Creepin’


I be creepin’….

I feel like this is or could be the title to a great hit song.

In this day and age, you ain’t nobody unless you been creeped on by some random acquaintance on Facebook.

Which means: I just made at least six people Somebody.

I promise when I sat down at my computer, it was with the only intention of writing at least three hard-to-come-by paragraphs for my novel that will be finished in about ten years. Only, I signed in to Facebook, and after clicking on several alluring ads for $17 dresses, I decided to see what my not-so-close virtual friends looked like before I knew them, or after I knew them, and what their dogs look like, and let’s not forget all those annoying Facebook babies. This is what I found out.

Some people should go back to their natural brunette hair color. (I am aware that I may be one of these “some people”.)

Some people look just a little bit better than they did last year.

Some other people looked a lot better last year.

There are just way too many damn infants on Facebook. Apparently the entire population of Minnesota and some of Wisconsin have nothing better to do than fuck like rabbits nonstop.

All of Facebook is nothing but a ruse. I once thought all those people posting pictures actually DID stuff. Now I realize they are just taking pictures nonstop of themselves in their very ordinary lives. Well, guess what, people?! I can do that too!

There are very few people who actually throw interesting-looking weddings. I’ve decided if ever I have another wedding, there will be mermaids, belly-dancers, a unicorn, a rodeo clown, and at least two pirates. (Preferably the Johnny Depp kind, not the Somali variety.)

I realize that people are probably starting to get tired of seeing me post a daily pic of my new puppy. Because I am most certainly getting tired of seeing pics of their babies.

Some people should most definitely not start their own Youtube channel, because nobody really cares where some people come from.

Damn, I’m harsh tonight. Sorry.

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Blake Shelton, Your Penis is Popular (and Other Semi-Popular Posts)


Having posted a little over 500 posts, I decided it was time to highlight the most popular posts of my blog’s lifetime thus far. I am sure this will only further make popular certain men’s junk.

Now It’s Blake Shelton’s Bulge

With a whopping 2,830 hits, it’s clear that everyone is obsessed with Blake’s vulgar bulge. Everyone,  that is, except me. I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole, because with this many people googling it, it most certainly has some undesirable virus.

Straight Smut

While I am dismayed that Blake’s netherparts are what have drawn so many readers to my blog, I am quite elated that a story of my own fictional creation has made it this high on the list. Doubtless my indecent  imagination is to blame. :)

Female 5-Oclock Shadow

Not one of my best posts, and probably not exactly about whatever it was all those pervs were googling about.

The Histrionic

I am pleased that anyone even cares to read about the man, er, the woman behind the curtain. Bless you.

My Great Loves

Too, that anyone would care to read about what I adore.

Joe’s Junk and Other Disturbing Search Terms

It really is fucked-up, the things people google. And it’s pretty bad when I think so.

Smut-R-Us

This one was a little ways down on the list, but I figured I’d give y’all a little treat. ;)

Enjoy. XOXO

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Suck It, IRS


Dear IRS,

I have afforded you the courtesy of a “dear” in this letter, as I did not in my previous letter. You may (or may not) wonder why you have found me in such a pleasant disposition. I will tell you.

Today, for the first time in almost ten years, I owe you no money.

(Pardon me while I complete a little victory dance. No, I’m not having a seizure, I just grew up Baptist, so I don’t have the rhythm most normal people have. But yes, that was most certainly a completely vulgar hand gesture I was making in your general direction.)

I realize that there will always be poor unfortunate souls that your corporation will always prey on mercilessly, but no more shall I call my bank to find that you have withdrawn my last twenty-one dollars and thirty-seven cents without my permission. I will no longer need to write on my bill calendar your most deplorable automatic withdrawal payment that has been plagueing me like a virus for the last four years. With my now liberated monthly $100, I intend to purchase a ridiculous number of shoes, and books that will be added to my already multitudinous collection.

It has been brought to my attention that you do not care in the least about my opinion, oh wretched IRS, but that will not stop me on the 16th of every month from interrupting whatever it is I’m doing at the time to howl to the heavens most barbarically “SUCK IT, IRS!” while simultaneously re-creating the move made most famous by the wrestling tag team DX of Triple HHH and Shawn Michaels viscously several times in an unladylike manner.

Have a nice day,

Sparklebumps

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Frozen Pizza, Pillows, Tiggs, Spiders, Robots, Color Sounds, and Dancing Ninja Grandmas


Welcome to the longest blog post title of all time. This is what comes of being completely uninspired.

I was chatting on Facebook to my boss from the grocery store, and asked him what subject I should post about today. The above title is what he came up with. (To clarify, my boss spends a goodly amount of his time in an alcohol haze, and rarely remembers any text conversations we have. That being said, he’s a pretty cool guy with above average intelligence.)

We will begin with frozen pizzas.

Frozen pizzas are gifts from the gods. If you disagree, you are either a heathen, or a vegan.

What should you eat when you’ve had a hard day at the office, swinging around on that silver pole, trying to fend off the pervs who only have ones, and your illegitimate child is starving and doesn’t want to wait for a lovely healthful meal? Frozen pizza.

What’s the first thing that comes to mind after you’ve pounded back a few beers and realize it would be safer to turn on the oven than to try to satisfy that late night drunken craving on the stovetop? Frozen pizza!

