Fuck Me, I'm Irish! Well, I'm Drunk. Same Thing.

"You wanna put your WHAT in my
mouth?! Because "St. Patrick
was the patron saint of fellatio?" Well, if you're sure..."

"Airlines are now considering charging for reclining seats. Also, your scrotum is now considered a carry-on bag."


~ Stephen Colbert

Well, I always say, if you can't offend an entire nationality with one blog post title, you aren't worth your weight in green beer, shamrocks and vomit.


With that in mind, I would like to apologize to all of my Irish readers, for shamelessly capitalizing on this demeaning stereotype.

"God, my boobs look big in this top."

I've been missing in action from Bloggerland for almost a whole week now. I suppose I could explain myself, but I didn't actually have time to come up with a juicy story. So, you know. Piss off. Heh heh. How bout instead, you just use your dirty imaginations to conjure up a tawdry pornographic scenario? Then find a way to make it three times dirtier, throw in a pants-less Henry Rollins and an inflatable goat, and we'll just say that that's where I've been for the past week.

"Oh, snap...my boobs look even bigger
when I'm all pensive and thoughtful."

Anyway, as you can see, I have not returned empty handed - I have finally brought you updated pictures of my tattoos, as requested. (The fact that my boobs and my make-up also look phenomenal in these pics is entirely coincidental. So again, you know...piss off. Haha!)

"Oh Christ, I've left the iron on."

Last night, I headed down to the Marquee Room in downtown Calgary to watch two awesome bands, The Deadmen and The Suppliers, at a fundraising gig for the local techie college. Both bands played wikked sets, but the best part of the night was when the bass player from The Deadmen did this:

Ally-up!

Now ride that bass! Yeah. Slap it. It's
a naughty bass. No wait, I mean, I'M a
naughty bass! Slap ME.

Yeah, that's him standing on his bass, while continuing to play. Isn't that fucking wild? It was so awesome, I almost threw my panties onto the stage, right then and there. Except they were too hard to remove without first taking off my jeans, and besides that, I wasn't wearing any. But if I had been, that bass player would have been eating them. I mean, how does he keep playing?!?! That's fucking amazing. I can barely walk and chew gum at the same time.

T'was a grand night, all in all.

And today, as I am sure you are all aware, is St. Patrick's Day. Once again, there is a Stephen Lynch song for that (there's a Stephen Lynch song for being a Nazi, for Christ's sake). I leave you now with this beautiful Irish hymn to share with your family, and also, a subtle reminder that tomorrow is an important day too - your favorite leprechaun and mine, Sugar Free, is celebrating her 18th birthday! Drop by and say hello!

Oh, and if you can swing it, she really wants a pony, too.

I Hate Yu

Brains...We need brains...

You were just a waste of sperm
They way you look makes my stomach turn
The way you think is no way at all
God you really think you have balls


I hate Yu
Ain't it true
I hate Yu
And everything you do


You walk around like a fucking dick
And everytime you're near you know I get real sick
You're so stupid there's nothing in your head
God how I wish that you were dead


I hate Yu
Ain't it true
I hate Yu
And everything you do


~ Slayer, cleverly respelled and dedicated to my dentist, Dr. Yu.

Once again, I am short on time today, so I just thought I would chuck some of today's in-class writing assignments at you.

A paltry substitute to my usual wit and charm, I know, but...

But I'm busy. So get bent.

Oh! There's that charm.

Today we had to write a fictional example of conflict, and then a fictional setting of a potential conflict. Mine were actually based entirely on truth, and just dramatized, but the other people in the class - who wrote about their cats and dogs and bunnies - didn't know that.

So why did they still give me such a wide berth?! So weird.

Anyway. Enjoy.


       ***You’ll never guess what happened to me today...(example of conflict)***

I haven’t been sleeping very well lately. Because of all the drugs. Just like old times, I will often wake up to find myself in the middle of some activity - in the kitchen, looking for food; in my office, trying to write something. This morning I woke up in two separate locations, sleepwalking.

The first time, I was alone in my room. I woke up with a start when I dropped my water bottle onto my desk with a bang, and the water sloshed over everything, including my computer. I immediately grabbed some kleenex and started mopping it up, but I didn’t actually remember getting out of bed or picking up the water bottle at all.

The second incident, unfortunately, had witnesses - the last two witnesses I could ever have wanted.

I woke up in the upstairs bathroom, a bath towel in my hand, both my parents standing in front of me.

“What are you doing up here?” my father asked, and I shook my head dumbly.

“I want to use your shower,” I said eventually. I knew that much, at least.

“Why?” asked my mother. “What’s wrong with your shower?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, then walked out of the bathroom again.

 And with that I walked downstairs, climbed back into my bed, and just went back to sleep.

I was sleepwalking again less than an hour later, though.

I woke up to find myself desperately trying to use my cell phone.

I was trying to call my drug dealer.

Huh. How about that.



***Example of a Setting and Potential Conflict: What Could Go Wrong, Who Could Get Hurt***

I was groggy as I stepped off the plane, but fear quickly snapped me out of it. Since my last disastrous experience with the Immigration officers in England, I had become a nervous wreck about crossing the border with less than legal intentions.

The line up for the passport check-in was long, which I ambivalently found to be both a relief and a real pisser. How many people want to get into fucking Guam? I wondered irritably, as I watched the slow procession of shuffling feet inching ever closer towards freedom. It’s fucking GUAM.

Still, it gave me a few extra minutes to rehearse my story one last time, even though I had been doing so for weeks.

I went over the details in my mind for the millionth time - I had just graduated from the University of Alberta; had been working as a waitress and was soon to be teacher at home; was meeting Trevor here so we were getting married on the beach; would only be staying for three weeks; we chose Guam because...we chose Guam because...

Fuck! Why did we choose Guam again? I wondered desperately, as my panic started to rise. Think, think!

Our friends got married here, a voice cut through my fear, and I almost gasped with relief. That’s right. Some of our friends got married on the beach here, and gosh, it was so romantic, we wanted to do it too.

God, the pressure is getting to me, I thought wildly, as my eyes darted around to see if anyone was watching me. It wasn’t like anyone could really catch me trying to sneak into their country to work, exactly - I didn’t have any costumes or other work paraphernalia on me. But then, I didn’t have any on me in England, either, when Immigration pulled me out of line and held me for sixteen hours.

I wouldn’t have been such a mess this time if the stakes weren't so bloody high - like if I would only be banned for seven years in Guam, you know? Like, it’s Guam. Who cares?! But that’s the thing about American territories - you get caught working as an illegal alien in one of them, and they ban you from all of the United States, for seven years.

        And since there was no Canadian equivalent to Las Vegas, this simply could not happen.

Hey, It's Me In A Tux

This is a reasonable facsimile of my performance at the Miss Nude Canada Pageant, two years ago. Except I had bigger boobs, and was far more intoxicated. Enjoy.

Check This Out, I'm In A Movie

Oh my God! I'm on YouTube.

(I'm the blonde one at the very beginning.)

Legalize OxyContin (But Only For Me)

Essay written for Filling Station Magazine

I do not understand why I cannot simply have a prescription for OxyContin for the rest of my life. Why the hell not?

Millions of North Americans are taking their prescribed antidepressants every day, even those who barely suffer from depression, and just picked up on the fashionable trend of always being pleasant and compliant. I do suffer from a crippling depression that no antidepressant can touch, and I have found the solution in the form of a pill, just like everyone else.

My pill just happens to be an illegal narcotic.

But it’s effects are much the same. It makes me happy, motivated, sure of myself, ambitious. In all truth and fact, it is far more effective at relieving me of my depression than any antidepressant. Prozac, Effexor, Lithium, Seroquel - I’ve tried them all, but the simple truth is that without Oxy Contin, I don’t even want to live. With OCs, not only do I want to live, but I want to live well, and I have the energy and the confidence to do so. If this drug has all these positive attributes, and actually does tenfold what every antidepressant on the market claims to do, and makes me everything that I want to be, why won’t they give me my prescription? Don’t they want me to be happy?

I know there’s the slight side effects to consider - being so physically dependent on a drug that I become deathly ill if I do not have it; the dissolution of my teeth and bones as my body is robbed of it’s calcium; all those pesky weekly trips to the cardiologist to check my EKG because I now have an irregular heartbeat; being in the high risk group for heart attacks at the ripe old age of twenty-four; friends and family praying for my death so that we can all be relieved of the burden that is me.

If the alternative is lying on a floor, unable to move and suffocating on my own sadness, I would say that this is a small price to pay.

At least with OxyContin I would die happy. After all, if any of what I write is true, then I do not believe I am actually living at all.

Super Tan!

Article written for CyberSugar.com

Guys are so funny about masturbating. They will do it fucking ANYWHERE. And while I, and every other girl I know (who will admit it) masturbate too, I don’t think I have ever done it somewhere strange or vaguely inappropriate - save my my bed in the ballet dormitory, while my roommate was sleeping two feet away. But that doesn’t count, because she was wearing ear plugs. Besides, we were there for months - it was bound to happen sooner or later. And she prolly did it too while I was snoring away beside her. Other than that, though, I have never felt the urge to tickle myself outside of my own home.

Until today, that is.

A couple of days ago, Boyfriend and I were upstairs in our bedroom, going at it doggy style. Bf must have eaten his fucking Wheaties that morning, cuz he was pounding me so hard, I wondered, do I owe him money? When he would ram it in really hard, it would hit this spot inside me that felt so good I would momentarily forget that it kept causing me to bang my head into the wall. Twas a thing of beauty.

Anyway, I was running around this afternoon, and after working last night I was in desperate need of a nap. I decided I would kill two birds with one stone and go for a tan, so I could get pretty and get some sleep. Ten minutes later I was lubed up and goggled, and ready for my snooze. I strapped on Mr. Reznor (my iPod) and climbed into the bed, sighing happily as I stretched out for my twenty minute nap. After a couple of seconds, though, I realized that it was requiring far too much effort to lie on my back. I flipped over onto my belly and stretched out again, and as I was trying in vain to get comfortable, I accidentally rubbed my clit piercing against the hard plastic of the bed. A shock rushed through my groin and I laughed, but I kept my body still and tried to ignore it - I really needed to get some sleep.

But alas, the damage was done. My mind started to wander back to the sensation Bf had pounded into me the other night, and before I knew it, I was pushing my pelvic bone into the bed and rubbing my clit ring against the hard plastic.

Now, before you freak out, I was wearing pvc (plastic) underwear, so rubbing myself against a sanitized plastic bed really isn’t that gross. Still, when I knew for certain that I was going to ride this thing through to the end (pun intended), I got out of the bed and grabbed the towel that had been left in the room for me (though presumably NOT so I could masturbate with it). I lay the towel down in the middle of the bed and positioned myself on top of it, then ground my pussy into my hand until I came, just a few seconds later.

It didn’t occur to me until I was finished just how loud a creaking tanning bed could be. One would assume that the tremendous noise generated by the bed would drown out absolutely everything, but judging by the smirks on the receptionists’ faces as I left, one would be so very, very wrong.

Whatever, I thought. It was worth it. And now that it's done, I feel like I am part of an elite crew of people that can masturbate anywhere! Together, we could be like a team of Super Heroes, engaging our special skills in random public places throughout the city. Of course, we won’t actually help anyone other than ourselves, but again - whatever.

Ooooh, and think how cool the costumes would be! All covered faces and exposed genitals, with hand lotion and baby oil attached to our utility belts for "emergencies".

Of course, I can’t really commit to anything at this exact moment. I am obviously going to be very busy in the next few days, looking for a new place to tan.

What The Fuck IS A Donkey Punch, Anyway?

Ohhhhhhh! It's a DRINK.

(Article written for CyberSugar.com)

I remember asking this of a few people, a couple of years ago. The standard response I got was incredulous laughter that I didn’t know what it was, and, well, that was it. No one would actually tell me what it was. I lost interest shortly thereafter, and forgot to pursue my inquiry.

I was reminded of my quest for knowledge last night while watching an old episode of South Park (my only source of intellectual stimuli), in which Mr. Garrison asks the kindergardeners to name off popular sexual positions. I giggled as they were uttered by these tiny kid voices, and were written down on the blackboard - Missionary Position, Reverse Cowgirl, etc. - but I soon found myself in uncharted waters. Hot Carl? Filthy Sanchez? (Okay, I do kinda know what that one is, but please don’t ask me why). Glass-bottomed boat? (I think I can fucking guess. Ugh.) Donkey Punch?

I’ve heard that one so many times before! What the fuck IS a Donkey Punch?!

The only experience I’ve had with a "Donkey Punch” was with this Marine I was sleeping with, back in 2004, when I was working in Guam for the first time. He would ask me if I wanted a Donkey Punch, then he’d jump on the bed with his hands, kick his legs out behind him, and scream “HEE-HAW!”

Of course, I took a video of it. Who wouldn’t? I’ve never seen anything like it, and I also figured one day, hey, I might be able to use this for blackmail. In the video, you can hear me giggling drunkenly in the background every time this tattooed, muscled hottie would kick his feet up at the Guam Hilton hotel room ceiling. Even now, five years later, I still snort water out of my nose as I watch him buck and scream like a demented donkey.

Screamingly funny as it is - and it IS - I have a feeling that it is NOT what is traditionally known as a Donkey Punch. Did my drunken Marine lead me astray? 

I’m off to the Interweb (that series of tubes) to investigate...

...hmmmm. Urban Dictionary’s definition does not exactly coincide with the Marine’s.

"Whilst participating in either vaginal or anal doggy style intercourse, during the instant before the male ejaculates, the penis is inserted (or kept) in the female’s anus, at which point he delivers a swift punch to the back of the female’s cranium. This results in the simultaneous contraction of the anal sphincter and various other muscles in the female, thus producing a tremendous sensation for the male."

Um....what? Really? Is that really what it is?

I’m gonna Goggle it.

Haha! I wonder if there will be some videos of THAT.

Okay, I found a definition that I like better, on menarebetterthanwomen.com.

"What the Donkey Punch is, is a punch delivered to the woman’s ass during intercourse. THAT'S IT.

Try it yourself and you’ll know why they call it the Donkey Punch. If you disagree, why not invent a sexual move that involves a woman jumping off a roof and landing on your cock. Call it the Stupid Jackass."

Snort. She told them.

Her definition's a little better, I guess. But not much. 


  I texted the Marine in San Diego, to let him know what I thought of his depiction of what a Donkey Punch was.

Kage: Hey! Remember when we were humping, back in Guam? Your definition of a Donkey Punch left a little something to be desired.

Marine: Oh yeah? Like what?

Kage: Like an accurate definition of a Donkey Punch when we were humping, back in Guam.

Marine: Oh. Well, it doesn’t matter now. I’m all about the Dutch Rudder!

Kage (after looking up Dutch Rudder on urbandictionary.com): Wow. Romantic bugger, aren’t you, Romeo?

Marine: Be nice to me, or you’ll end up with a Chinese Fire Dragon. That one’s the ultimate.

Kage (after looking up Chinese Fire Dragon on urbandictionary.com): Tee hee! FUCK YOU!

I have since looked up every other dirty position mentioned on South Park last night, and have come to the conclusion that, a) South Park is the sickest shit on tv, and b) I am so glad that no part of my sex life involves me getting punched in the back of the skull, or anyone pooping on my coffee table, while I lie underneath and watch.

Just a couple of nice, hard slaps across the face, every once in a while. 


  Nice and normal. That’s all I need.

Day One

"God, I'm hungry."

So, here I sit, in the break room on my first day at treatment. It's not for the eating, it is like a refresher course for why I should no longer smack myself with drugs and alcohol. I've already done treatment for that, but since it obviously didn't take, I thought I'd do this one while I wait to hear about the other.

Christ, but it has been boring so far. It is all I can do not to scream in frustration and demand that things get a little more interesting, a little more challenging. We spent the entire morning going over the Rules for Respect, again and again and AGAIN. It was like a fucking kindergarten class, everyone asked to contribute something that was right on the sheet in front of us. Then we played a name game, where you have to come up with a food that starts with the same letter as your name. And then we all lay down on the floor and had a fucking nap.

Just kidding about that last one. But it wouldn't have surprised me.