I wish to start this post by informing everyone that I am a complete asshole. My good friend and imaginary sex partner, Mr. Fabulous was so very gracious and out of his fuckin’ mind to have me on his Blog Talk Radio show as a very special guest today. And you know what I did? I flaked out entirely because I am a retard and completely did not pimp out his show.
I am a very, very bad girl. And I will continue to be a bad girl until I get many spankings.
Mr. Fab, I had such a lovely time on your radio show discussing the finer points of gargling the nutsack and which part of a woman’s body is best ejaculated on, sharing in your dream of piercing your scrotum, queefing, you fucking my husband in the ass, and politics… and I am so terribly sorry that I forgot to pimp. It is often times hard for me to pimp when I have grown so accustomed to being the whore.
Do you think you will find it in your heart to forgive me?
I hope so…. for everyone else, please go visit and have a listen in the archives. And do it on an empty stomach.
On a nonrelated topic, do you guys remember when I told you I bought new furniture and it was all entirely made out of futons? I chose futons because it gives me a much more enjoyable place to have sex on than a regular old couch or the floor or the coffee table or the barstools or the bookshelves or the hearth in front of the fireplace or the shoe rack. Indeed, our futon furniture has arrived and since it has this is where you can find me:
Oh, yes. This is my spot. It is where I sit on my ass on the internets and where I snuggle my children and watch television. Oh, and it is also where I’ll get worked over by Dean from time to time but just so you know… all of the covers come off in a jiffy so they can be washed.
My issue is that I have an end table on the other side of the couch where the other chair meets up but no end table on this side. So, I keep perching drinks and shit on the arms of this bad boy which are made of wood and I’m paranoid because I don’t want to fuck up the wood.
Now, I’ve never had furniture that I gave a shit about and so I realized something this evening that is bothersome and skeery for me:
I do not own coasters.
There are no coasters in this house because we are very low class and typically just put our drinks wherever. Except for me, who usually just shoves my beverage in my cleavage with a long straw so that I don’t actually have to lift anything. But with the way these extraordinary pieces of furniture are made, it is a bit harder for me to drink out of my tits than it was before and so I am left having to utilize a flat surface for such things. And the obvious choice is the arm of my chair.
Without coasters, I was forced to improvise with whatever I had handy. Yesterday, I used napkins but today I couldn’t locate anything. In the end, I used this:
Yes. That is a piece of stale bread I found in my kitchen. I admit that I was initially a bit concerned over the idea that the condensation from my plastic, child safe cup would soak through the bread and we’d have issues but then I saw a more positive spin on it and realized that if that happens then I’ll just stick some peanut butter on it and eat it. Dee-licious.
You know what, though? The stale bread has held it’s own and it is still as hard as it was when I found it shoved partially up under my refrigerator. I am currently staling up some bread to place in various spots in the living room so that there are planty of places to put everyone’s drinks without ruining my gorgeous futon furniture. And when I’m done with it, I can make stuffing.
Yes, I have taken great care in maintaining my futons but I have a confession to make:
I have about forty six loads of clean laundry that I have not yet folded and put away. As an OCD this causes me great upset but I am in a good mood and so I have decided to use my laundry to play a fun game with my readers. I call it:
FIND THE CHILD IN MY BIG, FUCKIN’ PILE OF CLEAN LAUNDRY
I stumbled upon this as I was wandering around the house in a pharmaceutical induced stupor and, let me tell you, it scared the shit right out of me. I thought I saw the monstrous pile of laundry move and I stopped, looked at it, shook my head and then continued what I was doing. A few minutes later, the laundry stirred again and this time, thinking it was the cat, I jabbed at the ginourmous pile with a broom handle, which I am pleased to say that I own.
When I jabbed at it, I heard it grunt. Naturally, I jabbed at it again, harder this time and it let out a holler. “Hot fuckin’damn it!” I shrieked as I jumped clear out of my asshole.
It was a child.
I’m still not sure which child is was, though, because they were awfully covered up there, but I did see a tiny face staring at me from the laundry. My guess is Owen or Olivia.
I’m still having nightmares. Well, I had one last night since this all just happened yesterday.
Okay. That’s enough of this weirdness.