Showing posts with label Weird. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Weird. Show all posts

Thursday, August 25, 2016

~ Lettuce Entertain Me

I resist a lot of urges.  Mostly in the name of staying out of jail, the ER and/or the morgue.  Sometimes in the quest to achieve proper adult-ing, or not lookin' a complete fuckin' fool at any given moment.  As the saying goes, the struggle is real, yo.

Yesterday I was faced with such a decision.  Go with my natural inclination, or use reasonable judgement? 

As I meandered the produce section I momentarily vacillated between romaine, for Caesar salad, or iceberg for a wedge.  For the gazillion-th week in a row I chose iceberg because, bacon.  I started reaching for a head when I stopped, pulled my BBGhand back and silently started asking myself if I should buy the Stewie lettuce?

Or, like a real grown up select lettuce not based on its cartoon doppleganger-ness. 

(Ok.  Because, bacon.  Annnnd salad shrimp.)

(As you've probably already surmised) I tote ta lee bought the Stewie lettuce.  I felt a lil' like a modern day member of the Donner party as I lopped off a piece of Stewie's head for my nourishment.  Maybe tomorrow, grownupping.  Maybe tomorrow.


Tuesday, August 5, 2014

~ I Like Those Titties

...Was exxxactly the reaction I was hoping for when I dressed myself today. (Disclaimer:  ...Now the other day because, I'm a shit blogger.)  So, thanks, three guys' sittin' in the car in the parking lot at Lowes. 

It was pretty awesome to be minding my own fuckin' business running benign errands like buying screen to re-screen my slider and to be put in a position where my choices were to stride over to you and start slappin' every one of your guffawin' faces (which, P.S.  your Mom, sister, wife or daughter would have totally sanctioned upon discovering your behavior towards some random ass DIY capable chick) or ignoring your crass ass comment. 

Today I chose the latter.  You may be wont to believe that I chose that course of action because;  A) It wasn't any big deal.  2)  It was just a joke.  Or III)  It was a no harm/no foul situation.  ...Or any of the other completely bullshit reasons one uses to justify being a, well, I'd say dick, but that would be doin' a disservice to dicks.   It wasn't.  It was because there were three of you and I knew I couldn't take ya all when things inevitably got contentious.  So, congratulations.   You used your time here on earth today to be an asshole to some skirt who had the audacity to need to leave her house to buy something, and have boobs. 

Now these were grown ass men.  Forties?  50's?  Old enough to know that, "I like those titties" (replete with laughter) is lame, rude and as I mentioned earlier, asshole-y.  I've always found it vexing how guys, especially ones old enough to, ya know, know better (otherwise known as: older than 5) and those with daughters (/mothers/sisters/grandmothers/wife/et al*) somehow delude themselves into thinking speaking/treating someone else's daughter in a "I like those titties" way is acceptable and appropriate. 

In fact, if I were a bettin' chick I'd wager tens of dollars that if any one of those guys heard some other guy(s), "I like those titties"-ing their wife/daughter/sister/etc., as she participated in mundane tasks-- like, getting out of her car,  it'd be ass kickin' time.   

Today it wasn't. 

But only because I displayed a judicial use of good judgment.  Not because it wouldn't have been an appropriate reaction.  As I told one of my besties, AnonD, "it wasn't a, I had to fight 3 men situation."  In the moment nobody on the face of this earth wanted to fight 3 men more than me. 

Which for those keeping score cards is when and where the line is crossed between a dumbass comment that one may find offensive, and one that no fuckin' bones about it is offensive.  

Pro Tip: 
If a woman's reaction to your 'flattering' comment is
contemplating committing a violent act on you? 
Consider your approach a fail. 

Yep.  Always...  WTF, guys?

Obviously, "I like those tittles" isn't the biggest problem in the world.  Hell, it's not even the biggest problem of my day...  The point is that considering the possibility of fisticuffs with several dudes, due to that kind of 'everyday' type of comment as the result of pointing out that what they've just done/said is fucked up, shouldn't be a normal part of a (any) skirt's day.  ...And look.  I'm a big chick.  I'm average man height.  I'm not one who tends towards being intimidated, or feeling vulnerable to a guy simply because he's a guy.  But imagine that if a grown ass girl who's cold cocked a Chicago Po-Po flat on his ass into some bushes feels intimidated and vulnerable, what your 13 year old daughter (who hasn't had a lifetime of similar experience to draw from), or 5'2" sister (who isn't in any position to, even if need be, tussle with a 6' 2" dude) must feel in similar situations?  And what her situational 'coping' tactics must be limited to when she knows that speaking up and calling straight up bullshit, bullshit, is never going to be seen as an opportunity to reassess how much of an asshole he/they're bein', and is always going to be taken as an invitation to escalate to a situation. 

I wish I were one of those quick with a comeback folks.  I'm not.  Which is why my options are narrowed to ignore/cause bodily damage (and go to jail).  I know violence isn't the answer.  Or so I am told.  But ignoring isn't the answer either.   Not for women, and honestly?  Not for men.  I loathe the term catcall--  it does a disservice to what's really at play here...  There's nothing kitty cute about a man/group of men making a chick feel like she's in potential peril (from either doing nothing, or doing something) because he/they happen to cotton to the looks of her lady parts.  "I like those tits" and all of the iterations most XX-ers reading this are all too familiar with, isn't a 'boys will be boys' thing. 

