So, Mr. Pansy and his Freak Friend are hitchhiking to San Francisco to catch a concert in Golden Gate Park by all The Really Cool Bands. It's free. Two skanks pick up the Hot, Long Haired College Boys and off they head for S.F. Turns out maybe the concert is just a rumor. Whatever, they cannot find the concert. So, like all smart young folk, they buy a gallon of, godsaveusall, Red Mountain Red Wine and go to the beach to drink it all. On empty stomachs naturally.
Driving home, Freak Friend has been placed in the front seat with Driver Skank. Second Skank is putting her moves (and nasty body parts) on Mr. Pansy, innocent wee little lamb. Freak Friend is feeling rough (surprise!) around the edges. Wanting to be a polite guest, Freak Friend removes his cowboy hat and thoroughly vomits into it. Then he tries to empty the hat out the passenger window. On the freeway. At freeway speeds. There apparently is something to the "wind, motion, time continuum, skanks will get their just paybacks" theory and the entire hatfull of nasty vomit goes swirling in the breeze......straight into the back seat of the car. All over Second Skank. But not innocent wee little lamb Mr. Pansy. His virtue is SAVED!
Mr. Pansy is some kind of really stoooopid dude and he tells PANSY about this misadventure of his. He will confess to any and all crimes because he is the most guilt-riddled victim of Severely Stern Germanic Parentage on earth. Turns out Pansy knows these fucking skanks. She is pleased that Second Skank had a Bad Hair Day. And Pansy hopes both Skank's hair and the Skankmobile still stink. Wait. Pansy KNOWS the Skank still stinks for sure.
Freak Friend later became a super cahuna with The Scripps Research Institute.
Mr. Pansy became the Personal HousePet of Pansy. Mr. Pansy got the better deal.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Mr. Pansy's Emergency Money
Occasionally, Mr. Pansy tells Pansy he is going to be in Dallas. He says Dallas is a town in Texas. Pansy is not stupid. She knows full well Dallas is that hag bimbo Pansy saw with Mr. Pansy last week. But she lets Mr. Pansy go because then Pansy is left unattended and fuck knows Pansy loves to be unattended. Because she almost always...hell, she Definitely Always goes on some kind of a Full On Pansy Bender when left unattended.
Then, one night just before Mr. Pansy is going to go to Dallas he suddenly turns to Pansy and with a Really Serious Expression on his face and Very Somber tone of voice he says "Here is some emergency money for you while I am gone. In case you NEED it. Don't just spend it. It is for an emergency only." And hands Pansy a bunch of CASH. Well, well, well! I am quite touched by his serious tone. I have no idea what has gotten into him but he sure got to get into Pansy that night. Twice, what with that kind of up front cash payment!
Away flies Mr. Pansy in the big, shiny Magic Sky Machine and Pansy goes to work. It is the Staff Meeting day. During these meetings we mostly spend the entire morning bullshitting with each other, telling stories from our weekends and once in awhile actually attending to business. We all loved these meetings and the boss also really enjoyed these meetings since he then got to tell his wife all the new stories when he met her for lunch. Sexy Mexican, The Portugese and I contributed the majority of the stories that the boss told his wife. Imagine that.
This meeting is particularly special because I got to share my heartwarming story of Mr. Pansy making certain I had Emergency Money. It's not like he hasn't gone to Dallas before but somehow this time around he felt concerned for me. Maybe someone told him about that Full On Pansy Bender from his last trip. I don't know. But I do know whatever piece of shit tattletale that went to Mr. Pansy is on my For Sure Dead List forever.
Now the rest of the staff are giggling at the absurdity of this Emergency Money from Mr. Pansy. Excuse me---but I am not the one out of town away from anyone who knows me. I can personally go to the bank and withdraw every asset we have, including stock certificates, CDs, gold coins, pornographic photos for blackmail money. Oopsies! Those are the ones HE has of ME to use against ME! Nebbermind! I have his credit cards (left at home so they won't get stolen!) I can max to the limit with cash advances. Hell, I have access to our house title documents if I should decide to sell the house or merely take out a second mortgage. I mean, really! I could be in Mexico living la vida loca within 24 hours. And yet he gives me Emergency Money!
The staff take guesses at how much cash Mr. Pansy had stuffed in my paw. I did not tell them he got to pleasure himself twice with me since that would be too much a clue for them. The guesses ranged from $200 to what the boss thought would be reasonable: $500. When I told them the actual amount they, to a person, dropped their jaws and we all piled into my car for a road trip. To the local Dairy Queen. Because what Mr. Pansy gave me for Emergency Money was $20. I kid you not. What was he thinking?
Then, one night just before Mr. Pansy is going to go to Dallas he suddenly turns to Pansy and with a Really Serious Expression on his face and Very Somber tone of voice he says "Here is some emergency money for you while I am gone. In case you NEED it. Don't just spend it. It is for an emergency only." And hands Pansy a bunch of CASH. Well, well, well! I am quite touched by his serious tone. I have no idea what has gotten into him but he sure got to get into Pansy that night. Twice, what with that kind of up front cash payment!
Away flies Mr. Pansy in the big, shiny Magic Sky Machine and Pansy goes to work. It is the Staff Meeting day. During these meetings we mostly spend the entire morning bullshitting with each other, telling stories from our weekends and once in awhile actually attending to business. We all loved these meetings and the boss also really enjoyed these meetings since he then got to tell his wife all the new stories when he met her for lunch. Sexy Mexican, The Portugese and I contributed the majority of the stories that the boss told his wife. Imagine that.
This meeting is particularly special because I got to share my heartwarming story of Mr. Pansy making certain I had Emergency Money. It's not like he hasn't gone to Dallas before but somehow this time around he felt concerned for me. Maybe someone told him about that Full On Pansy Bender from his last trip. I don't know. But I do know whatever piece of shit tattletale that went to Mr. Pansy is on my For Sure Dead List forever.
