Archive for the 'Oops! I crapped my pants' Category

Is that even how you spell dysfunction? Imagine being so disfunctional that you cannot even spell dyisfunction?

That would be me.

So I’ve been sick for three weeks and I finally went to the doctor yesterday. I’ve got The Bronchitis, The Sinusitis and an ear infection, whatever kind of itis that is, I know not.

And I had to have one of those fog machine breathing treatments right there at the office because the doctor thought I might have The P-newmonia, but I don’t. Just the bronchieties and the other stuff. Don’t forget the other stuff. The other stuff is very important too. She looked at my throat, frowned, and said “you poor thing. That looks like it hurts.” And then I was like “uh-huh” in my most pathetic Bill Cosby kid’s voice and she gave me all sorts of drugs to fix all the dysfunctions and I wish to hell she had sent a nurse home with me because the chances of like, going to bed to recover are not good, Queefies.

As it is, I had to do the breathing treatment bouncing up and down with Homeslice on my hip because she was getting fussy because she was getting hungry because we had to wait so long to be seen.

Motherhood is a motherfucking cock in the ass sometimes.

I bet nobody’s ever said that about motherhood before, so you read it here first.

Motherhoood: A Motherfucking Cock in the Ass.

I’ve had a pap smear with her sitting on my chest. I’ve had my teeth cleaned while rocking the car seat with one hand. Mister freaks out when he has to take the kids with him to get a haircut.

I need a nanny. Maybe I can convince Mrs. Fancypants’ nanny to come over to the dark side and work for me instead. I will call her “Karen” instead of calling her “THE NANNY” and I won’t even make her sleep under the stairs.

I’m a better person than Mrs. Fancypants, obviously.

Anyway, have I ever told you guys that I’m scared of drugs? Well, I am and now I have an inhaler and I haven’t used it yet because I’m scared of it. I’m scared of my nasal spray too.

I took it all out of their boxes and I keep looking at them and I can’t. I just can’t do it. Somebody needs to come and hold my hand so I can take my medicine like a big girl.

I should probably go now. Homeslice is chewing on Alice’s dog chewie and I have to work up the strength to stop her.

WHAT?
She won’t choke.
Probably.

So the other night, Mister calls me at work to run a few porn titles by me because porn titles always make me laugh, even when I’m at work and feeling like death, it warms the cockles of my heart like nothing else can.

And then he came across midget porn. I don’t know why I was so surprised by it. Midgets are people too, right? They get their little freaks on just like everybody else, I imagine, but the very idea of it was funny until he came to the next one–Midget Zombie Porn.

And so of course I HAD TO see it because who wouldn’t want to see Midget Zombie Porn?  Nobody wouldn’t want to see it, that’s who.

He also downloaded the plain old midget porn too, just for shits and giggles, and all of it was awesome in it’s bizarre glory. It had these two escaped prisoner boy midgets dressed in prison uniforms and handcuffs who supposedly broke into a house to hide from the police.  In that house lived a hot Latina woman who was a lettuce farmer.

Right? But wait, it gets better.

There was some sort of silly banter and the prisoner midgets said they haven’t touched a woman in 10 years and so the lettuce farmer starts stripping her clothes off and the midgets (who appear to have normal size dicks, btw) double team her on a bed covered in heads of lettuce. And the farmer was rubbing the lettuce all over her boobs and everyone had smooshed green lettuce streaks all over them.

It was hilarious, but also a little bit gross because of my food and sex issues, and I will never look at a head of iceberg quite the same way again.

But as if that wasn’t bizarre enough, the Midget Zombie Porn was even better.  It starts off with a confused slut ( I dare you find porn that doesn’t have any confused sluts in it.  The gauntlet has been thrown down.  Go forth and seek it, my friends), wandering around what looked like fairgrounds or some sort of antique car show or used car lot or something and she was all alone and stumbly when out of nowhere, a midget zombie starts following her. 

OH NO!!!

Run confused slut! RUUUNNNNN lest you be accosted by a tiny zombie in a size 2T sweatsuit and halloween makeup!

And she runs into some messy office-type building, screaming and kicking at the little zombie dude until he pins her to the couch and what do we have here?

