Boobie Tassels For Buddha

i'm on the road today so don't expect too much out of this phone uploaded post...

i saw a pre-oj era bronco on the road earlier. peeling paint job, huge tires, and a sticker across the back glass reading 'muddaholix'.

yes really.

right off the bat, the double d and the x bother me.was mudaholic simply not catchy enough that the extra d and crazy spelling are needed? then i start to wonder...what exactly is this person saying of themselves? "going muddin'" is a double entendre in these parts. this person could love the redneck sport of mud boggin' or really love anal sex. or perhaps both. they seem to go hand in hand around here.

a felt a little shame for having been born and bred a south georgia girl but then...


as i passed the guy, i became pretty thankful and gave him a smirky little nod. without people like this to laugh at, life around here might get pretty dull. thank you, mr. muddaholix. this is a bright spot in my day.

I like cover songs. I don't like cover bands.

Coalesce is a band you'll find frequently hitting my playlists. I like their sound a good bit. In fact, I'm listening to them as I type. The band has been together off and on since the mid 90s with their lastest release, Ox, coming from Relapse  Records in 2009. (Relapse knows their stuff. Check their site for lots of goodies). In 1999, an ep of led zeppelin covers was released entitled there is nothing new under the sun. I love led zeppelin. i grew up listening to them among many other 'classics', and i'm still of the frame of mind that i couldn't have the music i love so much today without them. at first listen, i thought to myself... i never thought it possible to really fuck up a zeppelin cover, but here's my proof... i kept an open mind though. it's grown on me tremendously. sean ingram's voice is almost as unique as robert plant's. what i have for you here is the 2007 reissue of the album which actually features a sabbath cover, a couple boysetsfire covers, and more. give it a try. perhaps my favorite on here is the one original song featured on this reissue entitled bob junior. and that sabbath cover ain't half bad.

check out the band here. their new release is lovely. wild ox moan is a song i can't do without.

enjoy this.

spelling freak actually. spelling and grammar freak.

I used to post a good number of blogs on a different site. I got pretty jaded with it quickly, though, because there seems to be a great many people, at least there, who pour over your work like penny starved editors just waiting to pounce on you for one misspelled word or incorrect word usage. Type a blog at 3 a.m. in a drunken stupor going on and on about getting a cum shot in your eye and by the next afternoon when you finally roll out of bed, you better expect someone to have come along and said "it's you're not you" because at some point in your nsfw rant you gave the following advice: when your about to take a wad in the face, always always always point away from your eyes. or wear goggles.

now, i like it when people know the difference between your and you're, their, there, and they're, to, too, and two...but do we have to be anal about it? do we have to come in where someone is trying to simply share the comedic treats of this malady with others and piss on the parade? apparently the answer is yes. i also like when friends point out to me that i've made an error when i've written for an audience and they're intent is to help me save face, but for some people it's just not so. Let's go over this.

1. You're writing little notes which you lovingly refer to as blogs on a social site set up much like myspace or facebook. It really isn't that serious or that big a deal.

2. THIS IS THE INTERNET NOT A NEWSPAPER OR MAGAZINE OR BOOK WRITING WORKSHOP.

3. You aren't discussing world news or on a tirade about the downfall of man being based on poor grammar...you're writing about stuff like getting cum in your eye. or your bitchy coworkers or, or, or... basically, none of it is serious enough, especially on a social site, to warrant public correction.

You have an audience reading these little notes on social sites because you write well or make oustanding life observations or you're humorous and those people are going to keep reading despite a middle of the night misuse of the word "your". Most people are able to overlook such things, but there's a whole other group who really gets their panties in a bunch over such small issues. It's ANNOYING. It's more than annoying. It makes you dislike that person greatly and learn a lot about them. Here's what you will find out:

1. This person likes a lot of attention. When you write something that steals away some of that attention, they will try to figure out a way to bring you back down a little. Humiliation tactics which make them appear smarter than you are, therefore, employed.

2. He or she probably has a lot of insecurity issues which push them towards correcting others in a public forum.... and maybe they're compelled to do it. Maybe they need that sort of order in their lives and your mistake fucks that all up. Either way, they're CRAZY.

