Booty Poppin' with Big Red

I move - a lot. Not because I'm in witness protection, or the military - mostly because my roomies eventually couple off and I'm usually too broke to live alone.

When I was fifteen, I moved out because I knew everything. Near as I can count, I've moved fourteen times since then - and I no longer know shit. But at least it gives me an excuse to clean every year or two. Which brings me to my next subject...the butt plug.

At age 26, I took a job selling sex toys. My parents were insanely proud, especially when I explained to them over dinner that I had to buy $1300 worth of vibrators as demo models for the home parties. My dad choked on his soup and off I went to save the orgasmically deprived.

I did this part-time for nearly a year, and made some decent bank doing it. But if I never again have to explain through a bullhorn to a bunch of snickering middle-aged women giddy on wine coolers how a rabbit works, it will be too soon. So I retired.

Which left me with...$1300 worth of unused (except for handing around at parties) sex toys. So I put some in my parents' Christmas stockings, I gave some away to friends, and I kept the creme de la creme for my own kitty.

Which still

left me with

a lot of sex toys,

including

this

GINORMOUS

FIRE ENGINE RED

BUTT PLUG.


While cleaning out my closets and packing again, I realized I have packed and moved this butt plug FIVE times. And guess what? It's not any closer to my asshole than it will EVER be. Let me state this as clearly as possible:

THERE IS NOT ENOUGH VODKA

IN THE WORLD FOR THIS TO HAPPEN

So I've decided to pay it forward, and host my first giveaway contest on my blog. The good news is that everyone who has donated to my Laptop Love fund gets an automatic entry. To get that entry retracted, you'll need to donate again.

In addition to my Laptop Lovers, everyone who comments on this post will be entered to win Big Red. On Saturday, I will throw the names in a hat and declare the lucky winner. I'll even kick in for the shipping. Are you clenching in fear yet?

Don't say I never gave you anything. Cheers!

Happy Anniversary

On this day, two years ago, I was unconscious and naked - and not after an extended happy hour.

I was on an operating table having my femur sawed in half and someone else's bone implanted in my leg. So, I guess you could say I was getting boned - but it was NOT very good and the only reason he called afterward was to bill me.

There were some upsides to the surgery, though - called Oxycontin, Dilaudid, Vicodin and muscle relaxers.

This is the spreadsheet my parents used to chart my painkillers. There was a fine line between keeping me tolerable and killing me, and they may have considered crossing it once or one hundred times.

Really??

I got a snazzy bracelet that introduced me as a FALL PRECAUTION. It should have been gold-plated, though, so it lasted longer. I've always been a Fall Precaution.

I got a catheter. That wasn't fun, in and of itself - but the look on my best friend's son's face when I showed him the bag and told him it was full of pee was priceless.

I got a lot of flowers, and I didn't even have to put out once.

I got breakfast in bed for a few months. My parents loved it when I'd call them on the phone from the other room and announce that I was ready to be served.

I got hosed down showered and had my hair washed for me. This was no spa experience, though, or scene from Out of Africa. It was more like a scene from the Exorcist with me shrieking bloody murder and my mother wishing desperately she could shove the showerhead down my throat and drown me from the inside out.

I rocked the town in a wheelchair for quite some time. My brother and father enjoyed the wheelchair immensely - whenever I'd be hoisted out of it, they'd hop in and race down the hall popping wheelies.

After many weeks, I celebrated my independence by learning to walk again. There aren't many things in life sexier than a belligerent 30-something tweaked out on Oxy and shuffling around with a walker. I'm pretty confident the geriatrics in the senior living complex across the street would've smoked me in a race.

It's not Monday, so my blog doesn't require gratitude of me today, but I'm feeling pretty damn thankful to be upright. Except for after extended happy hours.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO MY BIONIC LEG!

Oh, Brother

I've always wanted a sister. I watch my friends and their sisters cuddle and giggle and I think of what I'm missing. If I tried to cuddle my brother, he would not hesitate to punch me in the face.

The first three and a half years of my life were pretty perfect, but then Neil came along. The best thing about his arrival was that when my mom was in the hospital with him afterward, my dad bought me sugary cereal because he didn't know The Food Rules.

He was more fun than my dolls - they didn't cry when I shook them.

One game that I loved to play with my brother was called Train, which involved lining up boxes in a row and throwing my brother in one of them. The fun basically stemmed from the fact that I could climb from box to box at will, but Neil was stuck wherever I happened to dump him. (Remember, this was back before the Wii...)

Naturally the train conductor boss wears
Wonder Woman Underoos and a jaunty hat.

Perhaps not incidentally, one of Neil's first complete sentences was "I fink I hate you, Twissa!"

By the time he was 10 or 11, though, he was geared up for payback. He'd loan me money for cigarettes and charge extortionate interest rates. If the money wasn't repaid in full - including interest - by his specified date, he pummeled me.

I've finally accepted that I'll never have a sister, so I've had to find the silver linings in having a brother instead.

He's taught me to ALWAYS log out of Facebook when I'm done using it, because when I forget he posts status updates on my account saying that I've contracted herpes.

He's taught me that farting can be considered assault with a deadly weapon, as evidenced by the three (count em, three) times he's made me puke with his assplosions.

Neil has taught me to take a punch. When he gets drunk, he (over)enthusiastically emphasizes each statement by punching me in the arm. When I cry and tell him not to hit women he helpfully explains that sisters are not real women.



I didn't get the sister, but I guess I'll keep the brother...

The best thing about brothers, though, aside from the sugary cereal, is this:

My brother will come pick me up at 4 AM when I'm crying on a street corner downtown, no questions asked (even though he'll still fart in the car on the way home while holding the window lock button so I have to clam-bake).

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, September 27th

10. I'm thankful that I have two legs and two arms. But I'm a little pissed because that should count as four things to be thankful for.

9. I'm grateful that I don't live in a 2' x 2' box, like this kitty I saw at Petco who sleeps in his litter box due to lack of space. I'm not forced to sleep in MY bathroom except on rare occasions after a really rough night.

