Four Peas

Well, the most recent jobby job prospect isn’t working out. Boo friggity hoo. I’ve been in negotiations for like, ever with this new little ad agency in Lenexa that lured me in with the promise of being a writer for their company when they actually were hiring for a sales rep. F-ing liars. But I ended up really grooving on the people as well as the general idea of being employed, so I’ve been trying my damndest to work things out with them.

Thus, I'm sad to report that they just can’t pay me enough. $18,000 a year? *Psht.* I know I'm not exactly loaded, but if I'm going to be making a third of what my peers make, I'd rather work at Wally World for the phatty discount. I mean, where else can you get TP, ammunition, and patio furniture in one stop, ya know? I’m clearly going to have to tell them to stick their minimum wage offer straight up their cheap asses because I would end up pumping every crappy little cent I made straight into the gas tank of The Obscene Green Disco Machine just to get to work and back. There would definitely be no extra cash left over for clothes, apartments, or gigolos.

Besides, I was wiggity way hot for my potential boss, Mr. Gray. I kept drooling during our interviews, lustily thinking about James Spader, who was also Mr. Gray in Secretary. (Coincidence? I think not!) Then I would gratuitously fantasize about after-hours office frolickings that usually involved his desk. As you can see, this would have been extremely bad in frequent bouts because:

A. He would have been my boss…not that it’s ever stopped me before, but
B. He’s married
C. To a fifth degree black belt in Tai Kwon Do

Perhaps it’s for the best that we merrily parted ways. Tee hee! So once again, I hope that you all will keep your rosy little ears to the ground for job openings and that you will consider recommending me for any available positions. Please feel free to tell your employers the following:

“Hey, Mr./Ms. Boss! I heard that the (insert sugarlicious job in which I would clearly be spectacular) is vacant. I have this friend who would be perfect for it! She is wicked hot and really funny and could totally rock your world in the Tenth Position of The Perfumed Garden like nobody’s business! She is a literary genius and brilliant in communication. Plus, if you hire her, I will personally give you some serious oral pleasure!”

Aww! You guys are the best!!!

Time For Class!

I really hate to patronize all of you for the misdeeds of a few, but let’s all please take a moment to review Poetry and Literature 101. Lesson one: when a writer is composing his or her work, they commonly use what we call a persona:

Main Entry: per·so·na
Pronunciation: p&r-'sO-n&, -"nä
Etymology: Latin
1 : a character assumed by an author in a written work

It’s true, babies. Even I use a persona in my literature. Now I’m not lying to you when I write because yes, I hate boys. Yes, I’m vain. Yes, I’m horny. But in my work, I do yield to a little something something we refer to as exaggerating:

Main Entry: ex·ag·ger·ate
Pronunciation: ig-'za-j&-"rAt
Etymology: Latin exaggeratus, past participle of exaggerare, to heap up
1 : to enlarge beyond bounds or the truth

I’m simply amplifying my personality for entertainment purposes and enhancing the terminology to juice up the events of my suck life. Come on, which would you rather hear?

“I need a gigolo.” Or: “I’m lonely. I wish I could be close to someone without all the bullshit that is involved. Gigolo is a funny word. Hee hee!”

See? The latter is so unfunny to the point that it is horribly pathetic. (Don’t you dare tell anyone that I’m actually pathetic or I’ll totally mutilate you.) And I don’t want a pity party here, I want everybody having so much fun that they have to smoke a cigarette after reading The Chronicles. Now you may be asking why I mention the persona, and I am all too happy to tell you every sordid detail. I’ve been getting some rather judgmental comments from some of my darling readers lately. After a particularly saucy post from your Official Goddess of Sugarliciousness, one individual took it upon himself to scold me on my evil ways. Please note that these* are all sent in 20 min. intervals and there were no responses from me in between the final three e-mails:

1: IN WHICH GONAD IS A DICK
From: Gonad@TakingSummerEntirelyTooSeriously.com
Subject: 1
Date: Mon, 06 Dec 2004 08:31:02 -0600

"Trust me Summer, you are just looking in the wrong places. I know you love to dance, but when you think about it guys hate to dance. You might find those goofy ones that are on the dance floor that would rather dance alone because dancing with a girl would just bring them down. They are only out there for one thing. Yep you guessed it. Same reason why they shell out all the bucks for the alcohol. But if thats really what you want, happy hunting. I have known enough girls with that desire that are now desease infested that nobody will touch with a 10-foot pole. Use the hotness for good. Think about giving some of it to charity :). Literally, Charity is nasty looking, she needs it."

2: IN WHICH SUMMER BITES OFF HIS HEAD
From: Summer@IsThisShitForRizzel.com
12/06/04 02:05PM

Finding a man that loves to dance is a real priority for me and it is not up for compromise, Gonad. It's as important to me as sharing religious values is to others. To imply that I'm going to get a disease because I like to share common interests with my partners is rude. I wouldn't assume anything like that about somebody I didn't know.

3: UH OH, NOW GONAD FEELS BAD
From: Gonad@ TakingSummerEntirelyTooSeriously.com

"Don't think I was saying that about you Summer. I am saying watch out. You know that as well as I do. I know a lot of guys that are pretty much predators out there. There are guys that just want to go out and have fun. There are other guys that are out there that are out for something more. Trust me. I have friends that are girls that have gotten stuff with guys that they thought were cool and fun. Now they have to tell guys when they are close that they have something and see if the guys stay or run. Don't think I was saying that about you. I am sorry if you did. I know when writing and reading emails it can sound that people are being mean. This is not like that. All I was meaning was that to watch out. Don't settle. It is not my nature to put people down like that. It is my nature to care for people, no matter if I have met them or not. Sorry if I got you mad."

4: GONAD IS FEELING MORE JUSTIFIED
From: Gonad@TakingSummerEntirelyTooSeriously.com

"Ok, think of your true friends. One's that would tell you if you had a bugger hanging out of your nose. Would you really want them to tell you or not? Personally I would. Yes, I do not know you that well. Just what I have read from your emails or your blog. I have asked you if that is you or if you are exaggerating. That is the type of person I am Summer. I will tell you "hey watch out for some sleazy guys." I know you already know that. Just from reading your blog that you sent me it seemed like you weren't going to be picky about the type of guys that you wanted to be with. I read into it too much and I am sorry. I wasn't trying to put you down, at all. Just trying to protect you a bit. I can do that. Now I have a thing about people that I don't think like me or that are mad at me. Even though I feel this was just a misunderstanding I really care about what you think about me and how you feel about what happened. I don't want you to be upset. I would rather you know that you have someone, that you don't even know, haven't even met, care about you. I am genuinely sorry. You might think I believe I am goody two shoes but those guys that I am warning you about I actually have as friends. Not my best friends but are friends nonetheless. I have had friends at XO when I came off the dancefloor that were doing it with girls in the booth, restrooms, hallways. Trust me, I know these guys that I am warning you about. Just don't settle for those guys. I know what diseases that they have. I know how they have given to girls without a care. I also told you that I have seen the other side as well. It is good to have common interests with people that you are friends with and that you are in relationships with. But there are a lot of bad guys at the clubs. Find a good guy where they are more plentiful that also like to dance and then take them to the clubs. Sort of like importing. Again, I am sorry. Just looking out for you."


5: IN WHICH GONAD REVERTS TO 1ST GRADE
From: Gonad@TakingSummerEntirelyTooSeriously.com

"Well I can understand that we don't know each other that well and that if you are mad, you are mad. All I can do now is say that I am sorry. If you don't want to reply to any of these that is fine. Just know that I am a good person and that I can be a good friend. But I understand. I will stop emailing you and stop sending you job postings. I hope that makes it better. Gonad."

Yikes.
As you can see, I am a little worried about y’all reading The Chronicles though I am confidant that most of you dig the intensification of my otherwise naturally dull character. In addition to your collective hotness, I genuinely appreciate your senses of humor.

This now concludes the lesson for today. I hope you all enjoyed it and will please remember for future reference that The Chronicles are meant to be fun, and if mama’s gotta sugar coat some things to make them more interesting, she gonna keep right on doing it because she loves her babies.

*Just in case…anything readers send me regarding The Chronicles is fair game for posting. I think you’re all brilliant and hilarious and I love to quote you...Especially Thi Money. Unless I’m given explicit permission, I will happily disguise the names of those that have been quoted because only I am allowed to stalk you.

Ich Hab' Ein Feuer in Meine Lederhosen

Oooh, Baby! Spray Me With Your Hose Some More!

