Monthly Archives: March 2012

Rewarded For TMI


I knew something good would come out of having unfiltered thoughts eventually. It’s not like I try to go unfiltered, but unedited thoughts just kind of fall from my brain into my fingers onto the keyboard. (Or if you know me in real life, they fall from my mouth onto unadulterated ears.) Luckily, I have readers who appreciate such openness, like Kana Tyler, who has awarded me with the TMI award. If you are wondering, the explanation for said award is here:

The TMI Blog Award honors those blogs that discuss everything in detail and do it well. 

These bloggers aren’t afraid to discuss their most awkward, embarrassing, and intimate experiences with honesty, humor, and little to no filter.

Yeah, that sounds like me.

I must admit- my histrionic personality has a little to do with that. (Or a lot.)

There’s something in the rules for this award stating that I must share an truly embarrassing story in order to accept it. Here is the problem about that.

In my former life, (namely when I was a teen) I was constantly embarrassed by silly trivial things that I had no business being embarrassed about. Since then, I have come to realize that I sport a “c’est la vie” attitude most of the time, which inhibits me from feeling embarrassment at the proper times. So, instead, I shall share an intimate experience with you. (I suppose some would think I should be embarrassed about this- I shall let you judge.)

Once upon a time, I worked in a department store that employed a fun and sexy maintanance man. When he was not mopping up mud puddles and sucking up dirt with his industrial-sized vacuum, he was flirting shamelessly with EVERY female employee in the store, regardless of looks. When he started working there, he was dating three different women, who supposedly knew each other.

I began to think of this maintanance man as my Work Husband, since we spoke frequently and flirted even more frequently. At the time, the demise of my marriage was impending, and one Saturday my Work Husband and I got together and did It. I had to quickly gather my drawers and brassiere when he got  a call from one of his girlfriends saying she was on her way over.

Considering my stellar nookie skillz, it was no surprise when my Maintanance Man requested a replay. We worked out a nookie schedule based off of the lack of nookie we were both receiving in our relationships at the time, which seemed to work out perfectly. Whoever said friends with benefits doesn’t work obviously just doesn’t know.

Moving on.

After I left my hubby, I received increased calls from my Maintanance Man, however, he was engaged to one of the three girls now, and I had my Rockstar, so I desisted. I warned him not to get married. (Not because I abhor marriage, mind you, but I told him that if he was not content with the sex from his future wife BEFORE they got married, he certainly wouldn’t be content with it after.) The dummy did it anyway, and called me two days after returning from his honeymoon, asking for a Sparklebumps-style screw. I informed him that if he wasn’t going to listen to my wisdoms, then he was shit out of luck. (I also told him that she deserved at least a chance to satisfy his strong sexual urges.) He was saddened, and contact with him was non-existant for awhile. I still get texts from him occassionally, and he is more than willing to share the love. I am content now, and so I shall continue to disappoint him. However, I accidentally had a dream about a menage-e’-trois that included me, the Maintanance Guy, and his beautiful wife just the other night. You have no idea how badly I wanted to text him and ask if her nipples were as sensitive as she said they were in my dream…

So I hope that story is satisfactorily intimate and entertaining. I am now supposed to nominate other bloggers with similiar traits. Look to the right of my page and click on a link, because I am quite certain if you look hard enough, everyone on my blogroll has had an embarrassing story to tell at some point. XOXO

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Filed under Humor, Life, Sex, Uncategorized, Work

A Life Choice: Redux


Just to be clear, I don’t want to get to the end of my life with 5 boys and no man and realize I left the one I was supposed to be with to live out his life playing guitar without me to listen to him.

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Filed under Children, Life, Love, Uncategorized

A Life Choice


I’m sorry, my Lovelys. There will be no witty or completely entertaining post from me today, because the ugly Depression Monster crawled out from under my bed and is holding on to me for dear life. (Or for dear death. That seems to make more sense for some reason.)

