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A few weeks ago, a friend drew my attention to The Sambia of Papua New Guinea. A tribe known for their bizarre initiation ritual of young boys fellating older boys. The sharing of semen is thought to make males better warriors, more strong and fierce.

Not a day has gone by where I haven’t thought about this.  The more I think about it, the more interesting it becomes. Once you get past our culturally imposed horror and revulsion over boys as young as 7 fellating 15 year old boys, it seems less and less cruel and perverted. What is taboo in our culture is a societal norm in another. The Sambia believe that sex with women is taboo and the only reason a man will have sex with his wife is to reproduce. He must avoid smelling her genitals at all costs so as not to be weakened by her dangerous and emasculating odors. She has already spent much time fellating him and consuming his semen so that her children might be strong. When he puts his penis in her, he must only put the tip in so he doesn’t get his dick anywhere near her uterus which is the most contaminated part of her and will weaken his semen’s effectiveness. After contact with her genitals he must purify himself through jabbing a stake up his nose and bleeding profusely. Women are inferior and kept separate from the males as much as possible, they are a necessary evil. Even when a woman breastfeeds her babies, it’s considered second-hand semen consumption. Babies are little jizzgobblers. They are brought up to suck dick. The more the men got blown, the stronger it makes the tribe. It’s win win! It’s not even considered homosexuality. Once you are old enough, you don’t ever have to suck any more dicks. You just get blown all the time.

In our culture, the general opinion of fellatio is that it’s degrading for females. It’s for sluts and homosexuals. It’s a power thing in our culture too. Just in a different, less positive way. When a man blows his load, it’s like “yeah, take that you cumwhore!”. Part of the appeal is how much the giver wants to swallow that warm thick essence of their lover. Sure there are also many who get enjoyment out of feeding the less willing participants. Still, he is in a position of power, bestowing his fertile gifts upon the supplicant. He gazes meaningfully into the eyes of the giver as they widen with surprise at the awesomeness of the magical wiener elixir.

Sometimes sexual activities aren’t viewed as purely “sexual”. Rape isn’t sexual. It’s violence and power. The Sambia don’t really look at all this jizz guzzling as sexual. It’s necessary and acceptable. It’s beautiful and somewhat romantic in  a sense that it’s brotherly bonding and sharing of spiritual secretions.

We began to wonder what it must be like to be a member of The Sambia. My friend inquired: “Does a guy sit down on a fallen tree and remove the leaf covering his wiener and all the kids run to it?.. Me first! Me first! I want to be the fiercest warrior!” Do they sneak extra dicks to gain more power? When I asked him if it would be considered cheating to be sucking extra dicks in secret, he said: “The whole village would notice that young M’Bgatu was considerably more fierce than everyone else. There’s no way he could get away with sucking extra dicks.”

Battles with enemy tribes would be mostly forced fellatio. The warriors would be skilled prostate milkers. The battlefield would be awash with semen and drool. Enemies lying quivering and drained of warrior essence. The victors bellies bulging with the spooge spoils of war. The brave warriors return home and share their power with the eager youths as they recount battle tactics and impart wisdom to the youngsters gulping down the supercharged cum.

Imagine if The Sambian culture became modernized yet retained their way of doing things. The wealthiest men in society would be the ones who have sucked the most dick.  The older generation’s most wealthy and influential men begrudgingly bestow their pudding upon those they wish to groom for positions of power. Boardrooms would not need tables. Instead of cocktail parties there would be bukkake parties. A liquid lunch would be literal. People wouldn’t be overweight due to their high protein diets. Food would be looked at as a fuel for testicles (commence with the pineapple jokes).

Among the common folk, popularity and respect would be partly based upon the perceived potency of one’s ejaculate. Perhaps output would be one way to measure this. Taste, color, thickness, odor. So many qualities to be judged upon. Bums with signs that read “will suck dicks for cum”. There would be less alcoholism and drug use. Unless it’s used to increase seminal fluid output. People will pay huge sums to have even a drop of some genius or celebrity’s goo. Black market nut juice. I’m totally strung out on this Thai sauce, man!

