Anal Acoustics

“Hey gurl.  I heard you blow that fart in there.”

“Haha!  Yeah.”

“I can dig it — ‘cause you ain’t know nobody was up in here.”

“I wouldna gave a shit if they was.”

“Mmm hm — ‘sho you right.”

“Once, a guy – after a night out together – he came over.  We were drunk and high as fuck.  Something about drinking heavy and the next morning — I always woke up and had to fart, loud and hard – the loudest fart you ever heard.  Great acoustics —  I looked forward to it really.  So we wake up —  I don’t even remember the night before, only his saying, ‘Uh! Sandee’, then it was over —  In the morning, I make one of my farts – they never smelled, which is strange, because I can whip up a stench with the best of them usually.  So my guy’s like, startled – ha!  But dig this — he says, ‘You know, that turned me on.’  I’m like, to myself, I knew it.  I knew I couldn’t be the only one who thought that was hot.”

“You are blowin’ my mind right now…”

“So oh, hey, look – you want me.  Right?  I know you do.  You like hearing my farts too.”

“The kinda luck I get, you fart on me, right?  It smells like, Noooooooooooooooo!!  Nothing like that trombone you played for your boy.  And after a fart like that, I have to wait a while before, you know.  I mean, I understand and all.  It’s natural.  But I can’t just, Mm! – yeah – after that.  It has to like dissipate.  Know what I’m sayin’.”

“Don’t be – negative.  Have faith.  I’m quite sure that I could, “compose” something just as nice, for you.”

Planet Sandor

I’m using Gahan Wilson’s comic as inspiration…

I’m on my own planet, but don’t have my own gravitational laws.  I’m working on it.

Ahahahaha!

Hey there honey…

On Thanksgiving I saw my grandma at the Hebrew Home for the Aged at Riverdale.  It was lunchtime.  She sat with her assigned table mates, Bobby and Matt.  Bobby calls everybody honey.  He uses the word like people use salt:  “Hey there honey!  Haven’t seen you in a while honey!  Happy Thanksgiving there honey,” he says.

Matt’s a small man who speaks softly.  He was asleep in his chair wearing his white disposable bib when I came.  When I sat down, he woke up.

“Ohhh!  Good to see you!  You look great!”  He said.

“Yeah, you look great there honey,” says Bobby.

Bobby told us that the cook there is Italian.  “Yeah, they make the spaghetti here downstairs honey.  They make it there.  The cook’s Italian.  They make it good there honey.”

Today the attendants served the seniors turkey dinner.  But Bobby always talks about  spaghetti.

I’ve chatted with Bobby and Matt before.  I found out that Bobby used to be an undertaker’s assistant.  He worked for his uncle and says he never got paid.  “No he didn’t pay me honey, no.”

Behind us at another table was the woman who takes her shoes off and puts her feet up on the table.  Today she had taken her shirt off, so she sat there topless, no bra.  Her feet were on the table as usual.

“Hey honey put some clothes on there honey!”  Bobby said.

“Oh that woman’s crazy,” grandma said, making a shooing motion.

“Leave her alone,” said Matt, looking back again.  Then Matt told me, “I wonder if I went over there and told her to stand on the table if she’d do a dance for me.”

“Ahahahaha!  You mean like a stripper?” I said.  Matt cracks me up with these bits.  Matt laughed too.  The old woman, she didn’t look bad.

The Bum Couple of Inwood Farms

*My friend calls this neighborhood Inwood Farms – hilarious.

The bum couple in my neighborhood think they’re the neighborhood’s honorary bums.  People coming home from work stop to have forty-five minute conversations with them.  During these conversations they pause to wave or to say hi to people.

I think people talk to them for a cheap show of magnanimity.  Look at me everybody. I don’t have problems talking to bums.  I talk to Frank the bum but never this long.  I dare these people to invite Mr. and Mrs. Bum to their homes.

The man said hello to me once because I made eye contact.  It irritated me.  He looked wounded when I didn’t continue to speak to him or his wife.  I think they silently scolded me with their little puppy dog homeless faces.  Nothing against bums – I love Frank, and the other bums are cool.  Hell I might just be a bum myself at the rate things are going in this country.

For a long time they lived in the 207^th Street subway station.  Transit workers played chess with the husband by the elevator.  People stood around watching.  I love chess.  I played naked chess with my computer, listened to death metal and ate olive oil toast every night before blogging.  But never would I play chess with that bum.  Number A:  on the subway station benches he had biblical placards.  And Number B:  one said Halloween was the devil’s holiday.  So you take up space in the subway station, proselytize AND put down my favorite holiday.

They live on the benches by the park now.  The husband plays chess on the park wall.  Sometimes there are two or three games going at once.  You’ll find the wife waddling back home sweet home with a cart full of groceries during the games – maybe she’s got hors doeurves and crudite in there for the boys.

Sometimes when it rains they’re hidden behind rain slickers, garbage bags and two gigantic umbrellas.  If you didn’t see two pairs of feet underneath you might think there was just a heap of crap on the bench.  They must get along really well to be able to sit so close.