So I just heard that the Kansas City Fire Department is reading The Chronicles. Please excuse me, but I have go and lie down. I’m sorry, but firemen are so HOT. No pun intended, but seriously, they are universally scorchingly, smoking, wicked flaming hot. Ok, puns totally intended that time. Mwa ha haaa!

So while I was indulging myself in fantasies of making out in slow motion with gorgeous firefighters on top of the truck whilst being sprayed with dew-like water from the fire hose, I realized that I am totally objectifying these poor guys. So I thought, rock on! I should tell them all about it, because really, what man doesn’t want to be validated in knowing that he is the central figure in every woman’s fantasy?

I sent the following to the sexy, gorgeous lady reader of The Chronicles:

Can you please give me your opinion as to why firemen are hot? (Also, policemen, military men, men in uniform in general?) Please respond as soon as possible, and do please respond. Last time I took a poll, like 3 people helped me out. Be a sport. Do your duty to your country. Consider it your Holiday gift to me. Or I could always hunt you down and kill you if you refuse to participate. You know, like boil your rabbits and stuff.

And here were the fabulous responses:

FRIDAY: Because they have big hoses...

KT: I love men in uniforms...they are aware that they are all the same, so they dress like it - that is what is so hot about it.
*It's like shopping for a car that has the ability to give orgasms...Hey, wait a minute...Why don't we have those?*

LIZCAT: I was in a minor car accident a few years ago in Melrose on my way to a club to meet my girls...well it was an 8 car accident and I was the last car, so I was fine. The firefighters and police came...well I started chatting with the firemen and they invited me and my two girlfriends to come hang out at the station. So! We started going to hang out with them every so often and I ended up hooking up with one of them - named Sebastian - we made out in the fire truck and around the fire station.
*I hate you endlessly, Liz. I will forever burn (ha!) with envy.*


C-HO: 1. The most obvious reason....they're wearing a uniform...that you get to take off.
2. They are usually doing a job that is dangerous, and all women love a man of danger
3. They're typically heroes, like my boyfriend! You are proud of them.
4. They're manly men...big muscles that fill out those form fitting uniforms
5. They're not afraid to take control...you know push you around a little bit
6. They push you around a little bit (in the sack) but treat you like a princess.
7. They're manly by day and romantic at night. Men in uniforms are suckers for romance.
8. They know that life is short, and at any moment theirs can be taken from them, so they live life to the fullest and don't care what others think.
9. They're wearing uniforms
10. They wear uniforms.

SALLY: To be honest, I am probably the single oddity out there...who has no interest in The Uniform. The garb seems so stiff and synthetic for the most part...I assume they are sweating like pigs under it all.
*What? You don’t like stiff and sweaty?*

CLAIRE: I believe that it is very primal, and visual. Men in uniform, LOOK like they have it together, like they could go sail you around the world, protect your honour, defend you against marauding... whatevers. They look together, and they look capable (at least of ironing their uniform, which is attractive enough, as men who iron are extremely rare, in my experience!) They also look as if, being an organised and cohesive part of the 'service' they do not come with excess baggage, and therefore are able to transport OTHERS excess (emotional and otherwise!) baggage! How useful, and how attractive!!

I think maybe their willingness to risk their lives to help people -- obvious I know, but I think that women's response to this routinely buff and courageous behavior IS very elemental - they save others, they can save us, right?? Mmm, and who really DOESN'T want to be saved, going right back to our fairy princess fantasies of childhood... So I would love to say, that firemen are hot because we (nobly) respect their integrity, but sadly, this does not seem to be the case... it seems to be the result of something much older and LESS noble (on our part at least) - the homosapien survival urge.
*I can think of a few homosapien urges that I could fulfill with a hottie fireman! *

CEC: I enjoy picking them up in full uniform on the streets of the Plaza.

LINDSAY: Men in uniform in general are good looking because they have an air of authority. Also, who doesn't want to get with someone who carries a firearm and can handcuff you? Yum!
*I know that on more than one occasion,, I've seriously considered deliberately breaking the law just to be handcuffed and reprimanded because I've been a bad bad girl.*

REV.DR. SWEETNESS: Because you know by the uniform that they have a job.

LL: Men in uniform...just the thought makes me drool. The crisp lines of the uniform, police, military, hell, even security guard. They make a man seem instantly taller, sexy, brave, strong, and capable of doing anything you need him to do at anytime. Firemen are their own special breed however. A firemen epitomizes bravery; people tend to run out of burning buildings, not into them. So anyone who would throw himself in harm's way like that, man, get out the smelling salts.

To the uniform; even though it is baggy, that is a good thing. It bulks up anyone wearing it without making him look fat. It makes him look strong and capable. Also, picture in your mind a fireman who has just put out a fire; what do you see? Sweaty, a little oily, streaks of soot here and there. The coat is off and what is left is the just-a-bit grimy white t-shirt and the pants held up by suspenders on a sexy, muscular guy with arms that you want to hold you and a chest made just for resting your head against. Tasty, huh??
*Indeed, my dear. I am now drooling all over my keyboard and will likely die of electrical shock. Oooh! It might start a fire though, and Station 33 will have to book it over here to save me. Hooray!*

SMITHY: Weapons. I sure wish I had a gun right now.

MER: Back in the good 'ole days of cave people, the man was bigger, stronger, tougher. He protected the clan from mammoths, saber tooth tigers and dinosaurs. (Well, ok, I know dinos were extinct by this time, but in the movies they always show cave men fighting them) Move up many, many, many years later to now. We have sissy men, metrosexuals, and so on. These men can't seem to protect themselves from a tiny little spider, let alone protect his woman from a mammoth. So when a big strong guy walks by proudly displaying the fact that he is ever so willing to put his life on the line for another, women go ape-shit. Not to mention the fact that men dressed up (this can range from tuxedos to uniforms) are just damn sexy.

But I do think a good part of it, at least for myself, is the fact that I want to be protected...it is a good feeling to be wrapped in big arms, arms you know would beat the living shit out of anything or anyone that threatens you. I'm not saying I condone violence and want my man to pound anyone that even looks at him or me wrong, but it is just nice to know that he could and he would.

LUVA: They look all clean cut in their uniforms. Very masculine looking too…Saving the damsel in distress.

THI MONEY: A man with a big hose is hot. A man who can throw you across the room like a scrunchie is hot too. A man that can save you from any of the following is hot:
-Car jackings
-Burning Buildings
-Osama Bin Laden
-Sadam Hussein

HIL: Because they are a good mix of strong and sensitive. See, they have to be brave to be in such a position (to run into a burning building, to chase down a suspect, etc) but yet with a lot of those responsibilities seems to come some sort of compassionate nature. You know, they save old ladies and babies from fires, and help keep the kids safe and stuff like that. Its hard to find that kind of a balance in a man, because you don't want a sissy and you don't want some jerk, so when you see a man in uniform this connotation of strong and sensitive pops into your mind and that is SEXY.

TERESE: Firemen are hot because they rescue people, slide down poles, and can look like this picture: www.minibite.com/funstuff/fireman.htm
In general, men in uniform make us feel protected. They are masculine and notafraid to take risks, what woman would not want one? They are not sissy, pussyboys that are scared of the back yard, the are REAL MEN. *I heart you, Terese, and your delicious pornography!*


So in conclusion, GRRR! And truly, we love firefighters for more than just their hotness. These people work an extremely demanding job for not a lot of bones. It really does take a bad ass to bust into a burning building/stop burning brush/pry someone from their horrific car crash/put someone else before themselves. So cheers to uniforms!

Give Mama Some Sugar

Ok. I think I’ve figured out the solution to all my problems...I need a gigolo. Wait! Bear with me. Let’s look at this logically and reasonably:

First of all, I am objectively hot. Ok, so that has nothing to do with this situation whatsoever, but I only have a couple of good things going for me right now so I’ve got to capitalize on the shit that's actually working. So there.

Second, I’m losing my total mole! This is way beyond stroking the wooden handle of Ye Olde Renaissance Festival Hottie's goods at the sword shop. Seriously, I'm so desperate that I'm way beyond wanting to slum. I'm like face down, thrashing around and licking the bottom of barrel here. At this point, I am fully prepared to shell out for some sugar if it will increase the quality of my prospects. Please God, let them accept Discover.

And finally, I don’t have time to talk to stupid boys and get to know them and pretend to care about their gay feelings. I just need some action here, folks! As you may know, I am officially a tortured musician, so I don’t have time for flowery romantic happiness crap. In fact, the more angst ridden and excruciating the purely sex-driven relationship is, the better! More angry songs! Hooray!