Now the rest of the staff are giggling at the absurdity of this Emergency Money from Mr. Pansy. Excuse me---but I am not the one out of town away from anyone who knows me. I can personally go to the bank and withdraw every asset we have, including stock certificates, CDs, gold coins, pornographic photos for blackmail money. Oopsies! Those are the ones HE has of ME to use against ME! Nebbermind! I have his credit cards (left at home so they won't get stolen!) I can max to the limit with cash advances. Hell, I have access to our house title documents if I should decide to sell the house or merely take out a second mortgage. I mean, really! I could be in Mexico living la vida loca within 24 hours. And yet he gives me Emergency Money!
The staff take guesses at how much cash Mr. Pansy had stuffed in my paw. I did not tell them he got to pleasure himself twice with me since that would be too much a clue for them. The guesses ranged from $200 to what the boss thought would be reasonable: $500. When I told them the actual amount they, to a person, dropped their jaws and we all piled into my car for a road trip. To the local Dairy Queen. Because what Mr. Pansy gave me for Emergency Money was $20. I kid you not. What was he thinking?
Pansy Was PUNK When Punk Wasn't Cool
Pansy's hair is indestructible. It is as thick as a horse's ass. Ummm....horse's TAIL. And nothing she has ever done to it has killed it. Not even chemo. Oh, sure, the chemo (that did fuck squat for getting rid of Pansy's cancer) took it all out. But Pansy's Hair grew right back when she started the chemo that "never" works but IS working. Because Pansy's Hair is one fucking tough mutha. Like Pansy. Nevertheless, one dark night her thick locks went..........awry and then things really got hairy.
The first time Mr. Pansy ever saw Pansy she had golden blonde ringlets in a Shirley Temple kinda look due to a permanent she had installed in her hair. The next day she had a golden blonde Prince Valiant hairdo. From chemically straightening her hair. The very next day she had permanently dyed her hair a jet black color. The day after that she chemically stripped the black out of her hair and tried to color it her "natural" color. Of course by now she has no idea what her natural color ever was. The color she put on turned out kinda light brown. So the NEXT day, Pansy decided she would put blonde highlights into the brown. Using one of those "kits in a box" of bleach-and-highlight.
No one told Pansy that when you bleach hair, the product must not dry out. Or the bleaching process stops at wherever it is in the process. Well. Pansy, as previously explained, has Fucking THICK hair. And she wanted LOTS of blonde highlights, so she pulled lots and lots and lots of her hair through the showercap holes. She applied the bleach to her Fucking THICK hair which soaked up all the product. The product probably was dried before she even finished putting all of it on her hair. At any rate, after the prescribed waiting time, Pansy rinsed out her hair.
WHAT THE HOLY FUCK!!??? Her "blonde highlights" were the most amazing technicolor stripes of red, black, brown, blonde, white, and Most Spectacularly: Bright Screaming Orange. And all those colors were on each strand of hair from root to end. It is now 1:00 a.m. and..........now Pansy SWEARS she was not under the influence of alcohol, drugs, psychosis, or donuts....she had to go to work the next morning. And even for her, this hair was just too much. Yes. Pansy is shamed to this day at her cowardice. She would pay Seriously Big Bucks NOW for such a fabulous hair effect.
Pansy did have an immediate solution to the problem. She would simply cut off, at the roots, all the funky hairs. After all, she has the Most Fucking THICK hair in the universe. No problem. All the hairs are cut off. Pansy goes to bed.
She wakes up and now it's REALLY WHAT THE HOLY FUCK!!??? Oh, dear god. Now she has spikes sticking up all over her stupid damn head, through her so-called Fucking THICK hair. And the spikes are all those many and glorious technicolor/flourescent colors! She actually puts a fucking scarf over her hair and goes to work looking like a goddammed Russian Babushka grannie freak!
The next day Pansy seeks professional help. No, not the kind you all know she really needs. No psychiatrist has ever been willing to see her without HUGE bucks being involved. She went to a hair dresser. He said he could cut all her hair off to the spike length but no more of that chemical stuff of any sort for at least a month. Pansy leaves the hairdresser's looking like a shaved Porcupine/Pomeranian. Which is Totally NOT as fucking fun as being a shaved Beaver. A shaved "whatever" that has many, many SPOTS of all those glorious technicolor/flourescent colors sprinkled throughout her entire Fucking THICK HEAD.....of hair.
Pansy never touched her hair again. Except for that "naturally red" coloring she has to use every 9 days because her goddam fucking Thick Hair (EVERYWHERE on her body) also grows faster than a witchtit nipple in the cold. She was 19 years old. The only time since then that she even trims her hair (on her head) has been when her hair (on her head) would get caught in doors as she whirled out of the house for another assault on the world.
The first time Mr. Pansy ever saw Pansy she had golden blonde ringlets in a Shirley Temple kinda look due to a permanent she had installed in her hair. The next day she had a golden blonde Prince Valiant hairdo. From chemically straightening her hair. The very next day she had permanently dyed her hair a jet black color. The day after that she chemically stripped the black out of her hair and tried to color it her "natural" color. Of course by now she has no idea what her natural color ever was. The color she put on turned out kinda light brown. So the NEXT day, Pansy decided she would put blonde highlights into the brown. Using one of those "kits in a box" of bleach-and-highlight.
No one told Pansy that when you bleach hair, the product must not dry out. Or the bleaching process stops at wherever it is in the process. Well. Pansy, as previously explained, has Fucking THICK hair. And she wanted LOTS of blonde highlights, so she pulled lots and lots and lots of her hair through the showercap holes. She applied the bleach to her Fucking THICK hair which soaked up all the product. The product probably was dried before she even finished putting all of it on her hair. At any rate, after the prescribed waiting time, Pansy rinsed out her hair.
