This time, it’s all about questions from the ladies.

What would be the proper way to clean an uncircumcised males penis without losing the intimacy of the moment of an on the spot sexual encounter?

You have no idea how hard I laughed when I read this question.  No, seriously.  Nearly peed my pants.  And then I thought about it.  The on the spot sexual encounter would have to be in the shower.  Otherwise, Casanova needs to be tending to his own junk.

I have really limited experience with uncircumcised penises.  I’ve only had contact with one.  And he was OCD about being clean, so it was never an issue.  So, I’m probably not the best person in the world to be asking.  But I happen to think that uncircumcised penises are kinda cute.  They look like a dick wearing a hoodie.  And who doesn’t like a hoodie?

I did happen upon a cute little tool for guys to keep their junk clean.  They should be able to groom themselves if they are old enough to have a sexual encounter.

How do I tell my boyfriend that twisting my nipples till they are black and blue really does not do it for me?

This question is proof that men don’t mature.  Tuning in Tokyo is so outdated!  I think you should give him a taste of his own medicine.  Wrench his nipples until he screams.  He might get the point then.  But after you illustrate the kind of pain you’ve been suffering, you need to teach him about how you like to be touched.   It can be fun, but it’s going to take time to break the bad habits.  Think of it like training a dog.  And if need be, keep a rolled up newspaper handy.

How do I explain to my husband that while fucking me in the ass and he slips out and slides into my pussy, why I get upset and go clean myself? Ass=shit!! Pussy=NO SHIT!!! How hard is it?!!!!

Gee.  I wonder who has been watching too much porn at your house?  Guys so rarely understand the delicate balance that is a woman’s body.  There are tons of articles on the net about the perils of going from anal to vaginal.  If those don’t work on your husband, then grab a toy and go ass to mouth on him.  I know it’s not the same, but it’s close enough to prove a point.  When he says “that’s not sanitary”, you can hit him with a “Yeah, but if you insist on going anal to vaginal on me, then turn about is fair play.”  He’ll stop.


Yes, I’m fully aware that it’s 2010, but I’m a little reluctant sometimes to give in to technology.

Shut up!  Look, I’m not a technophobe by any stretch of the imagination.  At the same time, some traditions just warrant keeping. I have an iPhone.  I blog on a regular basis.  I can keep up with Facebook.  And I have a healthy hatred for Twitter simply because I’ve found that Chum.ly allows me to use more than 140 characters to speak my mind.  I’m pretty internet savvy because there’s nothing I can’t find.  But at the same time, there was one thing that I wasn’t willing to do, until recently: listen to an audiobook.  Stop laughing.  It’s really not that funny.

There are certain things that I’m a purist about.  Books are one of them.  I’m a firm believer that books are sacred artifacts.  I believe in giving the author my undivided attention, which means me sitting down on the couch and reading.  Also, when I was working, a book provided me the opportunity to block everyone out while I was at lunch.  Sometimes you just don’t want to deal with other people.  Books provide that escape for me.

A couple of weeks ago, I started listening to a podcast by Greg Crites.  It was a Podiobook.  It took me a couple of days to listen to all the podcasts for that particular book, but I enjoyed it.  So, then I got pointed in the direction of Scott Sigler.  Crites was funny.  He really made me laugh.  Sigler scared the shit outta me.  The first book I listened to by him was Infected.  For the entire time that I listened to the podcasts, every itch was suddenly suspect and I got the willies several times.  So, naturally I enjoyed the hell out of it.  I’m that kind of girl.  And I’d never been a huge fan of science fiction before.  But the thriller aspect of the story; oh how I love a good thriller!

If you were to go back in time and look at my life, you would hear a conversation between me and hubby #1 that went something like this:

Hubby 1: Why is that when I’m out in the field, you read romance novels and when I’m home you read murder mysteries and thrillers?

Me: I don’t know.  I just do.

Hubby 1: So, you want smut while I’m gone and you’re plotting to murder me while I’m here?

Me: I didn’t say that.  You did.

Hubby 1: Are you plotting to murder me?

Me: You’re the one that got me reading murder mysteries and thrillers.  Would you prefer I read romance all the time?  You know you can’t live up to a romance novel.

Hubby 1: Are you saying I can live up to a murder mystery?

