How Lady GaGa Ended Up in My Mouth

Lady GaGa is amazing.

Anyone who will wear a meat dress to an awards show and can still show their face in public after is a hero in my book.

I am well aware of Gaga’s more-than-creepy decisions such as wearing prosthetic pointy shoulders and trying to entice Britney Spears into kissing her on live T.V., and while I do not support doing things people have already done (like Britney Spears), I fully admire someone who refers to her fans as Little Monsters, and continues to wear intricately-constructed costumes despite being labeled more of a freak after every one.

My Rockstar and I have an ongoing disagreement about the musical stylings of Miss GaGa. He endearingly refers to her as Lady GagGag; even though he cannot deny the entertainment quality of the lyrics, “I want to take a ride on your disco stick.” As I have pointed out to him, Madonna only increased her fan base after wearing a conical boob holder and not singing to the height of her ability, so in reality, GaGa is the young generation’s Madonna.

You may be wondering where this post of GaGa originated. I shall tell you.

The other day, my coworker and I scrambled across the busy street next to work to procure a going away card for a fellow manager. As we entered the sliding doors of Walgreens (which are not motion-sensitive to my 175 lb. body for some irritating reason), I slipped into sensory overload upon observing the many aisles of makeup and useless crap that can fill a drug store. We made our way to the card aisle and were excited and appalled to realize they had an entire endcap filled with Justin Beiber cards. Of course one of these hideous creations was our choice for a farewell greeting for our beloved friend. After choosing the intended product of our journey, we prowled down the candy aisle and then came upon the As Seen on T.V. section.

As you all know, As Seen on T.V. merchandise is amazing because it has received enoug advertisement to fool you into believing that whatever it is is the greatest invention on earth. In this specific case, that fact certainly is true.

There, amongst the belly-flattening wraps and those hooks you poke into the wall that hold 60+ lbs, I found a singing toothbrush. While a toothbrush that sings is, in itself, a wonderful invention, the fact that this one played Lady GaGa only increased its value. To $9.99. As my coworker shook her head at my seemingly waste of money purchase, I assured her of the many hours of happiness that would occur because I would have “Born This Way” and “Bad Romance” playing from my mouth while I deplaqued my teeth. She then understood my enthusiasm. My toothbrush even came complete with a shiny gold handle, so that I feel like a pop star.

I must point out that my Rockstar is not at all happy to aurally observe my mouth cleansings, but that matters not- I just smile and say, “Baby, I was born this way.” 🙂

Spreading the Sparkle

Ok, I realize that considering what you all know about me, this blog title sounds excessively dirty. However, I would just like to state that I’m not spreading what you think I’m spreading, so get your mind outta the gutter!

I have written extensively about the many joys that come with being a Pizza Slut. Not the least of them is the constant pressure to be happy and friendly, even when you are ready to stab someone in the head. A prime example is the following:

There is an old man that comes into my store on a regular basis. He is crotchety and cranky and all the other words used to describe a typical Grumpy Old Man. The first time I had the pleasure of waiting on him, he refused to make eye contact with me, barked his order at me, and dismissed me from his presence by ignoring the fact that I was standing in front of him. I left his table with a smile on my face and one thought in my head-” It shall be my one and greatest accomplishment and goal to make that man smile.”

Now why in the world would I not detest this crank with every fiber of my being because of his rude and unacceptable behavior? Why, when my coworkers see him and groan inwardly at the thought of taking his order, do I instead grin foolishly and skip out to his table to procure his mealtime wishes? I will tell you.

Having an excessively active imagination, I have composed a story about this man, and the reasonings for his depressive behaviors. I have told myself that he was once young, (and probably just as rude and cranky) and was married to a beautiful and lovely-personalitied woman who had enough patience to deal with him. Sadly, (in my head) his wife died at a reasonably-young age, and he has forever since been pining for her and been growing increasingly bitter with the world. And so, in his defense, I understand his demeanor, for I would be very sad also and probably much ruder to people if my beautiful wife had died and left me alone in a world full of fools.

