Either Everyone Is On Vacation or I Just Suck

I’ve been noticing for the past month or so a disturbingly significant decrease in views and comments on my blog. I would say that I should not be disappointed, because I continue to aquire followers, except for the fact that I have 179 followers and am hardly getting 30 hits a day, so obviously I am a bad leader and all of my followers and walked off a cliff. As I have not changed in any way, I can only assume that the novelty of me has worn off, and people are tired of reading about my histrionic self. That or most of my readers have taken a permanent vacation and did not invite me. Either way, now I am sad.

I Am Indebted To You, Soldiers

In honor of Memorial Day, I have decided to point out just a few ways in which U.S. soldiers have assisted in making me free to be me. I will be using the U.S. Constitution as an aid.

1.Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble.

Soldiers have fought for my right to whatever the fuck I want on my blog so all you people can be highly entertained. This has given me the ability to tell you the truth about my boss, which in turn got me fired, but now you know what a weenie he was. It has also given you all a chance to read about my former lives, and given me a chance to make you wild with desire with my excellent writing skills. This amendment also states that any Sparklebumps worship ceremonies may be held without fear of persecution.

2. A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

Thank you, soldiers, for making it possible for me to carry a 9 mm in my orange and pink patent-leather purse.

3. No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

Soldiers may only stay in my house with my permission- luckily for them, I cannot deny a man in fatigues.

4.The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

Soldiers have fought for my right to keep my Toy Drawer from being dug through and uneccessarily fondled or otherwise disturbed.

5. No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury.

I shan’t be going to prison for … those  things I did unless the Grand Jury allows it. Whew.

6. In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed.

When the Grand Jury finally catches me, they cannot try in me in Texas with a jury of unicorns. Thank God.

7. (Actually Amendment 8) Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

No one can charge me billions of dollars to bail my ass outta jail during my trial, nor can they make me eat Corn Nuts or force me to sit in a room of people chomping popcorn loudly and innapropriately.

8.  Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States.

Unless I am convicted of… those things I did, they cannot make me do things I don’t want. However, I am free to be leashed and beaten and forced to perform blowjobs if I so choose.

9. The Congress shall have power to lay and collect taxes on incomes.

Bastards. Soldiers, I cannot thank you for this one.

10.  No person shall be elected to the office of the President more than twice, and no person who has held the office of President, or acted as President, for more than two years of a term to which some other person was elected President shall be elected to the office of the President more than once. But this Article shall not apply to any person holding the office of President, when this Article was proposed by the Congress, and shall not prevent any person who may be holding the office of President, or acting asPresident, during the term within which this Article becomes operative from holding the office of President or acting as President during the remainder of such term.

We have the chance to get rid of those Presidential figures that so offend us. Sadly, it may take 8 years to do so.

I suppose that just about does it. I would also like to state that if it were possible, I would give each and every man and woman who has served or is serving in our armed forces a giant booby-squishin’ hug, which I would surely be stoned for if I lived in most Middle Eastern countries. Happy Memorial Day. XOXO

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Unfortunately, Kevin Costner

My Dearest Sparklebumps,

I wanted to write this letter to apologize for the irkedness and offense I’ve cause you throughout the years.

I cannot think of what has made you detest me so. I’ve given great thought to it, and there was only a few reasons I could come up with.

First of all, I would like to seek forgiveness for Waterworld. There was really no excuse for that. I would just like to point out that I got swept up in the idea of starring in the most expensive movie of the times. Let me repeat, I’m so sorry.

I have come to realize that my less-than-outstanding acting ability may have something to do with your displeasure with me. I agree that it is totally reprehensible of me to continue accepting starring roles that will further alienate you from me. I didn’t think I did too badly portraying John Dunbar in Dances With Wolves, and trust me, I was disappointed in the choice of actress they used for my love interest, as well. It is true, my performance in Dragonfly was mediocre at best, and the only thing that saved me was the screenplay writer. I should know better by now to turn down any more western roles, but, Sparkle, I keep accepting those roles because I want to play a badass- it’s no use. My weenie-dom seeps through.

I understand how tiresome it is to continuously hear of my utter gorgeousness. You know how your Auntie gets whenever I come onscreen. There is a multitude of other women (and I’m sure men) who are brainwashed into thinking I am much more beautiful than I am. (including me) You know as well as I that just because millions of people say you’re pretty, that doesn’t make it so. I try as hard as I can to convince them I AM, in fact, sexually appealing, but unlike They said in Field of Dreams– if you build it, they will come- I know within my heart that, despite my best efforts, I will never make YOU come. Your blatant revulsion of me is palpable. Though there are thousands of miles between us, I feel the shudders of your abhorrence every time you realize I’m coming out with a new movie like a slap in the face.

