Only Mr. Pansy

Only Mr. Pansy

Something Pansy Found 2 Lifetimes Ago

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, But to be fearless in facing them.
Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain,
But for the heart to conquer it.
Let me not look for allies in life's battlefield,
But to my own strength.
Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved,
But hope for the patience to win my freedom.
Grant me that I may not be a coward,
Feeling your mercy in my success alone,
But let me find the grasp of your hand in my failure.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)

Tuesday, November 4, 2008


I am very pleased and proud to share my "Pansy's Ultimate XXXtreme Original Best House Cleaning System". It is being offered here as a Public Service but mostly because it is part of my parole requirements:

(1) matches
(2) fire hose
(3) large drain in center of room

Pull all contents out of every orifice in room, light match, do ritualistic dancing around fire (heavy drinking allowed AND encouraged), when flames die down use fire hose to flush all ashes down the center drain. Repeat for each room of house.

This System works for Everybody! Because it is an Absolute Fact that anyone can open any cabinet/drawer/closet in their home at random and they will NEVER fucking find anything more recent than telephone books from 2003.

Fuck the sorting into "yes" "no" "maybe" baskets. Burn all the fucking baskets, too. Seriously. I am not even the packrat of the Pansy Family. Reference: "Pansy Loves Grease" which discusses among other things Mr. The Ultimate Packrat Pansy and his goddammed spark fucking plugs. But I am not still bitter.

For god's sake would someone please tell Pansy what to do with old VCR tapes? They each have about 30 minutes of some lameass TV broadcast from as long ago as when "Pong" was all the rage in video games. Pansy has a "Pong" in her attic! And I ain't just talking about the house attic if you know what I mean. How else to explain this convulsion of shit in my house?

I should definitely cut each tape so that it is rendered useless, load them all up in the car and go to the dump. I have to cut the tapes to pre-empt someone viewing all the personal porn that I undoubtedly made with god-knows-who/when/where and have forgotten about. I am talking 17 grocery bags of stupid old VCR tapes! And there are 8 shelves of shit above my computer that I still haven't culled of useless VCR tapes.

But, wait! That's not all! You say YOUR house is too messy to be cleaned just using matches? Pansy's New and Improved Ultimate XXXtreme Original Best House Cleaning System is now available with a Fully Functioning Military Grade FLAMETHROWER at no additional cost if you send Just One (1) boatload of money within the next 20 minutes!

YOUR system could be on its way to you today! Or not. Send those boatloads NOW!!! All orders placed in the next 20 minutes will be eligible for a drawing to win a Roseanne Wet Bar Ride Around Vacuum Cleaner!


Published 11/5/2008: Cleaning cobwebs with blow torch blamed for house fire in Sargent
A single-story home in Sargent was damaged by fire Wednesday morning after the homeowner accidentally set the fire while cleaning cobwebs from the eaves around the exterior of the residence with a blow torch.

Pansy has LONG been promoting her house cleaning program. Since at least the early 1970s..........way before this faker in Sargent decided to steal her Original Idea.

Thursday, October 30, 2008


No wonder I felt so fucking awful while riding 70-ish miles this past Saturday! In fact, I felt SO bad that on Sunday I threw a tantrum and REFUSED to ride more than 40 miles. I was still feeling not great on Monday but I went to work anyway. Mostly because I have a lunch date every Monday with My Very Most Christian Friend Vicki at Denny's and I will fucking do ANYTHING for a free ass lunch. Including talking/listening to her.

She and I told each other long ago.... god, I think I have known her for almost 10 years? Fuck, no wonder she looks so much older and haggier now! hahahaha! Naw. In fact, she is a Dead Ringer for a (oxymoron alert!) "good looking Camilla". The Camilla that married Prince Homeliest Man Who Would Be King (but for the fact that his oldass bitch of a mom will NOT fucking die already!) in the history of inbred Englishmen. If Camilla were "prettied up"....she would look like Vicki.

Anyways, we told each other long ago that we could be friends and say anything to each other no matter what. Well, she evidently has the nerve to take me at my lying-through-my-teeth word and said this OUT LOUD:

Vicki: I voted "yes" on every proposition on the ballot just to Make Sure I did NOT mess up voting Yes on Prop. 8 (allows gay marriage in California).

Me: [choking on food and nearly passing out.] WHAT?

Vicki said (OUT LOUD again!) that Prop. 8 just could not happen because then sex will be taught to 2nd graders.

Vicki, honey, there's plenty of "sex education" going on already at the hands of priests, ministers, and second graders' own damn parents! And Pansy ain't talking about the Good Kind of sex education. But I don't tell her that. It would not change her mind about Prop. 8. Amazingly, her parents bankroll the Democratic Party so this just has to be breaking their elderly hearts to have raised such spawn of satan. hahahhahahha! Even the most insane throwback caveperson mentality knows that gay marriage isn't gonna kill anyone. Except in gay marriage domestic violence situations, I suppose. I just don't understand people who worry about gay marriage. I mean how did Vicki arrive at that side of the issue? With her parentage, she couldn't have been BORN that way, could she? hahahhahahaha! (That was a twist pun on gays being born that way. In case you didn't get it.)

Anyways....THAT is not what made Pansy feel so bad during her bike rides. Especially since the bike rides happened before the lunch with Vicki. No, what happened is I went in for chemo today and waddayaknow? I have a FEVER! I am SICK! I think it's all you internet people. I probably have an Internet Virus! hahahahahhaha! (THAT'S another twist on another pun. In case you didn't get it.) But then I ran a scan on my computer and there aren't any viruses there. So you assholes are off the hook. Hey! That's ANOTHER pun! ("Off the hook" means different things depending on your elderliness. In case you didn't get it.)

So I am left wondering "what's up" or, to better relate to you buncha punks "wassup?" I eventually figured out what happened. I filled out my absentee ballot and I VOTED FOR JOHN McCAIN AND YOU CAN'T STOP ME. But not to worry. I live in California and this state's Electoral College has already long gone loopy over Barry Obama so my vote totally does not count, makes not a bit of difference, and I am even all down with Obama being President. Even so, I VOTED FOR JOHN McCAIN.

Anyways, I have been Actually Really Trying to study and educate myself for this stupid election. In case you babies don't know: in every election EVER there has always been One Candidate who had it in the bag. And without exception That Candidate always then proceeds to do their damndest to lose the fucking bag. J0HN McCAIN, WHOM I VOTED FOR has done the Very Most Perfect Job of Fucking Blowing His Bag that Pansy has ever witnessed.

I voted sensibly and educatably (Is that a word? Looks like I need some more edumacation my own stupid self!) on the Propositions and I am generally FOR anything that involves Education or Prevention. So I supported money for junior colleges (they are the Higher Education Lifeline for people who are never going to get into Big Time Colleges) and I supported lighter sentences that included diversion programs for certain non-violent drug crimes.

Because if society does not give its marginal, slipping between the cracks people a hand in mercy they will find themselves being bitch slapped in about 5 years by a marginal person that has a gun in one hand and crack in the other. And NO junior college credits, neither!

Anyways, I know what made Pansy sick. It wasn't that PANSY VOTED FOR JOHN McCAIN. It was the stress of voting her leanings and feelings in the face of this Mass Hysteria over Obama. He is NOT the Chosen One. He is a politician.

Hey! Are we allowed to discuss politics on the internet? If not, the jury will please disregard the prior statements in this post. hahahhahahahahhahahahahahahhaha!


Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Pansy Turns Great Tricks!

Oddly enough, Pansy does not "DO Halloween" even though it is the quintessential "trick or treat" occasion. But she is waaayyyy into April matter what day of the year the calendar claims it really is.

1. Put a split loop (used to attach charms to bracelets) on nostril so it appears to have been pierced. Become annoyed by everyone at work because they don't even question that Pansy would actually DO something that. Switch loop from nostril to nostril during day. Become incredulous that NO ONE NOTICES the switcheroo-ing. Go into attorney's office to complain that the Office Manager is having a hissy fit. IF Attorney continues looking down at paperwork on desk increase the complaining with aggravated tone and say "the piercing parlor assured me this is an acceptable Business Look and now I am being told I have to remove it." Enjoy seeing attorney look up, stare, lay head facedown on desk and say "Pansy, what are we going to do with you? And, yes, you are going to have to remove that piercing." Remove piercing "forcefully" by yanking it out while squeezing opened ketchup packet cleverly pre-concealed in palm of hand. Cry out in "pain". Revive attorney.

2. Start new job (NOT because of prior "nose piercing" incident) and learn on Day 2 that the Office Holiday Party is in one week. Ask what the dress code will be for the party. It's "casual." Boldly Declare "I don't care. I am dressing up." Whole office decides that sounds nice and they are in formal wear on the Day of Party. Arrive in lovely holiday dress festooned with fish-shaped battery-powered lights and other ornaments attached all over dress. [Be careful when sitting.] When asked where the batteries for the lights are, say "Only my gynecologist knows for certain." Somehow keep job.

3. When it's really hot outside and co-workers need a refreshing drink? Fill glasses with ice cubes, a few ounces of Coca Cola, and lots of yesterday's old, room temperature, mold-filled (well, one can always hope) coffee. The Coke gives it just enough fizz to entice co-workers to take a big thirsty gulp. Run away before spewing begins.

4. Place stickers over the earpiece of telephone handsets of co-worker(s). Add layers of stickers on top of stickers until co-workers believe they are going deaf. The stickers can even be BRIGHT GREEN or YELLOW or RED but somehow are never noticed. Sometimes the co-workers will shout into the phone to see if the caller is also having difficulty hearing. Especially if you do #5:

5. Call co-worker with stickered up phone, disguise voice, shout back and forth with them......while you are in your cubicle RIGHT NEXT TO IDIOT CO-WORKER.

6. Use GREEN Sharpie Felt Pen for lipstick. It looks awful, tastes worse, and makes your teeth look like they have been soaked in week-old yellow urine. Mmmmmmm. Wear many different shades of green clothing together. Oddly, it embarrasses [bonus!] your friends/co-workers to be seen with you even if it IS St. Patrick's Day.

7. When riding bicycles if a lizard, but especially a SNAKE, is nearby tell rider in front of you that it has gotten tangled up in their rear wheel spokes. Enjoy their screams and amusing body gyrations. Be careful to avoid them should they crash.

8. Carry automotive oil with you at all times. When co-worker is showing off new vehicle/motorcyle pour oil underneath vehicle so that it appears to be leaking from their new treasure. They look so cute when they get "upset".

