I was just standing outside of my patient's room charting when a doctor came by to see him. He was obviously a resident and a retard because he said, "Did somebody call about this patient pulling his drain out?" YEAH DUDE, OVER 16 HOURS AGO. Hey slow down, Keanu, there's no need for speed on THIS short bus.

He went inside, fumbled around in the dark for 3 minutes, and then emerged to ask me, "Wait, which drain did he pull out?" Look Sherlock, ya see that spot where there used to be a drain but there ain't one now? Yeah, that's right, the spot that is profusely gushing bloody drainage. That'd be it. Seriously, how much about this patient do you actually KNOW because in my opinion, you should already know how many drains he has and where they are located on his body. Shall I draw you a sketch?

Anyway, after telling him where his patient's drains are and which one is missing and what he should do about it, he left. I was still standing in the hall near the elevators- THE SAME PLACE I WAS FIVE MINUTES AGO- charting. He walks past me to the elevators, all of 3 feet away, where he attempted to alter the chemical composition of the earth's atmosphere by releasing a NOS-powered superfart that registered a 7.0 on the Richter scale in Southern California. What was he thinking? That I'd be too engrossed in my charting to notice the noise induced by one's underwear suddenly filling with noxious sulfur and ass-juices? That I'd think someone else in the abandoned hallway was releasing monstrously toxic explosions of methane gas through their rectal passages? That I would take it as an invite to whip out the A-1?

To make matters worse, he had to continue standing there, in a dense cloud of his own filth, for a full minute before the elevator came to whisk him away from his shame and a potential class-action lawsuit from the EPA. Meanwhile, I had to run away... not from the smell, but because I was laughing so hard that I almost let one rip myself.


At Least It's Not A-1

Today when I mentioned to my boyfriend that I finally changed the water in the bowls of my Betta fish (Silly and Billy), he expressed his utter disbelief that they were even still alive after suffering the undeserved trauma of being owned by The Most Irresponsible, Lazy and Mentally Unstable Person in The Contiguous United States. While I'll agree that my Bettas are the red-headed step-children of all of my pets (landing an impressive 4th place after the cycloptic cat, my nameless, malnourished goldfish, and the thousands of clinically obese fruit gnats living in the kitchen), I at least have the decency to keep the poor bastards alive enough. I change their water once it reaches a creamy molassess consistency and remember to feed them whenever their scales start to shed. What more do they want, a fucking bedtime story?

So since the water levels had reached the point where the fish could only breathe by squeezing into a crevasse between two rocks and lying upside-down (oddly enough, closely resembling the "dead fish" pose... I think they were trying to elicit some sympathy, those selfish whores), I decided to change it. Being the humble altruist that I am, I did a little selfless bragging about my benevolent deed to Kam, whose response was, "You should put them in your ass while they're still alive. You're on your way to the hospital anyway. Splish splash I have fish in my ass, all upon a Friday night!" All I have to say right now is that I wasn't the one who told him that you can get really, really high by snorting baby aspirin cut with coffee grounds.

Gives a whole new meaning to Spelunk in the Trunk, no?


Tits! There were tits!

In keeping with the TATA theme we've got going here, I thought I'd share a little tale with you folks. A few days ago, Dave (the boyfriend) and I were leaving the Starbucks on Montrose, a man accosted us wanting to examine my track suit (yes, I was wearing a track suit. Here's the story on that: Three years ago, I purchased online a blue Kappa brand soccer warm up set for the Daveinator. It's blue with the Kappa logo (an outline of a man and a woman sitting with their backs together, naked) down the legs and arms. I realize this sounds hideous, and I would have to agree upon further reflection but he wanted and liked it, so that was all that counted. Since he is a skinny little bastard who generally wears a men's medium, I purchased the warmup in that size. Well, Christmas rolls around and he loves the suit, but it's too small for him. The sleeves don't hit his wrists and unless he were into the whole capri pant look, the pants just weren't going to work, either. So, I said, fine, why don't you call the soccer catalog and send it off to be exchanged? He agreed that was the best course of action; he would get a suit that fit him and my $100 purchase would not be for naught. Needless to say, DAVID, CUTE, SWEET DAVID, does NOT return the suit. While rummaging around in his cabinet for tape this week, I found the suit, still in its lovely packaging, ready to be shipped to the motherfuckers in beautiful North Carolina, nestled amongst old Christmas lights, various packing materials, and a supply of 409 large enough to duel and defeat Mr. Clean. Since I've reformed as a person and have let go of the anguish this rejected gift branded upon my soul, and three years is a bit too long to return a warm up suit that the catalog probably doesn't carry anymore, I decided that I would adopt the damn thing as my own, and that's what prompted the exciting tale you'll hear next.)