Boys Will Be Boys Things:
- Leaving toilet seat up
- Cultivating toe nails as weapons
- Nut tapping
- Fart amusement
- Differentiating Phillips and ...honestly I don't even fuckin' know, I just call 'em "Twosies" and "Foursies" screwdrivers
- Bets resulting in embarrassing tattoo pay-ups

It's a far less nebulous thing than boys bein' boys.  And it sure as shit isn't a display of how any man worth his salt comports himself.  It's verbal sexual intimidation. What it's not is flirting.  Or being complimentary.  It's being a USDA grade-A douchebag.  Regardless of how many Axe commercials ya've seen, douchebaggery is not a quality chicks are searchin' out.  For women, the it's bad for you/us is pretty obvious.  For men, sexual verbal intimidation of chicks is bad for all guys isn't as readily recognizable, generally, but in case ya hadn't noticed societies who treat their women poorly are shitholes.  Get a globe.  Fuck.  I'm so old.  ...At least I didn't suggest an encyclopedia (for you youngin's an encyclopedia is the paper version of what we used to look shit up before Ask Jeeves was born.)    ...  Do a lil' Googling on regions where women are treated (mostly-ish) with a sense of equality (aka: r-e-s-p-e-c-t) and you'll see places you'd (if you had to move to another country for 5 years) be ok with livin'.  Places where women aren't tend to rhyme with; La-molly-a  and Math-gan-a-stan.  Societies that don't treat their women well are places that aren't even good for men.  (I'm not saying women are better than men.  I'm saying men are better when/where women are shown the respect of decent treatment.  ...Ya know, like being able to run an errand without 3 leer-y guys verbally accostin' you over the existence of your hooters... )  ...Which I know, is big picture-ing, but on a macro level?  Do you really want the cute girl you're about to chat up to be fresh off a "I like those titties" incident as her last point of reference when a male stranger making contact was involved?  Is that good for your business?  No.  No, it's not.

Verbal Sexual Intimidation,
here's what you can do about it:
If you are guilty of "I like those titties"-ing someone --  Stop that shit.  Immediately.  Seriously.

If you know/have seen/are witnessing guys who "I like those titties" girls/women --  Tell them it's bush league bullshit.  Remind them how little they'd appreciate some dude yelling that at their mother. (aka: See sumthin' shitty, say sumthin' shitty.)

If you are looking for alternate ways to address obnoxious assholes insistant on alerting you to their enjoyment of your rack, check out these options:

This...   #YouOkSis 

...These passoutables;   (BBG Legal Notification:  I, BBG being of sound-ish mind do hereby call dibs on the invention of the word passoutables.  Copyright pending.)

...And (what I wish I'd have been quick enough to have retorted myself, and am definitely gonna remember for the inevitable next time)  "You sound like you have a small dick." 

And now, some P.S.'s...

P.S.  The * she's somebody's sister, mother, wife, 3rd cousin 2x removed reasoning for why a guy shouldn't "I like those tittes" girls is actual bullshit.  A woman ought to be free from such things because she is a human fuckin' being.  Period.  End of story.    

P.P.S.  For the Official Record, I love when guys make their presence known and that they dig what I'm workin' with.  I'm a big fan of a man complimenting and/or flirting with me.  Big fan.  I've had entire days made by a non-asshole-y compliment.  Hell, a few weeks back I encountered some random guy who completely busted a move to hold a door open for me and commented on how pretty I looked in my dress.  (BBG:  "Thank you--  you just became my day-maker!")  Now did I catch him takin' a gander at my hooters?  Yes.  They rarely go unnoticed.  The point is at no nanosecond during this unsolicited interaction did I have the urge to hit him.  And honestly?  "I like those titties"?  If a guy who has actually seen 'em says that to me?  I'm gonna get very, 'yeeeaaah, baby' real quick.  To write this post off as the musings of an overly sensitive prude-y/opposed-to-any-overture chick is erroneous. 

P.P.P.S. (...Now I'm just tryin' to set a P.S. world record)  What was I wearin'?  What the fuck difference does it make?  I will say this;  I'm not so naïve as to think that clothes don't have the power to predicate how people treat you, they do.  Which is exactly why I didn't show up at Lowes sportin' a nippleless bra top and daisy dukes.  Even I'm sorry for that visual.  Ok, good sense and decorum kept that from happening, but honestly unless I've accessorized with an actual pole, slammin' soundtrack, some ping pong balls, a minimum drink requirement and a bouncer?  ...I wasn't dressed in a manner that one would reasonably expect to have to be dealin' with some assholes "I like those titties"-ing ya.  So what I was wearing doesn't really matter, now does it?  Fine.  Now that I've mentioned nippleless bras I feel like I should specify to avoid rumors gettin' started confusion;   A dress.  A lil' run of the mill summertime dress appropriate enough to pop into damn Lowes, and it literally revealed zero cleavage.


Thursday, November 21, 2013

~Something(s) You Don't Know About Me?

 In no particular order, some random ass shit you may not know about the ol' BBG:
  • I once *had* to punch a Chicago Police Officer in the face.  ...What I didn't have to do but did fuckin' anyway was to look down on him in my tres ladylike pink and white skirt/jacket combo and heels as he laid sprawled out in the bushes while I super assily told him, "and don't get up" as I sauntered away. 
* He was warned that if he did X, Y ( Y = I will be forced to kick your ass) would happen. 
He dumbassidly decided to do X.  And what am I, if not a girl of her word?

  • I have never had Peptol Bismol.
  • When Uncle John (my dog [for Uncle John involved posts click here]) winks at me I always wink back.  Just in case this is the time he's trying to initiate meaningful communication.
  • I do not read fiction. 
  • Thousands of travelers have been woken up by moi.  A hotel I worked at used me as the voice of the wake up call greeting.
  • For some reason I think seeing a cab over is a lucky sign.  A good harbinger for the day. 
(A cab over engine rig, or as I always call 'em, a 'flatface')
  • Two of my friends since childhood, LEM and GinCat married guys who they met through me. 
  • My college roommate was killed in a car crash.  (No, one does not get automatic A's.)
  • I have never seen:    It's A Wonderful Life, Titanic, Gone With The Wind, the Sound of Music, or any movie containing Elvis, Steven Seagal or Wesley Pipes Wesley Snipes. 
  • I once asked George Clooney if he "wanted to take a picture with me"--  as if I was the prize in the impromptu photo op.  Things I still have?...