The joys of going through life without treating bi-polar disorder include having completely shitty days where the sun doesn’t shine, even if it’s blazing a hole through the ozone layer outside. (For the record, it’s not sunny out today here in Minnesota anyway.) The stupid nagging that has reared it’s ugly head in the back of my mind for months has finally gotten to the point where something needs to be done about it. And unless someone is will to adminster a labotomy, it looks like I’m stuck with actually making a life decision. (My record isn’t exactly great when it comes to those.)

I want children. (Even though there are days when I hate the little bastards) I want to hold my baby and sing him songs, and I want to teach my 3 year old to read all the amazing children’s books that exist. Ideally, it would be best if I could ship my kids off to a home from the ages of 13-17, but I realize that’s not really an option, so I would be willing to deal with the bullshit of puberty and raging hormones in order to end up with a person with a little bit of me in them.

That being said, my Rockstar has made it abundantly clear that he does not long for more children than the one he already has. (In fact, he didn’t long for her to begin with, either, but that’s a story for another time.) I know that men do not change their minds, and anyway, I am not one of those women who WANT to change men’s minds. (Unless it has to do with changing a penis from a softy to a boner.) Given his mindset, I know that if we were to have a child together, he would end up resenting me, and I am not to be resented. And no matter what people say and how hard I try to make it so, having his Daughter around is NOT the same as having my own kid. So there.

In the past, I was with a man fully willing to assist me in the parentage of said 5 boys. However, either his swimmers were slow, or I lack proper plumbing- either way, we tried for over two years without results. (The way things turned out, I suppose that was a good thing.)

So the question is- Do I give up the possible life of almost-childless bliss with my Rockstar to pursue probably ending up alone without even a step-child? When these are my choices, do you people see why I detest making life choices?

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A Conversation Between Cool People


So I met up with my Rockstar and his Daughter at the mall yesterday after a bizarrely weird day at work. As my Rockstar checked out the quality of the latest athletic shoes, the Daughter and I were sitting patiently in the try-on chairs provided, when I noticed a delightfully polka-dotted skirt she was wearing that I had never seen before. This was how the following conversation went…

Me: What a super-cute skirt you have on there!

Her: Yeah, I love it. My Mom says I’m starting to dress like you.

(Pause)

Me: Is that a good thing?

Her: She doesn’t think so.

(Another pause as I make a face in my head and think, “Well, la dee da.”)

Me: Oh? Why not?

Her: Well, before you were around, I used to wear jeans and normal stuff. She thinks I should wear that kind of stuff all the time and not cute fancy stuff like I want to wear. But I think I should be able to wear whatever I want, don’t you?

Me: Absolutely. After all, who wants to wear normal boring stuff?

Her: Not you and me, because we are so much cooler than normal people.

And here I thought I was having no influence on the kid….

 

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Filed under Beauty, Children, Family, Fashion, Humor, Life, Uncategorized

A Search Term Story


Instead of dragging you all down with my normal sarcastic responses to the fucked up search terms that bring people my way, I’ve decided to insert them all into a delightful tale that is sure to entertain you all for generations. The search terms will be capitalized and in bold print, so that you will know what my creative mind had to work with. Enjoy! XOXO

Once upon a time, there was a Rockstar who FELL IN LOVE WITH A HISTRIONIC NYMPHO named Sparklebumps. She caught his attention one day when she walked by him on the street and said, “LOOK AT MY FAT ASS!”

He didn’t know how to respond, except to say, “It doesn’t look like PRINCESS LEIA’S ASS IN THE GOLD BIKINI.

Sparklebumps snorted and said, “Well, you don’t have a CHRIS MELONI BUTT either.”

The Rockstar shrugged and said, “No, but I have a HISTIONIC PENIS that needs alot of attention.”

That was all Sparklebumps needed to hear. She grabbed his SUPERHERO BULGE and whispered sexily into his ear, “Are you ready for the ride of your life, you HORNY HAIRY ASS FUCK ?”

The Rockstar was so turned on by her dirty talk that he wanted to do her right that second, but she pushed him away and said, “Wait, wait! I NEVER WEAR EYESHADOW when I do men. I used to, but when I do, I magically turn into a superhero called BLUE EYESHADOW GIRL .” So she washed her makeup off.

