We don't call this Skampcity and Totally Tastefree for nothin'....
Yesterday, I decided to see what would happen if, instead of spreading my ass cheeks apart to maybe quiet the Sound of Fart, I pushed them together to make it louder. I stood in the living room, giggling my fool head off at the idea of it, and decided to find out. Mp just looked at me like I was a crazy person (I am) and I could see his commitment wheels turning ("Am I seriously going to marry this woman? This 35-year old woman who finds it completely and totally hilarious to see if she could make her ass even louder? What the fuck am I thinking?!") Well, I'm sad to report that smooshing yer cheeks together does NOT, in fact, make your fart louder. All it does, really, is force the thing to come out from the path of least resistance. I'll bet that at least one of you can guess where that path might lead. Let's just say that.....instead of getting louder, my flatulence sounded more like deli meat being thrown against a wall. Think about it.
Yep.
You're welcome.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Unconditional, My Asshole.
Several years ago, I had the honor of owning a cat who thought it'd be super awesome to try and give me a Glass Bottom Boat. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for me, we didn't have any SaranWrap, nor does he have opposable thumbs to make it possible for him to use such an item. What's a Glass Bottom Boat? Well, for the uninformed, I give you a this. Check it out during intermission and then return to your seat, as I am not finished with this post. Go on, but scroll down to number three (here I'll post the link again, in case you missed it the first time). Ok. Now that you've got a working definition for Glass Bottom Boat, we can proceed.
Simon was this totally sweet cat I'd adopted from the Humane Society after my first cat ran away. He was long-haired and gray and loved up on anyone, a real chum of a fella. But, he was also obsessed with food. I mean, he'd eat fucking anything. It was kind of disgusting and he ballooned from a svelte 9 pounds to 21. In six months. I know, I know. My fault. I shouldn't have let him eat his own shit when his food dish ran out. I get it. Bad owner. And despite his really taut and shiny stomach (it's what happens when you gain that much weight, apparently), I liked him still. Nicknamed him Obesekitty. And by the way, before you all get self-righteous about pet ownership and wonder what the hell I was doing letting a cat get that fat, well, let me tell you--I did take him to the vet. I had him tested. And he was an otherwise healthy kit who was simply addicted to food (maybe he was molested by his uncle as a child, or his daddy was never home, who knows what caused it). But this post isn't about a fat cat, it's about unconditional love. And I swear we'll have a coming to Jesus moment before I'm through.
I read on Facebook this morning some cheesy feel-good cyber poster about unconditional love. About how it makes the world go 'round and how people aren't perfect and all that other happy horse shit. To you, author of that post, I pick my nose and fling a booger right on your forehead right after I fart in your hat. How much you love me now?
Here at Skampcity we (and by we, I really just mean me) feel that the notion of unconditional love is totally ridiculous. Sure, we talk about it and it makes us feel good to think that we can be total fucking losers and some sad sack of a human is going to love us anyway. I call bullshit. Bull.fucking.shit. I mean, I love the shit out of my Mp, don't get me wrong, but I cannot say that my love is unconditional. If he suddenly developed a penchant for eating my boogers and wearing high heels, chances are I'm outta here. And what if he turned out to really enjoy having shit smeared on his face (see previously posted link)? Am I to love him even still? What if he starts beating me? How about then? See, love is entirely conditional. It's given on the condition that what or who you love isn't going to treat you like a football, or develop a sexual relationship with your brother, or mother, or best friend. There are so many conditions, and many of them aren't even conscious. Maybe if Mp had a differently sloped forehead (like those cave dudes from the Geico commercials), maybe I wouldn't have fallen in love with him in the first place, I dunno. Catching on yet, my brethren?
With all that said, Skamp is wise enough to also know that no one is perfect (except her, of course), and that everyone is going to annoy us and most assuredly our loved ones are going to hurt our feelings from time to time. And so long as these occurrences aren't too much for our hearts to take, then our love is likely to remain. But this isn't about love remains, it's about unconditional love and how unrealistic it is.
So just know, Mp asked me what I was writing about and so I told him. He said "but you love your dog unconditionally". Well, it's close but even still. If she started chewing my face off like that dude in Miami, you can believe I'll be having her put down and buried at the town dump. Screw that backyard shit. (Lucky for her, she'll never do that, and I'll have her buried nestled at the foot of my coffin--because I LOVE HER.) So even still, my love, it has conditions.
So this brings me back to Simon, and the epitome of my lack of unconditional love.
One morning, after a solid night of partying, I woke up and had to pee. I didn't have my glasses on and looked down onto my chest and saw some sort of unidentifiable substance there, which I assumed to be vomit. Rather disgusted with myself for getting so drunk that I puked on my own chest, I went to the bathroom. But when I came back into the bedroom, what I smelled was NOT my own vomit; that substance did not come from me. I had a sneaking suspicion of what it was, because it smelled like 3 dozen fucking cats had shat in my bedroom. Now I don't know if you've ever had the pleasure of smelling cat shit (because maybe you're like me and sensibly refuse to have a shit receptacle for your cat in your house and therefore aren't subjected to that ungodly stink), but it's possibly the worse smelling shit in the entire history of shit. Now put THAT in your imagination pipe and smoke the idea of one turding on your chest. A fucking litter box, right on top of me. What the FUCK?! And possibly the worst part (if there can even BE any "worst parts") is that it wasn't nice, perky turds in my bed, it was an ocean of shitty cat diarrhea. That mother fucker DIARRHEA-ED ON MY FUCKING CHEST. Wanna know what the term for THAT is? It's called a Cleveland Steamer. Yeah, that's right. My asshole cat gave me a CLEVELAND.FUCKING.STEAMER. Now, did I love up on him simply tell him "bad kitty?" NO. I 86'ed that fucker. Sorry, Simon, but mama don't love you no more. Your happy fat ass goes back to the Humane Society, you asshole.
