Who Gives a Shit??

Mainstream media has a way of pounding certain stories into the ground until it's all we can do to not bang our head against a wall when hearing about them for the 857th time. Here are some things I am really, really fucking sick of hearing about:

Jennifer Aniston's love life.
I do not give a shit that she was married to Brad Pitt nor that she has had a string of poor relationships. I do not care that she is engaged nor do I think impending nuptials will be worthy of the tittle "Wedding of the Century. Seriously?? She is a lousy actress who had a rich daddy who kindly got her a nose job as a teen. She has great legs, the same hairstyle since she was Rachel on Friends, and a whiney tone when she talks. Moving on..

Taylor Swift.
I DID feel sorry for her when Kanye swooped in to steal her moment of glory at the Grammy's. But now I think she is a bit of a whore. She is 20, dating an 18 year-old KENNEDY. I'm sure it is out of love and affection, not at all for publicity and money. She has dated everyone and then when it doesn't work out (I suspect she is cray-cray), she writes mean and/or melancholy tunes about her exes we are all supposed to listen to and thus feel sorry for her. Not buying it, you twanging tramp. P.S.--I hate country music.

Alec Baldwin and his new 20-something wife, the yoga instructor.
Alec Baldwin's prime was when he did the movie, The Marrying Man in 1991, and was married to Kim Basinger. The relationship fizzled, he became a bloated, booze-guzzling fatty, and then was lucky enough to score a spot on 30 Rock. Because he is Hollywood royalty (and rich), he scores a hot piece of much younger ass who inspires him to cut out sugar from his diet and lose 50 pounds. Let's face it, he's tapping that ass 5 times a day and is smart enough to know this chick, Hilaria (yes, her real name), is the key to bringing his image back. I give their "true love" relationship two years before she moves on to someone younger and with fewer vices.

Kanye and Kim Kardashian.
I cannot believe I am even dedicating a small paragraph to these two assholes. Who gives a fuck if they are dating? She is the hugest Hollywood media whore and people think this relationship is REAL??? C'mon, folks. Her multi-million dollar marriage lasted a blink of an eye. Soon enough Kanye will cheat on her or beat her or get a DUI. Or Kim will have a video leaked of her blowing the entire Miami Heat team. I give this relationship 7 months. Then she will be clamoring on some other rich, black dick. Just wait.

The war of words between Elton John and Madonna.
Elton, you are a porky queen who is jealous because no one asks you to show up in a leotard and play the piano with your feather boa anymore. Madonna, you are a mega-entertainer whose glory days have long since passed but you are desperately clinging to your ego with releases of really awful music and news of you dating embarrassingly young back-up dancers. Guess what? No one gives a shit about EITHER of you besides the older gays of our community. Hug it our bitches, I bet you could find some common ground in your Spandex bedazzled frocks gathering dust in your closets.

Chik-Fil-A.
I personally have never understood the obsession with this place but I know I have friends who are avid consumers of their chicken. Who doesn't love a great chicken sandwich? I also love me some gays and lesbians. But I do not expect them to try to go and hold a religious commitment ceremony next to the nugget fryer in this restaurant. So if this owner wants to let people know what he personally believes is true for him, let him do it. This is America where THANK GOD we have the freedom to believe whatever we want. If it bothers you that much, go eat a chicken sandwich from Burger King. And then hang your rainbow flag and move on. People take way too much fucking issue with every little things these days. Settle down already. And pass the BBQ sauce..

Jennifer Lopez and her back-up dancer boyfriend.
It is sad when a marriage involving children ends but Marc Anthony was an ugly-ass bobble head. Yeah, I said it. Jennifer Lopez traded down--way down--when she married him. But now she is divorced and dating her 18-years younger boyfriend who is one of her lead backup dancers. Because that's ALWAYS a good idea. (Hello, Chris Judd?????) He's smart for seducing her, she's dumb for believing this can work, I'm just going to sit back and watch this one play out. Good times.

Lindsay Lohan.
She is a ticking time bomb, folks. I don't want to hear about her temper tantrums on the set, her partying ways, her poor choices in swimwear that don't support her ridonk implants, or her horrid plastic surgery and injections in her face. She is mediocre talent. She is an entitled bitch with too much money. She's going to go all Whitney, just give it a few years. Bathtub, sleeping pills, blonde weave clogging the drain. It'll happen. ( Call me cruel or insensitive, I call it being realistic. Deal with it.)