Before they got down to business, Sparklebumps put her hand on the Rockstar’s chest to stop him and asked, “I’m not going to get REBECCA STAMOS X-MEN CROTCH from you, am I?”

Rockstar was confused. “What the heck is that?!”

“It’s the newest STD. Your cootch gets scaly and turns blue.”

The Rockstar waved nonchalantly. “Nah. I’ve only fucked SLUTS IN TRUCKS and they only have diseases like herpes and stuff.”

“Oh. Ok. then.” Sparklebumps the proceeded to administer her a speciality, a CHRIS MELONI BLOWJOB. (That’s a blowjob given with all the enthusiasm usually reserved for good ole’ Chris.)

The Rockstar screamed, “Oh! Oh my! Aaaaah!” when he blew his load, because he was trying to cover up the fact that he normally squealed when he came. Sparklebumps was surprised at his SUPERFICIAL EMOTIONAL RESPONSIVENESS but she was so tired that she fell asleep immediately.

The next morning, the Rockstar woke her up and handed her a sparkly bag.

“What’s this?” Sparklebumps asked sleepily.

“Oh, I give all my WOMEN BITCHES MORNING AFTER GIFTBAGS. I do have to say though, your ass looked pretty damn good in them yoga pants, and you are frickin’ amazing in bed.”

Sparklebumps smiled.

EVERYONE CHECKS OUT MY ASS IN YOGA PANTS , but as far as amazing- I WAS TOLD I’M NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO WORK at the Bunny Ranch.”

“Well, I disagree. But anyhoo, do you wanna be in my band? It’s called LEMONPARTY THEMACUSER and we write IRANIAN RACIAL EPITHETS .”

“Yeah, man, I’ll be in your band!. I have a great idea for an album title. What do you think about ‘POKING EYES OUT: THE SOCKET DREAM ?’ We can put a phot of my tits on the cover and that would make perfect sense!”

“Awesome! We can sing about the WOMEN WE’VE FUCKED AND MUSTANGS and our lyrics will make people ask themselves, ‘WHAT WOULD YOU DO TO A SLUT ?'”

So LEMONPARTY THEMACUSER hit #1 on the Billboard charts with their hit single, “TEAM DRIVER SUCKBUDDY ” and Sparklebumps mentored an all-girl band named the CHRIS MELONI SEVEN who opened for them on tour.

After making billions, Sparklebumps and her Rockstar bought a castle where they lived happily ever after, and the HISTRIONIC PENIS got more than enough attention.

THE END

 

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Filed under Entertainment, Humor, Life, Love, music, Sex, Uncategorized

Rules For Loving Me


 

Since I am the Queen of my World, it would make sense for there to be rules for my Lovely subjects to follow in regards to loving me. More specifically, there should be rules for that special person who just happens to be my significant other. I would post these on the fridge if I actually thought they’d get followed…

#1. My Beloved is required to eat french fries of his own making with me at least once a week. (My Rockstar is actually pretty good about this one. Mainly because he is too lazy to cook something other than fried food most of the time.)

#2. My Beloved is required to wash ALL dishes that find themselves dirtied in the sink. In exchange, he shall be rewarded with a complete body rub with my extremely soft hands that are unsullied from numerous dish washings.

#3. My Beloved is required to engage in sexually explicit acts quad-weekly or more with the Queen. In exchange, he shall be rewarded with earth-shattering orgasms.

#4. While the Queen is not against doing her own laundry, it would be much preferred if her Beloved put away his own skivvies and other assorted bodily coverings.

#5. Hand holding, ass groping, booby squeezing, and other assorted acts of physical affection are required to keep one’s place as the Queen’s Beloved.

#6. It is not necessary to accompany the Queen every Sunday to her piano playing gig at church. However, an occasional appearance is required in order to keep the old peoples from feeling pity for the Queen continuously having to sit alone.

