Thursday, May 27, 2004

An **ass** story for the Anonymous Marco in Baton Rouge

Maybe this'll stop yer bitchin' buddy.

Ok. This is a tale of the time I bared my ass to an entire wedding reception, the band, the bartenders, passers-by...

My friends Kim and Scott decided to do the deed, and I was just lucky enough (dripping sarcasm) to be chosen as one of the bridesmaids. Woo. It was a hot and humid July day. Our dresses were SKIN-TIGHT-FULL-LENGTH-OFF-THE-SHOULDER black frikkin' taffeta or whatever shiny material that is they make these things out of. I'da sooner been encased in a wetsuit.

We had to go through all that wedding bullshit of having our hair done, our make-up, etc. For those of you who don't know me, I have really thick, really fine, can't-do-a-damn-thing-with-it hair. The second we stepped out of the torture parlor, my hair went splat. Great, $40 for nuthin' (and on top of a $300 butt-ugly dress I'll never wear again...).

May I just say that, well... this wedding wasn't really something I wanted to be a part of (though they're still married to this day despite Kim's bitchy mother's disapproval). I digress...

It's time to walk down the ol' aisle... The other bridesmaids are in a que, I'm the final one, and Kim starts to hyperventilate, saying she can't go through with it. **OH C'MON!!** I give her a little pep talk ("Get on your feet, bitch. You are marrying Slinky whether you want to or not."), and then, as the last vestel virgin, pissily lurch down the aisle with my groomsman escort (who was a good foot shorter... never fails).

Eventually, the entire ordeal is done with and the party gets going. Is it any wonder we all got drunk? Heck, I even skipped part of the reception and went bar-hopping by myself. Nothing like taking yourself out on a date (your 'date' always buys, you have brilliant, witty conversation, whisper sweet nuthins in yer own ear, and pretty much say all the good stuff that's gonna get you in bed later).

Anyhoo, I went back to the reception quite a bit more inebriated than at my departure. The band was playing, I was dancing, people were dropping like flies on this floor. The staff must've put like 30 coats of wax on it, 'cuz NO ONE could stand up. You got it: I went down like a tight sack o' taters. However, when I got up, I didn't think anything was amiss until my boss' wife kept grabbing the front of my dress and pulling it back up.

Sigh... for what they charge for bridesmaid dresses, you'd think they'd actually SEW the seams together. But no. By and large, they're just glued. So when I wiped out, the back seam of my dress split wide open like Moses parting the red sea. The only thing I had on under said dress was a pair o' pantyhose. No undies (didn't want any unsightly lines), no bra (why bother?). I do believe this was captured on someone's camcorder which is why I don't watch things like "America's Funniest Home Videos". So if any of you ever see footage of a 6 foot blonde as described above, let me know if the pervert wins any money for it, 'cuz I'm gonna get my cut!!

Comments:
I saw one of these this morning as I was stepping out the door into a pile of dog poop with a splitting headache. I didn't think I drank that much, did I? Then I nearly ran out of gas.... needless to say I was late for work today. But at least I had my ass covered at all times. The headach was mine, not the poop's.
 
Google on 'cooter snap'. Ha Ha funny...
 
Girl...there's only one thing that's gonna stop my bitchin' right now...and as entertaining as your ass story was, it just didn't quite do it for me...maybe some pictures would have helped!

For some reason I have trouble thinking of you as "the last vestel virgin"...am I in the right blog?!? I must be 'cuase I can sure picture you goin' down like a sack o' taters...but why for you claim this to be SOOO embarrassing? Like I said last night, drunk chicks w/o panties ain't such a bad thing at all. Anyone else out there agree w/ that statement? I'm sure some heads are shaking right now.

Oh, and for the record...Ang, I voted for the other ass story. And to clarify a few more things to your readers...Pooter is the one with the pee fetish and Marco the Anonymous (or not so anonymous) Chemist in Baton Rouge has the ass thing. Now when do I get to hear the other ass story!
 
You should have returned that dress and made them give you a refund.
 
Aw, Mr. MAK... I'm sorry 'bout yer achin' head. And the boyz want you to go to Martini's with them tonight (I'ma bow-wow-wowing out; gotta pull weeds in the old garden). Either way, I don't think you drank all THAT much. Lordy knows I was a few sheets, but that might have had more to do with the blissful foot massage Rog gave me. In the future, just remember to pray to Saint Bibiana, the Hangover Saint. She will save you.

