Happy Anniversary Mister! I’m glad I didn’t push you off the Empire State Building.

Morning Queefs and Queefettes!

How was your Thanksgiving?  I gained two pounds.  Yay.

Clearly, the stench of rotting mouse did not deter me whatsoever.

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That’s pretty much what I’ve looked like every second of every day for the past four days.  I have no idea why I gained weight.

My brother was around this year, so that was good.

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That’s a picture of him right there. Also, my mother’s head.

Here’s me touching Melissa Lion’s ass (for those of you who maybe thought I was lying about it–oh ye of little faith).

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We’re cute in our matching outfits, yes?

And that about sums up the weekend.  It was eventful as hell.

And today is our 7 year wedding anniversary.

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This is the only picture I have for you.  It’s from the reject pile so naturally, it’s the only one Mister scanned into the computer.  I do not know why.  His mind is a mystery wrapped in a conundrum surrounded by a haze of pot smoke and Valium or whatever.

And to celebrate, Mister is staying home to take care of the little children because I’m sick.  I’m always sick at this time of year.  I was sick on our wedding night and the day after, when we left for our honeymoon, I had some sort of monkey disease and The Bloods and all I wanted to do was sleep, but it was 13 degrees in New York City and so MISTER MADE ME WALK EVERYWHERE in the freezing cold while I died to death of monkey flu and The Bloods.  We had a huge fight at the top of the Empire State Building and I really, really, wanted to push him off the edge but there’s a fucking huge ass fence there.  He got lucky.

So, yes.

Good times.

Fond memories.

I’m going back to bed.

PS: Happy Anniversary Mister!  I’m glad I didn’t push you off the Empire State Building.

PSS: How awesome would the end of Sleepless in Seattle be if the little kid threw the lady over the edge?  I should write movies, I swear it.

Who’s making stuffing? Who’s bringing pie? Who’s gonna stick his dick in the mashed potatoes?

My dinner with Melissa Lion and her Fancyhats  was lovely last night and they’re adorable and fun and you’ll be very proud of me you guys.  I was not Party Asshole (as far as I know).   I’ll tell you more about it later (I TOUCHED HER BUM AND IT WAS MARVELOUS!) (Come to think of it, maybe I was Party Asshole.  That was not appropriate behavior, probably.)

Anyways, there’s probably nary a Queef to be seen on the eve of a major holiday, but I’m over at Toy With Me today talking about Sex Positions I Won’t Be Trying.

PS:  If you leave the best comment today, you will WIN A VIBRATOR!!!  No shit.

I’m going to be completely honest with you. This post is a nightmare.

Late last night I got home from work and I was wicked tired you guys, and I’m fighting a cold, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep. I think Homeslice was already in bed, or on her way, when Mister stood over me while I was laying on our bed and he was all “Don’t accuse me of making this up because I didn’t, but…”

And I interrupted because I just. knew. he was working in yet another request for a blow job, I could just tell by the way he was looking at me, and so I was just like “WHAT? What is it this time?” And he was all “I read a study that said women who swallow semen are happier.  It also prevents preeclampsia.”  And then I was all “that’s nice.  You’re full of shit. I’m still not blowing you. I don’t give a fuck about preeclampsia, and I’d rather be sad.”  And he was all “that’s harsh.  Fine.  Don’t believe me, but I have the facts to prove it.” And I was all “only a bunch of horny science nerds would decide to do that study.  Who funds this shit anyway when there are people still dying of Cancer?” And he was all “maybe they discovered it by accident while looking for a cure for Cancer.  Don’t mock what you do not understand.”  And then the rest of the conversation is sort of a blur because I think I fell asleep.

No.  I’m sure.

I’m sure I fell asleep because this conversation wasn’t even interesting enough for me to stay awake long enough to find something to throw at his head.  Seriously, did he expect me to just be like “OMG! Who knew that all this time, happiness was just a cum shot, a gulp, and a shudder away?!?  Hot damn, boy!  Pull your pants down and give mama a little dose of happy!”

