NothingSacred

Now for something a little extra special

Thanks to my gal, Anne, who twittered this beauty of a story over.  You're gonna love it! (And now you all know what I'm getting everyone for Xmas-- guys included!)

Cuchini- Taking care of Front-Junk since 2008

Since "Muff Cut" was taken...

Despite getting nearly nothing done today, or perhaps because of it, I feel the need to at least pop a quick post up.  After my extraordinarily productive Tuesday, I suppose I should forgive myself for not getting more done. I did pay my property taxes today before 8 AM, so that is something, and after the anal raping I received on them, I probably should have just gone back to bed.

Ace was finally well enough to get back in school, but sure enough around lunch time the phone rang yet again this week with a call from the office. This time Deuce needed to be picked up. Hardy boy that he is, he didn't even puke in my car even after I drove him all the way out to Costco.  What a sweetheart. 

So to top off the stomach flu that has gripped the casa, I'm pretty sure I gave myself a combined affliction of tennis elbow and carpal tunnel syndrome planting all this infernal vegetation around the patios, and I'm now convinced after picking up yet another giant pile of cat puke, that I may have to get my little kitty in for bulimia counseling. 

Anyway, to try to get myself in a better mood I thought I'd share this special offer from our good pals at Schick, who to my knowledge have NOT taken any government bailout money and for that should be applauded.  The creative team in charge of naming new products, however, may need to get out of the office a little more, as they clearly have no idea that the word "trim" has multiple meanings.

 

I saw this revolutionary new personal grooming tool on a tv commercial, and you can believe the name immediately caught my attention. How happy  was I then to find a print ad of it in Sunday's paper?  Pretty darn happy. Not, strawberry ice cream on a hot day in July happy, but tickled nonetheless.

As you can see, this razor you can use on your legs and then flip it over, and voila! A waterproof bikini trimmer right there to handle your shaggy lady business! The idea is not a bad one, necessarily, but the product name "Trim Style" leaves those of us with pervy mindsets to immediately start questioning why they didn't just call it "Quattro: The Beav" or "Schick's Coochie Cutter".  I mean, "trim style" makes it sound like there is a catalog of "haircuts" you can do with this thing.

I think I might start breaking that out in conversation.  Like, "Yeah, what's your trim style?" or "Do you use product with your trim style?"

Also, I guess I've never figured out why one would need a specific razor for the bikini line as I've never had that much of an issue managing with the regular-size one I'm using on my legs. So, the product is sort of redundant, no? Can anyone clue me in to why a "trim styler" is a better way to prune the hedges? To me it seems sort of like attaching a ball peen hammer to the bottom end of a regular hammer. Could just be me. Whatever, this has definitely got me in a better mood. So there is that.

The Top Twelve Reasons I Will Never Forgive That Twat Holly Collis

Here's the thing, I am awful at holding grudges. I just can't seem to do it.  I've got "forgive and forget" down, but I can't help feeling like the wisest people forgive but don't forget, and that way they don't get fucked over more than once by the same person. Not me! It's like when I decide to forgive someone the erase button in my brain is pushed and I can't remember the offense to save my life. (TOM, I'm sure, uses this particular character trait of mine to his full advantage.)

That said, obviously there are not a lot of people in my life who've made it onto my permanent shit-list. My memory isn't good enough to hold that many grudges. 

I thought it might do me well, however, to revisit why one particular girl is on that list, and refresh in my memory exactly why I cannot ever forgive her, as who wouldn't want to remember this little romp of past indiscretions for all of eternity?

12. You lied to every person you ever met. Especially me. 

11. You slept with my boyfriend Junior Year. You remember? The first guy I ever really loved? You did him. He told me years later. 

10. You cut your hair like Metallica's bassist and made me feel compelled to tell you it was awesome. It wasn't, but I didn't want to hurt your feelings. See? You even taught me to lie.

9. While working for Target you would steal trunk loads full of merchandise, drive to the Target in Northglenn and return it all for cash (this was before Target's stringent no-receipt/no-return policy, which I'm pretty sure you were instrumental in getting enacted). You thought there was nothing wrong with that and when I asked you about it, you accused me of being insensitive to your position.

8. You told our mutual friend, Kitty, that I blamed her for your accident.  Seriously? I told you I blamed myself for being out of town, thinking that if I had been there you would never have been in the situation. I beat myself up about it for years.  But let's face it, maybe you were destined to run that stop sign. You were always looking for a reason to make your life shitty.

