Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Aim low, please

You know what really makes me a happy, cheerful lady of the office? The fact that we have a cleaning service at the office yet I had to clean the toilet yesterday since it was unfit to sit on.

Yes, I had to clean MASSIVE AMOUNTS of dried piss off the women's room toilet seat in order to urinate at work. Not in a bar, but at work. And, it wasn't just on the seat it was all over the floor, on the back of the toilet and the tank. Any woman that can perform such a feat is probably a pre-op tranny and since there are none of those at work that I know of and there is only one other non-transvestite woman in the office building besides myself, I'm lead to believe that the culprit is a male.

I'm fully aware that a select few of the men do in fact use the women's restroom on occasion since there are so many of them and it seems a bit silly to wait in line for the shitter at work when there's another one wide open just a few feet away. While slightly irritating, I choose to pick my battles here, this one falling under the "whatev" category, so I don't say anything when it happens. I know it has to be extremely entertaining to have a tiny hose attached to your body, but I will be forced to get neurotic if I have to bust out the Lysol again.

Instead of having a brief office meeting about it like any normal, sane person would, my plan is to post signs on the toilet in the shape of conversation bubbles as if the toilet is talking. The top three ideas for signs are:

"Get your penis away from my mouth!"

"The vag and I are EXCLUSIVE."

"If you're not going to sit on my face, I don't want yo ass!"

Now, I do have to give these guys the benefit of the doubt since most of them have wives and have shared a bathroom with a woman for years, so therefore they would not even think of committing the mortal sin of pissing all over the ladies toilet especially since they have their very own bathroom to mark with their scent. I can only assume that the cleaning crew has some sort of grudge against us, or one of them brought their 5-year-old son with them to work.

Here are a few other theories as to how men can get pee everywhere except the GIANT hole with water in it directly in front of them:

- They brought their iPod into the bathroom and were forced to bust into spastic booty dancing while in midstream because Beyonce's "Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)" came on.

- They have bad knees and one of them buckled while they were peeing.

- A bout of narcolepsy hit them right as the business began, which meant they were actually laying on the floor asleep when most of the peeing occurred.

- They had great aim to begin with, but then an epileptic seizure forced them off course.

- Or maybe it's just a depression thing. They're just horribly sad the Kansas winter is slowly fading away...


Check this out:

Perhaps I should pass this Web address on to show my moral support.

Friday, February 20, 2009

The attention whore strikes again

This is my dog Andy:

He is a dick.

Don't be fooled by that cute meerkat-like wrinkled head or the way he's politely crossing his legs in this photo - total asshat.

Not only does he piss on and ricochet off the crotches of my dates and anyone else who dares enter his domain, but the precious minutes I've wasted, which have undoubtedly added up to several hours over the course of the three years I've had him, chasing him through the various neighborhoods I've lived in has made me a weary, haggard mother.

He steathed out the front door probably close to once a week when I lived in my house in Fairway and since there's no catching his miniature gazelle ass, I just stood there helplessly while he frolicked at the speed of lightning through all the neighbors' front yards until he was out of sight. If he didn't come back in two minutes, I'd usually start crying and freaking out then my cell phone would ring with some weird number and a voice on the other end that sounded like a broken record would say: I have your dog. It was never the same person twice either because, ya know, Andy likes to meet new people to piss on as often as possible.

Sometimes he would even escape without me knowing and I'd come home to a note on the door that said: I have the Jack Russell, followed by an address.

I often find myself asking the question: Is he just really too smart for his own good or is he extremely dumb? The fact that he ran head on into a fence a few weeks ago makes me think the latter. I'm like, 'dude, you have food here and you get to sleep in the most comfortable bed ever because you're a spoiled asshole. Why would you want to leave dummy?'