Me: If the chalk outline fits….

Hubby #1 snored softly.  It was annoying in my 20s to have him next to me snoring like that.  I used to lay next to him, unable to sleep and fantasize about smothering him with a pillow.  I didn’t do it.  Instead, the snoring piled on top of all the other problems we had and I divorced his ass.  But he got me hooked on Dean Koontz and John Sanford.  It was his own fault that I read that stuff.

To be a good writer, you must read.  You have to expose yourself to the greats.  And some of the not so greats.  But the heart of the matter is that you are exposed to experiences and places that you may never see on your own.  I’d never imagine going to Maine, but through Stephen King, I can visit Bangor and Derry, without leaving the comfort of my couch.

Sigler is unique.  He’s an innovator in publication because of the simple fact that he puts his books out in podcast form to hook his readers, without charging a dime for the podcast.  It’s a bit of marketing genius really.  I can understand Stephen King charging for an audiobook.  But for an author that doesn’t have that kind of following, podcasting is a great way to get the word out.  If I can ever get more writing done, I might just follow Sigler’s lead and give my readers a healthy dose of me.

Attention: MATURE CONTENT!!!

I got questions from guys this week, so I’m dedicating this entry to them.

Does titty fucking feel good to a woman?  I’m not a fan so much but I’m probably not doing it right.

You’re not the first guy to ask me this question.  So, allow me to be blunt about this subject.  NO! NO! NO!  Don’t even bother with it.  It’s wasting precious time. Why?  Here, lemme paint a picture for you…

You are a woman who is fairly well-endowed up top.  The guy you’re with is straddling your midsection and compressing your diaphragm.    Breathing is a faint memory.  There is oil all over your tits and you have a semi-death grip on them because they keep slipping out of your hands.  There’s a pillow behind your head, forcing your neck up at an angle that could legally give you the right to claim whiplash, if his homeowner’s insurance covered it.  On the upstroke, he hits you in the nose, despite aiming for your mouth.  The likelihood of him actually getting off is next to nothing, unless he’s a “sprinter”, if you know what I mean.  And if he does manage to complete the act, you’re gonna have to shampoo your hair again after he leaves.  If he hits you in the eye, it’ll sting, so you hope like hell that he gives up soon.

Porn actresses are…say it with me, guys…ACTRESSES.  They get paid to get their viewers off.  Any moaning during a tit fucking scene is FAKED.

Now, repeat after me: all her fabulous little nerve endings are in her crotch and slammed together tits are not another orifice.

Why can’t a man be friends with a woman and sex not become an issue?  Sub question: why can’t a man and woman just be friends with benefits without one or the other getting emotionally involved?

You’re specifically asking about a man being friends with a woman, so I’ll answer that.  Some women, and I’m not saying it’s all women, but a good chunk of the female population, are needy as fuck.  They readily adopt the victim position and think their low self-esteem entitles them to become man-stalking neurotics.  They totally buy into the whole “he’s just not that into you” mentality and take it to an extreme.  “If he’s not having sex with you, he’s just not that into you.”  Frankly, it should be “if he’s fucking you and leaves before even the most cursory of clean ups, he’s really not into you and you should burn his number”.  But that’s rarely the case.  They keep harassing the guy because they want to be the one he wants.  I’ve met some men who were total sluts and would fuck any chick that would give him the time of day.  I can respect them as long as they’re up front and tell the girl that nothing will ever come of it.  I believe in being blunt.  To a fault even.

I honestly hate the phrase “friend with benefits” because it’s so misleading.  If you’re gonna be friends and hook up, someone is going to develop feelings at some point.  “Friends” means that you have history and that you’re familiar with each other.  You probably have mutual friends who will talk shit about you when you skip your weekly FWB appointment because you got a real date.  That’s why I prefer booty calls.  Don’t get fully undressed.  Don’t call ahead any longer than it would take you to drive to their place.  The one who calls is the one who provides protection.  No last names, if you can help it.  Just drop your pants, pop off, and get the fuck out.  No post coital drink of water to whet your whistle.  Leave a bottle of water in your damn car, and leave that fucker running if it’s in a decent neighborhood.  It’s a much more humane way to go.  Friends with Benefits ends up with someone getting hurt.

