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I married my husband, Akhmed Pelosi-Marx, during those magical few months the state of California allowed us to do so.
My husband spared no expense in throwing us the greatest wedding extravaganza Sonoma County had ever seen. He made a lot of money (like, a lot a lot) during the '08 primaries spearheading the Obamaphone initiative and blackmailing John McCain with that audiotape of him calling his wife the c-word. He used the $eriou$ ca$h profit$ he made as one of Obama's cronies to secure us two full days of revelry at the Clos du Bois winery, with celebrity caterer Ina Garten (love you, Barefoot Contessa!), entertainment by the Scissor Sisters and a special honeymoon three-way with porn star Jeff Stryker.
Sadly, a blowout wedding does not necessarily precede a blowout marriage. It was only a year or two later that we found ourselves completely bored with each other sexually and looking desperately for something that would bring the spark back.
We tried everything, from Yo Gabba Gabba roleplay to erotic waterboarding, and still found ourselves going to bed each night, our one-of-a-kind 1,800 thread count Comme des Garçons sheets as cold and as dry as the night before.
Two cruel, dusty years passed, and I had more or less given up hope on us ever having sex (with each other) again. Often I would sleep on the couch, passing out after late-night Candy Crush sessions and ultimately unsatisfying webcam encounters on Manroulette. But something happened one night as I was browsing on my Kindle. I discovered "Someone To Cuttle (Gay Cuttlefish Shapeshifter Erotica)".
By the end of page one I was already enthralled. Who was this Paul? What was his relationship to this Sharon woman? What was he hoping to find there at the bottom of the ocean? Marine life, or himself?
Ultimately it wasn't about what Paul, also known in the book as "butt guy", found. What was important was what found him.
Three gay men, one of which is described in the book as "burly and broad-chested", are in possession of magical necklaces that give them the power to shapeshift into cuttlefish. Paul first meets them in their cuttlefish form and they use their phosphorescent pigmentation to entice Paul to join them in a sexual tryst. Thinking he is hallucinating, Paul returns to the shore and tries to explain what he sees to Sharon, who doesn't believe him. But the men follow Paul onto dry land, now in their human form, and explain to Paul, in no uncertain terms, what they would like to do to him:
"'I don't think he gets it,' said Apama, patiently. 'Look, we... want... to... do... you..."
And do him they do! What follows can only be described as the Citizen Kane of erotica. I was so aroused, I immediately ran back into the bedroom to share the story with Akhmed. And for the first time in two years, we made passionate love that night. Fast-forward to today and we're still going strong, and I am always looking for new ways to express my cuttlefish self.
This has not been limited to sex alone. Sometimes we'll just be lounging on the couch and I'll lean over and pretend like Akhmed is a crab and I'm trying to use my beak to break through his shell and eat his delicious innards. We found some cuttlefish accessories on specialty fetish sites and frequently incorporate them not only into our love-making but our everyday life. Since I've been unemployed for a while, I've committed to wearing my tentacles at all times and have started a Tumblr to document my transition into a full-time 24/7 cuttlefish.
Akhmed says that if I am a good cuttlefish we might consider species reassignment surgery next year. And if the Supreme Court strikes down DOMA and the slippery slope arguments made about gay marriage prove true, we're hoping to renew our vows in an inter-species wedding in the near future.
For as much as she claims to despise the term, my cat, Bootsy, has always been a "foodie".
"I'm a gourmand!" she says, usually while tucking into her third cupcake from Magnolia, or a lamb gyro with tzatziki from Papa Cristo's--extra lamb, light on the tzatziki.
It got worse after I took little Bootsykittles to see "Julie & Julia".
"I want to start my own food blog," she said immediately as the credits started rolling, and insisted that I take her home to shop for digital cameras. Trying to be supportive, but secretly worrying that this was going to be the next fad effort she threw her entire self into (not to mention several thousand dollars of my money,) only to drop it like a hot potato when the next thing came along like she did before with scrapbooking, lucid dreaming and DIY spirit distilling, I jumped on Amazon and started looking for bargains.