Granted I did adopt him as an adult from the Humane Society, so his "formal training" didn't start until after he was a year old and had already developed his dick-ish ways. He has come a long way, so much so that I thought his running away habit was cured after I moved into this apartment. Eventually, I was able to let him out the door when I was in a hurry and he'd run down the steps, lift his leg on the fence post near the bottom of the steps and come right back. Except lately the little shit is back to his old shenanigans.

Yesterday, I had diddledicked around too much during my lunch break and was all, 'oh shit, I better go back to work or something, so they don't fire my ass.' So I'm running around trying to get ready to leave and I let him out the door like I usually do except *zoom* white lightning is suddenly back and he heads for the hills without even looking back.

After waiting around and screaming his name, I jump in the car and start trolling the complex. Here I am with all the windows down, screaming like a giant flaming piece of white trash, "AAAAANDY! Git yer ass back in the cage you DICKHEAD!" when my phone rings with a strange number.

"Ma'am, your dog's over here at the QuikTrip."

Are you fucking serious? That's like a half mile excursion through the entire complex, a construction site and across a busy street. I'm on the verge of vomiting. I'm like, 'Andy, if you wanted a goddamn taquito and a cappuccino, all you had to do was ask. There's no need to risk your life and cause your mother a heart attack.' He's like one of those bastard teenagers. If this is what babies turn into minus the fur, then boo, forget about it.

As I pull up to the QuikTrip I see some woman with bright pink lipstick and black fly glasses kneeling down to the ground scratching Andy's belly. I assume he must have released all his piss during his joy ride because she wasn't jumping back in disgust.

Nope, all her disgust was saved just for me. This woman, who by the way, seriously needed to consider purchasing a nose hair trimmer and using it regularly, BZZZZZZZZZ!
acted as though I had purposely let him out and left him on the streets for dead with her little 'mah' attitude.

I'm like, a.) He's kind of a shithead b.) I adopted him from a shelter when he was old balls so I'm totally a good Samaritan and c.) I'm not Ceasar fucking Milan so you and your dangly nose hairs can go fuck your mom.

I thanked her profusely anyway and took my little asswipe home. Perhaps he's not so dumb after all since he can apparently find alternate food sources at his favorite convenient store all by himself. I totally love that little bastard.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

New Orleans: The Good, The Bad, The Drunk-ass

“Rando, Cock Sando!”

This became the catch phrase of the weekend, which most likely is directly related to the amount of sleep we all got throughout our bachelorette weekend in New Orleans. It may also have had something to do with the fact that Shaunna and Kate spent the night before the trip high off Goo Gone fumes while taking sticky labels off tiny vodka bottles for Shaunna and Andrew’s wedding favors. At some point, Andrew said ‘cock sando’ followed by ‘butt hair’ and ‘dingleberry’ throwing the group into a fit of high laughter. My sick ass unfortunately arrived too late for the huffing party since I’d been in strep quarantine for two days. And, since I felt like ass for most of those two days, this caused me to stay up far too late Friday night packing making Saturday’s 4:30 a.m. wake up call even more difficult . Balls.

Theeeeen, I got to the airport and realized I’d forgotten the most important thing in order to not be an asshole on the trip – my motherfucking Z-Pak. Good thing Andrew’s dad is a doctor and called in another prescription to the New Orleans Walgreens under Shaunna’s name, except I dropped $50 on shit I already had since I couldn’t use my insurance. Right then I was going, ‘is this an omen for the rest of the trip?’

The Digs

The Historic French Market Inn is old as shit and I'm pretty sure I saw ghosts in the windows while we walked through the courtyard to our room. Our room was big and updated, but it looked like Tim the Tool Man Taylor had done most of the remodeling with his plastic Fisher Price tool set. I forgot to take a picture of it, but there was definitely one 2-foot by 1-foot oval mirror in the entire room...for three girls...at least one of them moderately high maintenance. That was interesting.

But far more interesting was the drunk as piss old couple next door to us who smoked pot and screamed and knocked on our door then ran away and boned a lot in the middle of the day.

