Archive for the 'Octogenarians n' me' Category

Hey, Queefies.

I’m thinking about getting a tattoo only I don’t know what it’s going to be or where I want to put it.

I think it should prolly go somewhere that’s easily hideable, so when I’m wicked old and stuff I don’t make the nursing home staff throw up every time they have to change my bum.

Like, nothing would be worse at that point than to have like a big tramp stamp that says “JUICY” on it.

That would be an unfortunate and ironic mistake, I think.

I thought about getting it on the back of my neck so I can hide it or show it off according to my whim.  That’s where it might end up, but  I don’t really like tattoos.  They look really great on other people, but I’m not sure I’m A Person Who Gets Tattoos, ya know?

Like, am I that girl?

Next thing you know, I’m getting my clit pierced and hanging around with dudes name “Bug” and “Razor.”

That’s what happens to girls who get tattoos isn’t it?

Seriously though.  What business do I have getting a tattoo at 37?

I must just want one now because I work with The Young People and most of them are tattooed.  I want to be Fancy Lady Who Works With The Young People And Gets Tattoos or some such nonsense now.

OMG!  Speaking of people who think they’re fancy but they’re really not, have you been watching Real Housewives of New Jersey?

WHAT IS UP WITH THAT?  Every last one of those people is a disgusting pig.

What’s wrong with that one girl’s hairline?  It’s half way down her face! Or is that just a really unfortunate eyebrow situation? If I were her, I’d totally buy myself a new hairline with all that money.  Instead, she buys stupid looking shit to put in her kids’ hair.  Why does she do that?  I think it’s because they got her hairline, but she’s not fooling me, Queefies!

You can’t make up for bad genetics with ugly barrettes, moron.

Just like you can’t fix stupid, you can’t fix cave woman hair.

That’s what I always say.

I’d better be careful though because these people are like animals. For all I know, Lady Guido Hair is going to come and tear my extensions out of my head if I had any but I don’t SO TAKE THAT LADY GUIDO HAIR!

I win.

Anyway, who gets a tattoo at 37?   I do.  (Possibly)

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I’ve just come back from the doctor.  I don’t have just one brain tumor.

I have 10 of them.

I have 10 brain tumors.

The good news is that they are very small and benign and they’re not going to treat them, but just keep an eye on them.  They’re called “microadenomas” and aside from causing annoying symptoms like the boob juice and maybe the sudden and intense bout with anxiety and the weird periods, they are not cause for alarm.

Except now I totally intend to use them as an excuse for any number of behaviors, like, “I couldn’t do the dishes!  I have 10 brain tumors!” or “I cannot WORK, I have 10 brain tumors.”  or ” I cannot give you a blow job, I have 10 brain tumors!”

So now we need to think of a new superhero name for me.  I’m thinking Adenoma Woman or Super Tumor Lady or something much cooler than something someone with a brain full of tumors can come up with.

I don’t know.

Suggestions are welcome below.

Your Queen is going to live and if I may be honest here, I think I’m pretty badass because when I go, I go BIG.  I don’t just get a brain tumor.  I get 10.

Top THAT, bitches.

PS: In celebration, I went across the street and bought a pair of very nice and very expensive boots I’ve been lusting after for a long time.  Also, I sense a HUGE hangover in my future.  Like, tomorrow morning at this time, I should be barely functional.

So yesterday I was out in front of the house admiring the orange pumpkin lantern Halloween decorations Mister was busy putting up when some Ass Monkey came flying down our street in his Maxima.

And I had Homeslice by the hand and she was struggling to get away and Girlfriend was skipping down the sidewalk and Ass Monkey totally saw us but didn’t slow down in the least, so I yelled “SLOW DOWN” at him and do you know what he said to me?

He said “FUCK YOU!!”

HE DID!!!

The nerve, right?  I mean, here I am, Queen of Fucking Everything walking down the street with the two Princesses of Fucking Everything, and this reject from Planet Douchewagon in his used Maxima (why is it that 20-something year old boys in Maximas think they’re the fucking shit? What is up with that? I means seriously, it’s a fucking Maxima.  Get yourself a Lamborghini and we’ll talk about who’s the shit, okay sweet pea?  Until then, put your fucking baseball cap on straight and get over yourself.) has the balls to yell “FUCK YOU” to me.

Well.

Mon! Dieu!

I’ve got a plan for the next Maxima Ass Monkey who dares try to break the sound barrier on my street.  I’m going to get a big bucket of baby dolls from the dollar store and every time a Maxima Ass Monkey comes by, I’m going to throw the baby doll at him.  Did I mention the baby doll will first be filled with dog crap? It’ll be Tequila’s dog crap too because there’s plenty of that around my house.

I just get really fired up when these young guys (and sometimes girls) speed around with no regard for what could happen.  What if Homeslice managed to wriggle out of my grasp?  What if Girlfriend tripped and fell into the street? He would have creamed her, and I would have had to make it my personal mission to make sure his life was a living hell forever. I’d make sure he wound up in a tiny jail cell with a big huge guy with a large penis and a thing for little Ass Monkeys.

So yes, I am officially the kind of woman who shouts “SLOW DOWN” at young dudes driving by my house.  Any further suggestions for how I can help them make good choices would be welcome in the space provided below.  The police around here don’t care about our speeding problem, so it’s basically Martial Law at this point.

The other day at work I got to meet Edward and Jacob and stupid annoying Bella!

They stopped by Schmuckytown Pubic because they knew that’s where I’d be.

Edward was very friendly and he kept telling me he really, really wanted to make out with me but he was afraid I’d hurt him because he heard I’m a pole dancer now and everyone knows they’re fucking badass (you see those bruises on my leg?  That’s how tough I am now.  I’m practically Chuck Norris), and I promised him I’d be gentle, but he remained steadfast in his decision and just stood there making his sexyface.

And then stupid Bella started gettin’ all up in my grill cuz I was touching her man on his naughtypenis and so I kicked her in the face

and moved on to her other man, Jacob.

He’s pretty cute, I think.

He’s more muscle-y than Edward, but I’m still on Team Edward and not so much Team Jacob mostly because vampires make me look tanned and werewolves do not.

See?

I’m downright exotic.

But even though I touched Edward on his naughtypenis and he was all “I’m in love with you, Crissy!  Bella is an idiot!” I did stop because I honestly cannot understand why anyone would prefer Twilight to True Blood/Southern Vampire Mysteries (unless you’re in 6th grade and your parents won’t let you watch True Blood and then maybe I understand).

I think Eric and I make a better couple.  I’ll take a 1,000 year old Viking GOD who owns a BAR over some silly high school boy and his Volvo any day.

(Note to Bill Compton: You can have Sookie.  I got this.)

I’m 36.

I feel every single last second of 36 this morning, Queefies. Pole dancing class kicked the ever lovin’ shit out of me. I’m bruised and battered and I feel like I’ve been gang raped from gripping the pole so close to my crotchals and then sliding down it.

It’s the sliding that does it, you know.

And the gripping.

So, for my birthday today, the first thing I would like is to not feel gang raped.

The second thing I would like is this bike:

The picture is too big for the page but fuck it, it’s my birthday.  Anyway, it’s the Electra Karma 3i.  It’ s totally badass and I don’t ride bikes but I don’t care.  I would ride this bike until the wheels fell off.  And my crotchals won’t even hurt from the seat because pole dancing class will toughen me up really good!

I ask for a variation of the same bike every year and every year Mister acts like he’s going to buy it for me, but he doesn’t.  He’s such a crybaby about the mortgage.  It bores me.

Little does he know, I can go and dump that same amount of money at Target in a single afternoon and come home with baby diapers and hair conditioner and more short sleeved v-neck tee shirts than you can shake a stick at.

That’s a funny expression isn’t it?

I don’t think I’ve ever shaken a stick at anything.

Waiting for me right now is a bag from Victoria’s Secret, which is a gift for Mister and not really for me at all.  I haven’t opened it yet, but I’m pretty sure there’s no bike in there.

I’ve gotta run now, Queefies.  I have to go open my new thong underpants  now.

PS: I don’t really like thongs because  HAVING A STRING UP YOUR ASS ALL DAY IS NOT COMFORTABLE.  I’m 36 now and so it’s okay to stop pretending thongs don’t suck.  I feel so incredibly liberated having admitted that to the Queefies I think I’ll say it again!

I SHAKE A STICK AT THONG UNDERPANTS!!!

I’m sure I’ve shattered some fantasies, whatever.  I’m in my late thirties now.  I can do that and not even care.

PSS: for my birthday, Girlfriend says she’ll do what I ask her to do the first time I ask.  That’s pretty much the most awesome present ever!

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.

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.

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?

Crissy was telling you about her weekend and then POOF!

David interrupted her before she could show the Queefies a picture of her new hair!

Behold!  The beauty and the glory of the Queen’s highlights!

And it had been since EASTER since she got her hair did and her Shannon had a tear in her eye and said she thought Crissy had left her and her exact words were more like “bitch, where the fuck you been?” and you can see why Crissy and Shannon get along like vodka and cranberry and Crissy promised she would never leave her and then she kissed her long and deep and touched her boobs and her fanny a little bit and that made her feel much better and then they moved on and Shannon created Crissy’s hair because Crissy sometimes forgets things these days like her phone number and that she’s driving and she just recently had a bonding moment with her Papa over such things that happen to the brain addled except he’s 93 and Crissy is only 30 hummhummmnana and so it must be the sleep deprivation that’s making her a retard and so far be it for Crissy to know what to do with her hair!

Because shit, you guys.

Crissy goes around channeling Amy Winehouse (is that how she spells her name?  Crissy is too lazy to go and check) some days and it’s just not pretty or cute so thank goodness for The Shannon and you know what Crissy really wants you guys?

Extensions.

Ooooooooooo…

Shannon does them and  Crissy has always wanted Mermaid Hair but it would cost $1,000 for Shannon to do the Mermaid Hair on Crissy and that’s her “I’m giving you a huge break because I’ve been doing your hair for eleventy million years” price and so Crissy is just going to have to put that Mermaid Hair on her Dream On Crissy list with the BMW and the Maidlaundressnannywhore.

Somebody should photoshop Daryl out of Crissy’s hair so the Queefs can see how pretty she’d look.  You know, if it’s even possible for Crissy to be any prettier.

Also, Crissy’s new favorite words are bum and fanny.

Oh Queefies.

Tomorrow is Crissy’s 35th birthday and she’s all in a kerfuffle over it and it’s not that she’s going to BE IN HER MID THIRTIES HOLY SHIT that is bothering her.

She’s got a case of Birthday Anxiety because if something shitty is going to happen, it’s going to happen on Crissy’s birthday because it’s usually the day when people closest to Crissy decide to act like total assholes and treat Crissy like trash.

And so every year, Crissy’s birthday rolls around and Crissy becomes more and more anxious as the day approaches until she’s a total mess on the actual day because she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop or the cake to explode in her face or something and she tells herself that everyone is acting weird around her because they’re planning a big, wonderful surprise for her but it never happens and it turns out the people are just assholes being their assholian selves.

It’s also Dead Grandma Helen’s birthday and it makes Crissy sad that she’s not alive anymore because Crissy’s family always had a party for Crissy and Grandma Helen and now they don’t.  Note to the Queefies: Don’t be born on the same day as somebody who might die before you.

Does Crissy sound depressed to you?

Crissy thinks so.

Maybe it’s the THREE WEEKS STRAIGHT OF RAIN AND 65 DEGREE TEMPS that has Crissy all bummed out.

But don’t worry about Crissy.  There are fun plans for tomorrow night and  Crissy is looking forward to having dinner with Rich and Michele and hopefully Mister will be able to make it because of course he has to work late and maybe he won’t be there.

But it will be fun no matter what because Crissy plans to drown in copious amounts of alcohol and maybe be Party Asshole which will make Rich and Michele laugh and that will make Crissy laugh too.

Also, Crissy’s step-mom said she’d buy her this for her birthday:

Crissy got a microwave last year and a fridge this year and if this keeps up, she’ll have a whole new kitchen by the time she’s 40!

YES!!!!

And Crissy’s mom and her mother-in-law are paying for her two pairs of glasses so that’s really nice too.

As for Mister, Crissy does not think she’s getting a present because the trip to the vet with Alice pretty much ate up all the money he had budgeted for a present and so for her birthday Mister gave Crissy the gift of not having to clean up bloody diarrhea.

Awesome.

But you know what?  That is a pretty sweet gift when Crissy thinks of it because it keeps on giving every time Alice goes potty outside and not on the antique grandmother dining room rug.

But if he could, Crissy would tell Mister to buy this stuff Mister would bestow the following gifts upon Crissy:

A shopping trip here and here.

And Crissy still wants that bike from last year.

And she needs to get her hair did because seriously?

Crissy is not really blond and it is becoming rather apparent that Crissy’s real hair color is more like that of a field mouse without all the glitz and glamor of actually being fieldmousian.

Shhhhhhhh! Tell nobody.

And of course on the list every damn time and nobody has gotten it for her yet is this:

Seriously people.  They’re not getting any cheaper.

Crissy would totally keep going with this because her list of needs and wants is pretty much endless as befitting the Queen of Fucking Everything but Homeslice is crying and it means only one thing.

Crissy has to go.

Yesterday Crissy was sitting at her desk when she came to this book that needed cataloging.

It’s a book about contacting your Spirit Guide or guardian angel or whatever you want to call them so they can be a bigger part of your life or something like that.

And at first Crissy loves the idea of having a Spirit Guide because as you know Crissy is plagued by fears of clowns, escalators, garbage disposals, being in open spaces, being in closed spaces, and things that spin too fast and it brings her comfort to think that perhaps she’s not walking through the dangers of everyday existence all alone.

