Swing Away

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I still don’t really get who this bitch is. Why is she famous? For being famous? How does THAT happen?

So Grayce is pretty pleased with herself for her newfound Internet fame, having been mentioned what? Like, twice? In what is essentially one of the least-read blogs on the planet. Move over, Kim Kardashian, Grayce is stealing yo’ paparazzi, bitch.

This also means that Grayce, who doesn’t want to have her own smutty sex blog but does like reading and being featured in mine, has decided to chime in regularly with texts and IMs about what I should write about next. The other night, I was packing my kids’ school lunches for the next day — not because I’m all June Cleaver the Super Mom but because it means I get to sleep in an extra five minutes, and, let’s face it, at 6 a.m., that’s fucking important, people — and I got this text from Grayce: “New blog post: Swingers.” Read the rest of this entry

Angry (Sex) Birds

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My girlfriend, Grayce — yes, I realize I’ve been writing about her a lot, but she doesn’t mind being blog fodder, and I’m not one to turn down free material — decided to have angry sex with her husband. Let me back up a sex here. Sec here. Grayce is married with kids. Those of you who are also married with kids know that, to put it in the most absurdly general terms possible, the amount of sex you have is inversely proportional to how many kids you have, despite all evidence being to the contrary. That is, the more kids you have, the less sex you have, even though you’d think if you have all those kids you’re a fuck bunny. There are exceptions to this rule, but I don’t hang out with those women because they’re too busy going to pilates while managing Fortune 500 mergers on their iPhones as Baby #47 nurses in an ergonomically correct sling made of organic fairy hair.

Maybe if Grayce wore this to bed…

At the moment, Grayce’s sex life is vacillating somewhere between Carole Brady and Michelle Duggar, even though she only has two kids. So that blows monkey chunks if you ask me. And if you ask her. Which you can’t, so trust me when I say Grayce  is not nearly as perky about her marital non-relations as those two Xanax Zombies, so mama needs to get some. I offered to give it up for her, but she doesn’t swing that way, and I’m still not so sure my stem-cell-research-based lesbian scheme is going to work out, so it was really just an “I’m here for you, dude,” offer, although she is pretty hot, so maybe. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because Grayce doesn’t want to fuck me. She wants to fuck her husband. But the less they do the dance with no pants, the less she wants to do it because the more she resents her husband for choosing Angry Birds over what would, at this point, be very  angry sex. Read the rest of this entry

Lez-Be Friends

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I’m seriously considering becoming a lesbian. Why the hell not? Women seem to be an infinitely better option right now than men. I’ve already got my minions and, even if I don’t like it, I’m pretty good at killing my own bugs, so men are of limited usefulness to me at this point. Let’s ignore for a moment the fact that I am just not gay, as much as I wish I were, and that being gay is not a choice, so I really have no say in this matter. Aside from that, why the hell not?

Let’s take this from a practical, if ludicrously generalizing, perspective (haters, start taking notes here):

  • Women are better at multitasking, so they can, oh, you know, hold babies and text, take phone calls, or poop at the same time.
  • At least real kiwis ALWAYS taste good.

    Women are sexy most of the time, even when we don’t feel sexy, if only because society and marketing have programmed us to see women as sexual objects by barraging us with sexualized images of women 24/7, because “pretty is as pretty does.” Men, on the other hand, look like deflated kiwis that need to go down the disposal when they bend over naked in the bathroom. They can’t all be Northman or Tyler Durden. We can’t all be Cindy Crawford either, but somehow we’re still generally more attractive than they are. Maybe it’s because we aren’t likely to fart, pick our noses, grab our crotches, or be otherwise generally disgusting outside the aforementioned bathroom.