If you’ve just moved, and are looking for a quick bite to stop you tummy rumblings, but you haven’t unpacked the contents of your utensils drawer, what do you buy?

Pizza bites! (No pizza cutter required!)

Ok, enough about that.

Next subject. Pillows!

What would a nap be without a pillow? It would be a pass out, that’s what.

A pillow is the thing that takes you from a trashy drunk slut to a snoozing angel.

A pillow is the thing you long for while you’re slaving away, making minimal tips in a thankless job.

What fun would men (and some women) have without “dirty pillows” to lay their heads on, and squeeze and pinch and fondle?

(Sidenote: The Marriot is the hotel with the best pillows. If you have never experienced a pile of angel feather under your skull, the Marriot is the place to do so.)

Now it’s time for Tiggs!

I did not know what this was until my boss explained it to me, but apparently Tiggs are that group of individuals obsessed with Winnie the Pooh‘s Tigger. I must say that I have always found Tigger to be extremely creepy, and possessing of superfluous amounts of energy, so I exercise my right to plead the fifth on the subject.

Spiders, too, are a dreadful sight to behold. I’ve not much to say on the idea of arachnids, other than there should never be another movie featuring  spiders of the gargantuan sort, or a storyline that consists of hordes of the little buggers. Not cool, bro. Not cool at all.

I’m going to skip over robots, because soon enough the world with be run by them, and they will be the only thing we hear about. To be fair, I direct you HERE, where there is the beginning of a short story about a cyborg, which is basically the same thing.

Sounds of colors are the next subject on the list, and there is so much to say about this that it must be revisited in another post sometime in the future. For now, I will say that purple sounds like the Artist Prince, black sounds like any form of war, green sounds like a lawn mower, glitter sounds like me, and red is not, as Taylor Swift states, “loving you”, but maybe red IS the sound of me ripping Taylor’s unmusical vocal chords out of her scrawny little neck and shoving them somewhere the some don’t shine. Like under a bushel.

Dancing ninja grandmas is the best subject ever! Which is why I fully intend to be one someday, even if (to quote Phil Collins) “I can’t dance”, even if I have no grandchildren, even if I never have Chuck Norris come on over and teach me a few things. Imagine me, Gramma Sparkle, bouncing and capering around silently in my vibrantly colored ninja outfit. Booyah.

 

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No, You Should NOT Have Passionate Kisses, Mary Chapin Carpenter


This letter is to you, Mary Chapin Carpenter,

No, you are not a dear, Mary, and so I cannot address this letter thusly. Let me begin by explaining the reason I am composing this letter.

I have long despised your mediocre talent, and even more has your choice in song recordings galled me for many years. Songs such as He Thinks He’ll Keep Her and I Feel Lucky have irritated the beJesus out of me since childhood, but none of these “hit singles” have caused me to cringe and my ears to fold in on themselves quite as much as the song Passionate Kisses.

I know not whether it is the unmusical tone of your voice, or the even less harmonic rhythm of the song itself, but, oh evil songstress of country, how I loathe thee. Let us look upon the unpoetic lyrics of said song for a moment, shall we?

Is it too much to ask
I want a comfortable bed that won’t hurt my back
Food to fill me up
And warm clothes and all that stuff
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you.

While I do not deny that we all at one time or another crave a bed that doesn’t cause our backs to ache, and I myself want more food than is necessary to fill me up, I must point out that these very commonplace wants do not, in my opinion, cause you stand out enough that you should deserve such things as passionate kisses from me or anyone else. Moving on….

Is it too much to demand
I want a full house and a rock and roll band
Pens that won’t run out of ink
And cool quiet and time to think
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you.

I might mention here that, to be honest, you are not a performer of such caliber that you are in the position to be demanding of anything. If you were, you would not be needing to ask for a full house for your rock and roll band, because it would already be sold out. Too, you would have enough money to buy pens that have ink in them if you were able to sell tickets to your shows. Maybe it is your entitled attitude that causes people to not want to see you in concert, hmm? Or maybe they just realize that you will ask just anyone for passionate kisses, and do not want to run the risk of acquiring herpes labialis. Anyhoo, I digress.

Do I want too much
Am I going overboard to want that touch
I shout it out to the night
“Give me what I deserve, ’cause it’s my right”
Shouldn’t I have this (shouldn’t I)
Shouldn’t I have this (shouldn’t I)
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you
Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you 

Did you ever think maybe, just maybe, if you quit yelling at whoever it is you want to make out with so desperately IN THE NIGHT while they are trying to sleep that they might actually want to kiss you? Maybe if you ever shut the fuck up for one goddamn second, and quit whining about passionate kisses, someone might actually desire to smush their lips against yours?!

I have come to the end of this atrocious song, and find that I have nothing more to say to you, Mary Chapin Carpenter. You may blame my place of work for playing this song frequently, because having had to listen to it on a regular basis has made me quite certain you will never, EVER be getting your coveted “passionate kisses” from me. To be clear, your tiresome neediness is the reason you lack affection.

Goodbye,

Sparklebumps

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Is This Love?


pup

I think it is.

Everybody, meet Stevie Monroe. Part English Mastiff, part Newfoundland, all adorableness.

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I Am Now a Mermaid


Thanks to Pouring My Art Out.

Awesomesauce. XOXO

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