WHAT THE HOLY FUCK!!??? Her "blonde highlights" were the most amazing technicolor stripes of red, black, brown, blonde, white, and Most Spectacularly: Bright Screaming Orange. And all those colors were on each strand of hair from root to end. It is now 1:00 a.m. and..........now Pansy SWEARS she was not under the influence of alcohol, drugs, psychosis, or donuts....she had to go to work the next morning. And even for her, this hair was just too much. Yes. Pansy is shamed to this day at her cowardice. She would pay Seriously Big Bucks NOW for such a fabulous hair effect.
Pansy did have an immediate solution to the problem. She would simply cut off, at the roots, all the funky hairs. After all, she has the Most Fucking THICK hair in the universe. No problem. All the hairs are cut off. Pansy goes to bed.
She wakes up and now it's REALLY WHAT THE HOLY FUCK!!??? Oh, dear god. Now she has spikes sticking up all over her stupid damn head, through her so-called Fucking THICK hair. And the spikes are all those many and glorious technicolor/flourescent colors! She actually puts a fucking scarf over her hair and goes to work looking like a goddammed Russian Babushka grannie freak!
The next day Pansy seeks professional help. No, not the kind you all know she really needs. No psychiatrist has ever been willing to see her without HUGE bucks being involved. She went to a hair dresser. He said he could cut all her hair off to the spike length but no more of that chemical stuff of any sort for at least a month. Pansy leaves the hairdresser's looking like a shaved Porcupine/Pomeranian. Which is Totally NOT as fucking fun as being a shaved Beaver. A shaved "whatever" that has many, many SPOTS of all those glorious technicolor/flourescent colors sprinkled throughout her entire Fucking THICK HEAD.....of hair.
Pansy never touched her hair again. Except for that "naturally red" coloring she has to use every 9 days because her goddam fucking Thick Hair (EVERYWHERE on her body) also grows faster than a witchtit nipple in the cold. She was 19 years old. The only time since then that she even trims her hair (on her head) has been when her hair (on her head) would get caught in doors as she whirled out of the house for another assault on the world.
Monday, February 4, 2008
When Mr. Pansy Was Just 21......
It was a long, long time ago......
We lived in a college town where all of the bars would give a free pitcher of beer to people ON their 21st birthday. My, how times have changed, eh? Mr. Pansy made the rounds of all the bars in town (at least 5 as I recall), returns to our abode about 4pm and crashes into bed. He did not notice the frantic preparations Pansy was involved in that were for his surprise birthday party that night.
The party is roaring from the start. Loads of people are there, getting loaded. My, how times have NOT changed, eh? Around 8pm people start asking "What about what you promised us on the invitation, Pansy?" I had no idea what they were talking about because even though I was chaperoning the party I have to breathe, too, and some of that sandwich smoke had gotten into my lungs. Plus some beers had gotten into my stomach. But the lying partygoers all claimed I had promised to wear my tie-dyed dropbottom longjohns and do fancy snapping tricks with my leather bull whip. So Pansy is forced to go rustle up the outfit and do her whip tricks. No, she cannot do them anymore (but she is willing to try) and if you weren't there you don't get to know what all said whip tricks involved.
And then, like Pansy in longjohns doing whip tricks is not enough, the demanding people start asking "Where is Mr. Pansy?" Pansy had not even noticed he was not in attendance. Evidently it was a good enough party without him. Into his room she goes and finds him "eating a sandwich" [euphimism for smoking grass]. She snuffs out the "sandwich" [still talking grass here] and tells him there is a party going on and for him to get his birthday ass out there. He had truly not noticed the 50+ people nor heard the loud music blaring in the 4-room abode. That was some good "sandwich" [Mexican grass] he was eating [smoking].
A party attendee had brought a birthday cake which most people consumed. Except for Mr. Pansy, Pansy and about 3 others. "Suddenly" the crowd is really getting weird. Weird enough for even Pansy to notice. A couple of investigative questions later she finds out the stupid cake bringer had put lots (lots of lots) of LSD into the frosting. This is not good and Pansy strongly recommends against such nefarious behavior. It wasn't cool then and it ain't cool now. Seriously.
But an even bigger nuisance is now she has to fucking babysit this completely stupid in the head crowd and be the "trip guru" for a whole bunch of people who are now starting to wander outdoors---in real life, not just mentally. She finds and herds back to the house a group of about 12 that were in the nearby gas station mini-market getting things for their munchies. Another clutch of 11 are playing with a water hose. Back into the house they are shuttled toward towels and sheets to dry off with. Then a whole bunch are missing and Pansy finds them in a supermarket. To get to the supermarket they all had to climb the 6-foot fence in our "backyard" which means I had to fucking climb the fence, too. There they all are, in the cereal aisle, demanding (some were kinda scared) to know why there were so many frogs loose in the store. After I magically and ceremoniously "sweep away" the frogs to clear the path for them (which was hard to do because there were NO FUCKING FROGS there), they obediently followed me back home, over the 6-foot fence.
You all do recall that Pansy is dressed in tie-dyed, dropbottom longjohns and carrying a leather bull whip.
After awhile Pansy figures out how to keep them safely corralled by putting Mr. Pansy's motorcycle (which lived indoors in the kitchen area) against one door and she stood guard at the other door. During the vast majority of this party Mr. Pansy kept retreating to the bedroom for a nap or a "sandwich" and sometimes a drink.
