Category Archives: God

Inside the Sparkle Studio

I had forgotten all about James Lipton and his adorable lip-less self (does anyone else find it ironic that a man with “lip” in his name lacks them?) until I turned on the boob tube today and saw him hammering his questions home to a yucky and completely unattractive George Clooney. (Yes, you all have found perhaps the only woman in the world who would not sleep with George just to say she slept with George.)

I reminisced about the times I daydreamed about sitting across from James Lipton’s spectacled self just to have him pick my brain and find out exactly how and why I became my fabulously famous self. (Clearly, this daydream still exists.) And so I decided to put all your curiosities to rest and answer the famed Inside the Actor’s Studio questionnaire. (Mainly because by the time I’m sitting across from dear sweet James, he will probably be long dead, and I shall have forgotten what my original answers were due to my old age, and shall have to fashion new and exciting answers.)

 1. What is your favorite word?

Scintillate- I learned this word in my 6th grade vocabulary class-perhaps the only thing I retained from my school days other than the first verse of Oh captain, my Captain. Scintillate- the definition is “to glisten or sparkle”. Don’t tell me you’re surprised.

2. What is your least favorite word?

Moist. Ugh. Just typing it makes me gag just a little. Also, “slice”- it gives me shivers when people say it. Sadly, once people find that out, they run after me screeching at the top of their lungs “Slice! Slice! Slice! Slice!”

3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

If I am to answer with something that turns me on in all three ways, I will say undoubtedly- books. Every book I read turns on my creativity, whether it is because it gives me ideas, or because I think to myself that I may be able to do better than the author. Emotionally, because a well-written book can make you sob uncontrollably, laugh hysterically, or make you want to fuck the living daylights out of someone. A badly written book will piss you off bad enough that you may want to strangle the author, or the publisher who would allow such trash to be published. Spiritually, because a book may bring you closer to God, or further away that you ever imagined you could be.

Attention also turns me on. It makes me happy, and sparks my creativity enough to make me try to be whoever it is the person giving me attention is looking for.

4. What turns you off?

Laziness. And unnecessary cruelty.

5. What is your favorite curse word?

Fuck. Because it can be so mean or so nice. Fuck you or fuck me. People can make their own decision about which one I will say to them.

6. What sound or noise do you love?

Someone asking me for a hug.

7. What sound or noise do you hate?

Belching. And people chewing- open-mouthed or closed.

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

Almost anything, but superhero sounds the best.

9. What profession would you not like to do?

Pooper pumper. Whether it be one of those guys who sucks the shit outta the sewer, or the doctor who administers the colonoscopy tube.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the      Pearly Gates?

“Hey, everybody, we don’t have to worry anymore; Sparkle’s finally here!”


Filed under Books, Entertainment, Family, God, Humor, Life, Love, Religion, Uncategorized

Who Are You?

“Who are you?”

That was the first question in

Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself.

Ironic, isn’t it,

that a book that’s supposed to

help you find yourself expects you to tell it

who you are?

I could write my name in the blank line,

but I’m sure that’s not what Mcleod meant-

since there are seven more blank lines.

I look up at the ceiling,


Who am I?

I wonder aloud.

Just then,

I notice the sparkles on the ceiling I’m looking at.

I’ve lived here for three years and never realized

I’ve been living under an artificial Home Depot sky.

I come back to the task at hand.

I put pen to paper-

the handwriting I hate that is mine comes out in a

beautiful fuschia gel shade.

I am a person who talks to herself,

gets distracted by sparkly things,

and is, at times, completely un-observant.

I nod, satisfied.

I think Mcleod would approve.

I continue.

I am terrible at making decisions.

I pause.

But once I make one, I do not change my mind.

Not entirely true,

since I was once married,

and am no longer.

What Mcleod doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

That reminds me.

I am someone who cheats.


I am someone who cheats. I have cheated in past lives, but not in this one.

Much better.

Now on to the nitty gritty.

The thoughts come faster than I can write

and I forget a few.

I am a mother, but have no children.

I long for a father, but refuse to forgive the one I have.

I love alone time, but am terrified to be abandoned.
I work hard, but am irrevocably lazy.

