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.

Skampcity Goes To College, Bitches.

This week I was asked:  Besides possibly getting roofied at a frat party and getting raped by a midget with three nipples, what do I fear the most about hopping back on the school saddle?  Ack… Where do I even BEGIN??

There are numerous things that I’m afraid of.  To begin with, I’m borderline, no, wait, COMPLETELY, terrified about doing online courses.  I fear that I’ll procrastinate like crazy and then struggle to make it all up towards the end of the semester.  I hope that I do not, but I fear that my habits will get the best of me and I’ll wait till the last possible minute (and by habits, I'm not referring to my copious meth use, because as any meth head will tell you, crystal makes me git shit DONE-- my oven looks like it's brand fuckin' NEW.. just kiddin'.  Seriously though, I'm referring to my study habits-- which leave a LOT to be desired.)
 
I’ve pretty much always had a shit ton of fear about online classes for the very reason mentioned above.  However, given the fact that I live smack in the middle of nowhere, it’s really the only option that I have in finishing my degree.  The closest college is 77 miles away—a long drive, especially in the winter.  And also, I’m not sure I could afford the gas during the financially lean months of winter, without whoring myself out at 20 bucks a pop.  That said, being afraid, I also feel that one must confront one’s fears.  I’ve always said that courage doesn’t come from simply not being afraid—it comes from being afraid and doing it anyway.  Right?  Right.  So, I shall stare this right in the face, and prove to myself that I can do it.  Because, bottom line is that I NEED to finish my Psych degree.  I am TIRED of being in the service industry.  I NEED to finally trooper up and get a job that I’m proud of.  There isn’t much pride in slinging beers to alcoholics, after all.  
 
In addition to being a Procrastinator, I’m also worried that I may have piled on too much work, given this is the first semester back to school in over three years.  And not only is it simply SCHOOL, but it’s ONLINE.  Part of me is wondering what the hell I’m thinking—taking 13 credit hours using an education model that I’m unfamiliar with.  I worry that I’ve put too much on myself.  But, then again, maybe I’m just selling myself short- maybe I really CAN do all this, and do it WELL, too.  I guess we’ll see and I can only take it one step at a time, right?  Fuck.  I sure hope so.  Failure Is Not An Option.
 
As far as my goals and what I hope to accomplish with my degree?  Well, I hope to become a guidance counselor for high school students (haha!  look out world, Skamp wants to guide your children!  Instead of candy in a dish on my desk, I'm more apt to have a bowl of condoms and tell kids to remember that butt sex won't get you pregnant).  Seriously though, I basically want to help kids narrow down and find what it is that excites them, what they ENJOY doing, what they’re GOOD at.  And I ain't talking about blowing a bunch of money on pot and booze- which is what primarily excited ME, what I ENJOYED doing, and what I was GOOD at when I was a kid.  I'm talking about what they want to DO with their lives.  I spent a lot of money on college right out of high school, following what my teachers told me I SHOULD do.  Turns out, I don’t LIKE Occupational Therapy.  I managed only a few semesters before I dropped out.  I never stopped long enough to figure out what it is that I wanted to do.  I never stopped long enough until I was in my late 20s.  Somewhere, between carrying on and having a general good time, it dawned on me that my gift in life was in helping others find THEIR gifts.  And I know that HS guidance counselors have to do a lot more shit (i.e.  PAPERWORK) than I’d care for, but it comes with the territory.   I feel that if I could help just one kid, or maybe even a handful, find the courage to pursue what they’re passionate about, my job would be worth it.  I know it sounds PollyAnna-ish, but that’s currently where I stand on the matter.  

In addition to all the paperwork GC have to do, I know that the kids aren’t going to be my biggest problem.  It’s going to be the administration of the school I find myself working in.  Which I will have to choose carefully.   The reason for that is because I tend to be very outspoken (crazy, I know), and not many people would like that in someone who’s helping shape their kid.  They’d have to be ok with me trying my best to help encourage kids to follow what they want—even if it means NOT going to college.  Because let’s face it- college isn’t for everyone.  Sure, education is great, and highly recommended, but not everyone wants to go.  So why try to put a round peg into a square hole?  Oh fuck… I can already hear the complaints from imaginary parents in my mind.  Lucky for me, I have broad shoulders and a strong network of people to help me when the going gets tough.  Because I’m betting it will.  But, nothing worthwhile is ever always easy.

Anyway.  I hope I manage to do alright this semester.  I'd have to beat myself like a redheaded step child if I fuck this up.  So, come December, if you see me walking around with two black eyes, it won't be because my partner beat me up, it'll be because I fucked up and needed to punish myself.

Well, peace out, girl scouts.  Time to bury my head in another fucking book.

Chit Chat About Shit Shat

You know how you wear out a song you love, because you listen to it OVER and OVER and OVER?  I know you do.  I know that Bieber you swore you hated was the top track on your Spotify account, because you listened to it 3 hundred times yesterday.  I know, because Facebook told me so, and therefore it must be true.  Well, don't fret, pet, I do the same thing.  Like a 13 year old girl, I've worn out about two dozen tunes in the past month, and one of 'em is a Matchbox 20 song.  Kid you not.  Even Skamp is prone to pop, and even prone to over-doing it.  But you know what Skamp NEVER gets sick of doing?  Pooping.

Yes.  That's right.  I LOVE to poop.  I've been doing it for 35 years now, 33 of which have been totally on my own.  I can wipe my own ass, and flush the toilet, n' everything.  I can even replace the roll of toilet paper (well, usually- sometimes the new roll sits on the magazine shelf for a week, but whatever).  I don't think I've ever disliked pooping- except when I have the shits and every gurgle in my stomach makes me cringe because I know that my asshole is about to burn like a fucking blow torch.  But besides that?  I fucking LOVE IT-- pooping is my friend.  And I never get tired of it.  I have not, thus far, taken any photos of it (like that douche wad in First Date Definite Don'ts), nor have I crapped in a litter box (see:  She Did WHAT?!).  I won't mention the time I didn't quite make it home, because, you know, that's just TOO MUCH INFORMATION.  And Skampcity is not about to share TOO MUCH INFORMATION.  Of course not... But, in all the places and situations that I've shat, my favorite has to be outside.  Oh, yesss..

This weekend, I went off camping again, and got to shit outside- again.  There is nothing like beating off the flies like mothers shopping on Black Friday to get to the seat in the outhouse tent.  There is nothing like letting loose in the wind, and best of all, there is nothing like watching a Red Tail Hawk doing its own thing in the trees, all while I'm sighing in sweet relief at the disposal of last night's pork n' beans cooked on a camp stove.  Nope, there ain't nothing like it in the world.  I could do it as many times as I've listened to Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart and STILL not get tired of crapping in the out-of-doors. 

