tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80780845301778342922024-03-13T23:06:35.125-07:00The Word That Is Miss SpokenMiss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.comBlogger116125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-49918230674594485472012-02-13T10:48:00.000-08:002012-02-13T10:49:53.721-08:00Miss Spoken Is Moving!<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DtqIlJQqxgE/TzlZMr49ZlI/AAAAAAAAAe8/FNFheI5egts/s1600/moving1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DtqIlJQqxgE/TzlZMr49ZlI/AAAAAAAAAe8/FNFheI5egts/s320/moving1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Dear Readers That No Longer Read Because Miss Spoken No Longer Posts,</div>
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I'm outta here! Gonna take this filthy mouth over to my new spot, <a href="http://carbombsandpageantmoms.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">Car Bombs and Pageant Moms</span></a>. It's not quite home yet, but the ice maker works and the rugs only smell a little bit.</div>
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Yours Truly,</div>
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Miss Spoken</div>
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<br /></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-24453287103016481302010-09-21T11:08:00.000-07:002010-09-21T12:31:58.014-07:00Regrettable Me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/TJkHDaNPVpI/AAAAAAAAAdk/7CTPY1MJYJY/s1600/regret.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 316px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/TJkHDaNPVpI/AAAAAAAAAdk/7CTPY1MJYJY/s320/regret.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519450573475108498" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Whoever says that they can look back on their life and have no regrets is full of shit. These are the people who say things like, <i>"Every decision I've made, good or bad, has made me the person I am today."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ass biscuits!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I know because I've used this sweepingly generic excuse once or twice in my life but what I was really saying was, <i>"Yeah, I'm an idiot who does lots of dumb shit ... who often makes the same mistakes twice and who doesn't care to talk about it, so kindly shut your face before I get all kinds of stabby."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have a garden full of Regret and What the Fuck Was I Thinking. Enormous blossoms of regret, like not saying I love you or even goodbye to Seltar the morning he left for work on the day he died. And regret for my monstrous lack of parenting that stretched from 2001 to 2007. <i>That </i>regret grows like ivy, smothering and destroying everything it creeps over if not routinely cut back.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But not all of my regret is so blue. There are also these gems .......</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">I regret the day I stumbled across nude pictures of my daughter's 16 year old boyfriend. <i>**Shudder. Gag. Shudder. Repeat**</i></li></ul><ul><li style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; ">I regret my affair with a married man and I regret that it lasted six years. The Karma Police are still in hot pursuit over that one.</span></i></li></ul><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">I regret not learning how to swim. I'll blame this on my mother for never sending me to camp.</li></ul></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Dear Whore Mouth,</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It is because of you that I cannot swim, nor am I any good at horseshoes and have never <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>learned the art of creating those twine-string-friendship-bracelet-key chain-thingies. My <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>life would totally have been different if you just sent me to camp for one fucking summer!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">I regret going into labor a month early and missing the first ever Lollapalooza. The lineup: Jane's Addiction, Siouxsie, NIN, Rollins Band, Butthole Surfers, Violent Femmes and Fishbone. Ughhhh ..... babies are so selfish!</li></ul></div><div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">I regret watching Desperately Seeking Susan and letting it define my style for the next two years. Seriously, no adult figure in my life could tell me not to go to school dressed entirely in lace? Fuckers.</li></ul><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">I regret that one night stand with the guy with the Irish accent. I in fact regretted it so much, I took half the paint off of his car when I peeled out of his drive way the next morning. Oops.</li></ul><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">I regret not doing any of the things my crazy neighbor in San Francisco accused me of. Like putting voodoo statues in the garden to torment her, spray painting the word Bitch on her car, dragging dead bodies across the floor and especially, my personal favorite, throwing pots of piss at her back door.</li></ul></div><div><div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">I regret tequila. 'Nough said.</li></ul></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-55481084198930479072010-09-15T10:02:00.000-07:002010-09-15T10:13:38.253-07:00Needlepoint<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">It took four long hours but <i>taaa-d<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>aaaa</i> ..... here she is, my latest tattoo:</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/TJD9VJ26ICI/AAAAAAAAAdc/UNhWdGyE-Xk/s320/DSC05269.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517188083394158626" /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's an original piece inspired by <a href="http://www.okeeffemuseum.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Georgia O'keefe</span></a> and the Native American blessing for family prosperity. And now that the tattoo is paid for, I can start focusing on the whole <i>prosperity</i> thing.</div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-75984365358521575082010-09-03T11:37:00.001-07:002010-09-03T12:23:17.816-07:00The Elusive Vagina Tribe of Africa<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/TIFLC8DGFAI/AAAAAAAAAdU/-13Nk3iPwaQ/s1600/African.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 259px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/TIFLC8DGFAI/AAAAAAAAAdU/-13Nk3iPwaQ/s320/African.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512769932729127938" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It was your average morning here at The House That Miss Spoken Built. The Boy was consuming his first round of sugar for the day, Boss Lady was eating cereal and contemplating the five day weather forecast and I was busy trying to mainline coffee while packing lunches and pulling clothes from the dryer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Very typical.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Until Boss Lady said something that sounded like the word "vagina."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"What did you just say?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Vagina."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">**Blink. Blink. Blow curl out of my eye.**</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Huh? Say it again."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Vagina."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">**Squinting my eyes, sure that my five year old is just fucking with me. Sip coffee. Act normal.**</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"One more time ..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Vaaaagiiiinnnnnaaaa."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Why are you talking about vaginas to your brother?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Because it's a tribe of people in Africa."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">**Coffee slips from my lips straight down my shirt. Fuck.**</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Who told you that? Somebody at school?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"No, my brain told me."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Well, your brain is wrong because there is no such thing as a Vagina Tribe in Africa or any other place."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Yes there is, Mom."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"No. A vagina is where you pee from. Your lady parts. Boys have penises, girls have vaginas. I of course have fine china."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">**Tilts her head to the side, looks at me and considers how stupid I may or may not be.**</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Not China, Mom .... Africa. <i>Duh</i>."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In Anything-But-Vagina related news, today is My Gay's 26th birthday! That makes him a whopping <b>33 </b>in gay years. Tonight we'll be celebrating at Reno's finest gay bar which means I should really finish vagazzling my African Tribe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Happy Birthday, Mark!!! Here's hoping you don't puke on your shoes tonight!!</span></i></b></span></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-61884184935578964552010-08-30T12:12:00.000-07:002010-08-30T13:32:24.808-07:00If My Happiness Were An Ass It Would Look Like This . . .<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/THwU8UR873I/AAAAAAAAAcU/hYHGgRcg2Yk/s1600/jeans.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 269px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/THwU8UR873I/AAAAAAAAAcU/hYHGgRcg2Yk/s320/jeans.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511303070463356786" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Holy Flying Monkey Fucker, it's the first day of school!!!! </div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Cue the marching band, the baton twirlers and somebody pass me a drink .... yes, it's finally here! I couldn't be happier even if a bus load of midget rugby players pulled up in front of my house and asked if Miss Spoken could come outside and play for awhile.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, I'm that happy and that obsessed with The Little People.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There have only been a handful of times that I've actually been alone in my own house. But now that The Boy and Boss Lady are both in school full time (Legal is in jail but you'll have to wait for The Mother Summer Fucker Letter to read up on that), I have this modest two story town home all to myself. For those of you non-breeders out there, you probably can't grasp how monumental this day is. And if you're one of those mothers who dreads the kids going back to school because you just can't breathe without them needing you all day and you question who will wipe little Jimmy's ass properly, then you really don't understand me and probably quit reading this post right after the "Holy Flying Monkey Fucker" intro. For me, herding them to school is like somebody telling you your ass looks good in those jeans. It feels that good. And even though I have to share all six hours of my solitary time with roughly 400 loads of laundry, I will not allow the soiled clothing to piss on my parade.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's back to school time and this year, I'm not fucking around.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I will ...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Save money</i>, because vacation time is over and fourteen boxes of Capri Sun is still cheaper than the cost of keeping me inebriated while <strike>sleeping outside</strike> camping.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Bathe my children</i>, because the pool closes after Labor Day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Clean the house</i>, and it will actually stay that way for at least the next six hours. Gone are the days of sweeping, wiping, washing and scrubbing in twenty minute intervals.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Write the great American novel</i>, or at least compile my Sunday dinner recipes into a swanky new binder.