Crissy is Really 11 Years Old!!!!! No Shit.

Crissy has been feeling like an old woman lately.

Well, actually, since birth Crissy has just been ty-id and old.

As a wee little Crissy I was always the first one to fall asleep at sleepover parties and the other sweet little cherubs tortured me. One time I woke up with cheetos crushed in my hair and a waste basket on my head and I also know from personal experience that sticking a sleeping person’s hand in warm water makes them pee in their Smurfette sleeping bag.

Do we understand why Crissy loves her vodka now?

The emotional scars run mighty deep people.

I’ve been to doctors like a millionty hundred times and had test after test until I thought my doctor was secretly a vampire and was just drinking the shit instead of testing it. As it turns out there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. Everything is fine which lead her to assume that I must have a sleeping issue and so referred me to some sleep specialist dude who looked exactly like the husband in Sleeping with the Enemy. I shit you not.

Needless to say I did not go through with the sleep study. I prefer to self medicate with drugs and booze a healthy diet and regular exercise anyway so the doctor can just eat shit. Or drink my blood or come to my house and stalk me in my sleep or whatever.

But this is frustrating as hell because all I want, all I have ever wanted is to not feel like I’m 80.

I drag myself through my day and all I want to do at the end of it is read my book or stare at the tee-vee and do nothing. Except maybe all that stuff with a bag or doritos and a hot fudge sundae. And someone needs to feed it to me because I’m too tired to move.

And that leads us to the second thing Crissy wants today. Crissy wants all of her exercising and eating well and downing diet pills like Popeye downs the spinach taking care of herself to pay off by actually making her feel healthy.

But no.

I still feel 80.

So Mister suggested I take this handy little quiz, which I did and here is my report card:

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And so great news! I’m really 11.8 years old!

Actually I can believe that mentally I am 11 because all I want are tap shoes, a new bike, and more time during the day to play Barbies. And I really just want hot fudge sundaes for dinner every night.

Woot! Woot!

So how old are you people?

Click the linky http://www.peterrussell.com/Odds/VirtualAge.php and report back.

DO IT!

Crissy Seen it on the Tee-Vee and Now She Wants it.

Infomercials

Crissy wants anything she sees on the infomercials because when she wakes up at the vag crack of dawn every day, that’s all that’s on. And you tend to be gullible at 5am. At least Crissy does.

And now Crissy has a hanerking, a desire, a yearnin’ for the following products which are certain to improve her life in ways she never imagined possible.

First up are these little beauties:

Because Crissy does not think her fiber cereal is doing enough to help her clean her colon so it’s either this stuff or a pipe cleaner. Mister has already generously volunteered the use of his-oh forget it! Let’s just say that Crissy would rather use the Dual Action Colon Cleansing System than take it in the pooper. She only does that on Very Special Nights.

Oh! And I want this!

If this shit can make me look as awesome as Jane Seymore does after having eleventy billion kids and an acting career that spans like, centuries, then sign me up bitch! I’ll take two!

And how can I live without this for another second?

It takes baby powder off the floor in a Jiffy! And look how happy she is! She’s just all “I’m a cleanin’, uh-huh, with my shark-y, oh ye-ah, and you don’t have one, na-uh, cuz you su-uck.” I don’t want to suck. I want to STEAM! Because I never roll around on the floor like I should and it’s only cuz it isn’t Shark Steam Mop clean!

And I don’t know when I’ll find the time to watch this, but I still want it.

Does it not look fucking hilarious? I think it even comes with a Martini and a Lucky Strike. How can you go wrong Queefs?

You can’t.

You cannot go wrong with the Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts.

And just in case I ever get The Acne I’ll have to have a supply of this on hand:

It’s glamorous because all the slightly crazy celebrities like Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jessica Simpson and I think Britney Spears use it. Not that Britney Spears is only slightly crazy. She’s a fucking giant Super Size bag of crazy, but you know. Her skin is okay.

Ugh. So many things that I want, you guys.

