The Gene Pool

File This One Under Stupid Sh*t You Are Never 

Going To See Women Do

There are times when I just LOVE communal living.  Visiting the swimming pool on a hot summer evening after Dumb and Dumber have been drinking it up pool side all day is one of them.  (Dumb and Dumber are actually going to play in a major part in a second posting, so stay tuned, because these two are proof positive that some people should never be allowed to reproduce).

Last week, I was at the pool in a very advantages spot ~ where I had view of 

everyone and every thing.  Which suites me just fine as that means I can watch others and be as mentally vicious about swimsuit decisions as I want without anyone seeing my cellulite riddled thighs pressed against the lawn chair straps like a chicken on the grill.  Yeah, it ain't a pretty picture ~ that's why I take the high spot.  

Anyway, from my vantage point I was able to watch the Dumb and Dumber gang.  They proved quite entertaining as they proceeded to run through what amounted to a small liquor store in about 3 hours.  About 2 hours into it they decided it would be great fun to start throwing the football.  Starting with the obligatory short tosses between the guys, they quickly moved on to the half-assed half-pool pass.  This was followed by the aquatic version of the Super Bowl 

complete with touch down dances that would have made T.O. proud.  After a short half time break to replenish their thirst, the Dumb-Ass Gang decided to go for the long pass practice.

This is where it goes oh-so-wrong.  Dumb and Dumber tired of their long pass practice and decide to make it more "challenging".  Dumber decides that target practice would be best and oh, wouldn't these beer cans be handy-dandy targets.  Instead of placing the cans on something practical, like say the pool side or lawn chairs, Dumber places it on his head.  He then tells Dumb to throw the football and try to knock it off.

Yes, ladies it is hard to believe these men are single.  First, they are throwing a semi-ridged pig skin at a target approximately 6 to 8 inches (depending on how long you REALLY think 6 inches is...)  The target is on, what one assumes would be on a normal person, a solid object.  And unless your aim is that of a Manning family prodigy, the likelihood you are going to hit that target is pretty low.  So, how did Dumb and Dumber do you ask?

It wasn't pretty.  It took exactly five passes before Dumb nailed Dumber right square in the nose.... But here's the best part!!  Dumber actually had the wherewithal to catch his beer can first before realizing his nose was doing a perfect imitation of Old Faithful.  The medics were called and things progressed as expected.  Although I did hear the medic say that the cause of the accident was "drinking while stupid".

I saw Dumber at the mail box yesterday and he is sporting a nice metal face plate with The Bruised & Bandaged Mark of Stupidity across his nose and face.  Yeah Ladies, he's out there and available...........

Fly the Friendly Skies

I know you can't believe it, but I am back in the blogger world.  Things have calmed down and life is starting to return to a semi-normal state.  I promise to catch everyone up ASAP, but this story was just dying to get out first and since when do I ever get on a plane and NOT have a story to tell?  Well, cats & kittens, I have a little story for ya.

Recently my Papa passed away and Ms. Tastrophie had to travel back home to say goodbye to her greatest hero.  She worshipped her Papa and was graced with 40 years of memories to keep her until she sees him again. So it's been a sad time for her.  

So off I go to fly home and since I no longer work in the frequent flyer world and can't afford upgrades or first class seats on a teacher's salary, I was flying Southwest.  This is important because Southwest doesn't have a first class section and anyone flying Southwest pretty much knows you (and the 150 other people on that flight) got the cheapest tickets you could find. Props to Southwest for keeping it real in this economy!  I hear American is charging people for toilet usage now.  

I get to the ticket counter to get my ticket and have spent a few minutes talking to the two ticket agents (TAs) when a guy comes strutting up to the second ticket agent.  By strutting, I mean walking with a sense of self importance that only the truly egotistical and blowhard people of the world can pull off.  You know them when you see them because secretly inside you are envisioning that person falling flat on his/her face while ripping their pants wide open and the whole world gets to discover that he/she doesn't have much to be strutting about.

