The Pissings.

Without going into detail, because it is self-explanitory, I got so stupid while I was in Amsterdam that I passed out and peed my pants.  There.  I said it.  Only three people were present and all four of us really did not know how to deal with it at the time. The last time I  had peed my pants, I think I was five and playing with the big parachute in gym class.  I was having way too much fun to go to the bathroom so I decided to piss my pants just so I could keep playing with the other ankle-biters with the coloroful parachute.  The gym teacher noticed moisture and my plan was foiled quickly when he sent me to the nurse's office to get some emergency sweatpants.  Lesson learned.  But, like, why did the nurse have emergency sweatpants?  Was it 'coz others, such as myself, took too much pleasure in parachute day too and could not withhold their urine as they simultaneously were having epic amounts of F-U-N?  Seems like a reasonable assumption to me.

Yes, pee pee is gross.  It comes out of something called a 'urethra.'  Urethra sounds like an alien queen's name.  Urethra also sounds like something a black lady would middle name her male child.  Like, it's the smallest opening down there, why does it have to have such an intricate name?  And why does it have to be one of those words you shouldn't say when you eat a banana or peanut butter because it just sounds disgusting?  It sounds so moist...

Animals use their urine to mark their territory.  Male cats piss virtually on anything that they qualify as theirs. 

These are somethings I would like to pee on: 

A penthouse in New York City

A vintage, red, 1967 convertible Mustang

Every piece of clothing at Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters

Ryan Gosling's dick 

If I could pee on food and not ruin it,  I would piss on everything at Dean & Deluca in NYC.  Truffles: Beware.   $8 Goat's Milk Ice Cream: Sprinkle, Tinkle Little Star... Fuck with me about it.

So, now that we have established that pissing upon things is something that some mammals do to assert dominance, and that the word 'urethra' is clearly thought-up by the retard of the English language founders... with that, it brings me to a specificly ridiculous Saturday night of my past.  

A few weeks before the big event of this story happened, I went to Lambo's place of work with Matzah to get sleazy, seeing as she waitresses at a very interesting bar.  The bar is known for having an amazing selection of alcohol from around the world.  The drinks are intricate and expensive, but with Lambo working there, my drinks are either half-off or free, and on said night of free drinks, I like to slip a 20% tip into her cleavage as if she were a naughty slut with a secret and I'm The high-rollin' baller-extreme.  Makes me feel adequate.  Anyways, on this night, Lambo meets a saucy, South American named, who will later be referred to as Pee-onardo*.  I was too crunk to care about his useless, drunken, man-banter (manter), when he caught Lambo's fancy.

For two weeks, Pee-onardo attempted to woo Lambo with tasty dinner outing and fed her meaningful conversation over drinks.  She sang his praises to me and I sincerely hoped for the best, for her sake, after Patrick Bateman decided to take a shit in her soul and leave it there to fester. Pee=onardo told her he was going to come to her place of work on his birthday to spend it around her.  He gave her a little bit of hope.  Just a wee bit. The 'hope' turned into shit that inevitably hit the proverbial fan.  

Tangent:  

Dear whomever made that "The shit has hit the fan" phrase up,

That phrase is so deliciously disorienting and visually vomit-worthy.  I can't even describe how much I fucking want to stick my dick in it.  This is what I envision when people utilize this phrase: I imagine a very, conservative, Republican man with salt-and-pepper hair, in a navy, well-cut suit and a red tie with an English knot at his neck, grabbing little sandwich bags full of soft-serve dooty out of a plastic Stop-and-Shop bag.  This is when he proceeds to pitch them, with a wild look upon his face, to a fan about 20 feet away.  This is not just your average house fan that keeps your body at a livable temperature in the summer months.  I am talking about one of those big fuckers that could blow a toddler into a wall in less than seven seconds.  So when the sandwich bags full of hot, baby food-looking shits eventually come in contact with the blades of the fan, it doesn't just get on the surface of everything within the immediate radius of ten feet, but it also gets into all of the orifices of the man who threw them.  Even his urethra.

So, thank you a million times for contributing this visual into my cortex, or whatever brain lobe makes you see shit.  

Ha. Shit.

Love, Wits Ma-Fucking-Gee

Back to the event at hand:

I enter the bar with a bloodstream full of marshmallow-flavored Smirnoff and a few hot totties with the great Northern Irish Bushmill's whiskey.  My face was hot.  I could feel the alcohol burning through my thighs.  Thank Moses, Matzah decided she was going to be the designated driver that night.  I was too rare on this night.

Lambo points out Pee-onardo as she hands me a delicious cocktail.  Like I needed anymore crunk juice... Matzah and I mingle with the fellow, inebriated patrons when I notice Pee-onardo grinding his disco stick on some brunette chick's b-hole.  He continues to suck her neck as if it tasted like a fuckin' root beer float.  He then proceeded to stick his tongue, that he stuck down Lambo's throat the night before, into her nasty mouth.  

My thoughts:

When one has only been dating another for two weeks and has not discussed the exclusivity of the relationship to the other,  I think it is normal to scope out your other options.  I am all for not putting all your eggs in one basket.  Make it rain on a plethora of hos!  However, what Pee-onardo failed to pay appropriate attention to was his lack of discretion.  If your going to go hunting for someone else's ham wallet while your attempting to stick your meat into another one, might I suggest that you do not hunt said wallet of ham at the other one's place of work?  No?  Was that too out of left field, or...?

Matzah and I creeped over to Lambo, like gossip minions from Hell, and pointed his discretions out to her.  Obviously, she was not happy and decided to give him the ice shoulder for the rest of the night.  I was so trashed by the time she went to run his American Express through the machine that I started to strongly advise her to charge my drink on his card.  Mostly since I did not want to pay for my own drink.  She toyed with it for about 17 seconds and decided that she did not care if it was morally wrong, but she could possibly get in trouble for doing so.  

"I wish I could like... shit on it." She laughed with a frown.

