How to Eat Coochie

Alternate titles: 

Pandering to the Google Crowd

Sunshine for Othurme

Blogistan appears to be in a creative recession.  At least here in the respectable, lower middle class section of Blogistan that I frequent. 

When I started blogging, several years ago, there were very few blogs I read, and very few people that read this one.  Mostly I would read what Liz posted at her blog, and she and my Mother, would read mine.  When Liz became lazy, and tried to quit, I convinced her to join me here in an attempt to retain my primary reader, at least the one not related to me. 

Somehow a fellow by the name of Othurme wandered in one day and poked about long enough to become a nuisance.  When I followed him back to his blog, it was quite enjoyable.  From there we would find many other bloggers and eventually find out that there was more to Blogistan than hyperactive tweener bloggers living in Singapore and random Mommy bloggers touting pictures of ugly kids. 

One of my all time favorite aspects of Othurme’s blog, http://immunopressed.com, was his feat of becoming the number one google hit for “How to eat coochie”.  It showed that through hard work and diligence, one man can master the universe. 

I checked recently and it was no longer held by him.  Those feats were easier when we both had blogspot listings.  The evil Google empire appears to give much leverage to it’s own sites, although they claim to be neutral.  (I’m sorry google...I did not really mean that...don’t move me down the list, please)

Lately Othurme has been taking a hiatus from blogging and I figured this was my chance to step in and steal his limelight.  I have always wanted that star listing, but figured that if I tried to make my move, Othurme would pounce back into the race. 

So here is my official instructions on How To Eat Coochie:

How to Eat Coochie

The key to coochie eating is coochie selection.  If you choose a coochie that is past is prime, then no matter what recipe you follow, it just won’t taste right.  Also important to remember, if you choose a coochie that has not fully ripened.  It will be bitter, disappointing, and can lead to imprisonment. 

Back in the seventies it was easy to tell a coochie that was ready for eating.  It had hair.  Now, the trend has moved towards making all coochie look like it belongs on a eight year old, so more elaborate tests need to be used.

I have heard some say you should thump the coochie like a cantaloupe in order to determine it’s ripeness, but in today’s litigious society that test can lead to lawsuits, loss of job, or both.  I personally prefer the more sure fire method of asking to see some form of government issued identification.  You can never be too cautious when choosing the ripeness of the coochie.  If you decide to forgo this step and jump straight into the first coochie that is presented you, you run a serious risk of incarceration.  If that should happen you might be more interested in my next installment in the “How To” series, “How to Toss a Salad”.

Once you have ascertained the proper ripeness of the coochie you can finally proceed to the next step, Preparing the coochie.

First and Foremost:  You have to make sure the coochie WANTS to be eaten.  It’s not an inanimate object like a taco, well it’s sort of like a taco; you can’t just pounce and eat...you have to consider the coochie’s feelings in all this.  Woman’s lib really ruined the ease of coochie eating.  Long gone are the days of coochie buffets, now you have to consider HER needs.  What has the world come to.

After you have received the go ahead for coochie eating make sure you understand that you are not Literally “eating coochie”, don’t go chomping and chewing.  You have to love the coochie, you have to caress the coochie. 

So, you have caressed the coochie and now you want to wrap things up so you can get your return in investment.  I mean lets be honest, you weren’t eating that coochie for coochie’s sake, it was in hopes that she would return the favor.  You don’t want to waste the entire night down there. 

I know it seems like there should be more to these steps, but I usually have trouble getting past the first two steps.  To be honest, I was going to shoot an instructional video using a full scale model I built out of a couple slices of bologna and a sweet gerkin pickle (serving as the fabled clitoris).  Although it didn’t look good on film, it was surprisingly tasty on toasted wheat. 

In truth I am hoping this motivates Othurme to get out of his funk and return to Blogistan in order to fight for what was once rightfully his. 

Could My Mom Be A Cougar?

Our culture loves the fad terminology.  The latest horrific concept to grasp us all by the short and curlies:  Cougar.

I kept hearing this term and thought maybe it had some cute, clever meaning, like MILF.  I knew what it was describing, but I kept trying to think what the letters could stand for.  Finally I went to the site for all things cool and hip, urbandictionary.com.  It apparently doesn’t stand for anything, but refers to “older women” who go to clubs to pick up young dudes for some lovin’. 

Apparently it is better to have five, 2.5 minute, episodes of sex in a night, instead of one, four hour, episode, in which half the time is spent getting it up.  It must really suck to be a woman.  It’s either pre-mature ejaculation or impotence. 