Mr. I-AM-SO-MUCH-MORE-IMPORTANT-THEN-YOU gets to the counter and tells the ticket agent that he is on the 7 p.m. flight, but that she "needs to put him on the 5 p.m. flight " because  (and I quote) "I shouldn't have to sit and wait that long, my time is too valuable". (Yep, he's an asshat.)  The TA looks at Mr. Big Britches' ticket and proceeds to tell him he has a discounted fare and that to stand by will be change.... WOOOW

Here's where the gates of hell opened up and Mr Hell Fire decides to let everyone know just who he is.  He started screaming about how he NEVER flies on a discounted fare and how he has told his legal team never to book a discounted ticket and how dare SWA put him in a discounted ticket and by GAWD, someone is going to get fired over this!!  And did she know who he was?!  Personally I don't think she gave a rat's ass about who he thought he was, but I was thinking he was Mr. Douche-bag.

Anyway, Mr. Never-Flies-Discount whips out his cell phone and starts punching it like a monkey on crack.  By this time everyone around him has stopped what they are doing and is watching him like the attention-whore he obviously is.  

Mr. ~ Barking loudly enough that the people at the DELTA counter 20 feet away can hear him:  "GET ME LISA (holy cats, this asshat has an assistant with my name!!!) 

Mr.  ~ "DID YOU BOOK ME A DISCOUNTED TICKET? (not giving her anytime to answer)  YOU'RE FIRED!!!!  GET YOUR STUFF OUT OF MY OFFICE BEFORE I GET BACK!!"

Then he snaps his phone shut.  Pretty much everyone within hearing distance is in stunned silence and waiting for his next Big-Asshat maneuver. 

While he was making Lisa's day a little slice of hell, the ticket agent had been trying to tell Mr. Big Shot that his return ticket was a full fare ticket and that he could fly stand by without any changes.  Big Shot wasn't listening (as I suspect is his normal operating mode) and is now giving the TA more than enough attitude due the situation. Again props to SWA for keeping it real, because the TA just tilted her head to the side and gave him a look that said "are you done?" until Blow hard ran out of steam.

Now, being how I am a "Lisa", I tend to have an affection for others who are cursed with the "Lisa" as well.  And I for one, was not about to let Mr. Asshat have to last say in any show down with a fellow "Lisa".  I don't care if she really is a colossal f*ck up of an assistant or if she has three heads.  She is still a member of  the "Lisa-hood" and I am honor bound to see to it that she be avenged.  Besides, this guy has it coming to him and only Ms. Tastrophie has the attitude to do this one right.

After I received my ticket, I turned to leave the counter.  Walking right by Mr. Don't-Mess-With-Me-Because-I-Don't-Fly-Discount, I looked him square in the eyes and said loudly enough for everyone to hear me (cause that's just the Ms. Tastrophie way) 

"YOU'RE A PRICK"!!  

Apparently, I wasn't the only one who thought that because several people clapped as I walked to security.  The kicker:  Mr. Prick was on my flight and sat a row behind me.  I, of course, had to make sure that I told everyone around me (in an overly staged voice) the story of this total Prick who was making an ass out of himself at the ticket counter and what a jerk he was for firing his assistant.  Her life is obviously so much better now that she doesn't have to work for him anymore.  And, really, if he was such a big shot then why the hell was he not flying American or some other airline that is known for kissing the asses of pompous windbags like him?  Why was he flying on SWA with us little people?  

He never said a word and when we got off the plane in Dallas, if looks could kill I would have been Dead On Arrival.

Hitting Below the Belt

LIES!!! LIES!!!! That thing in my bathroom is an evil lying little bastard!  If it weren't for the fact that it is the only other thing with an actual human voice in my house, I would chuck it out the window and end its evil ways.  In its malicious attempt to drive my already depressingly low morale into a pit so deep I may never recover, this foul-mouthed little machine has now informed me that I can include a fifteen pound weight gain to my hit-me-while-I-am-down list.  No wonder everything in my closet no longer fits me.  I think the two are in cahoots and are trying to gaslight me into thinking that I really have gained all this weight.  

