But that’s all just anecdotal evidence of reasons why we should turn Florida to dust. Sure, not all Floridians are psychotic. Some of ‘em are just old folks draining the Social Security coffers instead of taking off to live with the aliens. But my real problem with Florida doesn’t lie with its human population. No. It’s their fucking reptile population that clinches for me the notion that the only thing we can do with Florida is nuke the fucker.
Do you see that thing? Look at the size of that motherfucker. And he’s not a lone wolf. There are now upwards of 150,000 of these things slithering through Florida courtesy of the 80′s obsession with exotic pets. Apparently Spandex and cocaine weren’t enough diversions for the residents of Miami. They needed creepy reptiles too. Crockett and Tubbs would have been better suited fighting snake smugglers than Colombian drug lords.
When I moved to Orlando in the mid 80s there was a story on the news the first night I arrived about a snake coming up through the plumbing at a local residence. During the entire 7 months I lived there I did not once sit on the toilet seat for fear that something was going to slither up and bite my twat. There just isn’t enough vodka and Xanax on the planet for me to cope with something like that.
So, my plan is simple. Before Florida unleashes Jeb Bush on us and before these creepy crawlies reach the Northern borders of the state… before there’s SNAKENADO! let’s just dust the place and call it a day.
Keep an eye out on Facebook for my upcoming Nuke Florida petition. It’s gonna go viral. Like herpes.
We give the dead a lot of credit. Sometimes more credit than they deserve. We act as though, even dead, they are present and passing judgement on our every move and utterance.
We are forever putting words in their mouths.
“If your grandmother was alive she would say…”
“Dear Aunt Betsy must be rolling in her grave knowing what you’ve done.”
“I’m sure your dearly departed father is looking down with admiration.”
Just the other day my girlfriend Carol and I were discussing how our dead friend Stella would be taking credit for the fact that I’ve recently signed up to train for an Ironman. Stella was a world record holding athlete whose inability to stand still when an exercise option was available is legendary amongst those who knew her.
“I’m a little speechless. Did this start when Stella died… did you drink the juice?”
“Carol, we both know that bitch would take full credit for this.”
“True… cuz she wouldn’t DO this!!”
Fact is, I’m pretty sure Stella doesn’t give a shit. She’s dead. She’s moved on to bigger and better things than caring about what I’m up to. Yet, we still put the win in her column on the big scoreboard.
Personally, I prefer to lay the blame for shit on the dead. Seriously. Why not? They aren’t here to defend themselves, but that also means that they aren’t here to deny or refute the allegations. I like to blame my dead sister, Parrish, for a lot of things. If she hadn’t up and died my life would be infinitely easier. I mean sure, it wasn’t her fault she got brain cancer. Undoubtedly no one asks for that. But, damnit, she left a huge mess behind when she died. Orphaned children, a depressed mother, and a huge gap that nothing can fill. However it’s not just the big things for which I like to blame her. That would be too easy. I like to blame her for all the little shit too. When I can’t remember someone who wants to friend me on Facebook, I blame her.
It’s just like when we were kids. As the eldest child I was obligated to blame her for trying to usurp my throne by being born. Do you have any idea how awesome an only child I would have made? If there was something to get blamed for, I would pass the blame to her. It’s the rule of self-preservation, blame the other kid. Half the time she really deserved it, although my mother rarely believed me. Parrish was really good at looking wholly innocent when she was guilty as sin. She was an excellent liar. If she were still alive, she’d look at you – all bewildered – and ask you if you had any idea what I was talking about.
Recently I’ve come up with a new thing to blame on her. It’s really kind of genius on my part. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve signed up to do an Ironman next summer. Like all my other athletic endeavors it’s in aid of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and done in memory of my sister, my grandparents, and my two favorite uncles. I’m looking at a grueling year of training. It will mean hours in the bike saddle, miles on my feet, and swimming with Great White Sharks off the coast of California. Every one of those hours, miles, and moments spent as chum will be an opportunity for me to once again blame Parrish and take her name in vain. At night, while sitting on the couch icing my sore muscles, I will mutter “If you hadn’t fuckin’ died of cancer, I wouldn’t be compelled to do this. THIS is your fault!” She won’t be there to defend or deny my accusations, but you can damn sure, when I cross the finish line, she’s going to try and take credit for it. She and Stella both. They can fight it out.
If you’d like to follow my travails as I train for the Ironman, cast a little blame my sister’s way, or would like to make a donation to honor the memory/honor of someone you’ve lost to cancer, visit www.castironbitch.com.