And you know what else I like?  Air freshener.  Because even Skamp knows that her shit really does stink.

Old People Are Hilarious

Today, on my errand-running-road-trip adventure, I happened to pass, I dunno... eight hundred old people driving slow as fuck.  And then, my ass got SCHOOLED by a lil' old lady, complete with blue hair, a Cadillac, and a handicap thingy hanging from her mirror, and Tom Jones blaring out her stereo.  I'm not kiddin'- that gal fuckin' passed my ass like a boss.  I think she flipped me the bird in her rearview too,  but I can't be certain. 

All these old people today reminded me of a story a friend told me yesterday, about his encounter with a charming ol' gal in upstate NY (which, by the way, is where I'm from-- so don't go fuckin' knockin' it.  It's kinda like family-- I can say whatever I want, but YOU say something, and my ass is getting out-of-school suspension for a week.  So keep your unwarranted and uninformed comments about my home state to yourself.  This is MY blog, after all.  Right?  Right?)

Anyway.  I know this charming young man here in Wyoming who also is from that great state that also happens to house that wretched place called The Big Apple, where they're outlawing Big Gulps-- you just can't outlaw the chunk out of people, people.  Dumbest piece of legislation EVER.  SERIOUSLY.  But anyway, this ain't about Big Gulps, or New York.. It's about old people and how totally hilarious they can be.

SO.  My friend out here, he's all "Yes ma'am" and "Thank you, ma'am" and "How do you do?" and has all those manners that any mother would be proud of.  Well, he went back home, all duded up in his Wyoming apparel (meaning, looks like a fo' realz cowboy) and was shopping for a Mother's Day card for his mum.  After he picked out his card and a tube of hemorrhoid medication, he found himself shopping alongside an old biddy in her muumuu and permed hair, done up last week by her friend Bethel down at the beauty parlor.  Apparently, she sneezed and he, being the polite and well-mannered young man that he is, tipped his hat and said "Bless you, ma'am."  Well I guess in NY, manners aren't fashionable any more because, and I kid you not, she looked him square in the eye and said "Fuuck you, boy.  Mind your own damn business"and swiped at him with her cane!  Whaaaaa...?  Just about tore the spurs right off his Ariats, too- no joke. 

And he, still being that polite young man I know him to be, just looked at her, shocked- like she just reached down the back of her Underoos and threw her scat at him like a spider monkey.  Unsure of how to react, he just looked back at her and straight out guffawed, right up in her face.  What started out as nervous "I can't believe she just said that" kind of giggle burst into a full on belly laugh, all the way up from his boots.  I mean, who tells someone to fuck off who just blessed your sneeze?  Grumpy old ladies, that's who.  Fuck yeah. 

HELLZ YEAH.  I wanna be a crazy drivin', mean ol' bitch when I get old.  Bless me?  Well, fuck you, buddy.  Fuck you AND your stupid cowboy hat.  YEAH.  SO THERE.  JESUS H. CHRIST.  Kids these days, all mannered up n' shit.  Fuck.

And better still?  I hope to be THIS gal:

She might be my old person hero. 

Misshaps With a Vibrator. True Fucking Story, Again.

Several years ago, I had the one crazy-assed roommate.  Not crazy in the sense that she was over the top and fun to be around (y'know, like me), but crazy in that I had to be woken up every morning to blow into that thing they put in cars to make sure your BAC is zero before it'll turn on (yeah, THAT kept her from tossin' down any alcohol in sight.  Pfft.  Worked REAL good.)  Yeah, no, she wasn't fun crazy-- she was crazy in that I had to return the ketchup to its rightful spot on the door of the refrigerator or I'd get a sticky note reminding me of where it's home really was.  Apparently, ketchup should not live next to the mayo, because of racial tensions.  It's supposed to be next to the mustards- as they've (apparently) had diplomatic relations for years.

Anyway.  I have the crazy fucking roommate.  Or did.  And she came home one morning still drunk from the night before, dragging some dude behind her like a puppy on a leash.  And, shockingly, looking at him didn't make me wanna vomit- dude wasn't half-bad.  So she pulls his happy "oooh..I'm-about-to-get-laid!" smiley ass up the stairs to her bedroom.  Well, I ain't one to judge.  Hell, I've had my fair share of one-nighters, so who am I to say anything about that?  An hour or two later, he comes back down the stairs, clearly having shot his wad all over the fucking place (I think maybe some of it made its way down the stairs and into the kitchen, but anyhoo).  This dude is clearly happy, and also tired-- apparently Roommate can fuck like a champ.  Lucky for him,  this time she didn't follow him back down the stairs, babbling about useless nonsense.  Instead, she opted to pass the fuck OUT, after kicking his ASS out.  So, he left,  thrilled to have banged a crazy chick and then not have to snuggle afterwards-- every man's dream come true.  

Later that day, Said Roommate stayed in her room till the afternoon, and finally managed to fall her way down the stairs, smelling like a transient who just polished off a bottle of bourbon.  Gross.  (How that dude managed to get off in that vagina is beyond me.)  She looked at me all bleary eyed and said "wanna go outside for a smoke?  I've got something to show you."  Well, hell.  Sure.  Of course I'll have a smoke with you, especially if you're going to tell me about how that decent looking dude found you attractive enough to fuck.

So, we go outside, light up a smoke, and she starts pulling her shorts up her leg, like allll the way up her leg.  (AACCCKK!!! What's going on here??!  What the FUCK is she going to show me???)  And there it is:  this completely disgusting, I don't know, THING on her inner thigh, right next to her vagina.  About two inches in length and maybe a half inch wide, the thing was flaming red and if it had a mouth, it'd be SCREAMING.  I looked at her, marginally alarmed and said "Oh my god!  What did that guy DO to you?? Or, worse yet, what did that guy GIVE to you??"  She, still slurring after a good 8 hours of no intake of alcohol, said "nnnno... HE didn't doo that tooo meee.  No.  He couldn't mmmake mme cum, so afffter he left, I jammed my vibrator up my vag.  But, um, I passed out with it in there....

While it was still on...

And when I woke up, it was burning me.

Batterrrries... leaking... burning...OWWW..."

Wait, what?  You're telling me that you passed out with a vibrator in your lady bits, with it ON?  And you got an acid burn from the BATTERIES?  Right next to your snatch??  Seriously?  Are you fucking KIDDING ME?  What??  A.Who the fuck does that? and B.When does that shit EVER happen?

And clearly, she's looking to me for answers, but I don't have any.  I've never been burned by my Rabbit.  Or passed out with it inside me, for that matter.  So I suggest she call the emergency room and see what she should do.  But nope, no fucking way is she calling the hospital- she's too drunk and embarrassed to call them.  So me, being the caring gentlewoman that I am, I offer to call for her.  She concedes.

