Portable, disposable penises - Yes, please!

I was shopping at an outdoors'y store the other day (looking for a fanny pack, as ya do) and nestled right between the travel eye masks and the reading lights, I found unexpected gold.

I remember a while ago finding a similar contraption to this, but they are bigger and kind of remind me of the stainless steel ice scoopers that I used during my bartending days -- not exactly something you'd want to carry around in your over-sized purse unless it really is the ice scooper that you're stealing from the bar. Amirite?

They do have a very nice website, though.
http://www.go-girl.com/

Anyhow, my initial reaction to these products are always giggley and immature. I mean, the function of them is quite silly, BUT then my ever-existing phobia of public toilets kicks in, and I think it's an amazing concept. The further away my ass can be from where some other stranger's dirty ass has been, the fucking better!

I know I'm a bit of a different beat when it comes to my toilet logic, because it's not "germs" per se that make me squirmy (I actually don't give a crap about germs), it's the human filth; even my own filth. Anyone in public health has my utter respect, because I just can't go there. Ever. This is another reason why the "GoGirl" and other reusable devices like the Diva Cup are things I have a hard time with, even though I know they're better for the environment as well as my body . . . blardy bargh blar. And let's face it, not everywhere has a working sink or clean water, so the thought of not being able to properly clean off said reusable device terrifies me beyond anything that could gross me out from the old fashioned alternative.

That's yet another reason why this "new" disposable (yet biodegradable, so that's at least something) product tweaked my interest. Perhaps some day soon, when I can actually SEE my vagina again, I might entertain the idea of trying out one of these little P-Mates -- on a plane comes to mind for sure, because BARF-GAG-WRETCH.

So what?! We still cannot know what it's like to jerk ourselves off just yet, but this is a good start in the right direction to conquering penis envy, for sure.

Rolling in it... again!

A couple months ago, I shared the precious gift of money that my grandmother gave me. I still haven't hauled that booty to the bank, by the way. I'm waiting for just the right time -- when I'm reeeally hurtin'. I stopped in last weekend for another visit and as usual, there's not a dull moment.

She just had to tell me how annoying her evening was, since one of the women that "doesn't have any marbles left" fell and badly hit her face. It was annoying, of course, due to the fact that all the hubbub that surrounded the incident caused my grandma's dinner to be late................ .......!!

Then I asked her if she new anything about the funky house that is being built across the street from her residence. (It is seriously cool. Not sure if it fits with the surrounding properties, but cool nevertheless.) She just waved her hands away and groaned, "Pssfft, probably a couple of queers moving in."

As we were eating, the chef came out to greet the residents and their guests; he's East Indian. As he walked away, my grandmother yelled, "My god, he is black, black, black... in't he?"

She was on a roll, people.

Speaking of rolls, after lunch she winked and handed me another present before I left. It looked like this:

Within our family, she is quite famous for these packages. Usually, they contain already opened boxes of crackers that she decided she didn't like, or buckets of yogurt that will be expiring within the next 24 hours, or even bananas.

Oh, sweet Jesus... the fucking bananas.

Let's just say she doesn't pack them inside those phallic yet effective travel containers. A few years ago, I put my foot down with the banana donations. Even with this package -- the fact that she put that note on it is a good indicator that it contains something that I'd likely not want to take home with me, but I have to be honest, I was totally expecting bananas.

So, like the obedient grand daughter that I am, I waited until I got home to open her mystery package...

Toilet paper.

And not just any toilet paper - stolen toilet paper from her residence.

I called her to question her motives, "Grandma... really? What's with the toilet paper?"

She giggled, "Well, you can't tell me you doing need that. Everyone poops, darling."

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Update. Just got off the phone with her today (Tuesday) and she hopes that every time I wipe my butt, I think of her....
Not. Fucking. Kidding.
Oh, this woman ;)
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Birds are Assholes

Whomever said that getting crapped on by a bird is lucky can lick it up!
I've been the landing target for those feral creatures.
Not once.
Not twice.
But on THREE separate occasions.
All three were shocking and disgusting in their own right, but the final time was at high school, during lunch break. The timing was less than convenient, to put it lightly.

I was walking along the sidewalk when something came at me, not from above, but horizontally. It hit the side of my face and brushed against my hair. I thought it was a rock.

Some dick smack just threw a rock at me! What the fuck?

