Monthly Archives: June 2012

In Distress


So remember that one time when I wrote a post about how it’s great to be an independant woman and I don’t need anybody and blablabla?

Yeah, forget that.

Today, I have officially named my car. His name is Fucker, because he continuously fucks me. (But not in a good way, although that would be kinda wild to see.)

I realize that a salvaged-titled, massively-dented car driven daily by moi may have some problems. But the fact that Fucker refuses to start on the weeks when I don’t get paid is a little bit more than disheartening.

Here I was this morning, all ready to go have a meeting with my pretty boss, when I turn the key in my car and get nothing but clickclickclickclick.

Awww, fuck me.

I’ve been told I just need a jump, and I agree. A jump off a bridge into the rocky depths below would feel lovely right about now.

Because NOW I have to wait for my Rockstar to come home, and I’m dreading the inevitable, “You need to get rid of this piece of shit.” that is sure to accompany his arrival. For whatever reason, my Rockstar is completely unsympathetic when it comes to my Fucker.

It truly would be beneficial for me to buy a new car, yes. Here’s the question- do you want to help pay for it?

Given the fact that my credit score is 596, (don’t laugh, that’s twenty points higher than it was a year ago) and the fact that I work as a Pizza Slut, I am truly fucked until further notice.

These are the times when I wish I lived in the old west, and had a horse. Of course, my horse would probably be an old nag that would collapse crossing the street….

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The One Scary Thing In Life


I’d like to quote Maya Angelou and say, “Life doesn’t frighten me, no not at all.”

That would not be a lie.

While I find life to be exhausting at times, and often think that death would be quite romantic, (I never understood how death could frighten people) there’s really nothing to fear from life.

Well, I mean besides for answering phones, and venturing into unfamiliar businesses, and telling your Rockstar to his face exactly how you’re feeling. But nevermind about that.

I do not fear heights, or water, (even though I cannot swim) or snakes, (I wish to have a managerie of them one day) or spiders. (OK, that may be a bit of a fib.) I do not fall into hysterics when I glimpse a clown, and I quite enjoy rollercoasters. Since I moonlight as a superhero, I don’t even have a fear of flying. All of these are the most common of phobias, yet I face this list and simply say, “Pshaw”. (Which means oh, shit)

Perhaps it is the overly-zealous religious upbringing I had, and I’m sure all you Athiests will burst into incredulous guffaws, but demons scare the livin’ bejesus outta me.

You would think this would keep me from watching every exorcism-based movie that comes out.

(Pun intended) Hell, no.

IT is BECAUSE of my religious background that these movies enthrall me so. I also find it quite interesting that only Catholic people seem to get possessed.

I’ve just gotten done freaking myself out by watching The Devil Inside, a Blair Witch-like faux-cumentary. I must say that despite critic reviews, I found it to be pleasingly terrifying. I’m sorry, but who does NOT get chills by listening to the multi-languaged ramblings of pluralized demon voices coming from an unexpected female body? While true exorcisms are not allowed to be filmed, and I really have no intention or desire to witness one, it is easy to believe that such horrific happenings occur. (For me, anyway. You athiests may be less trusting.) Perhaps it is my childlike faith, (or my foolish gullibility) that makes me believe so.

According to what I have been taught, no demon’s gonna get me, ’cause I believe in God.

I wonder why that doesn’t work for the Catholics?

Yes, I realize that being robbed at knifepoint or threatened with an armed weapon could be just as terrifying as speaking in tongues while writhing around in unnatural positions. But believe me when I say that there is still a possibility of kicking a thug in the balls while he’s trying to rape you. What’r’ya gonna do to the Devil’s assistant when he’s IN you? Feed him?

You all probably think I’m nuts.

But let me point out something.

Just because you don’t believe in the demons, doesn’t make them not real.

And when you get possessed by Azazael or Beelzebub or some other ancient spirit named Legion, don’t be pissed when I told you so.

Just please don’t pass them on to me.

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A Friday Night


A mammoth bag of Ruffle potato chips + Top the Tater + a pint of Coffee-flavored Ben & Jerry’s + 2 liters of Caffiene-free Diet Coke + The Devil Inside + an empty apartment + the dark + high humidity = One scared-shitless sweaty Sparklebumps suffering from a junk-food induced stroke all alone. Goodnight.

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Casting Agent Fail


I’ve just been to the movies.

I went to see Snow White and the Huntsman.

Given my inclination toward all things fairy tale and princess- related, you would think I’d be ecstatic right now.

I would be, except for one little casting mistake that was quite impossible to ignore.

Kristen Stewart was playing Snow White.

I could go on and on about the imagination it took to create such a magical masterpiece as I have just witnessed. The CG effects and action scenes rival those of Avatar. I could rave about the utter gorgeousness of Charlize Theron as the Wicked Queen, and the chilling effect her crazed-for-power eye bugginess had on my soul. I could babble deliriously over the rugged overly-handsome guy who played Thor who’s name I don’t know, and mention how sexy it was to hear him utter my favorite line- “Once upon a time.” Sadly, all of this cannot not make up for the disturbing and disgusting choice some must-be-insane completely mentally-handicapped fucktard made when he decided Kristen Stewart could ruin his entirely otherwise-perfect movie.

It is true I may have been slightly poisoned against Kristen during my temporary insanity days when I had to watch the Twilight movies. Don’t get me wrong. She was perfectly cast as the mousy personality-devoid Bella Swan. There was nothing she could do to make a limpid tiresome character less so. In fact, she seemed to have known this, because she did nothing including acting when she was getting paid to star in that squalid series. But I’m not talking about that anymore.

First of all, if you look back on your childhood storytime days, you may recall the fact that in the original Snow White, she was mentioned to be the fairest of them all. Who the fuck could even BEGIN to imagine Kristen Stewart as the fairest of anything?!?!?!?! Throughout the movie, the only thing I could think was,”Wow. Charlize Theron in full Aileen Wuernos Monster makeup would look better than Kristen Stewart at her best.” Kristen is not in any way hideous, or malformed, no. It is the fact that she has the figure of a 13 year old boy and the face of Sarah Plain and Tall that bothers me. If the girl could act, I wouldn’t give a shit- all the greatest actors are ugly. Chistopher Walken is a prime example. But how are we to believe that Snow White is the one to save the entire world from complete desolation when she walks around looking permanently constipated? You have no idea how badly I was hoping Charlize would slash scary knife repeatedly across Kristen’s face, just so her features would in some way move me.

Why couldn’t it have been ANYONE else?

Megan Fox, though slightly over-rated, would have at least provided the necessary eye-candy effect that Snow White is supposed to have.

How about Anne Hathaway? She’s deliciously pale and raven-haired. Her acting doesn’t suck either.

I realize Angelina is a bit old, but at least her acting ability is schooled enough that she could make you believe she was supposed to save the world.

Pretty much, any unknown half-decent looking actress off the street could have saved me from wanting to scream at the screen, “Kill her Charlize! Rip her face off!!!!!”

You have no idea how upset I am.

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In Mind


 

If you ever wonder what my mind looks like…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Things To Say When “No” Isn’t Good Enough


I have, on occassion, been the recipient of unsolicited attentions from mens that are not my Rockstar. Since the simple phrase “I have a boyfriend” does not always have the ultimate power to deter said mens from insisting on a date with me (or other much more innapropriate behaviors, for that matter), I have devised a list of one-liners which, while not necessarily true, are strong enough in shock value to make any overly-amourous souls think twice. Any and all readers may borrow these if ever a simple “no, go away, creeper” doesn’t do the trick.

1. Do you have any itch cream? My herpes is acting up. (For the record, this is one of the not necessarily true ones)

2. My girlfriend doesn’t like it when I get asked out by men. (This has proven to have the opposite effect that one wishes. The hint of lesbianism drives men crazy for some reason.)

3. The therapist I had when I was in my padded cell told me I shouldn’t date for at least a year. Luckily, I’ve only a month to go. Wanna hook up then?

4. Sure, I’ll go on a date with you! I’ve been so lonely since I flayed my last boyfriend with a bowie knife and used his skin as a lampshade.

5. I don’t think my boyfriend Brock Lesnar would like it if we went on a date.

6. To steal a line from my Delightfulness, “I have to poop.”

7. I have a penis. (Another untrue one)

8. I do not date men, and only have intercourse with inanimate objects.

9. If you date me, you have to date my brother too. We’re VERY close.

10. Have you been to Mars? The aliens took me there once and it was lovely. Maybe we could go on a date there…

11. I religiously watch Family Matters and seek to emulate my favorite character, Steve Urkel.

12. Are you a member of The Church of Satan? Because I am.

13. Sure I’ll date you, just let me give my pimp a call and let him know I won’t be at work tonight.

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Advice From My Inner Goddess


I gotta love her, because she’s where my confidence comes from, but hell, you’d be a little nuts too if you had to listen to this all day long…

Sparkle, you can write better erotica, or anything else for that matter, than anyone out there. So get off your ass and start writing already! You’re never going to get your castle if you just sit in your apartment eating french fries all day!