But I’ll bet that husband could show me some mean chess moves.  He reminds me of a guy I was infatuated with who also played chess.  He and his wife are tall and heavy.  This guy was too, with a deep voice and big feet.  I joked that the bum couple reminded me of me and this guy.  He was in financial trouble and I had taken this job making half the money I used to make.  I had some strain myself.  So we’d be together – broke.

I said to someone, “I think I hate them because I’m afraid I’ll become them.”  But no, I just don’t like them.  Sue me for not liking a downtrodden married bum couple.  It’s far more evil to use bums to demonstrate your bullshit magnanimity.

Baaad Bunny

My hateful bunny post the other day was so evil – I had to get on the other side of it.  Carrie also reminded me of needing a balance.  To be whole, one needs balance.  So I thought, Now I’ll write about love.  But what I really want is to write porno.  I haven’t watched porno in ages but I know I could make up something really good.  I’ve never written anything like this before, so it would be an adventure.

I’m just sharing my process, what’s in my head.  Unfortunately I wouldn’t put any porno on my blog.  I don’t have the balls for that.  I know you’re disappointed.  But when I finish writing it, just look for books published under one of these names:  Aysia Marie, Misty Kelly, Harlem Cherry, Angel Black, Shameeka Blue, Tailor Lee Tyler, and Velveeta von Sapen Heusen.  I’m going to be using these pseudonyms.

Have a great weekend and drink responsibly!

Earthquaaaaaake!!!

We had an earthquake in Manhattan last year.  I felt it when a lot of people didn’t.  I had just joked about how that fault line in our neighborhood happens to be under a street with a strip of outdoor cafes.  It’s a weekend hangout.  Motorcycles race up to the street and park.  The drivers commune with each other, with people standing around the cafes.  There’s a garden across the street where people socialize.  If an earthquake came on Saturday, all those folks would be sucked into the earth’s core, I said.

A day later, my TV stand shook and I knew immediately what it was, though I live in an old building that shakes when trucks rumble by.  I knocked on neighbor’s doors to warn them.  They said they didn’t feel anything.  “I’ll turn on the news and see,” one said before going back inside.  I ran down six flights of stairs — Smokey the Bear said you shouldn’t take elevators if there’s a fire, so I figured you shouldn’t take them if there’s an earthquake either.

I got outside and stood there.  People strolled.  They waited for their dogs to finish pooping, talked to neighbors.  I squinted, looking for signs of panic in their faces, for people screaming, running around with their arms flailing.  Didn’t see any.  The super of my building whistled while he hosed our sidewalk.

“Did you feel that!  We had an earthquake – I know it.”  “Yeah?  I didn’t feel anything.  Where are you going anyway?  If there’s an earthquake, you’re probably better off upstairs.”  I told him I’d go to the armory, but I wasn’t really sure.  A couple with a baby in a harness walked by chuckling lightly.  I did recall hearing that you should stand in the door sill if there’s an earthquake.  I looked at the sky.  No answers up there.  I went back upstairs.

My phone rang.  “Are you okay?” It was my sister.  She’d heard there was an earthquake here.  “I knew it!”  I said, turning on the news.  Gotdammit I knew it.

Same thing happened around ’81.  I lay in bed Sunday morning hung over as usual.  The bed shook.  “Ma!  My bed just shook!  What was that?  Oh my God!”  “Sandee go back to sleep.  Nothing’s shaking.  It’s just you,” she sighed.  Turned out, another earthquake had happened.  Mom didn’t believe me.  She thought I was having the shakes, the DTs – I know, it’s messed up, but that’s another blog post, maybe…

[Sing to Olivia Newton John’s Physical song] Let’s get metaphysical, metaphysical, I wanna get me-ta-phy-sicaaaaal!  Let’s get into metaphysical [okay you can stop singing now] — Why do I feel the earth vibrating when others don’t?  And my joke about that earthquake a day before it happened.  ESP?  Hmm…

More Music for a Romantic Evening

 

After writing my post with a list of unconventional music for a romantic evening, I read a post by purplemary54 at myelectronicjukebox, where she referred to the list as coitus musicalus.  I wish I had come up with this.  Coitus musicalus lends an air of erudition to the title of a list of music used for the purpose of accompanying the act of sex.  The blogging community is an infinite resource for ideas, a place to trade stories, share thoughts and our passion for music.  With my list I highlighted the idea that you could play music that more accurately reflects the complexities of sex and love, as so-called romantic music doesn’t always work during these moments.

Fred from That Fred Guy chimed in on the subject in the comments section of that post.  Fred’s comments make me laugh.  I love his sense of humor.  Okay everyone, just imagine the song that he suggested being played during a romantic ‘interlude’ — the theme from Jaws:

🙂 🙂 🙂

Who Let That Crazy B**tch Into The School?

