I wrote this late last Sunday for CheekySweetie’s blog. I know it was overdue, but I did get it done. -K

So there was this bet that Angel and I made. She claimed that the carpet in her bedroom was the ugliest carpet on Earth. I told her that I have 10 years on her, grew up in the 70’s, and have seen a TON of ugly carpet. Hello? Lime green and burnt orange, people? Shag carpeting?

If, in fact, she did possess the ugliest carpet on Earth, I would have to write her a guest post for her blog. This, during a time when I barely touched my own blog. Good choice. She wanted to make me work.

If, in fact, she did NOT own the nastiest carpet on the planet, well…shit, I forget what I would have won. It doesn’t matter, clearly, because I’m here, aren’t I?

I lose. Story of my life.

She really does have the ugliest carpet on the planet. It has dark orange and blood red and puce and cream, all swirled together in this melange that you’d think would look like a creamsicle but, in fact, looks like someone vomited all over her floor. I wish I’d gotten photos of it.

Thought about it a lot over the holidays. Wasn’t sure what I’d write, but came up with a Top 10 list because I’m lazy.

I don’t ever talk about my love life on my own blog, but then, I’m not exactly AT my blog, now am I? See? This is what you get for getting me to write a guest post for you, Angel. Next time you’ll think twice.

Why CheekySweetie Rocks

1. Angel blogs. I’ve always said that my future girlfriend was going to have to be a blogger. Blogger girls are the only ones who’d understand all the time I spend on a computer. Facebook, Twitter, blogging…she does it all and more often than I do. She doesn’t even blink when my thumbs are blazing across my iPhone’s virtual keyboard, mostly because she’s on her Droid Eris playing Bonsai Blast and doesn’t give a fuck. Me likey.
2. Angel is smart and shit. Like, really really smart. Case in point, she beats me at least 50% of the time on Words With Friends (a Scrabble clone). This is why I like her intelligence only 50% of the time (at least). Seriously, smart chicks are very sexy, and she has the sexy in spades. She’s not *too* smart, though. She still gets that impish grin when I say something juvenile like, “Heh, you just said ‘hard.’”
3. Angel is geeky. One time (not in band camp), I was on my iPhone and I gasped with excitement. “You know what I love?” I said to her. Without even looking up from her iPod Touch, she said, “When you go to the App Store and there are updates for your apps waiting?” Oh. My. God. I showed her my phone…4 app updates ready. “YES!” She totally gets me.
4. Angel is low-maintenance. I need to make this the criteria for all my relationships, friendship or otherwise. I like low-mai. She doesn’t care that my main wardrobe consists of silly t-shirts and cargo shorts. She doesn’t demand a lot of phone time. In fact, half the time, our dialogue is via text messaging. Don’t get me wrong. We talk on the phone frequently, and I always enjoy it, but she’s not big into the phone talk, and either am I. Usually.
5. Angel is generous. Spent a few days with her and the kids in Daytona Beach right after New Year’s. I was outside on the balcony smoking (what can I say? I’m smoking hot) and she told me what there was for lunch. I said I’d make a sandwich when I got back inside. When I did get back inside (brr! It was FREEZING out!) there was a sandwich already waiting. “You didn’t have to do that, babe,” I said. She just smiled and said, “I know.” That’s just one example out of dozens, if not hundreds. Oh, and she rubs my shoulders a lot, which kinda makes me purr.
6. Angel is kind. Time and time again, I’ve watched her with others. She’s always encouraging, always has nice things to say…kind of the opposite of me, really.
7. Angel makes me laugh. A lot. This fits well into my new life philosophy: Laugh more, laugh more. On top of that, she has a great laugh herself, though she might not agree with me on that. Always makes me smile to hear it, and really, aren’t I what matters most?
8. Angel says what she’s feeling. Like, without head games and crap. Do you know how rare this is? She tells it like it is, and doesn’t mince words about it, either. I dig that. Heavily. Her honesty is refreshing and never laced with malice, and I dig that, too.
9. Angel is a phenomenal mother. I’ve watched her with those children of hers, and I’ve spent time with those kids. They’re super-smart, polite kids, all three of whom are a delight to be around. Well, save for the teen boy, who is excelling at his misanthrope duties. Angel is amazing at showing her kids that they have choices, and that there are consequences for our choices. She’s also very good at follow-through, which many of us parents sadly lack a lot of the time.
10. Angel doesn’t think I suck. Really, this should be at the top of the list…y’know, if I were prioritizing the list. It should go without saying that a girlfriend would not think her boyfriend sucks, but I continue to find this amazing. My insecurities run rampant (depending on the day) and I often wonder what any woman in her right mind would see in me. Angel doesn’t hesitate to tell me. And I almost believe her.

