Tag Archives: Eric Northman

Well, that sucks.

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Hey, y’all. I know, I know. WTF have I been up to that I haven’t written. Well, the truth is, I have a pretty fucking crazy life at the moment, and it’s even crazier than usual, and not in a good way. Not in the “I’m too busy having crazyass sex every night to sit up and blog for you people,” way. More like the, “I’m too busy working my ass off and taking care of my minions while moving and dealing with a bunch of family crap,” way. So, you know, fun.

And now it’s summer vacation, and with the minions off school for the next year and a half (well, it FEELS like summer lasts that long!), I just don’t know how much blogging I’ll be doing. But, you awesome web dwellers, you deserve more than to have me vanish into the ether, so here’s an little snapshot of Cathy’s World at the moment.

Rest In Peace, Mr. Coffee. Praised Be.

I’m still “seeing” Northman virtually. Things have cooled off between us a bit. I think the novelty has kind of worn off. We’re close. We’re good friends. We have rockin’ Skype sex. He’s funny (not as funny as I am, but you know, nobody’s perfect). We have a solid connection and good chemistry. But the fact is, he’s there and I’m here, and even though we still plan to get together later this year, I’m not so sure it’ll be the fuckfest we had initially planned. Above and beyond all else, we want each other to be happy, and so I’m happy for him that he’s been dating someone who actually lives a car ride (and not a plane ride) away. I’m not even jealous or envious. I love him. I want him to find happiness, even if that means I never get to sleep with him. Although sleeping with him — and let me be clear, I mean fucking him — would be awesome. 

Jerry is still around here and there. He’s still kind of a douche canoe sometimes — so cocky — but he’s also a good guy who’s fun to hang out with. Work is busy with clients both interesting and boring as dirt. My minions are little Fonzies. Coolest fucking people you’ll ever meet, but without the leather jackets. Mr. Coffee died and was reincarnated at Target in a stainless steel body. Penny is up to her usual chicanery, always calling because she’s stunned at the idiocy and inefficiency of the average American only to have me remind her that she’s just so much smarter than average that what seems like common sense to her is Advanced Calculus to a person with a 100-point IQ. She hasn’t made me laugh into tears lately, or you’d have heard about it. But it won’t be long.

Oh, and I did read the new Sookie book, and I thought it fucking sucked. But I’ll live because the new season of True Blood starts in four days. Sookie better get some Northman sex. I mean, Sweet Jesus in Birks. At least one of us should.

I Am A Total Douche Canoe.

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In the last 48 hours, I’ve gotten five messages from readers who fall into two categories:

A) Girlfriend: Where the fuck are you? Are you shacked up with Northman and having too much freaky sex to write? If so, yay for you, but you’re a douche canoe for not telling us ALL about it.

B) Mom: Where on God’s green earth are you? Are you ok? Is Northman ok? Are y’all having a spat? Did something happen with your little ones? Did your computer get the virus? You know I know how the computers do that with the Google and whatnot especially with all those dirty pictures you post. Now, whatever it is, you don’t have to write about it, but let us know you’re not lying dead in a ditch somewhere without clean panties or a sweater on for heaven’s sake.

So, first, thanks, y’all. Thanks for worrying about me even if it makes me feel like a total douche canoe for worrying you. And thanks for writing in, which was completely the kick my sorry ass needed to get in gear and explain myself. Here’s the Siri.

(I don’t think we can call it “Here’s the 411,” anymore. Now you go, “Hey, Siri, what the number for the sex store on 4th Ave?” and she goes, “You slut. It’s in your contacts list.” So, “Here’s the Siri,” is way more 21st century than, “Here’s the 411,” and you know I’m aaaall about being up with the times, yo.)

Alright. So, when last we met, I wrote y’all some erotic fiction. Ok, that’s crap. I wrote y’all some smutty porn fabulousness and it was damn awesome and led to some seriously naughty conversations with Northman, so even if you hated it, I fucking loved it, and it’s my blog, so yay for me. After that, I was just waiting for some inspiration because you know, I don’t just write about nothing. I mean, I write about my seriously crazy life and all the weird crap that happens in it. Usually, so much weird crap happens that I have plenty to choose from and I share about a fifth of it with you. But for some reason, early last month, nothing happened. I mean NOTHING.

Nothing funny happened, so I didn’t have any “Donkey Vagina” stories to share. And Northman and I were out of sync for around a week, so there was nothing on that front. Which sucked. Even the douche canoe next door with his fucking motorcycle was oddly quiet. And y’all don’t read my blog for deep introspection, so yeah, I had pretty much nothing to tell you.