There was plenty to drink, too. Because that afternoon Pansy had ridden her bicycle [with full fenders, kickstand, and genuine leather actually-for-horses saddlebags slung across the back fender] to the liquor store (about 2 miles away) to purchase 21 bottles of liquor as a birthday gift. She walked into the store, told the clerk she had a friend turning 21 and wanted to buy him a nice selection of adult beverages. Clerk and Pansy went up and down the aisles with Pansy pointing out various bottles like she had any clue on earth what she was doing. Pansy and the clerk "sophisticatedly" discussed the merits of this or that product and eventually she acquired and paid for 21 various liquors. She loaded these all into her saddlebags and rode away to her home. The bottles made a merry clinking sound as she pedalled along. The clerk never asked for ID, didn't even blink an eye. Pansy was 19 years old. NO "old hag" remarks, Please. Pansy has heard them all. Over the years Mr. Pansy has been mistaken for: Pansy's younger sister; Pansy's younger brother; and he has been carded at least once in every decade of his life. He was last carded about 2 months ago for a beer. I am not joking.
Eventually all the cake frosting victims came "down", the munchies were conquered, luckily no one got sick or arrested. But the party had to come to an end somehow and yes, Mother Pansy was the one who called it to an abrupt halt. When she found Mr. Pansy and a guest, at 4am, drinking the very last drops of the very last of the now-empty 21 bottles of booze from her precious toy poodle's food bowl. Anyone knows it is totally foul to be messing with a dog's food bowl. The darling puppy might catch a germ. Retch.
Then Pansy had to go to work at 10 am that morning. She looked pretty roughed up. But that's what happens when you get too wild popping a bull whip around like that.
We lived in a college town where all of the bars would give a free pitcher of beer to people ON their 21st birthday. My, how times have changed, eh? Mr. Pansy made the rounds of all the bars in town (at least 5 as I recall), returns to our abode about 4pm and crashes into bed. He did not notice the frantic preparations Pansy was involved in that were for his surprise birthday party that night.
The party is roaring from the start. Loads of people are there, getting loaded. My, how times have NOT changed, eh? Around 8pm people start asking "What about what you promised us on the invitation, Pansy?" I had no idea what they were talking about because even though I was chaperoning the party I have to breathe, too, and some of that sandwich smoke had gotten into my lungs. Plus some beers had gotten into my stomach. But the lying partygoers all claimed I had promised to wear my tie-dyed dropbottom longjohns and do fancy snapping tricks with my leather bull whip. So Pansy is forced to go rustle up the outfit and do her whip tricks. No, she cannot do them anymore (but she is willing to try) and if you weren't there you don't get to know what all said whip tricks involved.
And then, like Pansy in longjohns doing whip tricks is not enough, the demanding people start asking "Where is Mr. Pansy?" Pansy had not even noticed he was not in attendance. Evidently it was a good enough party without him. Into his room she goes and finds him "eating a sandwich" [euphimism for smoking grass]. She snuffs out the "sandwich" [still talking grass here] and tells him there is a party going on and for him to get his birthday ass out there. He had truly not noticed the 50+ people nor heard the loud music blaring in the 4-room abode. That was some good "sandwich" [Mexican grass] he was eating [smoking].
A party attendee had brought a birthday cake which most people consumed. Except for Mr. Pansy, Pansy and about 3 others. "Suddenly" the crowd is really getting weird. Weird enough for even Pansy to notice. A couple of investigative questions later she finds out the stupid cake bringer had put lots (lots of lots) of LSD into the frosting. This is not good and Pansy strongly recommends against such nefarious behavior. It wasn't cool then and it ain't cool now. Seriously.
But an even bigger nuisance is now she has to fucking babysit this completely stupid in the head crowd and be the "trip guru" for a whole bunch of people who are now starting to wander outdoors---in real life, not just mentally. She finds and herds back to the house a group of about 12 that were in the nearby gas station mini-market getting things for their munchies. Another clutch of 11 are playing with a water hose. Back into the house they are shuttled toward towels and sheets to dry off with. Then a whole bunch are missing and Pansy finds them in a supermarket. To get to the supermarket they all had to climb the 6-foot fence in our "backyard" which means I had to fucking climb the fence, too. There they all are, in the cereal aisle, demanding (some were kinda scared) to know why there were so many frogs loose in the store. After I magically and ceremoniously "sweep away" the frogs to clear the path for them (which was hard to do because there were NO FUCKING FROGS there), they obediently followed me back home, over the 6-foot fence.
You all do recall that Pansy is dressed in tie-dyed, dropbottom longjohns and carrying a leather bull whip.
After awhile Pansy figures out how to keep them safely corralled by putting Mr. Pansy's motorcycle (which lived indoors in the kitchen area) against one door and she stood guard at the other door. During the vast majority of this party Mr. Pansy kept retreating to the bedroom for a nap or a "sandwich" and sometimes a drink.
There was plenty to drink, too. Because that afternoon Pansy had ridden her bicycle [with full fenders, kickstand, and genuine leather actually-for-horses saddlebags slung across the back fender] to the liquor store (about 2 miles away) to purchase 21 bottles of liquor as a birthday gift. She walked into the store, told the clerk she had a friend turning 21 and wanted to buy him a nice selection of adult beverages. Clerk and Pansy went up and down the aisles with Pansy pointing out various bottles like she had any clue on earth what she was doing. Pansy and the clerk "sophisticatedly" discussed the merits of this or that product and eventually she acquired and paid for 21 various liquors. She loaded these all into her saddlebags and rode away to her home. The bottles made a merry clinking sound as she pedalled along. The clerk never asked for ID, didn't even blink an eye. Pansy was 19 years old. NO "old hag" remarks, Please. Pansy has heard them all. Over the years Mr. Pansy has been mistaken for: Pansy's younger sister; Pansy's younger brother; and he has been carded at least once in every decade of his life. He was last carded about 2 months ago for a beer. I am not joking.
Eventually all the cake frosting victims came "down", the munchies were conquered, luckily no one got sick or arrested. But the party had to come to an end somehow and yes, Mother Pansy was the one who called it to an abrupt halt. When she found Mr. Pansy and a guest, at 4am, drinking the very last drops of the very last of the now-empty 21 bottles of booze from her precious toy poodle's food bowl. Anyone knows it is totally foul to be messing with a dog's food bowl. The darling puppy might catch a germ. Retch.
Then Pansy had to go to work at 10 am that morning. She looked pretty roughed up. But that's what happens when you get too wild popping a bull whip around like that.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Everybody's Crazy About A Sharp Dressed Pansy Man....
ZZ Top was coming to town. A bunch of our Harley Owner's Group (HOG) decided to go as a group. A week or so before the concert the promoters called a couple Harley dealerships and asked if the HOG people would come down early on the day of the concert for a promotional contest. I don't know why they wanted Harley people but the contest involved...OMG...Dressing Up! Pansy went into a freakin' tizzy and got extremely loaded. When she sobered up she got seriously loaded for bear. That is some kind of saying that is so old even Pansy does not know what it means but it is supposed to connote something along the lines of: "you are going down, sucka." Pansy so fucking OWNS Dressing up. Everyone knows Dressing Up is HER turf. We did not know what the "categories" were going to be but since when do facts deter Pansy? I truly did not know what the categories were going to be but I guessed (because I have Superior Instincts For Nonsense) they would involve ZZ Top song titles. Contest Category Winners were to be determined by "audience applause o-meter."
Finally Day of Contest/Concert arrives. What is up for grabs are "upgraded" concert tickets for each of the winners of 3 categories (ding, ding, ding!): Sharp Dressed Man (male); Legs (women); Tush (men for some stupid flatassed reason). Please note 2 of the 3 categories were for men. Fuck that. Pansy is Manned Up beyond even manly HOG dudes so this was going to totally be a no-brainer.
First Event: Sharp Dressed Man
OH, please. The dickwads are prancing around in their "best" vests/leg leathers. What about "Sharp" and "Dressed" do they not understand? Maybe they couldn't figure it out what with them having their heads up their asses and all. I take off my Harley leather outer jacket and levis/leg leathers. What I am wearing under the jacket and over the levis/leathers---because Layer Your Clothing is a Pansy credo---is a really FINE woman's suit: a down-to-my-knees Zoot suit kinda jacket on top that is showing cleavage down to There and a long, mid-calf skirt slit up to There. All black and white with black/white patent leather 4" high heels that are styled to look like men's dress shoes with spats. Plus a big black straw sunhat suitable for Kentucky Derby Day with lovely short white First Lady style gloves. Way fucking Sharp and Dressed. I get Set One of upgrade tickets.
Second Event: Legs
For women only. The contest people tried to tell me I can't win "twice." I said "Watch me." Of course, I wasn't going to take the winnings AGAIN but for fucking cryin' out loud....the other bitches are mincing around in JEANS! Oh, sure, some had embroidered jeans. I commanded some men to hold my hair back while I barfed from boredom. Then I got up on the stage and took off my long jacket and long skirt to reveal that underneath I was wearing a lovely strapless, backless, black lace bustier type bra and a seriously short black leather miniskirt--also slit, but this time slit all the Way Up To THERE. How else can anyone choose the winning legs if you ain't showing 'em? I give my second set of upgrade tickets to Second Place Woman.
Third Event: Tush
The men's buns are supposed to be judged for something. I have no idea what the poor audience is supposed to applaud for since the men are all wearing dumpy jeans and leathers. Onstage I go again despite the contest organizers' pleas and somewhat pathetic attempts to physically restrain me. I guess by now they realized I might do ANYTHING and they weren't sure they had enough liability insurance. Well, if you want to win a Best Buns contest......what's a Pansy to do? She pulled off her short leather miniskirt to reveal a Very Vivid Bright Blue Harley thong and black lace-top thigh high stockings. She did keep her lacy bra/bustier thing on. But the outfit did not seem "complete". And Pansy is psychotic about "completeness." So she magically found in her thong/panties (gasp!) a long, long, long Pearl Necklace. Which she wrapped around her throat while extolling its warmness. Score Set #3 of upgraded concert tickets. Which I gave to the only male who had not fainted dead away.
It was a pleasant concert.
Finally Day of Contest/Concert arrives. What is up for grabs are "upgraded" concert tickets for each of the winners of 3 categories (ding, ding, ding!): Sharp Dressed Man (male); Legs (women); Tush (men for some stupid flatassed reason). Please note 2 of the 3 categories were for men. Fuck that. Pansy is Manned Up beyond even manly HOG dudes so this was going to totally be a no-brainer.
First Event: Sharp Dressed Man
OH, please. The dickwads are prancing around in their "best" vests/leg leathers. What about "Sharp" and "Dressed" do they not understand? Maybe they couldn't figure it out what with them having their heads up their asses and all. I take off my Harley leather outer jacket and levis/leg leathers. What I am wearing under the jacket and over the levis/leathers---because Layer Your Clothing is a Pansy credo---is a really FINE woman's suit: a down-to-my-knees Zoot suit kinda jacket on top that is showing cleavage down to There and a long, mid-calf skirt slit up to There. All black and white with black/white patent leather 4" high heels that are styled to look like men's dress shoes with spats. Plus a big black straw sunhat suitable for Kentucky Derby Day with lovely short white First Lady style gloves. Way fucking Sharp and Dressed. I get Set One of upgrade tickets.
Second Event: Legs
For women only. The contest people tried to tell me I can't win "twice." I said "Watch me." Of course, I wasn't going to take the winnings AGAIN but for fucking cryin' out loud....the other bitches are mincing around in JEANS! Oh, sure, some had embroidered jeans. I commanded some men to hold my hair back while I barfed from boredom. Then I got up on the stage and took off my long jacket and long skirt to reveal that underneath I was wearing a lovely strapless, backless, black lace bustier type bra and a seriously short black leather miniskirt--also slit, but this time slit all the Way Up To THERE. How else can anyone choose the winning legs if you ain't showing 'em? I give my second set of upgrade tickets to Second Place Woman.