  • Like Magnum P.I., I have been up in a helicopter.
  • I am kind of a slow burn when it comes to people screwing around with me.  It takes a minute before I'm going to strike out over what someone is doing to me.  Fuck with someone who I love and/or is important to me?  Well, by the time the offending party can blink I'm already designing a plan to dispose of their body.
  • I was once named in an ad published in USA Today by my (at-the-time) company for displaying superior customer service.  And all of this time you thought I was nuthin' but a stone cold bitch.
  • As a kid I advanced to the State Science Fair.  Twice.  And all of this time you thought it was just looks.
  • Unless it's to see the worlds biggest ball of rubber bands or sumthin' equally as cracked out 'n crazy and amazeballs I do not believe in stopping during a road trip.  Except in dire emergencies all eating and peeing should be sync'd to gas tank fill-ups.
  • I have been a bridesmaid in 11 weddings. 
  • I sucked my thumb until I was?  10?  Maaaaybe older?  I had a spot on my thumb from where it rested on my bottom teeth that took years to fade.
  • The only reason BBG HQ has any level of neatness and order to it is because I am simply too lazy to let shit get so out of control that I'd have to spend hours to get things up to visitor worthy levels.   Based on my desk and/or car people usually seem surprised that it doesn't look like an episode of Hoarders over here.
  • I outside of straight up survival could never kill an animal.  But at least once a week some asshole makes me contemplate sitting down and makin' a list of some people.
  • An organization published the first ad/graphic/logo/whatever ya wanna call it I designed, when I was 16.
  • I don't like rice, or fish, really, but I love sushi.
  • When I see a man parked in an isolated parking spot I always assume he's wackin' off.
  • I still have my baby fork.  Much to my Mother's chagrin I still insist on using it two times a year.
  • Unlike Katy Perry, I have never kissed a girl.
  • I have a printed funeral plan that several key people know where to find.  I have already named pallbearers, who's reading what and who is in charge of various aspects of gettin' me in the ground.  (Spoiler:  There will be bubbles and beer.)
  • For some reason when I'm driving the words 'left' and 'right' mean nothing to me.  (Please point to indicate direction.)
  • I can still do the splits.
  • This is one of my all time favorite pictures of me.  I spied some horses walkin' down the road whilst hanging out in Megis Co. one weekend.  I don't know who took this picture.  Or more specifically why they fuck they decided to take it from this angle, but I love it.  I've since titled it, 'Asses'.
  • I can whistle a (any) song like nobody's damn business.
  • I can drive a forklift.  In a skirt and heels.
  • I would/could never drink Bailey's Irish Cream.  Not to be gross ( --the sure fuckin' sign I'm about to be gross:  You have been warned!) but it looks like a shot of jizz.  No.  Thanks.  It think it's probably what bukkake porn stars drink at happy hour.  


Friday, July 19, 2013

~I May Have 99 Problems

But I'm pretty fuckin' grateful this isn't one... 

Now if you still don't know what the hell I'm talkin' about, no worries.  I confess;  I am an ol' advertising girl, so noticing oddities about ads is kinda second nerdy nature.  Obviously, the cracked out picture made me think what the fuck? drew me in, but it was the text that made me think whaaaaat the fucking fuck?? wanna scratch my head.

Ok, here's a hint:

I'm a lady chick and I don't even know what they're talkin' about.  (Which is not a great sign in an advertisement.  ...In fact, clarity is kinda an integral part of what makes an ad successful.  Unless, Squatty Potty is gauging success on the number of times "whaaaaaat the fuck" is the initial response to their ad, if that's the case;  Mission Accomplished.) 

Dear Lady Problems,
As the owner of boobs and a uterus, I'd like to express my sincere gratitude that you have selected some other skirt(s) to harass.  While it's true, your vaugeity and mystery does make me curious about you, (no offense) I hope we never cross paths.  Ever.

Other Odd Ad Posts:

- One Of These Things Is NOT Like The Other

- Built In Redundancy


Tuesday, March 12, 2013

~Not Sure If I Want To Date You? Really? You're Not??

In a sick and twisted kind of way a bad date is almost as exhilarating as a stellar one.  Both provide a rush of feelings, and have the makings of a story that is share-worthy, albeit for vastly different reasons.

Today's tale is of a date of the bad variety.  Honestly?  The really bad variety.  And I once had a date literally walk out on me during a lunch date.  (It was a second date.  He was peeved that I'd selected a 2nd lunch date and not delved into evening dining with him.  I thought I was giving a chance to a guy who'd seemed nice enough, who hadn't made the optimal impression on me in the first date a do-over, and that he should be grateful that I was granting him the opportunity.  [cocky much?]  He hadn't been a dick on the 1st date, just somewhat awkward, as some folks are around people they're just getting to know.  By the time Lunchgate II Electric Boogaloo became a real, 'two lunches?  That's not moving a relationship forward' (??) thing for him, I was starting to sense that my magnanimous acceptance for a 2nd date at all, was a big fuckin' mistake.  A faux pas that became pretty crystal clear by the time our meals arrived.  By then he had turned into a dick.  But you don't have to take my word for it.  When the server brought the bill--  a bill that made me feel like $8, $10, whatever his lunch cost, was a small price to pay to know that I'd never have to spend another minute with him.  --It turned out he also thought this guy was an ass based on their interaction, that he took his meal off before he presented the bill and made some now forgotten good riddance type comment.)

...Sooo, when I say I know a lil' sumthin'-sumthin' about a bad date, I'm not just talkin' smack.

Now, the newest addition to my list of shitty dates [occupancy 2] this guy.  This guy is some guy I'd exchanged a few emails/calls with last year before I started seeing A#1Guy.  When I came back on the market, he touched base and I agreed to check him out.  Fast forward to the other day.  ...So, he's exploring moving here and doesn't know his way around, therefore I'm the planner.  No problemo.  I used to be a concierge for a downtown hotel.  I know all kinds of places 'round these parts.  I ask if he's thinkin' drinks or dinner?  He says dinner.  Fine.  Dinner is usually more of a 1st date time commitment than I'm willing to make.  (I am an uber slow eater.  Like, World Record Guinness book s-l-o-w). Buuuuuutttt, he has; A) waited more than a year and 2) has traveled from a different state to check out housing/job market/etc. and moi.  So dinner it is.  I inquire if he has a taste for anything specific, he says Italian.  ...Then he says-- and this should have been my official red flag that things were not going to go well--  "Olive Garden or Red Lobster, anywhere's fine."

Come on.  Really?  O.G. Olive Garden?  Listen.  I've had some wonderful eatin'-too-many-bread-sticks-dipped-in-alfrado-sauce/it-was-convenient-for-us-all-Olive-Garden meals.  But never would I find myself in any other city and chose the chain restaurant I can have a block away at home.  When traveling, I say ALWAYS suss out some local place.  So right then and there I knew this wasn't gonna go well. 

