Black Coffee Two Sugars

Valentine’s day. When every non-single (what is that called? Taken?) girl I know posts pictures of flowers, and chocolate, and breakfast with their honeys, and the single gals post bi-polar statuses evenly divided between their love for pink jeans and purple sweaters and how couples needy to die a bloody (red! yay!) death or choke on chocolates or something of the sort.

I’m apathetic toward Valentine’s day. I don’t really like flowers. I’m not saying that in an attempt to discount the fact I never receive them (I don’t – so there’s that). But they get all crumbly and die and shed all over my counter and I think roses smell like old people and I’m just not really a fan… Indoors. Outside they are really pretty. I especially like sunflowers and daffodils. I DO love chocolate. And wine. And rom coms. So I’ve got that going for me. In fact, I wish I had some awesome knit sweater with a giant heart on it, because I love me some holiday cheer and it would be really cute with red jeans.

So really, I’m not apathetic toward Valentine’s Day at all. I like it. Despite the fact that I have never celebrated it with anyone. Some people think this is sad. Well, I think people who are in relationships for the sake of being in a relationship are sad. And I don’t want to be one of those people. Honestly, I don’t think I could be one of those people. My former dog lives with my parents. I actually loved him, and I still sent him to live with them. I don’t think they would take a boyfriend…

BUT future boyfriend, wherever you are, I have 5 golden nuggets for you. They are both promises and threats, and I suggest you abide by them:

1. You will not woo me. I will decide in the first 2 minutes of meeting you if I ever want to pursue a romantic relationship with you and if I tell you no, I mean it. You will not win me over, especially by doing nice things for me. You will annoy me, smother me, and make me resent you. If you get me drunk, I will probably make out with you. Unfortunately for you, I would probably make out with a lamp post if I thought it was coming on to me. I’m Courtney, and I am a drunken make out slut.

2. I revert into a 5 year old child when I am hungry. Do not make fun of me for carrying trail mix in my purse. There will come a time where you will thank me for doing this for you. I’m not kidding when I say I turn into a raging bitch. That snickers commercial “you’re not you when you’re hungry”? That’s me. If I get hungry enough, I will just revert into a silent state due to inability to function, but until then, I will be a real pain in the ass. You should probably carry a granola bar in your pocket just in case. Do NOT ask me what I want to eat. I will fly into a rage. But also don’t make the mistake of recommending the wrong thing. “I don’t fucking care! Anything!” really means “pick right or die.” Once fed, I will be all sunshine and roses and act like my behavior was completely acceptable. I’m such a gem.

3. I expect you to know what kind of wine I drink. It’s actually the only thing I really expect of you besides always volunteering to drive. For the record, tempranillos, chiantis, cabernets, or red blends should be your go-tos. If you offer me white wine, I will be annoyed. If you offer me a rose? It’s over. Wine will solve so many problems for you. You’re welcome.
Editor’s note: IPAs and martinis are also acceptable offerings. I enjoy popcorn and mixed nuts as snacks. Give me a good cheese tray and you might get laid. Give me tequila and you’re definitely getting laid.

4. I promise to never, EVER rub or tuck my bare feet under your leg because my feet are cold. Feet are vile. I’ll put on a pair of socks, thank you. You will also be eternally grateful for this. Did I mention I run a lot? I have elephant feet and my pinky toes rarely have toenails. Like I said, real gem. Real gem. But I’m guessing you probably have long hairs sprouting from your big toe, so we’re even.

5. My last request. You must love music. And you must love to dance. Please note this doesn’t mean you need to actually look good while dancing. I’d actually prefer you look quite ridiculous as to take away from my painful white girl finger snaps and flailing arms. If you happen to tackle me in a fit of dancing passion, I’ll probably just lay on the floor and laugh.

6. I added one. You have to be good looking. Call it vanity if you want. One good looking person deserves another. I need our offspring to have a fighting chance.

Happy valentine’s day future boyfriend. Until you come along, I’ll continue to get wine drunk on my own accord and enjoy my life as a single white female. It’s working out so far.

