Sunday, June 10, 2012

The Great Ben Wa Extraction Dilemma

Now that I have your attention, let me tell you about my Friday night.  I am an independent woman with many interests and endeavors…which explains why I am spending my Friday night painting the ceiling in the spare bedroom.  And no, before you ask, I am not using ben wa balls to spice up my Friday night painting experience...merely setting the scene.  Just when you think that painting a ceiling on a Friday night is about as bad as it can get...the extension handle snaps on a fully loaded extra thick roller above my head.  I take a direct, ear, face full of paint ...leaving me looking very tribal - prepared for clan warfare or a maybe voodoo ritual. 

Skip ahead past the clean up.

I roll the last of the ceiling and have about 5 seconds to admire my work when I get the following text “have you ever used ben wa balls?”  The award for most unique question I’ve been asked in ages goes to … a good friend with an intimate personal dilemma.  She explains that she bought a set of purple ben wa balls, she includes the color 'cause I love purple (let me point out that I am in no way personally invested in the color of her ben wa balls).  But, I digress ...back to the matter at hand, or perhaps more accurately located in a more personal anatomical location. 

Apparently, she’s lost one.  Explains that the first time she used them, they kept falling out…too much information…I don’t have a clue how big these things are and I’m thinking kegels girl, kegels (in her shaky defense, these ones are apparently relatively small).  She bought them for a night out and I’m now envisioning her at a bar, dropping purple ben wa balls on the dance floor.  I’m not sure how expensive they are but I can’t imagine any incentive for retrieving them in public.  The dark and twisty side is cobbling together an adult version of Cinderella that Disney wouldn’t touch.  Handsome stranger navigating the bar clutching a purple ben wa ball trying to identify the owner.  Excuse me miss, perchance have you lost something?  This line delivered while cradling a wayward ben wa ball that has rolled across the dance floor in a bar in the palm of his outstretched hand.  Of course, if I follow the comparison to the Prince slipping the glass slipper back on Cinderella’s foot, this is a story the two would not be telling future generations when they ask how Grandma and Grandpa met.

On her second attempt, she’s experiencing a completely different problem ... she can’t retrieve one of them.  It’s hiding "somewhere".  There's not a whole lot of "somewhere" it could be, I think we can safely skip the call to Quantico, this is not going to require an FBI grid search.  Wants to know what she’s supposed to do and how long it’s safe to leave it in.  Not a clue, my friend, not a clue.  So, I did the only thing I could think of to be helpful ...I googled it. 

Here are the helpful suggestions:

“There are several ways to remove the balls including: jump up and down, sneeze, cough, sit and bear down as if you’re having a bowel movement, insert lubricant to help them slide out, etc. If you think you might have a hard time removing the balls, then you may want to purchase balls that are strung onto a retrieval cord.”

I pass on this information to her as well as a confession she’s already aware of ...I’m laughing so hard, I’m crying.  I still have paint in my hair and in my ear and I’m sitting at my laptop googling ben wa ball extraction techniques.  The retrieval cord idea is brilliant (I’m seeing children’s mittens on strings) but is more of a preventative idea than a solution to this particular problem.  I suggest jumping jacks and some astroglide.  More laughter, more tears.  I’m not sure how many problems are solved with a combination of jumping jacks and astroglide, but it’s all I got for this one. 

Barring that, I’m hoping that maybe if she just heads to bed for the night, it will just wander out on its’ own.  Of course, if that doesn’t happen, she’s going to be quite a hit in her local emergency ward explaining her situation to the triage nurse.

(Side note – while googling the ben wa issue, I came across a reference to something called Analball Bingo ……seriously, google it - I'm not making this up ...I have no idea what it is and the picture of the required apparatus didn’t clear up that particular mystery even a little bit…I don’t know wtf kind of dabber one would use for Analball Bingo but I think it’s better that I never know.  As much as I pride myself on being fairly knowledgeable and open minded, I’m just going to let this one go).

Update:  newsflash, this just in the next morning ...the solution to the problem was time and gravity.

~ tnw ~

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Poultry Fornication (or Romeo got penis juice on my last pair of lululemons)

There’s a reason I don’t write fiction…I couldn’t make this stuff up.

Princess is a character in my world who exists solely on privilege and entitlement.  I used to think that she was completely out of touch with reality but I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s merely out of touch with my reality and that’s enough to annoy the crap out of me.  I will give her credit for having achieved a level of oblivion that is nothing short of mind-boggling.  She was talking to me, as she tends to do ...unaware that I was plotting her untimely demise.  She’d just marched in announcing that she’d done an hour and half of cardio the night before ...then asked me if I knew how long an hour and a half of cardio takes ...I’m going to go with an hour and a half ...oh, wait a minute ...nope, make that 90 minutes.

Go ahead, ask me something else...I’m on a roll …

She makes the natural segue to extolling the virtues of honey ...hey, I’m just telling the story the way it happened.  I thought I could cut the conversation short by telling her I was not a fan of bee barf.  In retrospect, that was a mistake.  Her response...“that’s like when I eat eggs and I stop and realize that I’m eating chicken abortions”. 

