Category Archives: Humor

Team Johnny Responds

Von and The Hipster GP Talk Sex


Courtesy: BlogSpot

I knew I was gonna like this guy as soon as he entered my exam room. Bushy brown beard, wide smile, left arm completely tattooed, rocking a bright blue “I ♥ PAs” t-shirt super ironically. He’s more the type of guy I’d flirt up at Rollin’ Oats. Instead, he’s snapping on gloves, getting ready to examine my Hoo Hah.

A “well woman’s exam” as they like to put it now. We start topside, and he feels a tight mass on the left. “Hmm,” he frowns, then skates his hands over to the other boob, and finds a matching tight mass.

“You work out?” he says ironically/unironically.

I mention I started free weights at the gym that month.


“No, I’m good at kicking my own ass.”

As he heads downtown, Hipster Doc asks about my sexual activity which I honestly share “None.” Right then it feels like he’s placed his entire forearm into my uterus, and I realize, this is the most intimate I’ve been with a hot male of any profession in…years

Hipster Doc does the ol’ swabby swab then hands the super sized Q-tips to his assistant for examination under the scope. He gives me my privacy to clean up and re-dress as he examines the culture. When he returns, he sits down in front of me with a severe look in his eyes.

Damn, baby. You got some blue ass eyes.

“I found something in the culture.”

Oh oh.

“I sent three pills to the pharmacy, you just drop those, you’ll be fine.”

What the…??

“You’ve got trichomoniasis.”

Huh? What?? My Rolodex† of whore-related diseases isn’t finding this.

“They’re not necessarily sexually transmitted…could be from swimming in natural waters, or public pools…”

“Well it can’t be sex, I’m not havin- wait, did you say ‘they’? Do I have creatures in my vag?!?”

I swiftly do a search on my phone and I gasp.

“There’s….THINGS…with…FLAGELLUM!?! IN MY BODY!!”

“Just knock those three pills out,” he assures.

I groan. “I shouldn’t have fucked that granola…”

Hipster Doc laughs hysterically.



Earlier this month, I went to see him because now I am having The Sex (yeah homies, that’s right! I’m gettin’ some! On the regular! WOO HOO!!) and that also means, now I have to think about birth control. The last guy I was steadily with I divorced four years ago, and until this visit, I’d only had sex with two men. So, I tell him, bring me up to speed on what the kids are into. 

Hipster Doc reminds me I’m A Women Of A Certain Age, and so, risks do increase. He asks, “Do you smoke?”

“Tobacco, no. Marijuana, yes.”

He scrolls down his MacBook screen, “Women who smoke are at higher risk of life threatening side effects…”

“Uh huh…”

“…but the research on marijuana doesn’t suggest any significant impact.”

“Of course.”

“So don’t smoke tobacco.”

“No problem. Weed?”

He shrugs, ‘I don’t give a shit.’

Hipster Doc scrolls his screen some more and starts listing available medications. I share my history with birth control, which is not great: excessive weight gain, high blood pressure, asthma even. Hipster Doc scrolls further.

“With your age…”

Stop pointing that out!

“…and you’re not a tobacco smoker, and your history with hormones, I would suggest an IUD.”

“Sign me up!”

“An IUD is gonna run about $1000 without health insurance.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, mate!”

“You know a reversible vasectomy for a male without insurance is only $150?”

“Well, order a round of male sterilizations for everyone!”

“Oops! I shouldn’t have told you that…you might start a revolution.” I should mention here I brought Hipster Doc up to speed on my psychosis. His background is in psychology, so he understands my zeal.

“‘Mass sterilization for all’ is what I heard you say, doc!”

“Oh boy…”

“Thanks for the suggestion; I’m gonna go start a revolution.”

“Yeah. You do that.”

He leaves the room and whips back with a form in his hand. “Fill this out, see if you qualify, it’s a non-prof that covers IUDs for low income women. Take it next door.”

“Thanks man.”

We share a pound, and I’m out the door.


Courtesy: DeviantArt

This week, I phoned up Hipster Doc for a hookup on allergy medication and information on foreign travel immunizations. I leave a phone message and expect it to be lost to the cosmos, but lo and behold, Hipster Doc calls me back in the early evening.

“Yeah got you hooked up for the sniffles. Over at your pharmacy. Yeah, check with county on those shots…where are you going?”

“Central America.”

“Alright, maybe the basics. Typhoid, malaria. Yeah, I’m pretty sure the county has a department. That’s where I went to get my rabies shot.”


“Dude, I’m not even going to explore why you had to get a rabies shot. But I’ll check out the Foreign Travel Department.”

“Alright. Laters.”


I ♥ my GP!