"Well, I have to pee.  Give it to me." I said with my eyes at half-mass.  This is where the "shit" get to "hit the fan." But instead, it's really where my 'piss' hit 'someone's bank account'.  Dominance ...at its finest.

Lambo looks left.  Lambo looks right.  "Hurry up!" She underhands me his card and I slip it into my bag.  The entire 35 feet to the lady's room, I grinned like a dirty toddler who has never gotten caught masturbating.  Matzah was washing her hands at the sink when I swooshed by her and locked the bathroom stall.  I strip down my pants and urinated my full stream on his American Express... from behind.  Ahhhh, the symbolism of pissing upon someone shitty's American Express kills me, but also makes me orgasm three minutes faster when I think about it while I touch my naughty parts.  As I decided to relievine myself, Lambo comes into the bathroom, laughing while saying my name. 

"What?" Matzah asks, puzzled.

"HAHA!  Omigod, Dana!" Lambo chortles.

"Oh, no!  What'd she do?" Matzah knows me too well.

I hear silence as Lambo whispers into her ear. 

"Ew! AHAHAHA!  That's disgusting!" She liked it.

"Yeah! YEAH! YEAH!" I pee harder on it as I say the word 'yeah'. 

I wrapped it in toilet paper so Lambo, nor myself, would have to carry the biohazardous credit card.  She places it onto the bill plate with the customer and merchant copy of the receipt.  What happens next was one of the perfect moments that are only designated for sit-coms with quirky, but lovable characters.  

Pee-onardo picks his card up off of the plate and puts it in his mouth while he signs the bill.  

My mouth hit my shoes.  I grabbed Matzah's arm.  My face was that of the scream face in Van gogh's painting.  She turned around and immediately turned back to me as she giggled with her hands over her face.  However, I think the satisfaction on Lambo's face as she witnessed that he, not only had the saliva of a trashy brunette (or two) in his mouth, but he now had my liquid waste floating around his mouth and bonding with his salivary glands.

"I wonder if it's salty?" Lambo pondered.

"One can only hope..." I added.

After he signed his bill, he wrapped his arms around Matzah and me, to which I wished I still had pee left to have run down his leg.  He then got bored of Matzah and me after a whole six seconds (shocking!) and went back to the trashy brunette to implant his urine-soaked tongue into her larynx.  I guess there was plenty to go 'round.

The three of us left that night with a sense of accomplishment, pride and throbbing egos.  I helped a friend.  My friend got back at someone who wronged her.  And the Jew got to stand-by and witness it all, firsthand.  We all win, on some level.  

Also... technically, according to the history of mammalhood, I have marked that AMEX as my territory.  So does that mean the contents that are being represented by this piece of plastic are mine too?  Because I wouldn't mind pissing on some cash too?  

Seriously, though... he fuckin' put it in his mouth!

You CAN Find It On Ebay... Unless I Find It First.

There are quite a lot of things I am pretty bad at.  Things like: mathematics, science, not pooping when I really need to poop, eating peppers, listening to country music without cringing, being nice to ex-boyfriends, and farting/queefing on command.  Some people have those talents.  I am part of the population that does not possess such qualities.


There are copious amounts of things I am mediocre at.  Things like: school, putting up with people who smell like dick and candy, not sneezing when there are a lot of dust bunnies, Easter egg hunts, having a nice ass, and the pronunciation of the French language.


Amongst the many things that are so-so or completely lacking, I do have some pretty sweet 'gifts'. These would be: a good rack, lying my way out of crap, flawless logic and common sense (maybe I'm cocky...or maybe I'm a comic---either way, you're reading this blog so you have some sort of obsession with me, so...), awesome hair, sex, bitching, eating foie gras like a champ, my ability to be a black person when needed and most importantly...my Ebay skills.


Those who know me, and my stupid life, know that I can Ebay the shit out of shit.  I have found things on Ebay that are so boss, they make the lamest of bitches want to suck on mah dick!  In the past four years that I have been a faithful Ebay-er,  I must have spent at least three grand on a bunch of crap that I, like... somewhat needed.  However, even though I have spent a few pennies on that site, it has sincerely saved me so much bread.   


This is a story about a pair of pink, Frye boots.


When I was nineteen, my sister Bunny introduced me to the epically, amazing craftsmanship of Frye boots.  Their brand is one of the most well-made, American, leather shoe/boot brand I have ever come across.  Whether you buy them vintage or brand-new, you will never regret purchasing them.  I used to work at a shoe store, and though some of these boots would run from $250-$600 a pair, there is no doubt in my mind that these people went home and had sexual intercourse with their new pair of kicks.  They are that special.   


In my last year of teenager-dom, I was not rolling in enough dough to purchase any of these precious, leather temptresses at full price.  TJ-Maxx and Marshall's had quite a few pairs in their possession, at the time, but they were at half-price and still too pricey for my thirsty wallet.  I started saving up for a good pair, but this is when America decided to shit its pants and collapse its economy, but somehow justify raising food and gas prices.  Which was really cool, I think.  Therefore, my priorities had to lay with life's necessities.  As much as I love boots, I could not give up eating cheese.  And I needed to somehow get to the cheese in my possession and my mouth.  That is where my car came in, which needed gas to run for me to purchase the fromage.


Just when I thought I was out of luck and going to be a boot-less tramp, I remembered how fucking scrumptious I was at Ebaying.  I mean, I could play the DJ about my Ebay skills right now as I write this, but sometimes a bitch has to keep it real.  So, I logged onto Ebay.com and searched 'frye boots size 7' and scrolled through countless options until I stumbled upon a pair of boots that made my butt cheeks tighten in ecstatic fright.  They were everything I was looking for.


Knee-high, pale pink, 2 1/2 inch stacked-heel, pointed round-toe, fresh, stiff leather in my mother-fucking size.  I nearly came at the site of the price.  I had been saving up and had $200 just sitting in my debit card when I realized they were only $150.  These were $400 retail.  I jumped on the bid button like Lance Armstrong did to ball cancer awareness.  Nobody else had bid on them and there was one day left.  These were to be mine.  No one was to get in my way.  Nope.  No one.


For the next few hours, I frequented their status to see if they were still to be mine.  I was relentless.


Later that night, I logged onto Ebay to check the status of my beloved babies to find another had bid on them.  EX-FUCKING-SCUSE ME?????? Who did this bitch think she was?  Did they know who I was?  There was no FUCKING way that I could let my children be adopted by someone who was not going to love them as much as I would.  I imagined them in this person's small closet, collecting cobwebs and moths as they cried to be worn.  I could not bear the thought of them being neglected and abused by someone who did not deserve their fierceness.  So I did what any red-blooded, Ebay-ing machine would do.  


I contacted the seller.  Like a G6.  Like a boss.  Like nobody's business.


The 'lying-sack-of-shit, self-helping, munipulative e-mail' to said seller went something like this:


"To whom it may concern,


Let me first address to you how 'in love' I am with this particular pair of boots.  What I am about to tell you in the complete, and utter, truth.  I am only telling you this, not for personal gain, but for your safety and easy-Ebay experience as well.  


About a month ago, I was selling a really, expensive, Tahari dress for X-amount of dollars.  The other person who has bid on these boots also bid on this Tahari dress.  I was so excited that someone had bid on it.  She won it.  I sent it to her.  She was not happy because of a small thread being out of place.  So she sent it back and I had to wire back her money.  Two weeks later,  I put the dress back up on ebay after sewing the mis-placed thread to which the same buyer bid on it again.  I stated to her that I had sewn it and it was not perfect, but pretty unnoticeable, but still flawed nonetheless.  I even wrote it in the description that this certain place was not perfect.  She still bid and, once again, won it.  I sent it with hesitation.  She was unhappy and demanded that I wire her back TWICE the amount.  To which I obviously said, "Hell no!"  She then proceeded to open up a case against me on Ebay.  


I cannot be more clear about the ridiculousness of the story I just retold to you.  Again, in the description, I did describe that it had imperfections, she bought it anyway and proceeded to be a pain-in-my-ass about it TWICE.  I sincerely advise that you refrain from selling your, what you describe as 'slightly used' Frye boots, to this questionable woman.  She will only cause you anguish and frustration.


On a different note, I am willing to pay you $10 more than the bidding price if you end this sale and just sell them to me.  I will be forever grateful and I will hopefully have saved you from having to deal with someone who seems to have escaped from the looney bin.  Please get back to me whenever you can with an answer.  


Thank you, 
Danny"


A week later, I was literally humping my boots into oblivion.  I spent hours in my room, trying on everything I owned that could go with these boots, which was uuuhhhh... EVERYTHING!  They added color to the mundane pieces.  They made my classy outfits look classier.  They made my indie outfits look more indie.  They made my summer dresses look like they were made to be worn in a saloon on Route 66.  They made everything look like I should be in a Free People add.  And I didn't hate it.  


When I went out, the compliments rolled into like the a fat bitch in a bakery.  With these boots, none of my outfits were ever a miss. The jealousy was tangible.  And in those moments, the only thing that would make me hotter, is if I strolled in with Bradley Cooper on my arm.  Which, in that case, I probably would not be venturing anywhere but my bedroom.  I would still be wearing the boots though.  That would be how I attracted him in the first place, no?  That, and my ability to make the good sexy times...


So, a word to the wise: If you ever see 'TutuBellaLuna' has bid on something on Ebay--- don't be surprised if you don't win.  If I want that shit badly enough, your measly bid is not going to get in my way.  Your 'reserve on this item' means nothing to me and I shall shit upon your needs if they clash with mine.  That's how I tend to roll.  Like Pilsbury, bitch!


Happy bidding! ;-)

Mac+Cheese is for Stupid Fucks.

I love garlic.  


I love garlic so much that garlic flavor is just not enough anymore.  


"Oh, do you want garlic salt on your pizza?"


"Garlic salt?  Bitch, I can't even taste that shit no mo'.  Hand me that slap-chop and a few cloves and I will change your sad, miserable life!"---I say that.


Most people don't know that garlic truly does make food a lot better.  Bought a shitty jarred sauce? Chop up some damn garlic and simmer it in that shitty sauce for a while.  Better than mixing your pasta with what may as well be ketchup.  Want a little more pizzaz to your pizzas?  Chop up some mother fuckin' garlic and have at it like a champ.


Not only is garlic flavorful and whimsical, but it is also heart healthy.  If an Italian ever has a heart-attack, it's because he/she has eaten one too many cannoli, not because he/she did not consume enough garlic in their life.  Pinky promise.


Are you afraid of getting bitten by a vampire?  Hang some garlic over your bed.  This may also result in not getting laid.  Like, ever. 
...I blame a very long, nine-month dry spell on the garlic on my bed post.  


However, garlic does tend to repel predators.  You eat a plate of my mom's pasta with her sauce (or gravy as real American-Italians call it), and you're guaranteed a creep-free night at the bar.  In fact, no one will even come near you.  Ever wondered why I am still single?  Thank you, Garlic.  Rich people hate flavor.


Don't even get me started on what my Grandma Angie's gravy will do for your life.  How do you think I grew all this Rapunzel hair?  Why do you think I went through puberty at age ten?  Her food was like miracle-grow for children.  Kraft mac and cheese ain't got nothing on the Tascione gravy recipe.  That shit's for beginners.  I was eating cloves of raw garlic with Grandpa Vito Raimondi when I was four without squinting at its bitterness.  
...Yeah, fuck with me! 


When I was a munchkin back in the 90s,  Grandma Angie would wake up at 6 am to start slow cooking her sauce.  Everything was from scratch, with the exception of the tomatoes, those were by the can, but it barely made any sort of distinguishable difference.  I would be sleeping on the couch in the living room, in which the kitchen was an extension of.  I would wake up whenever I would hear my aunt tip-toe to retrieve a glass of water in the night.  I could even hear the light switch go on-and-off.  That is how close and small these two rooms were in that house.  