7. You slept with my boyfriend Senior Year. (Got his best friend to confess it when I was catching up with people at our ten year class reunion. The one I helped organize. The one where your invitation was "lost in the mail". Yeah, that was really something to hear about. While I was sleeping in the next room at my parent's condo you screwed my boyfriend.  Sweeet.)

6. You tore the transmission out of my car while I was out of town by driving it like a fucktard through the mountains.

5. You slept with my other boyfriend Senior Year.

4. You lied about the whereabouts of the t-shirt said boyfriend gave me, claiming you had no knowledge of it at all. Until I found it stuffed under the bed you were sleeping in. You remember, the bed in my guest room? Yeah, you were living with me at the time. Rent-free. You're welcome.

3. You stole a credit card out of one of the guests' rooms at the hotel my parents owned and charged it up.  Fucking awesome! Then you said it was my fault because it was just too hard to have a friend who had everything while you didn't.  Guilt-trip, too? Oooh, may I have another?

2. In college you used to call me at 1 AM to try to patch up our friendship and when I told you that was too late to be calling, you called me at 6:30 in the morning to chat and said, "Now don't tell me this is too early?!" Yeah. It was.

1. You tried putting the moves on my baby's daddy (TOM) after I had momentarily decided to give you a second chance after college, figuring we'd all grown up and there was no way you'd STILL be up to your old tricks.  Wrong about you, again, I see.

So there it is, in black and white: the reasons I cannot forgive Holly Collis (and you should be grateful, bitch, that I chose to change your name), for I would be foolish to EVER forget the litany of charges against you. 

There, now don't I feel better for getting that off my chest? 

Can any of you beat that for history's shittiest best friend? Spill it. 

 

An Open Note to Cashiers Who Hate Cellphones

Dear Borders Sales Clerk (or, frankly, any sales clerk),

Be it hereby known that I do not care that it infuriates you when customers (I) talk on their (my) cellphones during sales transactions.  I do not appreciate the rolled eyes, the exasperated sighs, the irritated expressions or the general disdain you exude when you are approached with a sale on a celly. Listen, you don't need to be so obvious with your annoyance. Trust that when I approach and I'm on the phone it isn't that I'm UNAWARE that it displeases you, it is that I don't give a rat's ass.

I'm not sure if in modern society there was some sort of switch that was thrown that somehow gave sales employees the notion that they are somehow not on duty to accommodate the customer and that they are instead there to socialize or something, but I missed that particular memo. Is it only me who clings desperately to that old-fashioned notion that while they are there, being paid, to help me, that we are not, in fact, equals.  I seem to be lost in some anachronistic fantasy in which the idea that the customer is always right is still alive and well. I'm firmly requesting that the "customer is always right" mentality be reinstated forthwith.  Am I wrong here?

Listen, clerks, I get it. I've worked retail. And I was subject to being bossed about by complete strangers who told me to get them this or that, to hurry the heck up, to accommodate their every whim.  Believe you me, the feeling of subservience was not one I come by naturally. I was, however, altogether aware that I was present in the shop for their pleasure. I was trying to sell them stuff. I was being paid to be there, to actually work there. I was not under the delusion that I was also just browsing around, happened to see someone in need of paying up and took it upon myself to tally them up! Oh, no, I recognized that taking their money was my job. 

[Yeah, there's no real mystery that I didn't last long at that position, but let's just all be grateful that I didn't attempt a stint at that most ignoble form of servitude known to First World denizens: waitressing. I think we all know how long I would've lasted trying that! As it was, my manager, being the outrageously resourceful and competent man that he was, immediately recognized that my talents were being overlooked at the cash register and reassigned me to "visuals" promptly.  So then I just had to serve the customer base by creating an inviting and pretty space in which they could ponder whether they needed just one wind-up flashlight or several, whether they'd need that down comforter in misty sage or silvered blue. But I digress.  The point? I get it. Retail is  thankless, underpaid job.  Then again, you can train a monkey to ring items through a scanner.]

So, when I approach your cash register please know that I have made the choice to do so, knowing full well that you may be offended by it. I have consciously decided that you and I will not be discussing the weather or how much you personally adore the items I have chosen to purchase.  I have decided that my time is better spent continuing the call I am on while you ring and bag. Amazingly, I can hand you the credit card and continue my conversation-- I think we all know this hardly even taxes my ability to multi-task. If there is an emergency you need to alert me to, like say, my hair has caught fire, then you may interrupt me. Other than that, shove off and get to work!

