Category Archives: Fashion

10 Reason You Want to Quit Your Job and Become a Stripper

1. You don’t have to wear clothes to work. In fact, you are tipped to take them off.

2. You don’t have to get up early in the morning.

3. You have people telling you all day every day how sexy and/or gorgeous you are.

4. You can buy many many many items off of the dollar menu at McDonald’s.

5. You get to wear awesome shoes. And glitter.

6. Strippers almost always smell amazing, and have very soft skin. (I know this because girls are allowed to touch.)

7. If you don’t like a customer, you can tell security that he’s a creeper, and they’ll kick him out. (I wish I had security like that at my work.)

8. You can afford to buy lots of candy. And a Ford Mustang.

9. You get to shove your boobies in people’s faces daily. (You may not understand the thrill, but having them serve a purpose other than getting in the way would be lovely.)

10. You get to call yourself whatever you want. (Princess Mystique has a nice ring to it. Who else is named after royalty AND an X-Man?)


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The Things We Must Do

Surely I am not an advocate for doing things you don’t want to do. I believe if you go through life doing things that are not necessarily of your own volition- if they are things other people want you to do, or things you feel obligated to do, you will just end up angry and frustrated and ready to shoot everyone in your path with an AK-47 or a flamethrower- kinda like Michael Douglas in the movie Falling Down.

Anyhoo, I was thinking of things of this nature this morning when I woke up, and I got to realizing that there are really quite a few things that we really MUST do in order to function acceptably in the world and not be thrown in with the crazies.

1. Wearing pants. Or really, any type of clothing that covered your gender parts.

As much as I adore walking through,  and sitting in, my apartment sans clothing, there are times when one simply must don vestments in order to keep from being arrested. Walking out to the mailbox, weddings, work- really, any time there are other humans about. It’s really toilsome to have to ensure clean and fashionable attire, especially when you just want to waltz around in your birthday suit.

2. Refraining from screaming out “I really fucking HATE this job!” while you’re at work.

Especially when you really fucking hate the job.

3. Paying the IRS.

Believe me, I have, perhaps unintentionally, tried to get away with NOT doing this. Sadly, Big Brother is a omniscient, and will TAKE your money out of your paycheck, or your bank account, or your property, if you try to screw him over. Dammit.

4. Compromising.

Let me be clear- one must solely compromise in order to keep friends and/ or relationships alive. If you are quite content growing into an old cat lady or lonely old man, feel free to refuse to compromise on where you should go out to eat, or where the TV is placed, or whether three times a week is enough for sex or not. I’m sure you’ll be happy being an old man who never goes to Olive Garden, sitting at home in front of the TV with a glare from the window jAcKiNG OFFWITHYOURHANDONCEAWEEK!!!!

5. Refraining from flicking people in the forehead when they’re annoying you.

As satisfactory as it sounds to do so, at some point, this may be considered harassment of some kind. I am still appalled to find that annoying people are not considered some kind of harassment yet.

6. Eat with your mouth closed.

Because even if I am not within earshot of you, I GUARANTEE there is someone sitting close by listening to you smack your lips in an ungentlemanly fashion who is inwardly cringing while secretly plotting how best to dispose of your newly-butchered body.

Well, I think I’ve gotten a pretty good start on educating you all on things you must do in order to be a little bit acceptable, however, if you promise to chew with your mouth closed, you can hang out with me sans pants anytime.




Filed under Fashion, Humor, Life, Money, Sex, Uncategorized, Work

Considering Taylor Swift’s Legs (and Other Repugnant Subjects)

I was going to make last night Date Night for my Rockstar and I, after my friend Delightful was unable to hang. I dolled myself up after work so R would have something to show off on his arm, but when he arrived home, instead of OKing the movie I’d suggested we go see, he reminded me that the CMA Country Music Festival was being shown on TV last night. Our night out was immediately changed to a night in, and he made a beer run to ensure that our evening did not lack liquid refreshments.