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Sit in silence</i>, because Spongebob will not be played on a constant loop in my living room. Screw you Sponge, you are no longer the soundtrack of my every move. But I will sort of miss you, Squidward. I was begininning to think that you really got me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Not eat lunch</i>, because that's why God made coffee.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Rub one out in the middle of the day,</i> because I can. </div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-91843361436359918392010-08-20T11:17:00.000-07:002010-08-20T12:04:50.531-07:00Mother Summer Fucker: A Prologue<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/TG7RFL8uQbI/AAAAAAAAAcE/6Q2nSHdfg7Y/s1600/skeleton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 251px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/TG7RFL8uQbI/AAAAAAAAAcE/6Q2nSHdfg7Y/s320/skeleton.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507569281357726130" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The summer of 2010 was the summer I nearly killed my blog.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Had she been a pet dog, she would have been emaciated and roaming local freeways, dodging cars in search of food scraps and a gentle hand. Had she been a feline, she would of been one of those flat cats you see on an episode of <a href="http://www.aetv.com/hoarders/index.jsp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Hoarders</span></a>. A forgotten skull crushed by boxes of useless shit and feasted on by it's own starving family. My blog is one of my kids, sitting in their pajamas and eating pizza for breakfast at 11:23 on a Friday morning, whining to go to the pool and hearing my mouth respond, "Please stop talking." My blog is homeless, sitting in her own piss with her jaundiced nails. Her sign says she will work for food but she's lying.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I vacuumed yesterday which means that I'm not clinically depressed. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Back when I actually did feed my blog on a regular basis, played with her hair and called her Sugar, I wrote a <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2009/12/christmas-letters-are-stupid-i-know.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">post</span></a> dissing Christmas Letters. I still think they're stupid (no disrespect to <a href="http://www.suburbankamikaze.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Suburban Kamikaze</span></a>). My theory was based on the obvious -- who cares what I did all year and if you actually held any interest, you could check out my well-fed, much loved, always shaved above the knee blog.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But since this is the summer that my blog turned into a neglected, hairy little beast in desperate need of vaginal rejuvenation, I think I'm going to do the unthinkable and write a Summer Letter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And all five people that still check in to see if Miss Spoken has dribbled anything out of her mouth will read it and love it and ask me to almost kill my blog every summer. Maybe even twice a year, which should actually happen on it's own but it never hurts to have cheerleaders.</div><div><div><br /></div></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-61118506051238752042010-07-02T12:15:00.000-07:002010-07-02T13:30:34.162-07:00Don't Call It A Comeback! (at least not until there's more than one post this month)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/TC5JlfgsZPI/AAAAAAAAAb8/X2ZWyUa4_hM/s1600/ComputerPinUP.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/TC5JlfgsZPI/AAAAAAAAAb8/X2ZWyUa4_hM/s320/ComputerPinUP.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489405904273827058" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm back bitches, gays, mothers who love profanity and anybody else who accidentally reads the word that is Miss Spoken!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Ahhhh</i>, another extended hiatus from the blogosphere with absolutely no reason other than (a) I often question whether or not what I have to say is worth reading and (b) can I make what I have to say sarcastic enough that the collection of words truly conveys the ridiculous recipe of boredom, exhaustion, laundry and random vagina jokes that has become my existence.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe I think too much.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe I think too little.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'll have to think about that at 3:00 in the morning when Satan's flock of Devil Birds start their early-morning cacophony of shrieks and cackles from their Hell-based nest (i.e. the tree right outside my bedroom window).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's not that there hasn't been anything to write about. I have actually left my house and not just for butter and wine, although I gotta say, I really do love my butter and wine trips. And I have on occasion used my computer for reasons other than researching the do's and dont's of buying pharmaceuticals over the Internet (note: I think I'll stick to random trips to Mexico like any normal mother of three would do.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let me bore you with my June itinerary:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We kicked off week one with The Boy and Boss Lady participating in their school's Spirit Week. I'm told that this is some kind of school tradition and I do have vague memories of Legal putting me through this when she was in school. But the schools I attended in San Francisco either didn't perform these rituals or the memories were so horrendous I have deleted them from my memory bank. My elementary school was a concrete slab with three eight foot poles sticking out of the ground. Maybe a ball had been tethered to them at one point. Who the fuck cares. No jungle gym. No fucking tanbark. Nothing but concrete and benches to park your ass when you made little Susie close her eyes and you walked her repeatedly into the only structure available for your amusement: steel poles. Middle school was no different (except there were no steel poles, just a guy who sometimes walked by the fence and exposed himself). I wish I could tell you about high school but habitual truancy does not promote a great understanding of school pride, Winter Ball themes or even the location of a locker I'm sure I was assigned. But to be fair to my 16 year old self, it was 1988, <a href="http://www.janesaddiction.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Jane's Addiction</span></a> just released "Nothing's Shocking" and you could buy Brass Monkey in 750 mL bottles.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Week one ended with a two night camping trip to <a href="http://www.parks.ca.gov/?page_id=503"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Donner Lake</span></a>. Ya'll remember <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2009/09/donner-memorial-state-park-where-else.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330099;">how this ended last year</span></a>? This time we managed to escape without too much blood and Legal stayed away from the vodka. Mostly because there wasn't any and she already learned her lesson about what it feels like to vomit copious amounts of wine so at least my Chardonnay was safe. This family of mine is pretty notorious for peddling crazy so it was only fitting that on our last night we almost got kicked out for playing Telephone. You know, the game that involves nothing but <i>whispering</i>. Fortunately for us, Johnny Boy is our go-to guy when it comes to speaking with the police or anybody in a I Can Arrest You capacity. Not only did we <i>not</i> get kicked out, But JB also schooled the Ranger on some of his own rules and regs that for whatever reasons, JB knew better than he did (Note: everybody run out right now and pick up a JB of your very own. It's like bail money in the bank.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that was just week one. Stay tuned for the remaining weeks which include belly dancers, an arrest and the subsequent chewing of Xanax like tic-tacs!!</div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-17459793795721026802010-05-29T09:03:00.001-07:002010-05-29T09:45:03.968-07:00Today Is the Day (even though Today happened days ago)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/TAFDLmaedxI/AAAAAAAAAb0/I5m8K5ad_14/s1600/woman+with+wine+bottle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/TAFDLmaedxI/AAAAAAAAAb0/I5m8K5ad_14/s320/woman+with+wine+bottle.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476732488428451602" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Miss Spoken Hearts Chardonnay. 4-Ever.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is the day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is the day I woke up with just fifteen minutes to feed, dress and drive two kids to school.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is the day I wash my hair with a handful of conditioner. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is the day I help Whore Mouth (aka Mom) move out so that Legal (aka Daughter) can move back in.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is the day I dream about a time when I will live alone. A day when there won't be one fucking chicken finger/nugget/tender in my freezer and I won't ever have to walk down the cereal aisle again. A day when I won't have to say things like, "What is this brown stuff dripping on the wall," or, "Please try to piss <b>inside</b> the toilet, not around it or above it or behind it."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is the day Legal will receive notice from her bank that, although her account has been active for less than two weeks, and although her overdraft was just $10, she has accrued $105 in overdraft charges.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is the day I will urge Legal to call her former employer and apologize for being an idiot.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is the day that she will not do it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is the day every single kid within a one mile radius (total exaggeration) will play inside my garage and pull out every football, remote control car, basketball hoop, soccer ball, bubble blower, frisbee, doll and hula hoop (total non-exaggeration). With the exception of Miss Perceived, no other parent will supervise. One kid will crap his pants and will require escorting back to his home. This same kid will also try to drink power steering fluid. This cycle will repeat itself tomorrow. And the day after.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>(Pausing to hug myself and rock back and forth)</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But today is also the day that I will wash my sheets and fall in love with my bed again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And today is also the day I will feed my children pizza and feed myself cold Chardonnay.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>(Dear Chardonnay, I love you. For reals.)</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And today is also the day that the little blue pills will arrive in the mail.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>(Exhale...)</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today is a beautiful day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Note to reader: 'Today' may have happened over the course of several days but for the purpose of expressing my extreme </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">cuckooness</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, I've consolidated them into one. Plus, one day simply </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">blurs</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> into the next so fuck it.</span></div></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-91967426161654928072010-05-06T09:31:00.000-07:002010-05-06T10:47:24.234-07:00Suicidal Cars and My Quest for Silence<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S-MAnrXSk6I/AAAAAAAAAbs/ZEpOlRzKNNA/s1600/FemaleCrucifix.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S-MAnrXSk6I/AAAAAAAAAbs/ZEpOlRzKNNA/s320/FemaleCrucifix.