Girls Gone Wild My Foot

The worst thing about a bad hotel is when you can sense the ghosts of previous guests in it  – and when I say “sense” I mean “smell” as in the smell of all the disinfectant it takes to banish them. The smell in my hotel room last night was acrid, overpowering. “The windows don’t actually open,” the clerk had said to me when I checked . ‘That’s OK,’ I aid blithely back, thinking ‘I’ll just crank the AC.’   Who knew the AC would be so busted and the smell so sharp  that this morning  my lungs feel burned?  All night I kept looking out at my car in the parking lot. and wondering why I didn’t  just go out and sleep in it.

Two key observations this morning:

(1) Tylenol PM doesn’t work AT ALL until about 2 hours before you have to get up when it holds you under like a drowning victim at the hands of his murderer.

(2) You think a lot less of HBO when you see the ridiculous porn they screen late at night.  Pity the males addicted to these images; how can we tell them that it’s the old bait-and-switch? That they’re never going to find women like the ones they see on their various screens wearing nothing but stiletto-heeled boots and fondling their own breasts? I hate to crush your illusions guys but women just aren’t that interested in the auto-erotic, just like God is not that interested in Football.  If you’re a 14-year old male you may think the best fun adults can have involves a lot of bouncing and yipping but it just isn’t so. Sure, in the state of arousal all else falls away but that’s Nature’s trick to get what Nature’s really after which is: procreation.  There’s a thing called ‘the erotic trance’ and the decisions you make when you’re in it often seem a tad  … questionable once it passes. Even those half-naked 20-year-olds in their Naughty-Schoolgirl get-ups will tell you: Women are nesters and tidy-up-ers . After sex we mostly feel like…. vacuuming! 🙂

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Some Cialis Please – Supersized for the Fat Girl

fat-lady-alone
You know you got fat when your rings, your bikini undies AND ALL YOUR BRAS are suddenly too tight. You know it when you look at yourself in the mirror from the back and think “Michelin Man.”

My question is What happened to that SYLPH from five years ago? Plus, where’s my black hair? What’s with this dry-mop the color of battery acid? and what’s with the mustache action all a sudden?

If I’m gonna like TURN INTO A MAN all I can say is, I want some Cialis. Now! And oh yeah, a wife to wash my giant clothes and do all my bending over.

Failing that, I’m off to Weight Watcher to liberate this poor girl (She’s under here somewhere!)

sittin-in-the-dock

Flesh and More Flesh

Rereading this last post underneath here makes me remember that I actually prayed that my family would move, because of this same kind of ‘exposure.” It was after my big sister Nan pulled down my pants in front the neighborhood boys. A few weeks before that, she’d told them I didn’t have a bellybutton and then tried to get me to prove I did by showing it. I wouldn’t though: everyone knew bellybuttons were sex organs and anyway of course I HAD a bellybutton. You just couldn’t SEE it, hidden in the folds of my fat little tummy, so yes I was also chubby but Nan was working with me on that too: “Here’s what people do to lose weight,” she told me: “Every day they peel down a stick of butter and eat the whole thing.”  And I was doing it – of course I was doing it.

 

Maybe these things seem mean on Nan’s part but were they no meaner than what I did to her a few years on, locking her out of the bathroom while she was trying to bleach her hair behind Mom’s back. With me locked in there she couldn’t get at the neutralizer ha HA! And her hair would be just crazy bad straw tomorrow I thought from my perch on the closed toilet and was all the while reading from her diary in loud mocking tones.

 

The diary was all about boys, natch. As was the bleaching. As was, for me, a whole high school career spent worrying that I was so homely the very walls at the CYO dance would have to look away when I showed up.

 

Well there’s more to be said about boys, and flesh and girdles but too, but right now it’s time for me to go to the hospital so that a needle can be sent into three places a hair’s breadth away from that crucial tube the spinal cord. My cervical vertebrae are gonna be starrin’ in their OWN little TV show in just about two hours so I’d best jump into my pantyhose and get on over there. If the procedure doesn’t kill me I’ll be back with even more deep insights – and maybe, if I’m feeling jaunty enough, the tale of the fancy foundations lady who told me I was a 32F, then sold me the bra to prove it.

 

“GAD!” as Mom used to say, “What’s next?”

 haha (this is not me by the way)

 

 

 

                                          

Viva Viagra?

OK, you want to know why we resent you guys? We resent you because all the best creativity gets directed to your needs instead of ours. Take the names of the various sexual aids: YOU get a name like ‘Viagra’, which sounds like vitality with a little agriculture thrown to help sow those life-givin’ oats of yours. You get ‘Levitra,’ a name deriving from the Latin word for ‘rise’. I see the Levitra ads and all I can think of is the ladder on a fire truck cranking slowly and sturdily upward. You get ‘Cialis’ which sounds like “See Alice,” because there’s just no TELLING what Alice might be moved to do in the face of your powerful display of manhood!

Now look at the names of the products they have for us. Is there a ‘Honey Blossom’? Or a ‘Heaven’s Gate’? Or a ‘Nectar of the Goddess”? No way babe. What they have for us is something called  ‘Vagifem’, a sipping straw-size syringe-like thingy that carries at its tip a tiny payload of estrogen to be catapulted boink! against the cervix and left there to do what it can do.

Vagifem, Gad! Can there BE a worse word?

Plus men also get perky jingles like the “Viva Viagra!” one. They get romantic commercials where chicks soaking in hot tubs reach out to link pinkies with these about-to-be-proven-tireless partners, commercials where some pliant gal with shoulder-length hair swoons prettily in the arms of her big strong man, EVEN THOUGH HE’S IN THE  POWDER-BLUE TUX HE WORE TO HIS PROM 30 YEARS AGO HAR-DE-HAR-HAR. Even at that he still seems not at all dorky but cool and fun and ironic, a life-of-the- party guy who’s not about to let a little e.d. get him down!

All this do guys get, and we get …….Vagifem –  and why? Because they think we’re lightweights? Sissies? Fems ourselves?  Just a bunch of fems with vaginas? And who named THAT body part you ask? Who but the men of Ancient Rome and guess what it means in Latin? It means “scabbard,” as in the sheath for a sword.

Yep, sheaths to their swords are our bodies to them, holsters to their little pistols, this part of us that is most complex and intricate through which all must travel to get here, this wondrous part named and defined strictly in relation to the male, walk-ins welcome,  step right up, open 24 hours a day, we’re here to serve ya.

I say we rename THEIR products with the same unromanticized bluntness and how’s this for starters:  How’s  ‘Penissimus Maximus’ and the slogan can be “It’s Scrotally Awesome”?