I pick a (local) place.  I pick him up because I'd never be at the mercy of some strangers whims of my transportation.  (Copkid rule #14)  Dinner was fine.  As I mentioned to a friend, "at no point did I have to resist the urge to lunge across the table at him with my fork," but I had already decided that there would be no second date.  Now as I mentioned earlier I am a irritatingly notoriously slow eater.  Things weren't going the way of the Titanic yet, but I was in not interested in prolonging our dinner cruise any longer than necessary either, so even though I was a scant 1/3'd of my way through my meal, when the waiter cleared his empty plate and offered me a box, I jumped at it.  Because he was such a quick eater, I felt like I looked like a bad date if I dropped him off within the hour.  Plus when the check arrived I asked if I could pitch in I'm not a havin' a guy have to pay for dinner when I *know* I'm not diggin' him type of girl.  He said no.  I asked again.  He said no again and I said thank you.  ...And then he said, "you can get the tip if you want to."  Really, hoss?  Really?  The tab was like $37, seriously, what's the big deal about getting the tip too at that point?  If you're going to be a gentleman don't puss out on the last $10-15??  Unfortunately for me I only had a $1 and a fifty, in terms of cold hard currency.  In the name of tryin' to be a decent person I suggested I pick up a drink on the way back to drop him off to make up for the tip he was now on the hook for.  Why the fuck didn't I just ask the waiter to break the $50?!? 

We arrived at some lil' spot directly on the way to return him, we each ordered.  Again, things were fine at first.  Actually until I was about 1/2 through my beer, which is when things started to go adrift.  And by 'adrift', I mean, batshit crazy. 

Now kids, I do more stuff than I think people notice, super deliberately.  It was not happenstance that we found ourselves sitting at the bar (as opposed to a table/booth) so that I could face the bar directly (straight on) and not give him the impression that I was into him by body language tells (like turning legs/body towards someone indicating interest).  So we're chatting and my head is ever so slightly turning his direction from time to appropriate time.  Regular minutiae.  Then he asks me if I want kids.  I donno about you, but that's not my idea of first date chatter, but whateves...  Then he asks me about my beliefs on abortion.  ABORTION.  For those of you who don't know me, I'm not one to start stirrin' the pot by bringing the subject up with folks unsolicited or not in context to what's already being discussed, but I'm also not one to shy away from answering most direct questions with a direct answer.  So I answer.  (blah, blah, fuckidy blah, if you really wanna know my stance click here [Open Letter to JS]) 


Suffice it to say, his views and mine did not sync up.  While I'm only 1/2 through my first beer, he's already ordered a second round (which beer #2 is now sitting in front of me) so now I'm starting to do the math. 

   He is horrible
+ I am Catholic, therefore do not believe in wasting alcohol
= I've gotta start fuckin' chuggin'

(Actual post-date status update:  "I'm having trouble remembering the last time I was so happy to be home from a date. As I started my second beer, I wondered the appropriateness of shotgunnin' it so that I could wrap it up sooner. ...And how I could shotgun a bottle.")

Mercifully, he wandered off in search of the men's room, which is when I qualified for the 2013 Worldwide Beer Chug finals.  When he returned I was mere nanoseconds from having completed my remaining 1 1/2 beers he sat down and completely turned towards me, which is when I discovered he had very bad breath.  Before the words, "well, looks like it's that time..." could form in my mouth, he asked me if I am, the quote PMS-y sort of girl unfuckingquote. 

I thought answering his PMS question by looking him in the eye for a silent moment and asking him, "did you just ask me if I'm the PMS-ys sort?"  (Him:  Yes.  [slightly less maniacal chuckle than what it sounds like in my head now]  Me:  [up nod]  Alright.  [followed by silence and the Official BBG Reeeally? look]) would signify that this had come to a conclusion.  A poor one.  Right?

Answer:  Wrong. 

Nope.  After a pretty quite, and thankfully, quick ride to drop him off as he was exiting the BBGmobile he offered up that he'd be available for a second date the following week.  I said that I had a lot of things going on requiring my attention and that that might not be a possibility. Question:  Is there any plane of reality where that reply isn't understood to be nice-speak for, 'fuck no'?  Apparently it wasn't translated by my date because he then asked if he could have a kiss.  Now honestly, I just want this whole experience to be finished before I flip the fuck out become his story of this crazy ass bitch date who once cussed him the fuck out, ya know?  I'm trying so hard to be a decent person and a keepin' it classy kinda broad.  After an awkward pause as I allowed my inner voice to reason out the best/easiest/quickest plan I offered my cheek.  Again, no one could possibly construe that as, 'eh, things didn't go great, but she could still be interested', right?

Answer:  Wrong.

How do I know?  Well, BigBrownGirlWorld hostage resident/visitor, bright and early the next AM I received a text from Mr. Horrible Date:  "Nice to meet you.  Not sure if you want to date."

Huh?  I did everything but chew my own fuckin' arm off to flee your presence and you think there might be a possibility that I do want to see you again? 

I resisted my immediate urge to respond with, 'Really?' by realizing that would likely open up a can of back and forth worms that frankly I didn't want any part of.  He had already stolen 90 minutes I'm never getting back.  Plus, contrary to popular belief, I sincerely do try to not be a bitch.  So I exercised the option of coolin' my fuckin' jets before replying.  (Gold star, me!)  A plan that was quite successful.  ...For the first couple of hours.  Then I spied a call coming in from him, that I ignored.  Once again I attempt to high road it--  actually I gave him credit by thinking to myself, he's probably butt dialed.  Moving on.  Serenity now, etc.  About an hour later I received a second call from him.  Nope.  That doesn't seem desperate/crazy at all. 

For Clarification:  I swear to you, it's far more about me trying to keep control of myself and my words/actions than me ignoring or torturing this guy.  I know me.  I am nice.  I want to be nice.  And I know that when I'm not nice, it's not, 'oh, that's not very nice'  --it's 'oh, now that fuckin' chick knows how to be a bitch!'  I know there's not much gradual progression from, I might have to kick that guy in the balls to ...and I will have a good Shiraz with 'em once I've cut them [balls] off and eat them, with me.   

...So I do try to keep myself in check about gettin' testy (pun not intended, but tee-hee-able nonetheless) as best, and when I can.

I willfully choose to ignore this call too in lieu of addressing it the next day, hopefully in a less gettin' ready to hurt your fuckin' feelin's calmer state.

