spam retro ad

Spam, My Ass! (and make that an unlined ass)

What do ya know?  I checked that little spam folder as promised and not only did I find some stupid ploys to get me to spend some of my hard-earned cash, I found some legitimate comments from some of my blog buddies!!!  To say I’m a tad angry (mostly at myself for not keeping an eye on this) is putting it lightly.

Firstly, dear buds, if you commented on my blog but never got a reply from me or saw it on my blog, I did not delete it or ignore you!  I apologize if this happened to you and I curse the universe (and Askimet!)  for randomly assigning a perfectly reasonable reply to my spam folder.

Secondly, just what constitutes spam fodder in the dubious rationale of Askimet?  A person can type porn, shit, piss and fuck into a reply and they sail by without question.  I can see spamming a long-winded, wholly unrelated and unsolicited marketing ploy but an innocent comment such as “I like the color green”, et al?  I wonder what Askimet’s programmers have against green?  Did someone have a fight with Greenpeace that day and decide that all related comments would languish in spam purgatory?

Lastly, I shall endeavor to check this little treasure trove more frequently, not only to corral my reader’s wayward replies to their rightful place of respect and dignity but also to get a really good laugh on.  Have you read your spam lately?  Here’s a gem:

“Dear Value Customer, We’re sorry for this . Please read the GOOD deal for you in http://www.BAGVINA.com . With a full wharehouse of bags & comfortable shopping place. We bring you the best service in Vietnam with speaking English staffs By located in borderline of District 1 HCMC. Please print the map above then taxi driver will take you here. For DEALER OVERSEA, contact us“

What the fuck?  Pity they didn’t get their speaking English staff to write their blurb.  Are they sorry I don’t have the funds to fly to their comfortable wharehouse of bags in Vietnam?  Do they want me to go there or browse their website for good value?  I don’t need any bags, I’ve got loads of grocery sacks stuffed in my garage.  Although, I have always wanted to go to Vietnam and I am a value customer so perhaps I will look them up when I finally get there.  Mission accomplished, BAGVINA.com!  I salute you.

I would put some more in but you get my drift.  I applaud Askimet for saving me the trouble of moderating these enterprising web-trawlers’ comments but let loose the reins on bloggers that actually follow my blog, dudes!  I can’t be hopping in there every day to save my ass from missing out on a buddy’s really good conversation starter because they typed “Will.i.am” in a reply and it went straight to spam for having too many periods in unlikely places.

Rant over.  Now, who would like a refreshing salt-laden slice a Spam to go with that w(h)ine I just poured?

xtina5

Sad, Indeed…

…that my most viewed post is only such because I tagged it with “pantylines.”  I wrote it about 3 months ago and it’s still bringing up the hits.  The lesson learned?  If you want a particular post to be hit on often, use that tag.  It really has improved my stats.  I average about 3 hits per day on “Rearview Mirror” with search terms such as “ass panty”, “panty ass”, and “ass lines.”  It isn’t just one person because you would think he/she would get tired of viewing my post.  There must exist an entire platoon of ass-line seeking souls out there, searching for the elusive perfect pantyline photo and stumbling upon my blog.

How many of those pantyline lovers have actually signed on as a follower of my blog and then became utterly disenchanted when they discover I don’t focus on blobs of female ass poking out of tight panties through their yoga pants?

How thoroughly annoying to open up my blog and read about my undying love for a passing disco diva or my fascination with Coldplay instead of an article on the superior quality of Fruit of the Loom’s pantylines over those caused by Victoria’s Secret.

Or how completely dissatisfied and unfulfilled they must feel when I don’t surprise them by blogging another random musing, replete with new, unseen on the web photos of fabulously lined derrieres.

