The Purity Test
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Fun Boy Three
The other night I was online and noticed that my friend Deb was on IM. The next thing you know we’re gabbing up a storm in cyber space. Being possessed of rather off the wall senses of humor, we start discussing the weirdest stuff we have seen on the Internet. She tells me to Google ‘tub girl’ and won’t give me a hint as to what I’ll find. What I found nearly made me hurl. Mind you, I have a cast iron stomach-I eat the tacos from the street vendors in odd Mexican border towns. So I counter with clown porn-not as graphic, but still odd. Pretty soon we are comparing notes on all kinds of freaky shit we have found on the Internet. She answers with ‘lemon city’ and I parry with orbital sex. Things start getting out of hand. I start telling her about all the freakshow stuff my friend Dale told me about. Dale is a former U.S. Marshall and has been in law enforcement for more years than I’ve been alive. He also has a PhD in psychology and runs a company called Forensitec which involves the field of psycholinguistics and other hi-tech stuff. Basically, he can read writing samples from people and determine if there is deception involved among other things. Way cool, but I digress.

After a couple of beverages, Dale and I got into a discussion one night about aberrant behavior and fetishes (which I refer to as Feti) as he researched them for a thesis or so he says. He filled me in on the ‘joys’ of ‘plushies’ (people who have sex with stuffed animals or while dressed in mascot uniforms), blow up doll porn (self explanatory), those who enjoy the ‘hot lunch’ (having someone drop a steaming dookie in your mouth), etc. Basically, he filled me in on all kinds of shit I had no idea existed and basically ruined my trust in human nature. I now subject my dates to WAY closer scrutiny although the freaks keep slipping through my radar.

So Deb and I are bandying about all this stuff, alternately laughing and shuddering. The result was that I wondered if I was too uptight or just naive. I know Deb’s pretty straight laced (sorry babe, I love you but it’s the truth) but what about me? I always thought I was a pretty open-minded chick. I have my own feti and proclivities, tame as they may be, so who am I to give the smack down on others’ just because I find them completely unappealing or downright repulsive.

I came across a ‘purity’ test during these IMs and Deb & I decided to take it while we were online. It is comprised of 1,000 questions. I know that seems like a lot, but you can pretty much whip through as you just check the boxes of the ones you answer yes to. There were whole sections I skipped and sections where I was glad they had an explanation of what they were asking as I was clueless.

My results? I answered ‘yes’ to 461 out of the 1,000 questions. This made me 53.9% sexually pure and 46.1% sexually corrupt. I was pretty excited about my results until Deb announced that she had scored 73% in purity, being only 27% corrupt. Oh shit! Was I on a one way out of control freight train to Hell?! Turns out she was just higher than the average. The average purity result for this test out of the 62,460 folks who took it was 72.2%. Somehow I think people were lying on their answers.

So the next day at work, I encourage some co-workers to take it, hoping to feel better. Saffron scored a 76%--EEEEK! However, Sasha, scored 50% pure which didn’t make me feel much better as she is an active bi-sexual. I think my score plummeted in the categories of “Have you ever had someone suck your toes” and “Have you ever mashed with more than one person in an evening” and “Have you done multiple body shots off of hot college boys”. I still can’t figure out where I went ‘wrong’ on it. I admit, I like insane ‘circus sex’ as my ex-would call it, sans the midgets, but in the confines of a monogamous relationship and really not all that freaky. I swear.

I know you’re wondering now what your freakshow errr, I mean purity factor is. Take the test. Let me know what your score is…but only if it’s lower than mine. I don’t need a complex!

http://www.armory.com/tests/sex1000.html

My First Word
Mood:  silly
Now Playing: Benise
I know many of you will find this hard to believe, but I didn’t speak a word until I was three years old. Not a single intelligible word. No ‘mom’, ‘puppy’, ‘dad’, ‘hotdog’, etc. I had a bastard language all my own and my older sister, Lindsay, acted as my personal interpreter to the world. I would say “shub zah toodag blu” and Lindsay would get a pained look on her face and sigh heavily before translating “Mom, Megan wants a hot dog with extra ketchup.” (The only way I eat hot dogs still to this day).

Needless to say, this caused some consternation to my folks and to my grandparents. Namely my mom’s parents, Gramps and Grams Keyes. I was put through a battery of tests to determine if I was deaf, slow, really slow, autistic, insane, etc. Grams was just certain that I was mentally retarded and urged mom to have me put in ‘the home’ many a time. Kind of held that against the old broad for part of my life, but I digress.

Our family doctor explained that there was nothing physically or mentally wrong with me. He said that I would talk when I wanted to and why should I when Lindsay always acted as my official ‘Meganspeak’ interpreter?

One day I was sitting at our upright, free-standing bamboo bar in the family room of our home in No Cal. Mom had just brought me a hotdog with extra ketchup. I was sitting on the bar stool swinging my little sturdy legs back and forth. THUD! I had kicked the bar. It shimmied a little and I liked that. So I kicked it again, this time a little harder and it shuddered in response. THUD! So I kicked it harder. THUD! This went on for a few minutes until I kicked it really hard with both feet and CRASH! The entire bar, along with my favorite lunch, went crashing to the ground. Oops! Mom came running in and apparently, I looked at her with my big brown eyes and clearly said “fuck”. OOOPS!

Mom said she was torn between being thrilled that I had spoken a clear English word and not ‘Meganspeak’ and the fact that I had cursed. (NOTE: I could only have learned that word from my older sister, the translator, who was then severely punished for potty mouth). From that point on, I spoke in full sentences as if I had always spoken and as my father says, I’ve been making up for it ever since.

Surprisingly enough, ‘Meganspeak’ has survived to this day. I have my own made up words and turns of phrase that those who know me completely understand in a whacked way and have casually adopted as part of their own vernacular.

For example, my gynecologist uses ‘narfy’ on a regular basis to describe something that is just not quite right or good. I.e., What’s that narfy smell in the bathroom? (Hopefully not a random dookie!)

My doctor, when inquiring about pain level, asks me if it ‘hurts like fuck all with a serious top spin’.

My assistant tosses in the phrase ‘I was all shades of…(fill in the blank)’ into her conversations on a regular basis. I.e., I was all shades of bitter when the concert sold out.

My former step-chilluns bandy about the phrase ‘Bet you a nickel’ whenever they want to demonstrate that they are certain they are right.

The list goes on and on…funny that those who know and love me have adopted or adapted to ‘Meganspeak’. Good thing Grams didn’t lock me up in the nutter bin…or not depending on who you ask…

However, those of you who know me well are not at all surprised that my first word was an ‘f-bomber’ now are you?

It's Gotta' Be the Perfume...
Mood:  surprised
Now Playing: Depeche Mode - Violator
I never have a problem getting dates. My problem seems to be finding dates who I actually want to go out with a second time. Seriously. You’ve read my weird musings and over the top rants. You have to realize that I’m not the average bear. It takes a specific kind of guy to deal with me. Someone who enjoys and appreciates the unexpected randomness of me and doesn’t want to try to curb it. Ain’t gonna’ happen bitch!

Lately, it seems like guys are coming out of the fricking woodwork! It must be my perfume as most of them seem to huff me and huff me deeply…continuously. I seem to be harkening back to my ring master days……I am running a multi-ring circus again and loving every minute of it. I am enjoying the endless dating, but the main reason is that I haven’t met anyone I would want to date seriously. I’m just enjoying meeting new people, flirting and having fun. I really have no desire for anything more…especially as no one comes close to fitting the bill of something more.