So we're leaving the Starbucks, heading for the car, when this man, a middle aged black man whose well-groomed appearance concealed his cocaine addiction long enough to catch me off guard, runs over to me, screaming, "DAMN! Woman, lemme see that motherfucking suit! Snap! Girl, is that naked women!? SHIT! I gotsta get me one of those!!!" Now normally, I might be concerned that a man I don't know is stroking my outer thigh emitting squeals of pleasure, but I was so amused and interested with this bizzare behavior that I stood there, motionless. I thought that after said individual expressed his glee at the prospect of owning such a suit (I informed him of how he might get one for himself), he'd LEAVE.


The man trapped us in the parking lot for TEN MINUTES--he decided that he wanted to give me a rose to reward me for such excellent (obviously couture) wardrobe, and so he went over to his truck to fetch one. I watched him shuffling around his car for a few minutes, motionless, wondering if I should run, try to hide, or offer this man a dollar for his troubles. Just as I decided to bolt, he emerged from his vehicle bearing (rather proudly) AN ENTIRE BOUQUET of roses, from which he plucked one and handed it to me. At that point, he had moved from the thrilling topic of my ensemble to how he got the flowers, which involved a lot of wild flailing and excited squeals, a nose resembling a cross between a cat in heat and a pig rooting for truffles. Apparently, our crack-addicted friend ran a flower tent on Valentine's day, made $7,000, and still had some flowers left over for lovely ladies who wore nice warm up suits. He also had photos of every woman he had graced with a rose, to which he slammed on the trunk of the car next to mine and yelled to Dave, "PEEP SKILLS, DAWG! PEEP SKILLS!" Well, I had NO idea what this meant, but I did indeed know when I saw a pair of giant, saggy, huge-nippled boobies staring back at me from one of the photos. Other photos included skanky women (surprise, surprise) and the dude, all proudly displaying their roses (if not their breasts).

I later found out (from Dave) that the flower man used the term "peep skills" to brag about his "skills" in reeling in women. Now, I'm not sure what kind of two dollar hookers were seduced by this man, but it's clear that he did indeed have some SKILLS and/or some roofies to slip into these women's drinks. The moral of this story, kiddies, is that you should NOT take flowers from crack-addicted, flower wielding pseudo-photographers who like warm up suits with naked people on them. (Now, that might me a small group, but you never know--I bet Fats sees many of this mold in her unit at work, and there's more than enough crack to go around to a whole gaggle of these folk.) Yikes!

Did somebody say Taa-Taa Thursday?

These are Fats' taa-taas as captured by her loving boyfriend, Dave. He was pretending to take a photo of the two of us, but instead zoomed in on her jugs and popped a chubby. I knew this photo would come in handy some day. Thanks, Dave!


Because GEORGE! claimed that my first self portrait said, "I'm so fucking emo, it hurts."

PS- suck it.


Things that could be seen and heard at the Nurses' Table at Ron's wedding

"How did your boobs get so big? Now that I'm finally having good sex again, I could really use some of those."

"So tell me the truth, did you make some comment about how I only date guys who drive Bimmers?"
"No, of course not! I would never say that to your face!"

"Next time don't wear white to someone else's wedding, you fucking bitch."

"Nobody eats meat in Colorado! Ugh, they're all HEALTHY and shit."

"She's not bitter and disillusioned because she doesn't clean up shit for a living."

"He still lives at home with his Mommy."

"Where is your family from?"
"Really? Mine, too!"

"You should ask that old man behind you to dance."
"I think that's Ron's grandpa."

"She doesn't even use firewall."
"I DO TOO USE FIREWALL!... What's a firewall?"

"Yeah, we're Life Partners. That's what happens when you're drunk at 2am and sitting outside, waiting for the Metro Rail. You become Life Partners with a gay man."

"Her fiancee is a podiatrist resident."
"A DIETARY resident?!"
"No, you idiot, PODIATRIST."

"They have a CHEESE BUFFET! With a little cheese groom and a little cheese palm tree!"

"Let's peel out of the parking lot."

"Your boyfriends are always at least 30 with an MD after their name."
"Nuh uh, this one is only 28!"