I’m a boob man.  It’s my favorite female body part.  What I wanna know is why women get so pissed off when I stare at their tits when they’re wearing a low cut top?

I think women who wear low cut tops and then get all butt hurt about cleavage monkeys (those are all you guys that stare at tits) are unrealistic.  It’s like McDonald’s putting up a billboard and getting pissed off when people come in because of the fucking billboard.  Why are they advertising if they don’t want to be seen?  It’s not like guys routinely come up to them and grab a handful of tit, right?  You’re appreciating the view.  Don’t get drool on her or anything, but she needs to chill with the attitude.

And don’t think that women don’t look at guys’ butts.  We do.  A lot.  But we’re not overt about it.  We don’t even turn our fucking heads to gawk, unless it’s a particularly tasty piece of beefcake, then all bets are off.  But we’re subtle about the check outs.  I’ve seen guys get whiplash from sudden head turns while looking at women.  And for crying out loud, if you’re with your wife/girlfriend/significant other, don’t comment on every pair of tits you see.  It just makes us think you didn’t breastfeed enough and that’s so Freudian.

Whats your view on the Team Edward and Team Jacob fan craze? Should vampires sparkle?~Brandi
SPOILER ALERT:  Yeah, Twilight saga details may be divulged.

I think the fan craze is ridiculous.  It’s not like Stephanie Meyer is gonna go back and rewrite the freaking books because a bunch of teenage girls insist that Jacob end up with Bella!  Although, I do think that Taylor Lautner is way hotter than Robert Pattinson any day.  And if you’re a teenage girl and you’ve read the books, keep in mind that, were you to actually sit on Edward’s lap, your ass would go numb in a matter of seconds because he’s described as a very pretty piece of marble-like slab.  It’s essentially like sitting on a cold piece of concrete.  And you know you could break your hand if you popped him in the stomach for looking at another girl, even if it was just because she looked like premium snackage.

As far as the sparkly part.  My opinion is that only the gayest of vampires should be sparkly and that’s because they like to Bedazzle EVERYTHING.  Real vampires don’t sparkle.  Real vampires look like Alexander Skarsgard (he plays Eric on True Blood).  Real vampires aren’t broody and all “wah, I put my girlfriend in danger so I have to run off and be a broody asshole.”  Real vampires are like “you’re tasty, but I totally lived 1000 years without your whiny ass, so get over yourself.”

How long before my son outgrows Disney vacations? Why are people so fun to watch here? How many teenagers on school trips can fit at Disney? Apparently, the answer is thousands!!!!~ Amy

About the time you start making your son pay his share of the cost is when he’ll be like “hey Mom, why don’t we just stay around here and hang out at home?”  Until then, I recommend vacationing at places that aren’t normally considered places kids would enjoy; like Cleveland or New England in winter when there’s 6 tons of snow on the ground and they can’t go out for fear of freezing their little noses off.
I’ve never been to Disney.  But I think people are fun to watch anywhere in public.  Try going to a bar and being the sober one all night.  I think it’s hilarious to sit there and listen to the pick up lines and watch people make asses of themselves.  People are entertaining.  And the majority of the time, they don’t think anyone else is watching.  So, tugging the underwear out of wedgie status and junk adjusting is easy to find. The guys are particularly funny to watch because of all the posturing and posing. The later it gets, the more peacocking you get to see.  By 1:00, it’s a total race to see who will get a hook up.
Malls are perfect for people watching, too.  The mall provides a much more natural environment for teenagers.  I wonder if this is what our parents did when they were our age?  Did they sit on a bench in the middle of Richardson Square Mall and say “I can’t believe parachute pants cost that much.  [Insert name of debt riddled child here] is so going to be mowing the yard for the rest of my freaking life because of those stupid pants.”
What is the weirdest scar you have and how did you get it?~Anonymous

The weirdest scar I have is a crease in my forehead.  Normally I wouldn’t classify it as a scar, but in 20 years, it hasn’t gone away and it wasn’t there before I was 21.  I hit my head on a bed frame in Germany.  Hubby #1 and I hadn’t seen each other in a couple of months because he’d been stationed in Germany and I had to get my passport and everything so I could join him.  When I finally made it to Germany, we had our “reunion” and he was so enthusiastic that he pushed me right off the bed.  I fell onto a spare metal bed frame that Housing had brought over and creased my forehead.  Did I mention that I’m on Hubby #3?  The crease in my forehead is all I got from Hubby #1.

