Not Exactly A Halloween Post...

...But scary nonetheless.

The invitation read,

Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!

October 17th

Tetherball, alcoholic Jell-O, and knives!

Grilling starts around 6.

Knives have to go away at around sunset.

{address/phone #}

It's my birthday, so if you want to dress

like a clown, I wouldn't be upset.

"Hmmm," I thought. "Drunk people with access to fire and knives. This should be... interesting." I didn't give much credence to the clown part at the time, but the first person to show up after Sarah's sister (who was helping set up) and myself (who is perpetually on time) was Sarah's mom in full Carmen-Miranda-as-clown regalia.

 "Dammit, Mom! Where's the dip and cheese balls?"

Then this guy showed up in his Ringmaster's outfit

(apparently, Sarah's dream is to run away and join the circus)

 Ya gotta love the crooked moustache.

 Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, the traditional Skunk Cake awaited...

 ...as the knife-throwing competition began.

 The guests made more balloon animal targets...

 ...as other guests arrived.

 "Look at me! I found clown make-up in the bathroom"

 "And I've had twelve Jello-shooters and now I'm holding a switchblade!"

 "Well, dammit, I'm not about to be outdone at my own party."

 'Wait till you see what we've done!"

 AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

 "Tee-hee!"

 "Now I have the switchblade!"

 'We'll just sit on these steps waaaay over here."

 "Dudes! 'S'up?"

 The Skunk Cake held gooey surprises.

 But it was Mmm! Mmm! Good!

 "Y'all come back, now, y'heah?

Grossest. Sarah Post. EVER!

I'm not kidding; this gets foul in a couple of paragraphs, so if you possess, uh, delicate sensibilities, you might want to switch over to Cute Overload right... about... now.

I don't know who feeds off of whom--Sarah claims since I have no life I live one vicariously through others, setting them up to do things for my own, personal amusement, which is probably true, more or less; on the other hand, I'm not entirely convinced Sarah doesn't revel in providing me voyeur fodder.

The latest example occurred Thursday night while I was walking through Carytown. There I was, minding my own business, walking briskly through Trendy Retail Hell, when I feel the tingly sensation of an incoming text message.

Sarah, who says,

"Who wants to hear the grossest thing ever?"

"Shoot," I thought, "I know (online friend) evilegg, the Queen of Gross (more on her later). How bad could it be?" So I responded with a (virtual) hearty "I do! I do!".

Pause.

Then, "Last night I puked up one guy's cum on another guy's cock. Sloppiest seconds ever."

Followed by, "Also hard to explain: 'I have no idea what I ate earlier.'"

Oh, dear Jeebus.

"I was really tired by the end of the night, but I let it slip through my fingers last week, so I had to keep my eye on the prize. Gold medal in nude losing."

Yeah. I predict a nice, long, lucrative career for Sarah in Japanese porn (DON'T CLICK! RULE 34/"Once-you've-seen-it-you-can't-unsee-it" WARNING!).

Well, I had to share and so I notified the Mistress of Foulness, the Dame of Depravity, the Trolling Trollop herself, LJ friend evilegg, that "...my friend Sarah has just beaten your Grossness Score. Let me know if you want details and whether I should post 'em publicly."

Of course she did. And her reply?

"That's smokin'. She's on the most epic self destruction tour of all time."

So I texted this to Sarah, to which she replied, "No. What's smokin' is that I actually do call them tours. I'm a rock star of debauchery."

See? I don't need a life!

Sarah's At It Again!

Two a. m. and there I was, snug in my bed, sound asleep, dreaming about--well, just never you mind what I was dreaming about--when the message alert on my cell phone goes off. "What the fu... uh, hell?" thinks I. "Who texts me at TWO IN THE 'EFFIN' MORNING?

Oh, yeah. Sarah. Who has a wild and wooly life so I don't have to.

"So, at one point last night i walked into a living room full of people and my underwear fell out of the leg of my pants."

