So last night, I went on an 80’s Movie “Date.” If you are unfamiliar with these kinds of dates, it’s when a person takes you out not because they dig your chili, but because they are about to lose a bet a la the 80’s teen movies where the popular guy takes the totally uncool, but strangely attractive school nerd girl to prom because he’ll lose his T-top Camaro car-bra to Tad The Jock if she actually looks hot at the dance. Er sumting.
Anyway, the cat I went out with has a running deal with his roomie that they both have to take out a different girl every month. She can not be from their normal circle of people, nor can she be the type of girl they usually meet, e.g. no lawyers or law students. It would appear that November was a particularly dry month for both of them, being as he freaked out and scraped the bottom of the barrel to find my darling little charming self grinning up from the depths on the very last day of the month.
Now, these outings can range from strictly platonic to genuine love interest. My 80’s Movie Date was of the former kind, thank God. I’m also pretty sure that if I had actually been interested and went out only to discover that I was being wined on a wager, it would have turned non-romantic faster than the time that carnie with the third world dentistry leaned across the table from me and said, “Do you believe in destiny? We’re so natural together!” Luckily, we were already pals, and I also had a heads up from a very amused third party who not only helped him with his bet, but hooked mama up with a free dinner.
And you know what? It was actually really fun! We boozed and laughed and spent a large portion of the date discussing my apparent baggage and the potential pitfalls that it may cause in the future. I mean, I kinda thought telling guys that I will set their entire family on fire, then skin them alive if they ever even entertained the thought of cheating on me wasn’t a big deal, but apparently, it is. Whoops! So I guess I have some stuff to work on, but don’t we all, really? Heh. Heh heh. Ahem.
In short, I highly recommend the 80’s Movie Date. They are super fun and even insightful. So next time your buddy says, hey, my friend has this bet…totally go. Even if it’s just with a friend.
Breakup Rules
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Breakups suck major asshole. Each and every one of them! You can say it was mutual or that it was an amicable, but I will squint at you, point a gnarled finger, and shriek, “LIAR!” Because I totally know better.
Believe me, I’ve dumped and been dumped a fifillian times and they’ve all blown bull rhino balls. And don’t think that you are some unique little snowflake and that nobody has ever had to deal with the pancreas wrenching emotions you experience during a breakup…everyone goes through a breakup of some sort. In light of this fact, we may as well take this shiny opportunity to brush up on our Breakup Rules:
1. No Stalking. Now you’d think that this would be an easy one to follow, but for some reason, getting the torch causes normally sensible people to commit unreasonable acts of cell phone abuse. This is, of course, directly related to the Free Binge Drinking Pass one receives when one is shit canned. But trust me, nobody wants to get a creepy unintelligible voicemail where the ex refers to the breakuper by their previous, private pet names and then threatens suicide. For the love of God, lock up your phone when you think you might be tempted. It’s for the best.
2. Give Their Shit Back. No Excuses. Throw away little gifty things, pawn non-marriage related jewelry, and box up the rest of it to return. If it makes you feel car sick to do the swap in person, give their stupid mesh t-shirt and queerbait Jack Johnson CD to a mutual friend and let them to the dirty work.
3. Rebound. Both of you. Discretely. And don’t blow your wad on someone you actually kind of like. Rebounds, much like the people with whom we engage in said activity, are supposed to be angry, hot, and short.
4. Be Graceful. You will inevitably run into your ex. Smile, wave, exchange pleasantries if you must. Of course, the breakuper must avoid all shared bars, gyms, and grocery stores during the initial breakup period…it’s just polite, but if you must have a close encounter of the burned kind, make sure you look damn good.
5. No More Drama. Do your mutual friends a favor and shut the fuck up. Hearing you vent about how he ate your heart, shat it out, then force fed it to you makes them uncomfortable. Get your own friends or hire some, but leave the mutuals out of it unless you want them to ditch your whiney ass too.
6. Get Over It. Do it the right way. Seriously get cool with yourself. Light a candle. Read It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken. Go see a councilor. Do yoga. You will get over it!
Believe me, I’ve dumped and been dumped a fifillian times and they’ve all blown bull rhino balls. And don’t think that you are some unique little snowflake and that nobody has ever had to deal with the pancreas wrenching emotions you experience during a breakup…everyone goes through a breakup of some sort. In light of this fact, we may as well take this shiny opportunity to brush up on our Breakup Rules:
1. No Stalking. Now you’d think that this would be an easy one to follow, but for some reason, getting the torch causes normally sensible people to commit unreasonable acts of cell phone abuse. This is, of course, directly related to the Free Binge Drinking Pass one receives when one is shit canned. But trust me, nobody wants to get a creepy unintelligible voicemail where the ex refers to the breakuper by their previous, private pet names and then threatens suicide. For the love of God, lock up your phone when you think you might be tempted. It’s for the best.
2. Give Their Shit Back. No Excuses. Throw away little gifty things, pawn non-marriage related jewelry, and box up the rest of it to return. If it makes you feel car sick to do the swap in person, give their stupid mesh t-shirt and queerbait Jack Johnson CD to a mutual friend and let them to the dirty work.
3. Rebound. Both of you. Discretely. And don’t blow your wad on someone you actually kind of like. Rebounds, much like the people with whom we engage in said activity, are supposed to be angry, hot, and short.
