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masturbation

If I have a girl I’m naming her Spicy Asiago Ranch Chicken Club

April 3, 2011

In February of last year, I stopped eating fast food (In-N-Out doesn’t count). A few months after that, I stopped going to franchises altogether. It has nothing to do with being a vegetarian, food allergies or Morgan Spurlock. Simply put, fast food made me feel awful. And the food from casual dining franchises didn’t make me feel much better.

So I swore it off. Fast food was easy since I never really liked the stuff anyway (You’ll always be my baby, Burger King Croissan’wich). But franchises were harder to shake since they typically know just the right mix of carbohydrates, fat, and stone veneer interiors to make you feel fancy. To move the process along, I started a mental ‘never again’ list of franchises that I banned myself from after particularly bad visits. The first draft looked like this:

Olive Garden – Diarrhea. Again.

Red Robin – Experienced severe headache and nausea after fifth basket of bottomless fries. Should be illegal.

Applebee’s – Found a tag in my food that came from the bag that they microwaved it in.

Red Lobster – Bad service, average food, will miss the Cheddar Bay Biscuits.

Chili’s – I really think they’re trying to kill me with the Southern Smokehouse Bacon Big Mouth Burger.

It seemed that they all had two things in common – unremarkable food and a threat that I might shit my pants. After a while, it became really easy to kick franchises out of my life, too. So I did. And I don’t regret anything. I feel great, my pants fit and I no longer worry that I’ll die in a TGI Friday’s.

However, sometimes I slip up. And by ‘slip up’ I mean that I get something with a lot of bacon on it, dip it in whatever non-dairy based ‘ice cream’ treat I can find and then cry with the wrappers in my arms, wondering why I ever said goodbye to ‘#5 With a Biggie Fry and Apple Pie Aubrey.’

So, about the Biggie Fry. It showed up this past Friday night and brought along a Spicy Asiago Ranch Chicken Club, made just for me by Wendy’s.

Get your tissues or socks or banana peels ready, because I’m about to describe what’s going on with this sandwich. First, there’s a tenderly breaded chicken fillet. That’s topped with a sultry bundle of crispy applewood smoked bacon. Dripping down all of that is creamy ranch and melted asiago cheese. Then there’s lettuce or something, but I take it off because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to feel a thing.

This sandwich is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I say that as someone who has three Safeway Club Cards. It combines the best of what fast food and casual dining franchises have to offer. So basically, it’s quick and there’s a lot of ranch dressing.

To give you an idea of what my four minutes as a demigod looked like, I’ve come up with a rough sketch of my Spicy Asiago Ranch Chicken Club experience:

Fireworks are simulated

 

I swear I’m getting back on the wagon tomorrow.

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Now I want one where I’m wearing a latex dress with a giant housecat as my sidekick

January 6, 2011

If you’ve ever wanted to know what an illustrated version of myself looks like while furiously typing with my nipples and wearing mittens, then you’re probably really fucking weird. But you’re also in luck because look:

This comes from cartoonist Greg Williams of TWIPS, who is super talented and super nice and super creepy because how did he know that I had a jacket in steel blue. Probably because he, too, understands that the color brings out my eyes. Either way, you can follow him here to check out other tweets he transforms into comics that will give you reason to believe he lurks in the bushes outside your house.

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As if anyone is brilliant enough to manufacture a sex doll that pisses itself

January 1, 2010

A few weeks ago, I found a new hobby. For an hour or so every night, I would collect a handful of the most illiterate and horrifying Craigslist personal ads imaginable. Then, I would send the links to my boyfriend and before bed, he would read them to me as phonetically as possible in order to really emphasize the I am so fucking desperate I can’t be bothered to spell-check this well and mostly because my internet access at the library is about to expire quality of each ad. As bedtime stories go they had everything – a fallen hero (or more realistically, someone who never got up in the first place), usually some sort of infidelity that required a clandestine meeting, and of course, the deeply disillusioned idea that their dick was worthy of a honey baked ham, much less a woman with an equally savory, but somewhat less edible, vagina.

Like many of my hobbies, it was short lived and able to be done from the couch. There are really only so many times you can laugh at the fact that an alarming number of people don’t know that there is a difference between ‘woman’ and ‘women.’ Oh, and not surprisingly, seeing the cock and balls of men who seemingly traded in all of their potential for extra hair on their taints can put a damper on your sex life.

