I'm back

Handi-Capable

Oh such a big deal was made about the Thalidomide and birth defects. It's only a defect if you LET it be... like harrassment is only harrassment if you don't LIKE the attention. And c'mon, who doesn't?

In my own Flipper experience, this is no set-back. Men pick me up - literally. When I fall off my bar stool, it's not pretty but it gets the attention. I one-up midgets easily.

My lower flips are fairly useless, acting only as propellants like a walrus'. Unless you'd likey the feety flip-job. But that's extra.

From sheer proximity, a Flipper job IS a Blow job. How much better can it be? I wear overalls so you can take me out before dawn, like an old suitcase we both know you'll use again.

New Career

I just heard about a position called "Size Queen". That sounds really cool. I've always been very good at eyeing something and saying "Oh, that's about 3 centimeters" or "Whoa, there's no way she should be shopping in Bebe, that ass is at least a 16."

I'm not sure if it's something I need to be certified in. The local state college sends me the Old Fucks Who Still Don't Know How To Spell MS Word catalogue every month but I don't see any courses in it. Maybe a trade school? Speaking of, I'm not sure I have the Tools of The Trade for it. I figure a tape measure and stud finder are requisite.

Oh, and by the way this comes up as a hit for "Size Queen"... go figure. http://www.ggreg.com/

Just click it in a flourish of femme-ness. I removed the rest but if you're into Bears: http://www.ggreg.com/ggregslist.asp?id=152

Mickey Does Joisey

any followers from Vodka, Sex and Cheese, move on - this is a repost

I bought this house with my ex-boyfriend. Let's call him Silent Bob. It's February and cool the way I like it... all smellin' like leaves and detritus, mmmm boy. However, something is living in the walls of New House. Chewchewchewchewchew at 2 a.m. Wakes me up. Can't sleep. Heebie Jeebies. We find black couscous in the silverware drawer. Mmm. Enough's enough. I don't want any neck-snappin' ... NO, I want something more humane... glue traps.

Well, one night of TV viewin' (this is what he does and why he's an ex) and we hear this 'thumpthumpthump' muffled sound. We locate the source. AHA. Silverware drawer... got the little bastard!! Poop in my forks will you? WaHAAA. Open drawer...Oh that poor little fucker. All of an inch long and ears bigger than his body. Little field mouse. Eyes like a starving Cambodian. Panicked. Panicked is an understatement, he was freaking the FUCK out.Silent Bob is going to fold the trap in half like a mouse taco and stomp it. I scream and say NO! It's not a gotdamn cockroach.

I'm bawling my eyes out. I shall take this butterknife and free him from his gluey mire.At the sidewalk, I try to pry his little 3/8" legs out of the glue. As I try to lift, his eyes go from panic to "LADY YOU ARE DISJOINTING MY LEGS I AM NOT STRETCH ARMSTRONG" and I am now sobbing so audibly that my redneck neighbors think I'm one of them... the battered woman. I'm at a loss and realize SB was right. Death is the only option at this point, Kee-Ryst, I dont want to hurt the little guy any more than I have. Instead of turning the trap over and stepping on it as if he were an insect (smart move) I flip the butterknife over so I'm holding the blade. Crying my eyes out, I beat the shit out of the little mouse.