The weirder part is the random freaks who keep coming up to me out of nowhere! It’s really starting to creep me out! What is it pheromones? Examples? I had a guy come up to me while standing in line to get a beer at a hockey game. He seemed really normal as we casually chatted. Cute even. That was until he looked deep into my eyes and said “God, I really want to smell your hair.” WHAT? WTF?! EWWWWWWWWWWW! I grabbed my beer and bailed! Then there was the cute freak who approached me in Walgreen’s and told me that he had seen me three times in the last week. I calmly asked him if he was stalking me. He then told me that he noticed I always took care of my feet and hands. Well, one out of two was right. I am a fanatic about pedicures but my hands resemble a farmer’s. I garden. I have a horse. I am an artist. My hands are a mess. The only time they pass for ok is after a hard core manicure and some Lee Press On Nails. He then goes on to say that his mother told him that women who take good care of themselves will always take good care of him. Errrrrrrrr, whatever. I told him I was late for a date and bolted to my car. No small feat in light of the fact I was in 6 1/2 ‘CFM’ shoes.

Now mind you, those aren’t even the guys I’ve gone out with. Here’s the short list of one hit wonders:

• Captain I am one quarter Hispanic-who told me that I looked like “the type of girl who knows how to properly treat a Latino man.” For what? A gunshot wound? PUHLEEZE! I ain’t nobody’s barefoot mamacita!
• Mr. Gillette-who told me within the first 5 minutes of our date about how he shaves his “entire body” on a regular basis. “I mean why have armpit hair if I don’t have to.” Hmmmmmmmmm…TOO MUCH INFORMATION BITCH! GACK! I don’t want to know intimate details of your personal hygiene routine within minutes of our first ‘let’s trade life stories in a bar' date.
• Officer Creepy-a cop who proceeded to tell me that my name made him hot as he had a babysitter named Meg when he was a kid and “she was hot like you are. I used to think about her all the time and it made me excited. I never got over her. I still think about her. I love your name. It brings back all kinds of memories.” Yeah. I don’t even want to address this creepy one. Didn’t she ever cuff him upside the head and tell him he’d go blind?
• Matty Senior-an older version of my ex boyfriend. Super hot. Super sexy. Super useless. 33 years old. Career bartender with ambitions of being an actor although not actively trying cuz’ you know Spielberg’s going to discover you during a Pourmasters’ gig. Yeah right. Lives with 3 roomates in a four bedroom house and called me ‘sister’ all night and told me I was ‘solid’. AKA grow the fuck up. Like I need another Peter Pan wanna’ be at this point. Even scarier—knows Matty. Shoot me now.
• The Smooth Talker-at first, it seemed like he was a definite possibility for a second date and possibly an addition to the ‘regulars’ date roster. He was charming, intelligent, great at the verbal sparring I so dearly enjoy, got my wacky humor, etc. It started with a niggling concern that something just wasn’t jiving with him. I wondered if there was a possibility he was gay or at least actively bisexual as he drank pussy drinks and would have made Paul Lind blush with his flaming fag hands. If he’s not gay, I’m 99.9% certain he’s married and just a total nasty disgusting loser scumbag. Something about him was just not right—totally non-genuine vibes. Makes my skin crawl to even think about it! UGH!

While the cretin filled freakshow seems to parade on, I will continue to hang with the ongoing date roster and see what happens and who else stumbles along. I like them. They’re fun. There’s just no major “ZAH! I want a piece of that!” feeling going on with any of them. But at least I’m not worrying about whether or not I will need to beat them off me with a stick or have to resort to pepper spray.

My father always says I “bring out obsessive tendencies in men.” I’m still hoping it’s just my perfume or seasonal pheromones...

Posted by azcoolchick0 at 4:48 PM NZT | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Friday, December 9, 2005 3:50 AM NZT

Things I learned Over the Weekend...
Mood:  a-ok
Now Playing: Oingo Boingo
Things I learned over the weekend...

*The actors/actresses on Spanish soap operas are usually beyond unattractive

*There are some guys with pierced tongues who actually know what to do with them

*When a gay man refers to a "Jolly Rancher", he isn't talking about the candy

*Spending hours trying to get as many super cool toys as my budget allows for my office's annual toy drive for homeless children fills my heart with unbridled joy

*Horse farts, although twice or more as large capacitywise as dog farts, do not smell nearly as rank

*When black girls fight they will automatically go for each other's fake hairpieces first

Reality Check...Testing. One.Two.
Mood:  incredulous
Now Playing: Death Cab for Cutie
So Saturday, I went out for later evening drinks with my former step child—the ever intrepid ‘Junior’ (cool nickname for a super cool chick).

We’re lounging at Longitude 30, quaffing back the uber dirty Grey Goose ‘tinis and catching up on all the schtuff that has happened since she graduated college and ventured up to Chi Town for her Master’s degree…in art…and flippy cup(AKA partying).

At some point during our ruminations and gigglefest, her pop (my ex husband the chucklehead) comes up.

Chucklehead has a problem with reality among other things. Reality as in what really happened during our marriage and why I filed for divorce and left. The reality is that chucklehead cheated on me with his skank (and trust me, that’s being kind and gracious) ex girlfriend and managed to get her knocked up with his lame, white bread attempts at sex. He was shocked that I wanted a divorce, filed, moved out and moved on. Completely floored. He apparently was under the extreme misconception that I would tough it out or something…as if. Sometimes one just has to draw the line at bastard children.

This reality, however, is not what chucklehead tells everyone, including his own children, who know me, know the situation and therefore, know better. He tells everyone who will listen that he filed for divorce after I had a year long affair with his “best friend”. (Matty, don’t waste perfectly good liquor spitting in surprise as I did that you two were B.F.F.s). Hmmmmmm...interesting. I started dating a guy he played hockey with (who was closer to chucklehead’s nephew and me than he ever was to chucklehead) AFTER I filed for divorce and moved out.

I just have to laugh at the life of a wanna’ be martyr…what a chucklehead!

Things I'm Thankful For...
Mood:  happy
Now Playing: Al Green
In the spirit of the Thanksgiving holiday and my birthday, here is a list of "Things I'm Thankful For".