4. Be Graceful. You will inevitably run into your ex. Smile, wave, exchange pleasantries if you must. Of course, the breakuper must avoid all shared bars, gyms, and grocery stores during the initial breakup period…it’s just polite, but if you must have a close encounter of the burned kind, make sure you look damn good.
5. No More Drama. Do your mutual friends a favor and shut the fuck up. Hearing you vent about how he ate your heart, shat it out, then force fed it to you makes them uncomfortable. Get your own friends or hire some, but leave the mutuals out of it unless you want them to ditch your whiney ass too.
6. Get Over It. Do it the right way. Seriously get cool with yourself. Light a candle. Read It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken. Go see a councilor. Do yoga. You will get over it!
Bounce From tha Club, to My Car, to My Crib We Go
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I’m officially a pimp. Not that I wasn’t pimpish to begin with, but like, I’m a complete pimp now because I got my own place. That’s right, babies, I have my very own crib. It’s totally rockin’ and I’m wicked excited about it. It’s an old building, so no, I do not have central air or an effing dishwasher, but I do have mad game now.
I’m so liberated! No more late night calls, “Um, no, Mom. I’m staying at, uh…Cecilee’s tonight. Yeaaaaah, she’ll loan me some work clothes.” Which would be hilarious if she did because I “wore” a pair of her jeans once and lost all circulation in my lower body. I now have Chronic Tingly Pins-and-Needles Leg Syndrome, which is second only to the Perma-Camel Toe I now have from squeezing myself like a bloated sausage into Elli's tiny jammie pants one time.
Anywho, so I can totally have shackers, which I’m double excited about. I even chose a bed that has a huge iron headboard that's perfect for handcuffing bitches when they sass me. I was originally thinking about getting a sleigh bed, but my sister gave me a what-the-fuck look and said, “Baby, nobody ever gets tied up in a sleigh bed.” Amen.
But what freaks me out the most is how much it costs to fill an apartment. I had a whole lot of nothing, too, so it has exhausted my bank account and patience just to get a god damn kitchen together. And I don’t even cook! Well, except for cereal. I make a mean bowl of Cocoa Krispies. Word to The Krispy, bitches.
So I’ll have y’all over at some point so you can stalk me and see my phat pad. I just need to get a couch so your ass will have a place to sit first...
I’m so liberated! No more late night calls, “Um, no, Mom. I’m staying at, uh…Cecilee’s tonight. Yeaaaaah, she’ll loan me some work clothes.” Which would be hilarious if she did because I “wore” a pair of her jeans once and lost all circulation in my lower body. I now have Chronic Tingly Pins-and-Needles Leg Syndrome, which is second only to the Perma-Camel Toe I now have from squeezing myself like a bloated sausage into Elli's tiny jammie pants one time.
Anywho, so I can totally have shackers, which I’m double excited about. I even chose a bed that has a huge iron headboard that's perfect for handcuffing bitches when they sass me. I was originally thinking about getting a sleigh bed, but my sister gave me a what-the-fuck look and said, “Baby, nobody ever gets tied up in a sleigh bed.” Amen.
But what freaks me out the most is how much it costs to fill an apartment. I had a whole lot of nothing, too, so it has exhausted my bank account and patience just to get a god damn kitchen together. And I don’t even cook! Well, except for cereal. I make a mean bowl of Cocoa Krispies. Word to The Krispy, bitches.
So I’ll have y’all over at some point so you can stalk me and see my phat pad. I just need to get a couch so your ass will have a place to sit first...
Oooh, You So Nasty.
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Why is dirty talk so hot? I mean, when it’s done right, of course. When dirty talk goes foul, it’s an entirely different situation, like the time I received OCD robotic instructions from Mafia guy about what he was doing, what he was going to do next, and why. Thanks man, but I’m pretty sure I was there. I definitely didn’t need a manual and/or a play by play. I also didn’t need the matching pearl earrings either, but that didn’t so much work out the way I planned either.
The first time anyone dirty talked me, I was so shocked! Granted, it was pretty coarse dirty talk. I think maybe I should have been eased in with a “You like that?” Instead, he asked me if I thought threesomes were hot, to which I naturally replied yes, and he busted out this bomb, “Do you want two cocks inside you?”
Whoa.
I wasn’t sure if I should have laughed or barfed, but wow. Holy dirty talk!
Eventually, I learned to love it, and while you’d think I would be an Olympic Champion in this particular sport, I still find myself wondering if I’m rocking their world or creeping them out. It’s so damned subjective! Maybe it’s the pressure of coming up with something creative without getting too, uh, ya know, double penetrationy. And then, sometimes you get so into it that you accidentally say something sappy like, “I love you.” God, I hate when that happens.
And you know those people that you just know are hot dirty talkers. Like Angelina Jolie or James Spader. Of course, James would be scorchingly hot even if he was mute, but you know he would blow your mind with some seriously wicked dialogue while he bends you over his desk. The thought of this is what keeps me going sometimes...
Dirty Talk all depends on what your audience digs. But I do know that one wrong “Hand me that KY and the little smokies, ‘cause you know you want it in the ass” and not only the talk, but the whole nookie session, is over faster than you can say exit only.
But God bless good dirty talkers, because it really makes the world a more beautiful place. It’s so fabulous, in fact, that I propose that we should incorporate it into daily dialogue just to mix things up a bit. For instance, you’re at T Bell in the drive through: “And can I get some extra man sauce on my taco?” or chatting with the mailman: “Yeah, put it in my box.” Or even when itching to leave the office: “God, I can’t wait to get off…” It would sure make my day brighter!