lbtI was thrilled to see that Little Big Town was hosting the show, mainly because Kimberly Schlapmann’s curly blonde afro is an inspiration for my own wooly coiffure. (And because my Rockstar stated that he would like to see both girls of the band bent over and cleaning the floor- he’s so classy, ain’t he?)

carrieBefore each commercial break, they listed every singer that was to perform in the next segment, and I began to wonder why it was that I was so thrilled to be watching the show in the first place. ‘Tis true that I find Carrie Underwood to be quite easy on the eyes, but I am so disgusted with her talent for picking un-appealing songs to record, and even more repulsed that she still claims to be “country”, when she decides to dress up like Pocahontas’ bastard child and sing Guns N Roses’ “Paradise City”, that I barely had time to notice her lovely behind. My Rockstar agreed wholeheartedly with me on the monstrosity of her performance.

The night continued with unmemorable performances by the unmemorable dudes of today’s country music, and then there was Taylor.

taylorBy now, you shall all have probably discovered my distaste for one, Taylor Swift. I had thought my loathing of her could not possibly get any worse, but I was ready to upchuck my Peach Schnapps as I watched her trying to be sexy in her new uniform of hotsy-totsy shorts. I say trying, because no, there was nothing sexy about it. It was very like the scene in True Lies, you know the one, where Jamie Lee Curtis is dancing mostly naked for Arnold- hilarious and painful, yes, but not sexy in the least. Taylor’s air-humping was only intensified when the object of her wet dreams, Tim McGraw, arrived on stage to sing with Taylor, while not-so-furtively checking her out out of the corner of his eye. You could almost SEE the thought bubble above his head: “HEY! A younger, hotter blonde than my wife! I hope Faith isn’t watching me openly commit statutory rape on Taylor with my eyeballs!” (Yes, of course I was watching his crotch closely to see if any hint of Tiny Tim was happening.)

After the nauseating performance, my Rockstar admitted that he’d “do Taylor, just for the challenge, and to brag about it”, even though she “has a weird body and would be better off showing off her legs in something that is not tight shorts”. I admonished him that if he DID do Taylor, I doubt there would be much of a challenge involved and that there wouldn’t, in fact, be much to brag about in the least. After all, there are many tall, long-legged blondes that can’t sing in the world, and plenty that are hotter.

kellyI was, however, greatly relieved to find that the women of country music today are not afraid to pack on a few pounds, and to stuff that shit into sausage casing so it doesn’t stick out. I believe that Kelly Clarkson should go back to pop music, because she hasn’t done anything of note in Nashville, other than eat, apparently, and Miranda Lambert wants everyone to know that she is NOT expecting- she just got fat.

Don’t get me wrong, I love these girls for the stands they’ve taken, butmiranda someone needs to shoot their stylists. I myself am not of a desirable weight, so to speak, but I realize that wearing leather leggings that are two sizes too small is NOT going to flaunt what I’ve got in a good way. As Hillary from Lady Antebellum sang about her man “Not taking her downtown anymore”, my Rockstar and I rudely remarked that it was probably because she couldn’t fit through the door- in her defense, she’s having a baby any day, but I’m convinced it’s two or three.

lady aAll in all, it made for a night of insults and opinions from my Rockstar and I, as we sat and made fun of people who are much more successful and rich than we. I’m certain karma is gonna come and kick my ass at some point.


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Ooh, Victoria’s Secret,

How I do loath the way you discriminate!

Yes, it’s true that I have drunk (drank, drinken?) a goodly amount of Three Olives Marilyn Monroe Strawberry Vodka, but do you so needlessly need to deny my succulent boobage support?!

I do not understand the source of your immeasurable hatred, oh Goddess Shop of Lingerie. I seem to remember a time when you so fervently provided me with a seemingly endless amount of credit. Is it because the credit you provided me on my sparkly credit card did INDEED end, and that I thereafter ceased to repay it? For that I am truly regretful, and feel you should no longer hold a grudge.

