Sunday, April 13, 2014

Ode To a Walmart Greeter

All due respect to Wal Mart Greeters around the world but if you ever walk into a Wal Mart and I’m there greeting you, take me out to the parking lot and back over me.  Assume that I’m being held hostage and I’m being made to sing that freaking Wal Mart rah rah cheer song in the morning.  I thought that was a rumor when I first heard about it but I got into a Wal Mart early one morning and they actually make their staff sing that asinine song.  I cannot believe that it does not breach some human rights legislation. 

Greeters don’t actually greet customers any more…….it’s their entire job description -  it’s right in the title, it’s their only task – greet the customers.  They might notice you, they might glance in your direction but rarely do they actually acknowledge you.  If you are bringing in a returned item, they are apparently obliged to tag the bag and instruct you to go directly to customer service.  That’s it – a really short list of responsibilities.  I guess Wal Mart “I might notice if you come in the store” person doesn’t carry the same cachet as Wal Mart Greeter so it’s just easier to refer to them as greeters.  I was in Wal Mart yesterday trying to free one of the shopping carts from the herd that was apparently welded together within about 4 feet of a handy dandy Wal Mart Greeter.  As I struggled and the greeter watched, I was thinking wouldn’t it be handy if you were a Wal Mart Cart Separator ….but that probably requires training and skills you just don’t have so you just sit there while I pry these apart.  And…….. she did.  In her defence, I guess someone has to carefully guard that pocket full of return stickers for people who bought the wrong crap and need to return it for other crap. 

One of the saddest things I think I’ve ever seen was a severely handicapped Wal Mart Greeter - a young man curled up in the fetal position in his wheelchair and parked near the door.  Now, before you get all offended about this particular observation, I am all for people with serious physical challenges making their contribution to society.  But there was something inherently wrong with slapping a vest on this individual, rolling him over and parking him near the door first thing in the morning and then retrieving him at the end of the day.  If I have a return, am I supposed to reach into his pocket for a sticker?  I just want to be clear on this; I don’t want to be explaining this particular manoeuver to management…..think maybe I’ll just keep the crap I bought and avoid a fiasco.  I worried about him, what happens if they forget him there – he can’t roll away, he can’t call for help.  I hope someone’s checklist of responsibilities includes retrieving the Greeter or he’s screwed. 

In the grand scheme of things, I’m adding “if you ever find me greeting customers at Wal Mart” to the list of things for which I want to be euthanized.  It’s probably going to require something more legally substantial than a blog post to make this happen, but this is a start.

There are 4 more situations on the list so far:

If I utter the phrase “let’s go to bingo”.
Sitting on a bench in the mall discussing bowel movements.
If I start drawing my eyebrows on with a thick black marker.
Talking incessantly about cats. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love cats but I sat down at a meeting the other night and a board member seated beside me who I’d never met before rambled on about her cats for a good half hour.  This is an educated, professional woman …….a lawyer if I’m not mistaken …………..and on an evening out, the best she can come up with for conversation is an intensely detailed account of her cats that included impersonations and psychoanalytical play by plays.  Behind closed doors you are welcome to enjoy whatever relationship with your cats the law allows ……….but leave it at home - no one will ever love, appreciate or understand your cats the way you do and that’s just the way the world works.