(To the bride:) "Congratulations! You look so beautiful. Have a great time in Tahiti!"
"Yeah yeah, thanks, you too."

A pictoral representation of Spoonleg's transition into drunkenness:



THREE GLASSES OF WINE (or, Oh my God that chocolate cake is going to taste so bad on the way back up.)

This one is for Caroline:

Be still, my heart.

A gathering of two or more nurses in a small, confined space is a recipe for trouble. Especially if said small, confined space also has a liquor license. Exhibit A:

We're up to no good.


I cook, and then I CHILL.

I just want to say that you people ROCK. Especially AMANDA B. (the B. stands for BARRY) because she is my new pudding partner. Let me just be honest here and say that there can not POSSIBLY be another person on this planet who loves The State as much as I do. I know most of the skits by heart and have a particular fondness for Doug and Captain Monterey Jack. I challenge you, internet, to name your favorite skit and/or tagline from The State. At a later time, I will reveal my favorite skit EVER... and if anyone can guess what that might be, they will win $240.00 worth of pudding. You know, the kind of pudding that only $240.00 can buy. Awwww, yeah.


The White Retardo Strikes Again

I was driving home from work Monday, at 7:30 in the morning, when I pulled up to a red light, which happened to be situated next to a bus stop harboring a disheveled houseless individual. Now, it is not uncommon to see multiple nefarious looking characters at bus stops in this city. For instance, there is always that guy at the Holcombe and Kirby intersection with his retro acid-washed denim jacket and old school walkman who dances all day long with such fervent passion that I am convinced he must be waiting for his invitation to the Soul Train auditions. It's as if the very beating of his heart is dependent upon his ability to master a dance routine incorporating both the Robot and the Electric Slide. The first time I saw him I was all, "Did Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson have an illegitimate crack headed mutant bastard love-child?" But then I realized that Michael Jackson is sterile (or really SHOULD be), and that this guy is actually kind of good, despite the obvious amphetamine addiction and genetic defects. The best part about my Tiny Dancer is that he is so completely dedicated to his task; he will not be swayed from his mission. No matter how many trucks drive by and splash him with mud, no matter how cruel the Texas weather can be, no matter how many times I give him the finger and hurl glass bottles at his head, the show must go on. His devotion is heart-warming, and after a few weeks I found myself cheering him on from across the intersection, "Go homeboy, go homeboy, go. To the left, to the left, to the right, to right, now dip, baby, dip!" Don't get me wrong, I still throw the glass bottles, but only to see how high he can fan kick.

Then there's the guy with the squeegee over at Westpark and 59. No, dude, I do NOT want you to clean my windshield with your squeegee that is in fact filthier than my windows, thankyouverymuch. If you need money so damn badly, what are you doing with those two Rottweiler puppies tied to a telephone pole? Puppies can only survive on yogurt and booze for so many weeks before they develop a serious case of the runs, which I'm sure you've been tending to with your all-purpose squeegee sponge. This guy will squeegee my windshield no matter WHAT I tell him.

"No thanks, I don't have any money."
"You smell like summer sausage and have ringworm on your face, go away."
"I have an uzi in the car. Put down the squeegee or else the puppies get it."
"I'll give you ten bucks and a dime sack NOT to ruin my wax job with your fecal contaminated squeegee filth."
"Venez plus étroitement et j'enlèverai vos testicules avec mes dents"
"Oops, my foot slipped. You're ok, walk it off."

I can say from personal experience that none of the above have any affect whatsoever on Squeegee Man. He will squeegee away with the skill and determination of a Special Olympic hurdler, and for that I have to give him props. I don't, however, have to give him money so I'll just continue to throw glass bottles. The way I see it, I'm doing him a favor. Those bad boys are worth $0.05 in MD! I hear they're hot commodities on the homeless black market.

