I tweeted this a while ago after seeing Gene Simmons do an interview indoors wearing shades. Apparently, it ruffled some feathers. Several people DM’d me, saying that they wear shades inside and it’s not a douchebaggy thing to do.

Naturally, I wasn’t referring to them specifically. But I maintain my stance. I have transitions lenses on my specs, so they turn dark when I go into the sun. Walking back inside with them still on – I need them to see – not douchebaggy. They change back to clear lenses fairly quickly.

But I have a pair of non-prescription Ray-Bans that, if I DID wear inside, would indeed make me a douchebag. See?

So the next time you’re tempted to wear sunglasses indoors, remember this: Do I really want to look like Gene Simmons?

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

I’ve scheduled this post to go up at 6:01 PM. That means I’m blogging from the Great Beyond. I’ve been rapturified!

Wait.

What do you mean everyone is still here? There must be a mistake. This was a no-brainer, a sure thing.

Oh well. I suppose it’s a good thing that Mr. Camping got it wrong. Now I can see “The Hangover II,” after all.

But dammit, now I still need to come up with things to blog about. FML.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

I’m in a quandary. This Saturday is Judgment Day, otherwise known as the Rapture. I’m not sure if I should dress up to impress Jesus or what. Really, I think Jesus was a sandal-wearing Dude, so how can I go wrong with my usual t-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip flops? But that’s the thing about the Rapture…very little is known about it.

Supposedly, the “saved” people will get beamed to Heaven straightaway, leaving behind everything, including clothes (and iPhones). So does it matter what I wear on Saturday? I just don’t know. Speaking of my gear, how is it I’m supposed to check into Heaven on Foursquare without my beloved iPhone?

To prevent total chaos and countless deaths, shouldn’t we all avoid driving and flying this Saturday? I mean, what happens when all the saved people get beamed out of their cars and planes while in mid-motion? Planes falling from the air, car crashes galore…utter pandemonium.

I’m also troubled because, as much as I want to order some t-shirts off the Net, there’s no way I’ll get them before the Rapture, so what’s the point? And the milk in my fridge is going to expire on Sunday, but who cares? I went to the grocery store yesterday for what I assume is the last time. That, I’m thrilled about. I hate grocery shopping.

Yes, that’s right, I’m assuming I’m going to be saved. I’m a decent human being. Sure, I’ve made plenty of mistakes, but who hasn’t? I’m going. This may very well be my last blog post, in fact. I don’t feel pressured to empty my Inbox, or to weed the flowerbeds, or to clear my DVR, or even go to therapy one last time. The Rapture is pretty liberating!

Course, if I DON’T get saved on Saturday, life is gonna suck. Because the entire world is going to end on October 21, and life on Earth is going to be hell’ish until then. All the tornadoes and floods and earthquakes we’ve been seeing? Nothing compared to the final months on the planet.

This means that all the TV networks are wasting their time with the upfronts this week, where they present next season’s schedules. It also means I’m never going to know what the hell is going to happen on “Fringe,” and that makes me sad. At least I got to see Clark Kent finally become Superman on the “Smallville” finale last week.

So, bills be damned. Getting the tires on my car rotated and balanced? Fuck it. Laundry? Who cares?

Then again, Mom always told me to wear clean underwear. I assume that’s doubly important for the Rapture. When I disappear on Saturday, I don’t want to leave behind skidmarks. Maybe I’ll do one last load.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Thanks to all of you that sent in entries for the Funniest Sex Story contest. We had eight funny stories. They’ve all been read and the votes are in. Thanks to Shannon, Mike, and Janet, my amazing judges.

The Runner-Up is Sandi, who wins a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store:

As a diligent public servant, I worked as a court clerk in a public safety building which consisted of only 2 stories. Rumors were rampant as police, fire, and the courts were all in 1 building, and well, boys will be boys. I kept my nose clean and my reputation cleaner refusing to “fish off my own pier.”

I had been dating someone in the legal field, which often brought them to the building several times a week. As our relationship intensified (got closer to having sex), one day 3 dozen long stem roses were delivered to my office, to celebrate our 3 weeks of dating and his 3 weeks of waiting. This of course caused quite a bit of ruckus in the rumor mill and secretaries to cops were putting out APB’s trying to figure out just what innocent little me could have done to receive 3 dozen roses.