9. This is the only Pansy Trick that really must be used ONLY ON APRIL FOOL'S DAY! Tell attorney that the firm's Most Important Client has just called and is quite angry about why no one was at airport to pick them up. Confess that you forgot to let anyone know that the Client had called and told you that information a week ago. Use defribrillator that you have brought to office in preparation for this joke on attorney. When attorney is sufficiently recovered, at his urging pull same joke on Office Manager. Barely keep job.

10. Obtain just enough information from strangers via the internet and use it to trick them into believing you are their "friend". Then dump on them a fake email you have made out of whole cloth about how a "mutual internet friend" hates them. Laugh heartily over their freakout. Oh, wait. That was YOU? Sooo sorry! hahahhahahahaha!

There are more. Perhaps you have some to share? Just know that if you share, Pansy will move heaven and earth to twist it and use it on you. hahahahhahaha!

Thursday, October 16, 2008


I originally only came here for your planet's water. Who knew your fucking gravity would make Pansy have to stay the rest of her life?

I am a fine and sturdy mare. [Read: fat from those fucking steroids.] I have been dieting since 7/1/06 when I was awakened by the same old/same old: the singing birds, the nectar on muffins, the several partially-clothed, muscular Man Servants fawning at my bedside. HO HUM. But 7/1/06 was different in that I also awoke with this thought/command suddenly screaming at me in my brain: I am going on a diet and this time I really mean it.

The "This Time I Really Mean It Diet" involves:

1. Eating less food. I do a combo of my version of WeightWatchers and my version of Special K's cereal diet. I have tea/toast for breakfast; chicken salad lunch, cereal or spaghetti for dinner. The worst? NO DESSERTS EVER. Except for those 4-5 pieces of coconut cream pie (crack on a plate) I have had since 7/1/06, I mean it about the NO DESSERTS EVER. God, who fucking made THAT rule up?

2. Exercising vigorously (my version of "vigorously" anyway) most days of the week which I do by riding my bicycle. I rode 8,000+ miles in 2007 and am on track for only 5500 miles for 2008. Shut up, you hyenas! I got waylaid this year with 3 surgeries so I have a doctor's note that excused me from P.E. Is that okay with you fuckers? God, there's a critic in every damn crowd.

3. Going to bed angry and hungry. The going to bed angry thing is nothing new but that going to bed hungry shit is really ratcheting up the Anger Quotient. And, please guys: no matter how many times you offer it up, us wimmin do NOT consider your Special Male Appendage to be an acceptable substitute for a "snack". So stuff it, already. And I don't mean THERE, either! God, you horndogs are sooo predictable.

Oh, how I have prayed for an eating disorder. I would only want it for a month or two, okay? After all, I am not greedy. I just want to be NOT FAT. Actually, currently I am NOT FAT. Just not as NOT FAT as I want to be. I topped out at 218 pounds. I did not even hit 100 pounds until after I graduated from high school so that is some Big Momma for me.

The worst is right now: Size 12 clothes are too big/Size 10 clothes are too tight. Nothing fits! Now you know why Pansy has to go to Jamaica for vacations: it's the naked resort for me until this diet thing gets me out of my current awkward-in-between size.

No. Wait! Pansy is [gasp!] WRONG! The WORST of it is this: with the dieting and the exercise I do, why in hell don't I weigh 102 pounds al-fucking-ready? I have lost just under 1 pound per week since 7/1/06. Who the fuck has been stealing those "2 pounds per week" that I am supposed to lose? I can't even manage to lose 1 pound a week. dammit.

I know, I know. It's those Magic Meals I eat the day of/day after chemo: Velveeta Cheeeezee grilled sandwich/tomato soup/7-Up. With white sugar sprinkled on top of it all. WHITE SUGAR IS NOT A just has low self-esteem. And those steroids. Why do cancer patients get fucked over on even the steroids? Why can't we get the Muscle Steroids instead of those stupid Health Steroids? No wonder that Pansy packed on a few pounds between the steroids and the "After Chemo Anything That Goes Down Is All Good." NO, PANSY DOES NOT MEAN SHE "GOES DOWN" after chemo. Even if, you know, she does. Damn fucking one-track-mind horndogs. Which is not at all like a big hot and salty Corndog.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

The Streets Will Run With The Blood Of Pansy

Well, gotta have a dramatic title, ya know. Pansy has decided she actually has only ONE ISSUE. It's them damned Needles. Pansy will confess to (hell, she'll actually COMMIT) the most heinous crimes ever if doing so will allow her to avoid a needle in her personal space. Or anywhere else in her body for that matter. She had a "childhood trauma" that totally ruined Pansy for life about needles. I won't even discuss how it totally fucks up her ability to properly maintain a decent heroin habit, ya know.

As an Air Force Brat, I lived in San Salvador, El Salvador from ages 3 through 9. Vaccinations or "shots" of some horrible kind or another on a regular basis were de rigueur. All kinds of shots. Every one of them nasty. In every limb. Every few months. By the end of each "shots day" my siblings and I would be quite paralyzed from muscular pain, swelling, and etc. (It's that goddam "etc." that gets ya every time!) Our "treat" was we were each given a fucking paddle ball toy. It was a little rubber ball tethered to a wooden paddle with an elastic string. We would paddle ball the holy shit out of our miserable little selves on orders from our military parents supposedly to loosen up our muscles. It just added to the pain as far as my memory is concerned. Whatever sadistic bastard invented that piece of shit toy......well, just wait til Pansy gets her hooves on him! Poor Paddle Balls. They are probably innocent "happy memories" for other children. NOT FOR PANSY!

All in all, it's been a damned good thing for Pansy that for most of her life she was always as healthy as THREE Clydesdale horses put together. No major injuries, no stitches. Look, Ma! No cavities! A fairytale somewhat needle-free life until that fateful day.....when Pansy decided to make a friend. A very selfish friend who all of a sudden decided SHE wanted some major surgery. Which required lots of blood. So Stupid Pansy went and donated blood. What a mistake that was.

Donating blood means voluntarily allowing a needle to tear a hole in my pristine flesh. Did you know that? It's true! And for what? There is NO BENEFIT TO YOURSELF from donating blood. "Save a Life." Piffle. At least you get immunity with vaccinations. Next to me at the blood place was a Big, Burly Man. Not as Manned Up as Pansy, of course. And what happens to the Big Man and Man Pansy? We both go into low grade shock from the "trauma" of donating blood and begin weeping! What the fuck?! So we are weeping and laughing at the ludicrous situation we find our manly selves in.

The blood people are not amused and they shuffle us off to another room so we can't continue making a scene and scaring off other would-be blood donors. They monitor us and called our respective people to come take us home since we were not fit to drive. A couple hours later each of us, now best of manly friends, still weeping and laughing, leave with our spouses. And have to make arrangements to get our extra cars home, too. The next day, to add insult on top of injury, the blood people called me to let me know my blood was unsuitable and THEY THREW IT AWAY! My friend did get "blood credits" for my attempt. Sheesh. They threw it away because it contained Hepatitis B stuff/germs/whatever. I was ordered to never again darken their door. hahahhahha! Fine, fuckers! THAT stupid rule is one Pansy will gladly obey.

Years later when I was pregnant with Daughter #2 the Hepatitis B vaccine had just been invented and mass produced so all pregnant women were subjected to blood testing for Hepatitis B. Of course, I came back positive for Hep-B. My ignorant obstetrician handled it by bringing down all kinds of hellfire damnation talk on me. I finally said "so what am I supposed to do here?" He said "get an appointment ASAP with a gastroenterologist and don't come back until you have seen one and we have his report." I literally walked out of there in such shock and dismay that I said to Mr. Pansy "Now I know what someone who has just been told they have AIDS must feel like." And I meant it.

As I drove home from the obstetrician I decided "Well, I'm dead meat; Mr. Pansy is probably dead meat; I will try to save my child (daughter #1)." I called her pediatrician that day and somehow from the tone in my voice that Wonderful Angel Doctor told me to hang up and come right away to his office--that very minute. He made patients wait while he sat me down and read aloud, tracing his finger on the words, from some big doctor book all about Hep-B. He did everything so right and wonderful and he saved my sanity.

The various doctors and I decided there is little doubt that during the years in Central America those needles were used on: horses; goats; swiped on a sleeve; me. Not necessarily always in that order. Sometimes the goats went first. But I am from Strong German Stock (Percherons, I hope) and my bout with Hep-B was probably thought to be a bad cold or flu. Plus there was nothing to be done back then even if anything else was suspected. So, after bunches of tests and I am not a "Hepatitis B carrier" which upsets Mr. Pansy because, as usual, he is always looking for some way out of this hellish marriage he finds himself ensnared in. The kids are safe, alive and well and I gave the obstetrician Quite the Piece of Pansy's Mind.

The tie-in here to Present Day is two-fold.

FIRST TIE-IN: back then the gastro-guy told me "You are healthy but there is an increased risk that you'll have liver issues later on when you're over 50." Well, whaddayaknow? I did eventually end up "in my 50s" with "liver issues". I don't have liver cancer but I do have a liver that is smothered in jillions of tumors. Which is not at all like having liver that is smothered in onions. When I got my cancer news what kept me alive at that moment were these 3 thoughts, in this order:

1. I am so glad this is not a surprise. Surprising people is Pansy's Turf! That gastro-guy did warn me and I am shocked, but at least I am not completely blindsided.
2. I am so glad my children are grown up.
3. I am so glad we are somewhat financially stable.

I was GLAD...GLAD, GLAD, GLAD, SO VERY FUCKING GLAD when I got my cancer news! Haw! Not quite, but survival genes evidently run very strong in my emotional makeup and I was in survival overdrive instantaneously. I probably have terrific powers of denial and I am very driven by Shame. I would literally die from shame if I did not have the guts to do whatever was asked of me to fight this cancer. I will take any drug, drink any combination of mammal/insect piss, put any kind of suppository up any orifice. I will not let myself die from having chosen to NOT try some option....offered by DOCTORS. I won't be traveling to Mexico for powdered apricot pits ala Steve McQueen but I would be terribly embarrassed if anyone anywhere could ever say "She didn't try."

SECOND TIE-IN: I may not be able to donate blood ever again but guess what? Me and my Hep-B got passed on to my daughters in a Most Bizarre Classic Only With Pansy way: they each have SUPER BLOOD which contains the magic ingredients needed to make the Hep-B vaccine! Their blood is literally worth more than its weight in gold. Take THAT, stoopid blood donor place.

Moral of Story: be careful....that blood you drink at your next Midnight Dance Naked Under The Full Moon Ritual just might be from Pansy via her daughers' donations! hahahhahahahaha!

Friday, October 10, 2008


It's taken me awhile to process this event and some of you know the story but here it is again, anyway.

