Use Me If You Must, Eye-talians

Did you hear about the town of Castellammare di Stabia in southern Italy? They're banning "very scanty clothing". Their definition of very scanty includes mini-skirts, low-slung jeans, and plunging necklines. This is to guard against anti-social behavior.

WHA-A-A-T?

Let me assure you, Castle o' mama de Stubble (whatever), people parading around in very scanty clothing are begging for PRO-social behavior. I should know. I'm very social, and I certainly do my share of begging. Besides, and let this be a lesson to you, nobody needs to get all anti-scanty cuz everybody knows that when you go anti-scanty you invite scanty right to your doorstep. Geez.

I totally know what I'm talking about.

Because I'm single, social clothing is part of my dating arsenal. Oh please, you can't get a date if you don't get noticed! Case in point, I once wore a mini-skirt to an Austin bar, and a guy who wanted to be all social jerked his head around to watch me walk by, when he ran smack into a support beam. I hurried over to help him up and see how big that knot on his head was gonna get. See? Totally social behavior. And altruistic, I might add.

Social Behavior Alert! Just FYI, plunging necklines can get a guy real social in a hurry. You just have to keep pointing out that you like eye contact from time to time, and you're good.

Of course, I'm not an advocate for revealing your butt crack in low-slung jeans to total strangers. I really must draw a line in the sand there. Though I'm totally anti-crack, expressing it to the universe just invites it to me, so I'm going with, "I'm totally pro-crack." See how that works? Anyway, showing your butt crack around the trailer park is okay, sure. But to the grocery store? How can I buy produce with a crevasse winking at me? That's a little too social. I do have morals. Obviously.

Disclaimer: Since I'm an Independent, I don't biologically have as many morals as the Republicans—but definitely way more than the Dems. What a bunch of debauchery sluts they are, eh?

The city council from Calemari de Stabya . . . ville (whatever) has determined that banning scanty clothing makes their city more civilized. I say that's blasphemous! But listen up, they are also banning blaspheming, sunbathing in public, and playing football in public areas.

WHA-A-A-T?

Okay, now that's absurd, right? Blaspheming and sunbathing in public are quite social behaviors, and you can even do both at the same time. This is how some people breed, and how social is that? But come on! No football in public areas? Is there anything more UNcivilized?

(Psst! Eye-talian football = soccer. Never forget, these people are primitive.)

So Cast a lamb in de Stables (whatever), I'm begging you to hire me to fix your anti-social problem. Since I'm currently unemployed and nearly destitute—and fractionally moral—I can fix your anti-social behavior problem. I am highly qualified in pro-social behavior. Why, I even write very social smut from time to time—and get paid for it! Though not lately. Still, you could use me. Because I'm so social, I'd let you.
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F U B P

My peeps, I screwed up. In a hurry to get to where I eventually did not even get close to (so, so sorry I missed you, Nanner! I was ready for those Buttery Nipple shots!), I swung into the BP station and did the unthinkable. Something absent-minded and assinine.

Totally. Screwed. Up.

My big campaign to boycott BP dissipated in the fumes I filled up my tank with. Ugh. I realized I screwed up while waiting at the pump for my receipt. I know. Completely filled myself up with disgust. Talk about feeling dirty. Should have sent myself through the car wash. So much for personal activism.

But I do have good intentions, y'all. I sleep this stuff. No, really. I do. Need proof? Here ya go. One of the lovely things to come out of my recent trips to New Orleans and Bourbon Street was this baby:

Had to have it, dontcha know, especially after the crazy fun I had in the piano bar. (Dude, I can't believe I had to actually sing YOU that song request! Brazen pianists all over the country, or on 6th Street, know that classic!)

Anyway, this keepsake is now a lovely sleepshirt that I hold near and dear to my heart and other stuff. It makes me happy to wear it. Too revealing to model though. Sorry. If I had me some 501 button-flies (raise your hand if you miss those, the best, sexiest jeans in the world) I might consider it. Only magical things happen when you're wearing 501s. Trust me on that.

