Lil Dicky visits my root canal

I was told root canals are awful and painful. And maybe to people who haven’t squeezed 8-pound masses of human out of their vaginas, they are.

So while I’m laying there this week in a serene hour of root canal heaven, with my face numb and a “rubber dam” wrapped around my tooth that seemed strangely similar to the dental dams used for safe oral sex with women, I realized how I wouldn’t really mind starting out every day of the week like that.

And lo, an angel came to me during this paradise. An angel endodontal assistant named Kolby. He was a sweet Michael Cera-type that reminded me of my little brother, kind of awkward but wanted me to have a good experience. Talking about being an usher in his friend’s wedding that weekend, I would guess he was about 28 years old and just barely learning the ways of pleasing the ladies/mens, but I digress. The important thing about this encounter was how uncomfortable he seemed with waiting in silence while we waited for the numbing effects of the novocaine to set in.

michael ceraDuring this waiting period, the endodondist would go away and attend to other patients. So it was just me and Kolby. And Kolby was what we call a “nervous talker,” filling silence with whatever he could pull out of his ass simply because he had no idea how badly I wanted to sit there in silence. But he didn’t call me “mommy” so I’ll give him a pass. What he DID tell me was how my endodontist’s daughter was making her way in Hollywood, appearing in small films and music videos. “I was at my buddy’s playing board games one night, and she showed up in one of the music videos on YouTube. And I thought–hey I know that girl!”

Me, with my mouth wide open and this rubber dental dam on my face, said “Oh yeah, what music video?” He didn’t understand me. “Whuh mu-ic vi-eo?” He didn’t anticipate the questions I might have in my awkward position as he detailed shit I barely care about. “‘Lemme Freak’ by Lil Dicky,” he said, hesitantly. I could almost hear his inner thoughts as he squeaked out that secret, realizing maybe, just maybe, it’s not his place to be sharing this information about his boss’ daughter to the patients. Who knows, maybe the endodontist doesn’t give a fuck. But sweet little awkward Kolby had to say the words “Lemme Freak” to me as I lay there in front of him with my mouth wide open and sedated, so who knows. Not only that, but the video is kinda fucked up but I have to applaud Lil Dicky’s lyricism. Mayhap my endodontist feels the same way.

What took this whole surreal experience to another level was how I dreamt last night that I recounted this exchange to my friend Beth in a bar, because in weird dream-land this information tied directly to her in some random way. My mouth was even numb as I told her this tale. However, after that point I leave the bar and go home, but on my way home I stop by my dad’s house because I really needed him to perform an exorcism in my upstairs bathroom. A demon-possessed cat had taken over the bathroom and had been causing ongoing flooding and general disarray.

My dad took one look at the cat and said, “that cat–he’s the ‘beast’.” Well no fucking shit, he’s a cat of course he’s “the beast.” Fucking cats. Gross.

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I’m adding North Korea to my list of White People Problems.

“Sometimes we laughed. We didn’t know when to laugh or not.”
-Shin Dong-huyk

It’s been my view for quite some time now that utilizing free market economics is the best way for nation states to achieve political gains as it relates to liberty and equality.  So I don’t really get down with the U.S. when it places economic sanctions on another country because they’re not doing what we want, even if it’s with good intentions.  When you stop trading goods with a country for any reason, the top officials you’re trying to send a message to still get their shit. Those assholes at the top, making decisions and being dick-squeezes? They still get food and whatever the fuck they want. They just don’t get it from you.  It’s the average Joe who gets hurt.  They’re the ones who no longer have access to whatever we were trading with them.  It just adds to the hardship they were already experiencing from whatever tyrannical political leadership that rules their lives.

I recently read an article about the executives at Google going into North Korea to “discuss the free and open internet.”  And, while I agree with their leadership that North Korea’s economic growth will continually be stunted by their lack of internet access, I couldn’t help but thing, “What a bunch of naive assholes.”

With that being said, let me tell you who can suck my dick as it relates to North Korea. Anyone who turns a blind or ignorant eye to the reality of suffering, that’s who. And you know what?  Same goes for turning a blind eye to the reality of pain in the lives of anyone around you, or in any other neighborhood, city, state, country, or people group. Shit just isn’t as simple as you’d like it to be. You can’t just reason it away in order to make yourself feel better. It’s a fucking mess. The problems are complicated, and the solutions even more complex.