Suddenly she goes from sucky actress to blow job maven and then there was anal and she was all “fuck me with your mini-dick” and it was just about the most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen. 

So yes.  Midget Zombie Porn.

Highly recommend it.

I want you guys to tell me about the weirdest porn you’ve ever seen because I’m totally turning this into a TWM post and wouldn’t you like to see your weird porn stories published over there? I would.

Also, I must have more weird porn in my life!

I originally wrote this post for Toy With Me, but somebody else submitted one on the same topic only two hours before me, so I had to eat it.  Both Dingo and Michele sent me links to this and it’s total suckage because I’m wicked sick, and I struggled through writing it and even got my mom to babysit so I could do it, and then I had to start all over again with something else.

The ladybug karma is still fucking with me, obviously.

I SAID SORRY, OKAY BUDDHA?

I mean, JEE-ZUS!  Buddha does not fool around with that karma business.

Anyway, have you guys heard of  Vajazzling yet?  It’s the new, sexy way to get your bling on.

It’s bedazzling for your pieche!

Yup.

What they do is they wax your pubical area, and then they glue tiny Swarovski crystals (because only the best will do) to it.

Jennifer Love Hewett had it done and now everyone and their pussy is doing it too.

And now I want it, obviously.

1) because I’ve always loved TheGhost Whiperer and if it’s good enough for her crotchals, it’s good enough for mine.

B) I’ve kind of always felt like my twidget was, well, sort of plain.  I mean I shave it and everything to keep it neat and tidy, but really? It doesn’t make a statement.

It just sort of sits there like…a vagina.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about what sort of pattern I might want and I thought of maybe getting racing stripes or something, but then I decided that some kind of message would be better, like… PINK or JUICY.  Wouldn’t that be cute?  Or maybe  just a sparkly WELCOME sign.

This seems to me like the Best Idea Ever because as you know, I have a hard time finding jeans that fit me just right.  They’re always too long or too short or too size 16/00, but if I get Vajazzled, I’ll never need to wear pants again!  I’m already fancy just the way I am!  And I’m totally ready to hit the dance floor as my own disco ball!  Woot! Woot! (that was the disco call, in case you didn’t know)

Imagine the looks on the Escalade Pajama Cunt’s faces when I drop Girlfriend off at school with my JUICY disco crotch?  I dare say, it will make their JUICY sweatpanted asses look just silly.

Who’s the fashionista now, ladies?

That’s right.  It’s ME!

But it’s wicked expensive you guys and I’m trying to save up for that Volvo because as it turns out, blow jobs do not make the world go round and you actually have to PAY for things with MONIES.

I had no idea.

So I got to thinking that maybe I can save myself the $50 and do my own using Girlfriend’s stick on earrings.

And it totally works!

Yay for DIY Vajazzling projects!

Turns out Mister isn’t the only Macguyver up in Crissy’s hizzy.

I ‘m totally going to suggest we do this for the next girl’s night.  Fuck getting pedicures and all that other stupid shit.  We’re getting Vajazzled, baby!  I’ll bring the stickers!

All three of my friends are going to LOVE this.  It’s exactly like Nerds Gone Wild when a Pediatrician, a Rabbi-in-training, a Librarian/Historian, and a Mommy Blogger go out to get their (one per person) drink on.  Last time, we shared a piece of chocolate cake and like, our forks touched places on the cake where other people’s forks had touched it.

It was too hot for TV that’s for sure.

We practically had a lezzie gang bang.  Just sayin.

So yes.

DIY Vajazzling.

Why pay $50 bucks to have a stranger touch your pubicals, when I can do it with stickers I got at Christmas Tree Shops for $1?

Yesterday after reading that my “ladybugs” were actually some sort of Beetle impostering as ladybugs, Girlfriend and I went on a killing spree.  Each armed with a library book( I KNOW IT!), we went into the bathroom and opened up a can whoop ass on the beetles.

We were like, all Matrix-y and shit, and we were spinning around and doing ninja flips and gettin’ all crazy, and we were pretty bad ass, laughing all the way and making splooshy sound effects and high fiving each other until all the beetles were dead, dead, dead.

Hahahahahahaha!

