So days go by, even weeks, and I cannot think of a single thing to blog about. And then 5 billion ideas come rushing into my head, screaming, "Write this, talk about that!" Piss me off.
I don't like to write more than one post a day even when I'm chock full of those ideas because I am a needy comment whore. I love people commenting on my posts. It makes me feel loved, wanted (not always in a sexual way but yeah, sometimes) and worthy. So make sure y'all read the post prior to this one and comment lots there too!
Every night, I come home from work and make myself a salad. (It goes well with the serving platter of pasta.) I sit down, eat, sip of my sweet tea and read blogs. Tonight, Zibbs has inspired me with his fart video.
I try not to talk about ass so much even though it is the source of many a funny moment and blog worthy. Tonight, in this long fucking post, Phat Mama is going to tell a story. If it makes you need to 'yak', I suggest you do so on Hot Zibbs. It's all his fault.
I am a creature of habit. I like things my way or no way and this includes how I position myself to sleep, each night. I must have almost the entire bed - not because I have a fat ass but because I'm a (beautiful Queen) selfish bitch. I sprawl out on my side, wrap an arm around Big Daddy who is holding onto the mattress for dear life, and tuck my face between his shoulder blades.
This position makes it look like I'm hiding behind him. Which I am. Because if anyone wants to break in and rob all of our money (change jar), they need to shoot him first, please. (While this may seem awful of me, no.. it is not. I know he couldn't live without me so I'm saving him the trauma of that.)
*Side note: I've spent 18 years trying to fatten the skinny bastard up so that the bullet won't reach me too.
One night, I go to bed, get into my sleeping position and drift off to dream that Sean Connery is in love with me. (Okay, Sean was screwing me - Fuck Harlequin.) I wake up, hours later, gagging. Retching. My mouth salivating as mouths do when they're preparing to lube up for a volcanic vomit.
My tongue was lurching around in my mouth, sticking to the roof, trying to hide against my tonsils and it was then that I noticed the awful stench clinging to me. To my face, specifically. In my mouth. The worst bad breath ever. It was like I ate ass.
Just then, as I was still half asleep, trying to figure out why I wasn't smelling burnt toast instead of ripe asshole, if I were stroking out - Big Daddy lets rip again. Not loud. Nono, just that slow, whispering whizzz of air. Making its way up between our spooned bodies, his back and my tummy, over my stellar rack, straight into my gaping, drooling piehole.
I had eaten a fart. Actually, two of them.
Retching more furiously, I leapt out of bed and into the bathroom, squirted half a bottle of toothpaste into my mouth, rammed the toothbrush in and went crazy getting the taste and smell of deuce out.
Minty fresh but still gagging now and then, I went back to bed, gave him my back and fell asleep, dreaming of revenge.
The next morning, I made sure to tell him what he had done. After laughing, he apologized.
Mmhm, funny fucker, we'll see.
What was my perfect revenge, you ask? I'll blog about it soon, promise. Let me just say, for now, that he'll never ask me to shave his balls again. :)
(And if you read the prior post, you now know why this is the -secret- blog.)
...and in the end
4 years ago