Wud up, G?

Why is this sucker so elusive? It's deemed magical, and seems to be the epitome of a skilled sex doer. What I am not sure of is, how it is so difficult to locate. It would seem as though a little communication would go a long way. Although with a one night stand or something, you probably don't want to spend the night teaching and instructing. I guess you just hope for someone who knows what's happening down there. Does this mean gynecologists are especially skilled at locating it? I would think so. Any gyno that uses a dating website should definitely list it under their skills & talents section. People who go spelunking should also list it. They're used to finding shit in cavernous locations. Also, no one should even be faulted for not being able to find it, especially if you can't find it yourself. If you could, you would lead the way. Like a tour guide. When you travel to a foreign destination, you count on an experienced tour guide to point out hot spots for you. This is basically the same thing. Plus, don't expect someone to do something for you, which you can't do for yourself. Well, unless you don't have any arms, then I don't think it's asking too much. I also imagine someone super skilled in fiding it with ease would be like a super hero. Their name could be Super Snootch. Double plus, if your guy doesn’t expect you to finger bang around in his b-hole looking for some magic button, don't expect him to rummage around in your vagina. Think about how irritating it is to find a light switch in a dark room...exactly.

My other theory regarding women is, maybe some ladies were assholes in their previous lives, and this time karma said no G-spot for you this time around. So take that, whore.

Bathtime

Watching the news about the dangers of bath salts doesn't really seem to be deterring anyone at all. I get that most drugs are terrible for you, but even still, people set aside the risks, for the euphoria of the high. With the bath salts though, you don't just run the risk of becoming an addict or over-dosing. People are doing insane things to others. Like, eating them. That's pretty intense. In which case, you will more than likely just be killed because you are a raging cannibal with no conscious and no self-awareness. How is that risk even worth it? All I see it as is allowing a bunch of scumbags to become addicts. That's the appeal, it's affordable. They deserve whatever happens to them after making the choice to take a drug that alters their reality so much. I must be missing something because I definitely do not see how that is appealing. I like to drink as much as the next guy, but last I knew, PBR didn't make me eat someones flesh. Although I do wind up eating pretty much everything else in sight. Embracing my inner-geek though, I can sniff out a conspiracy. Straight up popluation control, by means of zombie invasion. I  also wonder how many celebrities or rock stars have attempted it. I hope that when they do start using bath salts, someone will eat Lindsey Lohan. Then there could at least be some good coming out of it. Alot of people don't like ginger though, so more than likely, no one will touch her. I guess I can settle for Jennifer Anniston getting munched up.

Bath salts...because being a meth addict isn't so cool anymore.

Examples :
http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/crazy-stories-about-people-being-arrested-high-on

Platinum, yo.

Sometimes I can't even handle the fact that I am 32 years old. I'm no longer boy crazy, boy chasing teenager, but a married woman who has resorted to pecker checking. I had my first child at 29 years old, I'm just now a college student, a junior to be exact, and still having tons of good times. It's just sometimes, I feel super old!Occasionally, while I am busy reminiscing, circumstances will crop up that snap me right back into present times.
For instance :

Awhile back, I found my first platinum vagina hair. I was terrified. All I could picture for the near future was a shiny silver muffin. Instead, I turned those feelings around. Took it in a whole other direction, took it as a warning sign. It was merely a signal that this ol' girl isn't what she used to be. And I am talking about myself as a whole, not only as a vagina. It was my notification that I am an adult. Sometimes I don't quite feel that way, even though I have a child. Amazing the way a child doesn't make you feel like you have reached adult hood, but one stray silver pube can. Have you ever even felt or grabbed ahold of one of the silvery shiny suckers? It was straight up rugged, I had to fight it off me. Eventually I won, and I haven't seen another. However, the experience has stuck with me. The message is still clear. Even hangovers say the same thing. My back, my knees, tension headaches, everything. It's all just screaming, " SLOW YOUR ROLE, YOU OLD BITCH!". I just can't though, I like having fun. I like running around, getting wild. So I guess that's what I will do until my body completely revolts against those actions. Or until a giant gray bush gets in the way and trips me up.

