Mr. Pansy saw a kid on a bike ride (I did not see said kid since I was busy studying the stripes on the road as I pedaled along) wearing a Mexican Wrestling full-face mask. Mr. Pansy now strongly desires to get such a mask for ME. He feeds the Pansy Monster even as he disdains and mocks it.
Then he laughs because he just "knows" I will pick the worst possible mask, hopefully the one representing the most-hated wrestler. And then when I wear said bad choice mask over to my daughter Sexy Mexican's house, I will be beseiged by whatever other 2 dozen Mexicans happen to be at her house (because Mexicans always have hordes of people in their house at all hours) and get stabbed, shot, stripped down, tied up, raped in all ways, injected with multiple bad drugs, have my head and camel toe shaved (or re-shaved as the location may warrant), dragged through the streets by my heels behind a donkey.......and this is where Mr. Pansy runs out of descriptive events.
He asks me if he left anything out. I said "Well, how about I get dragged through the streets after the donkey has his way with me too?" Mr. Pansy, amazed that he had not thought of THAT, says, "OK, that should do it." I love it that Mr. Pansy and I can share our thoughts and feelings.
So, about a week after the First Donkey Conversation, as we are walking into the grocery store, I tell Mr. Pansy: "Hey! You forgot all about the fact that the horde of Mexicans would also carve their initials in my flesh, give me huge tattoos in Olde Englishe Thugge Scripte (hopefully across my abdomen) AND a few brands." Mr. Pansy smiles and agrees that does sound plausible but then threw a monkey wrench in the works by expressing doubts that Branding is a traditional Mexican heritage thing. We move on to the produce department.
Plus, he wants the donkey to have nipple piercings! Well, I say there is no way MY donkey would have nipple piercings. I mean, donkeys don't even have enough nipples to make that kind of piercing very extraordinary. And their nipples are located in a somewhat unobservable part of the donkey's anatomy. Do male donkeys even HAVE nipples? Besides, MY donkey should have Prince Albert piercings. Several in fact. I find my favorite pickles, which that fucking grocery store is ALWAYS out of, so I picked up several jars.
Now Mr. Pansy says I cannot get the mask at just a costume store. It has to be a "REAL" mask which means a foray into The Bad Part Of Town where a stray bullet will hit our car or something. And even though I have found the Perfect Mexican Wrestling full-face mask on the internet, I still do not possess one. Because Mr. Pansy is not comfortable with ordering stuff from the internet.
We are currently at a Mexican Stand Off in our negotiations.
Showing posts with label Bad Visuals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bad Visuals. Show all posts
Monday, January 21, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
You Just Think YOUR Ass Hurts!
So, Mr. Pansy finally went to the doctor to get his ass checked out. Apparently ME checking it out was not enough affirmation for him. Turns out he had all the kinds of hemorrhoids that are possible to have. And they had bad attitudes, too. Surgery is scheduled. "But, first, let's just take these 3 out with rubber bands." Rubber bands are installed in the doctor's office. Well, they were installed in Mr. Pansy's ass while his ass was in the doctor's office. WHO invented that horrific "treatment" is what I still want an answer for. Somehow, Mr. Pansy skittered sideways out of the office and drove himself home. Where he proceeded to whine and feel sorry for himself for at least 48 hours. And bleed from the ass and generally feel like he has been kicked by a cruel donkey in very tender places. Well, at least we know he'll be unconscious for the REAL surgery so we go ahead with THAT plan. The surgery took longer than planned, Mr. Pansy is all ruined afterwards and not allowed to leave until he can pee under his own power. Somehow, closing in on the time limit (I think 7 hours), he manages to pass the pee test and I get to take him home. He is completely bombed on drugs, I get the prescriptions filled and find it curious that there is 1 for pain and 1 for Valium. Why would anyone need Valium for post-surgery?
I inspect Mr. Pansy's ass and learn for the first time in my life that when doctors have you unconscious they are not even remotely polite or gentle with you. Mr. Pansy seriously had the biggest, blackest bruise I have ever seen anywhere. It looked like the doctors had taken a.....no, make that TWO Louisville sluggers and rammed them into Mr. Pansy's tiny "outlet" which all sane people know should never be an "inlet". OMG. I still have nightmares recalling that bruise.
So, Mr. Pansy is on cruise control (drugs) and feeling just fine but tired. We accidentally fall asleep and miss the first round of pain/valium pills. I wake up to see Mr. Pansy completely short-circuiting. Faster than I can type or say these words he was: lying on his stomach on the bed, rolling to his side on the bed, hanging his head off the bed, back up on the bed on his other side, rolling to his back on the bed, hanging his legs off the bed, getting off the bed and on his knees with his torso on the bed, crumpled on the floor in a fetal position, back to half on/half off the bed and doing this over and over and over. And pretty much incoherent and unable to communicate. Completely and utterly like a short-circuited robot in extreme pain. I shove the pain pill and the Valium down him and we sweat out the next 20 minutes before they finally kick in. Then we fell asleep again and overslept the next Valium update. Same freakish short-circuiting behavior. Lesson Learned: you can skip the pain pill but do not EVER skip the Valium. I set alarm clocks everywhere and wore my triathlon watch after that.
So, now we are into Day After Surgery and Mr. Pansy, being carefully kept on schedule with his pills, is feeling no pain. Day Two After Surgery....same happy happy. Day Three After Surgery Mr. Pansy finally has to poop. He is still drugged out of his head but somewhat communicative and I find him on the toilet pretty much distraught. He can't make himself push and yet he has the great urge to push. I play midwife and we do Lamaze breathing and ice chips and everything. No pushing. I call the doctor and they say "Oh, yeh. He's gonna have a terrible time but he has to go. If he can't, bring him down here and we'll give him an enema. You can do the enema if you want and save the trouble of coming down here." Well, it would have been fucking NICE to know 3 days earlier so that we could have made an enema purchase. I have to leave Mr. Pansy to go to the pharmacy and he is in bed and so weepy you would not believe. I hold his face between my hands and am 2 inches from his face and telling him "I will go to the store. I will come back." He is all broken down with "don't leave me...don't leave me." I point to the clock and say "when the clock says 2:10 I will be back home. Don't worry." And then I just have to leave him......like leaving a toddler at preschool. I gave him one of my fuzzy sweaters to hold onto and smell while I was gone. I am not kidding. I get back and now I have to coax him to get out of bed. He can hardly believe I actually did go to the store because in his head I had just left the room. He was pretty freaked out. I double check that I have not botched his Valium pills.