2012. A new year. New opportunities. Resolutions. Sunshine and rainbows. Unless of course, you are still a drunken mess.

Let me propose something, world. We should celebrate the END of the current year on December 30. Lie in bed all day on December 31 eating string cheese and Ms. Vickie’s jalapeno chips dipped in hummus or whatever else is still lurking in the pantry after the holidays, and THEN start afresh on January 1.

But no. Instead, we start the new year off with what can only be a set up for failure. Unless of course your group of friends doesn’t insist on day drinking turned night drinking turned 48 hour binge for New Year’s Eve weekend. Then I suppose you are okay. And boring.

Anyway, the point is that on New Year’s day I was teetering on the edge of what surely must have been death. But, since it was a new year and a fresh start and all that bullshitty jazz, I slapped on some yoga pants and uggs and dragged my ass to the grocery store instead of walking to John’s cafe. Thinking I should be out in public was mistake #1. Not getting those fluffy biscuits from John’s was mistake #2. I think they have magical powers.

So anyway, I get to the grocery store and grab one of those small baskets. I’m not sure why I thought I could fit all of the things I needed in there. Hungover/still drunk shopping COMMENCE! Let’s go to the produce section and be HEALTHY! Apples! tomatoes! avocados! bananas! rhubarb! eggplant! I’m so colorful and healthy!

I then decided coconut water was absolutely the next step to curing this horrid hangover. So there I was, trying to drink the supposed nectar of the gods from a cardboard box with that stupid silver flap as the only opening, when I realized I loathe  coconut water. We’re talking that weird burp sensation followed by the waterfall of gushing mouth saliva that leads to projectile vomiting.

Since I was NOT about to start my new year with a clean up on aisle 3 call, i did what any normal hungover 26 year old homeless looking person would do. I opened a carton of animal cookies, started eating those, and kept shopping. If you think I didn’t finish the coconut water you are also wrong. It was $1.99. Bastards. I had become the person I hate. The wandering, aloof shopper, squinting her way through the aisles, drinking a beverage and muching cookies out of that little circus purse the animal crackers come in. That’s class people. Pure class.

I made it through the chips/popcorn and breakfast items aisle before I ran out of room in that stupid little handheld basket. Frozen foods was pretty much all I had left. Easy right? No.

Do you know how delicious bagel bites look when you are still heavily under the influence? Almost as good as taquitos and bertolli.

By the time I was teetering to the cash register I realized I needed toilet paper. This was actually probably the best thing that happened all morning. In the paper goods section. I had an epiphany. As the rays of sunlight broke through the haze, I realized I had no idea what the fuck i was buying.

Leaving random vegetables and frozen products there seemed totally logical at the time. I’m pretty sure they keep security cameras in Kroger, so I hope they got a good laugh out of the paranoid girl with a ratty pony tail stealthily looking around before shoving RHUBARB into some paper towels and running.

At this point it was becoming apparently clear that I needed to go home. Like right then. So I high tailed it to the self check out. Of course, I forgot to mention I had to buy a new razor because I left mine at my parents’ house 3 days before and my underarms were becoming quite French. You’re welcome for the details. Well that little gem on plastic and metal blades had a device in the packaging that sets off the alarms. Under normal circumstances, I probably would have realized the giant box outside of the smaller packaging would have said device, but I didn’t. So yeah. I got one final moment in the spotlight as the awkward bagger boy shuffled through my bags and gagged on my scent of after morning booze and hangover sweats.

On the way home, I became increasingly paranoid as I realized i should definitely not be driving. I was not okay. I was beyond not okay. I was like a wounded gazelle who somehow escaped the lion (It’s okay, I don’t really understand the analogy either).

I went home, unloaded the groceries, and collapsed onto the couch only getting up to use the bathroom or get more pita bread. Thank you universe for twitter and Toddlers and Tiaras.

Around 5:30 I started to feel human again, so I jumped on the bandwagon for a new year and went to the gym! GO ME!

