I came home today to this sitting out in the living room.
Let’s ignore for a moment, just for a moment, that I eat trashy cheap food because I’m lazy (and trashy, probably, let’s be honest, here) and it’s cheap, and let’s focus on something else.
WHAT KIND OF DOG DOES THIS? IS HE SECRETLY A GOAT IN DISGUISE? Or a tiger shark?
DOG. I do not starve you, you little tin-can-chewing bastard!
This sign went up at the end of my block very recently; my first thought was “Gee, thanks for the tip, as someone who lived in SoCal, my instinct is to flee across the middle, dandling a terrified child or three.” Are all of the residents of the nearby senior center and my humble apartment complex wantonly breaking the rules so often that a sign solution had to be implemented?
THEN I made the connection with another thing that had been completed recently: the add-on employee parking lot for Valley Medical, located across the street. It’s not my neighbors. It’s not the darling old people with their darling dogs dressed in darling sweaters. It’s the hospital employees. Doctors. Nurses. People whom you trust with your very life, and charge you out the ass for the privilege of being in their company, highly educated people, with no more sense than to run across the road like deer. Sure, if they get creamed by an SUV, it’s only a short trip to the five-hour emergency room line, but shouldn’t we expect better from our medical professionals? No WONDER no one from ValMed made Seattle Metro’s Top Docs 2009 list.
On Saturday night, a group of girls gathered to eat chicken and watch porn, as we do when we’re not having naked pillowfights or brushing one another’s hair. It would have been just chicken and porn, as with the car bullshit, I didn’t get an opportunity to go out and pick up pinata supplies* or a cake, but Emily totally saved my ass with a visit to the erotic bakery. I knew it was going to be epic when she texted me, “Dude. Have your camera ready, you are not going to believe the cake.”
She was right.
Holy shit.
This was a same day special order cake. Emily had called earlier in the day to find out what the deal was with their cakes, if they were all made-to-order or if they had them premade, and supposedly they fly out the door fast enough that they keep a regular stock on hand. She went to check them out, and the more she thought about it, the less she was comfortable with a giant dong cake on a night that was supposed to be about ladies and their pleasure. She then saw a cake which from a distance appeared to be covered in pretty flowers but of course, on closer inspection, turned out to be a bunch of teeny tiny vajayjays. Georgia O’Keefe, we are onto you. She didn’t see anything that was quite right, and explained to the baker that we needed a cake for a group of girls who would not be embarrassed or shocked by anything, and a couple of hours later, this is the miracle we were presented with.
Emily and her husband also had a splendid time picking out pinata stuffins, and we ended up having to cut a much larger slit in the pinata to accommodate the wind-up masturbating doll, the double-dong wine-opener, and handfuls of other fun things; we then used Mardi’s sexy vinyl tie-up tape to keep said stuffins from falling out.
First, I subjected everyone to my ‘sexy party’ playlist, which was full of songs from the porno musical and winners from The Frogs like “Grandma sitting in the corner with a penis in her hand going no, no, no, no, no.” When we got around to starting the porn, I subjected everyone to Cap’n Mongo’s Porno Playhouse, a dvd acquired on ‘Family Porn Night’**. This particular porn hits pretty much every single one of my entertainment buttons, and it’s something I subject others to often–with its pirates, midgets, clowns, horrendous fake titties, and seriously twisted sense of humor, I’m not certain that it was ever actually intended to be sexy, especially considering they cut between positions with leering clown faces and big fat pirates strolling across the screen.
Yes. That IS someone being eaten out on my tv.
Some of the ladies objected strenuously to clown porn, so we eventually switched to Space Nuts which is a parody of a parody and also quite entertaining.
When Mardi dragged out her Suitcase Of Broken Dreams, we discovered that Napoleon, who tends to believe that anything brought into the apartment belongs to him, ALSO applies this belief to dildos. He is nothing if not consistent; however, the following pictures might ALSO explain the lack of dudes willing to step foot in my place.
Ladies and gentlemen, the Screwnicorn is not a myth!
After Mardi finished presenting her wares, it was time for me to don the strap-on for a rousing round of ‘strap-on ring toss’. I picked up a bunch of penis-shaped bath bombs from Bliss to give as prizes, a local gay-owned shop run by the sweetest guys EVER–Phil ended up giving me everything dong-shaped in my basket for free as he felt that “No one should have to pay for penis.”
You know, it was amazing how powerful I felt with a great big dong strapped to my hips, and it didn’t hurt that I’d maybe also had a little to drink. A little. Which may well explain why when a garter was successfully tossed onto it, I felt the need to try and hula-hoop the garter around the strap-on. Maybe.
I also discovered that the dick looks much bigger when you’re wearing it than it does from the side, which explains why so many guys walk around like they’re carrying a club for killing baby seals in between their legs. It’s an optical illusion, dudes. Trust.
A photo may exist of me somewhere, wearing the strap on, while a fine, fine lady gives me a reach-around. I’m not encouraging this picture to be posted, and I might not even post it if I had it, but I felt it was important for people to know it exists so that everyone knows my chances of a political career are over.
When I hung the pinata from the hook that was already in my ceiling when I moved in, I expected said hook to be a bit more firmly anchored; the pinata stayed up for all of thirty seconds before pulling the hook out. We ended up hanging the pinata off the end of a fireplace poker and having ladies take their cracks at it with the anal beads that way. Mardi told me that the last time she had done this, it took the girls FOREVER to break open the pinata. Either my girlfriends are all terrifyingly angry or possess the brute strength of gorillas, as it didn’t take us very long at all to crack this thing wide open.
Hey, I was a little champagne-y, and decided wearing the busted-up pinata was a good idea. Don’t judge me.
All of the laughing and the porn and the wine tends to wipe a fine, fine lady out, and the love sac lulled more than one to sleep. Carrie and I finished out the night, both exhausted, sitting on the couch watching Space Nuts, trading observations, while Tonya lay zonked out on my floor.
“I bet THOSE noises aren’t faked.” “Well, yeah, look at that thing, she’s being ripped in half.”
All in all, it was an excellent night, and I knew it had been a success when I woke up and it looked like a sexy bomb had exploded in my apartment. I might NEVER get all of the pinata scraps cleaned up.
*A couple years ago, Aisling’s mom gave me a gift basket from Lover’s package with a bunch of sexytimes scratch off cards. This is not a gift to give a girl that ain’t getting any and that basket has sat in my room FOR TWO YEARS, mocking me. Every single scratch card went into the pinata.
**When I worked at Lanstorm, we were across the street from a porn shop; Dave, Drew, and I used to go there every Friday and pick something up from the Porno Bargain Bin.