Okay, okay, so I'm not dead, but it's possible that my employers have put a hit out on me. I've entered the witness protection program and from here on out I will ask that you all refrain from calling me by my given name (which, really? I'd like to GIVE IT BACK if I could), and simply refer to me as spoonleg. At least for the time being, I've taken down most of my archived posts, because even though I don't talk about work often, and have not violated company policy or patient confidentiality in the slightest, I still fear the wrath of my employer. Thinking about it rationally, if you were someone's boss and found a website discussing such crass topics while freely using such filthy, disgusting language, you would probably want to fire them, too. And then take them out for drinks. In the meantime, I'm keeping my application on file at McDonald's.

The other bummer is that I can no longer check blogs, email, or any other type of non-authorized websites from work anymore, which really, I might as well just grab a dull razor blade and start cutting on myself because MY GOD, that means I actually have to start WORKING. That's not to say that I don't sneak a peak here and there, but for the most part I've got to keep my fingers off the keyboard and in someone's ass where they belong. Which is fine with me because, let's be frank here, it took me four long years to become licensed and certified in ass-digging, so I might as well use my skills to pay the bills.

That's all for now, folks! Pray for me and my curved finger, that we're not left destitute on the streets of Houston, offering spelunk-jobs for two bucks a pop. Whatever, don't judge me. Every hobo has a gimmick. Yours might be windshield squeegeeing, mine is digital stimulation.

Oh God, I think I'm gonna cry.


The new blog

My old blog was discovered by the enemy (aka my employers), so I'm relocating over here. Tell all your friends! Casa de Spoon has moved.


You Don't Have to Go Home, But You Gotta Get the Heck Outta Here

Spelunk in the Trunk is CLOSED. No way am I getting dooced over this mofo.


Conversation with Colleen Gill

Scene: It's 10:00 am on Sunday, and I'm busy trying to sleep off a hangover. My body is convulsing and I feel like Lindsey Lohan after a night out on the straw, because I drank enough Redbull to fill a regulation sized Olympic swimming pool along with enough Jagermeister to euthanize a full grown Tyrannosaurus Rex. The morning-after caffeine high is making me as jittery as Bobby Brown at a police station, and I'm naked but not sure when I took my clothes off or where they are now. My cell phone rings with a number and area code I don't recognize, and because I'm half dead and incapable of making rational decisions (a residual effect that haunts me even when sober, as evidenced by this very scenario), I answer it.

Me: Yes?
Colleen: Hiiiii, Deeeeeja!
Me: What do you want, Colleen Gill?
Colleen: Haha! How did you know it was me?
Me: Because I don't know any other raspy-voiced, middle aged women with Midwestern accents who can, with the mere two vowels present in my name, mar it so horrendously that it's completely unrecognizable.
Colleen: What are you doing, Deeeeeja?
Me: SLEEPING! I have a hangover.
Colleen: Deeeeja, I have a question for you.
Colleen: Why do you drink so much?
Me: Because I am secretly trying to fill an empty void in my soul and alcohol seems like the best substitute.
Colleen: Yaaah, you really need to get laid.
Me: Thanks, Mrs. Gill.

And what you've all been waiting for, visual evidence of The Mullet.

Don't you dare say it's not that bad, because I spend at least an hour trying to make it look as non-mullety as possible.


I'm Not a Pedophile, I Just Crush A Lot.

So I've had the last seven days off from work, and decided to use that week to also take a break from every aspect of my pathetic life (blogging being the most pathetic aspect of said life) to reject reality and live like a rock star, spend money I don't have, travel, get drunk, sleep, read, get my hair cut and colored in a fashion that closely resembles a mullet, sing karaoke, and pierce unmentionable body parts. Today is my first day back at work and I can't help but feel like the man is keeping me down. Jobs are so overrated. I totally want to subscribe to the hobo lifestyle, but there are those little pesky expenses that prevent me from being a bum, like my $200 mullet which requires frequent upkeep. Mullet maintenance might not be cheap, but the looks of shock and disgust it garners (especially from myself, whilst looking in the mirror) is priceless.

During the past week I finished a novel I'd been attempting to read for a good 6 weeks now, and even started a new one. I visited friends in Dallas and was reminded of how inexcusably Caucasian my college campus really is. I went to a birthday party and sang karaoke(Milli Vanilli, if you must know). I made some new friends, hung out with old ones, and ran into some that I really could have lived another year or ten without seeing. I took naps on the sofa in the middle of the day, I washed my car, I played with my camera, I watched Lifetime television for women, I ate ice cream and I took bubble baths. And I totally avoided the internet and my blog (save for a few late night drunken comments which many of you have come to expect from me) because it has been a constant source of stress for me lately, and my seven days off were totally NOT about being stressed. Unless, of course, you count the stress that was associated with the season finale of So You Think You Can Dance. GOD DAMN YOU, TRAVIS, the sooner you realize that we're soul mates and destined to be together, the fewer restraining orders you'll have to file. I might not be able to ballroom dance, but I can bedroom dance in ways your 18-year-old mind can't even comprehend. Think it over. I'll be over here, tongue-kissing my own hand with your face drawn on it. And Benji. Benji, Benji, Benji... you're OBVIOUSLY in love with Donyelle, and I for one think it's adorable. But you and I are both reasonable human beings. Let's be honest with one another: she's having Dimitri's baby, isn't she? I wouldn't be surprised. But at least you have $100,000 and a contract with Celine Dion to comfort you. Well, at least you have $100,000. [end SYTYCD rant]

So today I'm back in the saddle again, embracing the real world, responsibility, my job, my debt, my hangover, my blog. It's sad and pathetic and more than a little fucked up, but hey- it's MY reality, you don't have to live with it and no one ever said you had to like it. I wish I had something more exciting to report back to you after my extended time off, but alas my life has been rather dull and uneventful, especially in comparison to my last post about the bachelorette party, which apparently earned me the reputation of being "Skanky". Ironically enough, that happens to be my lesbian stripper stage name.