3. These people are cunts and/or dicks and/or assholes.

And the icing? These are also often the people who use nonexistent words such as lulz, teh, muh.....and (ugh) kitteh. What sort of shithole would use a sentence in their own blogspace to say something like "for lulz, i asked him if he wanted to pet muh kitteh" then come preach to you about proper grammar in your own?

one of my friends and hopefully a future contributor to this site experienced this problem recently in a note on the above mentioned site. she was discussing her new classes and basically letting out some frustrations. not the right time to pick on someone about their grammar...

but, still the following occurred:

she will be wsn and her commenter is ac which stands for asshole commenter

ac: "There is another girl that swears she is A.D.D. but her doctor won't give the meds. I think she is just addicted to black eyeliner and red bull. She gets both in gallaon jugs." This section was brilliant, apart from the typos. It's this kind of clever observation that keeps me reading your blogs.

wsn: I think the typos lend to how drunk on white zinfandel I was at this point.

there is a mental disorder, I can't remember the name of it, but it's the reason why certain people feel they should, no, must correct others grammar and spelling. It has to do with feelings of insecurity. You want to talk about it or would your time be better spent finding a therapist?

ac: i didn't correct it. . . I just pointed it out. There's probably not a name for that disorder.

wsn: I'm pretty sure rationalizing the disease is part of the disease. I'm here for you. *hugs*

ac: I don't believe you're qualified to make those sorts of gross generalizations. . . regardless of how gross, or general, you might happen to be.

wsn: You are in a safe place. I care about you. no matter how hard you lash out. *hugs*

well, fuck that, i say. i hope there will be none of that here.

also, i think wsn's classmate might look like this:

About 4, maybe 5 times a year, if someone can coerce my participation with enough beer and/or naps, I will drive up to the in-laws with the fam all packed up in the truck. It’s usually a weekend of do-without bullshit that involves 4 generations of people I would probably stand to forget (the weekends and the people, in case you were wondering). The only people I like in the family have quirks that are so whitebread it makes me ill, but oh so shocking to the rest of them. The weed producing patriarch, the uncontrollable alcoholic uncle who always wears shorts (and not cool knee length shit you can find at the gap or old navy. No, no, the weird second hand store faded red sport shorts with pockets kind of shorts)… Wait. It’s just the two of them. Could be the lack of quirks in the family makes me ill. I’ll figure it out.

On the way there, about an hour out of town, in a place that has been dubbed the birthplace of the NHL, I see something that over the years has seared itself into my mind. I’m a twat when it comes to traffic and if I can’t pass you on a two lane highway cuz you’re a dipshit going 10 miles below the limit I will lose it. So, I often cut through town to avoid finally having my aneurysm. Each and every time I do, there she is. She’s either standing on a corner, or jaywalking across Main street or leaning against some car in the parking lot at Tim Horton’s. Every time, regardless of weather. Keep in mind I write this over the fucking Christmas holidays and it was -25 Celcius (look up the conversion ffs, I can’t be bothered).

She’s the town whore. I guarantee it. She could be pushing 50.Tall, slender, with skin a golden Caucasian, (think Something About Mary, but Mary’s roommate, hair like Micheal Jackson during the Thriller era, except it would be pouffier and mousy brown, the way a woman who always knew she was maybe the 17^th most attractive person she knew would wear her hair in 1984. the first time I saw her she was wearing a midriff baring yellow t-shirt (sans bra thank you very much, leaving none of the b-cup banana action to the imagination), purple dyed cut off jeans with black high heels and a tiny purse that makes me think of crappy Japanese cartoon accessories for young girls to complete the ensemble. This time she was wearing a ¾ length leather jacket. Same shoes. Couldn’t tell if she had bothered with pants. Her makeup was a healthy mix of pink and blue and both were heavy on the frosting and shimmer. Garish.

She is by far the ugliest woman I have seen up close and thought, “There! Her! She’s the town whore! It’s so obvious!” And yet, it is that obvious, she could be nothing else. Librarian? Sandwich Artist? Barista? City Planner? Agricultural Specialist? Nope. Town whore. Gleefully riding handlebar moustaches and getting her thighs full of tractor grease at lunch time while drinking her RC cola and eating Cheezies.

And every time I see her I have to wonder. Does she watch the same shows I watch on Sunday night? Are we both huge fans of Lost? Are we living through a shared experience at the exact same time? Will I feel a chill in my body when she finally commits suicide surrounded by her cats and the stacked cases of Wildcat in her living room? Cuz she’s an old ass whore in a shitty small town whose claim to fame is old ass NHLers and next year’s 18th Annual Ontario Swingers Festival. It’s just a matter of time.