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468215054213223330" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">The view from up here is stunning. Where is up here, you ask? I'm perched on my cross of martyrdom, removed from my body and watching the chaos that is my life unfold below me. The pity party is in full swing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Somebody pass the vodka.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Whore Mouth landed a job as a caretaker for those who need their colostomy bags changed and suffer from violent mood swings, angered that they can no longer recognize the faces in front of them. Unfortunately, her car committed suicide before she could begin her first actual day of employment.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Pops loaned her his car and sure enough, she inspired suicide in yet another vehicle. She hasn't actually made it to work and has once again proved that "Irish Luck" has nothing to do with four leaf clovers and more to do with potato famines and hereditary substance abuse. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Didn't I ask somebody to pass the vodka?</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She won $100 on a slot machine and sent half of it to my brother. It never got there.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But maybe her luck would change because she's been trying like hell to win one of those online sweepstakes or blog giveaways and maybe a win would be like a catalyst into the world of Lucky Bastards (yeah, I'm talking to you Johnny Boy). And when she got that email with the subject line that read, "Congratulations! You Won!!" she certainly thought that she was moving out of the shadows and into the sunshine. That is until she discovered that what she actually won was some air freshener. For her car. That she no longer has. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Even from up here on my cross, I can hear her crack and splinter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Where the fuck is that vodka??</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ahhh, Whore Mouth. This bad luck comes at a time when she is supposed to be moving out of my house and into her own place so that she can get her granddaughter out of foster care. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And Legal has also moved back home and is sleeping on my couch. This translates into a number of things:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">My phone will never, never, never stop ringing.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">My grocery bill will skyrocket yet she will complain that there is nothing to eat.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">I will gather tumbleweeds of red hair that roll around the house because she sheds like a Siberian Husky in the summer.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">I will discover a trail of discarded clothing, hair ties and hoop earrings that will lead from the garage, through the house and to the outside porch.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">My computer will be loaded with songs from a bunch of artists with the first name Lil'.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">I will not find my makeup because it will have moved into her purse.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">I will never be alone.</li></ul><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Seriously, what does a woman on a cross teetering on the cusp of sanity have to do to get some vodka around this place??</i></div></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-81852270848509842232010-04-21T10:37:00.000-07:002010-04-21T11:25:12.983-07:00Not Exactly Bonnie and Clyde<div style="text-align: justify;">With a heavy sigh, I return from yet another extended vacation from my blog. A furlough from extracting the funny from ordinary moments. A sabbatical from analyzing this life that is all mine.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here's what you missed:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My Gay and I committed a federal offense when we stole a huge box that had been sitting in front of what we used to refer to as The Meth Lab. It was a neighboring townhome occupied by <strike>drug dealers</strike> community college students who would throw barbeques at midnight and their girlfriends, unsteady in their stilettos and skinny jeans, would point their camera phones to the sky and take pictures of clouds. They were evicted but soon thereafter, a large package arrived at their door. And there is sat, taunting me. For months I would walk by and look at it from afar wondering what could possibly be inside. Black tar heroin maybe? A baby monkey perhaps? Tea cups from Grandma? What the fuck?? Finally, I couldn't take it any longer. I enlisted My Gay into my dirty crime world and together we <strike>walked</strike> moved like Ninja warriors, grabbed the box and <strike>ran like girls</strike> disappeared like thieves in the night. With fingers crossed in hopes of discovering a year's supply of Xanax or at the very least a case of wine, we dug into the box and found .... a fucking ham. A six month old ham, dammit.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Later that night we took our two-person crime wave to a gay bar and got ridiculously drunk and made fun of a man who looked like he had hookers in his basement.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not exactly Bonnie and Clyde but it's hard to be super bad ass gangsters with ABBA dominating the scene. It's not exactly the soundtrack for criminals. Next time, we're going hardcore. Like Pet Shop Boys hardcore.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Sometimes you're better off dead. There's a gun in your hand and it's pointing at your head ...</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 209px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S89CM4PmYoI/AAAAAAAAAbc/t1cy_xNyaKo/s320/bonnie.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462657662047380098" />Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-38770302381808508332010-04-06T09:10:00.000-07:002010-04-06T10:12:47.951-07:00Menopausing Cheerleaders and Unconscious Gay Men: Happy Easter!<div style="text-align: justify;">As of late, creating posts worth reading are getting harder and harder to come by. I find myself sitting in front of the computer screen with my coffee getting cold, just staring at the goddamned cursor as it disappears and reappears. It mocks me. Bastard.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Blink. Blink. Blink.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Translation: You</i><i> Suck. You Suck. You Suck.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe I should tell you about the half time show at the <a href="http://www.nba.com/dleague/reno/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Reno Big Horns</span></a> D-League basketball game.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 209px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S7tqRApebEI/AAAAAAAAAbM/Cv4b4-dEKBI/s320/mature+cheerleader.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457072213953768514" /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The theme was cheerleading. Actually, it was more like a cheerleading age progression, timeline, chronology type of display. It started with tiny little four year olds, decked out in glitter and pigtails. Then it moved on to something in the middle school range where the girls did some routine that included folding chairs and I'm guessing Hannah Montana G-strings. All pretty standard stuff. That is, until <i>Bust A Move</i> started thumping over the arena and four women strutted onto the court wearing lycra pants, sporting six inch roots and a high school graduation date somewhere in the early 70s. <i>Sister Mercy, </i>what a show. Taking mouthfuls of my $8 beer, I watched in total amazement as these women pumped, and gyrated and hip-hopped all over that poor floor. But I can't even rag on them too much because Easter afternoon, I could be found in my garage sipping vodka and dancing to <i>Planet Rock</i>. Fortunately, I left my lycra biker shorts in the 80s where they belong because really, the only people allowed to rock that look are people who actually ride bikes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or, I could tell you a story about My Gay who was also sipping vodka that fateful afternoon except he was mixing his with Acai Cleansing Pills and diet black cherry soda. Somewhere between his "total cleanse," and his attempts at purging the vodka with his fist down his throat, he passed out for ten minutes on my bathroom floor.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Because nothing says <i>"Welcome Back, Jesus!"</i> like a gay man passed out in the crapper.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-48843303683467035002010-03-30T14:47:00.000-07:002010-03-30T16:00:13.225-07:00Scrotal Recall<div style="text-align: left;">Located in Nevada's high desert sits a little brothel called the <a href="http://www.shadyladyranch.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Shady Lady Ranch</span></a>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Isn't she a beauty?</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 282px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S7J1pNxd1UI/AAAAAAAAAa0/w8mu9qOVCdg/s320/shady-lady-ranch.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454551449631315266" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This Shady Lady boasts a dedication to the working man. Your average Ben Davis wearing, Marlboro smoking, calloused hand man. Had I known you could turn a bunch of broken down trailers into an actual house of ill repute, my high school years may have been a whole lot more lucrative. Maybe I could have banged some low-grade politician (not like Chamber of Commerce low, but you know what I mean). I could have waited in the wings, sex tape in the safe deposit box until their star rose to political fame and then BAM! Pay dirt! My own personal cash cow. But it was high school and I obviously wasn't thinking clearly. I'll blame my lack of vision on Mickey's Big Mouths and an aversion to hawking my lady parts for cash.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, I had a point about the Shady Lady Ranch and I should probably get down to it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Shady Lady Ranch employed the first ever official male prostitute. We all know that male hookers have been around for years, and not just the kind of guys that dressed like women, strapped pork chops to their thighs and turned tricks in the dark alleys of Gold Rush America. There's all kinds of male trollops. The 16 year old runaway looking for a Happy Meal, the 56 year old grandfather looking for a rock. I've seen <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102494/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">My Own Private Idaho</span></a> so I know the score. I'm fuckin' savvy to the scene. So although these rentboys have been hustling for ages, this guy at The Shady Lady was the first <i>official</i> male prostitute. I'm sure his mother is proud.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh, and he goes by the name Markus Destin. I forgot to mention that earlier because I don't usually bother to get to know my hooker. Makes it easier for me to keep my distance just in case I need to dehumanize them when it comes time to <strike>put them in the trunk</strike> pay them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But it seems that poor Markus has had to leave the Shady Lady Ranch. With just ten paying customers in two months, Markus is going to try his hand in the adult film industry. I can't imagine why women weren't flocking to him:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S7J6hD_JKDI/AAAAAAAAAa8/HvrS4FJvJIU/s320/4760Markus+porn.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454556807123511346" /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hmmm.... let me think about this for a second. Could it be because Markus here looks a little.... what's the word .... oh yeah, GAY?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It makes me wonder what genre of adult films we might see him in. Maybe something in the gay porn arena? Maybe Schindler's Fist? How about I'm Gonna Fuck You Sucka? The Fast and the Curious? Dammit, I have to stop. This is quickly turning into a drinking game.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, Markus the <strike>gay</strike> male prostitute is gone. It's just as well since he compared himself to Rosa Parks and really, if I wanted to fuck a narcissist I'd just stay home and spend some quality time with my vagina.