Category Archives: Humor

Entertainment for Women- 1980


thThe thing about being a bookwhore is- you need a designated space just for the plethora of books you’ve picked up throughout the years. Luckily, when we bought our house, my Rockstar understood this, and so did-eth not protest too much when I claimed the third bedroom as the sleeping place for my tomes.

Being the girl who was jealous of Belle when the Beast gifted her with an entire castle library, my vivid imagination has always envisioned my own fantasy-like library. Sadly, my budget is somewhat lacking. So instead of replacing the drop-ceiling nasty-ass foam tiles with a ceiling of pure gold, I opted to cover said ishy tiles with textured wallpaper that will be painted in bronze to match the antique-ish looking loveseat I found for a steal on Wayfair.com. (If anyone who works at Wayfair is reading this- I’m giving you free advertising. Feel free to send some gift cards my way.)

As I was squinting to avoid spider webs and dust from getting into my eyes as I struggled to get ceiling tiles down, a magazine dropped from the heavens (or the water pipes). Imagine my excitement when I stepped down from my dangerously-chosen folding chair step stool and saw that the gazette that had nearly poked my eyeball out was a Playgirl  from 1980. No, my thrill did not come from the thought of becoming engrossed in the pictures of disturbingly-hairy men within; (I prefer the the sight of naked boobies over a man  lounging with his near-flaccid dick pointed at me) my enthusiasm was of the nostalgic nature. Though 1980 was a year before I was born, so I cannot properly pay homage, I take great pleasure in the obscene media of an earlier day. After all, isn’t it always a good time seeing how sex has evolved since the times of a full bush and Burl Chester? (Yeah, I said “Who?!” too.)

Oh yes, believe that I absolutely DID read the thing cover to cover. After balking at the surprisingly low price of such pornography (only $1.95), I took in the not-so-sexy face of Robert Urich- the “hunky” star of TV’s Vega$– a guy I’ve never heard of. I do believe even if I had been of age at the time, I would not have found Robert to be very salty.

Of course, women only read Playgirl for the articles, right? The most interesting article advertised on the cover was “The Joys of Three-Way Sex”; which, when I think about it, I’m not quite certain I want to think about that much bush in one room anyway. Since I am a fan of older men, I thought I might be pleasantly surprised when I saw there was an eight-page photo spread “in praise of older men”. Let us just say I got slightly distracted by the number of Magnum P.I. mustaches and Farrah-Fawcett-ish hairdos. I suppose in 35 years, my kid will look at the current beard craze in exactly the same distaste.

I was slightly appalled and greatly amused to read the letter portion. “Please help me. My cousin and I are having a relationship. Is this considered incest?” and “At the age of 23, I still don’t know what an orgasm is all about.” Oh, the innocence. Were women in the 80’s so naïve? My personal favorite was “I’ve just broken up with my sixth lover in five years. Am I a slut?” My response to such a question would have been, “How many women did that lover sleep with in those five years?”

The best part was an advertisement for “Stud Wear”. Somehow, I really just don’t think  a pair of briefs featuring Pinnochio with a special pocket to show just how long his nose can grow would be very alluring. Although I do laugh my ass off every time I think about my Rockstar donning a pair.

Of course every nekkid dude pictured was quoted to “love long walks and sunsets” and to love “falling asleep in a woman’s arms ” before awaking to go “make love on the beach as the sun rises.” Let me tell you where that gets you- an elbow in the eye and a crack full of sand.

Too, there was a special section on “Men of the Eighties”. It’s good to know that “men of the eighties are beginning to realize that there’s a lot more fun to be had in bed when their lovers fully participate.” What? Did men of the seventies just expect their women to lay there like blow-up dolls while they humped them? Seriously. I wanna know.

I really want to send in my $12 and see if I receive the see-through briefs with the tear-away tabs for my Rockstar so I can “get a piece of the action”.

Trust that this magazine is now one of my greatest treasures and will make an appearance any time I need a good laugh.

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November the First


Hmm. I don’t write on here so much anymore. This makes me sad. So I shall begin anew.

I suppose I would do well to update you all on everything that’s been happening in the last, well- the last really long time. But in the words of Inigo Montoya: “No, there is too much. Let me sum up.” –

My baby is a seven months and a little bit old. Holy shit.  And even though I lost every bit of weight I gained when I was pregnant with him, I do not find myself motivated enough to lose the extra 50-60 lbs. I had before that. So sadly, I have not yet reached my goal of ultimate M.I.L.F. status. But, ya know- I’m still awesome. And I have the best kid who is so smart and funny and adorable. And I’m not even being biased. Let me prove it:

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Things between my Rockstar and I have not been the stuff of romantic comedies of late. Unless you’re thinking of the part in the movie when the couple argues and breaks up. No, we haven’t broken up; in fact, I suppose technically we’ve never even argued- you can’t argue with a person who doesn’t respond to your gripe. But in recent times I find myself bitching to myself over his lack of interest and general laziness in the relationship. After having expressed myself to him, I realize I’m kinda over it. A person can only take so much disappointment. And since his daughter now lives with us full-time, I am not in quite as good of spirits as I once was. Boo.

On a lighter note, I now work with an adorable hot chic that says I’m her favorite, and I have been approved for six new credit cards in the last two months, which is something I’m not quite sure is a good thing yet- other than the fact that finally after six years, I actually CAN get approved for things. Sadly, in those six years, I have not learned restraint, and also not-quite-but-almost maxxed out all said credit cards. BUT! I have a beautiful new copper loveseat in my perfect library that’s sitting in front of my very expensive electric fireplace I ordered with my Menard’s card.

Also, my most amazing friend Delightfulness is almost engaged, and apparently has a ridiculously large wedding budget that I get to help her plan with. Such a wedding will have no room for chubby bridesmaids, so I must force myself to not eat in the coming year, which will help with the whole M.I.L.F. thing.  Life is good.

Too, I am completely re-inspired to finally finish writing my book, though since I have an adorable little boy who has inherited my need for attention, the only time I have to write it is after work, when I sit down in front of my computer and get distracted by Facebook and Pinterest. Aye, me.

XOXO

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Thirty-Fucking-Four


Damn, I’m old.

Yes, yes, I realize that a good many people out there are much older than I, but having celebrated my birthday just yesterday and realizing I’ve accomplished not all that much has made me feel incredibly aged.

It is true, I’m much wiser than my 33-year-old self was, having experienced child-birth and having lived with an almost step-child every day for the past year. For this I suppose I am grateful. However, there are some downfalls to growing older….

I have less patience for mankind as the years go by- my theory that most people are assholes has been proven again and again over the past year. While I was willing to overlook such trivialities in the past, as the years go by, I more frequently find myself daydreaming of a time when  I can walk through a parking lot without having a farmer hanky blown in my direction, and the imbeciles on the roads are restricted from operating motor vehicles.

I realize how non-existant my will power has become- I am not my perfect goal weight. I have not finished writing my best-seller. I haven’t learned any languages, or trained the dog to quit barking, or finished painting the mural in my basement bathroom. Boo on me.

I feel like I’m eighty most of the time- this may have something to do with the fact that I am not at my goal weight. And that my diet consists of Caribou Coffee and French fries. And that my chosen form of working out is walking out to the mailbox daily to see if a million dollar check has arrived yet.

Whatever. At least I still look good.

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A Thank You Letter to Shitty Tippers


To Whom It May Concern,

I have taken it upon myself to show my gratitude for your extremely benevolent behavior toward me during my past 17 years of service for you. As you have so courteously treated me, so now will I return the favor.

I would like to thank those tippers from large groups or big families who insist on paying the substantial bill for their obnoxious get-togethers. It is true, I noticed you trying to get the best deal out of me when ordering your food, as I also noticed how you flinched when another member of your party ordered additional appetizers without checking with you. I am indebted to you for the 5% tip you left as you paid with hundred dollars bills. The  horrendous mess your gathering left behind- the crayons littering the floor, the parmesan cheese dumped into leftover beverages, the ketchup that so eloquently spelled out the name of the birthday girl on the table- most certainly made up for the missing 15%.

To the “family” man who was forced to bring his toddler boys out in order to give his wife a Girl’s Night Out- my sincerest gramercy. I appreciated that you so graciously thought to leave me an entire dollar as you towed your little shitkins out after they left my coworkers and I with headaches because of their incessant screaming. Your  largess, and your decision  to leave an upturned bowl of spaghetti all over the floor has shown me exactly what I don’t want in a husband.

To the elderly peeps who believe that “two bits” is an acceptable tip- trust that if ever you find yourself in a nursing home in your last years and I am lucky enough to be employed there, I will show you and your full Depends the same courtesies you have bestowed upon me these many long years.

And finally, to the endless list of people who cannot even be bothered to tip at all- I promise to pray for you. I pray that you are warmed by the hottest fires of the deepest hells; I pray that your children are carted off by the Slender Man, and I pray that you will be arrested by military officials and forced to listen to Taylor Swift songs for the entirety of your despicable lives.

With my  deepest appreciation and most passionate loathing,

Sparklebumps

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T-shirt


I picked your dirty T-shirt up

off of the floor today.

Dirty isn’t the right word,

because as my fingers lifted it,

the smell of your cologne

wafted up to my nose.

That scent,

the scent of you,

intoxicates me.

In my altered state,

I wondered once again

how you manage to stay smelling

so fresh.

There has never been a time

in the past six years

when I’ve even caught a hint of

unseemly body odor.

I brought your shirt

up to my nose,

closed my eyes,

and inhaled deeply.

It reminded me

how I love to breath you in

as we make love;

your skin,

your hair,

your breath.

I awaken from my reverie

and grin.

All that just from doing

your laundry.

 

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Elegy for a Crayon


th7M0IL8VOI saw you lying there

Used up and broken.

Your flaming shade

the color of blood-

I half-expected to see

a pool of scarlet oozing

from your stubby ends.

Your wrapper

had been peeled away

completely from one of your pieces;

the other lay in shame

very like a rape victim,

in tattered vestment.

Your identification had been

ripped away.

Only the bold letters OLA

remained.

As I cleared the table,

I placed my hand over you

quickly

To conceal your

wretched state.

I recall a time

when I had adored ones

such as you,

and would never have thought

to leave them in

such a pitiful condition.

I wonder how many more

rainbows you would have

created,

had fate not sent you such a

vicious end.

I toss your remains

into the trash,

apologetically,

and I think to myself.

Children can be so cruel.

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Baby Mine


I wrote this for a flash fiction contest. The writing prompt was to write about a demon who is really bad at their job and keeps making the life of the person he is possessing better. I can’t get it to publish on the website, so I guess you guys get to read it…

I know it’s against the rules to possess a baby, but come on. It was just too easy.
Felix Bartholomew Embry was born at 3:01 A.M. That was how he caught my attention in the first place. Any baby born just in time for the witching hour has a special pull for all of us demonic spirits. There were several of us in the hospital that night, but I was the first one to hear his borning cry.
“Ahh,” I thought to myself. “A pure soul ripe for the picking.” If I could feel anything remotely delightful, little Felix’s squalling would have filled me with a thrill to the tips of my toes, if I had toes. Instead, I had to be satisfied with a nefarious sensation as I made my way to the birthing suite.
As I entered, I took in the scene. Squalling babe resting not so silently on mother’s magnificent chest, proud father beaming down at them. I’ve never been fond of newborns; my newest conquest being no exception. In fact, for a moment, I wondered if some other insidious spirit had already beaten me there. Felix was a disturbing shade of violet, and his toothless mouth looked much wider than is comforting for a baby’s to look. I should have left right then.
“He’s so beautiful.” I would have laughed when his mother said so, but demons cannot laugh without a voice to use. I took one more look before attempting to enter Felix’s flailing body, and then I made my move.
I felt his limbs stiffen momentarily as I slipped in, but as I was not completely immersed, I couldn’t see what was happening. For a split second, I saw the hospital lights above burning down like brimstone from Heaven when his eyes rolled back in his head, but then I was stuck, and saw nothing. I shook myself, and felt the mother’s grip on him tighten when I did so. Ah. There. I settled in. I reached deep within myself and found my darkest, most terrifying voice. I couldn’t wait to see the parents reactions when they heard the voice of Beelzebub come out of their “beautiful” spawn.
“Hello, mama.” What the fuck?! I tried again.
“Daddy!”
Their faces reflected the shock that I was feeling. Not only were my words not coming out how I was saying them, but they were emitted in the most angelic child-like voice ever heard. I growled, and it came out in an adorable infantile giggle.
“Did you hear it?” The father looked in awe at his wife, and then his son, and back again. I tried to look around, but this gelatinous baby body I was in refused to obey.
This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

Basically, no matter what I do, it comes out making little Felix look like an infant prodigy, and I’m stuck in here living a real-life version of Charlotte’s Web. Fuckin’ A.

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Contemplating Motherhood


IMG_0854_TranquilI always said I would be a good  no, a great mother if I ever had kids.

Well, I have one now, and I’m starting to think I might have not had a fucking clue what the hell I was talking about.

I don’t find myself rambling on non-stop to every ear willing to listen about my son’s sleeping habits, bodily functions, learning progress, etc. Of course, I tell them if they ask, but when people ask, “How’s the little one?” I am quite at a loss for words, and stumble around in my head frantically searching for the right words I’m supposed to say. My response is usually- “He’s good. He’s the cutest baby in the world. He’s a happy boy.” People look at me after I’ve said so, waiting for me to add more. What else is there to say? He’s a baby. He sleeps a lot and cries when he’s hungry.

Then there are the times my Babe and I are at home. Of course I read to him, which he seems to relish, perhaps because I do all the voices. I give him the recommended Tummy Time, despite the fact that he came out holding his head up and possessing of legs pretty much strong enough to walk on. We go for walks sometimes, during which I worry that the cracks in the city sidewalks are bad enough to cause shaken baby syndrome. I feed him when I’m supposed to, and play with him so I can see his adorable smile; but then I hear these women talking about how much they love babies and always want to hold theirs, never wanting to put them down. I put mine down. In fact, the only time I hold him is to feed him, read to him, and occasionally cuddle profusely with him. But what I wonder is: do all those women obsessed with their babies have maids? Because I have a house to clean, and a dog to take care of, and a yard full of flowers to take care of, and how the hell am I supposed to hold my baby all the time when I have all that shit to do?

I don’t look ahead and think to myself that, “Oh, hey! I’m going to want another one of these little papooses in a couple of years so this one has someone to play with, or so I have another baby to hold.”  I love him to bits, and I want him to grow up to be a strong, respectable man, but how could I possibly love another one when this one has my whole heart? Even if he did make me completely miserable the entire time he was growing inside me. And I already want him to be 2 or 3, so he can talk back to me and I can at least understand him.

I haven’t dropped him on his head, but neither do I gingerly hold him as if he might break the way my Rockstar does. I don’t like to see his sad face, but when he cries when he’s not hungry, I don’t immediately pick him up, and I tell him he doesn’t need to fuss, because I know he’s faking it. I know this, because during these times, I walk over to him and start singing “Somebody to Love” and his little fake cries turn into squeals followed by smiles. At least he has good taste in music.

Honestly, the only proof that I have at least one motherly bone in my body is the plethora of pictures that have filled up my phone and my Facebook wall.

I’m not even sure my Rockstar finds me to be motherly, since he asked me why do I have to cart the baby around all over the place. I just thought I was acclimating him to the general public. And I thought him being with me was better than leaving him with a babysitter….

I suppose I’ll not really feel like a mother completely until he gets old enough to actually call me “Mommy”. I guess if he believes it, then there’s no reason to doubt it.

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A Letter to a Modern-Day Adonis


Dear Charlie Hunnam,

As I have stated in my post title above, you, Charlie, are a modern-day Adonis, and so must be the recipient of my latest letter. Kudos to you.

It is true, you are best known as the tortured soul Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy, and while I have not been privy to much of your other work, I do believe the multitude of sex scenes with delectable ass shots in SOA may have had something to do with that. (It’s like two scoops of butter pecan ice cream…) I must admit, there are very few nude males that I would gladly torment my eyes with, (as I am very much a boob gal, and do so adore a good titty display) but you, kind sir, are welcome to remain naked in front of my vision indefinitely.

It is still a bit disturbing to me that you hale from Newcastle upon Tyne. As well-read as I am, I had no idea what the fuck that meant, but investigated enough to find that it was somewhere in England. Cheeri-o, mate! I actually hope to never hear your original accent, which I assume is British, because you seem to be so down-to-earth and not at all pompous as generally English people tend to be. However, if you ever decide you wish to share your man-meat with me in a carnal fashion, I will allow you to adopt whatever foreign crappy accent you deem appropriate. Just know that I am not quite certain what my reaction may be if I hear, “Tha’ wus fookin’ gright, love.” after we’ve spent ourselves. I may be forced to shut you up by sitting on your not-quite-shaven face.

You may be delighted to know, too, that even my very straight Rockstar has taken notice of your perfectly-sculpted physique. He does not blame you in the least for incessantly posting shirtless pictures of yourself on your official Facebook page. “After working out like hell to look like that, can you blame him?” were his exact words. I think you may just have a chance with him…

I seem to recall having watched a little-known movie a few years back starring you, in which, I’m sure, you were superb. Sadly, I do not recall you being naked, and so it was not noteworthy. Do not get me wrong, oh Gorgeous One- you need not be bare-assed for me to adore you. I can prove it is true by saying I’ve had two dreams in which you starred, neither of which you were nude in. (Sadly.) I must ask: why weren’t you naked in my dreams? I mean, for real. What the fuck?!

I do not think you are aware of my ….fetish for long-haired men. Let me only say that when your hair is of a shorter ilk, I would not so readily do you. But, if you were there lying naked in my bed, I suppose I could lower my standards a tad so as not to waste a good boner.

I applaud you for turning down the role of Christian Grey in the movie version of Fifty Shades. As beautiful as you are, not even you could have saved it from sucking balls. Although, if you had retained the role, I would have, of course, rushed out to buy the DVD no matter how terrible the film was, if only to see you shirtless and spanking someone. Do not be discouraged. I will write for you a well-written smutty book that can be turned into the biggest blockbuster of all time.

In closing, I would like to say that you, Charlie Hunnam, have almost cured me of my insane love for Christopher Meloni; I haven’t dreamed of him since you came into the picture.

Always yours, (even if it is only in my dreams)

Sparklebumps XOXO

 

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Giving Birth and All That


So, yes, it’s very sad that I had to go back to work after giving birth to be able to find time to write again. What the fuck.

I’m not complaining, I promise! After all, for almost four whole weeks I got to hold the cutest baby of all time whenever I wanted. (I know all parents say their kids are the cutest, but besides for mixed-race babies, my kid really is the cutest. And yes, I’m aware of how politically incorrect that sounds, but it’s true, and you all know it.)

Anyhoo, I know it’s a bit overdue, but I am now ready to inform you all of the grisly story that is called childbirth. I am quite certain there are a few (or more) of you that just winced and clicked on your mouse madly to exit my blog at that last sentence- well, fuck you. I had a person come out of my vag, and proper attention must be paid. Those of you still here- I appreciate your iron stomachs. I promise, it won’t be as bad as all that. To be honest, there’ve been episodes of Sons of Anarchy more cringe-worthy.

So a week and a few days before my Babe was due, I hobbled to my weekly doctor appointment. I say hobble, because my feet were so swollen that I had to buy a pair of flip-flops two sizes larger than my normal fabulous footwear, and said flip-flops STILL managed to cause deep impressions on the tops of my feet. Trust me, the pain it caused me to walk into a public venue sans heels nearly rivaled that of childbirth. Anyway, I digress.

While I am not known to be a person of chill and apathetic demeanor, my blood pressure on a normal day is like that of a dead person’s. However, on that day, the sight of my feet and the readings of my blood pressure were enough to get my doctor to schedule me to be induced the following Monday. If my feet would have allowed it, I would have immediately jumped up and futterwackened at her announcement. (If you don’t know how to futterwacken, you don’t know much, do you?)

I spent the weekend occupied at work, and during the night when I was unable to sleep, engrossed in the final chapters of every pregnancy book I had sitting around. When my coworkers asked if I was nervous about having my baby come out of my most private and tight of areas, I replied calmly and coolly that I wasn’t, which was the truth. For some reason, that was never an issue for me. My biggest fear was that I would cave, and ask for an epidural, the thought of which is probably what sent my blood pressure soaring in the first place.

My Rockstar and I arrived hellishly early at the birthing center that Monday, where we met up with my dearest Auntie, who I had asked to distract me from my labor pains when I knew my Rockstar would sit by silently. I was admitted and led to a room, where we met an Angel known as Nurse Nancy, my guide for this tour. She went over all the details I needed to know, none of which I recalled (then or now). I only remember being very adamant that an epidural was not going to be an option, so there. She laughed and said, “Ok, but you can change your mind.”

I was then hooked up to an IV (another thing that makes me recoil in fear) and donned a lovely hospital gown, which caused me almost immediately to “Patch Adams” everyone in the room. At first I was embarrassed, and then I thought, Fuck it. It’s gonna get so much worse before this is all over. It was several hours before I actually felt any contractions, during which time my Rockstar, Auntie, and I conversed amiably about I don’t even know what. It was quite boring really.

When my contractions began to worsen, I asked for the pain meds that were not the epidural. All I know is that Nurse Nancy had described it as feeling like you’ve had one too many drinks. Since it had been a good nine months since my last drink, I said, “Fuck yeah, get me drunk!” What I didn’t realize is that while a person is actually drinking, and may fall down or bonk their head with no immediate anguish, this drug administered did nothing to lessen any internal pain that comes with active labor. All it did was knock me on my ass immediately, so that I was very like a dead person, at least until a contraction hit, at which time I was too “drunk” to stand up and properly deal with that shit. So the last hour or two of excruciating contractions were spent alternately sleeping and writhing in the birthing bed. Good times.

When it was time to push, (this time did not come soon enough to my liking, as many minutes before that I felt as though my ass were going to explode) the only thing I actually remember thinking was that I didn’t want my baby to have a pointy head, so I pushed him out with no thoughts of how painful it might be. (Which actually made me not notice whatever pain there was.) The only mishap of acting so rashly was that my IV got torn out, which sucked balls. During the birth, I had instructed my Rockstar to stay at my shoulder, so as not to damage whatever idolization he may have had of my previously practically perfect pussy. Between pushes, I was pretty much out of it, but aware of his hand being reassuredly placed on my forehead. (Awwww.)

Once my Boy slid out, they plopped him on my chest, and proceeded to torture me mercilessly. It seems that my placenta was stuck, ( something my doctor who had been birthing babies for 25 years had never seen) and the previous Angel known as Nurse Nancy became my tormentor. Previously, I had thought very little of her considerable weight. Just then, I thought very much of it, since she seemed to be placing every extra pound of it on my stomach, the stomach that just went through countless hours of contractions. Up until that point, I had shed no tears, but as stoic as I can be when it comes to pain, there was no way I could stop the tears that leaked out of my eyes. Between having my belly pushed on, and having a hand shoved up me fishing around, and having my new baby on me without me being able to enjoy him, I broke down. They ended up replacing my IV, (which didn’t go in the first three times) just to give me another dose of meds known as the Shit That Puts You to Sleep. In other words, when my friends and family came to greet my Babe, I ended up sleeping, and awaking in a sort of drunken haze that was accompanied by slurred words.

Overall, having a whole person come out of me isn’t nearly as horrific as it sounds, but having a stuck placenta is a thousand times worse than it sounds. But, losing 24 pounds in less than a day and having an adorable Mini-Rockstar made it worth it. That doesn’t mean I’d do it again. I much prefer the making of children over the growing and birthing of them100_2592. After all, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.

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