No complaints really, just observations. I’d stay there again especially since it was close to everything. Just remember to pack a mirror if you’re even slightly interested in what you look like during your stay.

Blinky dicks – a Midwest thang?
When Shaunna was in the shower Saturday night, Kate and I made a bachelorette explode in our room. While I passed out on the floor trying to blow up giant dick balloons, Kate hung banners and beads from the chandeliers.

By the way, what’s up with the “dicks galore” theme of bachelorette parties? I mean, shit, I’ve sipped drinks through dick straws, sucked on dick suckers, carried a giant, 4-foot blow up dick through Westport, played ring toss with a dick, have been fed Jell-o out of a dick mold and even came face-to-face with a real live dick when a man stripper picked me out of the crowd at a bachelorette party and assaulted me with his bright orange banana hammock while I held back vomit.

It’s pretty ricockulous, but for some reason, we keep going with it, which is why I busted out my culinary skills – a.k.a. Pillsbury sugar cookie dough in a tube along with my slight knowledge of the male anatomy – and made dick cookies complete with pink icing and sprinkles. In the spirit of Mardi Gras in New Orleans, I also threw in some boobies for an extra good time.
Since I was pretty sure I was an expert at dick and boob shaping, I didn’t use a cookie cutter resulting in blobs of nothing and elephant man, deformed dicks and lopsided, saggy grandma tits. Who the hell put me in charge of something involving the kitchen?

However the grand finale was the veil. We had all been joking about making Shaunna wear blinky dicks on a veil for several weeks except the only person who actually thought it was a joke was Shaunna.

So here we were prancing down Bourbon Street and every fifth person would stop to gawk at the blinking, light up dicks on Shaunna’s veil, then say, “what are those?” Each time I would throw up my hands and yell, “BLINKY DICKS!” Then they’d stare at me like I had Tourette’s for about 30 seconds before it would all click in their drunk heads. Are we Kansas Citians the only ones who partake in the “dicks galore” theme? Because I highly doubt it.

My other favorite statements of the night:

- “Are you getting married?”
Nope, just totally love the fashion statement blinky dicks on a white veil make.
- “Don’t do it!” (Usually screamed by short, rat-like man with missing teeth.)
Well, I’m not marrying you, so I think I’ll go ahead and go through with it.

And then there's this guy:

However, I like what I captured in the background slightly better.

Aaaand this guy:

Who was extremely disappointed we weren't carrying around a dildo for him to play with. Oh frat boys...how I don't miss thee...

New WHORE-leans
Calling all whores and wannabe whores, I’ve found your new home. Now I sound like an old prude bitch here, but seriously, when did Bourbon Street become nothing but titty bars? I mean, I know they were always there, but it seemed to be overloaded this visit. And how in the hell can they staff all those places? I realize the economy is in the shitter, but can’t these chicks waitress or tend bar for just as many tips and maintain a little dignity? The job situation is not so bad that we all must wander around naked to survive.

At one point we walked past Larry Flint’s Ho Bag House and several of them were on the balcony above us with their legs draped over the railings. I was all, “yep, I totally just saw that one’s hoo ha and if her syphilis drops down on my head, I’m gonna be PISSED.”

Titty bar or not, the whore-ness was all around. Of course there was the typical boobs for beads thing. I nearly got my eye poked out by nipples at least six times. Little girls, perhaps under 18, were wearing shirts as dresses, then getting mad because guys would yell stuff at them and play grab ass. I’m like, ‘dude, I can see the bottom of your butt cheeks. I kinda wanna grab at you. At least go inside one of these titty bars and make these guys pay for it. Right now you’re giving it all away for free.’

Some chick Sunday night apparently forgot her shirt and rocked out with a band on stage at some bar with just her black strapless bra and fat rolls to keep her warm. The vibe from the crowd was a mixture of pity and 'haha! oh god, I'm glad that's not me.'

