Author Archives: iasshole

Vaginabreakers

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Okay, back on the big ol weblog pony. I’ve been thwarted not only by the disaster last week, but also because I’ve been studying non-stop for the GRE. What? You don’t know what the GRE is? Well bless you, and I hope you never find out. But, just in case you’re curious…

The GRE (Graduate Record Exam) is the test one must do well on if you’re enough of an idiot to apply to graduate school which evidently I am. The only problem with it, besides the fact that I’m math-disabled and it has an algebra/geometry section on it, is that it’s all computerized. This means that when you get a question right, it spits out a harder one for you to tackle next. It gets easier if you start fucking up. So if I start to get 2+2=? on the math part, I’ll just excuse myself and slit my wrists in the ladies’ room. Hee hee hee. I’m taking it on the 28th, which sounded really far away when I signed up for it at the beginning of this month. Seriously, why do human beings put themselves under so much stress?

Confession: My worst, anal-rententive Martha Stewart nightmare came true this morning. The real estate agent who sold us the house we live in just “dropped by to see how things were going!” Well, I’ll tell you how they were going. Usually my house is pretty tidy, and I know it’s uncool and unpopular for “independent Grrls” of my generation to even give a rats’ ass about being HOUSEPROUD, but I admit it, I am houseproud. This woman popped in and got a big ol eyeful this morning: two bras slung over the bedpost of a really violently unmade bed (it’s in the living room because our house is so teeny) dishes up to the ceiling, debris all over the living room. Plus I was still in my pajamas and I had to throw on a sweatshirt because I am LAZY and was not wearing a bra, so my out of control boobies were trying to get away as usual. I was also totally convinced that the upper half of my face was beet red because when the real estate agent pulled up I was plucking the hell out of my eyebrows, which had gotten totally out of control in the past month or so. The only thing that wasn’t out for her perusal was some, er, equipment that my paramour and I had been, um, operating late last night. (I mean of course, our floor waxer. I can just hear my Mom, “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?” Haw haw!)

Anyway, she came, she saw, and she left. And now she has some fantastic gossip, because she is a distant friend of the family. Sigh.

I called my Mom and whined about it, and she said, “Well, she has a cel phone, and it is rude not to call before dropping by.” Yay Mom! On the positive side, my eyebrows now look fan-fucking-tastic!

A half hour later, I was still not dressed when the mail carrier came to the door, looking official and busy like they always do when they have a package for you. I hid in the bathroom- I just couldn’t face anyone else.

But putting things into perspective, more embarrassing things have happened to me in recent memory. When I was a newlywed, my brand new husband and I used to play all sorts of little fun games together. One night we were laying in bed starkers and reading books, and I was also eating a box of jawbreakers. For his amusement (I always get into the most trouble when I do things for other people’s amusement), I started putting the jawbreakers one by one into my vagina. He laughed a little bit to humor me, and by the time I got up to about 18 or so he started ignoring me and went back to his book. Eventually, I fell asleep and he turned out the light. Suddenly, at about 2 am I woke up. I was uncovered and chilly; a moment later I realized I was also laying in a big wet puddle that seemed to have an epicenter under my ass.

“Oh God, I wet the bed.”

I considered my options- I could get a towel and cover it up; I could wake him up and inform him that his new wife of 4 months was a bedwetter; or I could smother him with a pillow so that no one would ever find out what happened. Being young and idealistic, I woke him and told him the truth, crying, and I have to say he took it very well. I couldn’t believe it was true- I’d NEVER been a bedwetter, and we hadn’t even been drinking or anything. Just before I ripped off the sheets, I caught a whiff of something… sweet. I bent down to smell the huge went spot and it smelled faintly sugary. Then I remembered the jawbreakers. I did a quick check to see if they were still when I deposited them before bed, and sure enough, they had completely dissolved.

The whole thing gave me a new appreciation for my vagina. If it could melt that much candy in four hours, what else could it do? Corrode steel? Turn lead into gold?

GENERALLY speaking, I only put things in it that belong there today.

I Was An Asshole When I Was Young, Too

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I got my first piece of fan mail yesterday, which is pretty good considering I just started this page yesterday. I reprint it in its unedited entirity, for your viewing pleasure:

(Ahem)

“Hey you asshole faggot!

Noone wants to hear about your pervy sex life! People like you should go fuck them selves or put up pictures so we can see what kind of faggoty shit your talking about. Dickbrain.”

Well! Someone’s Mother was certainly asleep on manners duty, wasn’t she? I can’t tell if the writer was insulting me further, or if “Dickbrain” is some kind of signature. I choose to believe the latter. At any rate, I think Dickbrain likes me! Hope to be hearing from you soon, Dickbrain! *Mwah*

Since my sex story was so unpopular, I am moving on…

Once, when I was eight, I was a hoodlum. I fell in with a group of kids who were somewhat older than me; the ringleader was the oldest girl, who was twelve. My parents moved us into this apartment in a slightly dicey part of town while they were building their dreamhouse out in the burbs, and our neighborhood was full of wild children who ran loose in the streets while their working-class parents earned them money for the newest cheap plaything that would break within a week. You get the picture.