Another St. Patrick’s Day has come and gone and I did nothing to mark the occasion.  Of course, I’m not Irish or Catholic, so I didn’t see much point.  I did find it odd that Brian didn’t pinch the shit out of me today.  He does it every day, but not today and I don’t think the fact that I was wearing green is what stopped him.  Maybe it was the snot.  He and I both caught colds from my son.  Josh curled up on the couch with me multiple times and cuddled with me because that’s what he does when he feels like shit and no one else will suffice.  I kind of like the whole “I want Mom” thing because I totally understand it.  When I get sick, I want my mom.  When Josh gets sick, he wants me.  That’s why I love being a mom.  So, anyway, Josh curled up with me while he was here and gave me cold cooties.  I, in turn, passed them on to Brian.

I hate having a cold, but I loved having Josh here.  I finally held him down and removed the caterpillar from his upper lip, which was bugging me to no end.  I don’t mind facial hair on grown men, but on my son it’s disconcerting.  I’m not old enough to have a kid who has facial hair, dammit!  Okay, I am, but still!  His mustache is too thin and makes him look like his mouth is just dirty.  It’s not.  It’s just that he’s got a puny mustache.  So, I got after his upper lip with an electric razor.  I really need to get on his dad about buying him his own electric razor because he got physical custody of our son and he’s supposed to be teaching him all that manly stuff, like shaving and appropriate ball adjusting strategies.

I really wish the cold medicine would kick in because I’m just rambling here.  Cold medicine would facilitate much more hilarity.  Oh, yeah, I was gonna talk about St. Patrick’s Day and drinking.  So, I have some Irish Cream in the fridge, but I don’t drink it because I think it’s wrong to drink Irish coffee in the morning.  Who decided that you should mix a liqueur with coffee?  I’m not saying it doesn’t taste good.  It just doesn’t make a lot of sense to get shit-faced and still be awake.  I’ve got insomnia, so I don’t drink coffee late at night.  That’s why I drink Malibu and pineapple juice.  After about 10 of them, I can sleep like a baby.  And it makes Robot Chicken that much funnier.  I’m 40 and I still watch Robot Chicken.  Does that explain anything?  It should.  I’m disturbed.

I’m also starting to think that I really need to push people to start asking me questions for my Ask Amy Friday blog.  It’s not good to have my own questions answered.  It’s not that challenging and I can’t be nearly as funny.  Who wants to read nothing but a bunch of questions about clown porn and what condiments can be used as lube?  I’m guessing someone.  I’d really like my blog to blow up and become something special that would attract people who want to pay me to write.  So do me a favor and share my blog!

I’ve got to go because Destination Truth is doing a piece on leprechauns and I gotta see if they find evidence of the little fuckers.  This should be interesting since I just took more cold meds.

Last week was an absolute cluster-fuck, as weeks go.  What I thought was a bladder infection turned out to be something completely different.  I may have had a touch of a bladder infection, but that was the least of my worries.

I’ll try to use clinical terms as much as possible to confuse the people who are thrill seekers or just flat stupid and won’t go look shit up on Google because they don’t know how to Google anything.  If you happen to be in the medical field, please don’t fill in the details for the dipshits because they really don’t need to know more gory details than they get from just reading my blog.

For some bizarre reason, I had a labial abscess crop up on Wednesday.  It’s not like I don’t take care of myself.  I do.  I’m meticulous about cleaning all my parts.  So, Thursday, when this abscess had grown to the size of a ping-pong ball, I called Brian and said “it’s out of hand, I’m going to Urgent Care to get it looked at.”

I headed for the Urgent Care clinic over at JPS and got hustled through pretty quickly.  I get to see the doc and she’s all like “that looks like it hurts.”  I said, “Yeah, it hurts like hell.  Could you please just drain it, gimme some antibiotics and send me packing?”  She measured it because it was so fucking huge and then suddenly she was all “well, I don’t think I’m the right person to be doing this because of its location.”  So, she sends me up to OB Triage, which is where they send women when they have bizarre shit going on with their girly parts.

