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.

I 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?)

Before 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.

By 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.

I 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, but 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.

All 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.

Things That Make Me Angry

It makes me angry when people are out for a Sunday drive on Tuesday. I got fuckin’ places to be and I don’t be having the time to be poking along at 35 mph.

It makes me angry when stores that shall not be named here (except for that their names rhyme will Narget and Walfart) have 47 lanes to cash people out at, yet they only have 2 open.

It makes me angry when my stretchy jeans that hug my ass in just the right way also hug my front butt enough to give me camel toe.

It makes me angry when people in places of higher power than I insist on “coaching” me, even though they are only at my place of employ one day a week.

It makes me REALLY angry when I am horny and my Rockstar insists on going to bed without assisting me in the making of me being not horny.

It makes me angry when Minnesota Revenue continues to steal moneys out of my checking account at various intervals without asking. As if my $82.73 is going to heal the national debt.

It makes me angry when my Rockstar’s Daughter insists on saying, ” Our house is OUR house, not yours.” Even though she’s been repestedly told to desist.

It makes me angry when the disastrous mess of curly pubic hair that resides on my head refuses to listen to my Big Sexy Hairspray.

It makes me angry when I have to go to work when I’m in the middle of deciding whether Fifty Shades of Grey is worth reading.

It makes me angry when I answer the phone at work to take a delivery and when asked what their address is, the person on the line says- “Ummm, well I don’t know the EXACT address.”

It makes me angry when I try on shirts that are SUPPOSED to be my size, and then must call for a dressing room attendant to come and assist in the removal of said shirts when they get stuck going over my excessive boobage.

It makes me angry when no matter how often I clean the kitchen floor, there is always crud lurking.

It makes me angry that Carrie Underwood is considered a country music star.

It makes me REALLY angry that Taylor Swift is considered ANY kind of music star.

Most of all, it makes me angry that despite my numerous attempts to contact him, Chris Meloni still hasn’t shown up to receive his booby squish.

 

You Disappoint Me, Carrie Underwood

Dear Miss Carrie Underwood,

I shall begin my letter by saying that I had high hopes for you. I was one of the several million people who voted for you on the finale of American Idol, even though Bo Bice had that whole sexy Southern Rock thing going on. At that time, I was certain that anything you touched would turn to gold.

I find you to be completely gorgeous. In fact, the only thing that has kept you from replacing Angelina in my spank bank is your blonde hair. While it suits you perfectly, I cannot get over the fact that I despise blondes. Kudos to your hairstylist, however, for making it look as good as it can look. I am a bit concerned, however, about your weight. When you first caught our attention on Idol, you were a perfectly healthy-looking girl from Oklahoma. I realize the pressure to look good in all those free designer clothes is hard to deal with, but, girl, you need to eat a sammich. A whole buffet of them.

It is true that you have become one of the top-selling musical artists in the country. I would like to have a little chat with you about that.

No one can deny that your singing voice is stellar, and any remakes you do sound better than the originals. So why the hell don’t you pick some songs to record that showcase your voice?! I believe you are suffering from Mariah Carey Syndrome- you are so focused on picking catchy tunes that people want to sing along with that you do not remember that your musical talents far surpass the average karaoke singer, and that you owe it to the world to sing those songs that no one else is able to. The well-sung songs from your first album are long forgotten in the wake of more “popular” hits such as Before He Cheats, Cowboy Casanova, (that song suck balls by the way), and The More Guys I Meet. I cannot deny that your wardrobe in these music videos is admirable, which somewhat takes away from the harsh reality that you suck at making song choices. I just can’t talk about this anymore.

Of course there are millions of fans wanting to pay the exhorbitant prices for your concerts; why wouldn’t they, when you insist on wearing skirts short enough that we can see what color panties you are sporting? The cameraman at those awards shows knows just the right angle to get from offstage to have filled us in quite well on your panty wardrobe. I suppose that I cannot really judge, after all, I market myself as a bookwhore. However, do not for one second think you have fooled anyone into thinking you are a nice girl. Your numerous ass flashes prove otherwise.

And what is this cross-over business? I find it deplorable that you pose as a country cutie, when you clearly long to be a Rockstar. Shame on you for taking the money of all those ignorant hicks who cannot tell the difference!

All that being said, if you would have someone else choose your songs for you, I’m sure you would have a whole nother group of fans.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

 

I Am A Green-Eyed Monster

So you all know that I’m a happy girl who loves everybody and is extremely self-confident, right? Boy, have I fooled the shit outta you.

I embody the first two qualities perfectly, yes. However, I will tell you something now that you might not know yet- I go through life with a Jealousy Monkey fucking me in the ass every single moment. That being said, it may come as no surprise when I tell you that the constant butt-drilling I get leads to Jealousy becoming my dominant personality trait.

One of the things that makes my jealousy acceptable is the fact that I do not begrudge people for whatever happiness they receive from whatever it is that makes me jealous of them. I am jealous of those in perfect relationships, but I would never wish them to NOT have a perfect relationship just because I don’t. They say Misery loves company; the truth is- I prefer solitude.

I will give you just a few examples of the things that I am jealous of:

I am jealous of Carrie Underwood and her perfect face and her perfect voice, and the fact that she gets endless commercial deals despite the fact that she has the inability to choose good songs to sing with her perfect voice.

