Archive for December, 2009

Happy New Year Queefs and Queefettes!

Party at our house tonight! You’re all invited, but you can’t stay until midnight. I haven’t made it till midnight on New Years Eve in 6 years and I’m not about to start now. I’ve done the bars and the parties and the dressing up all fancy and all that New Year’s-y crap and now, going to sleep at a reasonable hour and not waking up hating life on the first day of the new year is sort of a thing I do ever since I kissed my 20’s goodbye.

It’s kind of a tradition.

Also, I don’t really care about New Year’s.

Nobody gives you a present on New Year’s, but they should. The stuff from Christmas is old now.

Amiright?

So yeah. Come on over.

I’m gonna stick my dick in the mashed potatoes.

You know I’m all about educating the Queefs because I am a very magnanimous and progressive queen, quite possibly the greatest one in the history of ever, so come come. 

Let me tell you all about Really Weird Sexual Fetishes.

This shit will freak your freak fo’ shizzle my nizzle or fo’ sheezy my neezy, or whatever.

I don’t even know what I’m saying.

On Christmas eve, my mother came over to take care of Homeslice so I could get the pot roast and the  scalloped  potatoes and the cinnamon rolls and the fruit salad ready while Girlfriend went sledding with Mister, her Auntie Cya, my brother, and her cousin, Diesel.  It was pretty much a banner day for Girlfriend.  I thought her head was going to explode.  My brother’s certainly did.  Nice hat, dude. ( he borrowed it from Mister, it was a gift from Cya.  It all comes full circle…)

That’s Diesel right there.  He’s like a nephew to me.  He goes everywhere my brother does.  I think he sometimes goes out on dates, too.

I’m pretty sure his Plenty of Fish thing says “must love dogs.”  He doesn’t mean it that way, you dirty birds.  At least, I don’t think so.  You never know with my brother.

Santa brought Homeslice this cube thing.  It has all sorts of stuff on it, and she loves it, but I don’t know what Santa was thinking because Homeslice specifically asked for a wet nurse and a nanny.

So far, we haven’t been able to find a nipple on the thing, but it keeps her pretty busy, so I guess it’s sort of like a nanny. Except it doesn’t change diapers or, like, move or anything.

And Girlfriend got a My Little Pony bike.  And two My Little Pony dolls and a My Little Pony book.  It was a very pony Christmas, obviously.  This is the best picture I have of the bike.  Sorry.  It’s Mister and his “art” or whatever.

I would like to post my official complaint to Santa that there was no bike under the tree for ME.  I’ve been asking for one for years, Santa.  I don’t know why you’re being a douche.

I’VE BEEN A GOOD GIRL TOO, YOU FAT FUCK!

My mother looked awesome.  Mister says my mother is the reason why he married me.  They may be having an affair.

Meh.

Keep it in the family, that’s what I say.

Santa brought Alice a humiliating collar and she moped all day because I made her put it on, it looks like Girlfriend is about to sniff Diesel’s ass, and I don’t think we need to discuss the bunny ears, do we?

I didn’t think so.  Oh, and that’s my brother’s lady friend.  They didn’t really wear matching sweaters.  It just looks like they did.

And after Christmas was over and most of the family went home, Girlfriend and Auntie built a puzzle together.

And then Robert Duvall came over for a kegger.

So yes.  It was a good old fashioned Christmas around here where people who may or may not have sex with their dogs go sledding and we built puzzles and my mom and my husband exchanged secret presents (probably) and then celebrities come over and have a few beers.

I’m still feeling pretty wiped out though.

You?

Ho, ho, ho, BITCHES!

You gotta come check me out over at the Toy with Me’s today.  I’m all about Christmas Craft Making for Perverts.

People be makin’ some crazy shit I can tell you.

Why does everyone die at Christmas?  My grandmother died at Christmas two years ago.  And now Olivia is dead too! I can’t say I ever really felt a connection to Olivia,  I was more of a Maria or a Mr. Hooper kind of girl, but she taught millions of us little childrens all kinds of  important stuff.