Silver city...down South...

Snail T_ _ _ _

I've gotta say, all this hoopla with Magic Mike has me thinking. Male strippers are not attractive to me, not in the frigging least. I like a healthy bulge as much as the next gal, I just don't like it in a thong. I've seen male strippers, and it's definitely not my thing. I don't need any salamis swinging in my face, no thank you. Plus, I don't want some lubed up guy dragging his sweaty balls all over my lap. Don't even lie to yourself and say they aren't sweaty. He has an icky gooch to nut area just like the average Joe. Plus, how would I explain smelling like wiener to Girth? Honestly, I would just rather see females strip, and I have. At least they have some action. They can get into some straight up acrobatic type shit. I don't even own any upper body muscles, so I am in awe of all they can do. Now, this doesn't mean I am running to the vip lounge for a lapper or anything. I'm keeping any extra dollar in my pocket for the ungodly drink prices. Definitely not paying to get snail trailed on. Besides that, it just comes down to basics. Most females are better looking than males. We are nicer to look at period. I don't even like the ripped up, bulky look of an over groomed, over tanned guy. I like the look of a man. I highly doubt chest hair is a plus in the male stripper world, or female stripper world for that matter. Give me rough hands, tousled hair and the au' natural look any day. Anything other than that can go grind their thrusting pelvis and flounce their gentleman's sausage onto someone else. Besides, Girth breaks it down for me from time to time, and I don't even have to pay him. If I'm going to get poked by any beef bayonet, it's going to be the one I'm married to.

I'm no fool, though there's always an exception. You're welcome.

Butt? Butt? Butt...

What is it about butt sex that gives it such a bad name? Seems like all girls that enjoy it are called "dirty girls". Why is that exactly? Is it because it is so taboo? Is it because it is super intimate, or because that's where poop comes from? Is dirty a literal term, or just a freak type term? From what I gather, it's a trampy girl who likes to take it in the ol' chocolate starfish. Frankly, I just don't see an issue with it. I don't see how it's more filthy than the muffin. Yes, I know poop comes from there, but, umm...many things come  out of a bearded clam. Everything from people to bread dough. So, yeah, poop isn't the worst. And if this is just an intimacy issue, well, I don't think anyone should be faulted for that. There is nothing wrong with being so comfortable that you don't mind exposing your b-hole. The fact that it was once considered taboo shouldn't be an issue either. Not when people are performing blumpkins, angry dragons, or screwnicorns. A blumpkin is what is sick. If someone is doing one of those, then they are a straight up dirty freak. Doing that makes taking it in the growler as harmless as a good old fashioned tugger. I think many ladies are put off by the fact that poop might come out. Now, that would be a little upsetting. No one likes to be shit on. However, consequence often follows risk. The fact that both parties know that it is a possibility, should make the moment it happens, no more embarrassing than the untimely queef. Which you can actually control once you understand what's going on. One of my more attractive talents is doing it on command. Now, it's no party favor, and few have been there to witness it, but it is a delight.  So, regardless who what you do with your body, just be comfortable. It's your butthole, do what you will, but don't judge others. Just take off those judgey pants and see whats up.

I'm not saying this actually represents me, but I do wonder about the person wearing it...

Toodle-loo, Tits McGee.

I really can't stop thinking about getting my tits ripped off. I have carried them with me since a B-cup erupted out of nowhere in the 6th grade. A full blows C-cup in middle school subjected me to countless titty-twisters, and boob grabbing by over sexed, goofy teenage boys. Tune in Tokyo is a phrase that will never leave my brain. I was also accused of being a stuffer. My body was a barely 5ft, 112 lb, busty chunk of unproportioned awkwardness. Through high school, I got used to them, I grew to love them. Into my twenties, I hated them again. They were always in the way. Tank tops look slutty, tube tops are a no-go, and button up shirts are not always compatible. Plus they add at least 10 pounds onto my over-all scale reading, which I can definitely do without. So my decision, is to get rid of them. They look fine, and they have served their purpose, now it's time to go. They were gonna hit the floor running at some point anyways. Might as well ship em' out while they're in their prime. You know, save them the embarrassment. Plus, my neck muscles and back muscles would like a break from carrying those fun bags around for so many years. The one thing that I will probably miss is dropping and flopping them onto Girth's head. I like it when he is sitting at the computer, all unassuming, and I creep behind him and smash one of the top of his head. Or when he is just about asleep and I sneak around to smack one off the side of his face. These times are over though. So, kiss this suckers goodbye, because a bulk free me will be here by next Spring. I'm still contemplating before and after shots. I highly doubt Girth would let me share them though. We'll see.
A going away party will be in order though, that way everyone can see them off.