After about a week, I sat down and tried to make myself think of something to write for y’all, and I had nothing. Nada. Zero. I started several new drafts and just, yeah, fucking nothing. Writer’s Block. 

So I decided to give it a rest. Here’s where I fucked up. I should have sent out a notice: Hey, web dwellers. I’m not dead. I’m just taking a little sabbatical. Only I’m not getting paid for it like professors do, but then again I don’t get paid for writing my blog, so I guess it only makes sense that I don’t get paid to not write my blog either.

I fully admit to being Cathy: The Asshat Captain of the USS Douche Canoe for the last month.

But I didn’t send out a notice, and so I’m a douche canoe. And I’m sorry. Let’s hug it out, bitches. 

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((Yeah, I’m sending you a cheesy cyber hug. No copping a feel. Actually, go ahead. I’ll take what I can get these days.))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

Alright. We good? Sweet. So here’s the rundown on your favorite characters who are actual people in my life: 

  1. Northman (obviously): Northman is in my good graces like you would not fucking believe. If my good graces were chocolate, he’d be covered in it like some kind of human Twix bar or something. This analogy is lame, but it also works because you know, licking…biting….yum. Fuck, I’m out of blogging practice.
  2. Jerry (when did we last talk about him?): He’s around. He’s like … well, fuck, y’all. He’s just not that important to me. Don’t know why I made him #2 on the list except that sometimes I think he’s full of #2, which is why he’s not that fucking important.
  3. Penny: Penny. Penny. Penny. What can I say about Penny? (Yes, I did that on purpose, BBT fans.) Penny’s life is so hilarious that I WISH she would write a blog, only she’s a terrible writer, so it would have to be more like a podcast of our conversations so y’all could get some remote clue as to how flippin’ hilarious her life gets. But in the immediate: She’s fine.
  4. My minions (who are always number one on any list except this one because I don’t write about them much): Fucking awesome. 

So, ok, web dwellers. That’s the scoop. I’m off to worship Mr. Coffee a bit. Also, fucking, hello?!!? True Blood comes back on the air in JUNE and there’s a new Sookie “Bad Decisions” Stackhouse book out this week. When I have time to read it, I will tell you what kind of idiotic things she does this time. Also, my favorite blogger, The Bloggess, released a book, web dwellers. And if you don’t read it, I won’t be your friend anymore.

 

The Pink Moustachery is Open For Business!

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Gooooooood morning, web dwellers! By insanely, incredible, inconceivably popular demand, I bring you (da da da daaaaaaaa) The Pink Moustachery! Yes, it’s your home for every possible piece of Sexy Mom merchandise you absolutely positively do not in any way need but still really, really want to buy because it’s just so freakin’ awesome. How awesome, you ask? Here’s a little peek…

Oh yeah. You need to see this every time you pass the fridge. Yum!!

Having your girlfriends over for a True Blood marathon? Remember to take a shot every time Bill says, "Soookeeeehhhhh," and every time Sookie says, "Well..."

Did your girlfriend win The Pink Moustache Award? Did you? Order a few and send them to your friends who win, and keep one for yourself because you're awesome. 🙂 Rock on, web dwellers!!

This makes me laugh every damn time I look at it. I need this one.

Remember: Every dollar you spent is about 3 cents I can save toward my visit with Northman. Kidding. It’s 10 cents. So stock up on the products above and check out the rest of this awesomeness at The Pink Moustachery on CafePress!! Also, remember to send in your ideas for new products! I’ll do my best to make them for you! 

 

P.S. There’s a permanent link to the store right over there —-> 

A Little Rambling And A Lot of Sexy

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Ooooh, web dwellers, have I got some stuff to tell you today. If there were a contest to find the luckiest girl on the damn planet today, if you’re not me, don’t even bother entering, because I fucking win, people. I win. And you know why? Because Northman sent me a two-part, 15-minute video in which he’s wearing nothing but a watch and some seriously gorgeous ink.

Those of you who don’t like me taking the Lord’s name in vain, gals, if you saw this shit, you’d know I’m not using it in vain. That’s PRAISE right there. If I were a religious woman, I’d be down on my damn knees giving thanks for this. But as it is, I am not, and since Northman’s not here for pretty much the only other reason I’d be down on my knees, I think saying “ohmyfuckinggod” is just going to have to suffice.