Before I could reach such a peace-y place, I received yet another text.  Knowing that I had to, before texting back  Nice to meet you too.  Quick question.  What brand of tampon do you use, Mary?  Just curious. ~BBG  P.S.  Fuck off. something inappropriate, come up with a string of words that would not incite a back 'n forth, or that could be misunderstood for some other meaning, without being bitchy.  I considered what I would want to hear if the not interested shoe was on the other foot.  And considered that there was no possible way I could retain even a shred of self respect if I thought I'd reached out more than once to some guy I fuckin' met once, and they hadn't gotten back with me and I didn't pick up the hint.

I came up with [text]:  I apologize for the delay in reply.  No we will not be dating.  I wish you the best of luck with your search.

I thought this all went without sayin' I was being nice.  Kind in the, I don't want you to waste one more second of your time wondering if I'm interested.  And kind in the, this is a done deal, the door is closed/I'm not giving you any stringin' along types of phrasing. 

Given what had actually gone down, could this really be surprising info to this guy??  

Apparently, yes.

His reply?


Wow??  ...Didja honestly think that went well?


Friday, February 8, 2013

~When Is The Proper Time To Show Your Penis? (aka: An Ordinary BBG Night Out)

Time:   19:45 (7:45pm for non-military time understanding visitors)
Place:  BBGWorld HQ
Date:   Tuesday


I answer the home phone (yes, I'm one of the last 4 people in America with an E.T. phone home phone).  The voice on the other end curses me out? greets me in french.  I somewhat expected my friend Somp to be on the other end returning my call from earlier in the evening.  Somp parlez  français.  At the same time I'm answering "bibliothèque" to the query of how I'm doin'.  --Mainly, because bibliothèque (translation: library) is the only word I remember from long afuckin'go high school french class, that I didn't even really excel at even then.  Somewhat, because I'm an ass. 

Simultaneously, my cell started ringing, adding to the, 'whaaaaat is happening?' experience unfolding.  I didn't pick up the cell.  It was an unfamiliar number, which is the A - #1 way to get me to not answer a call.  Plus, I was already speaking with Somp.  Until more words were exchanged and few seconds later I thought, 'This.  Is.  Not.  Somp.'  I learned, after a super classy and amazing that I have any friends at all, "who the hell is this?", that I was in fact talkin' to my pal Ghoulia (other BBGWorld Ghoulia tales).  Who was with another former co-worker, (MOK [MOK's BBGWorld history]) back in the last bastion of metric holdouts 'Mercia for a few days, at one of my all time favorite dive/hole in the wall adult bev-y serving establishments, asking if I'd like to come play.  Random last minute plan?  Sold.  I'm in.

I scurried around to make myself quasi presentable to those who's names aren't Uncle John (-- my d oh double g, who is quite accustomed to seeing me in some pretty sketchy home sanctioned outfits [Uncle John pics/posts]).  And when I say 'presentable', I mean;  Not nakid.  Which as I hate almost all of my cold weather clothes, is in fact, the best I can hope for.  The extent of my gettin' ready hub bub was 3 minute make up, brushing and re-ponytailing my locks and deciding between a hoodie sweatshirt or a fleece-y zip up, as I had already decided that it was a snow boot kinda night.  (Fashion Declaration:  Total legit snow boot wearin'.  It was actively snowing.)  Clearly, I did not give a fuck about lookin' good/decent.