So I call the fucking emergency room and I try straight facing the whole story.  I almost make it all the way through, till I started hearing the nurse struggling really hard not to laugh.  I had to pinky AND toe swear that this was, in fact, a true story and that now my roommate did, in fact, have a rather large, nasty acid burn within crawling distance from her pink parts.  Once I got her to believe me, she told me to make sure it didn't get near water (because that will spread it).  She tells me to just watch it, and keep checking on it for the next few hours to make sure it doesn't get any worse, because that can happen with acid burns.  So I said "Let me get this clear.  You want me to basically put my face all up in that shit and carefully make sure that it isn't getting worse?? And she can't WASH it first?? You know what that clam sandwich has been DOING all night?  Really?  That's fucking grosss!  What if I smell her vagina??  What if I can smell her SEX VAGINA?  IF I SMELL HER SEX VAGINA, I'M GONNA PUKE MY WAY ALL OVER THAT FUCKING THING!"  Nurse told me to quit being a pansy and get my head up in there and check it.

Sigh.

So I did.

And in the meantime, the roommate and I decided we were hungry, so we ordered some pizza for delivery.  While we were waiting, I had to put my big girl panties on once again and get all up in that shit, carefully making sure that burn wasn't making it's way further towards the promised land (more like a definite, you're-getting-laid land, but whatever).  And wouldn't you know it?  As I've got my face about 2 inches from her fucking sex crotch, the doorbell rings and we both look up to see a teenaged boy, holding a pizza with a look of surprise, awe and hope in his eyes.

I think he skipped the whole way back to the car.

Skampcity goes scamperin' in the woods..

..kid you not.  And it was AWESOME.  Yesterday, we decided to pack up the dogs, some eats, sleeping bags, and of course- a pile of beer.  We tossed it all in an old Ford pickup and hit the back country of Wyoming-- a place called Bear Basin.  If you haven't been, I suggest you go, like, now.  Or yesterday.  Seriously.

Bear Basin doesn't get its name from wee little koalas lounging about in trees, sippin' on eucalyptus leaves; it gets it from grizzly bears.  Yeah, that's right.  And speaking of grizzlies, they've kept this pansy ass (meaning me) from camping for the first three years I've lived in Wyoming.  Full of all kinds of bear mauling stories, this chick has stayed as far a way as possible.  But not this year.  THIS YEAR, I've been a few times now, twice in a tent, and twice in a place known for its bear population.  And guess what?  All the times I've gone, and all the times I've begged to see even one, I have not once even had a GLIMPSE, much less been close enough to give it kisses and ask if it likes strawberry or grape jelly best.  (I hear, though, that if you speak to 'em real nice n' slow, they won't attack.  Can't say I know for sure-- I'd be shitting my britches faster than you can say supercalafrajalisticexpealidocious.. or, whatever.)

At any rate, I got to poop outside in the woods (no, I didn't take any photos to show people, sorry), I got to drink bona fide spring water  (best tasting water on earth, I fucking swear), and I happened to have slept like a cheetah after taking down some huge wildebeest.  Meaning, IT WAS FANTASTIC.

But, the best part came shortly before we were leaving.

My companion was tossing a line in the river and suddenly my dog started barking.  I looked up, and there they were: a mama moose and her baby, sashaying by us, about 50 yards away.  I think my hemorrhoid exploded all over my britches because as most people know, a mama moose is not, in any way, to be fucked with- they can be meaner than any grizzly bear.  So we're standing by the river, frozen with paralyzing fear, holding our collective breath, and that mama moose just winked at us and kept slinkin' right on by.  Apparently, they decided that our water sandals and khaki apparel weren't threatening enough for her.  Thank fucking Jesus Christ on a balloon stick.   It took me roughly 78 minutes for my heartbeat to return to normal.  In retrospect, being that close to a moose n' her baby was pretty fucking cool.  Actually, it was some awesome sauce, fo' riggities.

And the worst part of the trip?  As we were hoppin' in the Ford to split, we happened to notice a giant pile of bear shit right next to the tent.  Super.  Super fuckin' duper.  I think I saw a human toe in there, maybe a nose too, though I can't be for certain.  But despite that, I'll go camping again, I promise.  Because a pussy, I am not.

Usually.

She Did WHAT?

I know someone who had to shit so bad while their guest was in the shower, that they shat in their cat's litter box.  Yup.  True story. Think about that for one hot minute.  Dancing from foot to foot, stomach all tore up, begging and pleading with friend to get the fuck out- NOW, and then realizing that it's too late.  Because it's coming whether you want it to or not.  Especially since you ate that burrito at that shady Mexican joint last night.  Beads of worried sweat are forming on your brow, and you're beginning to pant, like you're about to give birth.   Can you imagine eying the kitty shit box and coming up with THAT plan?  And moreover, squatting over it and just letting loose?  I wonder if her cat was watching her while she was doing it.  I wonder if ol' Garfield was staring at her with his head cocked to one side, because you KNOW that cat was wondering what the fuck was going on.  (If it'd been me, there is no way I could've been ok with my cat staring at me while I was decimating his box.  Nope.  No fucking way. I would've thrown something at him till he quit staring; I couldn't handle the embarrassment or the disappointed look in his eyes.) I also wonder if she even used her feet to cover it up, just like the cat would.  Because that'd take some flexibility I'm not sure I possess- squatting and covering poo all at the same time.  All I know is... that was a brilliant move.  Can't say that I ever, EVER, would've thought of doing that.  Good work, gurl.  You get points for ingenuity and originality.

I probably would have just stood there, with my undies covered in a shit pile of shame.  

Not Givin' a Honeybadger Shit Since.. Never.

It appears, to some, that Skamp is a little "too harsh."  I don't know who these "some" are, and I didn't ask.  Because, ultimately, I don't really give a shit.  I've said it before, and I'll say it 3 thousand times more:  the only people who think that the meek are going to inherit the earth are the meek; the rest of us know better.

I mean, even my MOTHER reads this shit.  But then, she's pretty fuckin' awesome.  And hilarious.

The last thing I want Skampcity to be is some other boring drivel of a blog that fits in with the rest of the blogging community.  I WANT it to be harsh.  I WANT it to be over the top.  I WANT you guys to giggle and say to yourself "Ohmygod, I can't believe she just said that."  I want you to "know what I'm saying" because you TOTALLY "know what I'm saying" and are just too afraid to say it yourself.

So, I guess that I'm going to ignore the... comment (I believe there was only one, but who the fuck knows- and furthermore, who the fuck cares?)  There will be more stories of debauchery, I have plenty, and more opinions to be shared, there are many.

From my divinely groomed asshole to yours, Namaste, muthafuckas.

Do As I Say

Skamp's soundtrack for the day.  It should be turned up loud, and sung even louder still.  Sauce that shit all OVER the damn place

Wooly Biscuits and the Pursuit of Happy Homos

Ahhiight, bitches.  Skamp took a break in the wilds of.. I don't fucking know... somewhere.  But she's back.  She's back, and didn't get arrested, or any STDs.  That she's aware of.
Hopefully.
Probably.
Maybe.
Aw, shit.  Let's just hope not, shall we?  Because a vagina that looks like a grilled cheese sandwich is not a pleasant thing to behold.  To anyone.  Least of all me while looking at it in the mirror.

Which brings us to today's topic.  No, it's not Velveeta.  Or white cheddar.  No, it's about private parts.  Or, more importantly, what people DO with their private parts.  Or, even MORE importantly, why anyone gives a rat fuck about what OTHER people do with THEIR private parts.  I mean, they're called private for a reason, right?  So what's the big deal about being homosexual?  What's the big deal about being heterosexual, for that matter.  Why does anyone give a shit?

Ok, let's address the while "sin" thing.  There are people who think that two women rubbing their wooly bears together is going to send them to hell, and that two men who like to.. I dunno, play light sabers together.. are also going to hell.  Well?  So fucking what? If you think that another person is sinning, why would you waste your own precious energy on worrying about the salvation of another person's soul?  Does worrying about them get you extra God points or something?  Like, you get to jump ahead in line at the Pearly Gates?  Does God somehow..... reward you for that?  Does God give you a free meal at Chick-Fil-A, for all that extra worry?  Really?  Because I fucking doubt it.  If there even IS a god, I'm guessing it thinks we're all a bunch of whiny, pussy assed cry babies who spend FAR too much time fretting about stupid shit like worrying about who your neighbor falls in love with.  How's about you worry about your own sins, because lemme tell yah-- you've got 'em.  You've got 'em buried so far in your soul that it'd take three F350s and a backhoe to dig that shit out.  I think that all you shitheads who are so concerned about gays are really just way too afraid of what you carry around with yo' own selves.  Maybe you secretly want to screw your mom, or someone's child, or you once got your dog off.  Maybe you killed a whole bunch of kittens as a kid, or that you, yourself, are secretly gay and are too afraid that the people who "love" you won't "love" you any more.  I don't what it is, but I DO know, that if you're so afraid of homosexuality and hate it so much, then there is something seriously wrong with you.  Go get that shit checked out, quick.  I doubt they make an antibiotic for douche-baggery, but hey- you never know.

Skampcity wants to make it clear that she supports, in every way, gay marriage, gay sex, gay movies, gay porn, gaygaygaygaygaygaygaygaygaygaygaygaygaygaygaygay!!!!!  It does not mean that I like to chow down on carpet sandwiches myself (seriously, that one time in college I just couldn't bring myself to do it) but I do not, in anyway, give a SHIT about your sexual orientation.  Nope. So long as you're having fun, and it doesn't involve children, animals, or uninvitingly hurting someone- GO FOR IT.

Honeybadger don't give a FUUUUUCK.

Now.  What'd I do with those beads.....?

Skampin' Ain't Easy On a Tuesday

As anyone who knows and loves me, knows that this girl likes to have a good time.  I like whiskey and dancing and good music and telling really inappropriate jokes.  I speak loudly and I speak often.  I also say whatever the fuck I feel like saying, most times.  There is such a big part of me that is this Character that I Play in the Game of Life.  And lemme tell yah, it's fucking FUN.  I think of Beyonce and her onstage persona Sasha Fierce.  Well, my LIFE is a stage and I've found my own Sasha Fierce.  And her name is Skampcity.  Skamp likes going oot n' aboot and tossing around a good time like it's candy in a Fourth of July parade.  But... Skamp also takes off her costumes and likes to hang around, watching movies like The Notebook.  Skamp's real name shall remain unsaid, in the event that I get myself a grown up job someday, and I can't have all this shit come back to haunt me in the future.

At any rate, today Skamp can't seem to find her pile of brightly colored wigs.  Her swearing is at a minimum, and she's off somewhere in the jungle, contemplating life and maybe gettin' dirty with the locals.  I'll put half my eggs in a basket and say that I'm pretty sure she'll be back tomorrow, hell, maybe later this afternoon.  She'll be back, and I know for a FACT that she's got more shit to lay on you. 

So till then, bitches, relax knowing you can go through an entire day without reading the word "fuck" written about 3 dozen times.

Also, don't tell her that I'm about to borrow her Ben Was and have my own self a dandy time.

The Fellas....

Alright, boys, I just came off of a 6 hour drive home, and I did some thinking about you.  Not in the way you'd hoped-- as in, it didn't involve any sauce of any sort- no disrobing of clothes, or heavy petting, or even any kissing.  Didn't involve anything like that.  I was thinking about a question a customer posed to me last week: "You think there are good men out there?"  And it was a man who asked me it.  My thought?  Yes.  Yes, there are most definitely good men out there. 100%, I believe this.  As a teenager, I wasn't so sure.  Boys used to make serious fun of me, calling me a whore before I'd ever even kissed a boy.  I credit this to being fully developed with an hourglass figure by the time I was in high school, and at that age, boys get really insecure about a gal's tits being bigger than their testicles.  But. I have a wee little story about the first honest-to-god good man I'd met.  A story about the first fella that gave me hope and faith, and more importantly, firsthand experience that there ARE, in fact, good men in the world.

I was in Toronto, and had been sorta following a band that I was becoming friends with.  Amazing musicians, I'm honored to know them some, and keep in touch with a few of 'em via FB.  I wish I could still go listen to them play, but geography and time keep me from doing so.  But anyway, I digress.  So, I'm in Toronto, and I've got a SERIOUS crush on the bass player.  He is a beautiful creature to behold, still, and I found his conversations interesting and intellectually stimulating.  Most importantly, I felt really comfortable around him.  In every respect, he was, and still is, a wonderful man.  But anyway.

I'm in Toronto, and the band had two hotel rooms to crash in after the show.  Well, as band members inevitably do, they got to getting to partying in one of them.  After an hour or two, this chick got tired and announced that she, meaning me, was going to the OTHER room to crash out.  Well, said bass player announced that he, too, was gonna crash.  Me, crushing on him HUGE, was totally excited-- here's my chance!! Whoop!!

Well, we get to the other room, just the two of us, and he, in proper gentlemanly fashion, offered up one of the two beds to me and took to the floor.  I will never, in my life, forget laying there, really wanting to make out with this guy like a 13 year old wants to make out with Justin Bieber.  And for the first time in my life, I found the courage to speak up and saod "Hey, Nameless Bass Player, so...... I REALLY want to make out with you."  And he sat up and looked at me and said "You know?  I really want to make out with you, too.  But I have a girlfriend.  And if I want her to be faithful to me, I need to be the same to her.  So as much as I want to, I respectfully decline, even though no one would ever know.  Because, you know, I'D know, and I wouldn't respect myself for it."  And you know what?  He may have been blowin' smoke up my awkward ass, but I believed him.  I believed that he really DID want to kiss me back, but didn't-- BECAUSE HE'S A GOOD MAN.  And also to this day, I respect and admire him for it.  We'd still continue to talk as friends after that, at other shows, and it wasn't weird at all.  I fucking love this fella for it.

So, see ladies?  Good ones DO exist.  In fact, my last fella is probably the best yet.  I think that all you bitches who moan about shitty men just aren't being woman enough to choose wisely.  I know that in my past, the men I'd whine about just weren't good for ME.  Doesn't mean they weren't good in general, just not for me. 

My advice?  Quit bitching about how shitty you think men are, dump the one who's pissing you off so much, and find that guy who treats you right.  Put on your big girl panties and make a stand.  Because sista, you're worth it.  You're worth a good man.  And, believe me, they're out there.

Also, you'd be glad to know that I made it all the way through the 6 hour drive without crashing.  I think that one truck driver was pretty impressed, but whatever.  Gotta toss 'em a bone ONCE in a while.

Driving while.....

So, there is no way that Skampcity went to an adult store to pick herself up some paraphernalia.  Nope, she would never, not in a million years, do anything like that.  She never read those wretched Shades of Grey books, either.  So she knows nothing about all the incredibly saucy and hot things that Christian does to Ana.  Nope.  Not about the spanking (sigh) or the really controlling and demanding way he carries himself (sigh, twice).  And ESPECIALLY she knows nothing about the Ben Wa balls he puts inside her before some social event.  Nope.  Nothing.about.that.at.all.  But what Skamp DOES know, is that she's driving 6 hours today.  And it can get pretttttty boring out there on the road.. a gal can start feeling a little skamp-ish...

Which brings me to this:  have any of you rubbed one out on the road?  While driving 82 mph?  I mean, you know, I haven't.  Ever.  Pfft, no way, I was just, you know, wondering.  Because orgasms can be pretty powerful, eyes rolling back and all that.  It's very difficult to concentrate on both the road and your vagina at the same time--- And it's TEXTING they've outlawed while driving??  Oh honey.  Oh honey sugar boo boo!  Texting ain't got nothing on masturbating.  (I mean, well, uh, I'd imagine so anyway.  Sheesh.  I bet it's pretty dangerous and so no one should do it-- EV-ER.) And I wonder about things like: what would happen if you got pulled over from swerving while you were cumming?  No officer, I'm not drinking, nor am I on drugs.  I just came like you would not buh-LIEVE, and those Ben Was just feel so AWESOME when you pull 'em out.  I wonder if he (or she) would fine you?  If I got a ticket for Masturbating While Driving, I'd move over the large family photo that hangs over the mantle and hang that shit up in its place, with it nestled in the finest framing I could afford.  Because that shit's just funny.

Skampin' While Driving Ain't Easy, Either.

wishmeluck.

Skampin', Boulder Style

First of all, what kind of venue doesn't allow beer and wine into its auditorium, for godssake?? Seriously.  No, really.  Fuckin' SERIOUSLY.  Although the Chautauqua Auditorium is a totally cool, old place with amazing acoustics, Skamp gives it a thumbs DOWN for no beer- all beer and wine had to be purchased, and consumed, outside.  What the fuck is up with THAT?  I mean, it's not like the auditorium is THAT spectacular-- wooden seats and concrete floors, for fuck's sake.  I've been to some really nice fucking places-- like when I went to see the Cirque du.... Something Something (wasn't Soleil, I know that fo' sho') at.... someplace really NICE in Denver (I can't fucking remember where).  ANYWAY, even THAT place, which was fairly upscale, had beer and wine and assumed you were a responsible adult and allowed you to take it with you to your seat. But in Boulder, in what is basically a glorified BARN, they won't allow it.  And not only that, but they quit selling alcohol after the opening act.  So the entire time I was listening to Hayes Carll (who, turns out, is pretty fucking awesome, by the way), we had to sit there, booze-free.  Who the hell wants to go to a concert, booze-free?  If I'd known I wasn't going to be able to get my drunken swagger on, I'da tossed a flask in my purse and called it a party.

But anyway, aside from losing steam at the end of the show (lack of booze'll do that to a gal), Hayes Carll was FUCKING AMAZING.  He wasn't as good, in my hardly humble opinion, as Joe Pug, but still, he was better than I expected.  I mean, it's tough to be up shown by your opening act, but there is not any one upcoming artist that is as good a songwriter as Joe Pug.  A charming young man, he is incredibly gifted and his words are far beyond his years.  I not only recommend listening to his tender hearted music, I INSIST ON IT.  He has such a grace that is rarely seen, anywhere, in anyone.  I cannot say enough good things about him.  He charmed the shit out of me, and if the circumstances were right (meaning, I got him drunk enough to find me attractive), he coulda charmed the literal pants right off me.  Well, I was wearing a dress, but, well, you get the idea.  SO GO LISTEN TO HIM.  LISTEN TO HIM NOW.  Get on the internets (which, clearly, you're on right now anyway) and search for Hymn #101.  There's actually a music video for it.  I can pretty much guarantee that you're going to fall in love him.  And if not, well, you should be bitch slapped.  In your vagina, with a giant rubber chicken.  BECAUSE HE IS AMAZING.

And, I know that all that shit above ain't all that Skampy, but, well, even ganstas have a heart, right?  The Skamp came out later, after the show, when we hit up Pearl Street, but I can't really discuss any of that without getting arrested in two different counties.  Let's just say that it involved a tuba, two amputees, and some public urination.  And we'll leave it at that.  When the statute of limitations has passed, I'll tell that story.  Till then, think Tijuana and re-donkey-donks.

Peace out, girl scouts.  I'll catch you on the flipside.

Pumping the Brakes

Brrrr..  After what seems like 8 fucking YEARS of it being a thousand degrees outside, this mild 72 is making my nipples hard enough to cut some glass-- and that ain't a bad thing.  Especially if you'd ever had the pleasure of actually seeing these fucking things.  Big boobs are, apparently, desirous,  even though according to my brothers, more than a handful is a waste.  Well, what the fuck do they know anyway?  My fuckin' tits need their own fucking grocery store cart, that's how awesomely huge they are.  Yeah, that's right-- a fucking grocery store cart. 

Well anyway, who gives a shit about the size of my boobs anyway, I know Honeybadger sure don't.

So today's the third day here in Colorado, and day Two of waking up feeling like my head has been crushed between two steel plates- you know, sorta like that trash compactor scene from Star Wars.  Meaning, I kinda feel like shit.  And know what the best medicine for that is?  Water and ibuprofen?  NO- what kind of self-respecting party hound would do THAT?  The best medicine is, 100 per-fucking-cent, breakfast beer.  Get up, get outta bed, take a shit and clear your head, and then pour yourself a fucking PBR and toss in some orange juice.  Redneck Mimosa, Poor Man's Mimosa, Beermosa, whatever the fuck you wanna call it, it's the breakfast drink of champions.  Drink one of those and your headache starts going away, you start gettin' your swagger back on, and next thing you know, you're right back to being all the awesome you were pretty sure you were last night, when you were flirting with that ridiculously hot bartender.  Yup.

Fucking breakfast beer.

Today, shitsticks, Skamp is gonna rock it out once more before giving the liver a break and heading back to Wyoming.  And you better fuckin' believe I'm starting my day off with a Pibber and oj, because never is alcoholism more awesome than first thing in the morning.  Us, you know, COOL boozehounds call it Pumping The Brakes-- easing off that drunk instead of slamming the brakes and hitting your head on the metaphorical dashboard of life-- it's the head bashing on the dashboard that gives you the headache, you know.  Hence staving off said headache with sippin' booze, first thing.  Christ, my liver is going to stop being friends with me, one of these days.  But until then, I'll pretend to be its friend, toss it a bone every now and then, maybe give it a $10 gift card to WalMart, and take it out to dinner at a truck stop for some biscuits and gravy.

 Skampin' ain't easy, yo.

Thanks, A-holes, For Reading This Shit

Seriously.  The title says it all.  I've got more stories to tell, and wonderfully keen observations to make about all the twatwaffles of the world, but I've been on the road last few days, and am about to hop on it again, this time headed for Denver.  Maybe tomorrow, if you're lucky enough, I'll post about all the douchey things I did the night before, sans pictures.  I hope. 

But really, thank you guys for reading this nonsensical drivel I call a bloggity blog-- I swear you must have nothing better to do.

Also, an update on the Step Up Revolution:  plot sucks major Rocky Mountain Oysters, but the eye candy is good.  And all those hot bodies REALLY made me wish I hadn't eaten that giant hotdog right before the movie-- some carrots and fuckin' Crystal Light would've been a better choice.  Fuckin' A, do those assholes have some bangin' bodies.  Jesus Christ!

Now.  I'm off to eat a giant shit sandwich, hop in the shower, wash the stink out of my perfectly groomed and bleached asshole, and get back on the road.

Till then, laterz, bitches.

Girls Gone... Awesome.

It was the last time the three of us hung out together- me, the Wife, and our third friend I'm now going to start referring to as Sister Wife.  Sister Wife was moving back to Boston with her menagerie of animals and her wonderful dude that I hope she marries someday.  It was our last hurrah of the three of us being together, and by the end of it, we wound up sitting crosslegged on Wife's floor, crying about some stupid shit that I was too browned out to remember.  It was also that night that Wife found her way into my bed, on the one time I wasn't wearing any underwear (pfft, right).  Next morning we were both sorta horrified, but confident that we hadn't consummated our hetero marriage.  She just sorta looked at me bleary-eyed and said "Uh, you aren't wearing any panties are you?"  And I, bleary-eyed,  looked down at my Amazonian lady bits and said "Uh, nope."  She dry heaved and got the fuck away from that shit and went off to find Sister Wife.  As she walked out into the living room I heard her say "What the fuuuuuck??"  It was THEN that we remembered that, before the female version of a circle jerk broke out on the living room floor, we'd tossed some frozen tots in the oven.  Well, turns out we'd wound up emotionally circle jerking ourselves right into oblivion and forgot all about the tots.  We woke up to three feet of smoke clinging to the ceiling and I'm pretty sure it took Wife two weeks to get the stink out of her apartment.  Lucky for us, and for all you assholes, we all lived to tell the tale of Our Last Night Together Before Sister Wife Moved Back East.

Like most nights we'd vow to get crazy, the night started at the Town Pump for Jello Shots.  And any night that starts with Jello Shots at the Pump is bound to be a good one.  After the Pump, I can't recall for sure where we went,  but I think there was a visit to a back patio somewhere in there - most likely at this joint we like to go to where all the people that were freaks-in-high-school-but-are-now-way-cool-beyond-measure like to hang out.  You know, the place where people that hipsters WISH they could be like to hang out.  Yeah, pretty sure we went there.  But later, I know for a fact, that we wound up at this wee little place called the East Coast.  Because, for whatever reason, we sometimes like hanging around a bunch of douchey college kids.  Plus, the drinks there aren't bad.

So there we were.  We'd finally stumbled our way to the East Coast, where we decided that, of COURSE shots of Jameson and tall boys of PBRs were good ideas.  I mean, of COURSE.  Who WOULDN'T  think that was a good idea?  But anyway, we found ourselves dancing (at least that's what we call it, others probably thought that we looked like three chicks flailing themselves around, running away from mice n' spiders n' shit).  At any rate, amidst all that dancing and all those beers, I suddenly had to pee- BAD.  I had to pee so bad that I was seriously considering jamming a beer bottle in my urethra and pissing in it like you guys do in Gatorade bottles while driving because the line for those nasty ass bathrooms was so fucking LONG.  So long I needed a pair of goddam binoculars to see who was at the front of it.  And that's when THIS FUCKING GENIUS came up with a plan.

In lieu of shoving a beer bottle in places I'm sure wouldn't fit anyway, I stumbled and swerved my way to the front of the line and said with a straight face and a mouthful of slurring words "Hey, lissssthen.  I'm DD-ing for my friendsss toniiight and I've got to pee, like, REALLY bad.  I'm PREG-NANT and the baby is pushing on my bladder.  Can you PLEASE hook a pregger lady up and let me jump in line?"  And you know what?  That shit fucking WORKED!  I'm pretty sure I was looking at that poor asshole with only one eye open, and that last shot of Jameson nearly put me on the floor, but somehow I managed to convince her that I was, indeed, carrying a fetus in that drunk-ass body of mine.  And who in their right mind is going to deny a pregnant lady?  I'm pretty sure I deserve some kind of medal for Assholes Who Come Up With Great, Mostly Useless Ideas.

But bitches, I give you permission to use that.  I mean, it's not like I can trademark or copyright that shit, so go ahead and tell 'em you're knocked up.  And later, when they see you doing shots of Alabama Slammers, look 'em in the eye and say "Don't judge me, you fucker."

What it takes to make a hetero life mate marriage last

Earlier today, well, meaning two seconds ago, my "wife" just asked me if I'd go see the new Step Up movie with her and some gal she's been wanting me to meet for years.  And, even more exciting, it's in 3D.  Fuckin' Super fuckin' Duper.  Would I rather jab my eyeballs out with a dull, bent knife?  Probably.  Am I going to go?  Well, yeah.  Yes.  Skampcity is going to the movies to see Step Up in 3-motherfucking-D.  Shit.  But what the fuck.  Anyone can get tortured for two hours and not tell all the world's secrets, right?  Well, I know I can.  I can definitely sit through it, but only if I shove an entire tub of movie popcorn down my throat.  That, and the biggest thing of soda I can afford- that'll give me at least 7 excuses to get up and go take a leak.

So you ask why the fuck I'd agree to do something like that?  Well, because she's the very best friend I have in the whole fucking world and she's seen me in some pretty awful states.  Like that one time I cried so hard I was literally blowing snot bubbles (the cats were fighting over who got to pop them).  Or, when I dragged her to see some band that she had zero interest in listening to, just to tell me that the girl my ex had cheated on me with had a dumpy ass.  And another time, I made her get up before the shit crack of dawn so that she could go with me to Colorado Springs and watch me in my first (and maybe last) 5K.  She's been there for me, supporting all the things I do, and now it's time to do the same for her.  I WILL draw the line, however, at watching a remake of Dirty Dancing.  That, she's on her own for.  Because that's just blasphemous- remaking that shit.  But Step Up?  Yeah, I can do that.  I'll probably sneak in a flask of Jeremiah Weed and a bottle of Percocets to get me through it, but hey.  That's what friends are for, right?

And who knows?  Maybe some teenaged (and hopefully legal?) eye candy will keep me from remembering that my chest still tightens up when I think about me n' breakin' up n' all that emotional garbage one goes through when life's a changin'.

What I DO know, for absolute certain, is that if something happens to my wife, I'd totally wipe her ass for her.  I'd chew up bits of food and spit it in her mouth, if I had to, just like the birdies do.  So if I'd do any of that, I can go to the movies with her, too.  Because she's pretty fucking awesome, and I love her almost as much as I love my dog.  And that's really sayin' something.

Car Got Drunk Last Night

The title says it all.  That stupid fucking piece of German engineering can't figure out how to drive itself home after my ass gets all drunk and happy.  Jesus.  I have to either bum a ride, or stumble the 6 blocks it takes to get to my house.  Fucking car, I swear.

But here's the thing:  I live in such a small town, that it'd almost fit in a WalMart parking lot.  And also because I live in a small town, every time I leave my car in front of the tavern, everyone knows it.  I mean, I live in the middle of Wyoming, where everyone drives a one ton pick up and so my VDub sticks out like a sore thumb, with its fancy fucking wheels and low profile tires (which I can't fucking STAND, but that is another story, for another day).  EVERYONE knows my car, and I inevitably hear about said car, and how it must've gotten drunk last night.  Fucking super.  Super and awesome.  But to those people, I tell them this:

Listen, assholes, I was thinking about it a few months ago and have decided that this town is so fucking small, it fits in a Super WalMart parking lot.  Or, at the very least, it fits in the parking lot, and maybe spills over into a goddam KMart right across the street.  Do you really think it's a wise choice to get a fucking DUI driving from one end of the parking lot to the other, or, say, driving from WalMart to some store across the road?  Do you actually think I'd rather drive home instead of listening to you dicks giving me shit about it?  Well, you can give me shit all day long, but I'll be happy as a fucking clam that I ain't gettin' tossed in the slammer 77 miles away, sitting in a fucking drunk tank waiting to sober up because I was too stupid to get behind the wheel of my car after having three too many fucking Dirty Hippies (which is a shot, by the way, the Dirty Hippies-- it's not like my vagina suddenly opened itself up for business for unkempt, stinky dreadies, with their shitty drumming skills).

So anyway.  YES, my car got fucking drunk.  But my ass got home, not arrested.

First Date Definte Don'ts

A couple of years ago, I had just gotten out of a terrible, really fucking terrible, relationship and  I went back home to NY to ease my troubled heart.  On that particular trip, I couldn't find a rental car to save my life, and found myself stranded at my mom's house while she was at work.  So as I was sitting there, channel surfing with one of my little sisters, an ad for eHarmony came on the tele.  I looked over at her and said "Eh, what the fuck.  With 20 million users, I'm bound to find my soul mate, right?  I mean, RIGHT??"  So, to beat the boredom of being trapped at Mom's, we decided to make up a profile, just for shits n' giggles.

Now I don't know if any of you have actually tried that dating site, but it is a pain in the mother fucking ASS.  The questions were horrendously long and tedious.  "Do you like to sleep in?  How do you feel about Velveeta?  Have you ever stuck a finger in your dog's ass to express its anal glands?  Do you eat out, or would rather cook at home?  How about toothpaste?  Squeeze from the middle, or roll up the end?  And, perhaps most importantly, which way do you put the roll of toilet paper on the holder?"  And on and on and on and on.  It got so fucking tedious that I started to question my sanity in choosing THIS to be how I'd spend my afternoon.  But, I finished up and then came the exciting moment of truth:  pressing the button that would now match me up with the perfect man.  But right before doing so, they ask how close you want that person to be, geographically speaking. Well, seeing as how I lived in Fort Collins at the time, I figured 40 miles would be sufficient.  So there I went, I pushed the button..... And as I sat there watching the loading circle-thing spin round and round and round, I was beginning to feel the excitement building.  And Tada!!! My results!!

"We're sorry, but there are no matches for you within 40 miles of your location."  What??  Are you fucking kidding me??  In all of Fort Collins, no matches?? Well, how about I pick 100 miles, because that includes Denver.  And SURELY there's a match for me in DENVER, I mean, it's HUGE, right?  Wrong again...  "We're sorry.  We have no matches for you."  What the FUCK?  FUCK THIS.  Ok, WORLD FUCKING WIDE, THEN-- some French asshole with a really hot accent is sure to find my American charm totally irresistible.  Nope.  FUCKING, NOPE.  My little sister thought that this was the funniest shit ever-- her big sister can't even find a date on the largest dating site in the world ("over 20 million members", after all).  Well, that's just fucking bullshit.  Either I'm the world's biggest schmuck, or I'm such a rare creature that no man can possibly measure up to me.  In any case, I immediately deleted my account and demanded my money back.

Fast forward a few weeks later:  This time, I saw an ad for match.com advertising a free three day trial.  So, I thought: what the fuck?  Why not try again-- none of these ass shits I'm meeting while out with my girlfriends are worth a damn (Roger That, Markus Balarkus, Fanny Pack guy, the puppet guy, and many more, believe me).  Match can't be any worse that eHarmony, right?  So once again, I make up a profile.  I can't remember the questions, or the format, or really anything much about it.  But I CAN, without a doubt, tell you about the one date that I managed to go on after meeting someone on there.

