Because of my precarious teeterage on the edge of destitution this week, I am unable to buy proper hair care products. Instead, because of the disaster on my head known as hair, I am forced to wear braided pigtails to minimize the frizz. Move over, Dorothy, Sparklebumps is in town…
Monthly Archives: November 2011
So I don’t check my e-mail all that often, because like phone calls, I usually only receive one or two good ones in a given month. While going through my junk emails this morning , however, I decided to share a few of the subject lines with you, since it seems that the majority of people who send these to me believe me to be NOT what I am.
You have been invited to hook up for sex: How very flattering. However, since they didn’t send a picture, I must regretfully decline.
Learn how to take professional pictures from photography school: Because I was thinking I’d go to photography school so I could learn to do something ELSE.
Natural Moroccan Hair and skin care: I’m not sure why they sent this to me, as I do not have Moroccan hair OR skin. I’m Minnesotan, yo.
Seek hot chics in your city: Technically, I live in a suburb of a city, and I can tell you one thing- from walking uptown, I am quite certain there are NO hot chics here.
Cougar Dating: I wasn’t sure if this one was asking me to BE the cougar or to date one. If it assumes that I am the cougar, I am seriously offended. So fuck them.
High-end Rolex replicas make for perfect X-Mas gifts: Admittedly, I am quite poor; however, I am not so cheap as to buy someone I like a knock-off. If I am to buy a present, it will reflect my love and not my dollars. So hugs for everybody! (Since they are the only thing I can afford at this time)
Obtaining Social Security Disability is a complex process; we can help: I highly doubt they give disability for histrionica and shoe obsession.
Wow! This is Amazing!: This one was for a men’s supplement. Incidentally, this is the exact phrase I use when I look in my Rockstar’s pants- and he doesn’t use any supplements.
Viagra, Cialis, Levitra: oh, my! It sounds like a perverse version of the Wizard of Oz. I hope Dorothy finds men with NO erectile dysfunctions… because that would be best.
To all of those who read my blog, you are well aware that I bask in the glory of being a woman. I love sparkles, and pink, and makeup, and heels. I take advantage of having boobies whenever the opportunity is afforded me. That being said, I have one ginormous gripe about being a woman. The expectancy of shaven legs.
I fucking hate it. I think that shaving my legs is the biggest waste of time. When I add up in my head of how many dollars I have spent on razors, shaving gel, etc., I become so enraged that there is an immediate threat of fatal razor laceration to anyone who is near.
Since I had the joy of hitting puberty at an extremely early age, I have gotten to enjoy this complete wastage of time for over 20 years. Luckily, I have come far from the early days of leg shavage; no longer do my legs sport the nicks and cuts of the inexperienced butcher with a Bic; no, no. I now weild my over-priced Venus with the skill of a seasoned warrior. There is no greater thrill than having to take an hour long shower to rid myself of the repulsive hair on my gams that God gave me.
Of course there has been the occassional week or two without proper hair expungetion. How mortified has the unlucky man been who has had the misfortune of running his hand up my leg at those times. Since I already am not getting the naked fun time I desire of 3 times a day, I am forced to shave my legs every day in order to not further alienate my Rockstar.
At this time, I will cannot even go into detail of the more intimate hair removal that is required of women nowdays, as I am too upset over having yet again wasted 10 minutes of my shower time. If it shall go on like this, there is a chance I may have to take more serious measures. Like electrolosis.
Now for obvious reasons, (sparkles, underwear, boobies, and women,) there is really no reason why anyone should NOT watch this wonderful little gem. This is my favorite holiday, and I’ve been waiting all year just so I can see the most beauteous women prance around in their underwear and angel wings. I have made it a tradition to ask for the night off from work and get dolled up in my most adorable underclothes, (I say adorable because I can’t pull off sexy) and to watch the wonderful creations that float down the runway toward me on my 42″ high-definition TV.
Now, from what I can tell, most men are not allowed by their wives and girlfriends to witness this little exhibition. I feel sad for these men, simply because the show is about everything beautiful and fabulous; I do not think it is the intent of Victoria’s Secret to make the insecure housewives of the world jealous in any way. To those women I say- if you are so insecure about your men watching beautiful women in their undies, why don’t YOU get dolled up and strut around in yours? I’m quite certain if your husband married you, he would not mind this at all. Show him that you can be just as sexy as those women! (I have a little secret for you. Those women ARE very beautiful, but even they don’t look like that in real life.)