No. I tried to run, did a dramatic flailing move where I nearly fell off the treadmill, which is truly terrifying after watching my sister’s hair get caught in one when we were little, and resorted to walking for 45 minutes – the minimum amount of time I feel appropriate before leaving – because, you know, I was obviously really concerned about being embarrassed on Sunday.

You’ll all be happy to know that I swore off drinking after that. It lasted 3 1/2 days. Happy new year.

Ah, yes. The office. Our homes away from home, like it or not.

There are many exciting things that happen in the office: bathroom stand offs, the stealing of lunches and other goodies from the community fridge, the co-workers who let their phones ring at volume 678, even though they seem to be the ones who never actually answer the mysterious ringing machine, those who return emails from the bottom up – asking stupid questions repeatedly until they get to the top and then think “hehehe oopsies! Guess I should have read the chain first!” makes them look un-stupid again. The least of my worries are the popcorn burners and tuna/fish eaters, as we have basically driven those people to dine in solitude after a few mishaps.

However, about 2 months ago, I noticed a strange phenomenon that I will refer to henceforth as soup o’clock. Every day at precisely 1:15, I hear the familiar patter of feet move toward the microwave, followed by a return to the desk with a napkin and a spoon. The soup lover then returns to the microwave, delighted to find that the liquid food has warmed itself and is ready to be ingested. As the feet pad back down the short hallway, I hear the familiar rattle of the spoon, and then cringe and I visualize the soup lover’s hand making it’s way toward the mouth.

And then it happens – Sluuuuuuuuurppppppp, Sluuurp, Slurp, Sluuuuurp, Slurp. <pause> Sluuuurp, slurp, sluurp.
I would put my headphones in during this wretched time, but it’s after lunch, so unless I have managed to escape to lunch time yoga, where I balance myself and tell my brain to wish good thoughts upon the bastardly soup slurper, I am stuck answering post-lunch questions. This is really my fault since any morning questions are met with eye daggers and gnashing of teeth, but really people, this is neither here nor there….

Every day… Every. Single. Blasted. Day. I listen to the slurp slurp slurp of the soup. Sometimes, I return from a late lunch, gleefully plopping into my chair in a soup-slurping-by-pass high, only to find the slurper has waited for me to return so I can share the joyfulness of soup and the magical air bubbling noises it makes.

Other days, I grin and bear it. Pretending I don’t notice the slurpfest and continuing to scream into my phone, battling the slurps for volume. But even then, even when I play nice, the soup slurper strikes again. For the soup slurper recently discovered…. yogurt. Which apparently must be loudly licked off the spoon and then smacked and gummed open-mouthed until the creamy substance is juuuuust right.
If you want to insert a lame TWSS joke - you probably also still think WINNING! is a cool phrase. 

Now back on track, without the soup, I could find a way to deal with the yogurt. I really could. Mainly because I like yogurt. Particularly fage. Because a) I like saying FA-YEH, and b) because I like saying FA-YEH.

And also because I myself bring loud crunchy apples into the office which I’m sure annoy my cube mates as well. But SOUP? First of all, if you are eating soup anytime outside of the November- February window – you’re fucking weird. Soup is not meant to be enjoyed in July, people. It’s 110 degrees outside, who thinks to themselves “mmmm I could really go for a steaming bowl of chicken broth and meat that doesn’t even have to be refrigerated!”? Not I… not I.
Even if it IS 50 degrees in the office and I am hunkered down in my snuggie. IT’S NOT THE TIME FOR SOUP.

Secondly, WHO EATS SOUP BY ITSELF? Oh, I’m sorry, yogurt did accompany the soup, but seriousl., I can get on board with a soup & salad combo, a bread bowl, or tomato soup with grilled cheese – mmm… grilled cheese. But if you like soup by itself, I hate you. You’ll probably say something like, but what about the tomato soup at La Madeleine? Sooooo goood. Then I’ll say something like, I don’t eat at chain restaurants with you peons. Also, I prefer my tomato soup not made of lard.

What I really mean of course is that I can maybe have a cup of that, but then I’m done. Because I eat soup with SIDES of other stuff. Like the heart shaped sugar cookies they have there. And some lemonade.

SLUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP.

Lastly, If you don’t know how to eat soup, drink it through a straw. A big straw, that can accept chunnks of meat, and vegetables, and would really hurt if I just so happened to walk by and shove your face into the straw and poke an eye out.

Anyway, have you guys noticed how cold it is outside?!
Good weather for wine… and I confess, soup.
Just please eat responsibly. Friends don’t let friends smack and slurp.

Well hello there, lovelies, and good morning to you. And happy birthday to me. I’m currently sitting at work, been here for an hour, mind you, because we had a meeting scheduled for 8am, which apparently I didn’t really have to come to because only half of our team showed up. So I woke up at 6:30 on my birthday to come to work early, where i’ll probably stay late because I dicked around too long this morning writing a blog. But complaining, as good as I am at it, was not my intention for this post.

I’d say I’m getting ornery due to old age, but we all know I popped out all hot and bothered, so let’s just cut to the chase here. I’ve decided to share a special birthday from years’ past with you. My 12th birthday to be exact. I had decided on a roller skating/sleepover combo – God bless my mother who put up with 16 shrieking teenagers in her household almost every weekend for most of my junior high/high school years. It was September 1997… I was in the 6th grade, AIM was booming (CS974, represent), and everyone and their mom was still rocking the Rachel cut.

…..Except me that is.
The 6th grade may have been the peak of my awkward years… maybe. I’ve been internally battling whether I should describe myself as a chubby Daria with a bob cut or a 12 year old version of Molly Shannon in SUPERSTAR! *jazz hands* I’d say I was probably more Molly Shannon than Daria, I mean Daria would never have red and gold flecks in the frames of her black glasses, and I preferred white tube socks to combat boots, despite my obsession later that year with “alternative rock” and my self proclaimed punk rocker status. 311 shirt with limited too jeans anyone?? Yeah. Mortifying.

ANYWAY, I’m envisioning the picture we took in my front yard. You know, the pyramid of girls with acne and braces? Actually I didn’t have braces yet, I just had a small gap between my front teeth. And there I was, front and center on the bottom row, wearing what I’m sure was some God awful denim on denim ensemble. But you see, my outfit wasn’t that important. It was my jewelry that really shined.

Around my neck, was a barbie head.

Yes, I actually popped the head off of one of my sister’s barbies, tied a ribbon around it, and hung it from my neck.

Did you hear me? I. Tied. A. Barbie. Head. Around. MY. NECK.
Did I not have a perfectly suitable Claire’s choker I could have been wearing??
And WHY did these so called friends not stop me?
bitches.

Then I continued to wear it to the roller rink, where I probably skated around giggling and waving it around when Aqua came on, because COME ON BARBIE LET’S GO PARTY! Omg! I totes brought Barbie to the party!

At some point, we eventually headed back to my house, presumably to make prank phone calls from my papasan chair, jump on the trampoline, or maybe TP someone’s house.
Actually I still actively participate in these activities and am mentally high fiving my 12 year old self for perhaps her only saving grace.

Of course, being the good host that I am, I declared the rules of war before we settled in for the night. First one to fall asleep gets it! Unfortunately, the first one to fall asleep happened to be my next door neighbor. Hey, sorry you didn’t listen. I TOLD you that you were going to get it, and it’s not my fault that you crushed all the cheetos we put in your sleeping bag and rubbed your eyes and got shaving cream in them…. well, it kind of is since i tickled your face with a feather, but that’s how slumber parties go!
Are you new?

Really she had my mother to thank for that. Since turning 12 marked that special right of passage where I was allowed to shave my legs. Because it doesn’t matter that I was rocking the chubby Velma look, it was clearly that Arian-race hair on my legs that was keeping the fellas from asking me to slow dance at arms length.

