PussyRanch site: Original content from PussyRanch.blogspot.com
FFF: Forbidden Anatomy!
1. What is your position on rim jobs? By this, of course, we refer to oral-anal contact.
2. Balls: Deserving of more pleasure, or basically unimportant?
3. Have you ever wanted to fuck or be fucked using an unconventional body part, such as feet or armpits? Hands don't count.
4. Iggy Pop claims he has, but I don't believe him. Have YOU ever had it in the ear before?
5. The prostate: useful for sexual encounters or something that, DEAR GOD, nobody should ever come anywhere near, ever (crosses self)?
Jon 7:22 AM Â Â
Â
Porn Shui: noun, refers to the art of positioning oneself in one's office or cubicle so that one can surf porn undetected. Usage: "I have great porn shui- I face the hallway and the desk behind me is vacant."
Jonny insisted that I blog about the following misunderstood-lyrics anecdote. Remember: I was a KID for Chrissakes.
You know that soppy '80s song that goes, "Every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you?"
Well, when I heard that song as a kid, I had just learned about Elijah, the Biblical prophet and how ravens had brought him meat when he was in hiding. And I thought the song was about Elijah's travails, and that the chorus went "Every time you go away, you take a piece of meat with you."
See how Bible study poisons a child's developing awareness of bad pop culture? For shame.
Diablo 6:36 AM Â Â
Thursday, July 31, 2003
Â
I got a sunburn exclusively on my forehead. The rest of my face is fine.
I was trying to figure out how this happened, then I realized it's because I don't have bangs for the first time in about seven years. So all that tender, sheltered fore-flesh is suddenly being exposed to the sun.
The body is weird.
In that vein, I am loving my braid extensions; they're starting to look a little messy and hippie, which I enjoy. Next, I'm going to make my own synthetic dreadlocks and attach them to my head, a project I'm looking forward to.
I have no idea why I wasted so many years wishing my own limp hair would look cool when it's so easy to buy some fake stuff and tack it on!
Diablo 10:24 AM Â Â
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Â
Attention, McDonalds fetishists: I adventurously tried the "new" Chicken McNuggets they've been promoting so heavily. Apparently they use actual white chicken meat now, instead of the usual emu gizzards.
I was expecting the nuggets to be juicy and comprised of actual whole breast meat, like Wendy's nuggets. Mmm. I'm Dave Thomas' posthumous bitch.
Unfortunately, the "new" McDonalds nuggets are the same gelatinous, porous mystery chunks we all know and love. Plus, unlike the hamburgers, they look nothing like pussy.
Diablo 12:29 PM Â Â
Â
I was waiting for the bus this morning on the corner of Placid and Suburban, jonesing for a cold Mountain Dew and pondering my human defects. I'm trying to figure out why (how?) some people hit their twenties and automatically begin cultivating roses, making polenta, committing fully to jobs and functioning.
I feel like I lack some fundamental gene, because I still can't balance a checkbook, I only cook for economy's sake (and even then, minimally and occasionally), I routinely wear dirty laundry, I actually killed a Chia Herb Garden last year (no shit), I still think it's funny to steal from work, I do stuff like leaving my shocking-pink vibrator on the bedroom floor instead of having the basic courtesy to put it back in my underwear drawer, I don't really have an underwear drawer because I don't wear underwear, and I have horrific credit.
(The one thing I've done according to plan is finding the right person to love. And I totally got lucky on that one, because a.) he rocks and b.) the fact that he comes complete with accompanying child means there's no immediate pressure on me to "grow up" and procreate. HOLLA!)
The playing field used to be level. In college, everyone was a fool. Sure, I was always the messiest roommate and the least-serious student, sure I lived for an entire year on Hardees, gummy orange slices and keg beer. But there was always someone around who was a bigger fuck-up. Until graduation, when everyone got all J. Crew on my ass and started caring about window treatments and Weber grills.
I am not messy and unsettled in an adorable, sanitized, Jennifer Aniston-esque way. I am messy and unsettled like your recently-divorced uncle with the gin blisters. I am like a destructive masturbating bear cutting a swathe through Minneapolis, tainting the twentysomething scene with my juvenile antics.
Fashion note: Today I passed Banana Republic (a store so beloved by my coworkers that they refer to it simply as "Banana") and I noticed that space knits are back in. You know, that zig-zaggy pixelated pattern that appeared on many a nouveau-disco shirt a few years ago? That one. I was confused because space knits were just in style in, like, 1996. Jenny McCarthy's career was stratospheric, and I was regularly being tested for STDs. And now, they're back! Weren't they "in" too recently to be back "in"? Or is this an other example of accelerated culture, quickly circulating trends?
Nineties retro, motherfuckers.
Diablo 7:31 AM Â Â
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Â
The Book
I am doggedly attempting to finish The Book. Well, "doggedly" implies a certain determination and stick-to-it-ness that I've never counted among my personality traits, but I am attempting. The past two nights I've listened to those adorably tousled All-American Rejects while perched in front of my (Nineties retro!) Bondi blue iMac. The Book shall be conquered soon, this I swear to you.
