Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Scrotal Recall

Located in Nevada's high desert sits a little brothel called the Shady Lady Ranch.

Isn't she a beauty?

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.

Anyway, I had a point about the Shady Lady Ranch and I should probably get down to it.

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 My Own Private Idaho 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 official male prostitute. I'm sure his mother is proud.

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 put them in the trunk pay them.

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:

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?

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.

Yes, Markus the gay 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.

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:

Friday, March 26, 2010

Fun With Over the Counter Medications!

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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 ..... nothing. 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:

But as the wind changed direction
The temple band took five
The crowd caught a whiff
Of that crazy Casbah jjjiiiivvvveeee

Audio Psychosis; take a few benzos and call me in the morning.

I've gotten so good that I can also diagnose other people. I've already diagnosed The Boy with an eating disorder. 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.

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.

Besides, I'm pretty sure what I had is walking pneumonia. Or maybe bronchitis. Restless Leg Syndrome? Probably some kind of pulmonary vascular disease.

Whatever it was, I mean is, 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, "You wanna see my rope collection?"

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Does This Meat Tenderizer Come With Lubricant?

Pampered Chef ... 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.

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."

*Ring .... Ring .....*


"Hey Will, say crackers and cheese."

*Insert muffled sounds of three grown women giggling*

"Huh? What? Why?"

"Just fucking say it."

"Crackerths and Cheesth."

"Bwahahahaha! Shit, I gotta go. I think Mom just pissed herself."

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.

And we were especially full of the filth that night.

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*

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.

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.

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.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Whore Mouth Almost Blows It ... Again

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.

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.

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.

My brother began the Godmother conversation by looking at his wife, turning to me and then said, "Sit down. My wife and I have something we want to talk to you about."

Fuck. I didn't do it. I don't know nuthin' about no robbery.

"We want to know if you'll be Junior's Godmother."


"Sure. I can do that."

And then of course, Whore Mouth (aka my mom) has to chime in.

"Maybe you should ask her if she believes in God."


My brother looks to his wife. Blink. Looks to me. Blink, blink. Looks to his wife.

"You don't believe in God?"

This is serious business. My brother prides himself on a few things, two of them are being Irish and being Catholic.

"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?"

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.

My brother seems okay with this answer and then tells me that there might be classes I have to take.

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.

Jesus Christ, what if they stumble upon my little blog here where I've written about Virgin Mary dildos 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 nun in latex 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.

I blame all of this on my mother.

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.

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.

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."

Isn't that what any good Catholic would say?

Thursday, March 4, 2010

The Blackout Journal

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.

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 think about taking a trip than actually taking the trip.

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.

Blackout Journal.

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.

7:30 PM - Half pint of Jim Beam gone.

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.

8:04 PM - Kicking ass in the Texas Hold'em Championship. Fuck yes! Plus two beers!!

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.

8:33 PM - Called G. Jim almost gone.

8:46 PM - G tells funny story about her vibrratur. Viberatur. Vibra. Buzzing thing.

8:51 PM - Beer. G not happy.

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.

9:03 PM - Jim Beam numero dos. Remind G that my IQ is two points higher.

9:15 PM - Call 2morrow. Fading.

9:16 PM - Love

Monday, March 1, 2010

Vomitous Maximus

The Boy has puked once a day, every day, for the last four days.

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).

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.

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.

"Mmmmmmom! Mmmmmom! I have to throw up ... I'm not going to make it!"

Fuck me. I've had enough of kids puking in floor vents. Not tonight. Not on my watch.

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.

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.

I reach up, balance The Boy's stomach on my head and ease him down.

"Please don't throw up down my back. Please don't throw up down my back. Please don't throw up down my back."

Running to the bathroom with my son perched on my head, we make it just in time.

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.

With tears in his eyes and his little knees knocking he cries, "It burns! My nose burns!"

The next twenty minutes are devoted to blowing his nose in vain.

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.

"Goodnight, Baby Boy."

"Goodnight, Baby Girl."

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.

Sniff. Sniff. Chunk. Sniff. Chunk.

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.

Sniff. Chunk. Sniff. Swallow. Swallow. Chunk. Sniff.

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 imaginary boyfriends.

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!!!