It’s true that my excessive breasteses make people jealous on occasion, but I see not the reason your website continues to deny me access to the adorable and ultra-sexy leopard-print multi-way bras by repeatedly telling me said cutesy boulder holders are unavailable in sizes that are 38 and DDD, which happen to be my size. Do you not see profit in charging such endowed women as I $62 per bra? I must urge you to reconsider.

I implore you, most decadent of stores, my body can no longer fruitfully function in less -than- designer booby buckets. My skin has made a clear statement that it shall forever hold an aversion to inferior bras; each night I return home from long hard days as a Pizza Slut only to find the alabaster skin beneath my boobies red with irritation at my cheap and unsupportive Walmart bras. I have more than once considered going sans bra at work, which, while that would not be a disappointment to my many fellow male employees, I would not at all feel comfortable pointing my teetage in their general direction.

And so, dearest Victoria, please cover my Secrets and desist from telling me my size is disconcertedly and permanently “Unavailable”.

Love Always,



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One in 300

… And then I found myself completely out of my element, surrounded by actual singers, as in- voice teachers, theatre majors, baritones, and a microbiologist.

Welcome to my Les Miserables audition.

I believe this was the utterance of my thoughts to myself:

“Fuck. what was I thinking?! I’m scared to sing in front of my Rockstar unless I’ve the help of my good friend Jack Daniels. “They’re all gonna laugh at you!” What was that line from anyway? Whatever. What’s the worse that could happen?”

You could become the inspiration for one of those horrendous audition montages you always see in movies. You know- the ones where the terrible singers all make fools of themselves, and then one amazing singer shows up and automatically blows everybody away.”

“But why couldn’t I be the one who blows everybody away?” I wondered  sadly to myself.

Because this isn’t a fucking boob competition, dumbass.” Myself is sometimes painfully honest to…myself.

Well, at least this girl next to me has purple feet.”

Yeah, that’s exactly what the casting directors are going to be looking at. Her feet. PShhh. You’re pathetic.”

I p’shawed myself. “Well, they’re gonna look at MINE! ‘Cause I gots beautiful red heels on.” I mentally stuck my tongue out at myself.

Ooh! The piano is free! We should go play it, and leave a talented impression, ‘cuz you know your singing isn’t gonna impress no one.” Myself speaks in Southern uneducated black woman bad English sometimes.

Fine.” I go to the piano because I know she’s right.

Of course it would happen that the first audition I ever go to draws a crowd of hopefuls numbering 300. After sitting in a hallway for 5 hours with singers warming up and “lalala”-ing, I wasn’t a bit nervous. I just knew there was no way in hell I was getting a part, even if there were 301 parts to cast. But dammit, I fuckin’ stayed anyway, and I DID what I said I was going to- luckily the directors had the decency to compliment me on my choice of song-Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’, even if I DID choke and make up a few words. No surprise when I didn’t get a call back today. The only consolation I have is that the people who can actually sing were just a wee bit disappointed when I had to cease my stellar piano playing to go make a fool of myself. That, and the fact that in all 300 people, I was one of the cutest, (the other being an amazing male singer  with a nicely-shaped disturbingly shiny shaved head) and was the only one stupid enough to wear 6 inch heels. The Miserable indeed.


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And the Oscar for Making Their Boobage Disappear Goes To…

All I can say is a non-intelligent sounding text acronym: “WTF?!?!??!”

I, like billions of other individuals throughout the world, tuned in to watch the Oscars last night. Actually, after a heated discussion about whether to forego this week’s episode of the Walking Dead in order to watch the Oscars, my Rockstar somewhat unwillingly tuned in. (Boobs win, y’all.)

My Rockstar and I have made a habit of watching the beginning of red-carpet awards shows so as to comment between ourselves on the amazing fashion sense (or lack thereof) of famed and sometimes not so famed celebutants. We have jokingly agreed that we should replace Joan and Melissa with our very honest and sometimes harsh own fashion police show. Last night was no exception.