Third Event: Tush
The men's buns are supposed to be judged for something. I have no idea what the poor audience is supposed to applaud for since the men are all wearing dumpy jeans and leathers. Onstage I go again despite the contest organizers' pleas and somewhat pathetic attempts to physically restrain me. I guess by now they realized I might do ANYTHING and they weren't sure they had enough liability insurance. Well, if you want to win a Best Buns contest......what's a Pansy to do? She pulled off her short leather miniskirt to reveal a Very Vivid Bright Blue Harley thong and black lace-top thigh high stockings. She did keep her lacy bra/bustier thing on. But the outfit did not seem "complete". And Pansy is psychotic about "completeness." So she magically found in her thong/panties (gasp!) a long, long, long Pearl Necklace. Which she wrapped around her throat while extolling its warmness. Score Set #3 of upgraded concert tickets. Which I gave to the only male who had not fainted dead away.
It was a pleasant concert.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Pansy's Hot Magic Pocket
Just a lame story that began long, long ago:
The Portugese Washer Woman got sick at work one day. Her heart was racing at over 200 bpm and then would go down to about 50 bpm and she was sweating and then in chills and it was pretty scary. So I drove her to the hospital ER where they checked her out. I got to check her out, too, since they made her strip down and put EKG patch thingamabobs on all of HER thingamabobs and boobs and Personal Patch, too! As these things usually go with a young female in perfect health she was diagnosed as only having a stress/anxiety attack. During the long hours we were there I thought to amuse her by showing off my nifty new purse which has loads of pockets.
A purse with loads of pockets is Pansy's Most Biggest Fetish. This purse has pockets on all its surfaces, inside and out and even along the strap. Then I found a pocket that had somehow magically escaped all my prior inspections of the purse, which was 1 week old. And I find money ($10!!) inside this brand fucking new pocket! HOT! But how can that be? As my Portugese phrases it I had the most beatific look of unadulterated joy, glee, lust and possibly even had tears in my eyes.
Well, all I had done was turn the stupid purse over so many times I was now into "reruns" on the pockets. Which caused an expression to make its way onto my face that was 100% polar-opposite of my Happy Face. I was stupefied, angry, feeling sexually frustrated and possibly even had tears in my eyes by this extreme letdown over NO HOT MAGIC POCKET. AND no new fucking $10, neither! Shit. Hey, I was upset over my Portugese and we all know how fucked Pansy is with MATH so her losing count of pockets under that day's stress is not inconceivable.
Portugese started laughing at (definitely not with) me so hard she literally almost fell off the hospital bed. I am mortified, which so rarely happens that she laughed even harder. Then I am laughing and we laughed/cried for at least an hour straight. We could not answer the questions of the medical people and they, like, got all fucking negative on us, man. Stupid uptight straights.
This event somehow set Cosmic Forces into motion and Every Day for, I swear, the next 3 weeks in a row whatever I was wearing somewhere on it would be a Hot Magic Pocket and in that pocket would be MONEY. Sometimes $5, usually just a couple/three $1 bills, sometimes coins....but always at least $1. Money in my pockets, day in and day out.
Then the Hot Magic Pocket moved to Sexy Mexican and SHE kept finding money in her clothing pockets. One day she found TWO new pockets she had never known about before that day on the back of her skirt--which she had owned for several months. And coins in the pockets.
Finally the Hot Magic Pocket moved to the Portugese. Which was a very good thing because she is probably Half Gypsy too and they will get all freaky and definitely voodoo on you if they get too pissed off. So Sexy Mexi and I were relieved Portugese was getting some action, too, even though we were not allowed to participate in said Hot Magic Pocket action with the Portugese. She is also a major teaser bitch in case I have not mentioned this nasty trait of hers before.
Eventually the magic got used up. This was about 2001. Then, just this past couple of weeks......YES!! I have been finding money in one pocket or another of my clothing pockets.
Mr. Pansy never gets Hot Magic Pocket Action.....except with Pansy, any time he wants some! And even when he doesn't want some Hot Magic Pocket Action. Okay--that last sentence was a total, complete fucking lie. Mr. Pansy Never Doesn't Want some o' that Pansy's Hot Magic Pocket Action. He has even specifically, out loud, said to her: Feel free to wake me up any time you want to give me some hot pocket action.
The Portugese Washer Woman got sick at work one day. Her heart was racing at over 200 bpm and then would go down to about 50 bpm and she was sweating and then in chills and it was pretty scary. So I drove her to the hospital ER where they checked her out. I got to check her out, too, since they made her strip down and put EKG patch thingamabobs on all of HER thingamabobs and boobs and Personal Patch, too! As these things usually go with a young female in perfect health she was diagnosed as only having a stress/anxiety attack. During the long hours we were there I thought to amuse her by showing off my nifty new purse which has loads of pockets.
A purse with loads of pockets is Pansy's Most Biggest Fetish. This purse has pockets on all its surfaces, inside and out and even along the strap. Then I found a pocket that had somehow magically escaped all my prior inspections of the purse, which was 1 week old. And I find money ($10!!) inside this brand fucking new pocket! HOT! But how can that be? As my Portugese phrases it I had the most beatific look of unadulterated joy, glee, lust and possibly even had tears in my eyes.
Well, all I had done was turn the stupid purse over so many times I was now into "reruns" on the pockets. Which caused an expression to make its way onto my face that was 100% polar-opposite of my Happy Face. I was stupefied, angry, feeling sexually frustrated and possibly even had tears in my eyes by this extreme letdown over NO HOT MAGIC POCKET. AND no new fucking $10, neither! Shit. Hey, I was upset over my Portugese and we all know how fucked Pansy is with MATH so her losing count of pockets under that day's stress is not inconceivable.