Crissy also thinks that her Spirit Guide must be pretty badass because she lives a pretty awesome life and is lucky in so many ways that other people are not, and she has gotten away with a considerable amount of jackassery like driving a car after too many vodka sodas or flirting with strange boys without so much as a single incident.

Of course there have been those two or three stalkers, but nothing really very bad ever happened to Crissy so that’s pretty impressive there Spirit Guide!

THANKS!!!

Crissy is glad you’re a badass.

But then when Crissy thinks about it, she’s not so crazy about the Spirit Guide idea at all in much the same way that she is at once comforted and horrified by the idea that her Grandma Helen is watching over her.

Tell Crissy something Queefs.

Where do Grandma Helen and Crissy’s Spirit Guide go when she’s being a very, very, naughty, bad, bad girl and sneaking downstairs and eating ice cream over a 100 calorie pack of chocolate cupcakes at 2 am?

or…

OR WHAT ABOUT when taking it in the Cheney during Sexy Time with Mister?

Does Grandma Helen pull up a chair and WATCH?

And this is what Crissy was thinking about at midnight last night and she woke Mister up to ask him what he thinks of that idea and he thinks his Spirit Guide not only watches, but actually guides him–

“Get your butt up a little higher there Mister…that’s right! Oh! Not that high it’s going to come out...Awwwww! I told you that was too high! How long do you think it is, buddy?” and then Mister’s Spirit Guide just looks at Grandma Helen all incredulous like and says “why do I even bother, Helen?  He never listens!”

And if these Spirit Guides are real, what about all the little children who are sick or abused or neglected or stolen from their mommies and daddies? Their Spirit Guides clearly have their heads up their asses if you ask Crissy.

What about the people who get very sick or get into terrible accidents? Again, Spirit Guide, being an asshole.

And does Alice have a Spirit Guide?

Sigh.

So many questions, Queefs.

And Crissy dare not make fun of the Spirit Guide because what if he/she reads Crissy’s blog?

WHAT IF CRISSY’S SPIRIT GUIDE IS ACTUALLY WRITING THIS RIGHT NOW?

Crissy just freaked her own freak with that one…

Maybe Crissy should just read Sylvia’s book because if Mister is ever going to see the Cheney again, she needs an answer.

The Bush is bad enough, but the Cheney?

Grandma Helen would not approve.

You know what makes Crissy so mad you guys?

People who walk right through a door you’ve held for them and don’t bother to acknowledge you and say “thank you ” thereby forcing you to shout “YOU’RE WELCOME YOUR HIGHNESS ” at them?

People who use the last shred of toilet paper and don’t bother to replace it?

Forever 21’s bullshit return policy?

Yes, but that’s not all.

What makes Crissy really, really mad are old people who drive.

They suck.

Totally.

And Crissy isn’t saying that old people shouldn’t be allowed to drive. Her Papa is 93 and he drives like the wind and Crissy thinks that’s just dandy. He’d be devastated if he couldn’t drive anymore and Crissy understands and sympathizes with that, she really does. She also understands what a bummer it would be for both herself and Papa if she had to drive him around to do his groceries and go to the foot doctor and stuff.

And that is why Crissy is going to call Obama with her new idea since he’s trying to do all this work on the infrastructure and everything and Crissy thinks that while all the constructing is happening they should build a separate lane for the old people to drive in so that normal people, people who drive at the perfect speed and always use their directionals, don’t have to share a road with the cotton heads.

Crissy shouldn’t have to be forced to endure Grandpa in his Buick/Mercury/Cadillac with all the POW and USA and WWII and Proud to be an American Veteran trucker caps proudly displayed on the back deck right there next to the spare tissues so that he cannot tell if there is anyone behind him as he drives along at 15 miles per hour for miles and miles forcing Crissy to cross the double yellows and shout “KICK IT IN THE PANTS GRANDPA!!! THE HORSELESS CARRIAGES GO FAST!!! and risk a ticket because seriously? Crissy is too busy and important for this jackassery.

And Crissy thinks this lane should also be reserved for drunks, teenagers, moms in SUVs and Minivans who must be driving while breastfeeding or organizing their Target lists or something, assholes on the phone, and perhaps the worst drivers out there, the uninsured poor and the Dirty Foreign People who cannot read English street signs and so Mister has to shout things out of the windows at them like “andale senor!” and other sorts of foreign language things like that.

Some of you may think Crissy is kidding but you will thank her when you’re just driving along without aggravation. Unless you’re an Asshole on the phone and then you’ll be stuck behind Grandpa and then you’ll finally know how it feels to be Crissy and that will be sweet.

HA!