 You don't have any idea the business I'm conducting on my call, so don't give me your vexed glare and act all put out. I could be on the horn with Ben Bernanke advising him on policy, I could be arranging emergency food supplies to be airlifted to Somalia, I could work for a suicide prevention hotline that patches calls through, really any number of scenarios is possible. The point is, you don't know.  Yeah, it is more likely I'm trading giggles with Edna over the inanity of our spouses, but again, with as busy as the two of us have been, this time here waiting on YOU to hurry up and ring is my only free time to get that special girl time, ok?

Oh, and let's get something else out there; just because I'm allowed to chat on the phone during our business does not, under any circumstance, give you the right to do the same.  Again, it is pretty simple. You are being paid to assist me. Now make yourself useful to your employer and do your job. You really should reconsider the attitude in toto anyway what with so many people looking for jobs! And the very presence of your cellphone during our transaction is entirely unsuitable, even if you are just holding it on your shoulder, head cocked to the side while you half-smile at me and toss my purchases into a bag. Not ok! I may want to talk about the weather. I may want to solicit your opinion on my purchases. The thrust of the argument is this: Me talky = ok; you talky = no go. Got it? Swell.

Oh, and a special note to my optometrist's office personnel: the laminated sign you have hung on every flat surface of your waiting room decreeing that cell phones are not allowed in your office? BULLSHIT! You've got some set of balls for a group of clearly over-estrogened ladies to presume to tell me to turn my phone off! Once again, I am the customer therefore it matters not to me if it annoys you to hear me conducting my telephonic business.  And two? Even more brazenness to make me wait for my appointment if I'm not allowed to use that time to accomplish something.  Sit here and listen to the feeble drippings of your water feature that remind me to tell TOM to get his prostate checked while trying to amuse myself with six-year-old copies of Reader's Digest? I think not, sugartits.

 If you don't want me on the phone, that doctor better be waiting at the door to usher me back for my appointment. If, on the other hand, you expect me to actually wait? Uh, I'll be using my phone.  You never know, I could be negotiating a hostage release.  You don't know. It could happen.  Or, maybe Edna needs to know what the root verb of the word "are" is. That's probably more likely. 

Deuce Wisdom #49

Earlier this week, as The Old Man and I were with the boys in their playroom, attempting to organize the chaos.  I believe Trey was upside down in a laundry basket screaming at us for not understanding his little Hitleresque decrees while Ace was maniacally bouncing a stuffed animal off the wall. It was average day.    

I was putting away laundry when TOM called me into Ace and Deuce's bathroom and asked Deuce, who'd been MIA for some time, to repeat to me what Deuce had just told TOM about his activities.

"Well," Deuce began as he turned toward his sink. "Jesus sent me a postcard."

Uh, what?

"Jesus sent me a postcard, to my brain, and he told me to clean up my sink. So, I washed my sink three times." He waved his hand across his basin in his best Vanna imitation. 

And seriously, he did a damn good job at it.  Well, I suppose he did have the added pressure that this was a decree from on high, so he better put in a good show. What can I say? Deuce is a pleaser.

So my question is this: Any of you been sent a postcard from Jesus to your brain lately? What did you get? And do you think I'll be getting a Jesus postcard to the brain? If so, what do you think it'll require?  (And if any of you say "don't leave your kids in the car anymore", I will hunt you down.)

Pantywaist Threatens Moms, Panties Bunch

Today I opened my local paper to check for any developments on the prairie dogs at the airport crisis (it's big news around here what with all the varmint loving hippies stinking up the joint.) Basically another swarm of prairie dogs has infiltrated our municipal airport and there is a big to-do over how to deal with the damage to the runways and obvious safety concerns for humans while still making sure that we continue to provide free health care, manicures and tax breaks to the plague-carrying rodents responsible for the damage.  Whilst perusing the letters to the editor in hopes of finding a cheap laugh at the expense of a fanatic, feral rodent lover, I came across a letter that I feel needs a response. 

The letter goes as follows:

Next time, I will call the police, report you

I just returned from the store where I witnessed two young children who had been left in their car alone for several minutes. To the mother who did this- and yes, I saw you- you need to realize that your children are the most priceless things you have, and leaving them alone in a parking lot is not only irresponsible, it's a crime.

