Tales From The Asylum

The Nasty Wench blog has moved!

2017-02-02T19:30:00.001-08:00

The Nasty Wench blog has moved, please head on over to www.thenastywench.com to see all the posts here plus some new ones - I've made it easy to comment, share on social media and subscribe:

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My Virtual Social Existence...Plenty of WTF

2014-04-30T17:14:00.000-07:00

I took a stab at online dating – it was not pretty. My options for meeting someone are fairly limited – I work for a really small company (no interesting candidates there) and I volunteer with an agency that is 98% women, unless I’m considering making a major lifestyle change...I don’t do the bar scene or casinos…come to think of it, this is beginning to sound a little pathetic.

So, I took the plunge into online dating, what's the worst that can happen? I'm sure most of the online sites are the same so I won't point any fingers...but there may have been some 'fishing' involved.

1st nibble: Message from a guy who is looking for a fun, fit, classy lady. Has he actually read my profile? I tried to discourage him politely, I'm new at this. I responded: "Thanks for your interest but, having read your profile, I'm not sure we are on the same page, good luck in your search”.

His response - he thinks I should spend a day on his boat. Let’s review the clues - I don’t know him, we’ve never spoken, never met but he wants me to spend the day on his boat. I’m not sure about my swimming skills but I’m thinking being a captive audience on a boat with a stranger is not in my best interests. Call me skittish.

So, I took it up a notch: You are looking for a fun, fit, classy lady - allow me to clarify. I can have fun doing just about anything and stuff others would not find nearly so amusing. I am physically active and working on the fit part, but I am not there yet (a 'work in progress' at best). As for classy – the voices of everyone I have ever known are laughing in the back of my head. It’s not the first word that comes to mind when describing myself (it’s not the second or third either). I can pull off classy only under duress and for really, really short periods of time but it’s not a regular feature and it will come unraveled without warning.

Incredibly, he still thinks we should do coffee. Against my better judgement, I decide to make this a practise meet - dip my toe in the water. He knows only my first name, does not know where I live and we are going to meet there...safe enough. Public place, I’ve got my car. No pressure 'cause I'm predicting this will fall flat. There is a line in my profile that reads "I am not impressed by shiny cars, boats, motorcycles, etc.” Buddy spends an hour and a half talking about his boat. This is not my soul mate. His interests include fiddle head greens and trout. I kid you not. Next.

2nd nibble: Long haired, hippy character from the Beaches in downtown Toronto. We message back and forth for several days. He is intelligent with a quiet sense of humor, well read. Describes himself as a better listener than a talker (remember this; it’s going to be important in a minute). We spoke on the phone a couple of times, decide to meet at a park on Lake Ontario and go hiking the trails for the afternoon. Maybe, in person, he will be a little more talkative. We hiked for 3 and a half hours over every single inch of trails in the area with a grand total of maybe, maybe 15 minutes of conversation. That's a generous estimate and it wasn't all in a row. I, because I know me, made a point of not filling all the silences; I don’t want to be single handedly responsible for all the conversation. After one particularly long stretch of silence, I turned to him and said "Are you always this talkative?" He smiled shyly and said "Ya, I get that a lot, want I should shut up and let you get a word in?". I e-mailed him back the next day and told him I thought he was sweet but that my life would swallow him whole.

3rd nibble: Earl from Orangeville – way too involved with his cat.

4th nibble: George – Newfie#1 – some blinky issue that, I’m sorry, but really distracting and his answer to everything was “well…there you go” – a little shy of stimulating conversation. George, there you go...just go...seriously go. Next.

5th nibble: 53 yr old Newfie #2 spewing psychological, metaphysical, quantum physics, parapsychological, spiritual "stuff", quite convinced that if he could just get a few minutes with the Dalai Lama, he could make his argument that somehow he personally holds the key to the universe and would be more than willing to release these truths and the photographic evidence contained in a picture of his dearly departed quadriplegic friend thereof to the Dalai himself, lives temporarily with his sister, has just discovered that the insurance was cancelled on his pick up and his current dilemma is when to quit working and head for NFLD to stay with his mother (have I mentioned 53??) and time that with the interruption in his income while the annual EI kicks in. Conversation will revolve around topics such as synchronicity, numerology, duality and his intertwined opinions on matters that will make absolutely no fkg sense whatsoever.

Seriously. I shit you not. Nuttier than a fruit cake stuffed full of squirrel poo.

He asked me what the chances were of seeing me again...uuummm. I bolted (I'm not proud of that...well, maybe a little). I rushed home and sent him a quick note explaining that while I found him interesting (okay, that's a stretch), he's a man clearly on a mission which I would never share with him. The faster he gets back to the mother ship, the better.

Of course, those are just the ones I’ve met. There have been a few other characters along the way who didn’t make it past an IM or two. There has been a recurring theme of height – most of the exchanges have been with tall men (insert your own vertically challenged joke here since 5’3” qualifies as taller than me, but seriously, 6’+). I was going to post a picture of myself beside an amusement park sign that read “you must be this tall for this ride”. One character emailed me a few times, we IM’d a couple of times, 6’4” tradesman. He asks for my cell#, I’m thinking that’s reasonably safe. 2 min later, he sends a picture to my cell while we are msn’ing with webcam. Imagine my surprise …. a very erect penis. How naïve am I? Never saw it coming. Wait, just reread that. Technically, he did ask if I'd like to watch him self amuse to the inevitable climax. Geez thanks...I appreciate the offer but count me out. Hey, wait a minute, that's what you've been working on while we were IM'ng...explains the slow response...one handed typing slows a man down. Impressive, I’ll give him that but there had been no conversation around nude pics. He asked for a pussy pic in return. The next day he got one - a spread eagle pussy shot. Apparently, that was not was he was looking for … who knew? The cat had posed perfectly - laid back, legs spread. He was fishing for a shaved pussy shot but I’m reasonably sure that Tigger was not up for that without some serious blood shed (mine). I will give him credit for a massive penis, in fact it was a little terrifying – settled the age old question about proportionality. Opted not to meet him. Next.

World's Best Ever Spread Eagle Pussy Shot - thanks Tigger!!

One of the guys who contacted me was a nudist ...gotta check my profile, what made him think we’d be compatible. I was bored, so we chatted online for a few min, he asks if we can go on web cam (note to self: how bored do you have to be to let this happen?). Told him I was not going to turn on my webcam, he opted to turn his on. You see where I am going with this?? He had mentioned he was a nudist, so maybe a shot of him sitting at his desk sans shirt. Nope, camera comes up and he’s standing there stark naked – full frontal, then does a full 360 and asks me what I think. I think he’s nuts, seriously, certifiably nuts. I'm not a prude, but a little warning would have gone a long way to prevent that little incident. Next.

At this point, I've spent enough time perusing dating profiles that I've decided to offer my "expert" opinion on self marketing in the world of online dating. First stop - the picture. What not to do:

Nice fish, we get it, you like to fish. That being said, women don't give a rat's ass about your fish. Fishing is what you do with your buddies, fishing is what you do in lieu of a relationship, fishing is a guys weekend. If you are marketing yourself to women in a visual medium, you might want to rethink your profile picture. (Would have liked to arrange these pictures nicely but you don't want to know how long it took to accomplish this random arrangement). Note to dude in the red shirt - the error is compounded by posing with a fish and a woman...I don't care if she's your friend, your sister, your neighbor (ex wife or girlfriend)...no women in your profile picture, we don't like it.

If your profile picture includes something you've killed, we don't like that either. Look at me, speaking for the entire female gender - I've taken an informal poll and we concur, no carcasses. You think I'm kidding...

I know it can be challenging to take a decent "selfie", I get it. If you can't manage with a camera, web cam or phone - you must have one friend who can assist. I know this because a friend's profile pics were crap and I helped him (the new girlfriend is a bit of a bitch but I'm not responsible for that, I just polished up the bait...catch and release my friend, catch and release). And if, by some chance you manage a suitable picture, would it be asking too much for you to rotate it...

Fully aware of the irony of me criticizing anyone for pics they are posting while I can't figure out how to tidy this up...but this is my blog, not a dating profile, deal with it.

I'll wrap this up with some random wtf...

You, sir, have a mullet. That is never, never good form.

Excuse me, what's the nature of your relationship with your dog? Just asking...

A shoe. Just a shoe. Maybe it's a fetish thing...

You appear to have underwear on your head. Frilly pink underwear that may or may not be yours...not judging, not even curious.

For the record - if you refer to yourself as "witty and cleaver", you're not...same goes for "intelagent". If your profile includes the line "looking for a woman who can be sane, rational and logical - at least most days of the month"...we took a poll on that one too and you are never getting laid again.

If you have ever taken a foray into the world of online dating, you know what I mean. If you haven't, consider yourself warned. I'm told the women are as bad as the men - yay for gender equality. Good luck to anyone who's navigating the world of online dating, let me know how it turns out (and always, always be prepared with a good pussy picture).

~~~~the nasty wench~~~~

PS - this just in....

Ode To a Walmart Greeter

2014-04-13T13:44:00.001-07:00

All due respect to Wal Mart Greeters around the world but if you ever walk into a Wal Mart and I’m there greeting you, take me out to the parking lot and back over me. Assume that I’m being held hostage and I’m being made to sing that freaking Wal Mart rah rah cheer song in the morning. I thought that was a rumor when I first heard about it but I got into a Wal Mart early one morning and they actually make their staff sing that asinine song. I cannot believe that it does not breach some human rights legislation.

Greeters don’t actually greet customers any more...it’s their entire job description - it’s right in the title, it’s their only task – greet the customers. They might notice you, they might glance in your direction but rarely do they actually acknowledge you. If you are bringing in a returned item, they are apparently obliged to tag the bag and instruct you to go directly to customer service. That’s it – a really short list of responsibilities. I guess Wal Mart “I might notice if you come in the store” person doesn’t carry the same cachet as Wal Mart Greeter so it’s just easier to refer to them as greeters. I was in Wal Mart yesterday trying to free one of the shopping carts from the herd that was apparently welded together within about 4 feet of a handy dandy Wal Mart Greeter. As I struggled and the greeter watched, I was thinking wouldn’t it be handy if you were a Wal Mart Cart Separator….but that probably requires training and skills you just don’t have so you just sit there while I pry these apart. And... she did. In her defence, I guess someone has to carefully guard that pocket full of return stickers for people who bought the wrong crap and need to return it for other crap.

One of the saddest things I think I’ve ever seen was a severely handicapped Wal Mart Greeter - a young man curled up in the fetal position in his wheelchair and parked near the door. Now, before you get all offended about this particular observation, I am all for people with serious physical challenges making their contribution to society. But there was something inherently wrong with slapping a vest on this individual, rolling him over and parking him near the door first thing in the morning and then retrieving him at the end of the day. If I have a return, am I supposed to reach into his pocket for a sticker? I just want to be clear on this; I don’t want to be explaining this particular maneuver to management...think maybe I’ll just keep the crap I bought and avoid a fiasco. I worried about him, what happens if they forget him there – he can’t roll away, he can’t call for help. I hope someone’s checklist of responsibilities includes retrieving the Greeter or he’s screwed.

In the grand scheme of things, I’m adding “if you ever find me greeting customers at Wal Mart” to the list of things for which I want to be euthanized. It’s probably going to require something more legally substantial than a blog post to make this happen, but this is a start.

There are 4 more situations on the list so far:

If I utter the phrase “let’s go to bingo”.

Sitting on a bench in the mall discussing bowel movements.

If I start drawing my eyebrows on with a thick black marker a good half inch above their natural location.

Talking incessantly about cats.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love cats but I sat down at a meeting the other night and a board member seated beside me who I’d never met before rambled on about her cats for a good half hour. This is an educated, professional woman ….a lawyer if I’m not mistaken...and on an evening out, the best she can come up with for conversation is an intensely detailed account of her cats that included impersonations and psychoanalytical play by plays. Behind closed doors you are welcome to enjoy whatever relationship with your cats the law allows...but leave it at home - no one will ever love, appreciate or understand your cats the way you do and that’s just the way the world works.

But, I digress...where was I? Ah, yes…Wal Mart Greeter...I think my work here is done.

~~~ the nasty wench~~~

Coffee Enemas...how do you take your coffee?

2013-03-02T15:56:00.000-08:00

Coffee Enemas...how do you take your coffee?

(for the record, orally...I take mine orally)

Coffee enema…this is a thing?? Color me surprised. My son was watching an episode of My Strange Addiction and shares this little gem with me. Not only is a coffee enema a thing, it’s a thing that can become addictive. Oh, do tell.

Gotta google that one, where else would one find a wealth of information on strange shit that people do? Sure enough, I get as far as “coffee e” and google knows exactly that I’m looking for – quite frankly, that’s a little disturbing. (note to self: remember to eradicate the browsing history on the computer when I’m done or no one is ever going to offer me a coffee again without giggling).

The first website gets directly to the question at hand - “Why in the world would someone take coffee in an enema?” Or as the voices in my head are demanding – WTF?? Among a long list of the benefits of said method of consuming caffeine, it claims to “Help with depression, confusion and general nervous tension”. Ummmm...I’m not sure at what point in a depressive episode it would occur to someone to fire up a coffee enema. As for confusion, the concept of a coffee enema confuses the crap out of me and nervous tension…I’d be some nervous about lubing up my rectum for my morning cup of joe.

It goes on to list increased mental clarity, improved energy levels, increased joy and happiness and reduction in anger amongst the virtues of the practise. Hey, guess what...it has the exact same effect if you consume it orally and it’s pretty tasty, too.

It refers to the procedure as “somewhat inconvenient”...ya think…enema bag vs coffee mug, you do the math on that one. Better yet “able to be done in the privacy of your home”. Okay, I’m on board with that particular piece of advice; in fact, I highly recommend you consume your coffee anally in the privacy of your own home. Of all the things that will get you banned from your neighborhood coffee shop, I’m willing to bet a coffee enema would do it every single time.

The list of apparatus required includes an enema bag or bucket...I had no idea there was such a thing as an enema bucket - that sounds like a lot of coffee (perhaps I've led a sheltered life). While most practitioners recommend inserting a lubed up enema tip in the rectum, for a more thorough procedure it is suggested to first insert a 30” colon tube and then attach the enema tip. Ummm…as if the whole procedure is not weirdly invasive enough ...yikes.

I’m still pretty confused about this practise, sounds like a drunken party dare to me. The therapeutic recommendations for this procedure are that it be “repeated at least daily and up to three times daily for at least several years”. The doctor who pioneered the use of coffee enemas for cancer patients insisted on a schedule of 6 times a day, every 4 hours, for at least 2 years. Who the hell has got that kind of time? Six times a day, every 4 hours? If you hate being woken in the middle of the night in the hospital by a nurse checking your vitals, you are really not going to like this particular sleep disruption.

There are historical references to the practise of enemas, dating back to biblical times in the Dead Sea Scrolls….according to whose translation? Enemas as one of the healing miracles of Jesus…seriously? Something about seeking a large trailing gourd having a stalk the length of a man…suffering the end of the stalk to enter your hinder parts…nope. Not even if Jesus thinks it’s a good idea. Jamming a gourd stalk the length of a man up my butt is far more suffering than I’d be willing to consider. It does go on to say that, to the best of the author’s knowledge, Jesus did not recommend adding coffee to the cleansing water. Thanks for the clarification. Praise be.

For all the miraculous claims of the proponents of the coffee enema, I can’t help but wonder under what circumstances the first coffee enema happened. One account claims that a nurse in WWI accidentally dumped coffee in an enema bag for a soldier who was constipated as a result of anesthesia drugs and he reported being in less pain…thus, the coffee enema was born. Guessing it was a pot of cold coffee...I’ve had a scorched tongue from hot coffee, thinking a coffee scorched rectum would be considerably worse.

There’s been some research done with mice…that must be a shock to the poor little mouse. Of all the unnatural circumstances these rodents are exposed to in the name of science, this would be pretty bizarre (and where do you get a mouse size enema kit?). As for the research done on human subjects, I wonder how that project was presented. I’ve gone to university and was required, as part of my psychology credits, to partake in some research projects. I hope anyone opting to show up for this particular gem read the fine print ahead of time….if they signed up for the opportunity to participate in research examining the effects of caffeine consumption….the method of intake would have come as an unpleasant surprise.

There are some helpful suggestions like – do not get up and walk around while holding the enema in your bowels…no shit Sherlock. Use plenty of petroleum jelly (or shaving cream?) to lubricate the enema tip…check. A darker roast is somewhat more difficult to retain than a light roast…I don’t even want to know why. Using a little blackstrap molasses in the enema to help retain it, adding crushed garlic as a chemical mechanism to help dislodge yeast organisms...this all adds up to the world’s worse smoothie...no wonder you’d have to shove it up your ass, you sure as hell couldn’t stomach drinking it. Coffee, black strap molasses and crushed garlic…mmmmmm.

It goes on about the benefits of hydration and describes most people as quite dehydrated today. Not to be repetitive but I cannot stress this enough…..water and coffee consumed orally have the same effect...providing hydration and increasing mental alertness…with the added benefit of being a much simpler and more pleasing way to consume both.

I know some coffee places offer discounts and customer loyalty rewards for bringing in your own cup to fill up in the interest of reducing the use of disposable cups. Pretty sure the helpful little barista at the local coffee shop is going to be more than a little horrified if a customer offers up his or her enema bag/bucket for a refill. I doubt they have a button on the till for that option and I guarantee you they don't pay her enough to touch enema paraphernalia.

In research for this blog post, I’ve come across references to urine enemas, absinthe enemas, yogurt enemas…apparently there’s no limit to the list of things someone, somewhere has opted to intake anally.

I’m fairly adventurous and usually quite open to new experiences but it has to be said…not once, when asked how I take my coffee, have I ever answered “up my ass - please”. For the record, I take my coffee with milk...in a mug… always, always, always in a mug...orally…always orally. If I’m going to jazz up my coffee experience, I’ll throw in some Bailey’s or Kahlua.

~~~~~ the nasty wench ~~~~~

Hooligan Penguin Sex

2013-01-27T07:48:00.000-08:00

********Spoiler Alert*******
if you love penguins, turn back now before it's too late...

I loooooooove penguins. What’s not to love? There is something uniquely charming about these wondrous, waddling creatures - whether it’s the reality of March of the Penguins or the animated world of Happy Feet. I used to have a poster up in my office of a dishevelled penguin with the notation “Fuck it, I’m going home”. Even he had his charms (my boss did not share that opinion).

However, I’ve come across some penguin information that is nothing short of devastating. Research notes for a 1915 publication by Dr. George Levick have been discovered in the London Natural History Museum, including notations that describe my lovable penguins as depraved hooligans. Say it isn’t so, George!

He goes on to describe thousands of “hooligan” male penguins copulating with each other or dead females, gang-raping injured females and molesting young chicks. What the fk Happy Feet?? Traumatized by his observations, the good doctor stamped his notes on the sexual habits of the penguins as “Not for publication” and cut them from his final book. It was after all 1915, the public was not ready for these revelations.

In a short and frenzied breeding season that lasts only days, frantic single males mate with anything that looks vaguely like a female assuming the position – be it a dead penguin or a rock . Yes, sometimes even a rock becomes the recipient of some loving. Apparently the sex of the target – dead or alive (cue Bon Jovi) - is a bit of a crap shoot, male and female penguins are hard to tell apart, even for penguins. It’s not like the males are in the traditional tux and tails and the females in formal gowns, maybe I’ll give them a pass on that one, who am I to judge?

As for the whole necrophilia thing – given their environment, the bodies of deceased penguins are preserved in good condition, several years passing before they lose their “fresh appearance”. The assumption is that they are not attracted to the dead but rather the position. “A dead penguin lying with its eyes half open is very similar in appearance to a compliant female”. Nothing like that come hither frozen death stare. The bar is set pretty low for this amorous pursuit. There’s clearly not a lot of sexual response expected from the female of the species, her participation would be the same if she was living or several years deceased. Not bad enough to die and have your corpse lay on the frozen landscape for years, your carcass is then at the mercy of a bunch of sex crazed males humping everything in sight in perpetuity. Men of the world, pay attention, for all your complaining about partners who aren’t very responsive in bed, it could be worse, you could be a penguin. If your partner has a pulse, advantage you. If she’s conscious, bonus. Maybe penguins were the inspiration for the term “dead fuck”.

As for the chicks, the males are given the benefit of the doubt on this one – they may simply be collateral damage in the sexual frenzy. Maybe that’s easier than adding pedophile to their list of deviant behaviors. In their blind lust to fornicate the crap out of everything in sight, molesting the chicks is merely a faux pas. What a bunch of assholes.

This information lay dormant in the museum archives for a century, Dr. Levick having opted to protect Edwardian British society at the time from penguin depravity. My penguin illusions have been shattered. I can’t unring this bell. Visions of Happy Feet now tainted with the imagery of packs of marauding testosterone driven male penguins, blinded by the drive to mate, mounting all things mountable. I’m crushed. Hey, Morgan Freeman, narrate the creep factor out of this penguin story line.

Maybe what happens in the Antarctic should stay in the Antarctic.

~ the nasty wench ~

The Great Ben Wa Extraction Dilemma

2012-06-10T07:30:00.001-07:00

Now that I have your attention, let me tell you about my Friday night. I am an independent woman with many interests and endeavors…which explains why I am spending my Friday night painting the ceiling in the spare bedroom. And no, before you ask, I am not using ben wa balls to spice up my Friday night painting experience...merely setting the scene. Just when you think that painting a ceiling on a Friday night is about as bad as it can get...the extension handle snaps on a fully loaded extra thick roller above my head. I take a direct hit...hair, ear, face full of paint ...leaving me looking very tribal - prepared for clan warfare or a maybe voodoo ritual.

Skip ahead past the clean up.

I roll the last of the ceiling and have about 5 seconds to admire my work when I get the following text “have you ever used ben wa balls?” The award for most unique question I’ve been asked in ages goes to … a good friend with an intimate personal dilemma. She explains that she bought a set of purple ben wa balls, she includes the color 'cause I love purple (let me point out that I am in no way personally invested in the color of her ben wa balls). But, I digress ...back to the matter at hand, or perhaps more accurately located in a more personal anatomical location.

Apparently, she’s lost one. Explains that the first time she used them, they kept falling out…too much information…I don’t have a clue how big these things are and I’m thinking kegels girl, kegels (in her shaky defense, these ones are apparently relatively small). She bought them for a night out and I’m now envisioning her at a bar, dropping purple ben wa balls on the dance floor. I’m not sure how expensive they are but I can’t imagine any incentive for retrieving them in public. The dark and twisty side is cobbling together an adult version of Cinderella that Disney wouldn’t touch. Handsome stranger navigating the bar clutching a purple ben wa ball trying to identify the owner. Excuse me miss, perchance have you lost something? This line delivered while cradling a wayward ben wa ball that has rolled across the dance floor in a bar in the palm of his outstretched hand. Of course, if I follow the comparison to the Prince slipping the glass slipper back on Cinderella’s foot, this is a story the two would not be telling future generations when they ask how Grandma and Grandpa met.

On her second attempt, she’s experiencing a completely different problem ... she can’t retrieve one of them. It’s hiding "somewhere". There's not a whole lot of "somewhere" it could be, I think we can safely skip the call to Quantico, this is not going to require an FBI grid search. Wants to know what she’s supposed to do and how long it’s safe to leave it in. Not a clue, my friend, not a clue. So, I did the only thing I could think of to be helpful ...I googled it.

Here are the helpful suggestions:

“There are several ways to remove the balls including: jump up and down, sneeze, cough, sit and bear down as if you’re having a bowel movement, insert lubricant to help them slide out, etc. If you think you might have a hard time removing the balls, then you may want to purchase balls that are strung onto a retrieval cord.”

I pass on this information to her as well as a confession she’s already aware of ...I’m laughing so hard, I’m crying. I still have paint in my hair and in my ear and I’m sitting at my laptop googling ben wa ball extraction techniques. The retrieval cord idea is brilliant (I’m seeing children’s mittens on strings) but is more of a preventative idea than a solution to this particular problem. I suggest jumping jacks and some astroglide. More laughter, more tears. I’m not sure how many problems are solved with a combination of jumping jacks and astroglide, but it’s all I got for this one.

Barring that, I’m hoping that maybe if she just heads to bed for the night, it will just wander out on its’ own. Of course, if that doesn’t happen, she’s going to be quite a hit in her local emergency ward explaining her situation to the triage nurse.

(Side note – while googling the ben wa issue, I came across a reference to something called Analball Bingo ……seriously, google it - I'm not making this up ...I have no idea what it is and the picture of the required apparatus didn’t clear up that particular mystery even a little bit…I don’t know wtf kind of dabber one would use for Analball Bingo but I think it’s better that I never know. As much as I pride myself on being fairly knowledgeable and open minded, I’m just going to let this one go).

Update: newsflash, this just in the next morning ...the solution to the problem was time and gravity.

~ tnw ~

Poultry Fornication (or Romeo got penis juice on my last pair of lululemons)

2012-05-06T16:14:00.000-07:00

There’s a reason I don’t write fiction…I couldn’t make this stuff up.

Princess is a character in my world who exists solely on privilege and entitlement. I used to think that she was completely out of touch with reality but I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s merely out of touch with my reality and that’s enough to annoy the crap out of me. I will give her credit for having achieved a level of oblivion that is nothing short of mind-boggling. She was talking to me, as she tends to do ...unaware that I was plotting her untimely demise. She’d just marched in announcing that she’d done an hour and half of cardio the night before ...then asked me if I knew how long an hour and a half of cardio takes ...I’m going to go with an hour and a half ...oh, wait a minute ...nope, make that 90 minutes.

Go ahead, ask me something else...I’m on a roll …

She makes the natural segue to extolling the virtues of honey ...hey, I’m just telling the story the way it happened. I thought I could cut the conversation short by telling her I was not a fan of bee barf. In retrospect, that was a mistake. Her response...“that’s like when I eat eggs and I stop and realize that I’m eating chicken abortions”.

Ummm…huh? Oh Princess ...this is not going to go well.

In my shaky defense, I rarely bother trying to realign her royal highness’ thought processes with reality, but every once in a great while I fall prey to my own curiosity. What’s more painful – listening to her talk or attempting to enlighten her? It’s usually a little from column ‘a’, a little from column ‘b’.

Me: “ Seriously??”

Princess: “If I didn’t eat them, they would have become chickens, so they are chicken abortions.”

Me: “Umm...nope”

Princess: blank vacant stare

Me: (Pretty sure this is about to get much worse. But, every once in a while, I gotta take a shot). “That’s not quite how it works. Market eggs are unfertilized eggs; at no point do they have the potential to turn into chickens.”

Princess: blank vacant stare followed by ….“Who fertilizes the eggs?”

My head just imploded.

Me: (In my best Lewis Black) – “ROOSTERS, ROOSTERS...ROOSTERS FERTILIZE EGGS!!!!”

Princess: (clearly confused) ...”but how do they get the stuff through the shells?”

There’s not a judge in the world who would convict me at this point. I’m presenting my defense in my head at this very moment ……”your honor, I had to put her out of my misery”…charges dropped, case dismissed.

Me: “Sex....chickens have sex. And before you ask the next question …they have sex before the egg is laid...thus, a fertilized egg”. There you have it, chicken sex.

Long pause while she sorts out this new information, the pieces are beginning to fall into place. Synapses are firing ...we are almost there …

Princess: “that must be noisy ….”

And we have arrived. This is as good as it’s going to get.

I kid you not, that’s her reaction. Apparently, I’ve put her mind at ease; she can now eat eggs without being haunted by the souls of unborn chickens. Armed with her newly acquired knowledge about poultry reproduction, she leaves ...and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Unfortunately, she comes back later that same day. She breezes in complaining that “Romeo got penis juice on my last pair of lululemons” ...oh, no ...I’ve already explained poultry fornication today, I’m not getting sucked back into the vortex.

Romeo is an English Bulldog ...not so much a pet as a furry little hostage who snorts and drools. I suspect Stockholm Syndrome is all that keeps him from escaping ...well that and really short legs.

~ the nasty wench ~

(note: I dedicate this post to Kilroy who has been waiting patiently for me to unleash some wenchery on her majesty).

Kilroy ...........this one's for you

2012-05-04T15:55:00.000-07:00

This picture means something to precisely one person .........he's the official president of my unofficial fan club. This one's for you Kilroy............catch you on the dark and twisty side!!!

~ the nasty wench ~

The G Spot Has Officially Been Found …. Hiding in Poland

2012-04-26T15:18:00.001-07:00

After decades of research and debate and mountains of medical journals, Dr. Adam Ostrzenski found the elusive G spot. Finally, a man finds it. No surprise that it’s front page international news and the quickest his research has ever been published.

That’s the good news. The bad news – the woman is 83 and recently deceased…fat lot of good it’s going to do her now. Isn’t that just the way? One can only speculate after a lifetime of rather ordinary, perhaps mundane sex ...shortly after her demise, a man finally pays enough attention to find it. Mind you, it took him 7 fricken hours of painstakingly meticulous poking and prodding to locate it, who the hell has that kind of time? Don’t get me wrong, you want a man to take his time and pay attention, but 7 hours is plain excessive. Wake me when you find it buddy and we can both celebrate. (I find myself rereading the article to confirm that she was dead before he launched this particular expedition and didn’t die of boredom in the process).

He was prevented from taking a tissue sample because – and I quote – “the subject was not in a position to communicate”. I may be going out on a limb here but she might have been willing to part with a sample, in the interest of proving it actually exists - she’s done with it. The doctor’s search through a century’s worth of existing studies (you read that correctly, it’s taken a hundred years ...worst case of refusing to ask for directions ever) found his was the first description of the coordinates of the elusive G spot. Coordinates?? Really? We are not talking about a massive search area here, this is not Star Trek ...although, it may also be described as going where no man has gone before. Or, at least, very few. Coordinates …like maybe he can plug the numbers into his GPS and locate it repeatedly?? Okay, I can get on board with that argument. Crap, now I can’t get the vision of Cpt. James T Kirk at the helm out of my head … giving Sulu the coordinates to plug into the console … and given Sulu’s foray out of the closet, we know he has absolutely no vested interest in finding a G spot.

This woman is absolutely entitled to come back and haunt the bejeebers out of every lover she ever had or track them down in the hereafter. The world’s most justified “I told you so” dance in the history of humanity.

The doctor is returning to Poland to continue his research with cadavers from different age groups in a scientific effort to prove that the deceased 83 yr old woman did not, in fact, possess the only G spot in existence. Once he’s got that resolved, he’s going after Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster and Santa Claus…so many obscure mysteries to be solved.

~ the nasty wench~

2012-04-09T19:11:00.000-07:00

This penguin is absolutely my new personal hero!!

~ the nasty wench ~

Hillbilly Handfishin'

2011-12-09T17:39:00.000-08:00

Oh, for fk sake…seriously?!?!?!?!

I kid you not. I have had a terrible couple of weeks, just got back from my electrolysis appointment (waging battle against morphing into a post-menopausal circus freak, fyi – laser doesn’t work on blonde hair, permanent facial hair removal requires jamming an electrical probe into each follicle individually and frying the crap out of it, repeatedly… because once is not enough, and paying for the privilege… but I digress).

I toss myself onto the couch and catch a glimpse of two things – neither of which makes any sense ... and zero ability to reconcile the two. On tv, some redneck male is wrestling with a huge catfish in a muddy bog of some sort, cut to a flamboyantly gay character (not that there’s anything wrong with that, or the redneck either…mostly) in a cabin making over a couple of women ... glamming them up in what can only be described as early 80’s chic make up, these are either friends or spouses of the men wrestling the catfish. Don’t get me started.

So I turn to my son and inquire…. wtf?? Apparently this is something called Hillbilly Handfishin'... yes, there is a show called Hillbilly Handfishin'. He offers to change the channel …but much in the way you can’t quite take your eyes off a carwreck, I’ve had a couple of horrific weeks and the dark and twisty side of me was morbidly curious to see how this plays out.

She’s got one “under her butt, under her business, tickling her fancy”. Nothing like having your fancy tickled by a 50 some odd pound slimy, mucky catfish … I’ll take your word for it, count me the fk out.

So, let me get this straight. In order to go “hillbilly handfishin'”, one gets into a van blindfolded ‘cause you are being taken to a secret location, the catfish hole is proprietary information, is there really a line up for this??

Isn’t there a whole genre of B movies that start out with unsuspecting people getting into a van blindfolded somewhere in rural Oklahoma? Those movies never end well. Some mutant miscreant is taking you home to meet the family with tell-tale banjo music playing in the background.

You arrive at the mudbog where job one is to wade right in, the bottom is slimy and disgusting. You sit on down in the muck and feel around, there are catfish - huge, slimy, creepy, disgusting catfish lurking in the muck. You feel around a bit until you find one - that may be sitting right beneath you, tickling your fancy, no less. You use your hand for bait, and once it’s attempted to scarf down your hand, you grab its’ jaw and yank it out of the mud.

All of this is being done willingly, no one is being held at gunpoint. I cannot tell you how long my “bucket list” would need to be for Hillbilly Handfishin' to make an appearance. Having a root canal (sans novocaine) during a colonoscopy (no lube, angry medical tech) would make the list waaaay ahead of Hillbilly Handfishin' and you won’t see me signing up for that either.

At that point, my desire to figure out the whole makeover tie in was well in the rearview mirror, no amount of explaining is going to justify any of it...no “aha moments” here Oprah, this is just too many kinds of wrong. That’s an hour of my life I’m never getting back. I’m not sure what’s more pathetic – that there’s actually a show called Hillbilly Handfishin' or that I watched nearly an entire episode of it ...maybe a little from column ‘A’, a little from column ‘B’.

Ripped From The Headlines Part 2

2011-08-11T18:43:00.000-07:00

Teen Shoots Dad With Arrow Over Cell Phone

Once again ...that’s the headline. A 35 yr old man in rural Washington was airlifted to hospital after his 15 yr old daughter shot him in the head with a hunting bow and arrow because he took her cell phone away. The kicker – she refused to let him use the cell to call for help and he had to crawl to the neighbour’s house for assistance with the arrow still firmly implanted in his skull. Seriously.

Wonder if he’s regretting the decision to sign her up for those archery classes now? Proud papa cheering loudly while she is presented the award for marksmanship. Should have signed her up for band camp … na, she probably would have beaten him senseless with a tuba or a French horn. Cheerleader camp ... would have suffocated him in his sleep with her pom poms. Let’s face it - the kid’s got an attitude problem.

Now, this is not the first teenager to be defiant - no one likes being punished, losing privileges, being grounded. But since when is firing off an arrow at your father’s head the kung fu counter move to losing your cell phone ?? Arming oneself ramps up the defiance level considerably. That takes a special kind of pissed off. Not that there might not be a time and a place for it ...maybe someone threatening your family...meeting force with force. I’ll give you that but I’m thinking armed response is a little overkill in this particular scenario. I’m guessing dear old dad is going to be a little nervous disciplining this little nightmare in the future – may want to invest in a helmet and a riot shield for the next time he has to tell Princess Pissed Off (Xena's lesser known cousin) that she’s grounded. Maybe keep the SWAT team on standby.

It certainly never occurred to me to fight back with more than a pout and stamping my feet as I retreated to the bedroom to which I’d been banished when one of my parents had grounded me (cell phones were not an issue in the “way back” machine). I’ve raised two sons to adulthood and where they might have talked back and stood their ground in the face of groundings or having video game systems taken away, pretty sure it never crossed their minds to arm themselves for a full on assault. Or, if it did, they were smart enough to know it wouldn’t end well.

Of course, my dark and twisty side has a field day with this … I picture my boss turning down my vacation request or telling me I have to work through the weekend. Hhhmmm … I reach down and load my crossbow ... I don’t think so, sir …

Ripped From The Headlines

2011-08-10T19:12:00.000-07:00

Have you ever read a headline and wondered wtf?? Came across a whopper today:

“US Man fined $27K after ejaculating in co-worker’s water bottle”

Ummmm ... seriously?? I shit you not. Gotta say, as headlines go, it got my attention. Some character in California (where else?) has been fined (and I am assume fired) for ejaculating into a co-workers water bottle. Buddy needs a new hobby.

Okay, so now I find myself wondering how the detective work played out on that particular investigation. The board room meeting where police are asking for DNA swabs from all male employees. Hmmmmm … are you trying to solve a murder, espionage, some white collar crime?? Nope ... just sorting out who’s jacking off in Sally’s water bottle.

Then I’m wondering under what circumstances it occurs to someone to jack off in a co-worker’s water bottle. Is this some frustrated Romeo who’s tired of her turning down his sexual advances, no “office” hummer ….well, guess what?? It’s a rather devious way to get Sally to swallow some of your swimmers. If she wasn’t interested before the water bottle incident, I doubt this is going to sway her opinion in his favour. Was he that pissed off at the office snob that it was twisted payback – here, take this !!!! Under what plan of action does this seem like a good idea? I’ve got a pretty dark and twisty side but I just can’t wrap my head around this at all – I, of course, do not have a penis but I still can’t picture any scenario, any extreme of anger or rejection that would inspire one to spank the monkey into a co-worker’s water bottle.

The victim of this particularly nasty plot is now going to be compensated for loss of wages, therapy and medical expenses. What the hell kind of therapy is suggested for this trauma?? She drank from the bottle on both occasions – the first time she detected a foul taste (uumm...ewwwww) and disposed of it (poor thing would never have guessed what the secret ingredient was), the second time she suspected something was up and sent it to a lab for testing. Imagine the surprise at the lab when the contaminant was identified...who’d a thunk it?

It took a DNA match to discover the culprit which tells me he didn’t bother coming clean right around the time everyone is required to submit to a cheek swab. Perhaps he thought, given enough time, he could come up with an innocent / logical explanation for how his ejaculate wound up in the suspect water bottle. Even in the darkest recesses of my mind, I can’t conjure up an explanation that doesn’t involve him having jacked off in the bottle. Strangely enough, men are expected to exercise some control over where their swimmers end up and there’s not one rational explanation I can imagine where he could claim innocence here – they don’t sneak out undetected and wander about the room.

I’d like to be a fly in the room when Mr. Charming interviews for his next job ….can you tell me why you left your last job …well, apparently, they frowned upon me ejaculating into a co-worker’s beverage container...go figure ...the epitome of uptight corporate management ...picky, picky, picky. There were no actual rules concerning said act, it did not come up during the employee orientation...You know those peculiar rules that you come across and you can’t possibly fathom how they came about except that you know that somewhere along the line somebody did the very stupid thing that necessitated the rule ... licking batteries, sticking a finger in the paper shredder, standing on the roof hugging the antenna during a lightning storm. It’s all about liability, isn’t it? The update to the New Employee Manual should be hysterical – rule# 16 – Employees are not permitted to share ejaculate with co-workers without their knowledge and consent – no jacking off in anyone’s water bottle.

As my dark and twisty side is mining this story for every last bit of ridiculous, the morning news team in the background offers up today's poll question ...are people in the workplace becoming increasingly rude...Sally votes yes...and no one, I repeat no one has a better case....

Scarred for Life - The Vagina Monologue

2011-08-06T18:18:00.001-07:00

Some conversations are unpredictable, unavoidable and scarring. The portions of the exchange that I am about to share with you that appear in red italics are contributions from the voices in my head. I was only ever able to utter one phrase out loud at one point but the voices in my head had a field day with this one.

To set the stage for this particular episode, you need to know who Crash is – Crash is a former coworker who, how shall I put this, had some personal boundary issues. Gets a little too close, unnecessary hugs, a little too enthusiastic about my perfume. Relatively harmless ....I think ...but isn’t that how all sexual deviants are described by their neighbours after they start digging up bodies in the backyard? Crash is, of course, not his real name but it is one he’s earned along the way, but that’s another story.

Crash stops by the shop early afternoon to pick up the dry diving suit he had repaired and couriered to the shop and to say goodbye, new job started today. Crash pulls out the dry suit to explain it to me (you have mistaken me for someone who cares). It is a special suit that keeps the diver dry in cold conditions. After explaining the various features to me, he gets down to a little valve near the crotch that he feels the need to explain, it went something like this:

This is the elimination valve - divers tend to dehydrate so it is recommended that they hydrate thoroughly before they go down. The result, they need to pee.

HHHhhmm, who would have thought, if you drink a lot, you need to go pee.

In a wet suit, you simply pee, the suit is wet and you just go pee in it. It's simply a body function that you need to do.

Ya, I don't fkg think so. I don't want to urinate in a rubber suit that is going to keep said urine snug up around my body. The idea of being enveloped in a layer of urine seems wrong a couple of different levels. Note to self: never rent or borrow anyone's wet suit, people pee in those.

Since you can't do that in a dry suit, you put a catheter in your penis and hook it up to this tube and use this valve to eliminate.

Too much information, way too fkg much information. No more words, just stop talking.

It's a little more difficult for women since they are built a little differently.

No shit Sherlock. I think this is about to get much worse. An anatomy lesson from Crash. Oh, just stop talking now.

They are coming up with devices now that women can use over their vaginas.

For the love of god, stop talking. Shoot me now; this conversation cannot possibly be happening. Of all the things that I don't want to ever hear Crash talking about, vagina tops that list. Not that I am uncomfortable with that particular word - vagina, vagina, vagina - see, there, I can use it. Just don't ever want to hear it come out of Crash's mouth. I'd be willing to bet he's not a fan of them anyway.

It's a special pouch / funnel thing that needs to be glued in place. Of course, that presents a problem with the pubic hair so the vagina has to be shaved.

He just said vagina again. And, he has just suggested shaving it and gluing something to it like having something glued to the vagina is perfectly acceptable. Pretty sure I am about to achieve spontaneous human combustion, I'll just burst into flames to end this conversation. In fact, I'd welcome it at this point. This conversation cannot be happening.

I need to say something, I can't handle this anymore.

“Gluing something to one's lady bits seems like a bad idea.”
(This I manage saying out loud).

Lady bits? Where the hell did that come from? What am I, six? I know the term "lady bits" is a little juvenile but I cannot bring myself to say the word vagina to this man, I refuse. I will not talk to Crash about vagina, it's just wrong and I'm guessing something that he's not all that familiar with, especially if he wants to glue something to it.

At some point, he finally stopped talking and I am still hoping to burst into flames, there are things in my head now that just ought not to be there. I can't unring this bell, I can’t just make this conversation go away. For the rest of my life, I will always know that Crash talked to me about shaving a vagina and gluing stuff to it. And of course, I am aware that he wasn't even using the anatomically correct term but I had no intentions of correcting him - one could not shave that particular anatomical feature nor glue anything to it, it is a moist internal structure. If the vagina is hairy, urinating in a dry suit is the least of your problems. No more words, no more words. Perhaps an aneurysm - that would be quick and relatively painless. At this point, I’m not fussy – spontaneous human combustion or a burst aneurysm either would be welcome.

Once Crash left the shop and I was up at my desk curled in the fetal position, shuddering uncontrollably, ears bleeding from things they should never have heard, I tried to explain what happened to a coworker who found me curled up, twitching but words failed me.

Scarred for life.

Tales From The Asylum

The Nasty Wench blog has moved!

My Virtual Social Existence...Plenty of WTF

Ode To a Walmart Greeter

Coffee Enemas...how do you take your coffee?

Coffee Enemas...how do you take your coffee?

(for the record, orally...I take mine orally)

﻿

Hooligan Penguin Sex

The Great Ben Wa Extraction Dilemma

Poultry Fornication (or Romeo got penis juice on my last pair of lululemons)

Kilroy ...........this one's for you

The G Spot Has Officially Been Found …. Hiding in Poland

Hillbilly Handfishin'

Ripped From The Headlines Part 2

Ripped From The Headlines

Scarred for Life - The Vagina Monologue