And I enjoyed it a little too much, and I blame Girlfriend because she thought it was hysterical, which made massacring tens of ladybug beetle things AWESOME! Hahahahaha! and we totally bonded and then I realized something.

Karma is a bitchface.

It’s always making anything fun a wicked pain in the assical.  Murdering bugs, annoying as they may be, makes for very bad karma.  I mean,what would Buddha say?

I do not think he would be pleased with Girlfriend and me.

Mister tells me that my source of information on the whole beetle/ladybug thing was bad and that ladybugs come in all different shades of orange/red and if he’s right, I have just gleefully killed what are arguably the most adorable bugs in the entire entomological world.

What happens to you when you smoosh good luck ladybugs with a library book?

This can’t be good, Queefies.

So now I’m scared that something really bad is going to happen, and I keep going back to this show I was watching on Monday night. I don’t know what show it was because I don’t really pay attention to show names, but it was one of those police shows–OMG! Greg from Darma & Greg was in it– and it was about a guy who started shooting people who looked like his wife. After he shot his first person, he got a high from it, and then he got addicted to shooting people and he couldn’t stop, and he just wanted to do it more and more and it became like, an obsession.

I didn’t see the whole thing, but I think he murdered his family probably.

I’m scared that this is going to happen to me now. I’m going to start killing bugs like, all the time, and then before you know it, BAM!

I’m a killing machine.

I already share a name with a serial killer, so it’s like I am one already!

And you’re getting a twofer today because it’s TOY WITH ME Wednesday!

Breastfeed my husband? Hell no!

So here it is. Mister worked really hard on this new theme, and we struggled with the colors. We’re (I’m) not totally sure we (I) love them like this, so that might change at some point. But he didn’t pimp slap me when I kept saying the colors weren’t right, so tell him his balls are pretty and touch him on his bum a little. He likes those things (even if you have to lie about the balls part because let’s face it. Balls aren’t cute).

Today Homeslice and I will have adventures on the East Side of Providence over at Monica’s, and then at Whole Foods. All the fancy stuff is on the East Side of Providence, you know.  And then tonight, we all go across the street for our weekly Pot of Crap dinner with the Richard and Micheles. I’m making pizza, it’s very exciting.

Try to control yourself.

I’m just concerned about the drive over to the East Side because I’m like 85% sure we’re going to die in a car crash. Just this past week, I’ve been run into the ditch THREE times by 2 asshats who were texting and came over the yellow line and nearly hit us head-on, and one stupidcuntbitchasshat who decided to drift into my lane without even looking when I was right next to her. Yes.  I was trying to pass her because she was doing 45 in the fast lane on the highway with her head resting on her driver’s side window.  What the fuck, woman?  She could have killed Girlfriend and me!  Homeslice was on the other side. She probably would have been okay.  But when I beeped the horn at her, she didn’t even notice.  She didn’t even take her head off her window.

So, I’ve decided that my next car will be one of these:

Sexy, right?  That’s actually the sexiest picture I could find. It’s not the BMW,but you know what?  At least we won’t all die in this car because some fucktard was texting his girlfriend.   And you see where the fog lights are mounted right there on the front?  I’m going to take those out and have Mister Macgyver some kind of flame thrower arrangement so that when somebody tries to kill us, I can burn them.  He’s totally brilliant at ghetto rigs.  He can do it.  Once he figures it out, he can do your car too.  It’s up to us to teach them, you know.

SOLIDARITY BROTHERS AND SISTERS!

btw, this is my official announcement to Mister that he’s buying me a Volvo.  He doesn’t know yet.  He’s going to be Very Excited.

Like, $45,000 exciteds.

PS: We don’t actually have $45,000 for a new car.  I’m just feeling like a rich lady because I made $130 selling my stuff on eBay last week, so clearly we can afford a new car.

PSS: I’m not good at math.

PSSS: That’s why I think I might have to bust out my feminine wiles for this one.  It’s going to take some convincing.

PSSSS: By feminine wiles I mean promises of blow jobs and steak every Friday night.

PSSSSS: I’d watch the comments section if I were you.  Just sayin.’

PSSSSSS: If you don’t help support my cause, I will totally ban you from this blog.