#7. The Queen likes to stay home alot. Yet the Queen’s Beloved is required to understand that a date or outing is necessary on occasion in order to satisfy the Queen’s boredom.

#8. The Queen, like any other royal personage, suffers from histrionic personality disorder. Therefore, her Beloved must realize her need for attention is highly magnified, and must act accordingly.

#9. A Royal Spanking must be administered to the Queen now and then to make sure her masochistic urges are satisfied. This may also be accompanied by a Bite to the Ass, or Forced Deep-Throating. For this she thanks you.

#10. The Queen must be allowed to choose Travelling Music when riding along on car trips. No groaning or negative commenting on her choice of music or questionable singing skills is allowed.

#11. You bought another pair of shoes?” is a comment that is punishable by beheading, or some other equally disgusting punishment, such as No Sex.

#12. Chocolate Caramel Coffee Creamer must be supplied to the Queen daily. If it is used up, her Beloved is required to buy more.

#13. The Queen is required to drive a fuschia-colored Boss Mustang. If she cannot afford one, one must be provided for her.

#14. The Queen’s Library will forever be added to. Sufficient bookshelf space must be accomadated.

#15. When the Queen decides to cook dinner for her Beloved,  the eating of said dinner must be accompanied by ,”MMM, this is good”s, and/or “may I have some more?”s. Also, if she is wearing nothing but and apron and heels, this must be acknowledged.

These seem to be relatively reasonable rules, I say. Who wouldn’t want to be my loyal subject, I ask you? 😉

 

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A Letter To The IRS


IRS,

If you have noticed, there is no warm and friendly words in my greeting to you. This is mainly due to the fact that you continuously insist on taking all of my hard-earned moneys. I realize that these are hard times fiscally, but given the fact that I have never made over $20,000 in any given year, is it really necessary for you deduct numerous dollars from my tiny paycheck every two weeks? I would understand if I were the only person in the country, but if you add up even $1 or $2 dollars from every person in America bi-weekly, that’s…. well, that’s alot of dough. I really don’t see why you should need more than that from little old Me.

Not only do you faithfully withdraw funds from my paycheck, but you always expect me to pay in every year when I fill out my taxes. Why am I penalized for not having a child, I ask? I hear of so many white and black trash people with multiple childrens who get to go blow $3 or $4 or $5 Thousand dollars every year because they have failed to be responsible and use protection and are clearly much too fertile. I believe that you should think about making a new policy rewarding peoples who DON’T take advantage of your niceties.

I would, however, like to thank you for allowing me to receive $62 on this years tax returns. I am immensely thrilled that I shall be able to buy a tank of gas, a coffee from Caribou, and a stick of gum. Thank you, IRS. Thank you from the bottom of my destitute heart.

I would like to bring to your attention the habit you have of sending unnecessary letters. It is quite obnoxious of you to repeatedly send me letters quoting  the dollar amount I owe you combined with your late fees. By the way, are those fees completely necessary? As if you haven’t raped my wallet enough, you also insist that I bend over to pick up loose change on the ground while you drill me in the ass mercilessly. All I have to say is- Shame on your greedy selves, IRS.

To sum it all up, I would like to point out that I firmly believe that because of your repulsive behaviors in this life, in your next life, you are sure to come back as the mashed pepperoni I stepped on last night that is now completely imbedded in the treads of my non-slip work shoes. So poo on you, you disgusting bastards.

No Regards,

Sparklebumps

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Adventures In MOA


Hello, My Lovelys! Let  me re-introduce myself. I am Sparklebumps, and I work as a Pizza Whore, which makes me unable to post daily on my blog like I’d like. Instead, you have to wait 4 days in between amazingly entertaining posts. So sorry about that. I missed you.

Today I get to to tell you of my adventures in MOA. For those of you not from Minnesota, (I believe that’s all of you besides Delightful) MOA is what we Minnesotans call…dum dum dum…. THE MALL OF AMERICA. The greatest mall in the ENTIRE world. The convergance of everything retail. (And some things not, like Hooters) A place filled with sparkly and over-priced items….