Ummm…huh?  Oh Princess ...this is not going to go well. 

In my shaky defense, I rarely bother trying to realign her royal highness’ thought processes with reality, but every once in a great while I fall prey to my own curiosity.  What’s more painful – listening to her talk or attempting to enlighten her?  It’s usually a little from column ‘a’, a little from column ‘b’.

Me: “ Seriously??”

Princess: “If I didn’t eat them, they would have become chickens, so they are chicken abortions.”

Me:  “Umm...nope”

Princess:  blank vacant stare

Me:  (Pretty sure this is about to get much worse.  But, every once in a while, I gotta take a shot).  “That’s not quite how it works.  Market eggs are unfertilized eggs; at no point do they have the potential to turn into chickens.”

Princess:  blank vacant stare followed by ….“Who fertilizes the eggs?”

My head just imploded.

Me:  (In my best Lewis Black)  – “ROOSTERS, ROOSTERS...ROOSTERS FERTILIZE EGGS!!!!”

Princess:  (clearly confused) ...”but how do they get the stuff through the shells?”

There’s not a judge in the world who would convict me at this point.  I’m presenting my defense in my head at this very moment ……”your honor, I had to put her out of my misery”…charges dropped, case dismissed.

Me:   “Sex....chickens have sex.  And before you ask the next question …they have sex before the egg is laid...thus, a fertilized egg”.  There you have it, chicken sex. 

Long pause while she sorts out this new information, the pieces are beginning to fall into place.  Synapses are firing ...we are almost there …

Princess: “that must be noisy ….”

And we have arrived.  This is as good as it’s going to get.

I kid you not, that’s her reaction.  Apparently, I’ve put her mind at ease; she can now eat eggs without being haunted by the souls of unborn chickens.  Armed with her newly acquired knowledge about poultry reproduction, she leaves ...and for that, I am eternally grateful. 

Unfortunately, she comes back later that same day.  She breezes in complaining that “Romeo got penis juice on my last pair of lululemons” ...oh, no ...I’ve already explained poultry fornication today, I’m not getting sucked back into the vortex. 

Romeo is an English Bulldog ...not so much a pet as a furry little hostage who snorts and drools.  I suspect Stockholm Syndrome is all that keeps him from escaping ...well that and really short legs.

~ the nasty wench ~

(note: I dedicate this post to Kilroy who has been waiting patiently for me to unleash some wenchery on her majesty).

Friday, May 4, 2012

Kilroy ...........this one's for you

This picture means something to precisely one person .........he's the official president of my unofficial fan club.  This one's for you Kilroy............catch you on the dark and twisty side!!!

~ the nasty wench ~

Thursday, April 26, 2012

The G Spot Has Officially Been Found …. Hiding in Poland

After decades of research and debate and mountains of medical journals, Dr. Adam Ostrzenski found the elusive G spot.  Finally, a man finds it.  No surprise that it’s front page international news and the quickest his research has ever been published. 

That’s the good news.  The bad news – the woman is 83 and recently deceased…fat lot of good it’s going to do her now.  Isn’t that just the way?  One can only speculate after a lifetime of rather ordinary, perhaps mundane sex ...shortly after her demise, a man finally pays enough attention to find it.  Mind you, it took him 7 fricken hours of painstakingly meticulous poking and prodding to locate it, who the hell has that kind of time?  Don’t get me wrong, you want a man to take his time and pay attention, but 7 hours is plain excessive.  Wake me when you find it buddy and we can both celebrate.  (I find myself rereading the article to confirm that she was dead before he launched this particular expedition and didn’t die of boredom in the process).

He was prevented from taking a tissue sample because – and I quote – “the subject was not in a position to communicate”.  I may be going out on a limb here but she might have been willing to part with a sample, in the interest of proving it actually exists - she’s done with it.  The doctor’s search through a century’s worth of existing studies (you read that correctly, it’s taken a hundred years ...worst case of refusing to ask for directions ever) found his was the first description of the coordinates of the elusive G spot.  Coordinates??  Really?  We are not talking about a massive search area here, this is not Star Trek ...although, it may also be described as going where no man has gone before.  Or, at least, very few.  Coordinates …like maybe he can plug the numbers into his GPS and locate it repeatedly??  Okay, I can get on board with that argument.   Crap, now I can’t get the vision of Cpt. James T Kirk at the helm out of my head … giving Sulu the coordinates to plug into the console … and given Sulu’s foray out of the closet, we know he has absolutely no vested interest in finding a G spot.

This woman is absolutely entitled to come back and haunt the bejeebers out of every lover she ever had or track them down in the hereafter.  The world’s most justified “I told you so” dance in the history of humanity. 

The doctor is returning to Poland to continue his research with cadavers from different age groups in a scientific effort to prove that the deceased 83 yr old woman did not, in fact, possess the only G spot in existence.  Once he’s got that resolved, he’s going after Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster and Santa Claus…so many obscure mysteries to be solved.  

~ the nasty wench~

Monday, April 9, 2012

This penguin is absolutely my new personal hero!!

~ the nasty wench ~