Let notice be hereby served that if I see any other children left alone in a car at any time, your license plate number will be noted, the police will be notified immediately and I will do everything in my power to ensure you never put your children in that risk again. I almost lost a child several years ago by turning my back for merely a couple of seconds, and I will not stand by while irresponsible parents continue to operate under the false assumption that nothing bad could possibly happen.

Kevin King

Well, thank you very much, Mr. High-n-Mighty-Nanny-Stater!  What size brown-shirt do you wear? I'll be sure to order a spare for you, to ensure that you always have appropriate clothing when you are reporting your neighbors to the authorities. 

Let me get this straight, someone appointed YOU, Kevin King, to be the kiddie patrol? You self-righteous prick! Where do you get off making threats against parents? Is it possible that the kids you observed were in a LOCKED car? It is possible for modern cars to be left running WHILE locked? Is it possibly that you just don't have enough to worry about in your own fucking life that you need to meddle in other people's business? In this economy? WOW!!

This sort of nanny-state bullshit just sticks in my craw. It's not that I think kids should be left in cars, I understand the consequences. But a little common sense, please.  This asshat admits that they were left for a few minutes, which is not a very long time. So can I assume that running into 7-11 is unacceptable? And what, Mr. Sanctimonious Ass, is your definition of "young children"? Are we talking toddlers here? Five-year-olds? Is my eight-year-old ok to leave in the car? Howabout when he's twelve? Is that ok? Can I take him out of his backward facing booster seat at that point?

I'm just so sick to death of overzealous middling bureaucrats "protecting" us all from everything, making rules about every last minute detail of life and then recruiting cock-sucking, namby-pamby, holier-than-thou goody-two-shoes to enforce from the trenches! Seriously, assholes like this may not realize it, but they perpetuate living in a fucking police state. 

Boy, sure sorry about your near-miss with your kid (who must be a real go-getter! Bet the terms "grade-grubber" and "brown-noser" are pretty familiar to him!). That you just turned away for "merely for a second" and almost had an accident! Can you imagine?! Can I take from that that I will be reported for not keenly staring at all of my children all of the time? That's a difficult task being that I have three kids and only two eyes. I suppose I could tether them to one another. And then just for safe-keeping tie them to myself. Would that be ok for you? Would I be parenting well then?

It is arrogant fucktards like this, doing what they perceive as the "right thing" that cause more harm than help. A friend of a friend got reported for this very thing. They are a good family. They take good care of their kids. They feed them, clothe them, resist the almighty urge to beat the shit out of them when they act like spoiled little orangutans (which is like, all the time). And now, because some Nosy Nelly Parenting Nazi called them in, they get to endure surprise home inspections by CPS for the next 18 months. More tax dollars wasted on a something-MIGHT-have-happened-even-though-it-didn't crime. Sweeeeet.

Go ahead, turn this lady in for the good of her kids. Just don't expect a hug and hand-written thank you from the youngsters afterward, Sir Smug! The only person you are going to help, douchenozzle, is yourself. You'll feel all happy with your "good deed" but I bet even your friends find you obnoxious and repugnant. They certainly know not to steal post-its from the supply closet while you are around. 

I swear, it is these quiet little signs that slip away, unnoticed by the public at large, until one day you wake up and you're living in the Soviet Fucking Union, tattling on your neighbor for crimethink and ungood deeds. 

You know what I don't like? Fat kids. I think I'll start reporting them. Hey, they are a burden to the "system" AND their parents are clearly abusing them with food. It is for their own good! I'll begin carrying a scale to make sure they fit my definition of what is fat or not. I'm leaning toward nothing higher than a 22 BMI. Oh crap! I'll have to report myself-- Deuce just got weighed in on the Wii fit and it says he is "obese" and he has the Wii age of 25-- and really, really needs to work out because he's checking in at 20 years older than his actual age! Shame, shame! Well, better to nip bad eating habits in the bud early. I'll rat myself out on that in the morning.

And how, exactly, does HE know if that mom thinks her kids are the most priceless thing she has? Maybe she has two holy terrors who hector her all through the day. Maybe she HOPES some clueless sap will get his just desserts by stealing them. Or, perhaps she is in possession of a Rembrandt or the Hope Diamond. Because then, really, what is "priceless"? (That's sarcasm for you fucking overly sensitive milksops out there.)