People I know think I am so "brave" with my cancer. It's because they believe that bullshit about cancer. It uses its Big Bad Scary Muthafucka street rep to scare people who don't have cancer. Getting cancer is not a good way to learn that it is actually a cowardly pathetic chickenshit that has no purpose other than to lie in wait for its chance to attack when no one is looking. Come out front and center, Cancer. Then we'll see who's the Real Muthafucka.

Since I got cancer I think of myself this way: I have become my own Special Needs person. I still love me, take care of me, am glad for what I can do, proud of what improvements I achieve, and once in awhile I even mope around because Pity Parties are a part of NORMAL people's everyday lives.

I will never again be the person I used to be. But every day each of us is no longer the person we were yesterday. At best we are one day older, one day more feeble, one day closer to dying. Everyone has to go through that even if they don't ever have cancer. Every day is a day that might turn out to be the day you embark on a "New Normal". You make a decision that changes the course of your life. An event occurs that changes the course of your life. Some are positive (marriage, babies); some totally suck (marriage, babies). I mean: Some are "not so positive." Like cancer. But "totally suck" or "not so positive"......."New Normals" don't deserve to be given any more power than they actually have. Why should cancer be given any Special Power? Power to the People! [Pansy was a Black Panther back in the day, doncha know?! After she got done being an Aztec Warrior Amazon.]

I have also always been a Daredevil. Got that "spark" that makes me a Fierce Competitor. It's all good so long as my "spark" is channeled into Legal Activities! hahahhaa! Just kidding. I always been a Good Girlie. But I have learned that when a Daredevil Patient meets a Daredevil Doctor that's when the REAL sparks fly. And they can burn the house down.

Cancer is supposed to be "one for all, all for one"....."together we stand, divided we fall"......"in for a penny, in for a pound" kinda shit. As in: the tumors either ALL grow or they ALL shrink/stay stable. Whatever they do it's supposed to be ALL of them. Not Pansy's tumors. The largest tumor on my liver has long been 2.5cm. Then, one day last year it--and only it--suddenly grew to 3.6cm. Everyone went on High Alert (that's why we were all wearing orange there for awhile) and the frequency of scans was increased. The tumor noticed all the High Alert Orange so it hunkered down and stayed at 3.6cm for several months. Fooled us all. We "Stood Down" and went on with our partying ways. Then a scan showed the tumor was suddenly 5.0cm. After the doctors and I did an appropriate Morale-Raising Cheer: "Fuck. Fuck. Double Fuck. What the fuck?" we all knew it was time for Aggressive Attack. But what to do? We had two options: RadioFrequency Ablation (RFA) or SNAKE VENOM!!

Well, you fucking know Pansy wanted that Snake Venom, twice! Woohoo! And, since the tumor was Hugely Beyond the limits for RFA (it is only for 3.0cm or smaller tumors due to technological limitations)it really looked like Snake Venom was gonna happen. They inject it all around the tumor, the venom kills off the blood supply lines, the tumor starves and dies. I was so excited about having those bragging rights. Because Pansy has reflexes like a cobra and when cancer grabbed her, she grabbed cancer's wrist right back and said "You're gonna die, too, cuz I am taking you with me."

Then, The Cowboy rode into town. He is my onco surgeon and he actually IS called "The Cowboy" in the medical world. He makes Clint Eastwood look like a singing telegram bellhop. He said "It's gonna be an RFA showdown, so spur up, bitch." Perhaps he used other actual words but that's what Pansy heard. The surgery went way longer than predicted and then The Cowboy tells Mr. Pansy THIS fucking downer when he came out to update Mr. Pansy: "Well. We got the surgery done." WTF? We all know the surgeon is supposed to say, in a very upbeat voice: "Wow! That went Great!"

It didn't help that I had a preview/premonition dream two days before the surgery wherein I was know, with typical dream flying powers--all on my own. Someone was with me, holding me on my left side, and we flew over my liver and I saw it in its entirety. We studied all of it and I could tell it was in trouble. The other flier (not male or female) pointed out everything and said "This is serious. We are not kidding around here." I woke up in kind of a funk. And not the good kind of James Brown FUNK.

After the surgery I woke up in great pain, despite the Kick Ass Big Time Post Op Drugs they had pumped into me. I was medically stable and this is an outpatient procedure so home I went. On the Third Day (sounds Biblical!!) I went off the edge of the cliff. Pansy The Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe was a fetal ball of vomiting and crying in her bed. Mr. Pansy and Pansy Jr. took turns literally staying physically in the room with me they were so freaked out by this never-before-seen behavior from Pansy Da Man. On a pain scale of 1 to 10....this was an 18.

The surgeon even gave us his personal cell phone number. Over that weekend he guided me through overdose levels of the various drugs prescribed for me. When the pain got down to about 14, I was able to "rest" for maybe 30 minutes. Others might describe it as "blacked out". In hindsight, THAT'S when we should have taken me to the hospital. This went on for 10 days before I was no longer bed ridden. I was able to sneak in a 4th of July parade viewing involving my sister but that took all of my Super Powers to pull off even though it was totally worth it.

When I saw the surgeon at the 2 week followup visit he questioned me extensively about what I had experienced. It was "post ablation syndrome" and I got every single symptom that defines this syndrome. All of them are bad. It always starts on....Day Three after surgery! No one can predict what patient will get it or how severely they will have it. It is Very Rare (I am beginning to get just a WEE BIT so fucking tired of being Very Rare!) and my level of severity was Even More Very Rare.

Well....let's think. We were already breaking the rules by even attempting this surgery due to the size of the tumor. And then it turns out that the tumor, which was 5.0cm on the last scan before surgery.......was 12cm on the day of surgery. Any other surgeon would have just said "Close her up, I'm outta here." But, noooooooooo! The Cowboy dives in anyway. Which is why they make you unconscious beforehand so that you don't hear them all scream, retch and barf when they open up the Surprise Package in surgery. Thank you, Cowboy and God.

RFA is supposed to be a walk in the park kind of surgery. Really. Evidently MY fucking park was full of goddam rotten trees and sure as shit every one of them fell on me. Fuckers. Oh, and for Bonus Points my liver also got "knicked" during the surgery....on the "Glisson's capsule." DO NOT LET YOUR GLISSON'S CAPSULE GET FUCKING KNICKED EVER!!! hahahhahahahha!

It took weeks to fully recover but the last week of August I definitely felt I had turned the proverbial corner. Naturally, like all wounded wild animals, I do a masterful job of acting "Healthy And Well" so that no predators will think they have a chance at me. Since the surgery on June 25, I have managed to ride my bicycle 1,081 miles. And stay on schedule with my chemos. And even work at my job. Oh, and fuck that Mr. Pansy a lot.

Exercise (bike riding/dieting) has undoubtedly literally saved my life. I am so glad I already have decades of physical activity in my body. I fret for all the people out there who haven't already "been there/done that". How do they get over the mental trap of "I can't do that" re exercise? I know my doctors have gone to the mattresses for me at their "committee meetings" simply because they can see I am worthy of backing because I am actually likely to survive even horrible procedures. I hope they are beginning to run out of those! hahahaha! Now, finally, I am getting a clue about what people mean when they say those stupid platitudes such as "a good attitude is why you are doing so well." Those are not quite the right words. Plus, well, the doctors want to keep me around since I AM so foxy and all.

The only "take away" I can remotely snatch from my jaws of death experience is: you really, really cannot die from pain. I am "glad" I got to experience this misery because it is important to know I do have limits but that I still got through it. It gives me a deeper sense of I can do this and....

You won't do it with as much flair and swearing and certainly no Mr. Pansy fucking, but you can't always have everything. Oh. And next time Pansy thinks "maybe I need an ambulance" she is so fucking gonna call the goddam ambulance! Good godawmighty, what was she waiting for? The pain to get worse?

And the shopping goes on and on and on....!!


Some people dismiss Greg Lemond as a bitter, green-eyed, bile spewing, whining crybaby who has devolved into a pitiful trainwreck. Whew! Just because he seems on a never-ending vendetta against "nutritional supplements" that Greg thinks ALL the professional cyclists ingest. Especially His Holiness Lance Armstrong! Well, Pansy has THIS to say about THAT:

MY personal experience with Greg Lemond was very pleasant--especially since I was not forced to go into a Witness Protection Program of some sort because by the Grace of God we were all smiled upon that day and a genuine tragedy was averted: Mr. Pansy and I really almost killed Greg in a head-on collision on Monitor Pass (Sierra Nevada mountains near Lake Tahoe) in the Summer of 1990 with our Chevrolet 4WD 1/2 ton truck. Chevy Rules!

We were going uphill, scouting out the bike ride portion of the World's Toughest Triathlon (held at Lake Tahoe). On a somewhat blind curve, our truck tires were on one of the double yellow lines on the road and suddenly there was Greg--entirely on both of the double yellow lines on the road, with his riding partner to Greg's right. I still believe we could have "made the spare" and gotten them both since the angle was pretty good.

Anyway, we all veered in the appropriate defensive/evasive directions and as Greg went by the driver's window (inches from the mirror on the door) Mr. Pansy and I both screamed simultaneously (waking the sleeping children) "That was Greg Lemond!" We knew it was him because he was THAT close to us and had no helmet or sunglasses on so he was like a real live Bicycling magazine coverboy.

However, we were on a mission so we dutifully continued our route scouting. Then we turned around and drove "quickly" down the hill to see where Greg might be. We found him and his buddy resting in Markleeville--sitting on the hood of the chase car. A top of the line with all the bells and whistles Mercedes Benz, thankyouverymuch. With a soon to be degraded paint job from their salty, sweaty, nasty wet asses!

Before I could unbuckle the children, Mr. Pansy (who is SOOOO outgoing that I have always sarcastically called him "Chatty Cathy") has already leaped out of the truck, has shook Greg's hand, and they are chit chatting like longtime friends by the time I straggle up with the girls. Mr. Pansy apologized for scaring Greg on Monitor Pass to which Greg said "Oh, that was you? Yeh, that was close but I was over the lines so it was really my fault." Greg and his riding partner were riding their bicycles on a training ride for the World Championships coming up in Japan.

Mr. Pansy asked him why no helmet or glasses? Greg said "We had just come over the summit and I was sweating so much I couldn't see, so I took them all off." He was thrilled we were out camping with our family, saying "I take my family everywhere with me, too." He told me I was crazy to want to do the Toughest Triathlon since he had done the bike portion a few years earlier. He signed a hat of mine and was generally a fabulous PR poster child.

He and his buddy were out for a "little ride"--a 120 mile loop from Carson City, NV, where his folks lived. They took off, waving to us as we took photos of them. I then went into the country store there to buy some of the "power training food" Greg was eating----red licorice whips. Which I still have in my scrapbook with the Lemond photos and my signed hat. The licorice I bought was actually touched by him! Woo Hoo!

Factoid: every ultra-level cyclist I have ever seen personally, including Greg, has a unique physical feature: they are very "deep chested" from front to back. I am convinced that autopsies will reveal all of them have 4 to 6 lungs encased in their huge chests. They are not wide side to side---just deep from front to back.

I also hold as true that Greg was the first cyclist to truly break through the unwritten rule of "Europeans Only" for the Tour de France. He was loved and reviled at the time and I truly feared for his physical safety. He was also very intent about being a Good Will Ambassador--for which he has never received enough credit. He lived "over there" more than any other Americans of the era, he learned the language(s), he made himself accessible to the press, he WAS betrayed by the "broken promise" of his team and Bernard Hinault, and his time trial 8-second win over VainPrettyBoyPonytail Laurent Fignon remains forever The Miracle on Wheels.

I also go along with Greg's bruised ego over not being able to achieve all he probably could have due to the gunshot accident and its aftermath healthwise. He has systemic problems due to the multitude of buckshot pellets still scattered all through his body. I am highly disappointed in his comments about Lance Armstrong and drugs. But I am a person with Many Personalities (or perhaps just someone with many voices in my head) so I love and am dismayed by Greg all at once. I forgive him because I don't have the full story, never will, etc. I hope Greg is wrong and I hope Lance was/is clean. That is all. I must go answer the phone now. It's either Greg or Lance. Maybe Jan Ullrich {drool}. They all call me constantly for advice and to ask me to run away with them. Other than THAT obvious lie, the rest of this story is true.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008


Reunions! huh- yeah- What are they good for? Absolutely nothing Uh-huh Say it again y’all They ain’t nothing but a heartbreaker They cause unrest in the younger generation I said - Reunions! Huh – Good God y’all What are they good for? ......

AHHH, family! Can't kill 'em; can't eat 'em. But there IS that part where they reveal closet skeletons and make everyone (except the owner of the skeleton) laugh and laugh and laugh.

My Stupid Elderly Baby Sister (SEBS) did it! Not Me! Thank God! She has been finalizing family genealogy stuff for the past several years. Our mother put most of it together but is totally mentally gone now with Alzheimer's since 1999, so she obstinantly persists in being QUITE UNHELPFUL with our questions. During one of our home invasion/steal everything not nailed down visits to our Dad, up turns a letter from UncleG to our parents in which UncleG is announcing the birth of their third child, CousinJ.

SEBS proudly presents the letter to CousinJ during yet another one of those Family Reunions we keep having to endure since the fucking old people continue to refuse to die. As CousinJ read the letter she is making weirder and weirder faces. Turns out SEBS had read the letter when she found it, but for some reason interpreted it to have been written in our family's classic viciously sarcastic mode of communication. Not exactly.

UncleG wrote to say CousinJ was born 1 minute before midnight on July 22 and "couldn't she have waited one more minute? Now I have to pay for Sunday, too! I am so mad I could eat a ham sandwich!" [OMG. I am so grateful swearing has calmed down since 1953. Such profane language!] UncleG then informs my parents of the baby's name and writes "isn't that just awful!?" With the word "awful" heavily underlined...practically tearing through the paper. UncleG then makes more comments about how he can't see how my parents could hate him and his wife because he and his wife are too nice. And he signs off with an abbreviation of his name, "UG". It appears these two closest of brothers had a major tiff. UncleG and family did not come to most family reunions. Hmmmm....skeletons?

CousinJ is shocked since she has believed, for her entire life----up to that very second----that her birthday is July 23. Not July 22, which is when she was actually one minute before midnight thus directly causing her father incredible grief, financial woes, angering him enough to want to eat a ham sandwich, plus he hates her name! And he has never been "UG" in any way, shape or form so now she's thinking maybe he isn't even her father! hahahahahha! As us cousins all kindly laugh our heads off at her, she says "Holy Cow! This means I am not even a Leo!" To which we burst forth anew with even more laughter.

Since SEBS and I did not know CousinJ's "birthday" we had no clue this would be a bad letter for her. If we had known about July 22 vs. July 23, maybe that letter just would have disappeared. UncleG lives with CousinJ and her family so maybe an update/explanation is forthcoming. Meanwhile, I am pretending I have "the answer": SEBS and another girl cousin were both born on April 23 and CousinJ was born the same year "almost" on July 23. So maybe her parents just wanted to be in on the "babies born on the 23rd" cult thing. Although, to be honest, I didn't know there WAS such a cult re "babies born on the 23rd."

Then there was the reunion the year when finally a few of the old folks did die off. That's when all hell broke loose. Turns out one uncle dated AuntieM all through school. In small towns back then you did NOT date someone "fovever" without also marrying them. He joined the military and got sent where AuntieE was then living. The whole family told him to "look up AuntieE." About 6 weeks later, he and AuntieE were married. One does wonder how the family took THAT news but that's all blood long gone under some bridge somewhere. AuntiE dies and at the very next family renuion WidowerUncle is hitting up on AuntieM! WTF!? He was serious. She declined. Couldn't he let the body get just a wee bit COLDER before going after AuntieM? Sheesh. Horny old people.

The latest reunion was a week ago. Only THIS time the reunion is combined with my Dad's and UncleG's Prisoner of War group. Because who DOESN'T want to get together and reminisce about the good old days when we were all prisoners of war? Again with the remaining old people who refuse to die off, thus making us younger generationers have to waste our valuable time escorting their elderly asses around. Luckily we all drink. It is amazing that the core POWs are still alive and able to visit each other. Of the pod of four who spent their war years together (and got each other through it), three remain alive. This reunion probably was their last one. So that gathering was kind of tear-y.

But Family Reunions aren't the ONLY kind of reunions. Pansy attended a reunion this summer on the highest order of bizarreness: reunions with people you only know from the INTERNET! hahahahahhahahaha! And Mr. Pansy agreed to go along with this nonsense!

We all gathered together to ride our bicycles. That is the only commonality between us all. Evidently, that is enough. There was liquor available and I brought along all my drugs so I could become unconscious at the swallow of an overdose if necessary. What a fun long weekend that was. I do not know if I will again attend one of this group's reunions but I can assure you that using rare and valuable vacation time to do THIS kind of reunion smacks of insanity. Except for the fact that it was fun. Which only further affirms my conviction there was "Kool Aid" in those drinks.

And then there's the Ever-Unpopular But You Just Can't Look Away And Sometimes You Can't Even STAY Away: HIGH SCHOOL REUNIONS. This summer was a bumper crop for reunions of all kinds. So why not? Pansy went to a combo-reunion of her high school wherein her group was 41 years past graduation. I got to hook up with:

1. My unrequited high school crush
2. Some guy who said I was HIS unrequited high school crush
3. The guy Mr. Pansy THINKS was my unrequited high school crush
4. One of my 2 "best girl friends"

Here's a picture of my best girl friend. Taken by "accident" by Mr. #3. She thinks a "real friend" would destroy that picture. I say "who doesn't want to look long and get hard over a 60-year old grannie panties/pantyhosed crotch!?" Enjoy:

No, you shithead......that is NOT Pansy's 60 year old crotch. She's not THAT old. But she'll be glad to get that old.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Why'z Ev'y BUDDY Picking On Me?

For fucking god's sake...........Can't you fuckers of this world LEAVE PANSY ALONE? Besides her main credo: NOTHING IS SACRED, Pansy actually does have one (1), and ONLY ONE (1), lousy fucking rule to live by:

1. Remember: Only YOU can prevent an internet email joke from being forwarded. And do NOT send it to Pansy, you Stupid Email Skanks!


~whimper~ Why do people "invent" these emails in the first place? Pansy's Theory: to feel like they have control somewhere in their pathetic life. This would be especially applicable to all of the emails that have this fucking request included: "send this to 10 people in the next 10 minutes". OR WHAT, jackoff? [Puts hand up in air, waves it around excitedly, says "ooh! ooh! Pick me! Pick me!]

Teacher: Okay, Pansy. What do you think the "or what" involves?
Pansy: It means that if you don't send the email on to 10 people in 10 minutes you don't have any friends!
Teacher: Not exactly. Any other ideas?
Pansy: (worried/confused) It means you'll get bad luck?
Teacher: Not quite. Now think, Pansy.
Pansy: Oh, of course! You have to watch your children die terrible deaths right in front of you while you are being skinned alive all because you did NOT forward the email on!
Teacher: Very good! And what are you going to do the next time you receive one of these important emails, Pansy?
Pansy: I will respond to the Stupid Email Skank sender AND TO ALL OF THE OTHERS listed in that email something like this:

"You do not fucking get out very fucking much, do you? Geezusfuckingkryst, that email is so fucking old, PANSY probably made it up. WORSE.....this is a very fucking poorly disguised one of those FORBIDDEN "happy, uplifting" emails that are an inbred fucking cousin to those FORBIDDEN "joke emails" that hasn't Pansy already ripped you enough new assholes to convince you to STOP IT ALREADY?! You fucking old agoraphobic hag. GET OUT of your house more often, ok? And besides, this email was WRONG! There is ALWAYS a boozy drink in the other hand. In the REAL, original version of this stupid internet email piece of crap. You Stupid Skank."

But when Pansy did THAT, she got THIS from Stupid Email Skank #1:

"OMG! You dirty mouthed old whore. You just replied to my poor old and loving grandmother, who will most likely have a heart attack after reading your filth.
That’s the last time I ever send a “NICE” email your way to cheer you up! Looks like I’ll be taking a trip to Arizona to smooth things over with granny. I hate Arizona! BTW -Pansy, I’m sure you will be hearing from the nun that has been helping me through the difficult times I’ve been having with people trying to alienate my family and friends."

Plus, in a separate email Stupid Email Skank #1 also sent out this:

"To all my family and friends that are currently in shock due to the rantings of a certain “very ill” acquaintance of mine. I am so sorry you were subjected to this, just know that the paramedics finally got the straight jacket on once the tranquilizers took affect. My ill friend is in good hands and we should send only good thoughts her way. Sorry Grandma, I love you!"

And when a MAN SKANK sent Pansy some kinda email shit, Pansy wrote to him and All His Friends;

"if u do not fucking STOP this kind of fucking shit i will fucking kill you. and your wife and i will split the fucking insurance money. i mean it. fuck, i will just fucking kill you just to watch you fucking die. she can keep the fucking money. so am i just fucking dense or was there a fucking "joke" somewhere in that fucking attachment cuz i sure as fuck did not laugh at it. fuck"

But THAT had repercussions, too, which the foul Man Skank shared with Pansy:

"OK. You have made me the topic of discussion amongst all my coworkers who I used to call my friends. They are now piling on the Shiite beyond tolerance. Oh, and some of the curious have checked out your blog and found the, "hi my name is Pansy and I wanna be Hef's girl photos." Now they really think I'm some kinda pervert (don't repeat that). One who gets particular pleasure out of my embarrassment doesn't know my real name, he just calls me "Bitch." I was gonna cry on my momma's shoulder but she hates me too."

So Pansy decided perhaps she really should not include the other Innocent Victims of Stupid Email Skanks in her rants to the Stupid Email Skanks. She would only write to the Stupid Email Skanks themselves. And politely ask them to remove Pansy's name from such mass emailings in the future. Such as this request to Stupid Email Skank #2 who recently sent Pansy an email of squirrels being fakely cute and massaging each other. Which Pansy has only received said Stupid Fake Email 284 times this past year. Which kind of Stupid Fake Email is also on Pansy's Hit List because emails with lots of fancy-schmancy photoshopping/motion, etc. are just some pathetic loser's attempt to impress "us" with their Mad Computer Skilz. Pansy wrote:

"This is truly sick. Squirrels having doggie-style sex and you think THAT'S a stress relieving "precious moments" kind of thing that is somehow appropriate to email to everyone in the world? And who's to say that those squirrels aren't having anal sex? This smacks of beastial pornography. Plus, I believe (from the expression on his/her/its face) the "bottom" squirrel is just about to puke. I know I am. Whoops. I mean, I HAVE. Didn't you get the memo to stop spamming me with this kinda crap or you will deeply regret it? Please note I have used no damn vulgarities in this response. Oopsies! Sorry about that "damn". I meant: I have used no FUCKING vulgarities in this response. hahahhahahaha! Aahhhhhh! I feel all stress-free now! Laughter IS the best medicine. Next to heroin.
Mrs. Pure -n- Wholesome Pansy Palmetto"

THAT got Stupid Email Skank #2 mad. CLARIFICATION: Pansy does NOT feel that Stupid Email Skank #2 is indeed a "skank". Pansy is just using that phrase for continuity in this story. Pansy received this from Stupid Email Skank #2:

"First off let me say that I am truly sorry that I mistakenly clicked on your name and address and sent you the Stress Free Day e-mail with the 2 squirrels, one giving the other a relaxing back rub. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the picture of the squirrels, nor was it in bad taste. I am sorry you felt the way you did. While it was my intention to click on the person’s name and address that was underneath your name in my address book, I guess I failed to click on the correct one, and accidentally clicked on yours. Anyway…what I fail to see is why you sent your profanities to everyone I sent the email to; which included my 82 year old mother, my sisters and even my minister. That was totally un-called for. It was my mistake for e-mailing it to you, and not theirs. Again, I sincerely apologize to you."

HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAA! What are the fucking odds that this reaction was remarkably similar to Stupid Email Skank #1 and Man Skank? I mean, for god's sake, there is a religious figure (minister/nun) in each situation. ELDERLY MOTHERS. Distraught people all around. What's a Pansy to believe?

Worse, Pansy feels (brace yourselves) BAD! Pansy truly had NOT intended to include all the other Innocent Victims EVER AGAIN. So how did that happen? Because Pansy, poor thing, has that Terrible Fat Fingers Syndrome from peripheral neuropathy from the inoperable, incurable, the-doctors-don't-even-know-what-kind of CANCER Pansy even has so she has to get weekly chemotherapy to keep the CANCER under quasi-control but the chemo drugs have given Pansy moderately severe peripheral neuropathy from the CANCER that Pansy has……continue this mobius loop for as long as you wish….

Yeh, Bitch Pansy is pulling out her "Caner Card". "Caner" comes from Portugese WasherWoman who misspelled "cancer" long ago in a very heartfelt email she sent to Pansy. Who immediately slapped Portugese WasherWoman up one side and down the other, completely overlooking the heartfelt message in order to point out the misspelled word. So, forever more, Pansy has CANER.

The difference between Stupid Email Skank #1/Man Skank and Stupid Email Skank #2? Skank #1 and Man Skank are "friends" of Pansy. Pansy fears what curse Stupid Email Skank #2 is raining down on Pansy right this very second. But Pansy has no intentions of visiting her children any time soon, so they should be safe. I think maybe for as much as "the next 10 minutes." Somehow [golly gee], Pansy feels that Stupid Email Skank #2 does NOT believe Pansy's excuse/apology. Yes, Pansy wrote back and APOLOGIZED. But, then, we are probably "even" because (gasp!) Pansy does NOT believe the Stupid Email Skank #2's "apology" either.

I mean. Fuck. Look at it carefully. The Stupid Email Skank #2 STILL maintains that the email shows "2 squirrels, one giving the other a relaxing back rub." THAT IS SO FUCKING UNTRUE! SQUIRRELS DON'T KNOW FUCK ABOUT BACK RUBS. But Pansy is convinced that squirrels DO know about fucking. I'm leaving it to God to fucking sort this shit out. See you in Hell.

Friday, July 4, 2008

One Day...At Band Camp.....

My incredibly Stupid Elderly Baby Sister somehow has hooked up with some other old hag and on June 30, 2008, SEBS joined a new group. Since then, SEBS has been marching (literally) around her house.....inside and outside, in public and in (old) broad daylight getting ready for a July 4th parade as: the bells player in an old people's marching band

The old hag friend of SEBS was talking to SEBS about how she didn't get to go to a car show last weekend because of this marching band. SEBS got all excited and quizzed her about the band. Eventually the woman said SEBS should consider joining and asked SEBS what she played. In high school she had played bells. To which the woman gasped, both hands flew to her face and she screeched "We HAVE bells! And we NEED a bells player!" It was obviously Fate Sent By God.

That very day SEBS drove over to where the instruments are stored, and with no ID or proof whatsoever bull-shitted the old man about how she was the new bells player. He handed over a $600 instrument and she drove away with it! She is very protective of her tender emotions about this and really does NOT want to "have to deal with knowing" that anyone she knows is going to see her marching by. Well then why did she tell me!? I would fucking be there if it required an ambulance.

There could not be more definitive, unimpeachable proof that SEBS is in fucking fact SISTER O' PANSY. OH, god. I have laughed so much I have injured myself. And while the stupid bitch could not suppress herself enough to keep this Most Incredible Secret to herself.....she did manage to refuse to tell me anything about the band, where this parade is happening, etc. How could SHE of all people in this world not know Pansy is as foul as the day is long when it comes to really wanting to know something. So I let SEBS babble and eventually she let out ONE solitary clue. I managed to playact with SEBS until I said I needed to hang up and go rest. Sucker Sissie fell for it.

Immediately Pansy Jr. and I burned up the internet and found out everything we needed to know: band name, time/location of this parade, BAND LOGO PARAPHENALIA to purchase (and thereby support the marching band), etc. Turns out the paraphenalia is all out of stock. Every last fucking piece of shit including the damn dog scarves. So we didn't get to go to the parade decked out like we really wanted to be.

We plotted to secretly go to the 4th of July parade, be QUIET parade watchers as the fool SEBS marched by banging her bells and destroy our cameras with more photo taking than a posse of paparazzi. After the parade we would hunt her down and watch her dissolve from shame/excitement that we had outed her. Possibly even take her out for a Celebratory I-Hop 4th O'July Pancake Breakfast! Seems fitting. They have such a nice Senior Menu, too. SEBS tried to make me believe she had not even told her husband where the parade is, but that doesn't seem right. He knew but was under Real Threat of Real Death if he revealed any information to anyone. She did say he was standing in their yard as she drove away to join the band and pick up the bells with a peculiar expression on his face: part smirk/part deep humiliation/part pride. Because he's as huge a dweeb as she is. Former Full On Eagle Scout and all that crap.

Even Better: the marching band has OLD LADY Baton Twirlers. Well, Pansy Jr. herself is a Baton Twirler Extraordinaire. And so is SEBS, by the way. Okay, okay. Even Pansy is a twirler, but I never went pro. Pansy Jr. packed her two batons ahead of time to make sure we did not forget to take them to the parade. She was gonna hit up (not literally, but accidents happen) one of the Old Lady Baton Twirlers with an impromptu audition for the purpose of getting lessons. And hopefully simultaneously embarrassing/making Auntie proud. The old marching people wear "matching uniforms". I cannot wait to get a load of those. I wonder if they wear "special shoes"? Ow, my side hurts from more laughing. It takes so little to amuse me.

Because it is IMPORTANT to know the genesis of how these terrible things (old people in marching bands) could happen to you in your very own family, here is some more information:

Pansy Jr. took twirling lessons for years mostly because those Texas genes are impossible to eradicate no matter how many times you shout "Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!" and she has always LOVED twirling. Auntie SEBS was a twirler in the Orangevale Velveteers (orange velvet costume included jaunty Paul Revere tricorn hat with white fluffy feathers!) in her early high school years. She weighed all of 73 pounds. Glasses, hideous perm in her hair, snaggly teeth. That picture is priceless but in the possession of SEBS. I will do what I can to obtain it. I have all kinds of blackmail on her. I'll have it soon.

At Pansy Jr.'s yearly recitals Auntie SEBS would attend because she is her family's only girl (very tragic story of mother of 3 sons, no daughters) and evidently SEBS was secretly fascinated by the Old Twirlers. The OTs were women who took lessons at this same dance studio as children. Then they grew up and had their own children but when their own children started lessons the OTs started pouting and whining that THEY still wanted to twirl, too. So teacher made a class for the OTs with this payback: the OTs had to perform at every recital. hahahahaha. God, I miss the Frank 'N Dolores Dance Studio. I bet they were from Texas.

Now I must go research several burning questions I have:

---Are there bell solos in John Philip Sousa marches?
---Are there Enough bell solos?
---Have they considered "amplified" bells?
---Can't the band director place The Bell Player more prominantly in the formation?
---Should she be front and center?
---Perhaps in the Direct Center but in a line consisting only of herself with color flags in the lines just in front of and behind her?
---Could the color flags have spotlights to point out The Bell Player?
---Can't they move those Old Hag Twirlers to behind the band? And would SomeOne put long pants on those "legs".....pleeeeze!
---Other rude thoughts not yet fully formed.

Costco! Someone has to get to Costco for MORE CAMERA BATTERIES.

DAY OF THE PARADE: Pansy Jr. cannot attend the parade. She is devastated but I promised to carry on. Mr. Pansy keeps me on schedule and even with all his cattle prodding we arrived in the small town at 9:50am. The parade was to start at 10:00am. No problem. We drove right up to a shady parking spot which turned out to be 2 blocks from where we decided to view the parade. That viewing spot was only 1 block from the Judge's Stand so it was ideal in that we got to see each "act's" premier moves. It was the cutest little small town parade I have seen in eons. Military vehicles filled with Boy and Girl Scouts, a crew of 5 unicyclists (how could I fail to have taken their picture? But I had to be sure to save my camera for SEBS), some nondescript cars with 2-3 people inside. Lord knows what/how/why these parade entrants wanted to even be in the parade for. But, oh well. And the La-De-Dah entry was the local police force on 8 motorcycles doing fancy loop-de-loop "daring" criss-crosses through each other's lines. Kind of a land-based Blue Angels. NOT! But adorable and the "crowd" went wild. The crowd was a singular row of people along the curbs for 8 city blocks. This was great stuff. could HEAR THE BELLS from a city block away! The BAND was coming! The BAND was coming! Thank goodness SOME things never change. Like where the bell player is positioned. I knew from my own junior high/high school marching band days (French horn) that SEBS would be with the percussion group and in the last row of marchers. The bell player is ALWAYS on the right back corner so we were properly positioned on the correct side of the street for fullest viewing of SEBS.

That sloppy kid does NOT have his t-shirt tucked in! Where's his pride?

I couldn't stand it. I erupted like a volcano and told the row of viewers along the curb that [insert entire Pansy family history here and all about how SEBS is being busted and this is her first parade and other chattering forever]. BUT YOU KNEW THAT WAS FUCKING GOING TO HAPPEN SINCE ANYTHING PANSY DOES INVOLVES SHANGHAING INNOCENT BYSTANDERS. Thank goodness SOME things never change.

So......up comes the BAND. Since I was busy snapping photos I really didn't "see" the Band, the Old Lady Baton Twirlers, or much of anything except for my SEBS. All is fine and good, they end their little tune (huge bell banging finale) and..............they stop!! I mean stop moving forward. They are marching in place because several "acts" ahead of them are doing their thing for the Judges. My SEBS is marching in place literally directly in front of me!


The crowd, having become family members by virtue of their terrible decision to pick that area to watch the parade did it! They Really DID IT! On the count of three, we all yelled: "THAT LOOKS LIKE PANSY'S SISTER!"

And lots of laughing, clapping, hooting, etc. SEBS slowly, dazedly, looks to her right and sees me (and all our new family members) waving at her and grinnning like jackasses. She smiled back. More photos.


Then I decide "this is ridiculous", hand off my camera, run up beside SEBS, march in place beside her as one of my new "aunts" took pictures of me and SEBS together.


We met up after the parade and SEBS was all agog with her huge rushing buzz from performing live. Practically like being a rock star I bet! Her hubby found us and off they went for probably some Sex With The Bells Player fun and games.

Ahhhh. It was a great parade. They might have even won FIRST PLACE for "Marching Bands." Of course, they WERE the only fucking marching band in the entire parade. Still, the vote could be close. I think I may join the band. First, I'll practice having sex with my band groupie, Mr. Pansy.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008


Just a story. From kinda long, long ago.

Every Texas Gal NEEDS a Cadillac. Pansy's Cadillac was a 1978 Coupe De Ville. Her name was Flossie. When looking directly at Flossie, she appeared gray although actually it was Pewter. But Pansy knew Flossie's TRUE SOUL COLOR was pink. Just like Pansy wasn't actually BORN a redhead she sure as hell was meant to BE a redhead. In case you did not know, Pansy was a very white-haired child (they called it "tow headed" in those Olden Days). She was told all her life by her lying family that she'd be a redhead just like Aunt Peggy, who had been a towhead also. Well, Pansy's hair did NOT go red. Just very reddish-BROWN. Bitter and angry, she has been dyeing her hair red since before she can remember. And Flossie Pink is not your regular, everyday is Invisible Pink. The kind you can only see for a brief second with your peripheral vision. "Flossie Pink" is wispy, ethereal and pearlescent.

For some reason, which escapes Pansy's memory now, the wild hair up Pansy's ass in 1992 was obtaining a Used Cadillac. She convinced Mr. Pansy that a Used Cadillac would be fun, cost hardly anything, and when it died we'd just leave it in a ditch somewhere and buy another one. Mr. Pansy's only proviso was that it had to be a two-door car. The newspaper ads (this was in the Olden Days when people used actual newspapers) were scoured daily. Many Cadillacs were viewed and rejected. Suddenly, on a Sunday--when NO ONE places a new ad for god's sake--there was The Ad! It made various completely impossible claims. Outright lies is what those kinds of claims usually are. Pansy decided to call even though it was already "too late" since she discovered this new ad after 1pm. Shockingly, the owner said "come on over and take a look." Pansy couldn't go look that day and so another 24 hours goes by before she and her two Pansy Offspring can go see the surely-it-has-been-sold Cadillac.

Prepare for a brutal unpleasant truth: The woman (sole driver of the Cadillac) was a German National, married to a U.S. military officer during WWII and they had both fretted when it came time to sell Flossie. [They did not know then and still do not know the Cadillac's name was Flossie.] They told me they had fretted because they might have to deal with "not white people". The owners were (1) original owners; (2) older, white, retired military; (3) the impossible claims were TRUE STATEMENTS; (4) they had "held" the car for Pansy because they "knew" over the phone that She was The One. They knew Pansy was The One because.............she sounded WHITE. Sorry about that, readers, but that's what they said out loud to me. Even though they did whisper when they said "not white people". It's Old Guard mentality. Let's hope it dies off with that generation.

Flossie sounded good mechanically, she was clean as a whistle, she was perfect. A 14 year old car with 58,000 miles on it and in primo cosmetic condition. Because it only went (1) to the weekly local Bridge card game; (2) once each month to the Bay Area to visit daughter. I explain I can't just buy it, my husband has to see it first. The elderly, Man Is Boss Of His Family couple readily approved of this proper behavior from Pansy. They saved the car for us and we bought Flossie the next day. For $1800.

Flossie was the real deal. I could have driven her to New York City and arrived refreshed. They really were Cadillacs back then. Mr. Pansy loved working on Flossie. She was cooperative and only required the usual oil change/tune up kind of maintenance needs. Her absolute favorite music was hip hop/rap/old school and she'd blare them out at the top of her lungs. With reverb! Yeh, yeh. Pansy don't necessarily like the rap but in Flossie, well, it sounded great. I made those slacker younguns, Sexy Mexi and Portugese, learn how to parallel park Flossie. They were scared but I was insistent and Flossie showed them it can be done....even with a big honkin' land shark like her! The schools nowadays and the DMV don't require it. How can you get through life without knowing how to parallel park?

One day as Flossie and I were driving to the courthouse I see I am coming up beside a TWIN TO FLOSSIE! Now, seeing a twin to your car is among the Top Ten of Life's Highlights. I drive up, look over and 3 black males in their early 20s are in their "Flossie" grooving to the same radio station I have playing! I say "Nice car" and they stare at the old white lady that seems to be talking to them. Then they get it. And we drive along for about a mile, enjoying our mutually beautiful cars, banging out the hip hop tunes. The guys just really can hardly stand it and they are laughing away and so am I! Comes time for me to turn off so I do my newly-learned-from-Sexi-Mexi sideways "V sign" with my hand and say "Peace out, dudes!" as I go left. They all literally stared at me with cartoonish wide open eyes and then started laughing so hard I believe they may have peed their saggin' pants. The driver goes so far as to bang his head on the steering wheel laughing at me. They all flash back the sideways Peace Sign at me and honked for about 2 city blocks as we parted ways. Ahh, it feels good to connect with youths of today.

One terrible night we heard Flossie screaming in the driveway at 3am. Someone had tried to steal her and instead she honked until Mr. Pansy disconnected her battery. Putting your head into a car honking at full throat is quite deafening and not nearly as fun as getting your ears ruined by a rock concert. The evil ones had punched out Flossie's passenger door lock so very little cosmetic damage occurred. The insurance adjuster was good about the claim and not pushing us to "total" the car. Until we got her back from the repair shop and her horn was still non-functional.

For reasons I still do not understand, the insurance adjuster and the repair people threw a tantrum over the horn. They told me that repairing the hot-wire job on the steering column had nothing to do with the horn. Now, Pansy is no mechanic but that's not her job. She said "So, you are actually trying to tell me that the horn bone is NOT connected to the steering bone?" THAT really angered them all. Eventually they gave us $150 cash and since there was no sense arguing with them further, we took the money, cancelled the insurance policy and tattled on the adjuster to the company. Flossie drove around for a year, unable to speak. Which was good training for Pansy to not lean on her horn at all the bad drivers out there. We found a "steering columns only" repairman who repaired Flossie's horn. Via the steering column. For only $100. Now whose bone is connected to which bone...?...smirks the Pansy as she spent the extra $50 on a fluffy steering wheel cover for Flossie.

Flossie could handle dicey situations, too. Once Pansy went to pick up Pansy Jr. and friends from a dance. A young man was talking to Pansy Jr. through the window about how fucking mad he was that he got fucking kicked out of the fucking dance for no fucking reason. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, etc. So you know Pansy is LIKING this young man a whole lot. The girls are giggling and giggling and suddenly young man thinks in his (probably fucking) head "what's up?" At that point, he sees ME and goes into a ridiculous "Aw, shucks, ma'am" routine and actually said:
"I apologize, ma'am. Please excuse me. I did not mean to speak so vulgarly."
Pansy said: "Well, it's a little fucking late for that, now isn't it?"

And Flossie, take note Ladies, was quite the Man-Catcher. EVERY time Pansy would get all dolled up in a big, ratted up hairdo and go driving (which happened regularly what with all the social engagements the Pansys like to go to), men would follow her and Flossie and ask us for a "date". No shit. Especially that time Pansy was dressed up as Peg Bundy at 3am. But she has an excuse! Really! Pansy was heading for Lake Tahoe to run around the lake in a race. See?
[In case you can't tell.....Pansy is the one in the green camo tights. And feather bra. With big boobs hanging out. Over a fishnet bodystocking. With hair 3 feet in the air. And red lipstick. Okay, Okay...even Pansy agrees she looked kinda whorish THAT time! hahhahahahahha!]

Flossie lasted for 12 wonderful years. She was the Greatest Cadillac That Ever Lived. We donated her to the local car museum. She was still operational but it had become too many systemic failures for the Pansys to deal with. Pansy still blesses the day she found Flossie.

p.s. A year later, of his own volition because Pansy would NEVER ask this of anyone no matter HOW much she hated them: Mr. Pansy SOLD HIS HARLEY DAVIDSON to buy Pansy her current Little Red Car, PATSY. Who the fuck needs a "Man-Catcher Car" when she already has a Good Man like THAT sniffing around her?