How could I?  I only turned 40, made a major career change, lost 2/3 of my prior income but retained 100% of my prior debts, and increased my Hoho intake to nearly double its normal dietary allotment.  I mean, none of these things should have any impact on my apparently-now-the-size-of-Texas ass, right?  

Good grief this means I am going to have to say those two wretched-evil-foul-sounding words: Diet & Exercise.  What the hell is my world coming to!!  I mean, I can handle the career change.  I love teaching even if it is THE MOST over-worked and under-paid profession in the world.  (I swear to GAWD, if one more person tells me my job is easy because I get summers and holidays off, I am going to have to "enlighten" them about the REAL meaning of teaching.)  I can handle the massive loss of income and recovering from being unemployed for almost a year.  So what if I no longer have any retirement, my savings is gone, the IRS wants my first born child, and I am having to declare bankruptcy?  I count myself lucky to HAVE a job and that it is a career I LOVE! Most people these days don't even have one of those two.  But to add diet and exercise to the list?  That's hitting below the belt.

Now this damnable digital devil has told me that my life as a Barbie is over.  My youth has passed and my ass has become my personal Dorian Grey; taking toll for my indulgent sins.  Damn you, Hostess for making such sweet chocolate and cream-spread rolls.  Damn you for becoming my enabler and the pimp of my decadent escapes from the hounds of hell that has been this year.  Now my sweet-sweet days of being able to inhale an entire thin crust pizza, three cokes and two pudding cups all in one sitting without anything to show for it are over.  I mourn the loss of my metabolism and do not go quietly into this good night.  (Why the hell is liposuction NOT covered through my insurance?)

Damn you thin celebrities for making me feel less than beautiful if I am not emaciated and malnourished.  Goodbye my sacchariferous Hoho love.  Our time was a delicious descent into cellulite and debauchery, but now must end.  I must feign a new adoration for such unpalatable cellulose as celery and lettuce....  

Oh screw the flowery goodbyes.  Dude, this just sucks!!!  I'm off to haul my newly formed ba-donka-donk butt into the gym before I suck down another two pound leftover Easter bunny in a fit of despair.  And if you don't think I won't be bitching about dieting and working out, you obviously have not been reading Lisa-tastrophies for long.  

Gold-Member

Or what REALLY happened to King Midas and his golden touch.

This six weeks my class Language Arts class has been studying Mythology.  Let's just say the gods and goddesses of Greek and Roman mythology in the minds of 7th graders are more mixed up than a Roman orgy at closing time.  

Note to kids:  

A) Pandora was not Samantha's mother from Bewitched.  (Although points given for having knowledge of "vintage" television shows.)  

B) Brad Pit is NOT really Hercules.  Even if he was built like a greek god in the movie....  

Monday we read the story of King Midas.  For those who don't remember: his curse was to turn everything he touched into gold.  Which was great for him in the beginning, but not so much for his daughter until Midas got his greed issues worked out.

Two things I have learned about teaching seventh graders:

1. They take everything LITERALLY!!  They can't understand common sense, but they will beat you down with the literal every chance they get.

2. Everything ~ and I do mean EVERYTHING ~ can have a sexual connotation to it.  Even math because GAWD forbid you add, subtract, multiply or divide something and have the answer turn out to be 69!!!!  You will not get your class back for a good 10 minutes.

After we read the story, we start discussing why the ability to turn everything into gold might not be a good idea.  It went a little like this:

T - that would be me : how do you think this would affect Midas in his daily life?

Student A: It would suck if you had to take a piss.  Dude, you touch your dick to shake it off and your sh*t's hard for life.

Student B:  Oh dude!! That would suck, except for with the chicks, man.  

Student C:  Yeah, but if she was sucking your dick and it was gold and everything you touch turned to gold, would she turn to gold?  Cause, man, I ain't got no use for some gold hoochie.