I must admit, each time I go to MOA, I am slightly more disappointed than the time I went before. I am still not entirely sure why, but I think it may have something to do with the fact that I end up walking by the same stores 6 times and don’t buy a thing. In the 15+ years since MOA has been there, I can honestly say that I’ve only bought something there twice. (Unless you count the purchases in the multiple candy stores.)

Anyhoo, yesterday was the first day of spring break for my Rockstar’s Daughter, and he had taken the day off, so we decided to venture the 70 miles to entertain ourselves at MOA. Despite having bought new 5″ heels that I haven’t had the oppurtunity to wear yet, I wisely refrained, and instead donned my sequined ballet flats.

The intent was to entertain the Daughter for the day in the Nickalodean-themed amusement park that sits smack dab in the center of the mall. Since I am not the child I once was, I can no longer spend a day taking multiple rides on the Spongebob roller-coaster without feeling like I will hurl my lunch all over the children standing innocently around. So I stuck my Rockstar with the job of chaperoning his Daughter on the many vomit-inducing rides and ventured out into the rest of the Mall.

Having been absent from the MOA for nearly two years, I was delighted to find a few newly added stores. Imagine my excitement when I passed and then did a retake of the Betty Page Store. WHAT?! An entire store dedicated to the fashions of the greatest burlesque dancer of all time?! Not only was this wondrous store full of polka-dotted textiles and sailor-inspired dresses- it had T.V.’s actually playing Betty Page videos! I felt a little awkward when the sales girl startled me out of my strip-tease watching trance…

Also, I was exstatic to find that my beloved Betsey Johnson has decided to grace Minnesota with one of her stores. The most awesome of shoe and clothing designers has made it possible to NOT have to fly to Vegas to purchase her wares. Sadly, her adorable bubble dresses do not come in sizes sufficient enough to cover my excessive boobage, so I was forced to only try on her equally-adorable shoes.

In my voyage through the Mall, I also realized where it is that I belong.

From four stores away, the glitter of Swarovski called to me, and I was immediately drawn to their display windows. I stood slack-jawed as I walked into the store and found myself surrounded by everything crystalled and sparkling. How unendingly happy I would be if I was to work in such a place every day. I am quite certain my almost-O face assured the manager that I was unfit for employment, however.

It seems that creepys exist away from my town of residence as well. I was minding my own business, ogling yet another shoe store as I walked by it, when I realized a not-unattractive man was following me. I continued on my way, quickening my pace, intent on losing him. Sadly, my short little leggys were lacking the extra 5″ of stilletto necessary to outrun a persuer, so he easily matched my pace. I stopped, and cringed, waitng for the expected assault. It came.

“Hey, I’m Ray.” Ray’s eyes did a once-over of my body, which always immediately makes me hunch into myself.

“Hi, Ray.”

“I was, uh, just wondering if, you know, maybe, uh, I could get your phone number and get to know you.”

Narrowing my eyes, I straightened myself out and hit him with my best defense.

“I have Man Parts. You can have my phone number if you still want it.”

I, in fact, have no Man Parts, but apparently Ray didn’t want to get to know that.

Also, as I was waiting to meet up with my Rockstar and the Daughter on the third floor by Steve Madden, a boy resembling Justin Beiber kinda sauntered over in my direction, stood several minutes ogling my boobage, and then decided he was too much of a pussy to engage me in conversation. That was a little weird.

Strange, too, was the instant I came around a corner and had a man nearly collide with me, only to have him say, “Whoa! I saw your shirt and had to look twice!” (For your info, there was no cleavage showing yesterday.)