Since we already know and agree that I am the Godfather of hotness (except that I am not a dude, nor do I speak with an unusual speech impediment...and I don't whack people either, just unspeakable trolliness) we can move on to the sad ways in which I am spinning out of control. I swear sweetie pies, it’s getting to the point where I can smell hot guys before I see them. My crew can vouch for me when I say that we’ll be out boozing when suddenly, my nostrils flare and I start growling like a wild boar whilst making rude tongue gestures at the subjects of good-smelliness. I miss whole chunks of totally crucial conversations, like, "I've got some bark on my tongue, could you brush it off for me?"

It's even escalated to the point where I do it when I'm by myself. For instance, yesterday, I was driving along and rocking out to some serious Zombie "Thunderkiss '65" when I nearly skidded off the road drooling out the window. I’m ashamed to admit that it was little high school track boys running like youthful gods on Ward Parkway. Their virgin bodies…glistening. And those tiny shorts. Riding up higher and higher with every stride of their taught, meaty legs. Alone in my car, I screamed, “That’s right, babies! Let mama show you what a real woman looks like!!!”

Help me. Please. Somebody.

Proof That You Are Cooler Than Me

Just in case you are still traumatized from the family freak show that is Turkey Day, I come bearing more Summer is a Huge Tool Stories to ease the pain. It’s official, babies . . . I have sunk to a new low. I know, I know. I didn’t think it was possible either, but indeed it was. Last weekend, I got so shit faced that I threw up in a sink in a strip club. I threw up. In a fucking sink. In a motherfucking strip club. God, I'm lame!

I haven’t boozed till I hurled in years and frankly, I never planned on doing it ever again. I am still nasally scarred from becoming so well acquainted with the stench of dormitory-Ty-D-Bol during my freshman year of college. And what sucks sick Elephantitis balls so bad is that I’m like a hundred years too old to still be doing this shit. Seriously! And unfortunately for me, I remember the events of the entire humiliating experience in lucid, if not mildly psychedelic detail.

I vividly recall sitting alone at a table in the club. I was wincing into the strobe lights and feeling very proud of sitting up (albeit unsteadily) all by myself. Magically, as if a gift from God, a lit cigarette materialized in my hand. Then in a dream-like sequence, as drunken stupors are so often inclined to yield, my head was tipped back as a girl’s face appeared over mine and she layed a turbo huge kiss on me. On the freaking lips! She must have been giving lap dances to the boys behind me and convinced herself that I needed to be resuscitated. And of course, this all seemed like perfectly agreeable public behavior at the time.

After that random experience, I somehow managed to lurch my way up to the lap dance zone and squeeze myself between my boys on the freaky couch thing. The smoochy stripper took it upon herself to commence educating me in the fine art of lap dancing. In my totally unbiased and self-effacing opinion, I am an absolute prodigy. And I was completely bombed too! Can you imagine if I had been sober? I am clearly a smoking hot stripper in an alternate universe. Oh, alright. If I don’t get a job soon, I'll probably be one in this reality as well. Shut it.

Regardless, at this point in the deliciously flattering story, I was starting to sweat and thus realized that the world was coming to a screeching halt. I thought I was being so incognito by nonchalantly sauntering to the restroom, but Mer psychically sensed the ensuing drama and succeeded in clipping my hair up with superhuman speed. It was so offensively sad that even the strippers were offering their comfort. One chick was patting my head and saying, "It's ok, mama. You're gonna be just fine, mama." They even got me a Sprite and shortly thereafter, I was disgracefully escorted out of the bar. (Insert defeated sigh of shame here.)

I fell/sat down on the ground outside in a state of total mortification with Mer, Rick and Brian all crouching around me, trying to cheer me up by telling me their own vomit-in-public stories. I have to say that these stories were hilariously impressive and one excellently involved an unnamed party having to be transported from the hotel lobby to their room via a luggage cart. How much ass does that story kick? That is truly partying in the spirit of rock and roll.

Anywho, I survived my less than glamorous night of partying like a rock star and I swear that am never drinking or having any sort of fun ever again. I mean it. I am a nun, yo. It's chastity and gesticulating from here on out. Hee hee. Gesticulate. Funny word.

Shout. Shout. Let It All Out.

Last weekend, I went to see Tears for Fears. Who wants to touch me? Go ahead. I know you want to. But do be careful. You might get burned by the flaming hotness that is this ASS! Look at this ass! Look, God damn it, look! Ahem. Sorry. Anywho, they totally wailed! Despite a lackluster performance of “Shout,” they kicked the ass of “Head Over Heels” so much so, that I will be bleeding out the back door for days in sympathy. I love for Tears for Fears!

Despite the excellent rocking outage, I was totally distracted by a ghastly trend that was brought to my attention at the concert: Modern Eighty’s Dancing. Holy shit, I was shocked! I mean, I know that Tears was largely an eighty’s phenomenon, but I really didn’t expect people to just stop time in high school circa 1986 and then regurgitate the dance moves from their puffy-sleeved prom into the lap of the present day. Yikes! I was slightly amused and a little scared.

Now for the record, I’ve gone to eighty’s night at clubs before and I have shamelessly loved every minute of it. Unfortunately, I always end up standing there like a complete douche, trying to figure out how to work it on the dance floor. I just can’t do it! It’s not that I don’t dig the music, it’s just that it doesn’t inspire the booty like hip hop does. All my dancing is in the ass. I hear a good beat and it starts going all by itself. I actually have very little control over it. I just have to go with it, hope for the best, and swat men off of it as they try to dry hump it in passing.

In case you are like me and are a child of the booty era, please allow me to educate you in the manner of Eighty’s Dancing. There are several acceptable forms which you may commence practicing in the privacy of your home in front of the mirror. Don’t be embarrassed, we all do it. I’m gonna go get my legwarmers, sweatband, and leotard, you go put on “You Spin Me Right Round, Baby,” and stand with your feet shoulder width apart. Now, bounce in a furious jerking motion using only your knees. Once you have the rhythm, you may begin shifting your weight from one leg to the next while maintaining the motion of wrenching yourself up and down with your knee joints. Ass should not be moving. At all. If it moves, you’re out, Tom. Think Lord of the Dance.

Now for the torso; this is the key, people. Pay close attention or I will spank you with a VHS copy of Sixteen Candles. The unwavering rule is to always lead with the shoulder. Stick that left one way out there and rotate your body 180 degrees with it from left to right. You may have to take it easy on the knee bouncing while you get the hang of this move or you might blow out a joint or two. I tried this earlier and had to be hospitalized because my right leg popped off like a Ken doll.

Now that you can fling yourself up and down like a pivoting jackhammer, you’ve got to work that head (insert adolescent snickering here.) There is only one acceptable way to move your head whilst eighty’s dancing: you will nod furiously as though Pamela Anderson or Brad Pitt, or possibly Pamela Anderson and Brad Pitt, depending on your preference, just walked in and said, “Wanna finger paint my delicious bod with melted chocolate, hot marshmallows, and graham crackers?” Don’t dream it, be it.

You are on your way to being an eighty’s dance master…get excited! You have three choices of arm motions: clapping, pumping fists, or air drumming . Let’s begin with the clapping. The more widely accepted form of this gesture is to hold arms rigidly at sides, with forearms at a 90 degree angle to torso. Your fingers should be extended and you should be clapping like a seal in heat.

The second movement of the arms can be achieved by spreading your arms out as if you were being crucified. Now, roll forearms up so that they point to the ceiling. You will now look very much like Beavis screaming “I am Cornholio!” Because you are. Now, ball up your fists as if you were hanging onto suspended handlebars in my bedroom. Because you will be tonight, baby! Ow ow! Now, thrust those fists into the air as hard as you can. The object of eighty’s dancing is not fluidity, but rather flinging one’s body around to resemble an epileptic seizure.

Finally, your last option for arm movements is the ever popular air drumming. Assume the Cornholio position (insert full out cackling here.) Now don’t get too crazy with it because you are only allowed to flick your wrists as your hands hold the imaginary drumsticks. It is preferable if you drum during the off beats, or better yet, when there are no beats at all.

If you can combine the bouncing, rotating, and alternate between the three exciting versions of hand motions, you will be a star. Granted, a star that has missed his or her moment to be discovered by Prince in a smoky cool dance club whilst wearing spandex, glitter, and sporting large brunette hair, then named something exotic like Carmen Electra and subsequently challenged to a wicked game of hoops, but never fear, you’re totally going to rock the hizouse in your bedroom by yourself. Not that you don't anyway, but it can't hurt to add a little something something to your repertoire, right? Woo hoo!