He was a tall, rugged-looking sort of fellow, a timber framer in the same business that my ex and I were in, so we knew some of the same people.  His photos showed a broad shouldered jolly ol' fella of a guy, someone who looked like a lot of fun.  Plus, he clearly loved spending time in the woods, given the amount of photos of him in them.  I thought, sweet!  Shows at least a little inkling of promise.

After some phone correspondence, which was witty and fun and more or less comfortable, we decided to Do The Deed and go on a real date.  That night, I was working at Rasta Pasta (a real fun joint at the time) and told him that I'd meet up with him at a busy brew pub a block away from work, just as soon as I'd gotten off for the evening.  And to make sure I knew who he was, I asked him how I'd know which fella he was.  He said "I'm wearing a grayish blue polo with a red hat."  Awesome.  I scooted my buns right over there, excited at the idea of a date with a fun, cute guy.

So there I was, walking up to the joint (that has HUGE windows, by the way, perfect for people watching, both in AND outside the pub).  As I recall, there was bit of a wait so I had ample time to look in the window and find the guy with the grayish blue polo, wearing a red hat.  And, I did.  Oh yes, I sure as fuck did.  OH FUCK.  Oh fuckity fuck fuck.  Oh, fuck me like a pervert fucks a sheep.  FUCK.  That motherfucker clearly posted pictures that were a solid 75 pounds ago.  OH SHIT!  Goddammit, shit fucking shit balls!  And he knows I'm on my way!  What the FUCK??

After some self medicating (hopefully, I had a pile of some sort of drugs in my bag at the time, I can't recall), I hopped on the bravery horse and walked through the door.  I walked up to the quivering pile of lard that was my DATE and introduced myself.  His eyes, well, they lit up like fireworks in July.  Mine, I'm pretty sure, were probably glassy as fuck by that time (the right kind of drugs work pretty fucking quick).  I coolly smiled and offered my hand and said it was nice to meet him (LIES!).

So, we bellied up to the bar, where of course the bartendress asked us for our IDs, which we promptly provided.  Mine was legit, duh, but his, I happened to see, had the big and bold RESTRICTED glaring across the top of it.  He rather proudly, I think, told me he was on his third DUI but had somehow found some stupid loophole that allowed him to keep his license.  Fucking SUPER.  Red flag number TWO.  Well, I let that go, because there was no way in hell that those sausage fingers would be making their way anywhere near my lady bits.  No fucking WAY.  In fact, I was so turned off by that guy that not even my Rabbit would come out of my drawer for fucking WEEKS.  Ugh.  I shiver to think of it.

But the best of that date was yet to come....

When one is on a first date, one generally tries to be on one's best behavior, am I right?  One generally does not fart, or burp, or say or do much of anything that may be unattractive to a potential mate (even if only a one night sort of mate).  Well.  It became really clear, really fast, why this guy was using the internet to score chicks, this inner tube of pale and jiggly fat notwithstanding.  After his second double Makers, he looks me dead in the eyes and asks me "Do you think it's weird to shit outside?"  Me (in my head):  "What?? What the FUCK?  You're a fucking douchetard and I'm about to bounce this shit as soon as you tell me why you're asking me this"  Me (verbally this time): "Well, I don't know.  It depends.  I mean, if you shit in the woods, that's fine.  But I doubt the neighbors would appreciate you juicing a deuce in the front yard."  He: "Well, what about the driveway? Here, I've got something to show you."

And much like a proud grandmother showing off pictures of the grandkids,  HE PROCEEDED TO BUST OUT HIS PHONE AND SHOW ME A PICTURE OF THE SHIT HE LEFT IN HIS FUCKING DRIVEWAY!!!! 

Friends, I'm proud to say that I immediately picked up my bag and, without saying a fucking word, got up and left.  And I vaguely remember hearing him call after me "Does this mean we won't be seeing each other again?!"

Seriously.  Fuck that guy.

Death of a Gerbil

Once, many moons ago (well, way after the Mayans all died off, so not quite THAT long ago-- hell, it was even after tight-rolling your jeans was cool, so really.. just a few years ago), I had a brief friendship with a fella who shall remain nameless.  (Let's just say that currently, he apparently has a thing for foxes.)  ANYWAY, this fox fella, he once said to me "never let the truth get in the way of a good story."  Fucking fantastic words to live by.  But yesterday, it occurred to me that, you know, what if the truth IS the good story?  Because sometimes, I come up with some pretty stupid shit that I've said and done throughout the years.  And in this little nugget of shitheadded awesome, I did not, in fact, let the truth get in the way of a good story, and friends, this is just a taste of what a horrible person I really am.  As I think I scarred some of my siblings for at LEAST a couple of days.

As anyone who knows me knows, I'm pretty open about shitting and farting and find such matters utterly hilarious.  Basically, I'm a 13 year old boy caught in the body of a 35 year old woman.  Not such a bad way to live, you ask me.  And I will never forget that one fine day on a hot summer afternoon while driving my two sisters and one of my brothers to god knows where (a detail that no one gives a shit about, least of all me).  So, we're driving and this lovely woman, me, squawked out some pretty foul smelling air shit.  I rolled up the windows in the middle of July and fucking cranked up the heat.  And if any of you have ever done that, you know and can appreciate the complete and total satisfaction of torturing your passengers.  In fact, it should absolutely be one of the things you need to put on the über hip Bucket List of Things To Do Before You Die.

Ok, back to this story, that isn't really even much of a story:

So, I've got three of my adolescent siblings trapped in the back of my car, hot as fuck, windows rolled up, heat cranked on high.  I can barely see them because the gas is just horrific.  Through incessant whining and begging and pleading for relief (I gave them none), they asked me "Jesus, Sissy, why do your farts smell SO BAAAAD??  Mom's aren't even that bad!"  I looked 'em dead in the eyes and said "A gerbil died in my ass and now it's rotting.  I can't get it out so I have to keep farting till it shoots itself out of my ass and into my underwear.  Pooping is a real bitch right now."

Suddenly, it got real fucking quiet in there.  The questions came later.

Alright, nanu nanu, motherfuckers.  A little Mork n' Mindy never hurt nobody. 

Right here n' now, I just wanna say that..... IT'S UP N' RUNNING, BITCHES!  I have no fucking idea what the fuck I'm gonna write about, save for making sure you all know that any day you don't find your shit stained underwear wadded up in the bottom of a trashcan in the men's bathroom at a low rent Chinese joint, is a good day.  So today?  Yeah, today's a good day.  Yesterday?  Well, let's just say I've had better yesterdays, shall we?  And we'll leave it at that.

So look out, 'cause Skampcity is about to get totally taste-free.  Well, mostly.