In no particular order, I am thankful for:

• Good friends
• Fraiser’s Smoke House
• An NHL Hockey season
• Guinness beer
• My furries
• My health
• Sushi at Sakana
• New guy prospects
• Rainy days in front of a fire
• Beach volleyball
• I will be exhibiting a piece of my art at the First Friday art walk downtown Dec. 2 at the Phoenix Center
• Irregular Choice Peacock Mules
• 9 days off of work—VACATION!!!
• Happy hour
• Free concert tickets
• Hammocks
• Red Brick Pizza
• My family (most of the time)
• Sunsets
• Last minute road trips
• Homemade Irish Cream
• Sunday football and beer
• A sweet ass on a guy
• Dr. Seuss
• Longitude 30 (the bar)
• Radar magazine
• King crab legs
• My boss
• The art of Baron Dixon
• Straw cowboy hats and pigtails
• The laughter of small children
• Reconnecting with old friends
• The smell of hay
• Music of all kinds
• Double spice Chai black tea from Stash
• “Two Buck Chuck” (Charles Shaw) wine
• Suede jeans
• Naps
• Laughing until I cry
• Cooking dinner with friends/significant others
• Warm sheets on a cold morning
• The creosote smell after a rainstorm
• Convertible sports cars
• Grilling
• Late night parties
• Janet Evanovich books
• The beach anywhere
• Xanax when flying
• Dark Chocolate
• Lee Press On Nails (instant ‘adult’ hands)
• Hollywood gossip
• Long makeout sessions
• The Family Guy
• Oversized soft towels
• Fresh flowers
• More shoes...hee, hee
• Naked pool time
• A good steak
• Professional deep tissue massages
• The Thin Man Series
• Motorcycle rides
• Chuy's
• Midget wrestling
• Garlic mashed potatoes
• Three olives cherry vodka
• Craigslist
• Arrested Development
• Hiking
• Flat irons
• Vin Diesel
• Three day weekends
• TiVo
• Messy-in-a-good-way hair on guys
• Frequent flier miles
• Fun yet not packed and noisy bars
• Camera phones
• Day drinking
• College football (except USC)

I hope you and yours have a fabulous T-day filled with love, laughter and plenty of drinking games (go flippy cup!) Feel free to post what you're thankful for..g'ahead, join the fun!

Vegas Baby!
Mood:  vegas lucky
Now Playing: Santana
My cousin called up and she and her boyfriend were in Vegas and wanted me to do a weekend scramble to meet them. I, being game pretty much always for the road trip, packed up and hopped the next flight to Sin City for a weekend of drinking and debauchery (or great hopes thereof).

What can I report after said weekend? I drank, drank, drank, saw the Blue Man Group, drank, got pissed off that Avenue Q the dirty puppet show was sold out, drank, got massaged by some hot metrosexual 20-something (unfortunately legitimately at the spa at the hotel—get your minds out of the gutter folks) saw Zoomanity, drank, shopped, gambled lightly (boring!), danced, drank and flew home a very tired and hungover little peep.

So basically, I have jack shit to report and I am beyond bummed about it! No great “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ stories. In fact, I didn’t even see any hot guys while there unless you include the Chippendales dancers... Vegas was populated last weekend with teeming hoards of old broads from the Midwest running around in those stupid ass red hats. UGH!

Here’s what I do have. I am posting one of my favorite Vegas stories, as told in IM fashion, by my friend Kevin over at Fuelfire. Ah the joys of 20-something…enjoy!

Wanted: 2-In-1 Body and Soul Cleanser (originally posted by Kevin)

I haven't had a drop of alcohol or a puff of smoke in nearly 80 hours. "So fucking what?" a handful of you may be inclined to inquire. Well, for those of you that know me as more than just the ridiculously handsome Fuelfire columnist that writes schleppy blurbs about extraordinary news articles or an occasional marginally entertaining anecdote, you know that for me it's a feat that parallels the scaling of Everest without oxygen assistance.

Why have I abstained from my vices for this long? The answer is simple: Too much Vegas. Last weekend marked the first of two trips in two weeks; the next being on Friday, the 13th of August, indeed an ominous date to embark on a journey that promises to be every bit as destructive to my physical, spiritual and monetary being as the last, if not more so. The way I felt on Sunday's return trip home was indescribable. It was as if someone had strapped me down and injected Pine Sol into my liver until it ballooned to the size of a champion state fair eggplant. Despite having a tonsillectomy at age 19, my throat was nearly closed from smoking an entire pack of Camel Lights each night. My feet and ankles were so swollen and raw that it looked like I had hiked down the Grand Canyon barefoot. Cuts and bruises adorn my body like a championship K-1 kick boxer who made it to the final round... and lost. I need to take it easy for awhile. I've yinned way too hard and now it's time to yang a little bit.

I debated for some time as to whether I would recount some of the tales here or not. Undoubtedly, my story of Friday night will make me look like something less than the All-Star human being everyone takes me for, but the story is simply too heroic to keep to myself. Rather than converting my story of that evening into prose, I'll let the AIM conversation yesterday morning between Matt and myself do the talking. Enjoy...

[Note: Edited for length, content, and to protect the lives of those I love, now, in the past and in the future.]