T ~ (Not wanting to give ammunition to this conversation direction ):  I can see how not being able to use certain body parts would not be a good thing, but can anyone think about other ways this golden touch might give Midas problems?

Student D: Oh Man!! So if everything you touch turned to gold, what about your sh*t?  F*ck!  Solid gold sh*t!!  That's da bomb! You could actually sell your sh*t and get money......

This is the part where I walked over to my desk and open the "In Case of Emergency" drawer.  This drawer is filled with chocolate ~ since the school district apparently frowns on teachers taking xanax during class room hours ~ and proceed to eat my body weight in Hershey's miniatures while waiting for the "Midas Touch" to run its course.

The Hamster Homicides: Confessions of a Serial Hamster Killer

When I was  just a little tastrophie in the making, I developed my love of all things furry. Since Mom knew, as all Moms know, that mini-tastrophie was not going to engage in any real care and feeding of the animals no matter how much she swore she would keep her room clean, feed it and love it every day, she was not going to hold up to her end of the bargin.  And that Mom would be the one to walk the dog, clean up after the cat and feed both, she wisely denied all my pleas for a larger pet.  She new better and thus regulated my fur ownership to small caged animals instead of the ones that had to be walked or scooped daily.  

After days of endless whining on my part (a precursor to my days of endless b*tching, I assure you), Mom took me to the local pet store to pick out my new furry friend.  Some how I wasn't a rat person and a gerbil looked too much like a mouse-kangaroo hybrid for my taste, so I settled on the cutest teddy bear hamster the store had to offer.  He was golden and white and had checks that could hold an entire bag of sunflower seeds.  With my being the creative person I am; I named him "Goldie".  Not too sure he was happy about a being given a girl's name, but he never complained.  

After a short period of time Goldie died.  I don't know if it was from my constant feeding, or the fact that two days prior to his demise he had escaped from his happy habitrail home and woke up Mom in the middle of the night by crawling up her leg onto her chest.  Mom responded by using a combination back-handed-bitch-slap with a terror-induced-throw-down ending in Goldie making direct and hard contact with the wall across the room.  So Cause of Death, while never fully determined by necropsy, was either internal hemorrhage or internal fat.  This began what would be my brief, but high body count, foray into the world of hamster homicide.

It was purely accidental, I assure you.  And it is not like I am proud of the fact, that in the world of serial killers, (if the FBI included hamster body counts), I would probably be at the top of the most wanted list making John Wayne Gacey look like an amateur.  

Goldie made it about a month in my house before he went to the big habitrail in the sky.  I was broken hearted.  I cried for two hours and in an attempt to get me to finally shut me up, Mom agreed to let me get another hamster.  Off to the same pet store that bore Goldie to find me a new furry friend.  

"Squirmmie" (Are you seeing a pattern to my pet-naming skills?) was the second and longest lasting of my hamsters.  He lasted about four months before joining Goldie in the Great Hamster Valhalla.  COD in his case was clear cut.  He had an "unfortunate" wheel accident and that is all I can say about that.  It wasn't pretty and I am still a little traumatized by the whole thing.

Back to the SAME pet-store we go. At this point the store owner has started to look at me a little funny and the other hamsters have begun backing away from the front of the cage when they see me.  But this time I was going to be smart.  Since the boy hamsters couldn't hack it in my house, I picked a girl hamster.  I also managed to pick the hamster version of the happy hooker, cause this one came all ready knocked up.  Hammie (Do you see now why I don't have kids?  Can you imagine what I would have called them?) managed to increase the hamster to human ratio in my house by 5:1.  Pretty impressive for a creature only seven inches long.  After a few months, I discovered that hamsters are faster at breeding than rabbits.  Six became 12, then 24, and so on....  I had my own stock piled hamster stash and the only thing that kept these little tribbles from over taking my house was my ability to "level the playing field".