He still can't poop on his own and we realize he certainly can't give himself his own Fleet enema. I soothe him and work my way back there but just even coming within an inch of the outer edges of his bruise made him howl and shy away like a wounded animal. I am getting all sweaty now and so is he and I finally pull out my command voice and tell him: "Mr. Pansy! I am going to put your head into the corner of the bathroom so you can't get away from me and then I am going to give you the enema and I know it is going to hurt. But you know I have to do this. If you can't let me do it I have to take you to the hospital and they are not going to be nice to you about giving you an enema. Now let's do this." And I do mean my command voice. hahahahahhaha! Oh, it was awful! The howls of the enema insertion are still audible in the darkest hours of the night in the Haunted Pansy House. And the excretion howls were just about as awful. I made him special treats and petted him and only left him for a few minutes every once in awhile. He was easily panicked for about 5 days. I did figure out that if I just knelt by the bed where he could see me that I could sneak away when he fell asleep since any movement on the bed would awaken him instantly and in a panic.
I truly do not know what happens to a person who has hemorrhoid surgery and Mr. Pansy is no wuss but Good God I have never seen such a mental breakdown. I think it is that certain areas of the body have way too many nerves involved and the level of pain must be quite beyond human capacity. Seriously. At any rate, after Enema #1 all future bathroom events went quite uneventfully. This all happened back around 1990? To this day Mr. Pansy has truly absolutely no memory of the 14 days after surgery.
I think all men should have hemorrhoid surgery if only to amuse the hell out of their wives with the level of Zero Ego that the man hits. And the doctors should prescribe enough Valium for Everyone in the house. Truly, Mr. Pansy would have died if he had not had Full Time German Nurse Pansy on duty. He was a zombie. He really owes me on this one.
I inspect Mr. Pansy's ass and learn for the first time in my life that when doctors have you unconscious they are not even remotely polite or gentle with you. Mr. Pansy seriously had the biggest, blackest bruise I have ever seen anywhere. It looked like the doctors had taken a.....no, make that TWO Louisville sluggers and rammed them into Mr. Pansy's tiny "outlet" which all sane people know should never be an "inlet". OMG. I still have nightmares recalling that bruise.
So, Mr. Pansy is on cruise control (drugs) and feeling just fine but tired. We accidentally fall asleep and miss the first round of pain/valium pills. I wake up to see Mr. Pansy completely short-circuiting. Faster than I can type or say these words he was: lying on his stomach on the bed, rolling to his side on the bed, hanging his head off the bed, back up on the bed on his other side, rolling to his back on the bed, hanging his legs off the bed, getting off the bed and on his knees with his torso on the bed, crumpled on the floor in a fetal position, back to half on/half off the bed and doing this over and over and over. And pretty much incoherent and unable to communicate. Completely and utterly like a short-circuited robot in extreme pain. I shove the pain pill and the Valium down him and we sweat out the next 20 minutes before they finally kick in. Then we fell asleep again and overslept the next Valium update. Same freakish short-circuiting behavior. Lesson Learned: you can skip the pain pill but do not EVER skip the Valium. I set alarm clocks everywhere and wore my triathlon watch after that.
So, now we are into Day After Surgery and Mr. Pansy, being carefully kept on schedule with his pills, is feeling no pain. Day Two After Surgery....same happy happy. Day Three After Surgery Mr. Pansy finally has to poop. He is still drugged out of his head but somewhat communicative and I find him on the toilet pretty much distraught. He can't make himself push and yet he has the great urge to push. I play midwife and we do Lamaze breathing and ice chips and everything. No pushing. I call the doctor and they say "Oh, yeh. He's gonna have a terrible time but he has to go. If he can't, bring him down here and we'll give him an enema. You can do the enema if you want and save the trouble of coming down here." Well, it would have been fucking NICE to know 3 days earlier so that we could have made an enema purchase. I have to leave Mr. Pansy to go to the pharmacy and he is in bed and so weepy you would not believe. I hold his face between my hands and am 2 inches from his face and telling him "I will go to the store. I will come back." He is all broken down with "don't leave me...don't leave me." I point to the clock and say "when the clock says 2:10 I will be back home. Don't worry." And then I just have to leave him......like leaving a toddler at preschool. I gave him one of my fuzzy sweaters to hold onto and smell while I was gone. I am not kidding. I get back and now I have to coax him to get out of bed. He can hardly believe I actually did go to the store because in his head I had just left the room. He was pretty freaked out. I double check that I have not botched his Valium pills.
He still can't poop on his own and we realize he certainly can't give himself his own Fleet enema. I soothe him and work my way back there but just even coming within an inch of the outer edges of his bruise made him howl and shy away like a wounded animal. I am getting all sweaty now and so is he and I finally pull out my command voice and tell him: "Mr. Pansy! I am going to put your head into the corner of the bathroom so you can't get away from me and then I am going to give you the enema and I know it is going to hurt. But you know I have to do this. If you can't let me do it I have to take you to the hospital and they are not going to be nice to you about giving you an enema. Now let's do this." And I do mean my command voice. hahahahahhaha! Oh, it was awful! The howls of the enema insertion are still audible in the darkest hours of the night in the Haunted Pansy House. And the excretion howls were just about as awful. I made him special treats and petted him and only left him for a few minutes every once in awhile. He was easily panicked for about 5 days. I did figure out that if I just knelt by the bed where he could see me that I could sneak away when he fell asleep since any movement on the bed would awaken him instantly and in a panic.
I truly do not know what happens to a person who has hemorrhoid surgery and Mr. Pansy is no wuss but Good God I have never seen such a mental breakdown. I think it is that certain areas of the body have way too many nerves involved and the level of pain must be quite beyond human capacity. Seriously. At any rate, after Enema #1 all future bathroom events went quite uneventfully. This all happened back around 1990? To this day Mr. Pansy has truly absolutely no memory of the 14 days after surgery.
I think all men should have hemorrhoid surgery if only to amuse the hell out of their wives with the level of Zero Ego that the man hits. And the doctors should prescribe enough Valium for Everyone in the house. Truly, Mr. Pansy would have died if he had not had Full Time German Nurse Pansy on duty. He was a zombie. He really owes me on this one.
MO' WAX!!! Dear Gawd, We Gonna Need MO' WAX!!