16 oz. peanut butter
6 oz. semisweet chocolate chips
1 stick butter
12 oz rice chex or golden grahams cereal
16 oz dry roasted nuts or substitute
15 oz raisins
1 box 10x confectioners' sugar
1 white plastic trash bag.

melt butter, peanut butter, and chocolate together on low heat stirring frequently until creamy. mix cereal, raisins, and nuts in large pan. pour creamy mixture over dry mix and toss gently to coat. pour confectioners' sugar into trash bag then add mixture. close the bag, shake until coated and eat your trash. merry my ass is going to spread holidays.

If you drive about a mile or so from my yard, you'll pass the pleasant stench of a dairy farm. It's devastatingly rural in these here parts which makes it insanely hard to meet anyone. In fact, I'm having a sign made for me to wear when I venture into town for supplies. It's going to read:

I DO NOT HAVE LEPROSY. THESE ARE ONLY TATTOOS. I AM NOT INFECTIOUS AND THESE WILL NOT RUB OFF ON YOU. YES, THEY HURT.

(my tits are big enough that wearing such a long statement is, in fact, conceivable)

However, considering the small percentage of people who are actually literate around here, I don't really know how much good it's actually going to do me. What I'm left with then is the wonderful world of Internet dating. Men (and sometimes women) who would never dare talk to me in a public place will say any and every thing imaginable when able to hide behind a computer screen. All women who spend any time on the Internet know this. It's not news. However, I do manage to find a diamond in the rough from time to time, thank fuck. Usually between a couple messages and a bit of texting, I can figure out who's good to meet and who would be a waste of my time. Alas, I am not perfect by any stretch of the imagination and so sometimes, I misjudge or perhaps my desire to get laid overrides my good sensibilities. It's highly likely that it's the latter. I'm an honest girl.

It's rare that I actually consider a whole Ted Bundy kind of deal. The actual occurrence of such a psychopath is really very rare. I travel long distances alone. I'm used to being on my own and I really don't pay attention to the fact that being female is supposed to make me more vulnerable. So, I meet whoever I see fit. eh.

I met Mike on an online dating sight. 99% of the people I end up meeting contact me first. Rarely do I actually read a profile or see someone and make the first move, but such was the case with this one. He was cute. He lived nearby in Tallahassee. He didn't seem too dim, so I wrote him a condescending email about the picture he had of his vehicle on his profile. He took it in stride and messaged me back. I gave him my number, we text over the weekend, and I asked him to meet me in a park that Monday evening.

He agreed. Smart boy.

We met up at the park as arranged. He looked like his pics. Even cuter I guess. He made me laugh some. We talked about tattoos and music since he plays the drums. Musicians are always wicked hot, no? He had shitty tattoos but fuck it. I got a rundown on the fact that he'd been in a motocross accident which almost ripped his arm off. nasty scars. discussion of pain treatment following description of the injuries started setting off red flags. but...what do i know about long term pain? i figured, for the time being, i'd give him the benefit of the doubt.

this very gorgeous park has a train trussel running right over the lake. i love it. rephrase: i love looking at it. the scenery is yay. however, this buffoon drags me up to said tracks and we cross over like something out of the fucking lost boys. i totally caved to the peer pressure and eased my way across holding onto him with one hand and carrying my heels in the other. not as romantic as it sounds. trust me. he did help me down the other side so i wouldn't bust my ass...hand on my waist and all that. somehow images of being squished by an oncoming train sort of ruined the warmth of the moment. i heard a car horn and nearly peed myself halfway over the fucker. i kid not. not quite a red flag...but certainly not helpful.

we sat in his truck and talked for a bit. i found out he'd just gotten out of REHAB when he moved to this area. he was living with his aunt. he bowled on a seniors league every wed night. i help death row offenders, you know, so rehab is not a big shocker. i try not to judge, but rehab and a senior bowling team? oh no. red flag 2.

we made a store run really quick for candy and drinks. then headed back to the park. we got out and headed back through a wooded area to a table. i caught up to him and pulled him in for a kiss. i have no shame. i mean, he was cute and my mood is always improved by candy. we went back to his truck for music and ahem talking.... now... during all the time we were texting and shit, we talked metal. i like metal. he text that he had no rap on his ipod like it was some sort of golden ticket. i start looking through said ipod. i'm sure you can guess what i found. lots of rap. no big deal if that's what you like... i'm not that sort of dickhead music nazi, but be honest about what you like, you know? so...red flag number 3.

we made out some more and he made a joke like a lot of guys do about serial killers on the internet and i joked back. i always do. it alleviates some of the tension that comes with meeting someone on the freako internet. unless you take the joke too far. he took the joke way too far and i sort of got this little naggy feeling saying 'hey, hey...wtf?' but he's also a splendid kisser so i ignored it. then that fucker put on a song--mid make out session--by eminem about strangling a girl and whatnot. he sort of sang along. it all made me quite uncomfortable and i just sort of looked at him oddly.