So, they send me upstairs and I begin my ordeal.  I feel like crap and I have this labial abscess that’s the size of a fucking ping-pong ball, which makes sitting, standing, and walking a bitch.  I wait.  I wait some more.  Then Leah comes in and she’s all “so, lenme see it.”  She sees it and then tells me she’s gotta go get the doctors so that they can evaluate and formulate a plan of action.  So, obviously this thing is a fucking freak of nature and I start thinking that I’ve grown a testicle or something because she’s calling everyone in to look at it.  Dr. C comes in.  He looks at it.  He feels it.  Then he says he doesn’t think he’ll “get anything out of it.”  I start wondering if he expects there to be a prize inside it like I sprouted a Cracker Jack box or some shit.  He leaves and goes somewhere for a while.  Tammy comes in and tells me that they’re working on a plan.

A little while later, I hear Dr. C standing outside my little room and he’s talking about how he could try to drain it, but he doesn’t think he’ll get anything out of it.  I start crying thinking that I’m stuck in pain for God knows how long because the doctor is some prize junkie asshole who doesn’t want to help me.  Tammy comes back in and is really sweet.  She tells me they’re waiting for another doctor to answer his page.  I lay there, totally defeated, wishing I could shoot a real ping-pong ball outta my snatch just so Dr. C can at least say he got hit in the head with a ping-pong ball to all his colleagues since he seems bent on walking away with some sort of novelty.

Later, Dr. C brings Dr. M, Leah, and Tammy into my little room for my consult.  I realized that they weren’t anxious to help me, so I did the only thing that any self-respecting girl who was hurting down there could do: I cried my ass off to win their sympathy.  I mentioned pain.  I mentioned pressure.  I mentioned not being able to walk or sit comfortably.  All of which was the absolute truth, but they didn’t give a shit about until I was crying.  Finally, Dr. C relents and says that he’ll do an Incise & Drain to relieve the pressure and some of the pain, despite the fact that he doesn’t think he’s going to get anything out of it.  Seriously?  I’m bawling my eyes out and he’s still looking for a fucking prize?

Everyone but Tammy leaves my little room.  She tells me that they have to share Dr. C with Labor & Delivery, which is why I’m still laying there. Then she leaves to go prep for my procedure.  I call Brian and tell him what’s going on.  He tells me he’s on his way back to the shop so he can get a ride and come up to be with me.  I relax a little thinking that Dr. C will be a while.  He’s an ass hat and I really don’t like him, but I’m in no mood to fight to get someone else who isn’t a total prize whore.  A few minutes later, Tammy is back, laying out all the goodies to drain my monster abscess.  While she’s doing that, Dr. C shows back up looking all butt hurt about the lack of a prize from me.  They inject lidocaine into the surrounding area and Dr. C gives my abscess a squeeze to see if I’m numb.  I was pretty numb.  He made the incision, which only hurt a tiny bit.  Then, he starts poking around and I’m okay until…WTF! I FUCKING FELT THAT, YOU PRICK!  I scream and let them know that I can feel him digging around for whatever fucking prize he thought would be there but isn’t there because I’m not a fucking Cracker Jack box.  He injects a little more lidocaine and then waits for a few seconds.  This time he got all the nerves and I couldn’t feel a thing. Much better, Dr. Ass Hat.  He fondled my abscess for about 5 minutes before he looked me in the eye and said, “I was right, I didn’t really get anything out of it, but I think it was caused by an ingrown hair.” (HA!  Nothing like a doctor’s excuse to get you out of shaving the non-essentials.)  He doesn’t put a drain in because he swears there was no pus, as is expected with an abscess.  So, he tells me that he’s going to treat this like MRSA just to be sure and I’ll have to be ever so diligent with my antibiotics.  Also, I have to shower with special soap and shove ointment up my nose for the next week.  Brian showed up after Dr. C was done with his sadistic groping, but got to hear the part about the possible MRSA.