In the documentary Camp 14: Total Control Zone, Shin Dong-huyk was born in a forced labor camp in North Korea. He was one of 160,000 forced laborers in North Korea.  His first memory was that of a public execution.  All the prisoners were forced to watch the public executions. He was about 4 or 5, when he saw this. What are people executed for in North Korea? Not “working hard”. Being “disobedient”.  His first feeling he remembers was that of panic, at this particular public execution.  He is the only person ever to be born in a North Korean forced labor camp to escape to the West.

He had a little friend when he was 6 years old. She had hidden a few grains of wheat in her pocket. They were always starving.  Everyone in the labor camp.  The school teacher decided this warranted beating the young girl from 8 a.m. to 2 p.m.  I’m sorry, but can I just stop and say right now and ask you, “Does that seem real… when you read that???”  I want you to fight the desensitization to the fact that this shit is happening AS YOU READ this stupid blog.  That young girl finally fell unconscious to the floor. Her little friends carried her home. She was dead the next day from an infection in her head wounds.  I think of my 4-year-old, who is constantly collecting little things off the ground outside to bring to me. Rocks. Leaves. Flowers.  The contrast of the two girls’ lives is stark in my mind.

In the camps, families are not allowed to be together. Every human is treated as less than an animal. Less than a worm. You have no rights. You don’t have a right to eat, sleep, move, date, make friends.  All of these decisions are made for you. Your diet consists of maize and cabbage soup. If you are ever lucky enough to taste meat, it is that of a rat that you catch yourself (in your house).

Women will submit to sex with the guards, with the hope that life will be easier if a guard likes them. Hoping a child with a guard will keep them alive, they will try to get pregnant.  Instead, these women are killed.  Shin’s father received Shin’s mother as a wife, as a reward for good labor.  People are used as currency.  Trafficked.

The only societal value you are taught is that of suspicion toward everyone around you.  Everyone watches each other, spies on each other, in the event that you are disobedient. Then you are publicly criticized. Beatings are the norm. There is no sense of loyalty to another person. There is no compulsion of love. You are not compelled to protect one another. You are so hungry, all your mind tells you to do is to act in such a way that maybe you will survive better. Eat something. Shin was 14 years old, laying on a prison floor, deformed and burned from fire torture, before he felt what human affection and emotional support feels like from another. An old man who tended his wounds, and told him “You must survive.”  He returned to the labor camp to watch his mother’s and brother’s public execution, which was Shin’s fault. He had reported them for hatching an escape plan from the labor camp.  He felt nothing as he watched them die. The concept of family was completely foreign to him. He felt anger toward his mother, blaming her for the torture he had experienced in the prison after he had reported them.  He didn’t cry as he watched her die.  He hadn’t learned that you’re supposed to cry when your mother is executed.

Eventually, Shin escaped the camp with the sheer purpose of getting his hands on some meat. He had been told about this meat called “chicken” from China.  He wanted to try this meat. He didn’t care about freedom– the concept was foreign to him. But he had been told about food by a man in the labor camp who hadn’t been born there. He wanted to taste the food.   He attempted escape with this fellow prisoner who had told him about the chicken.  That man died on the electric fence surrounding the camp.  The weight of his body made a hole in the fence large enough to allow Shin to crawl over his back, and out through the fence.

Which leads me to wonder… whose backs are being offered to us, so that we can fulfill our purpose in life, become who we are meant to be, tell the story we are meant to tell??  We are not alone, friends. We cannot live alone. We are social beings, which Shin himself confesses he had never known or understood until he landed on the floor of the camp prison after being tortured with fire, as the old man cleaned his burn wounds. Whose wounds are you cleaning? In your prison? Who are you tending to in their pain, to show them what they are truly worth?

Shin Dong-huyk maintains that, in all his meetings with political figures and NGOs, he has yet to find a clear answer on how to address the terrible reality that resides within North Korea, his home.

When asked what he misses about North Korea, Donghuyk says “I miss my innocent heart.”