8. I'm thankful to whomever invented hand sanitizer, as I needed a lot of it after cuddling with said kitty.

7. I'm happy to announce that I've been off the pill for three days now, and I haven't been gang-banged, so I should be safe.

6. I'm grateful to Ruari, for explaining Safe Toilet Syndrome. It's good to know I'm not alone, and even better to have yet another affliction to add to my list of mental disorders.

5. I'm thankful my new job is on a bus line, which will come in handy when my car is repossessed.

4. I'm happy knowing that the zillions of books I've accumulated over the years will bring me at least $12 when I sell them all to the rapists at the Half-Price Bookstore.

3. I'm thankful for libraries, so I can continue to get my fix...for free. It only took about two decades, but I've finally learned: DON'T BUY BOOKS. Except for mine, once it's published. Buy lots of copies of that one.

2. I'm grateful for liquid antibacterial soap, which I've discovered can double as deodorant...if you don't mind slimy pits.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, September 27th?

1. I'm very, very thankful for the friend who donated an 8 GB jump drive for Laptop Love. Now, even if I don't get a laptop before my PC beast dies, my writing is saved. And my porn. Whew.

One Foot Under the Bridge, One on a Banana Peel

To say I can get a bit anxious is to say that one might suspect that Adam Lambert is gay. I started life as a worrier, which was later classified as anxiety, which has since turned into a monster that chews up my dreams and spits out panic attacks in their place.


Me. Trying to sleep.

 My latest anxiety is regarding homelessness, and I've been giving it a lot of thought - generally from 1 AM - 3 AM while I stare at the ceiling and jitter my legs frantically and wonder why I'm mentally decorating my house under the bridge instead of sleeping.

I've come to the conclusion that I would really SUCK at being homeless.

First of all, I can't take a shit in a public bathroom. I don't mean I prefer not to - I mean I cannot. My body will seize up and I can go weeks (ask my doctor) without taking a dump if there are no acceptably private facilities. My brother can attest to the damage that ensued when we returned home after a fifteen-day road trip where we ate and drank our way across 3,361 miles and I just clenched the entire time. So if I were homeless, I'd definitely die of sepsis due to a...backlog.

Second, I can't sleep without my boyfriend. My boyfriend is a big, squashy, lumpy body pillow and he's in about the same shape as a toddler's beloved blankie - and I spoon him like velcro at night. It's not that I'd have any shame over being seen in public with my boyfriend, but if I'm homeless I don't know how the fuck I'd fit him in my backpack.

I'm scared of the dark - not the dark in my bedroom or a hotel room or at a friend's house. The outside dark. Sleeping in a tent is scary enough - sleeping under a bridge would make me cry like a bitch.

I have a two-degree range of comfort regarding the temperature. Warmer and I sweat rivers - colder and my nipples cut glass and my boogers freeze.

Lastly and most critically, a cardboard box would not have Internet access. My Facebook friends wouldn't know how many testicles I'd eaten or if I ever got those lick-on tattoos removed - and I couldn't blog about my fear of being homeless. I'd have to find a new fear and I wouldn't even get to write about it - I'd have to talk to the other homeless people about it. They won't wanna listen to me any more than you do, but at least from behind my computer I can't see you get up and walk away.

Pull and Pray

Well, I swallowed my last birth control pill last night. Add them to the list of things I can no longer afford:

- Rent
- Vodka
- Gas money
- Chocolate
- Bills
- Deodorant
- Birth control pills

Luckily, this won't be an issue - I've worked out a backup plan and it's even more effective than the trusty old pull-n-pray.

As a side note, the pills are gratuitous - I'm not getting laid. However, the idea of toting a screaming bastard around town for the next 18 years fills me with such fear that I gobble birth control pills like candy - just in case I could possibly be impregnated by conversing with someone with a penis, or sitting on a particularly sticky hotel comforter.

But on to my new birth control plan.

From here on out, should the gods align and I meet a man, I will steer him to my blog. I will insist he read it beginning to end, and then call me in the event that he still wants to have sex.

Problem solved.

FAIL! Atlanta - 1, Tricia - 0

After my letter to God, in which I specifically requested forgiveness for a certain night in Atlanta, the questions starting flying from my readers: What night? What the hell did YOU do that embarrassed you?

This is a fair question, since nothing really appears to be sacred or off-limits in my blogging...SO...

That night in Atlanta.

My bro and I were midway through a cross-country road trip that included a couple of nights in Atlanta. The plan for the evening was a quiet dinner, a drink or two, back to the hotel by 9 or 10 for a good night's sleep before our departure for Asheville, NC in the morning.



Dinner. The innocent beginning.

 But then we met the gay guys.

I LOVE me some gay men. At their wildest, they are so campy and outrageous they make me feel wholesome. At their mildest, they simply tend to be tolerant, interesting folk.

We stopped off at a Mexican bar for a margarita after dinner. A nightcap. And met three charming young gay men who informed us that we were on the corner of Homo and Sexual in Atlanta, and that there was one more bar where we simply MUST have a drink.

So off we went, where we met our new gay BFFs. And our (exceptionally) friendly tranny bartender.

I'm guessing my parents want a copy of this
picture for the family Christmas newsletter.

Camaraderie and a couple many drinks were shared. Our new besties decided our trip to Atlanta wouldn't be complete without strippers.

Into the car I hopped with two gay men who were virtually strangers and my brother, and we set out for the (first) strip club. It was called the Pink Pony, and billed as a Theatre and Museum - but the only exhibits open were of the wonders of breast augmentation.

The next two hours are a bit of a blur, but receipts show I visited the cash machine three (count em, three times) while at the Pony. I guess I really wanted to get my culture on while visiting the museum.

If only cameras had been allowed thank god cameras
weren't allowed in the strip clubs. And museums.

After ingesting approximately 47 shots served from the cleavage of the strippers, I announced to my posse that I wanted to see men. Enter the next strip club.