Tuesday, May 6, 2008


5/12 Full Disclosure At End Of This Post

This is INSANE!!! Baby Pansy is studying Things Medical to become an R.N./Physician's Assistant. While searching the internet for information on lost libidos and SSRIs re some of her studies she found THIS:

"Three psychiatrists wrote in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry that granisetron (a sexual stimulant in rats) works great in men and women, if taken one hour before sex. But the drug, available as Kytril (and labeled for chemotherapy-related nausea control), costs $50 a pill. That means it would have to be a very hot date."

GUESS WHO GETS FUCKING PUMPED UP TO HER EYEBALLS WITH KYTRIL VIA I.V. WITH EVERY WEEKLY CHEMO SESSION? hahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahhahaha! After many failures to combat nausea, Kytril is the only drug that really has slammed down the chemo nausea for Pansy. Yeh, that Fucking Pansy is SO DEFINITELY one very hot date! Why, lookie here!! She has a whole slew of them "little white pills" in her medicine cabinet right now for in between chemo sessions.....should she feel the "need". Oh, Pansy has Needs all right! OMG. This is a scream!

Which reminds Pansy of even more proof that she is the Undisputed Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe: when all other MENopausly wimmin get drugged up with Estrogen Hormone Replacement Therapy to help them through their hot flashes/whatevers......what did PANSY'S doctor prescribe for HER? Testosterone! You read that right: TesTosTeRone! hahhahahahahhaa. Only took it for about 3 weeks way back whenever and it instantly fixed everything up Just Fine With The Pansy. And, NO, it did not make her Penis huger. Hell, the world already isn't ready for how large her Penis currently is!

DISCLAIMER: Pansy denies that Kytril has changed her in any way whatsoever. Except for she throws up a WHOLE LOT LESS now when she has sex with Mr. Pansy! hahahahahhahahahahaha!

UPDATE ON 5/10/08: On 5/9/08 I took a Kytril for scientific purposes only. Yes.

I bravely took a Kytril on 5/9 to "see". And, no, I was not nauseated so now you know I have misused a prescription drug. I had joked earlier with a few people by predicting that Mr. Pansy would probably go all Pure and Holy on me and refuse a Kytril himself because it is not prescribed for him. And wouldn't you know it----he actually DID say those exact words! I laughed as I tore him a new one since I am certain those susbstances he took in his college years WERE prescribed for him. Not! hahahaha!

I chose to not tell Mr. Pansy I had taken the Kytril. That way he would not be on the lookout for anything or suspect things were different, IF they were going to be different. He was the "control" group that did not know he was not getting the placebo! hahaha! The effect did kick in at about 1 hour. It was real. Nothing mental, just physical. Like there was a disconnect between my brain and my body. Not so very different from the disconnect that happens in childbirth. Your body has its own agenda in childbirth and the same with Kytril and possibly all those other drugs such as Viagra.

The sensation was one of "feeling" (your genitals are saying "Hey! Here I am! Yoo hoo!") and the feeling was "pleasant". If I were an actual man and not merely The Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe I would say the blood engorgement that occurred would have caused the beginnings of an erection.

The actual sex part was not different. It did not take a longer or shorter amount of time, the orgasm was not more or less intense, but AFTERWARDS it was not over. I only went back down to "feeling". That must be where the 4 hour erection warning begins its countdown. Essentially, it was like having a gun that has been fired but then on its own it put another bullet into the chamber and cocked (pun!) the trigger.

Unfortunately, this scientific experiment was begun at 9:45pm (took pill), enacted at 10:50pm, and afterwards it's past Pansy's bedtime so she's too tired but also can't sleep. So I got up, read, watched tv, waited around for about 1-1/2 hours, then went to sleep. During the "coming down from the drug trip" time I wasn't anxious or annoyed or all hot to trot, but I say: use these libido drugs earlier in the evening so you can find out what the ongoing effects are all about.

Another comment on the actual sex part: the drug--much like the anti-depressants themselves--changes your usual M.O. You have to be much more in the "here and now" moment. None of that wandering off into erotic fantasies or thoughts. Or, at least, you have to be more careful with them. With anti-depressants your mind/body loses its "trigger" and it is difficult to get over the hump due to an impaired libido. With Kytril there is a similar tendency, if you don't stay very "here and now", to get derailed. What that means is you are getting more stimulated and suddenly it's like someone pushed in the clutch and revved the gas pedal. All high rpms but no traction. You race ahead of yourself, if that makes sense. So you have to back off the gas pedal, let the clutch out and start anew.

To my amazement SOME internet information/rumors are, in fact, TRUE! Just to make sure I keep my Pansy Cred, I "shared" this experiment information with my daughters. They now hate me lots and are likely to sue for counseling money. hahahahhahahaha! Hey! The Baby Pansy started it. Sue her!

Pansy Had A Dream

Technically, since she was just waking up, it wasn't so much a dream as it was a "vision". But it most definitely was extremely, I say Extremely, erotic. And it wasn't even about HER getting HER rocks off. How wrong is that!? Being a demure and not very revealing person, Pansy declines to describe in too much detail herein the details of the extremely, I say Extremely, erotic scenario. But it does involve: Mr. Pansy, a 1963 VW bug (pale green), an airport, a partially dressed evidently love-starved Pansy. She got into the car and then she Mr. Pansy, who.............well, he was satisfied with his end of the deal.

Pansy calls it "Let's Play Airport". Yes, the Pansys are still finding yet more Hot Nasty things to do with each other that they have never done with each other or anyone else. If one were a RUDE reader of this report, one might be inclined to try imagining what "Let's Play Airport" involves. Well, it does NOT involve: Anything other than something so mundane as it would EMBARRASS the Pansy to reveal the details/rules of "Let's Play Airport". Unfortunately, Pansy, who likes to think she is not stupid, stupidly revealed the details/rules of "Let's Play Airport" to that horndog, Mr. Pansy. He has been all over her about the prospects ever since.

A week later Pansy is at lunch with the Portugese Washer Woman and Sexy Mexican. During this lunch Sexy says her husband got all weird on her about her latest thoughts: she would like to get a collar/leash setup. For her neck, not his. That Sexy! hahahahhahaha! Who knew? But her husband is all like "But how would I know what to do? What if I pull it too tight?" Uh, I think that part about Sexy yelling at him "You are choking me"--wouldn't that be a clue? And then Portugese says she and hubby have finally decided that they aren't destined to have another child (they have one 14 year old and have been trying) and went to appointments for a vasectomy. But first the doctor says they must test Portugese for pregnancy and the damn whore is PREGNANT! Right this very now! So, Sexy and Pansy burst into a bit of teariness at the restaurant at this great news just when 17 year old pimple-boy server comes by to see if everything is okay. Pansy wails "I'm just fine, can't you tell?" He says "I think I will just go away from this for now." hahahhaha. Of course, we must then hug each other. Can we help it if our hands slipped and found Sexy's third nipple (it's on the right side by the way) and it simply happened that we gave Portugese a bit of a pelvic exam. After the restaurant manager kicked us out we went shopping for baby shower stuff and Mother's Day stuff and all kinds of The Damn Whore Portugese Is Pregnant stuff. With periodic outbursts of teariness from Sexy and Pansy in the various stores. And that Damn Portugese Tease....she did not share HER erotic fantasy with us. Bitch. Her boobs are already HUGELY. Pansy and Sexy hope the Portugese will cooperate with the photo sessions they are envisioning.

Some people make sick and twisted word association transitions and for them "airport" led to "landing strips" which led to "tattoos" which led to those "low back but really Ass Tattoos on women" which led to concluding Pansy wants Anal Sex? WTF? That's awful. Pansy is disgusted beyond measure because everyone KNOWS those tattoos are called "tramp stamps" NOT "landing strips." And besides, while "tramp stamps" are most often seen above women's asses Pansy has seen them above some men's asses. But she thinks maybe they were gay guys. So, All Not Gay Guys who have this low-back but really an Ass Tattoo: would you please let Pansy know if those tattoos are unisex? Pansy thinks they are supposed to be a Girl Tattoo. But what does she know?

And, no, Pansy is not suddenly all hotted up about anal sex. Because we all know that anal sex, except between consenting people, is AGAINST GOD'S WILL. We know this because those holy, screw-your-neighbor's-wife-while-cruising-the-gay-bathroom-in-the-park-scene-after-scoring-some-heroin-from-that-prostitute-who-will-let-you-NOT-use-a-condom, good, God-Fearing/Loving, Right Winged jerks have declared it so from their Sanctified Pulpits (man, Pansy is going to go to hell for that rant). And, anal sex is "germy" and IF there had ever been any such activities between the Pansys it always resulted in a "rash" or "bad reaction" to SOMEONE'S man part....IF that had ever happened.....IF!!!! Which, ALWAYS gets started in the first place between hopelessly white straight people ONLY BY ACCIDENTAL SLIPPAGE resulting in a squeal (of not delight) from the female and a squeal (of great delight) from the stupidass male perpetrator. And the accidental slippage was really only because of all those beers at that rodeo followed by too many tokes of "smoke" and we all know what "smoke" does to Pansy's libido. And anal sex is just not "all that and a bag of chips" except that the gay guys the Pansys know claim that it IS "all that and a bag of chips" because of the prostate being stimulated---so at last, finally, at Pansy's advanced and elderly age she has heard an explanation for anal sex.

And did you know that Men Are Liars? Yes, they are! Pansy is shocked by the trickery of Mr. Pansy over the years. I just learned something in the past few weeks that still has me all fumey hot and not in a good way of hot. That bastard I live with told me this: a male (not necessarily him, you know....this is a theoretical mainly unsexxxed male--like all you pricks out there reading this for instance) who has a pre-awakening largesse going on is not necessarily in the mood. Said largesse can merely be due to:

(1) a not-empty bladder pressing on
(2) prostate gland which does something--constrict or increase, not certain--to
(3) blood flow which results in
(4) largesse.

All these fucking years Mr. Pansy has let me think he has a condition that needs releasement. I even said (sometimes in baby talk) "poor thing, that must be painful" to which he would bravely grimace, nod and begrudgingly accept tender mercies thereto. From now on, German Nurse Pansy intends to efficiently catheterize those stupid largesses. hatehatehatehatehahahahahhahahaha. But then, not content to leave things alone, Pansy pressed (on what she hopes was a painfully full bladder) Mr. Pansy for more information. He claims that horny largesse and pee-filled bladder largesse do NOT feel different. Just one makes him need to pee before having the very necessary and desperately needed sex. Because if he doesn't get the sex he will explode and have blue balls and all that usual blah, blah, blah that men will say in order to score their Very Undeserved Extra Sex. Pansy hates that she is so easy.

