Category Archives: Friendship

The Goose and the Gander


After a lovely day of bitching in the park and eating not-so-scrumptious wings at B-dubs with the lovely Cat Woman, I have decided to manufacture a silly little tale based off of our observations of geese and men today. So grab a bottle of Jack and have a seat.

Once upon a time, there was a gander (Sidenote: I have just discovered that a gander is a male goose. I do not know why a female goose is still called just a goose. Sexism at it’s finest.)

This gander was very handsome, and had a long elegant neck. (As geese tend to have.) He spent his day strutting through the park, honking lasciviously at the females of his species, and hissing arrogantly at any humans who deemed themselves fit to try and feed him stale bread and sunflower seeds. The only people he let get close were the ones who offered dill pickle-flavored sunflower seeds, which, unbeknownst to him, caused the gander to have wretched breath.

The gander was wildly narcissistic, and would spend long hours gazing into the man-made pond in the middle of town at the reflection of  his beautiful neck, sticking it out this way and that, and posing for the womanly geese that wandered past. There were a group of the females who fawned over the gander (as much as geese can fawn), but the gander would simply fertilize their eggs and then never honk at them again. (Sidenote: geese generally mate for life; another nature fact I have just learned.) The female geese were so busy caring for their fertilized eggs that they didn’t have time to warn other innocent geese of the gander’s shameful behavior.

One day, as the gander was doing a yoga-like pose as he peed, he caught sight of a goose he hadn’t yet pillaged. He stretched his long neck out while he finished his business, hoping the goose would notice how impressive and long it was (hee hee). He was so busy trying to impress the goose, that he failed to notice the naughty little boy who was running towards him. Before he knew what was happening, the gander found a grubby little fist wrapped around his prized neck, and he felt a yucky snap. He found himself looking down at the ground, unable to hold his little head upright, before the boy’s mother yelled at him and he was flung to the ground. The little boy ran off, and the gander was left honking and hissing, never even noticing the feather that was stuff in his nose hole, making him even more absurd.

From then on, the vain gander wandered through the park with a broken neck, which made his head to wobble unsteadily on his once-beloved neck, causing him to look a little bit demented.

The moral of the story: Don’t rubberneck at dames, you may end up without your most valuable asset.

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An Apology to my Neighbors


Dear friendly neighbors,

I compose this letter today in the hopes that we can still be amiable aquaintances. While I have done nothing to openly displease you, it is, perhaps, safe to say that one or some of you may be slightly vexed in my general direction.

I apologize for spending five hours outside bent over my garden in my swimsuit.

Were it not the fact that, by some anyway, I would be considered pudgy or stout, I would not be issuing such an apology today. However, upon reflection of my own judgemental thoughts when faced with the excessive flesh exposure of some portly women in the summertime, I felt the need to ask pardon.

I, too, will explain why I have so blatantly bared my ASSets.

I have a problem with tan lines. Like, (and I’m sorry to revert back into a thirteen-year-old girl here, but) omg, batman! Tan lines drive me CRACRA!!!!!!! #insane. Due to having this past weekend off, I have already suffered the injustice of tan lines. My only option is to bare as much of my skin as possible in order to attempt a fading of such horrid atrocities. Thus, the semi-nakedness.

There is always the hope that the men amongst you are closeted chubby-chasers. If this happens to be true, then my apology is to the wives, who may have found their husbands open-mouthed and ogling, and finding reasons to venture outside- maybe feigning getting the mail- in order to get a closer look at my superfluous boobies that so stubbornly kept refusing to stay attired. Here’s the thing: it’s nigh impossible to find a swimmy that fits bosoms of such extent sufficiently. So pay no attention to the fact that I was adjusting and re-adjusting so as not to completely flash the whole neighborhood. Though I’m certain the men didn’t mind.

There is the fleeting thought that perhaps no one noticed me at all. That thought quickly dispersed, however, when I remember how viciously my Rockstar and I verbally gossip about you all when we see you puttering around your yards. Think nothing of it, it’s just something we do.

I cannot promise that I will never again assault your eyes with the sight of my husky thighs, (ha, that rhymed!) but I do hope you all may learn to ignore them. Or in the least, not tell everybody that there’s an almost naked girl outside, because it certainly seemed like A LOT of cars were driving by yesterday. Multiple times.