In about pizza time (30 minutes or less) I'd made my way to the rally point to visit my friends, my friends, who'd become the whoo-hoo girls, self admittedly, by the time of my arrival.  There were several strangers at their table, but as Ghoulia and MKO shouted, "BeeeeeBEEEEEGEEEE!!" at the top of their lungs as I came in, they weren't strangers for long when I reached the table and said, "hello strangers.  In what may not come as a surprise, I am BBG, nice to meetcha."  (I find it's best just to let people know what kinda asshole you are right up front, so as not to waste anyones time if that kinda ass is not their kinda person.  It's a public service, really.) 
The new stranger people all seemed very nice.  Except for this cat who I'll call, 'Mike', in large part because his fuckin' name was Mike.  Mike seemed, um, hinky?  Tragic?  Full on alkey?  The survivor of a substantial traumatic brain injury with a low filter as a result?  (Disclaimer:  I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on tv.  Please do not substitute my medical diagnosis and/or judgements for that of your own good fuckin' sense, or the advice of your medical professional.)  I don't know what his deal really was?  But I know that one of the new strangers (and Ghoulia friend), a chick named Cleavage, wasn't havin' any part of it. Several times Cleavage told him, "you are not part of this conversation."  Which to many would signify a super time to do something else.  For instance, any of the other 31,47,898,524,778 things one could be doin' instead of tryin' to hone in on a gaggle o' girls, who other than punching you in the testicles, have exhausted all other means of shoo'ing you the fuck away. 
Nope.  Mike was insistent on being the proverbial 'bad penny', who just keeps poppin' up.
(BBG Story Inside a Story:  Someone was playing the jukebox.  Which after 1-3 beers will prompt a severely ungifted brown girl of size to sporadically break into a misguided, and disappointing for everyone within ear shot, sing-along.  [World:  I am sorry.]  Musical selections had been a perfectly fine. [read:  I like a crazy ass wide range of types of music/artists]  ...Until I heard that fateful and start scanning the room for a sharp object to either plunge into your ears or to slit your wrist inducing musical question, 'Would you know my name if I saw you in heaven?' [Eric Clapton] By this juncture we were chatting with another random stranger guy who we'd named Dimples, who had had the colossal misfortune of stumbling upon our table.  I asked Dimples, "know what this song makes me think of?" [who, even though he'd just made our acquaintance, I'm pretty sure already knew the correct answer to that question is:  I couldn't have any fucking idea.]  "...Finding the ass who played this so I can kick him in the balls."   Not 5 minutes later Mike returns for another whirl at How-To-Socialize-With-Others, when out of the blue he asks (if the three of us left at the table) if we liked the song that was playing.  I immediately prepared my rubber hose and turned my light to his eyes asked if he had also played Tears in Heaven?  Surprise, surprise, sur-nofucking-prise, Mike was indeed the person who's balls I wanted to introduce to my big ol' clunky snow boots.  [testicles is becoming a theme with Mike, ain't it?]) 
Whoo-Hoo Girl #1 (Ghoulia), moi, Whoo-Hoo Girl #2 (MKO)
Each time we collectively thought we'd shaken Mike, he returned.  It was the real life equivalent of one of those zombie shootin' games where one head shot won't kill them, you have to repeatedly shot them in the head to put them down once and for good.  ...And none of us had enough ammo.  At some point, Mike was regaling me with a story of a hotel he GM'd on the Cape (Cod) which seemed like decent progress in interpersonal interactions for him, so I engaged, as I too have a background in hotels (and a history with Cod).  My reward for not rochambeau-in' him striving to be a decent human being?  Was being told that his property hosted a swingers club routinely.  ...And the next thing I know a grainy cell phone pic was being presented to my eye orbs showing a photo of, what I'm confident exceeds the manufacturer recommendations for maximum capacity of nakid people in a hot tub stew of swirlin' chlorine and come.  As if that wasn't more than enough Mike-information than I needed for a lifetime, Mike then proceeded to show me a picture of his cock. 
(Special Note To Guys:  I've tried to be sooo helpful to you with the BBG Guide to Gettin' Chicks (officially known as Guy Assistance Program/GAP).  Perhaps it's my fault?  Maybe before now I haven't expressly given you this valuable tidbit, but the appropriate time to show a chick your cock shot, is if/after she asks, 'yoooooou, don't have a deceptively generous angled photograph of your twigs and berries I can see, do you?'.) 
Thankfully, this was the exact moment MOK and new stranger acquaintance, Dimples (Ghoulia had already had the good fuckin' sense to have taken leave of us) returned to the table.  Leaving my only option as a conversation re-starter as, "sooooooooooo.  Mike just showed me an unsolicited picture of his cock."  Know what'll get a whaaaaat the fuck look from your friends?  That as your welcome back to the table.
Interestingly enough, straight up Nelson Muntz 'ha-ha-ing!!' coupled with a few well placed, 'what the fuck dude?'s' and 'I like how from this angle your dick reaches your shoulders', (...the last statement is exactly why MOK and I are friends)  wasn't enough to persuade Mike that it might be time to take your sad, cracked out ass home.  Alas, finally, a friend of his arrived to Calgon take him away. 
What.  A.  Night.  With the exclusion, or possibly due to Mike.  Even now, I'm not entirely sure.  It's exactly why when random adventure comes knockin' at my door, I say, yes.  While an ordinary BBG night out does provide a giggle, it also provides a lesson...  
Today's GAP/Guy Assistance Program Lessons for XX-ers:
-  Do remember;  If the table thinks you're the weird creepy guy, you can't, I repeat, cannot recover from that.  (Even if you and your mom dispute it, validly, or delusionally.)  Ones perception is their reality.  (Even if it's not yours.)  Next time be more mindful of what your behavior would lead others to perceive about you.
Do assess.  From time to time ask yourself;  Am I being a douchebag?
Take a fuckin' hint.  (Even if you don't like the hint being given.)
Refrain from showing unsuspecting skirts a photo of your cock.   
I cannot believe I'm legit having to type that...
It's important to note that digital dick displayin' Mike went home with a carryout 6 pack and some guy who had come to collect him.  Meanwhile, Dimples didn't offer up a full technicolor penis shot, but instead employed a tactic called Operation I'm Probably Not Planning on Tying You Up To A Pipe In The Basement and ended up spending a lil' car warmin' up make out time with a real, live girl and scored some digits.  Only you can decide which guy you'll be.  Choose wisely.
Lastly, I don't want to alarm anyone, but I'm 99.44% sure that Charlie Manson has escaped.  And that I shook his hand that night.  @lil'murderin'
(Good times, Ghoulia & MOK.  Good.  Times.)


Saturday, July 21, 2012

~Well, That Takes Balls...

Dear Men,
(...'Cause I think we allllll know no woman would ever do this.)

Big steel balls dangling from your truck doesn't make me think how tough and manly you are.  It just makes me wonder how small yours are.  So congratulations on that.


Friday, February 17, 2012

~I Have A Dream?

Sumthin' weird is goin' on.

(...I know, and that's unusual how?)

I'm having dreams.  I know everyone has dreams and it's a matter of whether one remembers them or not.  Generally, I do not have recall of my dreams.  In fact, the last dream I remember having was (as near as I can pinpoint by where I lived when I had the dream) was 1997ish, when I had a completely cracked out fantastical dream where my Nana was piloting a plane as we spiraled through some clouds as we landed in Hong Kong (really?  Hong Kong?) as I was passing out Resse's Pieces to the other passengers.  Obviously, nuthin' peculiar 'bout that.  (Please Note:  Nana is not, nor has ever been a pilot.  And for the official record, I'm not that big of a fan of Resse's Pieces.  Additionally, I've never been to, nor had any real desire to go to Hong Kong, making my dream all the more rifuckingdiculous.)

Occasionally, I wake up feeling like I've had a dream, (usually as a result of a nap and not a full nights sleep) but am never really able to access it or piece it together even when I've put effort into the quest for my dreams.  Just a hazy 'sumthin' entertaining' was going on while my peepers were closed feeling.

But this past week or so I've been much more aware of my dreams.  I had a dream that included my first serious boyfriend.  The nature of his appearance in my slumber movie I cannot say, but I woke up recognizing that he'd played some sort of role. 

Last night I had a dream that included an odd scenario where the players were my friend Somp, an infant and Jack McCoy.  Um, yeah, that Jack McCoy:

(Law & Order mainstay, TD Ameritrade pitchman
and BBG dream participant, Sam Waterson)

For some reason unbeknownst to me, Somp and I were being held hostage in close quarters with other people (who I didn't know/can't remember) in a dark room and were being monitored by someone with a long gun with night vision and I was in charge of keeping this miscellaneous baby alive in addition to serving as a voice of reason for our group.

I somewhat wish I had more details about the mysterious circumstances unfolding in my sleep.  Sumthin's telling me that musta been quite the situation.  My other hand tells me that it was sure to be crrrrrrrrazy and is probably best that I don't have all of the pieces to the dream puzzle.