I Hate Girls

Wow. I’m not sure if I should just smile and say, “I take it back. Boys are all that is pure and beautiful and brilliant in this world,” or just copy and paste some of the atrocious pleas of defense I’ve received, throw my hands up, and say…”I told you so!” I’m so confused. Several males, in genuinely valiant efforts to redeem their bretheren, only succeeded in turning me gay. It’s official, girls. I’m yours for the taking. Call me Willow from now on. I will only play softball and wear flannel from this day forth.

So, seeing as I am now a lesbian, I will have to start critiquing women instead of men. Eat your hearts out, boys. Let’s start with the first kind of Women I Hate Most: The Guy’s Girl. Oooh. I have to shudder when I type that. These are the most beastly creatures ever. These skanks are easily identifiable by their frequent boasting of their Guy’s Girldom. A woman will meet one and within the first several conversations, the Guy’s Troll will make it clear that she is not interested in being friends because she “get’s along better with guys.” And she most certainly does. Hem hem hem.

What they won’t tell you, is why they are a Guy’s Hoochie. It’s not because they are sporty or grew up with a bunch of brothers, it’s because they do not respect other women. They operate under the assumption that male opinions are more valuable than anything, except possibly for the priority of wearing hideous clothing. Privately, they are very insecure, so they surround themselves with guys who constantly validate their attractiveness and fuel their egos. They know that they could probably sleep with any of these guys, but that’s not the goal. The objective is to be adored and respected by men because they don’t give a flying fuck through a rolling doughnut about other women. They will be the first to gleefully stab another woman in the back because to them, girlies are inferior.

These brutish girls are slightly oily and inappropriately dressed. They have stringy hair and chug beer with their best friends, which are obviously guys. The Guy’s Whore secretly sizes up her friends’ new girlfriends and thinks, “She’s not so cute. And she has no tits. Good thing I wore my lowest cut shirt that is three times too tight for my wooly mammoth fucking ta tas.” Her milky little mind is threatened by the new girl, so she aggressively throws her breasts around and pisses on her guy friends, thus marking her territory in an effort to assert her dominance.

It could end with The Guy’s Slut intimidating the new girl out of the picture, but in my unfortunate experiences, they usually rock the world of the proverbial guy friend all night long just to ensure his loyalty to her. Fortunately for the rest of womankind, this rarely works. She gets on him, he gets off, things get weird, and she is eventually ostracized from the group. Do not pity the Guy’s Party Favor, for she loves this nomadic lifestyle and feeds off of threatening other girls. All these fugly spazoids really care about is having weirdly unhealthy, sexually tense relationships with men. They closely resemble the wild North American Stupid Boy (as seen on the Discovery Channel, yo) in that they mimic his behavior by treating women like objects and frequently squatting near the first available phallic symbol to prove their version of virility.

Then there is the more malevolent of the sort of Women I Hate Most: The Evil Psycho Bitch That Pretends to Be Your Friend Until They Distort Everything You’ve Ever Said, Rip Out Your Lungs, Eat Them, and Make Everybody, Including Yourself, Hate You. These are the most frightening monsters to ever inhabit the earth. They make crocodiles look like fluffy pink bunnies and even have the creepy dead eye thing going for them. The reason these devil bitches are so sinister is that there is absolutely no motivation for their attacks. They usually are at peace with their inner children and have pleasant lives but still, as if emotional serial killers, they cheerfully destroy other women through a series of calculating, diabolical, and Cartman-a-la-“Scott-Tenorman-Must-Die-“plots.

They ally themselves with weakling Minion Girls that will do their vicious bidding. These hos are also detestable and vile, but they will take so much abuse from the Evil Psychos that they inevitably get bitten in the ass by karma. Hooray! The Evil Psycho Bitch uses these feeble followers to execute her destruction, usually employing them to gather information on the things that her target loves the most so she can suck them dry like so much tick. She manipulates everyone around her and uses her sharp intellect to stab out the reproductive organs of anyone who dares to displease her.

They are usually beautiful and/or wealthy. They must have something superficial with which to lord over others and keep them in constant fear/admiration of their superiority. As far as men go, they are simply meaningless possessions. They will collect them as accessories and wear them until they go out of fashion. Evil Psycho Bitches care about no one.

Their favorite victims are nice girls who don’t recognize The Bitches for what they are. They start out so friendly and have cute little noses that wrinkle when they smile and they effortlessly make these normal girls feel so included. But slowly, their true face starts to peek out from under all that Bobbi Brown makeup and the horns sprout. It starts with little things like excluding the girl from a much anticipated event, then the minions and their vile leader go on and on about how much fun it was in the manner of, "And oh my GOD! Barbie made out with (insert guy nice girl lives for) then fell out of a moving cab! It was so thrashin'!"

Then the freak show moves on to the seemingly offhand comments about the normal girl’s hair, clothes, car, boy, whatever. They’ll say, “Hmm. You should really cut your hair. You’d look so much cuter without all those split ends.” Or “God, you always dress like a grandma. HA ha ha ha! Just kidding,” as if the laughter and insincere disclaimer makes the totally ass lickingly rude remark ok. Then, after they’ve shattered the nice girl’s entire world, they will screw her boyfriend. Twice. On film.

So you see babies, it’s not just boys, it’s everybody. People are stupid. I really would invite you to join the I Hate People Club, but I hate you all too much. Mwa ha haaaa! Oh, I’m just kidding. I hate everybody but you guys. You’re my pumpkins! And now I hope you are all tucked into the crook of my arm, smoking cigarettes, and feeling completely satisfied with the warm and fuzzy knowledge that I don’t single out any one gender to mock. I am equal opportunistic in my scorn. Yay for impartial disdain!

I Hate Boys

Babies! I am so pleased to see that you made it here! This is the first official post since I sold out and got a blog of my very own and I have to tell you, it is truly a satisfying little pet. And isn’t it sooooo cute? Oooh! You is a cutie wootie wittle blog, yes you are! Smooch smooch! So I guess I’ll start off the fun and games by pissing off my male audience. Whee!

Please allow me to begin by saying that I do not like gender roles, bigotry, and/or making blanket statements. So, that being said, I’ll try to candy coat this as much as possible: Boys are stupid.

Ok, ok. Not all boys are stupid. Back off, I know. And believe me, I am aware that there are plenty of girls that are soul sucking morons as well, but in my totally unprofessional opinion, boys can be excruciatingly dumb. Please allow me to expand upon the subject.

First, let’s consider the basic thought processes of the male variety. I think it’s pretty safe to say that they are quite limited at best when it comes to women. When men interact with women, they become these base, primal animals who act purely on instinct and libido. I can only imagine what this looks like in their little pea brains when they roll up into a club and see a female with whom they’d like to mate. It must be something like this:

Guy cruises into bar. Smoothes hair and swigs beer provocatively. Has intelligent conversation with friend regarding politics, peppered with manly commentary on various tits/ass in room. Zeros in on hot chick grooving on the dance floor. Suddenly, all synapses cease to fire.

Mmmm. Puntang. Must conquer.

Guy proceeds to gyrate over to hot girl and wait with hunter-like patience till she dances herself into a position where she is no longer facing him.

MMMMMM. Buns. In jeans. Ooooh. They wiggle. Must rub junk on them. Girl like junk on butt. Maybe me get off on dry humping buns before she smack me.

Advances to press self against prey’s hind quarters.

Whoa! Wha happen? Conspiracy! Friend yanked prey away. Must try again.

Circles like a drunken or possibly dying hawk in the throws of its death rattle cough and attempts to chafe now semi-erect unit on girl’s ass. She stifles her laughter and/or potential vomit at the thought of his earnest little poke. She turns, glares, and walks away.

Mmmm. She fugly bitch. Ah. Friend’s buns. Must swivel package all over her ass too.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Sadly, this is probably a really nice guy too. He just loses his shit when he gets horny and simply pervs out. Too bad. It is seriously as if the entire frontal lobe just shuts down and the concept of why doesn’t exist. The same ex that cheated on me with the Frighteningly Mannish Girl Downstairs before dumping me is the classic example. In my mind, I would have fantasized about the cheating with the aid of battery operated devices, felt guilty about fantasizing, and subsequently tried to figure out why I wanted to cheat in the first place. Then, me and all my girlfriends would have sat around and talked about the prospect of cheating, the pros and cons, and at some point, I would justify myself by explaining my well thought out defense. Only then would I have commenced cheating.