I don't know its name, I couldn't pick the place out of a lineup, and I had no idea where we were - but we were not in Kansas anymore. This was a hardcore gay male strip club. I may have been the only vagina to walk through the doors this year.

The next two hours generally consisted of more cocktails and me lavishing ridiculous sums of money on a delicious Cuban stripper with a six-pack and no body hair. What's sexier than a hot man writhing on you who doesn't want expect you to touch his penis?

This was all in FULL VIEW of the entire bar, so what happened next still baffles me - but I suspect that the attention my smoky little Cuban was paying to me enraged another male customer who did wanna touch the Cuban's cigar.

Suddenly the bouncer grabbed me from behind and announced I was 86'd. I had a full cocktail, so I needed to know why. He then told me that one of the other strippers 'ratted me out' - that he'd 'seen me giving head to my Cuban stripper in the coat room'.

Um.....WTF!? WHAT coat room?

Being my drunk and belligerent self, I countered the bouncer's accusation and explained at top volume that we (women) give blow jobs because they are a required part of a relationship - like occasional miserable family dinners - and that NO woman is giving a freebie to a gay man, as there is zero chance of ROI. And furthermore, I'd been in full view the entire time so this was clearly a blatant lie. And furthermore some more, he could go give himself a blow job - that's what I thought about him.

Note to self: the bouncer is always right. Even when he's wrong, he's right. You know why? Cuz he's bigger and he has the ultimate authority - he can cut you off.

The gay besties drove us back to the hotel, laughing hysterically that I'd gotten kicked out of a male strip bar. Apparently, this is unheard of - and it is indeed the only time I've ever been 'cut off' in my life.

But just to crown the night off with that extra touch of class I bring to most occasions, I puked on myself in their car on the way back to the hotel - where I promptly got in the shower with my clothes on. (It seemed the most time-sensitive way to cleanse my body, clothes and soul.)

FAIL!

Hotlanta - 1

Tricia - 0

Dear God

Dear God,

It's me, Tricia.

It's been a while since we've had coffee. What's up with that? It's Your turn to buy.

You're always on my mind, though. Some days I like to talk to You when I'm on my way to work, but other days I have to listen to Greg & Melissa in the Morning. I'm sure You understand - since You made them as well, You know that The $25 Pyramid is a real knuckle-biter.

I do want to point out that I sing holler praises to Your son frequently - most commonly when I stub my toe. For some reason, those nerve endings usually remind me of my incredibly boisterous relationship with Jesus. Once in a while, though, they make me shout hallelujah to my other friend, Holy Fuck.

Here's the problem, God. I'm not feeling the Holy Spirit these days. I thought I did a couple of weeks ago, but it was just the spins from my other holy spirits, Grey Goose and Ketel One. So, here's the situation:

I'm pretty sure my

wallet

self-esteem

emotional health

soul needs to be saved...

I know that You have a master plan, but can I get a little peek under the tent? Or, hey - let's kick it the old school way. I'll pass You a note and You just check the appropriate box.

Would Moses, perhaps, be willing
to part the sea of my bills?

YES          NO

Would Jesus mind saving more
than my big toe when I call out to him?

YES          NO



I've heard that You forgive...um...everything.

Can we talk specifically about that night in Atlanta?

YES          NO

May I request vodka as a substitute for the milk of

human kindness - I mean, if it comes down to it?

YES          NO

I suppose You're not really down with negotiating, but I'm just sayin' - if You decided You wanted to let me know some of these answers, I'd certainly be happy to shout out Your name more frequently in return. And totally not just when I'm getting boned.

XOX,

Tricia



Fan Mail

Big thanks to Wendy for taking care of my blog while I read my fan mail!

Turns out? It didn't take that long. There was only one fan letter, and I've decided to share it with you.

Dear Tricia,

I've been following your blog loyally because it is - and you are - amazing. Seriously, this is the funniest shit I've ever read. I'm stunned that you're single you don't have a book deal.

I will pray for the speedy discovery of your blessed talent, because I know that you are destined to be a writer. And also? I'm really fucking sick of having to buy your groceries, so you need to find a way to get paid.

Love,
Mom

P.S. I wish you wouldn't blog about the fact that your father and I were high as kites when we conceived you. We've done a pretty damn good job raising you and I don't want anyone to think it's our fault you turned out this way.



FAN LETTERS...or BILLS?



To acknowledge my fan, I'll be sending her an autographed 8" x 10" glossy and a bumper sticker that reads:

"YEAH, MY KID WAS AN HONOR STUDENT, TOO - IT DOESN'T MEAN SHIT."

Guest Post

While our favorite recovering cynic is keeping up with her fan mail, I’m holding down the fort. Consider yourself warned!

Who am I (other than Tricia’s “long lost sassy” and “sweetly neurotic” cyber-sister)? Please allow me to use our author’s self-crafted Q+A to properly introduce myself. My name is Wendy Singer, but I much prefer my twitter alias, @WriteWendy (What can I say? She’s cooler than me, and she has way more friends).

Besides being a twisted, single, New York City, thirty-something, I’m also the author of the wildly successful blog, AnonymousPunchingBag (* huge shout out to my plethora of imaginary readers* thank, guys). Since I don’t have Tricia’s overwhelming fan base, I’ve answered these questions for my alter ego(s), my hoard of made-up followers and anyone else who really wants to know this shit.

Q: Did your parents beat you when you were a child? Is that why you're like this?

A: No. Well, truth be told, my mom did hit me once, but it didn’t go well. Out of pure reflex (or so I told my second psychologist), I instinctively lashed out and bit her ear. I was probably around 7 or 8 at the time. Now that I think about it, Mike Tyson totally stole my signature move. I should probably sue, but I don’t think he has much left to fork over. More importantly, my mother is a vain woman, and we never got physical again.

Q: Why must you blog about such awkward and personal subjects like colonoscopies and your breasts?