Apparently, love cannot survive getting shat on on your chest. See my love, it has conditions.
Simon was this totally sweet cat I'd adopted from the Humane Society after my first cat ran away. He was long-haired and gray and loved up on anyone, a real chum of a fella. But, he was also obsessed with food. I mean, he'd eat fucking anything. It was kind of disgusting and he ballooned from a svelte 9 pounds to 21. In six months. I know, I know. My fault. I shouldn't have let him eat his own shit when his food dish ran out. I get it. Bad owner. And despite his really taut and shiny stomach (it's what happens when you gain that much weight, apparently), I liked him still. Nicknamed him Obesekitty. And by the way, before you all get self-righteous about pet ownership and wonder what the hell I was doing letting a cat get that fat, well, let me tell you--I did take him to the vet. I had him tested. And he was an otherwise healthy kit who was simply addicted to food (maybe he was molested by his uncle as a child, or his daddy was never home, who knows what caused it). But this post isn't about a fat cat, it's about unconditional love. And I swear we'll have a coming to Jesus moment before I'm through.
I read on Facebook this morning some cheesy feel-good cyber poster about unconditional love. About how it makes the world go 'round and how people aren't perfect and all that other happy horse shit. To you, author of that post, I pick my nose and fling a booger right on your forehead right after I fart in your hat. How much you love me now?
Here at Skampcity we (and by we, I really just mean me) feel that the notion of unconditional love is totally ridiculous. Sure, we talk about it and it makes us feel good to think that we can be total fucking losers and some sad sack of a human is going to love us anyway. I call bullshit. Bull.fucking.shit. I mean, I love the shit out of my Mp, don't get me wrong, but I cannot say that my love is unconditional. If he suddenly developed a penchant for eating my boogers and wearing high heels, chances are I'm outta here. And what if he turned out to really enjoy having shit smeared on his face (see previously posted link)? Am I to love him even still? What if he starts beating me? How about then? See, love is entirely conditional. It's given on the condition that what or who you love isn't going to treat you like a football, or develop a sexual relationship with your brother, or mother, or best friend. There are so many conditions, and many of them aren't even conscious. Maybe if Mp had a differently sloped forehead (like those cave dudes from the Geico commercials), maybe I wouldn't have fallen in love with him in the first place, I dunno. Catching on yet, my brethren?
With all that said, Skamp is wise enough to also know that no one is perfect (except her, of course), and that everyone is going to annoy us and most assuredly our loved ones are going to hurt our feelings from time to time. And so long as these occurrences aren't too much for our hearts to take, then our love is likely to remain. But this isn't about love remains, it's about unconditional love and how unrealistic it is.
So just know, Mp asked me what I was writing about and so I told him. He said "but you love your dog unconditionally". Well, it's close but even still. If she started chewing my face off like that dude in Miami, you can believe I'll be having her put down and buried at the town dump. Screw that backyard shit. (Lucky for her, she'll never do that, and I'll have her buried nestled at the foot of my coffin--because I LOVE HER.) So even still, my love, it has conditions.
So this brings me back to Simon, and the epitome of my lack of unconditional love.
One morning, after a solid night of partying, I woke up and had to pee. I didn't have my glasses on and looked down onto my chest and saw some sort of unidentifiable substance there, which I assumed to be vomit. Rather disgusted with myself for getting so drunk that I puked on my own chest, I went to the bathroom. But when I came back into the bedroom, what I smelled was NOT my own vomit; that substance did not come from me. I had a sneaking suspicion of what it was, because it smelled like 3 dozen fucking cats had shat in my bedroom. Now I don't know if you've ever had the pleasure of smelling cat shit (because maybe you're like me and sensibly refuse to have a shit receptacle for your cat in your house and therefore aren't subjected to that ungodly stink), but it's possibly the worse smelling shit in the entire history of shit. Now put THAT in your imagination pipe and smoke the idea of one turding on your chest. A fucking litter box, right on top of me. What the FUCK?! And possibly the worst part (if there can even BE any "worst parts") is that it wasn't nice, perky turds in my bed, it was an ocean of shitty cat diarrhea. That mother fucker DIARRHEA-ED ON MY FUCKING CHEST. Wanna know what the term for THAT is? It's called a Cleveland Steamer. Yeah, that's right. My asshole cat gave me a CLEVELAND.FUCKING.STEAMER. Now, did I love up on him simply tell him "bad kitty?" NO. I 86'ed that fucker. Sorry, Simon, but mama don't love you no more. Your happy fat ass goes back to the Humane Society, you asshole.