The first time anyone dirty talked me, I was so shocked! Granted, it was pretty coarse dirty talk. I think maybe I should have been eased in with a “You like that?” Instead, he asked me if I thought threesomes were hot, to which I naturally replied yes, and he busted out this bomb, “Do you want two cocks inside you?”
Whoa.
I wasn’t sure if I should have laughed or barfed, but wow. Holy dirty talk!
Eventually, I learned to love it, and while you’d think I would be an Olympic Champion in this particular sport, I still find myself wondering if I’m rocking their world or creeping them out. It’s so damned subjective! Maybe it’s the pressure of coming up with something creative without getting too, uh, ya know, double penetrationy. And then, sometimes you get so into it that you accidentally say something sappy like, “I love you.” God, I hate when that happens.
And you know those people that you just know are hot dirty talkers. Like Angelina Jolie or James Spader. Of course, James would be scorchingly hot even if he was mute, but you know he would blow your mind with some seriously wicked dialogue while he bends you over his desk. The thought of this is what keeps me going sometimes...
Dirty Talk all depends on what your audience digs. But I do know that one wrong “Hand me that KY and the little smokies, ‘cause you know you want it in the ass” and not only the talk, but the whole nookie session, is over faster than you can say exit only.
But God bless good dirty talkers, because it really makes the world a more beautiful place. It’s so fabulous, in fact, that I propose that we should incorporate it into daily dialogue just to mix things up a bit. For instance, you’re at T Bell in the drive through: “And can I get some extra man sauce on my taco?” or chatting with the mailman: “Yeah, put it in my box.” Or even when itching to leave the office: “God, I can’t wait to get off…” It would sure make my day brighter!
Travel Chronicles Chicago
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Chi Chi Chicagoooo
Guess what!
I.
Was.
In.
The.
Same.
Room.
As.
TRENT!
Oh my GOD! It was incredible! Lizzard, Luke, Liz Kat, and myself went to Chi Town last weekend to see my future husband at the Congress Theatre. He was outstanding. And I know I’m totally biased, but this show was the best thing that has ever happened to me. I can now die. And Trent totally looked at us too! (Even though we were in the balcony and he was likely blinded by the stage lighting and he was otherwise engrossed in being delicious and putting on the show of the century. He still looked. Rez and I are, after all, psychically connected that way.)
Anywho, we had great seats and opera glasses, so we could see El Rezzo’s exquisitely sculpted chest with astounding clarity after he stage dove and returned with his shirt ripped open. Thank you, God. He has never sounded better and absolutely rocked so hard that he essentially fucked the entire audience, who will joyously be unable to walk straight for weeks. Hooray!
After the show, we met up with Liz Kat’s kick ass friends and cruised over to an awesomely disco Euro Trash club called Sound Bar.
I’m way sorry we didn’t get a shot of the poor gay guy that ended up in the VIP bathroom with us as he showed us his penis. The poor bastard had to, like, tug on it to impress us. Then, he got all wasted and told me that I was the girl his parents wanted him to marry and I was like, Shut it! Life’s too short to please your parents all the time. Then I sent him off to buy a drink for some flamboyant hottie guy wearing sequins and it was all good.
Before some sight seeing and a trip to the Field Museum, we visited the Virgin Mary miracle salt stain thingy under a bridge, which actually more closely resembled a vulva than an actual woman, but hey, to each his own. Lizzard and I about got our asses beaten when we took some “serious” photos with it. Ahh. We are so going to Hell!
Lizzard, Luke and I partied in Bucktown the rest of the weekend with Luke’s buddies. We laid somewhat low due to our extreme hangovers, but we did play The Most Intense Game of Asshole Ever, much to the local folk singer’s dismay, but she was cool about it and incorporated our Asshole dialogue into her songs.
Sooo, the moral of the story is: Yay Chicago!
Percussion Pedophilia
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I'd like to introduce you to my cell mate, Michael.
Ok, so I’m notoriously raunchy, but I think I’ve outdone even myself…
I had an explicit dream in which I made out with my 16 year old drummer. Holy yikes! I’m pretty sure that even thinking about that sort of shit is highly illegal. And worse…in this dream...I liked it. Oh God. I said it. Now I’ve gone and further incriminated myself!
I’m not only gonna go to prison, where I will surely be educated in the ways of frightening criminal woman love…sometimes with a nicely shellacked table leg, but I’m also going to Hell. Not that I wasn’t going anyway, but I am confidant that there is a special place in Hell reserved for child fuckers that involves an eternal gangbang in which you are Houdini-ed repeatedly by Fred Durst, Kevin Federline, and Janice Dickinson.
What’s worse is that this is not the first young pup of a drummer that I’ve been hot for, consciously or otherwise. I recently went to a bar to check out a friend’s band and went all Drooly McLusterson over his stunning specimen of a drummer. He was so beautiful, yo. Like, that perfect V-shaped body and a serious Charmin ass. Mmmmercy.
So after the show, I was introduced to this gorgeous human being and I layed down some juicy game. At some point, I was discretely informed that he was 18, but to please “carry on.” Riiiight. ‘Cause what are we gonna talk about, his fricking geometry class? And really, what the hell does an 18-year-old know about what to do with a woman? Aren’t they still doing the whole jam-around-in-there-and-hope-for-the-best thing at that age? For fuck's sake people! Most guys with seven more years of mileage on them don't have a clue on how to seal the deal!