Since the number of whores slinking around out numbered the non-whores, the three of us were constantly “tempted” by men dangling plastic beads in our faces as if they were diamonds. Oooo! Look how the plastic catches the light! It’s a known fact that I’m not a public boob flasher especially for beads. I’m not all conservative and weird about nudity, but I just feel I deserve a fair trade – a boob in exchange for a giant beer or a steak dinner perhaps? This shit’s not for free.

At one point, some dude molested all three of us on the dance floor at Razoo while we desperately tired to escape to the front stage where some MC lady plucked chicks off the dance floor disguising it as a “oh hey, you’re getting married, come party on this cool stage to celebrate,” but in reality it was probably more like, “oh, I see you're getting jean cock humped by our regulars Luis and Pedro, let me help you and your ass escape to higher ground.” As we walked out of the bar, I ended up punching the same guy off Kate as he rampantly tired to ass rape her through her clothes. Seriously dude, get a blow up doll.

Speaking of whores, last time I went to New Orleans, my underwear ended up on the wall of some bar called Utopia. This sounds far more whore-y than it actually was, but the point of mentioning it is we looked for the bar and it was gone! They turned it into something else, which means some homeless lady is sporting the fanciest bright green thong she has ever owned.

Dog in a shirt!
When we booked the trip we had no idea that the first day of Mardi Gras was that Friday meaning the French Quarter was a clusterfuck the whole time we were there. People must be crawling over each others heads on Fat Tuesday.
Literally everyone…and their dogs were out on Sunday afternoon for the dog parade, which apparently had a movie theme. I’ve never seen so many Pomeranians dressed as Batman chilling as they rolled down the street in tiny, homemade cardboard Batmobiles. Every time I see a dog wearing clothes, I feel the urge to yell, “dog in a shirt!” mainly because it’s completely stupid to put clothes on your dog unless it’s purely for entertainment value for a short period of time. I’m all, ‘your poor dog can’t even take a piss with that frilly pink dress on. Take it off before I smack you.’

We waded through the parade and piles of dog shit somehow to walk around Jackson Square and look at all the art. Kate and I both ended up buying New Orleans-y pieces from Stuart South.

Absinthe = Asshole
The Southern Comfort Cocktail Tour we went on last time we were in N.O. in Oct. 2004 left me quite intrigued with “The Green Fairy,” which is apparently supposed to make you hallucinate green fairies flying around among other things, so I made a request to go back to Pirates Alley CafĂ© and Absinthe Bar so I could actually try one this time.

We met a local there who seemed to know what he was doing because apparently you don’t just order “The Green Fairy,” you have to tell them what kind. He was nice enough to my dumb shit, Absinthe-retarded ass, to explain all of them so it actually sounded like I knew what I was talking about when I ordered the drinks. We watched the bartender pour the absinthe over the sugar cubes and light them on fire all excited to try it, then she handed them over and I kinda wanted to vomit. We nicknamed Kate’s “tequila asshole” because it smelled like tequila on top of the rancid licorice stench. We drank maybe half of them, then tapped out and demanded frozen Hurricanes to cover up the shitty taste the liquid green ass left in our mouths. Then, to top it off, I suffered through that damn drink and I didn’t hallucinate even one goddamn green fairy. Bullshit.

The bigger the better

Yes, in fact, those are beer bottles the size of wine bottles we’re holding – 64 ounces to be exact. We spied several men drinking them during one of the parades we stumbled upon, but no women and immediately decided they would be our final drinks of the trip...and they were...sort of.

They came with straws...but straws are for pussies.

Behold my six chins!

Three women carrying around beers bigger than your head attracted quite a bit of attention.

This guy got mad because he only had tiny ass pansy beers:

And this guy, Canadian Scott, hung out for a couple of drinks and about 50 million Jager Bombs:

Not only were these beers a delicious novelty, they also became a secret Jager Bomb stasher when I was pretty sure that if I had another one, I would projectile vomit across the bar and then have a seizure on the floor.