However, Mr. Pansy tries. Years ago he suddenly asked out of nowhere "Do you need more cuddling after sex?" This was just "after". What in fuck is he doing waking me up? Good god. Hey, Pansy blacks out instantly upon achieving the "after" state. Do NOT be bothering her with stupid cuddling shit. And he'd better not be trying to act all "sensitive" by asking about my "needs" just to snag some cuddling for himself either. What I NEED is for him to get my rocks off. If he happens to get lucky himself along the way, more power to him.

At about the 10 day mark since Pansy's vision, the opportunity to Play Airport arose. Actually, it was Mr. Pansy's "opportunity" that arose. Pansy went for it. The landing was a little rough. No! Not with a collar/leash! And there was nothing shoved up anyone's butt either. And she does not recall when he peed. To be more precise, finesse will smooth off the rough edges. How's that saying go? Practice makes perfect? Which Mr. Pansy has indicated he is very willing to put up with said practice. Rough as it might be. Shut up! Pansy does not mean "rough".

Fine. Okay. Pansy will tell you exactly what the vision was about: it's exactly what YOU have been wanting to do/have done to you but for whatever reasons the partner involved just would not go along with it. The difference between "Let's Play Airport" and whatever you are desiring is only in the DETAILS specific to you and your situation. So, give it another try with your partner. Ya never know. Again Pansy is forced to say "what the hell was I holding out for all this time?" Mr. Pansy had nothing to say after we played "Airport". He had blacked out. ~smiles~

Friday, May 2, 2008


Watch out. I have been in a real mood the last couple weeks.

I am not going to go to Hell. Except for that part about I AM going to Hell on a one-way speeding bullet. Hell, I am already in the line for getting into Hell and I can see the velvet ropes. The last time the bouncer demons opened up the Gates Of Hell they spotted me and I heard one of them yell: “Oh, Fuck! Satan! Pansy is out there and when SHE gets in Hell it’ll fill the whole fucking place up. Godammit.” Now, I know with some of you out there, well, we’re going to have to fight over who actually gets to go into Hell first. I know it will be me because I am elderly and feeble and you’ll cheat and fake me out and pull some trick hot jukey moves on me, which will make me stumble and plunge headfirst into the inferno. Don’t worry. I’ll keep the light on for ya!

But, wait a minute. Didn’t I say up there something about I ain’t going to Hell? Yep. Because I am “saved”. Yes, I are too! And because I am not totally stupid, I will agree that merely having been born hopelessly white in the United States Of America By God in whom we trust just about automatically guaranteed I would be raised, or at least exposed to, Christian teachings. No, not the Catholic priest kind of exposure! I will always have great and wonderful memories of Easter Morning sunrise services on the beach of the Texas Gulf Coast. I went to church every week until my senior year in high school. But I never really “got” religion. I still don’t got religion. I am just saved.

When I started a new job and met my Very Most Christian Friend who, upon first spying me, said “Would you like to go to a Bible study class at lunch?” I should have suspected something. I went and and my hands magically knew where to find any and all Bible verses we studied. I remembered all the names of the Bible people. My gracefulness was amazing.

Years earlier I had exorcised my childhood through secular counseling. But I had never grappled with or resolved the issue of “forgiveness” of those who had wronged me. I knew I had made a life-altering decision in that first lunch hour Bible study. Still, it took over a year but one day I realized I could and wanted to forgive. In person. So I did. I had to literally pull over halfway through the drive to pray for strength and for the words I wanted to say.

My thoughts are that one’s God/Higher Power is the best father/parent a person could ever hope to have. A father who forgives and forgets every bad thing you have ever done. You are made new and all the old is gone. Literally gone. Never happened! If God (Christian) can forgive a wretch like Paul (the apostle) and murderers and even ME, PANSY…………how can I not likewise forgive another person’s terribleness? Not to God’s level of forgiveness. But me thinking that someone else’s sins are unforgiveable due to them being unworthy of forgiveness is the height of arrogance. Yes, arrogance.

After all, what makes MY sins so special as to warrant God’s forgiveness? Aren’t I just as despicable and unworthy? And because MY sins are forgiveable, everyone’s sins are forgiveable. For humans (at least me, anyway) to be able to forgive does require the Hand of God, however. And there have been and always will be many a moment when I want to retract/take back my forgiveness. Or at the very least, I feel angry and unforgiving. But, luckily, just like accepting Jesus into my heart , I cannot unforgive. My angry thoughts/feelings do not undo my forgiveness. They are just my human feelings.

It took me becoming a parent to find the courage and then 2 years and 10 months of scorched earth counseling to begin the real and final healing. I could not do it for my unworthy self but by God I could and would and did do it for my children. And, yes, things did get extremely way worse before they got better during the counseling. But everyone involved did not go running off a cliff (though if some had, good riddance), the world did not come to an end. What happened was: the world got refracted through the prism of truth.

It took many more years to want to extend my forgiveness. And certainly only after those lunchtime Bible studies helped me to seriously ask Jesus into my heart. I don’t pretend to understand “correct theology” but I also don’t worry about it a lot. I grasp the basic concepts and I am happy to leave the details to God to sort out. Oh, dear. That sounds like some military bumper sticker slogan! Hahahhahahahha!

I don’t know how or even if prayer works but it is a good way to give something over to God. What I am sure of is that literally lifting my burdens up to God works completely for me. I actually feel my muscles pushing stuff up there. I don’t pray for a specific outcome or result. I agree to accept that what happens will be okay. And then I step off into the abyss. So far, so good.

I am just glad so much of my spiritual work got started/done before cancer. I hate to think what a mess I would be if that groundwork had not already happened. The best part is, I lost my “scorn”. Scorn is a very powerful and destructive thing. My best example of lost scorn is this:

There is a bumper sticker that says “Christians are not perfect; just forgiven.” I used to really sneer at that. When I changed sides, so to speak, I realized that phrase says it all. I will continue to sin. I will never be perfect. But I know God is working on me even if it is really starting to piss Him off.

When my counseling concluded I had the epiphany of “I can die now” because I realized I was now through the fires of counseling and confrontation, etc. And believe you me, them fires was as hot as anything that sissy-ass Hell has to offer. I even found a fine sweater with “1986” knitted into it. Obviously made just for me by some slave labor factory child in China via JC Penney. I bought the sweater so that I would never forget that 1986 was when I moved on. As if it could remotely slip my mind!

Sorry (not) if I’ve exploded a few Christian heads here. But that’s just a party bonus! Hahahahhahaha!

NOTE TO SELF: Don’t ever say “I can die now” again. Hahahahahhahha!


Friday, April 25, 2008

Texas Women and The Knives In Their Hair

Well, I have already shared this story with a few people but maybe YOU haven't heard it yet. First off, I will confess (but only this once): Texas Women don't really carry knives in their hair. They just tell everyone that. And no one has yet had the nerve to test it.

Now, back to the story. It started with an incredibly on target remark re my whining about some chest pain. The comment came from some female who shall remain nameless (see? I did NOT mention you by name, Bike Princess!) and she wrote: "so puleeease be better after another fucking nights rest..." She knew not how so very apropos her comment/wish was. Well, guess fucking what? I got me some of that "fucking nights rest" and I feel ever so much fucking better now.

Recently, after a night of not eating enough food and drinking various "liquids" I woke up not in my own bed with a really bad headache and feeling like I had been brutally stabbed all over my chest. Which it turns out, I had! By a bunch of men wearing masks and I had even paid them for the privilege. I had chest surgery to remove the old chemoport (which I wore out) from the left side of my chest and have a new, modern chemoport installed. Surgery went pretty long because they could not put the new one in the old location. So they had to chop on the right side and install the port over there. With the extra anesthesia required I also got to delight in vomiting for the next 24 hours. Which aggravates chest stab wounds. Did you know that? Neither did I! Plus, I didn't even get to bomb myself out with The Really Big Ass Post Surgery Drugs you are supposed to get to enjoy--especially with big honking glasses of wine, some gin and tonics and, of course my favorite: Pomegranate Martinis. But, noooooo! They, the Really Big Ass Drugs, not the booze, made me throw up even more.

I managed to sleep a little bit on Thursday night (4/17 the date of surgery) sitting upright in a La-Z-Boy chair. Friday I just cannot get to sleep and at 3am (which technically makes it Saturday so it's not a work day for Mr. Pansy) I went in and woke Mr. Pansy up. Because he gave me permission to do this years ago whenever I have this problem. I demanded he fuck me until I could get some fucking decent sleep. The crazed look in my eyes and the fact my hair was all in a spikey standing up scary everywhere way (and it was fucking 3am!) convinced him, yet again, that I probably had a knife somewhere to back up my demands. One long fucking hour later, Ta Da!!! I slept like a woman who had been, well, fucked good and hard and long! YOU try finding a comfortable position when YOU have had your chest all stabbed up to hell and back AND you are going cold turkey since the surgery because the pain pills only made you throw up even more. Believe you me, it is HARD to find a good fucking position under those conditions. But Mr. Pansy bravely persevered.

I am still going cold turkey over here and in a fair amount of pain. For "regular" people (that would be big assed gay pussies like YOU) the pain is about an 8. For me it's only 4 or so. And then on 4/24 I got my first chemo with the new port. Boy, did I really need major blinders on my eyes. Those beast nurses and the satanic doctor just shoved all over the port LIKE IT DIDN'T HURT THEM A BIT to do so. What shits. Makes me extra glad that check I gave them today is going to

A cute response I got re this story was this: "wow! sex therapy for chest stab wounds?!? That Mr. Pansy is one lucky sumbitch! Now, did he have to go to medical school to learn that or what? and if so, which school and was there much homework? And do they accept 51 year old first year students?" The answers to ALL your questions, Slow Moe (see? I can keep TWO names secret!) is: NO. Especially when it comes to YOU.

Now, this therapy began at 3am and each dose is only good, apparently, for 12 hours. Mr. Pansy is getting very worn out. Like I give a fuck. I WANT a fuck. Hey! Is it almost 3 o'clock? Anywhere? Mr. Pansy! Get over here, Now! Some people have reacted to my story like this is not what usually happens after surgery. I have not had enough surgeries to know one way or the other. But evidently nothing gets in the way of my needing some of that Mr. Pansy Rousting Rodeo Riding. I am beginning to think they spiked my anesthesia! hahahahahhahaha!

Oh, and lest you stupidly think I may not, after all, be the Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe........72 hours after surgery I went for a bike ride. With the usual caveat: "Let's just see how far I might be able to manage to ride, honey." THIRTY FUCKING MILES later we finally went home. Okay. We did NOT fuck during the 30 miles. That was done AFTER the 30 miles.