Keep on keepin' on, my babies.


Spoonleg's Top Ten Tips: How to Behave at a Bachelorette Party.

I'm thinking of starting a regular segment here at Spelunk in the Trunk wherein I pass on my highly sought after professional advice in the form of a top ten list. I am currently taking submissions for any topics you'd like to see presented here. This week's topic: How to behave at a bachelorette party.

1. In the event you are invited to a lingerie shower/bachelorette party by someone OTHER than the bride-to-be (and, in fact, have only met the future bride on ONE other occasion, during which you proceeded to become so brain-damagingly drunk in her backyard that you began making incestuous jokes about the groom-to-be and his own sister), it is appropriate-- nay, NECESSARY-- to bring crotchless panties with a rape whistle attached as a gift.

2. In the event that you get called into work and are unable to show up until well after all of the gift giving, party games, eating, drinking and other festivities are nearly over, then it is definitely acceptable to waltz into the home where the party is being held, simultaneously shove a fajita and penis cookie in your salivating mouth, strip down to your skivvies, partially wash your hair in the bathroom sink (as to minimize the evidence that you haven't REALLY washed it in over 36 hours), pop open a bottle of champagne and take turns chugging right out of the bottle with the pregnant Designated Driver, and never bother introducing yourself to any of the complete strangers (read: bridesmaids) who at this point consider you some sort of starving indigant who wandered in off the streets.

3. In the event that you are nominated to procure a lap dance for the bride-to-be, you are totally encouraged to run up to the nearest person with a name tag and shout, "I NEED A STRIPPER, STAT!" Never, under any circumstances, should you refer to adult nightclub entertainers as "dancers", because I don't know about you, but I don't go to said establishments to see dancing. I GO TO SEE STRIPPING.

4. In the event that your quest for a stripper is successful (because, seriously? You'd be surprised how hard it is to find a stripper at a strip club), make a point of positioning yourself as close as is legally possible to the bride-to-be and her new BFF. Bellow at the top of your lungs, "TOUCH HER TITS!" And when the bride-to-be does not immediately comply, grab her arms like a couple of marionette strings and force her to make lewd gestures and cop several immoral feels all over said stripper's body. Be sure to coordinate some hand-to-tit contact. Then laugh hysterically at inappropriately high decibels.

5. In the event that the bride-to-be forgets to finish her rum and coke and leaves it sitting on the table as the group is about to leave an establishment, it is expected that you, a complete freak who should in no way consider yourself an actual "guest" at this party, should grab the glass and slurp down its contents as if these were the last drops of refreshing liquid to be found in this barren desert we call a bar. Don't bother asking the future bride if she's finished with her drink, and don't bother tipping the waitress. If she really wanted the money, she'd be stripping like every other hardworking individual in the joint.

(That's not a rum and coke, but it IS Bud Light in a champagne glass. Just to prove that some Texans DO have class.)

6. In the event that someone says to you, "Deja, why are your legs so dark?" The appropriate response would be to shout, mere inches from the ears of the black limo driver, "BECAUSE I'M AFRICAN, BITCH," in your best ghetto accent. Even more appropriate would be to belt out the lyrics to Prince's "Pussy Control" at the top of your vocal cords with reckless accuracy.

7. In the event you find yourself in a strip club full of scantily clad men, it is strongly encouraged that you grab the ass of every dude who dares saunter in your general direction, whether he be a stripper, bartender, shot guy, cop, manager, bus boy, valet parking attendant, or woman with a really short haircut. Continue this trend as you exit the club, out on the sidewalk and into the parking lot.

8. In the event that the hostess and bridesmaids chip in to purchase the bride-to-be a blow up doll, be sure to create some sort of exotic name and identity for him (I chose Stephano, the Italian horse trainer; you can chose from Gustav the Russian lumberjack or Michele the French poet) and then proceed to carry him with you the entire night, introducing him as your boyfriend. Grasp onto that doll with all of your strength and never, ever let his pasty white plastic flesh out of your grip because for all you know, it might be the last time you're able touch the (albeit fake) chest hair of a man wearing nothing but plastic underwear, until the dreadful day comes when you're forced to change your own father's diapers.

9. In the event that you enter a grossly overcrowded nightclub brimming with individuals that can only be described as illegal immigrants, you should indeed spread the legs of the above mentioned "boyfriend" and allow him to straddle your shoulders as you and your posse of drunken women attempt to fumble your way through the crowds. As several random, sweaty men try to grab various body parts of either you or your inflatable man and ask, in their broken yet still creepy English, if they can trade places with the doll, repeat this phrase slowly enough for them to understand: "Fuck off, cocksore!" If that doesn't work, tell them your mom is picking you up out front because you have school in the morning. If THAT doesn't work, call the police.

10. In the event that you and the crew of drunken ladies (only two of whom you can identify by name at this point, while all 9 of whom you can identify by panty color) head back to the hostess' house to continue the celebration with more drinking and/or unconsciousness, you should always attempt to offend the one woman who you finally bothered to introduce yourself to by incorporating "anorexia" into her first name. Keep the insult train rolling by incorrectly calling another party-goer a cheerleader. The icing on the cake would be to write "FUCK ME" in green eyeliner on the cheerleader's back and then pray that she doesn't smother you with a pillow in your sleep. Oh, and by the way, finishing off the night by chugging a SECOND bottle of champagne (not unlike your mom on every major holiday) is not only a responsible decision, but one that will leave you feeling FANTASTIC the next morning.

Have fun, kids!

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