Guys don’t work this way. I’m not saying they can’t, but they don’t. When I asked him why he cheated, he said, “I don’t know.” When I asked why he even wanted to break up in the first place, he replied, “I don’t know.” Uh huh. What the fuck? How can one just accidentally fall into someone else’s orifices then state that they want to break up without knowing why? This kind of thought process is so completely alien to me that I can’t believe I ever dated him seriously in the first place! What separates the animal kingdom from humanity is the possession of consciousness, the ability to reason and make decisions. Are you a fucking monkey or a man? Seriously! And don’t go around advertising your apeness, if you don’t know why, at least make something up!

I know I’m bitter and being brutal. Sue me. And I’m sure plenty of you think I’m being unfair. Well, duh. But I think that until I get some boys to step up to the plate and treat me well that I am entitled to be a cold and demanding vituperator who says cranky things and tortures the opposite sex in her basement with dental equipment. (Don’t worry. They mostly like it.)

I guess what upsets me so much is not that boys are stupid, but that girls allow them to be so stupid. Guys wouldn’t go around plucking the lice from their scalps and scratching their pits if it didn’t get them somewhere. I’ve personally allowed a million guys to completely escape accountability when they’ve done something totally evil, which only validates that kind of conduct and thus perpetuates it.

It’s like faking an orgasm. It’s just not a good idea. For you, him, and for the poor souls who have to sleep with him after you’ve indicated that his feeble thrashing and unsettlingly high pitched sex noises got you off. We just sigh, merrily role our eyes like and go, “It come with the package…um hum hum...no pun intended!” Maybe if we stop accepting this kind of shit behavior, they’ll have to unshrivel that leg of their Y chromosome and start thinking rationally when it comes to women. If girls can cerebrally connect emotions, lust, and coherent thought processes in our brains, why can’t guys?

I have a dream. That someday, men will consider the fact that women are breathing, living people; that they will genuinely care about them and try to get to know them. That they will stop taking girls on lunch dates, but instead go on real dates with dinner and fancy shit like wine so we can get blitzed if it’s not going well. That they will call when they say they will call. And mostly, I have a dream that men will stop fucking around with women that they are not that interested in. They will stop asking for the numbers of women that they never intend to call and that they will not abuse their animal magnetism and have sexual relations with chicks that they don’t really like that much. It’s called pornography. Use it. Not us. For the love of God.

Happy Halloween!!!!

Ich liebe Unterhose

List 'O Fundamental Qualities

Last week, I mentioned the "List 'O Fundamental Qualities My Man Must Possess or He Ain't Getting' Any." One reader posed the brilliant question which asked what was on said list. Usually, I try to make the Chronicles as universal as I can. I send this to a lot of boys and want them to be able to relate to the situations as well. I’m pretty sure we all have at least one quality about our prospective partner on our lists, and they are likely very different from somebody else’s idea of what is fundamental, especially the heterosexual male’s list. So this week, I hope that you darling boys will bear with me and make some attempt to switch the gender roles around to accommodate you while giggling at the thought of wanting a woman who loves your inner thighs. At least perversely enjoy it like you know you secretly would enjoy reading a Cosmo. You sickos.

I have to admit that a large part of my list is comprised of shitty lessons that I have learned from ex boyfriends dicking me over. It’s usually only then that I realize that I hated having to mother him because he was such a sick pussy that he couldn’t clean out his closet for 15 years and I finally had to help him do it, thereby discovering hideously terrifying mesh sequiny rave shirts with sparkling flames circa 1990. I mean, Jesus! Take some fucking initiative and take care of your personal space! It’s one thing to hang on to an old pair of boots because you really love them, but an entire closet full of shit that makes you look like a flaming homo? Have some pride in your apartment and in your appearance!

So the first few things that are on my personal list are likely the same as everyone else’s: intelligent, good sense of humor, attractive, good in bed. Although I have installed a loophole clause to allow me to rip the clothing off of stupid hot guys who never laugh. But you get the gist. A fundamental relationship isn’t going to go well if he’s so retarded that you constantly have to explain the definitions of words that are a normal part of your lexicon. I once had to define labyrinth to a guy. HELLO! Labyrinth is my favorite movie! Did he not grow up in the 80’s? See? It would have never worked out for obvious reasons.

I also have to be able to trust a man. I mean completely. Again, I learned this lesson the hard way with a total Douche Bag ex who cheated on me with his downstairs neighbor that resembled a Mack truck/large quarterback with enormous breasts and very unclean hair. Unfortunately for me, I thought I could trust him implicitly at the time, so I’m not sure how to go about determining whether or not I can really trust a guy. They can turn on you in an instant, like a rabid baboon. I think they don’t actually turn in that exact moment, but they sure as hell don’t bother to communicate with you about their progressive turn, so it hits you like a shot in the chest. I’d prefer to be told, in the cruelest of terms, that I am no longer desirable and that he’d rather fuck his entire family under the Christmas tree rather than be caught dead in the same room with me ever again as opposed to being cheated on.

Some other fundamental qualities for me are that he must like my family, and if possible, come from a similar background. I’m not saying we have to be Ken and Barbie Twinkies, but it would be nice to have common experiences from which we learned comparable values etc. Blah blah blah. He also must be a good dancer, which goes hand in hand with him loving music. Hopefully, he will be Johnny Castle. I want to be spun around the dance floor, told that nobody puts me in the corner, and totally publicly seduced. That’s what good dancing is: public seduction. I want a guy with killer moves to back me up against a wall in a crowded bar and with the fluid, artful movement of legs, hips, and hands, bring me to near climax. Is that really asking for so much? I’m a dancer. I need someone who can keep up. Otherwise, I’ll be grinding on other peeps for the rest of my life because I refuse to give up booty dancing.

He’s also got to take serious pride in himself. He’s got to have goals and dreams that he is passionate about. I tend to pick these wimpy guys who seem strong at first, then crumble to pussy dust before me. Their life becomes my life. Their dreams become exclusively about me. And while that’s flattering and all, I push them around a little. I’ll admit it. I really don’t do it to get the power though. I’d like to have my way two out of three times, but what happens is that they give me my way all the time. Then I become a tyrant who is evil and dominates them. All I really want is for a guy to stand up to me and encourage me to respect him. Granted, I am the princess who deserves everything I ask for, but he should have the balls to tell me to value his opinion on the matter. Then we can have hot B&D sex where he ties me up and spanks me because I’ve been a bad, bad girl.

So, in conclusion, we have to be able to communicate well, trust each other, dance like Richard and J.LO, and cultivate mutual respect. It would also be nice if he was a feminist, loved Nine Inch Nails, was in Nine Inch Nails, was named Trent, and loved cats. I asked the countless lovely ladies who read The Chronicles to tell us what was on their lists, and the three of them that responded included the following:

Good teeth (sounds simple but a good grill can make a world of difference)

Beautiful eyes (my favorite are blue eyes w/black hair) but not a must to have blue

Must be thick (I don't like these scrawny, wash board stomach guys) yeah they're nice to look at but if I can squash them in bed, it's just not attractive

Gentle touch (you can be a big, rough football player & still have a gentle touch when it comes to women. Personally, guitar players have the best hands! *

Likes to cuddle (yes, I'm one of those that likes to cuddle)

Someone who thinks farting is funny

Completely focused on my goals and willing to make my desires #1

Adores the part of my body I hate the most. E.g. I hate my inner thighs, but Consuelo** swears he loves them.

He must read me really well. If I am lonely, he must drop everything to occupy me. But if I’m busy or distracted, he must find something to do immediately. And, he must be willing to flip between the two as often as every 5 minutes

He must get me because I'm a little odd and proud of it!

He has to adore my pussies (Oliver and Elliott of course)

He must get along with my dad and brothers. He must let them make fun of him mercilessly, and then he can give it back to them 4 fold!!

He must care about my friends. They are a huge part of my life!

He must make me feel like a goddess, but when he doesn't agree with my ramblings at times, I love to hear about it. There is nothing sexier than a guy with an intelligent, though provoking opinion

Two words: James Spader

*and the best cheaters!!! It's like getting a free coupon!