I like to think of it was "loving them to death".  In my need to overcompensate for the deaths of my first two, I made sure there was an endless food supply.  I shoved anything and everything I thought a hamster could and would eat into that cage. My methods weren't always clean or consistent.  After all I was only about 7 years old and couldn't remember when I had or had not fed them last.  Feast or famine was my modus operandi, plus on occasion I had help from others.  Hamsters are worse than the Mob at taking out others who get in line for their goods and there is no love loss when taking out your sibling if he cuts in line for the sunflower seeds. Pure carnage in a plastic coliseum. 

In the end it wasn't pretty.  It took fourteen months and countless bags of hamster food, but I managed to single-handedly reduce the hamster:human ratio to 0:3.  By then I had run out of places in the back patio garden (we lived in an apartment) to bury the bodies.  I had begun secretly disposing of my "hamster packs" in spots along the leasing office bushes, in trash dumpsters, and one mass grave in the playground sand pit.  While that did cause quite the ruckus among the other apartment adults, no one asked any questions and Mom stopped asking me where the bodies were going.  I think some things a parent does not want to know about their child.  

Eventually they were all gone and Mom carted the well used habitrail to the dumpster for good. After the last one was gone, I did not have another pet until I was well into my teens.  By then I had learned the rules of responsible pet ownership.  Yet as Karma has always done, she was not about to let my hamster homicides to go unanswered.  Since that fateful year, every pet that I have ever owned has had some illness/disease/injury that was answered in the biggest of Karmic-pay-backs: the over-priced vet visit.  My guilt at having taken so many lives now manifests itself in spoiling my cats.  Thus I have one very large, toothless cat and one who's lack of navigational skills cause her to miss the litter every time.  And every now and then, when the pocket book is empty and the vet bill is large; I think I hear the soft squeaking giggles of a couple of dozen hamsters getting even.

Thanks to Dr. Zibbs who's equal opportunity offending of little people inspired this blog.

Beware the IRS of March

Guess what happens when you try to deduct Ho-ho's and you make a major screw up on your tax returns from two years ago?  The IRS sends you a nice love letter saying you f*cked up and could you please send them a check for $10,000 ... LIKE NOW.  But if you can't pay, they will be more than happy to let you make payments while interest and penalties rack up at a rate higher than the current APR +20%.  I should be able to pay off Uncle Sam for this nice little screw sometime in 2120.  

I have to say that opening this letter was a one of a kind feeling.  Somewhere between getting kicked in the (proverbial) nuts, getting bitch-slapped and having your eyes gouged out by

 hot iron pokers all at once.  I am not recommending this ride to anyone.  After the full bout of hysteria and hyperventilation, followed by the consumption of SEVERAL boxes of Ho-ho's and a few (OK, MANY) xanax, I proceeded to scour my house for money.  I found $2 in my jeans pocket, $1.75 in change between the couch cushions and a few wayward raisins under the sofa.  (Do raisins go bad??)  Now, if I can just come up with the other $9,996.25 before April 15th, I should be good to go.  Apparently if you are a fat-cat CEO who gets mega buck bonuses, Uncle Sam doesn't give a rat's ass about your tax return but if you are a dead broke first year teacher who is still trying how to make ends meet every month when she has more month than money...game on!!  

On the bright side, the IRS is not auditing me.  Which would probably amount to a bigger pocket-book bioposy than this one.  So I should be thanking my lucky stars that it is just a minor piece of government endorsed extortion instead of a full blown body cavity search with a chain-saw.  Although, it is just as pleasant feeling :-)  

So here are Ms. Tastrohpie's little words of warning for all you tax-fun loving people this time of year. CHECK, DOUBLE CHECK and THEN GET SOMEONE ELSE TO CHECK before you file.  (Karma can kick slap me all she wants and usually does; I just don't want her messing with anyone else.)  

I'm off to go sell some plasma, a kidney and my (future) first born child.  Hey Mister, can you spare a dime?

P.s. Turbo-Tax can SUCK IT!!!

Can I Deduct Ho-Hos?

Oh Good GAWD it's that time again.  That time when I run around the apartment looking for everything and anything that can be considered a deduction on my taxes.  And let me tell you, people, Ms. Tastrophie can rationalize the living sh*t out of things.