You and I both know you shouldn’t be reading my blog at work. I don’t know why I always have to remind you of that. But now we can both rest assured that you’ve been warned that this post isn’t safe for the workplace. Moving on…
Everybody’s always askin’ me “Hey Surly, how do you find all that crazy shit you post on your blog and Facebook?”. The answer is simple. I don’t find it. It finds me. I rarely surf the internet looking for stuff on my own any more. Most of the web has that “been there, done that” kind of feel at this point. Spending close to 20 years on the fringes of the underbelly of the web can make one pretty blasé. But, every so often, something comes my way that makes me sit up, pay attention, and click the kind of links that would make you mere mortals curl up in a fetal position or at least pretend to while people are looking. I’m the person you send the links to articles that have left you stuttering “WTF????” to yourself and that you NEED to share with someone, but can’t think of anyone but me. You know I’ll appreciate it and that I won’t shun you. Not for this. Not this time.
One of my friends, who shall remain nameless for the sake of her eventual recruitment into the U.S. Cabinet as the Secretary of Slap-Some-Sense-Into-People, sent me this link yesterday. (We’ll all pause here for a moment while you click the link, gasp in horror, remember you’re at work and I warned you, close your browser, and then give into the urge to read-on. Ready, set, go!) First you’re all confused because it’s just porn. And then you realize it’s not just porn. It’s Indifferent Kitty Porn, and you’ve never seen anything like it in your life. But if that’s as far as you get on this page, you’re looking in the wrong place.
Sure, glancing at pictures of naked people with cats is a good time had by all. But the internet is first and foremost a teaching tool. Every link on the web is an opportunity to gain knowledge, to broaden our horizons, to expand our vocabularies. And kids, today’s lesson is brought to you by the word “chaturbate”.
v. cha-tur-bat-ed, cha-tur-bat-in, cha-tur-bates
v.intr. To perform an act of chatting and masturbating simultaneously
From the Latin for “stupid ass things to film yourself doing for future generations to discover”
I’m currently filling out the forms for submitting new words into the English lexicon via the next iteration of the Oxford English Dictionary. This term needs to take its rightful place alongside bling-bling and heredito-syphilitic.
Now y’all know I’m all about the live and let live. And y’all know I’ve done a lot of things online that you are too chicken-shit to try. I’ve fully fessed up to talking dirty online back in the day where chat was web based and you had to wait 3 minutes for the other person to compose and post their reply to your lurid description of physically impossible sexual positions and carnal curiosities. There are naked photos of a fit 20 something me on the web somewhere I’m sure – although I can GUARANTEE there are no cats involved because I hate the little furry fuckers. But what there isn’t of me, floating around for your grandkids to download, is a video of me masturbating or fornicating for an audience. I have too good sense to know that’s nothing anyone, including me, my husband and your offspring’s offspring, wants to see. And friends, it’s nothing anyone wants to see you doing. There. I’ve said it. The reality is that anyone who wants to see your sex tape was really searching for low budget horror films.
For those of you who found the whole cat watching you have sex thing titillating, remember to check your local laws regarding bestiality and then find a hotline to call. If you’re on the fence about making that call take a moment to review this little tidbit from our friends in Ireland. Sex and animals do not mix.
Here kitty, kitty…
So. Yeah. It’s been a while since I posted. I’ve been busy. I have a life. You have a life. I thought we were both going along swimmingly. Well, that is until this week. Apparently some of you need me to explain the facts of life to you.
Yeah. Apparently I’m your Mrs. Garrett. Fuck. Whodathunk it would come to this?
We both know you’ve got the basics mastered. You’ve been gettin’ it on and whackin’ off for decades. You’ve got the callouses and offspring to prove it. What you’ve apparently misunderstood is how to take it to the next level. You’ve got no damn finesse, and your creative efforts are borderline pathological. There’s gettin’ your freak on and there’s FREAKY.
Now, of course, as I always say, I’m all about the live and let live. Within reason. REASON being the operative word here. There are certain people, creatures, and objects you shouldn’t be having sex with. Creepy guys who collect women and young boys in their basement – out. Guys who drive shag wagons – out. Foreign objects that may cut, perforate or be considered an object of impalement – out. Anything with a heartbeat that isn’t a human being – out. I thought these things were self-evident. Apparently they are not. Jesus. What is wrong with you people? Why can’t I leave you unsupervised for short periods of time?