Then Shaunna took a picture with this fire hydrant because she thought it was a midget. And she barely had any of that absinthe dammit! Bitch.

This was the theme on Monday since the walk back to the hotel after giganto beer night was horrendously fuzzy and I woke up after three hours of sleep, still in my clothes and make-up, still drunk with less than 10 minutes to pack and get into a cab to go to the airport.

While Kate flung shit into my suitcase I wandered around the room aimlessly with slits for eyes trying not to barf. Like I said, it’s fuzzy so there’s a good possibility Kate and Shaunna dragged me by my hair to the lobby and stuffed my ass into the backseat of a waiting cab because somehow I ended up in one and I don't know how. I stole Shaunna’s pillow and listened to Kate and Shaunna’s drunken giggling and the cab driver, which in my drunken state I was sure was a little Italian dude who later turned out to be Indian, call himself “Dr. Love.”

After about 100 years of driving I sat straight up and said, “Oh SHIT! We gotta stop!” I’m like, listen Dr. Love or whatever the fuck your name is, you need to pull over at a bush so I can barf in it. Shaunna’s all, “but we’re pretty much at the airport,” and I’m like, “yes, but puke waits for no one. You can just tell it not to come!”

As we pull up to ticketing, I’m screaming, “Locate a trashcan. Locate a MOTHERFUCKING TRASH RECEPTACLE!” I fling myself out of the moving vehicle and make it to the nearest trash can just in time to shove my head in it and lose what’s left of giganto beer and Jager Bomb in my stomach while a lady about 50 feet away on a bench looks on and smiles as though this is a familiar and happy sight.

Apparently while my head was stuffed in the thankfully nearly empty trashcan, Dr. Love asked, “Is tired girl still in the cab?”

Then the girls answered, “No she’s over there puking in the trash can.”

“Oh, OK.”

The hangover lasted nearly the entire day. On the last flight home, boarding took 3,000 hours, the plane was sweltering, babies were crying and somebody’s ass exploded in front of me making it basically the worst scenario ever humanly possible for being hungover on a flight as if it wasn’t bad enough in regular conditions. My heavy breathing, which was nearly moaning when it came down to it signaled that there was a good chance I was going to vom again prompting the lady next to me to get up and move to sit by some dude she didn’t even know just to get away from me. Of course I also looked and smelled like a homeless person at that point too, so this may have also contributed to her decision. I was thankful though because the extra seat let me lay down and stopped the rising puke in my throat.

As soon as I got home, I took a hot shower, ate a cheeseburger the size of my ass, visited my crippled boyfriend and passed out only to wake the next morning still feeling as though a 652 pound woman had sat on my head. However, this is simply an indication that it was a successful bachelorette weekend in The Big Easy.

And, I’m going back in April. Pray for me…

Friday, February 13, 2009

A lot of PISSY, mixed with a wee bit of happy

**I wrote this on Friday, then got preoccupied with being half dead and trying to go out of town and forgot to post it.**

Remember how I was a giant raging bitch on Christmas Eve because I did not have strep throat and therefore could not get the lovely Z-Pak and ended up being sick for three weeks? Well, be careful what you wish for because this is now currently sitting on my kitchen table:

Because *dun, dun, DUUUUN* I now miraculously and mysterious have strep. Goddammit.

It's been a good 10 years since I've had this shit and I'm not sure how I got it this time. It was either when I made out with the female stripper Saturday night or several hours later when I licked a bathroom wall for three dollars and pack of Skittles. Skittles are fucking gooooood.

I don't ever remember it being this shitty to have Strep. When I was little I was all, "Hey Mom, my throat hurts like a bitch," but I'd feel fine otherwise, then we'd go to the doctor, he'd say, "yeah, it looks like it," gag me with a giant Q-Tip, put me on meds, I'd miss the mandatory day of school, then three days later the test results would come back and Mom would go, "Yes, in fact, you did have strep."

