Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

Like Chatroulette But With Less Wang


Do you remember Chatroulette, Pranksters?

I only came across it back when I was writing online sex shop reviews for Toy With Me and searching for an angle to cover. If you have NO idea what I’m talking about, lemmie give you the very briefest of rundowns to the very best of my dwindling brain capacity.

Chatroulette was created by some college kid in (I believe) Russia who had the grand idea to create a site in which you could talk to various people around the globe via webcam. Neat, right? But you do see problem inherent, don’t you, Pranksters? THIS IS THE INTERNET WE’RE TALKING ABOUT.

If you have no idea what I mean by that, well, let’s just say, Internet = Penis-Galore.

So you could pop on your webcam and, in theory, make friends across the globe, so that you and your new-found globular friends could join hands and sing “We Are The World” a-Capella. In theory. Like communism. In theory.

If you got bored with the person you were talking to, you could simply switch to someone else to chat with…. except it didn’t work out so well. Basically, a Chatroulette session showed many a teenage girl what, exactly, a creepers pervert and his trouser snake looked like. Over. And. Fucking. Over. Sometimes, the mystique was, you’d manage to meet a celeb. IN THEORY.

This probably explains Chatroulette better than I can (is safe for work. Probably):

What you just saw, Pranksters, is Chatroulette at it’s finest. Apparently, the site’s still around to disgust the masses (just like this one!)

(holy long-winded intro, Batman!)

When Google Plus came out, I was all, why the balls am I getting invites to another social media network? Is this Google’s version of The Facebook? Why does my cat wipe his ass on the carpet? What the fuck is a hobby?

(pointless and un-pithy aside: I’m a firm believer that one can be good at between one and three social media platforms, but no more).

Most people who signed up with Google Plus were all, “daar, this isn’t Facebook,” and rather than just go back to where they came from (read: The Facebook) to continue playing with their fake farms, they complained bitterly about how G+ wasn’t Facebook. All over G+. That’s a fuck-ton of energy wasted right there.

Initially, I gave G+ the good old “meh,” and went back to The Twitter to spew my garbage in 140 characters or less. I had a couple G+ accounts because I have 76 email addresses for no good reason which meant that I inadvertently had 76 G+ accounts. But considering half of what I saw on there were those lame-ass picture quotes (like so):


Okay, so generally the quotes are more like this:

Chatroulette 2

Erms, sorta.

In my head it went something like this: “G+ is like Pinterest but with dudes.”

That was, of course, until the night of the Sandy Hook shooting. Since, as most of you are aware, I work for The Band Back Together Project, we decided that it would be a good night for us to do a G+ hangout to discuss our grief. That lasted 10 minutes before a bunch of people showed up and we got to know people, literally, around the world.

We’d been using G+ to conduct our board meetings for ages, but somehow, we’d never managed to connect that to the idea that there might be new and exciting people on Google Plus who did new and exciting things, like “NOT SHOW THE WORLD THEIR PEEN.” It was a fucking Internet Miracle.

If you have any doubts of it’s randomness, check out this video (skip to minute 1), taken by a friend of mine who’d been live-screening this G+ chat on YouTube (if you skip around, you can see how bizarre it is).

So if’n you’re ever on G+ and want to chat, here’s my page and my profile. I’ve made a couple of communities for us (one for mah blog and one for Teh Band) so we can hang out together and, quite frankly, I’d love to meet you, Pranksters. The Band community is hosting a hangout tonight at 7CST and I’ll be there.

Gaps in geography means that it’s hard to really hang out, unless, of course, we do it online. And so, we make our way into the future. A future with less peen and more community.

I gotta say, it looks pretty bright from here.

9284237 Steps To Be A Better Photoblogger


Now, I don’t know if you knew, but if you want to be a successful blogger, you’re supposed to have an advanced degree in photography. At least, that’s what blogs like the omniscient Dooce and the ever-present, always delightful, Pioneer Woman have taught me. Well, that and I should probably make some shit homemade or roll around in a tub of butter or something, but I stopped listening at “photoblogger.”

I grew up in a photogs household. No, not the kind trying to get beav shots of Brit-Brit as she gets out of the car, but the people who have darkrooms in their basement, the smell of darkroom chemicals wafting from their pores. Every holiday, every given Sunday, any day of the week found my father, brother and grandfather, all with dueling cameras, trying to snap pictures. I don’t know how many holiday dinners went (quite literally) to the dogs as we were forced to pose, then pose again, then repose because “the light’s not right.”

I was primed to grow up with a camera in my hands or convinced that, in my formative years, I was a child star.

You know which happened.

Back in Aught Five, I had The Daver buy me a Christmas present – a DSLR. I figured that it’d be like osmosis – I’d grown up with a lens in my face, there was NO reason I wouldn’t magically understand the 8274-niner dials and begin speaking about “apertures”and “light quality” and “winning at life.” Except that, well, even with Ashton Kutcher (who was not QUITE so douchebaggalicious back then) selling me the thing, I still wasn’t much of a photog.

I mean, I got the idea of what composed a good picture, but did you know, Pranksters, that DSLR’s weigh approximately 250 pounds? With cameras out there the size of a granola bar, who the shit wants to lug THAT around?

(answer: other people who are not me)

But, since I was stewed in the embryonic waters of photogs, I did learn a bit about photography along the way.

Without further ado, here is Aunt Becky’s Guide to Photo-blogging:

First, one must capture their subject. In doing so, it must be referred to “subject” possibly using the term “medium” just because it makes you sound like a fancy person.

While you may note that there is, in fact, a cat in this shot, the shot was not for the cat. Because that is NOT my fake-dead cat, Mr. Sprinkles, but my perfectly alive cat Chloe, who is both stupid and possibly brain damaged.

First things first. Watermarks. That’s YOUR way of saying, “don’t steal my shit, shitheal,” because obviously adding that to a photo means you KNOW what you’re doing. A lot of bloggers employ this technique:

While that’s all well and good (supposing you don’t think people will just cut that bit of useless blather off the oh-so-coveted picture of cat vom, I much prefer THIS approach:

It’s ugly. It obscures the photo. And it says, “DON’T STEAL MY STUFF, SHITBREAD.”

Anyway. Watermark aside the subject of this particular photo would have been unclear, would I not to do this, a technique I like to call the “Captain Obvious Technique:”

I iz a photoblogger

If I hadn’t done the Captain Obvious Technique, you may have erroneously believed that I was talking about my brain-damaged cat Chloe, her water bowl (which says, “Good Dog,” which I find hilarious), or, perhaps, my floor, which is in desperate need of replacement.

But no.

Using the Captain Obvious Technique, I left NO room for error. Not only did I inform you WHAT you were to be looking at, I was sure to POINT to it, so that you weren’t under the impression that the cat puke was anywhere but by the arrow. I find that really helps one appreciate fine art.

But why stop there?

There is so much more to be done.

For example, we could make my brain-dead cat Chloe talk!

Although I assume it’s more like this:

By rearranging thought bubbles, I was able to capture that Chloe might be a super-genius, while the pile of puke is an angsty teenager.

But WHY STOP THERE? There’s so much more to be done. If one wants to be a TRUE photoblogger, one must be willing to make it ARTSY.

We ALL know artsy = soft core porn.

And never, ever be afraid to mix mediums:

You’ll note that in this particular photograph, I decide that the cat barf could use a whimsical touch – like a birthday cap and Tom Cruise shades. I added, because one should never be afraid to mix mediums, a textured background. Why?


Up next, 821,722, 018  steps to be a better blogger!

The Tree House of Horror


I remember vividly trying to find places to make out when I was a teenager. It wasn’t that I was some gigantic slut—no, really—it’s just that there are only so many places that one can successfully get their legs properly humped far away from the prying eyes of parents and/or siblings. Bedrooms were preferred, because they contained, well, BEDS, but they were often strictly guarded by parents who knew exactly what two horny kids would do when allowed to be alone for more than five seconds. And it wasn’t Parcheesi.

Cars were okay, but the police in my hometown (where I still live) seldom have anything better to do than bust underage smokers or underage humpers, so screwing around in a car, while optimal in some regards because it’s mobile, isn’t exactly always a great idea. The Great Outdoors comes with bugs, lurking Uncle Pervies, hikers and picnickers and my personal favorite: Poison Ivy. No one wants Poison Ivy on their privates. Not, thankfully, that I would actually know from experience. So while I do appreciate the plight of the horny teen, I do know that there are plenty of places that can be made hump-worthy. I know I’ve gotten my leg humped in many, many places over the years.

While I do still live in my hometown, thank the Sweet Baby Jesus that I no longer live with my parents because that would be awkward mostly because I would have murdered them by now. The area that I do live is across the river and we happened to move into Teenager Row. Most people hate teenagers, but I happen to find them hilarious. Plus, they mow my lawn and do assorted chores around the house for me since I have about four thousand children and a husband who is around approximately three minutes every other week. To me, it’s a total win, and for that I can even put up with their annoying whiny emo music for the privilege of being able to work them to the bone. Cheap slave labor makes me very, very happy.

One of them in particular tends to mow my lawn on a semi-regular basis when he can be bothered to remember. He’s a teenager so I don’t hold him to any sort of high standards. One afternoon, I blearily noticed that he’d left his baseball cap on top of the treehouse in my children’s play-set. It’s a pretty sweet set-up they have and I’ll be the first to admit that I am totally making up for the fact that my own parents didn’t buy me cool shit buy buying my own kids what I deem to be the coolest shit ever. Their play-set is pimp. It’s beyond pimp, actually, and I’m halfway considering moving out there myself. Well, I would, except that my own house is cooler. Air conditioning trumps no air conditioning any day.

Anyway, the hat sits there and it annoys me because I’m a little OCD and it doesn’t fucking belong there, but my neighborhood kid doesn’t seem to notice that he’s missing his hat. I am simply stunned that he doesn’t notice that he’s missing his hat! Why, when I was that age, I would have noticed that I was missing my baseball cap! Okay, that’s a lie, because I’ve owned one baseball cap ever and it says “Mrs. Timberlake” on it and I bought it when I was twenty-four because OBVIOUSLY wouldn’t you? But weeks pass and the hat sits in the treehouse and every time I see it it’s like it’s TAUNTING me by simply being there because it doesn’t motherfucking belong there! The kid comes back a couple of times and mows my lawn and still, leaves the hat, and I am beyond mystified by this.

Finally, I catch him outside one day when all of the adults are standing around splitting some beers and noshing on encased meats.

“Kid,” I say to him, my excitement reaching a fever pitch. “I have your hat!” I probably got a little in his face because that’s how I get when I’m excited by something and trust me, Internet, I was beyond excited. Before he could say “restraining order,” I ran inside and retrieved the hat. Triumphantly, I brought it back outside where I handed it to him with a huge smile on my face. I was just THAT HAPPY to give the hat back to it’s rightful owner. I was sure that the hat was equally happy to be back home once again because I might have been a wee bit drunk at the time.

“Um,” he looked at the hat and back at me. “That’s actually not my hat.”

My mouth hit the ground. What the fuck? I have a fenced in back yard, three small children and two loud dogs. Really, my yard isn’t a free-for-all of movement and no one really gets in or gets out without me noticing. Sort of like the Hotel California. What the hell did he mean, “that’s not my hat?”

My OCD kicked into hyperdrive at this revelation because if it wasn’t his hat and it wasn’t my hat and it wasn’t Dave’s, Ben’s, Alex’s or Amelia’s, then who the fuck owned the hat? Squirrels? The fucking Invisible Man? Gnomes? I couldn’t figure it out and it ate at my brain for weeks. Trust me, I don’t have enough brain for it to be taken over with such a thing for so long. I’m pretty sure nothing else got done for those weeks.

Facebook finally cracked it for me. The neighbors behind me frequently held bonfires attended by scads of teenagers. Those teenagers were using my fucking treehouse as, well a fucking treehouse. Which, I mean, if you think about it, is kinda awesome for them, kinda gross for me, because my kids go in there all the damn time. Without knowing it, I’d been hosting an orgy of teenagers in my backyard, probably humping legs with wild abandon. My very own den of intrigue! The hat must have replaced the tie as a symbol for “do NOT come in here.” If I took a black light in there, I’d be willing to bet it would look like Fight Club, only replace the blood and hair with spooge. Thankfully, I’d thrown out the black light along with the beaded curtains years before, so I won’t torture myself, but let’s just say I hit it up with some Lysol after that, and immediately threw out the hat.

More than anything, I was happy to have solved the mystery and a little jealous that I’d never been so creative when I was a teenager. Kids these days, man. They’re so fucking smart. Too bad that Imma booby trap the damn thing at night now. They may be smart, but I have a AMEX black card.

Score one for Aunt Becky.

A Boy Named Amelia


We went through a phase a couple of months ago, in which my middle son, Alex, decided that showing off his penis was hilarious. I mean it kinda is hilarious, but you know, having him walk around with it hanging out to receive the express reaction he was looking for: “Alex, PUT AWAY YOUR PENIS,” led to other problems.

And not just the development of MORE grey hair.

No, now my daughter believes that she, too, has a penis.

Nothing can be done to dissuade her. I’ve tried everything, “Girls have vaginas, Amelia. And you have a vagina because you are a girl,” only enrages Her Majesty.

“NO, MAMA, MIMI’S PENIS,” she shouts indignantly whenever I dare question Princess Amelia’s Way of Thinking.

Thinking on my feet (no easy task when you have a brain the approximate size and shape of a pea), I pointed out her girl bits as proof that she, like me, is sans penis.


Head in hands, I realized that I wasn’t going to win this argument and besides, I had to give her points there: it does kinda look like a butt.

As Close To Naked As You’ll Ever See Me.


I’m getting a tattoo on Tuesday (win!) but I’m not entirely sure what I want underneath, except that I do NOT want fire. I’d rather get a poorly misspelled name than fire under the phoenix tattoo. But you know, I need something else under there. A scene.




Love. Hurts.


I met Pashmina in college. She’s one of the few friends that I’ve written about here (Butt Sex Check ring any bells?), mostly because she was my old co-blogger back when Mushroom Printing was a personal blog where we talked about our vaginas and not the stunningly amazing group blog it is today.

I met her when I’d wandered into her dorm room to avoid my roommate, It Means Butterfly, who was probably composing sonnets to her boyfriend (Dave) and, upon spying an ashtray, plopped my ass down and lit a cigarette. We’ve been friends ever since.

While we met Loyola University Chicago, (she was an English major, I was pre-med) I popped a crotch parasite out of my delicate girl bits, she did not. I moved home. Figured my dorm had enough problems with 3AM fire drills; they didn’t need 3AM diaper changes, too. Pashmina stayed at LUC and I enrolled in the nursing program at Elmhurst College.

It was during this time that Pashmina met Dave.

(Dave must have been an extremely popular name from 1975-1985 because there are more Dave’s in my life than any other name)

Dave is not to be confused with The Daver, although, since Pashmina did introduce me to The Daver, initially, I confused the two.

I never had the pleasure of meeting Dave. I was up to my eyeballs in poopy diapers and colic while Pashmina was off gallivanting with her new boyfriend, Dave.

By the time I saw Pashmina again, Ben was a toddler and Dave was no longer Her Boyfriend. I’d taken the train up to her place in the city and as we sat on her couch with our Gay Friend James, overlooking the lake, she mentioned her old boyfriend, Dave. I was instantly riveted.

See, I play War with crappy ex-boyfriends. Like, “So-and-so beats your ex because he did this.” It’s tremendous fun, really. Especially if you’ve had a number of lousy boyfriends (or girlfriends, really), like I have.

So, I perked up. A crappy ex, you don’t say. TELL ME MORE.

James began to laugh. Pashmina joined in. I stared on, perplexed.

“Well,” she said, once she could breathe again. “He wrote me these love letters. And Becky, they were terrible. They were so terrible THAT I SAVED THEM.” She pulled them from a box in the living room.

She wasn’t kidding.

“Read them out loud,” she begged, knowing that acting out melodramatic garbage is something I excel at. She and James were practically pissing themselves.

I stood up, cleared my throat, and began in a voice that any dinner-theatre acting troupe would have admired.

“My Deeearest Pashmina,

I write to you today, my darling, from the train. Oh! (I flung my hand to my forehead to punctuate the emotion) The train is crowded. (I exhaled, dramatically). I thought of you, oh! love of my life! When I was standing in line to get coffee (I paused, to let the emotion roll over me) there was an asshole who cut in front of me! (I pointed my finger at the air, angrily) HOW DARE HE CUT IN FRONT OF ME. (I punched the air with every word)

I love you, my love of my life, oh! (more hand wringing) love of my life.


P.S. My cat box, OOOOOOOH! (I dragged that out for at least ten seconds) it smells.”

I threw myself back onto the couch in mock-anguish. Pashmina and James had tears coursing down their cheeks.

“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” she choked out. “For Christmas,” she giggled, “he made me a calendar.”

Well, I thought, that was kind of lame. But the two of them were carrying on like it was the funniest thing ever. She went to her bedroom and brought it back out.

“He made me a calendar out of DUCT TAPE and COMPUTER PAPER and the FONT was THESE NAKED PEOPLE HAVING SEX, Becky,” she started laughing again. “Each day was something he loved about me.”

“Holy fuckballs,” I chortled, “that’s SO fucking stupid.” Pashmina wasn’t exactly the “I love you because…” kind of person.

“TELL HER THE BEST PART,” James chimed in.

“THE BEST PART IS,” she broke off, overtaken by laughter, “IT ONLY WENT UP TO FEBRUARY 8.”

“BWAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! THAT’S….that’s so awesomely bad. ‘I only love you 38 days of the year, honey. The rest, you’re SOL,'” I was dying.

“AND,” she gasped, “most of those were repeats!” HE COULDN’T EVEN THINK OF 38 THINGS HE LOVED ABOUT ME.”

“That wins. YOU WIN. OH MY GOD. YOU WIN. I cannot top this,” my sides hurt from laughing so hard.

I’ve been asking her for a copy of this calendar for years now and I still haven’t gotten one, which means that I probably never will. I guess I’ll just have to make one for myself. And shit, to be fair to Dave, I can’t think of 38 things I love about anyone. Then again, I’d never want to make a cheesy calendar about it, either.

Pashmina still makes me perform impassioned readings of her old Love Letters whenever I see her. Some day, maybe I’ll vlog it for you, Pranksters. I never got Love Letters OR Love Calendars, probably because no one loved me enough. Or, more likely, because they knew I’d be unable to handle such grand gestures.

So, who wants to make me a Love Calendar for VD-Day?

YOUR TURN, PRANKSTERS. I want to hear your worst relationship stories.

Bloggies, yo.


In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I’ll give away a “Shut Your Whore Mouth” shirt to one of you.

For one entry, leave a comment with a relationship story.

For a second entry, add Mommy Wants Vodka to your blogroll (leave a comment letting me know that you did so).

An Open Letter to The Makers of Cialis


Dear The Makers Of Cialis:

Can I call you Eli Lilly and Company? I hate to be so informal without the pleasure of having met you personally, but I feel like I know you already. I mean, you’ve put commercials of old people with boners in bathtubs onto my television for years causing me to think of old men peen for the rest of the day, which makes me feel as though I do know you, Eli Lilly and Company. We’re practically Christmas Card friends, now, aren’t we?

I get it now, Eli Lilly and Company, I do. If I had erectile dysfunction, I’d probably never enjoy sitting in the middle of the forest in a bathtub holding hands. If I had erectile dysfunction, I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to stroll in fields of wheat (or is it barley? I tried to scour the Internet for answers, but no one could tell me if erectile dysfunction = strolling in wheat OR strolling in barley. I feel like you should inform us of the proper fields to stroll through with our limp penises, Eli Lilly and Company). I also now know, thanks to your informative commercial, that if I had erectile dysfunction, I would never, EVER take a whimsical bicycle ride for two through a cobbled street.

These, Eli Lilly and Company, are all things I now know about erectile dysfunction.

These are also things my nine-year old son now knows, too. When he asks me, “Mom, what’s erectile dysfunction?” I simply tell him that it’s some confusing thing involving roving bathtubs in forests. He seemed satisfied, although he may have a life-long fear of roaming claw-foot bathtubs. I’ll send you the therapy bills, Eli Lilly and Company.

What I need to know, Eli Lilly and Company, is how one should call their doctor for erections lasting more than 36 hours because that seems, well, a little awkward, don’t you think?

Receptionist: “Hello, thank you for calling Your Doctor.”

Erection Guy: “I’ve had an erection lasting for 36 hours!”

Receptionist: “You’re a perv.” *hangs up* *files restraining order*

You see, Eli Lilly and Company, how this could be a little awkward for all parties.

I nearly called my own doctor to see if I could get a prescription for this Cialis, as I wouldn’t mind a leisurely bath in the forest (I do not have the same roving bathtub fear as my son), if only to get away from the short people who insist upon whining, “MOOOOOOOMMMMM,” every 2.3 seconds, until your actors, pretending to engage in a personal conversation with me (ME!) said that, “Cialis is not right for everyone.

Well. Now. Talk about a bait-and-switch!

So, Eli Lilly and Company, I’m going strap on my black leather motorcycle jacket and join my friends in a guitar circle singing, “Vivaaaaaaaaaaaaa Viagra.”

Yours Always,

Aunt Becky

I Was Almost A Trophy Wife Once.


In high school, I dated a guy who had so much money that his father actually had gold bricks lying around the house. I always debated stealing one, but I’m not a thief and I never really knew what I’d do with one if I took it. I mean, I’m pretty sure those puppies are kind of well-tracked. It wasn’t like I could have taken that to the record store and bought Britney’s new CD without raising eyebrows.

Plus, I’m honest enough, and my conscience is guilty enough that the next time I saw his dad, and he’d said, “Hi Becks!” I would have responded innocently with, “OHMYGOD I’M SO SORRY I STOLE THE BRICK PLEASE DON’T HATE ME.”

Yeah. Not exactly coy, eh?

But in that neighborhood for 2 years of my life I learned a lot. Namely the term “trophy wife.”

As someone who, at age 18, had realized cleverly that she was allergic to a hard day of work, this seemed like an idea life to me. I’d marry an old rich guy, pop out some kids, occasionally sleep with him when Viagra could give him a boner, and live a life of leisure. I’d pop pills, have plastic surgery, hang out at the Country Club down the street. I’d lunch and spa and hand the kids off to the nannies to be raised.

Eventually, my husband would die, his First Wife would fight me in court for his estate, and eventually we’d settle. The only real kink in my Ultimate Plan so far as I could see was that I wasn’t blond, but that, I figured, could be remedied with a quick dye job.

A Trophy Wife, I liked the sound of that.

Age 22 found me unmarried with a kid, working my way through the prerequisites required to get into nursing school, and although I was pretty pleased with school, I was becoming increasingly aware that nursing school wasn’t going to be what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

Age 22 also found me to be The Date for any of my male friends going to any company parties, because, well, they knew I put out everyone needs a standby date. Evan had been one of my best friends since I could remember and when he invited me to be his date for one of his work dinners, I accepted immediately.

We showed up together at a swanky steakhouse, and in the vein of broke 20 year old’s everywhere, I began drinking immediately. Because OBVIOUSLY. So by the time dinner began, I was fairly lit and began drunkenly talking to the guy on my left, an attractive guy with an accent, probably 20 years my senior.

Evan, always one to ditch me at parties, had probably already ditched me by this point anyway, so I made this guy my date. Besides, Evan and I were just friends, and this guy was charming and funny, and, well, Evan was the same guy who had come over to my house and left a framed picture of his naked ass on my pillow a couple of years before.

A real charmer, that one.

It probably wasn’t until the end of the evening by which point I was BEYOND fairly loaded when the guy who was sitting next to me stood up and started addressing the room when I realized that the person that I’d been teasing and generally making an ass of myself in front of wasn’t The Boss. He wasn’t the Bosses Boss. Oh no.

He was the Big, Big, Big, Big BIG Boss.

And somehow? He found me ADORABLE.

Because I had no idea who he was, I wasn’t shoving my tongue up his ass trying to get a promotion or a raise or a car or whatever it is that people do around the Big Boss People and I think he found that refreshing. Maybe I was just an awesome drunk or just On My Game that night, I don’t know. All that I do know is that the second I was out of there, he was all over Evan to hook him up with me.

