Season of sweat.
Dripping down back,
Pouring into butt crack.
Leaving stains under pits and breasts,
Thus ruining designer dress.
Season of naked, fat folk.
Big boys named Bubba in muscle shirts,
Chubby chics named Yolonda in mini skirts,
With hemlines raised,
Far above ham hocks that should be braised,
And bending over periodically
To pick up industrial bags of cheese puffs and cartons of Ale-8 One.
Season of daytime drag.
Trannies come forth on the Fourth,
And march in the light...what a fright.
While we masochistic patriots,
Stand on Main Street in the scorching heat...
Season of bug bites between chafed thighs.
Flies on pies...coconut cyarn.
Chiggers burrowing beneath skin.
Mosquitos sucking bourbon-infused blood,
Then flying under the influence to their Citronella grave.
Season of the pool-pissing plague.
Scabby and sun-burned in bitsy bikinis and board shorts,
Galloping through the grocery on blackened, bare feet,
Screaming down my once peaceful street.
I pray for the day...
When they are put back in those precious cages called elementary schools.
Season of suckiness.
(05/24/2008) So last night at a friend's house, I was indoctrinated into the bizarre ritual of Cornhole--if you are one of those people who is campaigning for it to be a Summer Olympic Sport, just stop reading now. Anyway, Cornhole, even the mention of it makes me go all Beavis and Butthead and snicker. But at least, the name makes sense to me now that I was informed that the bags you play with are filled with corn...and, of course, the object of the game is to throw them through a hole. I just assumed they were filled with beans like any other self-respecting bag.
Anyway, I played Cornhole--snicker, snicker, snicker--I can't help it. It just sounds so dirty, especially when you're trying to encourage your teammate..."Come on, get it in the hole, you can do it, you're so close." Now, usually I am a big fan of any game that you can play while wearing high heels and holding a cocktail, but I am just not sure about this holing of the corn. It just seems so random. Whatever happened to yard darts or horse shoes? Epiphany: I bet Cornhole was invented as an alternative after some redneck clan all ended up in the emergency room during their annual Memorial Day Cook-out when the more traditional outdoor amusements got out of control. You can be seriously hurt playing horseshoes. Once when riding through Woodland Park on JW's back after a night of clubbing at the Metro, I was dropped and nearly impaled on that stick that you toss the shoe at...five inches closer and I'd be blogging from heaven. Stop laughing. I am too going to heaven, not that you'll ever know since you're not.
So, Bubba Joe ends up with a yard dart in the eye, and Granny says, "This is the third year in a row that I've had to leave my tater salad out in the hot sun and take you boys to hospital. No more." So she takes some quilting scraps and, since there are no beans left because she used them in the three-bean salad, grabs some corn and stitches up a bag, and then says "Now, throw this." I have no fricking clue how the whole hole in board and bizarre scoring system came about.
Wait...I just looked it up....Holy Crap! Did you know there is an American Cornhole Association? And that Corn Hole is actually one word? They have a charter and a mission statement and I would rather belong to the Manson Family than to this organization whose purpose is to, "introduce our friends and neighbors to the game of Cornhole and to establish more standardized rules for Cornhole play around the country." A little history--the game actually originated in Germany in the 14th century and reemerged a hundred years ago in...where else, but my good old home state of Kentucky. So, now along with Billy Ray Cyrus, we have to claim this asinine pastime? Anyway, they have a Cornhole discussion board, and a president, and official merchandise. So for irony's sake, I must now go order an "I Heart Cornhole" hoodie and matching beer cozy, before they run out.
(05/29/2012) My new mission in life is to invent a new game craze. It will entail all of my favorite summertime accoutrement including: Jell-O shots, a hula hoop, and karaoke. Its still in the early developmental stages, but I'll let you know when we're ready to play.
_ So, I seriously think that I am suffering from the Samson Syndrome. I cut off my hair and haven’t had one witty one-liner or interesting thought since. This became incredibly obvious on Sunday afternoon when Frank and I attended our friends' baby shower. They’d set up a video camera and asked each guest to offer their soon-to-be-born son some words of wisdom. When it was my turn, I panicked and flashed back to a similar situation at my 15-Year High School Reunion when a classmate turned a camera on me and said, “So, Donna, what would you like to say to the Class of ’86?” Instead of giving some charming remembrance or pithy perspective, I went into a bad imitation of that sadistic game show host and said, “You are the weakest link, good-bye.” That’s it--“You are the weakest link, good-bye.” I cringe to think there is still footage out there of me being idiotically cliché’ with a bad British accent.
