2012 In Review- Or Otherwise Titled: I’m Semi-Awesome

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

4,329 films were submitted to the 2012 Cannes Film Festival. This blog had 16,000 views in 2012. If each view were a film, this blog would power 4 Film Festivals

Click here to see the complete report.

I could not have done it without you, My Lovelys, but I’m not nearly as famous yet as I should be- so continue to rave to your friends about my little blog. XOXO

The Night Before Christmas (A Whorehouse Tale)

Here’s a naughty version for you all. Happy Holidays! XOXO

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the whore-house

not a hooker was stirring, or even a mouse.

The thigh-highs were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Santa would fill them with sex-wares.

The hustlers were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of vibrators danced in their heads.

The Madam in her fur robe, and pimp in his coat,

Had just settled down with some cuffs and some rope.

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,

The pimp rushed over to see what was the matter.

He left the poor madam all tied up in bed,

While he looked out the window while scratching his head.

The neon from bar lights on the fresh-plowed snow,

Gave the glitter of strippers to the objects below.

When what to his lust-occupied eyes should appear,

But a Peterbilt semi, and a drunk plastered trucker.

The driver was fat, and totally tipsy,

The pimp thought he resembled St. Nicky.

He fell from the cab with a curse and finger,

And yelled at the top of his lungs for some strippers:

“Hey Sugar! Yo, Mimi! Venetia and LuLu!

Come, Baby! Come, Ginger! Come, Macy and Penny!

Get down hear this instant, I’ve had quite a trip!

Come suck on my balls while I play with your clits!”

As the girls tumbled out of their beds at the noise,

The pimp opened the window and screamed at the boy.

“Now look hear, you fucker! You gotta have money!

Pussy ain’t free, so show me some gravy!”

The trucker he swore as he dug through his pockets.

He’d spent all his dough on beer and some cigarettes.

He stumbled through the front whorehouse door,

And pleaded at the pimp about getting a whore.

“Dude! I ain’t got no money, no change at all. Yo!

My trailer’s filled with blowup dolls and dildos!

You can have them all if that bitch sucks my cock,

And sell all the rest to the sex shop down the block.”

The pimp, he thought hard, but then he thought, “It’s Christmas, oh joy!

My bitches deserve all his nipple clamps and toys.”

So he nodded affirmative; a hooker went down,

But when she came up, she was met with a frown.

“Your messy! Look at that jizz on your chin!”

The pimp railed at her while she looked on, chagrined.

The trucker sucked in a breath through his teeth,

While he mopped up his junk with a Christmassy wreath.

He chuckled when he saw spooge on his belly,

Because it reminded him a little of jelly.

The girls all stood silent, awaiting their orders,

The pimp slapped the hooker and shook her thin shoulders.

The trucker said, “Wait! Now wait just a second!

The gal helped me out. No need for you to wreck her!”

The pimp stopped his tirade, and glared at the trucker.

The trucker saw a new girl and wanted to fuck her.

He rubbed his soft cock til it started to grow,

Then he bent the girl over and he drilled that poor ‘ho.

The pimp was so surprised at his fervor,

He just stood there in awe and watched in great pleasure.

With a snap of his finger, two girls took their clothes off,

And got out the whips, ’cause he liked it rough.

The rest of the story, I will not really say,

Let’s just say everyone got off good on that day.

Santa On Break

The following is an unpaid rant featuring a pissed off Sparkles.

I bet you all you parents out there with small children get a little bit excited when it comes time to take your little munchkins to your local mall for a photo op with Santa. What a heart-warming sight it is to see that fabled over-stuffed individual with the fruit of your loins perched on his lap blabbering on about the Furby or copy of Halo 4 they want for Christmas. I’m here today to tell you not to get your panties in a bunch and rush off to the mall nearest you. You wanna know why? Because you may just travel over the river and through the woods and haul your kiddos in there boots and hats and mittens through the crowded mall hallway to find a little sign informing you: Santa’s on break. Come back in fifteen minutes.

How do I know that something like this is possible, you may ask? Because it happened to me. I made the far journey across a crowded parking lot after ordering truck at my work with the thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d get a chance to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him face to face exactly what I wanted for Christmas. (Since my letters to him seem to get lost in the mail.) I donned my most festive sparkly tights and my non-slip treaded 6 inch heels so as not to fall and bust my ass in the newly fallen wintry snow, only to arrive at Santa’s giant purpley throned area (which makes me question his sexuality just a little bit) and find a sign informing me that Santa was on break. I looked around furiously to see that big red-velvet-adorned ass and a black elf escaping around the corner by Coldwater Creek. I bowed my head to hide the tears threatening to pour down my cheeks and contemplated running after the big lug, but then was momentarily distracted by the glittery display in the Victoria’s Secret window. After sniffing the various new perfumey scents they offer (which includes one specifically designed for me, aptly named “Sparkle”) I exited the store to find Santa was STILL on break. It was then my rational thinking got the better of me.