The girl next door,

Sparklebumps

P.S. I do not apologize for walking around inside my house naked with the blinds open. It’s my house. I can do what I want.

 

 

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You Are Beautiful


Fitting rooms are death.

As in, every time I enter a fitting room,

I die a little bit inside

when I look in the mirror.

This dress would look great!

If it wasn’t on me.

I think to myself.

It doesn’t seem to matter

that I flaunt a pair of plentiful breasts,

the sort of which many women would pay dearly for.

Or that my legs,

though considerably short,

are toned from hours and hours of

wearing heels,

or waiting on tables.

I climb out of the dress,

which is rather difficult

since I forced the zipper up

in hopes of making it fit.

I shake my head and vow

that I will not be undone by an

inanimate piece of fabric.

I dress in my own not-quite-so-fabulous attire;

I face myself once again in the mirror,

and repeat to the refection there

the words many men have proven to be true,

the words friends that only tell the truth have spoken,

the words I remind myself that I believe:

“You are beautiful.”

 

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Advice For Graduates


is the time when seniors everywhere are growing up and moving on with their lives. Since I am old(er), I feel it is only fair that I give them some helpful advice for their journey. I heard a soldier on the radio give a commencement speech to a senior class, using only three words- “Make your bed.” I think there is something to this, so here we go. (I may take a few liberties by combining words to stay under the three word maximum.)

1. Eat the cake.

As you go through life, some of you may worry more than others about keeping your young and lithe figures. Others may not. Whatever the case, you need to realize that there is nothing wrong with indulging in sweets and other edible goodness, for, as George Bernard Shaw once said- “The most sincere form of love is love for food.” So eat the cake when you get the chance.

2. Do whatcha want.

Three words. If you didn’t understand, that was do what makes you happy. Don’t go to college to become a lawyer if that is not what your passion is, no matter how much your parents pay you. You will be happier in the end.

3. Do stuffu hate.

Along with doing whatever you want, at times, friends, Romans, and/or countrymen may ask you to accompany them in actions that interest you not at all. (For example, stock car races.) If they ask you, just say yes, because they could have asked someone else. And you may just run into a super hot girl who gives amazing blow jobs, or experience the deep-fried goodness of racetrack cheese curds. Whatever the case, you will not regret the things you do.

4. Read more books.

HA! I didn’t have to fudge that one! Which makes it quite clear that it is very sound advice. The more you read, the more you know. Which may very well help you out if you take my afore mentioned advice and follow your friend to a hostel somewhere in Serbia.

5. Get a dog.

Maybe not right now, but someday. You will never regret having a companion who is always happy to see you, and who will never yell at you for leaving the toilet seat up.

6. See the world.

I must admit here that I’ve yet much world to see, but after I make millions on my book, the world shall be my first stop. Experience the magic of earth.

7. Do the dishes.

Because they will stink if you don’t.

And finally- the best for last.

8. Listen to music.

As much as you possibly can. Every kind that you can. Music is beauty in audio.

9. Love like crazy.

Fall in love with as many things as you can. That doesn’t mean, be a slut; it means open your eyes, and your heart, and never let go of that feeling you get when you see something beautiful for the first time.  Love. Love like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

 

 

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Being A Book Person


There are so many words to describe us: bookworm, scholar, intellectual, and my favorite, bibliophile. (I promise it is not my favorite because it so closely resembles the word “pedophile”.)

It is a person who finds warmth and solidarity between the covers of a book; someone who writes, on paper, or in their mind, or on a blog for the whole world to see. Someone who, after a harsh and annoying day at work just dreams of coming home, sitting down, and losing himself or herself for just a few moments in a world where they don’t have to buy a plane ticket to experience a vacation from their everyday life.

What does it mean, to be one of these “Book People”?

It means going into a library, and wandering the aisles of every section, noticing titles that you hope to read eventually, and realizing that there isn’t enough time in twelve lifetimes to read all the books you want.

It means entering a bookstore, and touching every book you’ve read, whispering the title to yourself as if saying a prayer, and generally looking like a schizophrenic lunatic.