Even Albinos have lubrication needs.

I decided I needed to go to Planned Parenthood to get different birth control.

The reason being, my old birth control had left me with spotting- random bleeding because God hates me. On three separate occasions I have left a fucking crime scene after a slutty yet fulfilling hook up. The first time I left a decent sized blood pool on the bed (my bad), the second time there was a smaller blood pool, and the last time there was a fucking abortion of blood everywhere. Whoops. Funny thing is, only the last time was because of the birth control. The first two times it was because it was right before I was supposed to get my period and that little “jabbing” was all I needed to open the flood gates. Should I write these guys thank you notes for the timely piercing of my cervix?

This particular Planned Parenthood is located in the “bad” part of town (“bad” because there are poor people there, and nobody likes poor people) on the corner of a very small strip mall. I had been there once before a few days prior without incident, but today was different. The windows are still all covered up so as to deter any neighoborhood poor people or republicans from looking inside to glare judgingly at the ladies patiently waiting for their routine womb cleansing.  How are we supposed to abort the deaf kids named Hunter that are causing conflicts with gun control policies in pre-schools… if we can’t safely get an abortion?

However, as I walked up on this particular day, the door swings open and I am standing face to face with a large and manly female “security guard”. That’s new. Taken by surprise I step back and consider running the fuck outta there but I’m paralyzed by her butch haircut. She finally breaks up the awkward eye-fuck fest and asks me for identification before letting me in through the door.

ME: “Is everything okay? I was here last week and I don’t remember there being a ‘security guard’ (inside giggle) here asking for i.d.”

BUTCH: “Oh, yeah everything’s fine. This is just something we do to make sure it stays that way. We started doing this about a month ago.”

Now that is bullshit because I think I would remember seeing a rent-a-cop guarding the door as under aged penis cushions walk out with their little brown baggies of birth control and condoms, hanging their heads in shame while assholes wave signs in their faces saying “God hates your vagina! What is a vagina, anyways? B-T-Dubs, can I see your vagina? No seriously, I really want to get laid tonight. Don’t worry, we can abort the unwanted child with the VIP program where you can sneak in the back of the clinic for an extra $400, so we can wrecklessly screw while also maintaining our Pro-Life values.”  Anyway, I decide not to pick a fight with Butch McButch-a-lot today as there are pressing matters at hand. I need to be able to get my fuck on without the fear of babies growing in my mother-hole. I sit down and wait to be called.

MEANWHILE, another bitch is walking up to the door and Butch jumps to her feet to greet this bitch with “can I see some i.d.?” like we’re in some exclusive high class lounge-VIPs only. Well, holy shit.  I should have trusted Butch’s butch instincts. This ain’t no ordinary bitch. This an ALBINO bitch. Wearing grey sweat pants with elastic on the ankles and the legs pushed up cinching her “cegs” (calf legs, where does one end and the other begin? No one knows). Her long flowing white hair pulled up into a rat’s nest of a pony and I’m pretty sure there was an acid wash jean jacket in there somewhere. Planned Parenthood etiquette dictates you do not stare at your fellow jump down/jumpdick, so I cannot recall many of the important details of her physical appearance. For instance, I do not know if she was a true albino (or would it be the feminine “albina”?) with reddish purple eyes. But I digress. The point is, the crazy bitch would NOT stop talking about lube!

She starts asking the receptionist about the security guard and the i.d. requirements, like “when did you start doing this” and “I don’t remember having to do this before”. Basically the same shit I was thinking but kept to myself because I’m not albino and I fucking know better. The receptionist is answering her questions like “we’ve always done this” and “no, we haven’t changed our procedures” et al. But Albina can’t let that shit go and keeps questioning the receptionist like “are you sure?” and accuses her of neo-fascist associations (who knew albinos know about neo-fascism, but whatev). Now, as this whole circle jerk of bullshit is going on in front of me I am sitting there with my eyes down (never make eye contact with albinos, this is just fact) trying hard not to take pictures, laugh until I pee my pants and/or beat the everliving shit out of some bitches. Then… the conversation takes a turn for the worse.

The Albina wants lube with her complimentary bag of condoms. Not just lube, EXTRA lube. But alas, the receptionist explains they are no longer receiving free shipments of lube, therefore they are no longer available as freebies. Oh. Shit. Albina is not having that. How dare we expect her to BUY lube. “Can you contact them and see if they will send another shipment? Or maybe see if another company will send some?” …Albina helpfully suggests. I am fucking speechless. Bitch is asking receptionist to ask various companies for free shipments of lube so she doesn’t have to pay the $5-6 for some lube. But wait, there’s more. Then she goes on and on about her lube preferences. She likes the jelly kind cause it’s not as messy, she likes warming lube because it makes her clit melt, etc. etc… Mind you this whole exchange is being played out in front of a waiting room of at least 5 other people, not a private exam room. It is clear she is quite disheartened about the lack of lube in her gift bag but, when the receptionist tells her there are still condoms in the bag, Albina wants to know if they are the female kind.

Receptionist: “Umm, no… just the regular kind.”

Albina: “Oh.”

This post was inspired by the true stories from four different sources. Thank you for your vulnerability and sacrifice as I serve to educate Amerrrrrica.

What would you say to Ralston?

Today, I have something very special for you dirty crackas.  A regular of Milk & Honey ~ Geeks & Gangstas who goes by the moniker “Doodoomamajuju” has a sweet lullaby bedtime story for you. It’s Friday, and we want you all to start your weekend feeling warm and cozy inside, yet refreshed and intellectually stimulated. I think this contribution by Doodoomamajuju herself directly achieves these things.  Kisses! And enjoy.

Hi Doodoomamajuju*.

Bigfoot may have an upset stomach. He was trying to poop while our four were outside and it looked like he was having a hard time.

-Ralston*

Let me set up this scenario for you… I was getting out of work at noon and wanted to spend the day sitting in my back yard drinking heavily and doing some general plotting (revenge, murder, kidnap, etc). I decided that a day full of “plotting” required a nap, but this realization was shat upon by the incessant yapping of my neighbor’s 4 small dogs (yes, FOUR). If that wasn’t enough, my neighbor (the male of a weird unfortunate looking couple) sent me the message above on facebook. Now, mind you, I had not been able to take the nap I needed and was beyond livid at this point. So livid, in fact, that I was in my kitchen sharpening my knife collection and cleaning my gun(s) (at the same time, yep– that’s talent) preparing for the sheltie genocide that was quickly approaching. Let me also add that this is not the first time my Dahmer-esque neighbor exhibited an unhealthy infatuation with my dog. In the past, he has taken pictures of my dog in my backyard without my consent and gone as far as knocking on my door to let me know my dog “wanted to come inside” the house. So, that just adds to the utter creepiness of this whole situation… as you can imagine.

On a side note, I made a joke about having a stroke to my wonky-eyed neighbor and she informed me that she had just suffered a stroke a month earlier. Awkward.

Anyway, I had not seen this message until well after I had begun piecing together death threats using letters from old magazines and drops of my blood when my husband BEGGED me to restrain myself and resist the urge to respond in any way to the message. Fuck that. I love a good sheltie genocide and I love piecing together death threats using letters from old magazines, but I love my husband more than I’d love the look on my wonky-eyed neighbor’s face when she finds me standing in her backyard surrounded by the limp lifeless corpses of her “children”.

That being said, I know what you are thinking: “what the fuck is this guy doing with FOUR (4) muthafucking shelties? Why the fuck is he WATCHING a dog take a shit?” and “what the fuck is up with her wonky eye?” These are great questions and ones that I have asked myself countless times before this point, but there remains the pressing question of: “How do I respond?”

Here are a few ideas I’ve come up with:

-Taking a shit on his front porch along with a letter telling him my dog is “feeling a lot better now”

-Killing all four dogs and leaving their heads in the neighbor’s mailbox

-Calling the newspaper and reporting him for watching my dog defecate while masturbating in the presence of children (that didn’t happen but you can just imagine what would have transpired had I not stepped in)

-Reporting him for “animal hoarding” to the local authorities

-Slipping brochures on treating lazy eyes under his door in the middle of the night

-Calling in an anonymous tip about a man raping dogs in the neighborhood (I shit you not, there is a story about a man raping a dog…and it was caught on tape!)

