Monday Bear

So my cats have the fleas. Well, now it’s -had- the fleas. We took them to the vet ($174) to find out that Kitty has a heart murmur. But on the bright side, they have the cleanest ears this side of the Mississippi.

So I’ve been putting off blogging, obviously. Until just now, I’ve been consuming my time with google image searching the following:

• Puppetry of the Penis
• Tara Reid’s nipples. (by which I was so appalled, the only relief was to search for the following 3).
• cute baby animals
• baby chicks
• kittens
• Yusaavagon. I didn’t get anything from that one, because the o as 2 dots above it. And because I made that country up this weekend.

Alley Jo’s bachelorette party was this weekend. She, Gabby, Kicker, Becky, and I went to the Hustler store in downtown Nashville to buy her penis-shaped items (necklaces, drinking straws, suckers, etc.). I bought chocolate body paint, a calendar featuring vintage pinups, edible pasties, a game called “sex”, and one of those big feather things.

Kicker really wanted to buy the Brady Bunch porno (whoa, Alice), but we wouldn’t let her.

Becky wanted the huge black dildo, but at checkout, she remembered that she already had three.

Alley wanted to buy Gabby, and she did. She was 5.99, because everything there is overpriced.

Some creepy guy comes out of this hole in the wall 6th avenue bar and says:

Bar Guy: Wait a minute. We’ve got a bachelorette party here.
Alley Jo: *sucking on orange-flavoured, penis-shaped sucker* How did you know?
So long story short, he gives her a complimentary shot of Grey Goose. Fabulous.

But anywho, our main attraction of the night was Gram Central Station, where we got in free, and where there were assless transvestites dancing on the bar for free attention and cotton shorts. We go to the roof, where this group of guys + 1 guido invite themselves to sit with us. They do buys us drinks, though.

However, I must clarify that they didn’t know we were us. Here’s who we told them we were:

• Alley= Wendi with an I.
• Gabby= Wendy with a Y.
• Becky= Shy (who isn’t shy.)
• Liz (Me)= Gretal.
• Kicker= Lisa with an A. (really exotic. Much cooler of a name than “Kicker.”)

I picked up this German-esque accent, and “flirted” with the guido, teaching him the beautiful language of my homeland:

Guido: Teach my how to say something in Yusaavagon.
Gretal: Yoosaaavagon.
Guido: Yoosavagan.
Gretal: What do you want to say?
Guido: “How are you?”
Gretal: Meisa mae Kheiseh.
Guido: Mesa me Kesa?
Gretal: No, Meisa mae Kheiseh.
Guido: …What do you say back?
Gretal: Kuu.
Guido: Coo?
Gretal: Kuu.
Guido: Koo?
Gretal: Kuu.
Guido: Quoo?
Gretal: No, Kuu.
Guido: Like cool?
Gretal: Stop making fun of my language!
Guido: I’m not! …what does it mean?
Gretal: Good, or well.
Guido: Oh, how do you say, “You are beautiful.”
Gretal: Vhedhe’ ki lheas aokshea.
Guido: Veda key oxsha?
Gretal: Ha! You just said you are a turkey!
Guido: … do you girls want some drinks?
minutes later…
Guido: So what kinds of sports do you have there?
Gretal:  We have lacrosse, cricket, and field hockey.
Alley Jo:  What are you, a fucking Brit?
Gretal:  They stole those games from us!  I hate those bastards.
Guido:  Are you good at any sports?
Gabby:  She’ll kick your ass at field hockey!
Gretal:  Yah!  I kick your ass!

Everybody at the club loved Gretal.  This restroom attendant said she loved my accent.

As a sidenote: OH MY GOD. IF MY ROOMMATE DOESN’T START PUTTING THE TOILET LID DOWN BEFORE FLUSHING, I’M GOING TO KILL HIM. MY HOUSE SMELLS LIKE TOILET WATER.

I had a dream that the reason I haven’t talked to Holly in the past month is because she’s been modeling in Norway.

So in conclusion, I’m the subject of every male Ross employee’s masturbatory dreams.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007 at 11:14 PM and is filed under Dreams, Google, Nasty, Party over here, Secks. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.