But, I digress……..where was I? Ah, yes………Wal Mart Greeter…….I think my work here is done.

~~~ the nasty wench~~~

Saturday, March 2, 2013

Coffee do you take your coffee?

Coffee do you take your coffee?

(for the record, orally...........I take mine orally)

Coffee enema……this is a thing??  Color me surprised.  My son was watching an episode of My Strange Addiction and shares this little gem with me.  Not only is a coffee enema a thing, it’s a thing that can become addictive.  Oh, do tell.

Gotta google that one, where else would one find a wealth of information on strange shit that people do?  Sure enough, I get as far as “coffee e” and google knows exactly that I’m looking for – quite frankly, that’s a little disturbing.  (note to self:  remember to eradicate the browsing history on the computer when I’m done or no one is ever going to offer me a coffee again without giggling).

The first website gets directly to the question at hand - “Why in the world would someone take coffee in an enema?”  Or as the voices in my head are demanding – WTF??  Among a long list of the benefits of said method of consuming caffeine, it claims to “Help with depression, confusion and general nervous tension”.  Ummmm……..I’m not sure at what point in a depressive episode it would occur to someone to fire up a coffee enema.  As for confusion, the concept of a coffee enema confuses the crap out of me and nervous tension………I’d be some nervous about lubing up my rectum for my morning cup of joe.

It goes on to list increased mental clarity, improved energy levels, increased joy and happiness and reduction in anger amongst the virtues of the practise.  Hey, guess what……….it has the exact same effect if you consume it orally and it’s pretty tasty, too. 
It refers to the procedure as “somewhat inconvenient”……..ya think……enema bag vs coffee mug, you do the math on that one.  Better yet “able to be done in the privacy of your home”.  Okay, I’m on board with that particular piece of advice; in fact, I highly recommend you consume your coffee anally in the privacy of your own home.  Of all the things that will get you banned from your neighborhood coffee shop, I’m willing to bet a coffee enema would do it every single time. 

The list of apparatus required includes an enema bag or bucket.....I had no idea there was such a thing as an enema bucket - that sounds like a lot of coffee (perhaps I've led a sheltered life).  While most practitioners recommend inserting a lubed up enema tip in the rectum, for a more thorough procedure it is suggested to first insert a 30” colon tube and then attach the enema tip.  Ummm………as if the whole procedure is not weirdly invasive enough ………..yikes. 

I’m still pretty confused about this practise, sounds like a drunken party dare to me.  The therapeutic recommendations for this procedure are that it be “repeated at least daily and up to three times daily for at least several years”.  The doctor who pioneered the use of coffee enemas for cancer patients, insisted on a schedule of 6 times a day, every 4 hours, for at least 2 years.  Who the hell has got that kind of time?  Six times a day, every 4 hours?  If you hate being woken in the middle of the night in the hospital by a nurse checking your vitals, you are really not going to like this particular sleep disruption.

There are historical references to the practise of enemas, dating back to biblical times in the Dead Sea Scrolls…….according to whose translation?   Enemas as one of the healing miracles of Jesus……seriously?  Something about seeking a large trailing gourd having a stalk the length of a man……suffering the end of the stalk to enter your hinder parts……nope.  Not even if Jesus thinks it’s a good idea.  Jamming a gourd stalk the length of a man up my butt is far more suffering than I’d be willing to consider.  It does go on to say that, to the best of the author’s knowledge, Jesus did not recommend adding coffee to the cleansing water.  Thanks for the clarification.  Praise be. 
For all the miraculous claims of the proponents of the coffee enema, I can’t help but wonder under what circumstances the first coffee enema happened.  One account claims that a nurse in WWI accidentally dumped coffee in an enema bag for a soldier who was constipated as a result of anesthesia drugs and he reported being in less pain……thus, the coffee enema was born.  Guessing it was a pot of cold coffee….I’ve had a scorched tongue from hot coffee, thinking a coffee scorched rectum would be considerably worse.

There’s been some research done with mice……that must be a shock to the poor little mouse.  Of all the unnatural circumstances these rodents are exposed to in the name of science, this would be pretty bizarre (and where do you get a mouse size enema kit?).  As for the research done on human subjects, I wonder how that project was presented.  I’ve gone to university and was required, as part of my psychology credits, to partake in some research projects.  I hope anyone opting to show up for this particular gem read the fine print ahead of time….if they signed up for the opportunity to participate in research examining the effects of caffeine consumption….the method of intake would have come as an unpleasant surprise. 

There are some helpful suggestions like – do not get up and walk around while holding the enema in your bowels………no shit Sherlock.  Use plenty of petroleum jelly (or shaving cream?) to lubricate the enema tip….check.  A darker roast is somewhat more difficult to retain than a light roast…..I don’t even want to know why.  Using a little blackstrap molasses in the enema to help retain it, adding crushed garlic as a chemical mechanism to help dislodge yeast organisms…..this all adds up to the world’s worse smoothie… wonder you’d have to shove it up your ass, you sure as hell couldn’t stomach drinking it.  Coffee, black strap molasses and crushed garlic…..mmmmmm.

It goes on about the benefits of hydration and describes most people as quite dehydrated today.  Not to be repetitive but I cannot stress this enough…..water and coffee consumed orally have the same effect…….providing hydration and increasing mental alertness…with the added benefit of being a much simpler and more pleasing way to consume both. 

I know some coffee places offer discounts and customer loyalty rewards for bringing in your own cup to fill up in the interest of reducing the use of disposable cups.  Pretty sure the helpful little barista at the local coffee shop is going to be more than a little horrified if a customer offers up his or her enema bag/bucket for a refill.  I doubt they have a button on the till for that option and I guarantee you they don't pay her enough to touch enema paraphernalia. 

In research for this blog post, I’ve come across references to urine enemas, absinthe enemas, yogurt enemas……apparently there’s no limit to the list of things someone, somewhere has opted to intake anally. 
I’m fairly adventurous and usually quite open to new experiences but it has to be said……not once, when asked how I take my coffee, have I ever answered “up my ass………please”.  For the record, I take my coffee with milk…….in a mug………… always, always, always in a mug……….orally…….always orally.  If I’m going to jazz up my coffee experience, I’ll throw in some Bailey’s or Kahlua.  