This is exactly why Crissy does not watch QVC. No matter how tempting it is to shop from her bed, she will not allow herself to do it because once Crissy has tasted paradise you will never hear from her again and she will become one of those pathetic trailer park ladies sitting in her brown and gold plaid Barcalounger with a Misty hanging out of her mouth and a can of Natural Light in her hand at 5am.

She’s not that far from it now…

You do Fosse, Fosse, Fosse! You do Martha Graham, Martha Graham, Martha Graham! Or Twyla, Twyla, Twyla! Or Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd! Or Madonna, Madonna, Madonna!

Welcome to day 2 of Crissy Wants Week!

Woot! Woot!

We could do this forever because as Mister I am sure will tell you, Crissy is an endless bag of need and want and whine, whine, whine.

And what does Crissy want now?

DANCING LESSONS!

Because I’m a wonderful dancer but I think my raw talent needs to be honed and disciplined just a little bit.

The neighbor Michele and I just signed the girls up for a tap/jazz dance class and well, I’m feeling a little jealous.

I mean look ad teh widdle shoozies she gets to wear!

I’m totally taking that silly little bow off though. It’s just gratuitous.

And when we brought the girls to be fit for their dancing shoes Crissy got a little nostalgic for the days when she was just a wee little Crissy and spent Saturday mornings in tap and ballet classes.

She just loved her tap shoes and she would flap-tap-tap on the kitchen floor until her mother’s ears bled.

Good times…

And so I tell my friend Lynne that I want to take tap lessons and she tells me tap is gay.

Well, that’s sort of the point. I get to tap my heart out and be Crissy of the Dance AND possibly meet a nice gay. How fun would that be? Tons of fun, Queefs. Tons. But here’s what stuck in my craw. Lynne takes Jazzercize for Jehovah’s sake! I’m talking the kind with Jazz hands and the whole shebang. That’s gayer, I think.

And so it started the following cacophony of eecards.

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And then she came out of her office and handed me this:

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And now we can’t decide what is gayest. Tap, Jazzercise, having an argument via eecards, or holding a Gay-Off at the library.

You be the judge QUEEFS.

We place it in your capable hands.

Loser must go with the winner to her respective class.

It’s Crissy Wants Week!

Welcome Intertrons!

(I’m trying to think of a good name for you guys. Forgive me while I try a few things out.)

Anyhoot, Welcome to Crissy Wants Week!

We haven’t done a theme week in ages and it’s high time we get back in business around here. I want no more pussying around with random crap. We’re going to beat shit to death from now on.

Or at least for this week we will.

Crissy wants so many things, you guys.

So. Many. Things.

And today I would like to tell you about how Crissy wants Mister to stop embarrassing her in front of her friends because he’s always doing it and it drives her nuts.

For example, this weekend we were having a lovely time with the neighbors and having a few drinkies and ridiculing and laughing at our children enjoying watching our children play together when Mister comes running into the room with a packet of Gas-X and excitedly exclaims “Crissy! Look! I found more of your Gas-X! I knew you couldn’t have gone through that much of it already!”

Now you Intertubbies know that Crissy’s life is pretty much an open book, but seriously?

Do people need to know that Crissy gets The Gas sometimes?

Not The Farting, but The Gas.

Crissy is far too much the delicate flower to have The Farting.

It’s her fiber cereal that does it and by the end of the day it combines with her healthy vegetarian and fruititarian diet and it makes her tummy a little, ahem, ENORMOUS and she feels like she’s carrying a baby beluga in her belly and so she needs a little help to feel better.

But she doesn’t need Mister telling everyone about it.

He might as well have come running into the room with a box of this:

or a box of this

or something.

(Note to the Cybernets: Crissy has neither The Crotch Rot nor The Hemorrhoids. These products are merely examples of the kinds of things Mister might use to humiliate her in front of her friends.)

And while we’re at it, I would also like to request that Mister stop telling people things like, “Crissy isn’t feeling good today. She’s on her period.” or “Crissy can’t come to the phone right now, she’s taking a shadooie.” I just think the QOFE’s proper functions should be shared on a need to know basis only.