†: a device used pre-personal computer to collect contact information, phone numbers, notes, etc. on note cards separated by alphabetical tabs which spun on a rotating stand for quick access.

The Last Unicorn


The very last printed copy of I Blew Up Juarez sold Friday night! 

Eviction Number Five

“Shutting down the block, one unit at a time.” 


I told you guys this apartment is cursed! The first four evictions were interesting, but this guy was just some schlemeel who spent way too much money on hookers. In and out and in and out like it was Grand Central Station. The well must’ve dried up, because no more prozzies came by. Then I saw him no longer driving a vehicle, instead, hoisting a bicycle up the stairs as his mode of transportation. So if anything, this was inevitable.

You live by me, prepare to downspiral!

Wordless Wednesday: Trust


Writing Prompt: Last Day On Earth


[NOTE: I joined a new writer's group! This group differs from the old one, in that these writers are eclectic in personality, diverse in style, and disciplined to work, which is what I prefer in a group setting. Our first meeting was fun. Here's one of the 12 minute writing prompts we did; enjoy!]

Concept: A meteor is about to strike our planet, decimation of our known civilization is certain! React to the news…

My fellow Americans, Armageddon is upon us. I will not speak to you as your President, but as your neighbor. I too am terrified, of what shall become of our homes, of the natural life, and of the art we cherish. And since I have the world’s attention right now for the next 11 minutes, I’d like to go ahead and share a few things. First, I need to apologize to Ms. Jackson. It was me, not Henry, who pushed Melissa off the monkey bars. I watched as Henry got swatted over and over, tears streaming down his red face, eyes of disbelief pleading to me to tell the truth. It has haunted me this entire life and I’m glad to relieve myself. Next…I confess…I looked down Sara’s shirt in Shop class all period long. She never caught me doing it, but I know I was a total sleezeball.

Alright, let’s forget the grade school stuff. This war currently in the Middle East? Well, it’s ongiong because I lost my shirt at the White House poker table! Yup, it was me, Dubya, Dicky Cheney, Donnie Rumsfeld, Metta World Peace, and Rhianna. Me against Donnie, chips high, and I lose, two sevens to his three 9s. I thought I had a good bluff, America! So yeah, you parents of soldiers battling out and losing lives over senseless interference? That’s all because of double 7s. Whew! This is therapeutic.

Okay, another one. Me, Putin and Cameron had an ultimate three way at Yves St Laurent’s former terrazzo in Marrakesh. We called it a ‘peace summit’ but really, it was all about gettin’ a piece of SOME ASS! Also, I tried LSD and I like it. I should’ve pushed for an increase in research funding because frankly, if we were all stoned right now, I think we’d be taking the end of the earth way way better.

In closing, I’m gonna roll a spliff and cheef in the Oval Office, because I’m the Chief of State, and the state I’m in merits cheefing. HA HA! This is why they got a guy to write my shit, oops, STUFF, oh hell, who the fuck cares about decorum! I’m gonna take off my clothes now…EVERYONE GET NAKED AND START FUCKING!!

President, out! <drops pen like a mic>

Original composition 9.7.14


Wordless Wednesday: Date Night


RANT: What Makes A Woman Fap-able?

Courtesy: StyleBistro

Courtesy: StyleBistro

[NOTE: I am a retired information technology specialist. This rant is long overdue.]

This week’s biggest culture shock was The Fappening, and I’m not going to bother to route you to the specifics of the story. Just, once again, nudies have been made public via the zeroes and ones. It’s really nice to know that all the progress we’ve made in information and communication technologies have led us to a social state of constantly taking pictures of our junk and feeling the world needs to know about it.

I’ve done it. Shot a few pics of my fun box. Not in the, ‘ooh this is sexy’ sense, but more in the paranoid, ‘does this mean I have herpes??’ sense (and no, friends, I don’t.) I’ve also done it to confirm, albeit in pure disbelief, that not one, but TWO white hairs have occupied fun box region, which is why I go smooth now.

I present this to say, I’ve utilized the technology to resolve an issue in a real-time moment, but I’ve never thought, ‘hey, I need to send So-N-So this.’ So why is it so commonplace for people to share these kinds of pics, and then be completely disgusted that they’ve made their way to websites. Really?? The issue is the violation? No, fucktard, the issue is you’re so self-absorbed you felt the need to hit SEND to a very unreliable person. That, or you’re just fuckin’ lazy. You want someone to be impressed with your naked body? Get up, go over to their place and show it to ‘em, Bible-style.

It was a hack job, Von. Yeah, yeah, but don’t blame The Cloud. Again, blame the fucktard who sent his or her ‘sensitive, personal photos’ across the firewire. It’s a shared lane, people; anything you put out there in zero and one form can be accessed. Screw passwords and encryption; remember, humans designed them, humans can deconstruct them. NOTHING IS IMPENETRABLE. You really should stop blissfully relying on sites and services to protect your data. In fact, try to spend some time reading the EULA or Terms Of Use before registering your avatar. Don’t want to read through all the fine print? Then don’t complain about your ‘sensitive, personal’ shit being accessed. Most of the time, you’re already signing over your rights.

And don’t forget, ya’ll…there’s the good ol’ NSA. The Metadatabaters can bypass any wails of violation you may throw at them. No one’s on your side, baby, so stop bitching.

Don’t want it out there? Don’t hit SEND.

That rant being over, lemme go ahead and reiterate the title: what makes a girl fap-able? In studying my site traffic and analytics, I have found that, during the early morning hours in America, a certain pic of me tends to show up in search engine results. The specifics are defined as “encrypted search results.” Well, doing some further digging, the popular search engine term for that particular pic is “hot wifey”. How the hell does that lead you fappers to ME?!?

Now here’s the debacle…a talented artist like myself, an amateur photographer, who happens to be a woman, likes to post pictures of herself in action quite regularly (and deftly I feel) right here on The intent of the site is to celebrate my -ness; my creativeness, my wildness, my antipatheticness. However, during the early morning hours in Brazil, a certain pic of me tends to get hits. Same in Belgium. Same in South Africa. Not the same picture, mind you, which I guess would be a compliment if I was trying to solicit compliments from night fappers! But still…this site wasn’t designed for you to jack off to. I’m contemplating adding a warning message to my main header: There Be No Fapping Here.

It is the zeroes and ones, and if I upload then hit Publish, the probability of being fapped to increases as I continue to provide photos in my blog posts. I want the attention to my artistry, not my genitals, but, I suppose I have no choice but to sigh and quote The Stiffler:




“Whack away, Jim. Whack away.”


You Fall In, I Lean In.

I watched with mixed alarm/rage as he took my lap tray, my footstool, and assembled a crude end table beside my bed. Delivering my calmest, what the fuck are you doing?, he replied matter-of-fact-ly, “I go to bed with a glass of water.” I watch as he places a glass full of water and his smoking accutrement on the tray. Great, I think to myself as I scoot from dead center of my bed to the right…Baby wants a nightstand.

The next day, we head to a going out of business sale where anything you can fit into a lidded bin, she’ll sell you for the size of it. She also had furniture for sale, so I muddle about until I spy a wobbly end table, double tiered, with a jacked drawer. Examining closer, the person who had owned this not only did a shit job of assembling the particle board pieces, but set the drawer guides the wrong way! Instead of reversing it and evening out the screws, they dumped it here.

“How much?”


“I’ll give you ten.”


Even though I *should* be writing, even though I *should* be preparing the next few features of this blog, I am instead deconstructing and reconstructing this nightstand. I actualize that I’m doing what most solitary people do when the Missus is being annoying – surrendering myself to the peace and simplicity of matching dowels and wood screws into pre-pressed and holed boards. Like my hideaway-in-the-craft-room brethren (and hopefully sisthren; I can’t be the only chick who enjoys woodwork!) I’m mumbling under my breath about all the uncertainties which have surfaced since I agreed to this arrangement. It’s not an arrangement, I chide myself; after all, we sparked at the exact same time. I’m perturbed because he’s constantly on my mind, he’s constantly pissing me off, everything smells of him. I can’t avoid him.

I reset the drawer and it slides with ease.

“Lean in!” my dear 94-year old neighbor exclaimed when I told her about him, she more interested in my dealings than her recent trip to the ER for a heart attack. So I did, I leaned in. As a result, Baby has his nightstand, and when he comes back to visit, he’ll have a place for his drink and his smoke and I’ll quietly burn knowing the condensation is going to collect and leave rings on the surface and he’s bringing ash into the bed but WHATEVER. He’s got a primo hottie as a girlfriend, who not only has her own lake but a Xbox attached to a 50″ high definition flat screen TV and a Netflix subscription.

He’s still going to break up with me, because ultimately, no man would DARE stay with a woman who has the capacity to turn junk into functioning furniture. Hell, he’ll probably not even notice it’s there.

I’m leaning in. And it’s painful.

Read My Book? Need Your Feedback ASAP!

Love that you bought it, would REALLY love your feedback!


You bought my book? AWESOME! Wanna tell me what to do next? Also awesome!

Go RIGHT NOW to Make Contact and select FOCUS GROUP from the pull-down menu.

I’m collecting information to help me decide my next move in the book game.

As always, thanks for playing along!




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