~~~~~  the nasty wench ~~~~~


Sunday, January 27, 2013

Hooligan Penguin Sex

                          ********Spoiler Alert*******
if you love penguins, turn back now before it's too late................

I loooooooove penguins.  What’s not to love?  There is something uniquely charming about these wondrous, waddling creatures - whether it’s the reality of March of the Penguins or the animated world of Happy Feet.  I used to have a poster up in my office of a dishevelled penguin with the notation “Fuck it, I’m going home”.  Even he had his charms (my boss did not share that opinion). 

However, I’ve come across some penguin information that is nothing short of devastating.  Research notes for a 1915 publication by Dr. George Levick have been discovered in the London Natural History Museum, including notations that describe my lovable penguins as depraved hooligans.  Say it isn’t so, George! 

He goes on to describe thousands of “hooligan” male penguins copulating with each other or dead females, gang-raping injured females and molesting young chicks.  What the fk Happy Feet??  Traumatized by his observations, the good doctor stamped his notes on the sexual habits of the penguins as “Not for publication” and cut them from his final book.  It was after all 1915, the public was not ready for these revelations. 

In a short and frenzied breeding season that lasts only days, frantic single males mate with anything that looks vaguely like a female assuming the position – be it a dead penguin or a rock . Yes, sometimes even a rock becomes the recipient of some loving.  Apparently the sex of the target – dead or alive (cue Bon Jovi) - is a bit of a crap shoot, male and female penguins are hard to tell apart, even for penguins.  It’s not like the males are in the traditional tux and tails and the females in formal gowns, maybe I’ll give them a pass on that one, who am I to judge?

As for the whole necrophilia thing – given their environment, the bodies of deceased penguins are preserved in good condition, several years passing before they lose their “fresh appearance”.  The assumption is that they are not attracted to the dead but rather the position.  “A dead penguin lying with its eyes half open is very similar in appearance to a compliant female”.  Nothing like that come hither frozen death stare.  The bar is set pretty low for this amorous pursuit.  There’s clearly not a lot of sexual response expected from the female of the species, her participation would be the same if she was living or several years deceased.  Not bad enough to die and have your corpse lay on the frozen landscape for years, your carcass is then at the mercy of a bunch of sex crazed males humping everything in sight in perpetuity.  Men of the world, pay attention, for all your complaining about partners who aren’t very responsive in bed, it could be worse, you could be a penguin.  If your partner has a pulse, advantage you.  If she’s conscious, bonus.  Maybe penguins were the inspiration for the term “dead fuck”.    

As for the chicks, the males are given the benefit of the doubt on this one – they may simply be collateral damage in the sexual frenzy.  Maybe that’s easier than adding pedophile to their list of deviant behaviors.  In their blind lust to fornicate the crap out of everything in sight, molesting the chicks is merely a faux pas.  What a bunch of assholes. 

This information lay dormant in the museum archives for a century, Dr. Levick having opted to protect Edwardian British society at the time from penguin depravity.  My penguin illusions have been shattered.  I can’t unring this bell.  Visions of Happy Feet now tainted with the imagery of packs of marauding testosterone driven male penguins, blinded by the drive to mate, mounting all things mountable.  I’m crushed.  Hey, Morgan Freeman, narrate the creep factor out of this penguin story line.   

Maybe what happens in the Antarctic should stay in the Antarctic. 

                                                            ~ the nasty wench ~

Sunday, June 10, 2012

The Great Ben Wa Extraction Dilemma

Now that I have your attention, let me tell you about my Friday night.  I am an independent woman with many interests and endeavors ………which explains why I am spending my Friday night painting the ceiling in the spare bedroom.  And no, before you ask, I am not using ben wa balls to spice up my Friday night painting experience………..merely setting the scene.  Just when you think that painting a ceiling on a Friday night is about as bad as it can get……..the extension handle snaps on a fully loaded extra thick roller above my head.  I take a direct hit…….hair, ear, face full of paint ......leaving me looking very tribal - prepared for clan warfare or a maybe voodoo ritual. 

Skip ahead past the clean up.

I roll the last of the ceiling and have about 5 seconds to admire my work when I get the following text “have you ever used ben wa balls?”  The award for most unique question I’ve been asked in ages goes to ……… a good friend with an intimate personal dilemma.  She explains that she bought a set of purple ben wa balls, she includes the color 'cause I love purple (let me point out that I am in no way personally invested in the color of her ben wa balls).  But, I digress ……….back to the matter at hand, or perhaps more accurately located in a more personal anatomical location. 