But think about how may things might be better if this was the worldwide standard. Women would only get pregnant sparingly and to continue the species. Might there be the same sexually transmitted diseases? Sex between men and women would be totally disgusting and only done by the most perverted sick fetishists. Porn would be only for women. Men wouldn’t need it because why would they waste their nectar on jerking off when there are so many who would readily blow them! Drive thru glory holes. Clothes with kneepads built in. Men’s dicks would be getting so much action that pants would just get in the way. Men could wear smoking jackets like Hef as business casual.

Wars wouldn’t be horrific violent scenes of human death. They would be giant bukkake battlefields. In essence, we have discovered a way to make the world a utopia. The lands richest in oil would be those between belly and taint. No more overpopulation. No more violence against fellow man. Rape would be unheard of.  Children would be breastfed as long as possible and stay at home mothers would be the norm since no men want women anywhere near them.

I can almost hear the feminists getting their panties in a bunch over the inequalities and woman-hate implied in this scenario. Think about it ladies. All we have to do is threaten men with our vile pussies and we can have anything we want. We will basically be living in all female splendor. We can do our hair and nails for the enjoyment of each other. Men don’t care about that shit anyway! We can raise our children right. In a loving and feminine environment. We can lick each other’s clits and have purses full of dildos for whenever we have the need or desire to get off. It will be a chore and a bore to have sex with a man. No jealousy, no cheating, no unhappy marriages. So what if you won’t be able to work in a sexist office environment where you are deemed as less intelligent because of your tits. Why do you want to fight against our differences? Shed your cultural biases. Think outside the dick.

There would be NO SUCH THING AS HOMOSEXUALITY. Women can satisfy each other. Men can suck each other off.

No hate.

No homo.


Hobo bag

This is why I like facebook. Here’s an interaction I had with my friend’s sister and mother. I’ve only slightly altered  the names:

Status Update: Fashion Whore posted a link to a $2ooo Prada Hobo bag that she wants soooo bad.

Squirtpie: Is it made from real hobos?

Fashion Whore: Isn’t it beautiful? I had one like this but I lost it in Israel. Should I?

Squirtpie: You should definitely get it. Hobos are known for their soft skin.

Fashion Whore: A hobo is a homeless vagrant! Is the prada bag made of them?

Squirtpie: I certainly hope so.

Sensible Sister of Fashion Whore: lol… if so I will take one too!

Snarky Friend of Fashion Whore: Hopefully it won’t smell like hobos.

Squirtpie: They wash the hobos first. Before removing their skin.

Fashion Whore: Haha! Too funny!

Mother of Fashion Whore: Fashion Whore, you get Louis Vuitton’s for the same price. The never-full or the speedy aren’t much and there are others. Even Christian Dior has some new nice styles.

Fashion Whore: I love this bag! This bag is so mine!! I lost one in Israel and have been looking all over trying to replace it.

Fashion Whore: Already ordered. I have to wait 10 days! Longest 10 days ever

Mother Of Whore: Didn’t they have it at the Prada store in the city?

Squirtpie: It takes at least three days for hobo skin to be stretched and dyed.

Squirtpie: Prada only uses the freshest hobos.

Fashion Whore: No, mom, they didn’t have that particular bag.

Fashion Whore: haha, of course, Squirtpie.

Squirtpie: It’s because of the hobo shortage. They are not in season right now due to hibernation. The spring collection should be fabulous.

Fashion Whore: Yes, frozen hobos are not so soft.