So, what advice did I offer this lucky child? I went into some babbling story about my first memory being of these rainbow tennis shoes, and falling down and getting up and it all being a metaphor for life…basically a bunch of boring bullshit.
Frank advised the kid not to ever rollerblade, and then busted out the one joke that he has ever told that actually made me laugh.
“Why didn’t Hitler drink? ... Because it made him mean.”
I don’t know that it was appropriate, but it was at least amusing.
With everything but a tampon having a video camera in it these days, I have the feeling that requests for impromptu film appearances are going to become more and more common at weddings, showers, birthdays, and any random gathering that someone wants to make sentimental. So, I’m determined to come up with a pearl to toss out to family, friends, and swine alike…something cryptic using weird words and alliteration with a dramatic ending. So far, this is what I’ve got: When in doubt slather it in local honey. Polka music paves the path to enlightenment. Never eat candy corn when the moon is in Capricorn. Salmagundi. Salman Rushdie. Girls just want to have fun. If you put your nose to the grindstone, it’ll rip it off. Shooka mooka. HOOOOWWWWLLL.
Obviously, it needs work.
(05/18/12) Welcome to Flashback Friday! Last night, I watched an episode of 7 Days of Sex-- the title is self-explanatory. The goal is for the couples to build intimacy throughout the week, and then renewing their commitment at the end of the process. I have decided that Frank and I will attempt this starting Sunday. The biggest challenge for the participants was to get past being tired, pissed off, rushed, stressed, too hungry, or too full to want to make love. I totally get this. No matter how sexy you find your partner, sometimes life gets in the way of lust. But the one thing I’ve found that can always take my mind into the gutter…where my body is sure to follow…is the right groove. So, I will be referring to the list below and turning it up to 11.
(01/31/10) Some call it mood music. Others deem them sultry sounds. Those with a little less tact might organize these MP3s into a “Fuck Folder.” Whatever you call them, we all have them...the songs that make up the sexual soundtrack of our lives. When these jams come on the car radio, you want to pull to the side of the road to pleasure yourself...and your compliant passenger. You hope it suddenly storms, so you can turn it up real loud, and climb onto the hood where you'll make love in the deluge despite the passing traffic. These are the songs that make you want to slip out of your own clothes, and then rip off someone else's. Ooohhh, is it getting a little hot in here...or is it just me?
My Sexual Soundtrack
1) Slave to Love Bryan Ferry
2) Closer Nine Inch Nails
3) Let's Stay Together Al Green
4) Sexual Amber
5) International Lover Prince
6) I was made for Loving You KISS
7) I Love to Hate You Erasure
8) Makin' Good Love Avant
9) By Your Side Sade
10) I'll Make Love to You Boys II Men
Bonus Track- It's a Sin Pet Shop Boys
Now, if you'll excuse me. I hear an orgasm beckoning me from my iPod.
(05/18/12) Frank’s addition to the list:
1) She Rides Danzig
I’ll be accepting your suggestions, as well.
It’s Tie-One-On-Tuesday, and all I can think about is how I really shouldn’t. Every day for the last two months, I've declared that it was my last day to splurge, booze it up, watch trash TV, ditch the dogs, not work on the new book, and generally slack. I have looked in the mirror each morning for the last 60+ days and sworn that I would only allow myself 24 more hours of bad behavior before turning over a new leaf. I have vowed that “tomorrow” I would change my wicked ways and implement the changes in my life that I need to be a healthier and happier person. But, somehow, come morning, it is not “tomorrow,” but “today” again and I’m back to my barbaric ways. I need a lifestyle makeover stat before I wind up on a special combo-edition of “Hoarders,” “Intervention,” and “My 600-lb Life.”
Starting on May 16, I Vow To:
1) Eat better. Yesterday, my food consumption consisted of tortilla chips drowned in queso dip, Totinos Three-Cheese Party Pizza, Cheddar-stuffed jalapeno poppers, and Carrot Cake with a Cream Cheese Frosting. Woman cannot live by cheese alone! The only vegetable I got was when I accidentally dropped one chip into the salsa at the Mexican restaurant. From now on, I will eat at least one veggie with every meal.