  • Women aren’t as afraid of their feelings as men. They like you or they don’t. They love you or they don’t. None of this, “Well, I really like you, and I want to fuck you, but let’s just keep it casual, k?” crap. The flip side of this has a lot to do with the third-date U-Haul jokes my gay girlfriends tell me. I used to think it meant lesbians do it in trucks on the third date, but apparently I was wrong.  Read the rest of this entry

Shakespeare in Leather

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So last night, I was talking to Grayce about my return to blogginess, which she really enjoyed, even if I did totally print a private conversation we had without her permission. She told me she shared yesterday’s post on her Facebook page and was completely gobsmacked (Like that one? I’m all intercontinental today.) when her friend, Mica, “liked” the post. She called me up:

Gray: I’m shocked Mica liked it. You know her husband’s a pastor and she runs that charity for wayward, pregnant schnauzers or something.

Me: Oh, yeah. The seemingly uptight ones are always the duuuuuurty guuuuurrrrlllls. They love the blog. Church ladies are all sorts of nasty under their double-knit sweater sets and sensible pumps. 

Those church ladies are all sorts of duuur-taaay.

Gray: You think? I just can’t believe she “liked” it on Facebook. Her husband probably has her down on her knees praying for forgiveness as we speak.

Me: He probably has her down on her knees, but I doubt there’s much praying going on.

Gray: You did not just say that.

Me: Oh please. If church is your thing, more higher power to ya. But you know as well as I do, the loudest preachers are like Queen Gertrude.

Gray: You lost me. 

Me: “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” 

Gray: English. Speak English.

Me: Girl, that’s Shakespeare. It doesn’t GET more English.

Gray: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: I gotta get nerdier friends.

Gray: Your point?

Me: Ok. Backing up. In Hamlet, Queen Gertrude is a raging slut who marries her dead husband’s murderous brother before the leftovers from her husband’s funeral feast are gone.

Gray: That’s cold, dude. 

Me: No shit. But then again, maybe they were Jewish. That Shiva thing they do lasts like a fucking month. So cut a girl some slack. That could be a lot of leftovers.

Gray: You are so going to hell.

Me: Anyway, so these traveling actors come do a play at the court, and Hamlet is giving his mom attitude, being all, “What do you think of this play?” And his mom, Gertrude, who sees that the play is basically about a woman just like her, says, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

Gray: So what does that mean? 

Me: It means like, say someone goes, “I like butt fucking,” and you go, “Oh my GOD! I would NEVER! Oh my God! Who does such a thing?!?!” The more you “protest,” the more obvious it is that you’re trying to cover something up. It’s like the conservative male Republican Congressman who goes on this nationwide anti-gay crusade only to get caught fucking some underage male Haitian prostitute. The louder they preach, the more likely it’s bullshit. It’s more complicated in the play, but then again, it’s Shakespeare.

Gray: How the hell did we get on this topic?

Me: I was saying, rock on for Mica, “liking” the post, because most church ladies I know wouldn’t touch that shit with a ten-foot pole.

Gray: Because they’d be protesting too much.

Me: My work here is done.

Gray: You really think Mica’s a slut?

Me: Girl, she’s a pastor’s wife. They’re all “Rah, Rah, Jesus,” until they’re taking it up the ass in a leather harness, you know?

Gray: <odd strangled noise and spluttering>

Me: Ohhh. What do you know? The lady doth protest too much.

Mo Dick, Mo Problems

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So I’m Skype texting with my girlfriend, Grayce, whom we girls call, “Gray,” because her life is all sorts of 50 Shades, and I’m telling her how the latest guy to catch my attention, Joe, is, predictably, an asshat.

Me: Girl, WTF? Why are men such douche canoes?

Gray: Because they have fool tools.

I added a flower, so it’s not crass. Yes, you can buy this at The Pink Moustachery. I’m all about customer service, web dwellers.

Me: The bigger the fool tool, the bigger the douche canoe.

Gray: Sounds like my ex. Total fool, but what a great fucking tool.

Me: Seriously. Your ex should come with a warning label: Mo dick, mo problems.

Gray: LOL!! OMG, girl, that is the TRUTH!