WTF? Admittedly, I wasn't full awake as I read this, but still, I was having a very difficult time trying to figure out how this was at all possible. I mean, I know a little about topology, about Mobius strips and Klein bottles, I kinda sorta understand how a woman can remove her brassiere in front of a gentleman caller without removing her sweatshirt (courtesy of an enforced viewing--don't ask-- of Flashdance), but for the life of me I couldn't figure out this one.

Still, I had certain textual obligations and so dutifully replied, (mustn't laugh...mustn't laugh...good friends are supportive... aw, f*** it) How the HELL did you manage THAT?

Reply?

"I couldn't find them. So i didn't put them on. Then i found them. Luckily everyone was on acid so there were bigger things going on."

Really, I should write a book.

The Wednesday Night Snicker

So I got a text message from my friend Sarah tonight.

You remember Sarah, right? Gal pal, occasional fake date, and all-around Queen of Texting? Well, her latest text included a pic of her tattoo-in-progress:



One of her recipients responded (edited slightly),

I was thinking of getting something similar since I like Lovecraft a bit. "Maw of Cthulhu" with my booty hole as the mouth.

And being the smartass that I am, I replied,

OMG! I'd hit that so hard, whoever pulled me out would be the rightful king of England!

(you know what's coming, right?)

Bobby is a guy, but he's often mistaken for a gay one.

I don't know whether to cry or start putting up the track lighting and Judy Garland posters.

Edit 22 May 10: an earlier (and clearer) pic of what has come to be called "Sarah's Ass Circus."

Texting (But Not Sexting)

Deep within me beats the heart of a 16-yr. old girl (link NSFW... seriously, horribly NSFW). No, you're not going to find Jonas Brothers* posters on my walls nor stuffed unicorns in my bedroom, but I will admit to a deep, dark secret:

I love the HELL out of texting.

See, given that I'm not really a "people person," texting allows me to keep in touch without having to deal with that pesky face-to-face business (or talking on the phone, which I hate for reasons I've yet to understand), but more importantly, it is a neverending source of inexpensive entertainment.

First example: my friend Margie.

Margie was bitching about the men in her life and her difficulties in maintaining intimate relationships, so I gently suggested she might want to investigate the amazing and non-committal opportunities afforded by certain battery-powered devices, especially if I could publish her experiences online. Her reply:

If i cant hurt it & destroy its life i dont want anything to do with it. ergo no vibrators. blog that!

Much later (August, 2009) when we were talking about her giving me a ride home from the hospital after my cholecystectomy I mentioned I wasn't particular about what kind of transportation she had so long as it got me home and wasn't a van filled with naked men.

Van? we used 2 ride down broad st naked in a van & stop 2 fck on the top floor of the pkng garages. did u c me or smthng? that was a long time ago lol

Oh! And talk about your serendipity! As I was writing this I received another Margie-message:

Yea. i been dying to b blogged. u blog bout all ur future x wives cept me. im jealous

Well, here ya go, Margie!

But the Queen of Texting in GW-land remains my friend (and occasional fake-date) Sarah.


Back in December of 2008 she commented upon my prolonged absence from Super-Secret Support Group meetings:

People keep asking me if you relapsed. Can i tell them you spend your days shooting black tar heroin and impersonating lou reed in a motel bar by the airport?

To which I replied, sure, go ahead, build it up big, mention the new skintight black leather jumpsuit I've taken to wearing for days at a time.

Hell yeah.You're probably going to get some strange calls bc i'm not going to tell anyone i'm lying.

No one ever calls.

Really? What a bunch of turd burglars. so i guess they do just want gossip. I'm gonna tell so many lies. This is gonna be awesome.

Tell 'em I spend my spare hours posting sex videos on YouPorn and RedTube.

And We've joined forces to make newcomer (to Super-Secret Support Groups) porn. You went into seclusion, and that's why i had to come back to meetings. To recruit for the web site.

And these exchanges are immensely entertaining, but nowhere near as much fun as the random, unsolicited, infrequent, Twitter-like musings I receive.

--I'm at the fetish bar sitting by myself so my friends can make out in the other room. This is weird

--i just drove. (a bad thing since she's got a couple of DUIs) I think i might be a lesbian, cause i really seem to want to be locked in a cell block with a bunch of chicks.