When I met up for a snack with my Rockstar and his Daughter, I was thrilled that after a decade of aching to check out Hooters, my wish was finally to be granted. We entered Hooters and I realized I did not hear the choir of angels I expected as I stepped through the door. Instead, the musical notes in my head fell flat, as my boner would have if I had one in my pants. Let me tell you something. When the Hooters menu states that you will be “served by a beautiful Hooters girl”, what they mean is “you will be served by a girl who is a size 00 wearing a push-up bra who has no ass to fill out her delightfully-orange shorts.” Because every waitress there had a waist smaller than my right thigh. Is this a sick game? Is Hooters just a cover for pedophiles? Because all those girls had bodies of 12 year olds. By the way, Hooters wings are NOT that great, so when your boyfriend tell you that’s why he goes there, don’t believe him. At least I got a thrill when my Rockstar bought me a Hooters T-shirt. Which I fill out quite nicely WITHOUT a push-up bra, I might add.

My Rockstar and his Daughter returned to the rides after the Hooters debacle, and I was hustled by the Israeli woman at the Natural Healing kioske when she found out my hands resemble a farmer’s. After she insisted I rub my hands with her miracle salts, she continuously lowered her price on her products, thinking I would break and buy. I stayed strong, and did NOT spend $59, or $49, or $29 for one jar of salt. I must say, my hands are incredibly soft. So soft, in fact, that my Rockstar insisted on actually holding my hand at various intervals throughout the day. That woman’s salts were indeed miraculous. After many hours of ogling shoes and other shiny things,  I ended up at Barnes and Noble. Of ALL the stores in ALL the Mall, I ended up spending 3 hours in a bookstore. Imagine that.

P.S. The only other store I spent a decent amount of time in was the Disney store, only to be sorely disappointed that they had no Little Mermaid merchandise.

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Filed under Beauty, Books, Fashion, Food, Humor, Life, Love, Uncategorized

Pizza Whore


I have officially graduated to the level of Pizza Whore, because last night I just frickin’ bent over and took it up the ass.

No, I didn’t have sex on the make-table (though there IS a legend that that has happened in my store in the past). I just went to work and had the joy of getting the ass-pounding of my life.

Just so you know, my co-manager Awesome is responsible for the term “ass pounding” when it comes to being so busy you are completely buried with no hopes of a respite.

I may have mentioned that at this point I’m not exactly thrilled to go to work every day. The whole manager thing makes this so. I honestly cannot imagine anyone saying, “Oh yes! Please let me go to work and not make tips and yet be completely responsible for all the shit that could go down! Moniter screens going out? I got that handled. After all, I’m making less than the drivers. Running out of dough? I don’t mind, because I get to wear this awesome little name tag that says manager on it!”

Fuck my life.

It is true when They say (whoever They is) that you can’t go back. I’ve tried. In fact, I’ve begged to go back to just being a server, but since there is no one who can do my job as awesomely as I, I am stuck. So the only option is to find a new job. Is anyone out there looking for a slightly-neurotic , highly-intelligent,Triple-DDD’d chic to shovel shit or lick your kitchen counters clean? Anything that is less detestable than managing Pizza Sluts?

The night couldn’t have started any better. After all, my cook was at least decent enough to supply a doctor’s note when he decided to call in. Luckily, I had the new cook there who doesn’t completely suck that begrudgingly stayed, because he didn’t want me to get ass-fucked. As if that would have helped.

You may have noticed when watching commercials that we have this obnoxious Box Dinner Deal going on. If there is anything decent left you people, you will refrain from ordering these until I have found a new job. Simply because I do not think I can handle running out of prepped dough one more time without taking that giant pizza cutter and slashing my throat with it.

After running out of dough because the entire population of St. Cloud, (and some of St. Joe) called to order a Dinner Box, I was highly distraught when we had 15 MORE orders for the Box Deal on my screen and no dough. (We had no dough because every pan had been prepped ahead of time and we went though it all in less than 2 hours.) I called my boss Frenchie only to have him tell me he couldn’t come in because he took pain meds. I believe my exact words were, “fuck this.” I will be very in touch with my emotions when I say- “I was very ANGRY with my boss. I was very ANGRY with him.”

My blood pressure is rising, so I must desist writing about this for now. Just know that I get to do it all over again tonight and I’m not exactly thrilled about it. But calls to the boss’s boss were made.

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Filed under Humor, Life, Uncategorized, Work