Continuous Feed

Originally posted on July 27th 2011. This was live tweeted after I saw a news article about a woman hacking off her ex husband’s junk and stuffing in the garbage disposal. The news article never mentioned what KIND of disposal. Batch feed or continuous? It bothered me that they omitted such an important detail.
There’s this book of useful knots she keeps in the bathroom. Don’t trust women with books like that, she thinks.
Snickers stifled.
He awakens to find her sitting on his legs. His flaccid six inches in her mouth. She is gurgling and laughing. Foam and snot bubbles erupt from her nose and corners of her mouth. She spits it out.  The hot saliva trickling down his asscrack gives him a semi. Good enough. She pulls, stretching out his brave soldier and cooing at it.  She ties a 20 Lb Test Monofilament Fishing Line tightly around the base of his shaft while ripping out long pubes as she firmly pulls it tight.
She lets him see the serrated bread knife. Brandishing it with a flourish. Letting it tick tock hang from her hand. Hypnotizing him. Then turning it over in her hands cruelly and touching the ridges with her fingertips.
He starts to cry.
She fake pouts and mimes like it’s a violin bow and it’s playing a sad song.
She can’t hear his denials, his begging and pleading. She’s belting out the end to “Under Pressure”.
“Why can’t we give love….
All this rocking back and forth as she straddles him has made her skirt go up. Her bare wetness slipping along his knee, hips gyrating. She marvels at the way the knife cuts through his dick as if it’s a kielbasa.
They should do an infomercial. It slices. It dices. It SPURTS BLOOD.
Brackish tentacles fumbling her face, suckers kiss her mouth as it fills with brine. Back arching as she rides the leaping orca of his legs.  Her keening mock orgasm matches the pitch of his screams. She realizes she has finished sawing off his dick and has been rubbing it on her own face for a while now.
Dancing herself over to the kitchen, she lays the leaking dick meat on the nicely oiled bamboo cutting board while rummaging through a drawer full of utensils.  Spraying cooking spray on both sides of a hot mini egg frying pan that she got at Bed Bath and Beyoned, she coughs delicately at the smoke.  Skipping over to him, she stops and sticks his dick between her teeth like Hannibal Smith with a cigar and says “I love it when a plan comes together”!
She cauterizes his bleeding gash with the glowing hot mini egg fryer. It sizzles and she inhales the smells of bacon and burnt hair. He screeches. She sings along.
She frowns as some of his flesh sticks to the back of the pan but brightens at the thought of the next monthly Bed Bath and Beyond 20% off coupon.
Now standing at the cutting board, prodding the severed dick with a wooden spoon, she fondly recalls the finger scene from Phantasm… “Fuck, I mean how awesome are those Phantasm movies!?!” She thinks. Flying balls of death. Mutant interdimensional dwarf zombies. Creepy funeral home. It’s perfect, the fucking theme song. It’s been honored so many times that it’s not even funny. Tool. Entombed. Marduk. Angus Scrimm is so scary. BOYYY! Anyway.
Her thoughts abruptly flicked to John Wayne Bobbitt and his stupid porn career. Frankenpenis. What a douche. Deserved it…
Gingerly picking up the raw mess of fatty penis with two fingers. She drops it unceremoniously down into the sink as the cold water runs. Always run with cold water, she recalls reading in the instructions to the disposal.
She gleefully stabs it down with the wooden spoon, guffawing at the thought of it finally being adequately sized for something.
Flicks the wall switch. The 2800 RPMs kick in and grind away at the flesh, spinning it around and around and around as it pulverizes the fibrous and stringy waste. So pleased that she decided to get the continuous feed disposal installed. Those batch feed ones are such a pain in the ass with the plug that you have to push in and turn. This is so easy and hands-free!

Stabitha Offalmunger


I will need a wheelchair after you bang me so violently hard that you paralyze me.

I’ll be a vegetable. You can push me around as I moan and drool.

But I’ll be smiling. On the inside. I’ll be your human fleshlight that you don’t have to clean out.

You can just hose me off in the yard when I get stinky.

You build a custom perambulator so you can still lick me and smash me wherever you please. Meals on wheels.

It will look nothing like a wheelchair. More like an old timey stroller or one of those half shopping carts.

I’ll be bent forward, ass in the air. Legs splayed to the sides. Like a wheelbarrow that you steer by gripping my thighs.

You can walk around with me impaled on your dick as you pilot my cart.

My ratty hair hangs down to the ground, sweeping away all the dirt and leaves as we take evening strolls through the neighborhood.

Children point and cry. Mothers gather up their babes and hide their faces from the grotesque sight of us.

Men shake their heads reprovingly and mutter under their breath at the shameless flaunting of our love.

You casually wave hello, unconcerned that you are fuck-wheeling around an insensible woman-buggy.

The swivel caster wheels wobble and squeak when we go fast, you thrust and pop a wheelie to navigate up and down steep curbs.

They don’t let you take me into the convenience store.

You park me out by the bike rack, maneuvering me between dirt bikes.

A wheezing lament escapes my lips as you pull your dick out with a wet slurp and put a rock under my front wheel so I don’t roll into the parking lot.

