Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Me, The Mayor, and My Lady Goodies

I was at the grocers today and there was a sale on my favorite All Natural Organic Free Range Chicken Breasts. I stocked up on a few. Make that several. Okay about 8 packages, dammit. It'll take us a year to eat them all, so hey, sue me, they were on SALE!

I have an irrational fear of running out of things and often find myself stockpiling food and other items that I find in the Bargain Displays or that simply catch my eye. More often than not, I stockpile things that we rarely need and end up giving 99% of it to food drives and other good causes before the stuff expires.

My stockpiling compulsion became even more pronounced in the weeks following 9/11. When everyone else was running out to their local Army Surplus stores to buy circa WWII gas masks, I was stocking up on toilet paper, nail polish remover and Dum Dum suckers. If I'm anything I'm impractical, especially when I'm scared that terrorists are going to come to my little town in Colorado and blow me up.

Another embarrassing instance of my gatherer gene gone awry happened a few years ago. I'd had a hysterectomy, and shortly thereafter decided to go through our storage area and pantry. What I found was amazing even to me.

I discovered 22 boxes of those little Mini-Pads (With wings-highly desirable in a mini pad!), 17 boxes of tampons and a huge box of those giant life-preserver size pads. The supreme irony of me having all that menses related booty hand is that I've had a life-long condition that only allowed my body to have one to two visits a year from the evil "Auntie Scarlet". For many years I had to put up with my girlfriends being openly hateful towards me. I assume it's because when they shared their monthly woes with me (cramps, PMS, migraines, no sex, etc.) I would yuk it up and tell them the approx. date of my last visit from the period fairy, which was usually "about 6 months ago". At which time they'd become openly hostile. What a bunch of jealous hags. I swear, doesn't anyone have a god-damn sense of humor about anything anymore?!

Faced with my newly discovered stockpile I opted to come off as a humanitarian and not another wasteful American, so I decided to reach out to someone in need and donate my fresh-as-a-daisy feminine hygiene products. I imagined the ceremony at City Hall where our Mayor; who has the IQ of Paris Hilton and the personality of a common office stapler; would hand me my citation for 'Menstrual Gifts to Humanity'. I would tearfully accept the award and push him away from the mike where I would launch into my acceptance speech and then sing a stirring rendition of "I Did It My Way" while blinking seductively into the camera flashes and TV monitors. Ahhh fantasies...Life would be a steaming pile of shit without them I can tell you.

Back to my bottomless pit of generosity & good-will: I called a few of my regularly menstruating girlfriends and offered up my lady-goodies. I was surprised that so many of them turned me down! Sour grapes. Ungrateful Bitches all. However, I was only mildly shocked when my friend Janine from Boston said: "Go fuck yourself Pama-ler. For all I know ya'd give me used ones. Now piss off, I'm watchin' a Sox game!"..click. Janine hangs up on people like they do on Soap Operas;

"...oh no Brock, please say it isn't so!"

cut to music/close-up of actress/faraway look of disbelief on face as she slowly lowers the receiver and hangs up the phone/

Janine always talked to me that way. And she always put that damned 'r' on the end of my name. I miss that woman. There's nothing like a surly lesbian from Boston to spice up a party I always say.

Needless to say, I did find a home for my bitch supplies. The Sisters at "Our Lady Of Perpetual Cramps ~ Home for Wayward Girls" were most appreciative. For a few minutes that day, while unloading the Lady Goodies from the trunk of my car and handing them to the Sisters and their wayward girls, I felt like a Rock Star. Hail Mary!!

Pamela (C) 2009

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Silent But Deadly: The Dark Side of Farts

This little poem is for my dear mate. He has the manners of a gentleman during the day but is a drooling, farting, blanket hogging bully at night.

This poem doesn't really do justice to the Fart Symphony that is played out in our room each night. I huff what little oxygen I can glean through my nightgown while reading or watching TV.

What is he doing while I'm trying to not suffocate on my own carbon dioxide? I'll tell you what he's doing, he's having the time of his life in lah-dee-fucking-dah Dreamland!!

He's all smiles and cooing in his sleep like a lovesick school-boy. "Coo...hmmm...phhhhffffffffffft." One can barely hear the evil wind coming....sometimes it's just this spooky little "puhoooooh" sound. Those scare me the most.

Many a night I secretly wish that his asshole would just slam shut for a few blessed hours....or that maybe, just maybe someone somewhere is inventing a device that will allow us to harness the incredible alternative fuel that flies out of that man's crack every night....we could be rich! He could power half the lights in Vegas with the stores of methane that could be harvested from his lower bowel.

So again, without further ado, I give you my latest prose titled:

Is Corking a Loved one Against the Law?

The man that I sleep with
has really bad gas.
He farts all night long,
with his long-winded ass.

I'm at my wits end
with this ill-mannered sleeper;
I'd like to shove a Cork
up his poo-poo peeper.

Disturbing as it sounds
It might really work;
that is if I can locate
a large enough Cork.
P.N. (c) Copyright 2008