Five Things ...

Five Inanimate Things I Love:

1. My Lady Finger ... not the digit, my dildo
2. My can of Van Kamps Pork'n'Beans cause there ain't no gas shortage on Market Street!
3. Raccoons, of course!
4. Dilbert
5. Amateur Pornographic Photography

Five Sounds I Love:

1. The snapping of Jeff's brittle bones beneath the wheels of my S.U.V.
2. The squeak-squeak of something well-lubricated sliding in and out of a special place.
3. The sand-paper sound of something sliding in and out of a not-so-well lubricated place
4. The swish of an S.B.D. Poodle Fart
5. The sound of a man pissing

Five Words I Love:

1. Fag
2. Bungaranamus
3. Poop-shoot (or is it Chute? Either way works for me!)
4. Ritualistic Execution (thinking of Jeff again)
5. Dead Deadhead

Five Places I Love:

1. My Cha-Cha
2. My Bungaranamus
3. My Left Tit
4. The little man in the boat
5. Coralville

Dis is Da Pood

Dis is Da Pood...whorin' around, all over town. The hair is cut for paddles becuase baby-wayby such a good swimmah!

Jeff likes to lick Poodle Ass because he is a dirty two-timin' ass dog.

Asswax

This is the fourth time I've tried writing this one single silly, disgusting, vomit-inducing post. This retching, vile, stinky, pus-filled, red and itchy single post. This horrifyingly disgusting, morally bankrupt, child-frightening cat-piss-soaked silly post. Suffice it to say, I want to apologize for all the rotten words I wrote yesterday. My apologies for being a total and utter bitch to a man that I care for. My apologies for waking up on the wrong side of the bed. My apologies for alienating all my friends and freaking out at everybody. My apologies for killing small animals and leaving them as peace offerings to Stoopie and Mookah that rancid bitch. My apologies for calling that rancid bitch Mookah the rancid bitch that she is. My apologies for peeing on Roger that one time he asked me not to. 'Nuff said.

Now to the 'real' stuff. The hitchhiker's head did not bring me any luck whatsoever, therefore it shall rest peacefully with all the other dead animal bits given to me by Bake and the other body parts given to me by the First Presbyterian congregation.

My day started off on the wrong tit. I'd gone out with Tippy and the Mongol the night before and had a scale 4 hangover, an overworked Cha-Cha and a size 7 poop-chute. Then the Mongol called right before I had to open the bar and I was a bitch. I admit it. I was mean to him and had no right to be, and it made me feel shitty all day. Because why should I feel shitty when he should just fucking lighten up.

But anyway, Gigi's was pretty quiet for the most part, just the usual regulars: Henry, the sweet old man that has brought me a fresh remaindered dildo every day for ten years; Harold, the old retiree who brings me Alpo to make into burger patties for him; Brad and Ken, "jogging buddies" who come in every Saturday and overtip me...

But then... some guy I'd never seen before came in and sat down at the bar. He'd just returned from Missouri. He showed me the scar from a bullet wound on his scrotum for which he received a silver star, told me a few horror stories that I don't feel would be appropriate to relate here. They're not my stories. They're his. His name is Cletus and he's in the Kewanees. The guy couldn't speak. He stuttered and had trouble getting his thoughts out. He really fucking pissed me off.

He would cry, then apologize. He wanted a hug, so I gave him one. He wanted me to screw him with a strap-on while giving him a reach-around, so I did. Then he asked for a Hot Carl, and I tried to tell him that some things cost extra.

What the hell do I know? I only served him one shot, but he was there for almost two hours. I didn't realize just how wasted he was (I thought maybe he had Roger's Ass Syndrome), and I didn't see him walk in. But when he started to leave, it was pretty darn obvious he'd been doing some ass activities somewhere else. He almost fell down a few times, he couldn't walk a straight line... I followed him out and offered to kick him in the nuts, but he wouldn't accept. What would you do? I was worried about him, so I called the police to intercept him. Told 'em he was selling crack and child pornography. I felt bad doing it... but he could have hurt himself. And he was a real fucking asshole. That happened toward the end of my shift.

So pretty much business as usual. What a bunch of fucking morons.

Diseased Ass Sucks!

