Six

Oh hell, I've been tagged with that "six weird things" meme. Oh, all right already. I'll do it.

1: I swallowed a nickel when I was about 4. It lodged in my esophagus and the doctors had to put me under and knock it down into my wittle tummy. My mom was instructed to go through my waste materials until she found the coin. Mom says she looked and looked, but never found it.

2: Sometimes I take a square of individually wrapped Velveeta cheese and fold it into fourths; then I tear it at the folds and distribute the resulting smaller squares onto Triscuit crackers and eat them, often with carefully timed bites of a Vlassic Polish dill pickle spear (in a perfect world, the eating of the spear is equally distributed between the four Velveeta crackers, the dill spear is also cold and not shriveled at the top from only being half-submersed in pickle brine, the level of which has receded due to consumption of brethren spears).

2.5: I like saying and typing the word "Velveeta."

2.75: Eating, saying and typing "Velveeta" does not make me less of a woman.

3: Listening to Tom Jones (What's New Pussycat, It's not Unusual) puts me in a good mood.

3.145: Eating, saying and typing "Tom Jones" might make me less of a woman. Listening to him does not.

3.68: I have never thrown a pair of my panties at Tom Jones. I have never thrown a pair of panties at anyone. Well, except my Dearly Beloved during a playful moment, like when he needs something to mop up the spilt beer.

4: Once for Christmas, I bought a zillion little carved wooden skulls and put curly bows on them and gave them to all my friends to use as ornaments on their trees.

5: When I was a kid, I wanted to change my name to Moose or Daisy or Jupiter.

5.06: Actually, Jupiter O'Brien would not be a bad name.

6: While walking yesterday, I said to my Splendid King, "The clitoris is a lot more complex than people realize."

6.749: Owning a pair of Ben Wa balls is an awesome responsibility.

Rainy Day Woman, vol. 4

Meet the Salvation Army Man.

If you have something to say about it, please email the Free Times. Frank Lewis is the editor.

Nutrition

I left this sad admission over at the International Breakfast Club.

Just so you know who you're dealing with, I deluded myself into believing this was a healthy way to start the day.

The Kenmore Elite HE3

This is my Kenmore Elite HE3 automatic clothes washer.

The HE3 has a 3.8 cubic foot capacity, seven wash cycles (including delicate, whitest white and handwash), and an automatic water level feature.

It is so effing quiet, sometimes I go and check that it's running. Then I watch it for awhile and sigh.

"The Catalyst Cleaning Action with Direct Inject showers the load with a concentrated cleaning solution to completely saturate every fiber." That's from the promotional brochure. I love that shit.

My HE3 has a variable speed motor with 5 spin speeds, up to 1050 rpm, and is equipped with the optional 15.5" functional convenience pedestal. The 3-compartment product dispenser automatically adds detergent, fabric softener or bleach to the load at the appropriate time.

The stainless steel wash drum comes with a limited lifetime warranty.

For Christmas, I asked for a deep dish non-stick skillet and a pair of Ben Wa balls. I'm pretty sure I'll get both.

Herky jerky turkey

I apologize in advance.

As I stuffed the bird today, I simply could not help but being reminded of this extraordinarily pornographic post over at Jane's place.

The associated photo is one of those that is so pornographic, it somehow crests a hill and becomes no longer pornographic, but scientific or something--I'm not exactly sure what. Also note the look of vague indifference on the woman's face. It's as though she's checking to see if her shoe is tied.

Have a great holiday. Kiss the babies. And if you eff up the turkey, don't sweat it. Just make sure there's plenty of gravy and wine. That'll drown out any mistakes.

Luvluv,

Erin

Artwork, vol. 1

Scott Miller
Painting #10, 1984
Oil on Canvas
34" by 41"

Sorry for the poor quality photo. I love this thing and love it and love it and love it. I never tire of looking at it. Meanwhile, back in the jungle, the bad guys are winning and keeping me from proper blog duties. Got a nice book review over here ... erm ... sorta ... unless you only read "high art."

Hmph.

A hunting we will go

Mother's property covers five acres, much of which is wooded. Occasionally, a local hunter will ask Mother if he may hunt on her property. Mother usually allows such activity. One such hunter said to Mother that he was concerned about how Mother would know when he was lurking about.

"How will you know when I'm here?" he asserted. "I'll figure out a way to alert you!"

The next day, mother woke early and went to retrieve the paper. Upon her porch she found this:

Flamingo lunch lady handstand on keg update #3

For those wondering about the history of the "Liberator" depicted in the esteemed Mr. Shlongford's drawing and how it relates to these pages, go to this link and therein you shall find the Liberator reference and pertinent link.