I hope you can understand that my venture as a restauranteur was to satiate my egotistical tendencies. Opening a bar and grill in Deadwood and then filling it with movie memorabilia from only my own movies was indeed pompous and narcissicistic, but you must remember, my fans like it, even if I DO suck balls.

I will end my letter by urging you to reconsider accepting any future acting rolls you may be offered where you would costar with me. I know that my hideous acting would be distracting, but you must remember, everyone would be looking at you anyway.

Unfortunately,

Kevin Costner

Lust Incarnate

There aren’t many people who haven’t heard of Lucifer; the whole story of how he got a God complex and was thrown out of  Heaven with his minions is pretty well- known.

A lot of people wonder, “What would make an angel ignore all the perfection of heaven enough to get cast out for all eternity by a forgiving God?”  Believe me. I’ve been asking myself that same question ever since God decided He didn’t want me there anymore, either. See, what people don’t realize is that Lucifer and his buddies aren’t the only ones that got banished from Heaven- they’re just the only ones who got any publicity.

People call me Zu, but my real name is Pharzuph.

I can’t say that I’m completely unrecognized. You’ll find me mentioned in the angelology texts as the fallen angel of fornication and lust. Hey, it could be worse. I’d rather be known as a whore than be stuck ruling a burning lake of fire, wouldn’t you?  I guess you can probably figure out now what got me kicked out of Kingdom Come.

Anyway, I guess God had a little soft spot for me, because he didn’t send me straight to Hell. Instead, I’m stuck here in this shithole of  reality called New York City. On the plus side, I get to do what I do best. To clear things up, I’m a high-class escort, not a two-dollar hooker. Like there’s a difference. The only distinction between the two is soap and a couple hundred bucks.

Check back for more of Zu’s story! XOXO

Plain

I received perhaps the best compliment ever from a coworker the other day without him having said barely a word.

This coworker happened to be the self-proclaimed douche I’ve mentioned in past posts. While I find him hilarious to work with, I can understand why some people would find him offensive. Mainly, because he is offensive. He has no qualms about telling people exactly what he thinks or giving them shit when he thinks they are being ridiculous. He enjoys spending the work hours he shares with me doing this exact thing, because he finds my flirtatious nature absolutely ridiculous, yet we get along great, because I have no problem agreeing with him on his self-proclamation of ass-holery.

Anyhoo, we were discussing a coworker’s wife who had come in to dine, and I pointed out that she really was quite plain. As always, the conversation turned to the subject of me (because, after all, everything IS all about me) and I stated something along the lines of- “I realize that I am very plain, but that woman was expecially so.” At that comment, the self-proclaimed douche’s eyes widened and he shook his head as I continued to ramble on about the saddery of plainness. When I noticed this, I stopped in my lecture, and he simply said, “Sparkle, you’re not plain.”

Coming from someone who finds me mostly ridiculous and frivolous, I found this to be a great compliment, especially since I am deathly afraid of being unnoticeable.

With all the beautiful people in the world, I find it most exhausting to try to even reach the bottom rung of the Beauty Ladder. While I admit that I do have relatively nice skin, when I wake up in the morning, I find nothing whatsoever in the mirror that stands out (at least in a good way.) I am pale, my eye color is an un-interesting poop shade, and my nose is too bulbous to be defined as “small”. I jazz all this up by swooping on brightly colored shades of eyeshadow, and applying glitter or blush to my cheeks.

It is true that my wardrobe reflects my inner showgirl. I own almost nothing that doesn’t sparkle or shine. However, I still find myself to be a plain girl playing dress-up in Dolly Parton’s closet.

So, it’s nice to see that at least one person has noticed my excessive tries to avoid Plaindom. Even if he is a douche.

P.S. I must point out here that looks aren’t everything, but to quote Freud- “Beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it.”

Content

I was sitting on the couch only partially paying attention to Pierce Brosnan’s appalling acting in Stephen King’s Bag of Bones last night when the twitching feet in my lap distracted me. My Rockstar was sprawled haphazardly across the couch and not even the suspensful music that’s written to startle you by ending in shrieks or unexpected scenes was enough to keep him awake. I had to smile to myself at his feeble attempts to maintain consciousness, because they were interrupted by those snorts that begin as snores but are cut short when the person emmitting them realizes they’ve drifted off.

There were a few weeks recently when I was questioning my sanity by staying in a relationship with this man. There was no heart-shattering behavior, no; and I have no doubt that my Rockstar is planning on having me around for a good long time. The issue is that he didn’t realize it takes a little effort on his part to keep me here. I wouldn’t exactly call me high-maintanance, but excessive hugs and affection are required.