My Grandma Angie gave, hmmm maybe... two shits about the possibility of waking me up with the crack of dawn on her gravy-making days.  If you know Italian Grandmothers, you know that they are usually small enough to fit in their own gravy vats.  She usually would store this giant pot/cauldron in the biggest cabinet, all the way in the back.  There is no possible way that one can retrieve this massive, steel pot without banging it against everything else that is residing within the same cabinet.  And being a 4'10", eighty-something year old, bickering Italian lady, there was absolutely no possible way that she could avoid breaking the sound barrier while doing this.  


Not only would all of the pots and pans spill out onto the linoleum, kitchen floor, but she made sure she cursed at everything that got in her way, while getting that fucking pot out.  Her whisper-yelling was audible in about three countries and the process of getting the paraphernalia back into its place was usually louder than when it had originally came out.  Finally, after I would go deaf from the clinging-and-clangings of her journey, the vat would be firmly grasped in her hands as the cat would run and fumble through her legs.  This would only cause more disruption in the mind of Grandma Angie and a very loud, "Goddamn it, ROTTEN CAT! Try'na kill me?"
To which my once-sleeping aunt would reply from her room, "Don't yell at him!"
"Damn cat's always gettin' in my way.  Whenever I do anything, he's..."
"Maybe you're the one gettin' in his way!" My aunt would piss on any comment she could.
Grandma Angie would get defensive and then add on an anecdote, "He sure as Hell's gettin' in my way! I woke up this morning to the smell of his litter box.  FRESH CRAP is what he left."
This argument tended to last about 10 minutes. 15 Maximum.  The whole time as they argued,  I lay awake, wondering what the fuck family I was born into.


The gravy's aroma would fill my grandparent's house.  Basil and tomato wafted through each doorway.  Parmesan and oregano penetrated the walls.  Sausage and meatballs would stew inside of the hot gravy.  All of these flavors would eventually team up for the ultimate battle that took place on your tongue.  Which flavor was the strongest?  Who will take over the job of making the breath rancid?  Who would be the ultimate taste-bud conquerer of the night?


If you have to ask, then you haven't read this blog correctly and you're stupid.  Garlic. The Charlie Sheen of my mouth.  Winning.


The smell of garlic has always been associated with people I love.  My Grandma Angie smells like it.  My mom sometimes smells like it.  My sister Bunny usually has eaten something with garlic on a good (or bad) day.  My house tends to have a faint garlic smell.  Garlic = Home. Home = Family. Family = My Bitches.


People always say that your family will always have your back.  Fortunately, my family has always had mine, even in my most selfish of times.  When little boys in elementary school told me I was too ugly to play on the jungle gym with them, my mom did not sugar coat it and tell me that he had a crush on me, she would simply reply with, "Well, that little boy is a fucking retard."  ...Okay, maybe she did not say those exact words, but she did belittle them to make me feel better.  I think that's what a good mother does.  I turned out fuckingt stellar...


Members of my family always wanted me to be strong and healthy.  When I would get the flu/ sore throat/ stomach virus, etc., my dad would bring me re-heated Campbell's chicken noodle soup with a fork in it and ask, "Ya sick?"
No, I'm bed-ridden for shits and giggles, Pop. "Yeah."
"What the Hell did you do that for?" He'd look me straight in the eye.
How was one supposed to answer a dumb question like that at age six? Like...Um...I wanted to see what it felt like to have a sore throat...again?  Maybe... get an ear infection?  Oh, Dear Lord in Heaven, please give me the measles!
Always there to support.  My Dad.


When it came to outsiders, like my peers and such, I looked like a short, weak, frail, little soul, waiting to get crushed by the fat-fucks that were my school mates.  You can also say that I have never went about anything with an element of 'normal' or 'sanity'.  


My Grandpa Vito used to play checkers with me as a kid and told me that out-smarting your opponent will always lead to a victory.  I never forgot it.  And I utilized it on *DumbAsFuckKid...


DumbAsFuckKid sat next to me in the fourth grade.  I guess you could say we were opposites in the way we chose to use our brains.  While my ADD took me to places where unicorns feasted on stars and marshmallows, DumbAsFuckKid was acing all of the math and science tests.  He would laugh at my tests when they were handed back because they would usually have an 'F' or a 'see me!' on them in red marker.  He would pull my hair and ask me how it could possibly hurt when I had 'no brain in there to feel it.'  I would usually hold in my tears until I pushed the stall of the bathroom door.  That's when the ends of my lips would slant downwards and the waterworks would turn-on behind the locked stall door.  


I went home that day on the bus, where DumbAsFuckKid announced, "Hey, Everyone, Dana Clark failed her science test! F means Failed.  YOU FAILED!"  He pointed to my face.  I was about to bite his chubby little finger off when I heard the little, blonde cunts in the corner whispering about how easy the science test was, which made my wound rip a little bit more.


I cried as I walked out of the bus.  My Grandpa Vito opened the door with a "Hey, Kiddo! Why you cryin'?"
I was so happy to see him at my house, but could barely speak I was crying so hard, "Eh...Eh...Everybody'sssshhhh mean da meee."  But it was true.  I only had one friend, who was a grade below me and people were just as mean to her (BooBoo), if not worse, than they were to me. "They all say that I'm s-s-s-stupid!"
My Grandpa's voice was not soothing or melodic, but raspy and grungy, like a real New York Italian. "Awww, ya not stupid. You gotta outsmart those lil bastards."  This was coming from a man who had done everything from carpentry, to being a tank-commander in the Battle of the Bulge, to playing jazz piano for a swing band at a nightclub.  He smelled like tweed and rose wine.  He was fresh til' death, that one.  
"How? I can't think of anything!"


Now, instead of helping me study for the next science exam, he taught me the art of revenge.  Always be one-step ahead of the enemy.  Know their weaknesses.  DumbAsFuckKid's weakness was the temptation of a dare.  I may not have understood what geodes and volcanic rocks did to the earth, but I can always say that I was raised by some 'interesting' souls.


The next day, during art class, DumbAsFuckKid and I had to share a box of Crayola 64's.  It had all your basic colors and beyond.  Fuschia, Kelly Green, Copper, Aqua-Marine, you name it, Crayola 64 had that shit on lock!  They had one crayon that was "mac and cheese" colored.  I looked at it and then looked at DumbAsFuckKid and decided to fuck him over, in that instant.


"This crayon tastes like mac and cheese!" I threw out the bait. 
He looks at it. "No it doesn't!"  He goes back to coloring.
I smelled the crayon in front of him, "It smells like it." It didn't.  It's wax!  But the mind is a powerful thing.
He smells it.  Looks confused.  He totally thought it smelled like it. Dumb. As. Fuck.  Then he continued, "Just 'coz it smells like it, doesn't mean it tastes like it!" Damn it, he was SMART!
I had to take it a step further.  I licked the crayon. "I can't taste it either, but my Grandpa says if you eat the whole thing, it does."
"You're bluffing.  That's stupid.  You're stupid." ---No, Kid, what I'm about to make you do is fucking stupid.
"I dare you." Now he was tugging hard on my bait like Jaws to a fishing pole.
He looks at it. He smells it again and then hands it back to me.
"I doub...triple-dog dare you."  He's fucked.  Other kids were looking now.
He grabs it back and peels off the paper.  I was probably grinning so hard that I drooled in this moment, but that's beside the point.  I was elated when he broke it in half for easier intake. He placed both of them in his mouth AT THE SAME TIME!  His mouth slowly began to fill with what looked like cheddar but had the crunch of peanut brittle.  He started to grind it down and it became soupy in his mouth.  At that moment, I thought, "Oh, shit! He is going to do it.  He's gunna swallow it."  In that same moment, I jumped back because it hit me that wax is not food.  DumbAsFuckKid is going to choke or throw up.  Or Both.


Yup.  Both.


Thank God I had vacated about four feet behind him when his esophagus rejected the crumbled wax. He starts coughing and shaking.  Eventually, he was sent to the nurse and none of us saw him again that day.  What a little bitch.  


When the teacher asked us what happened, my peers that sat near me knew I had been the one to egg him on.  I denied it.  I was meek, shy, little Dana.  No one could possibly believe I was capable of such evil.  The teachers did not even suspect me.  I just said in an angel voice, "He just started eating it..."


The next day, DumbAsFuckKid sat in the seat next to me in class and informed me he was going to make my life a 'living heck'.  
"Go fuck yourself." Obviously I could have cared less about the rules of cursing in school...
"TEACHER, TEACHER!  Dana just said the 'f' word!"


My whole life, I have had peers, and even some teachers, lose faith in my intelligence.  I just chose not to flaunt it.  Perhaps I would never be a mathematical genius or a rocket scientist.  Those people rarely get laid.  So I'm not mad about it.  But once I discovered the power behind playing dumb,  I ran with it like a governor from a hooker's hotel room.


DumbAsFuckKid was out to make my life 'Heck', which I assume is like the 'Hell' with AC, where all your hopes and dreams were crumbled alongside a napkin of crushed cookies. (What?)


Instead of enduring this kid's wrath, I decided that I would make myself less appealing.  I did not shower for the next two days, ate 3 cloves of garlic that morning without brushing my teeth and wore unwashed clothing.  I smelled like an herb garden was growing in all of my crevasses.  I would not have been surprised if I found an onion patch under my arm. The scent of my personal space wafted through the hallways of Hindley Elementary School.  As I neared my desk, I could not help but notice the nose-pinching and kept hearing groans as if I had caused my peers physical harm.  I planted myself right next to DumbAsFuckKid.
"Woah, Holy Shit!" He shouted.
"TEACHER! He just said the 'S' word!"  She heard him without me telling her.
"But she..." He was interrupted.
"No excuses.  We do not use this language in the classroom.  And stop picking on Dana, she has done nothing to you.  All week, you've been causing a raucous.  I am moving your seat.  Go sit with Andres."  Andres was a foreign student from Peru.  He did not speak any English, so he was not easy to make fun of to his face.  He also tended to let squeaky ones rip after his lunch of rice and beans.  


See, garlic really does make everything better.  Proof.  


End of Story.

Ol' Blue-Balls, Elbow-Eye Kid...

A few days ago, I had asked those who have 'liked' my Wits MaGee page on facebook, "What is the worst date you have ever been on?"  I have gotten some great feedback and a few surprising stories as well.  Props to one, who answered and survived this doozy:


"We were watching a movie at his place and in the span of a minute he stood up, started jerking off in front of me, grabbed my hand, and blew his load in my hand. It was our second date and we had only just kissed."


I would have stood there with my mouth wide open.  And not in the welcoming way.  I mean,  I would be Frownie Face MaGee in that moment.  


I was surprised that BooBoo did not leave a comment to that question.  She had a similar situation a few years back.  She was working at a local supermarket when she met *Max.  I had met Max in my toddler years at the house where my daycare was.  This rotund and jolly woman named *Cherry would have about 4-8 kids, ranging from babies to about eight years old, in her big basement full of toys, coloring books, TV, music and a massive backyard with an epic swing set.  It was heaven.  For children, and pedophiles, alike.


Fortunately, I was never fondled inappropriately until I was like sixteen... okay, eighteen.  I was very particular about who fondled what... and where... and when.  Creepy, old men just didn't tickle my pickle.


Anyway, Max was one of the kids in daycare with me and he was a bit 'off' as a kid.  His mother was French and his father was from Northern Ireland (co-inky-dink!!!!!) and he was the oldest of 5 or 6 children.  But the weirdest thing about him was his need for putting his eyeball/eye socket on people's elbows....