Oh, Sweet Jesus in Birks, I am so damn grateful it doesn’t snow by him so it’s warm enough for him to do this. Yes, Northman made me another sex video, and all I can say is that the fact that I didn’t instantaneously burst into flames watching it completely disproves the existence of spontaneous combustion. Seriously. I texted him immediately after watching it (fine, immediately after watching it twice), and all I could manage was this: “ohmyfuckinggod” Yeah. I’m articulate like that. Without exaggeration, I think seeing Northman do ANY of what he did in this video if I were with him in person would reduce me to complete Tarzan Speak.

For those of you feeling bad for Northman that he’s doing all the “work” and I’m getting all the rewards, rest assured, I am reciprocating. First, my responses to his videos get him going. A lot. And second, I’ve been doing some sexy writing for our friend Mr. Northman. And he likes it. Probably not as much as he’d like it if I would send him a strip tease video, but I’m just not there yet, web dwellers. I want to be there. I wish I could be as bold as I tell myself I am and just do it. But the truth is, I’m so critical of my body no matter how much or little I weigh or work out, that I just do not know what it will take for me to truly reciprocate. So I “give back” in the best way I comfortably can: I write erotic stories for him. And I show him my tits a lot.

Watching Northman’s video performance was mind-blowing. I can’t think of any other man in my life who has ever been able to evoke a physical response that intense without even touching me. There is something I find so inherently erotic about this man, my mouth literally waters at the sight of just his bare chest. I won’t even go into what kind of bodily reactions I have to the sight of his bare — yeah, I’m biting my damn lip just typing about it.

Here’s the kicker, though. Northman and I had a few sexy Skype conversations this week, plus the video. Oh, yeah. The video. Mmmmmm…. Where was I? Oh, right. Skype. Anyway. Focus. Skype. Yes. Ok. We Skyped quite a bit, and I have to tell y’all, the honest truth is, while we did have some really fantastic sexiness via Skype, the best interactions I had with Northman this week had nothing to do with sex. Actually, that’s a damn lie. Every interaction with Northman has something to do with sex because I can’t look at him without wanting to reach through the screen and touch him. But you know what I mean. The best interactions were just conversations. We talked so much this week: Hours and hours of just talking about our minions, our work, our plans, our friends, our families. You know… I kind of feel like we’re actually starting to date. Sort of. In this weird, online, not really dating kind of way, true, but still, we’re sort of kind of dating. I think. And I like it.

We talk, each in our own beds, and it feels like this. Intimate. Close. Peaceful.

Northman listens to me. He asks insightful questions. He respects me as a parent, a friend, a woman, a professional, and an equal. He shares with me, and I enjoy listening to him. I like knowing what’s going on in his life and knowing how he takes his coffee. I like that he knows a lot more about some topics than I do and that he can teach me without being condescending; rather, he genuinely enjoys explaining things and takes his time in doing so. He doesn’t rush to answer when I ask him a question, but takes his time and gives the topic consideration when need be, and I like that. Plus, it gives me time to stare at his neck, which I also really like. Yum.

Northman makes me feel this sexy.

Here’s something else I really like, and go ahead and slam me via email or comments or what have you for being unevolved or unliberated or whatever other feminazi name you may want to call me. Northman is a man. He gets it that a man can respect a woman as an equal, enjoy being with a woman who knows more or is smarter or more educated, have a balanced romantic relationship with a woman, and have a completely equal partnership, all while still asserting himself as a man. So many men today seem to think that women are hypocrites if we demand equality in the workplace and in relationships but still appreciate a man who gives up his jacket or umbrella or who opens doors or dashes through the rain to bring a woman’s car around. Men who still do those things just turn me on.

American Gothic, True Blood style. That's old school, new sexy style.

I completely and openly admit that I adore a man who gives me his arm when we’re walking or offers his hand when I’m stepping off a curb. I appreciate a man who treats me like the lady I am and acts like the man in the relationship and not like a child I have to look after. I find men who value both femininity and self-sufficiency in women to be incredibly attractive. I like a man who wants to lift the heavy things, kill the bugs, and fix the clogged drains, even though we both know I’m absolutely capable of doing it all myself. I enjoy those little social niceties, those old-school gender roles. I realize they’re not for everyone, but I do personally like them.

I love that Northman is good with his hands without presuming that a woman can’t be. That’s just awesome. I love seeing him as someone who could protect me, regardless of whether I need protecting or whether I can look out for myself. Call it social programming and gender stereotyping if you want, but the truth is, I just find a capable, strong man really damn sexy. Being with a man like that makes me feel feminine and safe and adored. Maybe that’s just too old-school for some women, but it’s the truth.

