Remember Internettians when I said I was going to try out Carmen Electra’s Aerobic Striptease Workout?
I had something all ready for you for today.
It was a video.
I made it last night and worked really hard but then Mister edited out anything that was funny and made the most boringest video ever! And so this morning I watch the video and I’m all “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? Where’s all the funny I put in there, yo?”
And I want to kill him. But I won’t because he did do a nice job on the header. He worked really hard on it actually…but that’s no excuse!
But don’t. worry. Internettians. Crissy knows how to handle these situations. He’s been spanked very, very, soundly (No, there’s no video of it. Pigs.) and sent right back to the editing room. He will not be allowed food nor drink nor play through until he produces a video befitting The Queen of Fucking Everything.
It’s so hard to find good slaveish magiciany husbands help these days!
And so instead of a magnificent video, I bring you the following filler list of children’s book titles that make you go hmmmmm…and then start looking through your porn collection.
Shut up. I know you have one. You don’t have to pretend with Crissy.
Upchuck and the Rotten Willie
Frances Gets Slimed
Freak the Mighty
Tom’s Midnight Garden
Knocked Out by my Nunga Nungas
Harry the Dirty Dog
Little Miss Naughty
The Hardy Boys: Footprints Under the Window
Then He Ate My Boy Entrancers
The Magic Finger
Love is a Many Trousered Thing
What Jamie Saw
The Giver
Harold and the Purple Crayon
Freaky Friday
Not a Box
Wait Till Helen Comes
Tuck Everlasting
Among the Farmyard People
The Dutch Twins
Feel free to add to the list using the space provided below.
Crissy likes collaborative projects.
Just don’t fuck it up.
I’m in no mood…
Storyland was a blast y’all!
Look how excited we were to be there after driving for eleventy hundred thousand million hours!
And the kids were happy too!
It was a very nice time, really and we were all very, very glad we went. But your Crissy has a little secret to tell you Internettians:
I do not do roller coaster or any other amusement type rides where I’m might shit myself and die.
I am not a trooper.
Take the Turtle ride for example. It’s like one of those teacup rides that spin out of control whilst traveling at breakneck speed in a rotating wave-like motion?
Yeah.
Nooooooo.
Against my better judgment, I figured what the hell? After all, these things are meant for Preschoolers!
But not. for. Crissy.
Ahem.
Here are the neighbors enjoying themselves and being like all normal people on an amusement park ride:
Awww…so normal…
Here’s me having a pre-turtle anxiety attack:
And here’s me screaming my fucking head off:
And here is my preschooler:
Enjoying it!
Lucky for me, someone else made them stop the ride. Either that or they heard Crissy screaming and stopped it for fear someone had become entangled and was having their face ripped off in the machine. Whatever, but I took that as my queue to get the fuck off the spinning turtle of death and stand on the sidelines doing this instead:
It was good and only made me a little dizzy instead of a lot dizzy. Plus I was able to get video of my family and our friends not screaming.
And I did not shit myself, throw up, or die.
Amazing.
And for the remainder of our two day trip I stuck to rides I knew I could handle.
Like this:
And this:
And we saw Cinderella’s castle, aka Mine:
Where I finally caught her sitting in my chair and I just rolled up and whacked her upside her head and said “get out of my chair!” And Cinderella was all “roger that” and so she gathered up her skirts and moved and I didn’t have to shank the bitch.
And the peoples at Storyland said “All Hail! The Queen of Fucking Everything!” and they were very sweet to me.
And the children practically took care of each other the whole time so it was very relaxing.
We only had to lock them in the pumpkin thing for like a couple of hours and that was it.
What?
They loved it!
So yeah. That was my “vacation.”
PS: I want to send a shout out to stoogepie and Mom in Real Life for their fantastic guest posts! Thank you guys!
PSS: If you want to see more fascinating pictures go to my stupid husband’s photo blog.
Hello?
Anyone here?
It’s me, Rachel! Mom in Real Life?
Oh there’s a note.
Dear Rachel,
Don’t touch anything and don’t open our bedroom closet!
Crissy
Hmmmmm
*opens up nicest box of wine and plops on sofa*
A girl could get used to this place.
Let’s see, what should I write about….let’s see what kind of a blogger is Crissy?
Oh god…..
Oh god!
*chugs another box of wine*
Well apparently I can say ANYTHING here. What kind of story do I want to tell? I’m going for one that I may not want told over at my blog/house
*cough* Hi Mom *cough*
Oh this is going to be fun….
I don’t like the word “cock”. I don’t cock my guns/hat/eyebrows. I call male chickens roosters. And I call my husband’s unit “MINE”.
There are times though in my life that the word has come up, much to my discomfort. Let me tell you about a few;
1) College, the BM years (that’s Before Marriage sickos….I heard you giggling Chris)
I was a sophomore in a co-ed dorm. A group of us thought we were so cool with our 12 pack of wine coolers and we were living it up. The guy I had a crush on brought his roommate, a short overgymed neanderthal. After a while it became obvious that my crush was not crushing on me (OMG, LOSE-AR!) and that his quickly drunk roommate was. I wanted to go back to my room upstairs but I couldn’t shake this troll off of my back. Finally I gave up and let him follow me. We started talking about music…for about 30 seconds, then he went in for the kill. He commensed what he thought was “kissing” and I tried to politely reclaim my face. I thought we were done when he stopped, but to my horror he only stopped to lean in and slur;
“Wanna see my cock?”
In slow motion I looked down, saw that he had decided to start without me….and then he licked my face.
Promptly I stood up, dumping him off my lap, and walked downstairs to where the “party” was still going on. I casually strolled up to the now ex-crush and asked;
“How much porn does your roommate watch?”
“Tons, why?”
“He has something for you upstairs.” Then I left to spend the night at my friend’s futon.
2) Marriage, the getting back on our feet years.
Dan and I had finally had enough of his parents and decided to move to Southern IL to get away from them. I found a job bartending a month before Dan started his new job so I moved down ahead of him. We only lived 4 hours (3 if you drive like me) apart and made it work. To keep me company I brought my cats down with me. Just recently I had gotten a new male cat that I named Miller and he quickly got used to being the man of the house. He even got to sleep in bed with me.
How can you resist this?
Well when Dan finally moved downstate we discovered that I had created an alpha monster. It only took two nights for Dan to get pissed. I was woken up to quite the attitude at 2 am;
“That is it!”
“What is wrong Dan?”
“That damn cat!”
“……”
“After we fall asleep he crawls in between us and tries to push me out of the bed….with his CLAWS!”
“Well just push him back.”
“You know what he is trying to do, don’t you?”
“What honey….”
“He’s cock blocking me!!!!!!!”
*snarf*
“No really, he wants you all to himself!”
“What, you don’t want to share with him?”
“……”
“I’m sure we could manage it. How about he gets me during the week and you get me on the weekends?”
“Screw you, I’m sleeping on the couch.”
3) Marriage, trying to spice thing up years
Living in Southern IL didn’t leave you with much to do. The night life was over by 1 am and all that was left was strip clubs and casinos. I don’t gamble, soooooo……The most popular joint was Hustlers (Yes, the Larry Flynt place….see how classy my area was?). Finally one night we decided to stroll over to the store section of the club. Wangs wangs everywhere and plenty of anal props to keep. I settled on something blue, sleek and that could make me sing like a choir boy. It was like a member of the family. The Christmas cards were interesting that year; me, Dan, two cats, a dog and my blue baller.
About that dog….it was special. We had rescued it and after a while realized that the wiring wasn’t great in the head. One day we had come back to the house and the dog TOOK OFF into the backyard.
“What’s up with her?”
We walked into our bedroom……
THE HORROR! THE HORROR!
It was a massacre! Bits of blue everywhere! I felt light headed…..the motor sputtered, gasping in pain. Dan walked up behind me;
“Well son of a bitch……”
“Daaaaaaannnnnnn what are we going to do?!”
“Um, say a prayer for the dog’s digestive track.”
“oh my baby, my poor sweet baby.”
“Let’s rename the dog!”
“Dan, how can you make jokes?”
“Please?”
“Fine, what do you want to name her?”
“COCK GOBBLER!”
To be honest, I’ve never seen him look prouder.
Gobble gobble!
So there you go, my cock adventures. Let’s never talk about it again.
Now let’s see what is in Crissy’s closet….
Is that a swing…..what would they do with a car battery…..a blender, really?
Hey she has a spare blue baller!
*walks off humming “Reunited”*
Yo yo! Zup zup? Stoogepie here.
When Crissy asked me to guest blog for her, I knew that the overdose of smack that had inspired the invitation would probably kill her within the hour. But I accepted anyway, because that’s how I play.
And when I accepted, I had no idea what I should write about. And I still don’t, even as I write this thirty seconds before I will post it. See, I realize that I have to tone things down a bit, because I say things in my own blog that would upset the tender sensibilities of Crissy’s broader and altogether more discriminating audience. So, for instance, I decided that I would not write this guest post on any of the following topics:
- Rimming: Why women’s excuses for not wanting to suck your ass really don’t hold water.
- The Sexy Side of Emphysema: That throat-hole is not just for breathing.
- Recipes: What to do with the food that sticks to your hand during anal fisting.
- Coma Victims: Does she want you or is she just incontinent?
- Buying your first home: a guide for registered sex offenders.
I’m not saying that Crissy avoids weighty issues such as these, but she is able to deal with them more tactfully than I, owing largely to the fact that she does not draw pictures of every fucking thing that pops into her head. And her writing is much more subtle. Almost all of my blog entries begin with a question. It’s always something like: “Is it just my imagination or are all the chicks in the burn ward easy?” And then I answer that question, complete with drawings and recipes for accelerants.
All that I’m saying is that Crissy is a hard act for me to follow.
But, follow her I must. So, I will follow in her footsteps completely and write about her life. Yes, I am going to tell you what Crissy’s day is like. Today. When she can’t.
Okay, so here goes. Crissy and Ken take Girlfriend to Story Land. Here is what will happen shortly after they arrive.
Later that day, they will go to eat lunch.
Finally, after a long day, even by Story Land standards, they will prepare to leave.
That’s all I have to say about Crissy’s day.
So we’re going on a little mini vaycay tomorrow.
We’re going here with Girlfriend and the neighbors.
I haven’t been since I was a wee little Crissy so it should be really fun.
My parents always took us to places like that all summer long because my dad was a teacher, and we didn’t have a lot of money so we did mostly New Englandy educational day trips to like Plimoth Plantation where I decided that when I grew up I wanted to be a Pilgrim. Real. Bad. I still sort of do. Except they smell.
One place we never went was here:
No. You don’t need glasses.
That’s Water Wizz.
As in Water Park O’ Piss.
And the theme song:
Come on in-to Wa-ter Wizz.
Wet and Wild, Wa-ter Wizz.
This is where the par-ty is!
It just sounds like a place where you can get a darn fine golden shower.
Either the park owners have a sense of humor and irony or they’re totally fucking stupid. Even their mascot looks like he’s about to splash into a pool of urine. He also looks like he’s on the junk.
And my parents, thank sweet baby jeebus, could not bear the thought of bringing their youngins to play around in urine.
Look! This kid is grossed. out. “It burns! Mom! Something is burning my ass!”
HORRIFIED!!
This is fun as long as you don’t let any body parts touch the “water.”
“Ahhhhh….I just made a big, big pee-pee!”
“Mommy? Is it safe to come out yet? Is the pee-pee gone?”
“EW! EW! EW! EW! EW!”
So we won’t be stopping there on the way home. Not even to pee.
Anybum, I’ve got some friends lined up for you for the next two days so behave yourselves and be polite.
Actually, that won’t be necessary. They’re two of my least well behaved bloggy buddies. That’s why I chose them. It’s summertime and the livin’s easy.
Tomorrow you’ll hear from the brilliant, the amazing, the hot and sexy stoogepie!
On Friday there’s the beauteous, the hilarious, the large breasted and hopefully knocked up Mom in Real LIfe!
Bye Internets!
I’ll miss you!
Oy.
I think I’m gaining weight because I’ve plateaued with my yoga. Even though I work out plenty, it’s not really doing any good anymore and I am not yet ready to face the truth about the correlation between my boozing and the increasing size of my ass.
So on Sunday, out of desperation, I did this tape:
Remember this bad boy?
Back in the 80’s it was like totally radical!
It’s the only one of my old tapes that I kept because it’s just too awesome to throw away. My mom and I worshiped at the altar of big hair and shiny leotards every morning.
But to be honest with you Internet, the tape just didn’t do it for me because
#1 It’s really fucking stupid
#2 I can’t understand why Jane’s hair doesn’t move even as she’s grapevineing and chicken turning like a motherfucker. I find it distracting.
#3 I think this would be more challenging:
After I finished the tape I felt really blue balled and so I did the yoga. That makes 100 minutes spent working out.
Woot! Woot!
See my halo?
