Midnight Run

This was Utopia.

She lifted her face to the moonshine and the leaves blocked the light just enough to create a dappled effect across her cheeks. She breathed in the scent of forest at midnight, convinced if there were a way to bottle and sell the smell, she’d be an instant millionaire. The craggy bark tugged on the delicate skin of her palms as she ran her hands over the trunk of the aged tree as one would run his hands over a lover’s breasts. She sighed, heavily.

Here, in this peaceful place, the harassment of the “Vogue Squad” faded to silence. Here, it didn’t matter that her mother had visciously named her Polly, and there were no catty voices repeatedly asking her “if she wanted a cracker.” Polly closed her eyes and tried to hush the shame that filled her when she thought of the untrue rumors that the Squad had started about her parents- her mother was a junkie whore, her father a drunk. The stories about her father didn’t bother her so much, since she had never known him anyway, and the chance that he was a drunk was highly probable. But when they mentioned her mama- the anger inside her at the thought became a living thing, and she gritted her teeth when she realized she’d been worrying at the tree with her nails, hard enough they’d begun to bleed. She stuck her index finger in her mouth and sucked on it, trying to relieve the pain.

The only good thing about moving to this town was this place. She could wander through the underbrush blissfully, lost in her own thoughts. Mostly, these times were enjoyable; other times, she realized she thought too much, and nothing good could come of that.

Just then, she noticed there were no sounds. No owls hooting, not a nighthawk screeching, nothing. There weren’t even any fireflies around, which she thought was odd, since this town was always swarming with them. Polly thought she saw a bush moving to her right, but clouds had obstructed the moonlight, so she leaned forward and squinted, trying to get a better look. When she realized what it was she was looking at, her heart dropped to the bottom of her feet.

The two eyes staring at her were a gleaming yellow. They were set in a face of obsidian fur, complete with a doggish “grin?” Polly thought to herself, filled with razor-like teeth.

“Great. I had to deal with those bitches all day, and now I get to be eaten by a wolf. I wonder what those rumors will sound like.” She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the ridiculousness of her situation.

The wolf snarled as she did so, and stepped forward menacingly. Polly had nowhere to go with the tree at her back, and knew she wasn’t going to outrun any wild animal anyway, so she stayed perfectly still. She looked into those feral eyes and wished just once that she could be the one behind them.

The creature was huge; bigger than any wolf Polly had seen on Discovery Channel. She wondered if she was discovering a new and unique hybrid, and then for a second mourned the fact that no one would hear about it after she was mauled and digested. Her thoughts carried on in this vein while the wolf paced around her and sniffed warily. She absurdly applauded herself for remembering deodorant this morning, and then couldn’t stifle the giggle that escaped when she did so.

The wolf stopped midstep and peered at her intently. Polly held her breath and closed her eyes, awaiting her imminent demise, but felt no fangs ripping at her throat. She opened one eye, and then the other, and looked wildly around for her exterminator, but the wolf was gone.

 

 

Justin heaved himself out of the river, gripping a fallen log for dear life. He swished and spit the water in his mouth, but he knew no amount of squalid creek water was going to get the taste of wet dog out of his mouth. His head was ready to split in two, and he was shivering violently as he lay naked partially in the water. He brushed the shaggy hair that was stuck to his face aside, and rubbed his eyes, wishing as he did so that he’d remember to put some soap somewhere out here in the woods. He finished crawling out of the river, and curled into a ball, exhausted. Just before he passed out, he thought of the pretty girl with curly hair who hadn’t been scared, but had just stood there, waiting for him to kill her.

Adventures of Pizza Slut

To keep from being depressed about being the Head Pizza Slut, I have decided to compose a graphic novel based loosely on my adventures. (Minus pictures.)

Pizza Slut was all-powerful and could multitask like nobody’s business. She had the super powers of making unhappy customers satisfied, and of get the most lazy of employees to do the most disgusting of chores like scrubbing toilets and scraping crusted cheese off of pizza pans by using her secret weapons- her gargantuan boobies, which were only kept secret because of the extra safety pins she had to use in between the buttons of her managerial superhero uniform. On occasion, the buttons were unable to hold and would bust open, resulting in extra cleaning tasks being completed by those employees lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the semi-perfect cleavage. P. Slut’s only weakness was French fries. Oh, and attention given to her by anyone even remotely attractive. (Even the unattractive ones would sometimes distract her from her superhero duties.)

