The Plumpers, they hail from Sundance Spa

So last night I had like a five minute conversation with a guy who I totally thought was my boyfriend but who TOTALLY WASN'T. Has that ever happened to you? Kinda makes you wonder if you really know a person.

Good thing that said guy was in fact someone I've known for many, many years (about 15, actually), so it wasn't quite as humiliating as when I accidentally say, "I love you, biscuit chin!" to my boyfriend's DAD. Yes, it's happened. Quit laughing because it could happen to you, too.

Anyway, as I carried on a conversation with the guy who I THOUGHT was my boyfriend, he informed me that their evening plans included a titillating visit to an Asian Spa. At this point, I knew that there was NO WAY I was speaking to MY boyfriend, KAM, the guy who won't take me to a strip club even though I've begged, offered to pay, offered to take my OWN clothes off, and offered to let him watch an entire nag-free season of uninterrupted Monday Night Football in exchange for ONE LOUSY HOUR spent watching female strippers shake their silicone sweater meat. Indeed, MY boyfriend would not be caught dead at an Asian Spa, unless Natalie Portman worked there and was giving away free beer and lap dances. Then, THEN, he'd go for the beer.

So later that evening, when I was actually able to speak to my REAL boyfriend and not the imposter, I mentioned the Asian Spa idea to him.

Me: So, N. said yall are going to an Asian Spa tonight.
KAM: Did he say that?
Me: Yeah, and he also said that you wanted to get the Happy Ending.
KAM: I can't afford the Happy Ending. All I can afford is an Awkward Beginning and a taquito from Whataburger. Then I'll go home and cry myself to sleep.
Me: Sounds like a Happy Ending to me!

I don't know why my boyfriend has such an aversion to naked chicks. He doesn't watch porn either. PORN! It's like, practically FREE. You don't have to stuff dollars down their panties or buy them glasses of champagne to get them drunk enough to like you! They won't laugh at how small your wanker is or how you splooged all over the remote control! They won't charge you by the hour or give you a venereal disease! They won't steal your wallet or tell you that your ass looks like cottage cheese in the candlelight! The fact of the matter is, THEY HAVE SEX WITH PEOPLE FOR MONEY, AND RECORD IT FOR OTHERS TO WATCH. An occupation like that leaves no room to pass judgment on others.

He might not watch porn or go the strip clubs, but my boyfriend does, however, keep a couple of Maxim's ("They have good articles!") and an extra large econo-sized tub of cocoa butter hand lotion ("My elbows get ashy!") in his guest bathroom. That's right, his GUEST BATHROOM. I don't know about you, but when I am a guest in someone's home, I often find myself pondering what Brittany Murphy looks like wearing nothing but a thong and two strategically placed badminton shuttlecocks. Lucky for me, I have a boyfriend who looks out for my best interest, insofar as shuttlecocks are concerned. Lucky for him, he earns a Happy Ending from me for not being a total panty-sniffing pervert, insofar as Asian Spas and strippers are concerned. It's a win-win situation, any way you look at it.


The only math I do is adding up how many cans of Ensure they drank.

I know that posting around here has been sparse, and I'll tell you that it will continue to be so for a little while for one very important reason: spoonie is studying to take the GRE's. That's right, hopefully by the fall I will be movin' and shakin' into grad school and before long, will be able to turn my career in a direction I've long been lusting for... AWAY FROM SPELUNKING. Don't get me wrong, I love my job and spelunking for poo is not as bad as you'd imagine (I can't believe I just said that), but I can't help but feel as if there are bigger and better things out there for me. To be quite honest, I've got another 30 or 40 years of nursing ahead of me, and I have a distinct feeling that I might get burnt out on spelunking sooner rather than later. Perhaps I'm selling out, but I feel as if it is for the best interest of all involved. Nobody wants a half-assed spelunk. I can tell you from personal experience, they always want the WHOLE ASS.

