Tag Archives: Victoria’s Secret

9 Things All Kids Should Be Taught


Perhaps this is pompous of me, writing such a list when I clearly do not own any children. But after having waited on a plethora of teens in the last few weeks at  my job, I feel it necessary to produce a guide for parents, because they are evidently clueless. Why 9, you ask? Well, I was going to do ten, but we all know how I feel about even numbers.

1. Leave a fucking tip.

Yes, I am aware that teens have real lives that are crammed with tests and hormones and peer pressures,  and so cannot be bothered with minute details such as tipping their server, or hell, even acknowledging them. But you fucking know what, you self-absorbed little assholes?! That person who listened to you closely enough to get your order right, and brought it out to you, and refilled your drinks, and cleared your shitty messy dishes away has a life too, and is NOT your mother, and so isn’t expected to wait on you hand and foot for free just because you haven’t had the decency to learn respect, and haven’t yet reached the age of twenty.

To the parents of such asshats- shame on you, and you should be caned daily until you feel remorse for not having taught your kids basic decency.

2. Chew with your goddamn mouth closed.

You are not a dog, so you do not have molars that, when in use, prohibit you from shutting your fucking mouth while you eat. So parents, teach your kids not to sound like canines when they eat, unless you want me to treat them as such.

3. Pick up your clothes, you ungrateful cretins.

If your mother, (or father) has the decency to buy you bodily protection from the elements, and to wash them, the least you could do is put them in the fucking laundry basket. And hang up your towel.

4. “Please” is not really optional.

Why the fuck would anyone do a damn thing for you if you can’t even be bothered to include this simple word before or after your request? Do it your damn self.

5.”Thank you” is not really optional either.

Yes, I bought you beer even though your are underage just so you could get up the courage to try and get that skinny blonde bitch to take your virginity. The least you could do is thank me.

6. Save your money.

If you spend all of your hard-earned McDonald’s check buying booze and paying for fake I.D.s, you’re going to have to ask your parents for money. Parents, you don’t really want that, now do you? And for the record, spending $58 on yoga pants from Victoria’s Secret is not wise. Your ass looks just as good in the $11 ones from Target

7. Stop interrupting.

If the adults in your life are having a conversation that doesn’t include you, it’s because they are talking about something of which you have no idea about. So just shut the fuck up until they’re done. There are plenty of times when they WILL want to talk to you, and instead of being a little shithead and saying, “Mom, I gotta go,” remember there was a time when you actually wanted your parents to talk to you.

8. You don’t know everything.

Yes, I’m well aware that teenagers are superior when it comes to wisdom, until they turn about 28. Just remember that all those things you’re going through, or will go through, or are just finding out about, are all things that someone older than you already experienced. So instead of poo-pooing their advice, listen just a little bit, even if you have to pretend you’re uninterested.

9. No one owes you anything.

So quit acting like they do.

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Filed under Children, Family, Humor, Life, Money, Uncategorized

Sparkle’s Choice


Imagine a scene if you will:

A overly-endowed 30-something woman with a white-girl afro sits in front of a 42″ high-def television. She is surrounded by an endless display of books that seem to distract the onlooker from any other item that decorates the apartment. An older gentleman who resembles an angel in a Michaelangelo painting is dutifully washing the dishes in the next room, silently wondering how he ended up in this position of such clearly designated woman’s work….

The woman holds within her hand the tool that will affect the decision she so chooses at the appropriate hour. She closes her eyes and envisions her alternatives.

In one vision, there are perfectly air-brushed women of various nationalities strutting down a sparkly runway wearing the Secrets Victoria tried so desperately to endorse. Each model wears a beautifully- designed pair of wings that is the envy of every woman and gay man who ever longed to be costumed.

In the other, the possible demise of one Tara Knowles, the most despise-ed of all fictional characters the woman has encountered. For 6 seasons, (that is television, not nature, seasons) the woman has awaited the prospect of the crinkle-foreheaded fiend’s extermination. Too, there is an off-chance that a more beloved character might expire, and event that the woman would hate to find out about later on the radio.

She opens her eyes and runs one calloused finger over the button that says “Channel”. Will it be the annual Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show or the season finale of Sons of Anarchy? She wonders solemnly who the fuck scheduled them both on the same night at the exact same time, while secretly plotting the traitor’s death.