We have been to Jamaica 6 times. The resort we go to is Hedonism II and is referred to by all the locals as "The Zoo" because the people that go there are freaks. Not us, of course! We sit at the Perfectly Normal People's Table. We just observe them. In actuality, it's not as nasty as it sounds and everyone is simply there for their version of a vacation. One year a woman was there by herself. Every day she is on the clothing optional beach tanning and reading. Never went in the ocean, the pool, the hot tub. About day 6 she has acquired herself a Jamaican man/boy. He is taller than her and quite the handsome manwhore. They swam out to one of the two floating fiberglass square docks anchored not too far offshore. On the square dock they proceeded to engage in every possible sexual act and possibly several impossible acts. Every orifice was explored by all digits or extensions of bodily parts----both hers and his. They inserted and sucked each and every one of each others' toes and fingers. After it is all over, which went on for a good hour or more so I suspect some blue pill drugs were involved, the guy (who is in his 20s) is sitting on the edge of the dock with his feet dangling in the water and staring down. We decided he was trying to recover from the horror of what he had just been paid NOT NEARLY ENOUGH to do.
She gracefully swam away back to shore, resumed her place on her beach chair and continued reading. He eventually stopped puking and swam to shore, landing far down the beach from HER and went away. She was quite tall and not too largely built except her butt was nearing ginormous porportions with lots of dumplings implanted thereabouts and her face/hair was a total computerized duplicate of JANET RENO for god's sake. With a big, dangerous overbite. She had pubic hair that was so matted small creatures undoubtedly lived in there as well as insects of every kind. The triangular briarpatch went up to her navel and a bit above. And to the outer reaches of her hip bones. I am thinking in square feet here. And then, the piece de resistance: matching armpits. You have NOT imagined how hairy she was. Noo! MORE hairy than even THAT! Seriously. Aughh. Plus, it was patchy salt-n-peppery (and NOT in a good Spice Girls kinda way). More like a creepy Australian Shepherd.
They had gone to the dock that was "closest" to shore since the other dock was already occupied by 2 couples who were also having their ways with each other in every combination but NOT the two men together. The two women got together, sure. And each woman with each man. But those men were MANLY men. So manly, that when one needed some more lube and asked his buddy to pass it over, the buddy didn't just stick out his own greased-up hand and rub some off on friend's hand. He didn't even just hand over the tube of lube. He threw the tube overhand up into the air and buddy had to lunge to catch it, slipping out of his woman (who was actually the wife of the other guy) and the tube almost hit the water. Oh, they all had a hearty laugh together! Such good friends.
That night at the disco I am standing around waiting for Mr. Pansy to bring me a drink when suddenly I feel him licking me from my collarbone to the top of my ear. I giggle and turn to smooch him to find that fine Jamaican man/boy whore who says to me in that exotic accent that is used to hypnotize susceptible Hopelessly White Women "You are very pretty lady." I politely thanked him as I desperately disinfected myself and said "that's all good and fine but I am here with just my husband." To which he says "I will love you like I am your husband." Just as the negotiations were getting down to some serious bidness that fucking Mr. Pansy showed up and spoiled my Enchanted Jamaican Evening plans. Mr. Jamaican man/boy whore politely said to Mr. Pansy "all respect, mon" and smoothly glided away. I suppose it's refreshing to know I look like I might have enough money to pay for a man whore. And evidently NEED to pay to get a man. Hmmmmm. That didn't come out right.
She gracefully swam away back to shore, resumed her place on her beach chair and continued reading. He eventually stopped puking and swam to shore, landing far down the beach from HER and went away. She was quite tall and not too largely built except her butt was nearing ginormous porportions with lots of dumplings implanted thereabouts and her face/hair was a total computerized duplicate of JANET RENO for god's sake. With a big, dangerous overbite. She had pubic hair that was so matted small creatures undoubtedly lived in there as well as insects of every kind. The triangular briarpatch went up to her navel and a bit above. And to the outer reaches of her hip bones. I am thinking in square feet here. And then, the piece de resistance: matching armpits. You have NOT imagined how hairy she was. Noo! MORE hairy than even THAT! Seriously. Aughh. Plus, it was patchy salt-n-peppery (and NOT in a good Spice Girls kinda way). More like a creepy Australian Shepherd.
They had gone to the dock that was "closest" to shore since the other dock was already occupied by 2 couples who were also having their ways with each other in every combination but NOT the two men together. The two women got together, sure. And each woman with each man. But those men were MANLY men. So manly, that when one needed some more lube and asked his buddy to pass it over, the buddy didn't just stick out his own greased-up hand and rub some off on friend's hand. He didn't even just hand over the tube of lube. He threw the tube overhand up into the air and buddy had to lunge to catch it, slipping out of his woman (who was actually the wife of the other guy) and the tube almost hit the water. Oh, they all had a hearty laugh together! Such good friends.
That night at the disco I am standing around waiting for Mr. Pansy to bring me a drink when suddenly I feel him licking me from my collarbone to the top of my ear. I giggle and turn to smooch him to find that fine Jamaican man/boy whore who says to me in that exotic accent that is used to hypnotize susceptible Hopelessly White Women "You are very pretty lady." I politely thanked him as I desperately disinfected myself and said "that's all good and fine but I am here with just my husband." To which he says "I will love you like I am your husband." Just as the negotiations were getting down to some serious bidness that fucking Mr. Pansy showed up and spoiled my Enchanted Jamaican Evening plans. Mr. Jamaican man/boy whore politely said to Mr. Pansy "all respect, mon" and smoothly glided away. I suppose it's refreshing to know I look like I might have enough money to pay for a man whore. And evidently NEED to pay to get a man. Hmmmmm. That didn't come out right.
Mr. Pansy Chainsaw Massacre Story No. 2
It all began long, long ago:
The Pansys and 4 friends were up in the mountains getting firewood. It's legal to do so if you only take "downed" trees. So we're chainsawing stuff all day long, with the very occasional adult liquid beverage (that pricey Old Milwaukee stuff), dusk is upon us and things have been going Just Swell Until..... And you know, I think it was Mr. Pansy's idea so, really, the rest of us are not to be blamed for this turn of events. Certainly not I! Because everything in life is, after all, about who can be stuck with the blame.