Last year on this holiday, my Rockstar wanted to see what all my excitement was about. He actually got only 10 minutes into the show before he blurted out, “All of these women are WAAAY too skinny. If they put their legs together, you’d still be able to fit a fist in between their thighs.” (I thought his wording was a bit crass.) Yes, I admit, the models really are too skinny, but can you blame them? They are walking around in their panties for the entire world to see. I wouldn’t want my lovehandles recorded on film for all posterity either. I was surprised to find myself watching the rest of the show by myself. My Rockstar loves to talk and look at beautiful women, so I really thought he’d be thrilled to watch. C’est la vie.
I am a bit turned off by their choice of musical artists for these events. Instead of Katy Perry and Nicki Minaj, I think it would be awesome for them to have Black Stone Cherry singing Blame It on the Boom Boom, and Motley Crue performing Hell on High Heels. But that’s just me.
I suppose it would be a little bit excessive to make bra-shaped cookies for the occassion? I really think that once I have my castle, I’m going to have to host an annual Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show Party. And you will only be allowed in if you come in your skivvies. XOXO
Hi, I would like to order the grime that is stuck to the bottom of the meat grinder which mostly consists of cow eyeballs and bull testes. Can I get that on a stale sesame seed bun with lettuce shreds and “secret” sauce that is probably a mixture of chunky spum and boogers from that guy over there with the unwashed hands. That special sauce tastes delicious.
I’d like to get the biggest side order of fries you have with that; since they are specially designed to keep fresh for months, if I don’t immediately get ass piss after eating, the french fries I will have eaten will remain freshly preserved in my gut for an indeterminate amount of time.
Also, I would like a large citrusy drink that in no way resembles fruit juice. It will contain enough sugar to waylay any diabetic seizure I may have.
Could I get a 4 piece side of cancerous chicken flesh that has been mushed together and breaded, please? No I do not require barbecue sauce.
While I was still contemplating kicking his butt-headed ass to the curb, (technically I would have to be the one to leave) I perused Craigslist for any jobs that looked “worthy” of his praise. I ended up applying online for several, and am happy to report that I actually heard back from a few of them. Now, I was watching the news yesterday, and there seems to be a Craigslist killer out there somewhere. They have apprehended some suspects, but my Rockstar had better hope that his judgemental attitude doesn’t get me raped and chopped up into little pieces.
Anyhoo, when I was at work this weekend, my boss Frenchie and I had a discussion. It seems that we have less than stellar cooks employed with us, and I suggested that he fire their asses and hire me as a cook. Cooking is certainly not my final goal in life (I am still trying to figure out what that final goal would be) but if it will keep Frenchie from hiring some dumb asstard who can’t learn how to decorate a pizza, so be it. We then discussed the possibility of my becoming a manager, and Frenchie stated, “This is an excellent idea. I don’t know why I never thought of it before.” I know why. Because he was busy looking at my ass. 🙂
So, I begin training to cook this week, and I shall prove how completely adept I am. Then we’ shall see what happens from there. Then, when I am making millions and living on my yacht, I can look at my Rockstar and say, “See? You just had to have a little faith in me,”
Aright, My Lovelys. I will write something useful today. I seemed to get a surplus of comments from my little smut writings; however, I don’t want to entirely alienate my readers who won’t admit they liked it. (I know who you are)
Today I must share with you the amazing discovery that I made while I was at work last night. After working for a little over a month as a Pizza Slut, I have figured out that I shall never hunger. Especially since the cooks we have employed at my store tend to goof quite a bit. Not a day goes by at work when I am not surrounded by extra deliciousness such as cheesey breadsticks (awesome with ranch dressing), stuffed-crust pizza (also awesome with ranch dressing), and garlic bread. (not great without ranch.) Now, I’ve been informed by my Rockstar that excessive feedings of cheese and bread can wreak havoc on your digestional system, or in his words, “You won’t be able to shit for a week.” (What a way with words he has.) and my palate is getting…somewhat bored of pizza anyway. So yesterday, I decided to order a little thing called Hershey Dunkers. (or as I have renamed them, Hershey Orgasm.)
If you have never experienced these, I urge you right at this moment to call up your local Pizza Slut store and order some. Right now. Because you will not be sorry. I was a little bit skeptical at first, especially when the cook making my Orgasm said, “These are so gross, why would you want to order them?” She let me know her opinion was so strong simply because they are so rich and sweet. My mouth was watering as they made their way through the pizza oven, as the odor of melting chocolate permeated the entire store.
I will describe them for you. It is really just breadsticks, but instead of putting seasoning salt on top, they are doused in butter and then covered with crumbly Hershey chocolatey goodness. They come with dipping sauce, and are amazing.
The moment I took my first bite, I knew my world would never be the same. The melt-in-your-mouth scrumptiousness made me wonder how I could ever eat anything else ever again. I ordered a double order, intent on bringing some home for my Rockstar. There weren’t many left after I got done…
I see much chocolate and many pounds in my future.