Time seems to stop when you are not in me. It hurts. I feel incomplete and yearn for your return.

Teenagers flick their cigarette butts at me and kick pebbles. I don’t care because I am missing you terribly and have no will to exist without you.

I hear the door bang open and the kids scatter.

Your rough hands pat my rump and I shudder with relief at your soothing murmurs.

I blow puffs of air out of my nostrils in acknowledgement as you stroke my thigh and unceremoniously reinsert your manhood into my eager hole.

Pleasure ripples through me and all is right in the world.


Whenever I read any form of the word “follower” in a tweet, something boils inside my belly.

Language gives things life. When a word is used habitually, you start to believe it. Words have power.

Did you ever look up the word FOLLOW? Go do that. Then, hit up the thesaurus. Yeah. Shitty. Words like “conform, comply, proceed”. The intended definition is probably “to comprehend, pay attention to, to dig your vibe” Do you want to be defined as A FOLLOWER? Probably not. Do you want followers? Yeah, megalomaniacs want followers. Genocidal maniacs NEED followers. Think about that next time you see the term “team followback”. Remind you of anything? Do you follow me now?

No one is following you. You don’t HAVE followers. You are in no way any kind of motherfucking leader. You are writing some shit that some people might find interesting for a brief time. They are NOT YOURS. You didn’t LOSE someone. Fuck you, and your bullshit notions of everything. If you say “my followers” in a general and possessive context I think you are a complete and total ass. Thinking of people in the aggregate as a distant mass of unimportant underlings. Who the fuck do you think you are? Fuck you.

It’s more like having subscribers. But not exactly, because they are under no obligation or contract and the currency is their attention. This site uses that term. I don’t hate it. It’s not so bad. I remember subscribing to a magazine and getting really annoyed that it kept coming after my subscription was finally up and I didn’t want to get charged for it, but didn’t want to go through the hassle of calling and having to cancel it. Now there’s a fucking pile in the bathroom of pictures and ads that you don’t look at unless you are having a lengthy shit. Ooh, I really liked Omni. Do they still put that out? That was a cool fucking magazine. I remember standing in a drug store staring at the wall of magazines wondering which one suits me best. There isn’t one, but some are kinda cool to flip through and let the subscription cards slip out and leave them on the floor. Subscribing is sort of a commitment. Still, it gives you the impression that you HAVE a subscriber. You want to KEEP them. There is a feeling of pressure to please them by putting out timely and informative publications that appeal to your subscribers. It is a business relationship. So no. It’s not quite on the mark.

Another decent analogy is “Customers”. Customers only exist as customers while they are being customers. It’s fleeting. They wander into your shop of verbal delights to peruse the shelves. Dingalinging the little brass bell on your door as they enter. You smile! Ah! A customer! You clap your hands together and straighten your bowtie. Hot diggity! “Good day, fine fellow! How may I be of service?!” They may leave without buying anything. Maybe they will politely pick out what they like and purchase it making you feel wonderful and like you have had a mutually beneficial and enjoyable transaction. Possibly someone will compliment you on the items you have and remark on the cleanliness of the establishment and the friendly bang-up job you are doing as purveyor. There is the mysterious and interesting person who comes in sometimes and one half smile from them makes your heart pound as you nervously hand them their change hoping to brush their fingers and catch a spark off of them. The regulars come in and shoot the breeze and make your day the brightest and sweetest there ever was.

Some customers may stay and talk and annoy the fuck out of you and still not buy anything. Maybe they will come in every day as soon as you open and hang out there all day waiting for you to ask them if they need help. Some will come in and start screaming and throwing things until you have to kick them out. They might use the bathroom and take a monster dump in your upper tank and jerk off all over your sink. Bums hang out front. Shoplifters are a given. You may get robbed at gunpoint. You are held up, but instead of stealing anything they tie you up in the back. After mouthraping you, they put on your nametag and try and force people to buy shit they don’t want and give out too much change or use your phone to call sex lines. The store could burn down overnight and you could lose everything. The phone rings and it’s someone asking you if you have something and what your hours are and where you are located and they will be right down to purchase said item. Your relatives want a discount. A lady comes in and loses control of her bladder on your nice clean floor and starts blubbering and losing her fucking mind because she is ill or just got dumped and now you don’t want to be mean but you just want her to go the fuck away. You get the point, you are smart.

Grand Opening. Seasonal Sales. Under new management. No returns. Going out of business sale, Everything must go.

Wait, that’s not quite right either.

People who read what you write are individuals with thoughts and feelings and lives. Often contributing to what you say and making it magical. What you write might exist in a vacuum, but that isn’t the point. You probably want someone else to read it. Even if that someone is merely yourself. Start there. Whoever comes in is a blessing, even if they just wander by and never even come in.




When you tug on a tampon string and out slides a soiled gore cork, you hold it like it’s a dead mouse. A look of repugnance on your face. When you peel that pad out of your panty crotch and it makes that tearing sound like velcro you worry that someone will hear. You roll it up and wrap it in the plastic wrapper of the new one you are taping to your ugly period panties and throwing it in the trash. Hoping that no one will find it and see what a nasty filthy secreter of ick you are. The dry weave layer keeping your precious princess from wallowing in your sloppy sick woman goo. Wings? The wings don’t keep it from ruining panties and the pads don’t even fly. Tampons are wads of… well… cotton. OK, but you pee on the string, don’t you. When you have to go really bad and forget to hold the string off to the side.
How does this make you feel? It makes you feel dirty and unclean and unsexy. UNFEMININE. Why are you doing this every month?

Did you know that there’s been an alternative since the 70’s? The period cup is an unsung hero.


Stop doing what big corporations tell you to do. The feminine hygiene aisle at the supermarket is huge. A huge waste of space. They want to create disposable products in order to make more money. They don’t care about anything else.
Here’s what they are saying to you:
Stick this in your odorous wang moccasin! It’s scented, you smelly witch!
Buy this! it’s got an environmentally friendly applicator, you leaver of carbon footprints!
Ooh, look how pretty! It’s in a pink box with flowers on it, it makes you feel so feminine and no one will be able to tell what it is should it fall out of your purse, you brainless consumer!

Ever sneeze with a tampon in and feel it peek out? Running to the bathroom to push it back in there, or to put a new one in. Oversize hand bag full of supplies. Now they have nicely packaged wipes to make you feel oh so fresh. Discretely wrapped tampons. Pretty little packages containing a single pad.  It’s a vicious cycle. Your lady garden stinks like period so you use products to mask or add flowery smells to the whole mess. You worry that you smell like period because YOU DO! And now you smell like period and a bouquet of springtime cherry blossoms that have been in your underwear covered in bloody discharge and sweat all day. Like someone has brought a floral arrangement to pig rendering plant.
The landfills are full of your uterus leavings. Your flesh-soaked waste doing nothing but taking up more space. Stinking, decaying, and slowly becoming one with all your trash.
Part of you. NOW GARBAGE.
How much money do you spend in your lifetime on period products? Go ahead, calculate it. I’ll wait…. just kidding you don’t have to, but you will want to later. It’s probably a lot. You have to always have some in stock in your bathroom. You have to send your man out and get you some when the cramps are bad and all you want to do is lay around popping motrin and watching tv in your crappy pastel fleece pj bottoms. Do you have a brand/style/size that you have to get? Better run out yourself with a paper towel jammed in your undies so you can get the exact right ones. If only there was an easier way!

We are amazing creatures. The way our bodies work. Self cleaning machines. Perfection. We are not dirty. We are not unsexy. We are beautiful. Why are you letting our culture make you feel like we poor poor ladies have to endure this indignity every month? Because when you were 13 someone told you that it was gross and just a thing we have to live with so some day we can be mommies. Here, put this up there and don’t talk about it. Health class takes the magic out of it.

The greatest invention that you have never heard of. You buy one for about $35 bucks. Never spend another penny on your period. Unless you want chocolate and motrin. Now you can afford the good toilet paper.
It’s silicone. No latex, dyes, or chemicals. No smells. No trash.
You simply pop it up in your vagina and it catches all the blood. You can’t feel it. It never leaks. You can run, do yoga, go dancing, go commando. GO FREAKING CAMPING IN THE WOODS FOR FIVE DAYS! Trip on acid, get drunk at a bar, go somewhere without your purse! Wear a bikini, one that rides up your buttcheeks. Wear jeggings. wear a miniskirt without underwear. I don’t own any “period panties”. In fact, I rarely wear panties at all. Be free. Let that thing flop out!

Surprisingly, it’s hard to find a cup to buy.  I’m not trying to sell you anything. But I do think that they should be more readily available as an option. In my area you can find The Diva Cup at small whole foods stores and all natural pharmacies. For some reason it’s difficult to buy them online. If you can’t find one locally, please contact me and I will be happy to sell you one using paypal. If you’re already convinced you can stop reading now.

Light that tampon string on fire like it’s a fuse and blow up your tampons.

This is why I started using it a few years ago. After being sick of having to wear both tampons and pads at the same time. Endometriosis is very common and usually no big deal, but it means that my flow is sometimes chunky. I have a friend who passes massive clots that look like fetal pigs. I swear they have heartbeats. What good is a tampon? No good for her. She has to sit in a kiddie pool in her living room for 5 days grunting out blood babies. The tampons don’t soak up globs of uterus lining. It  just works it’s way out and slides onto the pad. Where it gets all squished up against your pretty parts and eventually works it’s way into the pad. That’s yucky. Muff all matted with chunky red snot. Walking around with all that sticky wetness rubbing into your delicate skin, irritating you and giving you diaper rash. MISERY. So uncomfortable.  When I walked in a giant clot catcher/pad I sounded like a toddler rustling along with huggies. When I would sleep on my back it would inevitably leak up my ass crack and get all over my sheets. I had to sleep on a towel. With a giant long pad stuck to my giant period panties and a super absorbent wad of cotton inside me that I swear I could feel sucking every drop of moisture from my body and a slimy tail hanging out of me.

The cup stays in place. Unless you are taking a giant monster dump. Just take it out if you need to poo. That should be common sense. Usually I dump it out in the toilet before my morning movement. I empty it before bed too. Just rinse it in the sink and pop it back in.
With time you will get really good at taking it out and dumping it in one swift movement. You will develop your own technique for putting it in.  Like a snatch ninja. You will know when it’s in place. The freedom of knowing that you are good to go. It’s amazing. Everything takes practice. You fumbled when you first started using tampons and pads. This is easy.
There are instructions on the box and videos on the internet of how to put it in.  It’s springy silicone and very malleable. You pinch the mouth shut and fold it over as you stick it in your hole. Releasing it as it gets past the opening so it pops open and sort of suctions itself into place. Wiggle it around and twist it until it feels comfortable. Done.
To take it out you “bear down” a little and pull gently. Sometimes you need to break the suction by putting your finger up next to it and pushing in on the side of the cup. Pulling it out without squeezing it so as not to spill it.
You can even orgasm with it in. I mean not because it feel so good to wear. That would be a little weird.
Want have intercourse? No problem. Take it out first. Period sex is amazing and helps with cramps too. There’s a new reusable cup available in the period aisle called The Soft Cup. Finally! This one is great because you can have sex while it’s in. No mess… unless you’re into that sort of thing.

There are markings on the cup to measure your flow. I’m not particularly anal about how long I leave it in or how much comes out. I am so used to it that I just know when I should empty it and when my period is over. When I’m in a hurry, I don’t even look. Sometimes I like to squish my finger in it to see how thick it is and to observe the tattered lining of my uterus. Hey, why not. It’s not dirty, and it’s mine.

So as I’m dumping my lovely cup full of uterus cleansing magical lady-soup into the toilet, I’m thinking… about stuff. Like weird things because I’m the overly creative type. I think about that hoarders show and wondering if anyone hoards their period blood. About Howard Hughes. How funny it would be to have a shelf lined with mason jars full of blood neatly labelled with dates. Lines on the sides measuring output for the month.
Snickering to myself thinking about many different strange things could be done with stored period blood. Rinsing out the cup in the sink and watching the swirling red strings of uterus lining spin-art around the white porcelain. I’m mesmerized with the possibilities.

That miracle substance isn’t just blood. It’s full of uterus lining, stem cells, a teeny tiny little egg, bodily fluids, blood, etc. That egg. It had potential to be a person. Men get to spill their seed all over a paper towel, or a woman’s face, or their desk at the office as they yank it to porn. This must be a great feeling of power. Women just bleed into stinky cotton products and feel shame. I’m staring at a silicone cup of stuff that came out of me. Neatly collected and full of potential.  I’m mad with power! I want to rub it all over myself and run through the neighborhood shrieking. I want to spill it on some guy’s face as I’m cumming and revel in the humiliation and sense of sexual domination that a man gets to feel when he ejaculates LIFE. Hell yeah! Someone needs to kiss me with a mouth full of my period blood! (you were wondering why on earth I’m single… I don’t know either). Drink me! Who knows what it will happen?

This is sacred stuff. Precious fluids! Now we have a way to collect it. Why dump it down the toilet? That’s putting it into a treatment plant somewhere. More human waste. I’m no hippie, but waste is just wrong.
It’s got to have some kind of use.

There are tons of theories about the fountain of youth. Immortality through blood. What substance could be more powerful than this? I’m not talking about goofy satanic rituals where we all stand around chanting and sipping from a goblet full of virgin’s period blood before we sacrifice her during the solstice to gain her soul. Wiccans topless in a drum circle drinking a mixture of human milk and period blood as they show their oneness with the Goddess. We are mother earth, fertile and giving life. Ok, all that does sounds fun.
I’m talking about science-y stuff. Someone smarter than me needs to get on it. Heal the world with menstrual fluids. At the very least it can be used as compost. Mixed with water and given to plants. I’ll bet my tomatoes are going to be the bomb this year.


Get a cup. For yourself, for the ladies in your life. They make wonderful gifts.
Enjoy your periods. I’m enjoying mine.


Rubber Ducky

I read this brief news bite a while ago about an old lady who couldn’t get out of a bathtub for three days until someone finally found her. She had nothing to eat, but survived by drinking water out of a rubber ducky. This story left out a lot of important details and I have many unanswered questions about it and find myself thinking about it often.

The news story didn’t say if the tub was empty or full of pee pee water or what. And why the hell couldn’t she reach the faucet? Why did she have a rubber ducky? She obviously played with it since it was full of water. I wonder if she had a towel within reach to keep her warm.

I have this vision of a naked wrinkled little old lady lying in a bathtub sucking on a grungy rubber ducky’s ass. With a teeny little washcloth to keep her warm. Peeing in the little bit of water left in the tub. The brown rings of soap scum her only amusement as she scratches lines to mark the days into the filth with her jagged yellow nails. She passes the time by singing “rubber ducky, you’re the one… you make bathtime so much fun…” in a sad ironic quavering old lady voice.

She thinks she hears something.
“I’m in here!!!” Her weak thin voice cries out in desperation. It was one of her many cats. The cats come in and out of the bathroom. One sits on the blue fuzzy toilet seat cover staring at her coldly.
“Go get help, Mr. Muffinpants” the cat blinks as it’s tail flicks back and forth. It licks it’s ass, one leg up in the air. The old lady looks at the dried cracked little sliver of a bar of soap stuck to the porcelain soap dish. Maybe she could eat it. It might not taste so bad. She nibbles on the end of it. Spitting it out quickly and dry heaving.

She uses one of those puffy foofy sponge on a string thingies as a pillow. Dried skin and dusty soap residue flakes off of it into her flattened old lady curls. She squints and tries to read the labels on the shampoo bottles over and over. Not easy without her reading glasses. She hears the mailman put mail in the slot. She cries out but the sound just bounces around off the tiles. The phone rings and rings. One of those with a curly cord.

Finally someone comes, they shake their head and cluck their tongue at her pathetic state. Her happiness clouded by embarrassment at being found naked in the tub clutching the ducky and washcloth and pouf. Eyes wild and full of madness. P.T.A. (pits tits and ass) “showers” only from now on. The thought of a taking a bath making her shudder with the horror. Waking in the middle of the night in terror. Now she keeps snacks handy in the bathtub. She sleeps with the poof under her pillow. The rubber ducky gets filled with fresh drinking water every day, just in case. She buys extra washcloths to hit the hot spots when the smell and crust get overwhelming. She stinks and doesn’t care. She kicks poor Mr. Muffinpants with his kitty-poo-ass-breath out of her bed because he didn’t do anything to save her.