PS- I don't know if this asshole is referring to me or not. He very well could be. I have, on occasion, left my children in a locked, air-conditioned car (GASP!). I do know that if I ever get the pleasure of meeting Kevin King, I'll give a swift and ruthless fucking beatdown, for his insufferable arrogance. 

PPS- His types aren't going to talk me out of owning guns, either. He'll try to convince us it is all for our own good, for society's good, for the children's good (whine). Instead, they'll start another civil war. And once again, I'll hand Kevin King another ass-whupping then, too.

  

Boys: They Can't Help It

A friend of mine sent this to me with thoughts to my sweet, loving Deuce, who's been a ladies' man since he was born. It's with him in mind that I happily share with you! (Thanks to Marti)

Who doesn't Want to Be Little Again?

Holy Roller

It is no secret that I embarrass myself often. Probably because I am unlikely to admit that I don't know how to do something, so I go ahead and guesstimate the actual abilities needed to accomplish certain tasks.  This doesn't usually happen with Deuce's Pre-K teacher, possibly because if she were eligible she'd be up for sainthood.  I tell you when things are bad all you really need is a hug from Mrs. Seaver.

That said, when I go in on Wednesdays to do my morning volunteering in her class, she generally has some project for which I am wholly ill-equipped.  Lots of time it has to do with baking and I'm forced to admit that I'm going to need a detailed recipe that would be best written in small words and minute detail. Pretty much if the kids in her class couldn't do the project without me it probably shouldn't be attempted with me. So this past Wednesday I went in for my weekly dose of preschool fun (which I've actually become addicted to if for nothing else the adorable bon mots the wee ones shout out, usually pertaining to something their parents would rather be kept secret), and I was handed my greatest fear: Pillsbury Crescent Rolls.

I'm not sure why Pillsbury insists on delivering delicious sorta-homemade goodness to us in what amount to grenades, but let me be clear, I am frightened.  Biscuits in pop cans may be the bane of my existence. Perhaps it harkens back to the urban legend tale of the lady who forgot she had some in her backseat on a hot day. You know it, right? She jumps in her car with a load of grocery bags in the back (evidently the biscuits in question were strategically positioned right on top, aimed directly at her), and hears a loud gun-like bang, feels impact on the back of her head and reaches back to find warm goo gushing from the back of her skull. "I've been shot! My brains are falling out!" she thinks right before she passes out, slumped over the steering wheel. Later she's woken by a passerby who points out that, no, she has not been shot, but seems to have dough all in her hair.  Yeah, it's a real yukfest. I heard that story when I was about nine or ten, and had already developed an intense aversion to loud, sudden noises-- the result, no doubt, of being an only child to a mother with a loud noise allergy. 

You can imagine my life now, living with three boys and a man who find the popping of balloons a most pleasing diversion and illegal fireworks the very height of entertainment.  C'mon, I live with four beings who think that a sudden explosion from between the legs is cause for celebration, so you can guess at how I walk around the house in a constant state of noise panic. At any given moment there will be an unexpected cacophony that will spike my blood pressure. 

And of course these goons like to eat. Particularly anything out of a Pillsbury pop can. So I attempt to open these dastardly contraptions way more often than what is comfortable, but it usually ends in me walking through the house with the can at arms length, like a bomb in need of defusing, in search of someone else to do the deed, worried that at any moment the fucking thing is going to go off like TNT.  I can't help it. Each and every time I open those things they scare the shit out of me. 

When I was very little I had a jack-in-the-box. One of the old-fashioned metal ones. And I would crank it slowly, squinting and turning away, trying to close both ears with my shoulders, one little squeaky note at a time until BAM! I'd get scared witless. Over and over again. I have no idea why I played with that darn thing.

So when Mrs. Seaver handed me three cans of crescent rolls and told me we would be making "Resurrection Rolls" I could hardly be expected to hear her further instructions over the sounds of blood rushing, right? From what I gathered after the fact the concept was to wrap a marshmallow (symbolizing Jesus) in a crescent roll blanket after "anointing" it in oils and spices (melted butter and cinnamon sugar). Then the seams are sealed up just like Jesus was sealed into the tomb.  After baking the marshmallow "disappears", symbolizing Jesus' resurrection.  

Well, after describing the symbolism 16 times to kids who clearly all had an aversion to getting melted butter on their fingers, and having my nerves shattered by cracking open three cans of pressurized madness, can I be blamed for what was to follow? I think not. Sure, on my way out the classroom to the antique monster of a commercial oven in the cafeteria kitchen Mrs. Seaver told me to make sure that all the rolls were sealed or else there would be a big gooey mess, but honestly I was concentrating on whether I should check the rolls every three minutes or four minutes to make sure they didn't burn. 