So, to sum up, Angel is like a comedic slightly-raunchy version of Mother Teresa. Just with better boobs.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Right, so I know Saturday was supposed to be the end of the Summer of Love here at 2HT. And it would have been. Except today is, well, still technically August. And I have been begging for Crystal to write me a guest post from within the first 60 minutes of meeting her in Chicago last month. And she finally got around to sending me one just before midnight last night.

And it’s Crystal.

From Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper. If you think I’m not posting something from HER, you’re insane. She rocks my socks. So now I leave you with the REAL last guest post from the Summer of Love

Back to regular programming tomorrow (and the regular 2HT banner). -Karl

I took my toddler, Harmony, to the park today.

At 5:30 am, she stood motionless and unblinking near my face as I slept.  My arm was hanging off and I’m sure there was drool.

Kids have the spooky ability to remain that way for an indefinite period of time so that they can scare the bejeezly shit out of you.  When you’re somewhere that requires any form of reverence, however, you can tranq them and superglue their ass to the seat and their remaining that way for longer than 23 seconds is a statistical impossibility.

It typically only takes about a minute or so until I sense, somewhere in my psyche, that there is a face in my personal bubble.  Before coherent thought can form, I am up in the middle of the bed shrieking like a pantywaist and piddling all over my husband, Chris.  This happens at least five times a year, with each child.  If I have a nervous tic and I don’t like sudden movements, I think it’s fucking justified.

No matter how disconcerting my screams or the hysteria that ensues, Harmony finds this uproariously funny – so much so that as I’m gasping for air and clutching my chest, she is doing the same, but for much different reasons.  She will be doubled over, her chubby fists balled up on her knees and tears rolling down her cheeks as I struggle to make sense of what has just happened.

After the shock had worn off, she quietly asked for a ‘pop dart’ and I rolled out of bed to begin our day, trying to let Chris get some much-needed sleep.  I denied her repeated requests for a pop dart and we compromised with cereal and juice.  I watched her eat and marveled, for the thousandth time, at her beautiful, natural ringlets and her methodical destruction of her pajamas as she independently scooped big, sloppy spoonfuls of cereal into her mouth, the milk dripping over the sides and down her clothes.

At 8 am, we were watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse when I sat up and told her to find her shoes.  “We’re going to the park.” I have been housebound for almost a week and the despair and anxiety I had been suffering as a result of some very poor choices and necessary lifestyle changes was beginning to lift.

She looked at me in disbelief, her huge, blue eyes confused.  “We go to da park?  Da park, Momma?  We go to da playground?”

My heart ached as I nodded and watched her face erupt into an ear-splitting  smile.  She went in search of her sneakers and I counted in my head the number of times I have taken her to the park.  I counted less than five.  My job, a job that I’m grateful for, especially in today’s economy, is no longer a job.  It is a life.  It is one that I alternately hate and fear.  It is one that has caused me such stress and anxiety that it has played a huge part in my medicated, hospitalized, destructive life as of late.  It is one that has forced me to compromise my morals and the very person I’ve worked so hard to become.  As a result, my family has suffered.

We took stale bread and fed the ducks.  I heeded her demands of, “Higher, Momma!”, and I watched her climb and explore and learn and live.  After a while, I urged her that we needed to go and eat lunch.  I couldn’t stand the disappointment on her face, so I chose to take her to a restaurant that has a huge children’s area.  “It’s a better playground,” I assured her.  She was satisfied with that, so we went.  I spent the next hour fishing her out of giant tubes when she was convinced that she had climbed into another universe and began wailing in fright.  But we also played with all the toys and I didn’t’ give a damn when she declared, “You’re too big for dat toy, Momma,” indicating said tubes.  “I’m little.”  I grimaced in horror when I saw the color of the bottom of her bare feet and I fretted over the trillions of germs, but her joy was worth the risk.

At home in the afternoon, I put her in bed for a nap, pushed her curls off her forehead and kissed her mouth.  She smelled like kool-aid.  “I love you, Momma.”

“I love you.  You’re my little guy.”