Apparently, love cannot survive getting shat on on your chest. See my love, it has conditions.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Picking Up Subject of..Book. (Don-kay)
I've been asked or told on a number of occasions that I really ought to think about publishing my drivel of a blog. I admit that the lofty idea of a small measurement of fame really appeals to me--of COURSE I'd like to have book signings and feel really important in one hour stints. People lined up to meet me? OH HELLZ yeah. I'd feel real super awesome if my totally unimportant writing ever broke into the bigger world beyond just the people who know me. Yep, that'd be totally fucking TITS, ya'll. But... there's a whole lot that has to happen before I can don diamonds and boas, before I can become a Material Girl.
Know what needs to happen? WORK. A whole shit ton of WORK. Not only a whole bunch more writing, but then there's the research of what it'd take to put these obnoxious musing to paper and get them bound. I have zero idea where to even begin that process. And to be honest, sitting right here, in front of my Mac at the dining room table, the idea is giving me total anxiety. Not the kind where I hyperventilate and crawl under the bed (yes, I've done that before and it totally fucking SUCKS DONKEY BALLS), but the kind that chew my stomach up. Because I'm sort of afraid of failure. I'm afraid to get my hopes up and then have some really tight douche wad in a fancy office somewhere tell me that I'm totally unoriginal and besides--who would possibly give a SHIT about my writing aside from those that know me? I mean, let's look at those who have written books similar to what I'd put out:
But, maybe some day, when I've gotten dozens more posts and stories written, and you guys have shared my shit with your friends and they share it with THEIR friends (you know, kinda like a herpes outbreak, only minus the puss and shame). Yes, maybe when you all help spread the word of Skamp, maybe then I'll crawl out of my sissy-shell and see what I can do about getting someone greater than myself interested in what I have to say. Until then, I'm just your obnoxious sister, friend, lover, daughter, student, bartendress who's struggling with getting her voice heard.
And before I forget, thank you friends, for reading this and supporting me. If I didn't see those pesky numbers go up on my page, I'd probably throw some kind of rock star temper tantrum and quit this thing. But those DO numbers keep creepin' up, and it makes me happier than a pig n' shit.
Peace out girl scouts, and may you get drunk and laid today.
Know what needs to happen? WORK. A whole shit ton of WORK. Not only a whole bunch more writing, but then there's the research of what it'd take to put these obnoxious musing to paper and get them bound. I have zero idea where to even begin that process. And to be honest, sitting right here, in front of my Mac at the dining room table, the idea is giving me total anxiety. Not the kind where I hyperventilate and crawl under the bed (yes, I've done that before and it totally fucking SUCKS DONKEY BALLS), but the kind that chew my stomach up. Because I'm sort of afraid of failure. I'm afraid to get my hopes up and then have some really tight douche wad in a fancy office somewhere tell me that I'm totally unoriginal and besides--who would possibly give a SHIT about my writing aside from those that know me? I mean, let's look at those who have written books similar to what I'd put out:
- Chelsea Handler. Possibly my most favorite humor-writer ever because she tells it like it is. Which, I pride myself on doing that very same thing, but she already had a stand-up career and a television show on Comedy Central. So people WANTED to read her shit because they already had an idea of what they were getting into.
- Jenny Lawson. You've probably never heard of her, but she has a wickedly successful blog, and therefore had a substantial following even before she wrote her book. Again, there was already a market for selling her.
- Um.. David Sedaris. Ok, HE might be my favorite, and I have no idea which chicken came first: his writing, or his appearances on This American Life. Either way, people know his name and want to buy his shit because he's TOTALLY FUCKING HILARIOUS.
- Augusten Burroughs. Now here we go. He wasn't famous at all. But he WAS an ad exec in NYC and therefore had somewhat of a name for himself and certainly had contacts. Plus he was a gay dude who went to rehab. Everyone loves gay dudes who go to rehab.
But, maybe some day, when I've gotten dozens more posts and stories written, and you guys have shared my shit with your friends and they share it with THEIR friends (you know, kinda like a herpes outbreak, only minus the puss and shame). Yes, maybe when you all help spread the word of Skamp, maybe then I'll crawl out of my sissy-shell and see what I can do about getting someone greater than myself interested in what I have to say. Until then, I'm just your obnoxious sister, friend, lover, daughter, student, bartendress who's struggling with getting her voice heard.
And before I forget, thank you friends, for reading this and supporting me. If I didn't see those pesky numbers go up on my page, I'd probably throw some kind of rock star temper tantrum and quit this thing. But those DO numbers keep creepin' up, and it makes me happier than a pig n' shit.
Peace out girl scouts, and may you get drunk and laid today.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Fountain of... Shit, I'm Getting Old
Part of the reason I ever started this blog in the first place was because I kind of like my own voice. This means that I tend to talk. A lot. Like, a whole lot. Like, voted Class Chatterbox, a lot. And if I get drunk and I'm in a really happy and jovial mood, there's a chance that you'll want to stuff either your dirty socks or a frozen hotdog down my throat to get me to shut up. But that rarely ever happens. Me getting drunk, I mean. Seriously. I, like, never get drunk because it's so...beneath my dignity. And, I also have some land for sale in an ocean somewhere.