I have decided that Santa is very like a wealthy plantation owner before the Civil War. He owns vast acreage (the North Pole) and has many slaves. (Elves) He sits on his butt all year long smoking his expensive tobacco in his pipe and getting laid a lot, (Why else would he be so jolly?)  while his elven slaves work day and night to produce a product that he will then benefit from. (Perhaps not in a monetary way, but cookies are better than money anyway). Like any successfully-run slave driven plantation, there are a few times when it is necessary for the owner to actually put effort in. For Santa, this is the month of December, when he must travel to various malls and radio stations and appease the childish masses by letting them sit on his lap and remind him what they asked for.

Let me ask you this- for a man who sits on his ass all year long and has mythically-produced slaves, is it really necessary that he take a fifteen minute break during the one month he actually has to work? I think NOT! Is not sitting on your butt talking to kids already more of a break than any self-respecting working individual gets? And yet we continue to leave cookies and milk out for the man every single year, and give him a near-Godlike status. (“You better be good, Santa’s watching”)

I have decided we must take Christmas back from this wealthy slave-driving barbarian. No more can we respect his memory by placing his likeness in our homes at Christmas time. I propose that in his place, we replace him with someone just as jolly, but slightly less round. (At least in some areas.) I nominate the one, the only- myself. I pledge to gladly accept the whisperings of your children in my ears and all of their lovely letters too, while wearing a festive fur-lined garment perfectly tailored to all my curves. In appreciation of your electing me as your new Santa-like personality, I promise never EVER to go on break during the month of December, as long as I am supplied with my own army of Oompa Loompas with which to ready myself for the Holidays. In lieu of cookies, please set out one pair of stylishly-designed shoes in size 9, to ensure proper and timely present delivery.

P.S. I’m quite certain that Santa will regret not giving me a chance to sit on his lap….

Storytime

Check out my “F*cked-Up Fairy Tale” Here

Confessions

Just like Usher, I have decided to record my confessions; sadly, I cannot dance like he can, and they are not put to music:

I am not, nor will ever be, someone who truly thinks of others. I mostly only help other people if there’s something in it for me.

I love my Rockstar’s Daughter, but there are times when I can’t help thinking that things would be a lot different if she didn’t exist.

I sometimes miss my ex-husband. (But at no time have I ever considered going back to him.)

I sometimes fantasize about living completely alone and having nothing to do except read my arsenal of books.

I secretly (or perhaps not so secretly) wish Chris Meloni’s very tall wife would contract some fatal disease and he would become acutely aware of my existence; causing him to find solace in my disturbingly short arms.

I wonder every day if I have made the right decision to stay with my Rockstar since he doesn’t desire to have babies with me.

I wonder if I started a Playboy-like website starring the one and only Sparkle and charged for membership, if anyone would actually pay to see the ginormous magnificence.

I flirt incessantly, despite the fact that I am in a relationship.

I have fooled the majority of people I know into thinking that I’m independent, but I’m really just a scared little girl waiting for someone to save me. I don’t even know what from.

I put up a front of confidence, but I secretly think homicidal thoughts about every pretty girl I see.

I know I could write better and deeper music than Taylor Swift, yet I am deathly afraid I would do so, and nobody would tell me that I suck just as bad as she does.

I want to shave my head so I don’t have to deal with the pubic-bushlike mess that grows out of my scalp.

I am appalled at the fact that my Rockstar thinks his daughter is too stupid to get any kind of a scholarship to college other than a sports one.

I want everyone in the world to absolutely adore me.

I have written a New York Times bestseller in my head. Sadly, I have had it there so long not written down that I am beginning to hate it.

I have considered eloping with anyone who would ask just to see what would happen.

I consider pursuing sex with most people I meet. (For the record, I only consider it.)

I believe in a higher Being, but I’ve often wondered if Satan is it.

I am terrified of being considered boring and just normal.

 

 

The Pianist = The Pauper

Let me tell you a little story about one of my used-to-be-heroes.

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Lorie Line who grew up in Reno. She had the unequaled talent of playing piano by ear, and dreamed of one day being a concert pianist. She also had a penchant for fashion. Anyhoo, she grew up, and went to college for music, where they told her she would never be good enough to play for the Reno City Orchestra. She was so distraught, she moved to Minnesota.

Lorie married a man and began a gig playing piano at her local Dayton’s store (which had now been sold to Macy’s). She spent her days serenading rich and snobby shoppers until one day, a customer asked her if she had a CD recorded that they may buy. And a famous person was born.

Since those days in the 80’s, Lorie Line has recorded over 30 albums, published numerous sheet music books, faithfully put on a steller annual Christmas concert tour, and built a mansion on Lake Minnetonka. I first became aware of her in the third year of my piano lesson taking, and, being a young and impressionable young girl, I was amazed at this woman who hadn’t enough “official” musical talent to make it as a musician, yet put on  more concerts than  Liberace and lived like a rockstar. I continuously bought her music books until I began to realize that, “Hey. I could arrange music like this myself, and NOT pay $35 per book.” I still admired her, though, because she has a talent that I do not- she can listen to a song once, and put it to music. Give me any Beethoven or Mozart sheet music, and I will be able to sight read it surprisingly well, but playing by ear is something I have never been able to do.