So in the next three weeks I need to cram every formula and mathematical theory that I never learned and never understood into my tiny little brain. (DEAR GOD, HOW I HATE MATH!) Frankly, I have a lot of work to do, and I'm just a wee bit nervous about it. So rather than spending my free time blogging and watching Judge Mathis reruns, I will instead be buckling down and trying to remember how long divison works while systematically plotting the death of whatever douchebag invented that shit. Meanwhile, you all can spend time enjoying some VIRTUAL BUBBLE WRAP- I figure this should entertain you for at least another week and a half, at which time I will consider making another post and/or bludgeoning myself with a large metal bat.

So wish me luck and don't laugh too hard when I forget how to add and subtract fractions, BECAUSE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS WHOLLY (ha!) THERE ARE NO FRACTIONS INVOLVED IN THE SPELUNKING OF POO!


Spoonleg's Sing-A-Long


Barbara Manatee (Manatee, Manatee)
You are the one for me (one for me, one for me)
Sent from up above (a manatee from heaven)
You are the one I love
Barbara Manatee (Manatee, Manatee)
I'll be your mon amie (mon amie, mon amie)
I'll take you to the ball (to the ball, to the ball)
I hope you're not to tall (they might have trouble dancing)!


Segue to the Segway

Growing up, I was always imagining things that I could invent. I don't count myself as the most creative person on earth; in fact I used to need instructions on fingerpainting and I was either a hobo or a baby for 15 Halloweens in a row. Suffice it to say that Spoonie never won any contests unless they involved wet t-shirts or beer bongs.

But despite my creative impairment, things will periodically pop into my head, prompting me to imagine that I could invent said thing and become wildly, fantastically, instantaneously rich and famous. So far it's been a no-go, but in my college years, my roommate and I would sit around and dream up things we were going to invent when we grew up in our endless effort to escape studying for the majors that promised to deliver us all of the glitter and gold that the middle-class workforce had to offer. We even had a list, and although I'm not sure where that list is now, here are some of our inventions that I remember off the top of my head. Take note of their ultra lameness and just know that most of this was concocted at 2:00 am after 48 sleepless hours of finals cramming and countless rolls of Smartees (which, you'll be shocked to know, do not live up to the promise that their name suggests):

-Some type of sleep suppliment tablet that would leave the consumer feeling rested, refreshed, and relaxed and energized after consuming the tiniest dose. We realized, of course, that a product of such description already exists, but we wanted to dodge the social stigma assosciated with crack if at all possible.

-A can opener that would not only open your can but DRAIN it as well. We developed this concept after much frustration with draining our tuna and green beans. Then some bastard came out and developed that shitty tuna pouch (WHICH STILL HAS TOO MUCH JUICE, THANKYOUVERYMUCH), and someone else pointed out that green beans can be purchased sans can and liquid, but honestly folks, who would buy THAT stupid invention?

-Peppermint flavored water. This idea came about when I had just applied some Burt's and then taken a swig of bottled water. The flavor was mildly delish and I still think that Pepsi-Cola should give me a little ringy-dingy about this one. Especially because that Propel shit is noooooosty.

-Thongs with built-in panty liners. You know, like a pad of post-its, built right in there. You can use it, rip off the top sheet, toss, and there's another one ready to go. We tried to find a way for this to work with tampons but the prospect was just too painful to consider. Although we did laugh a lot about it and held our crotches in mock sympathy pain, like men with their gonads.

-Thongs with trapdoors. Guys have that little fly area of their boxers for easy access when they have to piss or whack off... why can't we? Plus there's the added bonus of preventing any yeasty overgrowth for those ladies who need some time to "air out". This concept can be achieved with a flap and one little snap or button in the crotchal region. DID YOU HEAR THAT, VICTORIA? I SAID CROTCHAL REGION. AINT NO SECRETS 'BOUT IT.