In past visits this man has made to my store, I have ignored his surly demeanor and smiled happily whenever he has come to eat. When he looks firmly in my non-direction, I thank him for his business and ask him to come back and see me sometime. When he refuses to acknowledge my service, (or my presence) I smile and tell him to have a wondrous day. My efforts have not been in vain, because although his face has not once twisted in such a way that may be mistaken for a smile, he now looks into my eyes when ordering, thanks me for my service, and actually formed a complete sentence this week instead of grunting to ask for a cookie. Perhaps it was my perserverance as a Customer Maniac that did it, or the fact that I have excessively large chest fruit to admire, but he’s been back three times this week to see me. I may be so bold to hoarde his almost attentions, because yesterday someone else sat him and he was his grumpy old self. He only became less so when I hurried out to express my happiness at his visit. I’m telling you, one of these days, he’s gonna smile….

Words You Shouldn’t Say (Around Me)

It seems that I am feeling inspired today, and have enough time and energy to actually write a post or two. (Whether said posts are worthy of attention is yet to be answered.) As I was looking through my American Dictionary of the English Language, (Yes, ok? I like to look through my dictionary. It makes me feel clever) I began ruminating in my head over the words that truly disgust and disturb me. I am safe in saying that I am not the only person who is appalled by tokens of the English language, as some of the very words that offend me make some aquaintances too feel the need to whip out their Air-sickness bags. Here are just a few off of the top of my head:

Slice- This word automattically makes a chill run down my back every time it’s spoken, and not in a good way. I’m not certain, but I think the excessive “sssss” syllables has something to do with it. No, I do not “slice” my meat, nor would I ever say that I “sliced” my finger open in a freak accident, because it sounds as though there would be no finger left if I did. “Slicing” is reserved for serial killers who dismember their victims. It is also very disturbing when every person I ask to refrain from using this word around me proceeds to say, “Slice! Slice! Slice!” in a homicidal sing-song voice.

Moist- Ugh. Just typing this word makes the bile rise in my throat. While most persons would want to enjoy a “moist” piece of meat with their dinner, the very thought of such is enough to put me off ANY kind of dinner for the time being. I am also greatly offended when the female crotchal area is referred to as being “moist”. People, let this disgusting word roll off of your tongue once or twice and you will begin to see how abhorrent it is.

Cum- This one may surprise you all, given my affinity for all things sexual. Let me point out, it is not necessarily the word that so great displeases me, but rather the spelling as referred to above. If a man were to tell me he was “going to come in my face”, I would gladly lift my facial orb to the ensuing Man Shower. But if he were to state that he was “going to cum”, I would grab his junk and squeeze with all my might while yelling at him to “SAY IT RIGHT!!!!!!” Perhaps it is the scholar in me that is so disgruntled by the incorrect spelling of a word, or perhaps I just find it crass that an orgasm has it’s own spelling. Either way, if I see you spelling it wrong, there will be blood.

I’m Still Here (Until I Go to S.D., At Least)

Hello, my Lovelys! It’s been an eternity since you’ve heard from me, I know. (Or at least it feels like it has been, doesn’t it?) It has been said, (at least by some) that I am a woman of power, yet even some things are not within my power to control. (Such as blogging daily as you all wish I would.) However, I know there are at least two of you out there who are truly devoted fans, and so I shall endeavor to make time to entertain you all with my sometimes above-average writings.

Once upon a time, last September, a girl known as Sparklebumps began an online diary of sorts. She entertained the online community daily with her accounts of everyday life in a used bookstore, until sadly one day, her online slander was discovered by her turd of a boss who felt it necessary to try and squash her happiness by firing Sparklebumps from her perfect job as a Book Pimp. Since then, she has slaved away in a less-than-joy-inducing profession, all the while longing of the day when she will once again be surrounded by the written word on a daily basis in some setting other than her over-filled-with-books apartment with her Rockstar.

