do-able. My first book will be entitled Timeswept Brides and I'm taking suggestions on a nom de plume.
$ Hooker.


In His name
As I was driving to work today, trying to shake off the last vestiges of my Pimm's hangover, I noticed the car in front of me had a Shepherd's Fold bumper sticker. This initially made me snort because Sarah has been known to drop Shepherd's Fold as a punchline with amazing dexterity. Then my lip curled as I remembered my own brush with Fun For the Sake of the Call.
The summer after eighth grade I was conned into going to Falls Creek. by a friend who was soon to betray me. I should've seen it coming. Being a life long scorner of organized religion, namely Free Will Baptists, I can not for the life of me tell you why I agreed to this. Ok, I can. Although I'd never been, I knew the scoring at Falls Creeks was like rolling off a log. My training bra was itching to be violated by some Kleen Teen from Edmond.
I was so not prepaired for how nerdy my friend's church was. There were no cute boys. There were very few boys period. I vaguely remember a hulking, sweaty mass named Monty who was always mumbling about how he didn't need drugs 'cause he was high on God. Like anyone would offer him drugs. I was barely out of my Girl Scout sash and I needed a stiff drink. I distinctly remember thinking that the cutest boy in out group was the youth director, Steve. And aren't they all named Steve? Oh, there were plenty of cute boys at camp. Hell, they were thick as theives and quite up front with their intentions, even going so far as to set up lawn chairs along the pathways and rate the chicks Olympic style. I still remember the hot flush of rating a meagre 4 that was chased by the schadenfreude that came when my friend rated a 2.5. None of these boys wanted to talk to us, there were tanned, long-legged girls as far as the eye could see, and while I was a 4 to my friend's 2.5, it wasn't enough to reel in those fish.
It didn't take long before I realized, because I was constantly reminded, that my shorts didn't meet the dress code. It's not like I was sporting Daisy Dukes. These were some blousy, pleat front walking shorts from Outback Red. I was a hussy because they didn't come below my knee. First of all, who has shorts that come below the knee? Aren't those culottes? Secondly, I hardly think that my tender young kneecap is going to drive anyone out of their mind. Not that I wasn't trying, but I was still a 4. A girl has to work within her limitations.
One of the multitude of things that sucked about Falls Creek was the fact that we had to go to church all the fucking time.We had to go to church three times a day. Morning, followed by more Jesus talk, after lunch, then again in the evening. For two and a half hours. I nearly died. Is is a sin to maybe take a hike or throw together a lanyard or something? When we weren't in the giant open air chapel, sweating our asses off high in the Arbuckle mountains, we were sitting in some pavillion, talking about Jesus and sweating our asses off. At one point I had to tell Brother Steve and the rest of the K.T.'s what smelting was. Ninth grade boys love a girl who's down with metallurgy.
I think Steve sensed pretty quickly that I was not much of a believer. His suspicions were confirmed when I got busted for ditching church. Perhaps it was my rockin' version of Aisha by Another Bad Creation that alerted him to my truancy. I should've known better than to rock so loudly in the presence if such godliness. Also, I should've closed the window on my cabin. Unfortunately I did not get sent home as he'd been threatening all week. Brother Steve was all talk.
By the end of the week I was truly a zombie. Somehow I suffered through all the hot, sweaty church and get to know you games. I lost count of how many times I pretended to pray. I didn't even care that I hadn't met my Kleen Teen from Edmond. I didn't even care that I was a 4. I was told that the end times were upon us and that the devil himself was a homosexual. Fuck you Falls Creek, here's my kneecap. Here's Aisha. Here's the grubby strap of my training bra taunting Brother Steve as it cut into my taut, sinful flesh. Dear gracious heavenly Father, indeed.


Click here for sluts


Hello Lucky Lady
Crap work on Friday, ex-girlfriend sighting, art show, indie rock bbq, more wine at the house, talking on the couch, splitting headache, sleep until noon, cold Egg McMuffins, trips to the thrift store, incecent peasant tops, dice, woman with no neck. Seriously, no neck. Baby mammas, Polo shirts, flip-flops, dead air, womens shoes?, skippies, more skippies, Public school vs. Private school, onion dip, dancing, Oreos, onion dip run, sexy crucifix, boobs in a cowboy hat, shirtless in the kitchen, espadrilles and a flask, Frickin' Ticket, Bra, check, bra, spilled drinks, feathers everywhere, Patience, girl-on-girl slow dancing, I'm just laying down for a minute, party moves into the bedroom, Little Red Bullett, Stephen lost his shirt, six in the bed and the little one said...Fix me another one of these, little brothers, booze soaked sheets, straddling, kissing, kissing with tongue, hasty exits, trips to the airport, no electricity, sushi, shower.
My house smells like an armpit.