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Unavailable


Ooh, Victoria’s Secret,

How I do loath the way you discriminate!

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

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

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

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

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

Love Always,

Sparklebumps

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What If Those Last Five Pounds Are in my Bra?


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

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

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

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

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

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Santa On Break


The following is an unpaid rant featuring a pissed off Sparkles.

I bet you all you parents out there with small children get a little bit excited when it comes time to take your little munchkins to your local mall for a photo op with Santa. What a heart-warming sight it is to see that fabled over-stuffed individual with the fruit of your loins perched on his lap blabbering on about the Furby or copy of Halo 4 they want for Christmas. I’m here today to tell you not to get your panties in a bunch and rush off to the mall nearest you. You wanna know why? Because you may just travel over the river and through the woods and haul your kiddos in there boots and hats and mittens through the crowded mall hallway to find a little sign informing you: Santa’s on break. Come back in fifteen minutes.

How do I know that something like this is possible, you may ask? Because it happened to me. I made the far journey across a crowded parking lot after ordering truck at my work with the thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d get a chance to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him face to face exactly what I wanted for Christmas. (Since my letters to him seem to get lost in the mail.) I donned my most festive sparkly tights and my non-slip treaded 6 inch heels so as not to fall and bust my ass in the newly fallen wintry snow, only to arrive at Santa’s giant purpley throned area (which makes me question his sexuality just a little bit) and find a sign informing me that Santa was on break. I looked around furiously to see that big red-velvet-adorned ass and a black elf escaping around the corner by Coldwater Creek. I bowed my head to hide the tears threatening to pour down my cheeks and contemplated running after the big lug, but then was momentarily distracted by the glittery display in the Victoria’s Secret window. After sniffing the various new perfumey scents they offer (which includes one specifically designed for me, aptly named “Sparkle”) I exited the store to find Santa was STILL on break. It was then my rational thinking got the better of me.

I have decided that Santa is very like a wealthy plantation owner before the Civil War. He owns vast acreage (the North Pole) and has many slaves. (Elves) He sits on his butt all year long smoking his expensive tobacco in his pipe and getting laid a lot, (Why else would he be so jolly?)  while his elven slaves work day and night to produce a product that he will then benefit from. (Perhaps not in a monetary way, but cookies are better than money anyway). Like any successfully-run slave driven plantation, there are a few times when it is necessary for the owner to actually put effort in. For Santa, this is the month of December, when he must travel to various malls and radio stations and appease the childish masses by letting them sit on his lap and remind him what they asked for.

Let me ask you this- for a man who sits on his ass all year long and has mythically-produced slaves, is it really necessary that he take a fifteen minute break during the one month he actually has to work? I think NOT! Is not sitting on your butt talking to kids already more of a break than any self-respecting working individual gets? And yet we continue to leave cookies and milk out for the man every single year, and give him a near-Godlike status. (“You better be good, Santa’s watching”)

I have decided we must take Christmas back from this wealthy slave-driving barbarian. No more can we respect his memory by placing his likeness in our homes at Christmas time. I propose that in his place, we replace him with someone just as jolly, but slightly less round. (At least in some areas.) I nominate the one, the only- myself. I pledge to gladly accept the whisperings of your children in my ears and all of their lovely letters too, while wearing a festive fur-lined garment perfectly tailored to all my curves. In appreciation of your electing me as your new Santa-like personality, I promise never EVER to go on break during the month of December, as long as I am supplied with my own army of Oompa Loompas with which to ready myself for the Holidays. In lieu of cookies, please set out one pair of stylishly-designed shoes in size 9, to ensure proper and timely present delivery.

P.S. I’m quite certain that Santa will regret not giving me a chance to sit on his lap….

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Filed under Children, Christmas, Fashion, Humor, Life, Uncategorized

I’m Lovely!


Thanks to Diatribes and Ovations, I can now say that I have a Lovely Blog! While that has always been my intent, I am quite aware of the less-than-lovely posts where I have stated such things as “Fuck you, world!” and “I don’t give a shit what you think.”- or something along those lines. You must bear with me, as I suffer from untreated bi-polarism.