-A dildo with a vibrating, rotating, singing, talking disco ball at the end of it. We imagined a variety of songs being available, with favorites being "Staying Alive" and "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough". It would come in a variety of colors and talk to you in a soothing man's voice. I'm taking suggestions on the sweet nothing's that you women would like to hear your dildo/man whisper, so get your votes in now.

I can't remember any more, but I'm sure we had quite a few. I'll go scavenging for that list a bit later.

Anyway, I recently had a new epiphany for an invention. It came to me last weekend when I saw a man riding on one of those stand-up riding mowers, and between my outdated eyeglasses and bug-riddled windshield, I was temporarily convinced that I was looking at a woman on a segway pushing her baby in a stroller. I came to a screeching halt and rolled down the window to ask her a) where she got that crazy new fangled contraption and b) why she was such a lazy fatass that she couldn't use her feet to take her child for a walk around the neighborhood. It was at this instant that I realized the "mom" was actually a middle aged, balding Latino gentleman with a serious growth impediment and the "baby" was a Craftsman Deluxe Model Yard Tractor. So I had to quickly change my game plan and instead inspected his gardening skills and then gave him the Spoonleg Seal of Approval. "Good work, amigo!" I proclaimed, giving him a thumbs up, the universal symbol for "I really enjoyed your motion picture!" or "Your lawn mowing skills are top notch!"

But as I drove away, I couldn't help but think to myself... A SEGWAY STROLLER! It's brilliant! Walking the baby will soon be a thing of the past, usurped by the newest trend: SEGGING THE BABY! Ok, that sounds a little perverted but that's only because it's coming from me. Once you hear my official spokesperson, Wilford Brimley, endorse it, you won't be laughing so hard. He'll SEG-STROLL his way right into your heart with his handlebar 'stash and sexy tinted bifocals. This thing is gonna be HOT. Hotter than some fresh Quaker Oats on a brisk winter's morn, my friends.

I haven't worked out all of the logistics yet, but basically the user will load their baby into the stroller, fastening them in for safety. Then they will mount the adult portion of the Segway, and begin operating the vehicle per the instructional video. I'm really not sure how those shits work, so that'll be up the Segway coroporation to develop appropriate instructions. Yadda, yadda, yadda [insert technical mumbo-jumbo here]... VOILA! You and baby and speeding through the park past all of the power-walking geezers and slow ass mom joggers with their three-wheeled sporty strollers (what's WITH those things, anyway?)

So what do you guys think? Will it work? What crazy inventions have you thought up over the years? Have yall seen that commercial from the inventor's company where the guy says, "Clap on, clap off, that was MY idea! But I never thought to get a patent!" And then later they show him with a pair of rollerblades, looking all excited and idealistic, until a lady skates by on her own brand new pair and he gets pissed and slams them to the ground? Everytime I see it I'm all, YOU MEAN SOMEONE ELSE STOLE HIS INVENTION? AW, NOT AGAIN! I love that commercial. Has that ever happened to you? Bring on the comments.

Don't forget your helmet!

Ok, I have to admit that this is pretty hot, but only worth the money if it comes with the attractive young business professional in pantyhose willing to operate heavy machinery.


SPD: Gimme an "O"!

First of all, let me say that I don't have a legitimate SPD image to share with you all today because my boyfriend is spending the week in Vegas and So Cal with my camera in hand. I know you're thinking to yourselves, "Well spoonie, you should have planned ahead for this" and you're right. But give me a break, I'm a right-brain thinker and while I don't know what that means, I do know that things like logic and common sense do not appeal to me.

So, I decided to stroll through my photo collection and find an image best suited for the O-face themed SPD. What I then realized is that I really need to beef up the "erotica" section of my iphoto library, because it's pretty much O-face deprived. And to be honest, you all can consider yourselves O-face deprived as well, because until you see my O-face in action, the world is just not whole and balanced. My O-face can move mountains. Lord knows, it certainly moves my downstairs neighbors to impale their ceiling with broomsticks and shoes in celebratory salute of my accomplishments. Afterwards I leave a pair of my panties and a cigarette at their doorstep so that they can feel as if they were truly a part of the event. I'll be giving them some recognition when I win my O-O-O-Oscar, for sure.