Now personally I’m not one for the anal sex. I’ve got hemorrhoids, so the only thing you’re welcome to come near my anus with is Preparation H. But if it floats your boat, game on. However, let’s show a little discretion about what we’re shoving up there, shall we? List of items Surly recommends you DO NOT try: table legs (yes one idiot actually killed himself with one – fuckin’ genius); wine glasses – really, anything glass like not made of a Pyrex type of material – Waterford crystal is for wine you idiots; anything, other than some hot guy’s penis, that is actually ALIVE.
Yeah. No. Seriously. Some jackass in China decided to send an eel up his ass as part of his most recent jackoff festival. Who does that? Who thinks this is a good idea? Supposedly Asian women working in sex shows and smoke cigarettes with their twats also insert reptiles in their hoohas as part of their act and that’s where he got the idea. Holy Cheezits who comes up with this crap? Years ago, when I first stumbled on the internet I found an encyclopedia of human sexuality on some university’s alt.net servers and the minute I ran across an entry referring to Zoophilia with reptiles I logged off and never looked back.
So. To recap for those of you who are slow. If it cuts you and makes you bleed, is something you serve your parents food/drink from, or comes from a pet store, DO NOT masturbate with it. And do not accept rides home in vans with guys who have the whole Michael Bolton collection on CD.
Please don’t make me tell you again.
This post is flat out NSFW – which means don’t fuckin’ look at it at work. Some of these links might just get your ass in all kinds of trouble.
Yeah. I can see the look of confusion on your face. Mixed with a small amount of curiosity and revulsion. Lookit! Surly’s talkin’ about her twat, again. Well sure. We’ve talked, more than one should, about decorating one’s nethers for entertainment purposes. But even I have lines, wiggly as they are, that I can’t jump across.
One of those is posting inartistic nude photographs of myself all over the internet. Frankly, at my age, no one needs to see me naked, not even Dave. A nice nude pic or a photo of my tits back in the day when they defied gravity is okay by me – heck I have a few that I probably wouldn’t mind sharing with you lot. I might even sext you if I were 24 again – provided you are hot. (We both know you’re not.) But I draw the line at a full-up close shot of my hoo-ha spread wide like only my gynecologist should see it. Apparently there are others who feel quite the opposite.
I’m pretty sure that the guy that wrote the photobook 199 Vaginas was probably the one trolling around The Well in the mid 90′s asking women to scan theirs and email him the pics for his collection. If not, then they were at least friends or subscribe to the same porn chat sites. I declined the invitation when extended. Even back then in the wild west days of the web I knew better than to share everything with strangers.
This morning my friend Emily, who searches the web for things to entertain me, found an article about a site called the Large Labia Project where, if you’re feeling bad about how ugly your twat is, you can send them a picture and they’ll praise it for you. No really. They will make you feel all warm and fuzzy about the fact that your twat hangs to your knees, has wrinkles, needs a shave, has warts, whatever. They are there, in all their feminist glory, to embrace your twat and all of its insecurities.
Okay. I’ll admit, even with all my degrees in psychology and years and vast experience, I have never met a single woman who told me her twat had low self-esteem. Not to knock your issues if you got ‘em, but who sits around wondering if their twat is too big or too small? I can see if you’ve got issues because your clit is the size of a child’s penis and you’re wondering if you got the wrong genitalia and how much surgery costs. I’ve read Middlesex. I’m all kinds of enlightened. But I have yet to meet a hetero-man who would look at a STD free twat and scream “OMG! Get that thing away from me! It’s huge! I’m afraid!” I mean, unless it has teeth.
Apparently there is, officially, a blog for everything now.
And in case you were wondering…My twat is a lot like the Honey Badger. Yeah. Surly’s Twat don’t give a shit.
Yeah. Like you’ve never done it. Liar. Whatever.
We all have our dark little secrets. Things we’d rather polite people not know about us. Things we do that we think other people don’t notice. How many times have you seen some guy scratch his ass and follow up with a sniff his fingers? Yeah. I know. That just pulled up a visual you thought you’d manage to suppress for all time. You’re welcome. My sister Parrish’s dirty little secret was that she was a nose picker. I mean a professional nose picker. Like the inevitable guy next to you on the freeway. The one who doesn’t realize they are being watched. The compulsion to pick her nose was so paramount at times that she wouldn’t realize that the sound of you gagging was related to the fact that she was talking to you while her finger was jammed up her nose and half-way up to her brain. (Since she’s dead I can totally get away with telling you this.)
We’ve all got our quirks. I know it cheeses Dave out that I drink from the milk container. I try not to do it a lot. At least not in front of him. But seriously, he and I are the only ones who drink that milk and we both know where the other’s mouth has been. And we brush our teeth regularly. I call it a minor sin.