At the beginning of the evening, I thought perhaps it was only a fluke that the three Jennifers (Garner, Lawrence, and Aniston) were all wearing questionable gowns. Do not misunderstand- all three of their gowns were absolutely amazing, except for one huge (or not huge) thing. All three women looked as though they had suffered a mastectomy before donning their designer duds. It’s true, Jennifer Aniston is not the bustiest of celebrities, but I’m quite certain more than one lonely man sitting at home has jacked off to her quite acceptable B-cups when she was portraying Rachel. However, that Garner chic (who I always considered to be gorgeous until I noticed last night that Ben Affleck must have run her through the ringer) has had quite lovely cleavage in the past, and is not the fact that J. Lawrence not a skinny mini what makes her appealing?

I continued watching in hopes that maybe the designers were only playing such tricks on girls named Jennifer. Sadly, it seems the fad for this year was making voluptuous actresses appear waif-like and un-endowed. Anne Hathaway, (who’s lovely knockers rival my own) Renee Zellweger, (who only had titties to speak of really as Bridget Jones) and Reese Witherspoon (who’s demi-cut dress even made my Rockstar go “WTF?!” ) all seemed to be channeling Audrey Hepburn. Don’t get me wrong- Audrey’s lack of boobage has always been greatly admired by me- so much so that during my anorexic days, I seethed at the fact that my ever-present hooters did not diminish to miniscule Audrey size. However, NONE of these women have Audrey-esque Love Warts. In fact, the only person who’s cleavage was almost perceptible to the naked eye was Nicole Kidman. (A surprising fact, considering that even though I’ve actually seen naked boobs on her in past films, she has none to speak of.)

When did flat-chested come back in style? It’s true, high fashion caters to women who are not blessed in the breast department, but I think Jennifer Aniston’s gorgeous red ball gown would have been even just a little bit more gorgeous if it had been cut in such a way to let her Girls breathe. I’ve come up with the perfect solution…

Someone needs to get me an invitation to next year’s Oscars, and I promise there will be enough cleavage to make up for what we missed this year. 🙂


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The Beauty Rituals of a Queen

When I was fifteen or so, my parents took me to a used bookstore. It had just recently opened up, and was located in a historic ramshackle building. Because it was new, nothing was organized, as in- there were piles of books EVERYWHERE. No organization, no categories, nothing. While the inner librarian in me would balk at such a situation, I must tell you how delightful it was to go searching for a treasure I didn’t even know was there. I came across a treasure indeed- a biography on Queen Elizabeth. Since she was known as the Virgin Queen, and I myself was a virgin at the time, I took it as a sign and asked my father to purchase said book for me. I went home and read the entire thing in two sittings.

There was much history that I read about, but the thing I remember most about that book was the chapter on Queen Elizabeth’s beauty habits. At that time in my life, I was obsessed with maintaining my looks (as if anything has changed). I read about Elizabeth’s practice of rubbing mercury on her lips to make them a luscious red color. I secretly went out to the shed on my parents property and looked for an outdated thermometer that I could break open and procure mercury from. (Nevermind the fact that mercury is highly lethal. I thought if I could die with the pale white skin and berry red lips of a virgin queen, it mattered not.) It is probably a good thing for my lips that my mom caught me and forbade me to smear mercury on them.

One beauty ritual that Elizabeth practiced that I actually did try was putting eggs and cream and mayonnaise in my hair to make it shiny and flowing. I don’t actually remember if it worked, but I do remember the reactions of the numerous people my mother told about my odd behavior. (What?! Eggs in her hair? How gross! What a weird kid!)

Fast forward 16 years later.

I still long to have ivory white skin, instead of the pale blotchy skin of a Minnesota woman, and I still long to have  the luscious flowing locks of a Boticelli angel. I have made no secret of the fact that my hair color is not at most times natural. (If the Pumpkin Orange and Little Mermaid shades were not a clue.) To be clear- my complete and utter boredom with my various hair colors has caused me to color and bleach and dye and fry my hair to the point where my raved-of (by my Grammy) natural curls now resemble that haystack that girl in Oklahoma got stuck up on. After once again shading my hair a glorious unnatural crimson color last night, I decided that unless I wanted to go with a chic Audrey Heburnesque pixie cut and start all over, I was going to have to get a perm. And so, I awoke this morning and made my way to the local Beauty College. (Where hair care is affordable and only slightly questionable.)