I started writing The Book in 1999, when I was living in the Dodge Mahal, an ill-maintained college house so named because it was on Dodge Street in Iowa City. The Dodge Mahal was so squalidly kept that there was an overturned full-size Christmas tree in the living room. In May. I remember writing the first paragraph of The Book (which has now been so heavily edited that it bears little resemblance to those opening lines) and thinking "This could be something." Little did I know it would take me four years to write seventy pages. Seventy. 7-0. Stephen King probably writes seventy pages during his morning rehabilitative Pilates, and it takes me four fucking years.
The shocker is that I work on it often. I'm just so obsessive that I'll routionely rewrite entire ten page blocks. I'm never satisfied. I still think it sucks.
I have no idea if my back-assward labors will ever pay off. Today, for fiction by a woman to be considered marketable, it has to be about a sassy Prada-clad nanny/editorial assistant trying to find love in Manhattan. I don't think a slim novel about a bulimic high school physics teacher who's obsessed with amusement parks qualifies as "hot fic" these days.
I'm gonna finish. I have about fifty pages to go, so we're looking at, oh, 2005?
Diablo 7:11 AM Â Â
Monday, July 28, 2003
Â
Okay, I feel dramatically less le blah now. Thanks, gang!
Jonny's parents (the "out-laws"-- a little joke for all of you living in sin) took us to Joe's Crab Shack for dinner yesterday. Joe's is a riot of Gulf kitsch, goofy signs, disco lights, and tie-dyed merchandise. At first, Jonny and I snickered at how passe the Joe's esthetic is; I mean, the waitrons were doing the Macarena, there was a life-sized Bill Clinton on the wall, the bartender's wore "GOT CRABS?" t-shirts and I swear I saw a reference to a "Bo Knows" joke.
But then Jon pointed out the possibility that Joe's Crab Shack may be the world's first nineties retro eatery.* Imagine that! I mean, culture moves at such an accelerated pace these days; why shouldn't we be experiencing nineties nostalgia?
*Or it could just be hilariously dated.
When the chagrined waitstaff was forced to do a synchronized dance under the watchful eye of the manager, I exclaimed "It's just like stripping!" It totally was, too. Same false enthusiasm, same dead eyes. At the Luxe we occasionally had to go onstage, stand in a V-shaped formation like a klatsch of spandex-clad geese, and clap in unison to some stupid "rousing" song. And everyone would clap as halfheartedly as they could get away with. "You girls look like Jerry's Kids up there!" the manager used to yell. "Your clapping is off!" Ha.
1. What is your position on rim jobs? By this, of course, we refer to oral-anal contact.
2. Balls: Deserving of more pleasure, or basically unimportant?
3. Have you ever wanted to fuck or be fucked using an unconventional body part, such as feet or armpits? Hands don't count.
4. Iggy Pop claims he has, but I don't believe him. Have YOU ever had it in the ear before?
5. The prostate: useful for sexual encounters or something that, DEAR GOD, nobody should ever come anywhere near, ever (crosses self)?
Jon 7:22 AM Â Â
Â
Porn Shui: noun, refers to the art of positioning oneself in one's office or cubicle so that one can surf porn undetected. Usage: "I have great porn shui- I face the hallway and the desk behind me is vacant."
Jonny insisted that I blog about the following misunderstood-lyrics anecdote. Remember: I was a KID for Chrissakes.
You know that soppy '80s song that goes, "Every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you?"
Well, when I heard that song as a kid, I had just learned about Elijah, the Biblical prophet and how ravens had brought him meat when he was in hiding. And I thought the song was about Elijah's travails, and that the chorus went "Every time you go away, you take a piece of meat with you."
See how Bible study poisons a child's developing awareness of bad pop culture? For shame.
Diablo 6:36 AM Â Â
Thursday, July 31, 2003
Â
I got a sunburn exclusively on my forehead. The rest of my face is fine.
I was trying to figure out how this happened, then I realized it's because I don't have bangs for the first time in about seven years. So all that tender, sheltered fore-flesh is suddenly being exposed to the sun.
The body is weird.
In that vein, I am loving my braid extensions; they're starting to look a little messy and hippie, which I enjoy. Next, I'm going to make my own synthetic dreadlocks and attach them to my head, a project I'm looking forward to.
I have no idea why I wasted so many years wishing my own limp hair would look cool when it's so easy to buy some fake stuff and tack it on!
Diablo 10:24 AM Â Â
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Â
Attention, McDonalds fetishists: I adventurously tried the "new" Chicken McNuggets they've been promoting so heavily. Apparently they use actual white chicken meat now, instead of the usual emu gizzards.
I was expecting the nuggets to be juicy and comprised of actual whole breast meat, like Wendy's nuggets. Mmm. I'm Dave Thomas' posthumous bitch.
Unfortunately, the "new" McDonalds nuggets are the same gelatinous, porous mystery chunks we all know and love. Plus, unlike the hamburgers, they look nothing like pussy.
Diablo 12:29 PM Â Â
Â
I was waiting for the bus this morning on the corner of Placid and Suburban, jonesing for a cold Mountain Dew and pondering my human defects. I'm trying to figure out why (how?) some people hit their twenties and automatically begin cultivating roses, making polenta, committing fully to jobs and functioning.
I feel like I lack some fundamental gene, because I still can't balance a checkbook, I only cook for economy's sake (and even then, minimally and occasionally), I routinely wear dirty laundry, I actually killed a Chia Herb Garden last year (no shit), I still think it's funny to steal from work, I do stuff like leaving my shocking-pink vibrator on the bedroom floor instead of having the basic courtesy to put it back in my underwear drawer, I don't really have an underwear drawer because I don't wear underwear, and I have horrific credit.
(The one thing I've done according to plan is finding the right person to love. And I totally got lucky on that one, because a.) he rocks and b.) the fact that he comes complete with accompanying child means there's no immediate pressure on me to "grow up" and procreate. HOLLA!)
The playing field used to be level. In college, everyone was a fool. Sure, I was always the messiest roommate and the least-serious student, sure I lived for an entire year on Hardees, gummy orange slices and keg beer. But there was always someone around who was a bigger fuck-up. Until graduation, when everyone got all J. Crew on my ass and started caring about window treatments and Weber grills.
I am not messy and unsettled in an adorable, sanitized, Jennifer Aniston-esque way. I am messy and unsettled like your recently-divorced uncle with the gin blisters. I am like a destructive masturbating bear cutting a swathe through Minneapolis, tainting the twentysomething scene with my juvenile antics.
Fashion note: Today I passed Banana Republic (a store so beloved by my coworkers that they refer to it simply as "Banana") and I noticed that space knits are back in. You know, that zig-zaggy pixelated pattern that appeared on many a nouveau-disco shirt a few years ago? That one. I was confused because space knits were just in style in, like, 1996. Jenny McCarthy's career was stratospheric, and I was regularly being tested for STDs. And now, they're back! Weren't they "in" too recently to be back "in"? Or is this an other example of accelerated culture, quickly circulating trends?
Nineties retro, motherfuckers.
Diablo 7:31 AM Â Â
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Â
The Book
I am doggedly attempting to finish The Book. Well, "doggedly" implies a certain determination and stick-to-it-ness that I've never counted among my personality traits, but I am attempting. The past two nights I've listened to those adorably tousled All-American Rejects while perched in front of my (Nineties retro!) Bondi blue iMac. The Book shall be conquered soon, this I swear to you.
I started writing The Book in 1999, when I was living in the Dodge Mahal, an ill-maintained college house so named because it was on Dodge Street in Iowa City. The Dodge Mahal was so squalidly kept that there was an overturned full-size Christmas tree in the living room. In May. I remember writing the first paragraph of The Book (which has now been so heavily edited that it bears little resemblance to those opening lines) and thinking "This could be something." Little did I know it would take me four years to write seventy pages. Seventy. 7-0. Stephen King probably writes seventy pages during his morning rehabilitative Pilates, and it takes me four fucking years.
The shocker is that I work on it often. I'm just so obsessive that I'll routionely rewrite entire ten page blocks. I'm never satisfied. I still think it sucks.
I have no idea if my back-assward labors will ever pay off. Today, for fiction by a woman to be considered marketable, it has to be about a sassy Prada-clad nanny/editorial assistant trying to find love in Manhattan. I don't think a slim novel about a bulimic high school physics teacher who's obsessed with amusement parks qualifies as "hot fic" these days.
I'm gonna finish. I have about fifty pages to go, so we're looking at, oh, 2005?
Diablo 7:11 AM Â Â
Monday, July 28, 2003
Â
Okay, I feel dramatically less le blah now. Thanks, gang!
Jonny's parents (the "out-laws"-- a little joke for all of you living in sin) took us to Joe's Crab Shack for dinner yesterday. Joe's is a riot of Gulf kitsch, goofy signs, disco lights, and tie-dyed merchandise. At first, Jonny and I snickered at how passe the Joe's esthetic is; I mean, the waitrons were doing the Macarena, there was a life-sized Bill Clinton on the wall, the bartender's wore "GOT CRABS?" t-shirts and I swear I saw a reference to a "Bo Knows" joke.
But then Jon pointed out the possibility that Joe's Crab Shack may be the world's first nineties retro eatery.* Imagine that! I mean, culture moves at such an accelerated pace these days; why shouldn't we be experiencing nineties nostalgia?
*Or it could just be hilariously dated.
When the chagrined waitstaff was forced to do a synchronized dance under the watchful eye of the manager, I exclaimed "It's just like stripping!" It totally was, too. Same false enthusiasm, same dead eyes. At the Luxe we occasionally had to go onstage, stand in a V-shaped formation like a klatsch of spandex-clad geese, and clap in unison to some stupid "rousing" song. And everyone would clap as halfheartedly as they could get away with. "You girls look like Jerry's Kids up there!" the manager used to yell. "Your clapping is off!" Ha.
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