December 28, 2007
My Dinner with Kelly
First, let me clarify -- Kelly is a dude. Kelly Garrett is just his chosen commenter name because he's a big 'mo and loves Charlie's Angels.
Because Kelly is a tree-hugging, hippie socialist, we went to Hillary's home town and dined at the incomparable Pickwick Restaurant. Home of the "Hillary Burger." And no, that's not a euphemism for anything.
Surprisingly, he orderd the BBQ beef. I say surprisingly because he normally only eats smoothies and veggies and couscous that he makes for himself. Yes, he lives in L.A., which means that his smoothies don't include Hershey's syrup and Cool Whip. Freak.
Kelly is quite the cook, making all his own food, and soon we were talking about organic this and fresh that. Can you believe I had dinner with someone from L.A. and didn't once punch him in the face? Not once!
He had total sand in his vagina over the fact that his mom, K, had made a casserole for Christmas Eve dinner.
PW: So did I!
KG: That's just so wrong! I haven't eaten a casserole in twelve years!
PW: Why is that wrong? Turkeys are a pain in the ass.
KG: First of all, no one should ever, EVER cook with onion soup mix and store-bought French dressing.
PW: Did her casserole also have chicken and cranberry sauce?
KG: Yes.
PW: I made the same one!
KG: Oh, my God.
Fearing retribution from the L.A. Food Gods upon his return to The Land of Protruding Collar Bones, Kelly shopped for and cooked dinner on Christmas Day.
KG: I was walking around Jewel going, Where the fuck are the dried cranberries? Finally I found them when I realized that they were in a package labeled Craisins! They can't call them cranberries, or no one in the midwest would eat them!
PW: Dude, cranberries are waaaaaaaay too exotic. Unless, of course, they are jellied and canned, the way God intended.
You can bet your ass that God eats casseroles and jellied cranberries. Because God is Lutheran. And because, bananas aside, casseroles are nature's most perfect food. All the food groups in one pan, mixed with Miricle Whip and topped with crushed Ritz crackers! What could be better???
Next time you're in town, Kelly, c'mon over, and I'll prepare some nice homemade macaroni and cheese. It's fabulous. You do like Velveeta, right?
Posted at 02:08 PM | Comments (2)August 17, 2007
A Little Boofing
First, the definition of boof. Boof is, apparently, a manuver in kayaking, an Iranian fast food chain (I hear their logo is a sheep), and "a common slang term for anal sex."
I believe the term butt fuck was shortened to bufu (pronounced boo'-foo) and finally abbreviated to simply boof. Ah, the gays. What color they add to our language!
I bring this up because of Kelly Garrett's accomplishment as 1,500th commenter and subsequent demands:
Pirate, I had a good mind to ask if you've been boofed since you last babysat me, especially since you did not answer me the first time and if you did it was fucking bullshit since you didn't even know what boofing was.
First of all, Kelly, I can't imagine I gave you any answer the first time because my jaw was on the floor, rendering me uncapable of speech.
The answer to both Had you been boofed then? and Have you been boofed since? is No. Well,... mostly. But not on purpose!
I'll explain.
Mom, this is where you can stop reading.
Seriously, Mom. Stop it.
I'm not kidding.
Is she gone?
Okay. In my post-high-school years, I was kind of... free-spirited, shall we say. And when you pair a free-spirited hottie of 20ish with an old friend just back from military boot camp, well, things happen.
Naughty, sweaty things.
Things done as the canines would.
You see where this is going.
Mom, if you're still reading, I'm not going to explain, and I'm not going to tell you who it was, so don't even ask.
So, things were humming along, and in the position... er... I guess he sort of... at some point... confused the entryways, if you will.
Needless to say, the pain and yelling made it quite clear to him that we would not be continuing the day's activities, thankyouverymuch.
He swears it was an accident and apologized profusely. And I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt cuz he really was a nice guy, and why would you spring that on someone you aren't hate-fucking?
So there's the answer.
Kelly continues:
Instead I will demand the same prize that Garrance did -- lunch with you next time I am in the neighborhood. And who's to say a little boofing won't come up in conversation.
I'm sure it will, Kelly. Ya big 'mo! Shall we do the Mecca, same as Garrance and I? If so, let's wait until after January 1, because by then, the Chicago-wide no-smoking ban will have gone into effect. And I hate it when my hair smells like smoke!
As for Kelly's final rambling:
Second, I don't know who this "Heather" is who claims to have babysat me. Please identify yourself. (If you have a younger brother that I had broadcasting with, then there is no need -- just confirm that.) I should really have a "where are they now" type of blog about former babysitters. None have risen to the heights of Pirate with her internationally notorious blog or M.E. who is the bassist of one of the best post modern punk garage bands in the country.
Only Heather can answer this. And Kelly, if you had a class with Heather's Brother, then I envy you cuz he is hott.
"Risen to the heights of Pirate." Heh.
Posted at 09:56 PM | Comments (4)August 08, 2007
My 1,500th Commenter!
I can't believe that my snarky babbling has actually inspired fifteen hundred pithy remarks. How cool are we?!
So. My fifteen-hundreth comment, appearing Thursday, August 2nd, 2007, at 1:49 p.m., was made by...
KELLY GARRETT!!!!!!
Proving that good things always happen to beautiful, braless people!
Ms. Garrett provided the following comment to my blog about Wenchie's Hellbent Advocacy for Manners:
"I am so with you! Would you believe that the waitress at Chile's (yes, I know I was inviting confrontation by eating at Chile's) brought out an actual knife with my hamburger and wanted to stand over me as I cut the burger in half to make sure it was cooked to my liking? I was stunned! Did she have so little faith in her chef that she expected to serve me a culinary abomination? I flat out refused and told her that if Chile's can't produce an acceptable hamburger that they should consider closing. I've never been so offended in my life!"