Yes, you can absolutely get away with wearing a short skirt even though you weigh 170 lbs, because your legs are perfectly toned from wearing your supply of shoes for hours upon hours.

You can absolutely cook anything you want to try cooking and it will turn out! (What she means is it will turn out EVENTUALLY. After I’ve tried and failed at least three times.)

Girrrrrl, you look fine in your slightly inappropriate church clothes, ’cause you got boobs! You got ’em, so flaunt ’em, baby!

Everyone loves you because you’re completely amazing and wonderful and there’s nobody else like you. Why the heck WOULDN’T everybody love you?! (I would like to point out that there’s nobody else like anybody else, so that does not exactly make me special.)

We must have been a hooker in a past life, because we are awesome in bed! You’re even good at the stuff you’ve never tried before!

Yes, all those people that you think are staring at you when you walk through the mall are, in fact, staring at you. Must I point out once again that you have boobs? Of course the’re gonna stare, quit being a weenie and suck it up.

How many times do I have to tell you- act like you look like Angelina or Salma Hayak and nobody will know what a self-conscious little ninny you are!

Even though he hasn’t mentioned marriage in ages, your Rockstar truly does want to marry you. You just have to convince him he does with your stellar blowjob abilities.

You can absolutely sing better than Taylor Swift! You just have too much other stuff on your plate, so you don’t have the time to steal all her awards out from under her.

French fries and coffee contribute perfectly to the maintainance of your sexy physique; sit-ups and excercise haven’t gotten you to where you are today. You should know this, bitch.

You have almost no friends because you are a mysterious enigma; it has nothing to do with the fact that you don’t ever call your friends.

Everyone finds you incredibly sexy, even that John guy in New Jersey. You have to realize not everyone is going to come right out and say it. (Sorry, John, she’s completely obnoxious and uncontrollable, isn’t she?)

Chris Meloni doesn’t know what he’s missing!

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Things You May Only Be Able To Learn in South Dakota


There is something I may not have told you all. My Rockstar is from South Dakota.

What kind of Rockstar is from South Dakota, you ask? Well, mine, so shut up about it.

Although every time we end up going back to visit his home, I start thinking he’s a little bit more country than he is rock-n-roll.

For example, we spent a good 4 hours yesterday cruising around the cow paths near Millbank looking for his dad’s homestead. The fact that it took a copse of trees to identify is is indeed excessively hick. Oh, well.

We were delivering my Rockstar’s Daughter to her grandparents this past weekend, and we all spent the weekend at a state park that was actually a former residence of my Rockstar as a child. We were lucky enough to enjoy perfect weather all weekend, and there were a few things I learned this weekend that I may never have known if we hadn’t had our mini vacation.

1. Not all of South Dakota is a barren wasteland of disgusting flat earth.

The first trip we took together to South Dakota was disheartening, to say the least, becaust it was Thanksgiving weekend, and my Rockstar’s attempts to show me around were hampered by the fact that there was snow on the ground, and the weather was bleak, so when we took  ride out in the country, all you could see for miles was nothing at all. I informed my Rockstar at that time that there would be no moving to SD for me. I have since possibly changed my mind.

2. Permanent port-a-potties smell worse the more that people use them.

I have never seen a stationary port-a-potty in the first place, and was pleased to find that when we arrived at our campground, ours was mostly clean and free of Odour-de-poop. Sadly, as the weekend went on, and we had to share our toilet with other campers, the smell became utterly unbearable, and I found myself thinking that pooping in the trees and using poison oak to wipe would be preferable to entering our increasingly-full porti-pooper.

3. I can administer a successful blowjob between Big Stone City and Milbank.

One of the things my Rockstar and I have on and off discussed since almost the beginning of our relationship is the idea of blowjobs while driving. For some reason, he has always been against it, (probably since his legs twitch when he comes, and he does not wish to procure any speeding tickets.) However, when we were driving around Midwest, USA yesterday, the Horny Monster possessed him, and he hinted at  a blow job. Since I aim to please, (and blowjobs are my favorite) he didn’t have to ask twice. He was, though, hesitant because we were soon to be driving through a town. I poo-pood his worry and proceeded to give him an explosive Man Orgasm BEFORE we got to town, without spilling a drop. I think he will not again question my blow-job giving abilities.