Crazy shit that has happened before 9 a.m.
My sister found a dead rat in her back yard.
I ate kick ass sausage roll
Fort Awesome came under attack
Countermeasures were enacted
I was reintroduced to the concept of Chaw Raw Beefing
I did my checkbook


L'air du Phillips 66
Who funks of gasoline today? Me. The lesson I learned from getting gas this morning is to avoid large puddles in front of the pump because it's probably something that'll melt your shoes. Now my shoes are sticky. And I can never smoke in my car again.


Holy crap
I'm sure not as young as I used to be. But I'm not too old to pooh-pooh The O.C.. I'll be back Mr. Gallagher, that you can count on. Either way, I didn't think I had that much to drink last night. Little did I know. I slapped a boy I'd never seen before, simply because I thought I might've heard a mention of slapping. I smooched both Jon and his lady. On the cheeks! But it was smoochy. And I sang a whole bushel basketful of karaoke. I've found the perfect formula for this is to pour some libation into Sarah and have her pick the songs. I know she's not going to sign me up for Cat Scratch Fever, so when they call my name, either by itself or in conjunction with others in our party, I can go up there and rock with the best of them. That is if, and only if, the dickrash karaoke leader at Lennie's weren't such a fucker. Honestly guy, sorry if my friends and I are violating the sancitity of karaoke night. It doesn't mean you can competely disregard our selelctions just so that vaguely Mediterranian man can sing more. Oh, apparently it does. Thanks a mil. Oh, and there's something wrong with your Leavin' on a Jetplane because I see quite clearly that you tried to pull that shitty It's Rainin' Again song out in it's stead. Perhaps this is your problem and you should check your 'tude.
Anyway, like all good times, some lessons were learned. Or at least driven home.
1. My voice sucks. Bad. I really had no idea, but my Karen Carpenter is positively scandalous.
2. My Dude's voice fucking rocks. Way harder than the vaguely Medeterranian guy.
3. Jon's in love and it's pretty cute.
4. Mat's much vaunted rendition of Love Shack is hauntingly right on the money.
5. Emily can just make salsa at home and bring it over just like that.
6. Sarah managed to infect me with jazz regarding the aforementioned O.C. Or maybe I was infected by drunk.
7. I need more Jamaican friends.

I've got to rest up if I'm gonna be any good at the Lucky Lady. I believe a strict regimen of low-point beer is an order.


Who'd a thunk it
It's amazingly difficult to find naked pictures of Traci Lords on the Internet. Christ, Internet. I really expected more from you.


But we really were only freshmen

So, on Saturday night I changed clothes ablot five times. Sarah pointed out that I was like a 5-year-old performing for my parents friends. At one point I had on my time worn Sex Pistols t-shirt. Sleeves removed by me. It got me to thinking, what did we all look like in high school? We've seen pictures, but those were merely moments. How was it day to day? Here's the yearbook in my head:
Brian: Well, I've seen quite a few pictures of my Dude kickin' at the T. I know all about the Van Halen t-shirt, and the fake Rasta tam, and the convertable jeans. I also know about the long hair. I think it's safe to say that if he and I went to high school together I'd think he dressed like shit. But I'd still sit by him in class.
Sarah: Oh Ms. Brown, the Sam and Libbys are in full effect, as is the bomber jacket with the map in the lining. I suspect there was some Esprit present. Your hair was totally your crowning glory. If you were in my class, I might say "Yeah, but she's really funny", then we wouldn't ever talk outside of school.
Mat: Three words: Braided Leather Belt. You would've been too scared to ask me out.
Jon: Since Jon is the Dylan McKay of the set, I like to think he dressed is a totally Euro fashion. I think I know he didn't. I would've heard all the rumors about you.
Kelly: She's my hippie chick. I would've been intimidated by you until we had dentention together. After that is would be pinch hits a-plenty.
Clayton: David Silver all the way. From the flowy rayon shirts to the white boy fade. We didn't run with the same crowd.

Correct me if I'm wrong.


So we played the Game of Life last night. My Dude tells the story far better than I could. Namely because I was completely hosed within forty-five minutes of our arrival. Pinot Grigio is indeed the Devils' apertif. I've had a lot to drink and I can usually keep my clothes on and out of jail, but that damn PG gets me every fucking time. By the end of the evening I had to prop myself up on my Dude and the focusing of eyes was quite simply out of the question. On the way home my head was hanging out the window like an excited Labrador, and I wailed Sweet Child O' Mine as loud as I could. Or maybe the singing was all in my head. Either way, it was bad.
What I'm trying to say here is that I blame Julie. When we'd polished off the bottle of PG, she whipped out some white zin. White zin is the easy, comfortable ex-boyfriend fuck of the wine world. You know it's good, you know what to expect, and it only makes you feel a little bad the next day. But not so bad that you won't go back for more.

Julie, I'm not mad but we've gotta be more careful next time. Can we do that? Please.

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