Friday, July 30, 2010

Let's Fuck It Up! Theme Song Friday!

So, this will be the truth serum, revealing how many people DON'T read my blog! Friday's new theme will be "Theme Song Friday", where I will post, retrospectively, my theme song for the week. I invite you to comment with your theme song, or comment with a link to your blog with your theme song.

Let your dork flag fly!

Monday, July 26, 2010

Listless Monday: How To Get Rid of Migraines

I woke up at 4am this morning to the sounds of my blood bludgeoning my brain, and the screams, THE SCREAMS! My brain screams like a little bitch. I'm finally starting to feel better (fuck you, imitrex), so I thought I would compile a list on how to deal with a migraine, Katy-style.

10. Shake your significant other out of his peaceful slumber, because if you have to suffer, so does he. BECAUSE I SAID SO.

09. Ease your pain with the soothing, rhythmic, sounds of banging your head against the wall.

08. Cry

07. Whimper

06. Pray and beg the Baby Jebus to have mercy on your cold, dark, soul.

05. When your S.O. starts to fall back asleep, wake him.

04. Tell him you would stay up for him and remind him of all the sacrifices you make for he and the family day to day. Mention the broken milk glass goblet that belonged to your great-grandmother.

03. Cover you face with ice, make sure S.O. is awake to wipe away the condensation.

02. Bargain with God. Promise him the soul of your first born and hope that he doesn't know you plan to remain childless.

01. Stick your head in the toilet and flush. Rinse. Repeat.


Friday, July 23, 2010

OUTTAKES: Them Kids Is Alright

Do you remember the Epilday? They coined it as a "hair removal system" when in reality, it was a device manufactured by the Dark Lord to torture women. It was in essence, a rotating spring that ripped hair out of your legs. YES! And because the healing process takes more than a few days, it kept hair from growing back longer than shaving.

Did you know that you should not use an Epilady to shave your head? Of course you did! It was inherent! Or so one would think.

Not only was I an asshole of epic proportions when I was a teenager, I was also an idiot.

My best friend's older sister was gifted an Epilady for Christmas in 1989 and had declared it unusable because it hurt so bad, yanking out all of the little hairs on your body. My friend and I, under the guise of our self declared "badassery", decided her older sister was a wuss and that the Epilady was no match for our skulls of steel. I went first, of course.

At this time in my life, I was sporting a lovely and sophisticated hair-don't I like to refer to as the "Sumo". On the crown of my head, my hair was all one length to my chin, and underneath the entire perimeter of my head was shaved. This was a hairstyle that I could pull into a ponytail at school, so the public at Kings Junior High could appreciate how fucking hardcore I was, and then at home, I could wear it down in order to suppress the hysterical "YOU LOOK SO UGLY!" sobs emanating from my mother. It was a fetching 'do.

The allure of having a piece of equipment that could not only do the job of the pink, Lady Bic I used to keep the coif in check, but could also keep the sides of my head as bald as a baby's butt for almost a month, was too tempting to resist. According to the directions, the Epilady would work best on hair that was no longer than half an inch long. My friend and I prepped my head by trimming my 8'o'clock skull shadow as close to my scalp as possible.

We were then ready to Epilady my head. The excitement in the air was palpable.

My friend plugged the device into the wall and hit the "On" switch. The hair removing coils started to spin, as she gently leaned my head to the left, because the right side is always first. As the coils of terror made their landing upon my scalp, it felt as if a thousand teeny, tiny, devil babies were grasping the infinitesimal patch of hair as if their lives depended on it! There was a loud "EEEENNNNNNNZZZZZEEEEE" sound as the coils halted their rotation, due to fact that they had already grabbed all of the hair they were going to get and were now working on scalping me like Custer at the Last Stand. I yelped out like the little bitch I was and screamed at my friend to "TUNR THE FUCKING THING OFF!" As she stood there dazed and amazed, she came to and finally yanked the plug out of the wall as I was dancing a jig of pain.

It wasn't over yet.

That fucking thing was caught in my hair. It took 30 minutes to free my hair (which it did NOT pull out at all) and scalp from that device of pain. I finally was freed and realized that the Epilady was not just a hair removal system, but the spirit of a really pissed off Native American, who wanted my DAR legacy scalp on their fucking wall.