A: Well, to be fair I don’t talk about colonoscopies or breasts (mostly because I have little to no familiarity with either). Don’t worry! I touch on my own share of “awkward and personal subjects” like trichotillomania (I pull out my own hair), my short-lived train-wreck of a marriage, and my life long struggle with severe OCD. I choose to write publicly because much like Tricia, I prefer to find humor in my pain. Why not share it? For better or worse, my “delicate” issues make me who I am today. Writing about them helps me keep my hair in my head, my food in my stomach and my razor away from my wrists. In short, my words are my healthiest savior.

Q: Aren't your parents mortified by the way you act/speak/write?

A: My mom still thinks I prosecute child abuse cases (I quit in 2004), and my dad pretty much checks in to make sure I’m up and running before, during or after he jet sets back and forth to Vegas. I spent my entire life trying to win my family’s approval, and thus far, it hasn’t gone so well. Now I’m just trying to be “me” (albeit a little late in the game).

Q: You say you're single...why is that?

A: Umm… I’m guessing you’re a skimmer? If so, please re-read what I wrote. If you’re still interested let me know! We can totally kick things off with a joint therapy session.

Q: Sometimes you blog about cats dogs. You're a crazy cat dog lady, aren't you?

A: Nope. I have an 8-year-old pug named Molson Singer. Despite different genetics, he takes after me. We are introverted, socially awkward and passionate about everything we do (which is not all that much). Molson loves: food, doggy Prozac and his tee shirt that say’s “Who’s my Daddy?” Since I’m a gambler’s daughter, if I were to do an over/under, odds are if he could talk, he probably would have called social services and demanded an immediate removal years ago. What can I say? Thank God for small miracles.

Q: Your blog is ridiculous - are you making this stuff up?

A: Nope, my blog is my memoir. I write the way I remember/see/and live my warped life. (Caveat: I can’t always speak for my abridged mind. @WriteWendy seems to have her own take on things. She appears on the right side of my blog).

Q: Why do you do this? Isn't it a waste of time?

A: I do it because it’s cathartic. I do it because my shrink (or 'expander' as he now prefers) can only see me three times a week, and I do it because it helps me heal. (Trust me, my other third party saviors are far more destructive). Therefore, it’s the best possible way to spend my time.

Q: Do you get paid to do this?

A: I’m no rainmaker like Trish, but I just started blogging 3 months ago. I have big dreams. I still have not earned a cent, but right now, I’m following my OWN passion, and most importantly I’m following my OWN heart.

 VISIT ANONYMOUS PUNCHING BAG HERE!

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, September 20th

10. I'm thankful that after scouring my teeth with Clorox and drinking a 24 oz Listerine martini, I no longer taste testicles when I burp.

9. I'm grateful that my period held off until after payday. Because you know what would be awesome? Getting your credit card declined trying to buy Tampax.

8. I'm excited that I had the opportunity to wear my Cowgirls Love to Ride Bareback t-shirt this weekend. I mean, how many places does one go where that is considered appropriate attire? It had been sitting in my closet for three years just waiting for its chance to shine.

7. I'm grateful that even though I can barely pay the electric bill today, once upon a time I was splendidly wealthy (by broke-ass-broke standards) for 15 days - and my bro and I took that crazy chance to tour the entire southeast. This road trip was testament to the fact that things can change, happily, on a dime. Some days, when I have to give my HOPE mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, it helps me to sit back and remember that trip.

6. I'm very, very thankful that I am not the guy in Iowa who was just found to have a parasitic worm living in his eyeball. I was going to helpfully link the article for you, but I've felt itchy creepy-crawly ever since reading it and I don't want to put you through that trauma. Google it if you must, but don't blame me for the resulting tremors.

5. My brother should be grateful that I was home alone yesterday afternoon. The only thing more frightening than the tummy rumbles that warn of imminent testicle-puking are the tummy rumbles that warn of imminent testicle-recycling. Urgh.

4. I'm happy that I didn't snap the hardware in my bionic leg when I was flung off the mechanical bull this weekend. Even worse than the excruciating pain and extended rehab would have been the torture of listening to my mother say "I told you Dr. Nelson would NOT approve of bull-riding!"

  PLUS  

(Maybe not the most brilliant idea I've ever had.)

3. I'm thankful that the level of poverty in this house hasn't (yet) sunk to the point of bartering blow jobs with the meter guy at Xcel Energy for electricity. And when that day comes, I'm totally rock, paper, scissoring Neil for the assignment - he uses the electricity here, too.

 
2. I'm grateful for friends who push me outside my comfort range and make me do horrifying things like eat testicles or shoot things. D's always been good at prying my ass off the couch in search of white-trash drama - take a moment to check our trip to the gun range from earlier this spring.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, September 20th?

1. In less than a month, I've amassed $106.00 in my Laptop Love fund. This makes me happy, happy, joy, joy! I'm thankful that people have been crazy generous enough to send me donations. I'm grateful that I *might* just raise enough for a laptop before this prehistoric beast of a PC dies. (It's crucial that it be a laptop and not a desktop, as I'll be using the free WiFi in the coffee shops once I'm living out of my car.) Most of all, though, I'm amazed at how bomb-diggity-tastic my readers are. I LOVE YOU GUYS!

Testicles DO NOT Taste Like Chicken

So...the reason I was really happy my friend D didn't die from that bee sting is because I care about his health he promised to take me to the Zumbrota Testicle Festival.

Yep, that's right - the Testicle Festival - and I rolled there all-expenses paid. I guess I do have a sugar daddy. Just not...exactly...the one I had in mind. I explained to him on the way down that much beer would be needed - that's pretty much a prerequisite to me putting balls in my mouth.
We arrived at the Tendergroin grounds just in time to miss the discounted 'rodeo' pricing, but D paid the 'Big Band' pricing because at this point we weren't letting anything stand in the way of our goals.

Welcome to the Minnesota Tendergroin

I had just two goals for the day:
- Eat balls
- Ride a mechanical bull

Now, my plan was to sip a few brews and work my way up to the balls - but D was having none of it. No sooner had we gained entry than he made a beeline (ha!) for the fried testicle stand.

A virgin is violated.