4. A sweatshirt is beneficial to preventing lobster-itis.

You all may have noticed from the silly picture of myself that I bear pale vampire-like skin. This is not great for sitting in a boat on summer days. In fact, my shoulders are covered in numerous freckles due to past horrific sunburns. But I found out that when covered in a hoody sweatshirt, one does not suffer from the nasty effects of UV rays. What was surprising is the fact that normally I am pouring sweat when out in the sun, yet I was comfortably cool sitting in the blazing sun while donning my winter-ready hoody. I do, however, have a sunburnt nose.

5. My Rockstar is hilarious when faced with monster garter snakes.

We stopped by the cemetary on the way home to try to find my Rockstar’s uncle, and as we were ambling along through the many headstones, by Rockstar jumped about 4 feet in the air and cried, “Holy shit, it’s huge!” After realizing he was not, in fact, talking about his boner, (even though I’ve had almost that exact reaction from it) I noticed a rather large garter snake sunning himself next to old man Worthington’s grave. I squealed in delight and started to chase it, while my Rockstar booked it across the cemetary to get as far away from Snakey as he possibly could, shivering in disgust the whole time. His reaction put me in a fit of uncontrollable giggles that didn’t cease for a good five minutes.

6. I now understand the terms “dicky-do” and “booby- do”.

Have you ever noticed those men who sport excessive beer bellys that make them look like Santy Clause? Did you know the actual term for that is a dicky-do belly? Because their belly sticks out further than their dicky do. HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA! My Rockstar and I were trying to figure out the female term for this while we were sitting on the beach watching the whales. (And I don’t mean the ones in the water.) Booby-do oughtta do it, don’t you think?

7. E.L. James is the next Stephanie Meyer.

What does a bookwhore do while stranded in a boat? Read.

Oh, I fished a little, but I was trying to make my way through Fifty Shades of Gray, and I grew increasingly anger that once again, a book is getting far, far more publicity than it deserves. Grrr. Maybe I am just fucked up, but for as much controversy as these books are stirring up, the sex should have been alot more intense than it was. I’m just sayin’.

Anyhoo, I’m sure there were a few other things I learned, but I’m too busy thinking about snakes and moving blow-jobs to think of them.

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Things That Make Me Angry


It makes me angry when people are out for a Sunday drive on Tuesday. I got fuckin’ places to be and I don’t be having the time to be poking along at 35 mph.

It makes me angry when stores that shall not be named here (except for that their names rhyme will Narget and Walfart) have 47 lanes to cash people out at, yet they only have 2 open.

It makes me angry when my stretchy jeans that hug my ass in just the right way also hug my front butt enough to give me camel toe.

It makes me angry when people in places of higher power than I insist on “coaching” me, even though they are only at my place of employ one day a week.

It makes me REALLY angry when I am horny and my Rockstar insists on going to bed without assisting me in the making of me being not horny.

It makes me angry when Minnesota Revenue continues to steal moneys out of my checking account at various intervals without asking. As if my $82.73 is going to heal the national debt.

It makes me angry when my Rockstar’s Daughter insists on saying, ” Our house is OUR house, not yours.” Even though she’s been repestedly told to desist.

It makes me angry when the disastrous mess of curly pubic hair that resides on my head refuses to listen to my Big Sexy Hairspray.

It makes me angry when I have to go to work when I’m in the middle of deciding whether Fifty Shades of Grey is worth reading.

It makes me angry when I answer the phone at work to take a delivery and when asked what their address is, the person on the line says- “Ummm, well I don’t know the EXACT address.”

It makes me angry when I try on shirts that are SUPPOSED to be my size, and then must call for a dressing room attendant to come and assist in the removal of said shirts when they get stuck going over my excessive boobage.

It makes me angry when no matter how often I clean the kitchen floor, there is always crud lurking.

It makes me angry that Carrie Underwood is considered a country music star.

It makes me REALLY angry that Taylor Swift is considered ANY kind of music star.

Most of all, it makes me angry that despite my numerous attempts to contact him, Chris Meloni still hasn’t shown up to receive his booby squish.

 

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