“I’m not a guy, Momma.  I’m a guwull.”

“Have a good nap.”

I sat outside for a while.  The afternoon was passing and a blessedly cool breeze was coming around the corner of the house.  I watched some kids down the street playing basketball in the cove and I thought about the last time I really noticed what my kids were doing.  I tried to remember the last date I had with my husband.  I struggled to put even a tentative time frame on the last real kiss we had shared.  I couldn’t remember what peace and contentment had ever felt like.

I picked up crayolas off the floor and training panties from the bathroom.  There was a struggle going on inside me, one that had been raging and gnashing to be born, to be resolved.  I dealt with it accordingly; I pushed it away.

When I wrestled Harmony into bed for the night, I tried to reason with her.  “Ok, little guy, it’s been a long day.  You need to sleep.  You have a big day tomorrow.”  I was referring to daycare.

She grabbed my face and pulled it in close.  “We go feed da ducks.  And den we go to da playground,” she chirped.  “And den we go to da betta playground!”

It was at that moment when the struggle was laid to rest.  I’m quitting my job tomorrow and looking for a life that doesn’t begin and end with a time clock.  I’m going to the park.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Summer of Love.  Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?  Yes, yes it does.  I’m Karl’s last guest poster for his summer lovin’ thing and I’d like to think he saved the best for last.  However, that $100 bill he asked me for to save this spot, is sort of a dead give away that it may not be the case at all.  Jerk.  Love ya, though.

Let me properly introduce myself since I’m all about the proper and stuff.  I’m Sassy Smith, and surprisingly (or not) that is not my real name.  Yes, a lot of people do call me Sassy and I, of course, will answer to it (I’ll answer to almost anything except Edna.  That’s just not a pretty name.  No offense to anyone actually named Edna) and it matches my personality.  Serious and conservative *cough*.  If you follow me on Twitter (and if you don’t, what the hell are you waiting for?  This could be YOUR lucky day), you’ll see just how proper, conservative and serious I truly am. Flirt with a big F.  Anyway, when I joined teh internetz back in 2002, I was told by my paranoid mother to never use your real name online, because?  there are weirdos out there.  Which, yes, true, but Karl is totally harmless.

Let me tell you a little story.  No, it won’t be about that time in the hotel room playing naked poker with one of my best girlfriends (Karl asked me to send the draft to him first, you know, so he could check it out and point out my spelling errors), and maybe I’ll be asked to never come back and guest post again, and I’ll enthrall you with that little bit of porn gem or not.

This is about shirts.  Offensive shirts.  Allegedly offensive.  Are they really offensive?  I mean, what if you don’t know the whole story behind the shirt?  Right?  Remember Karl’s Blogher tees?  A handful of people didn’t like them (bitch please, you had better send me that pink one!  You hear me Karl?!).  I’ve experienced similar discrimination.  And from men, too!  Usually I don’t offend men, but this one dude walked up to me and said my shirt was disgusting and that I was a dirty girl (so disgusting in fact, he licked his lips as he said it).  And he did give me his home number, his cell number, his pager number, his email address and keys to his apartment.  Maybe when he said disgusting and dirty girl, he meant something else?  Whatevs.

So, tell me what you think?  I mean, these shirts are cute, right?  And they are super high-quality.  Had them specially made as you can totally tell hand printed with grape-scented kid markers.  Nothin’ but the best for my chest.

“My pussy is awesome!”

Sure, I can sort of see how it might be offensive, but seriously, my pussy is awesome.  It’s just that I can’t take her every place I go.  She sheds.

See?  She’s adorable, right?!  Told you!  My pussy is totally awesome.  So, to that dude who said I was dirty and disgusting, I’m totally returning your apartment keys after I sleep with you just once.  I mean you were totally hot.

“I have a dirty box.”

Seriously, it’s not been cleaned, in like, days.  I get how some might react badly to that shirt caption – it’s not like I take my dirty box with me wherever I go, so people understand what I mean.  So they can see my dirty box.  It’s dirty.  Like, for real, who wants to cart around a dirty box?  Not me!

See?  Dirty box.  To the lady at the grocery store, you know what?  Fuck you.  I didn’t judge you on your poor fashion choice of leggings, crop top and $3 bargin-bin flip-flops.  I applaud you on your courage to show the world your back fat and ugly feet.  You could have shown me the same courtesy instead of huffing away in a jiggly mass after reading my shirt.  Don’t judge my fucking dirty box or my dirty box shirt.