And visit this link to see another of Mr. Shlongford's efforts, which was one of the most popular posts on The Owner's Manual.

Thank you. Carry on.

Flamingo lunch lady handstand on keg update #2

Submitted by the venerable Mr. Dongley Shlongford.

Flamingo lunch lady handstand on keg update #1

Per yesterday's post, the good Waterboy from Massachusetts has submitted his rendition of the "Keg Stand."



And Flamingo has forwarded yet another lovely shot of his lunchlady creation if anyone wanted a more complete photo to deface in his (her?) honor:

Pimples

I am going to be a featured writer at a "Lyrical Wines" wine tasting event at Cleveland's coolest bar Budapest Blonde, the co-owner of which wrote a
letter to the editor about my Hungarian cucumber recipe that was so funny, I laughed like hell when I read it.

Budapest Blonde is my favorite bar in Cleveland. I love it so much I wrote this essay about it. The wine tasting will be at 7 p.m. on Dec. 6. Cost is $25. For reservations, call 440-237-0292 or call the bar at 216-328-8780 anytime after 4 p.m. Tuesday through Friday. I am told these events usually sell out.

I will be appearing with fellow author Richard Montanari, who is the best-selling author of The Skin Gods, as well as a bevy of other books. This event is going to be a blast and I'd love to see any and all of you there.

Grape graphic courtesy of artist Nadina Tandy.

Next up is this guy, Dean Cochrane whom I playfully call Cockman as I constantly get him confused with Doug Hoffman. Who cares? I like both these guys. Anywho, I advise everyone to hop on over here to get a snootful of fiction Cockman style within the pages of his online novella The Weaveling.



And now for something so disturbing, I just don't know what. Flamingo dressed up as the lunchlady for Halloween. As you can see, Flamingo looks more like the lunchlady than the actual lunchlady, which is troubling enough (I encourage all of you to click to enlarge the photo and check out those legs!). Even more terrifying is Flamingo's disclosure that he did a handstand on the keg at some point during the evening. Fortunately, no one took a photo of that blessed event. Judging by the length of that sexy smock he's wearing, I'll bet it was one nutty moment! I'm wondering if some clever blogger out there might enlist his or her Photoshop skills and offer an artist's rendering of the "Flamingo Lunch Lady Handstand on Keg."

Any takers??

How the cookie crumbles

So you're not hungry but you want to eat something anyway and since you're eating for eating sake, you might as well eat something that you shouldn't eat anyway, so you go and get one of those goddamn cookies your mom made that have the chunks of Butterfingers in them and are surrounded by perfect cookie medium that is buttery and brown-sugary and chewy. Because the whole episode is about sensory fulfillment, you decide not to put the cookie on a plate and pour a cup of coffee and eat it like a civilized human being at the kitchen table, but instead you look out the picture window above the sink with the expression of a cow watching a passing train and start downing that goddamn cooking and thinking, Goddamn these goddamn cookies. I'm calling Mom right now and telling her never to make the goddamn things again. Goddamn these cookies are good.

In the center of the cookie is one giant huge mother-ship Butterfinger chunk, so you decide to eat all around it and save it for the last perfect bite. Even though all the bites leading up to that last mondo-Butterfinger chunk bite are way effing good, you know that last one is going to kick major ass and you can't wait for it.

You finally get to the kick-ass last bite. But because you are an eff-up, you lose your grip right before you pop it in. No way does it fall into someplace from which it is marginally acceptable to retrieve it like next-to-but-only-touching-a-water-drop-a-little-bit at the bottom of the sink, but instead it plops right into the Spongebob Squarepants Tupperware thingie that has a quarter inch of soapy water in it that totally soaks the last perfect Butterfinger cookie chunk. You go to spew a bunch of bellyaching and start with a loud, "Goddamnit!" then you think, Shut up mother effer. You got to eat that whole great cookie. Don't you bitch about losing one chunk. Go on and get on with your life, yeah.

Dig this

It's an exploded brain.

Things I see

I am finally in possession of a camera phone, which will enable me to take avant-garde photos of the things I see while on my mundane travels. I pass the stuffed sheep (who seems to be put out on a daily basis) on one of my walking routes. I have a great deal of respect for the genius behind this specific permutation of the Serta sheep ad campaign. However, I admit that it has not moved me to enter the Broadview Mattress Showroom and browse. Perhaps one day I'll need a nice nap in the middle of my walk. I wonder if they'll let me sleep with the big stuffed sheep.