Continue reading…

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Think of this as a sexual favor

November 13, 2009

I bought a cupcake shake last night from Burger King. I didn’t get a picture of it because there isn’t a camera in existence that would’ve been able to capture it in the time before it was devoured. The cupcake shake mimics the taste of cake batter, but the best part is that you don’t have to worry about getting salmonella or diarrhea from the raw eggs (well…it’s Burger King so you probably still do BUT it’s totally worth it). There’s a dollop of whipped cream with sprinkles on top and what I think is ACTUAL CAKE at the bottom. Oh and it comes with what they call a ‘BK Pipe’ (straw) which is about the size of a hot dog. Full disclosure? I’m typing with one hand right now.

I had to fight for this shake. My boyfriend was skeptical and so was hesitant to take the plunge with me. But cake and I are total buds and since I’ve never been let down by anything that tastes like it, my faith didn’t waver. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Can we get a cupcake shake from Burger King?

Him: No, we have to eat dinner first.

Me: Ok, well can we go after dinner?

Him: Maybe.

Me: Ok so we’ll go after dinner.

Him: We’ll go a few hours after dinner.

Me: NO, AS SOON AS DINNER IS FINISHED. AS SOON AS WE PUT OUR FORKS DOWN.

Him: But we’ll be full from dinner.

Me: I’ll break everything you love and make you watch.

Conclusion? I was inhaling my shake within the hour.  The point is – I know how to negotiate. Sure, I have to resort to petty threats and sometimes even pretend I have a gun, but I get results.

In a related and less violent note, I’ve been nominated in the 2009 Weblog Awards for Best Humor Blog. When I see shit like this I usually have an in-depth conversation with myself about the nerve of some people to ask me to stop refreshing Twitter for the 52nd time in the last half hour to leave the page and click on something else. Then I’ll egg myself on to say something and finally take these people to task, but talk myself out of it so I can listen to ‘Candy Rain’ again. So I know it’s a pain in the ass. But you have until November 20th to click here and vote by clicking the green button next to this comment:

WeblogAwards

I’m dropping all my weapons. I couldn’t ever threaten any of you because honestly, I love you more than cake.

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Sexual Healing

March 17, 2009

step by step instructions on how to masturbate and how to get the most out of it for girls only + pictures of vaginas and penis’s

This keyword search popped up today in Google Analytics, and while normally I would laugh and move on to the next fucked up keyword involving raw meat, Vaseline, and Corky Thatcher, I was saddened instead. Ok, I still laughed, but since there was no reported time on site, I felt that I had failed this person in their quest to discover self love.

corky-169x2601

It’s impossible to properly describe how to masturbate. If I could start going door to door doing at home demonstrations, I probably would. That is most likely considered lewd, so for now, I’ll talk about the process I went through that has given me the ability to get off on the inseam of my jeans if necessary. First of all: GET A MIRROR. Looking at my pussy in the mirror was the single most exhilarating experience of my life, and yes, I am counting the time I saw Boyz II Men guest star on Wayne Brady’s Don’t Forget the Lyrics.

It’s important to see what you’re working with and to know the where, what, and why of what feels good. A few phone sex sessions taught me early on that rubbing my clit and half-heartedly moaning, “Oh baby yes I am so wet” doesn’t work. I have to actively participate in my orgasm, I can’t simply be an enabler. Climaxing through stimulation alone is an act in futility, so it is essential for me to bring up my play list of erotic thoughts, which usually includes getting my cunt eaten, sucking cock or usurping Beyonce’s spot in Destiny’s Child.

Most (all) of my masturbation took place on top of a pillow until I was 18 years old, which is coincidentally when I started smuggling dick. In my teens, I went through a phase where I craved penetration. Since I still had a Mickey Mouse themed bathroom, finding the real thing wasn’t possible so I used tampons, markers, and even a Dizzy Doodler just to mimic what a dick would feel like.

There was a definite transition period from humping pillows to penis, and for a long time, I thought that I had somehow sealed my sexual fate by conditioning myself to orgasm on a pile of goose feathers. Truth be told, I didn’t even have a proper idea of where my clit was until my first boyfriend started sucking on it. In my idealism, I thought that the clitoris was strategically positioned somewhere near the opening of the vagina, meaning that it would be stimulated upon its rendezvous with the penis. File that under the list of things I was wrong about, right next to press-on nails and Joey Lawrence’s music career.

I remember I was really embarrassed about the fact that I fucked my pillow as if it was going off to war. I think, because I felt it wasn’t normal, but assessing sex based on whether or not it’s normal probably means that it’s no fun. I had it in my head that I was supposed to give my clit three or four counter clockwise manipulations, maybe insert a finger or two, soak my bedsheets and scream out to the monster cock that just gave me the best orgasm of my life. It doesn’t work that way. Of course, it can work that way, but it takes patience.

That being said, I am officially switching to plastic sheets.

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