Posts Tagged ‘humor’

I was sitting in the waiting room of my step-daughter’s counselor’s office and it occurred to me that I might be evil.  There I sat wearing a t-shirt that I’d grabbed (at random, I might add) that says: Pssst…no one likes you…pass it on!  If the kids in the counselor’s office didn’t have self-esteem issues before, they have them now (there were no other kids in the office while we were there, but the irony wasn’t lost on me).

I honestly didn’t think about the slogan on the t-shirt until I was out of the house.  I just reached into the closet and grabbed the first t-shirt that my fingers landed on.  Hey, I hadn’t had my coffee at that point, cut me some slack.  But then I went to QT and got some French Vanilla Cappuccino.  Yeah, a total “wow, this is a fucked up shirt to wear around kids” moment happened.

Obviously, I’m a bad influence on kids.  Then I started thinking about when I was growing up.  Tracey, your mom was right, I WAS a bad influence on you.  I’ve had this same sick sense of humor as long as I can remember, so obviously it was me who was the bad influence.  Love ya.

But I’m not alone in the whole evil t-shirt thing.  T-Shirt Hell has been at it as long as I have.  You really should check them out because they have tons of stuff that’s hilarious!


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Sorry to have been silent all week, but it’s been a little busy at the Twisted house.  We now have softball practice 3 days a week and that makes for a hectic brain…namely mine.  But I have a feeling I’ll be able to make it up to you…or not.  Here we go!

Does saying “fuck you” to your spouse ever go well in an argument?

I could give this a flat “no” but I think I need to qualify my answer.  Besides, a simple no doesn’t do the situation justice because if you’re saying “fuck you” to your spouse, you’re beyond pissed.

Men and women are so different in their meanings when they say “fuck you” that you really do need an interpreter.  If a woman says “fuck you”, what she really means is “I wouldn’t fuck you if your dick was made of gold and you shot hundred dollar bills and gold bullion.”  Or, on the flipside, she may have a strap on that she’s just been dying to try out and “fuck you” means you just volunteered to be her guinea pig.  “Fuck you” is a deeply personal thing with us.  We are probably plotting your untimely demise at this point and we mean for you to rein your shit in before you end up with your clothes on the front yard and an attorney up your ass.  We are serious.  We generally know how to wield a knife with efficiency (all that kitchen time, ya know).  Guys, at this point, you should shut the fuck up and repeat the following: “You’re right, dear.  I’m sorry.”

If a man says ” fuck you” it generally means that he’s out of things to say.  You’ve made him mad.  He doesn’t agree with your point of view and is adamant about his stance being the right one.  Of course, women are more emotional and we can think of words to express ourselves in the heat of battle.  Guys just see red and blow up.  Guys, “fuck you” is seriously the wrong thing to say to your wife.  Why?  She may decide never to fuck YOU again.

Why do nice guys finish last? Why do women go for dirtbags? Why is being treated special a bad thing?

Nice guys don’t always finish last.  Sometimes they finish next to last.   But seriously, if I actually knew the answer to this question, I’d be rich beyond Gates, Jobs and all their wildest wet dreams.  Heff would come to me for advice.  That would be so cool, but he’s not knocking on my door or calling me.

The dirtbag thing is pretty weird, really.  We don’t always like heights or extreme sports or speed, but dammit we LOVE a dirtbag.  They’re our adrenalin rush.  And of course, our womanly charms will surely change a bad man into a good one.  It’s total horseshit, but for a brief fleeting moment, we buy into it.  A lot of women just don’t get that guys don’t change.  I’ve accepted it.  Besides, someone has to marry the dicks of this world.  Otherwise, the world would be unbalanced and there would be no more bullies or insensitive men to make us appreciate the good guys.

The gist of it is that if you want a woman to appreciate you for the good guy that you are, find a woman who has suffered a bunch of assholes before you.  SHE will appreciate the courtesy and respect that you give her.  But she’ll have baggage along with that appreciation.  Just try to understand that while she may have more baggage than Paris Hilton, she’ll love you for the man that you are, not the potential asshole you could be.

Why is it hard for some people to understand that, once lost, integrity and trust are pretty much impossible to restore?

Such a serious question deserves a serious answer.  So here goes….

It is human nature to give trust and faith in a person until they prove that our faith in them was misguided.  And despite all the times we’ve been screwed over and hurt by other people, we still have faith in our fellow man.  It’s hope.  Plain and simple.  We have hope that the next person that we give our trust to won’t stomp it into oblivion.

Why don’t they get it?  Honestly, they don’t get it until someone does it to them.  I think a lot of times, they think that they’ll get away with it and you’ll blindly put your faith in them again because you’ve done in the past and oh, aren’t they so cute and…yeah.  It’s a hard lesson to learn.  But it’s a lesson they have to learn on their own.

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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.

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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.

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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*`

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