“I heart big breasts.”

Who doesn’t love big ones?  Big, juicy breasts.  Smeared with sauce.  Yum.

I mean look at those big breasts!  When they thaw and get tossed on the BBQ and smeared with sauce…yum, gonna be so juicy.  See?  How is that offensive?  Sheesh.

Hey, grandma at the doctor’s office, loosen up, will ya?  There was no need to point your cane at me and cluck your tongue in disgust.  I’m sure back in the day you liked big juicy breasts but were afraid to admit it.  You’re 92.  Time to live a little.  Nothing wrong with BIG, JUICY BREASTS.  I think the crowd agrees with me, right?  Stand up and cheer!

“My milk jugs R full.”

Love me some full milk jugs.  All filled up.  Best way to enjoy milk jugs.  Full.  I like the milk in bags, too.  Fun bags, I call them.  Milky fun bags.  Ooh.

Look at those jugs.  Full.  Milky.  Dreamy.

Sure, it may not have been THE best shirt to wear to church, but my friend didn’t give me much time to prepare.  She was all, let’s go to church and confess and shit and I just grabbed the closest thing to me.  The nuns, I’m pretty sure, were not pleased with my tank top, but the priest?  I think he sort of dug me.  I asked him after the service if he like full milk jugs and he nodded his agreement.  He was kind of tongue-tied.  Not sure why?  Hi, is that your robe or are you just glad to see me?  The nuns didn’t like my joking nature.  I’m probably going to hell anyway, so no big.

I like my shirts.  I think they’re cute (and remember, super high quality).  But…

…after much consideration, I think I might give up the shirts.  And not just my specially hand-crafted tees, but all shirts.  I mean people are so damn judgy.  Say the hell with shirts!  Take them off!  Be free of the shirts and the judgment!

So…

…hopefully, my bikini top doesn’t offend you.  Because?  Next step would be to go around topless and I know that shit would really offend people.

Don’t judge me.  Or my shirts.  Or me taking off my shirt.  Let’s all love one another like in a big orgy. I mean, group hug.  Yeah, group hug.

Karl, thank you so much for letting me guest post.  You’re calling security, right?  Now, give me back my hundred bucks.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Hi, Black Belt Mama here.

When I did the first video for Karl’s “Super Summer of Love,” I figured I’d go out like that “Hey Mickey You’re So Fine” girl. You know, one act wonder. This summer, however, I’ve been suffering from major writer’s block. I’m not sure if it’s the copious amounts of allergy meds that dull my writing creativity or what exactly it is, but I figured I’d better find a song to lip sync to and fast. There was no way I was going to top (or even approach the level of) some of these written (and Whall) posts. No freaking way.

So, a song came out this summer and I had big plans. I had back-up dancers lined up, neighbors who were going to help, and a videographer who actually does this kind of stuff for a living. But people are busy and it didn’t work out.

So the guest post eve arrived and I was at a loss. What the heck could I do? I had this plan for a video but no way to do it. . . or did I?

I broke out a tripod, a fan, and put my kids to work. It sort of worked out considering the song discusses a serious “Napoleon complex.” The girls and I ate cereal for dinner and then I took my daughter to field hockey practice looking like a total hussy with enough eye make-up on to last me four weeks. But I’ve said enough. You should just watch.

Why is Karl so Obsessed? from Blackbelt Mama on Vimeo.

For a list of FAQ’s regarding the filming of this video, please visit my blog. The answers to your deepest desires are there. Oh, and I’d also like to apologize in advance. . .  to my daughters, to Karl, and to Mariah Carey, although not to her boobs. That part is totally legit.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Hi! So, I’ve been asked and am honored to be a guest poster here in the summer of LOOOOOOVVE.

Is this the part where we all make out now? I shaved my legs just in case.

I had planned on writing a rap about legalizing Marajana Marijana Marjhiana Marijuana but I couldn’t spell it. So I was all “fuck that shit, they probably have their own raps about legalizing Marijuana” so I decided to write about my virgin sex toy experience. Or, future experience.

I don’t know if you know mah 704 beeshes? Maybe you saw us at BlogHer?

That should ring a bell.

We have this website where we are sponsored by Eden Fantasies. Which, you know, is great and all. Except that the actual WORDS “sex toys” makes me blush. I KNOW. Right? I cuss like a fucking trucker but I can’t say Vibrator without turning ten shades of red.