Whatev. At least it’s all harmless. I might have a freaky dream about licking a 16-year-old’s teeth or fantasize about corrupting a vulnerable, naive, rock hard, probably-still-wears-tighty-whities *uuuuh!* clean-slate of an 18-year-old, but I’d never actually do it. And besides, who wants to deal with having to explain what a clitoris is?
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On a Steel Horse I Ride...
Happy Birthdaaaaaaay to me! Oh, kids! What a time we had! Sorry there’s not more pictures, but as we were partying at a titty bar, we couldn’t exactly bring our cameras in. We went to The Show, which I highly recommend, and I got several VIP dances from a dancer named Burgundy, who I MOST highly recommend. Swear to God, people...she gives the meanest lap dance in the Northern Hemisphere! I got the *brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr* straight into the crizotch. Fabulous! And some rich guy offered me $50 to give her a lap dance, so I’m like, do I have to take my top off? Fortunately for my hugely padded bra and the poor stripper, I did not have to remove my clothing, so I went for it under the stipulation that he’d give her the money ‘cause, you know, I'm big pimpin' and all bling bling and shit.
We shut the night down at The Polka Dot, where I was so hammered that LL was literally holding me up. Some of it’s a bit hazy, but I do remember shrieking out “Dead or Alive” at full volume and let me tell you, I am one loud bitch. Then I had some hideously vulgar conversation (per usual) about vaginal orgasms. Not sure I won that argument, but I tried damn it.
Then Saturday, we went to J-Lou’s birthday celebration with had a 70’s theme and kick ass karaoke. God, I love karaoke! I sang “Let’s Stay Together,” which is my new official favorite karaoke tune, and apparently, I won the contest, which I didn’t even know there was one, but hey! They told me on my way out and I was so stoked! So hooray for me ‘cause I’m clearly a total rock star and you all want to have hot sex with me.
J-Lou and company proceeded onto the local lesbian bar, but we’d had our gay-fix from the night before with the *brrrrrrrrrrrrrs* and our darling Vicki was awesomely drunk, so we cruised out, much to my Inner Lesbian’s dismay. I like to call her Tina. And she’s actually a drag queen. And she talks really low and wears lots of lip liner. Tiiiina. (And she loves ham.)
On a Steel Horse I Ride...
Happy Birthdaaaaaaay to me! Oh, kids! What a time we had! Sorry there’s not more pictures, but as we were partying at a titty bar, we couldn’t exactly bring our cameras in. We went to The Show, which I highly recommend, and I got several VIP dances from a dancer named Burgundy, who I MOST highly recommend. Swear to God, people...she gives the meanest lap dance in the Northern Hemisphere! I got the *brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr* straight into the crizotch. Fabulous! And some rich guy offered me $50 to give her a lap dance, so I’m like, do I have to take my top off? Fortunately for my hugely padded bra and the poor stripper, I did not have to remove my clothing, so I went for it under the stipulation that he’d give her the money ‘cause, you know, I'm big pimpin' and all bling bling and shit.
We shut the night down at The Polka Dot, where I was so hammered that LL was literally holding me up. Some of it’s a bit hazy, but I do remember shrieking out “Dead or Alive” at full volume and let me tell you, I am one loud bitch. Then I had some hideously vulgar conversation (per usual) about vaginal orgasms. Not sure I won that argument, but I tried damn it.
Then Saturday, we went to J-Lou’s birthday celebration with had a 70’s theme and kick ass karaoke. God, I love karaoke! I sang “Let’s Stay Together,” which is my new official favorite karaoke tune, and apparently, I won the contest, which I didn’t even know there was one, but hey! They told me on my way out and I was so stoked! So hooray for me ‘cause I’m clearly a total rock star and you all want to have hot sex with me.
J-Lou and company proceeded onto the local lesbian bar, but we’d had our gay-fix from the night before with the *brrrrrrrrrrrrrs* and our darling Vicki was awesomely drunk, so we cruised out, much to my Inner Lesbian’s dismay. I like to call her Tina. And she’s actually a drag queen. And she talks really low and wears lots of lip liner. Tiiiina. (And she loves ham.)
ANIMAAAAAAL!
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Well, If We Can't Get Danny Carey...
Woo woo woo! I know it’s been entirely too long since I’ve graced the world with a Chronicle, but I’ve been keeping myself quite occupied by being wretchedly fabulous. You know, lounging around all day whilst being fed Kristin’s Better-Than-Sex-Cake by gorgeous, oiled up, loincloth clad men. Uuuh. It is SO hard to be this effing money all the time! *Gratuitously flips hair*
Oh ok, shut up. We all know I’ve really been festering in my own lameness and have just not done anything Chronicle worthy lately. Boo friggity hoo, I know. The truth is that I’ve lost my mojo, baby. I haven’t had a date or even a love interest in the last couple of months. How bleak is that? Ordinarily, I have some backburner romance brewing where I am hot for some closeted gay guy (for what other explanation is there if a man does not truly love me?) who just doesn’t dig my chili, but these days, I’ve been too busy to give a flying fuck through a rolling Krispy Kreme.
One of my current projects is to find a drummer for my wicked ass rock band, AVIA. We’ve been recording for the last few months with Veda’s rock god drummer, and while we love him truly and want to pinch his widdle cheeks like so much nipples, our darling Drew's head would have very likely popped like a cherry if he would have had to balance school, work, and even attempt to have any sort of life, so despite how bitchin' our recordings sound, we still need a permanent drummer with which to rock the hizouse.