Ta-ta, ta-ta's...

Down there...

I'm still finishing up book three, but let me tell you, Christian and Anastasia have more sex than a stack of porno. Hopefully they have a forever type of love, because surely, he has ruined her vagina.
Now, I love this trilogy, but I have a couple issues. First of all, I get that she was a virgin. The fact that she had no idea what anal beads were though, makes her a straight up liar. She would have had to lived under a rock. Besides, she was told to research everything in the first book, Christian's right, that sassy girl doesn't listen for shit. And virgin or not, she was a hooker who received benefits that included a free gym membership, gifts of technology, shopping sprees and a car. You didn't hear Vivian complaining about it in Pretty Woman. 50 Shades is alot of the same, except with oodles of self-loathing, way more boners, and an obscene amount of orgasms. If the wind blows on that ladies nipples, she convulses. It's completely unnatural. It takes nothing for that girl to cross the finish line...Christian definitely found himself a whorey little gem! The most realistic aspect of all these sexxcapades is that they never last more than a couple of minutes. Don't even get me started on Mrs. Jones being the butt plug washer AND dinner maker. I'm so glad Anastasia ended up taking care of them, I almost lost respect for her, her simple mind and her ravaged cooter.
Sometimes though, I am just grateful for the fantasy. Getting lost in perfection. I know my showers don't get that sexy, nor do my bath times. The highlight of my shower is pulling a 16 inch long hair out of the crack of my ass. It Girth picks me up and twirls me around gleefully, I don't giggle, I screech and fart. We don't have sex and roll over to sleep in bliss full oblivion, he throws me off him and we race to the bathroom. Life gets messy...
My one critique would be better word usage. Now, Anastasia is an adult college graduate, who screws like a harlot, yet refers to her muffin as, "down there". Really? Your inner goddess doesn't tell you to call it anything else? Well, both of you are stupid. There is a slew of other words that could be more descriptive and appropriate for the types of sex she's having. But, if I get started on that, I'll be blogging for Hustler...

Spreader bar...holla!

Clam Stamp

Where did the idea of a blow-job even come from? At first thought I would say that it would have to be a guys initial idea. I don't think so, though. See, if I had a wiener, a mouth equipped with a bunch of chompers is not where I would want to stick it. So, this leads me to believe it was in fact, the idea of a won-ton sex goddess. No doubt a sassy little tramp for her time. I bet she was popular though.

Where did tea-bagging come from? What guy just all of sudden thought that slapping his balls off the forehead of another would be so funny? It is though, so I guess he was onto something.
Mushroom stamp? Same thing. These people are straight up innovators.

How about a dutch oven? No doubt, started by a guy. Thinking shitting his pants in bed was super funny, and wouldn't it be twice as funny if his beloved wife could only smell and eat that shitty air while trapped under a blanket? Of course it would. Taking away a persons right to clean, fresh air is always funny.

My point is, think about it. A woman invented the blow-job. In return we have been tea-bagged, mushroom stamped and tossed into the ol' dutch oven. This doesn't add up. We do awesome things to the stupidest looking part of the male anatomy, and this is how we are rewarded? Well, I'm here to tell you that I have revolted. No more getting stamped, no more balls get dragged all over me. I have retaliated with my own form of vengeance.

Clam stamp.

This includes:
One bare back
One pants-less woman
One set of proverbial balls.

Girth gets it when he least expects it. It's a nighttime occurrence. He has no shirt on, I have no pants on. He is surfing the web, I am sneaking by and jumping up to nail him. Bare back, clam stamp. I do usually get pummeled out of disgust, but it doesn't even matter. I am triumphant.