I hauled the cookie sheets down to the basement cafeteria where a class of 10th graders was listening to a lecture. I let myself into the kitchen as quietly as possible, thinking about how even if they didn't see me, they'd certainly be soon tempted by the delectable aromas that would waft from my baking accomplishments. That was why I wasn't paying attention to whether or not the heavy wood kitchen door would slam so hard behind me that I nearly wet myself.

I did the dishes while I waited for the rolls to cook. They did smell good! Finally, a baking success! Twelve minutes later, I grabbed the ancient oven mitts, which may or may not be asbestos, and pulled open the heavy oven door.  Holy Jesus.  Our marshmallow Jesuses had not only risen forth from the tomb, they'd burst out like super heros! Each and every "Resurrection Roll" has blown open, marshmallow exploded all over the pans, carmelized goo blackening between mangled pastry detritus.  Oh my god. I realized I'd have to take these upstairs and show the class. And the teacher. Heaven help me.

Luckily the children took it well. Sure, I heard them leaning over to each other when I set them out at snack time, whispering things like  "Look! Jesus blew up!" and  "Jesus is all burned up!" Yeah. Exactly how the story goes kids.  After Jesus was anointed and wrapped in clothes and sealed into his tomb he burst into flame, and blew the door right off the hinges! 

Fantastic. Happy Easter everyone. Don't go knockin' my door down to get a seat at my Easter dinner table now!

PS- regardless of revolting appearance, those rolls were DEE-licious!

False Advertising and You

I just have to really quickly call bullshit on the part of the marketing people in the employ of Marley & Me's Production studio.  Look at this DVD case:

 Adorable, no? What do you think this movie will be? Cute? Sweet? Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston? Must be funny, too! Oh, and look there at the bottom... "The Best Family Film of the Year". Perfect for date night or to watch with the whole family! Great! And bear in mind that if you BUY this title there is this eye-catching sticker on the plastic proclaiming in BIG letters: "HILARIOUS!!" (in smaller letters underneath "out takes and bloopers").

So would it be outside the realm of rationality to think this movie will be cute and funny and sweet? I mean, look at that fucking puppy! I think that is the general idea they were trying to portray here. And for that, I call them damn, dirty liars.

Now, bear in mind I REFUSE to see this movie since I saw the cover of the book it is based on BEFORE they hired Jennifer Aniston to be in the film... doesn't take a genius to see that this will end badly. Very badly. Old Yeller badly.

Here's my beef. They are deliberately  misrepresenting the level of misery this movie will bring to you. What a way to suck in an unsuspecting sap to screen this on family night. All the kiddos sobbing.  Wife heaving and blubbering. Old Man trying to hold strong, face beet red, claiming the allergens are really up all of a sudden.  Listen, if I wanted to see TOM cry, I'd put on a Mandy Moore movie, ok?

'Til then, Marley can fucking suck it.  I don't do violence against kid movies OR dead dog flicks. No matter how cute the dog on the cover is.

Sky Mall-- Mocking the Aged

Ok, a quick one since I've got the three monkeys to myself tonight and I still haven't figured out a dinner solution (Thank God for crap movies. Even Trey at two seems enthralled by "Never Back Down", which is a current Karate Kid.  Ace and Deuce are so into it they've doffed their shirts and are adopting little sneers.  Awesome.) 

A sweet little find from my beloved Sky Mall:

I'm pretty sure that whoever invented the marketing scheme for this little device spends his spare time ridiculing retards, too. It is a given that he's going straight to Hell.  

So let me get this straight, one is supposed to be embarrassed by their hearing loss but should buck up because they can find "image enhancement" with this little dork supplement? "A more youthful appearance"? Say what? Poor old guys are going to get duped into buying this thing thinking they'll look cool and hip, when really they're just getting suckered into the biggest tool accessory available! Next thing you know grandpas are gonna start sagging their slacks just to enhance their youthful image! Sheesh. This just seems criminal to me. 

I'm going to catch my 90-year-old granddad wearing this thing at our next family reunion and I'll just feel awful.  He doesn't even own a cell phone. 

