Dear WordPress

Dear WordPress,
You don’t know how special you are, do you? You’re not just a blogger or a satirist or a contest host or columnist, you’re a representative of an era.
Art, no matter the form it takes, be it on canvas, computer, film, or photo, is indelibly linked to the society and time it was created in, even fictional works. Your reach is far and mythic. And someday you will be a wish in the heart of future generations who will yearn to have known you.
It doesn’t matter how big your following or how active your readers are, when you put finger to key you drank ambrosia and created a lasting heritage in my name and all those in this world. You convey the tears, smiles, fears, angers, and hopes of every soul to have known these feelings in the twentieth and twenty first centuries, and you alone lift the veil of curiosity and allow others to get a glimpse of what we truly feel about how this world works.
I don’t ask you to do me justice, because you already are. You show the spectrum of life from brutality to jubilance, from profanity to wholesomeness, from fiction to non.
You will never die, only sleep to periodically reawaken for today’s descendants to cry, laugh, fear, hate, and hope with us, tomorrow’s yesteryear. .
While stock brokers, real estate agents, car salesmen, cashiers, corporate businessmen etc. can retire, you never will.
Creators never retire, they hibernate. It’s just not in us to abandon cataloguing the human experience.
Think about that word for a moment, ‘creator’. It’s definition is: A person or thing that brings something into existence.
That’s you.
Never forfeit that gift. It was not bestowed lightly, and don’t you ever forget it.

Cinderella Gone Weird, Write Rewrite, Rewrite Challenge (first day, humor!)

I started a 36-hour Challenge. http://genrepornchallenge.wordpress.com/ Check it out and participate!

Since its new, I’ll be taking part until it gets its feet off the ground. So, here’s:

Cinderella Gone Weird

The troll’s in my backyard, again. He’s taken two steps out of the corner. I can see his knees. The gnarled hunks of wood with pecan slivers for nails that should be his hands sit lightly on them.
He hasn’t made it out of the far right corner yet, and who am I to pry, anyways? We just moved here. That’s a question I don’t need to know the answer to, right now. I have bigger things to worry about, like busted hot water heaters and baking the perfect cake and making the most awesome dress for the ball.
He’ll come in and kill me when he wants to.
I love the people here. They’re so friendly (except for my family, LOL) I can’t believe I ever got used to people being rude. I guess when you live in a kingdom that tops the lists for most miserable and crime ridden regularly, rude is par for the course.
Damn it, I took my eyes off him, and now I can see his beard. I’m not sure that’s a healthy color for a beard. It’s so dark above his knees it almost looks wet.
Oh, shit. It is wet. Fucker’s drooling, and its slipping over his bulbous lower lip and dread-locking the hair on his chinny-chin-chin.
I should probably stop typing, right? But I’m not done with my cigarette. I NEED my nicotine, come Hell or just…fucking trolls. These hallways ain’t gonna’ mop themselves.
The cancer stick is almost halfway gone, and he moves slow as molasses down the crack of Frosty’s ass, anyways. I got time.
Don’t I?
Where was I?
Oh yeah, busted water heater. That sucker was spewing like a damn frat boy in every direction. The water was going under the house, too. I was out of cigs and coca cola, so all I could do was pop my knuckles, gulp at random, and pray my stepmother wasn’t coming home any time soon.
The repairman probably thought I was nutso. That’s okay. I probably am.
Oh, fuck, what now? SHIT, WHERE ARE HIS EYES WHERE ARE HISEYES WHEREAREHISEYES Fuck fuckitty
Okay, all better. If he can’t see me, I can just turn the typing sounds on my keyboard off.
Done, and
done.
Hah, now he’s moving in a zig zag. This is so going on yetube.
Shit, he heard me laugh at him.
Double shit, he’s mad.
I think I’m done with this cigarette. Time to stick my tongue out andflfjcjnsikcnjfj rndinchndnenjfj . Encjjndnen
Tyytttthhheee tttttrroolllllssseeezz nnooo yuuer rooooollllll, ppppprrrincceesss

Videos for Bad Days, Number 1

This video is so enjoyable it could make Garfield love Mondays.
As far as this list goes, Steve Kardynal is the newcomer. He’s a strangely endearing little man sporting some Jeremiah Johnson hair on his chinny chinny chin, but looks remarkably like a woman when wearing a bathing suit (without a face shot, of course). After trolling shirtless chat roulette guys and pointedly laughing at them for being about to spank it to a dude, he put out this video. I had never heard Call Me Maybe all the way through until this odd little dude, but now I know the whole damn song. Since it makes me smile, however, I’m just going to Thank God It’s Not Friday by Rebecca Black and keep him as número uno on this list. Thanks, Steve!