"i'm kidding! for real, j. kidding. seriously. i'm sorry if i took the joke too far, girl."

red flags were flying all around at that point.

okay so i blew him in the back of the truck anyway. i figured if i was going to die, i'd at least have some fun first.

so you've met a foxy lady on the wonderful world wide web and really want to make sure you get to meet her? well, i have some tips and tricks for you that will ensure your success in meeting the little lass as well as working your way right into her petticoats or thongs...whatever the slut's wearing.

1. Just to avoid any confusion later, be sure to always ask right at the start of your interactions, "so, do you like anal?" because that's always the first thing a girl wants to talk about...you shoving something up her ass before you even know her name. to ensure a fast meetup, ask her to spread her cheeks in front of the bathroom mirror and take pics of her asshole for you. quickest way to a girl's heart? yep. you all know it already....through her asshole.

2. ask for her bra size. i mean, because we all know that knowing a 2 digit number and a letter will determine whether or not her tits are nice. so what if she's already sent you pics of her topless 47 times....you still need to have that fucking size, buddy.

3. be sure to ask the following, "the question is, baby, are you sure you can handle this dick?" she'll be a bit flustered at your manliness, but she'll absolutely say, "you know i can. every inch." at this point, you should remind her, "yo, i been dicking ladies since i was 10. i got mad skillz, so i hope you prepared to get FUCKED." I'm tingling just thinking about such an exchange.

4. describe your going down skills in graphic detail including the fact that you can keep your tongue working her for hours...because we always believe that and we always fall for it even though it's really not what we want in a sexual encounter. once you promise all those hours of the same thing, you change our minds about that whole needing dick thing. all of a sudden, we just need you to eat us all night long.

5. after she gets ready for you two to go out, look at her with puppy dog eyes and say, "wow, you look great tonight, babe. almost worth the 45 minutes you spent getting ready."

6. if possible, show up with hickeys on your neck. if need be, use the vaccuum cleaner to give yourself some. women thrive on jealousy and love for you to make them compete for your affections.

7. do talk about your time in prison while you two are at dinner. joke about murdering her or tossing her body out to the alligators. that will surely get her panties wet. it is more than appropriate to sing song lyrics to her detailing rape, murder, and mayhem. instill a little fear in her. we totally dig men that scare the piss out of us.

8. it's always wise to discuss your drug habits as well. it's like a 3 punch combo--be an asshole, have a criminal record, have a drug problem. It's irresistable. If you don't have one of the components of this combo, simply lie. Fabrication is acceptable.

9. Once you two are making out heavily, look at her, sigh a little, and say, "god you look just like my ex." She'll look wary for a minute, so at this point you should say, " oh but, you know, way better."

10. after you blow your wad down her throat, refuse to kiss her until she brushes her teeth. this will drive her wild and will definitely get her to part her knees. this right here truly is your golden ticket to pussyville.

I think we've all realized at some point that even when men and women technically speak the same language, we don't. We don't get each other. We don't use the same phrases to mean the same things. We are totally clueless when it comes to breaking down that code, too.... so to make it a bit easier, or not, here are some exact definitions of the female language.

• I don't care. Do whatever you what. (declarative statement indicating possible future harm). Meaning: A.) I'm done with this conversation and for all I care, you can die. B.) If you really do whatever it is you want to do, I will deny you sex for as long as I can stand it. C.) Make the right choice. As in, do what I think is best for you because obviously you have no clue.
• Not tonight, baby. I am tired/have a headache/have to get up early/feel like I'm going to vomit/etc. (untrue statement indicating lack of enthusiasm for your genitals). Meaning: A.) Your bore me and I'd have a better time masturbating in the shower in the morning. B.) I'm pissed off at you and have chosen denial of sex as punishment (note-this is never true for girls like me. i'd be punishing myself more than you. i'd never want to cause myself more harm than you). C.) I'm pissed off enough that I'd rather blow the smelly bum down the street that get anywhere near you right now unless I plan on helping you bond with John Bobbit.
• I need to go on a diet. (loaded question). Meaning: A.) Do I need to lose a few pounds? B.) You find me repulsive don't you? There is no successful approach to answering these questions. The truth pisses us off and we can always smell a lie. And, come on... let's face it. If we're asking, then yes, our fat ass needs to go on a diet. (protective, untruthful statement). Meaning: I think you're getting chubby. I'm not as attracted to you and you really can't stand to lose any inches off your cock by gaining more weight, so rather than hurt your feelings since you're such a fucking woman about shit, I'm putting the whole house on a diet.
• I love your mom!!! She is such a character! (outright lie). Meaning: A.) I'd love to stab that black hearted bitch in the eye with the biggest knife I can get my hands on rather than get another contrite look from her across the dinner table. B.) I could probably actually get along with the demon who spawned you if only she were mute.
• It's not small! It's really a good size. (inside joke of which you are not a party). Meaning: A.) HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. HA. oh my god. HAHAHAHA. B.) You used to be so much hotter. Then you took your pants off. C.) I knew I shouldn't have bought that huge of a dildo....

