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They just won’t leave Wench’s Virgin Training School alone, will they? If it’s not the likes of every Mohammed, Achmed, Hakim, and Hadji, then it’s the Dirk Diglers and other Giant Cocks of the world.
That’s right. Dirk Digler. I said it.
Dirk was hanging out at the Virgin Training School last Tuesday night with Judge Hanna M. High, who was showing him what she had learned in her revirginification classes, when suddenly Guy, High Priest of Meatloaf, wheeled up in his Whale accompanied by a crew of revelers in RVs, a motorcycle with a sidecar, and various other vehicles.
Now, we all know that Guy is the Spiritual Advisor to the Virgin Training School. Naturally the Virgins welcome him with open … ahem… arms when he comes. So when the guys tumbled out of all of those vehicles intent on a raid, why, we Virgins hardly knew what to do.
It was not just any raid, my friends. It was a panty raid the likes of which have not been seen since most of us were in college, if even then.
I have it on good authority that Ted scored no less than a dozen thongs in different styles and colors. Doug, being somewhat less discriminating, absconded with everything from bikinis to one very large pair of white cotton granny panties. Guy himself had two hands full of silky underthings when he burst into the room where the Judge was demonstrating her moves to FBI Agent Dirk Digler, a former Navy SEAL who had been recruited to help with special training.
When he saw Dirk and the judge working on certain techniques from the Pop-Up Kama Sutra, well, Guy went a little crazy. He grunted and screamed wordlessly and headed for Dirk, who in self defense placed a feather pillow between himself and the monster that Guy had become. Guy attacked and feathers flew everywhere.
Agent Digler was so disconcerted he felt he had to do something. Fearing bad press, he pretended to arrest Judge High. It was the only thing that calmed Guy down. Guy finally quit yelling wordlessly, and Steve and Ralph led him away after speaking to him in strong words of one syllable or less. Apparently, Guy was in no shape to listen to reason although he took commands from the fellows quite well.
Somehow the whole debacle was reported in the news as being a scandal. The article claimed that Judge High was arrested in a bribery scandal and that there was a great deal of money in the room with her.
Folks, the money that was found in the room was part of the props for the lap dance the judge had been demonstrating for Dirk. When she tried to explain that to the High Priest of Meatloaf he would have none of it. He threw money of his own at the judge and yelled wordlessly, “Nnnnnuhhhh! Uuuunnnnnhhhh!”
Poor Judge High has been forced to resign from office. Because I represent Sherry’s daughter Katie in the Giant Cock Baby Chick controversy, the Giant Cock’s lawyer, Ze Baron, demanded that Judge High be removed from the case and the proceedings be put on hold. It’s not as though the Virgins and the Baby Chicks are related interests, even. Humpf.
Thankfully, though, a new judge has finally been appointed. Judge Bugeyes Billy, known affectionately among many of us as OhBilly, has graciously agreed to preside over the case. He has assured Ze Baron that he will remove himself at the last impropriety, so the case is in good judicial hands indeed.
Judge Bugeyes Billy has ordered all of the parties to Dr. Emma’s page on Wednesday, March 14, for DNA testing. Dr. Emma told Ze Baron it would take several days for the results to be known, so we will sit with bated breath awaiting the outcome of the paternity testing. Those poor, fatherless baby chicks are being tended by their foster grandfather, Len, while Sherry and Katie are in New York on urgent business.
We fervently hope that this tawdry paternity matter can be adequately addressed in the very near future. Those chicks are becoming expensive for my client to maintain. Sadly, there is talk that some of the chicks will have to be sent elsewhere to live because they are becoming too large for their pen.
It’s those Giant Cock genes.
Prostitutes or Virgins?
I am distressed to report that I have to reevaluate the whole Virgin thing.
I have recently been directed back to the series Blogging the Bible, and a rather upsetting thing was brought to my attention in the entry on the Book of Hosea. According to David Plotz, the author of the series, God’s first instruction to the prophet Hosea is to go forth and marry a prostitute.
WHAT? I got whiplash on that one. A whore? God told his prophet to marry a WHORE? You gotta be kidding me.
Then Plotz reminds me that there are lots of prostitutes in the Bible.Tons of them. Gobs. Plotz says, “There’s scarcely an unmarried woman in the Bible … who isn’t a prostitute, or treated like one! There’s Tamar, who turns a trick with her father-in-law Judah. The Moabite women, who whore themselves to the Israelites. The Midianite harlot who’s murdered by Phineas. Jacob’s daughter Dinah, whose loose behavior sparks mass slaughter. No wonder they call prostitution the oldest profession—it’s the only profession that biblical women seem to have.”
Crap.
Where are the Virgins? I thought the men of the Lands of the Bible were into Virgins! What’s the point of the Virgin Training School if we aren’t going to be trading camels for our Virgins? I thought I had an entrepreneurial opportunity here!
I mean, I guess I should have realized something was up when the last time I blogged about the Virgin Training School Neither Habib Aktar nor Hachbar Vinmook showed up. Habib has found his Virgins and evidently returned to Cleveland or wherever, and Hachbar must still be in the Land of Bigfoot and Unicorns. Neither of them show up to hang out with me any longer.
I’m desolate.
Lonely.
Sniffle
I have gotten all revirginated. I have studied the Pop-Up Kama Sutra and I have practiced the positions with my anatomically correct Virgin Barbie and Camel-Rider Ken dolls. I have danced the Dance of the Seven Veils until the silk chiffon has fallen to pieces from over-use. I have listened carefully to the critique of my assigned Navy SEALs. I have diligently practiced getting the 69th comment on the blogs of as many friends as possible (without making it look obvious, of course).
Where have I gone wrong?
Are you guys interested in buying my Virgins or not?
And where the heck are Hachbar and Habib?
Prufrock and Other Observations
When I was in college I took a class in poetry writing. I had this crazy idea that I could do it at least as well as many out there, and better than quite a few. I enjoyed doing it, and kept at it for a number of years, until the responsibilities and depressing reality of marriage and work stole my muse.
How arrogant was I when I thought I could write?
Let me tell you just how arrogant I was.
I was arrogant enough to think I could improve upon the great Thomas Sterns Eliot. In my arrogant delusions of grandeur, I believed that Eliot’s whiny Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock needed improvement.
I was just the gal to improve it, too – I knew exactly the elements it needed. It needed a dose of realism, I thought, and not just anybody’s realism, either. It needed the realism of a twenty-something wise-ass. After all, I had the real skinny on life. At the time I wasn’t bogged down by the silly responsibilities and obligations that get in the way of people with families and jobs and mortgages.
Imposing realism on an unsuspecting, conventionally-oriented public takes open eyes and open minds and open hearts! And back in the early 1980’s there wasn’t much that was more open than a female college student’s legs. (This before AIDS. Herpes was incurable, but not fatal. We had antibiotics for the rest. So free love, baby!) Yes, I was a college student then. Don’t assume, though, that just because I was in high school and college in the late 70’s and early 80’s that I lived a life of drunken debauchery. Oh, dear me, please do not assume that! Wait until you have gathered proof. I mean, faced with incontrovertible proof I won’t deny it.
Oh, and, twenty something years later, I must really, sincerely apologize to Mr. Eliot. I promise, honest, swear on a stack of Bibles and on my father’s grave, that this poem is not really all that autobiographical. And I’ve changed since then. I’m a middle-aged matron now, the sainted mother of a teenage son. I’m a virgin, really….
Here it is: my morning-after tribute to J. Alfred Prufrock. Or whatever his name was.
The Morning After the Love Song
Let me see now, how can I,
While the sun is still belly-low in the sky
Like an ancient whore in a back room,
How can I, from this strange room through this strange street
Make my retreat
And forget the stops nearly made at cheap hotels,
Leaving behind me the oyster shells,
The memory of a night of lust and heat
And of nearly making it in the back seat?
It leads me to an overwhelming question…
I dare not ask why I did it;
I’ll never admit it.
Beyond the door the paperboys come and go.
I think they know.
The yellow stains upon the windowpanes
Are nicotine stains on the windowpanes,
Smoky stains from nights like the last,
Lingering in the light that comes through the windowpanes.
Smoke belongs in chimneys
To be sent out over the roof at night,
Boiling slowly out of the house
Not to block the windows’ light.
Of course there should be a time
That a window’s light is blocked,
Like at night when I try to sleep.
That is the time, but not the only time,
For a room to be dark and its door locked.
There’s also the time when we procreate
And the time when our hands
Reach for ourselves (when we masturbate).
Time for me. Time for me.
I have time for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before finding the car’s key.
Beyond the door the postmen come and go.
I think they know.
And now is my time!
Do I dare? Do I dare?
Do I dare escape and descend the stair?
I am pinned under him by my own hair!
How can I move? How can I squirm
Away from him? I wish he’d turn!
Perhaps slowly, slowly I can squirm…
Do I dare
Disturb his sleep?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will keep.
Oh, I remember them all, remember them all:-
I remember the evenings, mornings, afternoons.