I kept researching this concept, and was picturing saggy sixty year old women, with too much plastic surgery, all gussied up in a mini skirt and fur coat hitting the discos.  Then I found the age criteria.  Apparently a cougar is any chick over thirty five who is searching for a younger man to use for sexual pleasures. 

It hit me, most females I hang out with are over thirty five.  Maybe they are Cougars.  One in particular you might be familiar with...Her name begins with an L and rhymes with Jiz.

Another thought occurred to me, “I’m thirty five!  That means women my age are now seeking younger men.” But, if older men are looking for younger women, and older women are looking for younger men, what the hell does that mean for me?  Do I start trying to bang fifty year old chicks, or do I focus on eighteen year olds?  I know which way I WANT to steer, but I need to play the odds here. 

I’m soooo damn confused right now. 

Maybe I should start trying to dress younger, so I can bag a girl my own age. 

Answer some questions I have...Do any of you gals out there relish the term Cougar?  Does anyone refer to themselves as that?  Do women find a catholic school BOY outfit hot?

Back In The Saddle

I have been out of the blogging loop for so long, I have almost forgotten what I am supposed to blog about. 

I think it has something to do with my balls, but that doesn’t seem right.  Why would anyone want to read that?  Has the World Wide Webs numbed us all to such disturbing levels that people would actively seek out and support such tomfoolery? 

I hope not.  There is a world of cute kitten posters you could be googling right now.  I really mean that...after writing that last sentence I spent about thirty minutes on google looking for cute motivational kitten posters.  I had one in mind.  This one.

image

I could not believe the overwhelming amount of kitten propaganda on the information super highway.  It seems dangerous to have all those kittens on a highway.

I then remembered, not to long ago, the Onion had a funny kitten related headline.

image

I started to wonder if, in a thinly veiled attempt to increase web traffic, maybe we should be MORE kitten oriented here.  We have the one cursory kitten at the top of the page.  I don’t recall working him into the design for ulterior motives, but maybe my kitten scheme has been subconscious for some time. 

Maybe if I replace Liz with a cute, cuddly kitten, I could get more than two posts while I am out of town.  But, where could I drink, win at poker, and then pass out in an overly pillowed bed?  I think some kittens might have a few of those qualities, but not in great enough quantity.

I then started to wonder, “what would it be like if my balls were actually cute, cuddly kittens?”

Would women be more, or less, likely to want to pet them?  I mean, who doesn’t see kittens, and then instantly want to reach out and rub and hold them?  I can’t tell you how many times I have witnessed women pick up strange, unfamiliar kittens and rub them against their face, cooing and making soft, sexy noises. 

If my balls were kittens, I would enjoy that treatment.  That rarely happens now, at least not for free.

But, then I realized it might be disconcerting to many people if there is an abnormal amount of frantic movement from the groin region of my pants.  Not to mention the constant soft, high pitched mewling.  That would get annoying after a very short period.  Also, if my balls scratched and bit on occasion only a select few women would still go along with that...and I don’t really go for that scene.

No, I think I will keep my balls as they are.  They have served me well up to this point.  But if you run across a kitten with a quaint little house, full of campy, yet tasteful, decorations, and a willingness to drink frequently, scoop it up and give me a call.  If they can also produce a humorous blog entry more than once a week, Liz might get replaced, but that kitten better be house broken...it took me forever to get Liz that way.

Who’s the Bad Neighbor, Now?

I had a tantrum this week. A full-fledged, 4-year old blow out. During this tantrum, I used the word ‘fuck’ a couple of times, ‘asshole’, and ‘shit’. My 84-year old neighbor heard it all. I feel bad about talking such trash in front of the neighborhood Christians who were standing around. You might not know this about me, but I’ve very loud. And when I’m angry I can get super sonic loud. Combine that with my fearless use of profanity and, well, you can imagine how ugly this got.

The story is sort of funny. I know you’re on the edge of your seat wondering how a sweet, angelic woman like me could go ballistic in the neighborhood. The neighborhood that is one tiny street of well-maintained lawns and retirees. It all stems from my neighbor and his use of my property as his personal dumping ground.

My neighbor to the left is around 43. He and his boyfriend have been in the neighborhood 12 years. He is very active in the neighborhood and loathed by our neighborhood association president. They have had multiple fights concerning things like his use of the ‘public’ water hose and the height of his bushes. I stay out of that shit. I could give a rat’s ass. But this neighbor has violated MY personal space multiple times. As I think I’ve told you before, he has plugged into my exterior outlets and used my electricity as well as used my water (which he left on). This pisses me off and I have told him once to use his own stuff. Now he uses my stuff when I’m at work. This is very aggravating.