My own grandmother told me once, “You’ve GOT to have a Penis cake at a bachelorette party, Leslie. It’s imperative.” My sweet little 75 year old Grandmother could tell me to get a Penis Cake and I just about had my neck swallow up my head whole.

I’ve been, um, encouraged to just give it a bit of a try. I mean, if a cute little Mormon girl can, why can’t an agnostic trucker-mouth me?

There is no answer to this. Well, maybe there is but it a long, boring background involving being raised by people who think Priests are the moral compass of the world. Cough.

So, lemme as this audience here of dynamic and fun individuals: What would you try first if it was your first… “time”? ‘Cause I’m just about to start clicking things blindly and pick one like the old, “Where to travel to” on a globe. Which just might get me to somewhere like Dubai. Or something lame.

(This post brought to you by Mrs. Flinger and her jacked up multiple personality part-whore-part-OCD-part-shy-part-alcoholic self.)

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

So what do you say when a friend asks for a guest post but you’re right in the middle of a self-imposed blog hiatus because your brain is so fried you can’t string two coherent sentences together?

The logical answer, the sane answer is no, thanks.

But no one has ever accused me of being sane or logical so here I am. I asked to be put at the end of schedule, just in time for you all to be totally over the whole “Summer of Love” concept. That accomplished two things: It gave me more time to come up with an idea (which I clearly failed at doing), plus it played the odds that no one would even bother reading it. One look in the old feed reader and a click to that little X in the upper right corner and off you’ll go to visit Dooce or someone who’s kind of a big deal on the Internet or someone who is far more interesting than I am.

So, um, I’m Finn. Some of you read me, some of you don’t but know me from my comments around the blogosphere and some of you wouldn’t know me if you fell on me and probably couldn’t care less who the fuck I am. I’m a Leo, born on August 10 (it’s a supposed to be a very rare birthday, but it’s Antonio Banderas’ too, so there’s that) and I like long walks on the beach, pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Sex in a five-star hotel on the beach with the windows open isn’t bad either.

If you’ve read this far, congratulations, your check is in the mail. It will, undoubtedly, bounce, but it’s the thought that counts, no?

Right.

I do a lot of navel-gazing at my place; I’ll spare you that here. But I have spent this summer contemplating many things, including what kind of post would be appropriate here. I considered poetry, but don’t most people hate that? I considered a creative take on the original Summer of Love, the one that I was born during (please don’t do the math on that—it makes the baby Jesus cry to know that I’m getting fucking old). I even thought about gracing you with one of my infamous Conversations with God, but they can get a bit raunchy and I know our wonderful host Karl has a soft spot for Catholicism that scabbed over in my heart long ago.

So I give you this, a post about nothing. Now Jerry Seinfeld and the Baby Jesus are crying.

Who wants me to do a guest post for them next? What’s that? Oh… yeah.

No. Thanks.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Hi, I’m LeSombre – Canadia’s Blogger, a.k.a Mike, a.k.a. Michel a.k.a. The Canadian Polar Bear, a.k.a. “You know, that guy”. You might remember me from such great guest posts and fake guests posts as “Holy Crap!“, “Witchless Wednesday“, “Mikey Sunday” “Witchless Wednesday“, “The Roast of Wayne Hall“, “The best of LOLPolarz” or “Adam does Ottawa“. I run this little corner of the web called LeSombre.ca – please feel free to come and visit sometimes, eh?

Oh geez, already my turn at this summer of love thingy. Sigh. When Karl asked a few of his close friends the whole blogosphere to guest post for him, I was really excited to be part of this very select group. Immediately, I started jolting notes down for what could quite possibly be my best guest-post ever. Of course, here we are, 50 days later and I did not execute one single idea to completion. So I present to you, without further ado:

What I could have done for Karl’s summer of love.

The Monkey suit

Karl’s graphic for the summer of love is this:

So I had the idea of renting a monkey/gorilla costume, hold a banana and stick a finger up my nose, take a picture and make a graphic that said “I blogged at secondhand Tryptophan so I didn’t have to blog at my own blog”. Of course, it’s now Thursday, and I can’t find a monkey/gorilla costume…

Ok, they’re bunny ears I made myself and taped to my bike helmet, and I’m holding a peach, but you still get  the finger up the nose. It has to count for something, right?