The instructor of my stylist instisted on perming a test strand of my hair. I rolled my eyes on the inside (since I have gone from Elvira black locks to a Gwen Stefani bleach job without losing hair) and waited patiently for the verdict.

“We aren’t going to do a perm today.” She stated quite unapologetically.

She went on to explain that if my hair was permed, I would lose my amazingly bright redness, and my strands would turn to mush. I exited the building and returned home, where I immediately did online research on how to repair my poor abused hairs.

I was reminded of Queen Elizabeth and her egg hair masque when I read that eggs and mayo make an excellent remedy. I was also reminded of Catherine Zeta-Jones and the first issue of People‘s 50 Most Beautiful People when I read that beer does wonders for the human coif.

So once again, I find myself partaking in the odd beauty rituals of a queen. I am composing this post honey, olive oil, and egg yolks saturate my hair and continuously drip down my face. While I admit that a plastic Target bag wrapped around my head is not entirely sexy, I guarantee the end will result in fabulously moisturized locks that would make even Queen Elizabeth jealous. Sadly, I am reminded how horrid I think honey smells as it oozes down my forehead onto my keyboard.

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My New Goal: A Superbowl Commercial

Yes, yes, we all know it was the most important day of the year yesterday- Superbowl Sunday. I must admit, the only reason I know it was was because I spent the entire day cracking the whip to ensure that every person who ordered pizza received it in enough time to properly digest before having to suffer through Beyoncé’s “entertainment”. Luckily (?), I made it home in enough time to see the much-talked-about Farmer commercial. (Which would have been soooo much better if it had been for Ford.) This got me wondering: can a person advertise herself?

When I thought about it, the only individuals I could come up with that may perhaps “advertise” themselves were prostitutes and escorts. (Unless you are counting all those people on dating sites) But then I got to thinking, “Why COULDN’T one advertise oneself?”  I suppose normal boring people mightn’t have much to advertise, but what about all the awesome people? Isn’t advertising for general awesomeness allowed? After all, that’s all any commercial really does.

While I began this blog just to blurb about whatever it was I was thinking about, I cannot deny that every time I find I’ve acquired another follower, I do a little happy dance. (Which you all must know makes the girls jiggle.) And since I wish to be a famous author the likes of which have never been seen before, what better way to get the word out than to show up somewhere between the Ravens and the 49’ers?

(I realize I’d actually have to finish a book, but nevermind about that.)

Here’s what I was thinking:

The commercial would start out focusing on a fabulous pair of Swarovski-encrusted stilettos, and pan up to reveal a pair of sexily-muscled gams connected to the feet in the shoes. They are the legs of a uber-hot model, or perhaps a Salma Hayek-type. She sashays past a park bench with a dorky yet slightly adorable man sitting reading a book. Suddenly, she stops sashaying and does a double take- what is that he’s reading there?! Why, it’s a Sparklebumps book! Suddenly, the nerdy dude is amazingly sexy, and the hot woman cannot resist sitting down next to him and fawning desperately over him. Then the words pop up- “Only the sexiest people read Sparklebumps. Be one today! ” And then that guy with the movie preview voice starts talking: Her latest publication is in bookstores everywhere. Buy it today!

Yeah, now there’s a commercial for ya.

Geico’s got the gecko and the  “weeeee!!!!!!!!” pig, why couldn’t I have a Salma Hayek?

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What If Those Last Five Pounds Are in my Bra?

The other day, I was vegging around being almost completely useless, when I decided to torture myself by browsing on the Victoria’s Secret website. For those of you who know me a bit better than those of you who don’t know me at all, you will understand  how this is a somewhat self-masochistic act. As I continue to pay off the $2800 I owe to dear Vicky, I have vowed not to spend a dime there until she is monetarily sated.  However, I am in desperate need of a Boulder Holder I can wear to work that is not falling apart and poking me with an exposed underwire.