Go sell crazy somewhere else, Mister.

AnyCrissyabruptlychangesthesubjectbecausethiswaswayfunnierinherhead, so tonight is the night that we go to Boston to meet with Melissa LIIIOOOONNNNN and her Very Special Fancyhats!!!  I will be wearing a cute sweater dress, as will she, because apparently that’s what you wear when you meet other bloggers.  Melissa and I know this instinctively.  It’s what I wore last year when we met Chris and Ari and Dingo and Lauren except this year, I’m not knocked up so I can drink an inappropriate amount of wine and probably be Party Asshole.

I’ll keep you posted.

Wolverine wants to kill Mister. I’m so jealous I could spit.

So I came upstairs from doing yoga yesterday and Mister said to me “I have a stalker.  He wants to kill me.” And I was all “WHAT?…lucky.

And then he told me the story of how he commented on some nice lady’s blog where she had written that her husband was pissed at her for writing about him and so forbid her from writing anything about him ever again, good or bad, and Mister said:

“If you can’t write about your husband, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say he’s got some insecurity issues he should be dealing with.  Hell, I provide a good portion of my wife’s blog fodder. In return, she poses for pictures which end up as flickr fodder. We have a system.”

WELL.

That was about a month ago, and Mister forgot all about it until he got an email yesterday morning that said this:

“If your gonna post to my wife about me watch what you say. I come from a fighter history and love to play with my fists. So fuck off and follow someone else. People don’t get that on the other end of a computer a person exist. If this was said in my presence it would get bad. Have you heard the song Walk from Pantera? Thats how i prepared for my cage fights and pre football games. If i hear from you again there will be a problem and i will take the next step bitch!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Uh-huh.

The next step being what?  Flying out here so he can play with his fists on Mister’s face? That makes sense. That’s what anybody would do in this situation. Absolutely.

The Internet is very serious business, you know.

And poor Mister was confused and he wasted like, five whole minutes backtracking to figure out what the guy was even talking about.

I’m so jealous!!

This whole thing makes me sad because of all the shit I say and how much I could potentially piss somebody off–Escalade Pajama Cunts, stupid people, circus clowns, republicans, assholes, Jesus freaks, Doocebags, people who suck, sweaty lesbian fitness gurus (I say that with all the love in my heart, Jillian), woodchucks, etc. NOBODY HAS EVER THREATENED TO KICK MY ASS BEFORE!

Sure.  I’ve got hecklers, but all they ever do is come over here and they’re all “meh-meh-meh.  youR abitchhh!!1!!!! meh-meh-meh. You’re blog isnt’ even worth trashing.” ( It has come to my attention that that might actually be true). I mean come! On! Internet!  You can do better than that.  I know you can!

Quite frankly, I’m hurt. All Mister has to do to get awesome death threats is make some random comment on some lady’s blog and all hell breaks loose (eventually…later on.).  And what’s worse is this is the guy’s facebook picture (edit: it is no longer the actual facebook picture):

It’s FUCKING WOLVERINE!

Unbelievable.

All I can say is that if Wolverine decides to catch a plane and brave Holiday Travel Season to come and show Mister his Super Cool Villan Claws I have to warn him.

I don’t care a fig about “cage fighting” or “pre football” and Mister doesn’t only know that song, he can play it on the guitar.

With his dick.

I do TURBO JAM, BITCH.

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You may have heard about it, but probably not.  It’s too hard for “cage fighters.”  See those gloves I’m wearing?  They have weights in them for extra POWER.

And don’t forget MY GLADIATOR OUTFIT, SPORTS FAN.

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You don’t want me to play with my giant padded stick thingy on you.

No sir.

So, come on you guys.  Don’t any of you want to kick my ass?

Maybe just a little bit?

Anyone?

Please?