Wednesday, November 30, 2011


come·up·pance (kəˈməpəns)
Noun: A punishment or fate that someone deserves.

I spent Saturday at AnonD (& her hubby, AnonR) HQ.  We gathered to watch the OSU/michigan game.  AnonD is a michigan fan.  AnonR and I have the good sense to back The Ohio State Buckeyes.  It was a beeeeautiful day that allowed me to be in flip flops at the end of November.  Can I get an amen?  Nosh and drink were in plenty.  The Buckeyes had won 9 of the past 10 meetings.  It was stacking up to be a grand footloose and fancy free kinda day.

Earlier in the week AnonD and I were chatting on the phone when she told me a friend of AnonR's was joining in on the game watching festivities.   AnonD:  "AnonR invited some guy over to watch the game...I don't know what his deal is, but he used to be one of AnonR's martial art class buddies.  I don't know if he's single, or cute, I've only met him once and that was a while ago, but I feel like he's...old."

Now AnonD is a self proclaimed cradle robber.  Or as she likes to frame it, a "pre-vette".   She's always liked a younger man.  Long before "cougar" was ever a thing.  AnonD is a couple of years older than me and AnonR is a few years younger than me.  Often, when I say a guy is a 'child' (aka: under 35, in BBG speak) she says he's cute.  As her "old" might be 42, I took her words with a grain of NaCl. 

That is, until as I was sitting at my appointed BBG island in the (almost done!) kitchen, when Gary Gramps came walkin' in and AnonR introduced him to me.  I shook his hand careful not to exert enough pressure to break any metacarpals and resisted the urge give AnonD the look.

Once the guys were safetly in another room drinking sake watching the game, I mentioned to AnonD that she *thinks* this guy is old, because he's OLD.  We laughed our asses off at the old man's expense enjoyed a hardy chuckle.  We'd left the big ass tv and the front room to the guys, while we chattered our way through the game watching in the living room.  Around half time we wandered in to not be antisocial check on the guys.  As we were heading that way, AnonD said that during an earlier pop in, she thought Gramps might have a hearing problem.  While hanging out with the guys, a conversation about moonshine broke out.  The question on the table was, "how old were you when you first tried moonshine?"  AnonD answered.  AnonR answered.  When it was Gramp's turn he replied with, "my two sons?"  Whaaaaaaat.  The.  Fuck?  I again resisted my natural inclination to look at AnonD, knowing that if I met her peepers there was gonna be laughter.  Bad, bad, cackling, unstiffleable laughter.  And that would be rude.  So in a louder voice I rephrased the question and this time Gramps appropriately responded.  As quickly as we could, AnonD and I fled the scene.

As we entered the safety of the kitchen, she said she felt very "Chuck Woolery".    Since the days of 'two and two', Chuck Woolery has been our code for doin', sayin' or feelin' sumthin' onrey, sometimes bordering on evil. 

Chuck Woolery, TV host
(How the fuck did a 'shine question sound
like something about your two sons?)

For some reason we found ourselves whispering (?) about how, "How old were you when you first tried moonshine?" sounded anything like an inquiry on your children, and how when "my two sons" popped out, how neither of us was able to look at the other.  ...And how it was going to be sooooo nice to have company in hell. 

Now a few weeks ago, AnonD had informed me that a finger can be used to make a penis.  Of course, this information was accompanied by comments of how that's probably better than nuthin', however that neither of us ever wanted to see one.  Never.  And of course, this was peppered with school girl like giggles.  Shortly after that conversation and YouTube video on the matter (click) sharing, AnonD was mysteriously stricken with a spider bite on one of her fingers necessitating a trip to the Urgent Care and several days of antibiotics.  Karma bitch slapped.  Mock a finger penis, almost lose one of your own.

AnonD brought that up as a cautionary tale as we tried to settle ourselves from our now tear inducing laughter over the Gramps situation.  AnonD wandered out during half time to perform shit patrol in the back yard.  (3 chocolate labs, plus one visiting very active free range pooper [Uncle John] make such a patrol a necessity)  I kept her company and used it as a soakin' up the sun/ smoking opportunity.  I stepped off of the cement patio to put my cig* out on the side before throwing it away.  As I was doing so, the red hot end of it bounced off the cement off the grass and on to my toe.   

(Comeuppance:  Burned toe.   See the ashes left behind?
That'll teach me to be an ass.  Actually, it probably won't.)

While the red hot ember resting on my toe hurt, my only reaction as I knocked it off was, "yep.  That's about right."  I walked out into the yard to tell/show AnonD of my comeuppance for being Chuck Woolery. 

Sometimes comeuppance takes a while to rear it's head and exact it's revenge.  Sometimes it's by the end of your smoke.  What we put out always comes back.  Be nice when you can, but when you can't be ready.  And watch your toes. 

*Smoking is bad.  I realize that.  However, as I'm not a BBG of "means"
and have no dependants, I consider it my retirement plan. 

P.S.  The Buckeyes lost.


Friday, November 25, 2011


I think on the surface what I'm about to say seems odd.  It kinda goes against all that society seems to perpetuate.  We live in a 'thin is in' culture, where the perception is that only small girls get play.  As I've mentioned before, it's something I've never subscribed to.  Maybe because I've never let that vibe define what I think I am, I put off a lil' sumthin'-sumthin' different and therefore get different results, I donno.  Frankly, I'm all tryptophan'd up from two days of eating turkey, stuffing, rolls, mac & cheese, mashed potatoes & gravy, green beans and chocolate pie, so critical thinking may be suffering from the blood flow being diverted from my brain to my tummy.  Or perhaps my hometown is just plain good for my mojo? 

Regardless of the impetus, the result was hometown boy o' rama.  I'm seriously considering moving back.  It started when a random stranger guy who was leaving the bar where I was meeting JA, her hubby J and few other folks at, walked by on his way out.  He doubled back, stood beside me and bent in to tell me that "you are really beautiful".  And kidz, ya know what isn't a sucky way to start an evening out?  When you're old?  And fat?  And honestly, not even lookin' that stellar? 
A:  A guy tellin' ya you're doin' alright.