I have measured my life by the length of afternoons,
From long in the summer to short in the fall,
From one television season to another
Secrets from myself I have yet to uncover.
And I remember the shows; I’ve watched them all –
The shows that catch you and force you to follow
Their silly stories and repetitive prattle.
I’ve watched them all, I’ve watched them all
Until my mind has begun to rattle
And my mind and spirit have become hollow
Secrets from myself I have yet to uncover.
I have known arms such as his, known them all
Arms that are muscled and bronzed and bare
(Arms that have me trapped by my hair!)
Is it his smell or perhaps his undress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along beside me, or arms that call
Secrets from myself I have yet to uncover
Because my mind has begun to rattle…
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirtsleeves, leaning out of windows?
If I had a pair of claws
I’d have torn my hair and scuttled away at dawn.
It’s almost afternoon, yet he sleeps so peacefully!
I attempt to peel away his fingers.
Asleep … he’s still asleep, the malingerer,
Stretched out in this dirty bed beside me!
Do I, after a drunken night’s nap,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have agonized and squirmed and prayed,
I have seen a vision of my room mate opening the door with a snicker,
And in short, I am dismayed.
And could this have been worth it, after all,
After the drinks, the oysters, the drinks,
Among the lounge lizards, among sone talk of him and me,
Could this have been worthwhile
To have bitten off my arm with a smile,
To have squeezed myself into a ball,
To roll myself toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Magdalene, come from the bed,
Come from a stranger’s bed, and I’ll never tell you all –
I left one with a pillow under his head…
I shouldn’t say anything at all
Nothing, nothing at all.
And could this have been worth it after all,
Could this be worthwhile,
After the broken romances and cooling of passionate heat,
After the gothic novels, after the dreams of skirts that trail along the floor –
After all that, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern could cast a light to expose me
Would this have been worthwhile
To expose myself to me, and tell myself all,
To look in the lantern’s glow and say,
“That is not me at all,
“Not what I meant to be at all.”
No! I am not Ophelia, nor was I meant to be;
I am almost a harlot, one that will do
Anything to swell my own ego, start a scene or two,
Opposite the virgin; no doubt an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Easy, uncautious, not meticulous,
Full of high living, but a bit obtuse;
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow bold… I grow bold…
I shall be out of his place before out of bed he has rolled.
Shall I leave my hair behind? Do I dare as bed springs screech?
I push away the white cotton sheets, the white-sale-special sheets.
I can hear the children calling, each to each.
I do think they will call to me.
I have seen them playing stickball in the streets,
Taunting their playmates and strangers who dare to pass
As traffic becomes heavier and their Mamas go to mass.
I have lingered in this filthy bedchamber
With its walls splattered with dirty reds and browns
‘Til children’s voices have waked him, and he frowns.
Bitch Session
I’ve got a case of the grumps.
I haven’t blogged properly in over a week. I just haven’t felt pithy and funny. The fiction I’ve written in the past two weeks sucks to high heaven. I can’t even get excited about politics.
My reviews disappeared from my 360 page and Yahoo won’t do anything to put them back. I like writing reviews. I like reading reviews. I actually make friends because of the reviews I read and write. I want my reviews back, dammit. If Yahoo is going to give me something for free it ought to freaking WORK right. How dare they ignore my demands for satisfaction? Do they think I can’t take my business elsewhere? Right. Like I’d leave 360 now. They have me and they know it, so they take away my freaking reviews. Yahoo is like the phone company, apparently. They don’t care; they don’t have to. Rat bastards. I want my free service! ALL of it!
One of my best friends has decided to go all depressed and suicidal for the second time in four months. If it weren’t for the fact that depression is a killer, I’d be rolling my eyes. I have another friend – actually the mother of one of Jack’s friends – who actually tried twice to suicide last fall, and I ended up with half her kids while she lay in a coma. I really get irritated with people who think suicide is a solution. It is so messy and hurts so many people. Selfish suicidal bastards.
It’s raining. Weather changes always give me migraines, and the weather in the last ten days has gone from snowy and 23 degrees to gorgeously sunny and 78. Fucking weather. Who’s responsible? I’m gonna sue. Now I’ve heard tornadoes are a possibility. Fucking weather.
My head hurts. I can’t take any more Imitrex this week because of the rebound headaches. I hate taking narcotics. There’s something about addiction that is oh-so unappealing to me. I go to bed with an ice pack and my two cats and I lose days at a time. This is no fucking life. I’m not contemplating suicide. I’m selfish, but not that selfish. Yet. I’m just whiny.
One of my orchids won’t bloom. Last year it was given to me for Valentine’s Day by the person my favorite only child now refers to as “The Jackass.” I fed it. I watered it. I repotted it. Not even a hint of a bloom. In a fit of pique this week I bought myself a new orchid in full bloom, thinking the old orchid would get jealous and decide to perform. But, no. It’s just sitting there, passive and still. Lazy-ass old orchid cost me money. Piss me off.
My passport picture makes me look fat. Ok, so maybe I AM fat, but it doesn’t have to be so in-my-face about it. I just got a new passport because I’m taking Jack to England over spring break and I never got around to changing my name on the passport after my divorce. Last year I went to China under an assumed name. It’s a wonder I wasn’t accused of being a terrorist. Now that I’m back to my real name and have gotten completely rid of the assumed name, I feel better. But the fucking PICTURE sucks. I call a do-over. What? No mulligans on passports? Shit.
My laptop is in the shop. The power cord connection came detached from the motherboard. I have a Sony Vaio – one of the tiny 11-inch ones that I keep by my bed because it’s light and easy to hold on my lap. I love my little Vaio. Fucking power connection. Now I have to get a new motherboard. Does anyone know if that changes the entire identity of the computer? I think my messenger archive is going to be lost, and before the battery died I didn’t have time to copy it all. I don’t want it to be lost. There are fantastic messenger conversations just waiting to be made into blogs and if they’re lost then I’ll be majorly bummed out. Not to mention that I just bought the damn laptop in August and already there’s this problem. At least it’s covered by the warranty.
BUT… I did something crafty and diabolical. Heh heh. They said it would be 2 weeks before my laptop would be ready. So I found another laptop on sale, a discontinued model still sporting Windows XP so I don’t have to up and learn Vista before the kinks are worked out of it. There’s a restocking fee of 10%, but that’s reasonable rent for two weeks, considering. I can’t be without my laptop. It is my lifeline. I’m addicted. So I bought it, installed Messenger on it (like I can live without Messenger!), and have not removed a single sticker or registered a single bit of software on it. It now sits next to my bed just like the Vaio did, and will for the next two weeks. Then I’ll return it. Two weeks to repair? Diabolical. I can be diabolical, too. So there. Sometimes I really amuse myself.
I keep finding things I lost in the divorce that I need. My roasting rack. My wok. Kitchen gadgets I don’t remember to replace when I’m out and about. I’ve gone for a year and a half without them now. Annoying. Heading to Amazon to put them on my wish list….
Please add your gripes to the comments. This is an official bitch, carp, moan, and whine session, brought to you by the pen of Aramink. I don’t want solutions. I just want to bitch. Salud!
Giant Cocks and Baby Chicks
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I don’t usually take part in a lot of the “drama” that goes on around Yahoo 360, but something has come to my attention that just has to be brought up. It involves a couple of people on my Friends List: Sherry and Guy, High Priest of Meatloaf. The manner in which these two of my friends have gotten locked into such a gossip-worthy situation is horrific and impacts the lives of 50 innocent living, breathing beings.
That’s right. I’m talking about Sherry’s grand-chicks.
Here’s what seems to have happened.
Sherry’s daughter, Katie, became the bearer of about 50 fertilized eggs recently. Dismayed by the ramifications of her daughter’s hyper-fertility and impending single-motherhood, Sherry tried to disguise the pregnancy as an FFA project.
What made the situation even more mortifying for Grandma Sherry is that the same thing had happened the year before. Katie’s offspring were placed for adoption in what was a lucrative baby-selling program which netted sweet Katie a tasty sum toward college tuition, but the young baby-mama apparently didn’t learn her lesson well enough. Katie has up and done it again.
Well, when a perfectly healthy, normal teenager becomes the mommy of 50 baby chicks, it’s obviously time to look for someone in the woodpile. That’s where Guy comes in, sort of.
We all know that Guy’s progeny is the Giant Cock. Guy just can’t seem to keep the Giant Cock under wraps. Every Wednesday the Giant Cock explodes onto the pages of Y360, and some of that stuff seems to have splashed onto Katie somehow. Sweet Katie has now encountered the Giant Cock somewhere not just once but on at least two separate occasions, with disastrous results.
Neither of these friends has yet come into my office to ask me, on behalf of their respective progeny, to participate in the paternity suit. I dread explaining the ethics of a legal conflict of interest when they do.
Sherry, for the love of all that is white meat, keep Katie contained on Giant Cock Wednesdays! You know that’s when Guy lets him out to play!
Wench’s Virgin Training School – Again
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I am thrilled to report that Wench’s Virgin Training School is quite popular. Enrollment numbers are quite encouraging and the Camel Endowment is quite large. Ahem.
Please allow me to make a full report to our Trustees, Students and Sponsors.
In just three months of operation, the school has enrolled 19 female revirgination candidates. They are, in order of enrollment, KimberKat, Cyndi, Lisa, Silly, Sue, Sherry, Shira, Catherine,Blue, DWMeowMix, SweetP, Selinda, Gypsy Firecracker, Lia, Susan, Jen, Cherish, Bobbie-Lynn, and Melissa.
We are still waiting for 7 more students: Free, Juls, Red Carol, Tricia, Superbitch, JeniT, and Nancy . You may remember that these potential virgins were contacted by either Habib Aktar or Hachbar Vinmook (and maybe by both) to be members of their harems. Their admissions applications have been approved but they have not yet picked up their copies of Virgins for Dummies or the Pop-Up Kama Sutra, nor have they appeared for class. If anyone knows where these truants are, please have them report to me immediately.
We have a Winter Dance coming up soon. We couldn’t have a Christmas Dance because…well, Hachbar and Habib don’t exactly celebrate Christmas. We need volunteers to decorate the gym with the appropriate tissue garlands, incense burners, and silk rugs. One exciting feature of the Winter Dance will be the BookChick, Cyndi’s exhibition performance of the Dance of the Seven Veils. She is our Dance Instructor, and classes in both “Advanced Seven Veils” and “Belly Dancing 101″ are being offered in the spring term. (“Seven Veils” will only be available with Instructor permission based upon an audition, as “Belly Dancing 101″ is a prerequisite for it.)
We’re going to have a fundraiser and sell chocolate bars and gift wrap. It is necessary for the school to raise enough money to repurchase Ohio. Our dear friend and champion, OhBilly, traded Ohio for the honor and virtue of one of our students when Habib had her on the run. Also, Basser has passed me a letter from the National Security Advisor that if we do not reinstate Ohio soon, Habib may be considered a terrorist for having caused Ohio to secede from the Union involuntarily. We have to buy back Ohio, and that may take a little doing. Texas was also traded for one of our students, but apparently the government doesn’t much care about that.
We have a special ed student, proving the accepting and inclusive nature of Wench’s Virgin Training School. Sherry’s 504 plan is in place, and Mad Diane LeDeux,, who is our Flogger of Recalcitrant Virgins, handles special education instruction at Wench’s Virgin Training School. Unfortunately, Mad Diane has had to wield her whip a few times. We are sad to report that we do have disciplinary issues with some students. Shira is in the habit of sleeping behind her veil and Silly keeps showing up for class naked. For some reason Mad Diane is particularly enthusiastic about Silly’s floggings.
In a related matter, Blue has asked about cuff and stick training. It has been determined that this class shall be an elective for advanced students, except for those who Mad Diane believes need the extra discipline. Mad Diane will be the class’s instructor, of course.
Hachbar has become quite a benefactor for Wench’s Virgin Training School. I am pleased to report that he compensated me with much livestock and health insurance. Because of his generosity, I am able to concentrate on the school full time.
Hachbar also wants to sponsor a new building on the campus of Wench’s Virgin Training School. He has directed that all virgins shall use their feminine wiles to lure contractors to build the new school. This will indeed be a test of our revirgination program because of course, the contractors will not be allowed to touch the virgins. Hachbar has decreed that the penalty for touching virgins is death by camel humpy. What Hachbar doesn’t know won’t hurt him, though. If virgins get touched, all they have to do is go back to Virgins for Dummies, Lesson 1, and start the revirgination program all over again.
Habib has not been seen around the school very much. Hachbar informs us that Habib had a delicate operation called an “addadictomy.” I thought all that facial hair was proof certain that Habib already had a Y-chromosome, but Hachbar insists that Habib was missing from many of the opening festivities of the school because of that surgical procedure. Habib hotly denies this, and we can certainly understand why he might be a bit embarrassed about it. One simply does not discuss one’s elective cosmetic or prosthetic surgeries in polite company.
Shortly after Wench’s Virgin Training School opened, we received a dire warning from Basser.It seems that US intelligence operatives somehow got the idea that our school is an Arab Training Camp! According to Basser, Homeland Security was tipped off by an undercover inside informant. Homeland Security has now put the country on Yellow Alert because of this misinformation. Navy SEALs stealthily infiltrated the bushes behind the school and began monitoring us. When they saw Silly was naked, they even began filming!
Homeland Security was disturbed primarily by the fact that because so many women were attending revirginification classes, men could get drunk in bars with no worries about a phone calls demanding they come home. For some reason Homeland Security considers this a national threat beyond even Bill Gates running for president.
The government is now closely watching the school’s banks accounts, activities of students and instructors that occur outside the school, our cable TV bills (searching for naughty pay-per-views, I suppose), breast exam results, and so forth. Under the Patriot Act, the government has access to everyone who deals with us and our virgins. Despite my best legal wrangling with the government’s dark-suited men with their dark glasses and their dark SUVs with the dark-tinted windows, the Patriot Act allows them to violate our rights anytime they want by claiming it is in the best interest of the government. They have specifically asked that our gynecologists check us for Arab intrusion and that our hair stylists check us for fleas. As headmistress of Wench’s Virgin Training School, I find this highly insulting.
What’s even more insulting is the intimation that the government thinks that there are spitters here at our school. Basser said that the SEALs objected to the camels, which stink and spit, and advised me that Navy Men do not like spitters. I was quick to inform Basser that so far as I am aware, the camels are the only spitters at this school, and the Navy men just need to stop playing with the camels. The lip gloss gets in their fur and makes it difficult for Lou’s crew of camel jockeys to groom.
The problem was rectified very quickly, though, when we got use of the FEMA trailers still languishing at Hope, Arkansas (just a few miles down the road from where I live). David (that adorable green puppy!) Reminded us that the trailers were sitting there empty and unused, and naturally we had a great use for them while awaiting our expansion. Each virgin is now assigned a FEMA trailer when she arrives at school, and the Navy SEALs have graciously agreed to leave the bushes and stealth mode behind and take rotating shifts guarding our virgins! There are two SEALs to a virgin on each shift. This has been a great reassurance to Homeland Security and the safety of our virgins is guaranteed.Before Silly gets too worried (I know she’s thinking about this), let me assure everyone that there is plenty of lip gloss. Our budget has ample funds set aside to purchase lip gloss in 55-gallon drums, and one drum will be placed in each FEMA trailer.
Initially we got wonderful financial advice from that scion of numbers, the Spy Man himself. Thanks to his input, we have established the prices we will charge for our virgins. A virgin in training will go for 6 camels (2 humps preferred), a 12 cup coffee maker, The Idiot’s Guide to Disarming Bombs, and a gift certificate from “BURQAS R US.” A graduate will cost 12 camels, 10 horses, a year’s supply of Glade room deodorizers, a Brookstone electric shaver with the body hair attachment, and an oil well producing at least 500,000 barrels a day.
Of course, Hachbar’s explanation of the livestock exchange rates was very helpful in establishing the virgin prices:
1 camel = 2 horses
1 horse = 2 sheep or goats
1 goat = 1 sheep
pig = worthlessI am sad to report, however, that Spy turned out to be a, well, an embezzler. I know, I know. It’s hard to believe. But shortly after publication of the last blog about the school, he bought an Aston Martin with school funds and headed to the casino in Monte Carlo. He assured me it was to increase our holdings and for marketing purposes, and he even took Silly with him, ostensibly for some undercover work. He left a note, which was found after his departure, that he had purchased a Walther PPK gun with Silencer for $650 and an $1,800 Hugo Boss Tuxedo. He wiped out the remaining funds in out bank account, leaving us with only 23 cents.
He abandoned the Aston Martin in Monte Carlo, apparently, because he took the company Lear jet back to the school. He dodged in and out under cover of darkness, I am sorry to say, and left another note. Our bank account was overdrawn by $150,000, and still he had the temerity to demand reimbursements for mini bar charges of $1,452; a cash advance at the Monte Carlo Casino of $72,000, and entertainment expenses of $33,400! And this was despite the fact that he had won $500,000 playing baccarat! I tell you, the NERVE of some people!
What’s worse is that he swiped money from the school’s coffers and wired it to the bank account of the Young Republicans. They called and thanked me, or I might never have known. I nearly died of embarrassment. Of all the organizations in all the world, he had to choose the Young Republicans! He is now officially known as ”Spy Non Grata,” if his name must be spoken at all. Please use his name sparingly in my presence as it makes my blood boil.
For every bad egg like Spy Non Grata, though, there is a good egg. Feudalserfer, my beloved friend and now my partner, has established the Satellite Academy. That’s right, Wench’s Virgin Training School has launched into space and a campus is now located on the moon! Legal aliens only may apply, though. We don’t want gate crashers.
A huge party in the Feud’s blog celebrated the grand opening in glorious style.
And speaking of blog parties, Billy’s Dusty Springfield Blog, the official 69 training ground for Virgins, has not seen a 69 since Christmas Eve. Ladies, if you want to be considered experts in 69, you had better get busy! I’m just sayin’….
The last official count, on December 12 at 7 a.m. Central Standard Time was:
- Melissa in the lead with10, with #’s 369, 869, 1169, 1769, 1969, 2169, 2369, 2569, 2769, and 2869.
- SweetP demonstrated her prowess with 7 glorious 69s. She stole #’s 269, 1069, 1269, 1369, 1469, 2069 and 2669.
- Silly, the original 69er of the training blog, elegantly stealthed in for 5, #’s 69, 1569, 1669, 1869 and 2469.
- I scored twice with #’s 169 and 769.
- Susan captured #469 in a dazzling display of 69 activity.
- Lisa, the tnbrneyedgirl, brought Billy to his knees easily with the prowess of 10 well trained virgins in her acquisition of #569.
- Natalie showed that she is definitely not afraid to get her hands dirty with her procurement of #669.
- Cherish showed great stamina and a truly adventurous nature in her grabbing of the only 69 worthy of being read the same either backward or forward. #969
- And Sue bombarded the blog in an effort to grab 2269.
Billy, honey, can we get a current count?Oh, and you don’t mind the Virgins using you to practice their 69 technique, now do you?
Disclaimer: Please note that all prices and exchange rates either expressed or implied are subject to change without notice. The Wench of Aramink reserves sole discretion in the adjustment, revocation, and/or evaluation of said prices and exchange rates. All sales are final; no refunds and no exchanges. Internet sales are subject to all applicable regional, national, and international laws and taxes. Paypal is accepted. Virgins may be traded on eBay. All transactions void where prohibited.
- Melissa in the lead with10, with #’s 369, 869, 1169, 1769, 1969, 2169, 2369, 2569, 2769, and 2869.
Fetish IM Conversation
So the other night I had been chatting with my friend, Magic Toy Missing, for about five minutes when I got an IM from a stranger. The stranger started out innocuously enough, even to the point where I felt like I should be polite. Then came the fetish talk. No shit. He’d have been on “ignore” long before we got to that point but I had not just Magic but Susan egging me on to have a good time with the guy.
Keep in mind that as soon as I realized what was going on, which was 5 minutes into the conversation, I was sharing everything the guy said with Magic, then later with Susan. As usual, everything but the conversation with the stranger is italicized.
Oh, and his yahoo ID is “shakespeare_lovee” for anyone who wants to share their fetish with him. Please let me know how it goes if you do. I’m dying to find out.
HIM: Hello. How are you tonight?
ME: Do I know you?
HIM: no i find your yahoo ID in parents channel (Parents channel? Does he mean the Member Directory?)
HIM: i have a friend her name is susan. i take your yahoo ID to her (What does he mean? Susan gave him my ID? Why?)
HIM: is it problem for u?
ME: no… (There must be some reason Susan sent him to me. Or was it Sue, planning to set me up for another IM blog? I wonder…)
HIM: asl plzz (Oh, shit)
ME: sorry, I don’t play that game (Oh, for Pete’s sake. Either you want to talk or you want a freaking date. Which is it?)
HIM: it isnt a game. i never chated u before (No, shit. It I had seen you before you’d be on “ignore.” And you aren’t from around here, are you, buddy?)
HIM: trust me (The hell I will!)
ME: I don’t mean to be rude, but is there something you wanted to talk with me about? (I’m really not in the mood for this.)
HIM: i saw your picture and i like u much (Did he see me on Susan’s friends list? She has a lot of these guys on her list since she speaks Arabic. Crap. I don’t want to alienate a friend of hers.)
HIM: u are looking friendly (Whatever.)
HIM: do i disturb u? (Yes. But I’ll be nice. You might be a friend of Susan’s.)
ME: thank you. You obviously have me at a disadvantage, though, because I neither know what you look like or what interests we might have in common.
HIM: i only want to chat u (Yeah. That’s why you’re so interested in my “asl plzz” – if you saw my page you should already know my “asl plzz.” Time to let Magic know what was going on: “I’ve got one of those Arab guys who just messaged me, telling me our friend Susan said to look me up. I wonder if she wanted me to tell him to go fuck himself”? Magic responds, “probably….do it anyways….” I laugh, and copy the conversation so far to Magic, who responds with a heartfelt “woohoo!” He’s so pleased that I have an admirer. He’s a good friend.)
HIM: if u want! (I don’t want. Be nice, Anne, I tell myself. He’s a possible friend of a friend. Me to Magic: “So what should I tell him? I’ll give you credit if you help me mess with his head and I post it as a blog!”)
ME: What shall we discuss? Today I’m quite interested in Venezuela. (I just wrote a blog on it, in fact. But if you really came from my page you would already know that, especially if you were interested enough in me to look at what I was interested in. I look back to the IM with Magic. Magic’s a little slow to respond, but eventually he helps me out with a topic by saying, “ummmmm… hummm….” in a thoughtful way. I’m glad HE’S not trying to pick up chicks on IM. I’m TEASING, Magic! So I copy the remainder of the conversation so far to Magic and giggle. Venezuela. That ought to hang him up! Magic is laughing at me.)
HIM: i want to see u (Oh, shit! Of course you do. Next you’re going to ask me to cam with you.)
HIM: could u plz invite me your cam (uh-huh. I copy this bit of scintillating conversation to Magic and cry for help. Magic, to his credit, does try to get helpful. “Point the cam at some thing totally weird. That should work,” he tells me. I look around for something bizarre to point the camera to. All I see is the silly flamingo pen someone gave me as a joke a couple of years ago. No, I don’t think that’s quite the ticket.)
ME: I thought you already had seen me. You said I looked friendly. (I’m playing for time, my mind racing. Oh, hell. This is such garbage. I’m asking Susan if she sent him to me.)
HIM: yes u are friendly (Hell, no I’m not! Just give me time!)
HIM: could u plz invite me your cam
ME: No, I don’t have a cam. (Shit. She’s not online. Or she’s invisible. Me to Magic: “Help!” Magic just laughs at me.)
HIM: do u have any web cam female friends?
ME: excuse me?
HIM: do u have any web cam female friends? (I’m thinking, gee, um, there’s Silly, and OhBilly has been trying to get lucky with one of these characters. Hmmm…)
ME: Are you really asking me if i have any women friends for you to ogle over the internet?
HIM: yes
ME: Why would I want a friend of mine to be sexually assaulted by web cam?
HIM: what is the probem? (I copy this section of the message to Magic, who lets me know in no uncertain terms that he is dying laughing. You know, he sends me the emoticon with the little yellow guy rolling around beating the floor laughing his ass off. ‘Thanks heaps, buddy,’ I’m thinking.)
HIM: am i looking there a pervert? (Hell, yes, buddy! And if Susan sent you to me I’m gonna kill her! What a time for her not to be online!)
HIM: why u think sex? (DUH!)
ME: Well, usually the next thing a man asks when he’s hunting for someone to cam with is for the woman to take off her clothes. Trust me, I have no friends who would be interested in that.
HIM: there are a lot of phil. girls in chat channels and they are very rude (Really. Well, you’re fixin’ to THINK rude …)
HIM: i felt bored (you felt bored so you decided to pick on me? ME? What the hell have I ever done to you?!)
ME: what do you mean by “phil. girls”? (I copy Magic with the next block of the conversation.)
HIM: phillipian females (Me to Magic: “How am I doing, Magic? BTW, you AREN’T helping!”)
ME: how are they rude?
HIM: want to show their body (Magic just laughs at me: “lol….not sure….never had a man hit on me….”)
HIM: and most of them have very ugly body
ME: lol (Me to Magic: I’ll be happy to send this one your way)
ME: showing one’s body seems to be all the rage with webcammers
HIM: maybe (Me to Magic: Let me send ol’ shakespeare lovee to you and you can pretend to be a philippino cammer for him. Won’t HE get a shock!)
HIM: so
HIM: are u married? (Magic to me: “My cam is pointing at the floor right now….lol”)
ME: no
HIM: kids? (Me to Magic: “Point it at something else when this guy comes along. See if he likes that! ROFLMFAO)
ME: one boy. (Magic to me: “No way! lol” I think, ‘That does it. I’m sending Susan a message and hoping she’s online!’ Me to Susan: “Hey, did you just send some guy with the ID ‘shakespeare_lovee’ to chat me up? ROFL”)
HIM: God bless him (I don’t know about that. The kid’s a sworn atheist. Except on test days, of course.)
ME: and you? (Magic to me: my dad sent me a very nasty pic….. lol….you want it? Susan to me: “WTH?”)
HIM: i am single sweety (Susan to me: “No! WTF!?” AHA! She’s here!)
ME: how nice (Remember y’all, ‘how nice’ is southern for ‘fuck you.’ Don’t EVER call me ‘sweetie’ unless you know me really well. Me to magic: “I don’t think so! LOL Susan just answered me.”)