Anyway, back to ME (mememememmememe!!) and Skampcity. One of the reasons I started this blog was because I more or less find myself and my life hilarious and feel that my utmost purpose in life is to amuse myself. And if the rest of you find me funny too, well that's a really good side benefit. And if you think I'm REALLY funny, you can always toss me some cash. Because Skamp really really likes cash. The bigger the bills, the happier it'll make me, I assure you. Whoever said that money doesn't buy happiness has clearly never lived on Ramen for lunch. (Well, psshhht, neither have I but I imagine it'd make me feel miserable and homeless)
Anyway, part deux. One of the reasons I started this blog was because I like my voice. I like my take on the world and wanted to share myself with that world. And so what I'm trying to say is that I'm writing this blog because I'm a complete and unapologetic narcissist. In fact, I'll go out on a limb and say that anyone who writes a blog (and shares it) is a narcissist. And if they say they aren't they're totally lying.
So. Take all that narcissism and my (coolest and most interesting) blog (in the entire universe) and I've got myself a really great way to keep myself occupied for hours. But not from writing, because you know what I do when I publish a new post? I check my stats obsessively, watching my "number of times viewed" go up. Why do you think I've got my views ticker at the top of my page? It's so I have the quickest, most direct line to gratification as bloggingly possible. And if, by some stroke of really bad luck, I see those numbers stall out for too long, I start getting totally freaked and wonder why the hell people aren't reading my shit. I get butt hurt and my self-esteem begins to plummet (thankfully it's got a long way to go before it fully tanks out). Delightedly, I'm almost always blessed with enough views to soothe my wee little ego. Props to you guys, you're reenforcing my obnoxious behavior and I love you for it.
Well. Now my secret's out. I'm a total egomaniac. And I've always loved the fact that people have always thought that I was younger than I am, typically guessing me to be in my 20s--hip hip! Thank you strangers! And then, well, and then this week happened. This week, Skamp was told TWICE (as if once wasn't enough) by 20-something year old kids that they thought I was in my 40s. Insert sigh of resignation here. Skamp, in her 40s? Well, it's not like being in my 40s would be a bad thing--if I were in my 40s, goddammit. I mean, I wear my age of 35 with pride, and feel that I always wil. But that's because people have always thought me younger than I actually am. But this new thing, I'm totally beside myself and don't have any idea what to do about it.
So...what the fuck? What's happening to me?! I feel just like that kid David from that YouTube video-- "Is this real life? Why is this happening to me?" Only, instead of just leaving the dentist, I've just been told I'm ancient. I feel like I'm walking around, feeling funny and thinking you all have four eyes.
Watch the following video (in the event you haven't seen it because you've had your head so far up your ass that you can see daylight) and you'll see exactly how this is making me feel:
So what the fuck, fuck? It's not my clothes. It's not my stellar and shiny personality making me older. Ah HA. It's my fucking hair. I just got my hair cut by a fancy hair-doer guy and I think maybe he's made me look like an old lesbian. But I can fix that. I can fix my hair. I can stop washing it and get that pseudo-rocker-chick/soccer-mom look going again, what I had going for me when people used to think I was cool. And then once again I'll be on top of my age game.
Yes, I think that not washing my hair is going to be my very own fountain of youth. But don't tell anyone. And whatever you do, do NOT smell my comb right after I've used it.
Anyway, back to ME (mememememmememe!!) and Skampcity. One of the reasons I started this blog was because I more or less find myself and my life hilarious and feel that my utmost purpose in life is to amuse myself. And if the rest of you find me funny too, well that's a really good side benefit. And if you think I'm REALLY funny, you can always toss me some cash. Because Skamp really really likes cash. The bigger the bills, the happier it'll make me, I assure you. Whoever said that money doesn't buy happiness has clearly never lived on Ramen for lunch. (Well, psshhht, neither have I but I imagine it'd make me feel miserable and homeless)
Anyway, part deux. One of the reasons I started this blog was because I like my voice. I like my take on the world and wanted to share myself with that world. And so what I'm trying to say is that I'm writing this blog because I'm a complete and unapologetic narcissist. In fact, I'll go out on a limb and say that anyone who writes a blog (and shares it) is a narcissist. And if they say they aren't they're totally lying.
So. Take all that narcissism and my (coolest and most interesting) blog (in the entire universe) and I've got myself a really great way to keep myself occupied for hours. But not from writing, because you know what I do when I publish a new post? I check my stats obsessively, watching my "number of times viewed" go up. Why do you think I've got my views ticker at the top of my page? It's so I have the quickest, most direct line to gratification as bloggingly possible. And if, by some stroke of really bad luck, I see those numbers stall out for too long, I start getting totally freaked and wonder why the hell people aren't reading my shit. I get butt hurt and my self-esteem begins to plummet (thankfully it's got a long way to go before it fully tanks out). Delightedly, I'm almost always blessed with enough views to soothe my wee little ego. Props to you guys, you're reenforcing my obnoxious behavior and I love you for it.
Well. Now my secret's out. I'm a total egomaniac. And I've always loved the fact that people have always thought that I was younger than I am, typically guessing me to be in my 20s--hip hip! Thank you strangers! And then, well, and then this week happened. This week, Skamp was told TWICE (as if once wasn't enough) by 20-something year old kids that they thought I was in my 40s. Insert sigh of resignation here. Skamp, in her 40s? Well, it's not like being in my 40s would be a bad thing--if I were in my 40s, goddammit. I mean, I wear my age of 35 with pride, and feel that I always wil. But that's because people have always thought me younger than I actually am. But this new thing, I'm totally beside myself and don't have any idea what to do about it.
So...what the fuck? What's happening to me?! I feel just like that kid David from that YouTube video-- "Is this real life? Why is this happening to me?" Only, instead of just leaving the dentist, I've just been told I'm ancient. I feel like I'm walking around, feeling funny and thinking you all have four eyes.