Eventually there were no conveniently located downed trees but there was this one, lone, very dead but still standing tree Right There. The rest of us stand back as Mr. Pansy The Lumberjack scientifically makes precise cuts to properly fell the tree so it will land Over There. All goes well as it topples downhill. The height of this particular still standing dead tree, unfortunately, had not been scientifically determined and the top of the dead, falling tree hit a stand of live trees further down the hill. The impact caused the dead tree to explode into several larger-than-human-torso pieces, which the live trees, acting like surreal slingshots, then "threw" back up the fucking hill! We all run and scatter sideways.....except for Mr. Pansy who ran straight uphill. A chunk of flying tree could be seen, by the rest of us, zeroing in on Mr. Pansy like a heat-seeking Sidewinder missile inexorably locked in on its doomed target. It was eerie seeing this certain-death event unfold. The tree missile makes contact and Mr. Pansy is slammed down into the ground, completely covered by the tree which then began vigorously humping him. Okay, I made that humping part up. But it would make for a funny cartoon if that had happened. As it was, the ground was very loose decomposing pine needles, loose dirt, etc. so he was shoved face down by the tree into what could be properly described in a crime scene report as an "instantaneously created shallow grave".
All became very still and quiet. There is no movement from Mr. Pansy, the tree has stopped humping him, we are all frozen in place. At first it was a very faint but definitely discernable twitch of Mr. Pansy's fingers, then a foot, then the other foot. Which hand and feet are all that can be seen of Mr. Pansy. He's NOT DEAD! He was not only NOT DEAD but he was fucking suffocating, thank you fucking very much you fucking stupid assed fucking bystanders, under the weight of the tree which was pressing him into what was actually becoming his shallow grave. We race to the tree and quickly roll it off of Mr. Pansy. Well, except for that "short" delay where half of us wanted to roll the tree off This Way but the other half wanted to roll it off That Way. That fucking Old Milwaukee stuff can really screw with not only your judgment concerning deciding to make illegal firewood gathering but your rescue decision making skills, you know.
Mr. Pansy is really fucked up. He is totally covered in this loamy weird dirt except for his eyeballs and one hand. We all burst into, yes, the most sympathetic, heart-rending, soul searing LAUGHING OUT LOUD for at least one hour. We could not stop laughing. Ummm...because we had been so upset? You know how sometimes people get those funeral giggles. This was funeral guffawing that we could no more control than we could control our bladders. We laughed till we peed our pants. We laughed till we cried. We laughed as we drank more Old Milwaukee to calm us down. We laughed sitting down. We laughed laying down. We laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Not Mr. Pansy, though. Nooooo! He has to get like all "I hurt everywhere" "I want to go home" "I can't see, could someone help me rinse out my eyeballs" Me, me, me, me! Geezzusfuckingkryeest! We try to clean him up, there are no broken bones or even abrasions (three huzzahs for SOFT dirt shallow graves!) and I drag his sorry assed carcass home.
The next day I took Mr. Pansy to the doctor since he, upon awakening, could not move his arms above bending them at waist level. I think he pretty much couldn't walk either. I did a very poor job of subduing my giggling as I took him to the doctor. There was no actual damage to his body. Just sore from being hit by essentially a bark-covered locomotive. There was an area of his body that was the sorest. He would let me know when it would swell (usually a couple times each day) and it could only be relieved by my tender Pansy Mercies. Which also conveniently helped to stifle my ongoing giggle fits.
The Pansys and 4 friends were up in the mountains getting firewood. It's legal to do so if you only take "downed" trees. So we're chainsawing stuff all day long, with the very occasional adult liquid beverage (that pricey Old Milwaukee stuff), dusk is upon us and things have been going Just Swell Until..... And you know, I think it was Mr. Pansy's idea so, really, the rest of us are not to be blamed for this turn of events. Certainly not I! Because everything in life is, after all, about who can be stuck with the blame.
Eventually there were no conveniently located downed trees but there was this one, lone, very dead but still standing tree Right There. The rest of us stand back as Mr. Pansy The Lumberjack scientifically makes precise cuts to properly fell the tree so it will land Over There. All goes well as it topples downhill. The height of this particular still standing dead tree, unfortunately, had not been scientifically determined and the top of the dead, falling tree hit a stand of live trees further down the hill. The impact caused the dead tree to explode into several larger-than-human-torso pieces, which the live trees, acting like surreal slingshots, then "threw" back up the fucking hill! We all run and scatter sideways.....except for Mr. Pansy who ran straight uphill. A chunk of flying tree could be seen, by the rest of us, zeroing in on Mr. Pansy like a heat-seeking Sidewinder missile inexorably locked in on its doomed target. It was eerie seeing this certain-death event unfold. The tree missile makes contact and Mr. Pansy is slammed down into the ground, completely covered by the tree which then began vigorously humping him. Okay, I made that humping part up. But it would make for a funny cartoon if that had happened. As it was, the ground was very loose decomposing pine needles, loose dirt, etc. so he was shoved face down by the tree into what could be properly described in a crime scene report as an "instantaneously created shallow grave".
All became very still and quiet. There is no movement from Mr. Pansy, the tree has stopped humping him, we are all frozen in place. At first it was a very faint but definitely discernable twitch of Mr. Pansy's fingers, then a foot, then the other foot. Which hand and feet are all that can be seen of Mr. Pansy. He's NOT DEAD! He was not only NOT DEAD but he was fucking suffocating, thank you fucking very much you fucking stupid assed fucking bystanders, under the weight of the tree which was pressing him into what was actually becoming his shallow grave. We race to the tree and quickly roll it off of Mr. Pansy. Well, except for that "short" delay where half of us wanted to roll the tree off This Way but the other half wanted to roll it off That Way. That fucking Old Milwaukee stuff can really screw with not only your judgment concerning deciding to make illegal firewood gathering but your rescue decision making skills, you know.
Mr. Pansy is really fucked up. He is totally covered in this loamy weird dirt except for his eyeballs and one hand. We all burst into, yes, the most sympathetic, heart-rending, soul searing LAUGHING OUT LOUD for at least one hour. We could not stop laughing. Ummm...because we had been so upset? You know how sometimes people get those funeral giggles. This was funeral guffawing that we could no more control than we could control our bladders. We laughed till we peed our pants. We laughed till we cried. We laughed as we drank more Old Milwaukee to calm us down. We laughed sitting down. We laughed laying down. We laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Not Mr. Pansy, though. Nooooo! He has to get like all "I hurt everywhere" "I want to go home" "I can't see, could someone help me rinse out my eyeballs" Me, me, me, me! Geezzusfuckingkryeest! We try to clean him up, there are no broken bones or even abrasions (three huzzahs for SOFT dirt shallow graves!) and I drag his sorry assed carcass home.
