Category Archives: Humor
There once was a girl from Nantucket
Who wrote her thoughts on a blog and said fuck it.
She let it all rip
and said with a quip,
“If words were a cock I would suck it.”
© by Lexicon Lover
We’re all selling something aren’t we.
Some blogs dispense information.
Some bitch and rant.
Some share sorrows.
Many share laughs.
Some share their most personal secrets.
Some write poetry.
Some write book reviews.
Some post memes.
Others share recipes, travels, and art.
Lots of blogs try to help others with their knowledge they’ve gained on their way up Maslow’s pinnacle.
Still other blogs are so heady that you never really understand what the hell they are spinning.
To all my fellow bloggers out there bloglandia, I raise my glass.
The main entrance hallway to my flat smells like someone crouched down and copped a squat. This pungent stench has permeated my nostrils for two weeks now.
I’ve racked my brain for ideas with how this could have come to pass. There are no animals in the building, yet it smells like a zoo.
I’ve got three possibilities:
The first floor tenants could have gone too far with their fights and one could have murdered the other. They speak a foreign language so who knows what they are screaming at each other or throwing about down below. It sounded like a WWF match down there some nights. The smell could be the early stages of decomposition.
The nearby migrant workers could have somehow gained access to the entryway and did use it as a port-o-potty. You never know.
Some University of Massachusetts students had a party that got wild and some drunk kid did shit in the hall one weekend I was away. Now it’s embedded deep into the carpet fiber.
I am reluctant to call maintenance. What am I supposed to say? There is a phantom shit smell wafting in the hallway? Then why isn’t anyone else saying anything? Have they all gone nose blind?
There is not enough clean linen Febreeze in the world I can spray to rid this. I am resigned to just try and deal my own way.
Oh, it’s so on shit smell. I’m bringing in the big guns tomorrow. I’m buying a plethora of stick-ups. There going to be hidden everywhere…..
Let me just say that when I decided to bring my 4 year old niece into the “family friendly” restaurant I had no idea what I was in for.
I should have brought a lasso and my Vera Wang tote bag filled with Vodka nips.
When I got there the first sign of trouble were the other pre-schoolers milling about. Running in circles they were free-range children with rule of the roost while their parents were seated eating. Only an occasional half-hearted calling of the children’s names by each parent could be heard. You could tell it was as if the parents were resigned that they had already lost the battle.
The restroom smelled like SeaWorld in Orlando. I gagged when I walked in. I don’t think it had been cleaned since the late 90’s. Ummm, nope not going to be using it.
Then it happened. My own niece defiantly joined the other free rangers, defiantly protesting to me not to be hungry. They all hudddled in the center of the restaurant, these free-range kids. Dancing, chatting, frolicking, rolling on the carpet!
Oh hell no……
The food comes and I’m trying to put the habeus grabus on her and get back to our table.
Soon as we get there, she breaks loose and heads back to the chicken collective. I follow in pursuit. From our table to the chickens, back and forth we go, several times before I start wishing I had brought a lasso.
Nothing seems to work, there is strength in the chickens’ numbers. No amount of limit setting is working with my niece. It is in this moment as I am so overwhelmed I just want a very strong drink. My nerves are shot. I wish I had a nip or two of marshmallow Vodka in my purse.
Why can’t the people who build these family friendly restaurants just start constructing bars in them? Oh wait, they’d fail to be family-esque.
The first place I’d personally put a bar would be at Chuck E. Cheese. Been there enough times now to want to bring along ear plugs at very least.
Drained and exhausted we leave with out one bite of my niece’s food being consumed. As soon as the car pulls out onto the main thoroughfare, I hear the dreaded words,”I’m hungry now.”
I slide in on the heels of a middle-aged woman, so the door swings open and I never touch it.
I reach for the automatic paper towel dispenser, pull off a piece and head to the bathroom stall. Naturally, my hand does not want to touch any part of the handle of the stall while opening it or closing it. So I use the paper towel as a barrier between the door and my hand as I open the bathroom stall handle.
Next I begin prepping for the “hover”. Women develop great muscle tone in their legs by hovering over the toilet seat. Because I have germaphobia, I can’t use the outer layer of toilet paper provided, because God knows what might linger on that puppy. Blowback, splatter, or spray. Things that can’t be seen with the naked eye. What if the person before me had explosive diarrhea? dear God….microscopic fecal matter or worse blood borne pathogens lingering. My thoughts race a thousand miles an hour and my heart beats a thousand beats per second. I want OUT of this horrid public bathroom that smells like a raw sewage backup with febreeze misting in through the air.