This time I woke the boyfriend up around 5:30 a.m. yesterday morning because I was moaning "NOOOOOO!" in my sleep. He was all, "are you having a bad dream?" and I'm all, "no, I'm totally dying."

My whole body was cramping up, I was feverish and I began walking around my apartment crying while trying to get ready for work and searching for sharp objects to help me cut my throat out. Finally I was just like, fuck this, I'm going to the clinic and I probably either have nothing or Tetanus, only one of which will allow me to crawl back into bed unfortunately since I've already missed too many days of work being sick with rando colds and what not.

When did my immune system decide to go on vacation? Oh, that's right, just around the same time my metabolism decided to start being a lazy piece of shit so I get to be a sickly, crappy employee and human being with a fat ass all at the same time and nobody likes those. Great.

I was worried about my crap employee status, but I was also pissed because I'm leaving for New Orleans on Saturday at 6 a.m. with Kate and Shaunna for Shaunna's bachelorette party and while I'm sure rotting in airplanes and airports with a few thousand other disgusting, hygiene-impaired people and their mysterious illnesses, then prancing around the filthy, boob, stripper and feces filled streets while drinking Hand Grenades and Hurricanes make stingy sore throats feel so much better, I really just didn't want the feeling of walking death to get in the way of my partying.

So, my dressed-for-work-but-still-lookin'-like-a-crackhead self went to Walgreen's and after much blah, blah, blah about insurance and menstruation and my excessive drinking, smoking and drug use, the nurse looked in my throat, went 'eeeww' while scrunching up her nose, gagged me with the giant Q-Tip, played with some chemicals, then two minutes later she said, "yep, it's strep." My, how medical technology has changed in my lifetime.

I was sort of relieved since there was no way I could go to work, doctor's orders yo, there was some sort of explanation as to why my throat was collapsing and my skin hurt and I'd probably feel better by the time I left for The Big Easy. I had to fight a bit for the Z-Pak, but ended up getting the gloriousness. Except I still feel like butthole. And I'm pretty sure everybody at work is going, 'this chick is full of shit,' so I sent this e-mail along with scans of my doctor's note and diagnosis sheet attached. Yes, almost 26-years-old and I'm still getting doctor's notes...er nurse practitioner's notes I guess:

Hi guys, Well, I feel less like death than I did yesterday, but still death nonetheless, which is going to make for a wonderful trip this weekend. : ( I know it's absolutely ridiculous for one human being to be sick this much in this short period of time, which is not normal for me, so I attached the documents I got at the clinic yesterday just so you can see I'm not full of it. I am actually legitimately sick. Have a good weekend and I'll see you Tuesday unless I catch the avian flu or Bubonic Plague from New Orleans...jeez...seriously? ~ Lara

And, here are some more reasons why strep sucks a big fatty:

- My cousin Aaron and his wife Ginny had their baby yesterday and I can't go visit him because two days later they'd be all, 'why and how the fuck does our newborn have strep?' Then I'd be shunned from the family and that's no good.

- On top of being a sickly crap employee with a fat ass, I'm also a crap girlfriend because Jim will be going under the knife while my drunk ass gallivants all over the French Quarter. Granted I had this trip planned and booked long before hoodlums decided to break his rib which later punctured his lung causing the need for said surgery, but still. Still. I've been debating whether I should stay home since he doesn't have any family near him, but I decided the possible resentment that could result from that decision would be worse. Plus, he's probably going to get strep on top of the whole surgery thing.

Fucking strep makes everything all shitty.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Ladies, prepare yourselves for this one...

I got this e-mail forward from my aunt and uncle this morning that had a bunch of advertisements from the 1930s. Unbelievable doesn't quite describe them. It's more like, What. The. FUCK?!
This one was particularly disturbing:

Excuse me, did you just recommend I squirt bathroom cleaner up my vag? The same stuff I use to spray on doorknobs to kill cold and flu germs and mop my kitchen floor with...while wearing GLOVES? Yes, gloves, to protect the skin on my hands – a recommendation on the bottle.