You heard me.  He sincerely enjoyed shoving anyone's elbow into his eye(s).  Anyone's.  Pointy and sharp, saggy and dry, hearty and strong... you name an elbow-type, he shoved his eye onto it.  


Now, at age five, I was not exactly the most normal crayon in the box.  There was a three-tiered bookshelf in my moldy basement that I had made into a Barbie dream house.  All of the furniture remained to be bootleg knick-knacks and other shit from around my house. And since I was the kid that my parents pretend wasn't an 'oops', I was graced with some very special hand-me-downs.  New toys were only for Christmas or my birthday.  My Barbies were all Bunny's or Stiney's in the 80s.  You could tell which ones were which sister's by their unique attributes.


Stiney was known for cutting off all of their hair so that they looked like full-on lesbians.  She usually dressed them in gym clothes or casual wear to further extend the notion that they were, in fact, bull-dykes.


Bunny decided that she would leave a more perverse mark on her Barbies.  Once you took off their clothes, Barbie's bright, red nipples, in permanent marker, stared you right in the retina. Some of them had pubes.  That was reserved for the select and privileged.  They were mesmerizing and mysterious.  


I was severely proud of the dream house that I had built and created. Well, alright--- it was more like a Barbie Brothel.  In my head, I could practically hear Barbie moaning the second she felt Ken's bump against her plastic twat.  Blonde Barbie and Ken would do it on the actual Barbie bed, but the other brunette barbies and my one black Barbie got to do it on make-shift beds made out of unused super-maxi pads. 


Before I am dubbed doll racist, let me just say that I was a light brunette as a child.  So, I don't know what the fuck was wrong with me.  Either way, all of my Barbies were hardcore, Ken-bump sluts.  Regardless of race and hair color.


Every other day I would mosey on down to my basement while Bunny blasted The Fugees album in her CD player in the room directly above the basement.  I would make Ken cheat on Barbie with black Barbie.  She would get jealous and bang his twin.  His twin would then find his way into Skipper's room (which I didn't know was statutory rape at the time).  It was a Barbie Orgy.  Better know as a Bargy--- to me.


The Fugees will forever be synonymous with Bargies in my book.  Thanks Bunz. 
   
Anyway, back to Max. He was about two years younger than me and one year younger than BooBoo.  Max was a bag boy and BooBoo was a cashier.  A flirtation started up.  There were days where she would call me up and tell me how much she liked him and how sweet he was.  I never really thought much of it, he was always freaky elbow kid to me.  Until the night BooBoo decided to hang out with Max at his house.  My perception of him was never the same.


To describe this story, one must recognize that this is a second party recount.  BooBoo informed me of this event immediately after she escaped from it.  This is what I remember her describing...


She started the story out with the fact that Max shared a room with his brother, so there were two beds in the room.  They watched some TV and started making out.  She then goes on to describe that he starts getting hard.  Surprise!  A seventeen year old boy?  Hard?  After making out? I don't believe it.  However, BooBoo was not ready for that commitment in the moment.  She backed away and made the decision to blue-balls the poor kid, mainly because she did not want to move too fast, for she really did like him.  She liked him RIGHT UP UNTIL this point...


She told him that she did not want to take it any further.  I can only assume he huffed and puffed for a few seconds until he decided to move himself onto his little brother's bed and jacked it for himself.  In front of her.  While she watched.  Awkwardly and upset.


BooBoo left his house soon after that occurred and walked to my house as she told me the entire story on the phone.  After an hour and a half of deliberating as to what she should do about the inappropriate incident, she decided that since he immaturely choked his chicken in front of her, she was going to immaturely Facebook message break-up with Elbow Max.


I would see him when I would go buy groceries and wonder if he knew that I knew he wanked it, awkwardly, in his brother's bed, in front of my best friend.  I mean, I did know... and he did know that BooBoo was my best friend.  But, he always had this dopey expression upon his face no matter what mood he was in.  Whatever... he was now weird, elbow-eye, jerk-it Max.  And that was all that mattered. 


As he bagged my food, I stared at his elbows and wondered if he still had a fetish for eye-to-elbow contact.  I also wondered if he washed his brother's bedding after he busted a nut on them.  However, the thing I wondered most is 'what did he think he was doing?' I mean, seriously... did he think he was turning her on? Like, "Yeah, girl, you see me over here?  Doing this?  You're gunna get to see my 'O' face... get pumped!"  I mean, girls who play their DJ in front of men are considered sexy, yes.  I can understand that.  However, no matter how hot a dude is... six-pack, biceps, BMW, Armani blazer... it will never be "sexy" to jack off around a girl the first time you hang out.  Or, like... any time, really.  


If a girl is watching you masturbate, she probably does not want to join in.  Unless the girl is Snookie... but she is essentially just a live version of one of my slampig Barbie Dolls.  

Redemption, Destiny and a Nice Ass.

I have never been more awkward towards a person then when I am consciously trying to attract them.

Hence, why I have completely given up on being the seductive chick in a group of friends.  I stick with what I know, which is awkward and strange commentary.  If I have a brain fart and somehow end up slipping into "hot" mode, it usually pans out that I trip on a pothole or I will attempt to open a starburst with my tongue and choke on it (Although, years of practice hath only lead me to unwrapping one of them babies in under thirty seconds).  We can call it 'talent', if you so choose.  I call it 'being fucking sweet.'

My last entry spoke of one Bobby Wheaton, the super-genius senior, who was good at literally everything that had to do with academia.  Even some teachers revered him.  His brain must have so many wrinkles on it.  I assume it looks like a big, dried watermelon...or something not as dumb as that analogy.  Either way, that boy was smarter than the mere mortals that surrounded him.  He eventually utilized a scholarship to Yale University and ended up at Duke Law School.  Not bad, I guess... Perhaps I have always been attracted to the cute guys, who were also ridiculously smart.  Something about them being hot nerds and them not knowing they were hot made me pant like a dog in heat.

However, my attraction to Bobby was sincerely based on the fact that he was hot and a genius.  I literally knew nothing else about him.  I did not know anything about his personality other than that he was hard-working and athletic.  So, on that fateful day, in the library when I had conversed with him about my potential article (which was previously mentioned in my last post),  I had no idea that I was opening up a can of worms.  Awkward-moment worms, to be exact.

There were three incidents in which I involuntarily killed any chance(s) that I had with Bobby.  Each of them, more stupid than the last.

After I pretended that I did not know him before the day that we spoke about my article, Bobby thought I was an okay little lady.  He did not care too much about my existence when I would wave like an idiot from ten yards across the hallway though.

"HEY, BOBBY!" I would scream, with my obnoxious yell, down the hallway.

He would simply wave once and go back to the rest of his day.  One day, I even waved to him while he was coming out of the boy's room.  I did not realize how weird that was until I looked back on it ten minutes later.  However, I figured that that small, awkward moment was redeemable.   There are only so many redeeming qualities that I possessed when I was sixteen though.

My first incident took place at the Starbucks in my hometown.  It was on a day where they were giving away free, java-chip brownies with any frappuccino purchase.  Naturally, my fat-ass immigrated on down to the closest Starbucks it could find in order to accomplish this manifest destiny.  My sister Bunny and I sat on the right side of the coffee shop and started to have a conversation when Bobby walked through the door.  I was mid-attack into the brownie when I noticed him in line.  I immediately stood up, so that he could see my existence and then yelled his name.

"HEY BOBBY!" I grinned fiendishly and adoringly.  It was one of those Julia Roberts smiles where I could feel the ends of my lips touch my molars.  

Almost instantly, my sister grabbed my arm and pulled me back onto my seat. "Stop smiling!"

"What?  Why?" I asked.

"You have, like... an entire brownie in your teeth.  So..."

Oh.

Oh?

Oh!

Oh...

Oh?

Oh!

Oh, so that's why he didn't wave back?  I felt my butt and my stomach collide inside of my body and throttle my soul.  I started cleaning my teeth with my tongue inside of my mouth.  I used my frappuccino as mouth wash until I realized that it was java-chip as well.  My sister wished she was not there with me for that moment, but she was and she can never go back.  Bobby got his coffee and left without anything but an eye-full of hillbilly, chocolate mouth.

The next Monday at school, I avoided Bobby at all costs.  I wore a dark, green hoodie in the library to mask myself from the opportunity of spotting him, for I was sure he had nightmares about my wretched smile.  My high school was small enough to host those chance run-ins with people that needed to be avoided, so I took the necessary precautions when I chose to arrive incognito.  However, this decision somehow decided to work against me.  As per usual.

During my free periods, I would frequent the library and find random books and write poetry and quotes in their pages, in hopes that somebody would find them and it would change their day, mood, life, etc, instead of doing my actual homework that was due a period later.  I burrowed myself in the isle of books on artwork when I stumbled upon a big, heavy, ancient-looking, leather-bound book that was titled "Artwork of the 20th Century" so I attempted to pull it out.  I saw someone in the corner of my eye walk into the isle but my hoodie blocked my side view.  Whoever walked through was not as important as me getting this heavy book out of this tight spot.

I pushed.

I pulled.

I sighed.

I gave up for a second.

I pulled again.

I thrusted it towards my body when it magically released itself.  As I wobbled from getting it off of the shelf, I managed to step on somebody's foot behind me, causing me to jump out of my skin and throw the book into the air.  The book hit the other person in the head and then bounced off of the same foot that I had originally stepped on.  The incident was all a blur because of my big hood.  It was not until I removed it that I noticed it was, none other, then Bobby himself.

Oh my God!  What if Bobby has amnesia? ...I thought.  He won't be able to go to Yale!  What if he is as dumb as a bag of rocks now? Maybe he will forget the brownie macabre?  Maybe he will come-to and look into my eyes and see that I am The One.  And we will both be two, senseless idiots living in harmony and have dumb-ass children together!  Maybe THIS is our destiny!  Oh, I love you, Bobby Wheaton!  I will never let go...

In reality:

I stared at him for what felt like a month.  When I finally got the courage to move, I leaned toward the ground to retrieve the big book and when I shot back up, my hand grazed his package.  I knew from that moment on, this was the only time I would ever be that close to his manhood ever again.

"Walk much?" he said sarcastically, but semi-annoyed.

"I..." ---couldn't talk.

He looked at me, waiting for an explanation as to why I lack skills in balance. "Are you okay?  Ha!  You got me pretty good there, Dana!"  He said my name! I will repeat---He. Said. My. Name.  Maybe there was hope?!?!?! Although he was a bit shaken about the fact that I had almost took him out with a dusty book.  

"I'm sorry.  I am kind of clumsy.  Obviously." Then I finally got some balls, but just for that moment for some reason, "I'm about to go to the caff for a snack.  I will buy you a snack in exchange for the goose egg that I just caused..."

"Ooh, snacks? Depends on what kind of snack..." He flirted.

This would have been an opportune time to say, "Whatever you want..." and we would have lived happily ever after, I assure this.  But my stupid mouth spoke before I could even process an educated phrase in my frontal lobe.

"Well, it's Monday, the caff made brownies..."  ---As I said the word 'brownies', I decided to stop my mouth from opening and making any noise.  Was I fucking kidding?  He looked at me with a frown and his mouth half-open.  He knew that I hated myself for saying that suggestion.  The word 'brownies' caused him to remember my dirty, witch mouth and I could see it in his face.  He knew--- that I knew--- that he knew--- what I was thinking.  He went right past thinking I was a a fucking idiot and directly into knowing it.  I wanted to melt into a puddle of goo, right then and there, and slip under the bookshelves and stay there until the school day was done.  He also must have thought that I reeeaallllyyyy liked brownies... which isn't false.

I thought my reign of stupid moments with Bobby was done when I was chosen to sing the "National Anthem" at the last basketball game of the season.  Perhaps I could show Bobby I was not a complete loser and woo him with my sweet vocals.  Like, really though...why was I still trying?

I got patted on the back by a select few peers that saw me perform at the game, but Bobby never said a word to me.  Frown Town, USA.

Baseball season started soon after and Bobby was on that team too.  Like, could he get anymore involved?  I accompanied my friend *Red to one of the baseball games and decidedly watched his ass the entire time.  If I could not touch it, I sure as Hell was going to ogle the fuck out of it.

My friend Red and I went to Dunkin Donuts after the game was finished, where we stood in line for about five minutes.  During that short time, I talked of nothing but how hot Bobby's ass was.  I went into detail about how perfectly curved and toned it looked in his baseball uniform.  

                       "The padding only made me want to rip it off and bite what's under it."  

"I would not mind using that thing as a pillow."  

                                                              "The only thing better than that ass is me slapping it." 

       "Bobby Wheaton should live in my closet so I can tap that whenever I want." 

                                          "His rump is a Greek God's wet and jealous dream."

"I would lick that thing like there was no tomorrow!"

I had loads of some-what misogynist phrases.  I imagine I would feel quite violated if somebody said stuff like that about my ass.  Flattered, but still a bit creeped out.  And I was not quiet about it, whilst I waited to get my coffee, I expressed all of this freely.  I knew people could hear me but my mind was on the prize.  His ass was the prize.

As I am going on and on about Bobby's delicious glutes, I feel a tap on my shoulder.  It was a middle-aged, blonde woman trying to get my attention.

"Excuse me?  Were you the girl who sang at the last basketball game?" She asked.  I smiled nervously.  I was flattered that she even remembered.

"Yes, that was me.  My name is Dana Clark, by the way."  Bad move, Dana Clark.

"Yes, you did a very good job.  I was very impressed." She stated her compliment.

"I am sorry.  What is your name?  Does your son or daughter go to DHS?" I asked inquisitively. 

She cocked her head to the side and said "Yes.  I am Mrs. Wheaton.  Bobby's mother...You obviously know him..."---WWWWWHHHHAAATTTTT DDDIIIDDD SSSHHHEEE JJJUUUUSSSSTTT SSSAAAYYYY TTTTOOOOOO MMMEEEEEEEEE??????

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHY THE FUCK WAS I TALKING SO LOUD?   WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME!  SHE HEARD ALL OF IT!  SHE HEARD ME SAY I WANTED TO LICK HER SON'S ASS!  HER BABY BOY HAS NOW BEEN ASS-LICKED, IN HER MIND, BECAUSE I CANNOT KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT!  

Before I knew that she was Bobby's mother, I could have gone on for ages.  My mouth had a motor and my mind was spewing out dirty fuel.  However, after she casually mentioned that Bobby was a product of her very own womb, the only intelligible sound that could exit my throat was, "Oops."

I decided to smoothly eject myself from the situation by simply walking out of Dunkin Donuts quietly.  What made it worse was the fact that Bobby was sitting in the front passenger seat of his old, blue Volvo in his baseball uniform, waiting for his precious mother to purchase him some lunch.  He waved to me.  I stared at him for just a second to remember the last smile he will ever give me.  After this incident, there really was no going back.  His mom totally could not wait to tell her son about how "that girl Dana was talking about your butt for five minutes in the Dunkin Donuts line."

Sometimes, you come up with a plan to confront your fears and face the hole that you have dug yourself into.  You pick yourself up off of the ground and take one breath at a time in order to regain respect that you have lost.  You keep your head high and a smile on your face because you want to appear confident.  This is not one of those times though.

Essentially, I hid in boy's bathrooms and janitor's closets to avoid eye contact with Bobby.  I even got stuck inside a random, sticky locker to avoid him crossing my path in the science wing.  It took me seven minutes to free myself from the jizzy, ketchup-y, deodorant claustrophobia that was this student's locker.  I really could not have picked a more awful location of locker real estate.  

I saw him for the last time that year at his graduation, where he was valedictorian of his class.  I shook my head the entire time he spoke.  He would eventually go off to study law at Duke as I sit here and recount that stupid year.

The last time I actually saw him was when he came back to DHS to visit when I was a senior.  I figured I would give it one more shot (really had nothing to lose at this point and knew it would end in shame... creature of habit?)

He waltzed into the library with a glittery aura surrounding him.

"Hey, Bobby!" I said at a normal volume.

"Hey, Dana!  What's going on?" He asked.  I could see his memories of me flood through his eyes.  Shit, now I was nervous.  Prepare for the idiocy.

"Not much, just farting around on the computer..." ---Farting?  Was it necessary to add flatulence to this... already?

He nodded and pretended that I did not just say 'farting'... "So, you been lookin' at schools?"

"Kind of.  Just getting started actually.  You go to Yale, right?" ---HA! Like I didn't KNOW that. "What is your major?"

"Poli-Sci." He stated.  Is it bad that I did not know what that was at the time?  I was not smart enough to know that it was the abbreviate of Political Science.  So my response was also fucking dumb.

"Oh my God, me too!!!" ---Why did I say that? I don't even know what he is talking about.

"Really?" I can tell that it shocked him to the core.  Space cadets know nothing of this Poli-Sci...

"Ha! No. Just kidding." I snorted.  ...STOP!

"Oh..." He looked confused.  He spotted someone more interesting than me and said, "Nice to see you..." and skidattled.

A random freshman that was sitting next to me was mouth-breathing as she stared at me.  I knew she had heard the entire conversation whilst she sniffed at her hair.  She had jeans on with permanent marker and paint splashed on them and green streaks in her hair.  She sniffed at the armpit of her shirt and made snap noises with her blue gum.  I saw a bit of myself in her.  I raised my eye brow and smiled...

"Welcome to your fuckin' life, little weirdo.  This is your destiny."