Me: At least a big dick is a good distraction, if you don’t let it distract you from how big a dick its owner is.

Gray: OMG! We need to put that shit on an e-Card.

Me: Too much work. I’ll just blog it. And I’ll call your ex “Moe” on the blog just because that shit’s funny.

Gray: I’m laughing so hard I’m gonna wake up my kids.

Me: Men are good for killing bugs, lifting heavy shit, and sex. In that priority order.

Gray: Truth.

Me: It’s all shit I can do myself, but I’d rather have it done for me.

Gray: E-card. E-card. E-card.

Me: If prostitution were legal, I would buy a man whore to kill my bugs naked.

Gray: That is a GREAT idea.

Me: The guy would be naked, not the bugs. I mean, the bugs are naked too, but that’s not the point.

Gray: Are you drunk?

Me: And then, after he killed the bug on my wall, I’d be all, “Bitch, go get a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. Mama can’t cum with bug guts on the wall!”

Gray: Must. Document. On. E-cards.

Me: If I ran shit, I would make it mandatory for sex ed teachers to explain to guys WHY a woman should cum first. Divorce rates would plummet. You’re welcome, Entire Fucking Planet.

Gray: So true!!

Me: You want her to do that thing? With the thing? Like you saw on YouPorn? Make sure she cums first.

Gray: LOL!!

Me: And yes, YouPorn is a thing. Thank you, Northman.

Gray: OMG. I can see you lecturing teenagers. You’ll write books.

Me: Yeah, I’ll be “researching” for my book and going, “Not now, baby, Mama’s browsing YouPorn.”

There is so much wrong with this.

Me: Seriously, if they spent half as much time explaining to teenage boys why it’s better for a woman to cum first as they do telling teenage girls not to have sex at all, all would be right with the world. Because you know, when mama’s not happy, nooooobody’s happy.

Gray: So fucking true. Luckily, I’ve never had a selfish lover. They all love making me cum.

Me: Fuck you.

Pause with no response from Gray.

Me: You’re googling YouPorn aren’t you? Admit it!

Gray: Me? No.

Me: No, you’re just on Zazzle or something ordering tee-shirts with “Mo dick mo problems.”

Gray: I was not! I wasn’t!

Me: ….

Gray: I was gonna do it tomorrow.

Me: There it is.

Gray: Well, it’s true! Mo dick, mo problems! Moe was so big, I couldn’t fit that shit in my mouth.

Me: That’s too much dick. That’s like having GGG tits. More than a mouthful is wasteful.

Gray: He is huge. The sex was awesome. Too bad by the time things ended I didn’t want anything to do with his thang.

Me: Dude. If you divorce a man that big, vaginal rejuvenation surgery should be part of the divorce settlement. Be like, “You broke my heart. Fine. But my pussy you have to fix.”

Gray: That could pass here in California. You may be onto something.

Me: Damn straight. Shit. They ruin our tits with pregnancy and nursing. You don’t wanna pay alimony forever? Tack the girls back up where they belong and turn this hallway of a pussy back into a straw. Level the damn playing field a LITTLE.

Gray: That is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Ever.

Me: My brain is all sorts of fucked up, girl. And I know what you find funny, so it’s easy. Mostly it’s the same shit I find funny, because you’re awesome. Obviously. I don’t hang with non-awesome women. They’re intimidated my awesomeness, and they get all clingy and offended by my cursing. I’m like, “You have given birth, woman. And you think some f-bombs are going to scar you?”

Gray: Omg! You are seriously awesome and so fucking funny.

For Gray. Don’t say I never did anything nice for you, you e-card demanding bitch who’s never had a man not help her finish first.

Me: Please. Come see my vagina if you want to see scars. C-sections do not make for good vajazzling canvases. As if it’s not enough to wax it, now it has to fucking sparkle?!? I’m not a vampire.

Gray: Dying. I’m dying.

Me: If a man needs your pussy to sparkle to be into it, he’s gay. Duh.

Gray: Where do you get this shit?

Me: This is my stream of consciousness. Something is fundamentally wrong with me.

Gray: Yeah, but we’ll make BANK on the tee-shirts.

Me: What’s this “we” business?

 

A List of Shit That Pisses Me Off

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It’s been a while since we had ourselves a good, long rant here on the blog, and I think it’s about time to rectify that. So here’s my list of shit that pisses me off. Notice that it’s not “Shit that’s pissing me off today.” No, this is a list of all the things that are constantly pissing me off, and it’s not in any particular order or level of severity. It’s just in the order that I thought of it. Lazy, I know.

  • This is my new word of the week.

    Facebook: Facebook is pissing me off a LOT. WTF, Facebook? I post to my page “fans” and only 15% of them get to see the post? WTF kind of lamesauce are you asshats cooking up over there? This means business/blog/professional pages will just overpost to compensate, and ultimately that will piss off standard Facebook users. Duh. What, you go public and now it’s time to piss everyone off? Because if that’s the goal, well played, douche canoes. Well played.

  • Facebook users: Facebook users who can’t take the time to type properly or, apparently, the time to take a fucking English class despite having been born in this country and having spoken and written English their entire lives, piss me off. You know, maybe I should just stay off Facebook. It’s not helping my stress level. But seriously, who are these buttmunches? They post shit like, “i am so shur they’re not even lisining to what your saying u shoud definately say sumthing its ridikulus.” The grammar and spelling (and lack thereof) are bad enough to keep me up at night. It is damn near fucking impossible for me to read a single page of updates without having the skin-crawling heebie-boo-jeebies as I imagine a whole generation of text-speaking illiterates attempting to run our country as they submit new legislation to Congress called the “Billz of online Rites LOL.” May Mr. Coffee help us all.
  • Women who say “hubby” all the time: Seriously? WTF, ladies? He’s your husband, not your “hubby.” Does he call you his “wifey?” Because let me fucking tell you, if he DOES, you should A) Keep that crap to yourselves and B) Stop it. Stop it right fucking now. You’re annoying the crap out of EVERYONE. If you don’t care, then rock on with your annoyingness. If you do care, you’re fucking welcome for the smack upside your figurative head.
  • Or at least hide you from his newsfeed. I sure did.

    More Facebook users:People who post nothing to Facebook except a constantly updated stream that is basically an unfathomably long progression of variations of the exact same thing:

    • People who post hourly scripture passages, reminders to people of how blessed they are because Jesus loves them, and calls to lift up entire families in prayer annoy me. Yes, I’m happy for you that you have something that makes you happy and helps you make sense of the world. I’m sure your constant Facebooking while you ignore your kids/job/pets is definitely earning you all sorts of metaphysical brownie points with Jesus who will save you a good seat on the fast track express bus to the good neighborhood in Heaven.
    • People who use Facebook for their passive-aggressive and/or co-dependent thinly veiled cries for help. You need help? Fucking ask for it. Don’t post shit like, “Throwing in the towel. Can’t take this any more. Bye,” or “What’s the point? Unbelievable.” This is both uncomfortable and annoying. You need help, ask. You don’t, then just fucking say whatever it is you’re trying to get people to ask about before you’ll say it and skip the middleman. Basic economics, asshats.
    • People who post nothing but pictures of their dogs, kids, or food: cut that shit out. Occasional pics of any of the three are interesting. A running diary of any of the three is not. Also, once the food is mostly EATEN, fucking stop taking pictures of it, weirdos.
  • Even more Facebook users:
    • People who just post idiotic images they think are funny but really aren’t, if only because the same images have been around for so fucking long that these people just look even more idiotic for posting some thing so old and thinking it’s incredibly original.
    • People who repost shit that Snopes can tell you is BS in about 2.4 seconds.
    • People who “like” EVERYTHING you do on Facebook. Everything. “I was late for my meeting this morning after Janie spilled chocolate milk all over my silk blouse right as I was walking out the door and then Joey puked in my hair.” {LIKE!} Fuck you.

