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.


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.

What happens at RiversEdgeMusicFestival stays at RiversEdgeMusicFestival (and on the internet…forever).

Fuckin’ awesome weekend with my sister-in-law (known in blog-land as doodoomamajuju, or “Ju” for short) at the Rivers Edge Music Festival in St. Paul, Minnesota. First off, let it be said that she’s one badass sexy muthafucka. Ju, that is. And she was one of maybe six non-whities at the festival. Making her the sacrificial lamb of the Asian community of the greater Midwest. On more than one occasion I thought to myself, “White people at concerts. What the fuck?”  What is it with white people not wearing shoes at concerts? That’s so fuckin’ nast. The array of white shame thrust in my face was incalculable. Dear guy with the t-shirt with cutoff sleeves that said “it ain’t gonna lick itself”, we all know you have never seen a vagina. And you likely never will.

I also got to meet Satan this weekend. He’s no where near as intimidating as I expected him to be. He really just wanted to enjoy the Flaming Lips. Who put on a DAMN GOOD show, by the way. Even Satan was pleased. Look how he’s been inspired to share his water with his neighbor. That’s downright Christ-like.

May I be so bold as to offer up some fashion advice for all you sexy crackas that frequent summer concerts and music festivals? Please stop wearing fucking fedoras. That shit is not cool. The ONLY person in the land of the free that should EVER wear a fedora is THIS guy. No one else. Please stop wearing them.  Also, the only–and I mean the ONLY–person who can wear boat shoes and not look like a total douchebag is Sugardaddy. And that’s because he’s a serious geek and doesn’t try to be lookin’ all “boss” in fuckin boat shoes. Hooker please. Best t-shirt award goes to this guy, wearing the Vanilla Ice t-shirt. Well done, sir, for also not looking like a pretentious asshole at today’s show. You are one of the few, and you did well. With your “I don’t give a shit” attitude–if you act swiftly and strategically– you may just see a vagina at some point in your lifetime.  You know who else might get to see a vagina one day? This dude with the faux-hawk and amazing mustache, who was so kind as to have his picture taken with Ju. He stood mext to us the night before at the Tool concert, and his mustache was like a bright star in a sea of fashion darkness. Especially when a dirty little shirtless white dude with “dreads” pushed up behind me and started getting all up on my shit. We will call him Edgar, because he had a tramp stamp on his back that literally said “Edgar”. Either that’s his name and he tattooed it there so that the nameless stranger who would bend him over that night would know what name to call out, or that’s the name of the person who owns him, and has branded his name where he can see it when he’s making him his little bitch. Either way, to me, the bitch who yelled at him, he will forever be Edgar. Another little piece of advice… if you are at a Puscifer concert, leave your flowery parasol at home. Just a suggestion.

Also, may I wax a little bit on the whole VIP deal? Now, I understand that you have to pay a LOT more to be a VIP. So, unless you get something substantial out of that deal (which in this case you did not), you will only look like a huge fuckface by standing in the VIP cage… directly next to everyone else… as we roam freely on the less than crowded concert grounds.  I’m not kidding, you look like fucking tools.  So, it could not have been for any other reason than to punish you by drawing attention to this douchery, that this woman decided to hula hoop like a damned fairy in the middle of the VIP cage.  Oh, and 19-year-old girl sitting forlornly like a scorn hipster against the inside of the VIP cage wall, smoking a cigarette like fuckin’ Johnny Depp, I’m sorry that your parents decided to cut you off and force you to grow up and pay for your own shit like the rest of society… like VIP tickets to this music festival. Here, let me buy your poor entitled ass a beer. Oh wait, you’re 19. That’s not legal. Here, here’s a double-shot-no-fat-vanilla-latte. No whip. (*get a job*).

Ooooooooooooh wait a minute….!!! So THAT’S why you would buy VIP tickets to sit in that pathetic little cage. To stay away from THESE guys. The goth emo muthafuckas who love to feel the depth of emotion from the music, the trees, the earth, the sky, and from each other’s rarely washed bodies. HOURS later, we walked past them laying on their blanket, legs intertwined and arms around each other, listening to Flaming Lips. I’m sure they are still there, three days later. Because these guys would do some dramatic shit like that.

Douchebag Award goes to this guy with the ankle tattoo, wearing a polo from Abercrombie or American Eagle or some shit like that, sitting alone on a blanket he brought from his mommy’s house, smoking a cigar with his one little douchey knee up in the air. You, my love… I want to destroy you.

A very special “Thank you”  goes to Steve, the frizzy red-haired corn-rowed hippie from Minot, North Dakota, for sharing the Mike’s Hard Lemonade on a hot summer night, thereby keeping Ju nicely sloshed during the Tool show while she watched the love of her life Maynard James Keenan serenade her. Also, special thanks to the two large dudes (aka “Johnny Knoxville” and “Bouncer”) who cleared a path toward the front for us ladies at the Puscifer show.  You really deserve a little boobie flash from us, but you’re not going to get it. Thank you for your grace and sacrifice.

Y’all know I keep it funky motherfucker better get it right.

“Y’all know I keep it funky motherfucker better get it right

Get it right, better get it right, get it right

And I’ll be rockin along, zonin, yeah

Movin along, zoninnnnnnnn.” ~ Kid Cudi, ‘Ashin Kusher’

Sometimes you meet a person who has felt what you have felt, who has seen the depths that you have traversed. And they’ve come out alive.

This is important.

Because their mere existence tells you that you, too, will come out alive. That’s a little more than inspiration, my sweet crackas. That’s straight up truth, spoken to the deepest part of your soul that is the decision-maker for whether or not you are going to survive any given moment.

It is my privilege to wish the happiest of birthdays to such a person in my life. Happy birthday, B-Randy! You know who you are, you sexy ‘rican!  I gift you with this open-to-the-public weblog, in lieu of Cuba Gooding, Jr. naked, eating fried chicken coated in chocolate, singing “I’m a little teapot” karaoke style in your bedroom. With as many favors as that asshole owes me, apparently he resents the fact that I’d treat him like a whore and offer to buy such a performance from him, in honor of your birthday. What is with people being all uppity these days??!!

I would also like to gift you with this fucking weird Ken doll.  I really don’t know what to say about this offense to humanity besides “I love you.” And if you don’t know, now you know.

So now that you have exited your twenties and joined the cool kids’ club in 30s-ville, what do you plan on doing? Because I believe I spent the evening of my 30th birthday obsessively lotioning my stomach as the skin continued to slowly shrink back after giving birth to a naughty little baby that I couldn’t nurse due to hospitalizations. I do not wish that on you, my friend. I hope you feel sexier than that tonight.  Do what makes you come ALIVE this weekend. And every day. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

In addition to all the above-referenced priceless gifts, I would also like to bequeath to you the list of search terms that have brought people to this blog. This is no ordinary list. It is a list filled with the seeds of questions to the mysteries of the universe. Like, “What the fuck?”  And “Who the fuuuuuuuck?”  B-Randy, you are now the caretaker of these search terms. Treat them well. Love them. Hold them. They need you.


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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.