As I clicked and clicked away on the website, I reminisced about the days when it seemed I had unlimited funds to spend on over-priced lingerie and  designer shoes. Did you ever notice how perfectly all the clothes fit on those models? I am convinced that just looking at Adriana Lima and that Alessandra chic convinces women everywhere that they are a size two. Luckily, though I am clearly NOT a size two, the jeans from Victoria’s Secret fit surprisingly well on me. And even though I’m certain I could find that booby-enhancing sweater in my hometown mall for a fraction of the price, there’s just something about seeing it on Douzan that makes me want to pay more for it.

While I am completely at home in my body, (after all, I DO have wonderful breasts to play with) I have made the decision that I could lose a few pounds. Sadly, the smell of French fries in the afternoon is enough to make me forget any such decisions. But as I fantasied about over-filling my virtual cart with designs worn by the most beautiful women in the world, I snapped out of it and said to myself, “No! No, Self! You don’t deserve any new clothes until you gracefully fit into all the cute ones you’ve never worn that hang in your closet!” And with a decisive finger, I clicked right on over to my unfinished novel, feeling only slightly powerful that I did not buy the clothes that I couldn’t afford.

The thought of losing weight is never far from my mind, but the thought of exercising is. When my Rockstar suggested last week that the reason for my chronic tiredness was lack of exercise, I calmly looked at him and retorted with, “But think how much MORE tired I’d be if I ran a mile or did situps!” Because of my chestly heritage, even if I DID lose some weight, the chances of my… ahem, upper portions fitting nicely into a size Medium sweater are slim to none. When doctors are weighing the heavy-chested, do they take into account that that extra 20 pounds they’re carrying around just might be in their bra?

Since I have no shortages of men lusting after me, it’s safe to say that I practically perfect at the size I am, but it IS frustrating when I go to try on clothes and nothing fits. So I will once again make a firm decision. I must learn to sew.


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Benevolent Takeover

Happy 2013, My Lovelys! I have deemed this the year that I finally take my rightful place as Queen of Everything. Before you guffaw and roll your eyes at this statement, let me enlighten you to the Utopia I have envisioned:

There will be no war. Instead, war will be replaced with love, and those who oppose this edict shall be beheaded. There will be weekly Love Rallys that everyone is invited to attend, where music and drink and hugging is extensive.

The IRS and all other forms of monetary persecution shall be abolished. No longer will hard-working people be appalled to find that half of their check has been confiscated by some phantom corporation. Dollars for necessities such as stilettos and whiskey shall be provided by the government.

The institution of Marriage shall be available to every and all human. If you are a gay man, you may live in complete misery with that beautifully sculpted specimen of a man if you so choose. If you are  15, and in love with a creepy forty-year-old, you may marry him without your parent’s consent, as long as you take a week or two to accept the idea of the wrinkled balls that will be in your mouth after your nuptials.

Music, and art, and writing will be the most esteemed of all talents. Those who contribute to these endeavors shall be carried around by those who in no way contribute to the benefits of the mind- namely lawyers, money-grubbing doctors, and the CEO’s of Apple.

I will require an Army of Followers. It shall be your duty to give your opinions and your praise for the ramblings of my mind that I so faithfully supply on my blog. Too, you will be required to rush out and buy all my books upon their publishing. In return, I will supply you with many hours of irreverent and crazed entertainment. They shall be known as the Glitterati

I, too, will require an Army of Admirers which will completely sate and satisfy the monster that is my Histrionic Personality. It shall be your responsibility to daily fawn over my (imagined) beautific-ness, and to at all hours speak of your desire for my “perfectly-shaped” bod. In return, I shall pose for all nude and naked pictures requested.

All scientists will be required to scientifically fabricate dragons that I and my Followers shall ride to all my many lands.

In return for providing all the world with such a Utopia, donations of used books and shoes and all things glittery will be accepted on the Monday of every week, and will be appreciated physically with booby squishes from yours truly to those who comply.

So it has been decreed, so let it be done.

Queen Sparklebumps

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