Red Letter Day

I must share this. As soon as it happened I realized that even though some of you out there know who I am, this is too hilarious not to make fun of myself.

Yesterday will be memorialized on my calendar forever. I may have a plaque made, not sure yet.
I, Highlander, farted into my own vagina on July 29th, 2013 at approximately 11:23 pm. Don't ask me how this came about, I won't say, but it is 100% confirmed by my husband and I.
Farted into my own cout. Super special moment, and my life is forever changed. I'm sure there's money to be made with some fetishist somewhere (probably Japan) but I'll pass.

The best part about this and what mandated I blog ASAP? The exchange in the next room shortly have my historic act. I farted again. Shoot me, it happens and it will always be funny.

Husband: Man, if you were a boxer you'd be Gaseous Clay!
Pause for laughter from me.
Me: I've got good buttwork.
Husband: And if you converted to Nation of Islam you'd be  Mohammed Al Queef.
At this point it's almost midnight and I'm doubled over laughing so hard I'm nearly crying and holding in yet another "contribution" that the giggles nearly dislodged.

Sometimes you just can't make this shit up.

Other excellent parallel we've made since:
If I was a painter I would be Georgia O'Queef. Works on two levels, one is pretty art history nerdy.

I'm open to suggestions. (Did you know there's a fart thesaurus? "Bratwurst butt belch" is just one item you'll find on it.)

Lie to tell children: Sesquicentennial is the balls of Sasquatch. If anyone invites you to a sesquicentennial celebration, tell an adult.

Girl Problems

I realize that's a terrifying title, especially to my one "verified" male reader, but I promise you, it's worth it.

I have a workout tip for everyone, but in particular females, choose the right underwear! Yes, I judge the girl in front of me going 15 miles an hour on the elliptical with no resistance in her shorty shorts with the granny panty line. Seriously, you either want your ass out or not, pick one. I judge her. I do it. That's not what I'm talking about here, though.

I take classes at my gym, but I also spend a decent amount of time on a treadmill and other cardio machines. I always wear cotton athletic pants and as a general day-to-day rule I wear a thong (yay for sharing!) because I see people pick their butts all day, and I figure I might as well put my underwear there by choice. Also, it helps people not judge me like I do them. So, I'm at the gym wearing my usual outfit. I'm running cross country mode on the treadmill and at 1.5 miles in, I can hardly move my legs. Sometime between 4.5 mph with 6 incline and 5.5 mph  and 10 incline my clit has migrated out of the safe harbor of my thong.  For the past half mile I've been penguin walking trying to resolve the issue but my funbutton is firmly pinched between the lace and elastic edge of underwear and my leg. I have my burn going (in 2 ways) and I hate being a quitter, so I slow my roll, and try to adjust without reaching down my pants. Doesn't work. I keep jogging and shifting and sweating and cringing and grunting. I would call that nutting up, but that works a little too well.

Now here's where I put it in perspective. Take all the sensitive tissue of guy junk, put it in a tiny little package and give it flaps, what the hell, why not? Imagine someone put a wooden clothes pin on that and yanks it back and forth every 2 seconds for 15 minutes. I know people pay good money for that kind of porn, but it was not kinky when I didn't choose my torture.

I am now at 1.75 miles and I was going to do 2.5, but I cannot, even discretely shoving my whole arm down my pants, relocate my girl bits. I figured I could make it to 2 miles, and I did. But at what cost?

Friction burn on my funbutton was the cost.

No underwear I own could comfortably contain the inflamed (in the not fun at all way) flappy female goodness.
I put on granny panties, too compressed, not designed for that much....stuff.
I tried boyshorts, too much room in the dangerzone.
I THREW the offensive underwear away and penguin walked the rest of the night to keep everything as motionless as possible. I slept like a guy, nothing on and legs open letting it all literally hang out because that's the only way I could actually stop whimpering.

Lesson learned.  Underwear matter and tuck your junk at the gym. MF girl problems.

Lie of the day:
Cockroaches, millipedes and scorpions are actually aliens that were brought back from a moon zoo. Centipedes are local and bastards.

Vote on this

I believe in competition. I compete a lot, mostly against myself, but sometimes against others. I'm a Highlander, there's epic glory in battle, and it's sexy to kick people's asses so thoroughly they see their own colons without bending over. My competitive "events" are sometimes artistic in nature. They're very subjective and in the age of social media EVERYTHING is a popularity contest rather than a true competition.People love kids way too fucking much. Mindless, unthoughtful creation is acceptable and sometimes rewarded. Most importantly, these contests are bullshit.

Take joy in the true battle. Bow to the actual, not perceived, talent of others.

You can make something beautiful, and describe it eloquently and pitch it perfectly and people will crap all over it. Guess what? What makes it awesome is the fact that it rocked enough in the first place that I will clean your crap off of it, take it home, and still claim it as my own. So eat your fiber and do your worst because you're just adding to the collection of what you'll come face-to-face with when I win.

Lie of the night:
Sky spiders use the spines of humans they catch like straws to suck their guts out. While scientists try to keep it quiet, these spiders kill more of us each year than landsharks.

Laying down some truthy riffs

I think it is crap that aged and non-aged humans alike receive participation trophies when they suck too much to kick ass at a competition. I am not surprised our job market is what it is because everyone feels they deserve something. No one deserves anything. Not one thing. Don't like it, tough, I don't care what you think, and I'm entitled to that. I will engage you in a lively and curse-laden discussion about any topic, but I will not hand you something simply because you in your mind believe it is yours.You work for something. You strive for something and hopefully along the way you are changed in a way you find rewarding. You might not make it to the end, but you should do it for YOU, not for the cheese.


Miffy talked about some things you should teach kids. I've got the flip side. Fair is a concept for five year-olds and you simply shouldn't teach it to them. The beyond grade school world does not ever adhere to those rules, and let's face it, fairness is relative like so many other things. It's not fair that animals die. It's not fair that anything dies ever really. It's not fair that people steal, it's not fair that some people work hard and get nowhere or have to give the fruit of their good work to someone who didn't try. It is, however, fair to legitimately lose sometimes, and to kick thieving hos in the less superior nuts.

Rewards are like blowjobs, sometimes you get/give them, but mostly you have a headache and no one goes down, up, or anywhere else. Learn to swallow it.

Lie of the night
Contrails are actually the web of a giant sky spider. Space shuttle missions are routinely postponed to prevent getting stuck, captured, entombed or generally angering the sky spider.

Lurkin Merkin Sexpert

If we're to believe all the ladies magazines, our sex lives are all bland lumps of unseasoned mashed potatoes left on the counter until cool. We are in need of 10 tips, or 4 tricks, or 7 things he'll (or she'll, I don't judge how you love, though that's more work that I'd want in the bedroom) never ask for but secretly wants. I would like to give you some practical bedroom advice without the crap.

• If you think he secretly wants something you are dumb. He wants sex, any sex will do, enthusiastic is best. Also, if there's any "hidden" desires, they are probably not so hidden on his computer. Get over thinking you look fat naked, or that he's comparing you to porn chicks. They have razor burn, ass zits, cottage cheese legs they're desperately containing in thigh highs, and they can't get their men to take their socks off; you've got them beat.
  Do a search for .jpg, and get your nasty on. He's going to look at porn, you just go right ahead and find something you like and surprise him with it. Have a freak off, could be fun, could end the relationship, better to know now!
• You can buy all the lingerie you want in the world, but what you really need is a merkin. Forget vajazzling, we're talking 70's style sculpted hedge, all the way to the backyard. No roadkill though ladies, if PETA objects to it because it traps small animals, you need to tame it. But, nothing says I'm up for the strange like a jaunty top hat atop your lady lips. And, with a collection of festive fuzzy vaghats, you are ready for any occasion, and you can always go bare. Valenpoops? How about a heart pointing the way to love. Feeling clubby? No problem. Get yourself a pink one and rave that junk up!

• No matter what Cosmo tells you, he doesn't want one in his stink. He doesn't. Farts are funny. Poop can be funny. Funny shouldn't make a regular appearance in the bedroom. Sure there's the times when the condom snaps back into his balls so hard he turns purple with the instakill to the jewels, but that's not the same. Also, even if he does get past the clench, giggle, shoo, you've probably got fingernails. That does not cross the fleshy fun bridge to the danger zone, nor should it, that's all kinds of stabby.
• Totally practical advice: use the right lube. Let me tell you as a toy dissolves due to incorrect lube it creates acid that makes you wish you were giving birth because then at least you'd know when it was about over. You don't need a bunch of fancy stuff, but just keep in mind silicone toys + silicone lube = melted snatch syndrome. Friends don't let friends burn their clits off.

Because no discussion of sex would be incomplete without lies to tell the product of sex, children, tonight's lie:
If you turn a cat inside out you'll get a dog, but if you turn a dog inside out it creates a werewolf who will eat your family and then refuse to poop anywhere but the middle of your bed.