So I typed my exercise total for the day into Weight Watchers and it was only worth a measly 3 points. THAT’S IT! If you don’t do weight watchers you don’t know this but 3 points ain’t shit.
And then yesterday I decided I would become A Person Who Runs. I would like to tell you that your Crissy ran like the wind! But if I did it would be a mistruth and “lie just a little bit, but not too much” is my motto.
I ran for 10 minutes because you have to start somewhere and it was only like a mile and change because I thought I might throw up and die. I set small goals for myself along the way like “don’t collapse before you reach the stop sign up ahead” or “wait till you get to that BMW and you can throw up in the window” or “catch up to the teenage girl doing the walk of shame home in some dude’s boxer shorts and gasp tramp! at her as you run by.”
The goal setting was a complete success as it got me home without quitting like a big pussy. But you know something Internet? Running sucked.
I am Not A Person Who Runs.
So I ordered some videos from the library and they haven’t come in yet, but I think what we’re going to do is I’m going to show you how I’m doing and you are going to tell me if you think it’s working for me or not.
This is the first workout I think I’ll try:
That’s right Internet. It’s sexy time.
Wait for it…
Remember when I had to put on a strap on to have a sword fight with Mister over having our windows replaced because they were threatening to lead poison Girlfriend and give her The Retardation?
You’ve been paying attention, haven’t you?
I’m touched.
Well our application for an interest free loan from the state is finally complete (can I get an amen?) and I spent an entire day running around gathering last minute documents and making photocopies and going to the post office. When it was all said and done I mailed off 35 pages of fucking crap to the state. They about needed the results of my last pap smear and a colonoscopy film, but I got it all Internet.
And then on Thursday they called me at work. The woman on the phone was confused…
“Crissy, this is Rosemary at RI Housing. I have a question regarding your pay stubs.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Well, I’m just confused about why your paycheck is so…small.”
“Well I work in a library…”
“Yes, I see that, but for how many hours?”
“20 per week.”
“And you get paid bi-weekly?”
“Yup.”
“Oh. Ok…But still…”
“I know, right?”
“Okay then. shuffles papers nervously in the background and takes a sip of her coffee. Er…thanks for your time. I’ll keep working on this and I’ll call you if there’s anything else.”
“Okay. Bye.”
“You have a nice day now. I’m sorry again about the paycheck.”
“Me too. You see why we need the loan?”
“I do!”
“I’d also like some money to build a deck out back and I want a new refrigerator because ours sucks and OH! Rosemary! I’m going to need new clothes for fall because I’m getting fatter by the second and my shit from last year is just like a hell to the N-O. Anything you can do about that there Sugar Shorts?”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha…Bye.”
“WAIT!”
Click
The bitch hung up on me!
But I think we’ve got that loan in the bag.
They may even throw in a little extra for food.
I went to the dermatologist’s yesterday for my quadri-annual lasering and acid burning.
Is quadri-annual a word?
I don’t care.
And my dermatologist looks like he’s about 10 years old, so I know he must be really, really, good. Who the hell wants an old wrinkly dude helping you give Father Time and Mother Nature the finger?
Not me, Internet.
I’ll take the ten year old, please.
And he’s sooo pleasant too. I sort of just want to piss in his cheerios a little bit because shit. It’s 8am and here I am waiting for him to bring on the burning and the itching and the peeling and the flaking and the redness. I’m not having a lot of what people would call fun.
But I have to go because they have to burn off the sun damage, because I’m such a fair and delicate flower, before it turns to cancer and I look like this:
It sucks.
And every time he comes into the room he says “hey-ho! How we doin’? Still smilin’?” He says it just like that every single time and I can picture him at his graduation from face doctor school thinking that that would be his thing. He may have even practiced it in the mirror while testing out new face cream. And I want to just say something like, “well, to tell you the truth there Shane, that’s his name, Shane, I’d like to burn your face with some acid and see if you’re still smilin’.”
But I don’t try to upset the man because he’s nice, really and also because he’s holding a laser in one hand and a jar of acid in the other and he’s about to go to town on my face.
And so I’m polite and pleasant and hap, hap, happy as can be because “Always be polite to men holding jars of acid” is my motto.
Crissy is not a stupid woman.
Shut up.
I’m not.
And so I look like this right now:
And when the pain and the redness and the flaking and the burning go away I’ll look seconds younger and I’ll be saved from skin cancer and you’ll all be so jealous you could spit!