I actually have no freakin' clue what burgers have to do with high school girls, but I'm sure it's just way over my head because Kelly is way funnier than me and even more darkly bizarre.
Okay, Kelly, you know how this works... or perhaps you don't. You're new, so I'll explain.
Just like Garrance got for the 1,000th comment, you get:
1. A photo spread of the infamous Wisconsin Christmas trees, to appear in this blog as soon as we get the damn thing outta my car and find a place for it in the house. (Yes, it's still in my car! So what?)
2. To ask me any question in the universe, and I will answer it, completely and truthfully, right here in my blog, for all the world to see.
3. Because you are the 1,500th commenter, you may make any request of me that you wish. Providing it doesn't get me beaten up by K, cuz she's scary as hell. Any request, any belonging, any favor, any thing -- it's yours for the asking.
Actually, I'm sure you don't give an emu's ass about Wisconsin Christmas trees, so let's change it to... I'll do a photo spread of your choice, as long as it's not pornographic.
Ladies and gentlemen, there's something you should know about Kelly Garrett. I babysat for Kelly. ONCE. She asked me if I'd ever been boofed. I was a freshman in high school and had to ask a friend what the hell it means. (I'll tell you later, Mom.)
I just wanted to tell you this so you have a full appreciation of what I'm opening myself up to here: requests from a deviant. I await my fate in horror.
The things I do for you people.
Posted at 12:57 PM | Comments (4)April 26, 2007
Reaching Mecca
Almost a year ago, Garrance made the 1000th comment on my blog. That was June 12, 2006, so it has taken him ten months to claim his prize. Which, in Man Time, is near lightning speed.
Technically, he only claimed one-third of his prize because I don't think I ever did a spread of all our Christmas trees, and he never asked a grossly personal question that I was obligated to answer.
The time for Christmas trees is well past -- even in my house -- but Garrance, please feel free to pose a question that you know will make me squirm and reveal horrible truths about myself. Anytime in the next ten months. No rush.
In the meantime, I will tell you a horrible truth about Garrance -- he only pretends to be mute and deaf.
Garrance is a very quiet man. The kind of man you find it easy to believe once killed another man. He's that quiet. There's a famous story of him that goes thusly:
Garrance's son, A, had a friend over whom he had known all through school. This friend, despite spending much time in A's house over the years, had never, ever heard Garrance utter even one syllable. Not so much as a yawn or a grunt. He just kind of silently haunts the world.
A and his friend were going up the stairs to A's room, and since it's an old (and gorgeous!) house, the stairs are very steep. A's friend tripped, and Garrance uttered his only words to her ever -- "Careful, Grace."
Careful Grace is still a joke among all of A's friends, over a decade later. And no, his friend's name is not Grace.
[Wouldn't Careful Grace be a great band name?!]
Anyhoo, when I first knew of Garrance... probably 30 years ago, I was terrified of him. He's tall, he's big, he's veeeerrrrryyyyy hairy, and he's quiet as death. It wasn't until our performing group went on "tour" without his wife that I finally heard him speak. And not only is he not scary, but he's even funny!
The truth is, Garrance is so quiet because his wife and sons never let him get a word in edgewise. And when on the rare occassion they do, he is invariably wrong, wrong, wrong. Perhaps that is why he likes the comfort of my blog so much? Here, he can comment quietly, uninterrupted and somewhat anonymously.
For tipping me into the triple-digits of comments, I treated Garrance to lunch at Mecca Supper Club last week, at his request.
Now how awesome is it that they call it a "supper club!" It's a little piece of Wisconsin here at home! Also a dead giveaway that we were in a Wisconsin embassy -- all the animal corpses adorning the walls. Très chic!
I'd only been to Mecca once before, in high school, when my boyfriend's Dad took us and ordered escargot. Barf! And I remembered it being much seedier. Now it's much more upscale, what with the karaoke night and musky fishermen's club meetings.
Our waitress and all the men at the bar were WWII vets, I'm pretty sure. So we were in good company. And feeling very youthful by comparison.
The menu is very meat-and-a-starch oriented, which is just fine with me. Why muck up a good meal with veggies?
Garrance had the Friday special -- meatloaf in mushroom gravy with mashed potatoes. And I must say, it looked fabulous. But he ruined it with ketchup, being the mullet-wearing white trash that he is.
I had the Italian beef, and it was really, really lean. If it weren't for the fact that the non-smoking section smells exactly like the smoking section, I'd be going back quite often.
Oh, and Garrance and I found plenty to gossip about!
Posted at 12:53 PM | Comments (1)June 12, 2006
I Knew I'd Rue the Day
Ladies and gentlemen... and the rest of you: the 1000th commenter is... Garrance of Jello Fame!
And the winning comment? Added to the post about my mini chairs (which generated more comments than anything I've written in the past several weeks -- you people are maddeningly unpredictable!):
Where are those Christmas trees from Wisconsin?????????????????
Ah, Garrance, such a wordsmith. Such a lover of question marks. And Christmas trees. And yea, a lover of Wisconsin.
And ironically enough, his comment wasn't -- technically -- even about this post, but rather a post from earlier in the week.
Okay, Garrance, Gar-Bear, GarBaby, Garrance Garranstein, for your efforts (pathetic as they may be), you are entitled to the following three things... because 1000 has three zeros or something:
1. A photo spread of the infamous Wisconsin Christmas trees, to appear in this blog as soon as we get the damn thing outta my car and find a place for it in the house. (Yes, it's still in my car! So what?)
2. You may ask me any question in the universe, and I will answer it, completely and truthfully, right here in my blog, for all the world to see.
3. Because you are the 1000th commenter, because you broke the four-digit barrier, you may make any request of me that you wish. Providing it doesn't get me beaten up by K, cuz she's scary as hell. Any request, any belonging, any favor, any thing -- it's yours for the asking.
Bring it, sistah.
[And because I can't resist the potty humor: Boy Child and Girl Child stayed at our place over the weekend. They were really good, except for when Boy Child firehosed the entire bathroom. I didn't give him anything else to drink for the entire weekend.]
Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (2)June 01, 2006
At First I Was Afraid, I Was Petrified
Oh, Lord, I'm turning into Fresh, with the song lyrics as blog titles. But who doesn't hear that song in their head when they hear the word survive?! Or is it just me?
Oh, suuuuure, and I suppose I'm the only one who puts on glitter eye shadow and rainbow leg warmers, whips her hair around and sings into her thumb. Whatever. You guys are such liars. You all do it -- you know you do.
Anyhoo, now included in the vast array of Ways That Wenchie Is a Crappy Blogger is Reason Number 37: Didn't answer the question that Queen of Ass' earned by being the 900th commenter until it was nearly time for the 1000th comment.
If you were moving, and had NO internet connection for 10 WHOLE DAMN DAYS, how would you survive?
I'm double-awful because this question bears a sense of personal need and desperation, like she's actually seeking an answer, and yet, I totally forgot about it. It's a wonder I have any friends, isn't it?
But luckily, Marty is stalwart enough to put up with me because Marty is how I'd survive without Internet for ten days. When I had my surgery -- what is it, three years ago now? -- and couldn't move around much and couldn't go to work for six weeks, Marty hooked me up with a laptop and remote access and the whole works. And several seasons of "Buffy" on DVD. Marty rocks.
But that doesn't help you because Marty is here, and he's mine, and you can't have him.
The surgery is a story for another day. Remind me. (Man, I keep thinking of good lines for other entries -- not this one, obviously -- so I have to keep stopping and writing in other entries before I forget. So annoying!)
My other answer is a long, boring story about my childhood. Excited?
My family owns a summer home, a.k.a. log cabin, a.k.a. dilapidated shack, in Wisconsin. Yeah, it's a shack. My tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin roof... rusted. But it definately has its good points, such as: BEACH FRONT PROPERTY, BAY-BEEEEEEEE! Oh yeah, private beach. Also? Upkeep is minimal because why clean a dilapidated shack? Which leaves more time for drinking. And swimming. And napping.
Of course, those are grown-up activities. When I was a kid, Billi and I did kid activities. Biking, hiking, building a tree house, shooting beer cans off a log with a slingshot and a BB gun. (Older Sister was a teenager at that point and was no doubt too busy feathering her hair to hang out with us kids.)
I grew up in a beautiful, huge, old woodframe house built in 1908. It has servants' quarters. The woodwork is to die for. The lack of air conditioning is to die from.
When the weather went above 80, the house became unbearable, so Mom would pack us kids into the faux-wood paneled Mercury station wagon and take us up to the cabin, where Dad would join us on weekends.
And here's the stuff that makes Heather the Wisconsin-Hater weep softly. We bathed and washed our clothes in the lake. There are bats and mice and raccoons. There are four churches, three taverns, one grocery store and no movie theatres. And? We have no phone, no television and no radio.
(Actually, I'm going up there this weekend, and I'm bringing back a corn husk doll for Heather. And she'll be obligated to keep it because it's a sentimental gift from her dear friend.)
And the weird part? I never missed those things. And when I go there as an adult? I still don't miss them. So, yeah, Wenchie secretly has no problem living without technology (for pre-determined spans of time). I'm kinda embarassed by it, actually. It seems not to fit my persona, along with Fear Of Flying and Makes Herself Eat Yogurt Once a Day. But it's those little anomylies on my personality that make it so rich and fascinating, right? Right?
Don't get me wrong. I love my blog. LOVE, in the purest, strongest, most spiritual sense of the word. And I love eBay. I hate the thought that auctions are ending without me bidding on them. But... I just so love peace and quiet and stillness and doing nothing, that I'm pretty much okay without the Internet for ten days.
God, this turned into some gay, zen-like Glimpse Into Wenchie's Childhood. I'm so sorry, Queenie.
Of course, if I didn't have the Internet at work, I would impale myself right now on a company pen. But that's hardly good advice.
Hmm. I'm gonna have to think of something really special to do for the 1000th commenter. It's a landmark number that deserves special recognition. Any suggestions?
Posted at 01:11 PM | Comments (4)April 28, 2006
Caddyshake
Uh-oh. Queen of Ass posted the 900th comment.
Ask away, bay-bee!
Posted at 09:42 AM | Comments (1)April 20, 2006
Revenge Is a Dish Best Served
Once upon a time, before Disney World and sleep studies, a dear little scamp named Michele was my 800th commenter. She sent me an awesome question, but I've been hesitant to answer it because it's quite possible that the person whom I would have to include in my answer, lurks this blog.
I'm speaking, of course, of that creepy coward, Stalky McClownerson.
This could possibly ruffle his backhairs and provoke him to renew his asshattery....
Enh, fuck it. Here's Michele's question:
I'm a vengeful person when pushed. When an ex-boyfriend (of 8 years) was cheating on me with a multitude of tarts that he met when he worked out of town, I didn't get mad, I got even. I saw in his suitcase one weekend home a large bottle of lotion, and it wasn't the brand we used at home. I knew two things about that lotion: It was going to be used to rub down his tarts, and that he'd used it on himself; or as the DeVinyl's said, "when I think about you I touch myself." So I put in massive amount of cayenne pepper, mixed well... and the next day I got a phone call from a screaming man whose penis was on fire!My questions to you —- what's the most revengeful thing you've ever done, and did you get caught or confess?
First of all, let me commend you on your penis arson. Well done!
Yes, I have taken revenge. On Stalky. See, the guy I dumped him for ended up being my first husband. But whatever -- Stalky acted like he was the first person in the history of the planet to get dumped for someone else, and that's just gay.
He called me all the predictable names -- slut, whore. Again -- whatever. If finding a muscular Latino guy more attractive than his fat ass makes me a slut, then so be it. I'm a Slut in the First Degree. Let's move on.
Oh, it just occurred to me -- I never told you the WORST stuff he did. I blanked on it until Heather and I were talking about clown-fear one day and how pervasive it is in our society.
So after I dumped Stalky, I started losing my mind. I'd come home from work and be like, "Huh. I thought I had put the blankets away." Or, "I don't remember leaving that bowl out. What was I even using it for?"
For Christmas that year, my cousin had hand-painted a gnome for me. (What? She's an artist; we're Norwegian -- get over it.) I arrived home from work to find the gnome, which normally resided on my bookshelf, standing on top of my television.
I was like, "Now I know I didn't put that there..."
And in a split-second, the whole thing dawned on me. Stalky was coming into my apartment and rearranging stuff, just to fuck with me. Not stealing, no, because that would have required actual balls. Just moving stuff.
But, Wenchie, how could he have gotten into your apartment when the only other people with keys were your parents and your saintly landlord?
One day, months prior, I had lent him my apartment key for some reason or another that made logistical sense at the time. It made sense because it was only for a few hours, and he was my BOYFRIEND. So why would I suspect him of anything?
Yeah. While the shithead was dating me, while our relationship was good, he made a copy of the key to my apartment, and I had no idea.
Now how completely sociopathic is that? Anticipating revenge while still in The Honeymoon Period. The thought still makes my skin crawl.
When I told F.H. (First Husband) about the shit Stalky was pulling, he was all, "Well, obviously, dude needs his tires slashed."
And we did. Under cover of night. And it was AWESOME!
Well, I just watched and drove the get-away car while F.H. did the actual slashing, but it was still fun!
And I have to tell you about his van. It had no other seats than the driver's seat, so when we went out, I had to sit in a folding chair. Plus? It was all full of toys, because he managed a toy store, and juggling crap from when he had gigs. Seriously, it was a dump. I mean, sure, it was still better than having to take public transportation to work, but just barely.
So that's my revenge story. As for getting caught and/or confessing, well, I guess this takes care of it, eh?
And if, indeed, the best revenge is living well and NOT tire slashing? Than I'm getting AMAZING revenge on F.H. for turning six years of my life into a frenzy of lies, co-dependency and money-scrounging. Husband treats me like a queen, I have more security, contentment and freedom than I ever thought I'd have. And F.H. is left to wallow is his own crapulence.
Pure. Awesome.
And the key? I didn't bother to ask for it back. I just phoned the landlord immediately, explained the situation and apologized profusely. He came out pronto, changed the lock himself and didn't even charge me for it, even tho' I offered. He was like, "Oh, it was an old lock anyway and needed changing." See? Saintly.
P.S. Fresh, you bastard, you never asked me a question from when you were 700th commenter. Or was it 600th? I forget. But you're still a bastard.
Posted at 12:55 PM | Comments (3)January 25, 2006
Nikki Is My Mini-Me!
Seriously! It's like she's a little Pirate Wench in training! Don't believe me? Read this:
Okay, so I have been mulling it over... and I still don't know what I want to ask. I mean there are lots of things I want to know, but what to actually ask??So I guess I should just pick something, but my indecisive nature has already edited this short email 12 times.
And now it has been 5 minutes and GMail keeps autosaving this as a draft. Stupid GMail, pressuring me and shit.
*sigh* Here goes nothing. Being of sound mind and gigantic breasts, tell us all about a time said breasts came in handy for serving your evil purposes. Having used my own breasts to get myself broadcast on the jumbotron at a hockey game last night, this is a topic near and dear to my heart. And no, I didn't flash anyone, I just bounced around a lot. I'd never been on the jumbotron before and figured that was the quickest way to get there. And I was right.
SEE?!
Well, I've been mulling over the answer -- just like she had to mull over the question! Because we're so alike! Get it?!
Anyhoo, this is a difficult topic because it'd probably be faster to list the times I haven't used my breasts for my own evil purposes. Hell, I've even used my hair for my own selfish benefit.
I had a HHHHHHHHHHHOTT boyfriend who stupidly dumped me because he "needed space" to "find himself" or whatever. Which shouldn't have taken very long because he wasn't that deep. (Marty, you know who I'm talking about.) But I didn't want to have to wait for Sharpie McEinstein to figure that out.
He went to pee before driving me home... yes, brought me over to his apartment, gave me the speech, and then had to drive me home. See? Brilliant. While he was in there, I ran my hands through my long, silky, blonde hair, got a few strands and left them on his pillow. (Yes, Mom, we were sexually active -- try not to die of the shock.)
A few days later, to no one's surprise, I got the Can-we-talk? phone call, after which our couple-hood was reinstated. And? He totally admitted that he found some strands of my hair on his pillow, which made him miss me horribly and realize he couldn't live without me.
It was all I could do to keep from laughing maniacally and rubbing my hands together.
But this is about boobs.
And I've seriously pondered this topic and even kept myself awake at night, playing with them and trying to come up with a good answer. But I just can't, and I'm so sorry, Darling Nikki.
See, breasts and evilness and Evil Breast Usage are such an ingrained part of my everyday life, there's not really a time that such an occurrence stands out. I'm using The Girls to manipulate all of you right now, and you don't even realize it. It's not even a conscious decision anymore!
I guest my Ultimate Act of Breast Evil was nabbing my second husband and turning him from a Leg Man into a Breast Man. And such is the power of my hogans that I got a car for an engagement present, a yellow lab puppy for a wedding present, my own computer, and all the money and storage I need to keep the Barbies living the lifestyle to which they -- and I -- have become accustomed.
But is that really evil?
Well, maybe a little.
Posted at 01:42 PM | Comments (5)January 18, 2006
Darling Nikki
Well, someone named "Nikki" commented on my blog, and I can't figure out if that's Nicholle being adorable, or someone else -- someone new that I don't know in real life. Will the real Nikki please step forward?
Because YOU, Nikki, are my 700th Commenter! Yay!
It's a dream come true, I know.
Well, Nikki, I'm sure you know the drill. You get to ask me any question in the world, and I have to answer it -- honestly and to the best of my ability -- here on my site. (If you need some inspiration, check out some other questions I've fielded.)
And you know, I just couldn't be more tickled that this (dubious) honor is going to someone whose comment was, and I quote:
You. Are. The. Greatest. Period.
I mean, seriously. Could I love her any more?
Posted at 01:14 PM | Comments (5)December 02, 2005
Fresh Pepper Makes Me Sneeze
What kind of IDIOT wishes to be sick so they can have some time off work? I'll tell you what kind of idiot.
The kind of idiot who has gone through an entire box of Kleenex in less than three days. The kind of idiot who can barely swallow food without being strangled by the swollen glands in her neck. The kind of idiot who is now scared that she won't have a voice for next week's Christmas Concert.
How do you spell idiot? W - E - N - C - H.
But enough about me. This post is about Fresh because he's my 600th commenter!
Have you been around long enough to know this drill, Fresh? I don't remember. The rules -- you ask me any question in the world, and I answer it. You can read up on past questions here, so you don't repeat any. Not that I don't think you're perfectly capable of coming up with highly original and completely retarded question on your own, I just like the chance to give myself a free plug.
Ooh. Dirty.
Anyhoo, your task is set before you, Fresh. And to make things more interesting, I promise to take lots of cold medicine before I answer!
Posted at 12:21 PM | Comments (3)October 20, 2005
MFK Smackdown!
Okay. As promised.
MFK - Famous Males You Have Lusted After* Christian Bale
* Joaquin Phoenix
* Bruce Campbell (had to throw him in there.)
Obviously, we have to pretend they're all single, or at least willing to leave their wives for me. Which isn't really that big of a leap -- their wives are certainly no prettier than I am. Meow.
Let's see... according to my research (i.e. hearsay and gossip), they all have some pretty major strikes against them. Mr. Bale is a lunatic, Mr. Phoenix is a druggie, and Mr. Campbell has kids.
Bale is 31, Phoenix will turn 31 next week (figures he's a Scorpio), and Campbell is 46. Well, Bruce is still younger than Husband. God, are the other two really younger than me? They look... I believe the phrase is ridden hard and put away wet.
Okay, decision time. Can't marry an addict. Been there, done that. So -- psycho or dad? There's so little distinction between the two sometimes... Oh, it's Bruce. You knew it was Bruce! Always has been, always will be.
To fornicate with? I'm thinking all that heroin or crank or mescal in Joaquin's body would probably hinder his sexual performance, so I gotta go with Christian. I mean, dude is IN. SHAPE. I just hope I can call him "Chris" or "Bale" or "Batman." I don't want to yell out "Christian" during sex. Reminds me of church. Not hot.
Kill Joaquin. I'd miss him, but then he could be reunited with his brother. In Druggie Hell. To do penance for their sins, together, through all eternity. Besides -- two Scorpios together? Now that's Hell!
MFK - Internet (and Real Life) Friends - Female* Heather
* Queen of Ass
* Scarlett Cyn
Okay, killing off guys with a few keystrokes, I really don't have a problem with. But making me off one of my sistahs?! Dude, that's cold. So let's get this over with.
Heather -- altho' hott -- can only cook one dish, she's a bathroom hog who can't stay outta the damn bathtub, and my medical insurance rates would sky-rocket, so she's completely outta the running for marriage. Queen of Ass also outta the running because there's only room for one psychopath in my relationships, and I'm that psychopath!
Yup, gonna have to marry Cyn. And move to Madagascar or wherever (damn you, public school education!). I mean, chick puts up with a Mother In Law who has, literally, put a curse on her. Heh, I'm a friggin' frolic through the roses compared to that bitch! Dear Scarlett would be so grateful to have me (and my awesome, adorable Mom), our lives would be Happily Ever After!
Now, who to... erm, have relations with? Meh, I've already done Heather, so Queenie it is!
Sorry, Heather, you're gonna have to die. But don't worry -- I will totally be a drama queen at your funeral and wear a black veil and sob hysterically and throw myself on your coffin as it's being lowered, yelling, "Why, God?! WHYYYYYYYYYY! It should have been meeeeeeeeeee!" Pure awesome. I'll try not to laugh.
MFK - Internet (and Real Life) Friends - Male* Uncle Twitchy
* John Kovalic
* Me (well, I almost had to, didn't I?)
Well, I totally have to marry Marty cuz he makes more money than the other two put together. Plus? He cleans house. Case closed.
But the next decision is as hard as the first one was easy. (All puns intended.) I guess what it comes down to is this: Do I want a lover who will gently coax me to arousal, own me with every inch of his tall-dark-and-handsome body, brush my hair afterwards, make me waffles in the morning, and send me roses the following day? Or do I want a lover who will take me on the kitchen floor with half our clothes still on, flip me over, grab my hair like reins and ride me like a pony, only to flick his cigarette at me when he's done and say, "Hey, did I show you my new webcam?"
Tough call.
Seriously.
Okay, new world order. Marry John, fuck Twitchy and kill Marty. Sorry, dude, but I just can't picture you having sex! And no, I'm not giving back my birthday presents.
P.S. I so wanna play this with Mom at Mission Supper.
Posted at 09:49 AM | Comments (8)October 19, 2005
MFK Ultimate Challenge
So. Marty was my 500th commenter, and he went against "the norm" and responded via email. You'll understand why, when you see the length of his... query (perverts!).
He posed a game of MFK, an old I.M. stand-by for boring workdays. MFK, for those of you unfamiliar, stands for Marry Fuck Kill. The way you play is to pick three similar people -- real or pretend -- i.e. co-workers, hobbits, dead celebrities. The other person has to pick which to marry, which to fuck and which to kill. Theoretically, the answers should tell you something about the person's character, so it's best to elaborate on your motivations.
On to Marty's email:
Wow. The power that I wield right now. Enough to make one giddy, it is!A bit of research is in order, so that I don't go over any covered ground here. QofA was your 400th commenter, and she asked about maritime questions (and marital aides). She was also your 300th commenter, and she asked about sex and what gets you going (surprise, surprise...but I just enjoyed re-reading that one Slowly.) Number 200 was InnocentBystander, who asked an innocent question, and you managed to work a vibrator into your answer (and no, that wasn't a euphemism.) And Heather's Timid Co-Worker, as number 100, asked you about the Spice Girls. So. Lots of open territory to explore. And not a serious question among the lot of them.
By the way, I have, for future reference, created a separate category containing exactly the posts listed above, and for all future officially-sanctioned questions and answers. Commenters' Q&A. Let us continue...
So in keeping with the theme of nothing even approaching a serious question, let's just play an old favorite of ours, MFK - Marry, Fuck or Kill?MFK - Famous Males You Have Lusted After
* Christian Bale
* Joaquin Phoenix
* Bruce Campbell (had to throw him in there.)MFK - Internet (and Real Life) Friends - Female
* Heather
* Queen of Ass
* Scarlett CynMFK - Internet (and Real Life) Friends - Male
* Uncle Twitchy
* John Kovalic
* Me (well, I almost had to, didn't I?)Have fun! I anxiously await my fate!
Well, he certainly took some license with the word "question," didn't he? Seems like this is MANY questions! Meh, it's not like I have much else to blog about lately, so I'll let it slide.
Tomorrow -- my answers... and motivations!
Oh, yeah, like y'all don't know my motivations. Presents, chocolate, naps... yup! That about sums it up! Well, if my answers are predictable, I'll at least try to make them funny.
Posted at 10:44 AM | Comments (1)October 18, 2005
It Was Bound To Happen
Well, he played the odds and won.
Marty, you are my 500th commenter, for your comment on this post. Ask me a question. No question is too big, too small, too personal, too surreal, too... whatever.
All I ask is... please, be gentle.
Posted at 07:30 AM | Comments (1)September 20, 2005
Far from the Civilized World
FINALLY, I'm getting around to answering Queen of Ass' question:
"Alright...this is serious. Are you ready? Because I totally have a serious one this time. If you were, indeed, Admiral of my Royal Navy, what supplies and marital aides would you bring along, and why?"
Clearly, the first provision would be a Cabin Boy, strong and true. I even have one picked out. His name is Aaron, and he's T-A-L-L and blonde and buff and 13 years younger than me. He can hoist a mainstay like no one I've ever seen, and I used to be his Sunday school teacher. See? Perfect. I mean, if I'm living on a boat, far from the civilized world, why not go all the way, eh?
Of course, I'd need a laptop and wi-fi, on which to blog about all my raping and plundering and skullduggery. And then I would write about what happens when we leave the ship. Oh ho ho, I am so very funny, indeed.
Plenty of hair-care products because all that wind and salt water is HELL on my gorgeous mane.
My dog, Daisy, because parrots suck. (Yes, they do! All birds are creepy!) And maybe a little monkey in a fez. Pirates have monkeys, right? I need him to climb the rigging and fetch me my tankard of rum.
Gotta have some Barbies. Not my entire collection -- that would be silly. Just the My Scene Barbies and all their clothes, so I can change their outfits when I'm bored and Aaron won't tell me where he hid the cat o' nine tails.
What else? Um, plenty of hoodies, jeans and really good all-weather shoes. And Tang, so I don't get scurvy. And some books. And sunscreen.
And should Cabin Boy Aaron get washed overboard, I suppose I should bring Heather with me as back-up. Her gentleman friend would be pretty pissed, but fuck 'im! I'm the Admiral of Her Royal Navy! I can do what I want! I am above the law! The seas bow to my whim! All shall love me and despair!
And then I'd need, oh, some maps and a compass and stuff like that. So when I find land, I'll know who I'm plundering. It's only polite, after all.
Re-reading the question, I realize that piracy is, perhaps, not what Queenie had in mind for the post of Admiral of Her Royal Navy. Then again, she knows what I am. She asked me. What does she expect? Diplomacy?
Hooliganism. Debauchery. I might even engage in some shenanigans. Who knows -- we'll see how I feel.
Find great dress shoes online and get them shipped right to you! Even get Steve Madden shoes (one of my comfortable personal favs) in many shoe styles and colors. Also wedding shoes are always in stock when you're in a tight shoe spot.
Posted at 01:07 PM | Comments (4)
September 07, 2005
Swing Away
Okay, Queen of Ass. You were the 400th commenter -- you ask the question.
Best to stick to the rules, especially since I'm completely anal retentive anyway.
Posted at 09:03 AM | Comments (1)September 05, 2005
400th Commenter, Give or Take
Okay, I have a conundrum here, people. Yes, besides not knowing how to spell.
See, my 400th comment was posted, but it was posted by Queen of Ass, who already posted my 300th comment and, thus, has already posed a query por moi.
So. Here are my options:
1. Adhere strictly to the rules and let Queen of Ass ask ANOTHER question. (Bear in mind where this led us last time.)
2. Let the 399th commenter ask a question. It's Uncle Twitchy, long-time, uh, friend and possible future host, should I run out of places to spend my exiles weekends.
3. Let the 401st commenter ask a question. It's Fresh Pepper, and he's FRESH! And he can make blueberry buckle, for God's sake!
4. Just let it all slide until the 500th comment.
5. Quit bothering y'all with this piddly shit when thousands of people are homeless and starving and what the hell is the matter with me, anyway?! (Insert obligatory plea to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina here, so I don't appear to be a callous bastard.)
Posted at 05:37 PM | Comments (4)July 28, 2005
Try It With the One You Love
The Queen of Ass (and Boobies) was my 300th Commenter, and she totally came through with the sextastic question, as I knew she would:
"Oh. WOW! First of all? Admiral of the Royal Navy? That's TOTALLY you, girlie!"My question...hmmm...there are just so many possibilities here....and how to phrase it where there are actually many questions in one without being too obvious....
"What is it that makes your toes curl, your ears ring, and eyes roll back more than anything else in the entire all-born put together world, and is it, indeed, something involving $ex? And if not, then pretend it is after you tell me what it is if it's not.
"Capishe?"
Unfortunately, my answer is really simple and can be summed up in one word: SWORDPLAY!
But since I love to hear the sound of my own keys clacking, I'll expound.
When Husband and I got married, he brought to the table two daughters, a house, and the Titanic movie poster. Gaaaaaaaaaaay!
I, on the other hand, brought a handfull of Barbies, the Army of Darkness movie poster, and the following DVDs: Braveheart, Army of Darkness and Rob Roy; have since added Gladiator, Pirates of the Caribbean, all the Lord of the Rings movies and the first three seasons of Xena; and am looking to acquire Kill Bill I and II and the rest of Xena.
(Not the mention the myriad of other swordtastic movies I've watched that aren't worth owning.)
I. LOVE. SWORDPLAY.
In a flash of brilliance, Husband bought me a sword for Valentine's Day last year. Well, brilliance or stupidity. Your call.
And then after my panties are good 'n' creamy from the swordplay (Mom, you TOTALLY want to stop reading NOW!), I like to have my back kissed. Isn't that weird? Who knew the back could be an erogenous zone? Seriously, back-kissing -- it curls my toes and gives me goosebumps. Try it with the one you love! This technique fully endorsed by the Pirate Wench!
And then? (Seriously, Mom, you DON'T wanna know this!) I like it doggie-style. Hard and fast. And go ahead and smack me on the ass once or twice, if you feel moved to do so. No, you're not hurting me -- those are happy noises!
So, Queenie, does that answer your question(s)? As a bonus, over the weekend, I think I'll take all those photos you've requested, you photo-whore you!
Posted at 12:09 PM | Comments (6)July 22, 2005
H.M.S. VAGINA
Well, I got My 300th Comment on Monday morning, but it was apparently from someone named "buy valium online." So, as tempting as that sounded, I decided to wait until an actual human person was My 300th Commenter.
FUCKING SPAMMERS!!!
Ironically, My 300th Commenter turned out to be neither spammer nor actual human person, but the ridiculously sexy Queen of Ass herself! She commented on Wisconsin Scenery with:
How do THEY know he didn't leave me in charge? I thought that was a private conversation!
And for the record, I'm fairly comfortable with the thought of a world ruled by the Queen of Ass. And I'm also okee-dokee with the thought of bowing down before her in worship and adoration. I'm also hoping I'd be appointed Admiral of Her Royal Navy, but I don't want to assume.
Anyhoo, I would have preferred that the comment with which she achieved Pirate Wench fame was the one she posted in response to Ugh, There's That Word Again:
Okay. I totally LOVE the relationship you have with your boss, but more than that? The next time I have to go spread for the OBGYN, I'm totally gonna call you for moral support beforehand.
Because I love any excuse to write about VAGINAS, and because I will totally hold your hand and sing to you during your next vag-exam, Queenie!
But at least My 300th Commenter wasn't correcting my spelling, as so many of you have had to do lately, leading to much shame and, probably, my ultimate demise.
Point being, Her Royal Majesty has won the dubious honor of being able to ask me any question -- no matter how retarded or personal or vulgar -- and having it answered honestly by moi.
Ask away!
Posted at 01:45 PM | Comments (2)June 17, 2005
Death Is Not an Option
Okay. InnocentBystander asked:
Which would you rather give up forever: movies or music?
Dude. That question doesn't even have the word "vibrator" in it! What was I so worried about? Thank God he didn't ask which I would rather give up forever -- vibrators or chocolate.
Well, assuming that death is not an option, and assuming I could still watch normal television (oxymoron, yes, I know), I'd have to say... I'd rather give up movies forever than music.
Reason the First: I mean, have you heard me sing? It just wouldn't be fair to rob the world of my rendition of "Hit Me, Baby, One More Time." Besides, what else would I do during my commute? Listen to current events on the radio? Learn a second language? Psh. I don't think so!
Reason the Second: "The Honeymooners," "Bewitched" and "War of the Worlds." And that's just this month! Where have all the original movies gone?! I don't think I'd be missing too much. Just keep writing those books, Bruce!
In all seriousness -- which is a rare commodity around here, so bask in it while you can -- music is much more a part of my daily life. And I do have a fabulous voice. No, seriously! Mooooooom, tell them!
And, Max? Keep trying, little buddy. Maybe you'll get comment #300. Or you could just, you know, ask me.
See the little Hail the Pirate Wench link at the top of my sidebar (courtesy of Heather, who remains at my beck and call)? Just hit it and PRESTO! You can email me! And ask me questions! Or tell me what a bitch/lunatic/hack/poser/butthole I am! Or beg to see photos of me in a wet t-shirt! Whatever your dear, little hearts desire!
I'm a full-service wench.
Posted at 07:37 AM | Comments (3)June 14, 2005
I Am So Dead
Oh, crap. Here I was, getting all excited that I'd get to reward another one of my beloved winged monkeys with the honor (albeit dubious) of posing another question to Yours Truly.
I was at 198 comments earlier today. Who would it be? The surreal Max? The scathing Queen of Ass? The impetuous Scarlett?
No. It's InnocentBystander. InnocentBystander posted my 200th comment. I am so screwed. See, altho' I can't share the info with you, I know who he is.
And I'm. So. Fucked.
This is scary.
Okay, InnocentBystander, hit me. You're the 200th Commenter. Ask me anything. I shall answer.
Posted at 05:54 PM | Comments (4)May 16, 2005
I'll Tell You What I Want, What I Really Really Want!
Several days ago, Heather's Timid Co-Worker posted my 100th commented, and as a token of appreciation, I opened myself up to any humiliating question he wanted to pose. And was rewarded with this:
Heather is the reason I've come to enjoy the dickens out of your site, so I thought I'd pose a question that touches on a topic near and dear to her heart:My question to you is, what Spice Girl are you most similar too? I'm not talking about the superficial, physical similarities NECESSARILY, but rather beneath those multiple, complex layers that really make a Spice Girl tick. Explore the dynamics of your choice and peel back those emotional Spice Girl layers.
For the record, I am not gay but rather bored out of my mind here at the office and a bit delirious from huffing model-glue in the bathroom for the last hour.
The dickens, even! Something tells me that HTCW isn't the only one of my readers who huffs model glue, but that's neither here nor there. Couldn't he have asked me something easier, like which Monkee I'm most like? (Totally Mike.) Well, onto my answer.
Yeah, good thing you're not asking about the physical similarities, cuz there are none. Except for, perhaps, Ginger Spice's melons. So let's move on to their inner beauty, shall we?
I thought, at first, I was most like Baby Spice (the one in pink), what with the blonde hair and stuffed animal collection. But I am neither terribly young nor terribly brain-damaged.
Scary Spice (the one making a face like a jungle cat) is, perhaps, my exact polar opposite. Okay, yeah, I'm a little scary, but I'm scary in a bury-you-in-the-back-yard-for-eating-my-chocolate-stash way, whereas she's scary is a what-the-fuck-is-with-that-green-glitter-eye-shadow way.
Posh Spice (the one in the strappy sandals) is a tall, wealthy whore, and while that would seem like a perfect fit, I'm just not into clothes the way she is. And the last time I wore a spandex mini-dress, the other Bush was in office.
Now, breaking up the band with my diva attitude is so me, as well as Ginger Spice (the redhead), but no one in their right minds would make me an ambassador to anywhere.
One, two, three, four... oh, yeah! Sporty Spice (the one in orange)! The oft-overlooked Spice Girl. She is, arguably, the prettiest, i.e. she doesn't need to rely on green glitter eyeshadow and nipple-baring necklines to be attractive. She's more subtle in the way she presents herself, happy to let Baby and Ginger hog the spotlight, while she waits for the truly discerning connoisseur of female-pop-stars to notice and appreciate her.
And that's pretty much me. I know my place, and I'm cool with it.
I'm not the one that guys fight over. I'm not the one that sets them drooling. I'm not the one at the center of attention. I'm not the one whose photo they whack-off to.
But to any man who is truly appreciative of talent and wit, I Am The One.
Posted at 02:19 PM | Comments (5)May 05, 2005
Congratulotions!
Heather's timid co-worker is the author of my 100th comment! Woo-hooooooooo!
The winning comment reads as follows:
Listen, it's taken YEARS to develop these things and I'm damn proud of them. Besides, they're finally the size and shape I like and I'm not letting you rain on my man-boob parade.
Yeah, I have no idea, either.
And for achieving that dubious honor, HTCW, you get to ask me any question you want -- no matter how ridiculous, personal or bizarre -- and I'll answer it here.
No pressure.
Posted at 04:06 PM | Comments (4)