Anyway, the neighbor ran home and we pretty much ceased all communication for the next 6 years despite the fact we were next door neighbors.
I’d like to say my 12 year old self felt bad, but she probably didn’t. I mean, how can you be preoccupied with apologies when your dad brings home pigs in a blanket and chocolate frosted donuts with sprinkles?
You can’t.

So kids, the moral of the story is that if you are a total fucking weirdo as a pubescent , you’ll lose a few friends along the way but gain some great stories to tell as an adult.

And for the record, I turned out pretty good looking. Bonus.

I have been a bad poster. This is mostly because I refuse to post just to post because then I feel like it’s all “I’m trying to be funny, but this isn’t really funny, and now I just feel stupid.” And then I realized, this is my blog. No one has to read it if they don’t want to, so I can post whatever I want! SO THERE! So it might not be funny. It might not be a rant. It might not involve F bombs. And if you don’t like it, you can leave. My house, my rules.

editors note: above rant is to the voices in my head, not any actual humans. You’ve all been quite pleasant.

SO. My first order of business in bringing sexythe blog back, is to update my Dallas to-do list. This only includes places I have not been! But I may list some old favorites at the bottom just for good measure. Today’s neighborhood is my new stomping ground: Lakewood. Some of these might border on East Dallas, but I’ll have a seprate list for that ‘hood. Enjoy!

I just recently moved over to lower lower Greenville, so while I know Henderson and Greenville well, I am on a mission to hit up some East Dallas spots I had no clue existed 3 months ago.

Food & Drink

Legal Grounds – Abrams between La Vista and Richmond
Obviously I’m down to try anywhere that serves coffee (living behind Pearl Cup has been great!), so I need to try this spot. It is also intriguing to me because the Yelp reviews seem to be either raves or rants. Which probably means the ranters probably just have their panties in a twist because this place doesn’t pump out coffee as fast as starbucks. According to supporters, I’ll die if I don’t try the “prom cakes” – pancakes made from oatmeal with granola and bananas. Sounds good to me, I’ll have an expresso, too. They also have a Godiva hot chocolate I wouldn’t mind trying on a cold night with a good book.
Can’t find a website, but there’s a short video with owner interview here.

Garden Cafe - 5310 Junius (near Munger & Gaston)
Open Tues – Sunday 8am – 2pm, with breakfast served all day. They grown seasonal fruits, veggies, and herbs in their garden. Healthy, local fare, plus it looks really cute! They also do events during the evenings since the restaurant is not open for dinner.

White Rock Local Market - Held at the Green Spot the 2nd and 4th Saturdays of the month
I haven’t checked out this farmer’s market yet, and need to. Every market is different, so it’s fun to peruse them all! Maybe I’ll stop by after checking off another of my to-do’s: Kayaking on White Rock. I was happy to discover they offer canoe and kayak rentals after thinking no place in Dallas (at least close to me) offered this. Should be a nice little Saturday morning, no?

Green Spot also has a Produce Club, which I think is kind of cool because part of the proceeds go to local farming and agriculture initiatives and you get local, organic goodies! For a $25 annual fee, you get a t-shirt, 10% discount on produce, invitations to Green Spot cooking demonstrations, and recipe exchange programs. They will also accomodate special orders.

Eddie’s Deli - 5844 Abrams
Chicago beef in Dallas. It’s no secret I am partial to Jimmy’s (read my yelp review here), but I feel like I should try Eddie’s just to say I have. They are closed Sundays, but it’s a cheap dog  ($5 average) for you hungry hungry hippos Monday – Saturday.

Cafe Donuts – Mockingbird and Abrams
I’m generally a healthy eater, especially for breakfast, but I’ve heard this place has the best sausage rolls known to man. Being a huge fan of the Czech Bakery as a frequent Austin traveler, I must review and decide for myself!

Molly Maguires - Skillman and Live Oak
I’m Irish. Nuff said. Except I should also add they have a great beer selection and call their kids’ menu the Leprechaun Menu. Not that I encourage bringing kids to a bar… but whatever.