Testicles? Do NOT taste like chicken. The most accurate review that I can give you is this: they are really, really chewy - the initial flavor is not dissimilar to a mushroom or a smoked oyster...but then...there is a cloying aftertaste unlike anything else. It can only be described as ball breath.

Now, I thought this was a test - as in, eat a bite or two for bragging rights. But no. That's not how it's done at the Testicle Festival. The fried testicles are served in half-pound paper tubs. We munched our way through them and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. Little did I know, D would be buying more in a bit.

In the meantime, we decided to see what our exorbitant ticket prices earned us access to. Turns out? Not fucking much. The testicles really were the star of the show.

White class at its finest...



My next Match.com profile picture, yes?

Balls on a chain. Every man's dream.

A few beers later and I was ready to tackle the mechanical bull. I took a look at it and scoffed. This was not the mechanical bull I'd pictured at all, but a weak cartoon version. I stepped up to the ring, confident in the strength of my thigh muscles and my center of gravity.

This? Was the only picture D had time to take in the
FIVE seconds I rode that bitch.

After my shameful bull-riding, I was ready to call it a day, but apparently a half-pound tub of testicles wasn't enough to satisfy D. I'm not judging here, but...really? How many balls does this guy need in his mouth?



He looks disturbingly smug.
I look disturbingly slutty.
My parents are, no doubt, incredibly proud.

After the second serving of testicles, my stomach was getting queasy and we decided we'd conquered the Testicle Festival, in all its hicktown glory. It was time to blow this festival.

Admission fee for two: $50

Crappy draft beers: $30

Testicle T-shirt: $15

Five seconds riding the mechanical bull: $5

Two 1/2 pound servings of fried testicles: $14

TRICIA PUKING TESTICLES ON THE WAY HOME FROM ZUMBROTA:

PRICELESS



Just SAY NO to Dating and Marriage

Girl meets Boy.

Boy looks like this:

Sexy in a hillbilly jackass sort of way, no?

Boy and Girl hang out for several months.

Boy looks like this:

Boy smiles more when Girl is not bitching at him.

A year or two passes. Boy and Girl fall in love and get married.

And now?

Boy looks like THIS:

WTF!?

OK, I'm kidding. We're not in love, or married, and that's not really what he looks like...usually. But I thought it made an excellent pictorial case against the idea of dating or marriage in general so I felt I would be negligent in not sharing.

Now, on to the truth...

*******************

My friend D, also known as the Toad Whisperer, got stung by a bee today (Friday). He texted me this picture around 3:00 PM.

I figured he'd actually just mouthed off to the wrong person and gotten bitch-slapped. D is not known for his tactfulness or class, which is possibly why we're such good buds. I told him to suck it up and leave me alone because I was busy at work, which may or may not have involved urgent Facebook messages and a Diet Coke needing to be drunk.

A short while later, he texted me an update, and I realized he actually HAD been stung by a bee.

I, of course, then mocked his dumb ass for making out with a bee. That's all kinds of desperate. By the time he sent me the retard picture, though, I knew it was getting serious. Once more, for your viewing pleasure.

Now D is in the emergency room, probably getting an adrenaline shot in his face, and I am sitting here laughing maniacally at this picture and blogging about it.

But I don't want you to think I'm not taking this situation seriously enough. Anaphylactic shock is no laughing matter. And also, he and I have VERY important plans tomorrow (Saturday), which you lovely readers will get to read about on Sunday, so he needs to get his fat face outta the hospital.

The other reason I can prove that I'm taking this seriously is that I'm writing this Friday night, but I'm not gonna post it until Saturday morning. Cuz if he died of an allergic reaction in the night after I made fun of his fat retard face, I'd feel kinda bad.

I Wonder...

...if any Chevy and Ford owners have ever gotten into a literal pissing match over their conflicting white-class decals?

That's right, bitch - you can't a Ford THIS!

...if I'd have more energy if Paris Hilton shared some of her gum with me?

...if the jackass who honked at the elderly man in the crosswalk yesterday in the hopes of making him walk faster feels good about making the poor guy piss his Depends?

...how wrinkly the first person must have been to decide it was worth a shot (ha!) to inject some botulism into their face and see what happened?

...why, when a panda bear sneezes on YouTube, I'll watch it twelve times in a row for entertainment? I don't find it entertaining when you sneeze.

...why the stench is magnified exponentially when you fart in the bathtub?

...why people think that when they are in their cars they are invisible and we can't see them picking their noses?

...just how much disposable income one must have before determining that carlashes are the next logical purchase?

Just in case you didn't notice this bitch is driving a BMW...

...how the folks who wrote the new gum commercial determined that the average person spends 20,000 minutes kissing in their lifetime?

...if I'm an above-average student?

...if I'm below average, where do I sign up for remedial tutoring sessions?


Goddamn overachievers!



I'm Just Like an Astrophysicist...

...except for...well - everything.

The world of blogging is a curious one. My blog in particular deeply explores such globally critical topics as:

 - Spider bites on my butt
 - Drunken debacles that may or may not involve people's tongues
 - Obnoxious pets who sleep on my face
 - Whoring myself for pocket change
 - The correlation between my fat ass and my love of cheese

The interactive aspect of blogging is lovely and I've met many new virtual friends. They read my blog and I read theirs. If I find a blog particularly entertaining, I suggest it to my masses of fans - all five of them. (My endorsement is only slightly less powerful than Oprah's.)

I get requests from other bloggers to 'cross-link' our sites. In theory, I would assume the idea would be to expand both our reader bases. This leads me to wonder why the sweet young man in Mumbai thinks I would like to cross-link with his blog about astrophysics. Now, I'm hesitant to say anything that might insult my five fans, but...if you're reading my shit, I'm gonna go ahead and guess you don't study astrophysics in your spare time, either.