While her love of books was the intended subject of her Lovely blog, her roller-coaster relationship with her ginger-haired Rockstar soon became a close second in the race for subject superiority. While at times, Sparklebumps’ stories of almost-marital sometimes-non-bliss have caused readers to hold their hands to their breasts in heart-wrenching pity, there is no longer need of such, for her Rockstar has once and for all proven his undying love for his eccentric and sparkly mate.

One day, last week, while Sparklebumps sat pining for the feel of her Rockstar’s junk inside her, she received a text from the grassy plains of South Dakota where he was hangin’ with his fam. The text was accompanied by a picture, that of a perfect somewhat-homely-yet-endearing bookstore that was for sale. It seemed as though her Rockstar missed her enough to be thinking about Sparklebumps and her imminent happiness, and so had (perhaps unintentionally) found a place for her dreams to come true.

The bookstore comes complete with three apartments above, sufficient for housing Sparklebumps and her Beloveds. There is room, too, for the Rockstar to have his very own musical recording studio, and to pursue his own dreams as a Rockstar to millions, and not only his girlfriend. Upon further cogitation, Sparklebumps realizes that South Dakota is perhaps not the ideal location for a lucrative book business, but has also realized that if purchased, will give her the ample time necessary to compose the many books that are written in her head that the world is waiting with baited breath for.

There is one small issue that arises. Businesses for sale cost dollars, and cannot be paid for with hugs and booby squishes. While Sparklebumps has no doubt of her business’s success, she also has no source of accruing $94,000 dollars with which to buy it. And so, she appeals to the online bloggery for ideas on how to achieve monetary success, and asks their opinions on her idea of placing a paypal donation button on her blog. If such a thing were to be done, be assured that all donations would be compensated with stories and writings of the donatee’s choosing subject matter. XOXO

P.S. Just sending a shout-out to any wealthy benefactors that may have been entertained by my slightly neurotic blog in days past.

I’m Lovely!

Thanks to Diatribes and Ovations, I can now say that I have a Lovely Blog! While that has always been my intent, I am quite aware of the less-than-lovely posts where I have stated such things as “Fuck you, world!” and “I don’t give a shit what you think.”- or something along those lines. You must bear with me, as I suffer from untreated bi-polarism.

And so! Here are the rules:

1. Thank the nominator for the nomination.

2. Share seven things that readers may not know.

3. Nominate 15 bloggers.

4. Notify the new nominees.

5. Display the logo of the award on the blog site.

Firstly, thank you Diatribes and Ovations, because without you, I would just be another unlovely blogger.

Secondly, I must think for a moment, as most of my readers probably know everything mostly about me….

1. I have a drawer-full of Victoria’s Secret underwear that I’ve never worn.

This is due to the fact that I fell victim to numerous Semi-Annual Sales, and did not try on the said undies. No matter- when I lose those last 10-40 lbs., they will get more than enough use. Until then, I am forced to go commando.

2. I hate to dust.

This is a constant source of consternation for my Rockstar, as I have many bookshelves, and dust seems to accumulate excessively in our apartment.

3. I do not drink beer.

Give me whiskey, brandy, rum, or gin. No beer here will go within.

4. I am truly entertained by the toy aisles in department stores.

Did you know they make a plastic phonics Caterpillar for preschoolers that you can get to swear if you press the right sounds? It’s frickin’ awesome! I also get a thrill out of playing with the WWE figurines.

5. I could be a country bumpkin or a city girl.

Did you ever see Sweet Home Alabama? Yeah, that could be me. Minus the Southern accent. Although if I am in a relationship, I think the country is the way to go.

6. I used to want breast implants.

That was BEFORE the excessive boobage arrived. However, the idea was completely absurd anyway, since I always possessed more cuppage than most people.

7. I used to want to play in the Minnesota Orchestra.

That was before I found out that classical music “isn’t cool.” My Rockstar can truly be a Neanderthal sometimes.