What the fuck am I doing on Facebook? Apparently it just annoys the shit out of me.

And then, there are some other people I find as annoying as forks in the spoon section of the silverware drawer, but I deleted that part because this was getting too long and the part I deleted wasn’t funny enough to merit a damn online novel. You’re welcome.

You know, that’s still a long fucking list and it did not take me long to think of it. That’s a lotta pissed off for someone who’s still in her jammies. Sweet Jesus in Birks. I really do need to get laid.

Don’t Kill The Messenger

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This is the only zombie image I could find that wasn’t going to give me nightmares from all the gory blood. Ick.

Alrighty, y’all. Don’t go all Florida zombie dude on me and eat my face when I tell you that Northman and I are through. Ok, wait, before I get into that, can I just say, WHAT THE FUCK, Florida? Face-eating zombies? What, now you get all the cool shit? Everyone knows zombies are the new vampires; there’s nothing more badass. So, why the hell would they go live … I mean, not live … with a bunch of old people and rednecks? Yeah, yeah, Penny lives there too, and not all southerners are rednecks, and Publix is sooo great. Whatever. I don’t think they sell brains at Publix, so the zombies aren’t there for your sexmart grocery stores. I mean, come on. Y’all already have a bizillion miles of beaches. Now you get to be the first ones to have zombies, too? Douche canoes.

Anyway, as I was saying, Northman and I have reverted to friend status. Before you start some kind of online petition to have his new girlfriend’s employer relocate her to Getoutofmyfuckingwayistan, let me say that I am 100% totally ok with this whole thing. Northman and I have been friends for a long time. I’ve lived my whole not-quite-forty (and wouldn’t tell you if I were) years without fucking this man; I’m pretty sure I can live the next forty(ish) years quite happily without doing him as well. Now, if I get to live to like, 90, and he’s single, and I’m single, bring on the geriatric sex, people. I swear to blog about it if I remember it afterward. But for now, Northman has gone back to being my friend.

Penny wanted to know why I was so fine with this whole thing, and I told her the simple truth, which is what I told y’all when I last posted: I love Northman. He’s my friend. Ergo, I want the man to be happy. If his new sort of girlfriend makes him happy, I say grab the fuck onto that woman and make her happy too. Despite our strong emotional connection and sexual tension, the odds of us ever having more than weekend away/vacation sex romps (albeit fucking awesome vacation sex romps) were always very slim. As I’ve said many times: he’s there and I’m here, and we have kids and exes and jobs and all of that. If we were in our 20s and unattached, things might be different, but that’s just not the case, and I’m good with that.

Seriously. I’m getting a little paranoid. Don’t eat my face. Not even my nose.

Part of me feels like, well, fuck, couldn’t he have waited to go all blushing, head-over-heels for this woman until after we had one of those aforementioned weekend sexcapades? I mean, Sweet Jesus in Birks, just one? But the truth is, if we’d had that and then he fell in love with this woman, THAT would have hurt. As it is, I just really and truly enjoyed all the fun we had over the last 6 or 7 months, and now it’s done, and I’m good with that, and it doesn’t hurt. The only thing that will hurt is if you guys freak out about this and do go all zombie on me and eat my face, so, you know, don’t do that.

So, that leaves me in, as they say, a bit of a quandary. I always wanted to say that. Quandry. Who comes up with these words? Anyhoo… the issue at hand: to blog or not to blog? I mean, let’s face it (which I can only do because I don’t live in Florida so I haven’t had my face eaten), the last few months..well, the last several months? Well, the last, whole history of this freaking blog has been very much about the progression of Cathy & Northman. Does the blog exist without Northman? I’m inclined to say yes. Why the heck not? I’m still here. I’m still funny. Now I just have to figure out what the hell to write about. Crap.