Anyhoo, on this particular day, P. Slut was flying around her restaurant putting proper dating labels on product and proofing dough, when she received a call from a completely unsatisfied customer.

“I am IRATE!” The customer screamed into the phone, while P.Slut tried to keep the rolling of her eyes from transmitting across the phone lines. “My pizza was made with less than the proper amount of pepperonis, and even though I ordered it easy on the pepperonis, I INSIST you make me a new one!”

P.Slut took a deep breath before she mustered up her most aquiescent customer service voice.

“I am SO sorry, ma’am, there is no excuse for such ridiculous mistakes, ESPECIALLY when you ordered it light pepperoni. My cooks OF COURSE should be able to read your mind when you order in such a way, and should surely have put the normal amount of pepperoni on your pizza. I will have them re-make it post-haste, and will fly it out to you myself.”

“Well, you had better just do that, and don’t think I’ll be giving you a tip for delivering it either. I have to buy my Pall Malls, after all.” The customer banged the phone down in P.Slut’s ear, and within moments, P.Slut was flying her super-awesome yellow Hover-Ranger to the customer’s house, Full-on pepperoni pizza in hand.

“Here you go ma’am.” P.Slut smiled politely, and bent over just enough for the woman to catch a glimpse of her super-human cleavage. The woman had been going to complain, but when she saw the most awesome boob-butt, she thought to herself that she’d better not, because there’s no telling when a woman with great tits is going to unleash a royal ass-whooping on someone who really needs it. The woman closed the door without a word, and P. Slut wiped her brow. She had once again saved her restaurant from receiving another Customer Incident Report.

The End.

Sparkle -Exposed

No, there are no nudey pics or links to nudey pics on this post. Sorry, guys.

It has come to my attention that there are a few of my readers who think I possess a mysterious and sexy quality. I must admit that I haven’t the slightest idea why they think it. It’s true my busooms are of an ample enough nature to distract from any other physical flaws I may possess, but given the fact that my blog is not filled with pages of my unveiled melons, I assume my supposed sexiness has something more to do with my complete and utter disregard for secrecy. (For some reason, secrecy does not look as though its spelled correctly, but my computer is not telling me otherwise.) I could blather on about the lustful characteristics certain people may think I have, but I can go no longer feign such charisma; I must confess to you all the truth about myself.

I fart in bed.

OH GAWD, the horror of it! I can feel my shame eating me from the inside out (or is it from the outside in?) like the ebola virus! Such crudeness and boorish behavior should never be admitted! But I cannot live another day knowing even one person may find me practically perfect because they know not the unvarnished truth.
I promise, the emitting of noxious vapors is not an intentional act. (Unless I am alone, and even then, I feel contrite.) But you know that place between asleep and awake? That place where Peter Pan is supposed to be able to find Neverland and all your greatest dreams are on the edge of coming true? That is the place filled with the putrid stench of my inadvertent half-asleep butt fluffs.

I was always taught that a lady does not break wind where another soul may hear it. This seems to be an antiquated principle, for I have encountered many people of the female variety who do not balk even for a second after they’ve filled the silence around them with a juicy ripper. Or perhaps it is that I have not encountered many “ladies”. Whatever the rules are nowadays for things like this, I maintain that it’s best to deny, deny, deny.

Denying is not something you can do in the wee small hours of the morning before the birds awaken to sing hymns to the sun and your ass decides to have a mind of its own.

Perhaps it is the definite and uncontrollable aging of my body that makes it to be so, but in the last week, there have been at least TWO incidents of my unacceptable behavior. While my Rockstar has had the decency to not openly discuss the matter, his almost immediate vacancy of the bed after my Ass Music performance this morning was enough to want to bury my head under the covers and suffocate myself in my own detestable gasses.

Assurances of “everybody farts” are not comforting.

While I do not admit my undying attraction to my Rockstar when he rips ass, neither do I expect him to pronounce, “You’re so sexy right now, I’ve never wanted you more” when I fail to control my gluteal expressions. In fact, I feel he has every right to ban me to the couch forevermore.

Oh, just let me die.

 

No “Breakfast” For Me

I may be the only human being in Minnesota, the great USA, or the universe for that matter who has never seen the film The Breakfast Club in its entirety.
That is not to say I am unaware of the previous existence of a man named John Hughes.

