mama don't take no mess.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

When coins fall out of a man’s pants pockets and you find them on your bedroom floor the next morning, it’s kind of like being paid asshole tax.



We’ve all been there: Happy hour becomes drinks at dusk, which becomes drinks after dark, which becomes going to bed at three am and shortly thereafter waking up late for work with a serious headache and a stranger in your bed — you’re okay with it; I’m okay with it. What I could do without is the lousy two dimes, three nickels and one penny that are left behind after the man has collected his belongings and left my studio apartment.

I understand that you’re too lazy to bend over for the 36 cents that fell out of your jeans when you vigorously and hornily tossed them aside, but I’m lazy as well. And, I will likely stare down at those coins for at least a week until I finally bend my fat ass over and move them somewhere else so that the change — which seems to shimmer against my dirty wood floor and whisper in my direction, “wham-bam thank you, ma’am” — won’t serve as a constant reminder of my whoreish behavior.

I mean, if you’re going to leave the money on the dresser, in a manner of speaking, at least leave me a few quarters so I can wash the sheets you helped sully. And, shit, aren’t I worth more than 36 cents? I’m no hooker, but if I’m going to be left a tip for my efforts, I think dolla dolla bills are the lowest form of currency I’m going to accept. After all, I’m not the asshole, you are.

Okay, maybe you’re not an asshole, that’s a generalization. For not every guy I wake up next to — or who leaves in the wee hours of the morning — is a total dick. There’s gradient levels of dickdom in every man. However, I’m sure there was some level of disrespect during our exchange — a finger here, an unauthorized pearl necklace there — that leaves me feeling the need for some sort of compensation. And, sadly, the only reparation I’m going to get is that 36 cents that was cast aside as quickly as a used condom.

If I had a nickel for every time I was left a nickel… well I do, actually; and, tragically, I’m still stuck in a cycle of financial strife. If I had been left quarters or even a few Sacajawea coins throughout my many years of skankin it up and bangin it out, I’d probably have a better apartment by now… and maybe even a new car. Pimp My Bee. I wonder if Xzibit is ready for a spin-off of such epic magnitude. Until then, I’m going to label one side of a pickle jar “asshole tax” and the other side “tips” and keep it beside my bed. Let’s see just how much money in spare change a girl can make in a year. I have a feeling I’m going to Disneyworld!

Thursday, June 17, 2010

I love that moment when you and a man meet glances and he has a gleam in his eyes that says, "I’d suck dick for some crack right now."

 

Seeing as I live but footsteps from Colfax — the longest commercial street in the U.S., as well as the dirtiest and most hobo-ridden — I get to see Denver’s crème de la crème on a daily basis. In fact, while walking my dog just the other day, a skinny old man with a grey Grizzly Adam’s beard (and a wooden stick — a resource oft times utilized by dumpster divers) popped his head out of the trash receptacle behind my apartment building and whistled in my direction. You heard it here first, folks: men want this.

While some homeless people in town are friendly and harmless — much like everyone’s favorite domestically disabled fellow with the “SAVIN FOR A ‘HOOKER,’ THANKX” sign — more than a few bums throughout town pick, scratch, twitch and tweak their way down the street while stumbling in your direction and trying to fuck your dog (I really wish that wasn’t a literal example).

This can be an especially creepy moment for some people but, personally, I find nothing more special than that moment when you and a man meet glances and he has a gleam in his eyes that can only mean, "I’d suck dick for some crack right now." Sadly, I have neither crack, nor dick, so our ever-so-special of exchanges ends there and on he stumbles toward Colfax — the melting pot of questionable morals.

Perhaps next time such an incident occurs, I’ll walk my new friend to the alley behind the McDonalds on Colfax and Penn and introduce him to Prison Shank, the neighborhood drug dealer. Ok, I must admit that I have no idea what this meth/crack/crank/ice slinger’s name really is. However, I do know that once, when returning home after using the Red Box (always a slightly frightening affair, seeing as this McDonalds is the home base for hobos), I saw this gangsta-esque fellow exchanging money for a lil baggie of something illegal and I almost walked over to see what he had to offer.