Even more dumbfounding is why all of the sudden I'm cognizant of my dreams?  As I say, it's just been the past week that I've had any sort of awareness of my dream state.  And absolutely nuthin' has changed during that time.  No addition of any psychotropic drugs.  No new foods.  (Wait!  I remember a dream in maybe 2005 that involved Dean Martin, Don Rickles, the Fonz, Joanie Cunningham and moi playing poker [<-- nope, I do not know how to play poker] that was so incredibly ridiculous that I actually woke up from my deep sleep to find myself [somewhat to my boyfriend at the time chagrin] laughing out loud, that I attributed to the restaurant we'd had dinner at possibly dosing my asparagus, as it was the only thing I'd had different from him.)  I'm under no more or less stress than the norm.  Not even a new laundry detergent.  It's just (as are my dreams) weird.

Back when I used to dream regularly my dreams tended to revolve around a few central themes;  falling and breaking my teeth, somehow overcoming some crime situation-- usually beating/killing some crim and naughty dreams.  All probably falling within the norm of dreamland.  But again, we're talkin' y-e-a-r-s ago.

The new onslaught of dreams have been certifiably wacky.  Clearly.

Because this is so unusual for me, remembering dreams not the loony content, I've found myself looking forward to sleep instead of fighting it as normal.  Free entertainment?  Hellz yeah!  I'm already hoping tonight I can find out why and what was going on in that dark room, who's fuckin' baby that is, how I'm gonna out fox the sniper/hostage taker (look who's super confident) and what the fuck Jack McCoy is up to these days.

...Maybe it's a sign to start turning off the tv when I'm sleeping, or at least not fall asleep to Law & Order.

(Extra reading credit from Listverse:  10 Amazing Facts About Dreams)


Friday, January 6, 2012

~Crazy Ass Cat

(Apologies;  I meant to post this yesterday and, well, look what didn't happen....  My double apologies that this post actually kinda requires a bit of homework.  You'll find the 'Abandoned Babies' [link below] is helpful background to this post.  Normally there isn't a pre-req for post enjoyment.)

Well, there's been another crazy cat incident at BBG HQ.

A couple of years ago I had what can only be described as a completely cracked out cat experience while hangin' in the hot tub one winter night.  (Abandoned Babies Are A Buzz Kill & Other Minutiae).  It was very quickly followed by another weird kitty experience.  (All Things Catty [aka: The Meow Roundup]

...So as you can see, historically my feline interactions have been sketchy at best. 

I don't know what this new year has in store for me, but I have been able to ascertain that expecting normal cat relations in '12, is evidently utterly outta the question. 

I started to put this together as I noticed a blob in front of one of the windows in the BBG HQ hole (aka: basement, or more accurately BBGcave [<--if Batman can have a cave I can too.  Suck it.]).  As I closed in on the window I determined that the blob, was in fact, a cat.  I watched it watching me for about an hour, apparently 60 minutes is the maximum length of time a human can be surveilled by a free range cat, without contemplating some sort of Itchy & Scratchy scenario.

I'd just hopped off of the phone from telling Nana what to watch (aka: checking in on Nana without her knowing I'm checking in on her daily), who after being alerted to the current crazy cat situation advised that I hold Uncle John up to the window to frighten the cat away. 

Now normally, a Nana idea is a good idea. 

...But this time?  Oh, this time it was a...

...As it turns out, a pretty bad fuckin' idea.

What actually happened was this...

I gathered Uncle John and lifted him up to the window which is about 6" taller than me.  And because I need him to be able to see the cat, to in theory, bark and scare the cat away from the window forever, I had him facing away from me.  I realize that sounds like a fairly innocuous tidbit, however what I failed to process before I put this into motion was that turning Uncle John away from me is one of the ways I let him know he's in trouble.

If he gets into something or does something against the BBG HQ rules I pick him up facing outwards and take him to where the d oh double g crime was committed (tp/paper towel eating, miscellaneous drawer breaking into, etc.).  So from go Uncle John is not pleased with this whole pickin' up facin' away bidness.  He goes completely stiff.  Riiiiiiiiight about the time that he notices that he's now face to face with a cat, who by the fuckin' way is now aggressively meowing at Uncle John through the window.

(Surprise!)  This causes Uncle John to freak the fuck out. 

About the time I felt him clinch his lil' doggy toenails along the skin on my chest leaving lengthy thiiiiiiiis close to breakin' the skin scratches was when I remembered that Uncle John is afraid of cats.  (Again, I'm not saying Uncle John is a pussy, those cats outweighed him!)  So, of course he wasn't gonna get all, bad ass/I'm gonna kick your kitty ass on the cat.

Realizing the error of my ways, I put him down to take a gander at my newly created chest scratches which were already turning into red, welt-y's outlining (in-lining?) the v-neck t shirt I was wearin'.  Once I determined I wasn't bleeding I looked over at Uncle John who had taken sanctuary on the couch where he stood traumatized shaking.

Now, Uncle John is busy reliving some doggy PTSD and the asshole cat is on a constant meeeeeeeowathon.  Meeeeeeow....Meooooooow...Meeeeeeeeoooooooowwww.  Defuckinglightful.

(Sorry.  I wish I was a better picture taker, however, I don't know the proper
setting for through a window/dark/under the deck with a dark free range cat. 
Those two glow-y things are creeeeeepy cat peepers.)

With my only other possible plans being something that PETA would definitely NOT sanction, I opted for a squirt bottle filled with water, opened the window and started aggressively squirting the cat through the screen, like a stone cold freak saying, "out damn cat!"

(Look at meeee tryin' to be modest!  I know it doesn't look like
much, however I took this snap 4 days after the,
as it will now be known, crazy ass cat incident o' '12.)

Skat Kat insolently just fucking sat there the first few squirts but finally was successfully shoo'd away.  It's been about a week now and I haven't seen the injury inducing free range cat return.  Good kitty riddance.

I'm hopin' my scratches leave soon too.  Fireman, when he saw 'em hopefully devilishly asked, "what is that?  Is that a map?!?", eyes big as saucers.  ...Making the cat is not the only asshole in this story. 


Monday, December 12, 2011

~Captive Wilding

People like to say how cute Uncle John is.  He routinely gets compliments wherever we go.  Obviously, I'm biased, so of course I think he is too.  However, I'm also a realist, and often reply with, "yeah, he's cute.  ...Until he's causin' some trouble". 