Apparently, she’s lost one.  Explains that the first time she used them, they kept falling out…………too much information………I don’t have a clue how big these things are and I’m thinking kegels girl, kegels (in her shaky defense, these ones are apparently relatively small).  She bought them for a night out and I’m now envisioning her at a bar, dropping purple ben wa balls on the dance floor.  I’m not sure how expensive they are but I can’t imagine any incentive for retrieving them in public.  The dark and twisty side is cobbling together an adult version of Cinderella that Disney wouldn’t touch.  Handsome stranger navigating the bar clutching a purple ben wa ball trying to identify the owner.  Excuse me miss, perchance have you lost something?  This line delivered while cradling a wayward ben wa ball that has rolled across the dance floor in a bar in the palm of his outstretched hand.  Of course, if I follow the comparison to the Prince slipping the glass slipper back on Cinderella’s foot, this is a story the two would not be telling future generations when they ask how Grandma and Grandpa met.

On her second attempt, she’s experiencing a completely different problem ….. she can’t retrieve one of them.  It’s hiding "somewhere".  There's not a whole lot of "somewhere" it could be, I think we can safely skip the call to Quantico, this is not going to require an FBI grid search.  Wants to know what she’s supposed to do and how long it’s safe to leave it in.  Not a clue, my friend, not a clue.  So, I did the only thing I could think of to be helpful ………..I googled it. 

Here are the helpful suggestions:

“There are several ways to remove the balls including: jump up and down, sneeze, cough, sit and bear down as if you’re having a bowel movement, insert lubricant to help them slide out, etc. If you think you might have a hard time removing the balls, then you may want to purchase balls that are strung onto a retrieval cord.”

I pass on this information to her as well as a confession she’s already aware of …..I’m laughing so hard, I’m crying.  I still have paint in my hair and in my ear and I’m sitting at my laptop googling ben wa ball extraction techniques.  The retrieval cord idea is brilliant (I’m seeing children’s mittens on strings) but is more of a preventative idea than a solution to this particular problem.  I suggest jumping jacks and some astroglide.  More laughter, more tears.  I’m not sure how many problems are solved with a combination of jumping jacks and astroglide, but it’s all I got for this one. 

Barring that, I’m hoping that maybe if she just heads to bed for the night, it will just wander out on its’ own.  Of course, if that doesn’t happen, she’s going to be quite a hit in her local emergency ward explaining her situation to the triage nurse.

(Side note – while googling the ben wa issue, I came across a reference to something called Analball Bingo ……seriously, google it - I'm not making this up ...........I have no idea what it is and the picture of the required apparatus didn’t clear up that particular mystery even a little bit …………I don’t know wtf kind of dabber one would use for Analball Bingo but I think it’s better that I never know.  As much as I pride myself on being fairly knowledgeable and open minded, I’m just going to let this one go).

Update:  newsflash, this just in the next morning …………..the solution to the problem was time and gravity.

~ tnw ~

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Poultry Fornication (or Romeo got penis juice on my last pair of lululemons)

There’s a reason I don’t write fiction…………I couldn’t make this stuff up.

Princess is a character in my world who exists solely on privilege and entitlement.  I used to think that she was completely out of touch with reality but I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s merely out of touch with my reality and that’s enough to annoy the crap out of me.  I will give her credit for having achieved a level of oblivion that is nothing short of mind-boggling.  She was talking to me, as she tends to do ……..unaware that I was plotting her untimely demise.  She’d just marched in announcing that she’d done an hour and half of cardio the night before ……..then asked me if I knew how long an hour and a half of cardio takes ……….........I’m going to go with an hour and a half ……..oh, wait a minute ………….nope, make that 90 minutes.

Go ahead, ask me something else ………….I’m on a roll ……………….

She makes the natural segue to extolling the virtues of honey ………….hey, I’m just telling the story the way it happened.  I thought I could cut the conversation short by telling her I was not a fan of bee barf.  In retrospect, that was a mistake.  Her response….“that’s like when I eat eggs and I stop and realize that I’m eating chicken abortions”. 

Ummm……huh?  Oh Princess ………….this is not going to go well. 

In my shaky defense, I rarely bother trying to realign her royal highness’ thought processes with reality, but every once in a great while I fall prey to my own curiosity.  What’s more painful – listening to her talk or attempting to enlighten her?  It’s usually a little from column ‘a’, a little from column ‘b’.

Me: “ Seriously??”

Princess: “If I didn’t eat them, they would have become chickens, so they are chicken abortions.”