I mean, having a dealer in the neighborhood can have its advantages, but luckily I decided I didn’t want to get stabbed and/or raped, and therefore curiosity did not kill the pussy cat. Plus, I’ve seen those Faces of Meth ads and I can’t be ruining this mug of mine. I guess in the mean time, we’ll just have to swap glances and go on with our lives — me working, partying, sleeping; and he giving rim jobs in rest rooms in exchange for drugs.

I think it would be awesome to tattoo “let’s bone” on my knuckles.

 

While the knuckle tattoo is a bold move — second only to the neck and/or face tattoo; which, as a friend of mine once said, “pretty much indicates this is as far as a person intends to go in life” — it also implements insta-street cred. You’re obviously balls to the wall if you’ve picked an eight-letter phrase that will be read with every handshake for the rest of your life. From that point forward, when you meet someone, they’ll consider that to be your motto — precisely why I think “let’s bone” would be a perfect fit for me. 

I can see it now: I’m introduced to someone and, as I reach forward my right hand to shake theirs, they read “let’s” — most likely in old English font. This person, I’m envisioning a man, would cock his head to the right and strain his vision to ensure that “let’s” is what he is seeing. At that point this man would likely try to peek at my left hand to see just what I want us to do together. I would imagine that, upon seeing the word “bone” beside my tattoo reading “let’s,” this would warrant a sincere guffaw — and perhaps also a firm smack on the ass.

 This introduces a conundrum, however. What if the ass-smacker at hand is a total creepster? What if people see this tattoo and think I’ll bang it out with anyone who happens to read the writing on the wall, so to speak. Just because a person has “let’s bone” tattooed on his or her knuckles, doesn’t mean said person is a slut or will just spread ‘em for every Tom, Dick and Harry — or hairy dick, as the case may be.

In fact, I’ve oftentimes found that, because of the things I say, men assume I’m just going to put out faster than you can say “Panties? I don’t even wear panties.” But what they fail to recognize is that, while I’m dirty-minded, I’m mostly a wordsmith. I make the written language my bitch in an effort to amuse others and, mainly, myself. My goal is not to give you a boner… although, if I do, I’m happy to have helped your current situation somewhat.

To be honest, I wouldn’t even get this tattoo in an effort to get laid, I’d get this tattoo in an effort to amuse myself for life… or at least until I regret the tattoo in, say, ten, twenty years. You know, once everyone and their boss’s mistress has the same tattoo and it’s lost its cachet as a result.

Considering that this would be a decision that would give my mother a heart attack, let’s weigh out the pros and cons, shall we?

Pro: Street cred (Obviously a person with this tattoo doesn’t fuck around… well, maybe in the literal sense.)
Con: Reverse street cred for family and professional-types Pro: Guys would know I’m DTF (although with mitigating circumstances).

Con: Guys would assume I’m DTF them, specifically.

Pro: The words “let’s bone” might encourage a firm smack on the ass.

Con: The words “let’s bone” might encourage a firm smack on the ass from a total creepster.

Pro: I’d most likely get fired from my job.

Con: I’d most likely get fired from my job.

Hmmm, a straight wash. It seems that, while the negative aspects to such a tattoo are mounting, the benefits are also accumulating. While I may in a few years get tired of looking down and seeing the words “let’s bone” tattooed across my hands — especially in times when I’m experiencing a sexual drought — I could always have those eight-letters covered with the words “old whore.”

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

I’m pretty sure second–hand crazy is an actual occurrence.



My boss popped a small green valium and handed me one as well. I used my fingernail to cut it in half and saved the other half, as she’s often stingy with her pills. We were in the Atlanta airport after a four-day business trip and my lower back was killing me. I had slipped and fallen the night before because some asshole spilled their Budweiser in front of the elevator, but luckily my boss is prescribed a plethora of pharmaceuticals, which she carries with her at all times. Well, I’m not so sure “luckily” would be the correct word to describe her situation, but we’ll get to that later.

As my headphones blared, my boss (let’s from this point on call her Prozac Nation) pointed out that we were sitting next to one another on the flight and I couldn’t think of anything I would like more than to switch flights altogether… perhaps kill myself. While having a boss who doles out meds may seem like a pretty chill situation, one who cannot walk a straight line without stumbling and finish a sentence without mumbling is really hard to work with — especially when said person is your direct supervisor.

We boarded the plane and — although I simply cannot sleep on airplanes — I decide to wrap my head in my scarf and try, if nothing else than to discourage my boss to blabbing to me about her cats. I sat quietly with my boss to my left (and my head wrapped like a fashionable mummy) and didn’t peek out until I heard the flight attendant lock the drink cart next to me. I asked for just water so I could go back into hiding and Prozac Nation ordered a coke and a $5 bag of peanut M&Ms. I flipped through my magazine while I finished my water, eager to once more hide in my scarf and avoid imminent annoyance. Meanwhile I noticed Prozac Nation had started to nod off — a pretty amusing debacle, until, that is, she finally passed out.

I was stoked to have gotten rid of her so early in the flight and thought that if only her pills would keep her knocked out, I could make it out of that plane alive. After having spent the past four days with her and all of her eccentricities, I was a ticking time bomb — I also had to constantly remind myself that I had made up fake plans directly after our flight so I didn’t have to drive her home. I smiled smugly at the thought of my white lie and turned to my boss only to see her drooling on herself. I must at this point remind you that she had been drinking Coke-a-Cola and eating peanut M&Ms at the time her pills made her pass out, so a slimy, disturbingly brown substance had began to drip off her lip and created in a puddle on her pale pink v-neck sweater.

It was all I could do not to throw up at that point and I seriously questioned what I had done wrong in my life to, not only work for this person, but to have to sit beside this person whilst she soiled herself. I wanted to wrap my head back up — tout suite — but it was like a car crash: I couldn’t bring myself to look away. While I looked on in repugnance with an Elvis Presley snarl on my face, Prozac Nation, in her drugged sleep, wiped her mouth and realized she had been drooling. I quickly looked back to my magazine as she noticed the puddle of mud that had accrued on the space between her shoulder and her tits. She tried to wipe off the sickening substance — a sad expedition. Finally, I glanced over and caught her eye as she scrubbed at her sweater. Silent, she looked at me like, “what the fuck?” and pointed up as if the drool had magically dripped from part of the plane. I looked back at her as if to say "you wish," pointed to my mouth and nodded my head no.

 
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked.

 
“Sorry, but I didn’t realize you were soiling yourself,” I responded, as I counted down the minutes until I could escape this crazy woman (and likely my own demise, as secondhand crazy seems to be on the horizon). Then, I began once more to wrap up my head in my scarf , as she, with no concept of how long she had been asleep (20 minutes tops), popped yet another valium.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

I was once so drunk I took home a man wearing crocs and soon after learned he had whiskey dick… and that is no coincidence.



When I first moved to town, I pretty much went to the same bar every Thursday night. That is, until I had on three separate nights shamelessly made out with random men at said bar, at which point I cut myself off (three strikes, you’re out). The last of my mortifying make out sessions was indeed the worst. For there I was, in public, making out with someone who was wearing Crocs. No, I’m not kidding. Crocs. In public.

Now I try not to be a hateful person —although I can be quite judgmental and cynical — but almost nothing on this earth disgusts me more than Crocs. I'm sure you’ve seen these squeaky, smelly, vibrantly colored, plastic clogs worn by flocks of families and other people too lazy to accessorize or lace an actual fucking shoe. Everywhere I go: airports, the grocery store, the book store, the most snooty of malls, everyone and their Mom's uncle's mistress's neighbor wears these fucking things. I bet in history books in France people in the U.S. are illustrated with holey orange, green and pink feet. It's just sad… at best.