ME: You really don’t need to refer to me as “sweety” since I tend not to be very sweet. (“Yep,” I say to Susan. “Let me show you.” I copy her with the first part of the conversation, to the point where he asks me “asl plzz.” She says to me, “Get the hell outta here!”)
HIM: do u think u are ugly???
ME: WHAT? (He has no idea, but instead of being offended, I’m laughing at Susan, who is completely mystified at this point. “What’s THAT about?” she asks me.)
ME: no (I wish I could concentrate on you, buddy, but I’m laughing at Susan’s reaction now! Susan says to me: “I’m freaking shocked! What the hell?” I tell her, “I’m having one of THOSE IM conversations with him – but I didn’t want to be too rude if he really was a friend of yours.” “Shit!” she replies. “I don’t know a Shakespeare, unless he has a different handle on IM.” “I think he just made it up,” I tell her. “He’s obviously one of the ones we have Wench’s Virgin Training School for.”)
HIM: u are very sweet lady (“Ask him how he knows me,” Susan says)
ME: thank you (Susan’s offended. “What the hell is he saying my name for?” I think he made up the name,” I say to reassure her. “That’s B.S.!” I can practically hear her yelling, and I’m really laughing now. Yes, she’s offended. “Wanna help me mess with him?” I ask her. “Jesus Christ! How?” Yay! She’s on board with me!
HIM: whats your job?
ME: I’m a lawyer (Susan has been checking her friends list to be sure. “I don’t have a shakespeare,” she tells me. I reply, “He made it up – or Sue sent him to me, since she loves it when I post those conversations.”)
ME: What do you do? (Innocuous conversation – I’m thinking if I get Miss Susie in on this it ought to be good!)
HIM: i am a teacher (Susan’s still indignant. “Christ, I know I didn’t! I would never give out someone’s address!”)
ME: what do you teach? (Keeping him on the line long enough to trace the call – this is gonna be fun…)
HIM: genetics (“Thank you!” I say to Susan, and I definitely mean it. The last thing I want is people giving these creeps my IM address. They find it easily enough as it is!)
ME: really (‘Genetics? How full of shit is he?’ I’m thinking. He probably thinks I’m impressed.)
HIM: yes (I report to Susan: “He claims to be a professor of genetics)
HIM: and where is your husband? (‘He’s looking over my shoulder reading this conversation, idiot. Don’t you remember I told you I’m divorced?’ I think to myself. Susan’s reaction to the ‘genetics’ thing is the same as mine. “Yeah – where?” The skepticism drips from her keyboard.)
ME: Where do you teach?
HIM: in college (I tell Susan, “He says he teaches in a college. He’s more interested in where my husband is.” We both laugh at this.)
ME: What college? (“Wait a minute,” Susan says. “genetics – that’s ringing a bell.” Uh-oh. Maybe he IS one of hers.)
HIM: secondary school (Secondary school? Like high school? This guy needs to get his story straight. Susan remembers, “I had a prof that came as an avatar, a woman. I didn’t accept the invitation.”)
HIM: where is your husband? (This guy obviously didn’t read the part where I told him I am divorced, even though he said my husband must be blind – whatever that might have to do with getting divorced. I ‘m getting worried that he really is a friend and I will have to be nice to him, and suddenly I’m in a mood to mess with him, with Susan’s help, of course. “Let me look at his profile and see if there’s anything there.”)
ME: I am not married (She tells me the name of the genetics person who contacted her. It’s not the same. “Let me ask his name,” I say.)
HIM: u divorced? (Yes, and I sound like a broken record telling you that, just like you sound like a broken record asking me where my husband is.)
ME: yes
ME: What is your name?(Susan says, “He said that he likes to clone humans.” “Yeah, right,” I say. “He did. Right on his page.”)
HIM: u are very beautiful woman. he must be blind (My ex has better eyesight than I do. Let’s just not go there, ok, buddy?)
HIM: my name is umut. u? (I tell Susan, “He says his name is Umut. “He’s a mutt alright,” she retorts.)
ME: Anne
HIM: nice to meet u
ME: where are you from?
HIM: turkey
ME: Why genetics? what interests you about that field of study?
HIM: i like genetics. i fell happy to teach it
HIM: i really want to see u (I tell Susan, “This one isn’t responding well to my questions. I might be able to cut and paste a couple of conversations together for this one, but so far he’s not a real winner. As winners go in the IM category of conversations, that is!” She laughs.)
ME: You have seen my picture. that’s what I look like
HIM: but it would be nice to see u live (“He bad wants to cam with me,” I tell Susan. “I’m SO not going to.”)
ME: Well, I’m afraid that’s out of the question since I don’t have a webcam (Susan’s amazed. “WTF!” I say, “Yeah. Really.”)
HIM: could u find it some where? (I copy Susan with more of the conversation)
ME: What? I don’t have one! (What kind of a dumbass is he, anyway?)
ME: What do you mean find it?
HIM: i really want to see u (I copy Susan with another chunk of the conversation)
ME: then look at my picture (God, is this guy whiny, or what?)
ME: that’s the best I can do for you (I copy more of the conversation to Susan)
HIM: but i see only your 3 pictures
ME: four. There are four. The one with the red lips is me, too (I had the red monkey lips representing the Hornifed Sex Monkey still on my top page)
HIM: hey
HIM: nice joke
HIM: u make me laugh
ME: I’m so glad (I really couldn’t care less. I copy the last of the conversation to Susan. Susan remarks, “Pushy bastard. Must be Arab.” “Turk,” I tell her” “Same difference,” she notes. “Yup.” We both laugh.
HIM: could u sen me your pictures plz?
ME: No, I don’t think so. (I pass this request on to Susan. She starts scrambling to find pictured for me to send the guy.“I have a naked man for ya,” she offers. I laugh. “That would be a hoot! I was chatting with Magic Toy Missing a few minutes before I messaged you, and I suggested sending this guy to him. Magic could turn on his web cam and give the guy a treat.” Susan laughed. “Too bad you didn’t get him to do it!” “I know. Magic declined the invitation to play. Said he had to wash his hair or something.” Susan has now located several pictures. She shares them with me and I laugh. “Oh, yeah. Like I should send him a woman in a thong!” She snorts. “Go for it. That’s as naked as my photos get. I got nothing else in the arsenal.”)
HIM: send me plz
ME: no
ME: I really don’t think we have anything to talk about (Susan’s trying to persuade me to go for the thong.)
HIM: what u want to learn about me? (Not a damn thing, buddy. But, being a sport, I share the conversation to this point with Susan. She says to me, “I like the naked guy myself.”)
ME: here you go
HIM: heyyy (He’s getting excited. This is going to be funny. I tell Susan I just sent the naked guy.)
HIM: what is this? (Susan says, “I can’t wait to hear this!”)
ME: it appears to be a naked man (Looks like a nude dude to me, Sparky. Do you like him?)
HIM: is it your ex husband pic?
ME: no
ME: someone sent it to me (I won’t tell him that a woman just sent it to me for the sole purpose of sending it to him.)
HIM: i think thats is not his picture
HIM: he must be find it some where
ME: You think? I was hoping it was real (I copy the conversation to this point to Susan, who says, “WTF?! LMMFAO)
ME: but I don’t know too many people who sit around naked and let their friends take pictures of them (Do I sound enough like Pollyanna here?)
HIM: i dont think so? (I copy the next few lines to Susan, who is still laughing. She asks, “So does he have his cam on?” “No clue,” I tell her.)
ME: oh, well. I had hoped he would be my next husband
HIM: i have very nice female friends but i have never sent them my naked pictures (“What does he look like?” Susan asks. “Darn it,” I say, “he hasn’t offered to let me view him, nor has he offered me a pic.” I can hear her chortle. “Tell him you will if he does.” I think NOT!)
ME: you mean you HAVE naked pics? (God, they ALL have naked pics. Who TAKES those pictures is what I want to know! Wait – no, I really DON’T want to know, either.)
HIM: yes of course (Of course. Me to Susan: eeeewwwwww! I don’t want to see!)
HIM: dont u?
ME: NO! (Susan says to me: “What the hell. Just put him on iggy after you get a laugh.” Don’t I always?)
ME: Well, ok, I have one (I send Susan this section of the conversation and she laughs at me. ‘Now where the hell am I going to get a naked picture?’ I wonder, trusting Susan as my spirit guide in all this.)
HIM: u must be joking (“Susie, find me a good one!” I plead, knowing that she has to be dying of laughter in front of her computer. “Of what? A woman? Naked?” Dammit, I can hear her hanging me out to dry…)
ME: well, no
ME: It’s not really naked (“Yeah,” I tell Susan. “Or maybe I’ll use your thong pic.” She has sent me a sexy one of a woman in her underwear.)
HIM: in bikini
ME: not exactly (Don’t ask me where I’m going with this, because I can’t tell you. I’m just hoping Susan comes up with something.)
HIM: if u want u can send me
ME: Why would I want to do that? (I send the conversation to Susan, hoping she finds a pic in a hurry)
HIM: if not ok dont agry sweety
ME: I’m not angry. I’m just curious. Why would I want to send you an intimate picture? (Sending Susan the last couple of lines, ‘Hurry, hurry, Susan,’ I beg silently.)
HIM: look, your chat friend send u his naked picture
HIM: do u feel excited? (Oh, Jesus. Next he’ll want to know the state of my panties.)
HIM: i think yes (“Almost there,” Susan assures me. Whew!)
HIM: maybe u want to make excited me
ME: no. Actually, I found that in Google images (I’m intentionally ignoring the question of anyone’s state of excitement.)
HIM: why u searched it
ME: because you were asking for pics
ME: I thought it would be funny
HIM: thats not about me
HIM: do u want to see my naked pictures?
HIM: be truth’ (Me to Susan: “Oh, shit! NOW WHAT???” Susan tries to be soothing as I am freaking out. “Tell him you have to go find it.”)
ME: How do you know you could trust me with photos of you naked? I might publish them on the internet (“No, you misunderstand!” I tell Susan. “He’s offering to send me HIS naked pic!!” “Go for it,” she advises. I’m throwing up a little in the back of my mouth.)
HIM: hımmm u right but that is your problem not mine
HIM: so i never send (I notify Susan of this turn of events. “Should I beg him for it?” I laugh. “Tell him you’ll show a little if he does. Ask him why he wants to talk to you. I mean, if he wants to cam than he better get serious!” I’m dying laughing. “There’ll be no bullshit then, She assures me. )
ME: send it if you want. I don’t care. (Does that sound nonchalant enough?)
HIM: is your first feet toe longer than second
HIM: or the same?
ME: ?? Why do you ask that? (Me to Susan: you won’t believe what he just asked)
HIM: i want to learn (I send Susan the toe question)
ME: why does that make a difference? (“Foot fetish, Susan diagnoses immediately. “Probably,” I say. What do I do now?” She’s instantly decisive: “Say yes.” I’m a little rattled, and I’m laughing too hard to type clearly. “I asked him why he wanted to know. Let’s see what he says,” I tell Susan. “Ask him if he’d like to suck on your toes,” she suggests. We both are rolling.)
ME: Would you like to suck on my toes? (“I did it!” I can practically hear Susan’s laughter. “I damn near choked!” she responds a moment later.)
HIM: hey don’t do this u are a lawyer sweety (“He better have a damn long tongue if it’s gonna reach Arkansas from Turkey!” I barely notice his response. I’m having a lot more fun with Susan than I am with him.)
ME: you started it (“Did you send him that pic?” Susan asks. “I sent him the man,” I tell her. “Don’t make me piss myself!” Susan laughs)
HIM: i want to learn lnger or the same
ME: why? (Susan sends me a new picture. “Tell him it’s a little preview,” she suggests.)
HIM: bc i am foot fetish (No – really? A foot fetish? “He’s still on the toes,” I tell Susan. “He just admitted to a foot fetish.” Susan’s fast. “Want me to look up podiatrist?” she asks.)
ME: I see (Do I sound surprised?
HIM: give me answer (Susan says she’ll go find a picture with a foot in it.)
ME: what is it you like about feet? (“Good plan. A closeup,” I chortle to Susan.)
HIM: what about u?
ME: what about me? (Uh-oh. What am I going to say here?)
HIM: yes (Ummm…)
ME: I have no feet (Yeah! That’s the ticket!)
HIM: there are 20000 people who have no feet. (He knows the freaking STATISTICS!!!)
ME: and you found one of them. How are those for odds, huh?(I send the foregoing to Susan, knowing it will make her crazy. “WTF?” she sends back.)
HIM: 20.000/5.000.000.000=%0,0025 chance
HIM: and i asked her about feet (Susan’s hysterical now. I can feel it, all the way between Pennsylvania and Arkansas. She’s hysterical.)
HIM: what a destiny
ME: yep (Susan’s crying. She says, “Now I have to find a naked amputee!! ROFLMAO I’m looking through fetish pics already!)
HIM: plz say truth
ME: All right. Truth is I really have four feet. I have feet on my arms, too. I had to learn to type with the toes on my hands (I copy this to Susan. “What the hell!” She’s beyond using acronyms.)
HIM: i think u believe evoluation (Susan says, “He’s probably jerkin off with his elbows.”)
ME: evolution? Yes. I am a study in retro-evolution, or devolution. I have four feet, just like an animal. (What an image THAT evokes!)
HIM: and that feet toes (Susan says, “That’s one for the mad scientists.”)
HIM: is your first feet toe longer than second? (“Scientists? Yes. Dr. StrangeloveShakespeare, over here,” I tell Susan. “No shit!!” She howls back at me.)
ME: They are the same
ME: No, one’s longer.
ME : No, the other is longer. I can’t tell. (Susan has finally recovered enough to ask me, “What’s he doing now?”)
HIM: hey come on
HIM: thats not diffucult for u (Is he getting testy? With moi? For shame! I send this section to Susan. She’s still laughing.)
ME: well, I can’t tell. I’m blind, you see. I have to do this by touch. (Susan’s response to this is yet another expletive. I think she was laughing too hard to think in real words.)
HIM: so if i send my naked pictures u will not see! (I decide I’ve gotta let Magic know about this. I haven’t kept him in the loop. Me to Magic: “Oh, god – they guy is a foot fetishist!” Susan, meanwhile, has recovered the power of speech. “This is too much fun!” she exclaims.)
ME: true. That’s why I don’t care if you do or not (Do I sound doleful? Resigned to my sightless and footless misfortune? And people wonder why I do this!)
HIM: u make me laugh here (He’s laughing at the poor little lame blind woman? That cad! I remind Susan, “Fucking with these guys is entertainment in my sad little corner of the world.” Susan says, “I never chat. Now I can see why.” She conveys hilarious sobs, and I copy Magic with the toe conversation. Now he’s laughing, too.)
HIM: do u need a love? (Oh, now he’s going to take pity on me! Susan breaks in, “Tell him you have an extra toe on each foot. That should get him rolling.” )
ME: I have an extra toe on each foot. Six toes. (I am obedient to Susan my Muse.)
HIM: for me?
ME: but of course
HIM: are u foot fetish? (I copy this to Susan. “What should I tell him?”
ME: not exactly. Either I have too many feet or not enough, so they don’t much interest me. (“Tell him you’ll rub them on him,” Susan suggests. Magic tells me I got myself into this and he’s not going to help get me out.)
HIM: do u like me? (“No, I can’t do that,” I tell Susan. “He’d have to leave the computer to go clean up. I wouldn’t want him to get splooge on the keyboard.”)
ME: Like you? I don’t know you. (“Hell,” offers Susan, “it’s probably already gummed up!”)
HIM: i am 28m turkei
ME: you’re young enough to be my son (“Good God,” I report to Susan. “He just told me he’s 28!)
HIM: what was your age? (Well, it WAS 28, but that was a loooooong time ago…)
ME: 44 (Susan is encouraging about this relationship. “Tell him you love younger men,” she says. “EEEEWWWWWWWWWWW,” I respond. “Young enough to be my offspring? GROSS!
HIM: only 17 years we have. is it problem for u?
ME: yeah. It feels like kiddie porn
HIM: hey i am young men
ME: yeah. And I’m an old lady
HIM: u are my sweet lady (I copy Susan. Her response, predictably, is “LMAO.”)
ME: I really don’t think so (I’ve copied Magic with everything to this point. Magic tells me, “That’s great.” I can see that he is happy that I have found true love on the internet at long last.)
HIM: what u think lady?
ME: 1) I think I’m NOT yours
ME: 2) I’m NOT sweet
ME: 3) I’m really not very nice at all
HIM: is it importand for u?
ME: and 4) I’m not a lady. I’m a man
HIM: we spend very enjoy time
HIM: that is big joke! (I’m copying Susan, who agrees that we’ve had about all the fun we can stand for one night.)
ME: I think it’s time to go
ME: goodbye, Umut
HIM: hey
HIM: plz say true
HIM: are u really male? (Susan points out that it doesn’t seem to matter one way or another to him. “No,” I agree, “he just wants to keep me talking.”
ME: no (“Yeah, Susan says. And for what? He isn’t getting anywhere.” He wants to know for real if I’m a man, I tell her. “Tell him the first pic was you,” she suggests, “and that you’re gay.”)
ME: what do you think? (Oh, I am SO coy!)
HIM: i think u ar female
HIM: u must a male
ME: I probably ought to tell you I’m a gay male (Susan suggests now that I tell him I’d like to take him by the toes and roll him over in the clover.)
HIM: come on
HIM: i look your picture
HIM: u are female
ME: I need to go. Goodbye, Umut
HIM: are u female?
ME: goodbye
Susan and I talked awhile longer, then it occurred to us to ask Sue, who loves these IM conversations, who may have sent him to me. So I send Sue an Instant Message: “Are you there? Some guy from Turkey with the ID shakespeare_lovee just IMed me and said my friend Susan said for him to look me up. He’s a freaking foot fetishist!”