I’m not talking about this Olivia, btw:

She’s not real and therefore, cannot die.  At least, I don’t think she can die.  Anything is possible, I guess.

I’m talking about this one, for those of you lazy so-and-sos who didn’t click the link:

So yes.  Olivia.  RIP.  Nobody is talking about it because her death isn’t sexy like Brittany Murphy’s.  I hate the fucking media.  I really do.

Dicks.

Olivia contributed way more to the world, I dare say.

Anywho, thank you guys so much for all the wonderful recipes yesterday!  You’re all so helpful, and it took you forever to type all that in! You saved me from having to sit here searching the Internet.  It came to me! YAY!!!

I think I might go with a pot roast for the meat thing as suggested by k8 because it can be done in my crock pot and not take up my oven.  That sounds smart because what usually happens is I wind up with everyone fighting over oven space to heat up/bake the shit they brought and it always turns into a game of who the fuck are you using my daughter’s/son’s/brother’s oven where my mother’s green bean casserole and my mother-in-law’s potatoes volley for space with my sister-in-law’s thing and it’s a big. giant. clusterfuck.

And then I drink some wine and hide in the garage with a smoky treat.

I don’t give a fuck if the casserole is cold from being in the car, goddammit.

Don’t make me kill you.

This morning, Frank Coletta, ace television reporter for the Turn to Ten news, told me that Brittany Murphy died.

This is very sad to me because one of my favorite movies of all time is Clueless, and now the “tragically unhip” Tai is dead.  I love Tai.

That’s sad. Very sad.

What’s also sad is that I am super way behind on Christmas preparations and I need help from people who aren’t clueless in the kitchen.  Do you see how I worked that in, you guys?  The clueless thing?  That’s why I’m the Queen.

I have to make some sort of meat thing and a potato thing and a vegetable thing and also a breakfast thing I don’t know what to make.  I don’t have the head space to come up with anything.

HELP. ME.

I need recipes that are easy, and that I can do with a baby attached to my boob.

Thank you.

Happy almost Christmas.

I’m so tired it’s hard to breathe.

EDIT: here’s the song….

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I wasn’t going to post this morning, but I was thinking about how now that I’m going to be a big pornographer and everything and Stoogie and I are going to change the face of porn forever, I need a porn name.

So I  did that old trick where you use your first pet’s name and your mother’s maiden name to get your porn name and it’s TUNA ADLER.  Yeah. Not quite, but thanks for playing!

So I tried the name of the first street I lived on with the pet’s name and it’s TUNA BREAKNECK.  I dare say I should probably just go with my second pet’s name and never my street name because TUNA is never sexy and BREAKNECK is just plain terrifying.  It’s more like a pro-wrestler name if anything.  Or some sort of  F-list superhero, I suppose.

Ya-ta-da-da! It’s TUNA BREAKNECK TO THE RESCUE!!!!

Maybe not.

We had a lot of pets over the course of my childhood, so I tried all the ones I could think of and I’m sorry but we had some freaky ass pet names.

Check it:
Barnabus (aka Tuna. I don’t know why.)
Gunther
Mary
Shadow
Duchess (Ooooo! That’s a good one! Duchess Breakneck! No? Maybe it can be my wrestling name.)
Charlie
Kelley
King Arthur of the Bunnyrabbits (only he was a Yorkie. WHAT? I named him when I was 7. Fuck you guys)
Nigel
Chelsea (aka Princess Vespa. My mother is insane)
Sally
Tashi (aka Spokane. My mother, again)
Pheobe
Benny
Joon
Martha

So none of these are acceptable porn names. They’re not even acceptable pet names, actually.

I’ve got to split, but I want you Queefs and Queefettes to tell me your porn name. Or your pet name, because I’ve got nothing to work with here.

I blame my parents.

Morning Queefs and Queefettes!
Stoogie and I have made another Very Special Blog Baby. We were talking about literature and books and how the classic stories turn girls on and how most porn isn’t made for ladies and so wouldn’t it be great if we could make literature into porn for chicks? And so we did.  We turned it into porn.  You’re welcome, neighbors.  We’ll start the actual film production very soon, but until then, you’re just going to have to rub one out to these storyboards:

You should probably go over to Stoogie’s place now and touch him on his bum.  He loves that.