Skip, yer a perv. But that IS pretty funny.

Marco, nice way of pullin' my shit to the curb. I figure an ass story is an ass story. So fine. At some point I will write about the 'other ass story' to appease the mighty bald chemist demi-god. Mind you, it's a more involved skit than the one above...

Mandy, thanks for checkin' back in. I didn't mean to get all bitchy in my other post. Alas, I AM a bitch, so oh well. And I WISH I could've taken that dress back. As it is, I have a $300 hospital gown (who sez ya can't look yer best when yer down?)
 
Not being of the Catholic persuasion I had to look this Saint Bibiana up. Here's what I found:

December 2

Today is the feast day of the patron saint of the city of
Los Angeles, California - Saint Viviana or Bibiana, Virgin
and Martyr. Although a church in Saint Viviana's honor
existed in Rome as early as the fifth century, we have no
authentic details of her life, nor do we know for sure if
she ever existed. But that doesn't mean there isn't a
complete story of her life, which goes something like this:

Young Saint Viviana's parents, Flavian and Dafrosa, were
both zealous Christains who were brutally murdered by the
Roman authorities for their faith. Saint Viviana and her
sister, Demetria, were stripped of all their possessions,
but continued to live in their family's house for five
months, fasting and praying. Eventually, they were brought
before the magistrate where Demetria simply dropped dead in
the presence of the judge. Saint Viviana was remanded to
an insane asylum and then to a brothel where the madame,
Rufina, was charged with persuading Saint Viviana from the
way of faith and chastity.

Rufina failed and Saint Viviana was tied to a pillar and
whipped with lead-tipped scourges until she died. Her body
was left in the square for the dogs to eat, but after two
days, no dog had touched it. A priest named John took
Saint Viviana's body and buried her with her mother and
sister. Father John later got thrown off a bridge into the
Tiber.

Because the Spanish pronounce the letter "V" as the letter
"B", Saint Viviana's name which means "full of life" (Latin
vivo) was thought by them to mean "full of drink" (Latin
bibo). Consequently, the Spanish invoked Saint Bibiana's
name against hangovers.
 
Ang- On my Blogger 'dashboard' (who are they paying to come up with these names?) there is a link to a site called "Hello Photoblogging" (again, who the hell...) I clicked on it and spent about an hour following the "simple" instructions...it really isnt all that complex for a normal person which meant I was screwed. But it does work, it is free, and all in all it's not really that hard. It pretty much talks you through setting it up.
And I agree with you about Kevin's comments...it has pretty much turned into a love fest over there, or else "check out my blog, too". The guy is funny as hell, though.
When you figure out the picture deal, let's see some booty. All in favor say aye.
Adios.
 
Damn, Jack! How long is a drive from Texas to Iowa? *heh eh heh heh*

But I'll try the simple instructions... and post a pic o' my poog. (Who happens to be my dog, Gus...)
 
I'm with Jack on this one...let's see some booty Ang!!! Been since January since I've seen that ass. Don't tease us with pics o' the football...let's see the good stuff.
 
FYI: Gus has many different names. Marco calls him Football because he used to be shaped like one when he was a puppy; I call him Mr. Chadwick when he is misbehaving; Mush calls him The Poog; Joe calls him You Little Bastard Don't Chew On My Toes; and other monikers include the Gustinator, Dust, and The Dog.
 
I am frightened by the snapping cooter. What's that giant sucking sound coming from south of the border?
 
What's the matter Ang...you don't want people thinking you might name your body parts and sittin' around all day tryin' to figure out which one could possibly be dubbed "he football"?!?
 
Question: What's that giant sucking sound coming from south of the border?

My answer: Could it possibly be the gaping vacuum in your ass calling desperately for someone's foot?

Question: What's the matter Ang...you don't want people thinking you might name your body parts and sittin' around all day tryin' to figure out which one could possibly be dubbed "he football"?!?

My answer: If people think that's what I do, more power to them. However, there is not ONE thing on my person that remotely resembles a football. But I do have a private name for a private part bestowed upon me by a private.
 
I was once told it's bad luck to kill a cooter ('les of course it's fur eatin')...does the same go for armadillos?
 
Uh yip! But the meat's harder to get to in a 'dillo.
 
Then I'll be sure to keep my eyes open from now on...I don't need any more bad luck!!!
 
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