Then, since it's so economical, I just use the same mop water in my douchebag! And, it's so gentle that it only causes third degree chemical burns on my hoo ha, yet I know its working. Thanks Lysol!

Nope, nope, never in my life have I said, 'I bet that Lysol I have under my sink that I use to dissolve soap scum would be great for killing all that Rhinovirus and Salmonella camping out in my 'gine.' OK, maybe once, but it was a fleeting thought...

Do women who lived in the '30s even still have vaginas? Or do they just have this patch of scarred up, unrecognizable flesh where their Lysol-tastic vags used to be? When their granddaughters asked them about the Great Depression, did they also mention other...ahem...personal losses?

'Yes, dear, I too was a victim of the Great Lysol Douche Hoax of 1936. Don’t let it happen to you.'

So, does this mean it was common to hear a woman in the 1930s scream in agony from the bathroom, then have her husband smile to himself and say, 'hell yeah, I'm getting some nice disinfected ass tonight!'

Well, probably not that last part, since we all know that "unyielding web of indifference" isn’t because Tom's wife's ladyparts lack the distinct aroma of a freshly scrubbed shower – it's because he's banging the babysitter...or Steve in accounting.

Oh, and P.S., I'd like to know where the ad is recommending men dip their balls in Clorox Bleach, because, ya know, women really dig a man who cleanses thoroughly.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

This weekend is what blogs are made of

Was the sound that came out of my mouth during vag waxing session No. 2 Friday afternoon. Now I know why Steve Carell screamed out "Kelly Clarkson!" during his waxing scene in the 40-Year-Old Virgin. You never know what words/sounds your mouth will form while de-animal pelting.
It had been just long enough for me to forget how FUCKING BAD some of those yanks hurt, but I have enough experience now for it to feel like it took a good seven hours less than it did the first time. However, there is still not enough experience for me to know all of the little things that could go wrong - vag waxing side effects if you will.
Such as the effect this procedure will have on your boyfriend. How he will want to climb up on rooftops and shout "SHE GOT HER COOCHIE WAXED!" or share this EXACT phrase with a chef that he knows while you're enjoying dinner together at a nice restaurant. It's clear that I'm pretty open about...well...everything, so it takes a lot to make me blush. This was one of those times...or it could have just been the quart of red wine...
Or, take for instance this time when my simple act of hopping off the table after my waxing session to grab my pants was met with hysterical laughter from Kate. Confused, I glanced her way to see what was so funny.
Kate (breathless and teary-eyed): "Your butt cheeks are stuck together! BAAAAAAHAHAHAHA!"
I mean, I know things are a little...sticky...er...um...tacky?...uh, not 100 percent free flowing down there afterwards, but I didn't know it was noticeable enough for somebody across the room to see that something was not quite right. I also didn't realize that I have apparently become so comfortable in this situation that I subconsciously moon people. Kate described the sight in her own words:
"It was like your ass cheeks were straining to come apart, but couldn't because they were waxed shut! BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!"
This then prompted the waxer, Beth Anne, to burst into laughter and ask me if I needed some more oil. Yes, oil, to lube up my waxed shut asshole. Delightful.


Saturday everybody and their dogs in Northeast Kansas were frolicking and basking in the tropical rays of a 60 degree day in January at the dog park and in the midst of all of their smiling, laughing and sniffing each other's butts, Andy decided to entertain the crowd with a little slapstick routine.
Since Kansas City temperatures have mirrored those in Antarctica the past couple of weeks, the lake at the park was still frozen solid allowing all the dogs, including my own, to think it was great fun to try to make me have a heart attack by sliding out on the ice to chase balls and sticks thrown by less neurotic dog owners. I'm all, 'fuck, they're going to crash through the ice any second! Then I'm going to have to go save them, then I'll fall through the ice and the person that tries to save me will fall in and we'll all fall in one by one to our deaths in the icy abyss of the Shawnee Mission Dog Park Lake!'
Yeah, nobody fell in, at least when I was there, but I was relieved when Andy decided to run back up onto land. And run he did...head on into a wire fence. He must have been practicing for weeks when I was at work because he made it look so realistic. His head bounced off the fence while his little hind end catapulted into the air. He had everybody on that side of the park cracking up. What a comedian (read: Complete tard ass, who is undeniably MY dog) that little guy is.

