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! ;-)