Think of it as giving your person the clam stamp of approval...

T-Rex

Pretty sure everyone has had those dreams about being naked. The ones where you wind up in public, or in front of a group of people. I know that I have had tons of them. School, stores, parades, I have been naked pretty much everyplace. Usually, I don't even care. It's like it doesn't bother me to prance around in all my jiggly, fluffy glory. But then again, dreams do tricky things. In real life, being nekked in public is terrifying. Almost as terrifying as when your toddler runs out your front door laughing and not listening. When something like that happens, the reaction is immediate, panic! There isn't an actual thought process. And it all actually happened. Shit got real.

I'm taking a quick bath, Girth has to run out to do something, ok whatever, no big deal. I am getting out as he is leaving. Bathroom door is open, Riot is watching cartoons, and I ask him to come here. He doesn't answer. I peek out, and see him in the kitchen with the front door cracked open. I bolt, immediately. Nakedly. He laughs like a frigging hyena and jumps onto the porch. Guess who is completely buck naked, in broad daylight, standing on the front porch scarfing up their child? Me. Talk about a dream come true. We don't exactly live in the country here. The parking lot next door was packed full, but thankfully our neighbors were not in their yards. And thankfully, he did not make it off the bottom step. I have never been more exposed, or terrified. He unlocked both locks and took it upon himself to step out. Well, guess who purchased a third lock? Yup. As glad as I am that everything is fine, I cannot stop thinking about the fact that my butthole was exposed outside, right in the daytime as I was bending over to drag my offspring in the house. Kid screaming, boobs flopping, oh my god. It wasn't even at lightning speed, it took a minute. He was super wiggly.  I'm all grabbing at him, trying to keep by arms bent and elbows over my jugs, looking like a raging T-rex. Vagina blowing in the wind. After all that, I still have the audacity to sit here with no pants on. The nerve, I tell ya.

                                         

Period.

There is that one week, normally on schedule, where rational behavior takes a backseat, and neurosis hops in the drivers seat. There is just an ominous aura about a woman on her period. Men may wonder what they can do, how they can help. Well, the answer is simple. The answer is, shut up. Just shut up. Try not talking during this one week. Think of it as a way to hone your listening skills, or at the very least, the appearance of listening skills. And, buy the tampons.
Yes, I say tampons. Pads disgust me. Why would you want to sit in it? Cork that snootch.

Purchase chocolate with the tampons. Unoriginal, I know, legit none the less. BUT...this is important, when arriving back home from your treasure run, do not SAY that you bought her chocolate. Just lay it down on the counter beside the cooter corks and say nothing. Remember, she's irrational. Your shit may be jumped for buying that chocolate when she's feeling so fat, or, it may be embraced for thoughtfulness. You know damn well this could go either way. If there's trouble, grab that chocolate stash and claim it as your own. BUT- watch your tone. Always, watch your tone. You will know if the candy stash is well received because she will hall balls to a corner and inhale it.

Give up the remote. Let us cry off our faces to Lifetime. Doesn't even matter if its Superbowl Sunday...choose your battles wisely. In the attempt that you challenge this rule, keep in mind that you will miss whatever it is you planned on watching anyways.

Please don't get caught checking out other women during this week. You really will be sealing your own fate.

Period sex. Have it, or don't. Be prepared for repercussions if you say no though. She is hornier than a pet coon. Do not, I repeat, do not, ask for a blowie instead. Actually, if you should be so foolish, you deserve the onslaught.

An employer at a firm in Norway instructed all women on their periods to where red bracelets during their flow-time. Really. It was claimed to be used as a monitor for bathroom breaks, the reasoning for frequent trips. Well, what if I went to work with the shits? Could I have a brown bracelet, so that everyone knew each time I had to take a shit? Monitor restroom breaks my balls. This was probably a safety issue for other office workers. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea at all.

Good luck.

Have some consideration...