Today’s post will be an experiment.  I’m going to tag it with “booty call” and since I am writing about the butt’s siren song luring sailors of the cyber-seas into unpantylined disappointment (no photos of ass lines!) it isn’t a randomly unrelated tag.  I hope I can get some bizarre comments to moderate so I can have fodder for another post!  The “panty ass” seekers are polite or bored and move on, leaving only the digital footprint of a hit.  Perhaps the “booty call” plunderers will spice it up a bit and leave some tart replies for me.  I will be sure to troll my spam folder later this week too.  Let’s hope something fun comes my way!

To all a great week and I leave you with a video I came across after doing my own nasty search of the web.  I was actually trying to dig up dirt on Christina Aguilera.   She pissed me off while I was watching the finals on “The Voice.”   She chastised a contestant’s choice of song, calling it “derogatory to women” but here she is in this video, calling the kettle black.  I personally don’t have a problem with songs that call people bad names or videos that feature women prancing around in their panties faking masturbation.  I have a problem with hypocrites.  So bugger off, Cristina. And I’m glad your “real man” (to quote Christina) came in last. Man, oh man, I’m juvenile.

C’mon, Ms. Aguilera, show us how it’s supposed to be done:

Trinity: A Novel That’s Got it All

Patrick Fox, one of my Brit blog buddies, is the author of Trinity,  a hip and crisply cool tale of one man’s unwitting search for destiny and true love.  I heard about his novel from  Shahidah, a friend I’ve made here in blogland, and I was intrigued and started to follow his blog.  After reading his posts and building a rapport with Patrick, I simply had to buy his book.  When I was perusing the synopsis on amazon.com I realized this sort of book was not my usual cup of tea since I prefer reading about dead monarchs so I was a bit sketchy on whether I would like it or not.  But like it I did so I’ve got to share my enthusiasm!

Ben Rider had ambled through life with one finger on the trigger of self-destruction when it came to relationships.  He created a successful gaming company but was horrible at playing the ultimate game called love.   Just when his circumstances are about to take another plunge, his boyhood imaginary friend, Trinity, who had vanished inexplicably when Ben turned 13, pops in unexpectedly for another round of “now you see me, now you don’t, and neither does anyone else” and the real journey begins.   Trinity reveals that his return is for a higher purpose but leaves Ben, and us, the readers, wondering just what in tarnation the cowboy/pirate/private eye is trying to help him with.  All in good time, me hearties, all in good time and it is a wild, fun ride.

The novel takes us through Ben’s encounters with surly thugs, near-death experiences, and an ominous chance meeting with a beautiful stranger  as he falls into finding himself and his destiny, all with wry wit and smashingly funny dialogue.

It was a true joy to read this book.  Mr. Fox weaves a delightfully humourous topsy-turvy tale of a modern man propelling himself down the age-old path of self-realization.  I’m still wondering if Trinity is from another dimension, Ben’s version of Jiminy Cricket or both.  You must read it and tell me what you think.

“Trinity” is currently available as a Kindle e-Book, which can be converted to other formats if you’re like me and have another type of e-reader, or you can download it to your PC. If you like to hold an actual book, fret no more!  It is soon to be published in paperback and I plan on getting a copy in this format as well.   (Don’t be surprised, Patrick, when it comes in the post with a letter from me begging for your autograph!)  Do yourself a favor, get thee on amazon.com, purchase the book and enjoy!

If you have questions for the author, Patrick Fox can be contacted at:

loose.cannon@me.com

http://twitter.com/PatrickFox_

http://oneloosecannon.wordpress.com

donna summer

I’m Not Talking Just For Play

It was 1979 and the living was not so easy.  I was 11 years old, growing up in the shadow of my cooler, older sister and struggling to catch hold of some semblance of identity.  I had only one burning desire, really, and that was to get my hot little hands on Donna Summer’s Greatest Hits album.  I don’t remember if I begged, borrowed or stole the cash to purchase this LP, most likely a little of all three, I was that desperate to have a copy of my own.  Or maybe the family got tired of me whining about it and got it for me.  Regardless, it was my very first LP.  I had finally moved up from the ranks of junior 45 rpm collector to the big time of certified album owner and I played that record til it could play no more.  I memorized every lyric and Donna’s voice was a constant companion throughout my childhood until I left the land of glittering dance floor lights for post-punk and head banger’s balls.