The problem is, I really wasn’t interested in dating him. The prospect of living a life of leisure, even though he was funny and attractive AND had a sexy accent AND a assload of money just didn’t do it for me. I tried to reframe my thinking for an entire week and I simply couldn’t do it.

Turns out that life as a Lady of Leisure, even with the prospect of free pills and unlimited plastic surgery just wasn’t enough for me.

I know. I KNOW.

I still don’t know what I was thinking.


In sticking with the bizarrely romantic themed things around here this week, I’m over at Toy With Me today, talking about people who marry…things. No. Really. I am. You should come visit because seriously, I didn’t make it up. I COULDN’T LIE TO YOU, PRANKSTERS.

Fear and Loathing in Urgent Care


You know when the Urgent Care doctor looks concerned after he’s examined you that you’re pretty much fucked. You know that you’re really fucked when he actively prescribes you narcotics and steroids that you’re really fucked. Sadly, I was able to procure no fentanyl lollies, but still, I have a big ass bottle of Vicodin with my name on it.

Rather than loll about the house in a narcotics filled haze (THEY ARE LEGAL, MR. DEA AGENT) occasionally hallucinating Cuban cabana boys (and, for that matter, a cabana), I am as tightly wound as a wee circus mouse on a crack bender. I’m desperately wishing that I had some houses to build or decks to pound together with my bare hands or perhaps a dozen orphans to care or maybe a small island to build with some dirt and a bucket.


Or maybe I’m just on speed. And it totally and completely sucks.

I’ve never been on it before, but Ben had to take it for his chest years ago and I remember he was a total asshole whenever he was on it. Daver and I always dreaded it.

I’m just incredibly annoying to be around and I’ve apologized preemptively to anyone who deals with me on a regular basis because I’m now wired and COMPLETELY aggressive.

My internal monologue is something like this:


So if I’m annoying to deal with, it’s actually MORE annoying to be inside my head.

Only. seven. more. days.

I am over at Toy With Me talking about how I annoyed a stalker into submission and shockingly, it’s safe for work, which means I am probably losing my edge and should be taken out back and shot.

Talk Dirty To Me


Probably the first thing that went through my shiftless, lazy, baby brain when I said my first word to a rousing round of laughter was “Holy shit, I have to do that again.”

The word? “Fuck.” I’m not kidding.

Over the years, it’s remained my favorite of the dirty words, but I’ve gotten more amused by pairing up other, less dirty words into combinations that, when combined, are even dirtier. Take the innocuous “meat” and the always fun “curtains” and pair them together and you have one of the best terms on the planet: “meat curtains.”

Shockingly, I am neither the user, nor the asker. This somehow ended up in my iPhoto account. I nearly died of happiness.

My first blog was named after another series of innocuous words strung together to make something even better: “Mushroom Printing.” I doubt you’ll find this in a Yahoo Answerbag forum, but if you don’t know what it is, let me tell you once and for all.

A Mushroom Print, My Merry Pranksters, is also known as a dick slap. To the face. Still confused? Think about it a little.

Anyway. There are lots of opportunities to make great combinations of dirty words out of NON dirty words if you do it right. I pride myself on that, especially as my kids get older and I can’t possibly run my mouth like I used to. So I just get more creative.

So hit me with your best shot in the comments. What can you put together to make us laugh?


I’m at Toy With Me talking about lousy lovers. It was one of those articles that SEEMED like a good idea when I wrote it until I realized that it MAYBE wasn’t such a wise idea. Probably because I’m going to get my ass beaten.


And if you haven’t checked out Part I of my Podcast with Dr. Dick, the podcast can be found here on his main site and here on his sister site.


Lastly, I’m redoing my blogroll, and I need you to go and see if your blog is on there (if, of course, you should be). I periodically go through and delete blogs that appear to be abandoned. If I’ve done so in error, or if you’ve updated your link and I haven’t done so, or you’re just. not. there!! Please, oh please! send me an email to with BLOGROLL in the title.

In the body, of course, give me the full website address as well as any compliments or complaints or promises of lavish gifts to be bestowed upon me.

If you’re asking for a link on my blogroll, please make sure that I am on your blogroll as well, because obviously.

I may not get to it today, but I will get to it this week.

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