Bizarre Find of the Day!
I want one, but miniature.
Fruit Loops
Whenever I’m in a bad mood, I think about a giant bowl of fruit loops. Those colorful loops so sweet and buoyant, resting atop a pool of sugar infused cream. I climb aboard my edible float and wade the milky waters, back to a happier time of youth and nostalgia. In my spoon I gently rock. Eyes closed. I feel a warm breeze, a breathe, and then I eat myself.
Literotica
A good way to find out how truly perverted people are is to go onto www.literotica.com. I was innocently glancing through the submissions when I came across a search option for “most read”. I’ve always been a fan of public opinion and thousands upon thousands of people had read the first few stories. So here I am reading along when I see, “I saw my son Tommy and he smiled, turning to me with his plush lips. He cupped my breast and…” Enough! Why is it that the majority of women on a highly popular literary porn site are into incest. I knew that the readers were women because men watch it and women read it. That’s a scientific fact. It’s due to the wiring of our brains or something, but anyway, I find it to be exceedingly disturbing that thousands of women are hiding the deep dark secret that they like to get off while reading about mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, brothers and sisters… you get the point.
A Letter From My Grandfather
Dear Elsa, (not my name)
I know we called it quits some twenty years ago, but I’m beginning to regret our divorce. First off, I think this new bitch is trying to kill me. The other night I caught her slipping drain cleaner into my Crown Royale. As if I wouldn’t notice. You should have seen her, acting like she was cleaning the counter with the damn Liquid-Plumr.
Sorry about the cheating and for sleeping with your cousin. I know you put up with a lot of shit back in the day, but we’re older now. I’m older and I finally know what I want. I want you.
For one thing, we get along now. For another, I’m fat and have no hair so I don’t think you’ll have to worry much about me cheating. If you still love me and are willing to overlook my faults, both past and present, I will do everything in my power to make you happy in the future. I love you, Elsie. What do you say?
Also, I forgive you for hitting me with the tractor.
The LA Zoo
I saw an ad this morning for the Los Angeles Zoo that I found to be very disturbing. The angle on the write-up is to promote the zoo as a location to turn people on. It literally says, “Get your reluctant lover bed-ready with a visit to Sex and the City Zoo 2, a Valentine’s celebration of mating, dating and cohabitating, animal-style.” I don’t know if other readers feel as I, but bestiality or zoophilia if you will, immediately comes to mind. I mean, if having sex with animals in your thing, I won’t judge. (Yes, I will.) All I’m saying is, they might want to come up with a better spin on their mating season than, “Hey freaks, does the thought of animals doing it make you all hot and bothered? Then come on down!” I don’t know. Perhaps the LA Zoo has become a bit desperate. I might have to check out the Sex and the City Zoo purely for the sake of supporting the facility. Not because I’m into or anything.
http://www.laweekly.com/events/sex-and-the-city-zoo-1191333/?utm_source=Newsletters&utm_medium=email
Dirty Thoughts
Do you ever watch old movies and think how hot, say Paul Newman or Marlon Brando was in his prime? And then go on to remember that these studs of the big screen are either deceased or have morbidly aged. Your mind is suddenly lost in a nauseating whirlwind of hormones and a deep seeded hatred that you’re being turned on by someone who now has old, saggy balls… or whose balls have shriveled and detached during the natural decomposition that occurs after being buried six feet underground.
Another thought that often occurs to me is how my significant other, at one point in his life, was an infant. This thought inevitably spirals into the knowledge that in some obscene, yet distant way, I have had sex with a baby.
Guard your Condoms
Last week I told my mother that I didn’t plan to have children. Being the only girl and second oldest of three, I was surprised to find that she seemed okay with this. My older brother, about to hit the age where living without a child is unacceptable… 30, is currently without a girlfriend and nowhere near being a viable prospect to bear her grandchildren. Though I consider myself far too young to even dream of popping one out, it has been obvious since I turned 17 that mom’s held high hopes in my uterus. After a brief discussion with my younger brother, I realized why it is that I am momentarily off the hook.
My little brother recently turned 21 and while he was completely unaware of my mother’s newest scheme, our brief chat enlightened me. He had acquired a date that very day with a waitress who my mother and he had met during lunch. Mom, confident in her children as she is, gave the waitress his number and pushed until they had set a dinner date. I dutifully explained that this was an obvious ploy to get him a girlfriend or at the very least, put him in a better position to impregnate a cute female. After the veil had been lifted, my mother confessed her plan yet insisted that he go on his date. On the up side, he is going with the knowledge never to leave his condoms within reach of mom.
Morbid Thought #1
Morbid thought of the day:
What if we all know when and how we are to die? Perhaps we are unaware at the present time, but at some point in the future, we are enlightened? How do we know that people are not exposed to their own method of mortality? If all that we know stems from our own self and we base our perception of others as well as the world from who we are and what we see, then how are we so sure in the finality of the unknown? What if each being somehow learns of his or her time, place, and way in which he or she is brought to an end? What if in learning, you are bound to secrecy, unable to reveal the knowledge or show any sign of the emotion that this knowledge provokes? How are we so sure that death is a mystery?
7th Grade
I would think that anyone sitting in his or her 7th grade sexual education class would feel a bit awkward and embarrassed. Having always been a late bloomer, I had not so much as kissed a boy never mind considered his penis, an organ, which was now, unattractively spliced open before me revealing a diagram of veins, tissues, and glands. I was happy when the lecture turned to more familiar territory. AIDS. I had recently heard of how the disease had been initially contracted. I couldn’t tell you how I knew this, but somehow I knew.
Always a straight A student, I was anxious to finally suck up to the teacher with my knowledgeable input. I raised my hand high and spouted out how a human had sex with a monkey or ate a monkey somewhere in America, maybe California. From the teacher’s reaction, I immediately regretted my contribution to the conversation. My teacher mocked me and then continued to carry on as if I were no bigger than her shoe, as if I were the shoe, a shoe that was obnoxiously covered in shit.
From that day forward I ceased to contribute in class. I then took it a step further and began to daze and daydream. It was this state of dream-like disorientation that eventually led to my total social annihilation. As I sat bored and desperate for an alternative distraction, I pulled out my box of colored pencils. I then proceeded to color my lips red, my eyelids blue. Somehow convinced that the color would not show, I pulled each pencil over the naked skin of my face. I continued this mesmerizing task until the boy next to me turned, shouting in laughter, pointing. They all pointed. Their laughter consumed me. My stomach shriveled and I sat paralyzed until the teacher pulled me into the restroom. A clown-like figure stood before the mirror and I saw that my face had indeed taken to the coloring. I cried, wanted to die, and haven’t touched a penis since.
How To Not Be Homeless
My mom always said that a woman will never go homeless if she is at least marginally attractive (perhaps some dim lighting) and willing to whore herself out for a spot in the bed. Unfortunately, only the latter applies to my qualifications. That is why I am always sure to butter my face atop which I sprinkle a mixture of cinnamon and sugar. A delicious covering for toast and bagels, this also works as a practical mask which gives the buttered an air of mystery. Who am I? I am an enigma. I am Butter Face.