My bigger problem, and the one that I think embarrasses Dave the most, is my need to watch each and every episode of some really bad TV shows. And I mean all. I have to see the whole series of re-runs from beginning to end. Back in the 90′s I got caught in a late night addiction to re-runs of Matt Houston, Star Trek the Next Generation, and Star Trek Deep Space Nine. You can credit the incredibly poor British TV programming for the Trekie incidents. When Dave and I first moved into together it was Sabrina The Teenage Witch. It’s not even necessarily the case that I like what I’m watching. I just feel compelled once I’ve watched some of it to see all of it.
I do this with books too. I will download a book that is part of a trilogy or series on my iPhone and nex thing I know, despite wanting to pull my hair from my roots, I find that I need to listen to the rest. I have punished myself through years of Patricia Cornwell drivel – until finally I had to give myself an intervention when I was angrier than her lead characters and was considering taking tips from her books on how to stage the crime scene when I finally killed Kay Scarpetta. More recently I’ve found myself listening to the teen saga of The Secret Circle and even worse The All Souls trilogy about witches and vampires that makes me want to slit my own wrists with a dull spoon. Yeah. I dunno what it is about the witches and vampire shit that makes me want to read them in the first place. I always end up hating them.
There are also movies, usually chick flicks that aren’t even a genre I will pay money to see in the theatres, that I can watch over, and over, and over, and over. Dear God I wish I knew why, but I can watch Practical Magic with the dreadful Nicole Kidman every time it’s on TV. Same thing with Sweet Home Alabama. I can watch both of those over and over back to back while I’m cleaning the house or putting away laundry. I find the story lines insipid and the acting mediocre, but like the good classic Gone With the Wind or The Wizard of Oz, I can watch it any time it’s on. Dave really hates it when I do this and make him go watch his football or golf on the smaller TV in his man room so I can watch it on the big fancy TV in the living room. Yeah. I’m not sure why he’s not left my ass yet either.
Yeah. I know. You thought I was gonna tell you twisted little things I like to do in the dark. Sure. I’ve got those too, and Dave has the physical and emotional scars to prove it. But those, quite frankly, are none of your fuckin’ business you nosy parker.
So. I told you mine. Now you tell me yours.
Y’all know I’m not a vain woman. Lord, vanity got kicked to the kerb about the same time my eyebrows fell out. You can’t think you’re all that when you don’t have an eyebrow to raise in disdain at lesser mortals. Not that I don’t think I’m better than you ’cause let’s face it, I am.
As a rule, I don’t pose for photos. I make a rare few exceptions, like my wedding, but other than that, you point your camera in my general direction and you’ll find me giving you the finger. Don’t even try to take it, I have a preternatural ability to sense you trying and will flip you off before your autofocus has kicked in. More than one easily offended kind Christian person has found this out the hard way. Surly’s School of Hard Knocks had an adult education program. Enrollment is free. It’s not like the paparazzi are chasing me to get a snap, but most people have now given up trying to take my photo. This is just back story so you understand that this post took a monumental effort on my part to do.
A few weeks back I was watching one of those annoying morning news shows made less annoying by the distinct absence of Anne Curry, when they started talking about a product Bank of America was pushing called “Face Retirement.” The premise seemed plausible. They want you to realize people are living longer and should be saving for their retirement now instead of waiting until the last possible moment or hoping there will still be Social Security. Sage advice. I should follow it. I am in no way prepared for retirement. We live paycheck to paycheck and have enough in savings to buy an nice last meal when I decide to put our murder-suicide pact into effect. Yeah. It’s true. I’m taking Dave with me when I go, but we’re having a fucking awesome steak dinner first.
My desire to do myself in rather than wait for nature to take it’s course isn’t new. I have a long list of reasons why I will choose not to go on. In as much as I am not vain, I’m not brave either. This plan was only bolstered by playing with the Face Retirement program. Instead of making me want to start saving now and live forever, they made me want to join the Hemlock Society and take up every bad habit I’ve ever quit in favor of a healthy lifestyle. Unsafe sex, hardcore drugs, and unfiltered cigarettes here I come!
According to the fine folks at Bank of America, this is what I have to look forward to at
So, it looks like I’ve got less than 20 years before I’m forced to face facts and pull the plug. I’m good with that. It’s actually longer than I had originally given myself to really let myself go. I’m going to start every day from here on our with a shot of Wild Turkey and a Marlboro ’cause apparently I’ve got fuck all to lose.
Are you with me?