CTT - Eww, Is that Doggie Don't?

I'll play Childhood Trauma Tuesdays today but don't expect it regularly. You don't need to hear my depressing tales of parental substance abuse, life in group/foster homes, abuse - let's bury that back in the vault and tell the fun stuff!


I was 12 or so (but small for my age), playing in my front yard with a neighborhood girl of about 6 that I'd babysit once in a while. Carrie's mother had her on the JonBenet track. Pageants, recitals, make-up. She'd practice behind her house in view of the trailer park and chicken houses. She was going somewhere alright.

A blond cocker spaniel from the neighborhood, Toby, had also joined us. The three of us were in the grass, horsing around. It was summer time. Toby was a friendly dog but it wasn't the first time I'd suspected him of heightened friskiness. I'd noticed as he was chasing Carrie and playing with her that the Red Rocket was docking for lift-off. Without making it obvious to Carrie, I got Toby away from her and he calmed down a bit (and not from belly rubs for certain). We were just sitting and Toby wandered off a bit to presumably fertilize the lawn.

Carrie's lying in the grass and I'm kneeling beside her, tickling her. Suddenly I am forcefully grasped at the hips by claws and Toby's tube of Revlon's In The Pink! comes sliding in the crevice between my upper thigh and my suzy (my mom's term then). He had his claws dug into my skin so hard I had trouble dislodging the horny little bastard and he kept trying to pump his doggy-perv hips at the same time. I was dangerously close (a half inch to the left) to losing my virginity to dog.

Whenever I meet a cocker spaniel, I think he's eyeing me up. COCKer Spaniel - the breed name itself is warning.

Go ahead Freud, philosophize on my Dog Girl moniker.

Ignoranus

This is a repost from the old Vodka, Sex and Cheese but for the newbies...

My super-fun hot friend Tracy and I went to Happy Hour last Friday (now, many many Fridays ago). We ran into the same group of young cute boys who are from all over the USA but who are here for some forensic diving school. One silly boy says I'll be his wife some day. He also says I should have babies because so few people have almost-black hair and blue/green eyes. This boy is apparently from Uranus (not mine).

Anyhoodle, they are fun, young, rowdy and flirtatious. Best of all, they assumed we were in our 20s. They had one guy in the group we'd never met before and who obviously didn't fit the mold of the others. He was hanging on the periphery staring at the video-trivia game he wasn't playing. He's scrawny, wearing a shirt that looks like it should have paper plates of fried chicken and tater salad on it. He's unconfident, quiet, unattractive. JUST MY TYPE. Well, no, but I always seek out the lepers in the group and try to make them feel like one of the gang. You'd think by now I'd learn my lesson that when you pet the mangy malnourished 3-legged dog that it will love you unconditionally and want to follow you home... even after you back over it. Twice.

We're all having a good time and I've corralled in the loser. They're trying to get Tracy and I to kiss for the camera. We do of course. Nobody is getting out of control or plastered, yet. I'm standing there talking to one guy, Jason (my supposed future husband from Uranus), and WHACK (screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet - needle scrapes across record - then silence) I whip around to see WHO JUST SLAPPED ME REALLY HARD ACROSS THE ASS. Sumbitch! It's that scrawny 3-legged dog! All the other guys' jaws are still on the floor. No wonder you're alone fucktard - chicks don't like that! Especially nice fun cute chicks who took pity on your uncool ass.

When I get to the office Monday, here is the email from him that I find:

Hey What's up I guess you do remember me. I got into an argument with your friend. I'm sorry for that but when I feel I'm right about something I'm knot going to back down. I'm a very quit person and it does take allot to get me rallied up. But any way I thought you were a very nice person and I could tell the other guy in my class was getting allitle irritated when you I were talking. But O'well. If you don't think I'm a total idiot I would still like to have you show me around sometime. I really would like to see the Franklin Museum and check out little Italy, My moms side of the family are from Italy and I lived there for five years. I think I can still speak allitle Itailon. But any way I'm relaxing today and doing some dive charts and watching football. I have a local phone number but my cell phone number is 757 673-9696. I still have your number. I don't want to bug you but if you want to make contact let me know or I'll just give you a call somtime. Take care. Cheers Steve

Steve, I thought you were a drunken asshole. It wasn't until you proved your lack of intelligence in this finely crafted missive that I even guessed the depth of your idiocy. I suspect we've merely scratched the surface. Ignoranus: someone who's not just stupid, he's also an asshole.