So that is my want for today and if Mister doesn’t lock it up, I’m going to be forced to tell the QUEEFS (OMFG!! I’m totally calling you guys QUEEFS from now on!) about how he likes to keep light bulbs and cans of soda and things up his bum.

Where My Gays At?

Crissy has been thinking again Internettians.

A dangerous pastime, I know.

“What have you been thinking about now, Crissy?”

I’m glad you asked, Internet.

I’ve been thinking that in addition to my House Bitch I’m going to have to have an entourage too.

Now I know that all a you Internets are an entourage of sorts and I love, love, love that, really I do and if I could have sweaty sex with every last one of you I would, but I sort of would like a real entourage too. Like one so big we have to have one of these:

And I think that my entourage should include some flamboyant gay men.

Sort of like this fine fellow:

Can’t you just picture us walking into Whole Foods together?

With Girlfriend sitting in the grocery cart like the Queen of Sheba?

It’s like it was meant to be!

But it isn’t.

Sigh.

In all seriouslyness though, Crissy has always loved the gays and thinks that if Kathy Griffin can have a large gay following then so should she.

And I love Madonna just as much as anyone. I even blew the speakers out in my car listening to Hard Candy.

But here’s the sad truth Internettians.

Crissy doesn’t have any gay friends and it makes her sad because it’s very tragic that someone as fabulous as she is so woefully deprived. She almost had a gay friend. His name was Eric and he loved him some Madonna and even had a license plate that said MDONNA and his most favoritest thing was dressing up like her and his skin was sooooo smooth like a baby’s and Crissy was only 18 at the time and she tried to kiss him because she thought he was straight. Because he asked her out on a date and was acting like a straight guy except for the smooth skin thing and it turned out that Nooooooo. Eric was really as gay as the day was long and it lead to a very awkward moment and we never spoke again.

Crissy should have seen the signs of the gayness (I mean HELLO! How many straight guys do you know like to dress up as Madonna?) but Crissy was a stupid girl and she wishes she could talk to Eric again and say she’s sorry for the awkwardness and couldn’t he just come over and we can listen to Madonna and drink wine and make fun of straight guys together? (Sorry straight guys.  I love you, but you know you’re really sort of dumb sometimes, right?)

But I don’t know what happened to him.

I’ve always wanted to be a fruit fly, a fag hag, a girl who hangs out at gay bars and comes home covered in glitter and singing “It’s raining men.” That’s what I assume goes on in gay bars but I have no idea, really because I live in white bread, heterosexual, Catholic suburbia where their idea of an alternative lifestyle is driving a car instead of an SUV or a fucking mini van and having only one kid instead of 4.  The only gay guys you see around here are the sad and sorry ones who lurk around in the woods at the park.

I’m so over it I could puke.

I needs me some more fabulous and I need it in a hurry because as it turns out the red hair is not quite enough yet.

Crissy likes to go BIG.

RED.

It’s the new blond.

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I’m very serious about my new hair. Tell me you love it or I’ll cut you. SAY IT!

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I color it with mostly natural Tresstisse with just a little bit of methamphetamine mixed in.

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There’s no fan blowing my hair to make it all light and flowy like this. That’s what the meth is for!

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Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

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Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I could do this all day…

Eat your fucking heart out Carrot Top.

Now Accepting Applications for House Bitch

I’m ba-ack.

I’m feeling a little better but keep all your get well cards and emails coming. I could take a turn for the worse and then you’ll feel like an asshole for not sending anything while I was still alive to read it.

Jesus I fucking hate being sick.

And while I lay dying and in between times when I had to rub one out because of my smutty new book I had some time to think, Internettians.

I have decided that what I really, really need more than anything is a House Bitch.

Two of my favorite blog friends, Miss Kiala and Miss Melissa, have newly acquired interns and I want one too.

Only what I need is more like a House Bitch than an intern. I think in the olden days they called them Scullery Maids and they had to do all the stuff nobody else wanted to do like clean the toilets and give the Master a blow job.

But I don’t think I’d require my House Bitch to do things like that.

At least not to start with.