The next day I took Mr. Pansy to the doctor since he, upon awakening, could not move his arms above bending them at waist level. I think he pretty much couldn't walk either. I did a very poor job of subduing my giggling as I took him to the doctor. There was no actual damage to his body. Just sore from being hit by essentially a bark-covered locomotive. There was an area of his body that was the sorest. He would let me know when it would swell (usually a couple times each day) and it could only be relieved by my tender Pansy Mercies. Which also conveniently helped to stifle my ongoing giggle fits.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Lemon Drops Keep Falling.......
Last year, Stupid Elderly Baby Sister (SEBS) is to fly over to Las Vegas and meet up with Hubby and for the first time ever meet all the partners/big cahunas and their trophy wives. She is busy all day in town and has a light breakfast: tea and maybe 1/2 bagel. If that much. Then it's noon and time to go to the airport and she is hungry but figures she'll be in Vegas pretty soon and will eat upon arrival. Starves on the plane, lands and gets picked up by Hubby who says they have all just eaten and are to meet over at a casino. SEBS figures she'll get food at the casino. They all have buffets, right? At the casino, inexplicably, there is NO buffet. But there ARE drinks...Lemon Drops to be specific...and they are all going to a show in 1-1/2 hours so she figures she'll be okay even though she will be very hungry by then, but all right. Show starts up and they do not serve food under any circumstances. Who knows why? This is unheard of. SEBS is ravenous by now but the Lemon Drops have helped a bit in making her think she is at least consuming calories. I guess she forgot about that part where the drinks involve alcohol-drenched calories. After the show, SEBS says/demands she really must have something to eat. She has had nothing since early am and it is now about 11 pm. She gets one last Lemon Drop "for the road" and they are in line for a limo when she pretty much crashes. Hubby observes this and bulls his way through the line and gets a limo "NOW". SEBS is placed at a window and a trophy wife is next to her and Hubby is on the other side. SEBS feebly asks Hubby for his drink cup, he hands it to her, she vomits loudly into it and in a prolonged fashion. Dumps the contents out the window and down the door of the limo, "refills" the cup---does this routine about 3 times. Everyone is opening their windows and kind of dry heaving and SEBS thinks she is finally done so she leans toward Hubby to give him back his cup (!!!!) and proceeds to vomit one last time and with great gusto all over trophy wife's lap. SEBS is, sadly, not TOO drunk to fail to want to die of humiliation but, Oh Well! The next day, after spending the night on a (in her very own words) spectacularly clean bathroom floor in the hotel, she has to face these people again for a day-long golfing/shopping fest. She does not know how she got through it.
Then she got to do it all over again (minus the Lemon Drops) this past summer. She knows there just is no way to ever explain anything to them so like good, uptight white people, NO ONE mentions ANYTHING. SEBS doubts there will ever come the day when she won't reflexively cringe with shame every time she has her recurring self-flagellating thought in which she imagines them saying "That poor guy. His wife, you know. But at least he seems to have gotten her to rehab. She doesn't drink at all, anymore....."
Pansy is Just Glad SHE Can Hold HER Booze! Except for when she doesn't.
Then she got to do it all over again (minus the Lemon Drops) this past summer. She knows there just is no way to ever explain anything to them so like good, uptight white people, NO ONE mentions ANYTHING. SEBS doubts there will ever come the day when she won't reflexively cringe with shame every time she has her recurring self-flagellating thought in which she imagines them saying "That poor guy. His wife, you know. But at least he seems to have gotten her to rehab. She doesn't drink at all, anymore....."
Pansy is Just Glad SHE Can Hold HER Booze! Except for when she doesn't.
Mr. Pansy Chainsaw Massacre Story No. 1
It all started a long, long time ago:
Mr. Pansy was clearing out the "cactus patch" in our backyard so the growing children (even though we only had one at the time) would not be impaled and killed while playing. He is out there in the heat of summer in just sandals, short shorts (he was the Last Man On Earth to finally break down and get longer, more stylin' Thug Shorts), sunglasses and his Trusty Chainsaw. Oh, and the ubiquitous can o' beer. He's been working all afternoon and it is coming up on dusk. One last plant to go. He lays into a Century Plant cactus that is ginormous: 8 foot long "tendrils" or whatever the "leaves" are called---and by the time he is done he is slathered from head to toe in cactus pulp and juice on his full frontal and the front half of both "sides". His shorts and sandals are totally soaked through and through. He's done, starts to clean and pack up the chainsaw when he bursts into flame. Not in Real Flames, but in the "my skin is on fire" sense. He runs to the shower and is in there running water full blast on Total Cold and sorta begins screaming. In a manly way, naturally. All of his cactussed skin is ablaze: red and welting up. I call the doctor and explain what little I can about what is up with the screaming man the doctor can hear in the background. Doctor says he'll meet us at the hospital ER.
Off I drive, with a screaming male passenger. I can just imagine how well that scenario would have gone over with the witnesses if our roles had been reversed. I would just dopily smile and shrug my shoulders at the people who were nearby at traffic lights and stop signs. Eventually, I just started running the red lights and stop signs. We get to the hospital and the doctor says that luckily he had just received his latest issue of Sunset magazine. It contained an article about Century Plants. Turns out they are the Most Evil Cousin Ever in the aloe vera plant family. But I am a bit worried about having a doctor who uses fluff home and garden magazines for his continuing medical training. Mr. Pansy essentially had second and third degree chemical burns! He is hosed off with some kind of solution....which the bonus there is now he knows what it feels like to be a street demonstrator being subdued by fire hoses. PLUS, just "to be sure" the doctors/nurses/sadists "treated" his cavities as well with said solution so now he also kinda knows what it feels like to be someone's Jailhouse Bitch.
And finally we are sent home with powdered solution which I am to make into a paste and apply to his burns, including... thankyouverymuchgodwhyme...his "cavities". Penile and rectal. Seriously. I am to apply this paste, let it dry, then rinse it off with ice cold water. I was told to buy ice to make an ice bath for him to help relieve the pain. And then immediately put a new batch of paste on him, let it dry, etc. etc. We drive home, with a stop at the store for ALL the ice in their machine. OH, yeh. And Mr. Pansy is just barely a few decibels below screaming at this point. Because they gave him some Giant Ass (in the ass) Mega Dose Shot of DOPE. Now, just exactly why I was not given same said dope, too, is still quite the sore point for me.
This paste on/paste off routine goes on around the clock for 2 days and 2 nights. He stopped screaming somewhere about halfway through this timeframe. Of course, then we get to do ointments after those first 2 days and finally he gets to go back to work about Day 4. Then his skin starts peeling off. We are talking Alligator Swamp Monster Man. So, be careful about those Century Plants. Seriously.