Sue wasn’t online until later, sadly, but she’s been having fun asking me all about my feet ever since. Magic pops back on and asks, So, did you get rid of your boyfriend? Sheesh. Some friends!
So it’s official. Shakespeare and I are a couple. My feet are all tingly.
Another Tedious Messenger Conversation
This one opened up with several lines of text in Arabic, which I neither read or speak. Then he buzzed me and did one of those really obnoxious Audibles in some other language. I knew right off the bat I had a bona fide moronic IM Cammer. As usual, my thoughts are in italics.
Oh, and because I know you will ask, the guy on this IM is Abdullah He also sent me an invite to connect oas friends on Yahoo 360, which I denied based on the fact that communication between us is clearly impossible. If you go to his page, notice that his friends are named Sexy, Horny, and Boobs. Nice.
HIM: your eyes are sweet (Awwww. He’s starting out nicely. I wonder if he’ll ask me to dance?)
ME: You’re nuts and you’re obnoxious. Do you have any idea what you are even saying? (If I go on the attack he won’t understand me.)
HIM: i dont understand you (No shit, Sherlock. I didn’t expect you to.)
ME: I don’t understand you, either. What is with the bizarre comments? Do you even speak English? (That’s it. Be righteously indignant that he dared contact me in a language I don’t speak.)
HIM: do you love sex frre? (WTF? Sex frre? Sex fire? Sex for free? Sex for a fee? WTF?)
HIM: do you have camer? (Heh heh. He can’t spell camera. I’ll pretend not to understand.)
ME: WTF are you trying to say? (Oh! I could say camel instead of camera!)
ME: I don’t keep camels, no. (Lou does that for me at the Virgin Training School)
HIM: your body sweet (How the hell would he know that? I don’t have any pictures of my body posted!)
HIM: i can see your chest (I don’t think so. If you’re looking at someone’s chest, it ain’t mine.)
ME: No, you can’t see my chest. What makes you think I want to give you sexual gratification? If I had the ability to do so, I would have you arrested for sexual assault. (Right. Like I care what this guy says or wants. He’s an idiot.)
HIM: your chest is sweet (And how would you know?)
ME: How would you know? You have no idea what my body even looks like. I could be a 700 pound quadriplegic with club feet and a potato face, for all you know. (What other nasty images I can evoke here?)
HIM: i can see your chest (You can? I don’t think so!)
ME: No, you can’t. Even if you’re peeping in my window you can’t see my chest. I’m dressed for Pete’s sake.
HIM: ok (Why do I feel like I’m talking to Latke on Taxi? You know, Andy Kaufman’s character?)
ME: Go pick on some woman from your country. Maybe they are stupid enough there to display themselves like meat at the butcher shop. (I doubt it, though. That’s why you are trolling the Internet for wanton Western women. Why does my gender have to be so stupid here?)
HIM: no (Yeah, you’d get stoned in the marketplace if you did, wouldn’t you?)
ME: You have no idea what you’re even talking about. Go away. (He really has no idea what I’m talking about.)
HIM: no (He’s just saying no for the hell of it. He has no clue.)
HIM: your body sweet (We’re back to this?)
ME: Get a life (Get a life, moron)
HIM: your eyes are sweet (Aren’t they? They are laughing at your lame ass right now.)
ME: So you assault me? Go away. You are insulting and rude. (I wonder if he uses Google Translator?)
HIM: ok (What a freaking idiot)
HIM: i can see your chest (We’re back to this AGAIN??)
ME: No. (How much clearer can I put this? Even Google Translator ought to be able to interpret this.)
HIM: your chest is sweet (You’re a moron)
ME: You’re a jerk
HIM: i would like to play sex with you ok (Oh, my gawd. He is a hornified jackass.)
ME: No. (You’ve got to be kidding.)
HIM: send me 10$ doler (WHAT? I’m laughing out loud at this point.)
ME: You’ve got to be kidding. (Surely he doesn’t really think THAT’S going to happen.)
HIM: send to me (ok, buddy. Tell me who to make the check out to)
ME: ok, I’ll send you $10 – what is your name and address (Hee hee! Right!)
HIM: $1000 (Oooooo, the stakes are raised!)
HIM: ok (He’s certifiable!)
ME: SURE (I hope he realizes just how enthusiastic I am about this.)
ME: what is your name (Come on, buddy. Tell me more.)
HIM: no (Did he understand that? I wonder…)
HIM: $10000000000000000000000000000 (Uh-huh.)
HIM: your chest is sweet (Oh, my gawd. Not again!)
ME: you’re an idiot
HIM: i can see your chest (ok, I’m getting bored with this.)
HIM: ok (Time to tell him to go screw himself)
ME: hell no
HIM: you are abeoutiful (Guess he’s not using Google Translator. Google Translator can spell)
ME: you’re a pig (let’s see him translate that and still want to talk)
HIM: think you (OMG! HAH! He thanked me for calling him a PIG!)
HIM: your body sweet (This guy is absolutely tedious)
HIM: your chest is sweet (YAAAWWWWWNNNNN)
ME: you’re a frigging moron
HIM: are you married? (He cares? Oh! HE wants to marry me! Be still my heart!)
ME: WTF does it matter
HIM: i can see your chest (Time to tie this one up)
ME: Do you really not get it? NO!
HIM: your hair are sweet (Oh, wow. Something new and different. He must have looked in his dictionary.)
ME: You are a complete ass
HIM: i can see your chest (boredboredboredboredbored)
HIM: ok
HIM: no
ME: go away
HIM: your chest is sweet (Hey, buddy, your pick-up line isn’t working. Watch me throw my drink in your face.)
ME: how the hell would you know
HIM: ok
HIM: think you (He has no clue what he’s saying. I’m done.)
Midrashim
The other day someone noticed one of my feeds that seemed uber-apropos for a self-proclaimed Wench who runs a Virgin Training School: “Jeremiah and the Lustful She-Camel” screamed the headline from Slate Magazine.
Oh, my, but there are volumes of possibilities in that headline! I’ve written a silly story about it that has very little to do with the actual article. You can read it in a moment, but first I’d like to talk a bit about the article and the series that begat it, as well as some books I recommend to anyone interested.
The article is part of David Plotz’s series Blogging the Bible: What’s Really in the Good Book. Plotz is a faithful Jew who, like many of us who have attended services in the religion assigned to us by virtue of our birth, reached adulthood believing that he knew what the Bible taught and what the stories were. In the article in question he examines the Book of Jeremiah and comments on how Jeremiah spends a good deal of time early in his sermons talking about sex – or at least comparing people’s bad behavior to sexual misconduct. He describes them at one point as “running about like a lustful she-camel.”
In the introduction to his series on the Bible, Plotz explains that at a bat mitzvah for a friend’s daughter, he picked up a copy of the Bible and idly flipped to Genesis Chapter 34 and began reading. What he saw startled him and started him on a new quest to discover the book he assumed he knew fairly well. He is now blogging a book of the Bible at a time and reexamining what the book says. It’s an exercise I have immensely enjoyed following. I highly recommend the series to anyone interested in religion.
Like Plotz, when I find myself unwillingly stuck at a religious ceremony, which is pretty much anytime I find myself at a religious ceremony, I pick up the Bible and idly flip through it. Almost without exception I find something that appalls me about this so-called benevolent God we are taught about, or about the teachings of his Son as explained by Peter or Paul, both of whom I think corrupted the message beyond recognition.
Chapter 34 of Genesis is the subject of a marvelous contemporary literary midrash by Anita Diamant called The Red Tent. When I read it several years ago, Diamant’s interpretation and extrapolation of the story of Dinah, half-sister of Joseph (he of the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat) sent me on a quest to discover more of these wonderful novels.
I’m a voracious reader, but the sheer number of midrashim I devoured over the next few months impressed even me. I felt as though there were finally people out there – other, sensitive, questioning, intelligent, appalled people – whose language I could finally understand and to whose thoughts and responses to Biblical stories I could finally relate.
I still read every contemporary literary midrash I come across. I like them. I like the fact that heroes like King David are shown to be petty and mean, like in Queenmaker, by India Edgehill. That’s how he impressed me in the first place. That and arrogant, of course. The same author has written about the relationship between King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba in Wisdom’s Daughter.
I like that Abraham comes across pretty much as a schizophrenic dolt, as in Orson Scott Card’s Sarah.
That’s right, the brilliant and prolific Orson Scott Card has written three midrashim so far. He is the Hugo Award winning author of Ender’s Game fame, the start of a classic science fiction series that brilliantly combines interspecies space battles and computer video games. This is the same Orson Scott Card who wrote the fabulous alternate history/fantasy series the Tales of Alvin Maker. Alvin, the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, whose “knack” for “making” makes him almost god-like, has interactions with actual historical figures from the time period including Chief Tecumseh and his brother, the Shawnee Prophet Tenskwatawa, Napoleon Bonaparte (exiled in this alternate history to Detroit for his crimes against Europe), and my own distant cousin and President-for-a-White-Hot-Minute William Henry Harrison, he of Tippecanoe fame. Card has written lots more that is absolutely wonderful, but I’ll let those of you who don’t know his work email me for more information if you’re really curious.