I have a ninth-grade education because my would-be sophomore through senior years were dedicated to the procurement and ingestion of illegal drugs and also I was busy dying my hair black and slashing my wrists to express my tremendous suburban middle-class angst. My grasp of mathematics doesn't reach beyond what I can add or subtract on my Casio calculator, and most math I do involves my bills:

NOTHING - LOTS = FUCK, I'M SCREWED

This guy in India? If he's into astrophysics for fun, he ought to be able to guess that I know very little about quantum mechanics and aerospace engineering. And the only thing I know about electromagnetism is that I often feel it in my panties when a hot jackass walks by.

If I did know enough about astrophysics to consider it an entertaining hobby, wouldn't it also be likely that I'd be making more than minimum wage and that I'd be smart and/or refined enough to not blog about my breasts and my gastrological issues without using a pseudonym?

So in conclusion...

To my dear Indian virtual friend,

I'm gonna have to pass on the cross-link. But I'd be happy to do lots of vodka shots with you if you're ever in town, and if you promise not to talk about astro-anything. (Except Astroglide - that's permissible in conversation.)

Humbly and dumbly,
Me

My Voodoo Doll Don't Do Voodoo

Somewhere deep beneath the vitriolic crust of my exterior, I think there is a hopeless romantic who believes in soul mates. But every time she tries to poke her head out I bludgeon her with a 2" x 4".

It's been said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. I call this dating. I've spent eighteen years trying to meet Mr. Right the old-fashioned ways.

 - Getting drunk and grabbing the nearest warm body at closing time

 - Rear-ending hot guys to exchange phone numbers for 'insurance' purposes

 - Filling out a 7,000-question personality test so eHarmony can charge me $39.99 to tell me I'm highly compatible with illiterate fools on 29 different dimensions

 - And of course - my favorite - meeting through friends (this way, when the relationship bombs, you take down all your compadres as casualties)

None of these have been fruitful for me, and when I began this blog, I did make peace with the fact that I may never, ever have another date. Then again, the man who reads this horror and still wants to date me? He could be The One.

In the interest of leaving no stone unturned, I purchased a voodoo doll in New Orleans this spring. An authentic, black magic voodoo doll to help me find the man of my dreams. Seriously - it says so on the tag, and it cost $12.99. I named him Romeo, naturally.

I justified the price as an investment in my fulfillment and happiness. Incidentally, that's also how I justified the price of the fortune teller, the strippers and the hand grenades on Bourbon Street.

Meet Romeo, my matchmaker. He is failing miserably at his job.

Anyhoo. This little bastard? Has done even less for my love life than bar close and Neil Clark Warren. He just sits on my dresser and smirks at me.

Late at night I hear him whispering. "Fool, you got robbed. You think I'm bringing you the man of your dreams for $12.99? The only thing I'm bringing is $12.99 to the bitch who sold you my ass. Go try a singles mixer at the Church of the Loser-Date Saints."

So, does anyone else wants Romeo? He's free to a good home. I can't look at his smug little face any longer or I might go voodoo on him.

FAIL! Stoli - 1, Tricia - 0

I regret my tattoos. No, not my real ones, silly - they're sick and I love them. I regret the Friday night tattoos.

Let's back up. A friend and I went to see a band on Friday called Rockit Science who wore leopard print spandex pants and played 80s hairball music. A good time was had by all.

They had a trashy little blonde groupie whose job it was to apply promotional temporary tattoos to the throngs of screaming inebriated fans. With her tongue.

It's been said that if you give alcohol to a dog, it will drink until it gets ill and then never touch the stuff again. I guess I'm not as bright as a dog, because I like to drink until I'm stupid. Alarmingly, this only takes two or three cocktails. The next 15 are just for fun. Anyhoo, everyone else was getting lick-on tattoos and then jumping off a bridge so I figured I ought to join them.

Application by motorboat is actually far more pleasant than by needle...

I realize I recently told you all how big my personal bubble is, but remember - vodka can penetrate the force field. So yeah - this seemed like a splendid idea on Friday.

It's Tuesday now and I can't get this shit off! I'm gonna have to head on over to Electric Dragonland and have the Danimal tattoo over yet another of my mistakes.


This is a GREAT look for work.

Apparently slut saliva doubles as industrial strength adhesive - who knew? All this time I'd been wasting my money on Gorilla Glue for my craft projects when I could've just found a stripper to lick them for me.

I've been scrubbing and scrubbing - my boobs have certainly never been so squeaky clean, but still these tattoos remain - long after the vodka and the thoughts that this was a good idea have passed. On the bright side? It's chillier this week so I don't look absurd in a turtleneck.

FAIL!

Stoli - 1

Tricia - 0

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, September 13th

OK, I'm not gonna lie. This attitude of gratitude bullshit is getting old. I seem to be relapsing back toward cynicism by the day. I've been doing this Monday Marvels crap for almost a year. That's like 520 unique things to be thankful for and I'm running low on new ideas. But I get points for trying, right?

10. I'm thankful that I'm not the black quadriplegic midget I saw at the bus stop the other day. He'd probably (though not necessarily) trade lives with me.

9. I'm grateful that the post office does not deliver on Sundays, which means I get a once-weekly respite from the barrage of bills I can't pay.

8. I'm happy I didn't get shot on Saturday night while procuring sliders for my brother at White Castle, which is a legitimate threat.

7. I was initially pissed when I saw an estate sale sign at a neighbor's place the other day, because I wanted to have a garage sale a few weeks ago to try to raise laptop funds, but we aren't allowed to have them in our townhome complex. Then someone explained to me that an estate sale happens when someone dies so I guess I'm thankful it wasn't me.

6. I'm super grateful that I have these few weeks left of being able to say I'm in my early thirties. Once this birthday hits, I'm pretty sure I have to graduate to my @($#%ing mid-thirties.

5. I'm thankful that I have nightmares so frequently, as it makes my life seem better by comparison when I wake up and realize I'm not actually being attacked by turtles or spitting out mouthfuls of shattered teeth.

4. I'm grateful that my office is only seven miles from my house because I'm on the verge of not being able to afford the gas money to get there. The bike ride will be good for me and look at the bright side - the reaction on my coworkers' faces when I strut in wearing spandex will be priceless.

Outta my way, bitches!

3. I'm happy that my brother buys the super-size bags of cat food because soon we may be pilfering dinner from Morgan and Bailey. It can't taste too bad - they get awfully excited about it every morning.

2. I'm thankful that there is still a seed of belief inside of me that things can turn on a dime. I've watched things collapse in an instant in people's lives, so I have to believe the flip side is true - it's possible that I could wake up tomorrow and something absolutely wonderful could happen.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, September 13th?

1. I'm grateful that the weather forecast this week calls for cool temps, because I definitely ran out of deodorant this morning and it's four days until payday.

Wanna know MY secret?
Come a little closer and maybe you can guess...

I'm Getting Married!

I'm really, truly at the end of my rope wallet. The time has come to throw away my few remaining morals and marry for money. I don't need a man to buy me Gucci purses and Manolo Blahniks, but I have reached the sorry fucking state where I do need a man to pay my electric bill and buy my toothpaste and ramen.

Since I now have to marry for money (which is abhorrent to me) I must lay out a few requirements:

 - He needs to be at least 75 years old, so that there's a foreseeable end to this marriage when death does he depart.

 - He'll need to be visually impaired (and possibly low IQ) so I can convince him that I am actually trophy wife material.

 - He can't live in a nursing home, as I suspect they frown upon trophy wives moving in and besides - I need to be somewhere they won't evict me when he dies.

 - It would be nice if he has Alzheimer's so that when he complains about the lack of sex in our marriage I can say "Oh, Tootsie Pop - we can't have sex tonight...I'm simply too sore from when you pounded me four times last night," and he won't know the difference.

 - He shouldn't have any children because I don't wanna have anyone to fight with over his 13" TV when he kicks it. I'm earning that TV, and don't think you're prying it out of my gold-digging fingers.

And last but not least, he'll need to have enough money that when he dies I can afford the three years of therapy I'll need to make amends with the fact that I sold my soul for a one-bedroom apartment in a senior living complex and some macaroni-n-cheese.

Do I take this man to be my lawfully wedded husband, for rich or for richer,
in sickness and sicker, until his death does free me?
I DO.

Lap Dances and Ass Chances

So, first - for my international readers - a briefing:

White Castle is arguably one of the trashiest fast food joints in America. People have been shot to death in the parking lot at the White Castle near my house. Their burgers are known as sliders for the imminent gastronomical distress they cause.

Taco Bell is another fast food place that is *almost* as low-brow. Their greasy tacos, once slathered in their signature hot sauce, also typically cause a sprint for the bathroom and sometimes it's a photo finish. But their hot sauce comes in irresistible little packets with silly sayings on them - like spicy fortune cookies - and I love me some fortune cookies.

Now, a briefing for my out of state readers:

Schieks is a notorious Minneapolis gentlemen's club that is reputed to boast some of the hottest and classiest strippers dancers in town.

And, now...the story of how these unlikely worlds collided tonight.

It was a regular Saturday night. By that I mean, my bro and his girlfriend and I are lazy losers. After much debate, we decided we need a movie and food. We couldn't agree on a nasty fast food joint, so we decided to hit up both. They went to get the movie, while I offered to do the drive-through runs. I only offered because I knew I wouldn't have to get out of my car and could therefore go as is.

AS IS = wearing my pajamas, with my tangled hair in a wadded-up mess on my head, and the only makeup I was sporting was the smudgy, sparkly remains of last night's bar eyes. (Yes, I was too lazy to wash my face. All day.)

So I rolled on up to White Castle and ordered a bag of nastiness for my bro and his girl. Then I dodged bullets and hoodlums and made my way over to Taco Bell to place my own order for greasy goodness. Pulled up to the drive-through window and noticed the pimply teen was leering at me while struggling to count out my change.

Oh, yeah - did I mention? My pajamas consist of sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt from Schieks. Which is relatively evident, as the word Schieks is spelled out prominently down each arm - one of which was extended out the driver's side window for my change.

So the kid handed me my food and asked me, sounding a bit starstruck, if I work at Schieks.

I held up the bag of White Castle sliders along with the bag of tacos and purred, "Sure do, Pumpkin. Just needed a snack before I start my shift. C'mon on in when you're clocked out and I'll give you a lap dance."

Then I winked at him and drove home.

I'm still choking with laughter at the idea of a stripper - any stripper - gorging on sliders and hot sauce before shaking her toxic ass in the gentlemen's faces.

The little ditty on my hot sauce packet read WILL YOU MARRY ME?
Don't try to tell me that's a coincidence.

Nine Years

So much can happen in nine years.

We all have a responsibility today to say a prayer of thanks for our lives.

9/11 will always serve as a reminder that these past years were robbed from so many.

My knowledge has grown, and so has my ass.

My friends have all married, anniversaries pass.

My heart has been broken. My heart has healed.

And still I'm trying, playing the field.

In nine years, I've found freedom, my passion and voice.

I haven't found my soul mate, but that's been my choice.

I now know it's better to chase a dream and not catch it

Than to simply watch it fly by and let it.

I've learned what defines me and what never will.

I've felt that peace when my mind becomes still.

I've learned who to let go of and who to hold tight.

I've learned how little you win in a fight.

If you've been lucky enough to have these last nine years as well,

please take a moment to be grateful for the good in your life.

Even if you are struggling to find it, please remember how many

people lost the right to pursue their own life, liberty and happiness.

Bad Touch

I'm in sales, which unfortunately means I must go on sales calls, which unfortunately means I must touch strangers. Dogs sniff each other's crotches to say hello, and while hand-shaking is certainly more civilized than this, who the hell decided we must touch one another to introduce ourselves?

It's not a germ thing. It's a bubble thing. I have an abnormally large bubble of personal space. I don't wanna shake hands, please don't hug me unless I'm drunk, and if you're a close talker you make me want to cry.

My mom, like all mothers, hoped for an adorable cuddly baby, but instead she got a homely little monkey-baby who bellowed nonstop and gave her the stiff-arm any time she tried to cuddle me.