I have to unravel several sheets of said toilet paper round and round many times and then discard that before I can even think of it, as “safe” to use. Then I’m clear to for take off, ready to void.
Oh and that’s the other thing, pooping? Ummm no. I would rather prairie dog it til’ I get home before I’d use a public rest room. That’s pretty much a cardinal rule of “no can do” with my OCD/ germaphobia variant.
Once I’m through, and am all buttoned up, I grab another piece of toilet paper to grab the door handle with and let myself out of the stall. Before I exit , I throw that into the toilet and turn around quick-like and kick the flusher handle down with the bottom of my shoe.
I return back to the automatic paper towel dispenser to get a piece, with which to turn on the water faucet at the sink and also use it to pull down the soap dispenser. I then wash my hands. I return back to the paper towel dispenser to get more paper so I that I can dry my hands and grab one extra square to let myself out of the bathroom.
It is a well-choreographed dance like movement in an operating theatre. A waltz I know well after being diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) in my late teens. I have it down to a science now and can do it so quickly I do not think about the routine. I get in, and get out in nearly the same amount of time that the next person does.
Once back in college, I felt a sense of shame about having this lengthy public bathroom regimen, knowing (at least intellectually) it was irrationally based behavior. Come on, if someone was watching, it looks bat-shit crazy.
Then one day I observed one of my professors who held a PhD, using the same bathroom, who had just had a bowel movement and left without washing her hands.
I no longer felt ashamed after she walked out. I believe I may have washed my hands an extra time, just because.
I think I was about seven years old when I said my first swear. Maybe it was “shit” or something. I can’t remember. But I know that I got my mouth washed out with soap.
By the time I was fifteen, my dad had dragged me by the pony tail into the bathroom to wash my mouth out with soap too many times to count. This one time he was so pissed off because after he had stuck the bar in my mouth I said, “I think I prefer the Dove to the Irish Spring.” He got red in the face and just stormed off. Then came the ritual of carefully removing the soap chips from behind my teeth. And then brushing your teeth several times to get the taste out.
The soap didn’t do shit to clean up my mouth. It was just more of a nuisance and the only lesson it taught me was not to swear at home.
I STILL SWEAR LIKE A SAILOR in places where I know it’s “appropriate.” Obviously, not in the library, at the opera, or some cultured event or in front of the elderly et cetera. But I let the swears fly in certain situations despite a large repertoire of vocabulary at my disposal.
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A compound expletive is formed when the first expletive serves as an adjective to modifiy the expletive noun in the sentence.
Example of simple expletive (noun): My ex is an asshole.
Example of a compound expletive (adj + noun) : My ex is a mother-fucking asshole.
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sidebar: I despise the use of expletives, wish the soap had worked
My name is Lexi and I am powerless over watching “An American Horror Story”
Jessica Fucking Lange.
Can we say brilliant fucking screenwriters?
What character development/plot (no pun intended)
And it encompasses all the darkness that seduces us all, along with the struggle for good to conquer that evil:
BDSM, homicide, deceit, manipulation, the interplay between good and evil (even within one character), sex, rape, drugs, necrophilia, rubber suit, mass murder, self-mutilation, suicide, paranormal, medium, ghosts.
This show has it all.
This show had me hooked from the pilot. I don’t know what I am going to do if they cancel it……….*shivers*
Remember that guy , that bald guy that did that breakfast commercial, “Quaker Oats, it’s the right thing to do” Wilford Brimley or whatever his name was.
Well you know that Oats and fiber are supposed to be good for your body and so I got those some of those Fiber One bars. Which are made of you guessed it, oats and fiber. Those little butterscotch whatever yummy tasty caramel kind. I thought well if one bar is good for you, maybe like two is good, and three is even better. Yeah, so I ate like 5 Fiber One bars. I ate nearly the whole fucking box. Before you go judging, chillax, they’re tiny in size.
Let me just tell you it was like Hiroshima in my intestines. Oh my God. I almost shit my pants. Then, when I finally made it home, I couldn’t leave the bathroom. I must have gone like 25 times in a day. I was shackled to the toilet all day and into the night. It was more powerful than any laxative I’ve ever taken. Those bars should be prescription only.
Just think about that, while your eating your little fiber bar. Don’t be fooled by it’s sweet caramel goodness and tiny portion size….. It’s the devil.
My ass is still sore.