A few months ago he stored some ladders behind my house. I knew they were there, but didn’t confront him. After about a week and a half they were gone. I’m pretty sure he heard me on the phone telling my BFF that I was going to haul them to the street on trash day and this prompted their removal. The reason he uses my stuff, including my yard, is that his back yard is so overgrown and filled with trash and his garage is overflowing with trash as well. There is no room for his own stuff. I think he has a sever hoarding problem. But this is HIS problem, not mine- well, until now.

Last week I came home from a rather trying day at work to find his gutter laying behind my house. I snapped. He’s had workers in my driveway for a week- which is a necessity- and I’ve had to pick up their nails out of my driveway so I don’t end up with a flat. Already I’m on edge with this dude. So when I see that gutter laying there, all 14 feet of it, I got out of my car, grabbed it, and drug into his driveway where I threw it, walked away, came back and kicked it, and then began walking inside. My 84 year old neighbor was outside talking to another neighbor. He began to applaude. I said, “I’m so fucking tired of this asshole putting his fucking shit in my goddamn yard. What a fucking dickhead!” Then I walked BACK to the gutter and pulled it further in his driveway and kicked it AGAIN.

I was pissed.

Now it cracks me up to think of the spectacle. I mean MY GOD… what a scene!

This neighbor has recently been elected to our home owners association board. The Monday after the election, ‘someone’ (not me) called this local police and requested the home owners code enforcement department. We have one of those in my town. Can you believe that? Any way, the ‘cops’ came out and he was told to replace his roof and clean out his back yard. The roof is getting done, but the back yard remains a disaster. It’s a breeding ground of all sorts of varmints and insects. I called the cops last week and asked if they were the right people to address MY issue with this neighbor. They are. I asked them NOT to come out, because I want to talk with him first, but I do want to know what will happen to him if he doesn’t stop using my electricity, water, and lawn. My local PD is chomping at the bit for some action, so I kind of regret that I gave them my name and address. I don’t want increased police traffic and I don’t want any problems. My cats aren’t on leashes, my house needs painting, and I’m not always beer free when I’m pulling in the drive, you know? At the same time, if this motherfucker doesn’t keep his shit on his own property, I’m turning his ass in.

Ok. I feel like a jerk. But I also feel like I’m justified in being pissed off and, if needed, should take action. What do you think?

Up and Running

I went by the college yesterday to pick up my diploma. Talk about disappointed! I think it’s been printed on the cheapest cardstock they make and all the signatures are POOR photocopies. And it’s white- which really makes it look like something I printed on my home computer. And the college seal is slightly crooked. I’ve put it in my Dukes of Hazzard trapper-keeper folder, along with my other college diploma. I have no idea where my high school diploma is, but I remember it being much nicer than either of these. It was small and cute and it came in one of those fancy hard folders. These other two things are not suitable for framing. The one I have from the University of Southern Mississippi at least has an ‘honors’ seal on it, but it’s crinkled. I kept it between my mattresses for a couple of years. And the paper Southern used is at least an OFF white, so it doesn’t look like I picked it up at Kinkos.

I see my two crappy diplomas and I wonder what I’m going to do about it. I’m pretty sure I got honors status at Belhaven too, but those bastards don’t acknowledge it. I even called to ask my class rank, so I could add it to my resume if it was really high. My final GPA was a 3.97, so I might be the valedictorian or something. The lady at Belhaven told me that don’t caluculate class rank. WTF? I could have graduated with a 2.5 and, by Belhaven’s standards, it wouldn’t have made a difference.

The good thing is that I am finished.

Several people have asked if I’ll get a raise now that I have a Masters. Nope. And that sucks too. But the company paid around $6,500 of the bill, so I look at that kind of like getting a raise. But we’re about to get some really shitty health insurance and the cost of living has gone way up, so it kind of evens out. As a matter of fact, they may owe me… smile

It’s nice that a couple of people noticed that our blog wasn’t working, but really, what did you miss? Killer and I are both in blog slack mode. I’ll go ahead and tell you now, come back on Sunday. I’ll try to get something posted before the weekend’s over. As for Killer, you can count him out. He’s working on a mysterious special project that is totally un-blogish. He has sworn me to secrecy… and I’m nothing if not a trustworthy employee.

Previous Page   Next Page
 

Recent Comments

Subscribe to Killer Rants

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner



Add to Technorati Favorites

Archives