It means running up town to buy a dish sponge, and then deciding to check out the newly-opened antique store, and, when the owner begins asking how your day goes, and how you like your antiques, you somehow get on the subject of books, and how just the smell of them amazes you, and before long you understand you’re talking to another Book Person, not a stranger at all. Three hours later, you realize the dishes have been sitting at home in no-longer hot dish water, and that the sponge you went up to town to get has brought two Book People together.

Non-Book People just don’t get it.

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Nice To (Kind of) Meet You, Mr. Deniro


Dear Robert Deniro,

I will begin this letter by saying I adore you as the lightning pirate who wears corsets and can-can scarves in the movie Stardust. Though you have made a career out starring as tough mob bosses and mentally unfit taxi drivers, I must admit that I did not truly appreciate your talent until I saw you parading around with a heart-shaped mole in this film. You may star in my future films as a sexually-confused air-pirate anytime.

That being said, I would like to point out that while you were equally as brilliant in your role as Jack Byrnes in Meet the Parents  and it’s sequals, I was so disgusted with that Ben guy that I couldn’t fully enjoy your performance. He seems to end up in a lot of movies I immensely enjoy, causing me great distress.

I’ve just gotten finished watching Everybody’s Fine on Netflix, and I without a doubt think that you should have received an Oscar for your performance as a lonely widower on the edge of death. While I watched, I thought to myself that I would surely not mind being your daughter, because you did love your children so. I am glad that you did not die at the end.

Thanks to Netflix, I was also able to watch The Big Wedding, where you played a horny old man with an ex wife and a girlfriend. Might I just say here- yay for you! If you can so easily play a randy seasoned patriarch, perhaps you are not acting at all, hmm?

Side note: While my previous letters to greatly-matured actors such a Anthony Hopkins have hinted at my possible lust for them, I must admit that I bear no such funny feelings in my pants for you, dear Robert. That is not to say I do not find you to be quite smashing in other categories. So sorry.

After having adored you so in the last few films of yours I’ve watched, I have made a point to put all of your movies that were available on my Netflix list. Sadly, Cape Fear and The Deer Hunter were not among these. So if you happen to read this letter, and find it even mildly amusing, would you be so kind to send me signed copies? If not, I guess that’s ok. It was only a suggestion.

I would like to congratulate you on the fact that you haven’t aged a day in the last 20 years. You don’t look a day over…. 65. Well, there has to be a few grand actors in Hollywood who aren’t just there for their looks, right?

If at any time you wish to produce a movie that requires that I play your daughter, or hired hooker, feel free to give me a call. It would be a great honor to work with you. I would even include a booby squishin’ hug upon our initial meeting, but don’t get any ideas. I’m saving myself for Chris Meloni.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

 

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Creepin’


I be creepin’….

I feel like this is or could be the title to a great hit song.

In this day and age, you ain’t nobody unless you been creeped on by some random acquaintance on Facebook.

Which means: I just made at least six people Somebody.

I promise when I sat down at my computer, it was with the only intention of writing at least three hard-to-come-by paragraphs for my novel that will be finished in about ten years. Only, I signed in to Facebook, and after clicking on several alluring ads for $17 dresses, I decided to see what my not-so-close virtual friends looked like before I knew them, or after I knew them, and what their dogs look like, and let’s not forget all those annoying Facebook babies. This is what I found out.

Some people should go back to their natural brunette hair color. (I am aware that I may be one of these “some people”.)

Some people look just a little bit better than they did last year.

Some other people looked a lot better last year.

There are just way too many damn infants on Facebook. Apparently the entire population of Minnesota and some of Wisconsin have nothing better to do than fuck like rabbits nonstop.

All of Facebook is nothing but a ruse. I once thought all those people posting pictures actually DID stuff. Now I realize they are just taking pictures nonstop of themselves in their very ordinary lives. Well, guess what, people?! I can do that too!

There are very few people who actually throw interesting-looking weddings. I’ve decided if ever I have another wedding, there will be mermaids, belly-dancers, a unicorn, a rodeo clown, and at least two pirates. (Preferably the Johnny Depp kind, not the Somali variety.)

I realize that people are probably starting to get tired of seeing me post a daily pic of my new puppy. Because I am most certainly getting tired of seeing pics of their babies.

Some people should most definitely not start their own Youtube channel, because nobody really cares where some people come from.

Damn, I’m harsh tonight. Sorry.

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