You should also go to Toy With Me and touch my bum some more (you realize that if you leave a comment over there, you can win a really nice little toy for yourself, right?).  Today we’re talking about how I’m throwing my husband a vasectomy party.

Remember how awesome Mr. Rogers was, you guys?

I loved him.

And my favorite part was when the trolley came to take us to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. I had a total girl crush on Lady Aberlin.  She was hot.

King Friday was a wicked dick, right?

I loved when Mr. Rogers fed the fish and they played that trippy music.

And the sandbox!

That was the balls, wasn’t it?

It was particularly awesome when Mr. Rogers made truck noises when he pushed plastic cups around in it. I about peed my Wonder Woman underoos when he did that, I swear it.

I loved that song, too–Everybody’s Fancy.  That was my jam.

But did you ever wonder what’s up with Mr. McFeeley? Like, what’s the situation with that wig? I’m about 90% sure he’s secretly a gay prostitute hit man. Probably. I mean, the name says it all–Mr. McFeeleyalltheboysontheirfancypartswithhis”gun.” Just don’t tell anyone about his real identity because he’s got a 38 in the mail bag and he will totally pop a cap in your ass or pistol whip you or something. Don’t let the friendly blue uniform fool you, neighbors.  It’s all a ruse.

Imagine Mr. McFeeley standing over you, Pulp Fiction style, because you ganked a cookie from Mr. Rogers.

Does Fred Rogers look like a bitch to you? Say “what” again motherfucker!

And what was really in those packages he delivered? I mean, this was thirtynanahumhum years ago, so my memory might be failing me, but they were always in a plain brown wrapper, weren’t they?  That’s because they contained either cocaine or a little something for the giggidy-giggidy with Mrs. Rogers when Mr. Rogers got home and had to explain where he was all fucking afternoon.

“I was out buying you this, honey!  I swear!”

I wonder if she knew he had a Secret Lair with a Secret Sweater and Secret Sneakers and Secret Fish.

She must have been clueless because why else would he change into his sweater and then change back into his sports coat before he left? And you can say that he did that because he didn’t want to get any play sand on his work clothes, sure, but you can just brush sand off.

There’s really no need to change your clothes.

How shocked would we be if Mr. Rogers was all “today, boys and girls, we’re going to talk about kittens!” and then on the way home he stops at the Neighborhood Bar and gets his gin on and then BLAM!  He goes home and smacks his bitch up.

We’d be pretty shocked, wouldn’t we?

That would be crazy.

It’s always the quiet ones. That’s what they say.

My mom once had this friend who’s cousin’s friend’s ex-wife’s former housekeeper’s son worked on his show and he said that this one time, they put a naked stripper in the closet, and when he opened it to get his sweater, there she was! But he gave no reaction at all. He just kept singing his song because he was wicked no fun like that.

I would laugh if someone put a naked stripper in my closet (please someone put a naked stripper in my closet).

What if instead of changing into his sweater, he came in and had to like, take a wicked pee and ran into the bathroom and sang the song in there…

“I have always wanted to have a neighbor just! like! you!” and as he sang the just! like! you! part he shook the dew off his lily in three little shakes. You know, for emphasis.

Anyhoodle, I loved me some Mr. Rogers. Also, Captain Kangaroo and Romper Room. I’m still waiting for that lady to see me in her magic romper, bomper, stomper boo mirror thing though.

I’m still out here in “televisionland.”

Waiting.

Just say my name bitch, and let’s end this thing!

I thought that by this morning, I’d have some sort of inspiration for a post, but I don’t. I’m worn out, you guys  Having Christmas to pull of on top of all the other every day bullshit has me one flame thrower away from a blaze of glory at the Super Wal-Mart’s.  I’m serious.  I might do it.

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Also, I’ve always wanted to know where people come in on this one:

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