Posted in Humor, Life

Bring it to me!

I think that Walgreens should have a medication delivery service.   This would be extremely helpful with antibiotics.  I understand you couldn’t send controlled substances that way,  or you’re just asking for them to be carjacked.  I do, however, think that if I need my blood thinners driven to my home at 8:30 PM because I’m too lazy to go do it myself, then they should bring it to me.

I also think that Starbucks should deliver.  They could have a fleet of trucks with little barristas inside each one.  They could pull up in your neighborhood, not unlike the ice cream man.  Grown ups would learn the sound of that truck’s music and would be able to hear it coming from 5 miles away.

While I’m at it, why don’t they deliver other helpful things, like tampons?  Immodium AD?   You know, the kinds of things where if you’re really desperate, you shouldn’t be out in a store?

What about liquor delivery?  Wouldn’t that be helpful?  you don’t want people to drink and drive, but what happens if they have a few friends over, and Juicy Ms. Lucy knocks over the bottle of Jose Cuervo while trying to show you that she can, indeed, do the crane technique, as made popular by Mr. Myagi and Daniel San?

Or what if you have a really nice looking guy friend over at your Christmas party and your drunk roommate is very much interested in groping him, so much so that she falls into him and knocks over your entire Christmas tree, shattering the very special “Pickle” ornament and knocking countless bottles of booze over?

Not that either of these things ever happened to me <insert innocent eye roll here>.

Who is going to replace those?  Why, call 1-800-LIQUORS and we’ll run some out to you!  You think that UPS and FedEx drivers see a lot of interesting things when they deliver packages?  Just imagine being a liquor delivery guy!   Oh if those walls could talk!

With these ideas floating around in my head, it’s a wonder that I am not already a multi-millionaire.  I mean, who could deny any of these things are needed?

What would YOU like to see delivered?

Posted in Uncategorized

Brought to you by the letter “V”, only upside down. ^

After the NY Post headline of, “Boner Found Dead in Canada” (has nothing to do with the big hockey loss) , Kat’s blog about the penis, and the recent fire here at S.B. Cox, I thought it was only right that I post my own tribute to dick.

No wait.  Not THAT Dick!

No, not that one either.

Ah, close enough.

First let me say, I know several people are mourning the loss of Boner, which is WAY more appealing than losing the morning boner, if you know what I’m saying – and I think you do.

All joking aside, we recently had an entire building of Cox on fire here in the greater Richmond area.  I wonder if there were any female fire fighters present, and if so, did they weep?  I would have.

Kat’s blog will tell you what men really want out of a blow job.  It made me happy to see that she’s writing again.  You know, someone once tried to make me dislike Kat, saying that all she was doing was stealing my blogging style.  Or maybe it was my blogs.  I can’t remember.  BUT, I did not ever have the corner on writing about sex.  It’s not like I invented blogging about sex.  That woman was a moron.  As you can see, the little annoyance that tried to keep me from liking Kat failed miserably.

Now, what can I say about the Almighty Wiener?  I know, I’ll tell you my favorite feature of it.  I like the part of the head that forms a V.  It reminds me of the fake feathered hair on Fisher Price Little People.  Look at “Mom’s” hair.

It makes me want to nestle my tongue in it and dream I’m licking Farrah Fawcett’s forehead.

You know what part I’m talking about.  The part that makes a man go ga-ga when you flick your tongue over it.  Hell, it probably makes Gaga do the same, *if* she has a wiener.

In celebration of my favorite v-shaped erotic cranny,  I’m going to investigate my OWN erotic cranny.   You know the one – it’s sometimes called, “The Y”.

Posted in Humor, Life, My Family

What goes through your pants without making a hole?

I am not a “Southern Lady”. 

  • I do not make enough food at every meal to feed an extra couple of people, “just in case”.
  • I tend to shy away from the phrase, “Bless his heart.”
  • I turn electronic things on and I turn them off.  I do not “cut them off”.  The electric company does that if I don’t pay my bill.
  • I don’t play helpless if I think it’ll get me something extra.
  • I curse loudly.
  • I burp like a trucker.
  • I think farts are funny.

My mom was one of 11 children, 7 of which were brothers.  They lived in farm country.  It’s no surprise that my mom (and all of my aunts) are very much tomboys.  It’s no surprise that I am as well, having been raised by one.   How my sister turned out to be somewhat girlie is beyond me.  However, she still doesn’t wear a dress very often.  Part of that tomboy lifestyle is ingrained in her as well.

My mom leans a little in her chair when she has to fart, to let it out, excuses herself and goes back to doing whatever she was doing.  Even if it’s in the middle of dinner.   When you grow up one of eleven, if you get up from the table for anything, you had no food left on your plate when you returned.

My dad is a, “Did you hear that barking spider?  Listen close, his brother is coming!” kind of guy.  He also never tires of games such as “pull my finger”.  Even as an adult, I’ll oblige him, as it is just one of those things I never really got to do with him as a kid.  Plus, it makes him smile.

My husband is the opposite.  He has an ideal of how a lady behaves.  She shouldn’t belch louder than her husband.  She shouldn’t talk about farts.  She shouldn’t fart.  Men shouldn’t fart in front of a   lady.  He cuts on lights, and cuts them off too.  He’s more of a Southern Lady than I am.  Again, that comes from his upbringing.

His mother is an extremely kind and generous woman, almost to a fault.  I wish she would learn to say, “no” to people more often.  She always has enough food to feed an army, and their friends should they bring them to supper.  When she curses during speech, it tends to be at a lower volume than the rest of the sentence.  I don’t know how she feels about burping and farting, but Jerry got his ideal about them from SOMEONE, and I don’t ever see her leaning in her chair during a meal.

I often wonder which way Josh will turn out.

Will he be more like his Daddy as he grows up, and be as gentlemanly as possible?  Will he open the doors for ladies?   Will he always remember to lift the seat?  Will he make an effort to actually pee in the toilet, not on it?   Will he leave empty cereal boxes in the cupboard?

Or will he turn out to be more crude, like his mom?

The other night in the tub, Josh called me in to investigate what, on his butt, hurt.  I couldn’t see anything, and he said, “in my crack. That’s where!”  Do I told him to bend over a little.  He did and I could see a pimple.

He stood up so fast that I could barely see if that’s all that was there and so I told him to bend a little again.  He did and then said, “I have to tell you something.”

“Yes?” I said as I was looking to be sure it was just a little pimple.

It was then that the fruit of my loins farted in my face.  Then, he laughed.   My response?  “Nice one, son.  A little more warning next time, please.  What do you say?”

He pauses for a moment, as if he doesn’t know that while I think farts are funny, I think they do require tact, dignity and, above all, manners.  He looks at me with a twinkle in his eye and says, “THAT was FUNNY!”


He let out a deep sigh, as if I had just defeated him in a heated game of ‘Go Fish!’ that he thought he was going to win.   “Excuse me for farting in your face.”  And then, he giggled some more.

Yup, he’ll be like me.

Posted in Uncategorized

Jesus wants me to get a Visa

I’m not a religious person.  I was raised and confirmed Lutheran.  I have nothing against Christianity.  I do believe in a God of some type.  But I’m no longer a 100% believer.  I think there are too many conveniences out there that need further explanation for me to fall back to the side of the fence with the rest of the flock.

However, one thing is certain.  In the past few days, I have received the messages loud and clear.  Wake up!  Pay attention!  Blah blah blah…hey, is that birthday cake?

Where was I?  Oh yes.  God is sending me messages.

The first one I received was on Monday.   I shrugged it off as spam.  It came in the form of an email with the subject:  “Get out of debt!  We’ll show you how!”  The contents of the email were blank.  The sender’s name?   Well, that doesn’t really matter.  Because I’m certain that God or Jesus do not have email addresses, so they would use a proxy anyhow.

Sign #2  came via a posting in FreeCycle, which I unsubscribed from 3 weeks ago.  It came on Tuesday.  It said:

OFFERED:  1 statue of Virgin Mary, 1 oil painting of Jesus in gold-finish frame … 1 old fashioned credit cart imprint machine…

There were other items listed such as a blanket, a jewelry box and some plastic laundry baskets.

There were no other FreeCycle listings before or since.  I previously received 100+ per day, so I know this isn’t a case of, “Oh, they didn’t get my unsubscribe email.”

Sign #3:

I logged onto Facebook this morning to do some poking around and I saw it, clear as day.  I knew then what the previous two days have been leading up to.  Jesus wants me to get a Visa.

What do you suppose the APR on a card like that is?

Posted in Humor

I have entrepreneurial spirit!

I’m sorry. I really thought I could turn my $5.99 box of generic “Non-Drowsy Nasal Decongestant Maximum Strength” into a whole lot of meth and throw an amazingly off the hook party.

However, it apparently takes  more than 48 tablets to do this.

I know this, you see, because on my pharmacy receipt it says so.

So, apparently, I only need 3.65 grams to make meth for my next gathering.  So, if I buy another box today and a box tomorrow, I can be totally ready for the weekend!

I remember one time when everyone in our house was sick. So I went to the store and bought one giant box of pseudoepedrine and a box of the children’s version. The cash register actually would not let her ring both up on the same purchase. I explained that there were 3 people who needed the regular meth and a small child who needed meth-lite. No such luck. I actually had to leave the store and go get it at another.

Now, they require you to hand over your driver’s license to get it.

This is all just becoming a huge inconvenience. Next thing you know, you won’t be able to buy cough drops without id. You think I’m kidding? You already can’t send them to school with your kids.

I’m such an entrepreneur, I think I’ll become a cough drop pusher.   I’ll be camping out on the side of the High School where the “cool kids” go to smoke.

“Ludens or Halls? Pick your poison. Come on, man, I’ve got the good shit. You want menthol?”

“Ricola? Naw, I ain’t got that shit, yo. That’s candy fo’ da babies. You come back when you done sucklin’ on yo mama’s tittays.”  With that little slam, the dude in line behind him will laugh and give me five.

“ Vicks? Lemme call da man.”

*dialing cell phone*

“Yo, Manny. Can we get some Vicks on the downlow? We gonna get a big run on ‘em. I got tree waitin’ now and a line behind dem. Thanks, G.”

*hangs up*

“Yeah, I have dem after schoo, out back, near da track. I’ll be da one running inna pink shorts.   Shit!  Gotta jet!”

As I run away, I’ll be yelling “Five-O! Five-O!!”

They’d give me some nickname like the “Cough Drop Kim” until I tell them that’s just retarded. They’ll change it to “Koff-Dropp Kidd” and I’ll be happy with that, because wrong spellings and double letters are all the rage in gangsta land.  It means you have arrived.

Peace to your homies.  Word to your mother.

K-D K out!

Posted in Life

I said no, but I knew I wanted it

I thought I would use the 30 minute span of time after the Motrin kicks in where I feel fairly normal to pen a few lines. 

I’ve barely left my bed for the entire weekend, and when I have it’s not been pleasant for me, nor for anyone having to look at me.  God help them if they say anything even slightly negative to me.  I just may rip out their jugular and use it to jump rope.    

Joshy B has kept me company, choosing to bring his laptop into my room and climb in bed with me and play while I rest. 

At one point, I asked Josh to feel my forehead.  He leaned over, put his hand on my head and said, “Mom.  You’re so hot.” 

“Oh no,” was my reply.  I made a frowny face because isn’t that what you do when someone tells you that you have a fever?

He thought for a minute and then said, “When I said you were hot, I meant that in the way that you are beautiful.  Let me check your forehead again.”

He reached out to gently lay his hand across my head, with my hair matted and stuck to my face.  “Yup.  Your forehead is hot too.” 

Then, he turned back to his game and started clicking away, talking to whatever character on the screen he is controlling at the moment.    

So with being sick, I’ve been alternating between burning hot and freezing cold.  When I’m freezing cold, my entire body hurts.  I snuggle up under 5 or 6 blankets and just drift in and out.   However, now I am afraid to go back to sleep.

You see, it’s usually someone coming to check on me that wakes me up.  Not this last time.  I was clawing at my vajayjay, as if I couldn’t wait to get to it.  I didn’t hurt myself or anything, but it seemed rather lustful.  Almost like I was trying to take advantage of myself in my sleep. 

Have you ever woken yourself up in a disturbing manner?  Have you woken yourself up  sexually?

Posted in Life

A difficult decision

There’s something I would like to tell you.  I’m not sure how you’ll take it, but I hope you are able to understand where I’m coming from.

If you and I were being held at gunpoint by a madman, I have a plan.  The plan hinges on the madman asking ME who he should kill first.

He’d say, “You pick, princess.  What’ll it be?  I either shoot your friend first, or I shoot you.  Who dies first?”

I would think out loud.  I’d look at you and say, “If I say me, you have to live with the knowledge that I died for you.  You would have to watch me die and that might be hard.  You’d be very sad and I don’t know that I want you to be that sad.  However, if I say you first, then I have to watch you and the pain of going on without you, even for just 2 or 3 minutes, might be totally unbearable.  Wow.  This is a tough decision.”

Then, I’d look at the madman and ask him how long after shooting the first person does the second person get the bullet.  I’d probably explain that I neither want you to have to live very long knowing that I gave up my life for you to live a little longer, or that I couldn’t go on that long without you, and so the amount of time the other person would be feeling any distress over watching the other die will most certainly play a part in my decision.

No matter what the madman answers, I’d tell him, “I’ve decided that I’m not going to decide.  YOU decide.  I can’t make that choice.  At this point, he’d probably say something like “If you decide to not decide that’s the same as deciding that you go first.”

To which I’d respond, “What if I was under the impression that not deciding was, in effect, dooming my friend to die first?”

He’d likely counter with something such as, “OK, you not deciding means I kill your friend first.”

I would let out a deep sigh.  I have my monologue for this portion all prepared.  I came up with it in my kitchen this morning while making coffee (true story).

“So, in effect, I have three choices – my friend goes first, I go first or I say I won’t decide, in which case means my friend goes first.  So 2 out of 3 choices are my friend dying first.  That kind of negates the whole 3 choice thing.  I’m still down to either my friend going first or me going first.  Now, if I choose me going first, there’s really no need for any further conversation.  If I choose my friend to go first, then I have to decide if I’m going to say, “Kill my friend first” or if I’m going to refuse to decide, knowing that means that you’re killing my friend first.  Really, you’ve made it impossible for me to refuse to decide.  You are forcing me to choose.  How about if I refuse to decide, then you surprise me?  I mean, in saying I can’t decide, I’m saying that I won’t play your game.  Instead of choosing, what if I say absolutely nothing?  Just sit here and smile?  Would you then be watching my eyes to see if they move in the direction of my friend, as if to say, ‘do me last’?

At this point, the madman would become totally irritated by my rambling.  You’d have freed yourself and would be preparing to hit him over the head with a chair.  As you swing the chair down, over his head, the gun goes off and you’ll watch in horror as I fall, in slow motion.  You’ll rush to my side and offer your sincere apologies.

As you hold your hands over the entrance wound, trying to stop the rush of blood, you’ll promise me that you won’t leave my side.  I’ll tell you, “I’m sssssoo c-c-c-cold”.  You’ll be crying at this point, and a tear will have run down your nose to poise on the very tip before it drips onto my face.

I’ll try to tell you something important, but I will bleed to death before I can let it out.  It is because of this fear that I’ll tell you that important tidbit now.

Should this scenario every truly play out, I’m letting the bastard shoot you first.