Unbeknownst to me, a sense of humor is a quality dogs find important in a mate as well. And, here I thought it was all about Eau de Asshole. Andy's stunt attracted the attention of a German Shorthaired Pointer three times his size with obscenely large testicles. I'm like, 'seriously? Put some pants on that dog. Nobody wants to see that shit.'
And, when I say "attracted the attention of" I mean Big Balls did the incessant "walk hump" behind Andy as he scurried around the park. Andy's no homophobe (please, I taught him right), but he just really likes to be a "top," so when big balled bullies try to force him to be a "bottom," he gets feisty. Andy bit the humper and successfully escaped maybe three times, but about the fourth time the crap ass became immune to Andy biting the shit out of his face and he wouldn't stop. While I'm all for dogs working it out themselves, an audience had started to form and poor little Andy was on the verge of becoming the victim of a gang bang, so I decided to save him from certain butt rapage. Except humper didn't seem to care when I picked Andy up and he continued right on with his thrusting...with me now thrown into the mix.
As I'm trying to keep a hold on a wiggling, fangs out Andy in my arms, fend off a large, aggressively humping dog standing on his hind legs, not step on all the other dogs at my feet, not fall off the rock wall I'm on the edge of all while yelling, "Get the FUCK off me!" and "Jesus Chriiiiiiiiiiist!" The Worst Dog Ever's owner FINALLY came over to gain control of his rapist.
And, as he walked away with Big Balls in tow, he muttered the quietest, most unapologetic "sorry" ever, which forced my inner snotty, nose-in-the-air bitch to come out and respond with, "Perhaps you should think of neutering!" (After telling my dad the story, he said I should have added, after a brief pause, 'and your dog too!' Damn, if only my inner bitch were more witty.)
Do we need to host classes on dog park etiquette? I understand that dogs will be dogs, which includes humping, but if your dog repeatedly ass rapes my dog, then jizzes on my leg, perhaps it's a sign he's not compatible with off-leash dog parks. And, in the words of Kate: "If your dog is a big dangly-balled humper, you should keep him on a leash."
On a side note: If you give me this reason for not neutering your dog: "I'm going to stud him out," I will punch you in the mouth. No you're not. Stop telling yourself that because you're never actually going to do it. I know men that don't neuter their dogs (especially hunting dogs because it's always men) want to live vicariously through them by making them man hos, but that's pathetic and will only hurt you in your real life. I'd be more attracted to you if you played "Dungeons and Dragons" in your mom's basement rather than hunted with your huge testicled Labrador or whatever it may be. There are far too many unwanted mutts in shelters (which are better anyway) and far too many breeders and "studs" out there already. You don't need to be cool and join the club. Your dog can still hunt ball-less, I promise.
Plus, even if you did pimp out your dog it would backfire on you because, lets face it, your dog sucks. He's a big dangly-balled humper and nobody likes him. Shit, you don't even like him, so what makes you think it's a good idea to allow him to reproduce? His offspring are most likely going to suck too.
So, in conclusion, ADOPT a dog or, if you must drop several hundreds of unnecessary dollars on a crappy hunting dog or a bullshit foo-foo dog for that matter, at least neuter/spay them if only to ensure that I will be less of a raging bitch to you. Thank you.

I never really quite understood why it was such an insult to call a man a dog. Now I know...first hand...and it's so true.

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