There are several Mr. Pansy Chainsaw Massacre stories. They always involve sandals, short shorts, sunglasses, dusk, and the ubiquitous can o' beer. He is a near-death riotous source of Pansy Amusement.
If you think he owes me one on this event you would be wrong. Someday I shall tell you his hemorrhoid surgery story. I am sorry if it seems that all Mr. Pansy stories involve his orifices and pain. What can I say? He's just clumsy and slow and I think he gives up and lets "the man" catch him---leaving me to pick up the pieces. Make sure you marry a woman who can rough you up when the going gets rough. Cuz science will one day prove that most men are clumsy and slow! How do you think I, Manned up Pansy, caught Mr. Pansy? hahahahahahhaha!
Mr. Pansy was clearing out the "cactus patch" in our backyard so the growing children (even though we only had one at the time) would not be impaled and killed while playing. He is out there in the heat of summer in just sandals, short shorts (he was the Last Man On Earth to finally break down and get longer, more stylin' Thug Shorts), sunglasses and his Trusty Chainsaw. Oh, and the ubiquitous can o' beer. He's been working all afternoon and it is coming up on dusk. One last plant to go. He lays into a Century Plant cactus that is ginormous: 8 foot long "tendrils" or whatever the "leaves" are called---and by the time he is done he is slathered from head to toe in cactus pulp and juice on his full frontal and the front half of both "sides". His shorts and sandals are totally soaked through and through. He's done, starts to clean and pack up the chainsaw when he bursts into flame. Not in Real Flames, but in the "my skin is on fire" sense. He runs to the shower and is in there running water full blast on Total Cold and sorta begins screaming. In a manly way, naturally. All of his cactussed skin is ablaze: red and welting up. I call the doctor and explain what little I can about what is up with the screaming man the doctor can hear in the background. Doctor says he'll meet us at the hospital ER.
Off I drive, with a screaming male passenger. I can just imagine how well that scenario would have gone over with the witnesses if our roles had been reversed. I would just dopily smile and shrug my shoulders at the people who were nearby at traffic lights and stop signs. Eventually, I just started running the red lights and stop signs. We get to the hospital and the doctor says that luckily he had just received his latest issue of Sunset magazine. It contained an article about Century Plants. Turns out they are the Most Evil Cousin Ever in the aloe vera plant family. But I am a bit worried about having a doctor who uses fluff home and garden magazines for his continuing medical training. Mr. Pansy essentially had second and third degree chemical burns! He is hosed off with some kind of solution....which the bonus there is now he knows what it feels like to be a street demonstrator being subdued by fire hoses. PLUS, just "to be sure" the doctors/nurses/sadists "treated" his cavities as well with said solution so now he also kinda knows what it feels like to be someone's Jailhouse Bitch.
And finally we are sent home with powdered solution which I am to make into a paste and apply to his burns, including... thankyouverymuchgodwhyme...his "cavities". Penile and rectal. Seriously. I am to apply this paste, let it dry, then rinse it off with ice cold water. I was told to buy ice to make an ice bath for him to help relieve the pain. And then immediately put a new batch of paste on him, let it dry, etc. etc. We drive home, with a stop at the store for ALL the ice in their machine. OH, yeh. And Mr. Pansy is just barely a few decibels below screaming at this point. Because they gave him some Giant Ass (in the ass) Mega Dose Shot of DOPE. Now, just exactly why I was not given same said dope, too, is still quite the sore point for me.
This paste on/paste off routine goes on around the clock for 2 days and 2 nights. He stopped screaming somewhere about halfway through this timeframe. Of course, then we get to do ointments after those first 2 days and finally he gets to go back to work about Day 4. Then his skin starts peeling off. We are talking Alligator Swamp Monster Man. So, be careful about those Century Plants. Seriously.
There are several Mr. Pansy Chainsaw Massacre stories. They always involve sandals, short shorts, sunglasses, dusk, and the ubiquitous can o' beer. He is a near-death riotous source of Pansy Amusement.
If you think he owes me one on this event you would be wrong. Someday I shall tell you his hemorrhoid surgery story. I am sorry if it seems that all Mr. Pansy stories involve his orifices and pain. What can I say? He's just clumsy and slow and I think he gives up and lets "the man" catch him---leaving me to pick up the pieces. Make sure you marry a woman who can rough you up when the going gets rough. Cuz science will one day prove that most men are clumsy and slow! How do you think I, Manned up Pansy, caught Mr. Pansy? hahahahahahhaha!
Pansy's Manned Up Kayak Wreck
I had arthroscopic knee surgery on 1/11/08 and have been high as a kite since then. Someone I know asked me for the details behind how I hurt my knee and said "make it PG rated." What kind of stupid fucking half-assed request is that!? PG rated!? Pansy don't play THAT game, ya idjits! But I attempted to be cooperative (obviously must have been high on crack that day). I was going to unclean it up here but decided you can all just suffer with the "pg" version, too. Actually, it is a PG rated incident. To re-tell the story, however, is painful for me unless I throw in some terrible language. So imagine that many of the words are "f__ing" (see? pretending to be PG right there!) and you will get the drift of how annoying this incident was then as well as in the intervening years since my bad knee has "popped out" at least twice a year since the original injury.
HOW TO BE A PANSY AND WRECK YOUR KNEE WITH YOUR KAYAK LIKE A REAL MAN:
1) I was hauling my F__ racing kayak back upstream in about July 1997 to go back through some F__ rapids;
2) my F__ right leg slipped on the F__ slippery, F__ slimey, F__ algae-covered F__ river rocks;
3) by the time the F__ slip/fall was over I was up to my F_ neck in the F__ river with my F__ leg bent F_ backwards and toward the inside (to the left) in The Most F__ Unnatural Position F_ Possible and
4) hanging onto my F__ kayak and F__ paddle for dear F__ life while
5) swimming one-F__-legged and one-F__-armed to the F__ shore.
Once I was back ashore, I then had to personally and all alone:
1) reinstall my F__ leg to "straightness" (a skill for which I have absolutely no prior F__ training but there ya F__ go)----what I did was shove "downward" from hip toward the knee and after 3 tries it grotesquely and quite visually snapped back into place;
2) then get in the F__ kayak and paddle for about 4 F__ miles;
3) get OUT of the F_ kayak;
4) haul the F_ kayak up a F_ steep embankment;
5) F_load the F_ kayak on my F__ Dodge Caravan;
6) drive to my F_ house;
7) unload the F__ kayak;
8) drive my F__ self to the F_ emergency room.
Mr. Pansy was at work and the girls were at home with a babysitter.
I knew it was permanently injured but you have to play the insurance jump-through-F__-hoops games and I was too F___ physically fit and still ambulatory (even though my F__ leg/knee was swollen like a F__ soccer ball was in there) so "the man" has made me suffer ever since until finally on Christmas Eve 2007 as I was attempting to get up off the carpeting my knee twisted out of place. That "Christmas Eve Twist" turned out be The Last Dance. The knee became permanently half-cocked due to a loose piece of cartilege or something jamming it from being able to be fully straightened out. Plus there are "multiple" tears in the meniscus. So now I finally qualified for an MRI and even I could see that there was no getting out of surgery for the old nag's knee. Or they were gonna have to put me down. [whinnies nervously]. I was prepared to have to bite down on a towel while the doc yanked my leg back into place. [rolls eyes wildly, stacatto braying]. As it was he just yanked on my hair and yelled "giddyup". [noisily nickering]. I got to crutch up 2 flights of stairs at the doctor's office due to a rainstorm killing the power in his building as well as all over the area. Except our house for goddam once!
After getting referred to the surgeon, I begged the surgeon to call some other patient, cancel their surgery and put me in NOW. He blatantly refused. Something about ethics. So he did his best by scheduling me for 5:30 fucking A.M. on Friday 1/11/08. What a bastard. Fortunately, my surgery date worked with my upcoming parties schedule or I would be really royally pissed off. He was pleased that I already knew that once the surgery is done my knee is FIXED and that I intend to make it do its job. Which is to kick ass. He said I could begin kicking ass after 2weeks...as in that's when I can begin physical therapy.
The Silver Lining: it was convenient going in to see my primary physician with my leg half-cocked up in the air since it saved some time positioning me for a full-cocked examination. And then I found out that he is a carpenter on the side when he rolled me over to my right(even though I prefer being rolled over to my left) before nailing me good and hard. It was a bit more romantic than prior times, due to the use of candles and flashlights. After I gathered my clothing I wasn't too dazzled to forget to pick up the money he usually leaves on the countertop. This time it was a $5 bill with a picture of Bill Clinton on it! I hope the surgeon is as generous.
Vicodin brings the annoyance/pain level down to about 6. Cheap ass surgeon would NOT give me a post-surgery heroin drip. But I finally have a fixed knee so I don't anticipate too much angst during rehab. Except for that F___ part where I got F__ jobbed out of finishing my F___ 8,000 miles on my bicycle (by a mere 209 F___ miles) for 2007. But I'm not fucking bitter. And at least my legs bend enough for Mr. Pansy's examinations.
Now do I got you totally convinced at how Fucking Manned-up I really are?
HOW TO BE A PANSY AND WRECK YOUR KNEE WITH YOUR KAYAK LIKE A REAL MAN:
1) I was hauling my F__ racing kayak back upstream in about July 1997 to go back through some F__ rapids;
2) my F__ right leg slipped on the F__ slippery, F__ slimey, F__ algae-covered F__ river rocks;
3) by the time the F__ slip/fall was over I was up to my F_ neck in the F__ river with my F__ leg bent F_ backwards and toward the inside (to the left) in The Most F__ Unnatural Position F_ Possible and
4) hanging onto my F__ kayak and F__ paddle for dear F__ life while
5) swimming one-F__-legged and one-F__-armed to the F__ shore.
Once I was back ashore, I then had to personally and all alone:
1) reinstall my F__ leg to "straightness" (a skill for which I have absolutely no prior F__ training but there ya F__ go)----what I did was shove "downward" from hip toward the knee and after 3 tries it grotesquely and quite visually snapped back into place;
2) then get in the F__ kayak and paddle for about 4 F__ miles;
3) get OUT of the F_ kayak;
4) haul the F_ kayak up a F_ steep embankment;
5) F_load the F_ kayak on my F__ Dodge Caravan;
6) drive to my F_ house;
7) unload the F__ kayak;
8) drive my F__ self to the F_ emergency room.
Mr. Pansy was at work and the girls were at home with a babysitter.
I knew it was permanently injured but you have to play the insurance jump-through-F__-hoops games and I was too F___ physically fit and still ambulatory (even though my F__ leg/knee was swollen like a F__ soccer ball was in there) so "the man" has made me suffer ever since until finally on Christmas Eve 2007 as I was attempting to get up off the carpeting my knee twisted out of place. That "Christmas Eve Twist" turned out be The Last Dance. The knee became permanently half-cocked due to a loose piece of cartilege or something jamming it from being able to be fully straightened out. Plus there are "multiple" tears in the meniscus. So now I finally qualified for an MRI and even I could see that there was no getting out of surgery for the old nag's knee. Or they were gonna have to put me down. [whinnies nervously]. I was prepared to have to bite down on a towel while the doc yanked my leg back into place. [rolls eyes wildly, stacatto braying]. As it was he just yanked on my hair and yelled "giddyup". [noisily nickering]. I got to crutch up 2 flights of stairs at the doctor's office due to a rainstorm killing the power in his building as well as all over the area. Except our house for goddam once!
After getting referred to the surgeon, I begged the surgeon to call some other patient, cancel their surgery and put me in NOW. He blatantly refused. Something about ethics. So he did his best by scheduling me for 5:30 fucking A.M. on Friday 1/11/08. What a bastard. Fortunately, my surgery date worked with my upcoming parties schedule or I would be really royally pissed off. He was pleased that I already knew that once the surgery is done my knee is FIXED and that I intend to make it do its job. Which is to kick ass. He said I could begin kicking ass after 2weeks...as in that's when I can begin physical therapy.
The Silver Lining: it was convenient going in to see my primary physician with my leg half-cocked up in the air since it saved some time positioning me for a full-cocked examination. And then I found out that he is a carpenter on the side when he rolled me over to my right(even though I prefer being rolled over to my left) before nailing me good and hard. It was a bit more romantic than prior times, due to the use of candles and flashlights. After I gathered my clothing I wasn't too dazzled to forget to pick up the money he usually leaves on the countertop. This time it was a $5 bill with a picture of Bill Clinton on it! I hope the surgeon is as generous.
Vicodin brings the annoyance/pain level down to about 6. Cheap ass surgeon would NOT give me a post-surgery heroin drip. But I finally have a fixed knee so I don't anticipate too much angst during rehab. Except for that F___ part where I got F__ jobbed out of finishing my F___ 8,000 miles on my bicycle (by a mere 209 F___ miles) for 2007. But I'm not fucking bitter. And at least my legs bend enough for Mr. Pansy's examinations.
Now do I got you totally convinced at how Fucking Manned-up I really are?
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Where There is Smoke On The Water...Go For It!
Once upon a time, long, long ago:
FLASHBACK TO UC DAVIS DAYS: Mr. Pansy and I were moving, which for some reason called for ingesting a mind-altering substance and while we were engaged in a PDA (private display of affection) -- which often happens after ingesting such a substance -- I suddenly was struck with the certain knowledge that if I let myself have the orgasm that was coming I was going to die from it (I suspect the substance made me falsely believe that) and I actually insisted we stop the PDA. And Mr. Pansy did! This guy is amazing. He still lives with me to this day. I have not had any regrets because, after all, that orgasm WAS going to kill me I am certain but I HAVE recalled it over the years and sure missed it----- it was going to be THAT good.
FLASHFORWARD TO JAMAICA, 2000: That year when we hit the beach we found a lady on a raft in possession of some "smoke on the water." Some of it got into my lungs. This was a problem as it has been 30 years of substance abstinence for me and I had absolutely no tolerance built up, so it was quite effective on me. This sure ain't your father's weed! But, much like your father's weed, we had to quickly go to our room for some PDA and I FOUND THE LOST ORGASM!! And so did Mr. Pansy and he didn't even know he had lost one! I faced death down this time because frankly what better way to die than while having THE orgasm in Jamaica!!!??? Woweee! Not Maui Wowie, way much better!
The best part of Jamaica is the nonstop, as much as you want it, uninterrupted sex. So we decided to find our limits, which came (a sex pun!) to a pleasantly dehydrated conclusion after 4 days and 18 experiments. It occurs to me that it has been a few years now and it is probable that the Pansys need to perform new tests and update the data.
Now picture this whole story being experienced by someone old enough to be your grandmother. A slutty grandmother but still and all.....Makes you want to yell "Blind me now, God! Please!" don't it? Sometimes the truth hurts....others. hahaahaha.
Signed,
Holy Mother of God!
(I believe that's what Mr. Pansy yelled out during the experiments. Even if it's not true, I am still a believer!!)
FLASHBACK TO UC DAVIS DAYS: Mr. Pansy and I were moving, which for some reason called for ingesting a mind-altering substance and while we were engaged in a PDA (private display of affection) -- which often happens after ingesting such a substance -- I suddenly was struck with the certain knowledge that if I let myself have the orgasm that was coming I was going to die from it (I suspect the substance made me falsely believe that) and I actually insisted we stop the PDA. And Mr. Pansy did! This guy is amazing. He still lives with me to this day. I have not had any regrets because, after all, that orgasm WAS going to kill me I am certain but I HAVE recalled it over the years and sure missed it----- it was going to be THAT good.
FLASHFORWARD TO JAMAICA, 2000: That year when we hit the beach we found a lady on a raft in possession of some "smoke on the water." Some of it got into my lungs. This was a problem as it has been 30 years of substance abstinence for me and I had absolutely no tolerance built up, so it was quite effective on me. This sure ain't your father's weed! But, much like your father's weed, we had to quickly go to our room for some PDA and I FOUND THE LOST ORGASM!! And so did Mr. Pansy and he didn't even know he had lost one! I faced death down this time because frankly what better way to die than while having THE orgasm in Jamaica!!!??? Woweee! Not Maui Wowie, way much better!
The best part of Jamaica is the nonstop, as much as you want it, uninterrupted sex. So we decided to find our limits, which came (a sex pun!) to a pleasantly dehydrated conclusion after 4 days and 18 experiments. It occurs to me that it has been a few years now and it is probable that the Pansys need to perform new tests and update the data.
Now picture this whole story being experienced by someone old enough to be your grandmother. A slutty grandmother but still and all.....Makes you want to yell "Blind me now, God! Please!" don't it? Sometimes the truth hurts....others. hahaahaha.
Signed,
Holy Mother of God!
(I believe that's what Mr. Pansy yelled out during the experiments. Even if it's not true, I am still a believer!!)
Second Up In The Pansy Stories Chronicles/Jogger
ONCE UPON A TIME, but not very long, long ago:
Mr. Pansy and I were bicycle riding the weekend before Halloween 2007 and passed ONCE AGAIN the female jogger of Great Boobage. Mr. Stupid Blind Mole Pansy missed the sight again! So I, of course, have to graphically describe her for him, which was difficult since I only got a fleeting glance at her as it was: She has about 98 pounds of body weight---34% are in her chestial zone. Her overall body is quite slender with femininely defined musculature. Slender thighs that do not touch each other on their inside edges. And they were covered in exercise-induced moisture as well as the somewhat overly damp short shorts she was wearing. The short shorts were, to be more accurate, clinging to her cougar's cameltoe and hip extensors/abductors. I think she would have appreciated someone removing the frontal wedgie she was suffering from. She also was wearing a really large serious subdue-those-puppies sports bra that was inadequate. Huge, round (I said: HUGE, ROUND) mounds are sticking up, out, and above as well as out and below the edges of said overwhelmed sports bra. Huge, round, sweaty mounds. Glistening like dew kissed, genetically engineered cantaloupes, with rivulets of moisture trickling down into the crevasses between the snowy white moguls. And more moisture is slowly gliding down from below the humps sticking out beneath the bottom strap of the sports bra that is screaming in pain from its burdens. There were individually extended nipply pores/ridges visible through the cloth, practically casting shadows of their own. At this point in my narrative, Mr. Pansy said he had a cramp and needed to turn around "right now". But then he gave himself away when he said that while on his way home with the alleged cramp that he hoped to catch a glimpse of "Rivulets". I cut him off at the pass and we continued riding away from the scene of carnality. The cutting was not permanent or disfiguring but he won't be carnalianing anything for awhile. I am not sure he could endure the imagery if I had gotten a REALLY good look at her. She/them was impressive I must say. They did not wiggle around. I will agree that they are not TOO huge but they are definitely NOT a polite size. Mr. Pansy now "always" wants to go for a bike ride. Oh, and OF COURSE she has high maintenance blonde hair and is not unattractive. She did not have on enough makeup to be blatant but I suspect she uses shading and fancy techniques to improve her appearance. At about 5'5" she is a bit too tall to be a true spinner.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