My Mom decided I was too little to run unsupervised, so she retained the services of a lady with a little girl of her own in the adjoining apartment building to keep an eye on me during the day, which didn’t last very long. But while it did, I was kept safely inside the apartment courtyards.

This, however, did not keep the neighborhood’s child-marauders from getting to me. Everyday they came to play with me; perhaps they sensed I had a weak mind and could be easily won over to do their bidding; perhaps they genuinely liked me- I’ll never know. As each slow summer day passed, my allegiances transferred from the quiet domesticity of Mrs. M.— and her daughter Melissa, who was a fat, bossy, redheaded mini-tyrrant who held court over all of the children in the apartment building to the raggedy wild children who were free to come and go during the day.

Nights were a different story. Once my Mom came home from work, I was sprung from daycare and could pursue my spitting, swearing, and strutting lessons without being under the watchful eye of Mrs. M.— or any other adult. There was a construction site across the street from my apartment building; we stole their spray paints and decorated the underside of a nearby bridge. There was a convenience store across a busy street I was forbidden to cross; we crossed it and stole candy while one of us distracted the dozy clerk who always perched on a stool behind the counter. We got into fistfights, we threw rocks at cars, and we ran away when the cars stopped, all under the tutelage of our twelve-year-old fearless leader, Jenny.

She was always goading one of us smaller kids into doing something bad. She convinced me it was a good idea to get in a fight with a kid who was twice my size, just because he had called my stepfather a “Polack”. “It’s a matter of honor,” she said, shoving me forward to my doom. She also convinced me that putting cat poop in a bag and leaving it on the neighbor’s doorstep with a note that read “Have some Hershey’s Kisses” was the height of hilarity. She taught me how to “ding-dong ditch” and told me what a blowjob was. So I guess I wasn’t suprised when she decided I had to exact revenge on little redheaded Melissa, for the crime of being bossy. Jenny’s plan was that we should go antagonize her until she flipped out and said something that would justify what Jenny wanted me to do, which I wasn’t even sure of at that point.

We surrounded her; she didn’t have a chance. She was innocently playing jacks or some such innocuous game in front of her steps when we rounded up and started picking at her. I remember she was actually one of those sweet looking little girls whose mother keeps their hair in pigtails and is usually wearing an honest-to-God gingham dress. Melissa had her personality problems, but she didn’t deserve what happened next.

We taunted her and she faught back. Eventually, it was just one-on-one between her and I. She crossed that line and called me something like “fartface.” Well, that did it. Jenny got that evil, glittery look in her eyes that she usually had when she was scheming and said, calmly and quietly to me, “Go ahead Asshole, spit in her face.”

In that moment, the expression on Melissa’s face went from hate to terror. What did I do to deserve this? her eyes pleaded. But I was part of the festering organism that was the group, and was no longer capable of pity or reason. I reared back and hocked one square in the middle of her face but good.

At that moment, everyone froze. No one laughed or moved. Melissa unfroze a moment later; her lip quivered, which was followed by the collapse of her whole face as she ran into the relative safety of the apartment building. My last image of Melissa was of her crimson face turning away in shame with a big gob of my little kid spit running down it.

At the time I had no idea that that is the worst thing you can do to someone.

Two years later, after we moved away into our new glorious dreamhouse, my Mom ran into Jenny’s sister who was checking at the local Eagle. It seems she had gotten plowed by a car the summer after I left, while she was crossing the street that I wasn’t allowed to. I imagined that she was heading over to gank some candy, or otherwise ruin someone’s day.

Is this really better than hearing about sex? I guess I’ll let Dickbrain decide.

Sex-O-Rama

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Alright, I’ve got one. This is a truly horrible tale that still makes me shudder when I think of it. Do you know what earwigs are? Possibly only beneath roaches and silverfish on the scale of insect dreadfulness.

Well, when I was in high school, I had this boyfriend, Texaco. I was a real sex monkey then and he was my willing accomplice. We were out in the middle of nowhere as far as sex shops/ interesting urban stuff was concerned, so we, like any small-town kids, learned to improvise.

Texaco and I decided we needed some sort of lubricant to assist us while we were playing house, so we went hunting in his mother’s pantry. Texaco’s mom is a wonderful woman. Her only rule: “No sex in the house.” Oh, well.

We found an extremely large bottle of canola oil (I’m talkin at least half a gallon here) in the cupboard and Texaco poured some oil into a shallow dish. Giggling fiendishly at our cleverness, we ran down to his basement bedroom to put the oil to immediate use.

Weeks passed. Texaco has never been a very good housekeeper, so whenever we would get into the mood to say “hello to the baloney pony” he would just reach under the bed for the dish to apply a few dabs of oil as necessary. (Which was usually once or twice a day then.)

WELL, after this sort of laziness/ convenience had been going on for about three weeks, Texaco decided to finally clean up his room. He pulled the dish out from under the bed, and what do you think he found in it? THAT’S RIGHT KIDS, about a dozen drowned earwigs!What a way to die.

Moral:

1. Don’t be a lazy luber.

2. I read once that to kill earwigs one should put out beer, but no, the answer is canola oil.