Feel free to call and harass him - just don't mention where you got the number because that's my Friday Happy Hour spot. Bottoms up!

He spelled 'argument' right, go figure...

Spelling Bee

More bloggers should write their blogs in MSWord so they can correct the poor spelling before subjecting the rest of us to it.

I've read 5 blogs today where the subject of the post was MASTERBATING.

No no no. That is the head of the Bating household geniuses.

Mas TUR bate.

If that is just over your normal 5-letter word comprehension, maybe you should just stick to spank, strum, self abuse, etc. I'm one oversexed female on a constant mission to read filth but nothing kills it for me like mis-spellings.

Stupid Shit, Stinking Shit

One great big festering neon distraction,I've a suggestion to keep you all occupied.
Learn to swim.Learn to swim.Learn to swim.
Mom's gonna fix it all soon.Mom's comin' round to put it back the way it ought to beeeeeeee.......

Some of you may remember the Frylock days of mine from Vodka, Sex and Cheese. That's all done, let's move on...

GIB (Guy I'm Banging - I'm such a prig aren't I) decide to get away for the weekend. We unanimously choose Baltimore Inner Harbor, leaving Friday. It's absofuckinglutely beautiful out Thursday and we decide to cut out early. I have a work disaster that requires attention til almost 9pm. Back to Friday morning. We get some food, movies, alcohol and settle in for the night at his house. These are numbers 8 and 9 of movies we don't actually watch - the best kind.

Next morning, we each shower. He dresses, I'm towelling. I dress but am faced with the dilemma: I have to shit. I can't possibly allow him to re-enter the bathroom once I shit. I can't shit in public restrooms unless it's an absolute emergency. I have a 2hr car ride. We're adults here, we've acknowledged we have certain needs in the past so I go back upstairs saying I need to um, GO. He has one of those nice big homes with the sunken tub, vanity area and shower in the main bath and then a little closetty room within that room that holds the WC. I'm reading. Round One, Courtesy Flush (I'm not taking any chances he may come back upstairs and be appalled by my abilities, AND, I may read but I don't need to wallow). Ate lots of roughage + vodka/club suddenly expelled. Whoo. WHY ARE MY CHEEKS ALL WET? That's some sprayback. No, that's some backUP. The water is full to the brim with my dainty cheeks touching the water/salad mix (are those tomatoes?). I stand, capris at ankles. FUCK.

I kick off my sandals and PLUNGE my arm in elbow deep into the drainage portal (shut up, at least it wasn't brown - that may have been Round 1). I drag out the TP and plop it into a TP 4-pack wrapper that was stuffed back into the veritable TP bail from the wholesale store. Poo water that has trickled over from my plunging, and green and red confetti swirl at my feet and cling to my forearm.

All clear, I oh-so-gently flush again. JEEBUSFUCKINGCHRIST the thing gushes it's whole contents all over the floor mightily! With gusto. I open the door to the main bath, start throwing used and clean bath towels on the floor. I shed my capris (everything else was packed in the car). I'm now sopping up what appeared to be tomato skin spinach miso soup which is pouring out of the mini-room into the main. There's no plunger (WTF?). I put my capris on, having built a fortress of fluffy towels in a semi-circle in the main bath to stanch the flow. I run down (yes, I wiped off my arm) and innocently ask him, with obviously ill-concealed anxiety, if he has a plunger as I've had an accident.