Music

The Balcony Club – Abrams & La Vista, attached to Lakewood theater
They have a few different Jazz bands playing every night, some regularly scheduled groups and some randoms. Sounds like a fun little joint to have a few drinks.

The Summer Concert Series at the Arboretum
Tickets are usually around $10 and are outdoors overlooking White Rock Lake. The line up is actually pretty good! Spazmatics, Bon Jovi tribute bands, etc.

Shopping

Paperbacks Plus – Located in the back of the lakewood shopping center on Skillman and Live Oak
I drive past this all the time leaving yoga and really need to stop in. I’ve heard there are great deals on used books and music and that the store is always promoting local events and artists. SUPPORT THE LOCALS!

Talulah Belle - 2011 Abrams
Looks like Francesca’s meets organized Gypsy Wagon. I’m always looking for knick knacks, cards, and fun accessories (that I usually end up never wearing but were just too cute to pass up). I’m hoping the prices for most items fall more into the Francesca’s range.

Curiosities - 2025 Abrams
Some crazy antique store that I am dying to check out. The reviews had me at “neon yard gnome.” Yeah, you heard me. Regardless of whether I will buy anything here, it is on my list of places to go when I’m bored on Sunday afternoon, because despite my own minimalist style, I love rifling through other people’s crap and imagining where on earth they found these gems in the first place.

Redenta’s - Skillman and Oram
Now, there’s not much I can do garden-wise since I live in an apartment. But I do want to get some stuff to put on my balcony. And none of those tacky hanging plants in plastic buckets or dried of shriveled messes strewn about my neighbors’ humble abodes. I’m going to get some of those nice small flower beds you can hang over the side of the balcony and grow some pretty flowers…. or at least buy some pretty flowers and pray I don’t forget to water them. Stayin alive, stayin alive…

So that’s my list. Please feel free to leave any recs I might have missed….

Oh, and the honorable mentions I frequent:
Times Ten Cellars
The Wine Therapist
Penne Pomodoro ($1 bloody marys, hell yes!)
La Calle Doce (get the ceviche)
Matt’s Rancho Martinez
Lakewood Landing
Cosmo’s
The Goat (7248 Gaston) – kareoke and seriously cheap drinks

Extra, extra! Read all about it! The government will be issuing a new “food plate” to solve all of America’s fatty fat problems this Thursday. Obviously I’ll be anxiously awaiting with my popcorn to see this amazing new design that will replace the food pyramid, consequently making it easier for Americans to understand that we need to put more veggies on our plates. Because just saying it isn’t easy enough to comprehend….

Let’s dive in, shall we?

Well, doesn’t THAT look delicious? Scalloped potatoes, canned corn, maybe some frozen mealy broccoli to go with whatever the hell kind of meat that is with some crescent rolls (okay fine, those look pretty good…), all complimented by what I can only guess is some coleslaw and cucumbers! Mmmm… tasty! #sarcasmfont

Now I’ll admit, I’m one of those people who requests the divided plates on holidays because I just believe that certain foods should just never touch. Thanksgiving is especially bad because it’s like a contest of how many side dishes we can possibly create to feed 10 people. I don’t WANT my cranberry sauce touchin my mac n cheese. I don’t like green bean casserole glop running onto my roll and making it all soggy and cream of mushroom-soupy. I especially don’t want to use the same fork to eat my turkey and my pumpkin pue (lookin at you, grandpas of the world).

Anyway, my whole point is, that plate looks disgusting. And like an invitation to splurge at Golden Corral as long as the plate is half filled with buttered mashed potatoes, salad drenched in ranch dressing, and cinnamon apples, fruits and veggies right?!

Oh, and there will also be a little circle next to the plate for dairy. They suggest maybe a cup of yogurt, or perhaps a glass of milk. But God forbid it be CHOCOLATE MILK.

Lemme tell you something people, it’s not the chocolate milk. It’s the fact that if your parents fit in with people of Walmart, chances are you probably will too.