Watch the following video (in the event you haven't seen it because you've had your head so far up your ass that you can see daylight) and you'll see exactly how this is making me feel:
(Ain't that just stupidly hilarious?!)
So what the fuck, fuck? It's not my clothes. It's not my stellar and shiny personality making me older. Ah HA. It's my fucking hair. I just got my hair cut by a fancy hair-doer guy and I think maybe he's made me look like an old lesbian. But I can fix that. I can fix my hair. I can stop washing it and get that pseudo-rocker-chick/soccer-mom look going again, what I had going for me when people used to think I was cool. And then once again I'll be on top of my age game.
Yes, I think that not washing my hair is going to be my very own fountain of youth. But don't tell anyone. And whatever you do, do NOT smell my comb right after I've used it.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Milkshakes
Greeeeeat... Apparently, my love muffin is, or was, due for a scraping. Awesome. No, really. I think every gal just loooves getting her cooter scraped by someone they hardly know. Let me see a show of hands: Who here likes going to the Gyno? Bueller? Buuueller? No one? No? Huh. Crazy. No one is raising their hand because it fucking SUCKS. It sucks worse than the first time you had sex.
Geeeawwd. So, in case your rather large and intelligent head hasn't figured it out by now, I had to go get a Pap Smear. I know it's a good and proper thing, getting it done-- it's nice to know your body and to keep up on early signs of cancer and all that happy horseshit. But when she says "ok, strip from the waist down and cover up with this über fashionable over-sized paper towel" and leaves the room, that's when shit gets uncomfortable, every.single.time. So there I am, covered in goosebumps because for whatever reason those type of exam rooms are always freezing-- it's like being in a meat locker and she's trying to keep flies away from my meat curtains. Awesome fuckin' sauce. I can't imagine that the goosebumps on my bits are attractive--I think of a half plucked, raw chicken.
Anyway. I'm in the freezing meat locker, covered in a paper towel, and she comes back in. And I try stalling, every time. I ask questions, tell jokes, shoot ping pong balls out my asshole, whatever it takes. I act like a circus freak just to keep her from snapping on those rubber gloves and asking me to "scoot forward till your bottom hangs off the end." Ack. It never works. They can see through my charade and it never gets me anywhere. But I always try anyway. I just LOATHE it-- and why is it that every office has oven mitts to cover up the stirrup things for your feet? Can't they come up with something better than that? What do oven mitts have to do with the burger buffet between my legs?
At any rate. You gals all know the drill. This time, though, the gal donned a fucking head lamp. A head lamp? Really? And it was the kind that you'd wear, you know, HIKING. At NIGHT. It made me feel like she was about to go spelunking in a cave. Which, I guess in a way, she was.
After she spelunked all up (er, down?) in my bidness, she said the only thing I imagine that could ever give a gal a sense of pride in an otherwise graceless and degrading situation: "Hm..Oh my honey, I'm having a hard time finding your cervix because it's so TINY."
Woah, wait. Hold the fucking phone. ME? A TINY CERVIX? Are you sure you have the right vagina? I might've picked one up by mistake on my way here this morning. Sucked that sucker right up with the black hole that is my, um...gently used lady parts.
So me and my new, extra vagina went home glowing that day, with the knowledge that I finally know what my milkshake is, and why it brings all the boys to the yard.
Geeeawwd. So, in case your rather large and intelligent head hasn't figured it out by now, I had to go get a Pap Smear. I know it's a good and proper thing, getting it done-- it's nice to know your body and to keep up on early signs of cancer and all that happy horseshit. But when she says "ok, strip from the waist down and cover up with this über fashionable over-sized paper towel" and leaves the room, that's when shit gets uncomfortable, every.single.time. So there I am, covered in goosebumps because for whatever reason those type of exam rooms are always freezing-- it's like being in a meat locker and she's trying to keep flies away from my meat curtains. Awesome fuckin' sauce. I can't imagine that the goosebumps on my bits are attractive--I think of a half plucked, raw chicken.
Anyway. I'm in the freezing meat locker, covered in a paper towel, and she comes back in. And I try stalling, every time. I ask questions, tell jokes, shoot ping pong balls out my asshole, whatever it takes. I act like a circus freak just to keep her from snapping on those rubber gloves and asking me to "scoot forward till your bottom hangs off the end." Ack. It never works. They can see through my charade and it never gets me anywhere. But I always try anyway. I just LOATHE it-- and why is it that every office has oven mitts to cover up the stirrup things for your feet? Can't they come up with something better than that? What do oven mitts have to do with the burger buffet between my legs?
At any rate. You gals all know the drill. This time, though, the gal donned a fucking head lamp. A head lamp? Really? And it was the kind that you'd wear, you know, HIKING. At NIGHT. It made me feel like she was about to go spelunking in a cave. Which, I guess in a way, she was.
After she spelunked all up (er, down?) in my bidness, she said the only thing I imagine that could ever give a gal a sense of pride in an otherwise graceless and degrading situation: "Hm..Oh my honey, I'm having a hard time finding your cervix because it's so TINY."
Woah, wait. Hold the fucking phone. ME? A TINY CERVIX? Are you sure you have the right vagina? I might've picked one up by mistake on my way here this morning. Sucked that sucker right up with the black hole that is my, um...gently used lady parts.