Katie, Tom, and Suri.
That marriage/cult contract was a disaster from the get-go. Does anyone honestly think their relationship was based on love??? No offense against Scientology (though even saying the word makes me think of the scene from Airplane where all those religious freaks are approaching that guy and he's having to fend them off---"Scientolo-geeeeeeeee!!!!!!), but it is a weird-ass secretive "faith". All the crazy reports of what Katie was expected to do and believe and raise her child in. The fact she lasted 5 years blew my mind. Good for her for walking out. And "poor Tom" my ass. He's rich as dirt, crazy, and I think slightly repressed homosexual. But this is coming from a suburban mom in the midwest, what do I know about Hollywood celebrities and their lives....

William and Kate.
I was one of the ones who woke my kids up to watch their wedding live on TV. I think they are charming. I think she has a smoking bod and he at least looks mostly like his mom. But can we leave them alone already? Let them have a moment's peace. If they want to have a baby, trust me, I think they'll let us know. I don't need to have a recap of everything they did at the Olympics from clapping to cheering to wiping their ass. I like Kate's style but I am not running out to buy the exact shoes and pantyhose she wears. Chill the fuck out, crazy royal obsessors.

Carlie Rae Jepsen.
If I hear that God damn "Call Me Maybe" song one more time I will punch the closest living thing next to me in the crotch. I don't give a shit if the Harvard baseball team lip-synced it, I don't care if the Olympic swim team lip-synced it, I don't care if they taught a troop or paraplegic monkeys to lip-sync it, I do NOT want to hear this jam anymore. And what's up with everyone in Hollywood having three names?? Let's start a new trend, let's call you by the first thing that pops into my head when I see you... FUCKTARD.

I'll catch you later, I have to go catch up on Adele's love life and who Katy Perry is banging this week via TMZ....

Suck It, Summer

The onset of the school year and end of summer are significant for several reasons. The bickering and noise level will decrease exponentially in my house. The begging for mid-week sleepovers and subsequent "sleepover hangovers" (aka "The Pre-Teen Bitch Wagon Excuse) will be gone. A regular schedule of sleeping and eating will resume and it will force me to go back to the gym immediately after kicking my youngest to the curb at elementary school at 8:50am. But most importantly, this means the cooling of temperatures and (hopefully) immediate cessation of the Slip and Slide's worth of inner thigh sweat I have been self-lubricating my body with since about April.

Traditionally summer is my most favorite season. I love a good tan, I adore vacation, I sleep in with abandon. This year, however, I feel that with a few teaser days of high temps even as far back as March, it has been summer hot for far too fucking long. I have been sweating like a French whore for months on end and I am over it. Anyone else? This is not to say I am craving bitter cold temps, chapped hands, or salt encrusting my boots and entryway. I would just enjoy a moment of wearing jeans, that's all.

There are different levels of sweating. There is sweating when you are engaged in a good workout. There is sweating when you are cooking in a hot kitchen. There is sweating when you are practicing self-control to not beat the shit out of your kids when they are acting like crackheads, wrestling and whining at the store. And there is the kind of sweat that happens when it has been The Summer of Death Heat for 5 months. This type of sweat is different than any other. It is lethal, it will cause ladies to perspire heavily in areas that are not very ladylike. It will cause wives to use their husband's deodorant because "lady strength" antiperspirants have pretty much said "Up yours!!" and ceased working, rendering your pits stinkier than an onion festival run by hippies who live in tents. But most importantly, it is the kind of sweat that makes your inner thighs slipperier than a jello wrestling contest.

I don't consider myself the sweatiest person in the world. There are no embarrassing photos of me pitting out with dark stains creeping from my armpits I try to hide from view at the holidays. I don't need to wear a bandanna or John McEnroe-style sweatband on my forehead to prevent sweat from blinding me while I workout (this could also signify laziness but I digress..). But when it is really, really hot, I sweat between my thighs. Call it TMI, just being real. And I know many of you ladies share this plight.

While on vacation recently, our family spent a LOT of time walking with no chance to cool off in a pool or air conditioning. We're talking like 6 hours in the peak heat (95-100 degrees in the blaring sun) walking. I would sit down for lunch  (outside of course) and by the end of the meal the crease at my hips and the spot between my ass cheeks looked like I had been humping a wet sponge. WTF?? My inner thighs were so hot and wet it was all I could do not to buy a roll of paper towels and straddle it. Clearly the hand dryers in the bathroom were too high to hoist my glistening ass up to air out so I had to let the wind and time take its course. Back at the hotel room I knelt down to put some water bottles in our mini fridge and the profuse smell of onions blasted me in the face. I immediately thought the fridge was malfunctioning until I realized it was my inner thigh/vagina sweat situation which was causing said stench. The heat of this trip caused me to have to attend to my lady bits several times a day. For all the years I made fun of those Massengill Douche commercials and that "not so fresh feeling", I had officially become a bad cliche 80's commercial.

So summer, though it has been nice seeing you again, you have overstayed your welcome. I say to you in the kindest way, please fuck off already. I have run out of patience, paper towels, and underwear.

Suck It, Hallmark

I think Valentine's Day is a huge bullshit holiday. I went to Walgreen's tonight because I forgot to get God damn Valentines for my 4th grader to pass out. So I figured I'd be sweet and get a nice card for my hubby. You would have thought tomorrow was the end of the world and there was a 2-for-1 special on Apocalypse greeting cards. I practically wrestled two women to get a GLIMPSE of the sappy-ass cards. The parking lot was packed, the candy aisle had kids crawling in the shelves to score the last bag of lollipops. Even at the pharmacy the telltale "Ding!" of the drive-up customers rang incessantly. I told the pharmacist, "Apparently people need two things on Valentine's Day: their chocolate and their drugs." He laughed because it was funny and true. Pills and fattening sweets bring happiness.

Even at the grocery store there were overpriced floral bouquets in swan-shaped vases being straddled by a fluffy teddy bear wrapped in red cellophane with a box of chocolates tied to a mylar balloon. All for a mere $39.99. Was there some sort of challenge to see how much Valentine's Day-themed crap could possibly be assembled into one gift? Why do stuffed animals need to hump my roses? Does it make them more romantic? I actually found myself contemplating buying a 3-foot stuffed wiener dog embroidered with "I Love You THIS Much" for $40... Why do I feel like I need to buy gifts for this holiday to show people how much I love them??? It's all a load of sugary bullshit to me.

I suppose when you are first spending Valentine's Day with your sweetie a box of chocolates or some sexy lingerie or a giant teddy bear shows how much you love them. As the years pass, the romantic sentiment fades as lives get busy, stretch marks multiply, kids rule, and tender loving moments are limited to sharing a basket of fries at Red Robin. (I'm not knocking it, those fries are fucking TASTY.) So why do so many of us go balls-out crazy like it's Black Friday?? We freak out thinking, "Oh shit! Gotta buy my kids their gifts and candy!" Most of that crap is going in the trash after a couple of months, it's like the Oriental Trading treat bag fillers we all loathe but still pass out at classroom parties. My kids are getting a card and an article of clothing. I do not expect anything from my hubby. If he surprises me, bonus for me. If anyone buys me chocolates I will eat them faster than a fat chick working at DQ when the security cameras are off. God damn I love candy. So don't buy me any, fuckers.

Love comes in short doses when we get older and more cynical. It's a dinner with the family on a Saturday night. It's your hubby bringing you your favorite salad from a restaurant on his way home from traveling. It's your kids picking up their shit without being asked. It can be in a tiny blue box with a white ribbon , but it doesn't have to be. (Because every kiss does NOT begin with Kay, assholes...) But I'll tell you what love is NOT: a 3-foot wiener dog straddling a dozen roses...UNLESS it comes with 2 Apocolypse Hallmark cards and a big-ass basket of fries....

I Know Victoria's Secret

Victoria's Secret puts on one hum-dinger of a fashion show every year. It is billed as a holiday fete, loaded with A-list celebrities lining the runway and the creme de la creme of the modeling world gracing the stage. It really is quite a spectacle and if you haven't seen it, be sure to set your Tivo next year to record this shit.

I actually do not have a problem with these models. I do not see them as intimidating, whorish, temptresses to the man I love, even self esteem bashers to my fragile ego. I do not see them as any of these things for one reason: they are aliens. There isn't other possible explanation for which such perfectly tanned, toned, tiny tushes all converge on one stage in magical panties with butterfly wings each year. It's like Santa. Some choose to believe, some don't. I believe Victoria's Secret is NOT that she might have a penis, though this has been often speculated. I believe it is the fact that she has a contract with some fierce-ass alien world which transports approximately 20-30 magical female specimens to New York City every November.

These models are skinny, some of them really needing to eat a couple of ham sandwiches and potato chips skinny. They do not have fake titties. (No they really don't. Trust me. I got clearance from the VSATC---Victoria's Secret Alien Transport Committee.) They have death-defying push up bras adorned with disco balls and butterflies and candy. These bras can make anyone's titties look perky and bulbous. Not that they really need to perkify those jugs, aliens tits are perfect. This is not coming from some repressed lesbian sub-conscious for those of you thinking such. I respect the hard work Victoria and her committee of female alien seekers put forth every year. This show never ceases to amaze me.

Some of these alien (cunt rags) have even had BABIES within several months of walking the runway. Wow! How impressive. Their taut, little six-pack bellies show nary a jiggle as they prance like gazelles in their satin stilettos. (I really wonder how these alien assholes have managed to avoid stretch marks..) They giggle and sip their champagne in the hilarious (bimbo) montage of behind-the-scenes banter between all the (twat) models. They are so (stupid) funny!!! One of the newcomers to the scene was so svelte (raging anorexic) that her hip bones protruded from beneath her leather panties. I think her name was Karlie (Bulimitron)? Such a dainty young lady who I'm sure (starved) worked her way to the top. Kudos, Karlie.

Other models whose boyfriends are rock stars or actors strutted their stuff as their significant others applauded loudly. I guess I'd applaud loudly, too, if I was fucking a Victoria's Secret (alien) model. That's pretty significant feat. And what makes a sexier couple than an A-list actor and an alien runway model? I'm not sure but I'm guessing one or two of the Kardashians are trying to figure out a way to whore their way into that scenario. The musicians rocking the runway who aren't dating a VS alien as the (bitches) models walk past them are duped into thinking these girls actually give a shit. Sorry, Kanye, you can sample all the tracks from someone else's music and rap the shit out of a song but Miranda Kerr and Adriana Lima are NOT going to suck your dick. Those bedroom eyes are staged for the camera. And the result of doing plenty of coke before the show. That six pack, as alien as it is, ain't gonna keep itself.

And while we're on the subject, the girls have given insight (through their agents because they are not exactly rocket scientists..) as to what their diet and exercise regiment is a few weeks before the show. Aside from having amazing alien genetics and giving blow jobs to Victoria's Secret VP's, these models are in tip-top shape. Many go on a fruit only diet a few weeks before the show. Three days prior to Panty-Palooza they consume only protein shakes and non-carbonated liquids. What willpower! (Give me a fucking break...) I am so glad to see their dedication as we are subject to their confections of lace and tulle and Spandex and satin underwear and bras no normal woman could ever fucking wear. It gives me motivation (to go eat chocolate) because if aliens ever take over this world, I will be first in line to beg to be transformed into a Victoria's Secret (alien whore) runway model!!! As soon as I meet Santa and he sprouts sequined butterfly wings.......

Get the Hell Out of the Kitchen

It's no secret I really do not enjoy cooking. I hate the shopping for items I might use 1/4 cup of then forget about until they're congealed with mold in the back of my fridge. I hate looking at a fantastic food porn image of a "simple dish" in a foodie mag only to discover that in my hands the food does not even resemble mid-grade wet dog food direct from a can. I do not like the prep work of measuring, the guessing where the hot spots in my oven are, the multiple steps involved which I inevitably forget at least one of and cause my dish to fail. Again. I hate the clean-up of a million bowls, spatulas, and pans. And then the grimacing faces and bitching and moaning of distaste after slaving for so long in the kitchen. Eating out or buying pre-made food is so much more gratifying. Cooking can kiss my ass.

Today I tried my hand at mini peppermint cheesecakes. The recipe seemed easy, with it's smallish quantity of ingredients. I measured carefully, scrolled down my computer screen to follow each little step. I molded my little tart shells in their cute gingerbread wrappers. I made my peppermint cheesecakey goodness filling and spooned in carefully into their shells..... And then remembered I needed to pre-bake those fucking little shells. Seriously??? Why am I cursed with the Idiot Fucktard Shitty Cook crown? I didn't ask for this title? I proceeded to dump the filling OUT and toss the shells into the trash because they were ruined. I repeated this whole process, this time correctly, a day later and guess what?? They did not look pretty or worthy of serving on my new 3-tiered sweets stand from Target. The crust was chewy and nasty and not chocolatey. If I was stoned out of my mind maybe I wouldn't have known the difference. But for the trouble I went through these little fuckers should have made me want to smoke a cigarrette when I was done eating one.

I cannot cook meat. I will either cook it until it can be used as dog rawhide chews or it will be on the pink side and you might need antibiotics. Being a vegetarian for 10 years, I suppose I bypassed the learning portion of meat cookery skills I might have inherited from my mom. I was too busy being a non meat-eating, bitchy teenager. I am not fond of beef, which I have been criticized for being highly un-American by friends and family. I do like pork and chicken and I adore any and all seafood. But generally it is best to commit to reservations rather than a recipe if I am to enjoy such fleshy fare. I will jack it to disastrous state without hesitation.

I am also a well-known failure at potatoes. How, might you ask, could one sabotage something as basic and hearty as a potato? Let me tell you. I once left a pan of sweet potato fries in the oven after they were done because the rest of dinner was not ready. My mother-in-law tried to make me feel better by calling them "Cajun-style". They were blacker than Kanye West's balls. On another family occasion, I tried my hand at Hasselback potatoes, a cute little fan shaped potato treat that looked easy enough with Paula Dean's recipe and a stick of butter. They failed to brown in my convection over, were starchy and chewy, and no one was polite enough to declare them tasty by any other name. I had earned my reputation as The Potato Persecutor. I further sealed my fate for this crown of shame when I attempted, yet again at a family gathering where my dish would be served to many, to try a new recipe for sweet potatoes. Fucking Bobby Flay and his spicy ideas. If you work with chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, do not let yourself think that a little more will be better in your dish. A "little more" will require extra glasses of ice water for all guests, Rolaids with everyone's gingerbread dessert, and crying children who will complain their mouths are on fire because of Mommy's evil potatoes. If I offer to bring potato ANYTHING to a dinner party, kindly remind me of my lack of skills and ask me to please bring a salad. Pretty sure I can't fuck that up.

My free time around the typical dinner hour is often taken up by either teaching dance or driving my kids to or from dance. In order to fulfill my wifely/motherly/Betty Crocker-ish duties as a meal providing homemaker I have to be A) home, B) prepared with a fully stocked kitchen and pantry at all times, C) be efficient with my few free hours I have to myself, and D) have a recipe all ready or memorized to prepare. I am not home a lot. Even though my job is part-time, my kids tend to be full time. Period. Who the fuck wants to sit with cookbooks everyday planning a God damn slow cooker recipe? Not this bitch. My kitchen occasionally has a decent array of food but I am usually missing at least 2 crucial ingredients in which I could make a delicious meal. Enter Noodles and Company, Panera, or Chipotle. Not even any shame in admitting it--it's my reality, folks. My success rate with recipes, as I have mentioned, ain't so great. No matter my diligence in reading the recipe to a T, I will somehow manage to ruin a perfectly good array of produce and meat. And this pisses me off to no end. I will never try the recipe again and I will garnish my kitchen with a few more delectable profane phrases. I might not be able to cook but I can cook up a mean fucking array of swear words. Bon appetit, bitches!!!!!!

Spectacle of Ridiculosity

It's that time of year again when our mailboxes get as jam-packed as our faces do. It's holiday catalog time. If you so much as Google L.L. Bean to check out the latest in lesbian plaid trench coats, you will receive no less than 10 ultra-thick catalogs from said Maine outdoor retailer from November 1st until January 31st. They will tempt you with free shipping. They will simultaneously bombard your email with lusty promises of a hefty 50-70% off. You may find yourself decked out in an ensemble of head-to-toe plaid that would make even the most die-hard Melissa Etheridge fan proud. Come to my window, bitches.

Today I received 100 pages plus EACH of catalogs from Sur La Table, Femail Creations (not for lesbians, ironically..), L.L. Bean, Lands' End, Express, White House Black Market, Journeys, Fossil, Justice, Cheryl's Cookies, Mindware (nerdy kids' toy company), Brookstone, Hammacher Schlemmer, and my ultimate favorite holiday advertising porn, Williams-Sonoma. My mailbox was quivering like a 70 year-old's boner after hour five of a Cialis binge. I emptied the mother-load of this recycler's wet-dream into my arms and had to use my damn foot to open the front door. Their sheer weight rendered my arms as useless as Kim Kardashian's chastity.

Williams-Sonoma is the pinnacle of entertaining gluttony. If you wipe your ass with 5-dollar bills instead of Charmin, this is the store for you. I was initially drawn to a picture of a dirty whore of a chocolate-peppermint cake. This little bitch was 4 layers and cost a mere $99.95. For a cake. Now I am a decent baker. I probably wouldn't win in a Food TV bake-off next to Ace of Cakes but I know my way around my trusty Kitchen-Aid mixer and an arsenal of baking supplies. This peppermint chocolate treat claims is is baked at an artisan bakery in Maine with Dutch cocoa, Nielson-Masey organic vanilla, freshly churned Maine butter, and eggs from cage-free chickens. I don't care if 5 of the Duggars themselves are picking cocoa beans from a bush in South America on a church mission trip, I think a hundred bucks is a bit steep for some dessert. Throw some buttercream frosting and crushed peppermint candy on anything and you can make it look fancy. Shit, I'd eat my Uggs if you sliced them up four times and slathered them with frosting and candy.

If I had the ability to either rig the lottery or shit money, I'd join Williams-Sonoma's "Six-Months-of-Cheese Club". This is along the same lines as Clark W. Griswold's "Jelly-of-the-Month Club" but slightly classier---to the tune of $350. Now that's a lot of cheese. You can also buy meatballs, pigs in a blanket, ham, peppered beef, tamales, salami, pate, even macaroni and cheese. All of these delicacies can be bought for a price. If I was filthy rich I would certainly indulge in some of these luxurious treats. But alas, I am not loaded and though cooking is probably 17th on a list of 20 things I would rather do than check my Facebook, I can cook my own macaroni and cheese ramekins for less than $10 apiece.

Do you ever get some catalog and think #1) What the fuck IS this shit?! Or #2) How the fuck did I get on their list for this crap?? Considering how touchy everyone is about the environment and saving trees these days, they sure remain steady with their annual pummeling of advertising. I have switched to artificial trees in my two holiday rooms, I use shittier toilet paper to reduce the amount of stuff I flush down the toilet, we try to pay some bills online. But yet these catalogs still come at me like a laxative-incuded shit avalanche. If I need to buy frosted reindeer cookies or flannel-lined jeans or a Little House on the Prairie nightgown ensuring I will never, ever get laid in my life, I know where to find you. Quit catalog-raping my mailbox already. Merry Christmas.

Rock-A-Belly

I have no problem with people of any size, shape, or color. But there are certain logical guidelines one should follow when dressing yourself within those limitations. If you are a person who has common sense, is not on medication for multiple personality disorder, own a mirror, are not blind, or have more than a goldfish to speak the truth to you as a friend, you should figure some shit out.

A shirt dress is a DRESS. Though the description is a bit of a misnomer, you may not, in fact, simply wear a SHIRT as a dress. Without pants. Because it is fucking creepy and a tad whorish. But if you are running on the larger side in women's clothing, you need to be especially adept in evaluating this look. I witnessed a woman this evening who was trying to pull off the rockabilly, burlesque, 50's glasses, cat-eye eyeliner, retro look. She was wearing what I'm sure was sold in her local Kohl's as a shirt dress. Upon standing clumsily after her 4th beer (that I witnessed..) I noticed the "dress" portion of the "shirt" had ridden up to cause an alarming view. Her black tights, chaffed unevenly thin from frequent wear, revealed her albino-esque buttocks, glowing like luminescent ham hocks. Though keeping my eyes locked on the nightmarish ass exposure was brief, it was long enough to cause partial blindness in my left pupil and to burn into my memory the fact that she was not wearing panties. I almost wanted to make a citizens fashion arrest. She turned sideways as I tried to avert my eyes. It was looking at one of the people who runs the carnival rides at your local Meijer parking lot on Memorial Day weekend. You cannot look away. I then shifted my gaze to the buttons on the front of her garment. Her full on fupa would have surely shot loose like a watermelon in a slingshot had it not been for the few stray strands of Spandex that she had hoisted over her tummy with those tights. And I could sense the imminent danger of being seated near her. Rock-A-Belly was about to blow. I scooted my chair far enough away to watch warily.

Fuck me, I am so giving my two shirt dresses I own to Goodwill tomorrow. And buying some new tights.