But as I sat rubbing my excess supply of Island Breeze lotion on his stinky formerly-perfect feet, I watched him sleep. The ever-present concentration crease between his eyes was still there, even while he dreamed. I think it’s probably too late for anything to be done about that, despite my best efforts to remind it won’t go away if he continues to scowl. His well-worked hands rested just so I could spy the faint scars of years of woodworking criss-crossing the skin. Even though he was wearing a stained pumpkin-orange t-shirt, his pale skin and faded red hair still made him look like an angel in a Michaelangelo painting.

I rubbed lotion between his toes and appreciated the fact that the hair on his toes wasn’t of the creepy sort- no one would confuse him with a family member of the Wolfman. He let out a little sleep groan at the exact time as Annabeth Gish’s disturbingly aged face flashed across the T.V. screen and I thought, ” Why would I want to leave? I’ve got the stinky feet of the man I love sitting in my lap.”

 

Who I’d Be if I Wasn’t Me

This may come as a surprise to you all, but because of the relationships I’ve had, I am somewhat more edited than I otherwise would be. I am also still alive, when I probably otherwise wouldn’t be, so I suppose that’s a good thing.  I will explain.

I will admit that there have been many choices in my style throughout the year that my Rockstar and my Ex have not fully approved of. (Namely, my rainbow of hair color choices) This was just me being me while still trying to maintain their interest in me. Here is the funny thing- I tend to be in relationships with men who lean toward the more conservative side. I do not know why this is, but I will say that if I had dyed my hair Wildfire orange when I was still married, my Ex would have been greatly appalled, whereas the reaction from my Rockstar was only slight disappointment. I was thinking about it the other day, and have come up with a list of ways I would be vastly different if I had been going through life unattatched.

Firstly, I would probably have pink hair.

Or purple hair.

Or blue hair.

Or rainbow colored hair.

There really are just so many beautifully bright choices!

I would have had braids.

Or cornrows.

Or a fauxhawk. (I suppose I did technically have one of these. Of course I pulled it off.)

And then no hair at all. (Because I have a nicely-shaped head.)

Moving on from my skull…

I definitely would have a nose ring. (Because I have a very cute nose that begs to be blinged out.)

And a tongue ring.

And perhaps a clit piercing. (No, you don’t get a picture of that! This one is a maybe, because my clit really needs no more stimulation than it already gets.)

I probably would have had nipples rings at some point, but would have taken them out by now.

And oh the tattoes I would have!

I would surely have a giant backpiece of…

a tiger!

Or a cross!

Or a road map! (In case someone needed directions)

There would be that one very not-well-thought-out quote from Def Leppard that reminds us that “love bites”.

There would also be a swarm of butterflies flitting across my entire body.

Dr. Suess quotes? There would be many.

And perhaps a giant “American” tattoe across my belly. (To help identify my heritage when I was found dead in Brazil)

Of course there would be a little scattering of lipstick marks tattoed down the side of my neck. (Because who WOULDN’T want to kiss me there?)

Sadly, I am terrified of needles, so even if my significant other did not despise tattoes so, I mayn’t ever have any of these wonderful creations.

As far as the mental aspect of my life?

I would probably be living in Nevada working at the Bunny Ranch right now if I had never met my Rockstar.

Or going through life as a heroin-hooked Dumpster Junkie.

Or living in a padded cell talking to the extra voices in my head.

Basically, if it weren’t for the men I’ve had in my life, I’d be a hairless, multi-pierced, tattoed insane junkie whore.

Thank you, my men.

(I’d probably have a sweet book deal based on my life, though.)

You Disappoint Me, Carrie Underwood

Dear Miss Carrie Underwood,

I shall begin my letter by saying that I had high hopes for you. I was one of the several million people who voted for you on the finale of American Idol, even though Bo Bice had that whole sexy Southern Rock thing going on. At that time, I was certain that anything you touched would turn to gold.

I find you to be completely gorgeous. In fact, the only thing that has kept you from replacing Angelina in my spank bank is your blonde hair. While it suits you perfectly, I cannot get over the fact that I despise blondes. Kudos to your hairstylist, however, for making it look as good as it can look. I am a bit concerned, however, about your weight. When you first caught our attention on Idol, you were a perfectly healthy-looking girl from Oklahoma. I realize the pressure to look good in all those free designer clothes is hard to deal with, but, girl, you need to eat a sammich. A whole buffet of them.

It is true that you have become one of the top-selling musical artists in the country. I would like to have a little chat with you about that.

No one can deny that your singing voice is stellar, and any remakes you do sound better than the originals. So why the hell don’t you pick some songs to record that showcase your voice?! I believe you are suffering from Mariah Carey Syndrome- you are so focused on picking catchy tunes that people want to sing along with that you do not remember that your musical talents far surpass the average karaoke singer, and that you owe it to the world to sing those songs that no one else is able to. The well-sung songs from your first album are long forgotten in the wake of more “popular” hits such as Before He Cheats, Cowboy Casanova, (that song suck balls by the way), and The More Guys I Meet. I cannot deny that your wardrobe in these music videos is admirable, which somewhat takes away from the harsh reality that you suck at making song choices. I just can’t talk about this anymore.