Homeslice and I went to our first visit to Monica the Ninjerapist last Friday, and I felt a little disheartened afterwards because I was expecting her to tell me I was doing everything right, and that all I need is a little talk therapy and then I’d be right as rain just as soon as I finished my cookie and found Morpheus.

But nay, nay, my good people. Not so much. Turns out, I have a little of the PPD and a little of the SADS and if you them dump together and shake em’ around, it makes a lovely bag of mixed NUTS.

Freakin’ Sweet! High five!

I should be happy that she didn’t think I was sick enough to suggest a lobotomy or an antidepressant or something because I’m decidedly anti-medication and anti-lobotomy. The three things she suggested I work on, however, pissed me off a little bit.

Check it:

1) I’m supposed to quit drinking any and all wine/akahol full stop. Did you hear that? Let me say it again. She said to QUIT DRINKING! Apparently one 750ml bottle PER WEEK is too much. And believe me, I tried to negotiate with her, I really did:

But she’s a ninja. They don’t negotiate.

f) Stop! eating! chocolates! Have I told you guys that I absolutely loathe working at night?  Well, I do.  I hate it.  I crash around 1:00pm, I stumble and slur my words, and then I go to work for 7 hours.  It’s awesome.  What’s more awesome is that I haven’t been fired for showing up to work drunk because when I land there after taking care of the little children all day, I’m a hot. mess.  Here’s a picture of me at my desk which was taken by Mister this very Tuesday past:

As you can see, I’m looking all kinds of motherfuckin’ enthusiastic right there.  And my boss keeps a big, big super fat ass jar of chocolates on her desk and every time I feel like cutting myself, I eat one. Needless to say, I wind up eating a crapload of fucking candy. Monica says that instead, I’m supposed to do yoga and drink herbal tea.

What kind of fucking bitchery is this? I’d rather cut myself!
Yoga at my desk? Shenanigans!
Herbal Tea? Pssshaw!
What an assbag.

(I just made that up. It’s a delightful combination of Jackass and Douchebag. Assbag. You can use it.)

10) She says I have to break off my lesbian affair with Jillian Michaels!!! This is unimaginable to me that a ninjerapist would suggest I actually not exercise, but that’s because it’s not what she’s saying at all. She just wants me to do more yoga instead. Because it’s therapeutic. Jillian is too punishing and not “loving enough to (my) kid self.” Don’t look at me funny. That’s what she said. And then I punched her in the face and made her do Plank Jacks and Rock Star Jumps until the tears flowed from her eyes and she begged me to let her stop. I’m pretty sure that’s what Jillian would have done had she been there.

No. I didn’t really do that, but I wanted to is what I’m saying.

I don’t think I want to pay her to be my friend anymore.

But I did her suggestions anyway just in case she knows what the fuck she’s talking about, except this past weekend I drank more just on priciple, and I did manage to cut out the chocolates at work and so now it’s just totally joyless instead of mostly joyless because herbal tea is not a replacement for fucking chocolate. Not on this planet, or on Planet Mental Health, or on any other planet in the world.  Even ET thought Reeces Pieces were the shit. 

Amiright? I rest my case. 

And then I found out that she doesn’t take my health insurance and so instead of taking United,  I’m going to ask if she takes Cunnilingus instead because that’s the only way I can pay her.  I think I mentioned to you last week that she’s working the whole “lesbian therapist” vibe and so I might take this chance to answer that question once and for all.

Although, my gay-dar doesn’t go off when I’m around her, but that means nothing because you know, Ninjerapists are crafty.

My friend Rachel says her gay-dar sounds like the disco call–WOOT! WOOT! when it goes off, but I think that only applies to men.  What does a lesbian gay-dar sound like because maybe my gay-dar is going off and I just don’t know.

So the plan for the weekend was to paint the kitchen and the lavette and my friend Rachel told me that nobody says “lavette” anymore and so my first question is what do you call it? A powder room?  A half-bath? The room where you pee and then wash your hands?

…?

And of course, we don’t just paint shit in this house.  It’s more like “since I have my paintbrush out, I should replace the toilet and the sink and the faucet and get all new everything” because we’re not really big fans of keeping things simple around here.  In fact, if there’s a way to make things harder and more complicated, that’s  pretty much what we do.

And so we went to the toilet store.

