Category Archives: anal

Textual Feeling: No, You Can’t Stick Your Finger In There


a quick aside.  in that my day is crap.  but then it gets a little bit better than crap.

when i was little and had pink eye or some other eye infection shit and needed eye drops put in my eyes – all bets were off.  one parent had to hold me still, while the other had to use their fingers to stretch out my eye and put the drops in.  then i would scream like they were dropping acid in my e yes.  to this day, i’m terrible with eye drops and anything eye-related.  which is why i don’t wear contacts.  but then i don’t always wear my glasses so then i get massive headaches and my eye sight just gets worse and worse.  but i just continue suffering rather than do something to remedy the situation.  like just wear my fucking glasses.

is this going somewhere, you ask?

yes.  it is.

for some fucked up reason i could not sleep last night.  it was awful.  the type of “you can’t sleep” that has you staring at your significant other like you’re going to murder them in their peaceful slumber because you’re so goddamn jealous.  

anyway, i slept for an hour.  which was pointless and i should have just stayed up all night because the hour of sleep didn’t do shit except make me crabby, whiny, and psychotic-looking with my red, irritated eyes.  

miraculously, i found eye drops in my purse.

and tried to administer them at my desk.

which was a terrible idea.

because i drained half the bottle because i keep freaking out and missing my eye and squirting it all over my face so it just looked like i was hysterically crying.  

happy fucking friday.

but then seriously.  happy fucking friday.  because i forgot i had this in the freezer:

but now i have gut rot. because i ate too much and too fast.

b: sweet mullets?

me: i want to make cupcakes first.  i’ve had a rough day.

b: can i come over and stick my finger in your better?

me: butter or butthole?  i’m confused.  i’d be pissed either way.

b: batter.

me: no, i forbid it.

b: that’s awfully ride.
b: rude.  goddammit!

me: good job.

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Let The Cocks Abound.


first things first.

i’ve decided to start working with one ear bud in and my music blasting.  it’s been the only thing to keep me sane all day and drowns out most of what i can’t handle hearing on a daily basis (which is everything).

secondly, i’ve thought about work related things about 1% today.  the other 99% has been about the only thing that matters for the next four weeks.  MARCH MOTHERFUCKING MADNESS.  seriously.  i can’t wait to get the fuck out of work and go to the bar to watch the games.  it will be grand.

in the meantime – the bloggess, bless her kind soul, posted this gem today so i’ve been printing, laminating, and creating puppets for the majority of my day.

it’s all fun and games until someone gets a cock in their cube:

cock.

also – i haven’t made a puppet yet.  i have the means.  but that entails eating dilly bars from dq and i’m so full i could puke from the chicken salad sandwich i horked down for lunch.  so instead, i’ve been peer pressuring my co-workers into eating them and then stealing the popsicle sticks for my own selfish purposes.

the means to an end.

and when i went to investigate the dilly bar situation i forgot i bought this yesterday at 7AM:

i'm an impulsive shopper in the wee hours of the morning.

soon my little cock friends…very soon you will have dirty popsicle sticks shoved where i imagine your butthold would be:

In My Mind I’m Not Insane. Not All The Way, At Least.


albert einstein said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

my night began with this:

distinguished. i know.

and then continued with vodka, more vodka, bar dice, and shots.

now i feel like this:

but then i found this:

and then life was good.

until shitler called to tell me that he bought toilet paper, 16 oz cans of nati light, and a bottle of scotch.

whatever freak-wad.

On The Night You Were Born


your mother and i reminisced about that time we had sex and conceived you. 

like these polar bears:

i resisted the urge to buy this children's book today.

Anal Probing


In conjunction with my previous post about thyroid disease, I give you this magical trip to the lady parts doctor.  You can all rest easy tonight knowing that I do not, in fact, have thyroid disease or anemia. 

It’s true what they say about misery loving company, because I did not hesitate to share what happened to me at the doctor with a male colleague of mine.  The conversation is below and it occurred after a couple shots of vodka (and by couple, I mean 6-10).

Me: Just thought I’d keep you in the loop.  Just had some fingers in my butthole at the gyno.  I need a drink

B: How many fingers?  More than one?  Less than ten? And more importantly, how many knuckles?”

Me: 2.  Just the fingers.  No knuckles.  Ugh.  My poor butthole.

B: Didn’t even go deeper than the first knuckle?  Shut the fuck up you wimp.

Me: Sorry, 2 full fingers.  I’m still disoriented.

B: 2 full?  Now we’re finally getting to something worth talking about.  Did you at least get his number first?  Were they pencil like fingers?  Or were they big, fat bratwurst fingers?  This is vital information!

Me: She was like 50.  Average sized fingers.  Who likes anal?  Seriously?  I took a couple of shots when I got home.  I deserve it.

B: I agree.  Anyone who gets their poop chute diddled by two average sized fingers, down to the hand, deserves a couple shots.

Me: And of course nothing is wrong.

B: So you played altar boy for nothing?

Me: Apparently.

B: Wow.  I’m sorry.  Seriously, that’s the worst.

B said he would only read my blog if I blogged about this.  So I did.  And now he has to read this.  Which makes me laugh, because earlier he told me that he was bored.  And I told him he should read my blog to help with the boredom.  To which he told me “I’m already bored!  Why would I want to be more bored?”  Which is a valid point.  So I said, “It would give you something to mock.”  And he, very kindly, said that “as long as we are friends, I will ALWAYS have something to mock.”  Which is also true.  Because my life is a joke.  A big, fat joke.  But jokes are great, so my life isn’t really that bad. 

I think my favorite part of the textual conversation between him and I is the hint of compassion and concern for my plight at the very end.  But then I read our conversation again and I couldn’t stop laughing about how he claims that it’s “the worst.”  Wouldn’t someone have to experienced the worst first hand in order to make a statement like that?  Has he experience the worst?  Has he had fingers up his #2 hole and never told me?  I’d like to think he would have told me.  So I’m inclined to say that he hasn’t had the pleasure yet and just wanted to let me know that he was there for me in my time of need.  Which he was.  Kind of.