Thank you, Doodoomamajuju, for sharing your awkward predicament with us. I believe our audience can help. I for one would have taken advantage of your neighbor’s inordinate love for dogs, and asked him to personally administer an enima on the dog. He clearly cares. I think he would have done it.

How would you all respond??  Perhaps you can think up some things during your weekend binge-drinking sessions.

*The name of the individual has been changed to protect their identity.

I get sad when I see princesses that are ugly.

I realized this when I saw a picture of Princess Beatrice this week. I’m sorry Princess Beatrice. I’m sure you have a stellar personality.

I’ve been waiting for FIVE FUCKING YEARS to congratulate Katie Holmes for leaving Tom Cruise’s crazy ass. That stupid bitch made me wait longer than I thought! Turns out there was a contract or something. And *gasp!!!!* apparently scientology was partly responsible for the split. Um who didn’t see THAT coming???  Pfffffft.

Well, Katie, as an old married woman to a younger, less mature married (soon to be divorced) woman, I have some advice for you. After so many years, it can be a little rough getting back into the dating scene. You see a hot guy in a steaming hot parking lot, and all of a sudden your panties are wet and you get arrested for dry humping someone because it “wasn’t consentual”. (Although we all know that if he didn’t want my crotch on his leg, he wouldn’t have worn that old t-shirt and those perfect jeans. That slut.)  There are a whole lot of things you shouldn’t say to a man (or woman) upon this all-too-exciting reentry. Because you’ll get fucking arrested, Katie! I know they didn’t have restraining orders in Dawson’s Creek OR in the church of scientology, but this is the fucking real world, bitch.

Don’t say this shit:

“I wanna use your face like a thigh master.”

“What does a girl need to do to get you and your friend to Eiffel tower this bitch?”

“I wantchu to wear me like a mask.”

“It’s the end of the world and my pussy’s your only salvation.”

“I’d like to wrap my legs around your waist/head.”

“There’s a fire in my uterus and the only thing that can tame these flames is your semen.”

“My throat’s sore. I hear semen is good for that.”

“I can’t get pregnant from anal.”

“I want your penis in my vagina.”- (actually have used this one, then we got married!)

“Have you ever had a tuna taco?”

“Please put your coin purse on my crotch pocket.”

“My vagina would look awesome on your penis.”

“My lady balls would like to meet your man balls.”

“You’re getting my lady dick hard.”

“You’re making my lady balls tingle.”

“Hide your chocolate bunny in my Cadbury. I want the cream all over my face.”

“My nipples are hard, wanna feel?”

“No really, feel how hard my nips are. They could cut glass.”

“These are real, wanna feel? You need to feel with your mouth, that’s how you know for sure.”

“My clitoris would look good in your nostril.”

“Our lady balls should scissor.”

…………You’re welcome.

A special thanks goes out to doodoomamajuju and ‘trickdaddy for their contributions to this post. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May his face shine upon you and bla bla bla you know the rest.

Religious cults are solid foundations for the bad bitches.

I never thought that when I met one of the baddest bitches I’ve ever known, she’d turn out to share the same religious cult experience that I did during childhood. It’s a smaller Lutheran group, which apparently has shaped our souls into twisted abysses of rainbows and magic. I find her’s to be of a happier nature, while mine goes in the cynical direction, mocking every damned thing around me in a loving way that always ends in a drunken hug.  But I see her humor as the Yin to my Yang, birthed from a religious experience that I think of as the weird auntie that smells like bratwurst and has greasy bad hair, wears too-tight stretch pants in persistent wedgie fashion, always just walking out the door and yelling to her kids to get inside to take the dog out because it just shat in the living room, the poo crusting to the carpet while the baby sits in her crib next to a jar of spaghetti sauce, because apparently that belongs in a baby crib.  All of that inbred love hidden and wrapped up in a tight-lipped, hosiery-wearing church lady that never smiles, the soft scent of moth balls wafting in the air…  These are the foundations of our faith.

That’s okay, right?