**names have been changed to make me laugh because Consuelo is a funny name. Whee!

Ye Olde Chronicle

I am officially on sabbatical from sex. It’s dramatic, mucky, confusing, and leads to procreation. Unfortunately, my quest is not going so well. Sex is instinctual! You can think you’re not interested in it and then boom! Here comes some hottie that smells yummy then your stupid hormones kick in and you shriek, “Take me, you beast! I don’t care that you’re a total ass clown that hasn’t called for a month and professionally sucks souls!” It blows balls. I wish I could turn it off like a switch. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex ever again or anything. But I do have to admit that I’m mostly successful in my voluntary spinsterhood because I don’t have anybody to have sex with right now. At least where it would be consensual.* But this is seriously sad! I can’t even go to Tool Fest 2004 without getting all worked up.

Case in point: I went to the Renaissance Festival last weekend with my dear friend Dave. Fuckin’ huzzah! Among the various visual and aural delights, I fell in lust with a Renaissance man. His name was unfortunately not Lancelot, but Tim. He was tall and delicious with long hair that flowed like so much spilling Dr. Pepper in the sunlight. He was also social broccoli. I am so sorry that I went into his sword shop (insert juvenile snickering here) to talk to him. He opened his mouth and it was just a tragedy. His potential to be some gorgeous Harlequin Romance novel hero that would save me from villains and do me whilst riding on horseback crumbled and died. I wanted to slap a muzzle on him, grab all that hair like handle bars on a Harley and…Sorry.

See? I’m out of control! But my choice to avoid nookie like the plague stems largely from the horrific pregnancy scare I had last month. Oh my GOD! It was so Maury Povich! It would have come down to DNA tests and chair hurling. I’m actually very prudish. I know I talk a lot of smack, but I never act on it. Regardless, I was a filthy whore and I convinced myself and a few unfortunate friends that I was preggo. I had all the obscure symptoms like freakishly long claws and the presence of actual breasts instead of gratuitously padded bras. It was hideous! (Ok, so not the boob part. That was pretty frickin’ money!) But I don’t ever want to deal with that soap opera ever, ever again!

Furthermore, I’m so bad at dating that I don’t even know what sex protocol is anymore. Aren’t there some sort of unwritten rules about proper sex etiquette? Aren’t there are so many dates one must go on before on can get fleshly without being doomed to eternal Slutdom? Clearly, I am too corrupt to even hold out for dates as of late, so I am the wrong person to ask. I just don’t feel like taking a freaking 3 credit hour course on how to pretend to be interested in presumably inane conversation for 4-27 (or however many) dates it takes to finally disrobe and slobber all over my gentleman caller. I didn’t go to grad school for a reason! I’d just rather not mess with it! And besides, I would have been expelled from the course by now for bad behavior.

Unfortunately for me, there will be consequences to my (non) action. There will someday come a frightening moment when I finally will get some jungle lovin’ after my hiatus, and I’ll realize mid-act that I have no idea what I’m doing. Ooog. Now that’s unsettling! It’s not like riding a bike. You do forget. I know. I’ve been there before. The bike doesn’t care how you’re doing as long as you don’t skid out in the middle of traffic and break its kickstand. Granted, guys don’t want anything broken either, but after gross neglect to practicing certain aerobic activities, it’s feasible that shit could get bent around.

Whatever. I really wish I cared more, but I just don’t. I’d like to avoid the production involved with sex etc. until I can get really excited about my cohort. I mean, more than just externally. It’s so easy to be hot for somebody and build up all these fantasies about who they really are simply because you’re so attracted to them. You’d think it would have more to do with emotions than hormones, but sadly, it doesn’t. It’s just easier to ignore the bad shit about them and feel all warm and fuzzy when they are physically close. My theory on the subject is that we are a primate that pairs (for the most part) for life, so we’re all fighting some primordial urge to find a mating partner. If I’m going to succumb to the baser elements of being a human, he better damn well be an alpha male that meets all the requirements on my List ‘O Fundamental Qualities My Man Must Possess or He Ain’t Getting’ Any.

So you can see, it is in my best interest to buckle up Ye Olde Chastity Belt and be on my merry way to Masturbation Land. A long journey from Slutdom, but until I straighten some shit out, I have no business riding the freaky train. Sad, I know, but true. Until then, enjoy the nookie you’re getting, you brutes! I know I will enjoy living vicariously!

*Give me five minutes with Trent Reznor. I’ll have his pants off and him clawing at the walls, screaming for his mommy like a bitch.

The Disappearance

I’d like to discuss a terrible, apocalyptic epidemic that is sweeping the dating scene. No, no, not Syphighonnochlamydia. Dirty, dirty! I’m talking about Disappearing.

We’ve all been there: you’re talking to someone you like. Maybe you’ve gone out with them. Perhaps you’ve put the naughty on them. So you call one day and leave a message on their voicemail. You have every right to call this individual because at some point in time, they have displayed obvious interest in you whether by chatting you up on the phone or bending your legs back over your head. Whatever.

You’d think they would return your call, right? You’d think that they would recognize the fact that you are a human being with a soul whose existence deserves to be acknowledged, right? So here begins the problem. They don’t call back. Ever. You might hear from them in an indirect way, like through a mutual friend, or you might even be so lucky as to be carbon copied on an e-mail from them. But they never call.

Now I know we’ve also all been on the other side of this where the person we’ve been halfway seeing leaves us a message that we never return. But those people are like, hideous atrocities of nature! You know? They need extensive dental work and say weird shit like, “I love how natural we are together. Do you believe in destiny?” on the first date. They’re like carnies! So you blow them off until they stop calling because they make you feel car sick! Perfectly reasonable, right?

So here is my dilemma. Am I a carnie? Do I look like a cat rapist? Do I need to be taken out back and euthanized for my own good? Because I know that I’ve never said anything even remotely as Velveeta-on-ball-sac-cheesy as some of the canned lines that I’ve gotten from the guys that I’ve blown off. So how can we, arguably the hottest, most fabulous, educated, interesting, funny, intelligent people in the world, possibly be the victims of The Disappearance?

We are too gorgeous to be ditched so unceremoniously. We at least deserve a fucking phone call. A little, “Hi there. Yeah, I was just calling to tell you that I am no longer able to stick it in (and or to) you. I have realized that you are a golden shining ray of divinity and that I am a huge sick piece of shit. I am nothing, and you are the most perfect being that has ever been or ever will be. I have decided to erect a shrine to you in my basement where I will commence furiously masturbating to photographs of you rather than keeping you from dating more worthy partners. I will only ever truly love you, but am completely unworthy of your attention. Bye.” Now wouldn’t that be nice?

I honestly have no explanation for Disappearing. I suppose it’s a one man’s carnie is another man’s hottie thing. But damn them for denying us hottie status! It’s total horseshit! But at least we know that we are, in fact, unstoppable sex beasts. Screw those avoidy a holes! Just remember babies. Mama here loves you and thinks you’re delicious. It’s those chicken shit tools that are blind and crazy.

What's My Mothafuckin' Name

Did I mention that dating sucks? Please, allow me to elaborate, not that I need to after the whole Gropey Groperson story, but humor me. I met this very cute boy at the Brookie. He seemed normal and nice, which is a huge change for me. Usually, I try to find the most angst ridden, emotionally unavailable, tortured soul around and fall madly in lust with him only to be consistently spurned and rejected. So, as you can see, this one was a brand new flavor or lickable ice cream that I was dying to taste.

I should have known. His name was Ken. Now there is absolutely nothing wrong with the name Ken. It’s a fine name. But come on. Ken and Summer? It sounds like some hideous Mattel cartoon about a pair of squirrels! I always said that I’d have to end up with somebody who has a cool name because mine is so weird. Like Summer and Trent, or Summer and Razor, or maybe Summer and Thor. I don’t know … something to that effect. Regardless, that was my first hint.

He started out so pleasant, calling two days after getting my number rather than drunk dialing the night of in the manner of, “Heeeeeyyyy, Sunshine…I mean Sunny…Oh wait, hey guys! What was that bitch’s name I met earlier? Oh yeah, SUMMER! It’s (insert name that clashes hideously with my own.) Dude, we’re gonna (insert lame “event” that is just starting at 3:30AM that is poorly masquerading as a sad excuse for getting me to his place, preferably so drunk that I will willingly throw myself at said loser.) Call me, babe!!!” At least Ken wasn’t so obvious. We actually had nice phone conversations and set up a date for Thursday. His fatal mistake was when he made the cursory here’s-the-plan-for-tomorrow phone call on Wednesday. It went a little something like this:

Summer: So what are we doing tomorrow?
Ken: I don’t know. I spent way too much money last weekend on booze. I spent like $350, so funds are a little low.
Summer: *Thinking to self* Oh. Oh! Now that’s classy. This guy is clearly an alcoholic who has no impulse control.
Ken: And anyway, I’m pretty tired. If I’m still this tired, we should just rent a movie and bring it back to my place.
Summer: *Thinking to self* What the fuck? Does your tiredness grow exponentially? Take a nap, you ass licker! And do you really think I’m going to go to your house for a first date? Can you say el cheapo axe murderer?
Ken: So I’ll just call you tomorrow around 6PM and let you know what’s going on.
Summer: Uh. Ok. Talk to you later. *Thinking to self* LAME!!!! Make plans with me before 6PM of the night of!