Lorie has been described as the female Liberace, and rightly so. The only difference between the two is that instead of buying Swarovski-encrusted pianos, Lorie buys Swarovski-encrusted stillettos. If you ask almost any person in  Minnesota, (or the surrounding states) they will describe her as an amazing pianist who puts on quite a show.

So imagine my surprise when a few weeks ago, my Auntie mentioned the fact that Lorie Line was selling her Meditteranean-inspired castle for only $4,000,000. I immediately went online to find it, because though I have seen several pictures in various home and garden magazines, I further wished to inspect Lorie’s homemaker style. Sadly, I was greatly disappointed.

Everything was beige and white. EVERYTHING. There was not one room that sported a fuschia dash of color or a royal purple stripe. Sure, there were fantastic wing-backed chairs- in white. No velvety green or Yamaha blue. As I paged through the online photos, I understood that Lorie was selling her house because it was depressingly boring.

A few days later, I talked to my Grammy, who told me Lorie’s house was, in fact, in foreclosure. I was unbelieving. How could a pianist who charges $35 per sheet music book, $16 per CD, and $65 per concert ticket be going into foreclosure?! I will tell you. Because she spent too much frickin’ money on beige, that’s how.

I am convinced that any person who goes through life beige and becomes complacent and accepting of that fact is destined to become a pauper. May this be a lesson to you all- you will always find success if you don a fuschia shirt.

News Flash: God Finally Says Yes!

Here’s the latest story out of Minnesota.

A faith-filled Sparklebumps finally has proof that God is, in fact, not just a figment of her imagination.

Sparkle had spent the last two weeks or so distraught and undecided as to where her future was headed. While she has never doubted that her Rockstar was placed in front of her by her Heavenly Father, she has, in the past, silently questioned His decision to couple her with such a non-affection being. Throughout their relationship, the only true problem Sparkle has worried about was the lack of hugs and “I love you”s flying around in the book crowded apartment.

“I just want the person I’m with to be happy to have me, and to be lovin’ on me as much as I love on them.” Sparkle says with conviction.

After a disastrous Thanksgiving weekend abroad in South Dakota, (where her Rockstar caught the flu and remained in a somewhat zombified state) the couple returned home and Sparkle noticed how unresponsive her rockstar was being. She chalked his misery up to his hated job, and asked him why he couldn’t get off his well-shaped ass and find a new one. Being the introvert that he is, Rockstar responded with silence, and continued to withdraw from Sparkle for the remainder of the week . When confronted about his less-than-savory behavior, Rockstar questioned Sparkle’s maturity, saying, “To you, any relationship is perfect if you’re just banging all the time. Grow up a little.” Sparkle was crestfallen; while she does not deny that continuous fucking is a sign that a relationship is in good health, it is the hugs and hand-holding (or lack of) that was getting to her, and the fact that she seemed completely unable to emotionally happify her Rockstar.

After many tears, and many words (that were not responded to by her Rockstar), Sparkle finally asked the important question- “Do you love me, or do you just love the fact that I’m better than the other girlfriends you’ve had?”

Rockstar pondered this question for a ridiculously long time before replying with a not-well-thought-out answer, “I think I do.”

“Think” was not sufficient for Sparkle, and she made the tough decision to break up with her Rockstar then and there. Since their lease is up in February, she stated that she would move out then, to which there was again no reply from her Rockstar. She spent the next six hours bawling her eyes out on the couch until falling into an exhausted sleep.

This past weekend, Sparkle spent surrounded by loved ones being consoled over the demise of her relationship. As she knew she wouldn’t, she heard not a peep from her Rockstar, and ventured home last night in slight trepidation of what would be her welcome home response after not being home for the past two days.

She had not to worry, because Rockstar again acted as though she was non-existant, and Sparkle lay down to sleep on the couch disappointed as ever.

“I don’t pray as often as normal God-believing people,” Sparkle admits, shamelessly. “But He knows I know He’s up there.”

Before falling asleep, Sparkle had a conversation with God that went like this:

So here’s the deal, God.

I know you gave me my Rockstar for a reason, and I don’t want to fuck things up by making rash decisions. (Because You know I do that sometimes.) If I am truly and really supposed to be with him, can You just gimme a little sign here and let him come out of the bedroom and let me know he loves me? I really love him and I just want him to understand that I want him to be happy, too, but that I need hugs and stuff. You know that- after all, you’re the one who made me histrionic. So anyhoo, praise You and Hallelujah and all that jazz. I love ya, Big Daddy. XOXO

Sparkle fell asleep, and was awakened a few hours later when she felt her Rockstar lean over her and just hold her for 15 minutes straight. She had the thought at first that he may be possessed by angelic demons, but when he took her hand and led her to the bed and held her for the remainder of the night, she knew God had finally answered one of her requests with a resounding “YES!”

It is yet to be determined if her Rockstar with permanently mend his ways, but he did kiss her goodbye this morning, which is all she really wanted in the first place.