Okay good.  Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I would like to introduce you to K-Fedette, one of the baddest bitches in the United States of Amerrrrica.  While her creative genius brings you the following video, all you get from me is this fucking blog. …That simply posts her shit because I’m too lazy to come up with my own. It’s cool, I’m okay with it. Just makes me a PIMP.  I just don’t think I’ve ever seen such skill with flutes and hot pink jumpsuits.  Have I even lived until this moment?

It starts with writing my name in the snow with pee, and ends with Penelope Cruz.

The question of the hour is: What is on your list of “Things you would do if you had a dick”? (a/k/a “penis”)

Special contributor to today’s daily honey is none other than my harbor ho, K-Money, the mother of my highschool kissing disease. Thank you for joining us today, K-Money. Here is what she has to say about what kind of magic would happen if she had a penis. Shhhhh listen closely, children.

1)  I would never call it “wiener”.  NEVER.  Wiener is often used to describe dogs, sausages, and even looks like a lot of last names.  My penis is special.  It doesn’t share names with pets.

2) I would give my penis a very special moniker though.  It would have to be a name that I know is incredibly unique, and possibly descriptive.  I am thinking Francis Sparkle Julius III. Or Pink Pickle for short.

3) I would use my very special penis to write things in the snow.  In my learning years, I will write easy things like my name.  If I have a lot to drink, maybe the greek alphabet across my neighbor’s lawn.  When I get to the advanced stage, I will write urine-write “Please don’t let your dog crap on my lawn!”  I am sure the whole neighborhood will be impressed.

4) I would bump into people with it on the subway.  I am pretty sure God did not give me man parts because I would be in jail by now.

5) I would read it stories at night and insert the word “penis”  into all the right places.  “Goodnight, Penis”  and “The Very Hungry Penis” are Pink Pickle’s bedtime favorites.

6) I would pee on things that made me mad.  One time a horse tried to bite me while I was painting a fence.  That nasty horse is really lucky that I did not have the appropriate equipment to relieve myself all over him.  (Side note: I told this to the guy I was dating and he was not impressed.)

7) Penelope Cruz.

Thank you, K-Money, for that enlightening, inspiring even, list of activities that would happen if you sported a trousersnake.

I definitely concur that peeing on things that make me mad would be on the list. Although I must admit that I’d call it a wiener. In fact, I might just talk about my wiener ALL THE TIME. Because people with wieners seem to do that…

I would slap people in the face with it. Really just a little tappy tap to get my point across. People I would slap on the face with my penis include any and all popular political radio talk show hosts, from Sean Hannity, all the way over to the other end of the political spectrum. And probably every member of Congress, now that I think of it. It’s not that they’re doing anything wrong, per se, it’s just that I think they would benefit from my dick tapping their face. Like a gentle reminder that I’m there, and that there might just be some things that are more important than whatever garbage is spilling out of their mouths. Like my penis, for instance.

I would use it to kill a kitten every time I have the misfortune of seeing Lindsay Lohan, be it in a movie or a news item. She doesn’t make any damn sense to me.

I would give birth to a baby with it, and then insist that all the powerful men around me do the same thing, and then inform them that their “paternity” leave consists of no more than 10 weeks of unpaid leave from work. No paid leave, no fruit basket, just a happy little “fuck you” after they do the good work of populating our earth with little people via an unnaturally small hole for a baby to fit through. And I’d make them do it with no meds. Just to get the point across.

I would make Justin Bieber take a picture of his dick next to my dick. Whether it proves that mine is bigger, or further exacerbates his gayness, I don’t give a fuck. That’s just what’s gonna happen.

I would seduce and then pleasure Monica Bellucci, record it, and distribute the recording to every man on earth, to show how a woman needs to be treated. Bonus for me would be getting to be with Monica Bellucci, the hottest woman on earth. But seriously, you wieners need to be shown what a woman wants because you’re collectively disappointing the masses. I know so many good men, who at the same time seem so clueless about some very key points with women.

I would definitely wear a speedo. Like, a shimmery gold one with little gemstones all over the front that would gleam in the sun, blinding old ladies as they walk by and stare, mesmerized by my wiener. I mean, I’d go jogging in that speedo, grocery shopping, tai chi in the park, you name it. I’ll be sporting the speedo.