As for the rest of the rules, what kind of rebel would I be if I followed all the rules?! I shall be updating my blogroll shortly, so look to your right and click on one of my lovely bloggery pals.

To all of you who care about such trivial things I have mentioned, I adore you. XOXO

 

 

Why I Really Just Don’t Care What You Think

I know, the title of my post sounds very rude. I certainly didn’t mean it to, but I have a serious case of the Fuck-its today, so too bad.

I’ve heard that a woman with confidence is something to behold. Men flock to them, and women want to be just like them. This second fact is the reason I would not necessarily consider myself a Confident Woman, because I am convinced only a completely insane person would wish to be just like me; however, I HAVE come up with a few reasons why I don’t completely suck, and why I really don’t give a fuck what people think. (But I still love you and think you’re all awesome! XOXO)

1. I know the definitions and correct spellings of such words as concubine, scintillate, and a plethora of other words many normal people don’t know, including plethora. I also know how to correctly pronounce oneiromancy.

2. I will dye my hair blonde, or red, or black, or orange, or pink, and just shrug when someone says it looks bad, because it keeps me from being bored with my otherwise normal-looking self. I also don’t mind resembling the Little Mermaid or Jessica Rabbit.

3. I can tell you who wrote Polonaise in A Major, when he wrote it, how he died, and if you wish, I can play it on the piano for you. Or I could play the theme song from Alice in Wonderland by Shinedown.

4. I can eat more than a family of four; therefore I do not waste food. Ever. Those starving people in Africa that your mother told you about? There’s nothing left for them when I get done.

5. I can work a 12, or 15, or 17 hour day and still give a shit what my place of business looks like when I leave it. But I am also not afraid to sit on my ass and do absolutely nothing and admit it when I have a day off.

6. I am the most stubborn person on the planet. Some of you may like to point out that this isn’t a good quality, but if we have a second Holocaust, or I am caught and tortured to give up the location of our nuclear weapons that could destroy the population, rest assured that the hidden Jews will be safe andhumanity  will live.

7. I can aim and shoot a gun, which doesn’t really do me any good unless a Zombie Apocolypse occurs.

8. If you are my friend, you will remain my friend, even if you are a complete Assface who treats me as a fair-weather friend and only call when you need something. However, chances are I may not answer your call the next time you need me to save you from a burning building.

9. I am not too hard on the eyes. I’m not saying I’m as pretty as Marilyn or Audrey, but I’m cuter than at least some women you know. And even if I think you’re more beautiful, I say to myself, “I’m cuter.” Even if it’s not true at all.

10. I can admit that I’m a complete dork, because I am also smarter than all those people who call me one. Including my Rockstar. (Don’t worry, he loves me because of my dorkdom.)

11. The final reason I just really don’t care what anyone think is because I can whoop their ass if they cock off. They just need to give me a reason. XOXO

A Light for the Stupid People

So I was feeling very un-inspired this morning, and so I text my Rockstar nd asked him what I should write about today. He replied with “Stupid People”, I think mainly because he is at work at the moment and is surrounded by them. I thought and thought of how to write about Stupid People in a helpful and entertaining way, and then it became glaringly clear to me- I would write a guide for them pointing out the everyday obvious things Stupid People sometimes just don’t seem to understand. The more I thought of it, the more I realized that Stupid People really just seem to lack a Common Sense gene.

TO THE MUSICALLY ILLITERATE:

1. Kesha is NOT a musician.

Despite the fact that she “Brushes her teeth with a bottle of Jack” as a Rockstar might, Kesha in no way is musically talented. She does not play an instrment, and her tablature of sings is comparable to the noise one might here if invited to an orgy. Ugly and disgusting sounds.

2. Taylor Swift is, in fact a musician, though not an astonishing singer.

As much as I detest her, I cannot deny the fact that the girl CAN play guiter. Now whether it is well or not? That is a question for my Rockstar. However, the fact that she as a vocal range of less than ten notes will not put her in a category with the likes of Martina Mcbride or Mariah Carey.