Luckily, all you have to do to solve the problem is put on a “Classy Lady” t-shirt, because if it’s scrawled across your chest, it MUST be true. I’m actually going to go out and buy one so that people at the bar understand that really, there is a classy lady under that layer of vodka.

In another unrelated rant, what the hell was that on the Bachelorette last night? Good one Ashley, take the poor date to Vegas and go ring shopping, cake tasting, and then actually go 90% through with a wedding in the chapel? The only thing crazier than her might have been the guy, who seemed to be completely romanticized by the floating dinner in the Bellagio fountains as onlookers scream “WE LOVE YOU ASHLEY!!!” Totally not awkward. Not awkward at all.

Almost as not awkward as quotes by Bentley. My personal favorite?
“I won’t be here until the end, she really isn’t my type. But she’s got a nice ass and if she’d tickle my balls, that’d be nice.”
Or something to that effect. Class act. Maybe we should get him a “Classy Gentleman” shirt?

Y’all.

TLC has a new show called “Strange Sex.” It might become a new obsession of mine. A sick, twisted obsession in which I relish how normal I really am that I don’t have 23 Y chromosomes, or that I didn’t grow two vaginas, or that I never stumbled across a man like Jonah Falcon, who has a 13.5 inch penis. Soft.

Holy shit, WHAT?

I think my mom nearly spewed chardonnay out her nose when they did the close up of his junk pretty much wrapped around his leg. Good lawd. We were rolling.

Speaking of rolling, I imagine it must be about the size of a rolling pin.

If you would like examples of other things that are 13.5 inches, I will be happy to provide them for you:

your forearm
1 and 1/9 subway footlong
a Zach Morris cell phone
a Barbie doll
a Katade-mochi bonzai tree
a bottle of wine
2-3 regular penises

I’m sorry, I promise the point of this post was not to recap the discussion in which the sex therapist informed viewers nation-wide that this man’s endowment could fracture the female cervix, or that Jonah has slept with so many women that “he can’t really remember but it’s definitely triple digits,” or that his blind date that he met online blurted out “I HEAR YOU HAVE A HUGE DONG!”

 Who wouldn’t want this hunka hunka burnin’ love?

Anyway, the actual inspiration for this post came from the Phallological Museum in Husavik, Iceland.
Let’s call a spade a fucking spade, people.
It’s a penis museum.

The owner, Sigurdur Hjartarson, is SUPER excited about receiving 95 year old Pall Arason’s pickled penis since his timely passing.

Arason is the first person to actually donate his penis. And Hjartarson is tickled pink. In fact, even his pickle it tickled!

“I have just been waiting for this guy for 15 years,” he told The Associated Press in a brief telephone interview.

You’ve been waiting 15 years for an old dude to die so you can have his formaldehyde soaked member? Is this more or less exciting than when you got your grubby little fingers on that “unusually big” penis bone from a Canadian walrus?

Apparently his obsession started when he used a whip made from bull penis to herd cattle as a youngster (this is one thing), and the next thing he knew, people were bringing him gifts of whale penis as gifts (this is a whole ‘nother thing)!

Somebody PLEASE explain to me how you become the guy that gets whale penis gifts.
“Oh, it’s Hjartarson’s birthday, what shall we get the lad? I know! A seal penis! You know how he just loves cock.”

For the record, he has 276, now 277, peni (is that the plural form?)

And I quote MSNBC:
“Photos posted to the museum’s website show small army of ghostly, whitish penises stuffed into jars, tall glass cylinders and large aquariums. There are sculptures, molds and other penis-related craft items. Outside, the museum has a large tree trunk carved into the shape of an erect phallus.”

He also seems to think that a dong donation is simply no different from donating a kidney. It’s just an organ, after all!

Maybe Jonah will be willing to send his good to Iceland when he meets his maker.
Then again, maybe not. He won’t be the big dog anymore if his measely little nub gets placed next to the 67 inch sperm whale penis.

That’s 5 feet 7 inches, by the way. There is a penis longer than I am tall. Can you even imagine how big those swimmers must be?

My gawd, I’m going to have nightmares tonight.