I'm thankful for my family and friends every day.
And I am thankful for guys who feel like this:

Of course, nobody's worth or value comes from other's opinions of your exterior shell.  ...But when it's a flattering surprise, I gotta admit, it does not suck.  In fact, it's the kind of spark that can elevate your spirits.  And not that I'm all woe is me, but even though it's my second Thanksgiving without my Papa, I'm still not used to it.  It still seems odd going through such days without an integral part of someone who helped make those days special in the first damn place.  Plus, ya know, it's been since late winter/early spring since I've been coupled up, and I'd be a liar if I tried to assert that it too isn't a hole.  So a pick me up for the spirit was welcome.

We hadn't been there all that long when I saw my cousin.  ...Or who I thought was one of my cousins.  As we chatted I pointed out JA's hubby who was one of his HS classmates.  They chatted, then I mentioned to my "cousin" that his dad had been over to see Nana earlier in the week.  My "cousin" then mentioned that that was surprising as his dad had been dead for years, at which point, "well then who the hell are you" came tumbling outta my mouth.  Turns out he looked familiar not because we're related, but because he used to run around with the cousin I thought he was.  We had a laugh and then he suggested that perhaps we should consider marriage.  Since we're not in danger of producing three eyed offspring related, I'm considering his proposal.

(JA et moi having Thanksgiving Eve fun)

Then one of my ex's popped in.  Which sounds like the opportunity for less than pleasantness, however as he's a grade A, #1 guy, was a delight.  He even gave me a Thanksgiving goose (pinch on the ass).  And I ran into another HS classmate, (code name) Mr. Karaoke.

Shortly after those surprise exchanges another friend arrived, BC, who I haven't seen in a few years.  I'm not one of those girls who dislikes other women.  I have girl friends.  Some of my best friends are girls.  But because I am half dude (click) I also have many close men friends.  We're talkin' life long, I come along as part of the package deal friends.  BC and I have a long and storied past that goes back to when we were about 14.  We were talking with a few other folks, including a girl (and sister of my Birthday Buddy who I've known since grade school) and some other girl (who didn't seem to find the fact that her name was Denise Richards nearly as funny as I did) when I overheard BC state that he'd made out with each of us.  BC and I shared a heart to heart where we declared our undying love for one another.  (<- Surprise:  Not a euphemism for sex.)

I touched a few heads.  How can a girl help it with so many bald and brissily close cropped heads?  One of whom spent a bit of time trying to throw his game.  While he was cute, I don't actually live there.  But I was given a little something else to be thankful for when one of his gaggle o' guys informed me that "you have great tits".   

Then my Birthday Buddy's lil' sis tells me some boy who looks remarkably like one of her other brothers (Remember:  We're Catholic.  Everybody has 17 siblings.) wants to meet me.  I'm later introduced to him when he grabs me up and tries to slip me the tongue.

Boysgiving also included a call from Potatohead (we talk every holiday) and a lovely email from DJP.  Earlier in the week I'd thought to myself that I needed to send him a lil' message.  He's far away from home and is one of the sweetest souls I know and I wanted him to know that he was on my mind.  As I logged on to FB to send him a note, I coinkidinkily found an email from him telling me how he thinks I'm great. 

I know this night means I'm wickedly blessed and possibly living in some alternate plane where fat chicks get an abundance of guy attention of tomfoolery is a big fuckin' finger in the face of conventional thinking about the lives of big girls.  ...Chunky monkey girls are *supposed* to be sitting on the sofa eating pints of ice cream.  (And sometimes we do. cream.)  We're not *supposed* to be turning guys heads, or getting brown chicken/brown cow propositions, or marriage proposals.  (But sometimes we do.)  Boysgiving is contrary to a lot of peoples perceptions about being a big girl, but it's the reality, and a signifier that it's time for conventional thinking and society's impressions and stereotypes to catch the fuck up.  And a signifier, as LB2'd and Mrs. Mackey phrase it, that "be who you is" is a far better mindset and more productive than obsessing about the thin thighs you're not. 


Wednesday, November 23, 2011

~Over The River & Through The Woods

Yep, to grandmother's house I go.

...Well, not so much over the river/through woods (as the old song goes) as much as down the highway and makin' a turn, but I am heading over for the best meal of the year.  Mmmmmmmmm... And fat girl can't wait.

Thanksgiving is my favorite meal of the year.  We've had the exact same menu prepared by lil' Nana hands every year of my life.  Except for one year.  One year Nana and Papa friends, Mr. & Mrs. Walls were invited.  They brought rolls that year.  That year we didn't have lovingly handmade, fluffy, uber delicious Nana (and Papa) rolls.  No.  The Walls' brought some shitty store bought rolls.  Needless to say, as I'm still holding a grudge talking 'bout it 30 years later, they never returned to another Thanksgiving.  They are both dead now.  I'm not sayin' it's because of that roll faux pas, but I can't necessarily say it's not.  I don't know how the Grim Reaper makes his picks.

What I can say is that I'm gonna eat the hell outta some stuff(ing).  I know Thanksgiving should be about family, but I've seen my family more recently than I've seen turkey, stuffing and rolls.  Nana was just here a few weekends ago, staying at Mom's for a few days.  I haven't seen stuffing since last year.  I'm on pins and needles in anticipation of building the perfect gravy reservoir in my mashed potatoes and creating a plate that has all of my likes, but doesn't have my food touching.  (Who's a freak?)  Ideally, being consumed with my baby fork.  (Answer: Me)  I really can't wait!

Nana has been plotting and planning Thanksgiving for weeks now, with the precision of an Army General with a battle plan.  Measuring this and that and putting in containers so that actual cooking day goes smoothly.  In addition to her ability to create yummy, delectable, goodness, I'm always amazed at her talent for timing things.  (Meanwhile, I can't seem to time fuckin' toast and a scrambled egg...)

While I'm responsible for zero cooking for obvious reasons, Thanksgiving will require some preparation on my part.  I must remember to take plenty of containers to bring back leftovers.  And to wear something with the give to comfortably allow a second helping, and a post-gorge nap.  Perhaps the biggest effort I'll have to make is to give myself the pre-drive 'don't let your head explode' pep talk, so when you see a BBG behind the wheel of a black SUV screaming Kramer's mantra, serenity now!! and flipping people off, you'll know it's me.

I can also say that I'm going to have a chance to visit with a few old friends while I'm there.  It seems like I'm too old to be going out Thanksgiving Eve like some kid home from college, but it seems like I'm too young to be hanging around a house where Nana's bedtime is 9:30.  Once again, I have failed to make firm and hard plans with anyone, making the who I'll actually see a complete surprise (which I'll report in on later).

For those of my peeps traveling over the next few days:  SAFE TRAVELS!!

Until we visit again...

The Official 2011 BBG Ode To Thanksgiving:

Consume too much turkey and drink too much wine.
Stuff yourself until it's nap time.
Watch a parade and oooooh at balloons.
Catch a football game (they start after noon)
Enjoy your family and visit with friends
To miss such times, indeed is a sin.
Eat until your britches band itches
And above all else...

Haaaaappy Thanksgiving!!
(And Haaaaaappy Birthday to Godkid J!!)


Monday, November 21, 2011

~I Am Woman: Hear Me Roar (& Flush)

Know what's never a good sign?

(A:  This)

Don't get me wrong, I love Lowes.  The people are always very helpful as I wander in with my bewildered look and cracked out line of there are no stupid questions.  I suppose people go to Lowes for good reasons, but I'm not one of 'em.  If I'm at Lowes sumthin' wrong.  (Maaaaaybe I'm workin' on some project, but odds are something is askew at BBG HQ.)

Wrong du jour?

(Whilst on a middle of the night tinkling field trip
I went to use the handle to flush when nuthin'.)

The plastic doohicky that makes a flush happen broke.  Snapped clean the fuck off.  Reminding me of two things:  A)  It sucks not to have a guy around.  II) I can do anything.  (...or so HGTV leads me to believe.)

Calling myself crafty, I snapped a few pictures of my drama trauma and headed to Lowes.  Reminding me of one other thing;  I have boobs. 

...Now boobs are not the answer to all of lifes problems, but they sure as shit help.  I found the plumbing section, a worker and a random shopping man who as soon as I turned the corner looking completely outta my depth stopped their conversation and started helping me with my project.

Are you there God?  It's me, BBG~

Thanks for boobs.


The gents looked at my photos, found the proper piece and gave me salient details such as;  "these come in different lengths, but this is the most common" and "these turn the opposite direction" (which is when one of them had to dumb-girl break it down with, "you know left-y loose-y, right-y tighty?  Go the other way.").  The kindness of strangers got me all set.

I smoked watched a YouTube on fixing my toydee issue.  Gathered a few tools (an ultimately unrequired wrench, a twos-y screwdriver and a fours-y screwdriver [because I'm too lazy to make a return trip for the other screwdriver.  Some call it lazy, I call it coverin' the bases.]) and other items I thought I might need (my ever helpful and super stained 'project towel' and latex gloves).   This is where people tend to mock me.  With me it's always about the latex gloves.  I keep them tucked away everywhere (car, kitchen, gardening kit, bathrooms, first aid kit, etc.).  Whenever people see them they always ask why I have 'em.  Fine.  Technically it's usually, "why the fuck do you have latex gloves?".  I usually don't have a better answer than that "I might need 'em someday."  Today my answer would be 'so that I don't have to reach into the toilet bowl to retrieve the plastic nut that fell into it'.  ...Because, yes.  That happened.  And yesssss, I did have the lid down at the time.  I'm only 1/2 a dumbass.  Suck it.

(Old ass broken piece)

(New thingamabob.)

The video told me to allow about an hour to fix it.  I was done in less than 10, much to my complete and utter surprise.  Possibly even more surprising is that it was super easy and worked perfectly.


Project Lessons Learned:
  • Measure shit before setting off to Lowes.  I was lucky my piece fit and that I didn't have to make a return trip. 
  • Immediately ask for help.  Don't waste time trying to figure it out, or find it yourself, it's a suckers mistake.  Consider your dumbassidness your part in the stimulus package.  Take pride in knowing that you offer job security for that worker.   
  • Never fear asking a stranger/customer for help.  Many, many home improvement store shoppers are guys, and even a guy who wouldn't necessarily hold a door for you is eager to show off share his handy knowledge.
  • Have boobs.  (Sorry guys.  Life ain't fair.  On the bright side, you do still have writing your name in the snow, higher incomes and the ability to procreate indefinitely.)
  • Take photos.  They say 10,000 words.  And I don't know about you, but for me that's 9,999 fewer possibilities I'm gonna say sumthin' stoopid.  Score!
  • Watch a video.  For clarification;  In this case I don't mean porn, I mean take your ass to YouTube and type in your project.  It only seems like the bad stuff only happens to you.  Rest assured someone else has already had your bad day and is offering somewhat clunkily produced advise via 'da web ( and are also handy).
  • ALWAYS have latex gloves.


Wednesday, November 16, 2011


It's been a few days... 

Where've I been? 

What have I been doing?

Jonesing.  That's what. 

Not for make your skin itch, give ya meth mouth, possibly OD ya drugs.  Jonesing for internet access.  Thanks to a brief power outage that apparently broke my modem, I've been without the interweb since Monday.  (RIP 6 year old modem.)

On the surface that doesn't sound too bad.  However, in reality it was awful

Spending more time with the tv was only the tip of the awful iceberg.  For the first time in my life, tv felt like punishment.  I have to watch tv, there's nuthin' else to do, type stuff.  Then there were the actual options cable provided me with.  Holy shit network programmers!  Ya'll sure know how to create some craptastic offerings.  All I can say is; THANK YOU DVR!  I love you.  You may have been all that stood between me, a riffle with a scope and a bell tower.

Another side effect from lack of interweb was feeling like I was totally outta touch with the world.  Sure, Anderson Cooper and Brian Williams were able to keep me somewhat in the loop.  But they're not gonna tell me the wacky and obscure news items I've cultivated a high tolerance for.  I mean, a girls gotta know about the goings on in Syria, but she also needs to scratch her itch for gay penguins, criminals copulating in a cruiser (Huffington Post ~ Sex In Police Car - click here) and babies soothed by Christopher Wallace, nay Notorious B.I.G (aka:  the original Biggie Smalls). 

(I don't usually pass along this type of stuff, but I found
this a smidge more than mildly entertaining.  Enjoy.)

Not to mention, it's possible I'm experiencing some degree of atrophy in my mouse clickin' finger from lack of playing Dynomite (click if I've bored you already).  (<-- yet another sign you're visiting a bad blogger.  I'm actually providing an opportunity to go play some game mid post.  I should be ashamed.  Sadly, I'm not.)

By far the least pleasant side effect from not havin' 'da web was having to deal with AT&T.  Talk about some bastards to have to deal with.  All automated system not recognizing the words coming outta my mouth this, and listening to some person who does NOT care about my inconvenience reading from a script, "I apologize for the inconvenience" that.  (Note to AT&T:  If you cared about your customers inconvenience you wouldn't INCONVENIENCE them so fucking much.) 

After 5ish hours of being on the phone with them (Note to AT&T:  you're lil' experiment in torture looping recording advising me that I can find help quicker by logging on to is a real asshole move when customers are calling because they cannot access said interweb.), having been disconnected, having to deal with inept "customer service" (as AT&T isn't really providing service to their customers it's hard to say that without the Quotes of Irony.) and having to explain to the last person I spoke with that, "I didn't start out being an ass, I was a pleasant, chill girl when this all  started.  But AT&T has turned me into the bitch you're now having to deal with."  (<-- her name was Kendra.  Kendra at AT&T, wherever you are;  Girl, you deserve a raise.)

Before you think, 'BBG you are probably being unfair in your critique', 'overembelishing' and/or being completely unreasonable.  (Oh, were you already thinkin' that?)  Know that this is my conversation with the first person I spoke with...

AT&T-er:  we needed to do sumthin' (blah, blah, technical speak, blah) to ensure the power outage has passed. 

BBG PCB (pre complete bitchiness)  the computer is on and I suspect it's a connectivity issue because the computer is on and it won't let me get to the interweb and one of the lights is off on the modem.

AT&T-er:  but in order to verify that the power outage has passed we need to do XYZ (pain in the ass, time consuming shit) to ensure it's on.

BBG PCB:  I'm sitting in front of the glow-y computer screen with a light on next to me and the tv on in the background.  I assure you, the power is indeed back on.  I don't know what the problem is, but it isn't with the power.  It's a connection issue.

...At her third attempt to verify that I wasn't calling because my computer magically powered up without the benefit of electricity, therefore rendering the modem unable to perform, and I was just too stupid to figure it out, I asked to be transferred to a different tech, who possibly I could more clearly communicate with.  Know what?  That girl told me she couldn't transfer me.   Really?  Reeeeeeally AT&T?!?  Ya can't transfer a call?  You're the fuckin' phone company, right?  Seems like transferring would be in your wheelhouse.  That was the starting point of the ordeal.  Things went down hill with each new person I spoke with.

The only solace I find is in knowing that this is my final AT&T problem.  (Unfortunately I have had numerous issues with AT&T, both on my behalf and that of Nana, none of them easy or quick to be rectified.  Every time a complete and colossal pain in the ass.)  My next one will be my last one.  Conveniently, my cable company (Time Warner) who I've never had a customer service issue with, offers internet and home phone.  (Note to AT&T:  I've been your customer since I was 19.  Your poor customer service and support straw is breaking my back.  *This* is exactly how you lose your customers.  You are on borrowed time with me.  Enjoy it while it lasts.)

Thankfully, as you can see, I have managed to get my fix back on the web and I feel like a kool kid at a rave with a glow stick, a lollipop and a pocket full of e goooooood. 

(Yeaaaaahhhh, that's the stuff.)

Well, gotzta go troll see what else I missed while interweb cold turkey-ing before I commune with the sandman for the night.  Young Me/Now Me (click) and ugly, crackedout & tragic tattoos (click) here I come!!


Monday, November 14, 2011

~Size Matters (Yes. A Penis Post)

Granted, there are a lot of things I don't understand in life.  The sheer volume of things I am completely ignorant about is substantial, including, but not limited to:
  • How metrics work.
  • Why people like soccer.
  • If Pi Day should accurately be celebrated on March 14th, or June the 28th.
  • How people can eat carrot cake. 
  • Why I can't get a moonburn.
  • How we have culturally gotten to a place where "reality star" is an actual thing.
  • How jake brakes really function.
  • Why guys always have to inquire about penis size.
It's framed in different ways.  All ways I hate.  From "I hope I'm big enough for you", to its sad sack kissin' cousin (generally proceeded by some self effacing statement) "...blah, blah, fuckidy, blah, I know I'm not the world's biggest guy".   As soon as I hear those words starting to tumble outta his mouth, well, in truthiness, first I get all 'don't say sumthin' stupid' and quickly work my way to, 'oh Lord, what kinda words am I gonna have to string together that sound large positive but that aren't actual lies'. 

I guess, ultimately I don't fundamentally understand two things about the big (sorry, no pun intended) deal of the subject.  I)  The seemingly compulsive need to get a status update from everyone who sees it on their feelings of its size, or Dos) how, even at middle age, it's still somehow a subject you still haven't come to terms with worthy of some kinda uncomfortable discussion. 

I guess I can't speak for all girls, but I'm equally as confident that I do not just speak for myself here;  Penis' unless they are crazy ass small or crazy ass big, just are.  Don't get me wrong, we heart them, we just aren't obsessed about matters of length and girth.

We're girls for fucks sake.  If we can't hold our own hand out and guesstimate with any sort of accuracy of how many inches it is, then what makes a guy think that our vagina has the magical properties to discern the difference between 6.75" vs 7.25"?

Like I say, we're gonna notice a micro-cock.  And for some this will mean that they will immediately disengage themselves from the discovery moment situation, go directly to the bathroom and return with a Meryl Steepesque deliverance of the following line;  "Drats!  I've started my period."  (Apologies to a blond, blue eyed, dreadlocked, ska band dude from a million years ago.)  Perhaps it makes me a bad person, but a lie period fakery seemed like a far better option than any kindly delivered version of the truth I could come up with at the time, and while I didn't know what to say, I knew where it was time to be.  A:  Somewherefuckingelse.  Far, far away from the land of Ohhellzno... 

Conversely, we're gonna worship notice a monster cock.  (tee hee hee...Monster cock.  All of the sudden I think I should alert the Monster drink people that I think I can be a verrrry helpful addition to their marketing team.  Feel free to email me to discuss my salary requirements:

A monster johnson is indeed a special kinda blessing.  But it's like gossamer, the Loch Ness monster and Arsenio Hall.  Hardly seen.  Well, I guess maybe I shouldn't say "hardly seen" when referencing Biggie Smalls.  (BBG code named due to his 5' 7"ishness stature, yet schlong of an NBA-er.  And not Spud  [the notably tiny, dunkin' b-baller].  We're talkin' full on Shaq territory here.)  Everyone with good reason has seen his cock.  I've been seeing that cock for 20+ years.  I've seen it because we used to get it on back in the day.  (Fine.  And more recently, so what's that make it, back in the hour?)  And when I say everyone, I mean e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e: 
...LB2'd has seen it.
...I've seen him drop trow more times in public than my abacus will allow me to figure.
...Once a coworker who had a part time job at a concert venue who I told Biggie Smalls to find and say hello to as he saw the whatever show, returned to work the following morning to report that she'd seen his junk.

Biggie Smalls is fully aware that he has nothing to worry about size wise.  The only thing he has to worry about is how he's gonna explain the public indecency charge he's bound to rack up some day, but whateves.

Most guys aren't as unfortunate as ska dude, nor as fortunate as Biggie Smalls. 

Most guys are The Other 69%:  

(The Penis Spectrum)

As you can see, most guys fall within the parameters of perfectly acceptable.  (Also known as "regular", "fuckable", "normal" and "you are here".)  Study thisKnow this.  Accept this.

There is no shame being in The Other 69%. 

It's the sweet spot.  You can get laid, but you nobody's bothering you with pesky plaster casting sessions, or giving you nicknames like 'The Hedgehog' (unfamiliar? - click here)

So men, here's the deal.  This is what you need to know about penis size~

Asking us about your penis offers up waaaaay too many opportunities for your girl to hurt your feelings.  Or lie.  How are either of those good for you?  The truth is that if we've been with more than two guys, we've probably seen bigger.  Now, you don't reeeally want us to say that, do ya?  On the other hand, do you want to be with a fibber who tells you that you're walkin' around with God's gift between your inseams?  It puts us between a rock and (clears throat) a hard place.

Realize that "bigger" might keep us there and happy until breakfast, but "regular" combined with other factors (personality, compatibility, etc.) can keep us happy for life.  And I don't know a girl who wouldn't trade great until breakfast, for good for life.  Every.  Fucking.  Time.

Accept this as a read between the lines thing.  Q:  Do you know when I have a, 'so you're ok with me being a big, brown girl' chat with a guy?  A:  Never.  Why?  'Cause if they're calling me, kissin' me, or roundin' third and headin' for home (Apologies, Joe Nuxhall for involving you in naughtiness.) I can read between the lines enough to know that he at least likes this big, brown girl.  Good enough.  (Check.)  No awkward conversation needed.  Listen, if we've spied it and didn't flee the scene, what you're packin' is workin' for us.  Can't that be good enough?

The size convo never comes off as confident.  At best it's needy.  At worst it's compliment fishing.  It's the 'does this make my ass look fat' of men.

Confidence adds an inch.

Knowin' how to most effectively use what your maker gave ya adds 2".  ...But that's a post for a different day.

In the meantime, say it loud, say it proud:  I AM THE OTHER 69%!

UPDATE:  Here Are New Numbers On Average Penis Length (Science of Us)  3/3/15


Thursday, November 10, 2011

~Nittany Nastiness (Dick O' The Day)

(And a day seems woefully short.)

An Open Rant Letter to Nittany Nation~
(and anyone else who's mysteriously found their way to this spot on the web)

If you see a child being raped, in front of your actual eyes, the correct next step is to pick up something heavy and commence to beatin' the shit outta the raper.  What you don't do is walk away and 'tell someone' whos name doesn't begin with 'Officer' or 'Detective'.  You don't worry about losin' your job, saving face (which is just fancy phrasing for 'coververin' up') for a football program, or anything else that bounces around your mind.  You stop it.

Unless you're this big strappin' guy:

(Mike McQueary, current Penn State coach, former Nittany Lion QB who in 2002,
while a grad student saw this lowlife, Jerry Sandusky raping a young boy in the athletic center showers.  And felt his only human responsibility was to report it to school officials, and not to immediately pull Sandusky off of the kid and
begin manually unhinging his limbs from his body.)

If you hear about a member of your staff being a full on, child rapin' perv, you do not distance yourself in such a manor that you can keep "deniability" while allowing the perv to continue on with his pediphilic ways.

Unless you're this guy:

(Joe Paterno [aka: Joe Pa], 84 year old, 46 years as Head Coach at Penn State,
who last week reached 409 wins and did nothing substantive to ensure that his underling, the child raping Jerry Sandusky was stopped and punished for his abusin' ways.  Nothing.  He watched out for his ass.  He watched out for his football program.  He watched out for his legacy.  But didn't watch out for the safety of [so far] 9 known boys over more than 15 years. 
Apparently, to Joe Pa their asses didn't matter.)

And then there were these Penn State fans who after the details of this story broke went to Joe Pa's home to sing alma mater show tunes and show their support for their long time coach?  Please note:  People who put themselves, their own agenda before the safety of any child in the midst of a sexual predator do not deserve "support".  What the fuck is wrong with you? There's sumthin' to be said for having someones back and being loyal n' all.  But is the guy who essentially is a co-conspirator in kiddy sex abuse really the guy who deserves good ol' school loyalty?   You might like what he accomplished for you on the field, but once knowing his personal involvement in this scandal, how in the hell do you rationalize being proud of his affiliation with your school?  His actions are not meritorious of a 'atta boy pat on the back.  You should be disgusted at his "handling" of this situation.  His management of his knowledge of the perv-er-y, while it might not be illegal, it sure as shit isn't the way you'd want to see things handled by someone revered for their judgement and ability to make the right call in the fury of the moment.  (Now imagine instead of it being that kid or those boys it was your child?  ...Still "proud"?)

I certainly don't wanna sound like I'm taking any of the responsibility for such heinous behaviours away from Jerry Sandusky.  But a pedophile is gonna be a pedophile.  It's like asking a tire to be a book.  A tire's job is to be a tire.  And that's just what it's gonna be.  A pedophiles job is to be a an oughta be caught, strapped down, stripped and taken to aggressively with a potato peeler until a bloody, pulpy mess pedophile.  I can't expect him to not be a monster.  But I do expect that my fellow bi-peds with a soul and IQ greater than 43 will not be monsters themselves with an astonishing inadequate response.  (<-- And that's the fuckin' minimum level of my expectations.)

To the "Ya never know what you'd do" peeps.  Fuck.  Off.  Wait.  You're right.  Ya don't ever know what you'd do in a situation.  For instance, I don't know if I would have picked up a baseball bat and started a whalin' on Jerry Sandusky's head, or if I would have efficiently simply double tapped him in the dome.  ...So ya really don't know what you'd do.  But the rest of us decent people know what we wouldn't have done.  We wouldn't have walked away while some wet kid stood in a shower being used as a sex toy for some old, skeeved out perv abusing his standing, power, and an actual human being.  We wouldn't have sat in silence while this guy had another 15 years of access to unsuspecting kids and their families.  

It was announced that Joe Pa would *retire* at the end of the season.  Apparently, that was the deal struck by Penn State and their head coach.  Penn State leadership should be embarrassed by the message that sends.  Allowing someone who chose to go unethical and unconscionable routes under the color of your school to stay on to coach out the final games of a season is a both a tacit and yet repulsively overt endorsement of his choices and actions.  Would Joe Pa being drummed out tonight be fair to the team?  Hell no.  But it would certainly send a message that child safety, integrity and respect for the honor of the institution is paramount.  And that failing to uphold those tenants is not acceptable.  Period.  While it might not be fair it is the right thing to do.  <--...A lil' sumthin' Penn State could use more of right now.

(Evidently, as I was typing this post last night, Penn State administration clued into this fact and canned Joe Pa.  The result?  Riot police being deployed [click here])

Until now, I've had nothing against our Big 10 brethren.  I had mad respect for a coach who's been at the helm at such an elite level for such a long time, and with such a winning record.  But I've said it before.  I'm sayin' it now.  And unfortunately, I'm sure I'll end up sayin' it again...  Decisions people.  DECISIONS.  I don't know why all of them had to be so poor, cowardly and short sided in this case.  But they were. 

So Jerry Sandusky, Joe Paterno, Mike McQueary, Tim Curley, Gary Schultz (click here) et al:

(In fact.  I know you are.)

Usually, I like to have a corresponding Gold Star of the day.  A little yin to wash tthe dumbass yang of Dick O' the Day off of ya.  But it would take a platoon to compensate for the ick factor of today's yang.  Therefore, today's Gold Star of the day: Marines (Happy 236 Birthday USMC)! 


Wednesday, November 9, 2011

~Daaaaamn, Duggars

If'n your not aware of the creepy people breedin' Duggars they are a family who yesterday announced that they are preggers with their 20th child.

The 45 year old Mrs. Duggar, when asked if 'this is it' answered, "well, how ever many the lord seems fit to give us."


Things the Lord will give us that aren't necessarily good for us:
(Partial list)

  • Plagues of locus
  • The ability to consume ones weight in Twinkies
  • Andy Dick
  • The BCS system
  • Angry Birds
  • Tang
  • Nickleback
  • Taliban & michigan fans
  • Autotuning
  • Forever Lazy (click here)
  • Fracking
  • KFC "bowl" meals
Because I'm weird curious, I actually did the math.  At lets say, 9.5 months per pregnancy x 20, that kidz, is 190 months of gestation-ing.  Or 15.83 years of bun in the oven time.  Now no one can say almost 16 years of bein' knocked up is somehow good or healthy for a body.  No way.  (And that doesn't even take into account any miscarried pregnancy time.)  XVI YEARS!

I guess if she's fine with being at the Piggly Wiggly in the cashier line and havin' her uterus fall out and splash on the floor one day, I should be fine with it too.  So, Happy Bun-ing Duggars.  I think you're crazy.


Tuesday, November 8, 2011

~Election Day Makes Me Sad

Weird reaction, right?  How could Election Day make me sad?  What could possibily be so screwed up in the inner workings of a BBG that I'd be saddened by this day?

Today makes me think about the countries where people don't have the right to vote, to shape their collective future.  And how even though we have those rights, sooooo very many of the fucktards candidates we have to choose from will ultimately prove to be disappointments, if not downright criminals or moral and ethical hypocrites.  Only then do I make the leap to the complete dumbasses who will be allowed to vote today.  Frankly, I feel there oughta be a test before you're ok'd to cast your ballot.  Not to weed out voters from any party, just to affirm they are knowledgeable about what/who they are voting for in a way more substantive than, 'I'm voting for X because they're the X (party) canidate' or 'I'm voting yes on this matter solely based on my extensive research by watching commercials'.

It's a sad state of affairs.

I'm no political junkie, but I am informed on subjects out there and make sure to look into things before settling into a viewpoint or stance.  And I'm lazy, apathetic, somewhat cynical and generally uninterested in the world outside of my BBG bubble not the high falootin', egg-head, academically gifted sort.   So it seems like if I, and other regular-like folks voters can manage this, there's really no fuckin' reason that every voter couldn't.  The democratic process doesn't always go your way.  Accepted.  I don't mind being on the losing end of the stick because informed voters disagreed, but to think the lowest common denominator of voters swayed things one way or the other pisses me right the fuck off.

And that of course makes me think how disappointed some of the greats, who's concepts have made America, would be to see how cavalierly we treat such a honor and responsibility.  From forefathers who got this thing goin', to some of our tenacious and courageous Presidents and other leaders who've set us on course to give us some of the best opportunities known to man world wide.  And of course our brave and Badass Americans who help secure us and serve us in the military to protect and uphold our lifestyle and freedoms.  If I'm saddened, how much do you think they'd dislike some of the sketchy stuff happening today?

I don't care how you vote.  That's between you, your conscience and your Board of Election.  I do care that if you vote you do so with the honor this liberty deserves.  I care that you love what's right for and by your community and fellow man more than you love some party, or some slick produced and one sided commerical about a matter up for vote. 

Oh, and if you don't vote?  Well, I want you to shut the fuck up.

But I also wanna thank you for knowing your limitations.  There is honor in that too.  And I think I speak for the rest of us when I say, we appreciate it.

Election Day Info: 

  • 7,200 Americans died during the Revolutionary War, 8,200 more were wounded and as many as 10,000 died in military camps from disease or exposure. Many soldiers from the Continental Army were never paid for their service. They were fighting for the right to vote.
  • In 1996, among the world's 20 biggest democracies, voter turnout in the U.S. was lower than every country except Switzerland. Belgium was top of the list with 94 percent
  • It took 72 years of crusading by women like Susan B. Anthony to earn all women the right to vote.
  • One vote brought Texas into the Union in 1845.
  • in May 1765, Patrick Henry introduced his famous anti-stamp tax resolution to a shocked Virginia House of Burgesses, denouncing England's policy of taxation without representation. It was the first step toward American independence, and the resolution was adopted by the Virginia Assembly that day -- by just one vote
  • In a recent poll, more than 25% of the people who do not vote say they don’t have enough time in their day to vote.

Election Day Tips:

~  Do write down your voting intentions.
~  Don't be the dumbass stumblin' and bumblin' around reading every initiative or race, know who/what you're voting for before you get to the screen.
~  Always buy sumthin' at the bake sale.
~  Never eat anything some random stranger, who's kitchen, hygiene and judgement you know nothin' about.
~  Be proud of your participation in the process no matter how the election breaks.  It's an opportunity many would die for.  And many have. 

"Government is merely an attempt to express the
conscience of everybody, the average conscience
of the nation, in the rules that everybody is
commanded to obey.  That is all."  
                                                 --Woodrow Wilson


Sunday, November 6, 2011

~Disappointing Mr. Rogers

As any kid weened on the cordial and civil ideals of Free To Be You And Me, Schoolhouse Rock and Mr. Rogers, I want to just get along. 

(Wow.  How'd Rodney King [click here] wind up in that mix?)

I was raised to be play fair with others.  I'm not the fightin', unreasonable, causing a spectacle kinda girl.  Which isn't to say I wouldn't throw down. (There's at least one Chicago cop who can attest to being decked and put in the bushes by a BBG.  And ever sooooo kkkkklassily told "and don't get up.")  It just means, I'm not of the natural disposition that I'm wakin' up any morning wanting to be a bitch.

I certainly didn't wake up today thinkin' (ding-ding!!) time to get your bitchy on.  I woke up pretty good in 'da hood.  Because of day light savings I'd been given the gift of an extra hour of sleep, there was bacon in the house, the sun was shining, and we were expecting an unseasonably nice warm fall day.  But about 5 minutes after being up and gettin' reds to take Uncle John out for his morning constitutional, I went from peace lovin' and sweet to 'I might have to go to jail today'.

Walking to the door I noticed a piece of paper hanging on the window beside my front door.   I open said door and retrieve the paper.  Guess what kids?  It's the note I put on Kooky McBean's front door in like May.  (Yes.  As in 6 months ago.  ...Where it's been to my surprise, and yes amusement hanging ever since.  And no, it's not like she just noticed it today.  She's been H20ing her plants 3' from it every single day since I taped it up.)

(The E True Hollywood Kooky McBean backstory - click here)

(The note I taped to her door after geese shit all the fuck
over our shared courtyard/front door entryway.)

Yeah, I know.  I'm kinda an ass.  It's pointed and bitchy.  In my defense, I tried to be nice.  (*This* is me resisting being terse.)

On the other hand I had discovered goose shit peppering our sidewalk!  Not because of some natural occurring phenomena, but because my dumbass neighbor kept leaving our muther fuckin' gate open.  ...So guess what?  She deserved a lil' verbal back of my hand.  Serious biz, this broad is probably in her 60's, which seems p-lenty old enough to know A) if you open a gate, 2) you close a gate-- and shouldn't have to require me to have to write a fuckin' note at all, but clearly (dodging geese poo) I kinda had no choice.  Right?

(In fair and accurate news; Kooky McBean has managed to keep the gate closed since then.)

So imagine my surfuckingprise to find this note hanging on my window this morning?  Had someone been here to visit me who left the gate open?  No.  Have I left the gate open?  No.  I ain't all that smart, but I am smart enough to know not to throw stones from a glass house that I live in, ya know.  It being returned to me makes no sense.  I had a message to her (close the gate and clean the shit you allowed, nay invited in the fuck up) when I posted it, but what exactly the fuck is the message for me in this lil' crazy ass scenario?  Not to worry, being perplexed is not keeping me from being all the fuck ticked off about it.  Before you could sing one line of It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood (<-- click) I'd gotten all, "I'm gonna haveta hit that bitch in the head with a brick today".

I'd like to think I was a better person.   I'd like to think I was a size 4 and some great 6" tall ravishing beauty.  ...But lemme tell ya two things that are not, in fact, true...

Sadly, instead of changing sweaters and shoes considering ways to be nice and neighborly, my mind went immediately to "This.  Is.  War." 

This is probably not how Mr. Rogers woulda approached things. 

On the other hand...

(Exhibit A)

Dear Kooky McBean~
The fact that I have not hit you in the head with a brick is directly correlated to my desire to not be locked up, and is not indicative that you are somehow any facsimile of a decent neighbor.  I don't expect to be friends with people just because of our proximity to one another.  I do expect that you won't be a fuckin' bitch and complete dumbass every time I have any interaction with you.  Apparently, my expectation is woefully outta whack with the reality of our situation.  And by "our situation", I mean your continued lack of generally accepted minimum standards of neighbor etiquette. 

I'm tryin' real hard not to beat your ass.  But you are increasingly leaving me with few other options.  Am I really gonna be forced to put a cap in yo ass?  Mr. Rogers isn't the only one packin' ya know. 

You are gonna wanna choose your next steps with me very carefully toots.

(Note to BBGWorld readers:  If you don't see any new postings for several days, please consider contributing to the Free The BBG legal fund.)

(Special Note To BBGWorld readers & Friends O' BBG members:  Please create a Free The BBG legal fund should I wind up in jail.)

Haaaaaappy Sunday-ing.


Friday, November 4, 2011

~De Plane!!

Sorry.  That was completely misleading.  This is not about Tattoo (the only wee person who doesn't give me the heeby jeebies). 

(Hervé Villechaize
1943 - 1993 
You are missed.)

(Apologies.  I felt like I should use the smallest print
available in honor of the late, the great, HV.)

Wee people, always makes me think of a time visiting Chicago.  Who knows what had transpired the night before, although, it's fair to say booze was involved.  The next morning in an attempt to save my life, or at least me from an impending, and probably well deserved hangover, Ree hopped me in the car and drove us to McDonald's for the only true effective and sanctioned hangover cure;  Grease and bubbles.  It was early.  I was still in my pj's.  The sun was blindingly bright.  And as we zipped up a street I saw a small person, a woman.  Standing waiting on a bus?  Fetish whoring?  She was tiny and blond, with her lil' spiky hair.  And in the 7am hour she was wearin' this strapless white dress with a peplum overlay and diminutive white shoes.  So probably fetish whoring, right?  The moment I laid my bloodshot peepers on her I began to laugh hysterically.  While simultaneously bursting out into tears.  It was sumthin'...  Due to my lack of control of my emotions, and appropriate response reflex, Ree did question if I was having some sorta mental break.  I tried to pretend assure her I was not.   Ronald provided his bounty of nutritionally questionable but tasty bacon-y biscuit-y goodness and enough high fructose, caffinated, carbonated elixir to fill a 55-gallon drum.  I thought I had composed myself and was beginning to reap the benefits of a big ass fountain Coke when we passed her still standing there on our way back, again prompting cackling laughter and tears.

Again, my visceral reaction to the wee ones is not the point of today's story time, but I cannot think of a tattoo without thinking of the Tattoo.  (And apparently his street walkin' Chicago area mini ho.)

Sooooooo.  I don't have any real feelings about tats.  I'm not a pro tat person, but I'm not anti them either.  I don't have one. 


For the past few years I've been seriously thinking of getting one.  Years ago I always thought I'd have a yin/yang symbol wearin' a Dr. Seuss chapeau.  I don't know why, just popped into my mind one day and struck my fancy.  I also considered the possibility of getting a claddagh ring (click here) ring tattoo'd on a toe, like a toe ring.

Mainly, I've resisted getting one because as I understand it, if I don't manage to die some fluke-y ass death (which we all know is the most likely way I'm goin' out), I'm gonna be old someday.  And that involves saggy skin.  I just don't wanna be the old lady in room 420 gettin' a sponge bath and havin' to look down at some Dali-esque design that used to be sumthin' and now is just melt-y shell of itself.  (Of course, by that time I'll probably have bad eyesight, so really, it'll be someone elses problem, won't it?)

The past couple of years however have made me strongly consider getting one.  It started when I had a bit of surgery leaving me with a vertical scar running just below my bellybutton.  I have several other scars from other surgeries and injuries, so I'm not particularly distressed by it.  Or as I gather some people are, embarrassed by them.  They just are.  Ima roadmap.  (Accepted.)  But this one?  This one makes me think that I might like to festive it up.  Maybe because I see it everyday when I hop outta the shower.  (Thanks full size, wall length mirror mounted directly opposite of my shower! Good fuckin' morning to you too.)  I think I'd like to get a zipper tab tatt'd on the top of it.

I donno why but it just strikes me outfuckingstanding.  If I'm shackled with this scar, shouldn't it be doin' sumthin' for me, like entertaining me?  It wasn't any fun getting, shouldn't it offer some fun now

While I think it's a stitch.  (<--- see what I did there?)  I don't know if others will think it's crazy.

So, others... VoteZipper tat?

Grrrrreat idea. It would be a funny thing to discover.
Terrible, terrible idea. BBG you are a dumbass.

View Results

Poll powered by Free Polls

(Results will probably not impact if or when I should ever,
maybe do more than think about getting a tattoo,
but your input will be considered and is appreciated.)

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...