He gets one and mentions that toilet has a problem somewhat regularly (then where was the GotDamn plunger?). I tell him he can't come up with me.

I get in the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Capri removal. I consider the absurdity of my kneeling on the floor of this guy's 700K house in my thong, dragging up salad specked towels weighing 68lbs each and I start giggling hysterically. Shitderella. I can't quit laughing as I'm using the Recently Rejected Charmin to pick up bits of debris from the white tile floor. He asks if I'm okay because I've obviously lost my mind. After I'm sure the floor looks brand new, I peek out and ask for the laundry basket. The dark purple towels looked innocuous but the white ones were embarrassing (though rather festive). I carry it down and load the washer. I then re-shower.

Oh yes, this is SO much better than him ever knowing my turds don't actually smell like the gardenias they've been proclaimed to.

(stay tuned for stripper stories from Baltimore/Fell's Point)

Show me yours...

A few years ago I decided to try out a singles site or two. At first I didn't bother with a picture, I was more interested in hunting down some guys who were witty in their profiles and hopefully a few hotties if I was lucky. Both in one would have been excellent.

As in real life, I prefer to be the conquistadora. Men who chase me are very rarely allowed to fell the prey. Overeager puppiness is a turnoff for me. Fawning? Egad. You can imagine how well one guy named Mr. Nice Guy fared with me. He was going on and on about how sensitive he is, how he really IS a nice guy. He'd send me IMs with those faggoty little sideways rose icons. Mr. Door Mat? Put your thumb in your mouth and blow really hard, maybe your testicles will pop back out and you'll realize being a pussy ain't getting you any!

I put my picture up and my 'views' and requests were astronomical. It was a good picture and when I peeped out my competition, it was obvious why I was a hit.

I couldn't keep up with the IMs from the site. I'd try to answer one and 13 more would be popping up. I'd have these little windows everywhere and men (and women) getting pissed off because I didn't answer right away. I have this problem of not wanting to be mean to people (well, except retards and cripples and anyone else who can't run fast enough to hit me).

I stopped visiting the site and shut off ability for requests to be sent to my email.

One day months or a year later, I'm working from home. Working from home is not good for me - I tend to take frequent breaks with my Rabbit, visit pron sites and eat in between. One day they'll find me dead in some scene from Seven - obese, naked, a Rabbit up my hole and pizza boxes piled to the ceiling but that's a different posting. Back to the story... I decide to check out the site. A guy named John, whom I'd turned down a gazillion times, was on. In a fit of 'Jeebus, will this guy never take no for an answer?' I'd met him once at a bar mid day. He was stylin' - wearing khakis (pleaty front), a white turtleneck with a light blue oxford over top complete with the fag tag in the back. He'd obviously had his 3rd grade class pictures that morning.

He was nice but not attractive and too fashionably conservative. Naturally, he thought I was the bomb diggity. I need to learn to embrace the Bitchiness. He called and emailed but I eventually lost that cell phone and him.

So this day months later, he's there. We chat. I decide to torture him and tell him I've been Bunnytizing all day. He's telling me he's hard. I'm laughing picturing this overgrown 8 year old in a turtleneck and wood. He wants me to take a picture. I ask him to send me one of his hard cock. Sucker. He does. An aerial view of the Monument to Dog Girl. Bad angle. I tell him I need a side shot, to gauge his alleged endowment. He sends. I don't send him anything and sign off.

I'm at this breakfast of HR directors last Thursday morning. I'm not one but it's a good group for my business. They always have a speaker and they are often engaging however, not being in the actual HR world, I tend to drift after a while - foot bouncing or leg shaking the whole time. I am casually eyeing the room when I look at the guy sitting 5 feet from me. I can't figure out why he looks familiar. Yes, you've figured it out already. Dressed in - khakis (pleaty type), and a plaid shirt. Glad to see he'd progressed from 3rd grade picture day to fraternity picture day.

Lesson: Don't send pictures of your genitals to people in your geographical area. Save that for your blog.