But dry your eyes, my friends, for I have an even better portrait to share with you all. This one is not a self portrait, but was in fact captured by Fats, and since we are pretty much the same person I figure it's close enough. In this picture, I am in the middle of a concerted effort to win the gold for the International Girls Dart Playing Olympic Championships at the Fox and Hound in Fort Worth. We tried to get ESPN to give us some coverage on one of their 87 sports stations, but alas they turned us down. Too bad, too, because we kicked our boyfriends' asses and showed that dart board Who's The Boss of it (and the answer is NOT Tony Danza; although he can be the boss of my underpants any day of the week.) The boys tried everything possible to distract and/or molest us. Here is one such incident captured on film. As I am mentally preparing myself for Victory, Kam is behind me, pretending to grab my ass. He is pretending, you see, because if he were to seriously try that shit I would have gouged him in the trachea with the dull, dirty spear of my dragon-tipped dart. But his attempt did not go unnoticed, and fats managed to note the offending incident with my camera. Meanwhile, I'm thinking that she is simply documenting my flawless form and dart-throwing technique so that future generations might study and worship me as the Dart Queen. I'm pretty sure that you'll see my face in some textbooks here in the next few years, so keep a lookout. I know I am.

So while my face is demonstrating extreme concentration and focus of such intensity that the CEO of the Intergallactic Association of Jedi's was knocking at my door the very next day, Kam was busy putting on his O-face and inappropriately groping the air near my ass. BUSTED, pervert. If you don't see this picture in the history books, you might see it on America's Most Wanted in the near future. Either way, LOOK, MA, I'M FAMOUS!

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You Oughta Know (...that I am an angry, disillusioned lesbian thanks to you)

Join me, my friends, in creating your very own Alanis Morisette song lyrics. I present for your listening enjoyment, Spoonleg's Song of the Spelunk. This one goes out to Amanda B., Metro, and Scotty and their rock band, which for the record I think should be called Underpants Without Borders. Check this shit out, mofos.

"I Think"

I Think patients are really a huge problem
I Think asses are too much on my mind
I Think bedpans have got a lot to do with why the world sucks
But what can you do?

Like a blue rain, beating down on me
Like a Walt Whitman line, which won't let go of my brain
Like Spike the Vampire's ass, it is in my head
Blame it on spelunking
Blame it on spelunking
Blame it on spelunking

I Think suppositories are gonna drive us all crazy
And adult diapers make me feel like a child
I Think enemas will eventually be the downfall of civilization
But what can you do? I said what can you do?

Like a blue rain, beating down on me
Like a Walt Whitman line, which won't let go of my brain
Like Spike the Vampire's ass, it is in my head
Blame it on spelunking
Blame it on spelunking
Blame it on spelunking

Like a blue rain, beating down on me
Like Spike the Vampire's smile, cruel and cold
Like Walt Whitman's ass, it is in my head
Blame it on spelunking
Blame it on spelunking
Blame it on spelunking



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It's my birthday and I'll pout if I want to. (Is it just me, or do I look like a monkey in this photo?)

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Yes, officer, that's the guy!

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Oscar and Big Daddy: BFF.

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Was it as good for you as it was for me, baby?

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And then some, lover.

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Daydreaming of his romantic escapades with Big Daddy yesterday. Oscar lives for the Sunday nights when he and his long lost love can be reunited at last. Until next week, mon amour.


Slay Me

KAM: There's your boyfriend.

Me: Who? Where?

KAM: That guy dressed like a vampire!

Me: I didn't see anyone dressed like a vampire.

KAM: How could you miss him? He looked like Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Me: What are you talking about, who is Spike?

KAM: He's only Buffy's evil arch nemesis!

Me (staring in disbelief): Since when do you watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer?

KAM: What? I like that show.

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