So me and my new, extra vagina went home glowing that day, with the knowledge that I finally know what my milkshake is, and why it brings all the boys to the yard.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Potential's An Ugly Word. Or, Solutions to the Sound of Fart
When I first met my hubby-to-be (yeah, that's right--SKAMPCITY IS GETTING MARRIED), I initially found myself rather shy in the farting department. Which, of course, didn't last much longer than a 16 year old boy the first time he gets laid. But that's beside the point.
In those first few weeks of dating "Mp", holding back my farts was a discomfort Skamp is not accustomed to. In fact, it totally fucking SUCKS. So to remedy this (as we know that actual refrainment is not a viable long-term solution for me), I came up with a genius plan. Somewhere along the way, it dawned on me that most of the noise from flatulence comes from my large, wimpy butt cheeks flapping in the flatulent breeze. So in a way, farts are kind of like your butt cheeks clapping in approval. Butt applause, if you will. "Way to go, Skamp! That was a good one!" Now here's where you might be asking yourselves "what's the point of all this? Hm?" Oh, right. The point is that I'm HILARIOUS and HILARIOUS PEOPLE talk about stupid shit. But, is this really stupid shit, or is it disguised brilliance? I'm going with the latter, because I'd finally found the key to letting those fuckers rip without my new boyfriend knowing about it. (Unless, of course, it reeks like last week's cat turds sitting in a puddle of stagnant water--then you're totally fucked.) Friends, the solution is finally here. Drum roll please: you grab your cheeks and spread them apart while flatulating. Instead of making heads turn with your cheeks clapping like overly proud parents at a Little League game, your fart is barely audible with only a slight "wissshh." Holy shit balls, I outta win some kind of Nobel Prize for that. I'm a regular Stephen Hawking. Minus the wheel chair. And the inability to speak. I wonder if he's ever gotten a boner?
Well, any hooooo... what's all that go to do with potential? I'll get to that, eventually.
Before I met my wonderful fiance, I spent a number of years dating this really kind, wonderful fella who used to do copious amount of cocaine, drink for days at a time, lie to me about anything and everything, and stalk me all the way to NY. He was kinda romantic, that way. He would charmingly whisper sweet nothings in my ear like "oh baby, you're so...FAT. How'd you get that way? You know how embarrassing it is to be seen with you when you're so FAT?" Oh lawd a' mercy did I love that man and all the love and commitment he bestowed upon me. You might wonder how'd I manage to hang on to such a charmer for so many years. I held on to him for one reason, for one word: potential. When he'd call me a piece of shit, he was always drunk, or high, or both. And of course I'd cry and tell myself that I was going to leave that fucker in the morning. But the thing was, in the morning he'd feel so incredibly bad about saying all those things ("Why you throwing up, huh? Because you're fat? Because you're trying to lose some weight?"). He'd look at right through me with those gorgeous and enormous blue eyes and tell me he didn't mean it, that he'd never do it again. That it was time he went to AA and ditched his cocaine friends. He'd show me, you know, his potential. And I'd look back at him and see that he really DID mean it, that he really WASN'T an asshole, just a lost puppy who couldn't seem to get the addiction monkey off his back. Yeah, that's right... I saw his potential. And I held on to that potential until my self-esteem completely shit the bed, until I was completely terrified every time I heard the sound of diesel trucks (because after I'd left him, he promised his sweet little promise that he'd run me over if he saw me crossing the street). Yeah, that potential is such a darling little concept. So darling, it cost me my self-respect and several years of my life. And so the next time you find yourself repeating to yourself "oh, but he has potential", put that dick down and RUN. Run as fast as you can, sister, because he ain't never gonna cut it for you.
Alright...And this, my faithful following, brings me to my point: For a while there, I also thought that my future husband had the potential to be my future husband. But the problem was that I also kept seeing in him who I'd hope that he'd become. I kept hoping he'd snore less and miraculously stop dropping his shit all over the place. And by shit I mean stuff-- like clothes. Not shit as in spider monkey. But after 4 years, we're finally getting hitched. Because I stopped looking for his potential and have accepted him for exactly who he is. And since then, our love has been pretty fucking sweet. Like, the kind of love all you unfortunate a-holes wish YOU could have. The kind of love that makes fun of itself, that keeps us laughing most times. The kind that sticks around when I'm being a total monster bitch, blowing hot flames in every direction (from both the front AND the back). No we aren't a walking Hallmark card; you won't find any sort of rom/com cheese anywhere near our relationship. But what you WILL find, is two people who more-or-less accepts the other for exactly who they are. I accept him and his snoring (well, in that I punch him in the side every time he wakes me up, but whatever). And he, well he accepts me too. Because that one time, when I so brilliantly spread my cheeks, he heard me. No, my cheeks didn't clap together, but he did hear the rush of wind coming out my asshole. He heard it and looked at me, puzzled, and said "Um... this is going to sound weird, but... did you just spread your ass cheeks apart so I wouldn't hear you fart?" Sheepishly, I responded "um, no fucking WAY! What kind of girl would do such a thing? Sheesh. I've got at least a little bit of class." But he knew better. He knew better, knows even better now, and you know what? He's not looking for any more potential either.
What's the moral of my story? Potential is an ugly, dangerous word. Potential can keep you hoping for the impossible, keeping you miserable. And it also can keep you from seeing that what's right in front of you is exactly what you needed in the first place.