***Five dollar Starbucks White Mocha Latte as an educational expense?  Hell yes!  You want me to be wide away when I am trying to import the importance of conjugating the "be" verb correctly to kids who can barely spell their own names, don't you?  Not to mention that Ms. T tends to be a bit on the cranky when she doesn't get her morning fix.  Not a good thing when talking to a bunch of kids who think Tupoc was the Original Gangster.  

***$65 (on SALE ~ thank you very much) Naturalizer kitten heeled black patent leather too cute shoes ~ educational expense.  Because we do NOT need another teacher in a denim empire waist jean dress and tennis shoes trying to teach the importance of making a good impression.  Define Irony, anyone???

***Massage therapy ~ health care.  Uh, duh!  If you had my job you would be stressed too.  So having Sven with the Wonder hands rub me up and down for an hour, keeps me from going postal on the kids.  I think that is justification enough.  Plus, did I mention his name is Sven?  Please feel free to use your imagination...I do ;-)

***Ho-hos and Xanax ~ another health care cost.  I lobbied my insurance company to include Ho-hos in the prescription plan but I don't think they are taking me seriously.  I kept getting sent to the Mental Health Claims department every time I call and ask about this.  I don't know why?  

***Victoria Secret V-Thong Panties with Matching Bra Sets ($250) ~ Home Improvement.  How the hell am I ever going to move out of a shit-hole one bedroom apartment if I don't get a man who can hep finance the move out?  O.K. this one is a little on the setting-women-back-a-few-decades side, but these are desperate times and I am in some serious need of a few tax breaks of my own, so work with me here people.

Now if anyone knows where I can get a couple of social security cards issued for Elsa and Bud E. Phat, I would appreciate it.  Since they don't seem to be motivated to find a way to help support this one income household, I am thinking I am going to shove them in some Baby Gap clothing and start claiming them as dependents.  

I'm off to go look for that receipt for my Coach Carry-All ~ Future Mortgage Expenses.  Because at the rate the economy is falling, I maybe living out of that bag soon enough.

Sarcasm ~ Not Just For Adults Anymore

Ms. Tastrophie is one for knowing when to cop an attitude and when NOT to cop an attitude.  I have copped a few in my life and all I can say is that; in the world of the verbal bitch slap, Ms. Tastrophie has been known to take down a few names.  When I lived in the corporate-frequent-flier-world, I earned quite a few upgrades based on my ability to repartee and flay with the best of them.  So when I started teaching, I realized the day of the verbal-knock-down was coming to an end.  Or so I thought....

Every teaching book, training video, educational theory class in the world will tell you that you can not, and should not use sarcasm with kids.  Wwwwweeeeeeeellllllll..... I'm here to tell you that, aaahhhh, isn't necessarily true.  In fact sarcasm can be, and usually is, your best line of defense in some cases.  And used effectively will gain you more street-cred than a new pair of Jordans on a Friday night.  

Case in point.  When some smart mouthed seventh grader yells at you from across the room "Fuck You Bitch, you ain't my Mamma", you can smile and simply reply back "No, I am not your Mamma.  God didn't see why two women should have to bear that little life draining pleasure."  And no one will see the verbal smack down you just bestowed on the lovely little princess you have in your class.

Since Sarcasm works so well, not only with the students, but with their parents; I feel it should be spread equally.  Especially when someone's Baby-Mama is telling you that her little contribution to the world's future is not her problem during school hours and it ain't her fault that the kid can't do homework because he/she was too stoned after finding da Mama's stash last night.  Please feel free to enlighten Ms. Baby-Mama that you can not take the credit for her child's future employment at McDonald's; that bragging right will be all hers.

Apparently I am not the only one.  Recently a friend sent me the following comments via e-mail.  Ms. Tastrophie is only ashamed that she did not think of some of them first.

These are actual comments made on students' report cards by teachers in the New York City public school system. All teachers were reprimanded (but, boy, are these funny!)