Me:  “Umm……….nope”

Princess:  blank vacant stare

Me:  (Pretty sure this is about to get much worse.  But, every once in a while, I gotta take a shot).  “That’s not quite how it works.  Market eggs are unfertilized eggs; at no point do they have the potential to turn into chickens.”

Princess:  blank vacant stare followed by …..“Who fertilizes the eggs?”

My head just imploded.

Me:  (In my best Lewis Black)  – “ROOSTERS, ROOSTERS……….ROOSTERS FERTILIZE EGGS!!!!”

Princess:  (clearly confused) ……..”but how do they get the stuff through the shells?”

There’s not a judge in the world who would convict me at this point.  I’m presenting my defense in my head at this very moment ……”your honor, I had to put her out of my misery”………………charges dropped, case dismissed.

Me:   “Sex ...........chickens have sex.  And before you ask the next question ……………they have sex before the egg is laid …….thus, a fertilized egg”.  There you have it, chicken sex. 

Long pause while she sorts out this new information, the pieces are beginning to fall into place.  Synapses are firing ………….we are almost there ……………..

Princess: “that must be noisy …….”

And we have arrived.  This is as good as it’s going to get.

I kid you not, that’s her reaction.  Apparently, I’ve put her mind at ease; she can now eat eggs without being haunted by the souls of unborn chickens.  Armed with her newly acquired knowledge about poultry reproduction, she leaves …..and for that, I am eternally grateful. 

Unfortunately, she comes back later that same day.  She breezes in complaining that “Romeo got penis juice on my last pair of lululemons” ……….oh, no ……….I’ve already explained poultry fornication today, I’m not getting sucked back into the vortex. 

Romeo is an English Bulldog ……..not so much a pet as a furry little hostage who snorts and drools.  I suspect Stockholm Syndrome is all that keeps him from escaping …………..well that and really short legs.

~ the nasty wench ~

(note: I dedicate this post to Kilroy who has been waiting patiently for me to unleash some wenchery on her majesty).

Friday, May 4, 2012

Kilroy ...........this one's for you

This picture means something to precisely one person .........he's the official president of my unofficial fan club.  This one's for you Kilroy............catch you on the dark and twisty side!!!

~ the nasty wench ~

Thursday, April 26, 2012

The G Spot Has Officially Been Found ……………. Hiding in Poland

After decades of research and debate and mountains of medical journals, Dr. Adam Ostrzenski found the elusive G spot.  Finally, a man finds it.  No surprise that it’s front page international news and the quickest his research has ever been published. 

That’s the good news.  The bad news – the woman is 83 and recently deceased…….…fat lot of good it’s going to do her now.  Isn’t that just the way?  One can only speculate after a lifetime of rather ordinary, perhaps mundane sex ……..shortly after her demise, a man finally pays enough attention to find it.  Mind you, it took him 7 fricken hours of painstakingly meticulous poking and prodding to locate it, who the hell has that kind of time?  Don’t get me wrong, you want a man to take his time and pay attention, but 7 hours is plain excessive.  Wake me when you find it buddy and we can both celebrate.  (I find myself rereading the article to confirm that she was dead before he launched this particular expedition and didn’t die of boredom in the process).

He was prevented from taking a tissue sample because – and I quote – “the subject was not in a position to communicate”.  I may be going out on a limb here but she might have been willing to part with a sample, in the interest of proving it actually exists - she’s done with it.  The doctor’s search through a century’s worth of existing studies (you read that correctly, it’s taken a hundred years ……..worst case of refusing to ask for directions ever) found his was the first description of the coordinates of the elusive G spot.  Coordinates??  Really?  We are not talking about a massive search area here, this is not Star Trek …………..although, it may also be described as going where no man has gone before.  Or, at least, very few.  Coordinates …………like maybe he can plug the numbers into his GPS and locate it repeatedly??  Okay, I can get on board with that argument.   Crap, now I can’t get the vision of Cpt. James T Kirk at the helm out of my head ……… giving Sulu the coordinates to plug into the console………… and given Sulu’s foray out of the closet, we know he has absolutely no vested interest in finding a G spot.

This woman is absolutely entitled to come back and haunt the bejeebers out of every lover she ever had or track them down in the hereafter.  The world’s most justified “I told you so” dance in the history of humanity. 

The doctor is returning to Poland to continue his research with cadavers from different age groups in a scientific effort to prove that the deceased 83 yr old woman did not, in fact, possess the only G spot in existence.  Once he’s got that resolved, he’s going after Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster and Santa Claus……….so many obscure mysteries to be solved.  

~ the nasty wench~