Portugese started laughing at (definitely not with) me so hard she literally almost fell off the hospital bed. I am mortified, which so rarely happens that she laughed even harder. Then I am laughing and we laughed/cried for at least an hour straight. We could not answer the questions of the medical people and they, like, got all fucking negative on us, man. Stupid uptight straights.
This event somehow set Cosmic Forces into motion and Every Day for, I swear, the next 3 weeks in a row whatever I was wearing somewhere on it would be a Hot Magic Pocket and in that pocket would be MONEY. Sometimes $5, usually just a couple/three $1 bills, sometimes coins....but always at least $1. Money in my pockets, day in and day out.
Then the Hot Magic Pocket moved to Sexy Mexican and SHE kept finding money in her clothing pockets. One day she found TWO new pockets she had never known about before that day on the back of her skirt--which she had owned for several months. And coins in the pockets.
Finally the Hot Magic Pocket moved to the Portugese. Which was a very good thing because she is probably Half Gypsy too and they will get all freaky and definitely voodoo on you if they get too pissed off. So Sexy Mexi and I were relieved Portugese was getting some action, too, even though we were not allowed to participate in said Hot Magic Pocket action with the Portugese. She is also a major teaser bitch in case I have not mentioned this nasty trait of hers before.
Eventually the magic got used up. This was about 2001. Then, just this past couple of weeks......YES!! I have been finding money in one pocket or another of my clothing pockets.
Mr. Pansy never gets Hot Magic Pocket Action.....except with Pansy, any time he wants some! And even when he doesn't want some Hot Magic Pocket Action. Okay--that last sentence was a total, complete fucking lie. Mr. Pansy Never Doesn't Want some o' that Pansy's Hot Magic Pocket Action. He has even specifically, out loud, said to her: Feel free to wake me up any time you want to give me some hot pocket action.
#5 Pansy Walks Into A Bar And...
It all began, long, long ago:
Mr. and Mrs. Pansy are riding their two Harleys to Reno, NV, for a romantic long weekend to celebrate their 25th Wedding Anniversary. They stop at a turnout to enjoy the majestic vista overlooking Nevada. Pansy notices her helmet visor is not snapped on all 3 snaps. The middle one needs to be popped back in. She leans her head forward a bit and Mr. Pansy pushes on the snap. It won't go back in. He says he's going to have to "pop it a good one". In hindsight, Pansy (who knows he deliberately mumbles to trick her into all kinds of bad decisions) now believes he said "I am going to pop you a good one."
Anyway, Pansy agrees to the good popping plan and again leans forward a bit, which makes Mr. Pansy go "off sides" and he HIT her helmet visor with every single muscle fiber and bitter emotion he evidently has built up over the past 25 years. Pansy's head snaps backwards with great force, stopped only by the base of the helmet hitting her across her upper shoulders, sending them into a instantaneous major muscle spasm while also simultaneously snapping her lower jaw shut so forcefully all four of her front bottom teeth get immediately chipped off by the top teeth. To Mr. Pansy's deep regret her tongue was not also injured and, in fact, it became quite agitated over this "accident."
Okay, Pansy is willing to believe she led Mr. Pansy on with her jukey move but what she had INTENDED to do was take off her helmet so he could snap the visor fully on. After repeatedly rinsing and spitting the tooth chips out, Pansy becomes aware that all this happened while we have been near a parked Highway Patrol car officer in the same turnout who did NOTHING to investigate this suspicious situation! I think he even winked at Mr. Pansy.
We continue on into Reno, arriving about noon. We have always been, and will always remain, Turnip Truck Escapees so we immediately hit the casinos empty stomached to get those free drinks because we can never learn our lesson about that combo. About 3pm we wander/stagger back outside where there is a bunch of crap everywhere....what is it called? Oh, yeh. A shitload of goddam blinding SUNSHINE everywhere which makes us start cursing like drunk people who have suddenly gone blind. I think we said something like:
Me whispering: SHIT! I CAN'T SEE FOR FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK?
Mr. Pansy whispering: SHIT! I CAN'T SEE FOR FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK?
Plus we need to curse about the probability that we will ever again find our hotel.
Me whispering: HOW THE FUCK ARE WE GOING TO FIND OUR HOTEL EVER AGAIN?
Mr. Pansy whispering: I DON'T KNOW WHERE THE FUCK OUR HOTEL IS.
Which did not attract any attention from the nearby policeman looking at us. I think he winked at Mr. Pansy, too. Right then a young, under 25, male goes be-bopping by wearing headphones which are connected to NOTHING but he is a bopping and grooving. And he has something tattooed on his forehead.
Me whispering: WHAT THE FUCK DOES HE HAVE ON HIS FUCKING FOREHEAD?
Mr. Pansy whispering: "SHIT FOR BRAINS"!
We do not die because Space Cadet Boy (who could have taken both of us down with one hand tied behind his back) fortunately is too messed up to hear/understand these old people, one of whom is partially toothless, on the sidewalk who evidently have had bullhorns implanted in their mouths. Because they, too, were currently alcohol impaired enough to also have shit for brains. We eventually found our way back to the hotel, and back to the casinos and free drinks, etc. and eventually even back to our home.
About 4 months later I am going to the dentist for my regular checkup and comment that in the past week or so I have had a "buzzing" in my upper left front teeth. Dentist checks all the teeth and yep only those 2 are "buzzy". He ponders this and says:
DDS: Have you bitten on hard food lately or got hit in the mouth somehow?
Pansy: Oh, of course! Mr. Pansy really socked me one a few months ago and all my bottom teeth are chipped, too. Can you kind of file them smooth?