They had the technology

 

Image

Since I created a new blog, I decided to start with the one people still mention to this day. The “incident” happened in 2009, which means I’ve known some of y’all wayyy too long to be a good thing. Now that this “incident” is firmly in the past, my husband feels he can laugh uproariously at it. At the time, he did not find it so funny (especially when it had 1500 views on Myspace). That opinion has changed, probably because he realized I was 1500 times more embarassed at the actual hospital where people could see my beet red face and my, ‘Oh God, Did I really just yell that?’ expression. He, however, had the comfort of being too drugged up to remember and too absent on Myspace for anybody to recognize in public.

2009 – My husband had a medical procedure done yesterday. He was roto-rooted. Once it was done, they called me in to the recovery area and I sat there waiting for him to be wheeled out.
I’m beginning to think they let family go back while people are still under anesthesia because they get a fucking kick out of it.
When I am under anesthesia, I am one pissed off Texas midget. I have a foul mouth and even worse temperament.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know this until I had my wisdom teeth out and cussed/bitched so much that they allowed my mother to take me home way before they normally do.
In my defense, though, they left my face smeared with blood after the procedure, and I was apparently mad they would not wipe it off. I
Anyways, people have some of the most amusing reactions under anesthesia. My grandfather, Poppa Joe, would speak Spanish, even though he didn’t speak a word of it, normally. He’d also try to talk dirty in Spanish. I don’t know how that would sound, but maybe something like ’Yo needo tu vagin-o’, since most people think they can speak Spanish by putting an O on the end of every word.
My father will fart a lot and mutter, ’That ain’t right.’ Pffffrreeeitttt. ’Oh, hell, that ain’t right, either.’
My husband does something different. Marriage is an adventure, folks.
When they wheeled him in, he looks up at me and smiles. “Hi, hi, hi, baby. I’m so glad you’re here. I wouldn’t want anybody else here.” He says, barely mushing his words together.
“Well, I’m glad, because I’d be a little pissed, otherwise.” I respond, taking a seat next to the bed on a stool. I fluff his hair away from his face and kiss his forehead.
“I love you. I know I probably don’t tell you that as much as you deserve to hear it, but I do love you.” He says, earnestly. The look on his face is so sappy I am almost shocked, then I remember how deep he is in anesthesia-land.
Chuckling, I told him I loved him, too.
A conspiratorial gleam dove into his eyes, and he tried to whisper, in one of those more-loud-than-whisper voices, “Can we do the nasty when we get home? Tonight?”
Closing my eyes for a second and shaking my head, I glanced up at the ceiling and then back to him, “Yes, we can do the nasty tonight. Shhh.”
“Good. I don’t even care that you have a hairy pussy, right now. I want to do it all.”
SMACK went my hand over his mouth, or he would have continued regaling the nurses with vivid descriptions of my furbox.
Hey, shoot me. My period made a visit after a seven-month absence, I can damn well skip shaving if I fucking want to. It’s my prerogative..
I am now trying to withhold the laughter bubbling in my chest, while deciding whether or not I want to kill him. With all the nurses about, I figure this would be the best place to do it. He’d only be dead a minute, tops, I’m thinking. I mean, they had the technology. They could revive him.
“We could do something with your coochie hair. Braid it, or something.” He jokes, so proud of himself.
“My vagina hair is not long enough for corn rows, damnit!” Yes, I retorted this with a lot of volume, judging by the four amused faces that swung around to look at us.
I cleared my throat, shrugged my shoulders, and used the little pull curtain to give us the illusion of a room.
Bad idea.
“Are we going to do it, now?” He asks, anxiously and completely stoned.
I shoved his back down onto the bed. “If you don’t shutup, baby, I’m taking your clothes and leaving your ass here. And if you mention my un-groomed genitals one more time, I will never shave it, again. Comprende?”
“Okay,” he whispers, in his five-foot voice. “You wanna do it in the hospital? I’m already naked. You’re so hot. You look so pretty. In a few minutes I could be balls deep-”
I cover his mouth for a second time, “Baby, there’s a twelve year old girl standing by her dad next to us. Can you stop expanding her vocabulary?”
Then he started on his I’m going to make you rich one day-rant.
“-because I want to know you’re always taken care of.”
I was relieved he’d switched subjects.
“That’s great and all, baby, but I’d kind of like you to be there, too.”
“The doctor was nice. He was kind of like a Kentucky Money Mike. Are you sure we can’t do the nasty right now?”
STOP! Pillow time!
I’d fully expected to blog this up last night, and then go make hours of happy whoopee with my man of choice, but man of choice got on the computer.
So, I put on a tight shirt with no bra.
Man of choice stared and stayed on the computer.
Woman of rage flashed him boobies as a last resort.
Man of choice said ‘Sweet.’ and stayed on the computer.
“Fine. Fuck it. I’ve had my boobies jiggling all day for you, and you won’t get off the computer to make them jiggle horizontally. I’m eating a pickle, exercising, and going to bed.”
“Hey, I noticed the boobies-”
“Yeah, that’s your problem. You noticed them, you didn’t play with them.”
“Five minutes!”
“Honey, you had five minutes when I put the top on. I think me and my hairy vagina might masturbate, too. You should have RSVP’ed when you got the invite.”
“You suck.”
“I would have…”

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