That Poor Meat-Peddling Bastard & The Evil Kat

Once again I am forced to wonder if I am the universe’s favorite plaything or whatnot.

What are the odds that when you are down in the depths of despair*, working too many hours, battling atrial tachycardia, and exhausted yet unable to sleep through the night, that you come home from work and manage to fall asleep on the couch only to be awoken by a meat delivery service trying to hawk their meat subscription service on you?

Apparently in my case, the chances are pretty fucking good.

Last week I was dozing in living room when I was roused by the doorbell ringing and the explosive barking of my dogs expressing their indignation that someone touched their doorbell. I slept-walked to the front window where I could see who was on the porch without them seeing me. I did not recognize the young man and for some reason–I’ll blame my sleep deprived brain–I decided to answer the door. This is seriously very unusual for me because I don’t open the door to strangers when I’m home alone, not because I’m scared that they’ll kill me but because I’m scared that they will bore me.

I opened the door and the dude took a few steps back as he was greeted by two dogs snarling with all of the fury they could muster from the fifteen pound frames.

“Can I help you?” I asked him.

meat team ad“Uh yeah, I’m from CM Meats (← not their real name) and we offer a discounted meat delivery service,” he told me adjusting his hat.

I blinked at him in confusion thinking that I must be have an hallucination from lack of sleep. “You’re… selling meat?”

“Yeah, you like saving money, right?” he asked revving up for his salesman schpiel.

“On meat?” I was still in disbelief. You would think that with the shit that I’ve experienced that a random guy selling meat wouldn’t be that much of a mind fuck and yet it was.

“Yeah, we sell a wide variety of steak, seafood, chicken and pork,” he recited.

And then the evil part of my brain woke up.

“How’s your sausage?” I asked him in a low voice.

“It’s great!” he said overflowing with enthusiasm at my apparent interest. “But we only sell it as part of our pork variety case so there’s a lot of meat in there.”

“I’m sure that I could handle any amount of meat that you were interested in…unloading,” I smiled.

“The case has got pork chops, spare ribs, loin steaks and sweet Italian and sage sausage,” he continued.

“I’ve had Italian sausage, but never sage sausage. I might have to try yours,” I replied. “Though I would prefer to try it before I buy it.”

He scratched his head. “Oh sorry, we don’t have any samples.”

“That’s okay, I’ll just have to take you at your word that your sausage is as amazing as you say.”

He whipped out his clipboard and clicked his pen to begin writing. “So are you interested in any beef or chicken?”

“No, I’m a vegetarian,” I told him.

His face clouded with confusion. “But the… It’s a meat variety case. Like pork chops.”

“I’ll confess that I have no interest in chops, but if I need to buy them to get your sausage then I’ll do it,” I said. “So will you be able to give me that delivery now?”

“I…have to put in the order,” he said still looking uncertain.

The guy was obviously pretty dense and I was running out of innuendos so I crossed my arms and screwed my face into a look of annoyance. “Don’t be a sausage tease. You come to my house hawking your sausage and now you won’t give it to me? Let me be clear, I want your sausage and I want it now!”

His jaw hung open in response and he just stared at me for a moment probably taking in my knotty hair that had escaped from its hair band, the dark circles under my eyes from no sleep and my pale, anemic face.

The guy’s eyes darted around looking for an escape from the nutty nympho and he began backing away. “Sss… sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said then turned on his heel and bolted for the safety of his truck.

I gave a very theatrical shrug and then closed the door.

And no, I was unable to fall back to sleep so I feel no guilt WHATSOEVER at traumatizing the dude responsible for ruining my precious nap.

Jerkstore.

*Okay maybe it’s not that bad, but fellow “Anne of Green Gables” will appreciate the reference.

Dating Over Thirty And a Follow Up To The Wrongest Story Ever

I have a friend who really wants to get married. She happily informed me on Sunday that she found out that the average age for a woman to get married is 29, so “she’s not too far behind the 8 ball”. I then had one of those moments where a thought pops into my head and it tumbles out of my mouth without permission because I pointed out to her that the number is probably so high because it’s based on the age of all brides and, since half of all marriages fail, that would include a lot of second marriages.

She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the luncheon.

As some of you may know, I was married once. And for those of you who just found out now, I’ll wait while you pick yourself up off of the floor since I agree that is shocking to consider me in such a role. Anyway, it was quite literally a lifetime ago, and unlike a lot of women I don’t care if I’m ever in a relationship again. That’s not to say that I’m actively opposed to the idea, but rather indifferent. I have however been told that I’m subconsciously avoiding a “real” relationship based on the fact that the guys that I’ve dated since my liberation have been younger than I am. Say what? Yup, apparently dating younger men is an avoidance tactic.

Alrighty then.

Actually I can tell you exactly why it just so happens that all of my suitors have been younger than I am, and that’s because most guys my age or older are already incarcerated married.  And the ones who are not, well, there is usually a reason why they are not already married… like that they live with their parents and/or don’t have their shit together*.

And all of that aside, what the hell is wrong with a woman dating someone younger than herself anyway?