POWER: yo yo, how was it?
Fuelfire: Fun. But I'm poorer, both monetarily and physically.
POWER: Any good stories?
Fuelfire: Vegas is always nothing but stories.
POWER: Yeah I know, but tell me some fool
Fuelfire: Nothing on the dirty hooze side of things. I had a room to myself and never took advantage of it.
Fuelfire: On Friday, I started drinking at 3, and never stopped.
POWER: Aww, no shit? Why’d you mess that up
Fuelfire: Check this...
POWER: you should have gotten mad hoes in yo’ room
Fuelfire: I had five 16 ounce beers by the pool, then got ready to go out and left to go get a bottle of wine to pregame with these hoozeballs we went with.
Fuelfire: drank the whole bottle minus one glass and then went to dinner
Fuelfire: where I had 2 or 3 more glasses of red wine
Fuelfire: then we walked to studio 54
Fuelfire: I was there with Nick and his girlfriend and another couple
Fuelfire: so I was like, "this sucks, I'm gonna go talk to some hooze"
Fuelfire: but I thought at that point I needed more alcohol to help me out
POWER: haha
Fuelfire: While I was there, I had 6 vodka redbulls and 6 bud lights
Fuelfire: I have no idea what happened after that
POWER: Jesus
Fuelfire: But here's what I do know...
Fuelfire: I remember leaving because only ugly chicks were coming up to me
Fuelfire: and I couldn't talk
Fuelfire: so the next thing I know, I am in some casino
Fuelfire: I still don't know which one
Fuelfire: I have fallen down about 3 times just trying to walk
Fuelfire: I kept riding this freight elevator
Fuelfire: thinking I was at the Monte Carlo
Fuelfire: but I wasn't
Fuelfire: and there was no 9th floor
POWER: Dude, and you are still alive ?
Fuelfire: and I went back down like 3 more times
Fuelfire: the last time, 2 security guards were waiting for me
Fuelfire: I don't remember what was said, I just remember one looked very concerned and the other was laughing
Fuelfire: people were ghosts at this point
Fuelfire: I have no idea what time it was
POWER: how did you make it back?
Fuelfire: here's the rest...
Fuelfire: on the way back, I was so disoriented that I estimate it took me about 2 hours to find my way home from the MGM to the Monte Carlo, which is more or less across the strip
Fuelfire: somehow, I was standing in front of the Excalibur and fell down in the landscaping by the drawbridge
POWER: hahaha
Fuelfire: I must have been there for a good 30 minutes
Fuelfire: I woke up and I had pissed myself all down my left leg
Fuelfire: seriously dude
Fuelfire: unfuckingreal how bombed I was
Fuelfire: from that point, I remember smoking my last cigarette all wet-legged trying to find my way home
POWER: fuck
Fuelfire: I have no idea how I got there, but the next thing I knew I was in the parking garage of New York New York
Fuelfire: and I saw the Monte Carlo
Fuelfire: and knew that's where I had to be
POWER: so proud of you
Fuelfire: so I walked around the parking garage trying to find a way out, and the only way I could see there being a way was over this 10 foot barbed wire fence that opened up into a parking lot that went to the street towards the Monte Carlo
Fuelfire: so, with a BAC of about .35, I climbed the fence where there was a planter that gave me about 4 feet of leeway to start
Fuelfire: but it was still topped with barbed wire, and it was still 10 feet down to the other side
Fuelfire: somehow I made it down without leaving an arm stuck on the top
Fuelfire: nor did I break anything on the way down
POWER: wow
Fuelfire: Yeah, I think I had Jesus in my pocket
Fuelfire: but I remember just sitting up there on top of the barbed wire with my hands bleeding wondering if I should jump or figure out another way home
Fuelfire: the next thing I know, it was noon the next day
POWER: hahaha
Fuelfire: no recollection of anything after the fence
Fuelfire: my sheets were all bloody
Fuelfire: I have a huge slice on my pinky, puncture wounds in my left hand, a nasty raspberry both on the inside of my left elbow
Fuelfire: and on my knee
Fuelfire: a bruise above my left eye
Fuelfire: a deep bruise on my upper left thigh
Fuelfire: one of my rings was split at the seam
Fuelfire: one of my shoes has a huge gash from the barbed wire
Fuelfire: I remember when I woke up the next day, the first thing I did was start laughing
Fuelfire: I couldn't even believe I was laying there
Fuelfire: I had almost no idea how I arrived
Fuelfire: I was just amazed that I ended up there and not in jail or the hospital
Fuelfire: I thought I left my credit card at 54 and went to the MGM security desk to get it on Saturday
Fuelfire: they said they didn't have it
Fuelfire: so I was kind of wigging out thinking I lost it
Fuelfire: but when I got back to the hotel, sho' 'nuff there it was in the back pocket of my jeans
Fuelfire: I actually closed my tab
Fuelfire: you should see the fucking receipt
Fuelfire: you would laugh your ass off
Fuelfire: It was actually correct - I did the right math and everything, but the way I signed it was unreal
Fuelfire: I wrote the tip where the printed total was
Fuelfire: I wrote the total where the tip goes
Fuelfire: and I signed where the total amount goes
Fuelfire: and my signature is nightmarish
Fuelfire: you could tell I wrote it, but it is so fucked up
Fuelfire: it curves and trails off upwards to the left
Fuelfire: I will admit, it was one of the top 3 drunkest times of my life. I was completely gone. And it’s pretty tough to navigate a strange place when you're by yourself falling down everywhere with a near-lethal BAC.
POWER: Yeah I bet
Fuelfire: I didn't even remember any of the fence part until I walked out of the casino and saw it across the street by the New York New York. Until then, I had no idea why blood was everywhere.
Fuelfire: I have to think that whatever casino I was lost in must have sent the guards after me from watching me fall 9 times in the security video feed
Fuelfire: Anyway, Saturday was much more under control and a lot more fun.
Fuelfire: I met some very cool women, but they all lived in far away lands.
POWER: far away is good
Fuelfire: Left Rum Jungle at close, spent much of the morning getting to know a hot little super-wealthy number from Mexico City, and then I walked home at 7:15
POWER: in the morn?
Fuelfire: yup
POWER: when did you get back?
Fuelfire: got home at 7:45, because a black transvestite "call girl" wanted to converse with me for awhile outside of NY NY
Fuelfire: It was great, she more or less offered me a freebie
Fuelfire: I declined
Fuelfire: I told her she should have caught me the night before…

Seven Signs of ELOI
Mood:  party time!
Now Playing: Run DMC's Greatest Hits
Recently, it was that time of year again. Time for the Scottsdale Boys & Girls Club Uncorked & Unplugged fundraiser. A classic ‘all-you-can-graze-upon-from-local-high-brow-restaurants-and-all-the-booze-you-can-glug-down-all-night-while-listening-to-tunes-under-the-night-sky’ fundraising event. My kind of fundraiser. Basically, time for an evening filled with friends, wine, new friends, fun, food, foozeball, more new friends, beer, cigars, shots, even more new friends, Ms. Packman, and all around general debauchery…but I digress.

I once again managed to score free sponsor passes to the event. Nothing says VIP like sponsor passes. BOO YA! Last year I had 10 tickets and we went to town! Unfortunately, this year only four. (Again, I apologize to those peeps who are still bitter they didn’t get to attend this year). I gathered a minor posse and we tripped off to indulge in food, booze and eye candy. And not necessarily in that order.

So this thing’s a total fest. Sweet would be an understatement. We are wandering around getting endless refills of everything alcoholic whilst smoking Drew Estates cigars and noshing on gourmet victuals, stuffing our goodie bags full of free cigars, wine glasses, and other assorted spifs. The only thing missing from the rather Hollywood party atmosphere that abounded was some G-13...although I could be wrong.

After 3 hours of playing and playing hard, we were primed for the private VIP after hours party. We were perhaps too primed. It became rather apparent that we had hit ELOI (pronounced E-loy and no, not the odd city in Arizona before Picacho Peak) as in Excessive Levels Of Intoxication. How do you know you’ve reached ELOI?

Seven Signs of ELOI

1. SALES MANAGER
You begin pitching drinks you love to other attendees, who you have never previously met and will never see again, in front of the booth you tried it at. “Oh My God! You have to try this coffee flavored tequila! It is to DIE for!! Smell this. Doesn’t it SO smell like coffee? You’ll SO love it—trust me! Here! (shove a shot in his/her hand) Just try it!”

2. INSTABONDING
You notice other random girls standing around the perimeter of your group actually have the same plain silver toe ring on the second toe of their left foot as you all do. You gather them together and get everyone to put her left foot ‘in’ while encouraging them all to shout along with you “Wonder toe powers activate, form of a _________” (fill in the blank) while giggling hysterically. Various boy friends are forced to separate you but not before exchanging phone numbers, hugs, and taking copious cell phone photos.

3. EVERYTHING IS SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO AMAZING
You wonder why the oh so talented Zowie Bowie and his fabulous 80s cover band haven’t made a larger splash in the music community.

4. OVERENTHUSIASTIC FAN
Speaking of the music community, you run into (literally) the Neil Diamond impersonator from Casino Arizona. You proceed to squeal “I LOVE Forever in Blue Jeans” and grab him in what could best be described as an intently loving headlock. You proceed to start swaying back and forth with him basically locked under your arm singing loudly and off key “Money talks, but it can’t sing and dance and it don’t talk. As long as I can have you here with meeeeeeeeeee, I’d much rather beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee forever in blue jeans…” To which ‘Neil’ replies “Errr, I don’t do that one.”

5. GIRLS GONE WILD
You and your friends proceed to start doing video girl style ‘ho-bucket’ pose downs against a wall to a bemused audience while instructing some random MBA student (he must have mentioned that at least 5 times “I’m getting my MBA” Nifty, just shut up and snap those pictures dude!) to take pictures.

6. UNSPORTSMAN LIKE CONDUCT
You challenge some super hot metrosexual guy to a game of Ms Pacman as he had the poor luck (or utter stupidity I’m betting on) to mutter a comment behind you (while playing a video game) that “girls suck at video games—they just don’t have the hand-eye coordination.” To which, you respond by whipping around and snarling “Come on you little bitch, I’ll wipe the floor with you.” And then proceed to, howling and slapping high fives with everyone around you just to really rub it in. After completely creaming his well dressed ass (it was Ms Pacman folks), you plant a huge wet kiss on him (gotta give him some consolation prize) and then while walking away, shout back over your shoulder “LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSER” at the top of your lungs!!!