The Russian Bride

Right around the time Karl’s Summer of love was announced, I received this letter from Gohara. It was obviously a phishing scheme, but I figured I was going to have some fun with it and make that my summer of love post.

Hi, how are you?
Maybe now you will be surprised. I long thought before write you a letter. This morning, I got love the Internet dispatch, from an unknown to me addressee. In this letter, it was romantic relationships between people. In the list of e-mail recipients, I saw Your email address. I long thought before writing you. Perhaps this the only chance for me, so I decided to write to you. I find true love! I would like to begin acquaintance with a small a story about yourself. My name is Gohara. I am 27 years old. I am calm, young, goal-oriented girl. I like all women of our country, like cooking, sports. I am leading a healthy lifestyle. I do not smoke and not drink alcohol. I have work which very strongly love. But I do not have enough love. I am convinced that our planet is people who can give me happiness and love! On the Internet I I was just recently. I do not have much experience on the Internet acquaintance. I’m looking for this man who will love and respect me. I think that is important in the relationship between man and woman. Perhaps it is our fate? I want to meet you closer via email.
Please reply only to my personal e-mail:  gamirsyan@yahoo.co.uk

You can write me. I am happy to answer you. Of course, I will send you my photos. I look forward to your letter to me with a more complete story about you. Gohara.

Yes, that was the picture included with the email.

So I replied:

Hello sweet Gohara,

Wow, that’s quite a breath-taking picture you have there! I’m so glad you found me, but I assure you that I did not send you any love letter – not that I wouldn’t you’re obviously very pretty.

Anyways, I’m including my picture, I’m just and average looking guy really. E-mail back if you’re ready for some happiness! I know I am!

All the best,

Karl

And I included this picture:

After that, I never got a reply so I couldn’t make this my summer of love guest post.

MetaBlogging

I also had the idea of taking you on the great journey that is me writing this awesome Guest Post!

Since Karl’s blog hates me and won’t let me embed a Youtube Video here, you’ll have to click through. Sigh.

But somehow this wasn’t as funny as I originally thought. You might even say it was a little asshole-ish.

In conclusion

So there you have it, three awesome ideas for my summer of love that didn’t quite pan out the way I wanted them to. Hopefully, you can imagine all of those in your head the way they’re supposed to be executed and comment accordingly. Rest assured that I’m already starting the planning stage for next year’s summer of love. I’m pretty sure that if I start right now, I can write a much better guest post next time, possibly with at least 10 incomplete ideas this time.

Until next time, I bid you Adieu. I’ll go bug LovelyWife for some Bow-Chick-A-Wow-Wow. Isn’t that what a Summer of Love should be about, really?

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

If you are a man, and you have to perform oral sex on Bea Arthur, Mother Theresa, or Golda Meier, which of those handsome women do you choose?  Does it make a difference if I give you the option of now or when they were alive?  Would that change your answer?

Same question for the ladies, except you have to choose to blow Ernest Borgnine, Abe Vigoda, or Larry King.  Which of those three giants in the entertainment industry do you choose to go down on?

I hear that Larry’s penis is covered with soft fur, almost like duck down.  Does that intrigue you?

These are the things I wonder about.

Karl looks surprisingly good naked.  I don’t care much for the face he makes during orgasm, though, which is why now I insist on being the top.  He doesn’t really mind too much, except when I dig in with the spurs.

You’re aroused now.  Admit it.

Baseball remains our national pastime.  Those that insist that it’s football should have their nether regions shaved with a cheese grater prior to shipping them off to Canada.  Let them cool their heels in a place where hockey is the national pastime.  Jesus, those fuckin’ Canadians.

I’ll say this about chicks that dig hockey, however; they will hurt you in bed.  You’ve been warned.

I would like to use the term “cats” more when referring to people, as in “I met these cats last night at the mall and we all took a leak in the fountain” but I never remember to do it.  It’s too bad.  I think it would really dress up my oral discourse.

That’s really all I have to say.  See why I don’t blog anymore?

Fukudome!

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

They say the internet is a big space. I disagree.

If it was such a wide open wonder how in Gawd’s name would a Canadian mommy blogger trip over a video of some dude prancing around with his nuts hanging out singing to one of the most annoying songs ever find his way onto my laptop screen?

Besides the fact I spend hours online searching for amusing and interesting links that are slightly pornographic to fill the gaping void that is my soul?