And I don’t think I would make him/her grocery shop or wipe my bottom because I sort of enjoy those things. Particularly the bottom wiping.

(Did I mention all the anal penetration in my smutty book?)

And the grocery store is good too. Because of well, you know, my Vinnie. I caught him calling an old lady “doll” the other day, but I’m going to overlook it. He was just being nice so she wouldn’t tell the manager he sliced her cheese too thin again.
Right?
He’s not giving that shit out to all the ladies…
Is he?

I hope not because “do not flirt with a dude who fucks old chicks” is my motto.

I think I’d have my House Bitch do things that I find unpleasant. Like, load and unload the dishwasher, clean the kitty box, and get the stains out of Mister’s underpants. Not that he has any, mind you, but if he did, that’s what my Bitch would do. But he doesn’t wear underpants so it would probably never come up. Also I think my Bitch would have to do my work job for me too. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve just sat in the break room looking at People magazine?

Fucking ages.

The job will of course be clothing optional but only if the person is cute. Applicants must be a hot 19 year old boy over the age of 18 I think because there are sometimes adult language and situations at Crissy’s house… hmmm…what else? There’s no actual pay check, per se, but the glamor and the chance to be near the QOFE is way better than money.

Everyone knows that.

So I’m going to write up the job description and post it on Craigslist because that’s where I’ll get the highest quality applicants, I’m sure, and I’ve already typed up a few interview questions.

Check it:

  • Do you smoke?
  • If yes, what do you smoke, how much did you score, and is your supply reliable?
  • How do you feel about Moo Shu Tofu? Answer loudly and use hand gestures as my vegan diet has left me too weak to hear.
  • How many drinks could Crissy’s Bitch mix if a Crissy’s Bitch could mix drinks?
  • Do you carry bar tending equipment on you at all times?
  • On mornings I’m too tired to do it myself, would you be willing to work out for me while I eat the pancakes you made for me from scratch and watch you from my couch? I promise to make helpful suggestions such as “lift your leg higher” and “could you move your ass over to the left for me dear, you’re blocking my view of that annoying yet strangely attractive Denise Austin.”
  • Are you willing to undergo extensive medical testing for the sole purpose of obtaining pain pills or anti-anxiety medication for Crissy because her cunt doctor doesn’t believe that her menstrual cramps are severe enough to require liquid Percocet?
  • How do you feel about spankings?
  • a. Thank you ma’am, may I have another?

    b. Ow! Whatareyoudoing!?!

This is my first time interviewing someone, so could you guys help me think of a few more questions please?

Also you have to go see me at Mom in Real Life’s today.

I’m a hoot!

Crissy is Mad Sick, Yo

UGH.

Mister was very sweet to fill in for me on Friday wasn’t he? Sometimes Crissy gets tired because being the QOFE is exhausting, really and she needs someone to help out around this place. I make it look easy, but swinging jokes around like Holyfield swings punches is hard work.

See? That’s us together this summer.

As it turns out though, it wasn’t the jokes that made Crissy tired. She was coming down with a tumor.

And also her superpower.

Okay, well maybe it’s not a tumor, but it’s definitely Typhoid Fever Bird Flu Monkey Plague Superpower though.

Girlfriend must have brought some germs home from the dirty little mutants at preschool and it made Crissy die to death all weekend.

And she’s still dying to death.

Everything hurts.
Even my hair.


It’s just who I am…

well, first off, realize that this is NOT crissy posting today.

no, you weren’t warned that there would be a guest poster.

no, crissy is not dead in some kind of freak accident.

nor is she in jail, as some might be wondering.

she is just feeling burned out.

i can’t say that i blame her–i have no idea how she comes up with something new to post about every single day. occasionally (like today) it actually causes her stress, which is kind of ironic.

only americans can turn hobbies into sources of stress…

anywho, she was just about ready to just not post anything. and that’s fine–i think every once in a while it’s probably good to take a step back and breathe a little and forget about the crazy internet world.

well, for a few minutes at least. i’ve got a blackberry.

but then i figured i’d put SOMETHING up here instead of just leaving the tens of people wondering WTF happened.