The flip side is that Northman, while he is all of these things, appreciates a woman who doesn’t need any of it, regardless of whether she wants it. And I think that’s a lot of why this dynamic works between us (At least in theory. At least online.). Because neither of us needs the other. We just want one another. And I think for both of us, that want, that desire, is so much more attractive than being needed. I mean, good Lord, we’re both parents. We’re already needed 24/7. It’s really nice to just be wanted sometimes. Don’t you think?

Behind The Scenes At COASM

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Hey, web dwellers. I really wanted to give you something special for our 2-month anniversary together, but if you can believe it, there’s no set list of anniversary gifts for site followers by month. Get married and they give you a list for the next 60 fucking years. But look for a blog list and you’re S.O.L. Go figure. Anyway, so I had to come up with something on my own. But I can’t give you all life-sized Eric Northman cutouts (because they’re MINE, ALL MINE!), and I really don’t want to spend more than, oh, anything, so I decided that last month’s “word jumble” image will become a tradition, and I’ll do it each month to see how it changes. Maybe that’s more of a gift to myself than to you, because only dorks like me would want to compare word jumble images from month to month, but you know, if you think about it, when I’m happy, I write more. And when I write more, y’all read more of this dirty, crazy lunacy that I call my life. So, yay. Happy anniversary to us. 

So I used the jumble generator, and here’s what it came up with:

What kind of crap is this? It's like they didn't even try! Not good enough for my web dwellers. Also, kind of weird emphasis on Northman, don't you think?

So I figured it was a fluke and I’d just try again. I mean, what are the odds it would do something similarly sufficient in making me seem creepily obsessed with Northman? The real-life one OR the TV one.

Yeah. So it gave me this. WTF?

Not as bad as the first, but still kind of fucked up if you think about it. Which I’m trying not to do. So I tried again. What can I say? I’m persistent.

Ok, how does this even count? "Northman" isn't even in the shape with everything else.

But I would not give up that easily. No. I would not be outdone and made to feel like some kind of whack-job stalker by an auto-word-generating website thingie. So I did it again.

This one is like an ink blot test that makes me think of sex, so I like it, but it's STILL got Northman ridiculously disproportionate to everything else.

And again….

They fit it all in the shape this time. I'll give 'em that.


And again…

Really?

Aaaand again…

Oh, sweet Jesus in Birks.

Yeah, and again.

How is this different from the last one?

I just would not fucking give up.

Maybe a little better, but also only because I was losing a grip at this point.

And finally, I got this:

My favorite and my gift to you. Or me. Whatever.

Here’s the thing, web dwellers, the jumbles are a hell of a lot like my blog. I generate something, and sometimes it’s awesome, and sometimes it’s a big, fat turd. But, apparently, there’s always some Northman in it, so ultimately, it’s awesome. Happy anniversary.

Please Don’t Spit On My Fries.

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Why do kids always have to pee when you’re alone with them in the middle of a restaurant in the middle of lunch? If it’s a kid place, like “Windy’s” as Minion #1 calls it, and we get up to pee, odds are someone will throw out our food while we’re in the potty (They have decent service). Or spit on it (People are fucked up). But in today’s world, you can’t send a 7-year-old into a public bathroom alone, nor can you leave a 5-year-old happily eating what passes for chicken at these pseudo-food factories, either.

It's a food-like substance. It counts. And they think I'm cool. For five minutes.

Before y’all start jumping on me for A) being overprotective, or B) letting my minions eat McFood, let me first say this, web dwellers. Haters gonna hate. I just had to say that once. And you know what? It definitely sounds as stupid when I say it as it does when I hear other people say it. So I won’t say that again. And you shouldn’t either. Anyway. If you’re a “hater,” kindly go do that shit somewhere else, please. Be gone, haterific trolling flamers (Not the good type of “flamers.” I like you year-round-Disney-pass-owning, Justin-Beiber-downloading, single, kid-less, self-proclaimed flamers. Y’all kick ass and I love the shit out of you. I’m talking about the web flamers, and they suck. And not in a good way.)