For the most part, the homeless people that I pass on a daily basis are harmless, which is why I use them as innocent pawns in my global plan to torment and persecute persons of lesser means than myself. But driving home from work yesterday, I noticed a new victim languishing in the shade of a nearby bus stop surrounded by garbage bags full of valuables which, judging from the way he was attempting to shield them from any potentially wayward bullets with his body, must have included the Hope Diamond, the Mona Lisa and Al Capone's lifeless cadaver. In between fiercely guarding his Hefty (Cinch-Sack) fortune and smoking 16 cigarettes per minute, the man would glare at me and periodically hock lougies in my general direction. Then he stood up and began pacing, while still managing to smoke, spit, and sporadically rearrange the contents of his garbage bags. Finally, he started screaming, "You black mother fucker! Get away from here, you stupid son-of-a-bitch, you! If I see your black ass around here again, I'll kick the shit out of it! You heard me, negro! I SAID you'd bet not show your ugly face 'round here again!" The rest of what he said was unintelligible rambling, something along the lines of, "I'm not sloopy trans fusty! Clanpool toodie black ass fiduciary wingloser outta here, Blanchett!" It was clear that this dude meant business, and whichever black ass son-of-a-bitch wingloser he was speaking to had better get the fuck out of Dodge because there was no telling what kind of artillery devices were concealed under that pair of pantyhose stuffed with grapefruit. Besides, I wasn't in the mood to be contaminated with splattering body fluids or TB. Looking around, I noticed that there wasn't anyone else near us. It was just me and the psycho. I scanned the sidewalks on either side, glanced under the bus stop bench, searched for dead bodies in the nearby ditch, and checked the backseat of my car. Nope, no sons-of-bitches to speak of.

It seriously took me at least 2 minutes to realize that Sir Spits-A-Lot was talking to ME. I WAS THE BLACK MOTHER FUCKER. Now, I know just as well as yall do how slamming a couple 40 ounce bottles of malt liquor after seven days without food or sleep can dramatically alter one's perception of visual reality. I did go to college, after all. Yet, no matter how many times I partied myself into a K-hole, I am proud to say that I never killed enough brain cells to misjudge someone's race. Gender? Yes. Give a man some Jello snack packs, a Zima and a pair of Manolos and I challenge YOU to be able to tell the difference. But no matter how many bottles of Listerine you drank or clove cigarettes you smoked last night, a cracker-ass white girl such as myself should never, EVER, appear to be a black mother fucker, regardless of my gold dentata, hair extensions and fondness for gangsta rap.

So I sat there for another minute or so, listening to him ramble on and on, inching closer and closer, his spit landing just inches from my car. I kept staring at the light, willing it to turn green, wondering what he would do once he got close enough to get his hands on my fusty, and wishing that I had a taser gun. (TASER GUNS! They're like having epilepsy without the restrictions on your driver's license.) Eventually the light turned and I drove away, but not before rolling down my window and shouting, "Ninja, PLEASE. Don't make me bust out my gat and cap a couple shells off in yo ass!" I figured that would give him something to yell about for a least a few more hours, or least until he found a ride to the Methadone clinic, whichever came first.

Self Portrait Day

Thanks to mihow for organizing our very first Self Portrait Day. Everyone looks so wholesome and charming, unlike the crass and offensive sexual predators I've come to know. It must be some new fangled sort of camera trickery! Great photos, everyone!


Moonie's Sing Along

Here's one that Fats and I used to sing on a daily basis:

(to the tune of "God Bless America")



This one goes out to my homies.


Our Funny Valentines

This is Fats' White Chocolate Love Slave, Big Daddy D:

And this is Spoonleg's Eternal Snausage Supplier, Madden-Master K-Dub:

K, Thanks for never complaining about all of the dreadedly lame and un-manly boyfriend tasks I assign you. All of the chick flicks, American Idol episodes, Broadway Musical productions, drunken family gatherings, MINI Cooper club meetings, cat-sitting, clothes shopping, nursing functions, and especially the strategically placed tampons in your bathroom drawer. And the fact that you missed the Superbowl Pre-Pre-Game Show to attend a one-year-old's birthday party pretty much ensures that your heavenly halo will shine with the brightness of a thousand suns and even Jesus himself will have to pause and say, "Daaaamn!"

D, I can't really thank you for anything because you've tried to end my young and fragile life one too many times with your horrendous navigational skills, or lack thereof. I suggest you work on perfecting some alternative skills if you have any hope whatesover of impressing the ladies or The Son. Perhaps you're better suited for computer-hacking or nunchakus. Both equally admirable skills.

Happy VD, boys. And just remember... Next month's Steak and BJ Day is entirely dependent on your performances today. No pressure!


Spoonleg's Sing-A-Long

Brak: "I Love Beans"

Here's a lovely song about my favorite food!
Lima, lentil, soy and pinto
Navy, northern and garbanzo
Kidneys and frijoles negros
I love beans

I love beans, woo woo woo
I love beans, how about you?
High in fiber, low in fat
Hey I betcha didn't know that!