Hence a friendship was born. So when Karl asked me to guest post for him this summer, I couldn’t really say no. Doing so would only show the world I’m a classless bitch who refuses to expand her national and cultural borders within the internet.

I may be a bitch, but I like to think of myself as KLASSEE. The box of dollar store red wine in my fridge proves this.

Besides, Karl has a thing for mommy bloggers and it’s no big secret he has a crush on me and I aim to please boys who like me. Of course Karl likes me for my stimulating intellect and not because I’m a natural blonde:

The reality is, (and huge blow to my ego when I realized it) Karl only likes me because I have these:

I know this because the dude keeps sending me email and twitter requests to show him my boobs. Or to do a naked video post. Or simply call him and talk dirty with him while fondling myself. Karl. What part of KLASSEE did you not understand?

I mean sure I may tweet topless during the summer and talk about beaver fever and the blue thunder but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to up and show you my guns.

You’re no Avitable dude.

Still, Karl persisted. And persisted. Aaaand persisted.

At first I was flattered. But then he started sending me naked photos of himself. Then I was amused. And slightly horrified:

I mean any dude who would looks like this obviously needed a little tittay pick me up. (And you are all so very welcome. I figure if my retinas had been burned, I should pass along images of nature’s finest.)

So I decided to oblige him. I’m a giver like that. So here you go Karl, here’s my boobs. At long last yours to ogle and do with what you will.

Okay fine. Those may or may not be mine. Mine may or may not resemble something a little more like this after breast feeding three angry rabid badgers babies:

Okay, I don’t have eight boobs or more. But think of the possibilities if I did!! I suppose my breasts may or may not look more like this:  (After all, I did publicly admit to having nipple hair.)

That may or may not be a dead on accurate reprentation of my boobs down to the sparkly nipple rings.

Only thing is, I like to shave my belly hair and I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a necklace that ugly. I’m much KLASSIER than that.

So Karl, when you think of me and see pictures of me online, just know that I only look half decent from the neck up.

The reality is, I may or may not wander around town looking something strikingly similar to this:

In fact, that may or may not be an actual photo of what I wore to the town fair this year.

I suppose the real reason Karl and I are friends is because we both are like boobs.

And we both wish I looked like this:

Life would be one giant boob fest every damn day.

Which would suit this KLASSEE redneck to the T.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Last year Karl invited me to his Summer of Love, and I typed up this juicy post.

This year, I’m back to do it again.

I want to start by talking about role-playing. Not in the D&D sense, that was so high school; I’m talking about the games you play after the kids go to sleep. Every man wants to please his wife but sometimes even he is not enough. She needs someone stronger, exotic, thick accent, and who always lasts longer than two minutes.

She needs Pablo.

Back when my wife was pregnant I decided to spice up things a bit and became Pablo. Pablo took her by surprise in the bathroom one night and after that, a new super hero was borne. She couldn’t stop talking about him. Every night it was “So when’s Pablo coming over again? Is Pablo coming soon? I’m so horny. I wish Pablo was here.”

So the other night I’m putting on the moves, actually Pablo is putting on the moves and Ana, my wife, reaches across the bed sleepily and says “Oh, is this Pablo again?

I stop. “Again?” Like, Pablo — Pablo! — is suddenly a chore.

Realizing her words, she quickly pulls me on top of her “No, no. I like Pablo.”

But I cover her mouth, cutting off her words. I grab her hair, whisper: “I’m not Pablo….I’m Pedro. Pablo’s brother.”

She let’s out a big laugh, trys to, then I cover her mouth again. “And I only bite.”

I start biting her on her neck, shoulders, etc.

She rolls around and manages to rip my hand off her. Brazilian woman are a spicy lot.

She smirks. “So where’s Pablo?”

“In Argentina.”

“Argentina…,” she fights off my hand, “And what’s Pablo doing in Argentina?”

“Making Churros…”

I bite her again, and we carry on. Role-playing.

And for the most part Ana seems pleased. She falls asleep curled up beside me (with the dog and the baby, but that’s another story.) Still who knows how long Pedro will be in town. Maybe she’ll get bored, and I’ll have to retire him, too. Or, maybe, I’ll have to come up with someone else.

Maybe next time I’ll introduce her to Paula.

– bpapa

brian papa writes for PAPATV. Pablo and Pedro travel the world in first class style — but never together. They were last spotted at Blogher.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan