I’m Totally RAD

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, “Oh no she din’t!  She din’t just disappear for weeks with no word of warning and then just pop up in my reader unannounced like a zit on prom night!” That’s what you’re thinking, aren’t you?  Hold off on your vitriol, Innernetz.  Save that for Roman Po-skank-ski. 

September has been one bitch of a month. Reactive Airway Disease (RAD), which is just a fancy way of saying, “we don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, here’s your mask, have a nice day,” and bronchitis have knocked me on my ass.  My doctor doesn’t have an explanation for the fatigue that makes every day feel as if I am walking through sand dunes with Rosie O’Donnell strapped to one leg, Kirstie Alley to the other, and a box of donuts hanging around my neck. 

The one bright spot in my month was my visit to the Mean Girl homestead.  We laughed, we drank, we shook some booty.  But it was over too soon.  My buzz hadn’t yet dissipated before I was on a cramped, crowded plane home, remembering why I hate people to fly.  First of all, it was the smallest fucking plane I’d ever seen.  Somewhere in the Midwest, a child was frantically searching for his Fisher Price L’il People People Movers Plane while I was trying to squeeze my ass into a seat the size of an oyster cracker. 

As I was putting in my earplugs and preparing for a nap, a woman sat next to me.  I was rude, Innernetz.  I did not make eye contact or even nod in her direction.  I knew better.  I seem to have a face that says, “Please!  Talk to me!  Tell me about your son’s ingrown toenail and your husband’s battle with psoriasis!  What?  Oh no, I’m not yawning.  I’m just trying to eat my brain so I don’t have to listen to you for another god damn minute!” Even on the best of days, I hate small talk and chit-chat.  Hate. It.  So, I put in my earplugs, fashioned a pillow out of my knock-off pashmina, closed my eyes, and — tap, tap, tap

I tried to ignore the fingernail poking into my shoulder.  Tap, tap, tap.  With a sigh that clearly indicated “This Better Be Good, Bitch” I opened my eyes.  “Yes?” I asked, in a voice that I have used to turn crying babies to stone and obnoxious men into bubbling pools of offal.

“You must be tired,” said the woman next to me, bobbing her head like a pump handle toward my makeshift pillow against the fuselage.  Oh em gee!  Thanks for waking me up to tell me!  I was just wondering why my eyes were closed. 

“I am.  Very tired.” I grunted.  I went to reinsert my earplugs when Pump Handle Pam decided it would be a good time to take off her migraine-inducing sweater of many colors, bump my hand, and send my earplugs falling to the floor where they disappeared with what was left of my patience and goodwill.  I didn’t rest my head against the fuselage so much as I banged it repeatedly in an attempt to knock myself out.  It didn’t work. 

And then, Samuel L. Jackson walked on the plane.  Well, not the REAL Samuel L.Jackson.  But he looked enough like him for me to wish there were snakes on the plane and I was sitting next to the emergency exit with a parachute.  Not Samuel L. Jackson took a seat at the front of the plane.  Behind him was a man wearing a toupee so pathetic it was crying and some sort of cologne that fragranced the air.  I think it was Eau de Budweiser.  He wobbled his way down the aisle before finally collapsing into the row in front of me.  He let out a loud buuuuuuurp!  Yep, definitely Eau de Budweiser.

The next few hours passed in a haze of misery. Pump Handle Pam nattered on about her son’s football drama.  Oh noes!1!  He was second string!  Tearful Toupee continued to depressurize, sending fumes of EdB through his blowhole like Flipper on a bender.  And to make this the Best! Flight! Ever! John Goodman joined Kirstie and Rosie in a battle royale for the donuts.  Because lethargy and muscle weakness wasn’t enough, the cough that had disappeared several days earlier returned with such vehemence that my body contorted as if undergoing an exorcism.  Watery eyes and a runny nose soon joined the mucous maracas rattling in my chest. 

I made it home, Innernetz.  Mr. Dingo took one look at me and put me to bed wrapped in blankets and woe.  When I finally dragged myself to the doctor’s office, I was told that my RAD and bronchitis had never completely disappeared; it had just been on hiatus.  And it was back.  So I’ve been hanging out on the couch watching bad TV with Dingo Girl, Not a Dingo, Rosie, Kirstie, and John.  I’ve been feeling much better the past few days.  Good thing, too.  John just told me that we’re out of donuts.

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Now, Honestly!

I know most of you are going to scroll down to the end just to see who won the Dan Aykroyd wine giveaway.  Just make sure you come back up here and read the rest of the post because I talk all about me!

One year ago today, As I Was Saying was born.  What started out as a writing blog where I could wax eloquent about my thoughts and my life turned into a blog where I write about waxing.  And hair cuts, clueless students, weird running companions, and other odd people in my life.  It’s been fun and at times cathartic.  But the best thing about blogging has been (everyone get your hankies out) meeting you, Innernetz.  Thanks for sticking around.  Thanks for your comments and emails.  Thanks for your support and encouragement.  And, when I needed to hear it, thanks for telling me to “Shut the fuck up already!  You think you have it so hard? There are starving children in Africa and moose running from rabid-incoherent-VP-wannabe-hockey-moms-with-high-powered-rifles-in-helicopters who have real problems!” So, yeah, thanks for that. Keep on keepin’ it real, Innernetz!

It’s been a great good interesting year overall, but it has been a fabulous year of blogging.  I’ve won quite a few awards including some I have not mentioned yet.  I was recently listed at Blogtrepenuer as one of the 100 Must Read Blogs . . . Written by Women!  I’m excited!  Thrilled!  Honored!  There are some great blogs on the list in several categories so pop over there and check them out.

And April at It’s All About Balance has also given me some cyberbling — the Honest Scrap Award.  You know how I feel about honesty.  It’s always the best policy if you don’t think you can get away with lying.  We’re supposed to list ten honest things about ourselves but I’m only going to list two.

• My poop is green.  Yes, green.  Remember my ode to Mr. Dingo’s Red Velvet Cake?  Alas, it was not to be.  I searched the entire grocery store for red food coloring.  All they had was blue.  There was an entire shelf devoted to blue food coloring.  I suppose it’s the overstock from all the Obama baking.  But really, they need to stock the red now.  Can’t we all just get along?

So, Blue Velvet it was.  Except that when we poured the blue food coloring into the cake batter, it turned green.  Not pretty Spring time green.  No, this was someone-left-the-cheese-in-the-fridge-too-long green.  It was Shrek with food poisoning green.  But the cake was good and the frosting was heavenly.  And I ate half of it in one night.  The next morning my poop was green.  I asked Mr. Dingo to come look but he wouldn’t.  I then asked him if his poop was green.  He said that he hadn’t checked but since he only had one slice to my ten, his poop probably wasn’t green.  Do people poop red after eating Red Velvet Cake?  You just know that someone somewhere is receiving a government grant to research just this issue.

Hmmm, maybe this is one of those stories where I should’ve lied.  Mr. Dingo made Red Velvet Cake.  It was good.  The end. 

• I dumpster dive in my own trash.  Remember my stinky shoes?  Innernetz, when your shoes are in the bedroom closet and you can smell them in the living room, it’s time to throw them away.  So I did.  Days passed.  It rained.  It snowed.  I wore boots.  And then…then, the sun came out.  The clouds parted, flowers bloomed, children laughed, and angels sang.  And I didn’t have appropriate too-warm-for-boots-not-yet-warm-enough-for-flip-flops footwear.  What’s a Dingo to do?! 

I’ll tell you what she does, she rummages to the bottom of the trash and takes her stinky shoes from under layers of funk, egg shells, and coffee grinds.  Perfect!  I don’t even think they stink anymore.  The competing offensive aromas canceled each other out and all I smell is, well, nothing.  Dingo Girl has been acting odd, however. When I take my good as new old shoes off, Dingo Girl immediately tries to bury them or rolls on them with squeaks and groans of ecstasy.  She does the same thing when we’re at the park and she finds a three-day dead pigeon.  She’s just weird like that.

So, those are my two Honest Scrap offerings.  After those two, I can’t imagine that you’d want to know any more. 

And now, what you’ve all been waiting for….the winner of the I’m a Bitch, You’re a Lush Giveaway…..The Coconut Diaries!  This was her winning foot-in-mouth anecdote:

Me: I hate taking aerobics classes with these college students. I feel so old!
Lady: I know what you mean. (uncomfortable silence). You know, I was really excited about Obama’s win. It’s like the first time I can remember being so moved by a president.
Me:  Really? Even more than Kennedy?
Lady: Well, I was 3 then.

That just cracked me up.  Coconut Diaries, I’m surprised you didn’t show her some of your own high-impact moves.

Shelly certainly gets an honorable mention for:

As a 20 yr old, working at her first Big Girl job, I was a bookkeeper, office ‘girl’/apartment/duplex manager for a construction guy.
There was this lady who has all sorts of personal problems that was going to move out of a duplex.  A second lady wanted said duplex.  I called Lady #1 to get the scoop of her time frames (of moving out) and got the latest tale of woe about her divorce and I am certain other devastation in her life.  I proceeded to call lady #2 to tell her that she couldn’t have the duplex for a while...and immaturely recounted EVERY DETAIL of this poor lady #1’s dismal life.......being all cute and gossipy, you know?
As it turned out, my airheaded 20 year old self actually dialed the FIRST number on my list (which belonged to lady #1) and of course her name was next to the number so unthinkingly I asked for her....and recounted her OWN SORRY LIFE BACK TO HER........yea...so much for cute and gossipy. 

Thanks to everyone for participating!  Please drink to another year of As I Was Saying and to good friends, good food, and green poop.

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My Feet Taste Nasty (Updated!)

So far, 2009 has created the giant sucking sound once only associated with NAFTA and Keanu Reeves movies (The Lake House, anyone?). It’s been a particularly rough few weeks here at Casa Dingo.  You ever have a problem where the solutions are equally unpalatable?  Like a choice between chewing razor blades and then gargling lemon juice or dousing yourself with honey and laying on an anthill.  You ever have a problem like that?  And then?  Then you put on your big girl panties and do what needs to be done only to open another can of worms.  I’m not talking about those thin, weak looking things that litter the sidewalk after a heavy rain.  I’m talking Tremors-size worms, Dune-size worms, Jabba the Hut size worms!  Well, from now on I have decided no more big girl panties.  I want to wear my Princess Leia Underoos and throw sand at the other children in the sandbox.  Especially the kids wearing Disney Princess Underoos.  Disney Princesses suck. Except for Belle.

I’ve been moody, weepy, cranky, and I know you are not going to believe this but — I’ve been a bitch.  Yes, yes, I have.  You don’t have to pretend.  We’re all friends here.  You can tell me.  In fact, Gay Best Friend has already told me.  You know what he said?  He said, “You’re a bitch.”

And then he said the magic words, “You need some wine.” So he made me get out of my jammies and traipse across the city to his favorite wine store.  I was not going to get out of my jammies.  Ever.  Even when I thought of going to get wine, I figured getting out of my jammies was a waste of time because I was just going to come back home, unscrew the cap to a 2-for-1 box of Boone’s, and stay in my jammies until they fell off from dry rot.  Or until Mr. Dingo promised to make his homemade Red Velvet Cake.  His Red Velvet Cake is the best cake EVAH! And definitely worth taking a shower and fixin’ my ‘do for.  He might even get some Sexytime.  If the Boone’s doesn’t make me fall asleep first.

But it was wine and not cake that was on my mind this afternoon, and Gay Best Friend insisted that I lose the jammies.  And then it was whine and not wine that was on my lips when I saw the line extending out the door to the wine shop.  It was packed.  You would have thought that this was the only wine store in Manhattan.  I happen to know that it is not.  I happen to know that there are one thousand two hundred and fifty three wine stores in Manhattan.  I know this because I have done my part to stimulate the economy.  One wine bottle at a time.  Anyway, I had a few choice words for all those asshats who waited until the day before Valentine’s Day to stock up on libations. 

Bitching and moaning, I made my way through the crowd.  As I was scanning the shelves, Gay Best Friend tapped me on the shoulder,

Gay Best Friend:  Hey look!  Dan Aykroyd has a new wine on the —

Me:  Dude, I’ve had a bad week.  I certainly don’t need bad wine.

Gay Best Friend (pointing over my shoulder):  — And he’s right behind you signing bottles.

Dan Aykroyd smiled at me when I turned. 

Cue earth opening up and swallowing your beloved Dingo.  There was only muffled screaming as I plunged through the hole in the floor because my foot was lodged firmly between my teeth. 

Yeah, I was embarrassed.  Maybe I should’ve been tipped off by the long line snaking out of the wine store.  Yeah, it’s the day before Valentine’s Day, but all those ugly New Yorkers aren’t getting some.  Really.

Or maybe I should’ve been tipped off by the guy who wore his Ghostbusters costume.  He wasn’t embarrassed.  Dressed in his khaki Ghostbusters uniform, complete with official Ghostbusters patches, combat boots, and utility pack, he was loudly proclaiming, “It’s the 20-year anniversary!  Twenty years!” I don’t know if he was talking about the movie release date or the date he moved into his parents’ basement.  Either way, I was waiting for Dan Aykroyd to say, “Listen asshole, I have been in at least fifty straight-to-video movies since Ghostbusters and did you ever see my real masterpiece?  Blues Brothers?”

But Dan Aykroyd didn’t say that.  He was busy warning his legions of fans to watch out for the hole that the curly-haired bitch who had just bad-mouthed his latest label right in front of him had fallen into. 

Who ya gonna call?

Update:  Who’d a’ thought that so many of you were interested in Dan Aykroyd’s wine?  Well, dear Innernetz, I’ll have you know, I did buy some and even had one autographed.  Since it was Friday the 13th and I’m a sucker for connoisseur of horror movies, in honor of the release of Friday the 13th (2009) I had Dan Aykroyd sign the bottle, “To Jason.” Because I’m a geek like that.  But hey, at least I didn’t show up in a stupid hockey mask!

Because I love you, Innernetz, I’m going to give a bottle of the Dan Aykroyd Cabernet to a lucky reader.  Mr. Dingo and I had some at dinner tonight.  It was good!  And Innernetz?  I’m giving away the signed bottle of Dan Aykroyd Cabernet.  Hell, I’ll even throw a bottle of his Chardonnay in the mix (unsigned).  All you need to do is tell me your own “foot-in-mouth,” wine, or celebrity run-in story.  You can put your anecdote in the comments of this post, post it on your own blog and post your link in the comments here, or send it to me via email (see the Blackberry in the top right of this page?).  I’ll announce the winner on Thursday, February 19th!

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My Left Hook

Classes ended on Tuesday.  Woohoo!  I have papers and finals to grade and academic futures to decimate with quick scribbles of my pen but I can do that in front of the TV in my jammies with Love Actually blaring from the screen and a hot cup of amaretto tea making me very merry indeed.  However, this afternoon as Hugh Grant and I were stammering through our declaration of love — he because he thinks stammering is cute and disarming, me because my amaretto with a splash of tea was making my tongue feel heavy light like dancing funny — I remembered that I had to fill out some end-of-semester forms in the English Department.  The deadline was today.  At 5 o’clock.  And because I’m nothing if not punctual, I decided to wait until 4:30 before chugging my amaretto/tea, putting a pair of jeans on over my jammies, and dashing off to school. 

As usual, when I’m not expecting to run into anyone, I run into everyone.  In this case, I ran into someone:  my former Literary Criticism professor.  This professor is a great guy.  He’s funny, kind, and incredibly intelligent.  Almost too intelligent.  If you don’t know what I mean when I say “too intelligent” then you are just stoopid.  Ha, ha, Innernetz.  I’m just kidding.  I know you are all Mensa members.  But for those of you who think belonging to Mensa means that you ride the red flow once a month, you really are stoopid, move along.

Anyway, Prof. Mensa is a brilliant professor and he’s intimidating, to say the least.  But you know that I can never say the least about anything so let me tell you about the last time I encountered Prof. Mensa in a slightly inebriated state.  My slightly inebriated state, that is, not his. Let’s roll back the clock to Literary Criticism 2008, shall we?  I had a few hours between my first class and Lit Crit so I listened to the evil whispers of fellow classmates and joined them for a liquid lunch at a local pub. 

Lit Crit was difficult for me.  I was usually silent in class because I had no idea what was going on.  My fellow asshats classmates were philosophy students or studying critical theory.  While they were throwing around names like Lacan and Spivak, and discussing binary opposition and Saussurean Linguistics in relation to John Keats’s poem To Autumn, I’m thinking, “Oooh!  This poem is pretty.  It has TREES!”

I hated getting to class early because while I wanted to talk about Grey’s Anatomy or important issues like whether plaid could ever live in harmony with stripes (Answer:  No!), they wanted to discuss philosophy and other things that made my brain curl into the fetal position at the back of my skull.  The worst part is that they thought they were funny.  Eddie Izzard is funny.  Watching a woman walk down the street with her skirt tucked into the back of her pantyhose is funny.  My classmates were not funny.  I was treated to hilarious gems like: “Of course you know what Derrida would say about that.  Hahahahahah!” And then they would double over with laughter, wiping tears from their eyes.  Ahh yes, those witty, witty classmates of mine.  A laugh riot, I tellz ya.  Sometimes the pre-class topics would turn serious.  “Oh, I would love to have dinner with Foucault and discuss this.” Yes, I would as well.  “Waiter, I’ll have a Plato the Hegels and Lockes.” Hah!  How’s that for a philosophical reference, you pompous pricks?  Innernetz, if you are lost with all these references to philosophers and theories, I am too.  I still have no idea what the fuck what was going on in that class, and it ended months ago. 

Knowing I had to stay sharp, I decided to have only one pint of Smithwick’s at lunch.  Four pints later I dashed off to class vowing to sit at the back of the class and maintain my usual code of silence.  It was not to be.  By the time I got to class all the seats around the table were taken.  All except for the seat at the front.  By Prof. Mensa.  But the four pints of Smithwick’s worked wonders.  Not only did I understand the theories and concepts that evening, but class was fun!  I was laughing along with my classmates and contributing what I’m sure were valuable insights into the articles we were discussing.  My classmates were actually listening to me.  They were laughing at my jokes and agreeing with my observations. I was on fire! I was, dare I say it?  Pop-u-lar!

Toward the middle of class, Prof. Mensa said something I found unbelievably amusing and just plain unbelievable.  In my loosey-goosey state, I hauled off and punched him in the arm while slurring, “Shut up!” Elaine Benes style.  Yes, I know Elaine’s trademark was “Get Out!” but I couldn’t very well tell Prof. Mensa to get out of his own classroom, could I?  Telling him to shut up was much more appropriate.  I’m classy like that.  So yes, I punched my professor in the arm.  And told him to shut up.  In the middle of class.

Now, I don’t think I usually pack a wallop but his left butt cheek rose into the air a bit.  And so did his chair.  His whole chair.  The only thing that prevented him from falling over completely was my classmate to the other side of Prof. Mensa.  She was so far up his ass all semester that I think the weight of her infatuation and inflated self-importance provided a counterbalance that kept him from tipping over and crashing to the floor.  He gave a little chuckle and looked at me like I had lost my mind but he didn’t skip a beat in whatever tale he was telling.  However, for the rest of the class whenever I’d raise my hand to answer a question, he’d flinch. 

So, there we were today in the close quarters of the English Department office.  Me, with Mr. Darcy Colin Firth running through my head (really, add Love Actually to your Netflix queue), amaretto running through my veins, and Prof. Mensa looking for an escape route.  We made small talk while I signed the necessary forms and tried not to breathe on him.  Why was he even there?  Every other professor left campus yesterday and no one will see them until the Spring thaw.  Anyway, as I’m leaving I ask him about his plans for the holidays and wish him well.  Have you ever tried to talk without exhaling? It can be done.

As I’m thinking that I have finally managed to successfully conduct an intelligent conversation with Prof. Mensa, I wish him happy holidays and head for the door. He wishes me well in return and then says, “Hey, remember that time in class when you beat the living crap out of me?”

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My dinner with…

Last night I had dinner with Stoogepie of stoogepie.com. 

One of the best things to come from blogging is that I have gotten to meet so many people that I wouldn’t have known otherwise.  Including people who, like Stoogepie, if not already on a sexual predator list. probably will be someday.  You see, Stoogepie is some kind of pervert madman writer and artist.  It was with some anticipation and trepidation that I met the famous, or infamous, Mr. Stoogepie.  I took Mr. Dingo with me.  And left detailed information with family and friends if I did not text, Tweet, or call the next day.

The point of this meeting was to witness the choice of the winner of Stoogepie’s Nude MILF Sweepstakes.  Yesterday, the winners of the Blogger’s Choice Awards were chosen, so the contest ended.  Crissy won the Hottest Mommy Blogger category!  She won with 578 votes, beating Dooce by 86 votes!  Fantabulous! Oh yeah!  Who’s your Hottest Mommy Blogger?  Say her name…say it!

Stoogepie had to select a winner for better than $1,250 worth of camera gear.  And, because the asshats at Blogger’s Choice decided not to show the votes, Stoogepie needed a witness to demonstrate that he picked the winner fairly.  When I got the e-mail from Stoogepie asking me to play Heidi Klum to his Tim Gunn, I almost deleted it as spam.  The message was from Stoogepie but the subject line said something like, “Night of XXXtacy.” I opened it with hesitation – meaning I opened it at work just in case there was a virus attached – and was delighted to discover that he wanted my assistance in choosing the winner of the camera package.  Apparently, I have mentioned on my blog that I used to be a lawyer but I suspect I was also chosen for this perilous assignment because I am also anonymous and happen to live within walking distance of Stoogepie.  Then again, I’ve also mentioned that I have great ta-tas.  No, no, it’s not that; I’m convinced Stoogepie loves me for my mind.

We were supposed to meet October 16th because he expected the winners to have been announced by then.  Because that’s what the website said.  But, again, the asshats at Blogger’s Choice messed up that plan by announcing the winners after midnight.  So, Stoogepie cancelled and rescheduled for last night.

So, I waited on a street corner with a shivering Mr. Dingo.  It really wasn’t all that cold, but Mr. Dingo had been given a crash course in stoogieness the day before via Stoogepie’s latest barfably disgusting post.  I think he was a little worried.  Mr. Dingo has never been worried about my blogger meet-ups before but, for some reason, he really wanted to go on this one.  I think he was concerned that steak was not the only meat on Stoogepie’s menu for the evening.

Stoogepie approached me and I immediately knew it was him.  He didn’t say anything.  He didn’t say “hello.” He didn’t say, “Dingo!” He circled me a few times, and I could almost see a Mister Shorts style balloon over his head saying, “Well, I’ve got a contest in my shorts I’d like for you to monitor,” or something similar.  He did not look like his cartoon.  His hair is shorter and darker and his features are sharper.  Brookem, I think you have your next HOH.  He’s thin but muscular, and was wearing a gray coat so long that it looked like it had been stolen from the set of the Matrix.  In other words, he’s delish.  In that bad boy type of way.  Not a poser bad boy but a REAL bad boy.  The kind of bad boy that you just know is going to break your heart but that you will gladly wait in line for the privilege.  I’m paraphrasing a little, but he finally said, “Dingo!  You’re different from what I was expecting.  All I got right in my mind were the boots and the tits.” Then he turned to Mr. DIngo and said, “I didn’t really have a picture of you at all.  I’m Stoogepie.”

We then went to his apartment, which was-oh-my-fucking-god: spacious, lots of art, lots of books, a fireplace in the living room and the kitchen (yes, I asked to see the kitchen), and the most beautiful coffee table I have ever seen.  I tried not to gape like a tourist in Times Square.  Sadly, I didn’t see the Stoogepie pig.  Or his cat for that matter.  He also had the biggest flat-screen computer monitor I have ever seen.  And given from what Stoogepie has said about his extracurricular activities, it was notably free of, ahem, let’s say, debris. Mr. Dingo’s monitor envy was thinly concealed.  Stoogepie said something like, “Well, you know what they say about dudes with big monitors....” Mr. Dingo laughed nervously.  Mr. Dingo has a 17” monitor.  The whole night was like that.

Stoogepie wanted to get right down to business.  There were 578 votes cast.  He went to random.org and chose a number between 1 and 578.  The number was 277.  He had printouts of the first eighteen pages of votes, so he flipped to page 14 and the winner was Soapbox.  (If it had not been in the first eighteen pages, he would have had a problem, but intended to email to Blogger’s Choice to ask them to tell him the username.) So, we had chosen a winner and it was all perfectly legal.  It was easy.  But the night was still young and the wine was flowing.

For dinner, we went to Uncle Jack’s in Midtown, a fancy schmancy steakhouse, but Stoogepie was treating. Gun running and drug smuggling must be really lucrative.  We each ordered a steak and then Stoogepie ordered stuff for the table, including wine and seafood and Kobe beef.  I had never had Kobe beef before.  It’s ridiculously expensive and I have to admit, it tasted like hamburger to me.  It’s tender all right, so it had the consistency of potted meat food product and it disintegrated in your mouth.  It had the texture of Spam that had been put in a blender and then pushed through a sieve.  Mr. Dingo, however, liked it and, overall, the food was great.  The wine was great, too, and I had way, way too much.  Not enough to enter Ben’s contest perhaps—because, as NPW and blakspring can tell you, I’m a lightweight—but enough so that being with Stoogepie while also feeling like a rich kid’s birthday piñata might have been a mistake. Because Stoogepie, in case you don’t follow his website, can be nauseatingly explicit.

Truth is, Stoogepie is really funny in person, especially after a little wine.  After about the first bottle, he looked across the table at Mr. Dingo and said, “This is always awkward.  Do I raise the possibility of a threesome now, while you have time to mull it over, or do I wait until you get to know me better, but forcing you to make a snap decision?” Mr. Dingo just stared past him blankly, his mouth agape, Kobe beef semi-dissolved, until I started to laugh.  I think Mr. Dingo shaved about a year off his life just then, though.  Then Stoogepie proceeded to shave a year off mine.

I consider myself a pretty well-rounded person, and I don’t mean just my ass.  But Stoogepie is positively a fount of disturbingly funny knowledge.  About bondage. And domination. And bizarre sexual practices. And pornography and biblical tales of people killing other people so they could collect their foreskins.  For instance, did any of you know that Sir Henry Norris, alleged lover of Anne Boleyn who was executed with her by Henry VIII, was also royal groom of the stool?  And did you know that the groom of the stool’s job was to wipe the king’s ass?  Yes, look it up.  I did after dinner.  According to Stoogepie, “I would kill my wife if she screwed the dude who wiped my ass, too.  Show a little discrimination!  At least screw around with the royal piss aimer or the royal wanker.” The Kobe beef was tasting nastier and nastier.  And Stoogepie carries a little notebook with him, often illustrating these glorious stories as he goes.  It was like a game of Pricktionary.  Not everything he says is dirty.  We did talk a good deal about politics.  If you haven’t read his political posts because the sex and blasphemy posts have gotten your internet privileges banned at work, find a computer in a library somewhere and read President Sarah Palin, Modern War Toys, and No Country for Young Men.  Warning:  Electoral Buttplugs may get your ass banned from the library.  Politically we agree on most everything, but Stoogepie had his own take on some things:  “People really need to think about what a Palin presidency would look like, because McCain is at that age when dying does not even qualify as a turn of events.”

Really, I haven’t felt like talking much since dinner.  Mr. Dingo and I have hardly anything left to talk about.  We covered it all.

Stoogepie never did cough up his real name but the waiter happened to let it slip when he returned Stoogepie’s credit card.  “Thank you, Mr. ____,” he said.  I just about flipped out.  That’s like knowing James Bond’s real name!  Oh wait, James Bond is 007’S real name, isn’t it?  Anyway, I am sworn to secrecy or Stoogepie will kill me.  And I’ve seen Stoogepie’s collection of play toys.  There will be no killing me softly.  As a result, that’s all I have to say about my dinner with Stoogepie.

Oh, wait!  One more thing.  He didn’t advertise it or promote it in any way but Stoogepie won second place as the Hottest Celebrity Blogger in the 2008 Blogger’s Choice Awards!  He got beat by some woman named Rosie O’Donnell.  Who the hell is that?

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