When I eat beans, I sit in my own little cloud
Nobody comes to visit me, in my little cloud
I don't know why, maybe it's 'cause I'm cuttin muffins

I love beans, hey hey hey
I love beans EVERYDAY
Beans are an excellent source of protein
I love beans, dinky doo!


And now boys and girls... your requisite dose of OSCAR.



Girl.A and Bucky Four Eyes, my two new best friends, are Jerri Blank fans much like myself. That is so hot. I want to shove something in their cans. I love you guys. I'll share my glint with you ANYDAY.

Greeks are just jews without money.

You don’t wanna beat me OR screw me? What kind of marriage is this?

What’s up Susie? Nice camel toe.

Well I guess I learned one thing. Never talk about your marijuana exploits in front of an undercover cop.

I like the pole AND the hole.

Condoms are for cowards! Who’s with me?

I was Diabetic for a while, till I kicked it.

Safe sex?! Get out of the kiddie pool and take a dip in the Danger Zone!

Man, you people are old! I bet you could dry beef down there.

Pee on me!

God, I’m really in a K-hole.

I remember this was this one song about this Welcome Table. And people liked to sit... at… it.

You know, I cried when I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. Then I laughed… really hard.

I’d like to root in HER cellar. Umph!

Haha, look! I sprayed the guy in the wheelchair with my grape sodie!

Buddha Stalin’s chronic.

I’m not an Indian! It’s just a coincidence that I have a love of gambling and booze and have a knack for catching syphilis.

Ugh, I haven’t had a night like that since… last night.

Befriending new people can lead to having sex with your children, accidentally.

It makes me damp as a cellar down there. All mildewy. Enter if you dare.

I got on Indian underwear; it’s creeping up the trail.

Take a hike, Bubbles. Here comes my old lady.

The violent make passionate lovers.

I see a carnival of colors! I see grays and browns and… grays!

Keep your sausage links off my flowers.

The money goes for a good cause: a drug rehabila… a mind control cult. We take your babies.

I did things I wouldn’t force on a mule, and that includes things I forced on a mule.

Jesus H. Jip!

Cancer. That’s hilarious!

How many of you want to wake up in a public bathroom lying a pool of what you hope is your own filth?

I ordered the Vice channel; pretty good movies. They cut out the money shots, but you can still see a lot of pink.

CLEARLY, she’s retarded.

Happy St. Arbor’s Day, little ficus. It’s not a legal holiday, but neither are most of the Jew ones.

She’s going through menopause with a hint of epilepsy.

Damn, my muscles are as tight as a Hebrew’s wallet!

When you work from your home
And johns call on the phone
You're a call girl.
When you walk til you limp
And give a cut to a pimp
You're a street whore.
When they're beggin' you ‘please’
To get down on your knees
Near their groinage,
Excusa me,
But you see,
Don't you touch
Where they pee
Without coinage.
When I straddle and squat
To show you my twat...


Hey, Wait, I've Got a New Complaint.


There is nothing I hate worse than that yearly visit to the OBGYN. My palms literally sweat, I get so nervous. My cooch would probably sweat, too, if that were possible. Is that possible? Nevermind, we can discuss it later.

Thanks to Eve, that fruit thieving bitch, all of woman-kind have been cursed with uncomfortable menstrual bleeding requiring the use of products bearing alarming names such as THE DIVA CUP, LUNA PANTIES, PLEASURE PUSS MENSTRUAL WEAR, and GLAD RAGS. But that's not the worst part of our curse. After decades of suffering through thousands of rags that FOR THE LOVE OF PETE ARE NOT GLAD, we have to endure the unfathomable pain of childbirth. Not to mention the 18-year-long purgatory of raising Satan's demon spawn, otherwise known as your kid. But even if your birthing experience was filled with pain and placentas and episiotomies, the curse still has not loosened it's sharp and bony death grip from around your ovaries. Oh no my friends, because year after year, for the rest of your life, you must endure the torture of... THE SPECULUM. There's just no escape from it's cold, hard, metallic, snapping jaws. It gives me nightmares and an unhealthy fear of salad tongs.