Bootlerocket batted at the screen excitedly whenever she saw something with a particularly high megapixel count, macro lens, or digital rangefinder. I tried to talk some sense into her.
"Does the world really need another food blog?" I asked as she tried to wrestle the keyboard from my hands. "And anyway, we both know that I'm going to end up doing most of the work. You can't even type. You're a cat."
Of course, Bootsylicious went ballistic.
But after I'd taken a few minutes to bandage up my arm, not to mention a quick looky-loo at her Vicodin stash, I coaxed Bootserino out of her bedroom and we came to an agreement: we would buy a sensible camera to start, and if her food blog was still going strong in three months, we would buy her something more expensive.
Well, we never made it to three months, because within two she found herself forty pounds overweight and diagnosed with feline heart disease, feline type 2 diabetes, and feline sleep apnea.
And whatever money I may have saved on my camera compromise with Das Boot quickly went out the window to purchase her a new wardrobe, a little CPAP machine, and cat insulin.
And have you priced cat insulin lately?
And did you know that there was such a thing as a "cat muumuu"? I didn't.
Needless to say, Bootsy seriously needed to lose weight, but I managed to maintain my resolve when faced with her pleas for cat gastric bypass surgery and, oh dear God, "body sculpting." I think even she knew that she had overdone it this time and was in no position to bargain. So we set out to find an exercise plan that would work for her.
She quickly dismissed my personal trainer in West Hollywood, Lorenzo, as "Euro Trash". The Wii Fit board I bought her wasn't sensitive enough to register her chubby little paw prints. Cold Fusion Yoga was a disaster. She found herself "downward dogging" right into the trainer's bed, and when she found out she wasn't the only student he was schtupping, we had to have her Baker Acted.
And don't even get me started on the drugs. I had to put my foot down once again when her ephedrine contacts ran dry and she asked me if I might have any idea as to how a cat would go about obtaining methamphetamine. We tried Alli as a safer, legal substitute, but I just couldn't deal with the "accidents," let alone the cleaning bills for her muumuus.
But just as we thought we had exercised all of our options, I came across the Toy-Go-Round Cat Exercise Wheel on Amazon.
The Toy-Go-Round is a solid piece of machinery, capable of supporting Big Bootsy Style's weight (and then some.) Notorious B.O.O.T can run on it while she watches Cougar Town (we're back to that phase after we had to put a parental block on the Food Network,) and we've found that, like everything new in Bootsy's life, she has approached the Toy-Go-Round with the fervor of a zealot, for better or for worse.
Her BMI (body mass index, I'm told,) is now down to a too-svelt 14.0. I know this because she wakes me every morning by barging into my room and declaring today's number. No context, no "good morning," just the number. Today, it was "14.0!"
She has become addicted to water pills and Metamucil, and, I won't get into the gory details why, but I suspect she's been sneaking Alli behind my back.
She says she'd be willing to sacrifice a few points on her BMI if it meant getting her breast implants. I told her we'll think about it.
I met my previous partner, Kristoff, at last year's Labor Day Hunk Brunch at La Tortuga Rosa Clothing Optional Men's Resort in Palm Springs.
First, let me confess that I've always had a hard time getting people to listen to me when I'm trying to express an opinion.
And I'm a very opinionated person.
And so when Kristoff and I decided to adopt a dog together, I had some clear ideas about which breeds would work best with our lifestyle, tastes, and environmentally sustainable carpet and drape scheme.
I've always been partial to Pomeranians, not just because I'm crazy for Victoriana but because ever since I learned that two of the three dogs that survived the sinking of the Titanic were Pomeranians, both of them given space in lifeboats that could have gone to one of the forty-nine children from the steerage decks who sank or froze to death on that fateful night, I've grown to view Pomeranians not only as noble dogs that deserve first-class treatment (I confess I can be a little high-maintenance myself,) but as symbols of courage in the face of adversity.
Unfortunately, Kristoff didn't see my reasoning. He wanted a Maltese.