And now she is gone.

To my budding pre-teen persona, Donna was the most glamorous, beautiful creature on the planet.  Her voice and music took me away from all the angst of juvenile back-biting and hormonal surges.  I wanted to be black, gorgeous and a diva of disco, just like her.  I would pretend I was mocha skinned with luxurious locks of ebony hair and sing my heart out in the bathroom with her LPs blaring through the house.  Alone, of course.  My parents were more into Molly Hatchet and my sister was a punk rocker so I shared my disco queen fantasy with me, myself and I.  But Donna was there too and that’s all that really mattered to me.

I was working out in the gym yesterday watching CNN when I learned she had passed away.  I had to get off the machine because my tears were blurring my vision and causing me to lose my balance.  I still can’t believe she is gone and the tears are welling up again and splashing onto my keyboard as I type. I’m dead serious.  I’m balling like a baby and I can barely see.   She was my first hero.  Until she came along and swept me off my feet with the soulful “Love to Love You, Baby” and “I Feel Love” I never knew what it could feel like to lose oneself in a song.  One might consider disco music a bit shallow to find one’s soul in but I beg to differ.  I was a kid and didn’t know about Studio 54 and the coke-infused party  scene that disco was born into.  I only knew that I had found a voice that could teleport me away from the trailer park white-trash reality that I was born into.  With Donna I could be who I really wanted to be and I will always be grateful for her saving grace.  I’m still white and still a humble nobody but even now, I know I can put on “MacArthur Park” and melt into the sweet dawn of Donna Summer’s glorious voice.

I lost touch with Donna’s music as I grew and morphed with the times and the ever-changing music scene but her songs will always take me away to that carefree land of the dance floor, to my wooden spoon microphone days, to a place where I can be a glorious creature of disco nirvana.

Donna, I always was and forever shall be your’s, ’til eternity.

EvilFerrisWheel

Since You Didn’t Ask, I Will Tell You Anyway

Music for you to enjoy this fine Monday Morning:

I was reading Mary Louise Eklund’s blog this morning and it occurred to me that I have some quirky likes and dislikes, some which you probably share with me but are too wise to tell.  I have no such shame so I’m going to lay a few out on the platter of contemplation.  Go ahead, raise your eyebrows and whistle that breath through your teeth.  I can’t see or hear you, more’s the pity…