How I survived my teens is completely beyond me, as this is not even CLOSE to the stupidest thing I have ever done.

Fight The Power

I cannot be the only who thinks Andrew Breitbart needs to choke to death on his fear of the black man? Fuck that guy, right in the fucking ear.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Them Kids Is Alright, Part Three: Club Soda

These days, I find myself longing for the serenity of being miles away from everyone surrounded by rolling hills, trees and critters. I miss the quiet but most of all, I pine for simplicity. The city gets so complicated and messy. It's funny how things change as you get old. To me, the city is like a relationship I would form in my early 20s. Month one; thrills wrapped in a blanket of lust and mood altering substances. Month two; the dreaded exes and jealousy rear their heads in a fury of lust and mood altering substances. Month three; broken hearts and heads in a fog of lust and mood altering substances.


However, the anticipation of that first encounter, the first glance, touch, caress, kiss, what have you, would keep me going for far longer than what would be the life span of the relationship. More often than not, the preoccupation of my object of desire would be a hell of a better time than the relationship itself. Healthier, too.

When I was a kid, I would sit on the fence looking towards the northwest corner of our fields to the property line and pretend I could see the very tip tops of the sleek skyscrapers of Columbus Ohio. Granted, Columbus is no New York City, but it is Gotham compared to the six stoplights I hailed from. The only thing in the world I wanted, was to be in the epicenter of the city. I wanted to be where the pulse originated. I wanted to be where the action was and I wasn't even 10 years old.

By the time we had moved to the bourgeois mecca of Landen, twenty miles north of Cincinnati, I was ready to chew my leg in half to free it from the trap of being an adolescent stuck at home with people telling me what to do. Factor in that school sucked being surrounded by a bunch of rednecks, assholes and twats; I was itching to bust out of that hell hole but was lacking the means and number of years of my life ticker to succeed. People frown upon 13 year olds living on their own, so the only choice I had was to be patient. I had run away a handful of times, only to be caught or to puss out before getting too far. I liked having some money and a place free of bed bugs and body lice to crash. Some more hardened and road worthy may deem me a poseur and all I can say is "oh well", if having credibility means sacrificing my health and good smelling armpits, then call me Green Day.

In order to satiate my wanderlust, I was forced to settle for hanging out places I could either walk to or places my Mom would agree to drive me to. Nothing more than 15 minutes and she hated driving on the interstate. Living 20 miles outside of the city center, my options were extremely limited; amusement park, shopping center, shopping malls and the indoor skatepark/ teen dance club, Club Soda. American Heavy Metal Weekends, indeed.

It is not to difficult to be punk rock where ever you go, for there you are....punk as fuck. We were punk as fuck hanging out, smoking cigarettes, at the local Kroger. We were punk as fuck, hanging out, smoking cigarettes and huffing rush, before riding The Beast at Kings Island. We were punk as fuck, smoking cigarettes and hanging out in front of the Music Town at the mall, coveting their only copy of Penis Envy by Crass. Everywhere we went was punk as fuck and smoking cigarettes. Just writing this fills me with crushing shame at the lethal levels of bershon that was clogging my veins in my teens.

Some days, lady luck would totally tongue kiss us and we would end up spending our Friday nights at the mighty Club Soda. Club Soda was an oasis for skate boarders and freaks stranded in the suburbs. It was an indoor skate park equipped with ramps, and all of that stuff that skateboarders like. Skateboarders had a legitimate and productive reason to be there. At night, the staff would clear the floor and someone with a sideways haircut would set up their DJ station in order to spin the songs of the angst ridden and misunderstood; Teenagers. It was far less productive than skateboarding and we would sway our hips to the throaty howls of Peter Murphy and the forlorn prose of Morrissey, without trying to look like we were enjoying ourselves or burning one another with our cigarettes.

One of the most intriguing beings to a teenage girl caught in the throes of rebellion, is the skateboarder. Their hair, their skills, their indifference. To me and my hormone infested friends, the sound of skateboard wheels on the pavement sent our pheromones into maximum overdrive and a billow of estrogen and Love's Baby Soft would fog up our entire perimeter. The crushes were hard and the disappointments that would ensue were Earth shattering. However, I still remember the rush of adrenalin that would practically paralyze me when I would catch a glimpse of their Overkill t-shirt and their Skulls and Dagger deck. I would try to play as aloof as humanly possible, only to have my stare give me away. Not that it mattered, these dudes were used to it and they could have hardly given a fuck. They were there to skate. I was there to stalk while acting like I didn't care, either.

Ah, youth is wasted on the young!

Club Soda was as sporadic as it was coveted. Running a skatepark is a lucrative as running a pineapple farm in Alaska, so the hours were never reliable and eventually, the lack of funds shut it down. However, it was a truly bitchin place while it was open. A lot of great skaters made their way through there, which was completely amazing at the time. However, I will always remember it as a place of refuge for those who were certain they were cooler than everyone else, yet, were not old enough to have a drivers license to get them to the way cooler places.

Here is some G&S footage featuring Club Soda around 5:09..... this guy just oozes asshole.... be still my beating, 13 year old, heart.

Monday, July 19, 2010

From the Vault.

Good times. I had a dream about this the other night.

Ten Reasons to Change Your Blog Name, Even Though It will Mess Up Your Pretend Readership.

10. After reviewing your site meter details, it dawns on you that the hits from Sri Lanka are most likely not people who are interested in your clever reminiscing about groundhogs.

09. The name of your blog makes family reunions a little awkward.

08. It's a ding to your self-esteem when other, unfunny, very poorly named bloggers constantly harp "WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN" when referring to your blog's name. Is it really that confusing? It makes more sense than condiment pastries.

07. You get tired of strangers questioning your AWESOME sex life..... and then you feel forced to naively mention your sex life ON THE INTERNET. GAH!

06. The really clever new name for you blog brings the image of white robes and David Duke to your readership, which then makes you awkwardly defend yourself and how you're not racist and you really DO have black friends.

05. Nobody wants to talk about Dildos at work functions... No matter how many complimentary cocktails have been consumed.

04. Did I mention the "being mistaken for a porn site?"

03. Change comes from within your soul, and my soul is without plastic penetrating party devices.

02. If your name isn't so offensive, you may actually make some money off of this freakin' blog for once... Doubtful, but maybe.

01. My Mom reads this. Lord knows my writing has enough objectionable content for my mom to chew on, let alone having to visit a website with "dildo" in the title. Hi Mom! Love you!


Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Hula Hoopin' with Tiger Hoops!

When many people think about hula hoops, they think of brightly colored, feather light, pieces of plastic that rattled and were a toy-box staple of many of our childhoods. My hoops were used as a means to lasso pretend unicorns, tie up pirate prisoners and to spin around my arm to build a force field to protect me from Dr. Doom, aka, my brother. I do remember my mother hooping in the kitchen to lose her baby weight after my sister was born (I have a frighteningly long memory), but I was never really able to gain any momentum with spinning it around my waste, I also lacked the attention span to try. Once I was on a two wheeler, I quickly forgot about hula hoops.

Last summer, a couple of my best girlfriends started hooping for fun and exercise. They were extremely enthusiastic and when they would talk about it, the only thing I could think of was how ridiculous they must look spinning those stupid, frosty blue and pink plastic things around their waists.

I was wrong.

These hoops are not the Rite Aid hoops of the 1980s. Stephanie Winters, my pal and the creative brains and braun behind Tiger Hoops uses standard irrigation tubing, with decorative gaffers tape (for grip), which are around 160 pounds per square inch (weight of the plastic/ thickness) and filled with rice or water. These hoops are as handsome as they can be! Though these big mama-jammas were not like any hoop I had ever seen or used before, I was still not convinced that they would be easier to use than the hoops of yesteryear. Which, I have to add, always made me feel like fatty failure when I was unable to swing them around my hips like some 1960's California girl... So I was hesitant at first.

After some cajoling, I finally gave it a whirl, and by Moses! I could do it! It was unlike any other experience I had had with hooping before. It was not only easier to manage, but at first it was a little painful(?), which then faded to feeling like I was getting massaged around my midsection. It was pretty nice! Not to mention, the next day I could totally tell it was giving me a workout! I felt like I had done about 200 crunches from ten minutes of hooping and chatting with my girlfriends.

We all know that the Hula Hoop is nothing new. However, it has been around a lot longer than the 20th century. Though many of us equate the hoops with the birth of rock and roll and kitsch in general, children also played with hoops made of grapevines during Egyptian times, as well as during the Renaissance. In the 1800s, sailors who had traveled to Hawaii began associating the hula dance with the hoops, due to their similar motions. In fact, according to historical medical records, the majority of dislocated backs and heart attacks were attribute to hooping!*

Hooping can burn up to 200 calories a day for every 30 minutes you hoop. You strengthen your core muscles and hips, while improving spinal flexibility while increasing blood flow to the brain and promoting the integral functions of our vital organs.**

It's also a lot of fun.

So, how do you know if you have the right hoop? One vital detail to remember is that the smaller the hoop, the more challenging the exercise. According to, "you should place the hula hoop on the ground and the top of the hoop should reach anywhere between your stomach and your chest. However, if you are a bigger person, you should choose a larger hoop, which rotates slower. This will make the movements easier to coordinate."

Stephanie sells her high quality hoops for $30- $45 dollars depending on what design, weight, height, etc. you want. She 's so enthusiastic about hooping, that not only will she make an excellent hoop, custom designed for you, but she is also a terrific resource for advice on technique and tricks to try. Many custom hoops can cost up to $100 and there are also many "knock-off" hoops on the internet for $20. Hoops are just like any other piece of equipment, you get what you pay for. However, with Tiger Hoops, you're not getting a cheap, knock off made in China. You're getting a quality crafted piece of equipment that will last for years to come, independently produced in the US. What more can you ask for?

If you would like to inquire about getting your own Tiger Hoop, you can contact Stephanie at


Tuesday, July 13, 2010

New Digs.


I renamed my blog. Though there were many good suggestions for a name change, I went with a suggestion from the Little Honey, Sgt. Wiener Hotbuns. His prize is my undying love and devotion. The gift that keeps on giving. Kind of like the Herp.

Stick around. Get cozy. Read loud and proud! People will no longer be under the impression that you're looking at porn! YAY!

Monday, July 12, 2010

New Career Paths For Mel Gibson. "Melicious"

Mel, Mel, Mel, MEL! Love is a battlefield and you are definitely a war, torn soldier of fortune! The affairs of your heart have overtaken your mind and as a result, your position as an "entertainer" is certainly entertaining, yet, methinks not in the way you have intended. Luckily, you're stinking rich, but being that you are as spry as a fox, you may not be in the market for early retirement. I have taken it upon myself to make a few suggestions to guide you into a new profession. You're welcome.

10. Wal-Mart Greeter

09. Guidance Counselor

08. Evangelist

07. Ku Klux Klan Grand Wizard

06. Greeting Card Writer

05. Poet

04. Match-Maker

03. Children's Author

02. Bus Driver

01. Motivational Speaker


Wednesday, July 7, 2010

The Time Has Come. Re-Name this Blog.

There has been some talk about the name of this blog and what it means... You know, because blogs and their names need to MEAN something. The name of this blog came from a stupid quiz thing I took in school where I had to name a mood and an inanimate object. I felt confused; I thought of how I thought the guy in front of me was such a dilrod; Confused Dildo.

Recently, I decided to not be so damn lazy all of the time, and I installed a site meter. I get a lot of hits form overseas, and something tells me that many of them aren't coming here because I am so darn cute and clever.

So, I think a re-name is in order. What are your suggestions? Fabulous prizes will be made available if I choose your suggestion!

Monday, July 5, 2010

Monday's List. Ways to Keep It Cool During a Heat Emergency.

Well, summah has hit the Queen City, and one of our traditions that is more pervasive than BBQs, swimming pools and domestic violence, is a heat index emergency. A heat emergency is when it is so ridiculously hot outside, everything looks like you didn't quite get all of the sand out of your eyes that morning and the local weather people have something to blather on about for more than their intended five minutes. Oh, and it is so fucking hot outside, it's hard to breath!

Heat emergencies are not awesome, but here are some ways to stay cool and remain awesome, whilst sweating your ballzacks off.

*. Thumbs up. The Fonz was always the picture of calm, cool and collected, because his opposable didgits were always pointed sky high, giving much respect due to JC. Cool is a state of mind. Thumbs Up not only says to the public at large that you are one suave m-effer, but Thumbs Up will distract your mind from the pits stains forming in the underarm area of your Ed Hardy T-Shirt.

*. This hat. If there is a culture of cool in the world, it is definitely the Japanese! They gave us Godzilla, karaoke and excessive bowing while shaking hands! COOL!

*. Keep America working while instilling the importance of a good work ethic in our youth, by hiring a neighborhood kid to follow you around, fanning you! This is a great way for the youth of today to learn about financial independence, and for you to not only stay cool, but look very important. Don't worry about minimum wage, this is a recession. Tell the kid that being paid in good vibes and positive reinforcement, on top of their dollar a day, is an experience that is PRICELESS.

*. Birthday Suit. During times of extreme weather and public duress, the traditional values of society get thrown to the wind and our mores become more flexible. There is no better time for walking around, nude. Your neighbors won't care. It's HOT! They understand. Go ahead, take it off.

*. Ice-pack underpants. These guys will not only keep you cool, but they will also give you a terrific tingling sensation in your nether areas. Don't worry about melting. People will either think your crotch is sweating like a Samoan in a sauna, or that you pissed yourself. No biggie!

This is a short list for today, because I need to get myself into a canoe.

Stay cool!

Friday, July 2, 2010

Them Kids Is Alright, Part Two

Ray, this is 1987. Did you know a girl can be whatever she wants to be?

In 1987, my mother changed careers and embarked our single parent family on a move from the sleepy farm town of London, Ohio, 150 miles away to the new-fangled and unfamiliar suburban landscape of Cincinnati, Ohio. My brother, sister and myself were all born at the Madison County Hospital in London, Ohio; raised within the confines of cornfields of past familial generations, which accorded us a sense of comfort. Upon our arrival to the subdivision of Woodfield, in the Towne Properties monstrous development of Landen within Maineville, Ohio, we were fish out of water.

Landen, Ohio was a intricate web of new construction, lakes, ponds, bike trails, swimming pools and other recreational facilities. It looked more like a social experiment in suburban perfection, than an actual town. It was marketed as the perfect place to raise a family.. It was "safe"... meaning "white" and radically conventional. The neighbors did not greet diversity and adversity with open arms, and god forbid you didn't cut your grass in the careful, diagonal pattern that the Neighborhood Association encouraged.... You'd be better received by lighting a bag of crap on fire in the middle of your cul-de-sac!

My siblings and I embarked on a period of adjustment, which was not easy. Our new residence was completely different. When you live on 32 acres of land with woods, creeks, barns, animals, and a house with maid quarters that the kids are allowed to use as play quarters, you get used to a certain amount of unabashed freedom. It was pretty commonplace for us to walk around outside in just our underpants, as well as take off to the more secluded parts of our property for some alone time. We had gotten used to solitude, and it was nice. Moving into a home a quarter of the size of your farmhouse with neighbors 20 ft (!) away, was completely foreign. We never had to be quiet on the farm, as our closest neighbor was a half mile away. Being so close to our neighbors, who were for the most part, nosy assholes, kind of sucked.

The people of Landen were completely different than the people of London. Don't get me wrong, London had their fair share of assholes and mean girls. (I remember all of you, and I still think you all suck at life....and were ugly children, who more than likely grew up to be ugly adults.) However, the people of Landen were jaded. Jaded in a "I get everything I want and what I really want is to be better than you and I will apply any means necessary to achieve my goals." It was a sentiment held by both adults and children alike... Also, I had no idea what racism was until I moved to Landen. There were less than ten people of color in our entire school, not to mention a card carrying faction of kids whose parents were in the Ku Klux Klan. Keep it classy, y'all!

After a year of contorting our personalities into foreign shapes, my brother tired of trying and just stopped. I was soon to follow. We fell into a crowd of misfits and wanna-be miscreants. We began to shave parts of our hair off, wearing combat boats, listening to music that was never to be played on pop radio, but were lucky enough to live within the listening radius of WOXY, 97X.

It was a whole new world. It was a world of creativity and rebellion. One was free to be as weird as one wanted to be and it was liberating... Sure, in the confines of the classroom and high school halls, it was a different story of harassment, bullying and general meanness... However, when your opinion of the people who are making fun of you is as low as mine was for these mouth-breathing, hillbilly, sister-fucking, rednecks, you tend not to care.. You eat their hate like love and it only makes you stronger.

to be continued........
Next up: Club Soda, 97Xtra-Beats Teen Dances and the Mythical Land of Short Vine.