You, sir, can eat a bag of dicks....

So, I'm going to the gym, training, being better about what I eat. (Shut it Miffy, I'm still burning more than I eat even if one day a month lunch is pizza dipped in bacon with a side of pb cups swimming in froyo.) I'm not a small person, but I'm at a fine weight for my height. I just don't like that number, for moral reason - the scale is a lying whore mainly. Doctor is fine with my ass in its natural state. I don't like the number, me, no one else, me. So I'm working on it.

But, there's this math that just doesn't add up for me. I've calculated my recommended daily intake (RDI). My phone app says 1800, good, okay, reasonable. Livewell says 1500, eh, not going to make that goal most of the time. But GNC and my insurance company both say my BMI is moderately overweight and my RDI should be 1200-1300.

If I lived off veggies and protein shakes made with water, was able to deal with the horrible tire-fire, garbage leather doughnut eruption syndrome it causes, and didn't start eating office supplies I could barely swing those numbers.

I think it's all a very creative ploy. GNC wants me to buy their sunshine and rainbow supplements to calm the hungry hungry bitchy hipo in my head enough to function. The insurance company wants me to snap after one too many protein "leaks" and sugarsluts taunting me with their non-touching thighs and armloads of transfat carb popsicles they call lunch. They want me to go to jail so they don't have to pay for my "overweight" medical care. What they fail to understand is that it wouldn't be a little snap, and I would blaze the "underweight" trail right to their door.

1300 + me = Satan with a carb hangover and a very sadistic ice cream detox persona. My BMI can kick their BMI's ass any day and it's going to stay that way. So, they can eat a bag of dicks, I hear they're low fat.


To keep up with my promised agenda, now, more things I intend to teach children just because I can.
Lie of the night:
After a certain age, the human body cannot digest dairy. If you have enough ice cream in a single day, catch it as it comes out, and re-freeze it, you can have another sundae!

There may be only one Highlander!

While I might have given the impression that there would be a little tornado of fire, fact, sarcasm and raw-thigh power named Megatron in the future, it is highly unlikely.

First, as the title states, there may be only one. For a mini-hurricane of genetics to burst forth from me, that would mean I must die, such is the law of the Highlander. Not cool with that. Ravage my vag, shame on me; ravage my life, shame on you and me for not planning better, really.

Next, I have no intention of creating life until I stop calling them/it "crotch spawn." Not all children are crotch spawn so I will quickly define the term for you.
Crotch spawn, n. - a tiny, genetically human, always parasitic, life form created from an egg. Any beings that come from and adopt the evolutionary traits of drama llama parents would  be classified as CS. Tiny ones that are constantly whining, crying, tattling, moist and touching everything, ungrateful, joyous receivers of participation trophies for picking their noses, running around stores unattended with chariot-carts of fire smashing into everything like a 40-ish pound ping pong ball on crack, and those struggling against leashes like the slaves of Egypt dragging blocks to build the pyramids are crotch spawn, also sometimes referred to as crotch critters. They were made, not birthed and they must be dealt with like a plague.

Finally, and I will build on this in the coming days, I lie and/or tell the unfortunate truth in the most direct (douche) way possible, mostly to CS to mess with them. Creative inquisition and logic development are building blocks to a solid, rounded childhood. I intend to Godzilla through those building blocks whenever possible, why? Because it's fun to mess with people, especially critters who don't realize I'm pulling stuff out of my ass. My child would be a weapon to use against other children, and particularly crotch spawn.

Tonight's entry: Santa (for this example, the mini-person is a boy, makes pronouns easier, is not an indication of preference)
I will not teach Megatron about Santa. Given the genetic intelligence possible, he would probably use wrapping paper, wrapping style, deceptive breathing techniques and handwriting analysis to figure it out at age 4 as I did. Then, he would undoubtedly keep his mouth shut for several years to cash in on the goods. Hellz no, Santa is not getting the credit for the sweet ass presents I pick out and buy because I know little Megatron so well. Also, it's just weird to teach as child that an old fat man gets to watch him while he sleeps, break into the house once a year, leave stuff, steal food and molest footwear. And we teach them to not take things from strangers? Hello mixed, creepy, message. So, no Megatron Caliber, there isn't a Santa. And please, tell all your friends and classmates, someone should be honest with the spawn after all and protect them from St. Dick.

And that is why there may be only one.

Lie of the night: If you feed Frosted Flakes to a tiger every day for a year, he'll learn to talk and play sports like Tony the Tiger. Miss a single night night, it will be mentally disabled forever and unable to love.