All right, so last night I was hanging out at Gigi's with that bitch Mookah and her friend Stoopie. For whatever reason, we were just GETTING OFF on 'female problems'. Having sat back most of the evening just dipping into the conversation like a fondue pot from time to time, I decided to tell the story of THE TIME I HAD A DISEASED AND SICK ASS **tympani roll, please**

At the time I'd been dating a frisbee golf team, and to blow off steam from enduring hours of their ego, I'd go the pleasure palace and play benwahball. So there I am one day, abooth, when I just got this overwhelming urge to piss in the corner of the booth. I ran to the corner, eked out a flaming drizzle of pee, when it struck me: somethin' wasn't right with my cha-cha! Not only that, but there was an incessant alarm coming from the region of my Bungaranamus. Hmmm...

So after the game (which didn't last nearly as long as my many treks back to glory hole), I went to the Rx for a little OTC medication for this nasty, irritating affliction. I'm sure all you ladies know what's comin' next. Yep. The stuff turned my urine flourescent gatorade and my poo-poo into the consistency of whipped chocalate mousse. After about three weeks of this, I decided I better do something 'cause the stains were starting to bother people and Mike said he'd have to replace the carpet again in Gigi's. Luckily, being colorblind Roger didn't notice the stains on his lighter colored t-shirts. But still, it was getting to be a problem.

Here's the great part of this story... I'm not sure I've ever been more embarrassed in my life. Oh wait. I have. I'll post a new section for that... Anyhoo, I go up to the counter in a very crowded waiting room, and this **blind** woman asks me why I'm there. I demurely tried to tell her I needed to be treated for a sick ass, whereupon she repeats it, only about 60 gazillion decibels louder. Ok, great. Thanks bitch. You got the Mennonite women to blush.

Eventually I'm shown to a restroom and given a bucket to poop in and a thermos to pee in. However, they've changed the rules for pissing into a damn cup from when I was in dominatrix school. I couldn't just hold it under the stream; I actually had to SPREAD (*ahem*) myself in such a manner that I guess would allow no pubes to fall into the specimen cup. Which is bulshit because I had no pubes as I had just been to LaShame for a pubic electrolisis/waxing/shave. Why a pube or two would throw off the test, I don't know. Unfortunately, somewhere in this process, I missed rule number fucking seven or something, and when I let myself go, my gatorade and poo went EVERYWHERE! The last time I had pissed on my own self was the night before when Roger ducked. Boy did I punish him for that, but that's another story.

So there I am, covered in my own pee and excrement, so obviously now I'm aroused.

So here I am sitting on this toilet with my HAND covered in pee, my left LEG covered in poop, my right KNEE covered in pee, and a nice puddle of both at my feet. Shit. God, was I horny. How could this really get any worse? I'll tell you. That OTC medshit STAINS. I was in that damn bathroom for half an hour trying to have an orgasm. And did I mention that it was a normal hot and humid August day in Iowa? You know, the kinda day you wake up and half convince yourself that it really would be ok if you wore your underwear outside. Which is what I'd done.

So what's a girl to do? Well, I held my head high, walked back up to the counter, handed my steaming bucket o' special sauce to the blind bitch (with a matching day-glo hand), and shouted "Here's my sexy waste, now lick my pee-covered boots!" The Mennonites were cowering by now, but damn it, they got down on their knees and within half an hour they had tongue-bathed me into cleanliness. My ass felt much better after an Amish tongue-lashing.

And that, my friends, is the story of THE TIME I HAD DISEASED ASS.

But Jeff sucks more.

Pardon me while I hump your leg

Today I feel like bitching a little you pathetic pork sandwiches because I'm not getting laid and it's all your fault you stupid fucking assholes. The Mongol I've been doing on the side (he repairs electric motors in Keokuk after training with Janda Electric - "Make no mistake. This is a big one.") hasn't been coming around lately after I told him to fuck off. Like, duh. He pisses me off when he takes that kind of shit seriously and the restraining order was obviously a joke. Man, am I being blown off? Again? Kinda pisses me off. Why is it that most of the guys I date have an IQ of 145?

Well, enough of my (Olympic) sex life. Let's discuss sex with raccoons. First, you need really strong leather gloves. Full body armor, the kind they train police dogs with is also a good ideal. And a beekeeper's hood can't hurt either. Either that or have them declawed/de-teethed and then remove their dentures. That and a jar of Bacos. Methinks their little masked visage is just so...sexy!

I'm a secretary. My world is somewhat limited. But today, well... it's all about me.

My cha-cha needs attention! My poodle just can't fit the bill no matter what Spackle says, and he knows his way around a hound.

If they ever make a movie of that asshole Jeff's life may Keanu Reeves play him.

Party on You Faggot Cicadas

Ever have one of those years when the world just pisses you off and you tell it to fuck off and then you get a gun and start blowing people away at a shopping mall, or wherever? Good. Or when the world is so close that you just want to reach out and fuck it, except its too big and dirty to fuck in its entirety? So you just rub the edge of your desk instead? I'm having a combination of this shit and I don't like it. Kill everyone that I meet, or throw them to the ground and fuck them. Kill them and then fuck them, or fuck them and then kill them? The ultimate dichotomy of the praying mantis - here's for women's lib!

Life has to be a constant orgasmic experience or I'm going to bitch at all you pathetic pudwhacking pussies.

Okay, so this post has nothing to do with cicadas except that they all live underground, come out and fuck and then die. I mean, how gay is that?

Jeff is the episiotomy of shithead fuck-for-brains putrescent nasty.

Another em-bare-Assing story

So many to choose from... but today I've decided to tell you one of the many stories of my intimate tawdry winsomeness.

Wince upon a time when I was just a silly little lilly-livered young fresh thing, I was engaged to a hermaphrodite named Sally-Bob who didn't appreciate the full roundness of my most excellent wonderfull-ness. Maybe that's why we were engaged, I'm still not very clear on that point. So, we broke up, kind of like an amoeba that divides through reverse osmosis or is it photosynthesis.

It absolutely fucked me up. But one day I decided to show him/her what he/she was missing out on. I went to a hot and raunchy boutique here in town called Vulva Americana. I think it was owned by the same people that ran Moda Americana, but I have never been quite sure on that. It was right next to the Travel Agent that always had signs for sex tours of Cuba but like that rancid bitch Mookah says the cigar doesn't have to be Cuban to be enjoyed if you know what I mean.

So I bought myself one of the most flattering outfits I could find (I am still paying this thing off and I haven't fit into it for YEARS), and went home to doll up and hose myself down, not necessarily in that order. Damn, I looked hot! Roger says so too, in case you're thinking I'm getting a little full of myself, cause I showed him some of the polaroids.

So, this hermaphrodite worked downtown at an adult emporium on the ped mall that had huge boarded up-windows that would have overlooked the whole area. I think it was so people couldn't see in as opposed to not letting Sally-Bob see out. There I was, strolling leisurely by his/her place of business in my hot saucy bitch outfit, and decide to bound gracefully (like a nutria, no less) down the very shallow steps of said ped mall directly in front of his/her place of business. Well, it was a windy day. And did I mention that my hot bitch outfit was comprised of crotchless Lederhosen and a chainmail bra? Once again, did I mention that it was windy?

As I was 'bounding', my left foot got caught up in my right Lederhosen leg, and I went full Ostrich bonzo sprawling toward a bed of daffodils. You know how when you trip and you're just propelled forward by the sheer force of your clutziness? Well, my push-up chainmail bra sheared off about an acre of flowers. I couldn't do anything for a full two minutes other than just lie face down in this flower bed and pretend to myself that I was having a bad dream, while trying to stealthily masturbate. Unfortunately, a really good lookin' guy gave me a very real hand up (up my bungaranamus, that is), all the while laughing his ass off as I picked earth out of my nose, my bra, my hair, my cha-cha - maybe going crotchless with no undies on the ped mall wasn't such a good idea.. and then I looked over to the door where my ex-fiance was standing, also laughing. Moral of the story? NEVER try to be something you're not. I will never in my life try to be graceful again; it just doesn't wear well on me. But crotchless Lederhosen do...

Jeff just lies there like a puddle of sick diarreah because he is a puddle of diarreah and it smells bad.

Fratty Boy Shirt Good

This morning I saw the best t-shirt in the world (barring my Roger Bradley: Homewrecker shirt). A guy walked into the local Ejaculate and Evacuate (Kum'n'Go to those of you not up on the latest lingo) with a pink tee on that said (on the front) "Moustache Rides" and (on the back) "Five Cents". Methinks that's pretty killer. And fratty.

I just love frat boys. Especially with a fine Chianti.

Did you know? Ten out of ten worthless motherfuckers are named Jeff.

19-inch Monster Cocks and other Totemic Virtues

Fuck the universe, fuck your mother, and fuck the horse you fucked just before you got here, again, and then in the immortal words of the leader of our shadow government, fuck yourself.

Now that that's out of my system and you've fuckered yourself into a state suitable for listening, this morning I stumbled across the shriveled head of a hitchhiker that my old boyfriend Bake gave me as a love offering. This guy would come to Gigi's (the bar in which I work/play) and leave some of the strangest things for me in my tip cup. Once it was an Arab strap (a kind of cock ring I later gave to Roger), another time it was one of Chuck Aukema's teeth, and even once (having been somewhere else for a month) he turned up with a place to put my weed. But this one day in particular, he left me the head of a hitchhiker with a dollar bill stuffed in his mouth. I don't think the guy had any idea I knew who the hitchhiker was (hey, I'm from Southern Iowa and you can't swing a tortured Poodle without hitting a dead hitchhiker in the spring), but suffice it to say, the next time I saw him, he got an earful. I took the whole thing as an insult... I mean, what's up with the dollar bill? Shouldn't it have gone in my panties for a lap dance? Am I right here?

Oh, and just before you stupid sons-of-bitches think that the title of my blog came from an oomphamism about my cha-cha, you're totally wrong. I was at the table the other night, and when push came to shove (we were playing spin the bottle again - everybody's been switching from Poker) it turns out that my bearded friend Scott G. was traumatically circumcised by a snapping turtle in the Turkey River up by Elkader and then he had to switch to being Jewish what with being circumcised and everything.

So no, it's not about my Cha-Cha you moronic, limp-wristed assholes, you make me sick. It's about Scott G.'s former foreskin which became a Cooter-Snack. Do you understand????

But in the picture the big Cooter is going to eat the little Cooter. Just because it can.

By the way, contrary to popular belief, Adolf Hitler was not responsible for the Holocaust. Jeff was.

¡Bush!Whacked!

Spring—it is almost here and it makes me itchy in my hoo-hoo dilly. Not a bad itch, or a literal one, because an itchy hoo-hoo dilly is kind of like a crabby hoo-hoo dilly...not an itchy bungaranamus which can be fun if properly tickled, but that's a story for another day...

Point being:  I don't have anything to write about.  Well, I do... but it's shit for another mood.  Public and social enlightenment, sexual epiphanies, bitchy friends, meth labs, good times... I may share some of these thoughts, but then again, I may just hoard them and tell you to take a flying fuck off of a fuckin' board fashizzle my izzle.

Naw, I was suckin' on some log and inbetwixt my piña colada (no, I don't like being caught in the rain. But making love in the ruins of your tape, yes, I can get into that) and my next tanning session I caught site of some strange, Missouri-like wilderness on the old Boob-Toob.

See, I grew up in the wild southern reaches of Iowa. Its kind a a no-man's land between the civilization to the North and the wild, untamed Hillbilly incest sexuality of the State Of Misery.

Nighttime in our neighborhood was always something magical for us. The fags would come out of the gay bars, the prostitutes would be on every corner, my half-brother Spackle would be undulating on the front porch to try to earn some pesos, and every kid on our block would congregate to tell sex stories, or to kick the shit out of some honor student until it was time to go home.

I'm not sure what made me think of all this. I think it was the change in my pocket last night that I pulled out and locked in my lock box to keep it away from that thief Kratz.

Oops. Almost forgot.
Jeff is an evil, vile, disgusting piece of crap.

Roger is a Fat Bastard

It's Wednesday and Friday is gone. Boy, isn't that a fact? At the risk of offending Skippy (ya little punk), I got to squat to write. It's like how some people like to do their daily reading, or another ritual involving a bran muffin.

Speaking of Bran Muffins, Roger is such a shit. High fiber this, high fiber that, that god damned Doctor is going to make him diabetic, and using it in enemas is just way too sticky!

Jeff sucks.