Tag Archives: vulgarity

Episode 071 – Don’t Cost Me Nothing

3 Jan

Walking personification of nightmares Karla Pacheco joins our salty little shitshow to tell us about her awful children’s book, along with some other trash about hateful opinions, craft and Bobby’s fondest failure.

Download Episode 071 – Don’t Cost Me Nothing

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A flurry of activity

18 Sep

I make plans for my days off. Grand ones. Glamorous plans clad in adult responsiblity and a sense of accomplishment.

Plans that are a house of lies with window dressings made of self deceit.

When I look at my schedule and locate which of the two days in the week I have off  I begin to tell myself a load of bullshit right off the bat.

“Oh, I have Monday off! How nice. I’ll do all of the laundry and scrub the pasta sauce off of the linoleum in the kitchen. I’ll complete a novella and paint, then perhaps in the evening, throw a dinner party where I will cook a pheasant stuffed with honeyed mice in a white truffle sauce. The dinner party will also give me the opportunity to wear the satin evening gown I’m planning on stitching at some time around 11 AM.”

I think all of this with the utmost confidence that I will perform every chore known to man and complete every creative pursuit in a single day. Of course I will. After all, I’m a grown woman. I do grown woman things like go to the grocery store and get the big super size toilet paper package so that I can go another month and a half with out shredding paper towels so that they don’t clog the pipes…

So I work the days leading up to my day off contented in my goal setting.

The day off rolls around and I wake up at 6 AM. This is partly because I’m super responsible and also because if you drink a lot the night before you’ll wake up super early for some stupid reason. Scientists are really lagging in coming up with an explanation for that one.

I lay in bed and congratulate myself. I’m up early! So early in fact that I can goof off for an hour or so before my intense day of doing stuff begins!

I decide to read for that hour in bed with the electric blanket on high. But it’s warm and reading makes me sleepy so I just shut my eyes for a minute…

…And wake up at 10. Whoopsie! Well, it’s ok. It’s not too late. I can still do all of the chores. So I roll over to get out of bed but when I do that I inadvertently roll over into the most comfortable laying down position I have ever experienced.

It seems like a shame to waste it so I just close my eyes for a couple more minutes…

And wake up at 12:43.  At this point reality begins to set in. I’m ruining my day spent in responsible maturity. Did the laundry really need to get done? Do I even have any underwear left? I can just wash them in the sink I suppose. The pasta sauce on the floor has already hardened, it’s not going anywhere.

I decide to just masturbate and then walk to the burrito place.

I just do the masturbation part and fall asleep again.

Waking up at 2 in the afternoon I panic. The burrito place is too far! I do have to wash my underwear! I have to at least do that! I spring out of bed and order chinese food while shoveling clothes into the laundry basket. I had gotten ahead of myself and invited all of my girlfriend over for a demure and sophisticated dinner and they will be arriving in three hours.

I burn through the house trying to make it look like a normal person lives there and not a wolverine. I throw the detritus on my floor under my comforter and arrange the pillows artfully. I pick up all of the receipts and beer cans and vacume hastily.  I realize the kitchen is a mess but I just don’t have the energy.

I’m pulling my hot clean underwear from the dryer mournfully when the first of my friends arrives at the door. In the mad dash between letting her in and stowing my unmentionables everyone else arrives and I dart up and down the stairs. Most of the books have been cleared off of the sofa and I’ve lit a tea light in an effort to appear genteel.

We all sit down at the coffee table to enjoy a meal of chow mein served on pairs of my flip flops because all of the dishes are dirty.

My friend, Chloe, gets up to use the restroom. She leans out of the door.

“Do you have any toilet paper left?” She asks.

“I slurp a noodle “Nope. Just use the paper towels that are in the bathtub. Oh, but make sure you tear it into strips or it’ll clog.”

She ducked back in.

“Next time.” I tell myself at the bathroom door shuts. “Next time I’ll have real toilet paper before people come over. Next time I’ll make sure all of my bras aren’t on the back of the sofa. Next time I’ll make sure all of the dishes are done. Next time I’ll make that Venus sculpture out of foi gras like I’ve been meaning too.”