2) Hydrate. The only H2O I get is from the melted ice in my cocktails. I will drink 6 glasses of water a day.
3) Move. Since I hate traditional exercise, this one is going to be tricky. I think the answer lies in indulging my inner child. I will give her a bouncy ball and hula-hoop, and then tell her not to use either in the house. The brat is bound to rebel by bouncing and hooping her way into shape.
4) Be a better mother to my mutts. I will brush and walk my boys on a regular basis. I will not convince myself that spraying them with perfume and taking them on a car ride to the liquor store is equivalent.
5) Keep a better house. I am a lousy homemaker. I seriously found a vacuum cleaner last night that I didn’t know I had. The implications: a) My house is so cluttered that I lost a vacuum cleaner. b) I didn’t even miss it. I’m done with being a dirty bird; I’m going to straighten up, then dust, mop, and fly right.
6) Write. I have a memoir that is not going to piss off my mother-in-law, totally tarnish my reputation, and go straight to Kindle by itself. I need to chain myself to the desk with a whiskey-drip and type until nothing but bone is hitting the keys.
Before anyone panics, I have no plans of going from Bohemian to boring. I don’t want to give up my life as a party girl. On the contrary, I want to ensure that I'll have decades of debauchery to come. I’ll keep you updated on my progress.
_ I piss on the stick,
Lay it on the sink,
Don’t let it turn pink.
I am too old for this shit.
I have three minutes to wait,
Until I know my fate.
I hadn’t even realized I was late,
Or, that with my scarred and marred uterus,
I could even get pregnant.
I know nothing about babies,
Nor have ever wanted to…
I guess I could put in a basket,
And leave it at the zoo.
Or better yet, trade it for a monkey…
I’ve always wanted a monkey.
Just take an honest look at me,
I’m much better suited for a chimpanzee…
Than a human being.
Or am I?
That was then, this is now.
I’ve become equipped,
Though, I don’t know how.
With health insurance and a house,
A stable job, a loving spouse.
I could do this.
I should do this.
I owe it to all those women, I think
Who are willing to go to any length,
Just to have a baby.
Especially, at my age.
Down to two minutes.
Imagination runs wild.
And, I actually consider,
Keeping the child.
After all, I adore this man…
Who has brought life to my tomb of a womb.
He’s never had a child with another.
And I have never been a mother.
It would set me apart in his heart forever,
To give him a son.
Now, look what I done?
Assigned it a sex, thus making him real.
Almost at once I begin to feel.
Could be a family.
I imagine the look on his father’s face,
As he holds him in his strong embrace.
Then, I imagine him in my arms,
Where he's supposed to be safe from harms,
And I panic...
Why give up my rich reality,
For this fantasy that could never be,
Nearly as rewarding as people pretend?
I’ve heard too many of my friends,
Say, “If I had to do it over again…”
They preface with,
“I love my child. Don’t get me wrong...”
And then give a list ten pages long,
Of the things they can no longer do.
And all the ways their life is through.
Back to this man that I adore,
We have so much more in store,
And I really don’t want to have to share,
Is that selfish? I don’t really care.
It’s just the way I feel.
One minute ten.
Statistics set in.
When you’re forty three and still out on the town,
Syndromes like Fetal Alcohol and Down,
Are par for the course.
I’ve drank, smoked pot, taken pills for pain,
With that history, I’d be insane…
To think my future wouldn’t feature,
Some pathetic creature,
With fins where there should be fingers and toes,
And an extra penis where there should be a nose.
Or…I could have a perfectly healthy baby.
Or, I could take a luxury trip around the globe.
Buy an elephant and emerald-encrusted robe.
Four hundred and seventy six thousand dollars…
That is what takes to raise a child,
To the age of eighteen,
That’s one million pairs of shoes,
If you know what I mean.
Ten seconds left.
Is this a miracle or a cosmic ruse?
Either way I have to choose.
Do I bring a child into this world?
Or recommit to my life as the party girl.
Times up. Fuck.
_ (05/11/2012) Today’s Flashback Friday is in honor of Mother’s Day.
(08/05/2009) Last night, my plan was to dress as Mary Todd Lincoln and head-up the history table at a Family Fun Back to School Bash. And, I would have been a huge hit...seriously, for some reason, kids love that hoopskirt. I think it's because I could be hiding anything under there. I could be...I don't know...smuggling a cotton candy machine under there. Ooohhhh, wouldn't that be a cool party trick if I could reach under my skirt and pull out a big fluffy ball of pink cotton candy and it looked like I was spinning pastel sugar with my private parts? Or even better, if I actually could--okay, no...no cotton crotch candy. But, I have considered getting one of those motorized coolers that I could sit on and zip around--it would just look like Mary Todd was a ghost, floating all specter-like, and I would always have a chilled beverage. I digress.
Anyway, the torrential rainstorm kept me from retrieving my costume, and forced me into coming up with a Plan B. I opted for the old "Who Am I?" riddle game. So, I wrote these witty little ditties about the following: Abraham Lincoln, Anne Frank, Helen Keller, Martin Luther King Jr., Benjamin Franklin, and Pocahontas (though it appears her whole saving John Smith and thus having real historical relevance was a complete fabrication).
So, I had to convince the children to come over and "Name that Historical Figure" based on the poem I would read. This was no easy task when they also had the cool option to brush a big alligator puppet's teeth, make slimy Gak, or go on a Math scavenger hunt that ended with a big treasure chest full of prizes. Still, I was able to temporarily conquer my pediophobia (fear of children) and lure over a dozen little miserable munchkins to play. My favorite encounter of the night goes as such.
I begin reading the following poem:
As a girl, I wrote in a diary made of red plaid,
Some of it might make you laugh, but more would make you sad,
For in Germany when the Nazis held sway,
The Jews were not welcomed and were forced to go away...
The mother, looking at the list of possible answers, lights up and says, "I've got a hint, honey. There's a song about her." I was intrigued. I'd never heard a song about this tragic story, but I was betting it wouldn't be cheerful. Mom begins to shake her shoulders and sing, "Shush girl. Shut your lips. Do the...come on, baby, you know this... Shush girl. Shut your lips. Do the..."
I am dismayed...appalled...shocked even. I know this song. It's by those obnoxious white fratrats, 3Oh!3. The rest of it goes, "Shush girl. Shut your lips. Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips."
So first things first, Mommy...the answer is NOT Helen Keller. Second, why in the name of Mr. Rogers, Big Bird, and all that is wholesome are you letting your 7-year-old sing about her hips doing the talking? She shouldn't even know she has hips yet. AND, please tell me she doesn't know the rest of the lyrics to this sweet ballad which are about a heroin-addicted club slut and tongues in stranger's mouths and contain barely-bleeped obscenities. You got to be effing kidding me?
So, anyway, the answer was Anne Frank.
_I have always been fascinated by fetishes. Perhaps, because I’ve never really had one. I’ve always had an affinity for armpit hair, but I don’t need to bury my face in it to have a satisfying sexual experience. Recently, much to my surprise, I’ve discovered body hair in general turns me on. I get aroused just by stroking Frank’s chest. And it worries me a little because I have a rather extremist and addictive personality, and if this went a couple of steps further it might morph into full-blown trichophilia where nothing short of a werewolf would get me going. But, currently, hair is not necessary for my arousal, so it is not an actual fetish…YET. But, this new found turn-on caused me to consider other fetishes to which I may be prone.
The following is a list fetishes which may find their way into my bedroom, and beyond:
Macrophilia refers to a fascination with or a sexual fantasy involving giants. This one is worrisome, because of my frequent desire to “be little.” See blog: If Wishes Were Wombats.
Frotteurism involves rubbing against a non-consenting person. This just seems like it could be a fun party game. “Hey Frank, I dare you to run over and rub your elbow on Matt’s butt.”
Feederism is a fat fetish involving a feeder and a feedee where the former gets sexual gratification from stuffing their partner full of food. The more weight the feedee gains, the happier both are. Can you see the appeal? Oftentimes, the goal is to make the feedee so large that they become immobile, and thus completely dependent on the feeder. Perhaps, I could get a liquid version of this going where Frank finds it completely stimulating to pour bourbon down my throat until I become immobile because I’m too snockered to move. We shall deem it Whiskeyphilia.
Stigmatophilia means one who is attracted to body piercings and tattoos. Duh…tats are just sexy.
Sadomasochism broadly refers to the receiving of pleasure—often sexual—from acts involving the infliction or reception of pain or humiliation. I used to think I’d make a kick-ass (pardon the pun) Dominatrix until I realized I dislike most people too much to give them any pleasure, even if it does come from flogging and degrading them.
Plymouthophilia is a pilgrim fetish. This one does not exist in the textbooks, but I made it up because I think Frank may have it. Once, I wore my hair in a bun and an outfit consisting of a long black skirt, high-collared white shirt, and vest, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of me. I could just imagine the role-playing session where I straddle a churn, and he says, “Yeah, that’s it Prudence, work that cream. Faster, Faster, make daddy some butter.”
Now, I must stop writing and go wash my hands. Just typing that made me feel dirty.
Frank: Derby Day at the lake is all a kind of blur…but, the way I remember it, we bet on 14 different horses and none of them won. So, you got mad and threw your hat on the ground, swore you were boycotting Derby, and then piled up a plate with fried chicken and cake and stomped off declaring, “I’m still a vegetarian." And then Doc Grizzly leaned so far off the boat trying to lick a turtle that he fell in headfirst, and panicked, so we had to haul him out. And, then you fell down the steps and somehow ripped your caftan right off your body in the process. At some point in the day, Rufus got separation anxiety and jumped straight through the window taking the screen with him. Then, I sort of recall that the Lake Lesbians hooked up the karaoke machine. You danced to the Electric Slide, then decided to show off your clogging skills, including that move you call the Tennessee Leg Swing. Then I sang Mickey and you sang The Time Warp. Then, we went on a 2am booze cruise down the S-turns with Bullet Don and Dan the Dock Man, so we could see the Super Moon, cause it won’t be that big again until 2029. Is that accurate?
Donna: Yes, that is accurate.
_(10/12/2009) A few years ago I spent Memorial Day in the Madhouse. Upon entering the facility for observation, they asked me a series of questions to determine whether I should stay and for how long. Though several of my answers left me well below the “sane enough to be released to a family cook-out” mark, the one that got my shoelaces snatched away came when they asked if I'd ever considered killing anyone. "Why, of course. I've thought of dozens of creative and dramatic ways," I bragged, "And I know exactly where I'd hide the body."
They gasped. I tried to explain that, as a writer, it was part of my profession to imagine doing things that I would never actually do. And that as a good writer, I must imbue the murderous acts with as much detail as possible to give the reader a richer experience. They didn't buy it, and immediately locked me up until they could figure out just how big a threat I was to myself and others. After three long days, I regained my freedom.
So, how would I kill someone at this point if the opportunity arose…and it was, of course, in self-defense…and they were a total psychopath who really deserved it? It's a no brainer. I'd shoot them with a crossbow--an 80-pound mini crossbow that shoots 200 feet per second with pinpoint accuracy up to 40 yards, to be exact. I often imagine some heinous home invader breaking in only to find me sitting up in bed, grinning from ear to ear, with my faithful crossbow pointed straight toward him as he bursts through the door. He calls me “crazy bitch” and I shoot him in the neck with the razor sharp arrow that I have spray-painted pink and festooned with ribbons so it will look festive as it flies across the room and lodges in his neck. And, then we both laugh and laugh, until he bleeds to death on my bedroom floor.
Frustration by: Dorothy Parker
If I had a shiny gun,
I could have a world of fun
Speeding bullets through the brains
Of the folk who give me pains;
Or had I some poison gas,
I could make the moments pass
Bumping off a number of
People whom I do not love.
But I have no lethal weapon--
Thus does fate our pleasure step on
So they are still quick and well
Who should be, by rights, in hell.
Addition by: Me
If you'd put a cross-bow in my hand,
I'd go all across the land
Putting arrows in the throat
Of all my enemies, then gloat.
(05/04/2012) Last week, two neighbors in Australia got in a heated dispute. They each stomped off to their respective homes and grabbed their weapons of choice. One returned wielding a Samurai sword. The other a chainsaw. At the end of the battle, one was missing all the fingers on his left hand. The other an arm. I am not sure which weapon caused which injury, but I am rethinking the crossbow. I think I may be better served by a Samurai sword.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.