As there are many different kinds of Stupid People, I must be moving on to a different category.

TO THE WOMEN WHO USE SEX:

1. While it is quite possible to keep a man’s interest for an undetermined amount of time by sleeping with him, he will most likely NOT be falling in love with you, unless you have a Magical Twat.

In the past, my mind has been boggled by these women who don’t understand, “Why hasn’t he said he loves me? Why aren’t we married?” (I realize I have said these very things, but for quite a different reason.) If a woman “dates” someone, (in the instances I’m referring to, the woman did nothing but go fuck the man several nights a week) yet never gets out of bed with him, how is that man supposed to see how wonderful and amazing (or not) of a woman you are?As much as I adore the Sex, I must point out that True Love does not begin with a boner.

2. If a woman is in a relationship with a man, yet realizes that it is doomed, it is not beneficial to either party to “accidentally” on purpose become pregnant.

My Rockstar has experience with this. He will agree with me.

TO THOSE ATTEMPTING TO MAKE THEIR WAY UP THE JOB FOODCHAIN:

1. Consistantly having your cell phone glued to your ear on phone calls with your girlfriend when you are supposed to be managing a shift is not the way to maintain you already tentatively-scheduled management hours.

2. Sitting down and/or standing outside while your overlord manager is present instead of ensuring your business is running smoothly and doing all to ensure it WILL run smoothly is not a way to impress the bosses.

TO THE VEHICULARILY DENSE:

1. Owning a Camaro does not automatically make you “cool”.

Owning a Mustang does not automatically make you “cool” either, but it gives you a much better chance.

2. Most major highways are constructed with two lanes- a slow lane and a fast lane.

The outside lane is made for the slow polk. This is to ensure that a shoulder is present for any overly-cautious drivers who need to check for tire poundage or are being pulled over by State Troopers for going under the posted speed limit. If a Polk is found in the non-designated slow lane, it’s more than possible he will be honked at profusely and flipped the bird by a red-head in yellow truck.

I guess that’s all I have for now, but feel free to offer up suggestions of other types of Stupids for me to guide.

Uptown Girl

Many months ago, my lovely friend Delightfulness invited me to a party that at the time was to be held at a To Be Determined date. Her boyfriend’s wakeboarding group holds annual Video Premier Parties, and she wished for someone to help keep her entertained while he frolicked drunkenly with his mates. I quickly agreed, as any chance to dress up and hang with a like-minded pal is never to be passed up. After getting all fabulated last night, (as in, dolling ourselves up fabulously) we made our way to Uptown Minneapolis.

There is something to be said of Uptown. Surely, it is over-populated with hipsters and other wanna-be uniquees. But who cannot be awed by the beautiful old buildings that don every corner, and the many businesses trying to be different from all the others? We arrived to the bar where the party was getting started after driving around trying to figure out how to get there because the normal roads were blocked off for the annual Art Fair. Before we stepped into the specially-reserved Messanine Room, I was pleased to have my extensive cleavage ogled by a man with a Heinekin and a wife in the elevator.

Upon entering the “super-special M room”, my friend and I plopped down quite lady-like in the overstuffed leather chairs that are impossible to get out of and proceeded to analyze and Joan-Rivers the steadily growing guests. Later on in the evening, I actually texted my Rockstar the picture I took of the Girl In the Too-Tight Dress as she became known, because the fact that I could see her entire crotchal area and almost her bare bottom could not rudely be kept to myself. It seems that karma most certainly came around on that incident, when Delightfulness disbelievingly pointed out the two non-gentlemen sitting near us indiscreetly taking pictures of my boobage in my sparkly dress. I asked her if I should note to them that such pictures should be used for masturbation purposes only. She, for some reason found this hilarious.