And Mister is kind of a big fan of the toilet.  As a matter of fact, he’s working on a coffee table or a bathroom reading book or whatever that has all pictures of toilets and men’s rooms in it.  It’s very important to him, the toilet.  And so he SAT ON THE TOILETS IN THE STORE TO TRY THEM OUT.

I was sort of mortified by this.

What?

I get mortified by things!

Why is that so hard for you to believe?

And then he had Girlfriend do it too, and Homeslice and I just sort of stood there, agog.  We didn’t know what to do and so I yelled at Mister to stop sitting on toilets in the toilet store and I said something like “why don’t you just pull your pants down, too!?! You’re not supposed to test them out in the store!”  and then some woman who had spent the past 10 minutes selecting just the right towel rack from a shelf full of IDENTICAL towel racks shouted in her Rhode Island accent “YES YOU AH! YES YOU AH! IT’S VERY IMPAWDINT!  I spent six months of my life making sure people got the right toilet!”

huh.

I have questions.

1) Why did she shout at me?

b) Why would anyone spend 6 months of her life fitting people for toilets?

4) Would you sit on toilets in the store?

f) Do I have poop issues or is it weird to sit on toilets in the store?  I mean, Home Depot keeps them way up high.  I imagine that’s to keep people from using them.

10) Right?

Whilst Girlfriend was at school yesterday, I went sweater shopping because the room  where I work at Schmuckytown Pubic is right next to the big double doors where all the Schmuckytown Pubic Employees do their inning and outing and also where the UPS guy comes to deliver his package (not his figurative one you filthy dirties, his literal package) and so holy Mary mother of Jeebus is it COLD.  So, sweaters.

And Homeslice is the bestest little shopper in all the land as long as we bring Princess Sophie with us:

Remember the woobie in Mister mom?  Yeah.  It’s kind of like that only it’s me that freaks out when she’s missing because she keeps Homeslice occupied for a long time.  Sophie crinkles, you know.  She’s very fancy.  She was also $15, but when I showed her to Homeslice, her eyes got all wide and she was just like, “oooooooo” and so I bought her.

And because of my rather wise and extravagant investment in Princess Sophie, I was able to sift through tons of CRAP (seriously, what is with the crap in the store right now?  No wonder all I ever buy is solid color long sleeved cotton scoop neck tee shirts.  That’s all there is!) and I found two pretty warmish ones that will do nicely as “library sweaters” (read: for work only because only a librarian would be caught dead in these suckers but it’s better than freezing my tits off or wearing a SNUGGIE, which my boss actually resorted to last yesterday night), and since it’s colder than Santa’s balls these days, I brought them home and put one on immediately for work.

And it’s kind of cute in an asymmetrical, chunky, woolen kind of way which I don’t mind at all and somebody was all “Hey! Cute sweater!  Is it new?” and so I’m all  “Yeah!”  And then  she was all “I could tell!” And then she pointed at the wad of tags and spare buttons dangling from my armpit.

Oh.

I forgot to cut those.

Do any of you guys ever use those spare buttons and little bits of wool that come with new sweaters?  Like, if you get a hole in your sweater, do you run to your jewelry box (where else would you keep that, anyway?) and get out the little baggie of spare parts and just start knitting the hole back together, or are you like me and you just put the sweater in the Donations for the Poor Who Have Better Sewing Skills Than Me basket you keep in your closet?

Anyways, I’m an idiot.

The end.

PS: I’m  sensing some tomfoolery involving a Snuggie and Schmuckytown Pubic.  Aren’t you? I can feel it in my bones, just like I can tell when it’s going to rain.

PSS: I wrote this entire post while wrestling with Homeslice.    I’m kind of heroic.

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.

For all you Queefs and Queefettes who have not heard this story yet, go read about How I tried to sell my panties online.

You’re gonna shit!

For those of you who have heard the story, can you believe I’m telling it to the Toy With Mes?  I mean, maybe I should have just let it die, but if anyone will understand, it’s them.

Right?

RIGHT?

Shit.

(Valerie, there’s more about you in there this time.  You’re famous now. You’re welcome. The paparazzi is on their way, so put some lipstick on.)

In other news, the monkey flu rages on.  I have to go try not to die now.

Toodles!