It startled the living hell out of me. It probably didn't help that I was stoned as well. I looked around, ready to tear a strip off the guy (most likely a guy, I assumed) that almost took my eye out. Both my paranoia and adrenaline were spiking hard.

Then, my friend's facial expression recoiled in horror as she backed away from me, "Umm.. it wasn't a rock. You have shit all over your head!"

ACK!

How the fuck did a bird shit on me sideways? It was like a motherfucking dive bomb stealth attack. This bird dropped a curve ball -- of poop! How could they possibly have that much control over their bodily functions... and gravity, no less? It's just not natural. In fact, I'll take that sentiment one step further and say that Mother Nature can suck my tit! I say that pretty much every 28 days, but this time I am expressing it for an entirely different reason.

It was mortifying having to walk in to school with my hair and neck covered in shit splatter.

And I didn't receive any extraordinary luck.
Or get lucky.
It's just bullshit.

And birds are assholes.

The end.

Christmas is coming...

Christmas is coming,

My ass is getting fat.

The kids have all gone mental

And the dog just shat. 

I'm oddly rather horny —

Just a quickie shag'll do.

If you can't put out for Christmas

Then really, fuck you.  

Christmas is coming,
I don't mean to be a crank,
But get your shit together
And then I want a spank.

There's so much crap to do
And I hate to be so blunt.
But after all the chores are done
You need to lick my cunt.

Your folks are staying over —
A tiny piece of Hell.
I think I've more than earned
For you to ring my bell.

This time of year is when
I really start to twitch
'Cos Christmas is coming...
Ain't she a lucky bitch.

Posttraumatic Shit Disorder

Some people shrug at the concept of PTSD, thinking it’s all in your head – well, YES, as a matter of fact, it IS all in your head – just like all the other types of psychological disorders and suppressed issues that many people have. We carry that shit around like baggage, but not physically – in our heads. I had a minor case of PTSD, and although I didn’t fight in Iraq or anything major like that, it was still a pretty intense feeling that I didn’t expect, nor could I control it when it happened.

Woodstock '99: A Shit Pond

OK, so it was because of my experience at Woodstock ’99 that I had developed Posttraumatic Stress Disorder – go ahead and laugh. I know it sounds ridiculous – it does to me as well. I had written about my experience in this story, but I might have treaded lightly over the sanitation issue – or rather lack there of.

It was beyond disgusting.

Thanks to the intense heat and over-priced water, I managed to become dehydrated enough that I didn’t seem to have to pee the entire weekend – and as for the deuce? I simply told my body that I would NOT be doing that – and so I didn’t...

Fraser Island, Australia

About a year went by and I had moved back to Australia for University. My friend and I took a tour up the Gold Coast which included a trip to Fraser Island. It was beautiful – with the sand dunes and wild, yet tame dingoes roaming around. There was one thing missing – modern plumbing. At first, I didn’t think anything of it – I wasn’t overly a fan of port-o-loos to begin with, but I hadn’t been confronted with having to use one since Woodstock.

There was also an added complication – I was on my period. Fantastic! So, there was no way I would be able to convince THAT bodily function to go on strike as I was able to do before. We had set up camp and it was time to take the trek to the cluster of blue shit boxes. We joked about our Woodstock experience while approaching them and although I laughed, I could feel my heart rate and anxiety level rising.

When I opened the door to the port-o-loo and that pungent scent of chemical toilet mingled with feces that mounded high enough that I could see it, I slammed the door, backed away far enough and collapsed onto the ground. I broke out into a cold sweat and began to hyper ventilate, however I managed to calm myself down enough so at least I didn’t pass out. After a few minutes, I was able to ask my friend to see if she could find one that was less full – as I knew, however unbearable it would be, I still had to go through with it.

It was still quite a few minutes before I was composed enough to get up off the ground and face that fucking disgusting port-o-loo. I tried not to touch the seat, although I wasn’t quite tall enough to avoid contact entirely. I also tried not to breathe in and I concentrated on getting my task over with as quickly as possible. I was still sweating and I could feel my heart pounding in my burning ears. It was one of the worst moments in my life – and it was all because of a damn toilet.

So, no – I don’t drop to the ground when I hear a car back-fire or have blackouts, but even public toilets have the ability to make me uncomfortable now; as long as they can flush, I try to deal with it.

Like John Cage from Ally McBeal –
“I like a fresh bowl and remnants upset me.”