I am jealous of my friend Delightful, and the fact that she possesses one of those tiny bodies that make you want to stick her in your back pocket. She also has amazing sparkly eyes that are not poop colored, like mine are.

I am jealous of the people that own Mustangs, because I haven’t one; and I am jealous of the fact that these people have the dollars to afford the Mustangs in the first place.

I am jealous that deceased celebrities such as Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston are talked about more than I am. Why can they not have the decency to share the fame they no longer need?

I am jealous of all the excessively talented pianists on Youtube who can play Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu, because no matter how much I try to practice it, my timing is off and my fingers do not carry enough dexterity and speed to play it properly.

I am jealous of Nicole Kidman and her porcelain white skin, because though I possess the exact paleness she does, I just look pasty and all my veins show.

I am jealous that  untalented writers such as Stephanie Meyer have become household names because they had the gall to write about such ridiculous things as sparkly vampires and werewolves falling in love with infants.

I am jealous of the fact that my Rockstar’s Daughter received cuddling so much more easily from my Rockstar than I ever will.

I am jealous of Taylor Swift and the fact that her unimaginitive choices of subject matter for her songs has made her rich enough to buy a castle if she so chooses.

I am jealous of the fact that my douchebag of a former boss gets to continue working in MY bookstore, despite the fact that he hates books, and hates customers, and ogles young women, and sexually harrasses his underlings, while I slave away as a Pizza Slut.

I get jealous of people flirting with other people when I am readily available to be flirted with. This one is a bit confusing, because yes, I get jealous of the girls who are getting flirted with by men I don’t even find attractive. It IS all about me, you know.

I am jealous of those people that go around being happy all the goddamn time. I try that and find it utterly exhausting.

I am jealous of people that live in all the places that aren’t here. Sadly, if I were to move to any of those places, I would probably be jealous of the people that remained here.

I am jealous of those women (and men) who have perfect straight hair that can just wake up, run a brush through their hair, and go about their day. The fact that they can run a brush through their hair without creating an afro irks me most of all.

I am jealous of the fact that no matter how good of a writer I become, I will never be able to write lyrics as excellently as the band Black Stone Cherry.

I am jealous of Chris Meloni’s wife, and the fact that she gets to booby squish him whenever she wants.

I am jealous of women with babies, and pregnant women, and babies, and little children that are still adorable and not evil spawn from Hell.

One of the things that you all can be jealous of, though, is the fact that I have awesome readers who actually want to read this shit. 😉 XOXO

 

 

 

 

Drunken Sweet Nothings

I am not feeling especially inspired this day for some reason so I have decided to share with you the drunken ramblings of my Rockstar. For starters, I must tell you that in our entire relationship, the man has never once told me he loves me, or even that he likes me just a little bit…in those words, at least. This, at times, has been quite irksome to me, seeing as how I am all about the Love and telling people how you feel and blablabla. After broaching this subject with him, my Rockstar simply said, “I don’t think you have to say it. A person should be able to tell how you feel by the way you act.” True, I suppose, but irritating. Anyhoo, I have gotten over the fact that he refuses to profess his undying love for me, partially due to the semi-sweet and sometimes silly things he tells me when he’s drunk. Here we go:

“I want you to only cling to me”- the text he sent me before I was his “official” girlfriend, he felt it necessary to claim me because his ex-co-worker was hanging around trying to boink me. He may not have been drunk for this one, but then again, I had left my husband only a week before… what sober person wants to deal with that?

“I think we should make you a model”– said after a discussion about his ex-wife (who is a model resembling a tranny), apparently whiskey gives a person beer goggles and I am exceptionally attractive and worth $10,000 a minute (to a drunk person)

“You have a rock-and-roll booty” – the only compliment I’ve received from him in regards to my physique. Funny, my mom called it a bubble-butt, and she made it sound like a bad thing.

“She’s not as cute as you”– a blatant lie which was a response to me praising Carrie Underwood’s beauty.

“I think you are needy and unstable, 2 things I really don’t like about you”- OK, this was NOT a sweet nothing, and he wasn’t drunk either, but this was during the Summer of Hell after I had left my husband and was going through some shit. It’s been the only harsh thing he’s ever said to me. And I could have told him that I am BOTH needy and unstable if he had asked.

“I think we make a good pair”- the closest thing he’s ever said that sounds like he doesn’t want me going anywhere.

“Vince likes models. If you had been in the front row, Nikki would have taken you home”- a statement made after my Rockstar read Nikki Sixx’s Heroin Diaries. He was discussing the fact that Nikki always fucked girls that were “different”, and Vince Neil went only for the model types. Not warranted information, but I suppose it’s good to know I’d never have a chance with Vince. This was accompanied by a “You’re kind of odd looking”- which he claims was meant in a good way…

“I think you can control me very well”- a sex observation (you didn’t think I was going to leave those out, did you? 😉 ) A comment admiring my… authoritative abilities in the sack.

“I haven’t kicked you out yet”- a statement issued after I asked how our relationship compares to his past relationships. To which I replied, “Why would anyone kick me out?” His response? “Yeah, I’m pretty lucky.” It’s good he realizes it!

“He’s been all over the world, and he’s never found someone like you”- a comment made after a discussion about Shaun Morgan from the band Seether, after I said he looked sad in his music videos.

Maybe it’s not poetry, but his way with words impresses me, at least a litle bit. XOXO