This isn’t a reblog but an excerpt of my Royal Dansk Danish Butter Cookies post. Maybe no one but my dear blogging buddy Madame Weebles saw it because I had just started blogging.  But if you have seen it, perhaps you should read it again as I’m sure you’ll gain some new and exciting insights…  Yes, it was a long ass post!  I wanted to highlight the fantabulous Mrs. Flynn from it — dedicate the whole damn post to her — here she is:

…my 2^nd grade teacher, poor, weird Mrs. Flynn.  Who let that crazy bitch into the school!?   Yes, the bitch was a mental case.  If you touched her, she’d yell “Don’t touch me!  Don’t ever touch me!”  She was a dumpy woman with a big square head, red hair, and very pale skin.  She kept always on her desk a tin of Royal Dansk Danish Butter Cookies which she never offered to us kids.  I loved Royal Dansk Danish Butter Cookies, and would eye them covetously, fantasizing about a day when she would change her non-sharing ways.  She ate them anytime she wanted, right in front of us – the buttery pretzel shaped ones, with chunky sugar granules on them.  Something about her piggish face reminds me of the Nazi female prison commander in Seven Beauties.

One day she told us that we weren’t going to practice spelling, or numbers or any of that shit.  Instead she commanded us to run around in circles in the classroom – that’s right, just run around.  Some of the boys took to it immediately and ran around like maniacs, banging into tables, chairs, and into each other, falling down all over the place.  By the end they were all red faced, sweaty and ripped up.  And Mrs. Flynn from behind her desk screamed, “Don’t stop, run, run – keep running, yeah!”  She then went back to reading the paper and eating butter cookies.  A few girls ran with abandon as well, their little skirts hiked up in friction around their tights, but I remember the circle of us who just sat there, scared — Martin, Michelle and maybe a couple of others.  A couple of those kids were crying because they knew that this was not normal and that Mrs. Flynn had lost her marbles, and that she was an adult and what were we supposed to do now.  I didn’t cry but sat there staring, freaked.  What a crazy scene!

I think about those stupid kids today, the ones who just ran around enjoying it.  Are these the ones who grew up to take advantage of the moment, to live life to the fullest?  The bungee jumpers, parachuters, and Polar Bear Club members?  Or maybe they’re in prison.  I think I heard that Mrs. Flynn found out that she had a brain tumor.  I think she had just found out and had a nervous breakdown the day she told us to run around.  But still I mean come on, why take it out on little kids.  But the poor thing probably had a weird time of it with life in general, what with her aversion to being touched and to sharing her Royal Dansk Danish Butter Cookies.

The Crazy B*tch Blog

I’m renaming my blog.  “The Crazy Bitch Blog,” I think.  I’ve written about being aroused by a ninety year old man, euthanasia mobiles and about getting approval from the neighborhood bum. There are other things but I don’t want to make it worse on paper.

Today I wanted to write about erotic armpit odor — this is no pretense, no cheesy shock value effort (like the title of my book – ha!) – help please…  After hanging out with some very normal people lately, I’ve been able to evaluate myself, to look at my past.  Why did I find the necessity of creating my own planet?  No seriously, this isn’t funny anymore.

Yours truly,

SCB

Lopsided T**ties with Scabs on Them

Perhaps a series of images and sounds gathered in your subconscious during the day lead you to remember this bitch who visited your boyfriend in the hospital while you were there.  Aforementioned bitch walked right by you and said nothing.  Your recovering boyfriend was in the hospital bed on the phone.  He looked up briefly, scared as shit – he darted his eyes quickly down to the receiver.  He knew that you knew who she was.  Said bitch didn’t even bother to introduce herself.  So you said, “My name is Sandee AND YOU ARE?!”  She answered so innocently but you knew what the fuck her name was just as well as she knew yours.

Ahhkh, it’s a long story…  I had an issue with her not only because she was pretty.  She was a supposed ‘platonic’ friend of my boyfriend.  He had shown me a picture of her.  I said, “Hell no!  She’s just your friend?  Come on!”  Okay so while I’m not ridiculously jealous, I’m also not that evolved.  The issue wasn’t just her looks — it was some of the things he had told me about her.  She favored husbands and boyfriends of other women.  Her character was shady, besides that.

He tried to convince me that it was all good.  He had shared enough anecdotes, due to my prodding, that I was able to deduce that she was an unprincipled twat.  “Why would you want to be friends with somebody like that?  She’s the devil!”  I said.  How stupid me, yes.

He told me that while they never had sex, she actually did show him her twat.  “She has big titties.  Why didn’t she show you those?  That’s weird,” I said.  “Hey but you know that’s, kinda cool,” I said after reflecting for a moment.  “Funny,” I continued.  “Yeah,” he said, nodding.  “She showed you her pussy – ha!  Like how?”  I said.  “She just lifted her skirt and pulled her panties to the side.”  “Wowww…”

He also told me that she liked metal, and if you’ve seen my last few posts or my ‘About’ page, you’ll see that I’m a death metal enthusiast.  “Hm,” I said when he told me.  She liked metal and uniquely flashed her vagina, while a common woman would have gone for the obvious titty-flash.  This brought another dimension to the situation, to their relationship.  I wondered about who this person might be.  So I fleshed her out to be maybe a little more than just a common twat.  But then I thought, maybe she showed him her vagina because she had lopsided titties with scabs on them.