There was one thing that greatly disturbed me. In the wide open party room, the bathroom was blatantly obvious and open to the general public. Of course there was a door with sufficient locking mechanisms to promote privacy while one did their business; however, I needn’t point out that men who imbibe multiple liquorous beverages care not who sees them pee. And so, I decided after seeing at least four men in the urinal position, I needed to find a different restroom to use. Delightful and I headed upstairs to seek one.

Alas! There was no restroom to be found on the open roof of the building, but as we descended once again to the lower levels of the Underlings, I was stopped by a security guard on the stairs.

“Wait! Wait!” He cried in his burly black man way.

I looked around in horror, afraid I had in some way offended the Uptown way of life as I walked down the stairs in my 5″ heels.

“Yes?” I replied hesitantly.

“How you doin?” (Ah, I thought. I understand) He flashed his flirty non-ugly smile at me. “Come here, come here.”

I difficultily ascended a few stairs and leaned forward to hear his whisper.

“Where you from? What’s you’re name? Can I have your number?”

I gave him a million-dollar smile and shrugged.

“I’m Nobody from Far Away, and I don’t know my number.” Delightful and I raced down the stairs when he nearly flung his cell phone at me while trying to convince me to enter my number. Apparently the tie I stole from Delightful’s boyfriend was a Security Guard Magnet.

The rest of the night was a blur, as my older-than dirt brain began to wear down. After leaving the party and trekking a good four blocks in the rain to procure a slice of pizza for the drunken boyfriend of Delight, we were on the road home.

I must say that having a plastered individual back-seat driving is a humourous and yet somewhat-annoying experience. After driving around Lake Calhoun and a few neighborhoods where we could have gotten shot, we found our way back to the interstate. The night was made complete with a late-night stop to Taco Bell, which was disturbingly disgusting. Within 30 seconds of setting foot in Delightful’s apartment, I was sprawled on her couch snoring nearly soundlessly.

P.S. We took a picture in our fabulous get-ups, and laughed hysterically when it looked as though I was pointing at Delight’s much-smaller-than-mine boobies.

 

To the Makers of my Rockstar’s Undies

Dear Undertech,

My Rockstar recently purchased a package of your silky boxer briefs. While I appreciate the fun and vibrant graphics that your company chose to place on panties designed for men’s crotchal areas, I must point out that I KNOW what you’re trying to do. You are trying to distract people from the fact that you have placed no convenient hole for peeing and other more exciting activities on the front of your Butt Duds.

I will explain the source of my disappointment.

While my Rockstar and I were driving the many miles back home from the desert wastelands of South Dakota this week, I found myself slightly bored and without entertainment. I had already belted out all the favorite songs I have off of my MP3 player, and needed something more to stimulate my me. And so without further ado, I unzippered my Rockstar’s very fun rust-colored plaid short and stuck my hand inside to see what would happen. Imagine my delight when my hand slid repeatedly over the silkiness of his new underoos and the friction was enough to produce a mentionable boner! I unbuckled my seatbelt and proceeded to ready myself to administer a Sparklebumps Special. If you’ve not heard of those- how sad for you. Anyhoo, I found my busy hand searching unsuccessfully for a button, or an opening sufficient enough to dislodge my Rockstar’s waiting erection from it’s satiny prison, but alas! There was none to be found. In the end, my Rockstar was forced to push down his paradisically-colored boxer briefs in order to receive his intended blowjob.

As a company that thrives off of purchasing customers, I would just like to point out how dangerous it could be that any man who buys your product would have to flex and struggle to remove his panties while driving in order to receive a blowjob. How much safer would it be to just create a small opening to release penises that should be receiving desired oral attentions? Do we really want yahoos swerving around on our roads just because an underoo was mistaken to not include an exit hole? I think not!

My Rockstar fully intended to purchase more of your colorfully silky male lingerie at a later date, but I have convinced him of the unwise-ness of that decision. I have also informed him that he may only wear said undies when he is NOT expecting favored favors.

I feel that in the future, you will think harder on your underoo design, Undertech.

Irritatingly,

Sparklebumps