Shortly thereafter, he arrived at my office with a single rose. He had paid his penance and waited quite gallantly. We used the NEVER used elevator since the building was only 2 stories, pushed the emergency stop button, and I began to show my appreciation for the flowers. However, a building full of firemen and cops that hear an emergency bell tend to come running quickly, and our episode was cut short. It was clear to the huge crowd when we exited the elevator either something of a sexual nature had/was going to happen or this young man had a subway sandwich in his pants.

Embarrassed highly – but not thwarted – our hormones took over once we entered my office just off the courtroom. It was a Tuesday, meaning no court, no judge, empty huge room with solid furniture. I slipped on the judges robe (why? who the fuck knows? I was horny) and we began to “make mad passionate rulings” right there on top of the judges mahogany bench.

I had the gavel in my hand and it was just insane crazy good shit, like when you haven’t eaten in a week and you eat a cracker. Yeah, damn good cracker. We were letting loose over a month’s worth of pent up sexual anxiety and tension and it was awesome. Well until the point the mayor and the local news crew with cameras rolling came thru the court room double doors and looked straight at us.

Yeah, apparently it was “student government day” and there was a high school boy shadowing the mayor and the stupid TV News thought that was a worthy story. As the mayor was showing this kid around his kingdom, I don’t think they thought they would run across a court clerk being pounded on the judges bench with cameras rolling.

Much to my pleasure, the local news was kind enough (paid off) and didn’t air the story. The guy I was dating sent more flowers but I just knew it would never be as good as it was that day so I dumped him. Plus, the mayor kind of said something about conflict of interest. Oh yeah, I had to have the judge’s robe cleaned and apologize …that sucked.

And the Winner of the $25 gift certificate from Eden Fantasys is…

Certifiable Princess! Congrats, CP. Here’s her story:

So there I was, minding my own business.

No. Really. I was.

“Minding my own business” is probably a very polite way of saying “so I was in front of the computer, getting myself off, when all of a sudden…”

Oh yeah. Like you don’t. Pffft. Whatever.

Let me take you back, back, back…way back, to a time before the hotband was in the picture. To a time when internet porn reigned supreme in my life, because frankly A) I was checking out women, not men, B) The ex was a little lacking in the “give it to me night and day, baby” department and finally C) I don’t know. I was bored, it was there.

Again. Don’t judge me. You know damn well you do it too. You just don’t admit it on your blogs.

So there I am, in my computer chair. No kids at home. No (ex) husband was home at the time. It was just me, my computer and my portable little friend, Buzz Lightyear.

*blinks* Yeah. Like you don’t have a name for your vibrators (and/or penises!).

Lawdy, so judgmental!

I am pullin’ up some sweetass lesbo porn, a few threesomes, some gangbangs, couple of upskirts…you know, your average male porn, except it was being enjoyed by me…a female. Isn’t that so erotic? *eye roll* (I can literally hear my hotband panting all the way from NYC) *snort* HONEY! You’ve heard this story already. Get over it.

Anyway, when I feel I am primed and supremely ready for the thrills to begin, CLICK! On goes Buzz Lightyear! Yes! TAKE ME THERE! To Infinity…and BEYOND! Mouse in the right hand, Buzz in my left (yes, I am ambidextrous. I am also sodium free and low in monotriglycerides) and going to funky town! Wee hoo! When all of a sudden…

*snap*

My nail breaks.

Now, most women would have ignored this completely and continued with their quest to find the honeypot, the top of the mountain, the promised land. Nope. Not me. I cannot bear to look at the brunette babe, spread-eagle in front of me, a vision of celluloid perfection…WHILE I AM SPORTING A BROKEN NAIL! No. The Jewish princess in me takes over. This simply will not do. I mean, come on. How tacky is this? I won’t even look at porn that has a poorly manicured or pedicured model. It’s not that I am a porn snob, it’s just that I am…well, okay, so I’m a porn snob. But if I expect the most from my porn, then dammit, I will be nothing less than perfect when I cum too!