A “genius” this man has been called, and so I firmly agree, as he cast a beautifully perfect Michael Schoeffling in a little known film called Sixteen Candles.

(Here is the part where I ashamedly admit that the only part I remember of THAT movie was something about a note being passed about masturbation and who the perfect candidate was to fantasize about during. Molly Ringwald , smart girl that she was, named Michael as her alone-time Adonis- and who wouldn’t?)

Pretty in Pink, John Cusack, that dude that married Megan Fox- these are all creations of Mr. Hughes and his amazing teenage-angst-ridden mind. This is why I’ve had a bug up my ass for the last week about finally watching his masterpiece The Breakfast Club.

I journeyed to Target on a mission- that of picking up this classic film for under $10, where I was convinced I had seen it available for consumption on numerous occasions. Imagine my shock and despair after I roamed the aisles of DVDs and blue Rays only to find my basket empty. (Except for some sparkly makeup).

“C’est la vie”, I said, “Walmart will have it.”

It was not so.

A sense of panic and irritation came over me when I exited the double doors of said big box store- How was I to relish the thrill of Judd Nelson’s questionable acting abilities if I could not locate the desired product? There was only one more place to try.

I have discovered that unless you have unlimited amounts of credit on your AmEx card, travelling to Best Buy is not for you. If you wish to purchase a big-ticket item such as a 55″ flatscreen or the newest Ipad for many dollars, Best Buy is for you. Otherwise, there’s not much to look at except cords and wiring for your surround sound. (And attractive techy men.)

I unwilling set foot inside Best Buy and sauntered over to the one (yes, ONE) aisle of DVDs. I will let you decide what I did NOT discover there.

And so, I am distraught, for I will not be able to reminisce about an 80’s movie I have never seen, nor join in any kind of club for breakfast, because every fuckin’ store I’ve been to has decided to take it off of their shelves because I finally want to watch it. Thank God for Amazon. But now I have to wait for it. Grrrr.

The Concept of Caring

I had a talk with an employee the other day, and it was brought to my attention that the fact that I “don’t care about my job may have a negative affect on my employees.”
Now, to be fair, he was only quoting me about the “not caring” part. Because since I have been in my powerless position of power as Head Pizza Slut, the fact that I get none of the benefits to do all the work has made me somewhat of an underachiever as far as making my store “all it can be”. I believe my exact words were something along the lines of- “If my boss had found somebody better than me, he probably would have replaced me by now.”
It’s true, this is a terrible attitude to have, but after numerous conversations with my Boss With the Gorgeous Blue Eyes, he has confessed that he would rather have my half-assery as a faux general manager with my full amazing personality and specific set of job skills, than a manager giving his complete dedication with half as much personality and less multi-tasking ability than I. (At least until June) In other words, I don’t completely suck. Hence, I have come to the conclusion that I needn’t strain myself, as I will be getting paid the same amount of dollars despite my performance.
While there are those who may balk at such an attitude, I must point out that I have been begging for a demotion for the last six months- ever since I realized that I could have the same amount of pay with a quarter of the responsibility by just being a plain old server. So when my co-worker told me he may have to call my boss about my attitude, I said, “Please do.”
I decided long ago that in order to be the “manager” that I “should” be, I would have to work 80 hours a week for at least six months to ensure that everyone was trained and performing their duties to my satisfaction. While I have the work ethic to support such a commitment, I do not have the desire- at least not for pizza. Put me in a bookstore, or a shoe store, and I will gladly “care” enough to want to be there 700 hours a week. Hell, I wouldn’t even need any other employees in that case.
When I made this confession to my boss back then, and explained that my efforts would best be used elsewhere, he understood. Yet he has failed to replace me with someone more “caring”. And so, I am convinced he is resigned to my position on the matter.
In the end, I have composed a list of things more worthy of my caring efforts than giving away free pizza to unsatisfied customers: (because I have to give them free food, even when I KNOW that shit wasn’t fucked up)
1. Finishing my book(s)- I know it’s getting annoying that you all haven’t had a chance to run out and buy my best-selling novel that hasn’t been finished yet.
2. My family- ‘Twould be lovely to take my Rockstar’s Daughter to the zoo or for he and I to start the band we’ve wanted to for the last THREE YEARS….
3. Bloggery- because, after all, I have fans and shit.
4. Exercising- or baking cupcakes. (I lean toward the latter)
5. Becoming amazingly and ridiculously famous- I’m sure this would come with the publishing of my book(s).

P.S. To be clear, another employee has pointed out that I’m “the worst boss ever. For the company, that is. I’m great for the employees.”

Jewel’s Snaggletooth, Forgive Me

Dear diaphanous singer Jewel’s Snaggletooth,
I have decided to compose this letter of apology after witnessing your operator’s performance on the ACM’s last night.
It is true that a snaggletooth such as yourself is not always seen as a blessing or an attractive thing to have. I must admit that throughout the many years of your celebrity existence, I would wince in disgust at any glimpse of your presence during Jewel’s television performances, and think atrociously to myself, “Jesus Christ, she isn’t a homeless goat herder in Alaska anymore, why doesn’t she get that fixed.” Alas, Jewel finally collapsed under the pressure of the opinions of horrid judgemental people such as I, and I am sad to see that, Snaggletooth, you are no more.
While I had heard through celebrity gossip grapevines that you had been extracted, I had not yet witnessed it for myself until last night. In the past, when Jewel would sing about her diminutive hands, (“I know”) I would harshly be convinced that it was too bad that it was you, Jewel’s Snaggletooth, that was not small and unobtrusive. And when she would wonder, “Who will save your soul?”, I would wonder, “Who will save Jewel’s lover’s dick from the terrible shredding it will surely receive from Jewel’s blowjobs?” Perhaps that question was the one that finally persuaded Jewel to journey to the dentist.
I wanted to apologize, Snaggletooth, because as Jewel was tittering on last night about her hands and starving children, I couldn’t help but notice how aggravatingly perfect her new at-least-partial dentures were. No longer when she smiled did your beastly form stick out repulsively; no, no. Instead, a straight and perfectly whitened grill filled her smile the likes of which would rival Julia Roberts. It was then that I knew I had made a mistake.
I wax infinite on the subject of beautiful imperfection, only to realize that I falsely appraise such imperfections such as yourself. Perhaps it is because I believe celebrities are to be without flaws, or perhaps it is because I do not want their flaws to be more endearing than my own. Whatever the reason, Snaggle, I wish Jewel had never disposed of you.
I believe if you were to have made it through the bitter jabs of judgmental crowds, you would have been among the Elite of Celebrity Flaws such as Cindy Crawford’s Mole and Madonna’s Tooth Gap. However, Jewel’s Snaggletooth, I regret that you have surrendered too soon. And for that I am sorry.
Regretfully,
Sparklebumps

Blue Cheese Money Shot

While I am quite adept at multi-tasking in a restaurant setting better than nearly anyone, I do not deny that I come with an accident-prone edge. To put it mildly, I am a giant klutz. If I had a dime for every time I’ve produced a bruise from running my ass into the corner edge of a table or counter while at work, I’d have… well, I’d have alotta dimes. Too, I am very good at spilling things.
That brings me to the story of the day.
Though I was a bit upset that tonight was not a busy night for making tips, I did not mind the idea of going home early because of the slow business. I was switching over the salad bar, intent on rapidly finishing my server duties and departing before a party of 15 children or a hockey team came in, when the gallon of blue cheese dressing slipped out of my hand and proceeded to explode (yes, explode) over the cooler. When I say “over the cooler”, what I really mean is over the cooler, floor and walls, two carts of lidded dough that sat in the explosive’s path, and all over me.
A driver opened the cooler door right at that exact moment and said, “Sparkle, who’d you get excited?”
It is true, as disgusting as it sounds, the cooler did in fact look as though a mass orgy had just been conducted within. I took a picture to share with friends, intent with using the punchline, “This is what happens with the boys work with me.” As I mopped up the gooey white mess from the floors, the walls, the carts, and my hair, the only thing I could be thankful for was the fact that the shit didn’t get in my eye.

Get Your Free Catheter Sample Pack!

I was watching an episode of American Pickers yesterday when the most amazing of commercials came on. Imagine my delight when I heard the voice through the TV tell me that I too could receive my very own catheter sample pack free just by calling the number at the bottom of my screen! I knew immediately that this, this very glorious moment, was the one I had been waiting for my entire mournful existence.

I have heard that catheters do not have the same averse affects as other hospital-room treatments, such as morphine or triple-strength Tylenol. You will not hear of anyone requesting an extra catheter insertion to dull the pain of an explosive hemorrhoid, nor will there ever be the danger of becoming addicted to the use of catheters because of an extended stay in Dr. House’s house. Nevertheless, I find the TV’s exceptionally bright push to give catheter samples away an amazing opportunity, and here are the reasons why:

1. It would make an excellent  gift for someone getting on in years.

Perhaps this seems a bit cruel, but just think of the money you will save them if they ever DO have to don a catheter- when faced with this perhaps- disturbing news, they can simply whip out their catheter sample pack and cry, “Never fear! I have an entire buffet of catheters here to choose from, and you won’t have to charge me a dime!” Surely, your friend will thank you for your thoughtfulness.

2. It would make an excellent tool to get people to do what you want.

Instead of warning people, “I have a gun.”, think how more menacing you would sound if you threatened, “I have a catheter sample pack, and I’m not afraid to use it!” I am quite certain the threat of having something shoved up a man’s peehole would make him acquiesce to any demands you might make. This may also come in handy if you ever find yourself in charge of a bunch of males in your workplace, as I have. However, I cannot be at fault for any HR issues you may have.

3. It could be a pre-college learning tool for those hoping to have careers as RNs.

Wrap it up in a bow and present it to any pre-med bound youngster with a note that says, “You have a whole pack of chances to figure out how to do this so you can be at the head of your class. Don’t forget to use lube.” Children are our future, I think it only fair we give them every chance at success that we can.

Given all these valid reasons, I don’t see why anyone wouldn’t want to call the 800 number on the bottom of their screen this instant.

Loving Julia Roberts and Other Such Nonsense

There was a time “when men were kind, and their voices were soft, and their words inviting.”

Sorry, that wasn’t exactly where that sentence was supposed to go; just gearing up for my Les Mis audition.

Actually, what I was going to say was, there was a time when I believed Julia Roberts to be the best thing since the value menu at Burger King, but then I realized trouty lips don’t age well.

It’s been awhile since I posted, and there is really no good excuse for that, other than I was busy sleeping and reading The Help. I’m so sorry, my lovely followers who depend on me for their daily Special S, for I have let you down and not in the last weeks given you the fodder necessary to lose pounds from laughing your asses off. I shall do better, this I swear.

Anyhoo, back to Julia and her amazing platypus lips.

When I first saw Pretty Woman, I didn’t see a hooker in safety-pinned boots. I saw a tall slender woman with amazing red hair who was everything I would never be. At the time, I was not who I am now, mainly because I was a self-deprecating anorexic with bad hair. In the end, my point is that for a couple years, in my eyes, Julia Roberts could do no wrong. (Except for that movie Mary Reilly; it’s true not everyone can do period pieces.)

I had the entire VHS filmography of Julia up until the time DVDs became popular, when I then decided her best movies were My Best Friend’s Wedding and Runaway Bride. (The latter mainly because any glimpse of Chris Meloni still gives me chills in my drawers.) I opted to not replace all my Julia tapes with DVDs, and as they say in the Bible, I put away childish things, and never thought much about Julia again. (Partially because ever since she won an Oscar, she’s starred in nothing really worth seeing.)

This morning, I decided to watch Larry Crowne, and was again reminded why I fell in love with Julia all those years ago. Whether she is playing a dolled up hooker living a fantasy or a disenchanted community college professor in a failed marriage, she is absolutely believable. I must admit it was a bit disturbing to not see her trademark mile-wide grin until almost the end of the movie, but as she wallowed through her margaritas while mourning the lack of boobage her husband so desired, I could not help but identify with her.

It was then that I decided I was going to make carrot cake cupcakes.

I do not proclaim to be a domestic goddess, but in the past year I have felt the urge to bake cupcakes. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I watch Two Broke Girls on Monday nights. Whatever the reason, I thought that carrot cake cupcakes would be perfect for a post-Easter Monday.

I set about dirtying ever dish and measuring spoon I could lay my hands on, only to find right before I mixed that I hadn’t as many carrot shreds as my recipe called for. Not to be phased, I turned the dial on my hand-held mixer anyway, and produced extra-moist (I hate that word moist, blech) carrot cake cupcakeys that taste a bit more like pineapple than carrots. Ah, well. This is what comes of having my Rockstar pick up ingredients at the store.

P.S. I know you are wondering, “Rockstar? I thought she got rid of him?” Let us just say relationships are complicated. Welcome to my simple life.