Some of you may think that boys don't like to see girls cry because they are so super sensitive. Well, that makes you retarded. Boys don't like to see girls cry because we are hideous. I am not excluded from this, at all. Seriously, next time one of your girlfriends is crying over one of their neurotic issues, look at her face. That girl will look like she got her face smashed in with a puddle of lemons. Puffy eyes smeared with too much make-up, lips all quivery, snot running all into her lips...and no, I do not mean "wake up the next morning after hot sex the night before" sexy smeary make-up. I mean eyes that look goobered, streaked with snot, smeary like a road map. And the crying voice! No one wants to hear that, nor should they be forced to. Gulpy, sobbed filled, squeaky, high pitched sounds that are horrendous to hear. It doesn't matter if it's over a boy or a movie, be considerate and smash your face into a pillow.  Plus, hiding your ugly cry face is beneficial. The person you are heaving in front of can focus and be more helpful. They don't have to worry about trying not to laugh at you, or get hung up on how ugly you actually look. When you are asked to, "please stop crying", that is the reason. You are torturing them. You have the right to cry, but you don't have to be so selfish. Oh, and for Pete's sake, don't try and suppress those tears! Haven't you seen someone try not to cry!? That's even worse. You have to watch their lips twitch up & down for what feels like centuries while they look around, look at the ceiling, look to the side, do weird breathing things...just let it go! Prolonging the inevitable isn't doing anyone any favors, least of all, the person who is looking at you. So, if you want a friend to sit with you through one of your episodes, be considerate and hide that ugly little cry face.

Now you can see...It's mean to make someone look at this shit...

Gross-ola`..

Sometimes I am naked doing a tri-pod before my husband walks in the room. I did this once about two weeks after I had Riot...Girth took a picture...we laughed for about two hours. Then two more hours after he zoomed in on it...which I don't ever recommend doing. Driving down the road I will pull a hooter out of the top of my shirt (when the clothing allows it), and just let it hang, nip and all. I will sit there patiently singing along with the radio until he notices. This gets me a punched, pretty hard. I can't possibly be the only girl somersaulting around the house naked, can I? Laying in bed at night, hopping onto all fours and lifting a leg over his face saying, "psssssssss", like a dog pissing on his head. Immediate charlie horse. It's a pretty territorial move, but I need to let that bitch know he's mine. Secretly though, I believe he likes these things, keeps him on his toes.
You could give the argument that I leave nothing to the imagination...but, really? What the french toast does he need to imagine? He doesn't need to imagine what my butthole looks like, or that I never poop, he doesn't need to imagine that I roll out of bed fresh to death and stunning. I wake up a hot mess, ripping ass like a grown ass man, naked with greasy hair. So, yeah. Imagine that. Leaving things to his imagination isn't interesting to me.
 He plays that role though. Girth & I have been a hot item since 2008 and he still won't let me in the bathroom when he poops. Drives me insane. I hate that he leaves his pooping face to my imagination. He saw an entire person enter the world, via my vagina. It dosen't get more intimate than that, but I get locked out of a poop sesh? Something there is fishy. Shitty fishy. Like carp.
Now I'm fired up and done with this. Next time he is shitting, that door is getting beat down with a friggen hammer...privacy my balls.

Girths going down...

Bling Bling Box

I have yet to ever have any part of me waxed. Well, except for letting my sister attempt that Brazilian that one time. Other than that, nothing. I'm comfortable enough letting my sister creep into the crack of my ass, and Girth too...but he is no where near as brave as her. I can't even bring myself to get my eyebrows done. I'm terrified that the waxer will sneeze and tear my face off. I don't even want to think about the potential damage that could occur in pants. Anyhow, my issue with getting the Notorious V.A.G. waxed is the growth stage. I have no plans on running around in June with a raging fur biscuit. A whole other issue is appearance. Especially the look of a naked vagina. Which I can assure you, not everybody's muffin should be so readily displayed. In fact, some should be covered as much as possible. Throw a poncho right over it. Others should be retired like an old sports jersey...both having been used for far too long. Girls or guys though...I'm more for the natural look. Whoa...don't get crazy...tame it, shape it, clean it up cute. I've been festive for Girth, getting the ol' kitty gussied up in the shape of a Christmas tree, the letter "C", and an arrow or a heart. The naked look though, is only when I have to clear the work space for a do-over. Other than that, I find it a tad creepy. Well, unless I was a stripper and didn't have an offensive looking clam, in which case I would make it naked and get it vajazzled. Real fancy, real classy. My stripper name would be Bling Bling Box and I would shake the jewels right off that cooter.

                                  The practicality of this ends when jumping into too tight jeans.

Happy Clamming

Tits don't speak. They will also never win a staring contest...they can't even see you. These facts seem irrelevant to a guy when he sees you in a bar or wherever, as he is out searching for his next baby mama. Sure, it's flattering having someone notice how spectacular your hoots look in that new shirt, that you just bought, especially for going to get noticed, because you know they looked awesome in it...but still.  I know that I personally would prefer that I was offered a drink, instead of having it offered to my nipples. Those fun bags do alot of things, but sprouting lips isn't one of them. So, it's pretty important that a guy looking for the approval of any lady, should look at her, completely. This way he can also assess her reaction to his offering of a beer, see the "as if" spread across her face and then line up a couple shots, pronto. Chances are good she has enough change in her purse to line up dollar cans of pbr all night long. Be a baller and get her a shot.

Please, please, do not pay for your drinks by pulling out your wallet and rifling through your entire cashed paycheck. I have seen this myself, too many times. The only gals swooning are the money grubs or those waiting on the first of the month to kick in. Then it only works because they are looking forward to spending those dollars, their hunt for a douchbag with money to spend is over, for the night. This has nothing to do with you looking like a high class fancy pants man. Trust me, you do not. At all.
Your calling card is desperation.

Also, keep the drunk guy swerve to a minimum. Dancing for fun is fine, but the minute you start acting like you can dance, when you clearly cannot, there is a problem. Now don't get me wrong, we have all been here. Girth still makes fun of my moves. Arms in the air, "sexy" sway, off beat no less, drink sloshing around. But- I am not in the business of picking up chicks either. I have all the vagina I need right in my pants.

Really, there is alot a guy has to keep in mind when getting all up in the grill of a hot girl. Especially in a bar where the guy/girl ratio is way off balance. Although, by a certain time in the night, the guys going to have a half closed piss eye, way too much cologne on, beer dribbled on his shirt, the self confidence that no one aside from Ryan Gosling should have, and to top it off, he is functioning without a brain to mouth filter.
The moral of the story is, poon hunting and guys nights out should be completely separate.

Demonstrating the importance of beer goggles...

                                                          

Rant.

I think we all know what the crane game is. A bunch of stuffed animals tossed in a plastic box, where anyone with dexterity and fifty cents can wrangle a completely useless item for their beloved child. Well, that's a crock of shit. It doesn't actually cost fifty cents- it costs countless dollars, in which your spouse will verbally abuse you to dig around in your purse for. And those animals are sitting in there haphazardly? Bullshit. They are trapped. They are smashed deep into each other in a plastic, cube shaped, fucking death trap. The person who designed this game is a masochist. The grabber doesn't even go to the sides of the cube, and it doesn't even close all the way. This "game" is disgusting. All the while, those shitty stuffed animals, that you will donate to the local shift shop in matter of weeks, are flaunted in your poor kids face. A two year old obviously doesn't get it. And once you have played the game, you don't get it anymore either. All you know is that you are looking like a hopeless asshole in front of your panic stricken offspring. All over a stupid white stuffed bear wearing a stupid frigging Mets jersey. Full blown 'mission mode' ensues. Girth was "that guy" at the mall today. My kid was "that kid". I was "that lady" digging through the liner of my purse for quarters. It was hopeless. Girth actually asked me to go outside, and dig quarters out of the car. Seriously. That whore of a game had him entranced. I swear it single handedly makes parents look incompetent and useless. I can see why kids end up trapped in those machines...due to parents who have obviously reached rock bottom. Seriously though. The inventor of this fucking contraption hated their parents, and they hate children. There is no other reasonable explanation. They are completely deranged. It's absolutely perfect though- if you want to teach your kid that winning isn't everything, while your beating on the window and acting like a psychopath...good luck with that.

Lesson in Failure, number one.