I place Buzz down on my bare lap, pants down around my ankles and lean down to my purse to get out my nail glue.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

*stab stab stab the top of the tube of glue with safety pin and SQQQQQQQUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEZE…*

SPLOOGE!

Crazy glue explodes everywhere. I drop my fingernail. Bends over to pick up said fingernail, gluing her extremely large tits to the crazy glue that has pooled in my lap.

“SHIT!” I exclaim.

“Bzzzzzzz,” replies Buzz Lightyear with a muffled cry from below my mammaries.

“HA!” snorts extremely hot brunette spread eagle on my computer screen. If she could be laughing at me, she would be.

“What the fuck could be worse than this,” I think aloud, while trying to dislodge her vibrator from between her nipple and her labia.

*sound of garage door opening*

“HOLY FUCK,” I shriek, and jump jump jump, bent over, ass out, tits glued to thighs, into my bathroom and turn on the shower.

“Honey,” says the (ex) husband, “are you here?”

“I’m in the shower,” I call back.

“But I’m here,” says the hot brunette still dangling on the computer screen.

Fuck.

It was sort of hard explaining to my (ex) husband why there was a naked woman on my computer monitor.

“There was??? Really???” I feign complete ignorance. “Oh my gosh, someone must have sent me a virus.”

*blink. blink*

After 8 years, I think the patch of skin on my upper thigh is finally the same color as the rest of my thigh. For a long time, I had a tell-tale dildo shaped white spot where my tan tore away in the shape of my vibrator.

I now refer to it as my “birthmark”. It’s this version of the story that allows me to keep my PTA membership intact.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Herb here. So freaking tired of hearing such bad things about us clones. I wander around this giant Karl’s place and find this. Ugh. Yes, Luke Skywalker, you’re sooo heroic! Han Solo shot first! Yoda is a fierce fighting machine!

You don’t hear about the whole Leia kissing her brother shit in the tabloids, do you, though? No, of course not. It’s Death Star this, and evil Emperor that, and Darth Vader’s new low-carb diet. Bah.

Then I was at this little cafe when I ran across a little green man. Great conversation that totally brought me back down to Hoth. Well, Earth, in this case. Turns out we both have family on Tatooine, which is a nasty dirtball of a planet, but hey…not like I have to live there.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

I hate Daylight Savings. It’s an antiquated, ridiculous practice we should have dropped long ago. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind it in the autumn, when we “fall back” an hour. An extra hour of sleep rocks.

It’s the “spring ahead” part that fucks me over. I woke up at what should be 8:30 this morning, but was actually 9:30. I don’t see how me having to reset all the damn clocks is helping me in any way. There’s the stove clock, the microwave, the car clocks, the coffeemaker, the vacuum cleaner, the vibrator, the two wall clocks, the alarm clocks…ugh. At least my alarm clock has a simple switch on the back for Daylight Savings. Flip it, and the time automatically moves forward (or back) an hour.

Daylight Savings needs to be abolished. It serves no freaking purpose any more. How many of us are up at the crack of dawn, milking the cows and harvesting crops? And even if you ARE, do you think the fucking cows give a shit about the clocks?

“Um, you wanna get your hands off my nipples, please? I’m not due for a milking for another hour yet.”

All this is my public service announcement to say, “Hey, don’t forget to put your clocks forward an hour. You don’t want to be late for work tomorrow.

Now for a joke, sent to me by my friend, Margie.

A very tired nurse walks into a bank, totally exhausted after an 18-hour shift. Preparing to write a check, she pulls a rectal thermometer from her purse and attempts to write with it.

When she realizes her mistake, she looks at the  flabbergasted teller and, without missing a beat, says:

“Well, that’s just great…some  asshole’s got my pen!”

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

I’m TK-280, but friends call me Herb. The long trip from Hoth to this blue Earth globe was hellacious. And while I was in suspended animation to get here, Ted decided to be funny and put my lower armor on backwards. But I made it just the same. And after I etched “Rebel without a Clue” on Ted’s helmet, and took an hour to fix my armor, I managed to scale down the giant tower the hairless wampas call a “mailbox.”