Why I pay a middle-aged black woman wearing way too many red accessories to touch me in my Pleasure Pinnacle is a complete mystery. Should I be offended that nobody told her she's a) too old and b) too rich to be shopping at T.J. Maxx? Dude, you inspect vaginas and snatch babies from them FOR A LIVING. And coming from someone who's vagina you've recently inspected, I feel as if I can be honest with you and say that I find your red headband, red necklace, red earrings, red bracelets, red belt, red ring and red fingernails to be ever-so-slightly distracting. DEAR GOD, I just thought of something. What if she wore that sasquatch of a ring while "examining" me?! She probably ripped me a new urethral meatus.

So anyway, there I am, lying completely naked in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the exam room waiting to be violated, thinking to myself, "Oh my God look at my thighs. She's going see my thighs. They look like cottage cheese, how gross. Is it cold in here? Did I shave today? I wonder if she knows when people make 'special accommodations' down below just for her. Should I have made special accommodations? No, it would just go to waste; she could care less. Besides, I'm sure she's seen worse. Should I take off my socks? Leave them on? Which are cleaner- my feet or my socks? Socks, definitely socks. Jeez, I'm all sweaty and shivering and nervous like a virgin on prom night. Oh, look, they use KY, that's cool. What should I have for lunch? Chick-fil-A? Oh yeah, I have that salad in the fridge. I wonder if they'll warm up the speculum before shoving it in there. Damn, she's delivered some ugly ass babies. Why do they only hang up pictures of the ugly ones? When do Girl Scout cookies go on sale? I need some Thin Mints." et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

When she finally came in, she of course DID look at my thighs (DAMMIT!) and also noticed the enormous monstrosity of a bruise forming on my inner left thigh. I knew she would see that, how could she not? It covers 2/3 of my lower body and is sprouting several coconut-sized knots in a lovely medley of fall colors. I think I can even feel some teeth starting to form under there. Last week at work I performed a sort of quasi-amputation of my left leg when I pummeled my thigh into the corner of an open filing cabinet while traveling roughly at the speed of light. The impact was so severe that I could feel it in my toes. The point-of-contact turned ghost white and formed a boulder-sized knot, while the surrounding tissue morphed into a red and purple Lava Lamp before my very eyes. Groovy.

So as a result, my leg is now a shriveled, blackened and useless appendage dangling from my hip-socket. It's not so noticeable with clothes on, but I was NAKED, people. So she noticed. Of course I try to play it off, like "Oh, that old thing? Hahaha you'll never believe what happened, it's so crazy. This one time... I, like, ran into something really hard." Of course she eyeballed me suspiciously, because that's her JOB. When she sees unusual bruises in unusual places, she's supposed to ask questions and call the authorities. The thing is, I KNEW she would notice and I was really nervous about what she would think.

As if you haven't heard enough stories about how clumsy I am... there's more. Two years ago at my yearly vaginal violation, the doctor was taking care of her business down below when she suddenly said, "What's this? A bruise?"

Wait a minute, I thought. She's looking at my cervix, isn't she? HOW DID I GET A FUCKING BRUISE ON MY FUCKING CERVIX?

Trying not to panic, I asked her, "Uh, where is there a bruise?"

I won't go into specifics (too late, right?) but suffice it to say that she pointed to a sensitive (non-cervical) area of my puffer where there was-- and I had to take her word on this one-- a bruise. So I was racking my brain for any reason why a bruise would be THERE, because honest to God that general region had not received any bruise-worthy action in some time. So I just stared at her, dumbfounded, like "I have no idea how that got there, doctor." Then she gave me my second surprise of the day and stuck her finger in my junks. Yes, BOTH of my junks. Mmmhmm. Betcha can't top THAT.

As I slowly ambled bow-legged through the parking lot, I suddenly remembered. At work I had been carrying a chair taller and heavier than myself and in the process of trying to achieve the impossible, I had racked myself in the girl-nads with the corner of the chair. I must have blacked out from the pain because I had completely forgotten about it until that moment. But it was too late, she probably documented in my chart that I exhibited the behavioral and physical signs of sexual abuse. Anyway, I didn't really have time to run inside and tell her, because I was too busy trying to control the anal leakage caused by her FINGER PROBING AROUND INSIDE OF A PLACE THAT NO GLOVED FINGER SHOULD GO. (Wait, did I just say that? Me, who sticks my gloved finger in people's asses for a living? Yes, I did. But in all fairness I GIVE MY VICTIMS AMPLE WARNING. Please God, if there's a special place in hell for anal-probers, at least differentiate between the ones who are gentle and considerate from those that hastily and haphazardly jab. Please don't condemn me to the same part of hell as that finger-happy wench.)

I go to a different doctor now, but I know she has my charts and has probably already called the police. "No, officer, I swear I'm just clumsy! I ran into a doorknob! I fell down the stairs!" Do I sound like a battered housewife or what? Ah, well. There will be a special place in hell for her, where red T.J. Maxx accessories will be all the rage for eternity.

Until next year...


Caption This Photo v4.7


Spoonleg's Sing-A-Long

Ladies and Gentlemen, the MeatyCheesyBoys:

Girl, you know that there's one thing that I love
But it's not you I'm thinking of
I want the Ultimate Cheesburger

Break it down!

Cheese, meat, cheese, cheese, meat and that's it
Baby you know it's hot and juicy
And Jack won't make it til you order it

I'm not lyin', its a giant, meant to satisfy
I'm sure you'd understand it better
If you ate more like a guy
Maybe some day I'll want you back
But until then baby please
I'm begging you to let me go so I can have my
Meat and cheese!

When I say meat you say cheese


Happy Birthday, Mrs. Panty Pants Man!

Today my Fat friend turns into a decrepit, haggard, wrinkled and incontinent 24-year-old geezer.

I remember when Fats was young, vibrant and full of life; back in the days when she could propel her Bass penny loafer from one end of the hallway, past the glass-enclosed library, and into the muddy depths of the tropical atrium with one swift kick. Those ancient, long-ago days in the school cafeteria when she spewed chunks down the front of her Gap overalls to the amusement of the entire student body. Centuries ago, when she could still contort her body into the confined space of a K-Mart shopping buggy and harrass patrons with a swimming pool floatation device, better known as a High-Powered Laser-Emitting Tractor Beam Gun. The forgotten era when her typical response to any authority figure, government official, or parent chaperone was either, "Sucks to your ass-mar!" or "Silas Marner is my babydaddy!" Those nostalgic days of our youth when we honestly believed that liquor was the devil's nectar, consumed only by felons, sinners, and unwed mothers. Things will never be the same.

On this great day Fats is 24, and those childhood adventures will be nevermore. Now she depends on me to change her Depends. And because she is my elderly friend, withered and aged, I oblige. I feed her pre-digested Cream of Wheat every morning, watch Perry Mason with her every afternoon, and ride on the handlebars of her Rascal all the way to Luby's every evening. I also steal her Vicodin and pre-approved credit card offers, but at least I still trim her bunions and give her full body Bengay rub-downs, because that's what friends are for.

Happy Girthday, you fat bastard.


A Fun Trip to College Town

Last Friday I went to work with my friend Kelly, who is a professor at a large state university. Not only did I attend her classes (damn, who knew that political parties were so fucking cool? James Madison and his Founding Father Posse, that's who!!!) but I also succeeded in seducing one of her T.A.s, who we'll call Andy. Well, since Kel hadn't prepared too well for her second class (a general US History survey course that she's taught, oh, about 27 TIMES BEFORE), she asked me what I thought her lecture topic should be. Well, without question, BOOBS is the right answer. I mean, come on, you need a real crowd pleaser for a class of 150, right? Boobs provide just enough intrigue to keep the under-sexed and overly coddled frat boys panting for more, but others in the room will hang on in sheer fascination because, let's be honest here, boobs ARE an interesting topic, whether you have them, want them, or just like to fondle them.

In my excitement, I continually muttered "boobs" under my breath (sorry, front row) throughout the lecture, and after the classroom cleared, I set myself to the difficult task of defacing the dry erase board with the many ways one can write BOOBS. (Fun tip: you can decorate the O's in BOOBS with cute little nipples!) Well, at this point, young Andy is already mesmerized by my disarmingly good looks and witty charm, but the BOOBS thing has just sent him over the edge. Right then and there, REPEATEDLY, the boy ASKED ME TO MARRY HIM. I have it on good authority that said lad is 26 years old, WAY too old to be asking girls to marry him if he doesn't have a several-carat diamond to whip out for her. A gal's got to have standards! But seriously, he asked me to marry him three times. THREE TIMES!

I gotta get back there soon. Maybe next time he'll be boasting jewels to back up his petty advances. (Who am I kidding--I, too, live on a TA stipend: the only jewels he can afford come in a Cracker Jack box that he stole from the Dollar General.)

Oh, for those of you interested in the actual lecture topic Kelly selected: African-Americans in the aftermath of the Civil War. I know, not NEARLY as fun as BOOBS.

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