Needless to say, this did not sit well with me. So I called him back and left a message along the lines of, sorry, pal! I don’t go out with guys who “take” me on dates to their house because they are too cheap to take me out. Hello!!! Do I look like I want to be sexually assaulted? So alas, I remain dateless once again. But I think it was the right decision, don’t you? Well, babies, until next time…hooray for vibrators!

Unemployment and Groping

I am sending out the tragic tales of my sad, sad life in the hopes of brightening your day. You may recall the Travel Chronicles, but as I will not be leaving again any time soon, I’ll just have to pretend that my life is interesting enough to read about. And so will you, God damn it. My darling Becca has convinced me to share my woes in an effort to be fabulous like SJP and possibly publish said letters in an effort to be employed. But please don’t feel obligated to read these. I will take absolutely no offense if you’d like to be removed from the list of privileged recipients. I will only hate you for all eternity and put some serious consideration into skinning, boiling, and eating your pets.

So let’s talk about some of the highlights of being me. First of all, I am excruciatingly good looking. But you knew that, so we can move on. I am unemployed and live with my parents. But that’s lame, so we can go back to discussing my innate hotness. Just kidding! Let’s talk about unemployment.

Last July, I was offered an interview. They schmoozed me bigtime and I ran on the figurative wheel like a good little hammie. I answered all their hideous questions and grinned like a psycho as though discussing my utter lack of experience in the workforce and my crappy GPA was the bestest, yummiest morsel of which I would happily shove into my cheek.

Then, after that whole nightmare, I got a glorious phone call. The clouds parted, the sky cracked open and God Himself reached his fucking arm through just to tell me that indeed there was a position for me, but that I would have to wait until they had filled the currently ones internally. So I said hooray! I’ll be happy to wait around like an ugly girl on prom night who’s “date” is 5 hours “late.” So I waited. And waited. AND WAITED. I finally got sick of waiting and hassled them via lovely hand written notes. I was rewarded with a second interview. Goodie. I commenced dancing like a trick monkey once more in an attempt to secure a job. Again, interview was all smiles and laughter. And surprise, surprise, I waited.

Would you like to know what kinds of delicious, shiny fruits blossomed from all this waiting? Hmmm? A bit fat phone call from the recruiter saying, “Aw shucks. You’re spectacularly cute and all, but we’ve gone ahead and filled all those positions that we casually dangled in front of you like so much Halloween Oreo. Sorry, Sweet Tits.”

And that is how I got back to square one. Roughly six weeks wasted on banking on this job because they totally freaking offered it to me. I’m hosed! So, got any job ideas? Know anybody that works somewhere that’s hiring? You can tell them that I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose and that I can put my legs behind my head and spin like a dreidel. Seriously, if you hear anything, holla back, young’n.

Oh boy. So now let’s talk about that kinda sorta date I had last week. All right, it started out good. He was really tall and cute and cool. You know, kind of bizarre sense of humor, which is a thumbs up. Then *dun dun daaaaa* he kept drinking. And drinking. And DRINKING. Oh my God. It was unbelievable. He got so out of control that he was like flinging me around on the dance floor and trying to get me to take him home to my parents' house to "hang out." Riiiiight.

So, as the fates would have it, I got too licq-ied to drive home, and I ended up at Cecilee's with everyone else. I told him that he would not be getting any nookie. He slobbered a bit and a drooled on his shirt and agreed that this was "cool." He proceeded to paw at me for the better part of an hour, during which time I pretended to be asleep. He finally passed out and I thankfully fell asleep. So that's the happy ending, right? No. He woke me up yet AGAIN. This time, all 6’8, roughly 270lbs on top of me with a hand on my right ta-ta. Can you say necrophiliac? Hello! So I got out of there. Fast. I ended up jogging barefoot to my car in Cec's jammies at 5 in the morning. Needless to say, I will not be seeing him again.

Alas, my angels, this concludes the first chapter of The Chronicles. I hope you enjoyed them and will continue to do so. Be Bad.

Travel Chronicles Seattle - Letters

Man, I'm Horny

My little granolas,
Oh Seattle. Land of flannel and grunge. (Moment of silence for Kurt...) Too bad I'm not raging with large, unclean hair, a huge sweatshirt, and Birkenstocks to kickin' live music a la Soudgarden. *sigh*

I am too busy chasing my nephew around and slapping my hand over my twitching eye. The family is enough to make the entire left side of my body twitch and for me to adopt a sloppy lisp. (My name is Schummer! Thisch isch my schisiter, sCheschilee. You're schooooo schescxy!!!)

But the Pacific Northwest is very pretty and we have finally escaped the 9th circle of hell that is my aunt and uncle's house. We're in the Four Season's and I just took the best shower. Not a Ginny shower, but close. The shower gel/shampoo smells like the hottest man that could ever exist. I was in there mouth breathing like a cat in heat.

UUUUUUUNNNNH! I like it like that! Whew. But I couldn't seal the deal with my family in the next room, so I am left smelling like a gorgeous man and terribly frustrated. Grrr. So I'll be home Weds, and I think we should all booze this weekend. What do ya say?

w/love,
Sum

Travel Chronicles Vegas

I Said DAMN...God Damn!

Ah, Vegas. Debauchery, diva hair, and deliciousness. I couldn’t love it more. We were so dangerously hot that I’m surprised that so few of us actually did get laid. Morals. *Scoff.* Staying faithful to one’s boyfriend. *Scoff.* But we did get so much attention that it was offensive. Hooray!

We stayed at the lovely the Paris Las Vegas and spent the majority of our days lounging by the poolside. I fried myself to a crispy Paris Hilton red and had to cake on Leslie’s foundation all over my shockingly white tan lines. It was hot.

Amanda and I won $42 at roulette, but only after the freaky dealer made me turn around so he could “read” the Mizzou logo on my ass. Hey. Whatever it takes to sway the dealer, right? And we had awesome dinners at Country Kitchen-esque restaurants. Mmmm mmm! I love me some calico bean soup! I ended our Friday by challenging Ashley’s Best Lap Dance Ever and gave a performance for Amanda that caught the attention of the entire club. It’s so fun to be slutty!

We partied like total rock stars on Saturday at Rain and Ghost Bar in the Palms. Our Sugar Daddy Rick introduced us to his friend who was serious VIP. We were all decked out and breezed past the long ass line like we were in a Quentin Tarantino slow motion sequence. Everybody stared at us like we were famous. Little did they know that we are famous. In my world. While lounging around in the VIP section, we saw AC Slater (that cheating douche face, ) Brandy, and Christina Aguilera. She was way cuter and tinier than you’d expect.

It was such a blast and so scandalous. Scandalous for reasons that I will leave to your imagination, because what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. But wouldn’t you like to know….

Travel Chronicles South Dakota

Gimme That...That...That Nut

I heart South Dakota! Oh my God. You go out with the Fun Crew, and you could possibly keel over from all the freaking fun. They truly live up to their name! We packed up the car and made the trip to Cory and Cec’s home town, Sioux Falls. If only every city could have the beer prices of Sioux Falls. God Bless them.

We spent the first two nights boozing it up at Nutty’s. (Insert infantile snickering here.) I swear, the beers were like Warren’s stein that weighs 13 lbs when full, and they were like, $1.80!!! Needless to say, we got so hammered that the first night, Arti, Cecilee and I stayed up all night and had a full on slumber party in Cec’s high school room, and the second night, I ended up making out with some random guy who managed to piss me off somehow so I locked him out of the house. I am so classy, it hurts me on the inside.

Then we trekked up to Chamberlain, SD, where we stayed with Cecilee’s adorable fam. They seriously built this “cabin” from the ground up. I use quotations because it was actually an amazing house. I guess her poor dad took an accidental 50 ft dive off of some scaffolding, which promptly tipped and fell straight on him. This is a tiny town, so there were no street names for the ambulance to use to find him. After he was rescued and returned to full health, they finally named the street, but Arti and I are thinking that we should petition the city have them change the name from Elm St. to Diamond Falls. Get it! Ha! A Diamond fell! Ah. We are so brilliant!