  1. I really dislike amateur porn.  If I’m going to watch someone having sex they better look good and have some sense of timing.  Nothing is more of a turn-off than watching saggy middle-aged folks getting it on and then coming too soon.  If I wanted to watch that I would get out the binoculars and peep in on my neighbors.
  2. I love watching French movies on Netflix.  The actresses have small boobies, like me, and the language is lovely to listen to.  Sometimes when I can’t fall asleep  I turn one on the telly and instantly nod off.  They’re my lullabies and better than counting sheep.  I’ve tried to count sheep but I make my cuddly wooly beasts too real and all I can think of is all that noisy bleating and copious amounts of sheep turds to clean up.
  3. I like to chew my nails.  That’s not odd, you say.  What I mean is, I like to clip off a fingernail and then nibble on it for a while and use it to pick my teeth.  Don’t fret, I never do this in public.  I may be strange but I know my boundaries.
  4. I cry on ferris wheels.  The last one I rode at Disney’s California Adventure had me begging for my mammy, I was that petrified with fear.  I’ve skydived and had a better time hurtling towards terra firma at 120 mph than I ever did hanging helpless in a swinging car 160 feet in mid-air.  I. Am. A. Wuss.
  5. I spray myself with perfume before going to bed in the hopes that I will have sweet dreams.  What utter nonsense.  But hey, a girl can’t be knocked for trying every trick she can muster, right?
  6. I love the smell of fresh horse dung, or horse apples, as we used to say when I was a kidlet.  I wish human doo-doo could smell so good.  It would make using the public restroom much more pleasant.
  7. Speaking of taking a dump in the public john….I never use a toilet if I smell #2 in the air and the restroom is private, one-toitie only.  I don’t want to come out of it and have someone go in after me and think I left that nasty odor.  I will walk a mile until I hit another one that doesn’t smell like, well…shit.
  8. I like drinking hot sauce.  I learned this trick from an old pharmacist I used to work with.  He was a Vietnam Vet and he drank at least one bottle a day.  When I first saw him taking big gulps from a Cholula bottle I thought he was showing some kind of PTSD symptom.  I asked him what the <bleep>he was doing and he told me that it kept his blood from boiling; that’s how he handled all the crazy jerks screaming and yelling at the pharmacy counter.   And I tell you, it certainly does give you something else to think about when someone is calling you a stupid bitch because their insurance isn’t processing their script for Vicodin.
  9. I hate it when someone brings in a person who was speedballing (heroin mixed with cocaine) and the OD’er actually had a “Do Not Resuscitate” body-bag tag tattooed on his foot.  This happened to me two days ago, no lie.  Although we tried our hardest to get that guy’s heart pumping again, he got his ultimate last wish.  Whoever brought him in obviously cannot read.  (I was a little wigged out, to be sure.)
  10. And last but probably not least, I love giving people 2nd, 3rd, 4th and all the way to Omega chances to do the right thing.  You never know what a person’s Rock Bottom of Do Not Pass Go is.  Call me a fool but I prefer the label “professional optimist.”  Unless I happen to be married to a loser who sells his Oxycontin to his friends (also known as my second husband.)  That was the proof I needed to boot him to the curb.  What kind of pharmacist would I be to keep a would-be felon in my bed?  He wasn’t even that good in the sack.

If you’ve got any bizarre likes or dislikes or downright strange habits I would love to hear about them.  Be honest, be sincere.  Give me the low-down.  I’ll get back to you later tonight after I get up from sleeping the day away in my coffin.  Just kidding…I may be a nightwalker but I like my cozy mattress.  Have a beautiful day!

penis couch

Conflicted Members, Please Take a Seat

It’s no wonder that the extreme conservative right-wing of America’s politicians are waging a war against women’s rights. Most of these poor confused souls have an appendage in serious need of talk-therapy and high doses of lithium. Please follow my musing mind…
The penis is highly complex organ burdened with severe multiple personality disorder.  Willy, Woody, Johnson, Peter, Dick,

are among the various personas residing inside the average male penis.  Cock, Pecker, Beef, Cob, and Porker come out now and then to give the penis that farm-sy,  living off the fruits of the earth side it so craves.  Dong, Schlong, King Kong…there’s just way too many personalities hanging out in one organ.  I can see identity crisis mode kicking in and crowding out reason…but is it pardonable?  Members, stop pulling that Sybil bullshit and decide who you want to be or get the hell out of office.

The average conservative’s penis has madonna/whore complex as well. “The view of women as either Madonnas or whores limits women’s sexual expression, offering two mutually exclusive ways to construct a sexual identity.[4] The duality implies that women must assume subservient roles, either as madonnas to be protected or as whores to be punished by men.”  (quote from my favorite “is it true?” site, wikipedia.)  Get a grip, dicks.  The vaginas in your lives can shag you rotten, bring home the bacon and still require a little masculine presence.  Chaka Khan sang this song for a reason so just frackin’ relax already!

(Sorry, the video is boring, so just sit back and listen to the woman groove.)

And then there’s the metamorphosis issue.  At the sight of the BB’s (boobs and buttocks) it goes from teeny weenie to “Got Tent?” and I suppose that can lead to serious vagina envy.  Us gals can get all hot and bothered and no one is the wiser.  Those padded bras offer more than just added cleavage.

Legislators, please spend more time and money working out your members’ conflicts at the nearest corner couch trotter so you can get down to the business of running your state or face the prospect of one cold lonely road of: