Pissing In Cheerios

Earlier this morning, as I was walking Peanut the Weiner Dog Wonder, I observed him urinating in various spots all over the neighborhood. Mostly, he peed on other animals’ feces. Which, I must say, is curiously troubling. Personally, I think I’d have trouble peeing on someone else’s poo.

Anypoot, it occurs to me as I watch the stream of yellow pee splash on the poopy, that there must be some sort of Alpha Lesbian out there. Like the uber Lesbo, who rules the roost of all lesbians on Earth.

Just like Peanut marking his territory with pee, so must a Lesbian be marking her territory with… well, I’m not sure with what, but I bet it smells funny.

I bet she’s fierce. She’s probably like the Chuck Norris of Lesbians, roundhouse-kicking faux lesbians and part-time bi chicks into oblivion. And she can crush diamonds with her hands and stuff. She’s put the fear into me. I’m afraid she’ll sniff me and call me a faker or something and banish me from Lesbiandom forever and ever.

I’ll be excommunicated before my lesbianism has even begun. Crap! I need some sort of strength training or something. Like Lesbian Camp for the Lesbian-at-heart. I can go, do all sorts of exercises and stuff, and come out like a Lezzy champ. Woo!

So, I think it is time I took the plunge. Yes, I am going to write a craigslist ad. [Dun dun dun!]

Not so much because I desire a woman as because I’m scared to death of the Alpha Lez.

Sometimes I dream I’m having sex with imaginary uncles.

Does this mean I’m an incestual whore? I hope not. I mean, a regular whore is okay, but I think incestual whores are probably like the black sheep of whores. Like outcasts or something in the world of prostitution.

Also, these dreams are kind of degrading to the whole lesbian process. I mean, if I’m dreaming about doing my non-existent uncles, I can’t very well join the League of Extraordinary Lesbians, can I? Now I’m bummed.

Plus, I think my crotch smells like peanut butter and jelly. I don’t know why. I must have accidentally wiped the cooch with my sandwich instead of tp. That’s what happens when you’re blogging on the pot.

Ooh, speaking of coochie and wiping: FYI - do not, I repeat, DO NOT, wipe your snatchhole with Puffs Plus with Vicks tissues because it kind of makes your puss hot. And like, not the good hot either. It kind of mentholates your hooha.

Mentholates isn’t really a word. Mentholated is but mentholate isn’t. What kind of a fucked up English language is this?

So, in closing, don’t put mentholated tissues in your snatch, or PB & J sammiches.

Sometimes, when I’m sitting here at the computer, like I do every… second, I like to read things that are funny. Usually I’m interrupted by the sounds of crying; so, I throw the kids some stale bread to shut them up.

Most of the time, I find myself spread eagle on the floor, trying to shave the hard to reach places while I click click away at the computer, reading blogs and typing funny things into google search. It’s things like this that make me realize that I really just want to pee my pants.

I mean, I don’t want to get up, go into another room, sit down and then pee. I’m already sitting dammit. Why can’t I just pee here? My chair is plastic, it’s not like it will soil. I can wash my pants. No one’s around. Why can’t I just pee my pants?

So, a minute ago, right before I typed this blog [actually it was at the words “stale bread”] I peed in my pants. It’s warm. And smells like celery. Weird.

This isn’t just about pee though. It’s about Jayne’s pee. And her pants. And my blog.

See?

I made her pee her pants. And so, in turn, I peed in mine for her.

U pee, I follow

So thank you Jayne, for urinating in your pantaloons. You rock! And so do I!

Ah, there’s nothing like sneaky buttsecks to get your motor running.

Almost makes me wanna not be a lesbian.

Nah!

Why doesn’t mustard get enough credit?

It’s so underrated. I mean, people don’t even realize the value of mustard. They just act like it’s another condiment.

Psh, stupid people. Mustard is like liquid gold, that you can put on a sandwich or hotdog. But do people praise all that is Mustard? No, they’re too busy working and taking care of families and stupid crap like that.

Well, dammit, that fucking pisses me off.

I’m sick of you ketchup loving freaks spreading all your ketchup love and leaving mustard in the dust. Mustard is great. Better than any other condiment. It’s better than Worcestershire sauce, with it’s hard to say name, and it’s better than Barbecue sauce, which is really ketchup on steroids. It’s better than anything, ever, EVER.

Look at all the cool ass things associated with mustard.

You can eat it on a hot dog at a baseball game.

Mustard and pretzels go together like Peaches and Herb.

You can put it on a knish.

You can put it on a burger.

You can eat it with a turkey sandwich.

Vegetarians can eat mustard and still save the whales.

It’s yellow.

Colonel Mustard, in the kitchen, with the candlestick.

It’s a key ingredient in Deviled Eggs.

It’s yellow.

Plus, if you have a yellow shirt, and you accidentally spill bleach on it somewhere, all you have to do is squirt mustard on the bleached spot, and BAM! your shirt is yellow again forever, because mustard NEVER EVER comes out of clothes.

So, who’s going to jump on the Mustard Bandwagon with me? I say we write letters to our senators praising mustard. Maybe we can get ourselves a national holiday. We can all have off on Mustard Day. It could be bigger than Christmas, or Secretary’s Day. It’ll be grand.

All hail Mustard!!
In closing, I’d just like to say, down with ketchup, up with mustard. Thank you. Have a good day.

P.S. If mustard had balls, I’d suck them.