In those first few weeks of dating "Mp", holding back my farts was a discomfort Skamp is not accustomed to. In fact, it totally fucking SUCKS. So to remedy this (as we know that actual refrainment is not a viable long-term solution for me), I came up with a genius plan. Somewhere along the way, it dawned on me that most of the noise from flatulence comes from my large, wimpy butt cheeks flapping in the flatulent breeze. So in a way, farts are kind of like your butt cheeks clapping in approval. Butt applause, if you will. "Way to go, Skamp! That was a good one!" Now here's where you might be asking yourselves "what's the point of all this? Hm?" Oh, right. The point is that I'm HILARIOUS and HILARIOUS PEOPLE talk about stupid shit. But, is this really stupid shit, or is it disguised brilliance? I'm going with the latter, because I'd finally found the key to letting those fuckers rip without my new boyfriend knowing about it. (Unless, of course, it reeks like last week's cat turds sitting in a puddle of stagnant water--then you're totally fucked.) Friends, the solution is finally here. Drum roll please: you grab your cheeks and spread them apart while flatulating. Instead of making heads turn with your cheeks clapping like overly proud parents at a Little League game, your fart is barely audible with only a slight "wissshh." Holy shit balls, I outta win some kind of Nobel Prize for that. I'm a regular Stephen Hawking. Minus the wheel chair. And the inability to speak. I wonder if he's ever gotten a boner?
Well, any hooooo... what's all that go to do with potential? I'll get to that, eventually.
Before I met my wonderful fiance, I spent a number of years dating this really kind, wonderful fella who used to do copious amount of cocaine, drink for days at a time, lie to me about anything and everything, and stalk me all the way to NY. He was kinda romantic, that way. He would charmingly whisper sweet nothings in my ear like "oh baby, you're so...FAT. How'd you get that way? You know how embarrassing it is to be seen with you when you're so FAT?" Oh lawd a' mercy did I love that man and all the love and commitment he bestowed upon me. You might wonder how'd I manage to hang on to such a charmer for so many years. I held on to him for one reason, for one word: potential. When he'd call me a piece of shit, he was always drunk, or high, or both. And of course I'd cry and tell myself that I was going to leave that fucker in the morning. But the thing was, in the morning he'd feel so incredibly bad about saying all those things ("Why you throwing up, huh? Because you're fat? Because you're trying to lose some weight?"). He'd look at right through me with those gorgeous and enormous blue eyes and tell me he didn't mean it, that he'd never do it again. That it was time he went to AA and ditched his cocaine friends. He'd show me, you know, his potential. And I'd look back at him and see that he really DID mean it, that he really WASN'T an asshole, just a lost puppy who couldn't seem to get the addiction monkey off his back. Yeah, that's right... I saw his potential. And I held on to that potential until my self-esteem completely shit the bed, until I was completely terrified every time I heard the sound of diesel trucks (because after I'd left him, he promised his sweet little promise that he'd run me over if he saw me crossing the street). Yeah, that potential is such a darling little concept. So darling, it cost me my self-respect and several years of my life. And so the next time you find yourself repeating to yourself "oh, but he has potential", put that dick down and RUN. Run as fast as you can, sister, because he ain't never gonna cut it for you.
Alright...And this, my faithful following, brings me to my point: For a while there, I also thought that my future husband had the potential to be my future husband. But the problem was that I also kept seeing in him who I'd hope that he'd become. I kept hoping he'd snore less and miraculously stop dropping his shit all over the place. And by shit I mean stuff-- like clothes. Not shit as in spider monkey. But after 4 years, we're finally getting hitched. Because I stopped looking for his potential and have accepted him for exactly who he is. And since then, our love has been pretty fucking sweet. Like, the kind of love all you unfortunate a-holes wish YOU could have. The kind of love that makes fun of itself, that keeps us laughing most times. The kind that sticks around when I'm being a total monster bitch, blowing hot flames in every direction (from both the front AND the back). No we aren't a walking Hallmark card; you won't find any sort of rom/com cheese anywhere near our relationship. But what you WILL find, is two people who more-or-less accepts the other for exactly who they are. I accept him and his snoring (well, in that I punch him in the side every time he wakes me up, but whatever). And he, well he accepts me too. Because that one time, when I so brilliantly spread my cheeks, he heard me. No, my cheeks didn't clap together, but he did hear the rush of wind coming out my asshole. He heard it and looked at me, puzzled, and said "Um... this is going to sound weird, but... did you just spread your ass cheeks apart so I wouldn't hear you fart?" Sheepishly, I responded "um, no fucking WAY! What kind of girl would do such a thing? Sheesh. I've got at least a little bit of class." But he knew better. He knew better, knows even better now, and you know what? He's not looking for any more potential either.
What's the moral of my story? Potential is an ugly, dangerous word. Potential can keep you hoping for the impossible, keeping you miserable. And it also can keep you from seeing that what's right in front of you is exactly what you needed in the first place.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Dogs, Not Diamonds
Whoever said that diamonds were a girl's best friend clearly never owned a dog.
This morning, whilst picking off the dried booger I found on my cheek (gross), I was perusing Facebook and learned that an old friend of mine had just lost her big ol' goofy-assed Mastiff. He was a hell of a dog, and to those who didn't know him, his size could be terribly intimidating. But like most big dogs, his bark was worse than his bite and he was the sweetest thing ever. And his "owner", if we can even call her that as I think "human companion" is a more apt title, is terribly sad today. And so of course, that's led Skamp to think about her own mutt. I cannot even beGIN to tell you how much I love her. My dog is a total pain in the ass, but I love her more than most people. Maybe more than ANY person. Because if someone said to me that it was either them or her, I'd pick her and toss your ass to the curb, any day of the WEEK. She holds an absolute cherished place in my heart that no one can fit into, save for her. And I know that, one day, she'll move on to greener pastures, but until then- I'm going to enjoy her in all her obnoxious ways.
What does she do that's so obnoxious, you ask? Well, she dug up one of my flower beds-TWICE- even AFTER I put stakes and string all around it. She dug it up and now it's become her favorite outdoor bed. ANNOYING. She also barks at nothing, unless she hears and sees ghosts that I'm not aware of. She gets into the garbage can and will eat pretty much anything in there, the nastier the better- especially used tampons. She is a total bed hog-- even a king size isn't enough for her and myself. She whines when I don't feed her on time. She whines when she sees me leave the house on a walk and I don't take her with me. She is rude and will push herself through a doorway before I have a chance to. She has to eat really expensive, hypo-allergenic dog food that costs more than my typical meal, or her coat will fall out. She does, like, eight THOUSAND things that annoy me. But you know what the worst thing she does is? If I sleep naked, which I like to do, she will roll over and lick my nipple. I fucking kid you not. It's disgusting and makes me feel incredibly dirty. How would you like to wake up feeling someone lick your nipple, and in the haze of being barely conscious not realize what's going on.. and find yourself enjoying it for about two fractions of a second before you realize.... that it's your dog! ACK! GROSS!! Oh my god, it makes me feel violated EVERY FUCKING TIME! I don't know where she got that from- it's not like I ever put peanut butter on my nipples- I only save that trick for my asshole. But somewhere along the way, that dog of mine decided that it was a natural thing for her to do. Fucking GROSS. So now, I rarely sleep naked, because I don't want to be nipple-raped by my dog. Yeah, that's right. Nipple-fucking-raped.
But despite all that, I cannot ever seem to get enough of petting her, of snuggling with her, of having her right by my side. I'd do just about anything for that mutt I rescued from the shelter. If I were a kangaroo, there are times when I'd fold up all 80 pounds of her and put her in my big kangaroo pouch. I love her so so so so much and usually refer to her as the best thing that ever happened to me.
So, screw diamonds. As I said, DOGS are a girl's best friend.
This morning, whilst picking off the dried booger I found on my cheek (gross), I was perusing Facebook and learned that an old friend of mine had just lost her big ol' goofy-assed Mastiff. He was a hell of a dog, and to those who didn't know him, his size could be terribly intimidating. But like most big dogs, his bark was worse than his bite and he was the sweetest thing ever. And his "owner", if we can even call her that as I think "human companion" is a more apt title, is terribly sad today. And so of course, that's led Skamp to think about her own mutt. I cannot even beGIN to tell you how much I love her. My dog is a total pain in the ass, but I love her more than most people. Maybe more than ANY person. Because if someone said to me that it was either them or her, I'd pick her and toss your ass to the curb, any day of the WEEK. She holds an absolute cherished place in my heart that no one can fit into, save for her. And I know that, one day, she'll move on to greener pastures, but until then- I'm going to enjoy her in all her obnoxious ways.
What does she do that's so obnoxious, you ask? Well, she dug up one of my flower beds-TWICE- even AFTER I put stakes and string all around it. She dug it up and now it's become her favorite outdoor bed. ANNOYING. She also barks at nothing, unless she hears and sees ghosts that I'm not aware of. She gets into the garbage can and will eat pretty much anything in there, the nastier the better- especially used tampons. She is a total bed hog-- even a king size isn't enough for her and myself. She whines when I don't feed her on time. She whines when she sees me leave the house on a walk and I don't take her with me. She is rude and will push herself through a doorway before I have a chance to. She has to eat really expensive, hypo-allergenic dog food that costs more than my typical meal, or her coat will fall out. She does, like, eight THOUSAND things that annoy me. But you know what the worst thing she does is? If I sleep naked, which I like to do, she will roll over and lick my nipple. I fucking kid you not. It's disgusting and makes me feel incredibly dirty. How would you like to wake up feeling someone lick your nipple, and in the haze of being barely conscious not realize what's going on.. and find yourself enjoying it for about two fractions of a second before you realize.... that it's your dog! ACK! GROSS!! Oh my god, it makes me feel violated EVERY FUCKING TIME! I don't know where she got that from- it's not like I ever put peanut butter on my nipples- I only save that trick for my asshole. But somewhere along the way, that dog of mine decided that it was a natural thing for her to do. Fucking GROSS. So now, I rarely sleep naked, because I don't want to be nipple-raped by my dog. Yeah, that's right. Nipple-fucking-raped.
But despite all that, I cannot ever seem to get enough of petting her, of snuggling with her, of having her right by my side. I'd do just about anything for that mutt I rescued from the shelter. If I were a kangaroo, there are times when I'd fold up all 80 pounds of her and put her in my big kangaroo pouch. I love her so so so so much and usually refer to her as the best thing that ever happened to me.
So, screw diamonds. As I said, DOGS are a girl's best friend.
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