7. I’M HILARIOUS
You suddenly develop a rather convincing British accent and begin speaking to everyone in it. Over utilizing “Thanks love”, “bugger”, “Bloody ‘ell”, “Is this the cue?” “Do you have a spare fag?” “This is fucking brilliant!”, etc. in every sentence you speak until a friend says “Enough. Listen missy, your work visa is expired. Get your ass back from the UK before you walk home.” And just like that, you are a US citizen once again.

Needless to say, the seven signs spelled the end of the evening for us. As we ‘walked’ out (We were hanging onto each other so much, we looked like a rugby team with a game in play as we went through the velvet ropes), we were cool enough to grab a foursome and bless them with our VIP passes for the private after hours party before piling into the town car and having Jimmy drive our drunken asses home while we sang show tunes at the top of our lungs. (Yes, we did add on extra tip monies for his happy tolerance).

We departed just in time to save the other VIPs from the trainwreck that was us I’m sure.

This is the story of an ambush dookie...
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: Songs in the Key of X (X files compilation)
Last night, I went to the 3 Doors Down show. Not by choice mind you. I did not fork out change of any kind for these tickets. Instead, I ended up there by default as I can roll with the punches. As in, hey by the way, we just got free VIP passes & tickets to 3 Doors Down. At 8pm. As in we’re now going to 3 Doors Down…in an hour.

So I, being the uber flexible goddess that I am, adjust on the fly, change clothes, start drinking, etc.

Good show. The material from their new album is pretty tight.

Anywho, long and short of the evening: Good time. Seriously chardonnay abbreviated. Early evening. Zonk.

Cue fast forward to early this morning. I got up at 5, per usual. Let beasties out. Let beasties in. Went back to sleep. 6am, fed horse. Let beasties out. Let beasties in. Went back to sleep. 7am up. Mango Gatorade and Batman and Xiolin Showdown cartoons. 8am, back to sleep. 9am up. Let beasties out. Let beasties in. Plan 10 am run to the library and feed store. Shower.

From here, it just gets all shades of fucked up.

Combing out hair. There is a knock at my front door. Beasties go bat shit. I scream for silence and open the door to find...

My ex-neighbor Segrid. As in the neighbor I rarely spoke to who moved out 3 weeks ago without my protestations of staying in touch. (I think those are de rigor). I mean really, I never spent any time with you when you were living next door, so of course I should get your digits and we should keep in touch. Right…

So I manage to cough out a surprised hello. Rather shocked to find her on my door step, unannounced, on a Saturday morning at just after 9am. I explained that I had just gotten out of the shower and was getting ready to head out for the day.

She says “Oh that’s ok, I just need to use your bathroom”.

WHAT?!?! Hello! You drop in unannounced early on a Saturday and want to borrow my bathroom?

“Uh, sure” was about what I managed to utter. Totally at a loss here folks.

So she goes into the bathroom. The minutes tick by. And tick by. And tick by. Seriously. This chick has now been in my bathroom for at least 15 minutes. She finally (FINALLY!) flushes and comes out with an active tail of stench grasping at her as she walks away.

I must have been looking at her like WHAT THE HOLY FUCK? Because she says “Well, I was over at Fry’s (supermarket) and I had to go. They only had one stall open and there was a line, so I figured I would come over here and use yours. Sorry for stinking it up, your fan’s not working very well.” and walks out the front door to her car.

I AM TOTALLY FREAKING OUT!

No, she did not just stop by with no call, no warning on a Saturday morning to fire bomb my bathroom with a massive dookie! Who the FUCK goes to someone else’s home to take a dump? It would be like snapping off a steaming crap loaf on Dick Vital’s face on national television—it’s that bad!

I always thought that if you lost control and were unable to deny yourself the ‘power dump’ while at a friends/relatives/acquaintances you A) felt some sort of guilt about it, even if it was along the lines of gleeful satisfaction and B) You tried to cover up the crime via ceiling fans, air fresheners, lighting a match, etc. It never occurred to me that you would seek out a former neighbor and pollute her home while Target and a whole bunch of other local retailers have such a plush selection of anonymous seats.

For hours after she left, a stinky miasma hung heavy over the front bathroom. It was ghost beef and I couldn’t exterminate it with matches, spray or incense.

Once again I ask you, WTF?!?! Who does this? Who ambushes you in your home to poop there thus polluting it for the total of an otherwise happily uneventful Saturday?

Who?!

So I proceed to call everyone I know with the “ambush dookie” story. Why? Because it is the classic OH MY GOD story! No one can hear it without saying OH MY GOD at least once. It’s classic freakshow.

Ah, Saturdays…

RIP CONTROL Agent 86
Mood:  sad
Now Playing: Foo Fighters - DOA
It was with a 'great' sense of loss (yeah, not so much) that I read about the passing of Don Adams, better known to many as Maxwell Smart, Control Agent 86, from the 60s television show 'Get Smart'.

As a kid, I remember eagerly watching the show (in re-runs by then) and watching Agents 86 and 99 (Maxwell Smart's more competent partner), battle the forces of the evil KAOS.

I think I tuned in primarily for the opening sequence as I thought that was beyond super cool. As I watched it in later years, I enjoyed it more because a) Mel Brooks is a GOD--just ask anyone who's watched Space Balls two or three hundred times and b) Barbara Feldon was no ditzy glamourpuss. She played a strong and smart chick--a rarity on tv in earlier times--and a perfect foil for the bumbling Smart.

I always wondered how the Hell 86 ended up married to 99 on the show, but I figure it's all about the bumbling funny guy who is horribly attractive to you because he makes you laugh although I also am a sucker for a nice butt...

The worst part of all this to me is that entire generations will never be exposed to the 'Get Smart' lexicon. They won't ever get references to shoe phones as they wonder aloud if Motorola has one in production yet. They also will have no clue when, in the course of a private conversation, you announce that you will utilize the 'Cone of Silence'.

It's a tragedy I tell you...

It's Just Wrong...
Mood:  silly
Now Playing: The The "Infect Me With Your Love"
Last night, I had my favorite reoccurring dream about an insane circus sex session with Vin Deisel featuring an Elvis commemorative plate, a white bunny rabbit and a Bratz doll...don’t ask.

After I woke, lovingly dwelling on my dream, by chance several nasty thoughts popped into my head. And no, it wasn’t the fantasy about me, the Rock (in school girl underpants), a box of Fruit Loops and a train set. I rather enjoy that one...These were actually cold water visions--AKA kill the warm, fuzzy post-Vin nookie feeling.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that there were a lot of celebrity sexual fantasies that I never wanted to pop up from my subconscious during a dream in this lifetime or any other. Here are some of celebrity sex visions that, when I close my eyes, I don't ever want to see in my dreams but am sharing with you so you can be horribly disturbed as well. Ain’t I thoughtful?

Harvey Korman being shagged off by an underage taiwanese hooker using a glow-in-the-dark buttplug while listening to the best of Yoko Ono.

Martha Stewart dressed in a rubber bondage outfit, crouched ninja-like over a platter of menudo and tripe while giving oral gratification to a bottle of Goldschlager in front of her innocent Chow-Chow dogs and a studio audience.

William Shatner, wielding an enormous florescent blue dildo, while playing 'boom, boom shake the room' with Dame Edna who is ensconced in a too-tight pair of edible undies.

Midget Siamese twins having an orgy with a plastic sheep blow up doll and a ski mask wearing Kylie Minogue.

And last, but not least, Andy Dick in a pair of thigh high stockings whipping himself with a Nurse Betty doll while a liverwurst smeared Paris Hilton enthusiastically goes to town on him with a glitter filled cock pump.

If you didn't think I was sick and twisted before, now you know...what I am more concerned about is someone reading this and thinking “hmmmm…now there’s some yummy fodder for rubbing one out…

Just Another...Just Another Day...
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Ottmar Liebert
Lately, I have been feeding a little stray (big suprise-not!)…an orange tabby kitten upon whom I have bestowed the moniker of ‘Elvis’. Why? No idea—it just fits for some strange reason. Not like he’s slumped over in a drug overdose on a toilet at Graceland or anything…it’s just because he’s a little rockstar personality-wise.

For a while I thought he was schizophrenic. One minute he would cry to me and rub all over me and then the next, he would hiss and run. Turns out, I was petting Elvis one day when he hissed and I looked and realized there were two orange tabbies—I am figuring the other is his less friendly sibling slash evil twin. I know, not very bright of me…

Anywho Elvis waits for me daily at 5am for food. Although food really is not his primary goal—attention/affection is. He loves petting and baby talk, AKA the sugar that I provide. He will rub on Mr. Big (my horse) going in and out of his legs all the while talking to me as I feed Big.

I have become pretty attached to the little man but I am full up at my house as far as babies. It has become my quest to find him a ‘forever’ home as he deserves it.

The other morning, he and I had just finished our daily love fest and I had gimped my way back to the house to take a shower.

I was preparing to get into the shower (AKA totally butt nekked) when I decided to look back out the window at Elvis happily munching away on kibble. What I saw made me do a double take. Elvis was plumped up to the size of a large puffer fish and was swaying, back arched, on his toes. That’s when I realized that there was a dog nearby threatening Elvis. The dog looked strange for some reason. I looked longer and realized it wasn't a dog--it was a fricking coyote.

For those of you who do not live near rural/urban city park areas, coyotes tend to make meals of household pets. Seeing the coyote totally freaked me out. No way was some mother fricking coyote going to eat Elvis before I found him a loving home!

I ran (as best I could in my ankle brace) to the kitchen where I threw open the door, only to realize I was naked. SHIT!!!! I stumped back to my bedroom (in my best Captain Ahab impression) to grab a shirt. I threw the shirt on and limped back to the kitchen to head outside.

As I ‘ran’ outside, I was going to grab a handful of rocks, but figured if the coyote was rabid, I was fucked. So I looked around the back patio and my eyes landed on a big red hammer I had left on the porch. I grabbed it.

It felt as if it had been forever, but in fact it had only been a few minutes. I ran like Quasimodo towards the coyote wearing only a Hawaiian print shirt that barely covered my twipee, my garden clogs (that caused the ankle blow out in the first place) all the while swinging a large red hammer. I have to admit, I must have looked like a psychotic nutbag!

Apparently, that did the trick as I scared the shit out of the coyote, which took off leaving little Elvis stressed out but physically unharmed.

In the aftermath, all I could think was “Fuck, I hope my neighbors didn’t see this!” I probably should have been more worried that no one taped the occurance for Japanese television consumption...

A Day in the Life...
Mood:  accident prone
Now Playing: Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass
So last night I was laying in bed tending to the calamity ankle when disaster struck.

Let me back up for a minute. A few weeks ago, I blew out my ankle (a story for another time). Basically, by the end of the day, it hurts like fuckall and has started to look like a blood sausage trapped in a straight jacket and not in the good way…

So anywho, I was laying in bed, sans the frankenbrace (it is rather sexy in an S&M kind of black nylon, metal and spandex way) with said ankle propped up and heavily swaddled in bags of frozen peas. If you are asking yourself why frozen peas, you apparently are no where near as accident prone as I am. Anyone who suffers grievous (at least in their minds) injuries on a regular basis knows the holy icepack of Antioch is none other than frozen peas. Think about it—they are small, round, can conform to any shape, reusable, and food but I digress…

As I was laying there, some of my menagerie decided to join me. I had 2 dogs and 2 cats sprawled on the bed with me. That I didn’t have all 3 dogs is not unusual. Max, AKA head bitch, does not tend to sack out in bed as not only does she prefer having the entire couch to herself, she is not always the most demonstrative of dogs. So I was a little surprised when she leapt up on the bed next to me and, after carefully circling and stamping down the pillow top to her satisfaction, sacked out. But when she wants attention, she wants attention. She proceeded to give a huge sigh and laid her muzzle on my shoulder. I thought ‘How sweet is that?’ Just as that thought was forming in my mind, she proceeded to open her mouth wide and vomit all over me. All over me and the bed. All over me, the bed and one seriously pissed off cat.

I believe my reaction time was a split second, possibly less, as I lurched up and off the bed, screaming “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo”, bits of dog barf flinging off me. Bad idea. I landed smack dab on the unsecured ankle. “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo” quickly became “Mother of asssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss” as I attempted to jump off that ankle and onto my ‘good’ leg.

You probably noticed that I said “attempted”. It’s “attempted” as I forgot my own limitations in that moment, the first being a total lack of coordination. Seriously, I have a sense of balance on par with that of dry wall plaster. So I masterfully “attempted” to switch legs in some convoluted maneuver that could have been mistaken for an earthworm being electrocuted by a wretchedly nasty school boy.

As I hopped from my screaming ankle onto the silent one, I lost my balance and fell (Surprise! Not!). In the process, I took out the mannequin against the wall which in turn knocked over my snowboard and ripped down both of the floor length red brocade curtain panels and the attached drapery rod--with me riding on top of the whole shebang like Slim Pickens on the atomic bomb in Dr. Stranglove…

When the mannequin hit the floor, one of the arms flew off, shot across the bathroom and shattered the glass shower door which scared the holy hell out of the vomit-covered cat, Ottmar, who had flown off the bed and taken refuge in the relative safety of the bathroom…or so he thought. He tore out of the bathroom like a rocket. His claw-filled path of flight? Right across my chest. Right across my naked chest. Oh, I’m sorry, did I fail to tell you that I was butt nekked through this whole mishap. Yeah. Bonus. Not.

Gotta’ love pets…

Happy One Year Meg-O-Rama!
Mood:  surprised
Now Playing: White Stripes
I just realized that Meg-O-Rama has been up for over a year now. Yeah, I know, not very bright of me, but I’ve had other things on my mind and massive amounts of Darvocet in my system lately. I am amazed how fast the time has passed. What a difference a year makes! More blonde highlights and new frosty beverage recipes…

A year ago when I started the blog I was madly in love and, at the risk of sounding like a girly-girl, thought I had found ‘The One’. It seemed like my life path was unfolding before me (I’ve just never been one of those chicks with the Life Path ‘checklist’ that I rigidly adhered to like train schedules for Auschwitz). But, as with many other things in my life (like my prediction that Katie Holmes & Tom Cruise are really annoyingly sappy space aliens), I was wrong. C’est la vie...AKA shit happens or Fuck those fucking fucks!

So here we are 98 some odd (some definitely odd) entries later. I have been tremendously LAME about posting lately. Life’s good. Not much to rant about. Over the next few weeks, I’ll start doing some catch up stories as there are some really classic ‘Meg’ stories that need to be told including the garden clog ‘incident’ that resulted in me blowing out my ankle. Think accident prone and karma…

Anywho, thanks to everyone who reads my inane entries. The site is averaging over 1500 hits a month. Who’d a thunk it? Not I. Never I. It’s crazy…although it could also be a sign that I should start that cult I’ve always dreamed of…yeah, no. I hope for the most part, you are enjoying my ramblings and laughing until you wet or possibly crap yourself on a regular basis as being regular’s a good thing.

Stay tuned—hopefully my sophomore efforts will keep you entertained or at least shaking your head in bemusement wondering ‘Why haven’t they locked this maroon up?’

I Hate Girly-Girls!
Mood:  irritated
Now Playing: Buena Vista Social Club
There is just nothing quite so annoying to me as idiotic girly-girls. Perhaps it’s because, even with a lobotomy and a massive style makeover, I could never be one. I am just not built that way. It just requires far too much energy for me to play stupid. And why has it come to that anyway? Why does it seem like in order to be feminine you need to be a simpering and dim-witted girl instead of a woman? How did that crap come about? This is not to say that I am at all unfeminine as I have a collection of come fuck me shoes (CFMs) that would make Imelda Marcos weep like a little bitch in jealousy. What defines an idiotic girly-girl to me? Here are a few screaming clues:

Girls that refer to their parents as "Mommy" and "Daddy"

Girls who use the phrase “I think he’s ‘The One’” when referring to a guy they just went out on a first date with.

Girls who dot their ‘i’s with puffy hearts, smiley faces or anything that is not a dot.

Girls whose voices go up to preternatural levels when accosted with anything in miniature form.

Girls who think the only acceptable color palettes are in the pastel pink and baby blue families.

Girls whose bathrooms include any or all of the following: decorative/shaped guest soaps; guest towels that guests aren’t actually supposed to use (READ: white); anything that attempts to hide the extra roll of toilet paper in plain view; color matching potpourri (it’s a bathroom for cripe’s sake!); and finally, bride/wedding magazines.

Girls with an overly coordinated room. For example, the kitchen that is all color coordinated and matching. Oven mitts, trivets, salt & pepper shakers, spoon rest, utensil holders, carving board, dish towels, etc. in one theme, like the ever popular and ever horrid mad cow print.

Girls with more than 4 decorative pillows on their beds. (What are they for? Can you say time waster?)

Girls with stuffed animals on their beds. (What guy wants to go to town and have some truly insane circus sex with childhood loves Mr. Cuddles and Teddy Ruxpin watching?)

Girls who are only capable of ordering drinks or food which require extensive explanation to the server as to proper preparation. (E.g., When Harry Met Sally-READ: High Maintenance)

Girls who have a hope chest and are actively filling it with ‘treasures’.

Girl who speak in baby talk when they are not talking to a pet.

Girls who have ‘cute’ little pet names for EVERYTHING. (It's a fricking shot not a drinkie-poo)

Girls who have such an over blown sense of their own feminity that they are so girlie they dress like children. (Let’s remember that Little Bo Peep is only appealing to a certain portion of the male population—and one hopes it’s not because of the sheep…)

And let’s just throw this one out there for good measure: Any girl who isn’t sure if Chicken of the Sea is tuna or chicken…

Can You Say Annoying $ell Out? I Knew You Could!
Mood:  on fire
Now Playing: Who else?!!!!
It happened again last night. Just when I think the endless Hell is over, I find out I am terribly, terribly wrong. (Amazingly enough, this actually does happen occasionally…rarely, but it does.)

What happened you ask? I had to hear Green Day’s ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ one more fricking time! I believe this makes like one kazillion-five hundred gazillion and one third times (I changed the station before it finished last time) that I have heard this nauseating piece of crap. Jeesh! Like it isn’t bad enough that it is still being played every hour on the hour in every fricking rotation by every radio station!

So my totally ‘abbreviated’ self has just rolled home from seeing a comedy show with a group of friends at the Improv (hilarious comedian, total blast, story for another time) and Saturday Night Live is on. Yeah, I know it’s an off season re-run, but it never occurred to me as I plopped drunkenly down on the couch to enjoy some more mindless entertainment, that Green Day would be the ‘special’ musical guest – unexceptional musical guest is more like it. And what song do they just have to play to squash my buzz even faster than seeing my ex’s psychotic ex at the Improv? Yeah—Thoroughfare of Kaput Imaginings as sung by the diminutive rockers with ginormous heads.

I just don’t get how Green Day’s total and utter commercial $ell out is being so openly embraced. What guys? Much like the ‘Little Engine That Could’ are you muttering “We think we can! We think we can!” as you work your asses off to usurp U2’s spot as the ‘We used to be cutting edge and then we completely $old out’ kings?

Every night, it’s the same thing. I say my prayers while being watched closely by three exasperated dogs who just want it all to end so they can go to sleep. It’s always the same mantra I repeat nightly (no, not ‘make them perky’, ‘cuz that one sure wasn’t working). It goes like this…“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray Billie Joe Armstrong stabs himself in the eye as he applies more eyeliner than Tammy Fay Baker ever has in this lifetime. If he should die (or at least lose an eye or otherwise maim himself seriously) before I wake, one less Green Day $ellout album would I have to take.”

Seriously, I would rather undergo sphincter bleaching performed by a blind epileptic than hear that grating noise one more time!

I just hope I haven’t gotten myself so worked up over this tonight that I have that dream again where Hillary Clinton and Tito Jackson are playing naked Twister with a chinchilla and a set of blow up Russian Nesting Dolls…

The Master Cleanse
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Mozart for Morning Coffee
Recently, I decided to partake in a “master cleanse”. A friend of mine went on and on about how toxic our bodies are due to everyday living, yadda, yadda, yadda and so I thought, hey, I must be toxic as all Hell…so here I am on the master cleanse (AKA the lemonade cleanse).

How I willingly bought into eating nothing and drinking only funked up lemonade for 10 days, I don’t know. I can’t even blame it on the booze as I was completely sober at the time I decided it was a stellar idea. Usually, it’s a drunken ‘good idea thing’ that screws my life up…

Here is what I have learned from this experience:

•DON’T drink the prescribed laxative tea (no fiber in the cleanse) before bed.
•Laxative tea labels LIE when they say it takes 6-12 hours before the tea takes effect.
•There’s nothing like waking up a few hours into a good night’s sleep (especially when you’re in the middle of a fantabulous dream -- Vin Diesel was sucking my toes while…never mind), feeling like your abdomen has been kicked by at least half of the USA soccer team, thinking “OH SHIT! and being all too right.
•NEVER trust a fart. (write this one down)
•According to Uncle John’s All Purpose, Extra Strength, Bathroom Reader #13, the word fart can be translated into many languages (this is what you learn whilst endlessly testing the durability of porcelain).