Not much has changed in 33 years.

A couple of years ago, while on a double date with BFF, her hub and my boyfriend at the time, she glanced across the table and gasped. "Tricia! You're holding hands with him!"

"No," I corrected, through gritted teeth. "He's holding hands with me." Boyfriend had my fucking hand in a vise grip and I couldn't tear it free.

BFF wasn't shocked when I confided later that evening that it wasn't working out and I'd have to send the boyfriend to the farm to run free.

I don't know what my problem is or where this bubble came from. I do know that three ounces of Ketel One deflates it temporarily and I'll hug anyone within arm-flinging distance. Eight ounces of Ketel One pops it entirely for the night and you're welcome to rape my belly button with any digit or appendage you'd like.

The only sober exceptions to the No Touch Rule are good friends, who are exempt and can snuggle me as much as they'd like and completely unattainable men.

I wanna lick the sweat off of him
when he comes outta the ring.
But I still don't wanna shake his hand.
That's gross.

Yep. I've made my peace with the fact that it's likely that I'll remain single for the rest of my life. And before you suggest that I need therapy, please be assured that the only thing I hate more than touching people when I'm sober is talking seriously about feelings.

My 100th Google Follower - I'll Probably get Arrested

This is a momentous occasion. I've hit 100 fans on Google. But that's not the momentous part. The momentous part is the very special person who is my 100th fan.

We'll call him Ralph.

Ralph is 13. I know, I know - almost fourteen, right, Ralph?

When I heard that Ralph was my 100th fan, I nearly soiled my pants. From excitement, of course, but also from a terrible, sickening, awesome sense of responsibility. There's a 13-year-old reading my blog!? Will I corrupt him?? Will I go to jail!?

But then I realized three things:

1) Ralph is a smart kid.
2) I've known Ralph since he was born (he's my BFF's kid), and I haven't ruined him yet.
3) If this blog does ruin him, it's my BFF's fault - not mine. Aren't there parental locks or some shit?

So first, for you other 99 fans, a bit about Ralph. He's incredibly smart. He's very compassionate. He loves animals and is a talented videographer. Oh, and also? He used to have a penchant for lipstick and boas. (It's true, Ralph - you totally used to love 'getting ready' with us before your mom and I went out. Be glad I didn't post a picture. Be very glad.)

Another thing about Ralph? He's an incredible artist and he's always held me in the highest esteem, as you can see from this original crayon drawing, circa 2000, drawn for me on a menu at Pizzeria Uno.

Copyright Ralph. Don't steal this or he'll send his posse after you.

Let's study this fine art for a moment, so you can truly appreciate the depths of Ralph's love for me. The little guy in the middle? That's Ralph, age three. The slightly less little guy on the left? That's Ralph's stepdad who goes about 6' 1", 210 if I had to guess.

That ginormous monster? That's me.

When I inquired of Ralph as to why I was so big in the picture, he batted his little eyes at me and said "You ARE big, Twissa." Thanks, jackass.

When my BFF inquired as to why the picture included only me, Ralph and her husband, Ralph's response was "You ARE in the picture, Mom. Twissa ate you." Like, duh.

Yep, those are my BFF's body parts in my stomach. Apparently I couldn't wait for the pizza.

And, now - a message directly TO Ralph.

Dear Ralph,

I am honored that you are my 100th fan and I love you, but don't worry, I didn't use your real name so as not to embarrass you with gooey sentiments from an old person.

Also, I don't ever wanna catch you talking the kind of shit I talk - or I'll tell yo mama to wash your mouth out with soap and then I'll come over and do it again for good measure.

It's important for you to know that everything I say about sex, drugs and rock-n-roll is a lie. It's exaggeration for entertainment's sake and if I catch you doing any of the things I joke about doing, I'll kick your little white butt AND post the pictures of you wearing lipstick and a boa!

Last but not least, I cannot wait until you turn 18, cuz hoooooooo boy! Do I have some dirt on your mama for you.

Love,
Twissa

Mornings Suck

I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON.

For me, rising from slumber in the morning is like coming out of a coma. It's slow, it's painful and I likely won't remember (or care) who I am or you are. This is what I look like should you dare wake me before I'm ready.

Where's my fuggin' coffee!?

When my brother's girlfriend showers, she often sets off the fire alarm with the steam. I open one eye, curse, and go back to drooling on my pillow. I assume that if there is ever a real fire, someone will come smack me.

If I weren't a virgin (hi, Mom!) and if I had a boyfriend, the idea of morning sex is so stupendously offensive to me it's almost comical. You'd best just go wank off in the shower, because you ain't coming near me with that thing in the morning, buddy.

I'm fairly certain that I'm legally retarded until I've ingested a minimum of 20 oz of iced coffee. In fact, I'm so sure that I'm a morning retard that I lay out my clothing the night before so all I have to do is wrestle myself into it. The complexity of pairing a shirt and pants before 10:00 AM is entirely beyond my cognitive abilities.

Sleeping from 10 PM - 6 AM leaves me volatile, agitated, confused and crazy. Sleeping from 3 AM - 11 AM, on the other hand, turns me into a respectable facsimile of a friendly and sane human being. When I was unemployed this schedule was attainable. Now that I've returned to the land of the working, my boss takes issue if I don't roll in until noon.

So what career options are there that will allow me to sleep until noon?

 - Stripper
 - Drug dealer
 - Second shift nurse
 - Freelance writer

Stripping might be the only profession that would pay me less than I'm making right now - and also, I'm pretty sure I'd fall off the pole. I shouldn't be a drug dealer because my one-for-you, two-for-me approach would lead directly to rehab, do not pass blow. And I can't be a nurse because, frankly, sick people are gross.

What does this leave, you ask? Writing. Which is awesome, since it's my dream job. Except for that whole getting paid thing. Maybe stripping isn't the only profession that would pay me less than I'm making right now. Get out the pasties, here I come. At least I can sleep in late after a long, hard night rockin' the laps.