my wife and i have had a lot of fun making videos, some of which are lost in the archives, probably never to be seen again. i thought that would be a shame (especially of the ones where she’s shaking that sweet milfy ass of hers) so i figured i’d do something about it: i went back and tagged the posts which had homemade video content. because of my hard work and l33t hax0r 5|<1llz, you can see them all by simply clicking here: http://crissyspage.com/tag/video.

for the epically lazy, you can also go straight to the vids (all hosted on youtube) by following this link: http://www.youtube.com/profile_videos?user=ride5000

although if you do that you won’t get some of the lovely, carefully crafted backstory behind each vid, and i shall frown disapprovingly at you. maybe repeatedly. and i shall think to myself, “what a pussy.” and then i’ll fart into my cupped hand and quickly move it right to your face so you really get a sense of who i am…

a giver.

Joseph & The Tainted Tootsie

*Names have been changed to protect both guilty and innocent alike.

Joseph couldn’t understand how after what seemed like an eternity spent in a tiny cubicle that he shared with his “team member” Enid, that it was only 2:00pm and he had another three hours to go before being liberated from hell.

It felt like he had been there since last Tuesday around 9-ish.

Enid, you see, is a very dull woman who spends her days telling Joseph all about the lifestyles of her two cats: Mr. Fancypants and Mrs. Smooshyface. When it’s not the cats, it’s the dreadfully mundane details of her daughter Johanna’s homework assignments, science fair projects, and teenage drama from the hallowed halls of St. Cecilla’s School for Boring People’s Children.

Poor Joseph tried to be polite to Enid, he really did, but his patience was wearing quite thin. In hopes that Enid would eventually run out of stories to tell if he just toughed it out, he became absolutely brilliant at inserting thoughtful comments like “oh really?” and “awww, that’s so cute” into the conversation where he felt they might be appropriate. He wasn’t listening to Enid of course, but he felt he should at least pretend. Sadly for poor Joseph, it only encouraged her.

“This is intolerable!” he thought as he looked around his desk for a means of either suicide or homicide and it didn’t matter which because, as Joseph saw it, one of them would live and one of them would die and then there would be quiet. At last. A shiv made of paper clips and scotch tape perhaps? Maybe not. He doesn’t want to fasten her to death. A rubber band noose? No. Too bouncy. Push her chair through the window? Nope. They’re on the first floor.

And then it came to him in A Flash of Brilliance!

Joseph is a gentle man, really, and he did not want to hurt Enid. Much. He just wanted her to go away and so he had a plan to do just that. He knew Enid loved sweets and he began searching his desk for anything resembling candy and he also needed some Medicine for Irregularity to add to the candy because he thought that the ladies room would be a more appropriate place for Enid because all that ever came out of her was pure shit anyway.

It must have been Joseph’s lucky day because he found two tootsie rolls and one Super Strength Colon Release tablet that had been left over from the cookies he baked for the office April Fool’s Day party. He jammed the tablet into one of the candies and offered one to Enid, which she gladly accepted of course due to her weakness for chocolate and small poo shaped objects, and then he popped the other one into his mouth and heard a “crunch.”

Joseph had inadvertently eaten the Tainted Tootsie.

“SHIT!” Joseph thought to himself but was quick to realize that while it was not exactly what he had planned, his mistake would still afford him an opportunity for silence. It would just be in the men’s room instead. And just as Joseph had hoped, a short while later, he felt the unmistakable rumblings of nature calling which sent him running to the loo with Enid shouting “don’t worry Joseph! When you come back I’ll finish my story about how Mr. Fancypants loves to eat tuna fish on my pillow!” behind him.

He barely made it into the stall but luckily he dropped his trousers in just enough time and only got a little on the tail of his white dress shirt before he nailed the landing and achieved a good seal seconds shy of Armageddon. “I’ll give that landing a 6.5″ he thought to himself and then sat patiently, sitting in the aroma of peace and solitude.

I will never, ever, reveal to the Internettians who Joseph and Enid are.

And it was NOT. Crissy.