Various medical and educational people in California are MANDATED abuse reporters and he and his nurse get all freaked out. They start quizzing me and getting out forms and taking notes. hehehehhehehehe. I explain the situation and since they have not heard this particular "abuse cover up story" before they decide to go along with it. But they did, several times, even as I am walking out the door, assure me if I "ever need to talk we are here for you."
The diagnosis was that my teeth roots had been bruised and there was nothing to do but wait to see if they died or recovered. I skipped around for weeks singing "All I want for Christmas is my Four Front Teeth" since all would need to be replaced to make them matchy-matchy. I was Extremely disappointed when the $2000 repair job did not come to pass since my teeth recovered. So now I still have those snaggly front teeth. And the bottom teeth got filed smooth....which I should have refused to have done because then I would be so much closer to being my dream animal: a land-based Great White Shark with those nifty serrated teeth. Then I could just smile at the family jewels when I felt Mr. Pansy needed to see things my way.
I hate it when Mr. Pansy wins one. Which he won only because we had been going to this dentist for 25 years.
Mr. and Mrs. Pansy are riding their two Harleys to Reno, NV, for a romantic long weekend to celebrate their 25th Wedding Anniversary. They stop at a turnout to enjoy the majestic vista overlooking Nevada. Pansy notices her helmet visor is not snapped on all 3 snaps. The middle one needs to be popped back in. She leans her head forward a bit and Mr. Pansy pushes on the snap. It won't go back in. He says he's going to have to "pop it a good one". In hindsight, Pansy (who knows he deliberately mumbles to trick her into all kinds of bad decisions) now believes he said "I am going to pop you a good one."
Anyway, Pansy agrees to the good popping plan and again leans forward a bit, which makes Mr. Pansy go "off sides" and he HIT her helmet visor with every single muscle fiber and bitter emotion he evidently has built up over the past 25 years. Pansy's head snaps backwards with great force, stopped only by the base of the helmet hitting her across her upper shoulders, sending them into a instantaneous major muscle spasm while also simultaneously snapping her lower jaw shut so forcefully all four of her front bottom teeth get immediately chipped off by the top teeth. To Mr. Pansy's deep regret her tongue was not also injured and, in fact, it became quite agitated over this "accident."
Okay, Pansy is willing to believe she led Mr. Pansy on with her jukey move but what she had INTENDED to do was take off her helmet so he could snap the visor fully on. After repeatedly rinsing and spitting the tooth chips out, Pansy becomes aware that all this happened while we have been near a parked Highway Patrol car officer in the same turnout who did NOTHING to investigate this suspicious situation! I think he even winked at Mr. Pansy.
We continue on into Reno, arriving about noon. We have always been, and will always remain, Turnip Truck Escapees so we immediately hit the casinos empty stomached to get those free drinks because we can never learn our lesson about that combo. About 3pm we wander/stagger back outside where there is a bunch of crap everywhere....what is it called? Oh, yeh. A shitload of goddam blinding SUNSHINE everywhere which makes us start cursing like drunk people who have suddenly gone blind. I think we said something like:
Me whispering: SHIT! I CAN'T SEE FOR FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK?
Mr. Pansy whispering: SHIT! I CAN'T SEE FOR FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK?
Plus we need to curse about the probability that we will ever again find our hotel.
Me whispering: HOW THE FUCK ARE WE GOING TO FIND OUR HOTEL EVER AGAIN?
Mr. Pansy whispering: I DON'T KNOW WHERE THE FUCK OUR HOTEL IS.
Which did not attract any attention from the nearby policeman looking at us. I think he winked at Mr. Pansy, too. Right then a young, under 25, male goes be-bopping by wearing headphones which are connected to NOTHING but he is a bopping and grooving. And he has something tattooed on his forehead.
Me whispering: WHAT THE FUCK DOES HE HAVE ON HIS FUCKING FOREHEAD?
Mr. Pansy whispering: "SHIT FOR BRAINS"!
We do not die because Space Cadet Boy (who could have taken both of us down with one hand tied behind his back) fortunately is too messed up to hear/understand these old people, one of whom is partially toothless, on the sidewalk who evidently have had bullhorns implanted in their mouths. Because they, too, were currently alcohol impaired enough to also have shit for brains. We eventually found our way back to the hotel, and back to the casinos and free drinks, etc. and eventually even back to our home.
About 4 months later I am going to the dentist for my regular checkup and comment that in the past week or so I have had a "buzzing" in my upper left front teeth. Dentist checks all the teeth and yep only those 2 are "buzzy". He ponders this and says:
DDS: Have you bitten on hard food lately or got hit in the mouth somehow?
Pansy: Oh, of course! Mr. Pansy really socked me one a few months ago and all my bottom teeth are chipped, too. Can you kind of file them smooth?
Various medical and educational people in California are MANDATED abuse reporters and he and his nurse get all freaked out. They start quizzing me and getting out forms and taking notes. hehehehhehehehe. I explain the situation and since they have not heard this particular "abuse cover up story" before they decide to go along with it. But they did, several times, even as I am walking out the door, assure me if I "ever need to talk we are here for you."
The diagnosis was that my teeth roots had been bruised and there was nothing to do but wait to see if they died or recovered. I skipped around for weeks singing "All I want for Christmas is my Four Front Teeth" since all would need to be replaced to make them matchy-matchy. I was Extremely disappointed when the $2000 repair job did not come to pass since my teeth recovered. So now I still have those snaggly front teeth. And the bottom teeth got filed smooth....which I should have refused to have done because then I would be so much closer to being my dream animal: a land-based Great White Shark with those nifty serrated teeth. Then I could just smile at the family jewels when I felt Mr. Pansy needed to see things my way.
I hate it when Mr. Pansy wins one. Which he won only because we had been going to this dentist for 25 years.
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