Get Out of My Tits!

So maybe it’s me that has the bad gym etiquette, or maybe it’s everyone else. I’m thinking it’s everyone else, but you know, what the hell do I know? I began wondering about this the other day when I was standing in front of my locker, minding my own biznazz and exchanging my grodie stank workout clothes for a towel. This would seem to be a fairly private moment in a fairly public place, right? Like, one in which you wouldn’t bust in front of said disrobed person to fish around in your locker? Wouldn’t you pretend to get a fresh towel or something so that the nekked individual could have a minute to cover her flab?

Clearly, I am the only one who would, because as I was standing there, some fat ass, who always wears a fucking leotard to speed walk on the treadmill, reaches within three inches of my chest to open her locker and fiddle about. I was all, GET OUT OF MY TITS! But instead of shrieking this aloud like so much banshee, I settled for passive aggressively dropping stuff from my locker onto her meddling hands. Then I flapped my towel around like I was Big Bird on ice to make sure that she felt as uncomfortable in my personal space as I was with her in it. Skank!

It occurs to me in hindsight that I probably just gave her more of a show for which she was already stoked to be in attendance, but at least I doused her with a grotesque mixture of warm vanilla sugar lotion and filthy gym sock. My revenge may be small, but it is in frequency that I disperse my reign of terror. Mwa ha ha, bitches!

Nosey McHoser

S&M is Much More Interesting than My Uterus

Second only to having a hand placed on my Taco Bell-generated gut and being asked when I’m due, is my resentment of being asked when I’m getting married. Not because I don’t genuinely look forward to getting married someday, but because I feel like if I haven’t volunteered that information to you, then it’s none of your effing business! Those are super private topics that don’t involve your nosy ass, so get a hobby and leave me alone!

Those that ask un-inseminated chicks about their uterine functions are of the same species of people that also ask unmarried chicks about their marital plans. It’s absolutely shocking to me that people actually wonder such things out loud. I would never inquire about either of the above because holy-sense-of-entitlement-to-personal-information, Batman! I don’t want to make people feel awkward! What a shocking revelation!

Now, if I have a ring on my finger, proceed. Ask me when the date is set and all about what my wedding will be like even though it’s gonna sound suspiciously like every other wedding you’ve ever been to. Go nuts! The ring is a symbol of the commitment, if not an advertisement of it. I think that makes it fair game…

But to a single girl, that is terribly uncomfortable! You have no idea what’s going on with me! What if we haven’t discussed it yet? What if he won’t marry me and it’s a hideous sore subject and we fight because you’ve just poured lemon juice in the wound and then we break up and I end up offing myself via a Salad Shooter? What if I just got dumped and am dead inside, and murder him and his entire family and prop up the bodies around the Thanksgiving table and weep as I spoon feed grandpa’s corpse creamed corn? What if I’m getting ready to dump him because I’m a cold, tasteless bitch? What if I have an alien in my guts that is going to pop out and eat your face for asking me such a rude question!? Jesus ass!

It’s like asking a woman when she’s going to have a baby, when she’s going to have her second, if she’s gonna try for a girl next time. DUDE. 1 in 3 pregnancies ends in miscarriage! Many people are infertile! BACK OFF! God. I mean, why don’t you just jam a hand into their crotchal regions and see what their labias look like and then run over their pets with your stupid SUV?

And yes, I know I’m worst case scenarioing what could happen if you pry into someone’s private life, but seriously, getting married is something to be discussed between the couple. Having children is a conversation reserved for the bearers of the child. If you need a voyeuristic view of weddings and pregnancies, watch Days of Our Lives. Someone gets knocked up like twice a week and they all get married three times a day. Not to mention that they all get amnesia, killed, posessed, and gangbanged in a guillotine sooner or later. That should satisfy your need to be omnipresent and fulfill your sadism, you reptilian, cold sore sucker!

BackNe

Overnight, my city has morphed into San Francisco. I know this because while minding my own bidness in the gym locker room, this squatty girl with terrible backne and pasty reptilian skin sauntered past me, gave me a smoldering look, and ripped her towel off as she walked over to the scale. She proceeded to stretch, arch, and weigh herself for a full two minutes, all whilst casually glancing my way to see if I was watching. And of course, I totally was staring. In open-mouthed horror! I couldn’t look away! It’s like when you’re driving and you see road kill and you like, can't stop yourself from turning to get a better look at the guts and matted fluff and you go, “ewwwawesome!”

This is not the first time the girl, to whom I so affectionately refer as BackNe, has done something of the like. The first time she suggestively yanked off her towel was on a jaunt to the showers. It was more subtle that time, with a sly glance over a pock-marked shoulder, so I shared it with my buddy Zhan with much less enthusiasm than the second Event.

Zhan, however, thinks that I should respond to her advances in the form of waiting until she's in a shower stall, and RIPPING the curtain open to slinkily say, "I'm sorry, I didn't know this one was taken." I told him that I would get sucked in by a pus filled vacuole only to never be seen again, but he still dreams…especially of me seeing what her grooming habits are and reporting them to him. We think that as she has backne, she might have cuntne as well. God, I hope to never have the misfortune of knowing.

Supervillians Unite!

I’m afraid I am officially a Penis Destroyer. As terrifying as this moniker sounds, it’s true. I am like a wild, torrential force of nature that cannot be restrained. I slam them in doors, snap them in twain during overzealous adventures as a cowgirl, and pinch them ferociously in order to wake the unsuspecting bearer of the battered member.

Seriously. I was recently attempting to seduce my diabolical mastermind, Dr. Octagon, and in the process, found it necessary to remove a cat from the boudoir (a constant activity in my spinster house.) Due to my total lack of depth perception, I inadvertently closed the French door right on his total wang. It didn’t actually get caught in between the doors only because Herr Doctor is a ninja, but it was terrifyingly close.

The next meat mishap was when I was wildly bucking in the saddle one day and completely BROKE HIS WINKY. I came down hard and like, heard it. His eyes rolled up in his head and all the veins popped out of his face. Initially, I thought I had just rocked his mind, but when began whimpering and throwing holy water on me and reciting, “The power of God compels you,” I figured out that I had just solidly demolished his dong.

Then, I was trying to wake him up with some morning nookie and seductively reached over to get the job started. I worked on this for about 3 solid minutes before I finally got a reaction. It went a little something like this, “Ow! Did you just pinch me?” Jesus. Evidently, the only thing I had aroused was the stunning pain of a fingernail fauxpas.

I have decided in light of these events that I am officially a supervillain. I need a cape, spandex, and minions…the whole schmeal. And though I am evil for smashing the schlong, it is never my intention to mutilate. It’s only with unbridled zeal that I have become Dr. Octagon’s nemesis. I only hope that I do not thwart him so much as to lose privileges…