Ten international words for fart:
Afrikaans-maagwind
Israeli-nuhfeechah
Japanese-he (now that one makes perfect sense!)
Cantonese-fang
Bantu-lu-suzi
Hindu-pud
Polish-pierdzenic
Italian-peto
Russian-perdun

The experience in three words? Wretched. Wretched. Wretched. There were parts of me that were spasming worse than Chief Inspector Dreyfus’ eye in the Pink Panther movies.

If I EVER consider doing this again, would someone please remind me that I was completely sober with a screaming case of the Hershey’s for over a week?! I’ll owe you a first born child or a kidney or something else of equal value…

The Date from Hell
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: Sum 41
So a buddy of mine says he has a co-worker he’d like me to meet and he proceeds to tell me all about this guy Mark. My first thought is “Slick, he has the same name as my ex husband--it’ll be easy to remember in case I ever end up shouting it during sex.” I know that sounds horribly shallow of me, but truly, it is something to consider. I had an ex who once shouted my name during sex…with his new girlfriend who quickly became his ex girlfriend in record time. Ever since then, I am paranoid that one day, due to an arbitrary wrinkle in time or a odd juxtapositioning of the earth’s axis, I might find myself in a position where I am screaming Poncho Villa or Coach English at an inopportune moment.

Mark sounds pretty good: former football player, 6’8”, 29 years old, has a real job…all good starting points. Matt sends me some pictures of him and I think “Damn spanky! He’s beyond sweet looking!” So I give Matt the go ahead to give him my cell number.

Mark calls the next day. He’s pretty funny. Bonus. He’s traveled all around Europe. Double bonus. After a few phone calls that go really well, we decide to do an in-person and meet up at a local sports bar downtown for some noshes and suds.

I’m pretty stoked heading into it. He seems super cool, but then again so did Bryan the fur-encrusted, snot excavator with TMFP…

So I arrive at the bar and he’s already there. First impression? That the pictures I saw were from a long, long time ago and perhaps of his much better looking twin. The football player physique so evident in the photos is evidently missing in person. We’re not talking fat on muscle. That I can handle. In fact, that I actually kind of like on a guy. We’re talking fat on fat. He was like a ginormous marshmallow all white and squishy.

I sit down and we order drinks. I order a Guinness—my preferred beer—and Mark says “Wow. I thought only guys drank Guinness.” WHAT?! So I give him the scathing look at about 5% intensity. He starts stuttering about how girls don’t usually like beers with ‘character’. I reply “I lived in London for a year—there’s not an import beer that I haven’t been intimate with.” He then proceeds to order a Mai Tai. A fricking Mai Tai! You have no idea how close I came to saying “I though only chicks and gay men in banana hammocks drank Mai Tais” but I resisted the urge as the evening was young and already off to a rather shaky start.

Our drinks arrive and we continue chatting. Pretty soon, I notice something odd. Mark in person is totally different than Mark on the phone. As in 180 degrees different and in an extremely annoying and creepy way.

Where was the super cool guy? In his place was a really strange guy who kept saying really weird shit. How freaky you’re wondering? He was acting like a black girl. Seriously. The 6’ 8” white boy had morphed into a sistah. For reals. It started out with him saying odd racial things like “my niggah” which doesn’t float with me. I bring up the fact that I am not comfortable with that kind of language and he says that he grew up in the projects in Chicago and has black friends so he’s an “honorary”. Honorary? I didn’t know there was such a thing except maybe Eminem...But it doesn’t end there. Pretty soon he is doing the round the world snap and saying “Oh no you di-n’t” and calling me “girlfriend”. I was so floored I didn’t know what to say! (And that's huge for me--I ALWAYS have something to say) I finally asked him if he was nervous (as I can be rather overwhelming in person) and he just looked confused...

Needless to say, I cut the date short. He insists on walking me out. He wants to walk me to my car and I’m all shades of oh no you wo-ent! I tell him thanks for an interesting evening (tongue in cheek but it sounds like I'm being polite) and go to turn away when he grabs my arm, spins me around and attempts to swap spit with me. OMG!!! Are you kidding me?! I deftly feint left and he ends up licking the side of my face—UGH!!!

I bail to my car faster than I thought myself capable in 4 inch platform shoes and speed off into the night with a major case of the heebie jeebies! All I could think was MUST WASH FACE!!!!

This morning, I get a text message. It’s from the big girlfriend himself and it says “Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m beautiful.” As if I couldn’t…

At this rate, my next date is going to be a hermaphrodite chainsaw juggler with multiple personalities…

Posted by azcoolchick0 at 5:32 PM NZD | Post Comment | Permalink
Updated: Tuesday, July 12, 2005 9:17 AM NZD

All I want for Christmas...A leftover IM chuckle from Christmas
Mood:  silly
Now Playing: Thrill Kill Cult
Meg: So are the boys getting psyched for Santa?
Deb: Yep, we saw him last night at the railroad park!
Meg: Was he trolling for action? Lionel pervert that he is…
Deb: Ha! You're going to end up with a lump of coal!
Meg: Well, if I stick it up my ass for a few million years, I'll have a diamond! YIPPEE! A pretty shiny!
Deb: The boys should be getting most of what they want, although Colton threw out a skate board from out of nowhere last night. Hopefully he won't be too upset when he doesn't get one!
Meg: And an iguana, and a Joe Cool Yo-Yo, and a donkey, and a Nerf coliseum…
Deb: That WOULD be your list! Your poor parents! Actually, at Wyatt's school they had a Santa and he asked one of the little kids what he wanted for Christmas and the kid told him that he wanted a bell! The poor bastard just looked dumbfounded! Like where the hell am I gonna get a bell for this fathead!?! I just chuckled!
Meg: A bell? What the F?! He should of at least asked for a Juice Tiger!
Deb: I know! Too funny! And the kid was getting an xBox or something!
Meg: I want a pickle...
Deb: Done!
Meg: And a brass farthing...
Deb: You mean you don't want sandpaper?
Meg: That was next after a carbuncle...

Will Buy Dinner For Sex...
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Il Divo
It’s the age old question. A question as old as time. Why do men think that buying a woman dinner entitles them to sex? Do you think that you’re out with a hooker? If your answer is no, then don't expect nookie just because you picked up the tab, bucko. If a guy thinks that buying me dinner means he’s getting lucky he is beyond wrong! Paying for dinner is an optional, gentlemanly thing to do, not a VIP pass into my panties (if I am actually wearing any and not in commando mode).

Don’t worry though guys. There seem to be many chicks who are willing to ‘barter’ and think that a man paying for a drink or buying dinner is a standard price for giving it up. I guess what you get from these gals would depend on how underrated virtue is to them or what they order…

Here’s a handy guide as to what your dinner expenditure might possibly buy you with one of these chicks:

Spend $5 – $15 Earn her utter contempt and become embarrassing fodder for her friend's blog
Spend $15 – $20 A firm handshake at the door at the end of the evening and permission to call her again
Spend $20 – $30 A one-armed, off kilter squeeze hug
Spend $30 – $40 A kiss on the cheek
Spend $40 – $50 A kiss on the lips with the possibility of some tongue action
Spend $50 – $70 A butt squeeze
Spend $70-100 Partial nudity
Spend $100 or more Full nudity and exchange of bodily fluids

(Please note that prices are per person and including alcoholic beverages will up your odds tremendously!)

Now guys, this doesn’t guarantee that after you fork out that she will put out. You may want to consider increasing your odds by taking her to dinner at a restaurant next to an x-rated bookstore…