We spent most of our days drinking Red Beers on the Diamond’s boat. I even leaped into the Missouri and actually swam a bit. It was shockingly clean and pretty that far north. You hop into the MO in Kansas City and you’ll come out with an arm growing out of your ass. Everybody was kind enough to celebrate with me by boozing that night at the local country club. We played the meanest game of Circle of Death ever. At one point, the rule was that no one could speak. When the category of sexual positions came up, we gave the bar a nice show with our x-rated pantomimes.

Aside from Cory nearly slitting the throat of a stupid driver and drinking from their neck stem, we managed to survive the trip without incident. Yay South Dakota!

Travel Chronicles Yokohama Giant - Letters

Have You Ever, Like, Really Listened to the Lyrics from "Turning Japanese?" 'Cause They are Hella Fucked Up. FYI.

My little chopsticks,
So Japan is incredible. And the malls are impressive. I'm talking there were four towers in the one we went to yesterday. Unfortunately, the actual shopping sucks only because I am too gargantuan to fit into ANYTHING. I tried on a pair of "XXL shoes" and I couldn't even wedge my enormous toes into them.

After that humiliating experience, I declined trying on any clothing items as they could all serve as pretty flowey thigh decorations rather than actual clothes. I feel like the earth should shake and crumble beneath my thundering footfalls. Other than that small drawback, I think it is beautiful here. The streets are so clean you could easily justify applying the ten second rule and there's not even public trash cans. Amazing, no? And the subway is the same, only wallpapered with really cool propaganda ads full of pictures of hot Japanese girls insisting that they are happy because they read Pinky Magazine.

So good times all around so far. Of course, now I have to go to work with my ha ha (mama in Japanese!) so the good times shall soon end. Booooo! Hope you are all grossly misbehaving!

w/love,
Sum

Travel Chronicles Yokohama - Letters

Saki it to Me

Hello babies!

I made it without a scratch...unless you count my hernia, which I think is more likely a gestating alien, festering and waiting for just the right moment to pop out of my guts and drink all the saki at the dinner table. (I actually think it is a pulled muscle, but a hernia sounds so much more dramatic, don't you think?) I haven't had much of an opportunity to see much of Japan yet, but I will today for sure.

So far, it is balmy and beautiful, and the people are super nice and don't mind translating signs for you. I do feel like a huge sick Amazon, though. I may stop eating so as to better fit in w/the tiny 91lb girls everywhere. More soon! I love you guys!

w/love,
Sum

Travel Chronicles Stockholm - Letters

Ride it...My pony...My saddle's Waitin' Come and Jump On It

For shizzel, my bizzels!
Ok, so Stockholm is bitchin'! First of all, the company was delightful and who knew that I am clearly of Viking descent? Think about it...I am blonde, blue eyed, fair, drop dead smoking hot, and extremely violent and vulgar. It makes perfect sense now, doesn't it? Ja! Javlar cosa!!! Raggarstrang!

So if any of you were ever wishing you were with me on this trip, now is the time to dance around in glee that you are not here. I will travel 44 hours straight to get back to KC. I have a 13 hr layover in London and an overnight one in Newark. Blah. I'm totally dreading it, but what are you gonna do? I'm just praying that I sit next to Americans who bathe on the long flight to the States. What is it with the Euostench, anyway? I live for you, hos!
w/love,
Sum

Travel Chronicles Nice/Florence - Letters

Big Like Buffalo...Long Like Snake

Ciao, my naughties!

I finally got into Florence today. Jesus Christ. Why is travelling between European countires such a biyotch?

Seriously, my train was cancelled and I was FORCED to take a horrendous bus to Milan. Fortunately, I made a great new friend named Paula, who is some big wig in the entertainment industry. So, Paula insisted that I join her and her friends in Milan where we partied like total rockstars. It was SO fun, despite the Ninth Circle of Hell, (a.k.a Tha Bus.) All of her friends were artists and designers and they had the most fabulous apartments in the history of the world. We ended up smoking weed on this Danish guy's rooftop at 4AM. Clearly, it turned out ok after all!

So I thought I'd be learning all kinds of life lessons on this trip, like you can always depend on the kindness of strangers and you can get around just fine on your own, but the two most important things I've picked up so far are:

1. Don't step on the wet spots on the sidewalk...they're dog excretions.
2. I have above average ta tas!

The beaches in Nice were (uncomfortably composed of boulder like rocks that dig into your back, and) topless. So, when in France... I picked a spot in the middle of a large group topless women, so as not to stand out, and I released the party hats into the wild blue yonder, where they were exceptionally burned.

But really, the only racks I ever see are these perfect, C-Ho-esque, full, perfect boobs. I had no idea until I was in Nice that MOST women's chi chis are not Playboy quality! I am in the majority! Yay! I'm feeling very much like celebrating by exposing my breasts in public as much as possible from now on. Just thought I'd share that with you! I love you guys and miss you tons! I'll be back soon...get you're dancing shoes on!

w/love,
Summer

Travel Chronicles Paris - Letters

Oui, I am très Drunk! And Apparently Aryan...

Hookers,

I loved Paris! As soon as I get home, I'm taking French classes so that when I am a rich and famous rock star I can have my very own extremely cool flat, where I can promptly commence gorging myself on delicious food all day and all night.

Last night, I went to my friend Staphane's birthday party where I ate cherries off of a tree in the backyard. I'm talking I just bit those suckers right off of there...Mmmm mmmm! Then on my way to the Louvre, I saw some guy tearing the crap out of the sidewalk with a power breaker and thought of you, B. I wanted to throw on a bikini, roll myself in oil, and join in the fun.*

I decided to peace out a little early to go to Nice, which, appropriately, is very nice. I plan on baking myself like so much brownies for the next three days. I'm hoping to avoid scary old lady boobs, though. I noticed (unfortunately) that they were out in abundance on the beach today on my way to the hotel. Ick.

I hope you're all getting ridiculous amounts of action while I'm gone, and I expect dramatic stories regarding such activities from some of you...you know who you are...when I get home!

w/love,
Sum

*(See http://www.ministryofsound.com/Music/Singles/BennyBenassi-Satisfaction.htm for details!)

Travel Chronicles Madrid - Letters

Damn I Look Good...Jaundiced, but Good

My Babies,

It's official. I hooked up with my first pseudo celebrity. OK, so it's not exactly the equivelant of saying, "I got on Brad Pitt circa 'Thelma and Louis'," but if you live in my world, which you all do or you would not be recieving these e-mails, then it sort of, kind of, mostly is. I was at a club called Joy with Eloy, and started dancing with this dude.

Eloy and his friends are like, Oh my God, do you know who that is? And I'm like, who? Apparently, he's the son of a very famous bull fighter, and is an up and coming one himself. I have two words, ladies... (Gentleman, cover your eyes.) Tight Ass. I'm talking, you could look at that thing through a hole in a paper plate, and it clearly belongs in a museam. Jose, or as I like to call him, Jo, did not speak a drop of English, and I not a drop of Spanish, but we managed to get along famously regardless!

Anywho, I'm in Paris now, and as much as I wish I could tell you that my night train experience was romantic and fabulous, it was decidedly not. I'd love to report that I spent the night writing poetry and smoking cigarettes whilst wearing a black beret, but the truth is that I had a migraine, which only heightens one's sense of smell...not the most pleasant thing when the prevailing fragrance is sour milk and Johnny-on-the-Spot. For those of you who know Ajax, I spent the night getting to know him intimately as he sat on my face for the majority of the trip so as to block the stench.

I miss you guys and hope that everyone is misbehaving. You are all gorgeous!!!!

w/love,
Sum

Travel Chronicles London - Letters

Jurassic Skank

Word, hos!

I order you all to get your passports out and fly to Madrid tomorrow. Ok? Seriously! I had a great time in the UK, saw some dinos (ROAR, Amanda!) and The Rosetta Stone. Yes, The freaking Rosetta Stone. But I had some serious drama getting out of London and wound up spending three times as much to get the hell out of there as I intended, but Madrid is the shiz! I am totally drunk e-mailing you righ tnow and you all need to get here immediately! Eloy has already spoiled me rotten, so much so that I don't think I can possibly leave. Ever. He's got the phattiest apt. since Mr. Nick Jacobsen, and we ate at the swankiest restaurant I've ever seen. I had to take photographic evidence of my presence there because it was so cool that I obviously did not belong! But I digress...I'm going to go pass out now, so I'll sign on tomorrow and hope to catch some of you then.
Kisses,
Summer