I tried to explain to him that Maltese were among the top five dog breeds at risk for diabetes, that they require daily cleaning to prevent stains forming under their eyes thanks to their overly large tear ducts, and that the annual cost of the regular blow-outs that their coats require quickly climbs into the triple digits.
But he was having none of it, and since I had recently been laid off from my job as an airport runway maintenance worker and he was going to be the one paying for the dog, he felt the decision was ultimately his to make.
So one night when he didn't expect it, I locked him in the bathroom until he would hear me out.
After two hours of back-and-forth about Pomeranian Great Elms Prince Charming II's stunning win for Best in Show at the 1988 Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show and about what the United States penal code had to say about unlawful restraint, he finally relented, and the next day we went about finding a trustworthy Pomeranian breeder.
And after interviewing just about every Pomeranian breeder in the Bay Area, we finally met Cherysh Kornblatt, who ran an adorable little off-the-grid ranch in Marin county where she introduced us to our new baby Barney.
And once we had Kristoff's home office converted into a puppy nursery for Barney (also not without a certain degree of protest from Kristoff,) it really felt like we had built ourselves a little family, (and by "family," I mean any group of people who voluntarily come together to be joined by mutual bonds of love, respect, and thoughtful animal husbandry.)
But, sadly, these bonds proved all too fragile.
Who can say where it all went wrong? Perhaps the rearing of any small, vulnerable creature is necessarily freighted with unforeseeable tensions. Maybe it's because none of us really know where we're going until we finally get there, even those of us who are absolutely convinced in our hearts and minds that it is our destiny to raise a Pomeranian. Maybe it's because some understandably protective parents of Pomeranians are willing to do anything, even shave their partner's head with a lid from a rusty old tuna can while they're asleep, to emphasize the importance of keeping regular grooming appointments, regardless of what the mimosa of the week is at that adorable new bistro in the Castro.
At any rate, with possession being 9/10ths of the law, and with me still without income that I might have used to reimburse Kristoff for the cost of the dog, he ultimately won custody of Barney, and I found myself forced to move back in with my hayseed, corn-fed parents in Sacramento.
But when I came across this product on Amazon, I knew that maybe there was a chance I could get Barney back. After all, the perfect heist always requires a "Plan B," and should I be arrested for breaking and entering, this would literally be my key to freedom.
So I got my mother to drive me around the local Wal-Mart parking lot during the late-night hours so I could practice my duck-and-roll emergency police car evacuation technique. I found the cutest shorts-and-shirt combination in the LL Bean catalog that would blend in perfectly with the Scotch Broom bushes in front of Kristoff's windows. I even went to an army surplus store to see about getting some night vision goggles, but I ended up flirting with the burly bear behind the checkout counter the whole time and forgot to even ask.
Anyway, I didn't need the goggles. I was ready to do this.
Unfortunately, Kristoff was not at Leather Night at Club Splash like I had expected, and when I came crashing through his breakfast nook window it became immediately apparent that not only was he seeing somebody new, but they were enjoying a late dinner together in said breakfast nook.
The cops finally caught up with me at the corner of 24th and Valencia, but I wasn't afraid. Not yet, anyway. I had my secret weapon, the Non-Metallic Covert Hide Out Handcuff Key.
The only thing I didn't plan for is that you can't open the doors of police cars from the inside, so when we arrived at the jail and they discovered that I had unlocked the handcuffs with my key, they added resisting arrest to the list of charges under which I was being held.
But that's not the manufacturer's fault.
If this product has a flaw, it's that it's almost too small. And God forbid you drop it while you're handcuffed. You're screwed if that happens.
Jail wasn't so bad, really, knowing that my precious Barney was waiting for me on the outside.
Now, I just need to figure out a new way to get him back.
PUT THESE ON YOUR SCRAPER AND YOULL BE GETTIN B*TCHES LIKE A LESBIAN
IM TALKIN ABOUT THAT RIGHT WING P*SSY, THAT JANNA PAUL, ANN ROMNEY P*SSY, YOU FEEL ME?
WHEN I ROLL THROUGH ORANGE COUNTY WITH THESE THINGS ALL THE WHITE LADIES START TWERKIN
I MEAN HANDS ON THEIR KNEES AND EVERYTHING
We've all seen the television shows where poor, innocent elderly folk are descended upon by total fascists, usually aided and abetted by their ingrate children and their meddlesome sons- and daughters-in-law, and ordered, practically at gunpoint, to hand over their precious belongings.
With "hoarding" being the "neurosis" du jour, suddenly it's a crime to have "too many things," and Stalinist Obama and his gang of cronies have begun their war on the elderly.
It has started with the pathologization of the very tenets of free-market capitalism upon which this formerly great nation of ours was founded; namely, the notion of personal property. Next will come the death panels and FEMA camps that true patriots like me have been warning you all about for the past four years. And once that happens, it will be all the more easy for the Illuminati, in collusion with their reptilian overlords, to reveal themselves as the true rulers of this planet and reign proudly and openly as the super-oligarchs they are.
I tried explaining this to my daughter the last time she came to visit, but sadly, she too has been taken in by the folds of the sheeple, the "Little Eichmanns" who will sit passively and skeptically by, twittering their Facebooks and googling each other as they unwittingly sign away their last vestiges of freedom and privacy to the Rothschilds and the Bilderberg Group.
She probably didn't think I noticed the snotty tones of condescension and sarcasm in her voice when she said I was "just being paranoid," but I did.
And as she maneuvered her way around my back issues of The Ron Paul Political Report and Cat Fancy Magazine, inevitably stepping on a few furry tails and knocking over bowls of milk as she did, she had the nerve to accuse me of "hoarding" and threatened to call the producers of one of these sickening television shows to come "help" me dispose of some of my "garbage."
We argued for over an hour, and the closest thing to a logical argument she could come up with was that keeping all this paper around posed a fire hazard, and something should be done about it, if not for my safety then for the safety of my cats.
So I agreed to do something about it, and when I discovered this sticker, I was thrilled. I get to keep my stuff, and the cats get rescued if there's a fire. A perfect solution, right?
Not quite. There are two main problems with the sticker.
From a design perspective, it's perfect. It has bold print and is easy to read. It features a picture of a cat on a background of fire. All of these are logical choices, until you consider the sticker's function. Should my apartment ever catch fire, this sticker might not be so easy to see. Since it is predominantly red, it would probably just blend in with the actual fire going on inside, and the firefighters might not notice it on my window.
The second major flaw has to do with the box at the bottom where you're supposed to write the number of cats you have.
The box is not very big, so the sticker's designers sort of presupposed that the number of cats you have is in the single or double digits. And God help you if, like me, you're not entirely sure how many cats you have.
My daughter hasn't seen the sticker yet, but she's coming over next week to pick me up for my AA meeting. I can't wait to hear what excuses she'll try and come up with then.
I guess the music is pleasant enough, if you're into that sort of thing (I'm more of a Colbie Caillat kind of guy myself,) but I don't believe this guy is as laid back and casual as he is incessantly trying to convince us he is with this album.
I mean, if I made a whole album where I kept singing lyrics like "I'm sure glad I never murdered anyone" and "Murder is bad" and "I'll never ever murder anyone, and I never have, so don't worry about me being a murderer or anything, especially not the kind who would save his victims eyeballs in the freezer and then bury the rest of the bodies in the nearby park, in that spot between the bike trail and the creek, no, over on the other side of the park, by the playground," what would you think?
You'd think that I was probably some kind of murderer!
So when Jack carries endlessly on about how he's just such a laid-back guy who doesn't worry about anything at all, the lute-player doth protest too much, methinks.
In real life he's probably a total stress-case who jumps at the sound of loud noises and screeches like a prepubescent banshee when lightbulbs burn out. I bet sometimes Jack Johnson goes on total rage benders where he just rampages through the streets, vandalizing trees and ripping new holes in anyone who dares stand in his way.
Either that or it's all an elaborate scheme to acquire sexual relations for men. Especially for Jack Johnson.
I can just see it now. Guy pulls up in front of girl's house for their first date. He quickly switches the iPod from the MF Doom he was enjoying to some Jack Johnson. That way, when the girl gets in the car, he can be all, "Oh, you like Jack Johnson too? I was totally listening to this on the way over here. I was thinking about making banana pancakes tomorrow morning, actually."
Badda bing, badda boom.
I bought this book for our adopted Ethiopian son the night my life partner was arrested for grand-theft auto at a Peter Piper's Pizza in Tulsa.
I knew that one way or another we were going to have to break the news to Billy that his other daddy was going away for a while, that both of his daddies still loved him very much, and that everything was going to be okay. And this book delivered all that, but it fell short of giving Billy an accurate picture of what his daddy was going through.
Where are the stained bunk beds? The blazing fluorescent lights? Where's the creepy bunny with the missing ear carving a swastika on the wall with a plastic spoon? Where's the toilet sangria? Where's the bunny snitch that gets shanked by a member of the Aryan Brotherhood?
And about that... Bunnies? Now my kid thinks going to jail is like a trip to Mr. MacGregor's garden. If incarceration is like it is depicted in this book, sign me up! God knows my kid wants to visit now.
Thanks to the author's so-called "sensitivity to children's delicate and irreplaceable sense of innocence," I'm going to have to explain to my kid the difference between the Crips and the Bloods. I'm going to have to teach him the cigarette value of a piece of fresh fish, the dangers of Hepatitis C, and how to fashion a toilet papier-mache chess set.
"Ernest Goes To Jail" did a better job of scaring kids away from a life of crime.
Yeah, so, I'm pretty much an elite gamer. I play the more old-school games, though. I have a max-level Bard/Thief on Icewind Dale, and most of my time these days is devoted to Civilization 3.
I am diabetic and I've had my feet removed. I live in a skilled nursing facility that I'm thankfully able to afford thanks to the lawsuit I won after my mom was killed during an armed robbery of the Red Robin she was working at. The nurses' assistants have devised a rather clever system of weights and pulleys so they can flip me over when I start getting bed sores, and I've had one of those big funnel things they use to fill boxes with packing peanuts installed over my bed, which I fill with snacks so that I can just keep my mouth on the tube at all times when I'm tearing through bugbears or pwning the Babylonians on my Alienware laptop.
I also have an IV of Mountain Dew Game Fuel.
Anyway, I had sort of a 6-month "thing" with Cap'n Crunch, which the nurses' assistants appreciated because it came out nice and smooth into my butt catheter, but I got a little bit bored with that, and my mouth was cut up somethin' fierce after six months. So I decided to try something new. Something designed for hardcore gamers like me.
Enter Gamer Grub Performance Snack Pizza.
It seems simple enough. It's a variety of snacks designed to taste like things they aren't. Namely, pizza. I like pizza. And the small size of the cashews and cheese curls flows through my snack funnel really well. The only problem is, my butt catheter gets mad clogged when this stuff tries to come out the other end.
Still, it's tasty enough, and as long as I have the staff here to keep things moving in the plumbing department, who cares? I give it three stars.
Keep on gaming!!!
When my apartment was practically overflowing with filled up computers, I knew I had a problem.
It seemed no matter how big of computers I bought, they would undoubtedly fill up with data until I couldn't download any more stuff onto them, and over time I would get bored with the stuff I had put on them.
I was worried about just throwing them out, because some of them had personal information on them (I make a habit of creating .wav files with my voice reading all of my credit card numbers and social security information and previous years' tax records and stuff just in case I ever lose them.) Also, I have pretty obscure tastes in music and pornography and I didn't think any of my friends might like to have my old, filled-up computers.
But I no longer feel like I'm living in a labyrinth of dusty digital memories, thanks to the Datastroyer 360B/MC Data Disintegrator.
With its ultra-wide 26-inch opening, it can tackle even the bulkiest desktops in record time. That gaping maw sucks in computers like some sort of starved data-eating robot that uses data to recharge its fuel cells. You should have seen the look on my face when I first fired this puppy up and tested it with my old Packard Bell 486. It was like, "Oh no you didn't!" The Datastroyer's powerful 60 horsepower engine made quick work of it, and was hungry for more!
I tossed it a couple of old Zunes and a Tamagotchi or two as a little between-course snack, and set about lining up each computer I've ever owned (save for the 12-core Mac Pro I'm writing this review on now, of course,) to test just how quickly this thing could gulp 'em down.
Long story short, this thing kept up with the onslaught, and still had room for dessert!
Anyway, this computer's about full, and once I'm finished watching the 31st season of C-SPAN on this thing, I can't wait to take my Datastroyer for another spin!
Where to begin? A little backstory... My cat, Bootsy, has been seeing her current acupuncturist since she made the regrettable mistake of dating her last one. We've tried everything to help her Restless Leg Syndrome: pills, massages, herbal enemas, crystal skull sessions, lightwave therapy... you name it. My little Bootsybuttons still complained about her RLS symptoms, and we had pretty much given up all hope.
Particularly disastrous was her brief love affair with dopamine agonists. I've seen little Bootsykittles in some dark places before, but I knew we'd hit rock bottom when I found her absolutely rocked on Requip, sandwiched between two Oregon State frat boys in a hot tub at the Reno Harrah's. She clawed the crap out of my arm as I wrestled the bottle of Requip out of her hand, and then read me the riot act for scaring her man candy away. (I'd like to see her try explaining to Oregon State students that you can't contract HIV from blood spilled in a hot tub, but that's really neither here nor there.)
Anyhoo, a few thousand dollars later and Bootsybananas is in possession of a new memory foam mattress and a new psychoanalyst, and these paired with her regular acupuncture appointments seem to be helping, but without fail, her RLS is still acting up at least two nights a week, and she complains that the memory foam is retaining too much heat.
Then, after a particularly fraught session with her therapist, Bootsy confides in me that she's feeling sexually unfulfilled and worries that this might be what's causing all the trouble.
Knowing full well, through personal experience, the disastrous effects of sexual shame, I reassure her that these feelings are normal, that I do not judge her, and invite her to do some online shopping with me, which is how we found this particular pairing of products. After some arguing, Bootserino convinces me to pay for overnight shipping and, badda bing badda boom, her new pet bed/sex toy/art card was on its way.
And it came the next day as promised. Das Boot could really care less about the artwork, which she tossed aside as she dug around in the packing peanuts looking for what she was really after. (I have since decoupaged the card onto my Kindle cover and I like it well enough.) I helped her dig the bed and the vibrator out and she demanded that she try them out right away.
So I placed the bed in the coolest corner of her bedroom, helped Bootsy into her favorite silk kimono, made her a hot cup of relaxing valerian tea and set it, with the vibrator, next to her bed, along with my bottle of silicone-based Stroke 29 lubricant and my amyl nitrate from my bedside table (let's face it--they had been gathering dust since I adopted Bootlerocket anyway.) I put her Cougar Town DVD into the player, dimmed the lights, and as I left her to get her groove on, she commanded me to close her door, to not knock or come in until she came out, and to not look her in the eyes for the rest of the night.
So I gave Bootsy her privacy and went to see if there were any new Fifty Shades books out yet.
An hour passed, and I started to worry that Bootsy had still not emerged from her room, but, not wanting to make her feel self-conscious, I obeyed her orders and did not disturb her.
The next morning I awoke, and immediately peeked down the hallway to see if her door was open. Nope. Still closed. I tiptoed up to it and pressed my ear to the door. I think she heard me, because immediately she screamed, "Don't come in! I'm still using my new toy!"
Success, I sighed.
Anyway, fast forward a week and here we are. I can't tell if it's done anything to help her RLS (she really hasn't said anything about it since, but I've always suspected she was a bit of a hypochondriac.)
At any rate, she is certainly satisfied with the product. Best of all, it's easy to care for (I have put both the vibrator and the pet bed through the dishwasher a number of times and they always come out just like new.) Bootsy is taking fewer sexual risks (though she still accuses me of slut-shaming her every time I ask her how she likes her new toy,) and there is, for the moment, peace in the household.