--Excuse me, sir. What would you think if you saw my butthole and it was...stainy? Would you come back for a second helping? (a singularly intense WTF? moment for me)

--my wristband from the irish festival says "live responsibly" on it. I think that's asking too much. i have a hard enough time with "drink responsibly"

--I'm watching "big". I once walked in on my little sister watching the movie from the middle. She said, "so this movie is about tom hanks kidnapping a child?" Oh wait, a retard that kidnaps a child.

--I walked to exxon around 3am last night and ran into a bunch of kids lost in church hill and preached to them about swedish pop.

A couple of years ago Sarah worked briefly for Cleaning With A View, a local maid service whose employees cleaned your house while wearing skimpy outfits. She recently asked if I still had one of her business cards (I did) and would I send her a copy. I mentioned that I'd saved the image files from her time there and did she want those as well.

Nice. I never thought people would be downloading naked pictures of me off the web.

--If It's possible for waiting tables to qualify one as a bad ass, i definitely am today. I'm beginning to wonder if i've died and this is some dante-esque hell.

And this is why Sarah is the Queen:

Neptune-king of the seas, and my boobs.


* It occurs to me I've just confessed to another deep, dark secret--I'm 54 with no children and know who the Jonas Brothers are. I also know about Hannah Montana, The Wizards of Waverly Place, and iCarly. Obviously, I need a hobby. Or therapy.

Back By Popular Demand!

Since a couple of people have asked, to wit:

"WHERE ARE YOU???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????"
(The Mighty Wayne)

and

"What, hath the (Ferg)-o-blog gone tits up.? Nay! Pray say not thus! (by the way, how long does it take you to produce a blog entry?) Hope your day was wonderful."
(JSam)

The short answer is that Real Life^TM, as it so often does, has been interfering with my Fantasy and Intarweb life, which sucks because I much prefer my Fantasy and Intarweb life. Take work, for example. We're currently shorthanded and will be for some time since the Powers That Be (your Gummint) refuse to acknowledge that one either matches the workload to the available staff or increases staff to match the workload. In practical terms this translates into lots of involuntary overtime and ol' G. W. coming home so tired and worn-out and brain-dead that all he wants to do is watch NCIS (love that Abby!*) and House (love a good curmudgeon!) reruns until it's time for bed. Unfortunately, he also has to do other things, normal things, like, I dunno, feed the cat, brush the cat, find the missing cat toys, scoop the kitty litter box, shop for groceries, gas up the car, cook dinner, wash clothes, wash dishes, take out the trash, take the occasional bath, shave the whiskers from off my thorny hide...**

Okay, so there's a bit of Seasonal Affective Disorder involved as well; I'm drag-assing all over the place. This, too, shall pass, but not unlike a kidney stone.

Take-home message: like death, taxes, and Herpes, I'm still here!


* Last night while watching Abby go through her paces I text-messaged a bunch of people with "Why are there no half-naked Goth girls running wild in my apartment?"

Big Gay Cliff: "'Cause I don't have naked skater boys in mine. Next silly question...?"

And then this exchange with Sarah:

Sarah: i dunno. you should ask Jeffie.
G.W.: Why Jeffie?
Sarah: cuz she's the closest thing to a goth girl i know
G.W.: There's Cara. You think we could get the two of them to do a lesbian porno together? The overhead would be low and we'd make a fortune!
Sarah: Jeffy'd do it for the attention. Cara'd do it for a couple of jelly packets and a cup of mayo. This sounds like a plan!
G.W.: Throw in a couple of cans of cake frosting, one for Cara to eat and one for them to smear all over themselves, and we'd be the Kings of Internet Porn!

** That's a really obscure Jimmie Rodgers song reference:
My husband was a logger
There's none like him today.
If you poured a little whiskey upon it
He would eat a bale of hay.

He never shaved the whiskers
From off his thorny hide.
He'd just drive them in with a hammer
And bite them off inside.

Since I Have No Life...

...I live vicariously through the lives of others, in this case my friend Sarah.

So I was watching a rerun of That '70s Show this evening (because I have an incredible, horrible, completely inappropriate and undeniably creepy schoolboy-type crush on Laura Prepon) when I got a text message:

world's biggest douche bag* is at (local 19th Century celebrity writer-themed pub** featuring live music having nothing to do with aforementioned 19th Century celebrity writer). he keeps saying he runs a restaurant. he's a manager at (somewhat pretentious restaurant chain specializing in Italian food for people who don't really like Italian food***) in colonial heights****. ps he brought his tarot cards

To which I replied:

Boys in bars with Tarot cards make the baby Jeebus cry.

I speak from experience.

Years ago I lived in New Orleans and spent my...ahem...off-hours hanging out in a bar called The Dungeon***** (on Toulouse St. next to Molly's Irish Pub and about the only place in the French Quarter were one could hear Lou Reed's Rock 'N' Roll Animal and at a volume sufficient to sterilize toads at 2000 yards), slinging back whiskey sours or a noxious mix of Wild Turkey and grapefruit juice (I was going through a Hunter Thompson phase). Problem was, my thirst for alcohol and my ability to pay for it didn't exactly coincide, so I came up with a little plan involving a pack of Tarot cards and and incredible line of bulshytt--fiddle around with the deck until someone expressed curiosity about these weird-ass cards (Tarot was not so well-known in those days) then offer 'em a "reading" in exchange for a drink or two.

This particular scam worked surprisingly well and I often managed to get decently plastered for under five dollars. The downside was I developed a serious drinking problem and a horrifically cynical view of humankind.

So, Sarah, if you wanted further proof of your ex's assholery--as if you needed it--the Tarot cards are the icing on the cake and the turd in the punchbowl.


*Ex-boyfriend who, obviously, continues to elicit intense feelings of anger and resentment. Witness our recent MySpace exchange:

----------------------------------
From: sarah hates you
Date: Sep 14, 2008 8:53 PM

i was going to send a message about being bored, but then i saw your profile. what are more than one of my ex boyfriends doing on your page? greg i can understand, but do you have to have a picture of the ultimatly more evil one on there. yeah, that's his wailing bed wetting face in the picture of roslyn. seriously? you're friends with them. i highly disapprove.
----------------------------------
From: G. W.
Date: Sep 14, 2008 11:36 PM

Seriously? Purely coincidence; I had no idea. When local (i.e., Richmond-based) groups ask for an add I just do it whether I know who they are or not (some people appreciate the additional numbers). I have NO problem deleting, but you're going to owe me a night of strip Risk or a one-shot X-rated D&D game.
----------------------------------
From: sarah hates you
Date: Sep 14, 2008 11:53 PM

if you want to stretch it, both in the picture are ex's. the peruvian one only lasted a couple weeks. you can make up for it by saving your cat litter. anne and i will be needing it later. we're going to dump it on his front lawn.
----------------------------------
From: G. W.
Date: Sep 15, 2008 1:38 PM

So, you're saying I'm going to be an accessory to a drive-by kitty littering? Oh, yeah, baby; LET THE POOPIE CHAOS BEGIN!

As a matter of fact, I have a trash bag-full ripening in the kitchen even as we speak...er...text!
----------------------------------

**Which really should be a Goth bar except that the Goth population in Richmond isn't large enough to support a full-time Goth bar.

***Aka "McDonalli's"

****Often referred to by long-term residents as "Colonial Whites."

*****Off-hours, indeed. Super-Secret Support Group members who've heard my story will recognize this as "(the) bar which opened at midnight and closed at 8 a. m. Ya know how I know it closed at 8? That's when they asked me to leave." Now named "Ye Olde Original Dungeon" it has, as far as I can tell from its website, been tarted up and sanitized considerably, but back in '78/'79 it was dark and dank and seamy, full of leather-clad bikers, darkside hippies, budding alcoholics, and a surprising number of Wicca-oriented proto-Goth girls in black who'd read too much Ann Rice and were seeking their vampire lovers (or had just seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show for the zillionth time and figured here was where they were most likely to encounter Dr. Frank N. Furter, esq.). In fact, the Dungeon was the Urschleim from which Goth bars arose.