This is a shoe. It is not my shoe. I don't know whose shoe it is. I did not touch it or inspect it any further than necessary to take this picture. I scanned the area for another shoe but, sadly, did not find one.

Hello shoe. Lonely, lonely shoe.

Further down the road, I came upon a sheaf of papers. They were startlingly white and consisted of a number of stapled bunches that appeared to be blank. I picked them up for a closer look and found the papers to be dimpled with braille marks. I brushed my fingers against the raised bumps and wondered if these were school sheets or instruction manuals or perhaps the work of a writer.

I thought about the person who dropped the pages. Was it a huge loss or were the pages not so important? What sort of printer creates braille print? How does reading with your fingers change the experience? No matter how much I fingered and stared, however, the secrets therein would not be revealed to me and I concluded this to be a victorious irony.

I stacked the sheets neatly and set them on a nearby utility box, hoping that a friend or guardian of their owner would find them before the next rain.

I raised my head to take in the contrast of yellow and brown leaves against the impossibly blue sky. I looked at a young man polishing his gleaming red sports car. I thought of the perfect hue of my daughter's skin and the pleasing pattern of hair on my husband's chest. I thought of the shoe and the big stuffed sheep. I gazed one more time at the bright white papers. Otherwise occupied with the gift of eyesight and a smattering of tears, I neglected to take a picture of the cryptic braille pages before walking on.

Being a writer

Erin: The editor changed all my "effs" to "fucks."

Boy Writer: Yeah?

Erin: Yeah.

Boy Writer: That sucks.

Erin: Yeah.

Boy Writer: I had an editor once who changed "mediocre" to "shitty."

Erin: "Shitty" and "mediocre" are about the same.

Boy Writer: You and him would have gotten on famously. He also made me use "cum" all the time. Even in sentences like, "she is going to cum over after dinner."

Erin: Okay, I'll give you the point on "cum" versus "come." But I'm not so sure about shitty and mediocre.

Boy Writer: How can you say that? Shitty is shitty. Shitty is not mediocre. Shitty aspires to one day be mediocre. Shitty is not even shittiocre.

Erin: I like shittiocre.

Boy Writer: Shittiocre is also a discontinued Crayola crayon color.

Erin: I miss the shittiocre crayon. But you are right about shitty and mediocre. They are not the same. For instance, shitty sex is way worse than mediocre sex.

Boy Writer: There is such as thing as shitty sex?

Rainy Day Woman, vol. 3

And now for a deep dark secret, the Righteous Hungarian Secret of Cucumbers.

If you have something to say about it, please email the Free Times. Frank Lewis is the editor.

On duty

I'm stuck over at Bostick's place babysitting. Come on over. We can order a pizza and watch a couple of infomercials.

My Cleveland, vol 4.

The pudendal cleft

Men* are endlessly fascinated with female genitalia. They practically deify it. Take fellow blogger Doug Hoffman for instance. He hosted an hilarious labia-fest in this post, which he then revisited with bragging rights on soaring hitcounts and a Mary Tyler Moore feature (MooreToe™) here.

Personally, I prefer the term "cleft of Venus" over the animalistic "cameltoe." (Although I must admit that "cameltoe" projects a more accurate visual image.) There is also "pudendal cleft," perfect for the gynecological set.

Labia! Labia! Labia!

It's funny how the world happily celebrates labia, but clitorides (the plural form of clitoris, pronounced clitorideez) are pretty much kept under wraps. Men* love the idea of the opening, the entrance, the gateway to the vaginal canal, but that other organ found within terrifies the living daylights out of them.

Honestly, gentlemen. Grow up already.

Now for a few links:

The Camel-Toe Report. I love that the associated URL sports a dot-org extension.

Cameltoe Yellow Pages. Let your fingers do the walking, it's a snap!

Cameltoe Forum. Become a member and enjoy forums on topic such as Cameltoe pictures, movies and stories, as well as Celebrity Cameltoe.

(Cameltoe stories?)

*By no means to I mean to exclude the lesbian population. I am simply not qualified to comment on its part in the celebration of the female nether parts, perhaps because the fairer homosexuals are not as brashly vocal about all of this. Whatever the case, I duly encourage lesbians far and wide to comment copiously in this post.

Shopping time

As you can see, we've finished the basics. We're off to pick out the furniture.

The sweet sound of Halloween

If you cannot view the video here, try hopping on over to this page.