Porn for the Masses, Part Three

Before I get into the particular comedic gems The Old Man and I unearthed buried in the titles of in- room "adult entertainment" I should issue a warning: The following will make you cringe, possibly throw up and then feel ashamed of yourself for laughing.

That said, I think it should be noted that there was not only ONE instance of this specific, er, genre, of smut, but THREE! Clearly this type of film is more popular than I'd ever imagined if the porn industry would offer such a wide selection of titles, which was especially surprising to me as I'd never even heard of this sort of pervy fixation before (I know! Can you imagine?! Seems unlikely to find something of this nature that would shock me!).

Obviously, this is so fucked up it could be an End-of-Times-Bellwether! (I blame MTV... got kids these days so desensitized to sex they have to get pervier and pervier to get their rocks off! Used to be a guy could lose himself in the fantasy of a threesome, but now that that is de rigueur, they have to invent things actually unlikely to happen to get a little thrill. Sad state of affairs, my friends, but I'm sure you're curious as to what I'm talking about now, so hold your nose-- here we go!)

First Up:

Yep, that's right. "Granny Gets Laid". Holy Mary, Mother of God... 

Basically this is just taking the MILF meme to its logical conclusion, I suppose, but this has stepped outside the realm of human decency. But hey, it's "new for 2009", so it is cutting edge porn! 

The image of the cane and grocery sack and sensible shoes... I really want to meet the guy who gets wood off this! And then beat him mercilessly. Oddly, they only offer the one scene (For $13.99!! For 20 minutes?! At least with Big Black Azz you get mutliple scenes for that kind of dough!), so I'm guessing that Linda Lovelace just wasn't feeling up to much on shoot day. And what the hell kid of teaser calls the object of fucking "old and ugly"? Yikes!

If I were less of a laugher now and more of the analytical, borderline feminist of my college days, I might see a bit of violence and rape here... But then, that's not funny, so let us move along.

Ah, but there is more...

Oh dear heavens, imagine our delight when we found ANOTHER ONE!  

"Decades beyond their prime, these ugly old grannies..." Holy crap! Who is beating off to this?!?! Oh god, I just had a thought of a blushing young bride on her honeymoon.  New husband throws on a little porn to get things moving and chooses this! Now wouldn't THAT fuck with your head!?! I'm willing to bet that these titles are for solo beat-downs only. No one would have the nerve to order this in front of their lady friend! But with THREE titles available... clearly you sick bastards are ordering it up by the bucketload!

"REALLY OLDER WOMEN" Oh my gawd, that might be the funniest tagline I've ever seen! Uh, you promise, smut dealers? REALLY older? Because I don't want to be wasting my $15.99 (!!) on only SOMEWHAT older women (Course, you get a full hour and four minutes of grandma-grinding, so technically it is a deal compared to the previous title which breaks down to $.70/stroke-minute) They better be plenty old, man, decades past fertility, yo! I want pubic hair of the sparse and gray assortment ONLY, dude! Wrinkles? Gotta have 'em! Loose folds of skin? Better be there! Scent of dusty rose and camphor? Necessities! 

And then this-- for the final degradation of all that is holy... 

"55 and Needy"! 

First of all, 55 ain't that old! What with the way moms are now waiting 'til their last fertile egg to drop to have kids now, this could actually be a MILF... judging from the picture, a drunk as hell, possibly short-bus-riding MILF, but a mom nonetheless.

Anyway, assuming that this particular "starlet" is, in fact, a grandma, the notion that a woman is "needy" and therefore likes to take it in the keister, is outrageously hilarious! And probably at the root cause of all this old-lady-humpin' to begin with! Because that's the real taboo, isn't it? And something that even MTV hasn't glamorized for their young harlots yet, and thusly harder to come by. Sure, sure, MTV has convinced the girlz that wearing belts as skirts is cool and making out with their best friend while being filmed with a phone camera is A-OK, but even they haven't bridged the anal gap yet! 

At any rate, from this I've learned that "needy" is code-word for "likes it in the rear". I'd always thought needy referred to insecure little girls who require a lot of emotional support and 40 phone calls a day. Boy, was I wrong, and it is a mistake I won't make again. From here on out, when I hear a man describe a woman as "needy" I'll know she likes a little Hershey-Highway lovin', I'll assume she's been Dirty Sanchez'd, and I'll bet she is only four to six tequila drinks away from a Cleveland Steamer!

Oy fucking vay. I guess I should feel good that the porn-whores of yesteryear are still working... but really, all I can feel is an unholy need for a shower. Possibly by the meth-lab clean-up crew.