One would assume that the process of finding a drummer would be a fairly straightforward, wouldn't one? For instance, a band would put out an advertisement and a drummer would see it, listen to the material, decide that they are capable of playing with said material, and then send a somewhat clever response to the aforementioned ad. Then, a band would proceed to audition the applicant and subsequently secure a drummer. Right? Right?!
Wrong. We’ve gotten plenty of responses, but instead of coherent, semi-professional applications, we often get messages that go a little something like this:
“would u mind telling me more about the band. would u pleez tell me ur age and tell me the names and ages of the other members pleez? and i was wondering what king of music u guys play. and just so u know i am very young(but a very very good drummer)so if u dont want a young female drummer i would suggest looking elsewhere. thanx a lot.”
And:
“kay. thats kool. but i don't think u'd want me in ur band i am probably too young for you guys. i am really good but i just don' think u'd want sum1 as young as me i will tell u this much, i am still in school. but i dunno wat i'd do bout that is y'all travel in stuff. well write back soon.”
Upon receiving these e-mails, my head did a full 360 degree rotation. I am sure that this girl is indeed very young, but the only excuse for this kind of illiteracy is either A.) severe brain damage, or B.) the author is a 1st grader. Please people, if you are trying to make a good impression, use the flippin' spell check. And grammar check. And while you’re at it, pay attention in class. It’s honestly not that difficult. Especially when English is your first language. Seriously. I'm confidant that she’s a good musician, but no matter how rock and roll this chick is, my degree in English does not permit me to associate with people who have such poor grammar, spelling, semantics, and syntax. It gives me the full on wig to even think about it. *Shudders*
Last week, we actually were brave enough to audition one of these scary candidates. He seemed like a nice enough human being, that is, until he dropped four racist comments in the first ten minutes of conversation, then proceeded to explicitly reference his former drug addiction on twelve seperate occassions. Then, he began to play, and oh my GOD, it just got worse. I couldn’t even bring myself to come out of Joe’s room where I was hiding out with Staci when the jamming commenced. The son of a bitch seriously needed a metronome. No exaggeration here. It was honestly like being ass raped with a Garden Weasel. Or by Rosie O'Donnel. Whatever. The point is that it was heinous.
Now I happen know for a fact that there are intelligent, talented drummers out there. I’ve met many that I genuinely respected for not only for their musical skills, but because they were kick ass people. That being said, where the hell did they all go? Did some portal to Hell open up and suck all the good drummers into a swirling vortex? God, how scary! We should save them! Like Buffy or something. Quick, someone get a crystal, some incense, and some phat rhymes. We need percussion here!!!
I Just KNEW He Had a Tiny Penis!
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I'd Rather Masturbate in Front of My Grandparents Than Go There
The real question is why in the bloody fuck would you film such a teeny peeny in action? Does Fred really not know that his little tighty-whiteys “sidekick” is shamefully lacking in girth? And that his happy/terrifying doom trail is like, in desperate need of a machete and even further proof that he is indeed the missing link between man and feces eating ape? DOUBLE GROSS!
I am fighting the urge to projectile vomit whilst simultaneously feeling weirdly satisfied in knowing that my suspicions were correct in assuming that a fat, balding, bitchy, lyric pirating douche bag must clearly possess a flaccid and thumb-like penis.
Because he is such a whiny, balding, doughboy bitch and felt it necessary to spank the folks that published his "sex" video online, you can no longer access the link to the footage. Not that any of you really wanted to se iddy bitty Freddy in action anyway. *Shudders.*
So really, the good news is that when he told Trent Reznor to suck his dick...Fred really wasn't weilding such a bold threat, now was he? Somebody, please, get Rez an electron microscope and a pair of lubed needle nose pliers…There's gonna be drama tonight!!!
That Ass I Gotta Grab, Yo' Shit I Gotta Stab, Shawty ... Yeahya! *
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In the last Chronicle, I mentioned that I turned down a very provocative shack attack invite from the hottest guy I’ve seen in exactly eight years. And while I remain somewhat conflicted about this decision as I think I may love him a little, I still shut him down on account of my extremely bleak track record for successful indiscriminate hookups.
In my experience, The Random Hookup usually seems like a great idea because both parties are giddily drunk, but upon commencement, the hookups tend to take a laughable, eye rolling, oh-my-God-I’m-gonna-have-to-sit-on-a-hemmerhoid-doughnut-for-the-next-week turn for the worst.
After hearing the weakest imaginable attempts at dirty talk, receiving (without my permission) the most repulsive jewelry a girl can get, being walloped to a pulp by Thumper the Jack Hammer Bunny, and getting totally blown off immediately afterwards by each and every one of these D-bags (not that I would have ever gone back for seconds after the rancid first helping,) I am thoroughly done. Done, I say! Done!
Besides, the girl never has any real fun, and by fun, I do mean orgasms. Women are universally harder to get off than men. It takes time and effort to study the terrain, navigate the landscape, and comprehend the various conditions in order to seal the deal for a girl. During a spontaneous sexual encounter, the guy hasn’t been given any opportunities (or any real incentive) to figure out how to grease the engine, so to speak.
Thus, people bust out all their “best” moves to impress us. Back in the day, the partners with whom they cultivated such techniques were likely way into the weirdness. Unfortunately for us, we are don't have the luxury of being gradually introduced to their funktastic kink, and are thrown head first (sometimes literally) into a freak parade without any warning.
But instead of shrieking with laughter and rolling away from them like we had burst into flames, stopped, then dropped, we often times end up just squeezing our eyes shut and simply finishing what we’ve started.
I can’t really say why we permit exotic sexual behavior from strangers, but I know I’ve done it. Presumably, we’re having a lukewarm frolic in the sack so we’ll agree to do crazy shit we’d never normally consent to just to get it over with already. Not to mention that most of us are nice people and wouldn’t want our shacker to be embarrassed about his or her wacked out version of The Naughty, or worse…have them think that we’re the weird ones for not being into their spazoid nookie skills.
Most of us care a little bit about what other people think of us…even the ones we don’t know. It’s almost superficially worse with randomers because our loved ones already know we’re tools, but they dig us anyway. I guess what it really boils down to is this: nobody wants anyone to think they’re a bad lay. Under any circumstances. I mean, come on…are you kidding me? Meow!
But I’m over it. I wish I could have come to this conclusion post Trent Jr., but hey. All I know is that I’ve had entirely too many booty calls gone wrong to want to fuck with it (no pun intended) anymore. But mark my words, babies...if for some reason I should ever drunkenly decide to hook up with a random again, I plan to totally pull the same shit on them that they’ve done to me, i.e. ask for hella inappropriate things from a person I just met. I’m going to kick back, relax, and refuse to let them come up for a breather....then I’ll never call them again.
*Clearly, 'Lil John is one of those one night stands...
In my experience, The Random Hookup usually seems like a great idea because both parties are giddily drunk, but upon commencement, the hookups tend to take a laughable, eye rolling, oh-my-God-I’m-gonna-have-to-sit-on-a-hemmerhoid-doughnut-for-the-next-week turn for the worst.
After hearing the weakest imaginable attempts at dirty talk, receiving (without my permission) the most repulsive jewelry a girl can get, being walloped to a pulp by Thumper the Jack Hammer Bunny, and getting totally blown off immediately afterwards by each and every one of these D-bags (not that I would have ever gone back for seconds after the rancid first helping,) I am thoroughly done. Done, I say! Done!
Besides, the girl never has any real fun, and by fun, I do mean orgasms. Women are universally harder to get off than men. It takes time and effort to study the terrain, navigate the landscape, and comprehend the various conditions in order to seal the deal for a girl. During a spontaneous sexual encounter, the guy hasn’t been given any opportunities (or any real incentive) to figure out how to grease the engine, so to speak.
Thus, people bust out all their “best” moves to impress us. Back in the day, the partners with whom they cultivated such techniques were likely way into the weirdness. Unfortunately for us, we are don't have the luxury of being gradually introduced to their funktastic kink, and are thrown head first (sometimes literally) into a freak parade without any warning.
But instead of shrieking with laughter and rolling away from them like we had burst into flames, stopped, then dropped, we often times end up just squeezing our eyes shut and simply finishing what we’ve started.
I can’t really say why we permit exotic sexual behavior from strangers, but I know I’ve done it. Presumably, we’re having a lukewarm frolic in the sack so we’ll agree to do crazy shit we’d never normally consent to just to get it over with already. Not to mention that most of us are nice people and wouldn’t want our shacker to be embarrassed about his or her wacked out version of The Naughty, or worse…have them think that we’re the weird ones for not being into their spazoid nookie skills.
Most of us care a little bit about what other people think of us…even the ones we don’t know. It’s almost superficially worse with randomers because our loved ones already know we’re tools, but they dig us anyway. I guess what it really boils down to is this: nobody wants anyone to think they’re a bad lay. Under any circumstances. I mean, come on…are you kidding me? Meow!
But I’m over it. I wish I could have come to this conclusion post Trent Jr., but hey. All I know is that I’ve had entirely too many booty calls gone wrong to want to fuck with it (no pun intended) anymore. But mark my words, babies...if for some reason I should ever drunkenly decide to hook up with a random again, I plan to totally pull the same shit on them that they’ve done to me, i.e. ask for hella inappropriate things from a person I just met. I’m going to kick back, relax, and refuse to let them come up for a breather....then I’ll never call them again.
*Clearly, 'Lil John is one of those one night stands...
Travel Chronicles St. Louis
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Luggage Cart Madness
Good old STL. I can’t even remember the last time I was there, but it never was more fun than it was last weekend. I have two words for you: Mardi and Gras. Put them together and what do you get? Booze, beads, and boobs. What more could a girl ask for?
So we rolled in on Friday, checked into our mini-me hotel room, and commenced pre-partying with some of our neighbors and eventually at the hotel bar, "Margarita’s." We cruised to The Landing where we bent over Morgan St. and fucked it so hard that it won't be able to walk for weeks. Seriously, it was so fun and the ratio of men to women was grossly in my favor.
Cristi and I were cruising for more alcohol when suddenly, the clouds parted, sun shone down, and a shining angelic chorus filled the air. Time stopped and I stood leaning awkwardly, mouth open and drooling, eyes glazed over. There, in front of us, was a man so perfect that he could only be Trent Reznor’s illegitimate son. He was so f-ing beautiful that I nearly fell over and thrashed around on the floor like some forest creature in heat. I grabbed Cristi and pointed straight at him, making unsightly tongue gestures and grunting noises. I managed to pull it together long enough to give him a come hither smile without spontaneously combusting when he looked over.
After stalking him all over the bar, he finally came up to talk to me. His name was Travis. Trent...Travis...Trentavis? Coincidence? I think not! Of course, he was like, way too young for me, and studying to be a dentist, but how blistering hot is that? AND, dentist...Trentist? Huh? Huh? I’m saying give me some laughing gas, a dental recliner, and a spit sucker and I’ll be a happy camper! And of course, he was also the hottest dancer in the entire northern hemisphere. *sigh* So after lusting for hours and hours, the bar totally ruined my game and closed. He invited me back to his room, but you guys, I am seriously done with that shit. Despite all my drunken pleading with myself, I said no. God damn it! But it is better this way because the fantasy isn’t ruined, right? Blah! More on this subject next post…
Anywho, we got back to the hotel in a complete drunken stupor. Arti hitched a ride to the room via the luggage cart, which proved to be too tempting for me and Cec to ignore, so Cory proceeded to drive us around the hotel to the snack machines, where we ran into a very irate hotel employee who demanded that we return his cart. Oops.
After getting denied at the vending machines, we joined a couple of our new friends for a 3AM run to White Castle, or as I like to call it, White Gristle, as my burger clearly had a large, tooth chippingly nasty piece of hoof in it. We were greeted at the door by beast of a woman who was on some wicked hallucinogenic drugs and screaming at the restaurant patrons about how white man’s diseases ruined her life, and took her land, etc. She was completely scary, but we couldn’t help but laugh. Then, after standing in line for seventy three and a half hours, some guy got in Cecilee’s face and kept insisting that she was high because her eyes were irritated. Needless to say, we forced down our sick ass food real fast and busted it back to the hotel where we stayed up giggling all night.
Saturday, we partied at the parade, shared vulgar stories with the most awesome chicks in St. Louis, refused to expose our breasts, and drank beer from pitchers at Soulard. Three of us ate an entire 16” pizza at Imo’s and ended up tipping the guy $2 to let us use the bathroom. We had to sneak through the alley to get to it, but it was the best piss I’ve ever taken.
Then we rocked back to The Landing to dominate the Train Wreck, where we danced for three solid hours. No break. Just dancing like strippers all night long. We were doing synchronized moves, using the railing as a prop, and returning the considerable show that Smith and Katie, who were on the dance floor below, were giving us. It was so fun! I decided to bail out of our hotel room due to the fact that there were like fourteen people in it, and had an excellent slumber party at Cristi’s.
Before peacing out of STL, we forced down the sickest hotel breakfast ever the next day. I’m talking runny eggs, salmonella, and all. Novak even ate the piece of bread that soaks up the bacon grease. Ew. In the end, we were hung over, had blisters on our feet, and had the full on beer shits...It’s so on again for next year! Woo hoo!
Notable Quotes:
Novak: “There are many layers to my onion tit.”
Scary Wasted Native American Woman in White Castle: “Duz anybodddy have any ressspec for Nat’ve Amerricans? Damm white folksss, took er land ‘n…hey…you all have diseasseseses. Diseaseses. Diz…”
Cory: “That freak has like fifty diseases in her pleated skirt.”
Arti: “My people hate me ‘cause some Indian guy kissed her and not me.”
Smith: "We're not even the same ethnicity, GOD!"
Cory: “Shut up, you sick bitch! You’re gonna get daddy in trouble!”
Cec: “It’s not dentist approved to floss your teeth with a thong!”
Cristi: (singing) "If you wanna come to my grandma's, baby I will give you my house key...'cause we're havin' a slumber party, checking out 10 in the morning."
If I Could Kick Any One in the Junk…
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It would be Trent Reznor.
He Don't Love Me, He Just Love My Doggy Style
For those of you unfortunate few who are not acquainted with T-Rez, he is the lead singer of Nine Inch Nails, a raging sex beast, and The Only Man Who Is Truly Worth My Time. However, none of these facts negate my complete and utter fury at El Rezzenator for his dickalicious behavior as of late.
Seriously, I’ve been all, “I hate you! Quit calling me and buying me lavish jewelry and Mercedes convertibles! I will so reinstate the restraining order on your ass." And he's all, But baby, “you are the reason I stay alive!” And I’m all, “Well FINE, then why don’t you stop being a total cocksucker and play the show in the United States on my frickin’ birthday, you a hole!” Then he gets all puffed up like, “My lips may promise but my heart is a whore.” And then I hang up on him. Same routine as usual, right?
But this time, The Rizzel has taken a flying squirrel leap over the mother effing line, babies. On March 31, 2005, he will play two exclusive shows at a bitchin' club sized venue called The Astoria in London. Happy. Birthday. To. Me. Can you believe he's ditching out on the glorious day that marks my dazzling entrance into the world? Whatever!
Anywho, upon hearing this exciting bit of NIN news, I became flushed with the titillating glow of confusion. I was initially elated that Riggity Rez was indeed still alive, then overjoyed that he was going to play a show for the first time since God was a boy. Shortly thereafter, I felt myself getting all percolated and a little faintish at the thought of him wearing eyeliner. Sometime a bit later, it finally sunk in that the gig would be across the flippin' Atlantic. I mean, how could he possibly have convinced himself to play a show for which I can't be present?
I promptly commenced working myself into a complete lather in which I insisted that I needed to go even if I had to start selling Tupperware door to door with Uncle Rico to make it happen. I even went so far as to foam at the mouth a bit and obsessively check air fares. Just as I had myself convinced that it was a perfectly reasonable idea to fly to England for a Nine Inch Nails show, the tickets sold out.
All I'm asking is for Trentastic to simply play the show here at home. Preferably at The Madrid. With only myself in attendance. Then, I'd be able to go, rock out for my 24th, and ogle him like the piece of Grade A North American meat that he is. Is that really asking for so much?
God, I'm pissed. Just look at him. So smug and gorgeous. Lying prostrate on his Tim Burtony log in a billowy, fake forest. Staring off angstily whilst tugging in a provocative and naughty manner at the suggestive tear in the danger zone of his pants. That white hot, perfect, delicious son of a bitch.
He Don't Love Me, He Just Love My Doggy Style
For those of you unfortunate few who are not acquainted with T-Rez, he is the lead singer of Nine Inch Nails, a raging sex beast, and The Only Man Who Is Truly Worth My Time. However, none of these facts negate my complete and utter fury at El Rezzenator for his dickalicious behavior as of late.
Seriously, I’ve been all, “I hate you! Quit calling me and buying me lavish jewelry and Mercedes convertibles! I will so reinstate the restraining order on your ass." And he's all, But baby, “you are the reason I stay alive!” And I’m all, “Well FINE, then why don’t you stop being a total cocksucker and play the show in the United States on my frickin’ birthday, you a hole!” Then he gets all puffed up like, “My lips may promise but my heart is a whore.” And then I hang up on him. Same routine as usual, right?
But this time, The Rizzel has taken a flying squirrel leap over the mother effing line, babies. On March 31, 2005, he will play two exclusive shows at a bitchin' club sized venue called The Astoria in London. Happy. Birthday. To. Me. Can you believe he's ditching out on the glorious day that marks my dazzling entrance into the world? Whatever!
Anywho, upon hearing this exciting bit of NIN news, I became flushed with the titillating glow of confusion. I was initially elated that Riggity Rez was indeed still alive, then overjoyed that he was going to play a show for the first time since God was a boy. Shortly thereafter, I felt myself getting all percolated and a little faintish at the thought of him wearing eyeliner. Sometime a bit later, it finally sunk in that the gig would be across the flippin' Atlantic. I mean, how could he possibly have convinced himself to play a show for which I can't be present?
I promptly commenced working myself into a complete lather in which I insisted that I needed to go even if I had to start selling Tupperware door to door with Uncle Rico to make it happen. I even went so far as to foam at the mouth a bit and obsessively check air fares. Just as I had myself convinced that it was a perfectly reasonable idea to fly to England for a Nine Inch Nails show, the tickets sold out.
All I'm asking is for Trentastic to simply play the show here at home. Preferably at The Madrid. With only myself in attendance. Then, I'd be able to go, rock out for my 24th, and ogle him like the piece of Grade A North American meat that he is. Is that really asking for so much?
God, I'm pissed. Just look at him. So smug and gorgeous. Lying prostrate on his Tim Burtony log in a billowy, fake forest. Staring off angstily whilst tugging in a provocative and naughty manner at the suggestive tear in the danger zone of his pants. That white hot, perfect, delicious son of a bitch.
Working Girl ... Um, But Not That Kind
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I Have A Job. Me! A Job! Can you believe I just said that? Yay! But I’d actually be more worried right now than overjoyed if I were you, because the world is clearly ending. I mean, can there be any other possible explanation for my sudden employment? I’m thinking that the severity of the situation is such that you all might need to seriously consider heading for the nearest bomb shelter if I should happen to meet a guy that isn’t a total ass bleeding hemorrhoid in the near future. I don't know kids, but it sure seems like signs of the apocalypse to me!
Regardless, I now work for a flight chartering brokerage that caters to super rich dudes who need to reserve private airplanes...can you say hello, Daddy Warbucks? Here comes Mama! Grrr! Anywho, I am currently serving as the business development facilitator where I start up the company by trade marking, reserving names, kissing copyright lawyers’ asses, tenderly watering it, and ensuring that it gets plenty of sunshine.
Later, I will serve as the liaison between the Sugar Daddies and the planes that will serve us Champagne during our intimate flights to Vegas. There, we will be married in a drive thru by Elvis after signing a conveniently faulty prenuptial agreement which will entitle me to half of what they are worth. After that, I will use the charter service to fly us all to Greece where we will island hop and have endless Full Greek toga parties. God, I’m brilliant!
I hope I’ll have tons of funny stories for you in the coming weeks as wealthy business men foam at the mouth over me and buy me pretty sparkly things...well, as far as you know, anyway…
Regardless, I now work for a flight chartering brokerage that caters to super rich dudes who need to reserve private airplanes...can you say hello, Daddy Warbucks? Here comes Mama! Grrr! Anywho, I am currently serving as the business development facilitator where I start up the company by trade marking, reserving names, kissing copyright lawyers’ asses, tenderly watering it, and ensuring that it gets plenty of sunshine.
Later, I will serve as the liaison between the Sugar Daddies and the planes that will serve us Champagne during our intimate flights to Vegas. There, we will be married in a drive thru by Elvis after signing a conveniently faulty prenuptial agreement which will entitle me to half of what they are worth. After that, I will use the charter service to fly us all to Greece where we will island hop and have endless Full Greek toga parties. God, I’m brilliant!
I hope I’ll have tons of funny stories for you in the coming weeks as wealthy business men foam at the mouth over me and buy me pretty sparkly things...well, as far as you know, anyway…
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