The rest of you, this is what I have to say about letting kids eat the occasional French fry: Fries and “chicken” nuggets are for kids what martinis and cheesecake are for adults. That is, they’re completely unnecessary in theory, but somehow they’re also totally essential for a happy life. My minions eat organic cheese from happy, organic cows and get free-range chicken grown without hormones or steroids or rap music exposure, and they drink arsenic-free $6-a-piece organic fruit juice boxes from apples picked by organic-cotton-gloved virgin Israelites on blessed, untainted land in Jerusalem. They somehow live static-free lives despite my refusal to coat their clothes in toxins via dryer sheets, and they get slathered in $12-a-bottle PABA-free, allergen-free, aiuhpiuasf-free sunblock every summer because if they’re going to have their skin anointed with chemicals all day to avoid skin cancer, we should avoid sunblocks that have chemicals in them that cause cancer. Otherwise, what the fuck is the point? And no, aiuhpiuasf isn’t a thing. Just checking to see if you’re paying attention.

In short, I am “that mom.” I am trying to feed my kids healthy foods and use healthy products on a budget without having them be the weird kids in cruelty-free Birkenstocks with organic llama-hair rainbow knee-socks and German-import lunchboxes. And that means learning moderation. We eat the good, healthy stuff 95% of the time. We get treats 5% of the time. So, yeah. My kids eat McDonalds’ chicken-free chicken nuggets and fries in the funky red boxes. And they fucking love it. And they’re healthy. But I still won’t let them have soda because caffeine is for Mommy. Period.

As for Part A: the overprotective mom who won’t let her 7-year-old pee alone? Let me tell you, web dwellers. Last week, I read a story about a 13-year-old kid who raped a 5-year-old girl in one of those giant hamster maze play areas at a fast food place last year. It’s not just freakshow pedophiles in trench coats we have to worry about anymore. Other fucking kids are dangerous now. Yeah, I know it’s a one in a million deal. Odds are there aren’t any predatory nutjobs right this moment, right in this bathroom. But there is one in a bathroom somewhere, and you can’t un-ring that fucking bell, people.

I may seem overprotective to some, and that’s fine with me. If you haven’t noticed, I don’t give a high-flying trapeze of a fuck what people think of me, especially when it has to do with how I raise my kids. Because, honestly, they are MY responsibility, and they are mobile little pieces of my soul walking around making goofball kid decisions. My own happy little oblivious horcruxes. So, when it comes to my own little minions, there is no such thing as overprotective. Short of moving to the middle of Amish country and locking them in a tower with nothing but an organic farm to sustain them, there’s very little I won’t do to protect my kids from this fucked up, crazy, whack-a-doodle-infested world we’re living in. Except stop taking them to McDonald’s, because we all need some of Ronald’s fries once in a while. Including Mommy.

But they DO have a lot of pictures of Eric Northman...so I joined.

So, there we are, in the middle of “Windy’s,” (damn, that was a long tangent), and Minion #1 has to pee. Well, shit. Our food is hot, our drinks are cold, and we could not be sitting further from the potty. What to do? I scan the room. SCORE. Right behind us, a mom. A non-frazzled, not-overly-distracted, friendly looking mom who has only as many kids as she had hands. Oh. Manicured hands. A mom who pays attention to detail. Shit. Her hair’s done all cute. And she’s smiling while her kid happily eats the kid meal with apples without begging for fries. Oh, damn, dude. She’s probably one of those moms who makes daily art projects with her kids, then posts her commercial-quality step-by-step photo instruction blog about each project on Pinterest. I fucking hate those women. But she’s a mom, and I’ll take what I can get.

Me: Excuse me, would you mind watching our food?

Normal person: Watching your food?

Me: Yes, well, we need to pee and you look normal. You know, like you wouldn’t spit in our food.

Normal person: Why would someone spit in your food?

Me: Well, you know, or throw it out. You wouldn’t throw it out.

Normal person: If you’re done, I think you’re supposed to throw out your own things here and put the tray away.

Me: No, I mean, if we go to the potty, you wouldn’t accidentally throw out our unfinished food before we got back.

Normal person: Of course not. I don’t work here.

Me: Right, that’s why I said, you know, you wouldn’t spit in our food. The throwing it away part is more for someone who works here.

Normal person: Uh huh.

Me: So, would you please watch our food while we go use the potty?

Normal person: Please go away.

Me: I’ll take that as a “yes.” Come on, minions.

So we walked to the potty together, and Minion #1 said to me through the closed stall door (you know, I do allow privacy, just not privacy for psychos), “Mommy, that lady thinks you’re crazy. She looked at you like you had a zombie head like in Plants vs. Zombies. Braaaaains. Braaaaaaaaains…”

Braaaaaaaaiiiinnnnnsssss....

