Tag Archives: NOT elf porn

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.

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.

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.

 

Donkey Vaginas

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So, I’m on the phone with my girlfriend, Penny, today, and there’s all this noise in the background.

Not where I go to pick up dinner, but to each her own.

Me: “Where the hell are you, an air show?”

Penny: “No, I’m at Public’s.”

Me: “You’re at Pubics? What is that? A sex shop? Nice!”

Penny: “No, Cathy. It’s PUB-LICKS. You know? ‘Where shopping is a pleasure?’ Don’t you have Public’s?”

Me: “‘Where shopping is a pleasure’ sure sounds like a sex shop to me. And who wants  to shop at a store named after your groin? What the hell are you shopping for, woman?”

Penny: “Oh, good Lord in Heaven. It’s P-U-B-L-I-X. Publix. And it’s a grocery store, and its slogan is, ‘Where shopping is a pleasure.’ I can’t believe you’ve never heard of it.”

Me: “Nope. Never heard of it. And all the stores here are public. And I’m sorry, but if you have your minions with you, shopping is not a damn pleasure, it’s a big ole pain in the ass.”

Penny: “Fine. I’m at the Piggly Wiggly. Is that better?”

Me: “Oh, now you’re just fucking with me.”

This is how our phone conversations go sometimes, because Penny’s lived in Florida for a really long time, and apparently, it’s a big deal there to have public supermarkets. As opposed to private ones, I guess. Whatever. Anyway, so we’re on the phone while she’s in this store that could lose one light in its sign and have “PUB IX” which isn’t really a word but would still make me laugh out loud. Who names a grocery store after a vagina? Because that’s what pubis means, sort of, and I’m pretty sure publix is the plural of pubis. And if it wasn’t before, it sure as hell is now.

So, anyway, miracle of miracles, Penny has no minions with her, and mine are still at Spring Break camp for the day, so even though she’s shopping (And taking some pleasure in it because that’s the rule at the vagina store – they should hand out bullet vibrators when you walk in if they want to keep up the sex theme and really have shopping be a pleasure) we just do our usual chit chat and I ask her increasingly inane questions about this mystery store because it’s bugging her, and I’m a bitch like that.

Penny: “So, this Final Four thing is really cutting into my time with MY Northman.”

Me: “Woman, please. He’s not your Northman. There is only one Northman, and he is my Northman.”

Penny: “Yeah, I was just trying something out there.”

Me: “And how’s that working out for you?”

Penny: “Enough.”

Me: “Ok, fine. What else shall we talk about while you’re at Pube-Licks? Do they kick you out if you don’t have an orgasm when you see their sale prices?”

Penny: “Something’s wrong with you.”

Me: “So? Did you read Northman’s bedtime story with your non-Northman? I won’t use his name in the blog. He won’t like that. Why don’t we call him Billy?”

Penny: “Billy? Like a goat?”

Me: “No, Billy, like, ‘Hey, my name is William but people call me Billy.’”

Penny: “Thanks for clarifying. And no, we didn’t read it together because he’s been overly involved in that stupid basketball tournament and by the time he comes to bed, I’m asleep.”

Me: “Bummer.”

Penny: “And I really liked that story! I thought he would, you know…”

I guess shopping really is a pleasure!

Me: “I wonder if you can buy passion fruit at Pubis. Do you get extra bonus points on your frequent shopper card if you do? Ooh! Do they sell those Durex cock rings like they have at Target?”

Penny: “You’re not listening. I loved Northman’s story. That was hot.”

Me: “This isn’t news. Finding out if your one-stop sex-and-passion-fruit store has cock rings, THAT would be news.”

Penny: “I liked the whole thing except for the um, the fisting part. I’m not so sure I want someone’s fist up my hoo-hah. I’ve already given birth, thankyouverymuch, and it wasn’t sexy.”

Me: “I have news for you, Penny. A fist is smaller than a baby.”

Penny: “Yeah, but … ow.”

Me: “Well you don’t do it if it hurts. Obviously. Maybe there’s some kind of sex manual in the book section there. You need help. Look next to the kum-quats.”

I can't think of donkeys without thinking of Donkey from Shrek. "And in the morning, I'm making WAFFLES!!" I should have asked Penny if they sell waffles at her sexy food store.

Penny: “How could it not hurt? Having someone’s fist up your hoo-hah?”

Me: “Ok, once I can ignore, but twice, no. It’s not a ‘hoo-hah.’ That’s like, a donkey’s vagina or something. Call it what it is, woman. Vagina. Say it. VA-GI-NAHHHH.”

Penny: “I will not say that in the market! And that’s not the point! How could it not hurt?”

Me: “Well, fine, if you want to get technical about it, it happens to you at least once a year. You go to your OB/GYN, and while that’s not sexy, she does tuck in her thumb and reach on up there to check you out. And that doesn’t hurt. I mean, it’s not pleasant, but that has more to do with the latex gloves and the nurse watching than with her hand being—”

Penny (cutting me off!): “What? She does?”

Me: “Don’t you pay attention to what’s happening during your own exam, Penny?”

Penny: “No, not really. I don’t want to know. But anyway, I’m pretty sure mine doesn’t do that.” Then she got all cocky, “Yeah! Yeah! Your OB does not have to put her whole hand in your you-know-what! What kind of OB do you go to, anyway?!”

Me: “Ok, you know, I think this has to do with the fact that you have a really short cervical length, and my cervix is about three feet north of my vagina. So my OB has to get her hand in there up to her damn elbow to reach my cervix, but yours can probably just use a fucking q-tip.”

Penny: “Oh, you know, that’s right. I do have a short cervical length. Huh. So your cervix is that far from your vagina? Or labia, or whatever?”

Me: “I can’t hear you. What did you say?”

Penny (louder): “I said, is your cervix really that far up? You know? From your vagina? From your outsides?”

Me: “I don’t know about you, but I guarantee someone around you thinks that right now, shopping is a fucking serious pleasure.”

Penny: “Ohmigosh!!! I just said that out loud in the market!”

Me: “Don’t worry, it’s half a sex store, right? They’ll probably give you a discount for that.”