I, dear friends, am the archetype for the anti-Croc. Take a good look people, I never have and never will own a pair of plastic clogs. I may even go so far as to say if YOU own a pair of Croc's, this is where our friendship ends. They are cheap, tacky, and retarded. They should be outlawed, illegalized, burned in a large, polluting pile in the front lawn of the state capital.

However, give me three Jager shots, two PBRs, and one cute guy and watch these values fly out the window.

My friends claim they pointed out the Crocs before we left the bar, and I must admit I don’t doubt these assertions. However, once you’re drunk enough to make out in public amid friends and strangers, clearly you aren’t too concerned with your reputation at that distinct moment in time. Plus, dick trumps fashion disaster in the walk of shame game.

Without getting into the ever-so-graphic descriptions of my failed attempts to create something out of his dysfunctional erector set, I’ll just say that in the battle of Whiskey vs. The Croc-Clad Stranger, Whiskey won and both the Stranger and yours truly lost.

Indeed, all of my efforts were in vain and when he ran to the bathroom — most likely to try and slap it around a bit — I ran downstairs to tell the girls what was happening upstairs, a statement that he heard and no doubt hindered his dick hardening efforts. He came back in the room, called me out for having called him out, and said he thought he ought to leave.

While I agreed, I was so frustrated that, as he walked out of my house at 4am, I followed him, holding both thumbs down and shouting “Booooooooooo!” down the street (as if the encounter hasn’t been embarrassing enough for him). To be honest, I blamed myself: I had prioritized a hook up before my beliefs and I got exactly what I deserved. But on that night I learned a lesson: While Whiskey Dick is a sad occurrence, Croc Cock is much worse.

I think I should hook up a PayPal link to my cell phone so I can actually get paid for all this sexting.



The last time I called a phone sex hotline was in fifth grade (yeah, I said it). I used to pedal my neon pink and black Murray Outrage to the payphone near the laundry room at my apartment building, dial 1-800-PHONE-SEX and listen to the intro before giggling and hanging up. I can still hear the raspy-voiced vixen on the other line (likely a beast of a woman wearing torn, cheetos-fingerprint stained sweatpants) asking me to put $3.99 into the pay phone so we could begin our wild and naughty adventure. Luckily for me, I didn’t have 16 quarters in my fanny pack.

It’s now 15 years later and, as someone who works 40-hours per week at less than $30,000 salary, I think $3.99 per minute sounds like a perfect pay scale. In fact, if I were to work as a phone sex operator for 40-hours per week, I would be making approximately $240/hour, $1,900/day, $9,500/week, and $494,000/year — minus whatever cut Hot Sluts 4 U would take out annually.


While this seems like a tiring affair, quite a few men currently turn to me for their sexting needs — a task which I am often able to do while working, driving, eating, socializing and so on. So why not get paid for my talents? Isn’t that everyone’s goal in life?
I have decided that the next time I receive a text reading, “Hey I have a hankering to lick some place naughty. What are the chances of that happening tonight?” (Yes, a direct quote.) I will respond: “You have contacted Ridin Dirty Diana’s Sexting Service, please click the following PayPal link to start the slip n’ slide.”

 
This way, I can make it rain, so to speak, while I tantalize the countless ex fuck buddies, cock teases, prospective future mistakes, and people’s boyfriends who I talk to each week. And, since we’re using text messages instead of actually talking on the phone, I won’t be grossed out by all those funny noises men make whilst beatin’ their banana. Plus, I won’t have to brush up on my acting skills, or smoke a pack of Marlboro’s each day to maintain my sexy and coquettish voice. Honestly, I can think of no reason to not immediately implement this program. And I suspect that I already have a following.

 
So, dirty birds who text me frequently, when next you aim to commence a session of dirty talk, please have your Visa or MasterCard ready, because this shit aint free anymore. I’m going to take over the world, one “I’m so wet” at a time.