1. Since my last report, your child has reached rock bottom and has started to dig.

2. I would not allow this student to breed.

3. Your child has delusions of adequacy.

4. Your son is depriving a village somewhere of an idiot.

5. Your son sets low personal standards and then consistently fails to achieve them.

6. The student has a 'full six-pack' but lacks the plastic thing to hold it all together.

7. This child has been working with glue too much.

8. When your daughter's IQ reaches 50, she should sell.

9. The gates are down, the lights are flashing, but the train isn't coming.

10. If this student were any more stupid, he'd have to be watered twice a week.

11. It's impossible to believe the sperm that created this child beat out 1,000,000 others.

12. The wheel is turning but the hamster is definitely dead.

But I Love Nuts....

Once again, life on an airplane has brought me something to blog about.

First off, in order to get to my Mother's house I have to start flying at ass crack early, go to no less than half a dozen airports and change flights about five times. Damn good thing I really like going to the Caribbean because if she still lived in New Jersey and I had to do that crap... Faaaaaaa - getta-boudit.

Anyway, on the fifth and final leg of my day long venture, I had hit max-flight-saturation and had begun to hallucinate. I know this because as I was sitting in my (recently upgraded) first class seat and after watching the in-flight movie, a PSA came on for prostate cancer. Nothing unusal there. Men, get your prostate checked!! If we woman can endure having our girls pushed into pancakes by Nurse Ratchett with a machine that amounts to a medievil torture device, you can turn to the side and cough.
So the PSA starts and the bubbly young blonde starts telling the women in the audience to make a prostate check appointment for the men in their lives. OK, I get it. Men hate going to the doctor for any reason. (Case in point my Dad ~ who happened to almost slice his nose off and thought that super-gluing it back together would work just fine. Step-Mom had the good sense to yank his butt and nose into the ER.) So instead of riding your man's ass to get him to do it, make the appointment and he can't back out. Simple as that and I'm cool with that idea. Then the blonde babe tells the women to tell their men that by making this appointment she is showing him that she loves ALL of him...and not just his prostate. WWWWAAAAAHHHHH?????


Now there have been a gazillion books written about relationships between men and women, and how men and women talk to each other. And how men and women talk differently than each other. And how men feel about women and how we express our feelings differently. But NEVER in all my self-help/relationship-help reading days have I EVER seen it written that women express their love for their man by grabbing him by the balls and saying "THIS" is what I love about you. I mean, we may LOVE that part of you and we may even LOVE all the things you can make it do. But we do not LOVE ONLY THAT part of you. Unlike some men I have known...


Yes, this is that part that rags on men objectifying women through their body parts. (If I was really offended by it, do you think I would have paid so much for the Turbo Twin Upgrades I LOVE so much?) Women do NOT keep a man around long enough to make a Prostate Doctor appointment for him just because he has a great "package" in his jeans. We may put up with his baggage and crap for a while because of it, but we aren't going to make a "bend over" exam for that man.


Back to the plane and a dozen people in first class watching Ms. Perky Prostate PSA make her little announcement. I am scanning the seats to see if anyone else is having this nutty moment. Most were stifling their snarfing or rolling their eyes in a sort of we-don't-talk-about-nuts-and-bolts-in-public kind of way, when a hushed female voice from behind me asks her husband what a prostate is. (I am assuming it was her husband because she had Trophy Wife stamped all over her Prada wearing forehead and had the blank expression of someone who has problems putting 2+2 together and getting anything other than 22.) Thankfully, he had the sense to whisper his answer back to her because I didn't really want to hear how he was going to answer. He must have broken it down into elementary terms because she replied, "But honey, I love nuts...."


And I love traveling :-)

Out Of Service

Due to difficulties beyond our control, Ms. Tastrophie will not be posting for a while.
While she may visit blogs from time to time, she will not be attending to this site in the near future. Thank you to everyone who has posted, read and stalked this blog in the past.
Ms. Tastrophie hopes to one day return to her snarky ways and post again in the future.