“Next time I have a day off I’ll get it right.”

Over the shoulder boulder holder

9 Sep

My tits are huge.

This is a boast, a lament and a fact.

I suppose I’m fortunate in the usual ways. My face is pretty ridiculous looking but I do have these bangin’ TaTa’s which just goes to show that when god shuts a door he opens a window. I’m also reasonable sure they’ve gotten me in the door with the majority of boys I’ve wanted to date. Women express envy and men astonishment. Usually the men do this through the open window of their cars as they drive by. Gay men on the other hand will just cut to the chase and bury their faces in my cleavage claiming to have come to their “happy place”. I still don’t know why that happens.

Of course I can’t buy a single fucking cute top. Anything with spaghetti straps is right out. Once you hit a certain cup size that shit just looks trashy. Then there is the minefield of womens sizes. I may wear a medium in the middle, even a small but to wedge my funbags in there comfortably I’ll need an XXL. I once tried on a dress in Chinatown. I squirmed into it and stood in front of the mirror and tried to breathe. After a few minutes of careful consideration and growing concern over the rising sound of rending threads I decided it just wasn’t for me. In the process of trying to get the thing off it got wedged over my head, caught on my large immovable breasts. Stuck in a Quipo in the dingy back room of the China Bazaar I panicked and was about to call my waiting friend in to get a bottle of baby oil and get me out of the thing when in a last fit of desperation I tore open the side zipper and escaped.

I don’t really remember the act in which I was birthed but I think fighting free of that dress was probably exactly what it was like. The sweating agony and striving attempt, then the confusion after the light hit my eyes. There may have been crying.

Then there was prom.

Oh, Prom.

I’d made the mistake of borrowing a dress from a friend of mine with a larger ribcage yet smaller breasts. It was beautiful. A strapless gown, all gold with velvet floral details. It was a little loose in the top but I figured as long as I didn’t exhale.

I was not fine. I forgot myself halfway through an enthusiastic dance to Sisquos “Thong Song” and at about the end of the lyric “Dumps like a truck, truck, truck.” I threw my arms behind my back whereupon both my badly concealed titties exploded into the face of my date (who was also my best friends brother) like a car’s airbag in a head on collision.

They talked about me in debate class that day. The rest of my classmates arguing that it did happen, Myself taking the position that no, it did not.

Trying on clothes though has never, ever been as harrowing as bras. Oh, it was easy enough in the dawning days of puberty, cute little floral numbers bought easily at Target. 34 B cups can be bought in any number of styles. But my bad mamajamas just…didn’t…stop…growing.

The choices available to a woman after she surpasses a certain size go way the hell down. After you hit about a D your options become beige, black, white, Fatty McBackfat, old lady and “We’re sorry genetics had dealt you this card.”

As I’ve gotten older I’ve come to terms with the fact that my lingerie will no longer be cute but merely utilitarian. Or at the very least fasten securely in the back.

I turned twenty-six this year wearing a racerback sorry affair of a push up. The left tit popped out at random moments and the whole thing would ride up midway over my rack over the course of an hour. The straps showed in an unfortunate Erin Brockovich kind of way.

I was yanking the band down with one hand and eating a sandwich with the other in my parents New Orleans kitchen where my boyfriend and I vacationed for my birthday. My mother sat on the stool opposite me at the granite island and watched me attempt to punch one boob up into place and catch a falling glob of olive salad with the corner of my mouth at the same time. An olive escaped and bounced off my cleavage and onto the floor.

“You know, How about for your birthday we go shopping? Just the two of us. For new bras. Bras that are nothing like that one.”  My mother said and pointed at one twisted, exposed strap.

“Why?” I asked. Mouth full of sandwich, my eyes wide and appalled. “Is it bad-looking?”

“I think we can do better.” She said with a a small smile that is usually used on children who need to be told that paste is not a food group.

We drove to the near by Dillards department store in the wet August heat and entered into the frigid blast of  air conditioning. Into the ladies intimates we sojourned, that frilly ostentatious wonderland.

The womens unmentionables are clearly divided into three layers. In the front is what I like to call the princess canopy. This is where women that wear a 4 dress size can shop. Their honkers have remained in the realm of the reasonable. The undergarments of the Canopy are brightly colored birds resting on the racks branches. The Bras here serve function as well as display. Every thing is very lacy, very cute, very elegant. Brightness, lightness and air.

These garments are for women who don’t have titties that hang with the weight of a punishing albatross. Thus, being attractive, the Princess canopy lures big busted women in on false premise. You start out in this canopy level and push your way steadily deeper. Looking for something super cute that will fit and finding nothing you come to the second level, which I like to refer to as the Realistic Understory. This is where your fashionable dreams begin their slow choking death. There are less cute patterns here and less lace to match the increasing cup size.  This is also when you begin to realize the facts. You can’t wear any of that sexy shit! You need a fucking underwire!

Not finding anything in the Realistic Understory you go deeper. Deeper, to the Lycra Forest Floor. The product no longer lies to you and you have come to terms with the way things are.

In the very back against the wall the tags all read EE 36 and nowhere do you see the word “SEXY!” Because now you aren’t looking for “SEXY!” you are looking for “SUPPORT!”. On the forest floor the garments are tacked to the wall and most of them have stopped being just bras but full on leotards. Nay! wetsuits!

It’s to the forest floor my mother and I automatically head. We are too old for the transparent temptations of the other layers.

I mosy through the racks.

My mother asks: “Do you want to get fitted?”

“I don’t know that this will end in anything other than tears if I don’t.” I say.

She finds a saleswoman before I do. I came around the corner of a display of Spanks just in time to hear my Mother say, “…about a C…or maybe a D?” to a young sardonic woman with long brown hair in a paisley dress.

“And there she is!” Said my Mother.

The woman took me in at a glance.

“This is your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“She is not a C. She is only maybe a D with full coverage and even then I doubt it.” Said the clerk dryly.

I looked down at my lady lumps.

“Ok, then, If you would just step this way.” The clerk held out an arm and ushered me into the fluorescent lighting of the dressing room. Once inside a stall the clerk appraised my chest.

“Ok. If you wouldn’t mind taking off your tank top so I can get a look at what you are wearing now.”

So I did. I took my shirt off and let this lady down. She immediately let me know that I was fucking up.

“Ok.” She said with some of the most intense disapproval I have ever heard in a sales persons voice. She slid two fingers under the band of my bra. “The band is not the right size, you are falling out of the left side and…” Her voice curdled. “…There is a safety pin in the strap.

I wilted and offered my best “aw, shucks” expression.

“You need to throw that bra in the trash.” She said decisively. “Now. What exactly are you looking for?”

I explained that all I wanted in life was a bra that kept my boobs up high, held them in place but did not mash them down and didn’t squeeze my back fat into what looked like lumps of kneaded dough. The clerk flourished a measuring tape and began her work.

She brought thirty four bras into that dressing room and according to her all of them unacceptable failures.

She’d wrench and adjust, Yank the straps into place. She used words that I did not know applied to underwear. Words like “tacking” and “spillage”.

“The front is not tacking correctly and I’m seeing more spillage than I’d like… Take your two fingers and smooth down the breast tissue.”

I never quite understood why she kept asking me to “smooth” my “breast tissue” because no matter how long I’d tried treating the lumps in my fat bits like cake frosting to be smoothed it never worked out that way. I told the clerk that but she didn’t think it was funny. That woman had but one mission in life and it was to find the one bra in the store that didn’t make my boobs look fucked up. She didn’t have time for jokes.

By the time I tried on the 56th bra my saleswoman was spent. She told me to “hang on a second” and left with no further explanation.

After ten minutes a slim blond woman in her forties came in with my clerk in tow. I was introduced to the new person as Mary Anne, one of the direct buyers for a particular brand of brassiere.

It was going to take two women to find something that would fit. And one of those women had direct knowledge of ThermoBra Dynamics.

I was officially a hard case.

At that point I pretty much stopped existing. My Jub Jub Birds were the only thing at stake here and bore intense scrutiny.

“That left breast is a little larger than the right and that’s what I’m having trouble with.” Said my clerk.

“Ah, yes. That can be a problem with fit. You can match one or the other but not both. You have to make a decision about which will be the most flattering and go with it.” Said Mary Anne to my other clerk.

“Like Sophie’s Choice?” I asked.

“Now the Merveilleux line is what I’m having the best luck with.” The clerk ignored me and held up a beige number she had had less trouble squeezing me into.

Everything after that is a blur. I tried on another fifty bras and was asked a few more questions but the saleswomen spoke in terms I had thought were exclusively the purview of civil engineers.

“She’ll need a steel rebar underwire or the top will continue to be unstable.”

“Kevlar cups…”

“The weight will have to be evenly distributed through the left and right quadrants.”

eventually we had a breakthrough.

“How does that feel?”

I turned from side to side as the clerks looked on in approval. I did the shimmy I’d been taught. Arms over the head then bend at the waist and shake around from side to side. Great success. My boobs were high up on my chest and going no where.

“I’m still not happy with the left breast being larger…” the first clerk started.

“I’m not happy with my deformity either but somehow I’ll just have to find the beauty with in myself.” I said. My arms were sore from bending them back to reach the bra snaps a thousand times.

Also I was tired of hearing about my mutant tit.

I bought two bras and a bustier complete with something called Comfy Cups which are two separate bra cups. What you do is bend over and plop your boobs into them one at a time and then insert into the bustier to smooth out uneven seams.

Plop! Plop! Like a grapefruit half into a bowl.

I wore one of the bras out and emerged from the dressing room holding aloft the damaged unacceptable bra I had worn into the store.

“Madame!” I said to my no-nonsense clerk who was just taking my mothers credit card. “A receptacle if you please!”

She brandished a trash can and I jumped, shot and scored the shitty ill fitting bra right in.

My mother and I left the Dilliards. As we climbed back into her ancient black Mustang she remarked, “You know, we should really have those two ladies fixing the BP spill. They seem to have the knowledge of engineering and the resolve to get a job done and get it done right.”

“Well, they fixed my spill.” I poked a boob. Encased in its new shell it didn’t even jiggle.

My mother laughed and looked at my bosom. “My god, Leia. Women pay money for those. Did they ask you if they were fake?”

“No, mom. I think that’s in the sales handbook. ‘Don’t ask ladies if their funbags are enhanced.'”

“Good point. So…” she angled her eyes downward. “exactly what size are you now?”

I buckled the seatbelt across my ample rack.

“34 F.”

My mother almost swerved into oncoming traffic.

"AM I PRETTY?"

Oh, that’s in the butt.

25 May

Everything I learned about being verbally cruel to others I learned from my mother. On meeting certain friends or boyfriends she would smell blood in the water, the timidity of a weaker animal, and lo! the judging would begin. My mother does not swear as casually as I do but then she didn’t need to. She had the vocabulary and the tone of voice to stop men twice her size dead in their tracks. This is why I can only aspire to her levels of greatness. I have to use words like “Fuck” and “Shitting” and “Thundercunt” to get my message of loathing across. Mom needs no such corse crutches.

She’s gotten over most of the hatred of social interaction she had when I was little and every now and then resists the natural gut urge bred into the women of my family to evicerate. Now when confronted with the inoccently stupid for the most part she manages to bite her tounge. For example she related to me the other day an incident at the salon.

The death of Farah Fawcett had just been announced and my mother and her stylist were chatting about how sad it was that she had died too young.

“What did she die of again?” The stylist asked as she delicately shaped my moms chin length bob. “It was cancer, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, anal cancer.” Mom said a little sadly.
“Anal cancer?” The stylist said, puzzled.
“Yes… of the anus?”
The stylist didn’t stop her work but was still clearly chewing this information over and frowned.
“What part of the body is that?”

And with that remark the blood was in the water. My mother shifted a little in her chair. A thousand quips rolled in the cavern of her mouth, agitating like a hive of african bees. How does a grown woman NOT know what the anus is? How can someone get to be approximatly the same age as my mother and not have been hepped to that kind of info? After all it’s not as secret and mysterious as say, the clitoris.

My mother decided that alienating the woman on whom the intergity of her hair depended was not the best move and swallowed her incredulous bile. Instead she just said:

“It’s um…It’s the butthole.”

I gagged on my coffee when she told me this.
“You said “Butthole”?? That was the EXACT term you used?”
“I couldn’t THINK of anything else!”
“Oh my god, mom.” I was still trying to breath. “I have NEVER in my LIFE heard you say anything like “Butthole”.”

Over the phone I could hear the crackle as she sipped her Lipton’s tea and said dryly, “Well, Leia, there comes a time in every woman’s life where you just do what you gotta do.”

Common Ground

25 May

I didn’t manage to get along with other kids very well. But to be fair all of the children at Ringing Rocks Elementary School, PA were vicious motherfuckers. A horde of tiny uncivilized people, forming disparate tribes to make war against one another, eyes wet with conjunctivitis and hatred, Mouths red with Kool Aid. Or the blood of the weak. It really depended. If there were curly fries being served in the cafeteria then it was blood. Curly Fries to seven year olds are like what Cacao Beans were to the Aztecs. If there was only one tray of curly fries then you were bound to see some Gangs of New York shit go down.

The play ground was not so much playful as it was reminiscent of the yard at Sing Sing. Turf was drawn and redrawn according to race or class or gender or some subtle social shift in the wind that I could never fucking understand. Cruelties were hurled to faces or behind backs, bigger kids shoved the smaller off the swingsets, rocks were winged at soft, still developing skulls. The one thing keeping us from going fully “Lord of the Flies” was a single listless chaperone who’d blow a whistle and kind of scream at us when he saw bullying.

The hostility was only tuned down to a dull simmer when herded back into the class room. Still 20 to 25 kids agitated against one another in an ever present effort to undermine and assert dominance.

You know, thinking back on grade school it really was like a jail. One time I shivved a boy with a fork because he tried to kiss me. He just didn’t understand I ain’t nobodies bitch you see? I don’t just give my shit out fo’ free. You gotta get momma a pack o’ smokes or summa them tasty ass curly fries first. Shiiit.

Almost nothing could bring us together in a lasting harmony. Except one thing.

Ripple’s dick.

Ripple was the male hamster we kept as a class pet. And for some goddamned reason when we had a spare moment all of us would crowd around the cage and put our differences aside to look at adorable Mr. Ripple, maybe pet him a little bit but always, inevitably, flip this hamster over and look at his junk.

“Look at his boner!” One of the boys would snigger. And that, boys and girls, is where I learned the word “Boner”.

“Kids. KIDS. That’s enough. It’s time for geography.” A frantic teacher would hustle us away and put Ripple and his shlong back in the cage. But for that tiny moment we were all united in puerile fascination of rodent willies.

I may be grown now but still sometimes experience a Ripple effect. I was on YouTube a while back looking for cute animal videos because I have a vagina. Ownership of a vagina causes irrational behaviors like the purchasing of hundreds of decorative pillows, weeping and the need to view fluffy bunnies and shit while imbibing merlot.

Anyway, I’d just gotten done watching an anteater in a flannel shirt drink fruit juice out of a champagne flute when on the side bar of related videos the words “ECHIDNA PENIS” stood out from the pile.

“I…Well…Fuck.” I thought staring at the thumbnail, trying to make out details. “I guess I’m going know what an echidna’s penis looks like.” So I clicked on it.

Now when your first reaction to seeing a monotreme’s gigantic cock is “Not bad…” then you need to come to grips with the fact that you deserve to be alone forever.

None the less I emailed that magnanimous wanger to friends and family and felt immidiatly vindicated in my belife that sometimes the sharing of disgusting, wretched things is a way to bring people together when I received this reply:

“This is the craziest dick I have ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of dicks. That is amazing.”

Perhaps this is what could end world conflict. If we all collectively sat down for a little while at a global table and realized that whatever our differences are, whatever has happened in the past we will all agree that an Echidna’s dick is the WEIRDEST fucking thing ever and from that point of commonality we would all link hands and swear to stop nuclear proliferation and solve world hunger. A utopia would follow in less than a decade.

I mean ok, Australia probably wouldn’t be that wowed but then they’re used to Echidna dick. Wouldn’t matter. No one wants to play with those kids anyway.

Blue Language

24 May

It generally accepted knowledge that as people age they become more rigid about some things. It’s not uncommon to hear your friends mention a visit to the family homestead along with something like “Oh, you know, We can’t do much about grandpa hating Koreans. He’s pretty set in his ways…”

My fathers particular hang up as he’s gotten older, fortunately, doesn’t have anything to do with other ethnicity’s but with profanity. He never swore a huge amount when I was growing up but he never had a problem uttering a heartfelt “SHIT” during tax season. Maybe it’s because he has returned to the genteel deep south where certain language just isn’t used in public he’s now forsworn four letter words. All I know is that when I slough casually through my parents house in a visit to New Orleans and mutter “Where are my fucking sunglasses…?” I’m sharply reprimanded from the other room. And then there are the emails I get after writing something new:

“Very good. Could be in a newspaper if not so much swearing.”

But his new refusal to curse coupled with his ever present calm, unflappable demeanor make the occasions he snaps all the sweeter.

On vacation to Florida this summer we pulled into a Chevron somewhere in candy colored tourist town of Panama City. We’d driven through on our way to the family farm in Alabama so Dad could point out where the giant waterslide owned by one of his uncles that he would work at in the summers as a boy. His tour of water parks, 60’s hotels and giant plaster of paris sea life finished I’d returned to reading my book in the back seat. My head snapped up though when our CRV lurched to a halt.

“What is he DOING?” My father said angrily.

Craning around the front seat head rest on the passenger side where my mother sat I could see a Buick the size of a yacht had pulled into the row of pumps haphazardly, effectively blocking Dad from pulling through to the other pumps.

“Well, waitaminute, Chris.” Said my mother. “He’s probably going to move…”

But the car did not move. It stayed. Skewed at a diagonal the Buick squatted fatly, resolutely, in the way.

Dad pulled up in an effort to try the pumps on the other side only to find they were out of service. Mom tried to convince him that the Buick would still move. It did not. An ancient man slowly rolled himself out of the drivers seat. He looked to be a veteran of both World Wars and the giant trucker cap with the navy logo perched on his wobbling head seemed to confirmed this. The man inched towards the pump and struggled to remove the nozzle.

Strangled noises began coming out of my father.

“What…FFFFFFF…WHAT FFFFFF… What is this Ffffudgeing…FFFFF…” Dad fought desperately to find some word that started with an “F” other than “Fuck” to articulate his rage. I sat up further in my seat. I knew something delightful was about to happen.

“This…Fornicating…” Dad floundered and then gave in. “WHAT IS THIS FUCKING IDIOT DOING?”

A small squeal of glee escaped my lips. Dad wasn’t done.

“LOOK at him! Look at him! He’s wearing one of those goddamned hats! Men wear those hats and and I swear their testicles SHRINK.” Dad threw the car into reverse and managed to back into the last and only working pump. “I hope I NEVER get that old. SHIT.” He spat.

“This is the best vacation of my life.” I thought.

Dad turned to my mom “I hope he didn’t have kids cuz’ he FUCKED the gene pool.”

“GLORIOUS.” I thought.

Dad shoved open his door and filled the tank. When he was done he strode in to the store to pay and mom and I let loose. We managed to get our hysterics under control by the time he got back in the car.

He continued as he tried to back the car up, “I mean, SERIOUSLY why would you even…OH OK AND NOW THAT GUY IS PARKED BEHIND ME AND HE’S TALKING ON HIS CELL PHONE.”

“Calm down, Chris.” Mom soothed and dug through her purse. “Do you want mint? Or a Pez?”

“Gimme a Pez.” Dad held out his hand.

“Ok. Pink or Purple flavor?”

“Both.”

Mom unwrapped the two packages of mini-Pez and dumped them into his hand. He crunched, I giggled, Mom ate a mint and the three of us waited for the Buick to shudder out of the gas station lot.

I can’t wait until our road trip to Oregon next spring.