And so! Here are the rules:

1. Thank the nominator for the nomination.

2. Share seven things that readers may not know.

3. Nominate 15 bloggers.

4. Notify the new nominees.

5. Display the logo of the award on the blog site.

Firstly, thank you Diatribes and Ovations, because without you, I would just be another unlovely blogger.

Secondly, I must think for a moment, as most of my readers probably know everything mostly about me….

1. I have a drawer-full of Victoria’s Secret underwear that I’ve never worn.

This is due to the fact that I fell victim to numerous Semi-Annual Sales, and did not try on the said undies. No matter- when I lose those last 10-40 lbs., they will get more than enough use. Until then, I am forced to go commando.

2. I hate to dust.

This is a constant source of consternation for my Rockstar, as I have many bookshelves, and dust seems to accumulate excessively in our apartment.

3. I do not drink beer.

Give me whiskey, brandy, rum, or gin. No beer here will go within.

4. I am truly entertained by the toy aisles in department stores.

Did you know they make a plastic phonics Caterpillar for preschoolers that you can get to swear if you press the right sounds? It’s frickin’ awesome! I also get a thrill out of playing with the WWE figurines.

5. I could be a country bumpkin or a city girl.

Did you ever see Sweet Home Alabama? Yeah, that could be me. Minus the Southern accent. Although if I am in a relationship, I think the country is the way to go.

6. I used to want breast implants.

That was BEFORE the excessive boobage arrived. However, the idea was completely absurd anyway, since I always possessed more cuppage than most people.

7. I used to want to play in the Minnesota Orchestra.

That was before I found out that classical music “isn’t cool.” My Rockstar can truly be a Neanderthal sometimes.

As for the rest of the rules, what kind of rebel would I be if I followed all the rules?! I shall be updating my blogroll shortly, so look to your right and click on one of my lovely bloggery pals.

To all of you who care about such trivial things I have mentioned, I adore you. XOXO

 

 

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Filed under Entertainment, Fashion, Humor, Life, music, Uncategorized

Playing Tag


I awoke this morning with absolutely no idea in my head about what to write. This sometimes happens after working a 14 hour day. Luckily, Edward Hotspur must have been reading my thoughts across the miles, because he tagged me in his post. According to his rules, I’m only supposed to answer one of his questions, but that would make for a very short post, now wouldn’t it? As far as tagging other people, I am tagging every one of you, my Lovely Readers. You can link on back to my post if you answer any questions, and then we can both be more famous. And now for the question and answer part of this session:

1.What do you regret having done?

I do not regret the things I have done, but only the things that I haven’t. There are much too many of those things to list, so let’s just nevermind about that.

What would you change if you could go back and change it?

If I had that kind of power, I would have been born with blue eyes. Then my dad woulda been mad because neither he nor my mother have blue eyes, and THAT woulda been funny.

 Have you ever been scared of anything?

I used to be ascared of the dark not long ago, but I made friends with the monsters under my bed now. Now I’m only ascared of such things like going places where there are large groups of people and trying to get any kind of a loan.

 When have you been the happiest in your life?

I’m always fucking happy goddammit!!!!!!

 What is your favorite position?

Curled up in a ball reading a book. Otherwise, standing in a pair of heels. Oh, was that a sexual question? I guess my answers the same- standing in a pair of heels. That or having my hair pulled while I’m being done doggy-style.

 How many sexual partners have you had?

I refuse to answer on the grounds that answeringing honestly might make me look… frivolous.

 What is your credit card number, including expiration date and that three-digit code off the back?

My Victoria’s Secret card number is468957357. Feel free to try and use it, because for some reason it won’t work for me anymore. I think it may have something to do with the fact that I owe them $2800. If you are feeling philanthropic, you may pay it off for me.

 Who do you think you are?

I’m me. Duh. And you are you. In case you were confused about who YOU are.

 Do these pants make me look fat?

Wait, what pants?

 What is your favorite thing about yourself?

The fact that I’m alot smarter than alot of people, but still have alot to learn. You thought I was going to say my boobs, didn’t you? No, that is everyone ELSE’s favorite thing about me.

 Who in the blogosphere is your favorite person?

What a silly question. Me, of course. And then you. And just to clear up any confusion, I am YOUR favorite person in the blogosphere too, right? XOXO

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