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I Need More Grain

After learning how much I’ve spent on beer, and deciding to mend my wicked ways, I’ve turned to my childhood favorite, Ovaltine. But I think I must have had a bit too much last night after waking in the middle of the night with the idea for an all-girl band.
I had a clear picture in my mind of how they would look, and the songs they would record; I even saw their names through my healthy drink-induced stupor.
From left to right:
Tawnee Rotten– Lead Vocals
Lacey Hole– Synthesizer
Butch– Flugelhorn
Latex Cholera– Drums
Sara Viscous– Bass Guitar


Further, I was convinced they would go platinum with their first album with these titles:

Big Girls Don’t Cry, Bitch
Hanging, Dimpled, Pregnant and Punched
Rohypnol Blues
Mamma, Who’s My Daddy?
Got My Panties ‘Round My Ankles, Pain ‘Round My Heart
Swingin’ From The Ceiling Fan
Cop Behind Us, Act Natural
Do Cats Fit In Tupperware?
Do Your Condoms Lose Their Flavor On The Bedpost Overnight?
The Pope Went Down On Me
Cactus In My Underpants
There’s A Reason Why The Ladies Call You Tiny
Damn, That Needle’s Dull

Screw Ovaltine.
*pop… fizzzzzz*

A Day at the (Nude) Beach

When I was in my late twenties, a friend asked me if I wanted to go to St. Maarten, as she found a great deal at a resort. I had never been to any Caribbean island, so I was in.

A few days after arriving, we decided to bite the bullet and go to Cupecoy Beach, which was the clothing optional beach on the Dutch side of the island. We agreed in advance we would tell NO ONE back home about this, and also that we would be sans tops only.
We pull up at the beach parking and there are signs EVERYWHERE stating that this is a clothing optional beach, nude beach, etc. in 3 languages…Helen Keller would have known it was nude beach.

To get to the beach, you have to go down a set of stairs carved into the side of the cliff leading down to the water. It’s about 20 or so steps, and then you hit sand. As we go down the steps, we see a large number of people out sunning and swimming…let me interject here that contrary to popular belief/fantasy, nude beaches have people of all ages, shapes, and sizes on them. It’s not all Victoria Secret models. If I say so myself, my friend Sue and I were probably the 2 best-built females there.
But I digress…
After a while, we hear a bit of a commotion on the steps and look up to see a most unusual sight: A family of four (Mom, Dad, son, daughter) coming down the steps. They were unusual because they looked like refugees from a Midwest farm state. Dad had black socks on with his sandals, Mom had a muumuu on, and the two kids were fighting, until the magic words were uttered by the son: “Mommy, there’s NEKKID people here!!”
A gentle wave of laughter went over the beach…Mom promptly screamed “We’re leaving!”, as she clapped her hand over Son’s eyes. Dad does an abrupt about face to go back up the stairs, and 3 steps up is eyeball to nipple of a healthy young thing who had started stripping as she made her way down the stairs.
The wave of laughter grew to a low roar. Young Lady starts to turn around to go back up the steps (meaning Dad would have been eyeball to ass) and Mother, who is dragging Daughter by the wrist, yelling at her not to look (you know she was looking at every penis she could), pushes ahead past Dad. She got the ass to eyeball view.

By now the beach is in hysterics…

As the Farm Family reaches the top of the steps, Young Lady #2, already nude, is waiting to come down. The screeching and wailing had us crying…

Lessons learned: 1) Read the signs; 2) Next time go to Disney

How About Some Takeout?

Last week I had visions of a scrumptious dinner that didn’t involve street people and couples with very young neurotic daughters; however, fate would change all that.

Turkeys at Ingle’s were 58 cents a pound. We bought a nice 20-pound tom and put him in the freezer until the night before I brought him out to thaw.

The huzbund spent the entire afternoon looking for the bird, and an elusive bastard he was. It was an eventful day, as the cat had the son of a bitch cornered three times in various spots of the house.

We still haven’t caught him, but I’m betting we’ll find him wounded under the table by Wednesday.

Fried Dyed and Laid to the Side

To celebrate one of my effing  birthdays, (I won’t mention which one, but in dog years I would already have overdosed on heart worm medication) I decided I needed some help from a professional. Desperate to find a replacement for my longtime hairdresser who at the time was taking a coma herself, I was thrilled to learn that I didn’t need an appointment at a new salon in town.
I was assured it was indeed a full-service establishment, and that my needs would certainly be accommodated.

Sunitha began by informing me that time was stealing my youthful look as Penelope was finishing up my caci treatment. I think it was supposed to be some sort of mud, but I’m a country girl, and once a cow patty, always a cow patty.

My texture was all wrong. My varicose and spider veins were doing battle with each other. They gave me a foil weave, but it clashed with my portwine stain.

They even removed my tattoo of Fago. With a belt sander.

After six weeks I was still picking off pieces of the paraffin body cocoon. The “painless” hair removal resulted in an upper lip the size of a Buick and a sixty day supply of Percodan.

Even though I see a different person in the mirror every morning, that boob job I got in ’75 held up mighty fine.