Card has written midrashim about Rebekah, wife of Isaac and mother of the twins Esau and Jacob, and Rachel and Leah, the wives of Jacob and mothers of Joseph and Dinah and the twelve tribes of Israel. I sincerely hope he writes more. I really enjoy his work and it delights me no end that he has delved into another genre I love.
Marek Halter, a Polish writer whose family narrowly escaped the Warsaw Ghetto during German’s occupation, has written the Canaan Trilogy which includes another book about Abraham’s wife Sarah, Zipporah, the wife of Moses, and Lilah, the sister of the Prophet Ezra. Halter also has written several other books about the Jewish people including The Book of Abraham, which is not about the father of the Judeo-Christian-Islam traditions, but about a man who lived after the time of Jesus in Jerusalem when the Romans sacked it in 70 C.E.
More books in the genre include Rebecca Kohn’s The Gilded Chamber: A Novel of Queen Esther; Brenda Ray’s The Midwife’s Song: A Story of Moses’ Birth; In the Shadow of the Ark, by Anne Provoost; and Lion’s Honey: The Myth of Samson, by David Grossman. A very funny but poignant look at the missing years in the life of Jesus is the subject of Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal, a novel Guy, High Priest of Meatloaf recently turned me on to. I’m here to tell you, if a High Priest of anything advises you to read something about religion, you should.
The books I’ve listed here are just a few of the contemporary literary midrashim that exist. If you’ve read something in this genre that I haven’t listed, please leave me a comment about it. I’m always looking for more.
And please, don’t anyone tell me I’m going to hell for not believing what they tell us in church, temple or mosque, or for not accepting Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. Save it for someone who is more impressionable than I am and who hasn’t embarked on an exploration of religion to find out more about it.
Enough of the seriousness. On, now, to my own quasi-midrash: Jeremiah and the Lustful She-Camel. It is not a polite story.
A Twizzle in Time: A Twisted Political Fairy Tale
Once upon a time there was a spoiled rotten prince named George who got to be king. He was a brat of a prince, and his father, Old King George, always expected his somewhat less bratty and somewhat nobler brother Jeb to become King, but somehow Bratty Prince George weaseled his way onto the throne while the Old King and Prince Jeb weren’t looking. Now that he was on the throne, it was proving impossible to dislodge him.
One day, a group of the bratty king’s reluctant advisers were talking about him behind his back, which was the safest way to say negative things about the bratty king. Count John of the Ashy Croft mentioned his concern. “He gets this glazed look in his eyes and it there’s no getting through to him,” he complained.
General Colin the Powellful, a mighty warrior dedicated to the kingdom, related what he had seen. “He puts his arms out, stretched in front of him like a zombie or like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, and says in a weird voice, ‘must have Twizzlers, must have Twizzlers.’ It’s sick. HE thinks he’s being funny!” The grizzled general shook his head is disgust.
Condi, the Baroness Rice, who was in charge of all things having to do with grain, noted that the bratty king’s obsession with Twizzlers was so extreme that “he just seethes and bristles until I show up with his daily supply. And if I’m late, he’ll be screaming, ‘where’s my sugar? Get me some sugar!’ It’s horrifying. And I’m in charge of grains, not sugar! It’s not my job!” Her lovely brow furrowed with grumpiness as she stamped her dainty foot.
“I know what you mean,” agreed the king’s new personal physician, Dr. Moritsugu. “He does the same thing to me. It’s impossible! I’m a Doctor, guys, not a confectioner!”
Earl Rover, perhaps the bratty king’s best friend and closest adviser, confided that the famous “pretzel incident,” where the bratty king allegedly choked on a pretzel in in a local tavern, was a coverup for the real problem. “He choked on a Twizzler, but I didn’t want the public to know the awful truth.” The earl was almost in tears as he confessed this secret. “I mean, he drinks tankards of ale using Twizzlers as straws! Even peasants with iron stomachs retch at that combination. The kingdom will soon be knee-deep in barf.” The others nodded sympathetically, all looking a bit green.
Wolf O’Wits, a lesser noble desperate to keep his advisory position and fearing a fall from favor, said that he always kept a bag of Twizzlers nearby. “If the King starts suggesting that he’s unhappy with my advice, I just offer him a Twizzler. It works every time.”
The Don of Rummy, adviser of all things alcohol-and-cards-related, admitted that he also used Twizzlers to suck up to the bratty king. “I keep some around at all times,” he confided. It keeps the king calm and I can pretty much get accomplished whatever I feel I need to.” Wolf O’Wits nodded in agreement. Colin the Powellful looked askance at the Don, whose agenda he disapproved of.
Richard the Clarke, a crusty adviser left over from several kings before, posed the inevitable question: “What should we do?”
The advisers all shook their heads in bafflement and sadness. Robert the Gateskeeper spoke up. He was in charge of defense of the kingdom, and saw the bratty king’s Twizzler addiction as a weakness that could be penetrated by enemies. “We have to break his addiction,” the Gateskeeper said decisively.
“But how?” asked Baroness Rice, who was not much for original ideas.
“I know!” said Earl Rover. ” Let’s call Alan of the Green Span.” The Green Span was the most impressive bridge into the Kingdom, and Alan of the Green Span was a very famous bridge-tender. He was known for having established the toll rates that must be paid by anyone entering the kingdom on business. Many people thought he had the answer to almost everything because he was so wise. So the advisers trooped off to visit Alan of the Green Span, who was tending flowers in his retirement.
“I don’t think I can be of much assistance,” Alan of the Green Span objected as he deadheaded his petunias. “I’m retired. Let the young men in charge of things decide such policy.” When he said this he looked pointedly at the Don of Rummy. It was well known that Rummy’s policies and decisions were unpopular in the kingdom. In fact, there were rumors that Robert the Gateskeeper would replace the Don as the bratty king’s confidante very soon. But of course, those were just rumors.
Next the advisers decided to consult Alberto, the most famous lawyer in all the kingdom. “Unless you want to sue the manufacturer of Twizzlers or get an injunction to shut down production, I can’t help,” said Alberto. He shrugged his shoulders and examined his briefs. Condi examined his briefs, too.
“Alberto had a good idea, actually,” remarked Gutierrez, who was the adviser over the various commercial guilds in the kingdom. “If there is an injunction, then no more Twizzlers can be made, and the king will have to do without. Perhaps a modicum of sanity will then return to the throne.”
“Yes,” agreed Michael of Shirt Off, who was very concerned that the kingdom be secure so that he could go play half-naked golf. “An injunction is just the thing to do.”
So the advisers, now joined by Gutierrez and Shirt Off, and with the blessing of Alan of the Green Span (and accompanied by a selection of his finest cut flowers) went back to Alberto.
“There has to be a reason to shut down production of Twizzlers,” explained Alberto. Obviously we can’t give the real reason because the king would simply issue a decree saying that Twizzler production could go on. We have to come up with another reason.”
The advisers thought and thought. Then an adviser who had not spoken up before had an idea. Michael of Leave It, generally a lazy adviser known for his tendency to procrastinate, suggested looking at the label on a package of the King’s favorite Twizzlers. “Corn Syrup, Flour, Sugar, Cornstarch, Partially Hydrogenated Soybean Oil 2% or Less, Salt 2% or Less, Artificial Flavorings 2% or Less, Citric Acid 2% or Less, Potassium Sorbate 2% or Less – a Preservative, Artificial Coloring 2% or Less – Includes Red 40 …”
“What does THAT mean?” cried Wolf O’Wits.
“I recognize some of those words, but not very many,” agreed Richard the Clarke.
“Aha!” shouted Gutierrez. “I think we have our angle!”
Even Alberto looked confused, but as Gutierrez explained his reasoning, smiles appeared on the faces of all the advisers. Alberto grinned. “Yes, I think that will work,” he said.
The next day Judge John Robert, the highest judge in all the land, entered an injunction against the manufacture of Twizzlers. Puffing on his hooka, the high Judge announced that henceforth there would be a permanent injunction against the manufacture not only of Twizzlers but of any item claiming to be food that did not contain all ingredients easily recognizable as food to any casual label-reader.
It was not long before the bratty king left the kingdom on a crusade to other lands to find the elusive Twizzler. He left his most trusted advisers in charge, but his penis, which he jokingly referred to as “Chainy” accompanied him assuring that there would be no offspring of the bratty king left in the kingdom.
Years went by and no one heard from the bratty king. A new king was selected and assumed the throne. Even though the new king had his own issues, nothing as serious as the Twizzler escapade ever troubled the kingdom again. And the citizens were healthier, to boot.
Children, the moral of the story is that if you can’t pronounce it, if it’s not made of things you can imagine consuming raw, don’t eat it. It might make you as crazy as bratty King George.
Bardic voices inspiring this fairy tale include Broken Newz.