But I digress because I have recently found out the true reason why I cannot see myself ever having a relationship, and this is thanks to my recent re-pimping of past posts.

When I first posted Probably (One of) The Wrongest Stories I Will Ever Tell You the general consensus was that it was indeed a very wrong story.  I have, however, been receiving a few messages and emails from women asking how this story is wrong. At first I thought that they were being facetious, but image my surprise when I discovered that a handful (HAHA!) of these women were serious. One woman told me, “I think that everyone has done this and they just won’t admit it.”

I replied with, “I have not.  But then I don’t date much.”

Her response was, “Seriously. You might want to think about it. When you find the right guy you’ll want to give it a try.”

And there you have it, peeps. This is why I will never be in a relationship. It’s because I can honestly say that I will never ever find someone with whom I am be so enamored that I will want to try holding his tally-whacker while he pees.

Consider No. 22 on my List of Shameless Shit, “Set a Boundary” done because I’ve just decided that the doorway to the bathroom is a sacred boundary that will not be crossed.

true love funny

Probably (One of) The Wrongest Stories I Will Ever Tell You

I have so much bizarre shit happen, and so many inane conversations that I rarely have to delve into my checkered past if I’m looking to tell a story to curdle your mind.  Occasionally though, a story of What-the-fuckery Past will push through the repression therapy and I’ll be reminded of a real gem with which I must traumatize regale you.  And you all can thank Dan from Shameless Promotions for pulling this tale from the depths of repression with his last post.  Make sure to go over there and thank him for the forthcoming mental assault.

The tale begins many years ago in the gay capital of northern England while walking home one Winter night from the pub with a friend.  Thanks to several hours of drinking, I was in desperate need of a loo, but Eion was dawdling around and taking his time as we walked.

“Will you please hurry up!  I!  Have!  To!  Pee!” I stomped my boot on the icy ground with each word for emphasis.

“Ha!  I do, too!” he replied with drunk giddiness.

“Too bad you can’t do this!” he add, and then he pulled himself out of pants and peed in the snow.

“I’m green with envy,” I said sarcastically, though I had to pee so bad that I actually was.

“HeyKatlook!”

peeing in the snow, writing name in the snow‘HeyKatlook’ was always said as one word, and it usually meant that I was going to see something that would scar my brain, but I looked anyway.  A yellow E-I-O-N had appeared in the snow.

“That’s great Ei, you can spell your own name.  And in urine no less.  Any six year old would be proud.  Though your penmanship is horrible.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” he zipped himself back up.

“If I had a whackado I could.”

“Bullocks!”

“Fine!  Let me use yours the next time you have to pee and I bet I will!” I snarled because I say the stupidest things when I’m challenged and angry.

Flash forward a few years later to me telling this story to one of the weirdest (and coming from me that’s saying a fucking lot) friends I ever knew.

Dawn’s eyes were as large as saucers as I finished the story.
“And that’s why you should always use the restroom before you leave a bar,” I took a swig of my Yuengling.

“So what was it like?” she asked.

“What was what like?”

“Holding a man’s penis while he peed?”

I nearly choked on my beer.

batman spit take, spit take“Are you completely mental?,” I wheezed between fits of coughing, “I didn’t fucking do that!”

“Why not?”

“Why not?  You are seriously asking me that?”

“Just think about how cool that would be.”

I did think about and I didn’t think it would be cool at all.  I did however erupt into hysterical laughter.  For some reason this really pissed off (pun intended) Dawn and she hissed at me to keep it down because people were looking at me.

“You’re the one who told me to think about holding a guy’s peen while he pees!” I snickered.

“Well you brought it up in the first place,” she huffed at me.

And unfortunately I had.  But in my defense I blurt out a lot of random things so you would think Dawn would know better than to listen.

Dawn found a boyfriend a few months later.  As a result she didn’t have much time to hang out with girlfriends, and when she did, she brought her weirdo boyfriend with her.  This was the case on one of the last time we ever got together before her strange habits (she liked to talk about different ways she could pretend to drown in her pool and would practice them frequently) got to me.

“Guess what I did!” she greeted me as they arrived at the local watering hole.

I could tell by the look on her face that I did not want to guess what she did.

“I held Steve’s dick while he peed!”

(Did you ever have one of those moments where you felt something trickling out of your ear, and then when you touched it you discovered it was your brain?  Yeah…)

mind shattered, brain melt

It kinda feels like this.

“It was so much fun!” she gushed on.

“I liked it because I didn’t have to wash my hands,” Steve smiled his freaky smile.

I knew then that I was suffering from irreparable mental damage because I’m usually pretty sharp with the comebacks, and with all of the potential hand jokes there were, I could not think of a damn thing to say.

“I told Steve that it was your idea,” Dawn informed me.

That broke my silence.

“The hell it was!” I roared, “I never told you to hold your boyfriend’s penis while he peed!”

“Shhh!” Dawn glared at me, “I was trying to thank you!”

“Well don’t!  Take that credit for yourself!”

The topper of the evening though?  Steve had to use the men’s room a couple of times while we were out and Dawn went with him to “help”. Every. Single. Time.

youre welcome, you are welcome