They finally cut me loose from the hospital and we went to drop off my prescriptions at the pharmacy.  I also got Vicodin for the pain, which is still present, but not quite as bad.  I’m a ball of fun when I’m taking Vicodin, so that’s when I try to write.  I started my first dose of the antibiotic that night and kept the pain pills in my system to minimize the pain when the lidocaine wore off.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I started running a fever.  What woke me up was a violent case of the shivers.  I was so cold that I really didn’t want to get out of bed.  I knew I needed to take my temp and take something for the fever, but I couldn’t make myself get up outta bed.  So, I managed to wake up Brian and he went to get the thermometer, some Vicodin, and a drink.  He brought me water, which I didn’t mean to complain about, but ewwwww.  I hate water.  I went back to sleep.

Around 7:00, I woke up and moved to the couch because the dogs were crowding me in bed.  At 8:00, I took my antibiotic and another Vicodin.  I fell asleep watching something on TV, still running a fever.  I woke up around 11, took my temp and it was 102.9.  I felt like a couple of Mack trucks had run over me repeatedly.  Then, I called my mom.  It’s what I do when I feel like shit.  I’m talking to her, telling her about how I feel like crap, and there in front of me is the after-care sheet they gave me from the hospital.  It says that if I start running a fever over 101.2, I should immediately return to OB Triage so I can be seen.  I told Mom and she’s all “so go back to the hospital and get yourself taken care of.”  I didn’t wanna.  I didn’t want to see Dr. C again because he didn’t wanna help me the first time around.  She convinces me to call and, of course, I do. Leah tells me I should come in.  I explain to her that I really don’t want to go back up there.  She said that was understandable, but made a deal with me that if I could get my fever down by the time my next dose of antibiotic rolled around; I didn’t have to go back in.  So, I took a few ibuprofens and made sure that I drank plenty of fluids.  Luckily, my temp was back to normal by the time 8:00 rolled around.

Now, things are getting back to normal with the exception of having to take antibiotics, shove ointment up my nose twice a day, and shower with special soap for the next week.  But I feel better.  I’m still kind of achy, but it’s getting better every day.

I realize that not everyone will have enjoyed this post.  I didn’t have much else to write about and frankly, I can only take so much Vicodin to make things interesting.  Seriously, I debated for a long time about whether or not to actually publish this because of the simple fact that it’s so personal.  But I’ve always been prone to over-sharing.  The actual message I wanted to convey in this blog is that anyone can have MRSA and they need to take it seriously.

I’ve had 10 mg of Vicodin, so I cannot be held responsible for the coherency of this particular blog.  Just hang on for the ride and giggle at the end.

“Why do woman tend to get heavier with age, while men look more distinguished?” – Tracey

I wish I had a clever answer for this one, but I’ll be honest.  This one stumped me a bit.  Leave it to my best friend to fuck me up on a Q&A  session.  But here comes my best attempt at answering this age old question.

I think it’s because they don’t have a uterus or a decent pair of tits.  What is required of a man?  In the grand scheme of things, not a whole helluva lot when it comes to the physical.  We women are required to bleed one week a month; birth all the children; find shit men misplaced because, of course, our uterus is a homing device for all the stuff they require to function daily; breastfeed; and top all that off with attempting to be sexy so they don’t lose interest.  We’re tired by the time we hit 40.  I know I am.

Guys, don’t get all butt hurt over the fact that I said men don’t have a lot of physical demands.  Shoot a kid outta your ass and I’ll retract my statement.

Why do we park in a “driveway” and drive on a “parkway”? – Mark

Because the person who made up those words was smoking Acapulco Gold at the time.  I wasn’t there when those words were first used.  If I had been, I would have said something along the lines of “that must be some epic shit you’re smoking because that makes no sense at all.”  Most of the English language is questionable.  If marijuana was legal, it would make a lot more sense.

Should the USA adopt a flat tax on good and services and abolish the payroll tax?  This way there’d be no tax loopholes or tax returns to file, we’d save money on not having the IRS bothering the people of the country and everyone would pay based on what we buy.  Thoughts? – John G

Hell yes, we should abolish payroll tax and go to a flat tax on goods and services!  Can you imagine the hilarity that would ensue if all those IRS auditors had to find something else to do?  Like, I dunno, a real job?  A lot of them are just big sadistic assholes who get their jollies intimidating people. It’s like they aspire to be the Marquis de Sade of accounting.  Can you imagine them selling ball gags and riding crops at some sex shop?  I can.  Okay, Vicodin is a beautiful thing.  *insert maniacal giggling here*`