I believe in God, but I think He can be an asshole sometimes.

I want to be a writer, but find every excuse not to write.

I am amazingly stubborn, yet I compromise more than anyone else I know.

I am the saddest girl there ever was,

yet everyone that knows me say,

“How happy she is!”

That’s the one that always gets me.

Unforgettable, cunt, beautiful, odd-looking, sexy, dorky, talented, loser, amazing,

These are all words others have used to describe me;

I cannot help but wonder who it is they are talking about.

When I look in the mirror,

I am just me.

I read everything I’ve just written.

Contradictions, every single one.

I toss Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself on the floor, irritated.

How are you supposed to know who you are when

everything about you is a paradox?

I look back up at my imitation stars.

I think a moment,

about all that I have done,

the people I have known,

the lives I have lived;

then resolutely, I pick up Mcleod’s self help book.

I scribble a little on the corner of a page

to make sure my fuschia pen still works

before I write one more thing.

I am Love.







Filed under Beauty, Family, God, Life, Love, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

I Hope Your Baby Looks Like Steve Buscemi

Dear former Fuck Buddy of Mine,

Let me be the first thirty-first (according to Facebook) to offer my congratulations on the presence of the conjoined egg-and-sperm in your wife’s belly.

While it is, I suppose, good news that this announcement has made its debut at this time, I find it a bit unlucky for you that the timing is such that YOU are the one chosen to be the recipient of my lonely-and-depressed-barren-woman rant. For this I apologize.

While I cannot deny that we had some “good times” (heh, heh) and I would like to thank you always for making me feel desirable, (as if no one else does), I must admit that my faith in the goodness of the male species has been forever and always jaded because of you. Perhaps it is the fact that your current relationship began as you dating three women at once,or perhaps it is the fact that you’ve never once even tried to be faithful to she who now carries your child. Either way, I shall always look at men I’ve had as Fuck Buddies in a strange and terrible light now.

It’s true, if I were not in my current state of confusion over my Rockstar and life choices in general, I may have been able to offer my congratulations  honestly and without malice; but too bad for you, Dude- you get the full extent of my Sad Girl wrath.

I do not doubt that your wife is feeling great joy and ecstatic happiness at this time at the fact that she carries a little you inside her. (That kinda sounded dirty.) However, I do wonder if your excitement is of the same caliber. You know what babies mean, right? More work and less naked time- something that if I know you as well as I do, you shall not be thrilled about in the least.

Though it is not for me to judge God’s judgement in providing your sperm with extra oomph to impregnate your spouse, I cannot help but wish to raise my fist and scream at the heavens, “What the Hell are You thinking?!?!?!??!” It is clearly obvious He intends to make every single person around me pregnant as if to say, “Yeah, Bitch- take that!”

And so, to end this harsh and hateful letter, I can do only one thing- Curse you and offer my hope that your baby looks like Steve Buscemi. I realize that this will never happen, as you are a beautiful Puerto Rican, and your wife has an amazing smile. So boo on you.

No Love,



Filed under Beauty, Children, Family, God, Humor, Life, Uncategorized

Gimme A Hug, You Atheist!

I suppose it may seem strange that a born-again Christian and a professed Atheist can not only work side by side quite amiably, but can actually carry on a religion-based discussion without ripping each other’s throats out. However, in my world, this happens on a daily basis.

I was intrigued by the foreign-seeming tattoos my newest hiree sported on his forearm yesterday, and so asked immediately what they meant. He acted somewhat reluctant to tell me, and gave some bullshit explanation for me to tell my other employees if any of them should ask, before he told me that one was the symbol for an Atheist, and the other a symbol for Humanist. I nodded amiably, stuck out my hand, and said in my own Sparkly manner, “Hello, Atheist! I’m a Christian!”

No, I did not continue our conversation by spouting of the fiery lake many Christians believe he is headed to, nor did I invite him to church in an attempt to save his immortal soul. Instead, I asked him what made him have a belief in nothing, only to find out he was raised very like I was.

He spoke of a time when he was an angry youth, and how his parents did not understand him, and how, because of his military experiences, he no longer believed as he once did. I spoke of a time when I was a narrow-minded teen, and how my parents did not understand me, and how, because of my life experiences, I am now an open-minded individual that believes people can make their own decisions about their faith. He believes in humans; I believe most humans are assholes that should be destroyed. For two people with very different point of views, it’s amazing how very alike we are.

Incidentally, today I stopped at work to post the schedule after church, and my coworker asked if I had any churchy advise for her and my other work babies. I told her that God loves everybody, and that hugs make people feel welcome. Jesus hung out with whores and thieves, and never once thought he was too cool for them. Too bad my dad never remembers that part of the Bible.


Filed under Friendship, God, Humor, Life, Religion, Uncategorized

I’m Goin’ To Church, Dammit!

Surprising as it may seem, I grew up in church. I believe one of the many policies of becoming a member at my childhood church was that members (ha, I said member) were to be present any and all times that the church doors were open. In a Baptist church, that is every Sunday morning for Sunday School and church, Sunday evenings for worship,  and Wednesday nights for Prayer Meetings. Yes, there were other times as well when one is expected to be there, but these three were considered the most essential.

When one grows up in this environment, and is also subject to church school where Bible class is during first period, and chapel is every Wednesday, needless to say, by the time I was 18, I was kinda burnt out on God. Forgive me if you find that to be sacreligious; let me re-phrase. I was burnt out on God in the way He was presented to me. I believe it was the very first Sunday after I had moved out of my parents and gotten my own place that I suspended my church attendance. For the next seven years.

Let me be clear, God has always been with me. He was in every person who showed me noticeable kindness throughout those years, and He understood that my maniac father had just shoved to much “religion” down my throat. Patient as He is known to be, God was just waiting until I wasn’t sick of the idea of Him anymore.

Then one day, I was looking in the local newspaper, and saw an ad : Pianist Wanted. I was ecstatic at the thought that I might actually be able to get paid to do something that I loved. I called the number and discovered the church in need was that of my Grammy and Gramps and most of my Aunties. “What good luck!” I thought. “I shall be able to get paid and also to visit my dearest family members at the same time!” Upon my stellar audition, I was of course immediately offered the job.

At the time, I was just newly married. Though he said he wanted to start going to church, for the next 3 1/2 years, my hubby only attended church with me once; when I gave a fund-raising Nutcracker concert. This didn’t really bother me too much, until I was working 80 hours a week and Sundays were my only day off. Then I began to get the mindset that if he wanted to spend time with me, the least he could do was spend an hour sitting next to me while learning about God. He stated that there were always better things to do on Sunday mornings. Like sleep.

Once I had left my heathenous marriage, I vowed that I would never again marry someone who wasn’t at least willing to attend church with me, even if only sometimes. To my surprise, only two weeks after the announcement that I had left my husband, my Rockstar decided he wanted to go with me. (To impress me). While it was an interesting time trying to explain a new man two weeks after I had left the man I’d been with for 12 years, I was greatly pleased anyway.

Since then, my Rockstar has decided my church is old and boring and completely on the way to death. He attends sometimes still, but only to amuse me. It’s true, I have moved further away from the church than when I started playing, but it also is the only time that I get to see my fam, so I continue. I’ve tried explaining this to my Rockstar, but you understand how obtuse men can be at times.

I fully understand the allure of football and NASCAR on Sunday mornings, so I respect my Rockstar’s decision to opt out of church frequently. However, I do NOT respect the fact that he is ok with having a disrespectful 10 year old who has no spiritual guidance. The first Sunday after I had moved in with them, the Child begged to go to church with me, but he wouldn’t let her. Now, she whines if they come with, because it has not been instilled in her that it’s good for her.

I’m not saying I want her to grow to become a Bible-thumping wife of a preacher and to bear offspring to become spiritual minions, no. But I find nothing wrong with raising a child to “Do unto others” and all that bullshit. He’s not teaching her at home, so I think perhaps civil people at a church would be a good influence.

I don’t know if because of the way I was raised, I now find comfort in being in church on Sunday, or if it’s the fact that every person there is thrilled that I bring to them my musical talent and fashion flair- which feeds my Histrionic Monster that’s deep inside. Either way, it’s my thing, so when my Rockstar shot me a text yesterday what a beautiful day it was to not be in church, I told him to shut the fuck up and stop pissin’ me off. I guess it really is true what they teach you in Sunday school- Raise a child up in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it. They just forgot to mention what that child might do on Saturday night. 😉


Filed under Family, God, Humor, Life, music, Uncategorized

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.


Filed under God, Humor, Life, Love, Sex, Uncategorized

I Can Be German, Sure

Once upon a time, a wonderful blogger named Pharphelonus from Playing with Words is Fun nominated a babbling mess of a woman for the Leibster Awards. While this was not the first time she had been the recipient of this award, she graciously accepted it anyway, and virtually sent a booby squish to he who bequeathed it to her. Because she was much to lazy to explain in her own words the meaning of such an award, she copied and pasted (and edited it to her own satisfaction) the definition of this amazing gift:

Liebster (pronounced: leeb-stir) is a German word meaning sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing and welcome. (Why thank you! I am flattered that you believe my blog is all these wonderful descriptions. You have only got one wrong- the “welcome”. Because, in fact, YOU, dear readers are welcome. XOXO)  The Liebster Blog Award recognizes up and coming bloggers and winners are asked to “pay it back and forward.”  The award is given to those bloggers who have less than 200 followers. (Technically, I have more followers than that, but we needn’t be bothered with minute detail, do we?)

The Rules for the Liebster Award are as follows:

  • Link back to the blogger who gave you this award
  • Post the award to your blog
  • Post 11 things about yourself.
  • Answer the questions asked of you, plus create 11 new questions for your nominees to answer
  • Nominate 11 people you think deserve the award and link them to your post.
  • Go to their pages and tell them they have been chosen.

Having done the linkage to the amazing Pharphelonus who’s blog I didn’t realize I wasn’t following (that has been rectified, my Lovely) I shall proceed on with the trivia of myself:

1. I have tiny hands.

While I have never considered my phalanges and carpal parts to be small, it has come to my attention very recently (as in, last night at work) that they are indeed of the miniature sort. My coworkers were questioning my judgement in ordering Small gloves for our supply, when I proved to them there was at least one person who could don such dwarfish accessories. (That would be me.) Despite the ability of my hands to fit into kid-sized gloves, my ring finger will not admit any jewelry that is smaller than a 9. This gives them sufficient  power to poke attackers eyes out or to manually pleasure myself at any given time.

2. I am computer-illiterate.

You would think that an individual who writes a blog would be tech savvy, buy nay, it is a sad fact that I cannot set up a new computer on my own, whether it was I that bought it or my rockstar. (He was very disappointed in me.)

3. My first favorite color was red.

I recall a time long ago when I was five where I was proud to announce that my favorite color was red. (And that I hated pink.) It seems I misused this wonderful primary color to the point of exhaustion, because I have never felt the same adoration for it since.

4. To me, the artist known again as Prince is approaching Celestial status.

I’d admire any 5′ 2″ 90 pound man who wears stillettos and creates massive amounts of music. (I’ll admit I don’t like all of it, but still) The fact that he lives in the same state as me also adds to his mystery.

5. I love to sing, and have been writing songs in my head since childhood.

It is questionable as to whether my singing voice is worthy of fame, but my Rockstar has yet to yell “Shut the fuck up!” while we’re cruising around in his car. The odd thing is until I was about 20, my singing voice was buried under a heavy coat of self-consciousness. But then I realized Cyndi Lauper sounded like shit and was still awesome, so I thought, “What the hell?”

6. I could be a vegetarian very easily.

I get through eating meat by not thinking about the fact that whatever I’m eating pooped and had a face. I prefer the taste of freshly steamed broccoli to the taste of a butchered cow anyway, but to keep from seeming arrogant or supercilious, I will on occasion snarf down a couple pounds of steak in one sitting.

7. I must be barefoot.

This may seem strange coming from a girl who spends her spare dollars on stillettos and patent-leather wedges, but once the shoes come off, there is no putting on of socks. Ish.

8. I was supposed to be a Victoria’s Secret model.

Except they keep hiring the tall, lanky chics who need to wear push-up bras to enhance what they have. Just think how much padding they’d save if they’d just hire me….

9. When I was younger, I aspired to be like Audrey Hepburn. Alas, it seems I have become a Marylin Monroe instead. Or at least, that’s what people tell me.

10. I always wanted to drive a Zamboni.

When I was fifteen, the pastor’s son made a joke about being a Zamboni driver when he grew up. I have since then always thought that was a grand idea.

11. I cannot swim.

I may have mentioned this in the past, but despite having my own gigantic floating devices attatched to the front of me, I sink like a rock.

Now on to what other people want to know about me:

1. Who is your life hero, or person you most admire, and why?

If we are talking about real life people, I would say my Auntie, because she is nice to everyone and has her own business doing what she loves, and is 60, yet still acts like she’s a mature 23. She will never say no to anyone if they need help.

2. If you had one chance to go back and say “yes” to something you said “no” to in life, what would it be?

My used-to-be-friend and I were going to leave everything here and move to Colorado (for some reason I don’t remember). We didn’t go because I changed my mind and wanted to stay here with the person who would become my ex-husband. Look how well that turned out.

3. If money was no concern, would you consider plastic surgery to make you look younger?

It’s called pigtails and attitude. Why would I waste money on pain when people already adore me and there are shoes to buy?

4. Are you inspired more by people you like, and want to be like, or people you detest and want to be better than?

Well, I’m already better than the people I detest, so they are no inspiration to me. And to be honest, I don’t want to be like anyone else. I just want to be me.

5. What arrogant, but silly contradiction in people annoys you most (mine is petty as hell: people who order a wedge of lemon as “dressing” for a salad in a restaurant, then go lay in the sun all afternoon)?

Fat people ordering Diet Coke. (Although, I could probably be considered one of them.)

6. Mountain cabin or beach house, and why?

A Castle. In a mountain cabin, there is danger of a bear coming to maul you in the night. In a beach house, you’re likely to be swept away in a hurricane. In a castle? You can be a princess that sends flaming arrows down on attackers.

7. Your dream cruise would take you to ________, and why?

I would never dream of going on a cruise. Way too many people. I dream of taking a road trip to wherever with the person of my choosing and an MP3 player with 4000 awesome songs.

8. If you were going to be stuck in an elevator with one person for 6 hours, and you got to pick the person without them knowing you picked them, who would you choose, and why? Also, would you tell them, while stranded, that you are the reason they are the one in the elevator with you?

Again, my amazing Auntie. Because 6 hours of conversations is just us getting started.

9. Is there a person in your life you willingly admit things to that you could never tell your spouse?

Yes. It’s called the internet. My blog is the vessel.

10. Favorite fruit?


11. It’s 1 p.m. on a weekday and you get a visit from God, and you have no doubt it is legit. He tells you you will die suddenly in 24 hours. How do you spend those 24 hours?

First of all, why would God show up at 1PM? And honestly, if God came and said I’m gonna die in 24 hours, I’d say, “What the hell, Dude? Take me now.” And I’d be yelling “Hoo-fuckin-rah, mothafuckers!” all the way to the pearly gates.

As for the rest of the rules, once again I must admit that I am too lazy to be doing all that linking and notifying, and so I will just tell you to check out anyone who has ever “liked” one of my posts, or commented on my blog. Because obviously, they are very smart peoples. XOXO


Filed under Family, Friendship, God, Humor, Life, Love, Uncategorized

It’s Time to Kick Some Monk Ass

Forgive me for my absence, my Lovelys, there’s really no excuse. Unless, you count the three 15 hour days I worked last week. And the Catholic wedding I had to play piano for. Oh, and the many monk nightmares I’ve had in the past week. Let me explain about that one.

So remember how I mentioned walking through the amazing and scenic campus of St. John’s University. Yeah. Nevermind about that. Those days will forever be a distant memory.

The day after our last jaunt through St. John’s, I was having a carefree conversation with a coworker and he mentioned to me that he was once a student at St. John’s Prepatory School. We were discussing the tiny Prayer Chapel that is situated alongside the lake and how it was quite a trek through the wooded pathways to get to it and find there was nothing but two chairs and a pregnant Mary statue within. My coworker then dropped the bomb that a student once hung himself within those very walls- because he was being molested by a monk at the school. I asked what punishment the monk received for such rancid behaviour, and my coworker shrugged and said, “Not much. Don’t you know? St. John’s is well-known for the monks taking advantage of the students and nothing ever being done about it. There’s a whole website dedicated to it.” He went on to with a story that when a monk is accused of heinous behavior such as molestation and the like, he is not jailed or stoned, (as he should be), but instead is forced to live in the many basements of the Abbey LOCATED ON CAMPUS and not allowed to have contact with students.

While I cannot yet deny or confirm whether this last part of the story is true, (as several people I’ve mentioned it to are convinced my coworker was pulling my leg) I CAN confirm that there IS a website dedicated to the many many victims of monkish molestation. While the complainants remain anonymous, the accused do not. The website comes complete with pictures of these disgusting pervs and lists of their many sins and disgraces. While I do not necessarily know what physical traits molesters have, I can assure you that as I clicked on each new offender, a chill of disturbance flowed through my body at the sight of their general creepiness. My Rockstar and I read through the entire website, growing increasingly bothered. ( I am certain the 100 Proof Southern Comfort I was drinking did nothing to help the situation.)

After getting our fill of repugnance at such abominations and the fact that nothing is being done about it, I tried to slumber. Yeah fuckin’ right. Do you know? I had chilling dreams of monks (who are supposed to be the servants of God) taking advantage of young innocent kids who look to these people for guidance. Needless to say, there wasn’t much sleep going on that night.

I realize this is nothing new to the Catholic church, nor is the covering up of such behaviors. I hear the Catholic Church is a powerful entity, and it’s probably not a good idea to fuck with them. But you know what? Bring it on, Pope! Because I am fucking furious. Not only have many lives been forever tainted by these monks and their ridiculous No-Sex policies that they obviously cannot deal with, but my perfect walks with my family will now forever be blackened by thoughts that some kid is probably getting ass-raped in the building I’m walking by. So fine. Nothing is being done about it? Then nothing should be done about it when I just go ahead and beat the living shit out of these fuckers. Who’s comin’ with?

P.S. If you all want to see what has so greatly disturbed and enraged me, go HERE


Filed under God, Life, Religion, Sex, Uncategorized

Meet Gorgeous Jewish Singles!

Good evening, my Lovelys! Or rather, goodnight- as it is nearly 11 P.M. in my world. I arrived home from a gruelling day as a Pizza Hut to find this in my email Junk Box:

Meet Gorgeous Jewish Singles Now!

I applauded my inbox in rightly deciding this was Junk, as I do not recall at any point requesting information about dating Jews. Don’t get me wrong, I find Jewish people quite intriguing, what with the whole God’s Chosen and larger-than-average- schnoz aspects. I have always wondered, “Do you think God gave Jews larger noses so they didn’t get big-headed about being the Chosen ones?” Anyhoo, while I enjoy educating myself on the history and traditions of the Jewish race (Race, right?) I would like to clear up the few reasons that I would be unwilling to find myself in a relationship with a Chosen One. (Besides for the obvious reason of the existence of my Rockstar.)

1. No Christmas.

Oh, yes, I realize that there are eight crazy nights of Hannukah with menoras and dreidles and… well other Jewish things, but what about Christmas trees? And Santa Clause? And Baby Jesus? It’s just not the same putting the presents under a menora. And anyway, I cannot help but think that Jews are the grinches of the world, as it seems they wish to do away with Christmas…..No offense, my Jewish peeps.

2. Shabbath.

I suppose preparing all day to not work for a night is not such a bad idea. In the Baptist world, this is known as Sunday, but really, there’s nothing wrong with it beginning on Saturday night.

3. Adrien Brody and Adam Sandler

Yes, I know that Adrien is an Oscar winning actor who is greatly talented blah blah blah. And that Adam Sandler most certainly is not. But if these are the likes of which I’d have to choose from to procreate with if I became a Jew… well. That’s all I need to say. On the other hand, that Harry Potter kid I have a crush on is also Jewish.

4. Tasak’s Disease.

What, you ask? How does Sparklebumps know the hereditary diseases that are a risk to Jews populating the Earth everywhere? I TOLD you there were eduacational benefits to watching Eliot Stabler repeatedly! Anyhoo, chances of me creating a child with Harry Potter who has Tasak’s is very slim, since I was not born a Jew.

5. The Holocaust.

It is true that there will probably never again be such a horrid race purging as the Holocaust, but if there does happen to be, I guess that would be the one time that I would be thankful for my diluted Swedish/German roots.

Anyhoo, as you can see, there really aren’t that many reasons not to become a Jew, and as I am greatly intrigued by religions that are not my own, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to give Daniel Radcliffe a call…


Filed under Entertainment, God, Humor, Life, Religion, Uncategorized

Angels Unawares

I’m sorry, but I took a break from life yesterday and slept almost the entire day. This is what happens when you work as a Pizza Slut for 17 hours on a Saturday.

One of the distinct “joys” that come from being able to do your job well is that you end up doing everyone else’s jobs. This is how I ended up being the open to close manager on Saturday at work. Let me just say, I wish the muscle relaxant my driver had given me at 11 at night would have been offered a little bit closer to 2 AM; do you know how hard it is to finish up a seventeen hour day when your body is whispering loudly “Just sleep. Fuck all this and just go lie down. None of it matters. SLEEP.”

I cannot really complain about my long day, (too much.) I worked with all awesome people who adore working for me, (or so they say, I’m sure there’s at least one ass kisser in there somewhere) and everyone was great about helping everyone else out. The only hiccup in the day is when my day driver got rear-ended; having never dealt with an accident yet while managing, let me assure you- many calls were made to ensure proper steps were followed. I guess if I am the active boss for now, things should be done correctly, eh?

A little before 11 at night, I was silently pitying myself because of the endless amount of work I still had yet to do before going home. A woman and her three boys came in to order carryout, and I’m sure that I didn’t quite keep my look of irritation from my face. However, upon taking the woman’s order, I realized what a friendly and wonderful individual she was, and so my bad attitude quickly dispersed. After slipping her order in the oven, I went back to wiping all the dining room tables down. The woman stood near the door and tried to keep her younglings from running rampant.

Being the friendly customer-friendly person that I usually am not, I asked the woman where she was from and what she was doing. She stated that she was from South Dakote, and since my Rockstar is, too, a native of that state, our conversation flowed freely. I found out she had worked as a Pizza Slut for 9 years, (poor woman), and we discussed the ups and downs of having to do more than our fair share of work.

As I went from table to table, the woman was trying to keep her rambunctious childern occupied, so she told them to pick up all the large garbage that was littering the floor so that I didn’t have to do it before I vacuumed. My heart was warmed when a chubby little boy of 8 came over by the table I was wiping and boasted, “I’m 8, and I’m better at this than my brothers!” I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond without offending the mentioned siblings, so I just grinned at him and winked, and was rewarded with a dazzling cherubic smile.

As I boxed up the woman’s order, I was amazed and astounded to see her pick up a cloth from my sanitizer bucket and proceed to wiped down the remaining tables and chairs that needed it. Because I was so over-worked and exhausted, there was nothing right then that I would have appreciated more at that point. It was then I realized who this family truly was.

There is a story in the Bible of Abraham. In it, three travellers appear and Abraham and his wife Sarah are kind enough to offer them food and drink. Because of their kindness, one of the men tells the couple that they will become parents, and the up-to-that-point barren Sarah laughs with joy. It is then revealed that the three men are ,in fact, angels The story is later mentioned again in Hebrews, and we are reminded not to forget to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. While they were no doubt real people, I believe that woman and her three little cherubs were sent to remind me that not everyone who orders pizza is a complete asshole, and that there is still some good in the world.

So the next time you aren’t feeling customer-friendly, be so anyway, because you may come to find out you’re talking to one of those angels unawares. XOXO


Filed under God, Humor, Life, Uncategorized, Work