Of course there are millions of fans wanting to pay the exhorbitant prices for your concerts; why wouldn’t they, when you insist on wearing skirts short enough that we can see what color panties you are sporting? The cameraman at those awards shows knows just the right angle to get from offstage to have filled us in quite well on your panty wardrobe. I suppose that I cannot really judge, after all, I market myself as a bookwhore. However, do not for one second think you have fooled anyone into thinking you are a nice girl. Your numerous ass flashes prove otherwise.

And what is this cross-over business? I find it deplorable that you pose as a country cutie, when you clearly long to be a Rockstar. Shame on you for taking the money of all those ignorant hicks who cannot tell the difference!

All that being said, if you would have someone else choose your songs for you, I’m sure you would have a whole nother group of fans.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

 

Discussing “Brokeback”

The other day I was perusing Netflix looking for fun and interesting movies to watch. I came across Brokeback Mountain, and thought, “Hey! I started watching that once and didn’t get a chance to finish it. I shall watch it now!”

First of all, the only thing I remembered about the “gay cowboy movie” when it came out was the episode of Oprah where she interviewed the cast and showed “the tent scene”.  For those of you who haven’t seen Brokeback, I will just tell you that the only sex scene doesn’t really show anything, and the sex is not of the romantic slow-motion butt-fucking sort. Other than that, as I watched the movie in it’s entirety, I realized it was quite a well-written heart-breaking story of love between a guy who could admit his gaydom, and a guy who was too afraid to. I must admit that when Ennis found his bloodied flannel shirt in Jack’s closet, I sobbed like a baby.

Anyhoo, after I got done watching the emotional roller-coaster, off to work I went. I later texted my Rockstar and told him he should indeed watch Brokeback Mountain since he had mentioned at one time that he had wanted to. He did.

The next night, we discussed and analyzed the movie as we sometimes do. While I did, in fact, like the storyline, I felt the movie to bit a bit too long and drawn out. My Rockstar’s opinion, on the other hand, was that the movie “sucked balls.”  He was much disappointed in the fact that there wasn’t more mushy love stuff throughout the movie, and to quote him- “It wasn’t even nice sex. It was angry scary sex.”

The only thing I could think when he said so was, “Oh, god. I am dating such a girl.”

Opinion

I was having an perfectly acceptable conversation with my Rockstar the other night while sucking down Cherry Rum and V-8 Splash, when it suddenly became quite objectionable. We were discussing one of my Rockstar’s coworkers, and his utter weenie-age, when the subject was replaced with said Weenie’s wife. I have only encountered the Weenie’s wife on two occassions, both company Christmas parties I’ve attended where it seems I am just too much for my Rockstar’s coworkers. (But nevermind about that.)

I began pointing out that on these two occassions, the Weenie’s wife was less than friendly, but that she had been wearing fun knee-high boots when first I met her. My Rockstar seems to remember these boots with surprising clarity, and had this opinion about them-

“Yeah, you can tell she has a bit of a wild side because she was wearin’ those boots.”

Let me translate for you, because this is actually what he meant-

“Yeah, she was wearin’ those boots because she was hoping they’d help her get laid.”

I may seem incorrect in my translation, but trust me. I know my Rockstar better than you.

Anyhoo, at first I was unsure of how to respond. After all, as I am quite certain the Weenie’s wife was wearing her ONLY pair of sexy boots, I have numerous pairs of sexy boots, stillettos, wedges, etc. that I do not wear with the intention of trying to get laid. After a moment, I decided to ask my Rockstar his opinion on THOSE-

“Geez, if that’s what you thought of her boots, what must you think of me when I wear all my shoes?”

Translation- “So do you think I look slutty in my fun shoes too?”

He has learned to not be crass in his speech to me, however, he hasn’t lost the crass attitude. His answer?

“I think you know exactly what you look like when you wear your shoes.”

One more translation- “Yeah, you look like a horny skank when you wear your shoes, too.”

I was somewhat disturbed to find that my Rockstar is not as thrilled with my shoes as I am. However, skankage is NOT the reason I wear them. And so we are going to play a little game, where I will show you a picture, and I will tell you the first word that comes to mind, then you get to tell me the first word that comes to YOUR mind.  Here we go:

1. I would look like a Rockstar in these!

2. Ooh! Pink! And sparkly!

3. Feathers!

4. I love bows…

5. They’re so ruffly and bright!

6. Very debonair.

7. It would be like a garden on my feet!