So to make up for filling my tank with BP gas, I'm now giving back with a public photo of this dee-lightfully fun t-shirt. Hey, it's the least I can do so people never forget the heinous damage BP did.

F. U. B. P.

And, she's back! Who's going to the Rally to Restore Sanity, eh?

As an aside, I haven't eaten at Wendy's in five years. They still buy chickens from disreputable breeders who raise hens inhumanely by piling too many in a battery-cage the size of a breadbox and make them spend their whole lives that way. What would that be like, I wonder? Your WHOLE LIFE in an itty bitty cage you can hardly turn around in, not to mention everybody sees you laying eggs. What's wrong with a little humanity, freedom, and right to privacy? That's American, Wendy's. Quit buying from those jerks. So there, I'm back to actively giving you guys the finger. FU, Wendy's. And from the chickens, Cluck You.

I'm a little cranky. Did you notice? I'm going to go put on my shirt.
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Wee Wisdom #11

This post was chosen by Hilary over at The Smitten Image as "A Good Laugh" Post of the Week.

Thanks Hilary!

Poignant Pearls of the Week

First up, from Miss America, age 6:

"I want to be a vegetarian when I grow up, so I can help animals."






Next up, my sweet boy Destructo, age 4:

"Nah, you got big knockers?"

I reply, "Uh . . . uh . . . Yes?"

Destructo smiles. "I got big knockers too."

[crickets]

The boy grins and runs off.

What the . . . some man put him up to that. Unless . . .

A short while later, it all becomes clear:



Destructo:  Look, Nah. I got big knockers!

Me:  Ooooooohhhhhhh!
My, you DO have some
big knockers.

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Is Your Blog Real?

When I started this blog, it was purely for entertainment value. An outlet for me to express myself about what it's like to wake up every day with the lightning bolt realization that I had tripped into midlife, that nebulous galaxy where Cosmo no longer speaks to you—or you just quit listening.

Midlife is a journey to another solar system where your center of gravity has shifted, your gas dust has expanded, and your dark matter is black-holing your gray matter. You can never time-travel back. You have to find ways to adjust to a new orbit and live the best days of your life, a life which is now impossibly shorter. (Though more liberating cuz there's that "why the hell not?" attitude you acquire after about 45.)

So I set out to write here in my natural voice. But if the fragrant truth be told, it's actually my natural wild child voice. The writing is definitely a reflection of me, but truly more the caricature of me. No apologies. Just saying. In real life, I might think something crass but never say it in mixed company. In real life, I might never expose a vulnerability but to a trusted friend. In real life, I'm the most honest person I know and, well, I actually have class.

Shut up.

Sometimes I'm filled with trepidation when my finger hovers over the PUBLISH button, as if I'm being bad. As if I'm getting away with something.

I guess I just want to know if I'm the only one. Is your blog a candid reflection of the real you? Is it a caricature of the real you for entertainment value? Or are you just blowing stuff out your butt?
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Something Really Bugs Me

The fuckbuddies are out.

Oh yeah, they are landing at my feet, walking up my legs, tickling my neck and ears. There is no way to avoid them—believe me, I've tried. All I have to do is walk outside and they're all over me, like Sarah Palin at an "Obama is a Socialist Muslim Illegal Immigrant" rally.

I know! Right? He's totally not a socialist.

So yeah, Florida is full of fuckbuddies. They cruise around until they spy somebody unattached and then hook up and drag each other around in active coitus, like they were born to do just this one thing forever. For god's sake, get a room, fuckbuddies! It's not like there aren't a gazillion bushes you could sneak behind for a little privacy. I see you coming and I recoil in disgust. "My eyes! My eyes!"

I give you an inside look at this immodest Central Florida couple I encountered recently outside my house, Fanny and Fred. The bigass one is, of course, the female. Nature is cruel.

So lusty clutchers, I beg you! When you're done doing that . . . thing you're doing . . . STOP! Honestly, you're so needy and clingy and—I'm going out on a limb here—co-dependent. It's pathetic. Words of advice:  relax and let go!

What. You thought I was talking about dating? Not even!

Although . . .

Nah.
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