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But if you really did have your Mother's Day dreams set on a romp with a male whore, the Shady Lady has a new guy and his name is Y Not. I haven't been able to get my hands on his photo but based on Shady Lady's previous lineup, I'm going to guess he looks a little like this:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 282px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S7J_zmHSNAI/AAAAAAAAAbE/4BWUGPOIu7s/s320/Haggard-Ted-3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454562623080248322" /></div><div><br /></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-71093017040086270232010-03-26T09:46:00.000-07:002010-03-26T11:32:37.217-07:00Fun With Over the Counter Medications!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S6z3upgYN0I/AAAAAAAAAas/_GtPbbAuv5w/s1600/lips-with-pill-ponystep.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 183px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S6z3upgYN0I/AAAAAAAAAas/_GtPbbAuv5w/s200/lips-with-pill-ponystep.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453005629626529602" /></a>Hello again faithful readers and rainy day friends. I know that I've been gone awhile and I wish that I could claim some fabulous reason for my absence but I can't.<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">No, I wasn't in Napa Valley, sipping wine and watching peacocks roam the vineyard grounds. No, I wasn't locked away in my art studio creating abstract oil paintings of my vagina (mostly because I have yet to master my oil painting techniques and because my garage can't really be described as an art studio). And no, I didn't pay off some of those old moving violations by doing seven days in County, although now that I think about it, that might not be such a bad idea.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nope. In fact my absence isn't even really blog worthy, but that's never stopped me before. In fact, writing about nonsense and things that nobody cares about is sort of my specialty. My gift, if you will.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Last week, some kind of virus crept into my throat and very quickly robbed me of my ability to swallow my own spit, breathe through my nose and eventually, I was left without the ability to even speak ... which for me, is abominable. If I can't verbally tell you to fuck off then who am I? Reduced to an impotent version of myself, I took to my bed (which sounds more noble or romantic than it really was). </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And because I'm one of the 40 million or so Americans that don't have health insurance, I have no choice but to self-diagnose which in the end is alright because it gives me the opportunity to self-medicate and I'm fantastic at that. I've actually gotten quite good at self-diagnosing, too. Miss Spoken, MD.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For example, after The Boy was born I diagnosed myself with Audio Psychosis. My symptoms included constantly hearing things that didn't exist. I'd put The Boy to sleep and carefully slip into the shower for some much needed hosing down but as soon as I stepped into the shower I would hear The Boy crying, or the phone ringing, or the front door being kicked in. I'd scamper out into the hallway naked, hair dripping, soap in my eyes and yet ..... <i>nothing</i>. The Boy would still be sleeping, I'd remember that my phone was set to vibrate and the front door would be intact. I often accused my roommates of installing hidden speakers throughout the house from which they would repeatedly play the sound of a baby crying. They denied it, whatever. One night, I could distinctly hear music being played from the vacant room downstairs. In fact, it was so clear to me that I could identify the song and sing along:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>But as the wind changed direction</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The temple band took five</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The crowd caught a whiff</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Of that crazy Casbah jjjiiiivvvveeee</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Audio Psychosis; take a few benzos and call me in the morning.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've gotten so good that I can also diagnose other people. I've already diagnosed The Boy with an <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2009/08/thin-mints-chinese-orphans-and-boy.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">eating disorder</span></a>. Boss Lady is showing early signs of Megalomania and Legal is clearly crippled with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Why else would she get so tired just from being awake? Poor baby.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's my prowess as an amateur MD that enables me to feel totally justified sipping Nyquil straight from the bottle, along with some cough syrup with maybe a sleep inducer on top of that. Reading warning labels and all those other words like "recommended dosage" and "do not use if" is for rookies. I'm a professional, or something close to it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Besides, I'm pretty sure what I had is walking pneumonia. Or maybe bronchitis. Restless Leg Syndrome? Probably some kind of pulmonary vascular disease.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Whatever it was, I mean <i>is</i>, I'm sure I need to crawl back under my 14,000 lb. Ralph Lauren down comforter and stretch my bare legs against my 1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and rest some more. My voice is only just now returning, even though I still sound like a tranny and it makes me say things like, <i>"You wanna see my rope collection?"</i></div></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-81076535749041653402010-03-16T12:38:00.000-07:002010-03-16T13:29:15.590-07:00Does This Meat Tenderizer Come With Lubricant?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S5_qBCrYDMI/AAAAAAAAAac/_W2W1fXlF-k/s1600-h/man+in+apron.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 221px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S5_qBCrYDMI/AAAAAAAAAac/_W2W1fXlF-k/s320/man+in+apron.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449331377761160386" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.pamperedchef.com/index.jsp?localeString=en_us">Pampered Chef</a> ... you guys ever heard of it? It's like Tupperware on steroids. And it's ridiculously expensive, unless you think $13 is reasonable for a spatula.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe you're asking yourself, "How did Miss Spoken find herself at a Pampered Chef party of all places?" I'll tell you. It's because my brother, Puppet Boy, works in retail. He'll talk to anybody about anything. So when this woman walked into his job looking for (insert random item), they naturally got to talking. Thirty minutes later she walked away with (insert random item) in her hand and with one more sucker to add to her rolodex of Pampered Chef hostesses. She claims she didn't know he was gay but come on, he just signed up to host a Pampered Chef party and is so gay he can put a lisp in any word in the English language. Whore Mouth, Legal and I called him late one night just to hear him say "crackers."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>*Ring .... Ring .....*</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Hello."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Hey Will, say crackers and cheese." </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>*Insert muffled sounds of three grown women giggling*</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Huh? What? Why?"</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Just fucking say it."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Crackerths and Cheesth."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Bwahahahaha! Shit, I gotta go. I think Mom just pissed herself."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And so it was that Whore Mouth, Miss Perceived and I found ourselves at his Pampered Chef party. We don't get out much, so it was inevitable that we filled the first hour with drinks and the second hour drinking and cracking vagina jokes and assaulting this poor woman with our tasteless humor.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And we were especially full of the filth that night.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But it was her fault for passing around a meat tenderizer with removable parts. If you say things like "toothed side," "pound your chicken" and "cracking nuts" we have no choice but to ask if this thing comes with a suction cup base and whether or not it's seeing anyone at the moment. Because if you're going to spend almost $30 on a meat tenderizer, shouldn't it tenderize my meat? *wink, wink*</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I think Miss Perceived tried to smuggle the meat tenderizer out of the house using just her pelvic floor muscles. She's kind of brilliantly criminal like that.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By the end of the night, I dropped a vodka soaked check on a gravy separator (who doesn't want their gravy separated?) and a pie plate. I also got to feel up Miss Perceived and dust off some old pedophile jokes that had been sitting on my shelf for a few years.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I'm pretty sure Puppet Boy is the new face of Pampered Chef. Hope that works out better than his attempts at selling Girl Scout cookies on the side of the road in rural Alabama.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-57952293889076486642010-03-10T10:01:00.000-08:002010-03-10T11:25:59.313-08:00Whore Mouth Almost Blows It ... Again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S5fyOzBJS_I/AAAAAAAAAaU/JEH_-w48X7s/s1600-h/virgin-mary-statuette-2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S5fyOzBJS_I/AAAAAAAAAaU/JEH_-w48X7s/s200/virgin-mary-statuette-2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447088610355006450" /></a>My brother and his wife recently asked me to be the Godmother for their son. My nephew is thirteen years old so I figured I'd go ahead and agree to it. Had he been thirteen months old, I might have said no. Because if something should happen to my brother and his wife, the Godmother is expected to sort of step in and do something, right? Well, my days of dealing with babies are long gone. I always say that you'll know I'm pregnant again because I'll be on the six o'clock news.<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>This just in ... a clearly unstable woman has reportedly jumped to her death from the Golden Gate Bridge. Early reports indicate the woman, who was wearing nothing but anchor chains and a t-shirt that read "No More Fucking Babies!!!" was seen swilling vodka and babbling something about overactive ovaries before she plunged to her death.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Because I can get pregnant using a man's toothbrush, I'm super cautious. I don't even walk down the baby aisle at Target anymore. Too risky. But thirteen years old, I've handled that age bracket before. Unless his descent into puberty turns him into a hormonally unbalanced and always hungry and unhappy beast. In which case it's off to military school. Hope his parents are okay with that.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My brother began the Godmother conversation by looking at his wife, turning to me and then said, <i>"Sit down. My wife and I have something we want to talk to you about."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fuck. I didn't do it. I don't know nuthin' about no robbery.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"We want to know if you'll be Junior's Godmother."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wheeeew.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Sure. I can do that."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then of course, Whore Mouth (aka my mom) has to chime in.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Maybe you should ask her if she believes in God."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">*crickets*</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My brother looks to his wife. Blink. Looks to me. Blink, blink. Looks to his wife.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"You don't believe in God?" </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is serious business. My brother prides himself on a few things, two of them are being Irish and being Catholic.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Ummm, well, it's not like I'm a heretic or anything. I more of a spiritual person. It's true, I don't go to church because if there is a God, I'm sure it won't matter to him where I am on Sundays and I like to cook on Sundays. And then there's the whole religion versus science argument, you know?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I shoot a look to Whore Mouth indicating that she'll be sent to sleep under the stairs tonight. I consider purchasing a large kennel. Maybe visit the local sex shop for a human muzzle.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My brother seems okay with this answer and then tells me that there might be classes I have to take.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What the hell? Since when do Godparents have to take classes? Is there a test? A background check to verify my Catholicism? Are they going to submerge me in water ... if I sink I'm okay and if I float I'm a witch? Will I have to "out" other heathens like that Whore Mouth mother of mine? Because she's the first name I'm giving up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Jesus Christ, what if they stumble upon my little blog here where I've written about <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2010/02/touching-myself-with-hand-of-god.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Virgin Mary dildos</span></a> and other topics sure to cast a doubt as to whether or not I'm fit for the title, Godmother. But shouldn't that be considered nothing more than enthusiasm? Ughh, then there's the picture I posted of a <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2010/01/seraphia-50-saint-50-stripper.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">nun in latex</span></a> wearing a gas mask. That counts as religious art, right? God, what about that hot summer day when that woman (dressed in wool in the middle of a heat wave) confronted me and The Boy and told me that Jesus Christ wouldn't approve of me showing my skin to all of the world like a harlot and that I should save myself for my husband. I politely told the woman that Jesus also probably didn't want me to die from heat stroke and that she could kindly fuck off.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I blame all of this on my mother.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Later in the day, I put my devotion to the Catholic faith on display by showing my brother the large iron cross hanging in my hallway. It's parked right next to some of my personal artwork depicting dancing skeletons, astrological markings and Day of the Dead symbology.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He casts me a weary glance, shakes his Irish Catholic head and walks away, clearly concerned for my soul and maybe doubting this whole Godmother thing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Whore Mouth is in the kitchen doing whatever it is that Whore Mouths do when I walk up behind her and whisper in her ear, "It's the thumbscrews for you tonight, wench."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Isn't that what any good Catholic would say?</div><div><br /></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-92052671060747243182010-03-04T10:19:00.000-08:002010-03-04T11:24:54.340-08:00The Blackout Journal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S5AF3dQA8DI/AAAAAAAAAaE/EWrEcG-35OM/s1600-h/alcoholism.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 212px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S5AF3dQA8DI/AAAAAAAAAaE/EWrEcG-35OM/s320/alcoholism.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444858399793672242" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">Him and I go way back. I'm guessing eight or nine years. It's just a guess because some of those years are a little undefined. Like red lipstick on the mouth of a woman who has smoked cigarettes all her life, the years feather and bleed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And he's probably my best friend. The last time I saw him, he was standing on the beach while I waded thigh deep into the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean, scattering the remains of my husband. Because he lives about 250 miles away, our visits have to be planned. We make the plans all the time and inevitably cancel them. I have three kids. He has three jobs. It's just easier to <i>think</i> about taking a trip than actually <i>taking</i> the trip.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We hadn't spoken in a couple of weeks so I was happy to get his call last night. And then he told me about his latest project. He is writing a Blackout Journal.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Blackout Journal.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's like a food journal if you were trying to lose weight, except it's a journal to catalogue his actions and thoughts before alcohol erases it from his memory.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>7:30 PM - Half pint of Jim Beam gone.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He's had some trouble in the past when it comes to moderation. He's sort of an all or nothing kind of guy. Ain't no half-steppin'. His obsessions have consequences. Like the time he called me and told me there was a goose lose in his apartment. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>8:04 PM - Kicking ass in the Texas Hold'em Championship. Fuck yes! Plus two beers!!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's compromised his choice in women as well. Like the girlfriend who sat in his bed all day, nesting. Just sitting. On his bed. All day. We called her Gurpy Bird. Or the girlfriend who sprayed bear stopper in my house while I was pregnant causing a total evacuation of the premises.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>8:33 PM - Called G. Jim almost gone.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>8:46 PM - G tells <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2010/02/vibrators-and-snow-storms-day-in-life.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">funny story</span></a> about her vibrratur. Viberatur. Vibra. Buzzing thing.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>8:51 PM - Beer. G not happy. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He can be poetic and artistic. He's a great cook. Political. Hard working. Likes punk and Gang Starr. Previously obsessed with palindromes ("Rats live on no evil star"). He's the kind of guy you want on your side in a fist fight and in a debate. His IQ is 143.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>9:03 PM - Jim Beam numero dos. Remind G that my IQ is two points higher.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>9:15 PM - Call 2morrow. Fading.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>9:16 PM - Love</i></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-78685125886543552632010-03-01T09:06:00.000-08:002010-03-01T09:59:28.776-08:00Vomitous Maximus<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S4v_xQOomxI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/mTooXgfDGBo/s1600-h/DSC04563.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S4v_xQOomxI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/mTooXgfDGBo/s320/DSC04563.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443725796242397970" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">The Boy has puked once a day, every day, for the last four days.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But yesterday he showed signs of improvement. No nausea. No fever. In fact, his energy level was high enough to force me into a corner where I curled up into the fetal position and went to my happy place (note to reader: my happy place usually involves bed & breakfast accommodations and wine).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I went to bed thinking the worst was over, except for whatever my mother (who, by the way, I'm thinking of referring to as Whore Mouth from here on out) was going through downstairs. Apparently, she has caught the disease from The Boy and she doesn't handle vomiting very well. In fact, I think she was crying at one point and asking God to make it stop.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My dream of being in a car race on a dirt road in Half Moon Bay was interrupted by The Boy's 12:30 AM wails.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Mmmmmmom! Mmmmmom! I have to throw up ... I'm not going to make it!"</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fuck me. I've had enough of <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2010/01/latex-gloves-and-vomit-its-not-as-fun.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">kids puking in floor vents</span></a>. Not tonight. Not on my watch.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">With lightening speed, I launch myself out of bed, run smack into a wall, rebound, fly into his room and simultaneously switch on the light switch while tripping over an abandoned Candyland game.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was my brilliant idea to buy bunk beds. Now my pale faced son is about to lose his shit and can't make it down the ladder in time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I reach up, balance The Boy's stomach on my head and ease him down.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Please don't throw up down my back. Please don't throw up down my back. Please don't throw up down my back."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Running to the bathroom with my son perched on my head, we make it just in time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But my son is a rookie puker and lunges at the toilet at the wrong angle. He's now throwing up almost completely upside down.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">With tears in his eyes and his little knees knocking he cries, <i>"It burns! My nose burns!"</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The next twenty minutes are devoted to blowing his nose in vain.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Boy crawls into bed with me. With a designated puke bucket at the ready and a cold wash cloth on his forehead, I turn off the lights.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Goodnight, Baby Boy."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Goodnight, Baby Girl."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">All is quiet except for the constant sniffing of The Boy who can't breathe out of his nose thanks to a trail of vomit left in his nasal passages.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Sniff. Sniff. Chunk. Sniff. Chunk. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By now, I'm about to puke. I don't know whether I'm actually sick, or just sick of cleaning vomit and loose bowels. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Sniff. Chunk. Sniff. Swallow. Swallow. Chunk. Sniff.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">An hour and a half later, he falls asleep. The next morning he will ask for waffles and not eat them. I'll push enough caffeine in me to give a silverback gorilla the shakes and still be tired. I'll walk Boss Lady to school because she is unscathed from the disease (she tells me it's because she eats healthy) but not before she reads the paper (she says she likes to know what's going on in the world. She's five.) The bruise on my arm from running full speed into a wall will blossom. Whore Mouth will fret over what she should or should not eat. I'll write another post about vomit and remember the days when I used to write about vaginas and my<a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2009/10/shooby-doo-bop-shoo-doo-bop-i-wanna.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;"> imaginary boyfriends</span></a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In non-puke related news, my underachiever achieved an average score and passed her GED!! And it looks like she might have landed a full-time job slingin' deli sandwiches. Yaaay Legal!!! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div><i><img style="text-align: justify;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S4v_USAzPqI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/FyRrUd83hP4/s320/DSC03698.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443725298505039522" /></i></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-91798610524353650372010-02-23T10:18:00.000-08:002010-02-23T22:37:47.440-08:00Vibrators and Snow Storms: A Day In the Life of Miss Spoken<div style="text-align: justify;">It's about eleven o'clock on Saturday night. My brother will start the process of being released from the California State Penitentiary in roughly five hours. He's been locked up for nearly thirteen years but these last five hours are like the last two minutes of a basketball game. It's taking forever.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I'm tired and I'm going to bed and I should fall asleep pretty quickly except that Legal is crashing with me tonight and she's a heavy breather. It's like being spooned by an asthmatic bear that wants to talk and giggle all night. I'm expecting to fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. What I'm not expecting is for the entire bed and walls to start vibrating as soon as my ass hit the mattress.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"What the hell is that?! Is somebody mowing their goddamned lawn this late when it's fucking snowing outside?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Legal props herself up on one elbow, cocks her head to one side and accesses the situation in a matter of seconds. She's like a bloodhound, her tenacious tracking skills are on point.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Mom, it's your vibrator."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh.Good.God.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now I have to reach between the mattress and the box spring to retrieve my little <a href="http://www.edenfantasys.com/vibrators/discreet-vibrators/mia#pcode-D3X"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Lelo Mia</span></a> which has now escalated from buzzing lawnmower to <i>pulsating</i> lawnmower. I finally depress the minus button long enough to turn it off and drop it under the bed so I don't roll over in the middle of the night and start this nightmare all over again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Mom, do you want to be alone? Is your bed clean?" She's loving every minute of this and hoping that I'm soul-crushingly embarrassed. Clearly I wasn't since I'm now sharing the story with the you and the masses, which happens to include my father-in law.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Good night, Moon."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Good night, Mom."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S4QoX-tkibI/AAAAAAAAAZk/L0yaviq4Ku8/s320/DSC04597.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441518642206640562" /><div style="text-align: justify;">That should have been a sign of things to come because Old Man Winter proceeded to knock out my power and dropped two feet of snow around my house. Perfect conditions for traveling across a two lane mountain. The very same mountain that the Donner Party dined on their fallen and frozen companions. I've already got a contingency plan though -- granola bars. And if that fails, I know who I'm going to eat first (sorry Mom).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As we pass abandoned cars on the roads and watch other cars do 180 degree spins on the freeway, I wonder what else can go wrong. How many signs does the universe need to send me before I take the hint, turn around and take my family home? But I haven't seen my brother in over ten years so we trudge along with Johnny Boy at the wheel (again). We're only about an hour or so behind schedule when all traffic stops.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Due to multiple spin outs and weather conditions, the Highway is closed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Closed.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And there we sit, forgetting that the headlights are on. Not paying attention to the doors opening and closing. Not minding the CD that's still playing because it's better than listening to my mother squirm (apparently her bladder is the size of a quarter) and it's better than participating in the idle chatter that has me close to exploding.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">An hour and a half later and traffic starts to move. Everybody except us because our battery is dead. Of course it is.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By the time we are jumped by a CHP Officer, make our way over the mountain and take a detour thanks to Google directions, we arrive. The second leg of this trip was supposed to be picking up Miss Led and her daughter but unfortunately it was way too late.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The good news is that we all made it there and back safely. My brother looks great, as does his wife and kids. Except for not having my sister and niece there, it was perfect.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There were lots of lessons learned over the course of this adventure. One is, never put a pressure sensitive vibrator under your mattress if your daughter will be sleeping with you. Another is, Johnny Boy deserves some kind of gift for always being our steady hand (maybe wenches and beer?).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh.... and another lesson ...... if your highway ever closes and you're near a gas station, go pick up some coffee and Red Bulls for the truck drivers. They'll pay top dollar for some caffeine and even more for your oldest daughter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S4QpGT91pZI/AAAAAAAAAZs/_rVYIpDKhrI/s320/DSC04602.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441519438185997714" /></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-77617466603901734902010-02-18T10:01:00.001-08:002010-02-18T10:36:40.900-08:00I Totally Forged This Letter<div style="text-align: justify;">Dear Innernetz,</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Please excuse Miss Spoken from participating in her own blog for the past week. The reasons for her absence are o'plenty.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">First and foremost, she's convinced that her uterus is evil and the cause of her inability to form complete sentences. It's why she's been trying to remove it with a soup ladle. So far, no good. So instead of that potential crime scene, she's resorted to something called <i>positive thinking</i> where she visualizes her uterus as a blossoming lotus flower or maybe a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgia_O'Keeffe">Georgia O'Keefe</a> painting. I'm sure you wish her all the best and she'd thank you herself except that the positive thinking isn't working so well and her uterus still makes her say things like <i>fuck off</i> and <i>fuck off some more </i>and <i>why the fuck are you still here when I clearly told you to fuck off</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In addition to this scornful uterus problem, her kids are already preparing for Halloween and submitting their absurd requests for costumes. The Boy has decided that he will be the Easter Bunny and Boss Lady would like to be a Vegetarian. This has resulted in many sleepless nights and increased paranoia as she ponders whether or not her kids are just fucking with her.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She's also rather anxious to see her big brother on Sunday. You see, her brother is being released from prison after doing thirteen years behind bar<i>s. </i>That's a long time. So she's sort of going overboard with the preparations for his homecoming. Making multiple shopping lists. Multiple to-do lists. Multiple outfits to coordinate. Multiple chickens to be shoved into the freezer where they await their deep fried deaths. Instead of writing on her blog about <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2009/09/vaginas-mummies-and-19-pound-newborns.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">vaginas and nineteen pound babies</span></a>, she's researching jokes where the punch line doesn't involve fisting or end with a deadpanned,<i> "I used to fuck men like you in prison." </i>This research has taken longer than she anticipated.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thank you for your understanding.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Signed,</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Mrs. Miss Spoken</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-48236900480136049312010-02-12T09:18:00.000-08:002010-02-12T10:37:25.077-08:00Touching Myself With the Hand of God<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S3Wel-6iAXI/AAAAAAAAAZc/WWHUCTOCxKg/s1600-h/baby_jesus.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 182px; height: 259px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S3Wel-6iAXI/AAAAAAAAAZc/WWHUCTOCxKg/s320/baby_jesus.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437426500500586866" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">My mom loves celebrity gossip. She can't tell you when Columbus sailed the ocean blue, but she can tell you when <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2009/SHOWBIZ/Movies/01/02/obit.jett.travolta/index.html">Jett</a><a href="http://www.cnn.com/2009/SHOWBIZ/Movies/01/02/obit.jett.travolta/index.html"> Travolta</a> died. She's magnetically drawn to fake words like <i>Brangelina</i> and cover stories that try to get to the bottom of why <a href="http://www.topsocialite.com/tara-reids-stomach-is-back-to-looking-80-years-old/">Tara Reid</a>'s stomach looks like skin origami. So while she's getting her nightly fix of <a href="http://www.eonline.com/on/shows/enews/index.jsp">E! News</a>, I naturally think it's the perfect time to have a conversation with her about butt plugs (am I the only one who sees <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryan_Seacrest">Ryan </a><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryan_Seacrest">Seacrest</a> and immediately thinks butt plugs?):</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: "Did you know you can buy a butt plug that looks like Tom Cruise?" My tone is rather nonchalant, as if I just asked her if she knew that you can buy pre-packaged swiss cheese sliced extra thin.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She drops her crochet needles and looks at me. She's not sure if this is a joke because telling her believable lies is something I've done all my life. Like the time I told her peanut butter would make her breasts grow larger. She survived a whole week of that torture before I admitted I was kidding and she could stop eating it by the spoonful and slathering herself in peanut oil.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom: "You're kidding, right?" </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: "No, I'm totally serious. You can shove anything up your ass these days .... Tom Cruise, Santa Claus, Buddha ... "</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom: "That's ridiculous!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I smile a little and nod my head as if I agree with her. But I'm not quite done with her yet. You see my mother is Catholic and claims to have never masturbated so whenever I can mix sex and religion, I do.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: "You can also buy a Virgin Mary dildo."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom: "That's horrible!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: "What? You'd prefer the Crucifixion dildo?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom: "You're lying ... that's a sin."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: "Jackhammer Jesus."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom: "Huh?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: "It's called Jackhammer Jesus, mom."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom: "That's disgusting." She's shaking her head trying to rid herself of the image I've just planted into her mind but she just can't do it. It's a bad seed. Once you hear the words <i>Jackhammer Jesus</i>, your mind automatically pictures Jesus, the cross, the fucking thorns, the Exorcist .....</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: "Mom, I thought you loved your God. Don't you want to <i>love</i> your God?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She's still shaking her head and calling me a sinner and stuttering amidst the horror of it all.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: "Mom, let's just say somebody did shove Baby Jesus up their ass or touched themselves with the Hand of God ... how many Hail Mary's do you think would cover that?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom: "No..." Now she can't stop blinking as she sees the image of her daughter stumbling drunk through the gates of Hell.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: "Ballpark figure?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom: "You didn't...." It's a question, not a statement.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: Slight shrug of the shoulder, roll of the eyes, batting lashes .....</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom: "You better pray tonight."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: "Oh I will, mom ... I will ....." </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-69633771288158165792010-02-09T13:22:00.000-08:002010-02-09T14:42:44.208-08:00How I Could Just Kill A Man<div style="text-align: justify;">When my family and I moved from San Francisco's Mission District, part of the reason (other than not being able to afford little things like food and rent) was to live in a neighborhood where the kids could play outside and the schools had actual text books -- to basically live a better life. Maybe Legal would finish high school and find a boyfriend that wasn't cloaked in red from head to toe and didn't have a record. Maybe we wouldn't have a crazy neighbor that would routinely call the police on us with claims that we were dragging dead bodies across the floor and throwing pots of piss at her door. Maybe Seltar would get a job where the work was consistent and the boss wasn't high on Oxycontin. <i>Dream a little dream ......</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So we made the move and from that very first night things were better. Much better.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We moved into a nice community of townhouses with a pool and a skatepark around the corner and an elementary school a short walk away. Seltar's job was a perfect fit. Neighbors actually introduced themselves and everybody was very friendly and even the UPS driver would bring lollipops for the kids every time he made a delivery. At first I thought this behavior was more Dateline Predator than genuine kindness, but then I relaxed a bit. Everybody moved a whole lot slower than they did in The City and it appeared that nobody here knew how to use a goddamn horn. All of these things took some getting used to. But life was good and the neighborhood was great. You didn't have to worry about wearing red on 16th Street or wearing blue on 24th.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2009/08/we-miss-you.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Seltar passed</span></a> and things got dark again. And there I sat for awhile but not too long. At some point, you start to shower regularly again and dinner becomes more than just semi-cooked rigatoni or a pizza delivered by a pimpled face boy that knows your whole family on a first name basis because he's ringing your doorbell four times a week.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But now my safe and quiet neighborhood is looking more like a scene from something <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Singleton"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">John Singleton</span></a> would direct. Okay, maybe not <i>that</i> hood. But something close, where close means not really close at all. But still, not what I signed up for. These are the suburbs, dammit!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">First there was <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;"><a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2009/05/my-kind-of-mothers-day.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">The</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2009/05/my-kind-of-mothers-day.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Mother's Day Street Brawl of 2009</span></a>. Then The Boy did a little <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2009/09/boys-first-misdemeanor.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">shoplifting</span></a>, Miss Perceived <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2009/10/theres-cat-in-bag-in-hole-in-ground-and.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">robbed a grave</span></a>, undercover <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2010/01/why-count-sheep-when-you-can-count.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">cops made a bust</span></a> right outside my house (turns out the guy robbed the gas station around the corner) and our <a href="http://gkstratos-allyoureview.blogspot.com/2010/02/car-thieves-cattle-prods-and-shotguns.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">car was stolen</span></a>, recovered and then broken into again.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Fuck, right?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But wait ... there's more! Some random FuckNut tried to break into the vacant townhouse that is located <i>right across from mine</i>, by breaking out the entire two front windows. It wasn't even the hour when you would expect this type of shit. It was only 9 o'clock! I know that when I used to break into empty houses to steal microwaves and paint thinner, I wouldn't make my move until at least two in the morning. I'm Ninja like that.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lastly, my daughter was at the local library trying to use the computer so she can get a motherfucking job and put to rest my constant bickering, when some sick fuck pedophile slithered into the teen area of the library and started jerking off.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But fear not readers because Miss Spoken has got herself a plan and it looks a little like this:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S3Hh65gaFWI/AAAAAAAAAZE/zbfHvFNpSCE/s320/the+brave+one.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436374627198309730" /><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S3HiHlQH0xI/AAAAAAAAAZM/_nrknPFIM1s/s320/spit-your-grave-remake-2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436374845099594514" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>Masturbate in front of my kid again and I will chop, cripple and mutilate beyond recognition and no jury in Nevada will convict me.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-38273194835850803772010-02-07T09:02:00.000-08:002010-02-07T18:29:16.514-08:00Roll It Like a B-Side: The Interviews<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S278X9HACqI/AAAAAAAAAY0/L0X_tfftwvg/s320/232323232+fp58%3Dot_2324%3D559%3D3.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435559288753883810" /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What caught my attention initially was her blog name, <a href="http://www.mommywantsvodka.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Mommy Wants Vodka</span></a>. The little voice inside my head whispered, <i>yes .... mommy <b>does</b> want vodka. </i>What kept me coming back was writer Aunt Becky's sarcasm, humor and frequent use of the term "crotch parasite."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Aunt Becky's words of wisdom can also be found at <a href="http://toywithme.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Toy With Me</span></a> where she writes a weekly column on important topics such as the humiliation of having a stripper's balls in her face and how, once upon a time, she was afraid of her vagina.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Although Aunt Becky is busy with her plot to take over the world via freelance writing and becoming a super villain, she has taken the time to give Miss Spoken's reader an insight into the workings of the mind that is <a href="http://www.mommywantsvodka.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Mommy Wants Vodka</span></a>:</div><div><ol><li>What is your current state of mind? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Fat and happy. Alternately, light and airy.</span></li><li>Chocolate or lemon? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Why have OR when you can have AND?</span></li><li>You've just been promoted to Porn Star. What's your name? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Fists of Fury.</span></li><li>What's the last movie that made you cry? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Joe Dirt.</span></li><li>A word you love: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Cacophony</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">. It just rolls off the tongue so awesomely.</span></li><li>A word you hate: <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Deadlines</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">. Because. Obviously.</span></li><li>I'm looking through your closet. What am I surprised to find? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Boxing gloves.</span></li><li>Plane, train or automobile? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Bangs pots and pans. "Ooook-la-homa! Oklahoma! Oklahoma! Oklahoma!"</span></li><li>What's your idea of perfect happiness? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;"> Sleep. Lots of sleep.</span></li><li>What talent would you most like to have? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">The ability to sleep. Alternately, the ability to mass-produce Vicodin from garbage.</span></li><li>What am I most likely to trip over in your house? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">A crotch parasite.</span></li><li>Richard Pryor, George Carlin or Steve Martin? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">See #8. Or: Steve Martin.</span></li><li>Kathy Griffin, Chelsea Handler or Lisa Lampanelli? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;"> Ms. Handler.</span></li><li>It's 100 degrees outside. Where are you? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Hell, baby. And yes, there IS vodka here.</span></li><li>What do you consider the most overrated virtue? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Motherfucking patience.</span></li><li>Lights on or off? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Depends on who I'm humping.</span></li><li>What'cha reading? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;"> US Weekly.</span></li><li>The best thing on TV is: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">House, MD</span></li><li>Where am I most likely to bump into you? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">My boyfriend, Target.</span></li><li>It's Thursday night. What's for dinner? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;"> Uh. Whatever you're picking me up?</span></li><li>What did they call you in High School? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">"Doll Face"</span></li><li>What's a song you never get tired of listening to? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Prince's "P Control."</span></li><li>Which words or phrases do you most overuse? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Awesome.</span></li><li>What are you wearing? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">Less than I should be, given that it's subzero in Chicago. Fresh ink, man, FEEL THE BURN.</span></li><li>Give me some words to live by ... <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">"There are no finer words in the English language than 'encased meats," my friends. Except maybe "hooray beer!"</span></li></ol><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Lucida Grande';"><a href="http://www.mommywantsvodka.com/" mce_href="http://www.mommywantsvodka.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i293.photobucket.com/albums/mm61/badassgeek/MWV/button_175.jpg" mce_src="http://i293.photobucket.com/albums/mm61/badassgeek/MWV/button_175.jpg" alt="Mommy Wants Vodka" /></a></span></span></span></div></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-25541547775872718412010-02-03T09:08:00.000-08:002010-02-03T10:19:10.361-08:00Car Thieves, Cattle Prods and Shotguns: Welcome to Nevada<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S2m9o5QFDaI/AAAAAAAAAYs/1eyq7-YxCQ4/s1600-h/woman-with-shotgun.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 206px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S2m9o5QFDaI/AAAAAAAAAYs/1eyq7-YxCQ4/s320/woman-with-shotgun.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434082935659892130" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">I see the Officer open the rear passenger door and he says something to my mother. She then steps inside with her left leg, ducking her head as she guides herself into the cramped backseat. A few minutes later, the car makes a u-turn in the middle of my street and they're gone.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Stop.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Rewind.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's 3:00 AM Sunday morning when the phone next to my bed rings. I've had a lifetime of late-night calls that are never good. Nobody calls me at that hour to say they love me. Nobody calls me that late to tell me that they're coming over in the morning with mimosas and a fucking muffin basket. The content of these calls is always misery and/or some shade of violence.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I answer on the first ring with a tone that suggests I'm completely awake and have been knitting eye patches for kittens all night. The voice on the other end is My Gay and he's out of breath and between his huffs and puffs I begin to understand the situation: he borrowed my mom's car to go to work and it was stolen from the employee parking lot.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Fuck.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Motherfuck.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now it's 4:00 AM, and my mom and I are on our 43rd cup of coffee, waiting for the police. When the Officer arrives, he takes her statement and explains how her Jeep Laredo is the second most popular car among car thieves out here.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Awesome. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She signs her statement, he writes down the case number and then he's gone. I lock the door and tell my mom to kiss her car goodbye because there is no way she's going to get it back and if she does, it won't be in one piece. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>P.S. ... she's not covered for theft. Translation: she's fucked.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So when the call came in the very next day saying that they thought they found her car, I was in total shock. In fact, the car was parked in an apartment complex and under surveillance and would she like an Officer to come pick her up and take her to retrieve her car? Hells yes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">An Officer picks up my mom and takes her to the actual spot where an undercover cop is watching her car. It's a huge apartment complex with a move-in special of $99 and no credit check. The kind of place where flea market blankets act as curtains and discarded diapers litter the walkways. Real uptown livin'.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The car is relatively unscathed and all they left behind was some makeshift drug paraphernalia and the distinct smell of junkie. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But the story doesn't end there because that very night, some motherfucker (same motherfuckers?) broke into her car again and this time, stole my garage door opener. The garage door that leads directly into a garage full of power tools. A garage door that leads directly into my home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now my undiagnosed but totally relevant anxiety disorder kicks in and I think it's safe to say that I freaked the fuck out. I immediately raced to Lowe's to purchase something (anything) that would bolt my garage door shut. This being Nevada, the helpful clerk told me to buy a shotgun. He was serious.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fast forward to me back at home where I'm moving at breakneck speeds, locking windows and doors, installing a club on my mom's steering wheel and gluing shut her faulty front wing windows. Then with the help of Johnny Boy, I disengage the garage door and I start to feel a little better, but not much. This bullshit is triggering me in all kinds of ways. I remember being about three or four and our home was burglarized while we slept. A couple of years later I watched as my Grandpa was held at gunpoint by two teenagers who wanted cash but only found an old man with a paycheck and a frozen turkey. I wonder if my house is being watched because they know that my husband has passed and the only constant male presence here is a six year old boy. At this point, I'm breaking out in hives and putting together a checklist in my head of weapons to be passed out before bedtime.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My mother picks out a lovely baseball bat and I choose something that can easily be inserted between a would-be robber's ribs. I'm considering sleeping with the cattle prod ... spooning it like a long lost lover. My mind flips back to that cowboy/Lowe's employee who suggested a shotgun. <i>Hmmmm ..... </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now I will spend the rest of the day researching Nevada's laws on the use of deadly force and justifiable homicide.</div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-24685089455657628232010-01-29T09:38:00.000-08:002010-01-29T10:58:02.293-08:00The Whore's Head<div style="text-align: justify;">It was 2007. He went Christmas shopping without me and came home high from his self-proclaimed success. I knew this would not bode well for me. He was prone to buy things that required allen wrenches and drills. Games with tiny pieces made from skin splitting plastic. Toys that the kids would "grow into" which means one of two things; either he <i>had</i> one as a kid or <i>wanted</i> one as a kid.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So it was no surprise when he showed me the WWF Wrestling Ring he bought for The Boy. It even came with a little plastic folding chair to ensure that his playtime included the simulated brain hemorrhaging of his opponent. It also came with enough rope for me to hang myself.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then he showed me Boss Lady's gift:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><img style="text-align: justify;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 215px; height: 215px; " src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S2MmNg_OO2I/AAAAAAAAAYk/r4PzWfDFeEo/s320/Bratz.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432227589174213474" /><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: What the fuck is that?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Him: It's a Bratz doll.<i> </i><i>(His expression reads: Duhhhh) </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: It's a whore's head. You bought our daughter a whore's head.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Him: I thought she'd like to do her hair.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: She has porn lips and it looks like she's been sucking dick all day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>(He looks at her lips as if he's trying to detect if I'm correct and if I am correct, maybe he'll just keep the whore's head for himself.)</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: Are you going to buy The Boy a whore, too?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Him: Maybe. His sixteenth birthday sounds about right.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: Do me a favor and buy the <i>whole</i> whore next time. The last thing I need around here is a bunch of whore heads rolling around.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Him: Oh, I will. Gonna buy me one, too.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: Well, don't forget about me. Maybe we can get a family deal. Super-size our meal, so to speak.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Him: You're filthy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: You're the one that bought a three year old a whore's head. And by the way, you do this all the time -- buying things that <i>you</i> really want and pretending it's for the kids. If you wanted a decapitated whore for Christmas, you could of just told me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Him: Really?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: Really.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Him: I love you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: You should.</div><div><br /></div></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078084530177834292.post-31266852370630963232010-01-27T09:47:00.000-08:002010-01-27T11:03:45.292-08:00Miss Spoken's State of (Her) Union Address<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S2CMgSS9CcI/AAAAAAAAAYc/3Hl7Lcvw5NU/s1600-h/pinup+with+flag.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tCnGbl8WdTA/S2CMgSS9CcI/AAAAAAAAAYc/3Hl7Lcvw5NU/s320/pinup+with+flag.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431495636903856578" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">It's been an entire thirty seven years since I became President of my own Union. I'm sure you're thinking to yourself, <i>Hey fuck-nut, aren't we <b>all</b> President of our own Unions?</i> and to that I would declare a resounding <i>Ummm, no.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i>Some people take <b>years</b> to become President of their own Union. You know who I'm talking about. They start their laxidasical lives as babies waiting for their mother's milk to come in instead of just nuzzling up to the lactating cat (lazy fucking newborns). These were the Junior High girls that took an F in gym class instead of paying me to forge a note in my perfectly adult-worthy longhand:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Dear Mr. Dempsey,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Please excuse my daughter, Mindy May, from P.E. class today (Monday, October 3, 1985) for she is suffering from significant cramping due to her menstrual cycle.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Thank you for your discretion and understanding,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Mrs. May</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It pays to be in Honors English. At $1 a note, multiplied by a school full of bleeding girls, my self-enterprising ass could afford the new Tears For Fears album. Fuck chores, fuck allowance <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">(Shout, shout, let it all out). <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; ">I'm President of my Union and in charge of all financial matters.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Even in High School, I declared my living conditions uninhabitable and moved out. Sure I floated from friend's couch to friend's floor and maybe a night or two on the beach but, dammit, a President has to sometimes mingle amongst the <strike>homeless</strike> common folk. I also spent a couple of weeks at a Korean friend's house, surviving on Kimchi and cold rice (height: 5'10, est. weight: 12 lbs). I considered this necessary to understand foreign policies. I am now very savvy when it comes to other cultures, and not just because my mother dated a Filipino man and my father speaks in tongues (Meth tongues, that is).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today, the State of my Union is this:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The housing crisis you might be experiencing in <i>your</i> Union, is relatively mild in mine. Yes, I have a landlord that is often "out of the country" and an improperly installed skylight which sometimes causes it to drizzle in my living room, but I am not living in a cardboard box under the bridge. I consider this a great success.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Employment is down. Creativity is up. Someday, maybe the two shall meet and I'll get paid for writing about vaginas and Xanax. I would like to pass a bill that allows me to be paid per usage of the word <i>fuck</i> as well.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Healthcare is non-existent which is why I may have to start buying Xanax from Mexico. Can you smuggle pills in a gasoline tank? It's also the reason I'm considering performing at-home pap smears.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Miss Spokenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18200404048175661223noreply@blogger.com11