When people see him, he's usually being pretty good.  Which is probably why most people poo-poo my response.  Sure he'll probably jump up on you when he first sees you to say hello, but if you (anyone) tell(s) him to get his 15 lbs. the hell down, he'll do it.  (He knows his rules.  He just chooses when to use them.)  Essentially, if you don't have a baby carrot, or blueberry treat for him, he's probably wandered somewhere to lie down, watch tv, or occupy himself with a toy.  Uncle John is usually a pretty chill dog.  

But what those people see when they have a brief interaction with him is different than the actuality of living with Uncle John, which sometimes is like a battle of wills.    It seems like a lot of our existence with one another is comprised of one of us trying to win.  Thank you opposable thumbs!  Who's gonna out fox who for total domination of BBGW HQ, type scenarios.  As you may remember, just this year alone he's actually attempted to murder me and possibly committed a botched suicide gesture.   He keeps me on my toes as I never know what his plan for me is at any given moment.

Yesterday's screw you BBG move, and the Uncle John version of 'wilding' in Central Park was: 

(What?  Who?  Me?  Doin' sumthin'? 
...Nope.  Every thing's fine here.  Move along.)

Apparently, every pillow had ta fuckin' go.

This is not Uncle John's first wilding.  ..Which is how I know it's punitive.  See, you can be gone allll fuckin' day and return home to lil' ol' Uncle John just sittin' there lookin' cute all nub wagglin' and happy to see ya.  Every pillow exactly in it's place.  Always.  For 14 years, always.

But every now and again Uncle John gets some wild burr up his doggy butt and feels compelled to knock every pillow he can find off whatever it sits on.  I honestly don't know what the fuck that's about. 

Usually he contains his wilding to one area, however I have found where he's gone on a systematic room-by-room rampage. 

Boots on the ground report;
Living room pillows:  Down. 
Bedroom pillows:  On the damn floor. 
Guest room pillows:  Also not where they belong. 

So yes, Uncle John knows both the phrases, "reeeeeally?!?" 
and "what the fuck, Uncle John?!?"

...And he only does it when I'm home.  (<-- which somehow makes it more irritating.)

I wish I knew what his lil' d oh double g mind is thinkin' when he's doin' this. 

(Is it just me, or does Uncle John look indignant
that I've returned the pillows to their rightful spots?)

Since I'm not the Dog Whisper, and as I don't speak schnauzer, I'll just have'ta keep assuming that it's some canine Charlie Sheenesque version of, 'it's called winnnnnning, bitch.'


Friday, December 2, 2011

~Gift Ideas (aka:These Exist II)

T'is the season for the (drum roll) 2nd annual BBG Gift Ideas post (aka: Things you probably didn't know existed).  If anything strikes your fancy you'll find a link (= "click") accompanying each cracked out, fuck'd up or 'hummmm' inducing item you see, because yes, these exist.   And you can have 'em.  For the official record, no, I have noooo affiliation with any of these products/companies, other than the misfortune of randomly discovering them on the interweb.  Hence, I cannot vouch for the veracity of any of the following products and/or companies.   

With that said~    

For the man who has everything except a date, and because I guess ya can never be too prepared fit for whackin' off:

The Free Flexor (click)

My Pet Fat (click)

For $59.95 you can give the gift of a 1lb. "anatomically correct replica of body fat."  Of course for those of you on a limited budget this holiday season a $10.00 Krispy Kreme gift card can probably achieve the same, without the pesky nuisance of having to carry your fat in your hand.

Personally, I think they're limiting themselves by marketing only to Spock devotees.  Why alienate the 'talk to the hand' contingent?  (Details - click)

Party all night and sleep all day (without being noticed)! 

No more bullshit trying to stay awake while sitting in some boring ass conference in Vegas after an all nighter of free booze at the slots studying pertinent materials, noooooo Eyelid Stickers (click) will allow your favorite recipient to be hungover and sleep in creepy peace. 

I don't know what I could possibly say that would be better than just getting to the fact that this exists (click), so I won't.  That's right kidz.  Pussy in a can.

(Special thanks to MOK who discovered this while on vacation.)

When squatting is too much trouble...

The Off Road Commode (click) provides jusssssst the ticket when your favorite outdoorsman needs to answer natures call.  Speaking of tickets, indecent exposure, anyone?

A perfect disguise gift for any crime committin' livin' in cold climate friend on your list.  [Beardheads (click)Or perhaps a great way to tell that special someone, 'I think you're so unattractive you should probably cover that up at least half the year'.  They also offer a more ZZ Top version, vikings and a Santa dome/face warmer.  

I question exactly how much time you actually have to spend lookin' at your dogs asshole before this becomes a thing. 

You've named her Cinnamon.  Perhaps purchased her some baby high heels or the pole dancin' doll, (<-- yes, those exist too, Google it.  I'll wait...)  but if you reeeeeally want to secure her spot in the champagne room as a 'featured' dancer you'll wanna give her a (ahem) head start with this super classy (and instructional) t.  (Available in 0-6mos and up)  Tassles for tots t-shirt (click)

Please keep in mind, I'm in no way suggesting that this is a good idea.  But, I am saying it is an awesome idea!  Serious biz, what could possibly go hinky from carrying around a big ass flask filled 64 fluid ozs. full o' your favorite hooch?   Giant Ass Flask (click)

...Of course, that probably means you'll need to get one of these (click) too:

I find it distressing on numerous faux phallus levels.  But it claims to have helped "thousands of women's sleep".   I suspect if they added a battery it would help more women sleep, but the Kush people (click) didn't ask me how to best market their product.  Whateves.

Lastly, to leave on a classy note;  Bald is beautiful on a grown ass man.  However, no so much for a tot.  And I ought to know.  I was bald until I was 2.  Spare the newborn on your list the shame of baby baldness with the Baby Toupee (click)

(This is 'The Donald')

If this page didn't supply you with everything you need for your Christmas, Hanukkah, Festivus, Kwanzaa, Boxing Day, St. Stephen's or National Bouillabaisse Day (<-- yep.  That exists too. 12/14) gift giving needs, please refer to last years list (<-- click), chocked full of other equally weird quality suggestions.

(Indulge an Aunt BBG)

Haaaaaappy Birthday to Godkid Mini Me!!
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