And with that, I'm off to church! Happy Sunday everyone.

Porn for the Masses, Part Two

I almost don't even need to comment on this, as it is pretty obvious what is so hilarious about it!

I love that it is "nuttin'" on black "azz"! Does calling it "azz" make the rump sexier or blacker? Or both?! Does the faux-Ebonics vouch for the blackness of the cast here? 

Mostly, I just like that it's guys and girls with lots of big butts in yo face, yo! Now if that's not a winning sales pitch, I don't know what is! (Other than the fact that this teaser promises "fast-paced" action. Again, is that a bonus? I guess asking for a claim of "proper lighting and ass-zit make-up" is too much to hope for?)

-- I can assure you that installment three of porn-in-your-hotel blogging is the best, so be sure to tune in again for the orgasmic conclusion of this series!

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Hey All--

If you subscribed for email updates you may have noticed something is amiss.  You may also like to note that I have absolutely no idea how to deftly navigate the internet-world of coding and managing all these "handy" little services.

Long story short: I think when Feedburner was bought out by google my feeds and subscribers were lost. My "hits/subscribers" page looks like a buffet on the opening day of Biggest Loser.  Empty. So, sorry, if notifications have been absent.

I think I have fixed the problem, but of course can offer no guarantees as even though I've spent hours trying to slog through these issues, I'm still as confused as that "man" who got pregnant. Please resubscribe if you'd like updates.  Sorry for the trouble. Starting to think it would be easier for me just to publicize my own damn blog by personally emailing each and every one of you than trust the powers that be at google!  (Then again, I'm working hard to get an etsy.com shop up and running and between that and watching the three little hellions running loose through the house during spring break... well... it just ain't happening.)

Again, sorry for the screw-up. 

Porn for the Masses, Part One

So while on our romantic escape weekend, at a very swank hotel mind you, The Old Man and I decided to peruse the selection of in-room movies.  Naturally we had to check out the "adult" titles available (just out of curiosity, I swear!), and let me tell you, hotel porn has come a LONG way since Spectra-Vision, baby!

We couldn't believe not only the number of titles available (it rivaled our nearest porn shop, we eventually passed out exhausted from laughing before we got to the end of the list!), but the particular nuance and fetishes that they cater to now is astounding!

 Now, I thought in-room porn had hit its pinnacle when they started running the token gay film, but it has gotten MUCH "better"! There's something for everyone (within reason, of course, we didn't see any kiddie porn, but at the way they are adding titles and titillations it may only be around the corner!) Luckily, the screen before you scroll through the teaser pages asks you to not go further if you aren't of age.  Yeah, I'm sure that stops loads of kids.  It sure would've worked for me... yeah, right.

So of course I had to grab out my handy phone and get some shots of my favorite new releases, if you will, to share with you.  I'll be doing a three part series here to share them with you (don't want you to get too much of a good thing all at once now, do I?)

Without further ado, may I present Porn Offering Number One: The Cable Guy (not starring Jim Carrey).

So alright, I get it. Guys have a consistent fantasy about showing up to some horny woman's house delivering pizza, or cleaning her pool, or retrieving "red mice" from a clogged toilet and before a guy can get in a day's honest work, whoops! The missus is slobbing his knob! Yeah, this one's premise is a bit trite. But what I like about this particular treatment is that little blurb they threw in over in the upper left quadrant:

"Reality Based".

Say what? Uh, excuse me? Reality based? Are you shitting me?!?! They go right ahead and contradict that with the opening line of the description: "What a fantasy!"  So which is it, porno-summary-writer? Real or fantasy? And God, wouldn't you love to have that job?! Talk about easy! First off, your biggest challenge would be finding synonyms for "horny" and secondly your customer base isn't exactly a choosy, literate bunch, are they? You can sort of sit back and rely on a good still from the movie to get the attention of the viewer!

Just for argument's sake, let's say this is "reality based".  Where? When does this happen? I am a married lady who has to occasionally open the door for a workman or delivery guy. Never once has it crossed my mind to start humping his leg. And if I had a friend over?!?! Well that would make it even LESS likely, as everyone knows three people can keep a secret only if you slowly, methodically poison the one most likely to rat after a glass of merlot... which would mean that I would have to poison myself! 

Yeah. "Reality-based".  In your dirty, naughty little dreams. Now bend over and prepare to get punished for your insolence!