I don’t know about y’all, but zombie humor cracks my shit up. So I said, “Braaaaains. Eat braaaains!!!” and Minion #2 about peed on the floor laughing, and then all three of us had to pee, and finally we were all done laughing like maniacs and got our hands washed up and walked out of the potty without touching anything (ick), and headed back to our table only to find that our new friend and her two progeny had fled the premises, presumably so we wouldn’t eat their brains, but our food was right where we’d left it and you can bet your booty my minions chowed down like a couple of zombie lawnmowers.

And there you have it. That’s how much I love my minions. I’m willing to have people think I’m a crazy lunatic and eat overpriced, cold food(-like substances) no one spit on (that I can tell) even though I have this irrational fear of something weird happening to my unattended food. So please, let me have my moments at McDonald’s being a cartoon zombie with my kids. They’re only going to think I’m funny for a little while longer. And if we ask, please watch our nuggets, and don’t spit on my fries. Thanks.

Oh, I Am Pissed.

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Fuck you, Russell. I hope you get liquified and run down a garbage disposal.

This morning, I got all excited when I saw that there was a “True Blood Season 5 Teaser” trailer to watch (Yes, click there; WordPress won’t let me post a video). Let me tell you something, web dwellers. To be a trailer, it has to have some fucking video content. Not just some words. And I’m all about the words. But these words didn’t even include “Northman,” so now I’m just annoyed.

 

(Don’t read this if you haven’t watched True Blood Season 4 and plan to. And if you haven’t watched TB4, you should plan to. Unless you have poor short-term memory, in which case this really won’t fuck anything up for you.)

 

 

Is it me, or is this a really fucking creepy image of C. Meloni? Something about how he's about 45 years too old and/or the wrong gender to be posing on a fuzzy rug like that.

So, whoop dee doo, Russell Annoyington is returning from being imprisoned in concrete below a Herveaux Construction parking garage for all of Season 4, even though it was supposed to take him 100 years to get out of all that silver and recover from being turned into a Kentucky Fried Vampire. Duh. We knew that at the end of last season. And according to the article, Steve Newlin’s back. Thank you, Captain Obvious. This is so not news, as we saw that happen on Jason’s front porch at the end of Season 4. And Chris Maloney is on the show. Again, not news. And he better not suck because L&O: SVU is worse without him than American Idol was withPaula Abdul and her drunken monkey clapping. So if he fucks up two shows I love, I will have to stop watching tv, and I really don’t want to have to start drinking more to fill the time. It’s expensive.

 

 

HOW did I even know to look for a Season 5 non-trailer? I was trolling some WordPress blogs I like, including “Eric And Sookie Lovers,” (yes, click there to see their video, which is a different one, and which also has absolutely zero new TB footage) which sometimes has a good scoop on the show and always makes me feel less abnormal for my Northman fixation. I’m starting to think I don’t even need to take down that semi-naked ceiling poster with the glow-in-the-dark fangs. I mean, if these people can have a whole blog dedicated to True Blood and the perfection that is Eric♥Sookie, then surely I can have one Alexander Skarsgard lifesize cardboard cutout in my powder room, right? It goes with the towels.

 

Helllloooooo, Mister Harper.

 

So, here. Because I love you web dwellers more than my big heavy blanket I use for hiding on the back porch while I praise Mr. Coffee, here’s some actual news I found: Following the Sookie Stackhouse book series story line, it looks like the Pelt family will start looking for their little psycho in Season 5, which should start riiiight around the point at which Sookie blew her freaking head off after Debbie whacked Tara (Presumably,  she’s dead. I mean, unless some vamp comes running in and doses her with serious amounts of V juice in the first 2 seconds of Season 5) while trying to kill Sookie. Again.

Good morning, Mr. Underwear. Er, Underwood. Oh, shit. Wood. Damnit he's so sexy I can't speak. Type. Whatever.

 

And if the Pelts are looking for Debbie, then maybe, JUST MAYBE, we’ll get introduced to Quinn (not my Quinn, he’s mine, web dwellers) but that better not be who Chris Meloni is supposed to be because you sir, are no Quinn. Quinn looks like Shaft. Quinn is tall, black, strong, muscular, and gorgeous to the point of being painful to look at with crazy beautiful eyes. Quinn is like… Hill Harper or oooh! Blair Underwood. Yeah, baby. Quinn is NOT an Irish cop from Brooklyn. Sorry, Chris.