"THERE YOU ARE!!!!!!!!" she squeals and runs down to my end of the counter. "How ARE you?" she asks like i haven't seen her in ages. In actuality, we just spoke a couple days before. Even though i know this is all fake for my benefit, i still like all the excitement over little ol' me.

"I'm good"

"well, you look good. i think i'm going to die. i can't breathe. ugh. my face is just packed full of mucus. it hurts. am i talking too loud? i can't hear. i'm just full of it. i'm not really crazy," she laughs. i laugh, too. i'm not sure what's funny, but she is definitely crazy and i am going to humor her. i always do. "tell me something. what can i take to keep me from dying?"

"claritin d is probably your best bet. anything with sudafed really."

"i've got that. my boyfriend's out there waiting on me. oh who cares? let him wait. he loves me. he's rich."

this woman is 52. she dyes her hair black. she's wearing a shirt with elephants on it that even my grandma wouldn't put on. her hair isn't combed. she says she looks like she's homeless and i agree. i don't tell her that...i tell her she looks fine. then she sticks her tongue out at the pharmacist on duty. "god, what's her problem? is she stuck up or what?"

"no personality," i say. "she was born without one and no one wanted to chance surgery so they left her without."

she laughs. "you're bad," she winks. "ooooh, lookit at all your buttons, i'm going to get some buttons so i can be just like you. 'chick with brains' definitely fits you."

"it's my flair. ever seen that movie officespace? i love it. i have like 19 pieces i think. see this one?" i show her the blue one on my lab coat lapel that says "you know, there's a pill for that" she laughs and asks where i get them from. i lean in conspiratorially and in an almost whisper, "i got that one in a sex shop."

"i went to one of those last night! with my boyfriend! oh my god. i can't tell you in front of everyone. what kind of music do you listen to? name some of your bands. i want to listen to what you listen to and get buttons and be just like you."

"baroness is my favorite right now."

"my son loves them."

"he knows baroness?"

"he knows them all."

"you should bring him up here so we can talk music"

"i'll do that. how old are you?"

"28"

"god, i'm old enough to be your grandmother. but at least i don't act 52. you're my favorite up here. this is like a social occasion for me. this is better than church."

i laugh. this is actually funny to me. she pays for her medicine and uses the restroom then returns.

"at the sex shop, i bought something that goes (she lowers her voice) in your ass. i didn't pay for it. he picked it out. i've never done anything like that before but boy was it fun."

i really laugh at this. i love random crazy person shit.

"what else do you listen to?"

i show her my janis joplin flair.

"oh my god! i have her biography. i've read it a hundred times. have you read it? it's sooooo good."

"no, never have."

"i'll bring you my copy. i've had it since i was 17. it'll be a christmas present."

"oh awesome. i'll love that."

"you know, you're a bright girl. and i'm intelligent. obviously. i like that you do your own thing. intelligent people are eccentric aren't they? i'm not crazy....just eccentric."

i agree with her... intelligent people often do have an eccentric streak and that's fine. she's not a stupid woman by any stretch of the imagination. she is, however, a bit more than eccentric. i like her some days. some days it's too much.

"my boyfriend's waiting. i should get out there to him before he breaks up with me. listen, honey... divorce was good for you. everyone should get married and divorced once. it builds character. teaches you a lot of lessons." i nod in agreement. "but if you ever get remarried or anything, you shouldn't...and i'm not gay. i'm bi is the rumor and i don't mind that rumor, but if you ever get remarried, i hope you know that love won't get you through. first of all, make sure he has lots of money. my boyfriend is loaded (i laugh here mostly because she does NOT look like her boyfriend is loaded unless by loaded she means fucked up). second of all, never forget that first thing i told you. money." she laughs and i join in. this shit is priceless.

she really sent me the book.



i think i'm gonna take her out one day just to see what happens.

well, well, well...

here we are.

this is the start. i almost feel like i should apologize ahead of time.

~j