What it is I’m expected to do here, I don’t know. But once I was inside the giant base of the hairless giant wampa known as Karl, I found some other clones hidden away. Turns out they’ve been waiting on me to organize our campaigns.

We found a stockpile of large lance weapons known as “syringes.” This Karl creature has no clue the level of wrath we shall rain down upon him.

That’s me on the right.

The guys and I shall commence taking over this central Florida region forthwith. Once we finish sampling this amazing Guinness beverage. *hic*

PS: I found a listing of other clones here on Earth. Together, we shall…ooh, what do you call this magical disc? Pizza. Niiiice.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

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

Three men wandering the streets of Bethlehem, circa 2,000 years ago, give or take.

Bob: Bollocks! I keep stepping on my robes!

Chuck: I told you to get that shit altered, dude. What part of “an angel of the Lord said the Messiah is being born in Nazareth” didn’t you get?

Larry: Seriously, Bob, you didn’t think there’d be walking involved?

Bob: Assumed we’d be cameling most of the way.

Chuck: You know what they say about assuming. Doesn’t make you very wise.

Larry: What’d you get the kid?

Chuck: Gold.

Larry: Nice. Hard to go wrong with gold.

Chuck: That was my thinking, too.

Bob: I got Him some jewels. Rubies, emeralds -

Larry: What the fuck, Bob?! You can’t give the baby Messiah jewels! That’s a choking hazard!

Chuck: Clearly. Why not just give him a bag of broken glass, or a basket of asps?

Bob: What?

Chuck: Why do you think I went with gold bars? Coins? Not child-friendly.

Larry: Hello? Hello? Anybody in there? THINK, McFly! Are you trying to KILL the freaking Son of God?

Bob: No, of course not. I’m just stupid when it comes to kids.

Chuck: Should have got Mable to help pick out the gift, man.

Larry: I still need to get something, anyway.

Chuck: Not like you to be last minute. Everything okay at home?

Larry: Damn teenage son. Caught him hitting the poppies again.

Bob: Shit. Sorry, Larry.

Larry: Hell, who hasn’t enjoyed some smoke every now and again, but at 13?

Chuck: The mind is still forming at that point, critical development stage…

Larry: Right? *sigh*

Bob: Hey, look! A mini mart!

Chuck: You’re getting the Christ Child gifts from a convenience store? Really?

Bob: What are we supposed to do, Chuck? It’s fucking December 24th! Not like there are a lot of choices!

Larry: Ooh, teriyaki camel jerky! I love that shit.

Chuck: Well, smack my ass and call me a gentile! They have myrrh! Can you believe it?

Larry: What brand?

Chuck: What does it fucking matter, Larry? It’s myrrh from a mini mart. What do you think you’re gonna find here? Dolce?

Larry: Good point.

Chuck: Now, Bob, see if they have some frankinsence. We may be able to pull this out of our asses yet, gents!

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Right, so we’re back after a brief one-week hiatus due to an injury. I doubt I’ll get Dare 4 posted tomorrow, since I still have to film the remainder of it. The finale is already filmed, but needs to be put together.

As for the prizes, I’ll announce them all after the 5th dare is posted.

Who is today’s winner? Well, you’ll just have to watch and see. Heh.

By the way, sorry it’s not on Youtube. I won’t use them any more. Last video I tried to upload there, they stripped it of ALL THE AUDIO. So fuck ‘em.

For those having trouble, I recommend starting the video, then immediately hitting PAUSE to allow the video to buffer a while. Sorry. If there was a better video service, I’d use it.

If you STILL have trouble, go to the actual video page here:

http://vimeo.com/6725679

Then scroll down to the bottom right and look for the grey Downloads bar, where you can download the video for yourself. Just know that it’s 62.5 MB and may take a while, depending on your Internet connection.

Birthday Dares 2009 – Dare 3: Shhhh! from Karl Erikson on Vimeo.

After a brief hiatus due to an injury, Karl’s 2009 Birthday Dares continue with Dare 3. This one from Flutter at ByFlutter.com

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan