It’s Friday and I have awesome box seats at the Yankee’s game tonight so I’m going to keep this light.

First of all, if you’re a Mets fan (.5% of the population), I apologize. We’re all Yankee’s fans at my house. Get over it.

You know, while I’m on the subject…can we just talk about Derek Jeter? Everytime that man is at bat I sit straight up in my seat. Mmmm.

Jeter has been linked with a bunch of hot ladies. In fact, you’re more likely to find articles on his love life than his stats if you google him. Ladies like Jordana Brewster, Lara Dutta, Vanessa Minnillo, Jessica Alba and, of course, Mariah Carey. There were also rumors of Scarlett Johannson. You know though, I don’t know very many women who would turn down Jeter. I have Jeter as my male version of the Jolie Clause, you know, the clause that excuses cheating in a relationship as long as it’s with someone like Angelina Jolie.

So last night I was looking around the internet for pictures of Jeter (you know, while I was in bed with my laptop with the lights off) and I came across a picture of him on the beach with some random chicks. This picture cracks me up. Totally unflattering for the girls and Jeter looks bored out of his mind. The funny thing though is he probably invited those ladies back to his boat, cause they’re not half-bad and his friends need sum sumthin too. It’s at that point that I begin to feel bad for the boyfriends of the ladies who invoke the Jeter Clause cause you know that there’s no guarantee that if she gets on Jeter’s boat she’s gonna get on Jeter. Chances are more likely that one of his wingmen (A Rod?) is gonna take advantage of the situation. Then you get the phone call from her on the boat…..

Well, I knew keeping the door open to a sequel would come in handy, now I know how J.K. Rowling feels (the lazy bitch). I’m completely devoid of any original thought this morning and unfortunately my IV of coffee isn’t helping. So here you have it, two more additions to the churchgoing population.

The Narcissistic Artist-Writer-Philosopher

I love this guy, personally, he is my favorite. You first found him at the coffee shop in college, brooding and looking morosely hot and intense. After you shook off the frat-boy hangover from freshman year this guy seemed like a dream come true. He used words with more than one syllable, didn’t slap your ass or roof your drink. You didn’t talk, you had conversations and discussions. In college he used to scribble poetry on his notebook during American Civ and with faux-shyness hand it over to you when you insisted on checking it out. Now that you are in your twenties this is the guy who shuns the corporate drudgery that so many have embraced, he has shaken off the yoke of economical slavery and followed his passion. Since you are dutifully fetching coffee for the Man, this seems oh-so romantic. You imagine him reading you Proust in bed after an entire night of raucous sex because, after all, we have to live in the now, damn it.

Unattainable Guy Reality Check: Alright, let’s just be clear. This guy is a narcissist of the first order, he’s every bit as concerned about his image as the frat boy popping his collar and spit shining his shoes. The difference is that he’s pompous and arrogant about things you actually care about and therefore you are impressed. In actuality he cares more about impressing people with his so-called disengagement from a corrupt society and his induction into the intelligentsia, than he does about you. Furthermore, if he actually IS an artist-writer-philosopher and is serious about his work, you also lose because you can’t compete with dead white men and you can’t compete with art so you’re a little fucked on both fronts. It’s not as if he’s ignoring you in favor of another girl, thus making it acceptable to call him on his bullshit - he’s ignoring you for something ostensibly much more noble and therefore untouchable. More likely than not, you aren’t the only one impressed with his artful turning of a phrase or demi-god like status with a brush. Lots of chicks dig that and I’m sure he’s cashing in on it. He’s a like a bohemian bartender serving up fresh bullshit for open legs and just as HE isn’t all that original, he’ll make it clear, neither are you. You mean he read her EMILY DICKINSON? Sob. The Bastard.

Still think it’s a good idea? Good luck with that.

The Good Guy

This is another fun fellow. This is the guy you are going out with as a compromise to the gods. You have finally succumbed to your friends insistence that you are “too picky” and have decided to go out with a “good guy”. Translation? He’s not as attractive, charming, or smart as the guys you usually get your heart trampled by. The way you see it this guy hit the fucking jackpot. He should be walking around with a fucking rosary in his pocket praying every day that sweet baby Jesus won’t take you away from him. So, you go out a few times and you start to see what a great guy he is, I mean looks don’t really matter right? It’s how beautiful you are on the inside, Oprah was right. Much to your surprise you start getting excited when he calls, you start looking forward to your dates and begin to do some serious fantasizing. All is well with the world and you live happily ever after, eating your words and vowing to be more open minded in the future. Right?

Unattainable Guy Reality Check: Ummm no. Somewhere along the line homeboy got a little full of himself. Perhaps it was the ego-high of walking into the bar with your hot ass and having everyone look at him. Perhaps it was that you finally started to like him and the dating gods just-hate-you-that-much. Who knows. Word to the wise, you could end up like my friend Jill who was dating such a man. One night he took her on a romantic date to his new apartment. The apartment didn’t have furniture so he brought a pseudo-picnic with a blanket and everything (Obviously this guy watches Sex and the City). Of course, they end up having hot sex in his new digs and generally a pretty romantic evening. Not the kind of thing you do for a girl if you aren’t into her. Fast forward to the Good Guy dropping Jill off for the evening. He turns to her in the car and says “You know, I just don’t know if I’m that attracted to you. I don’t think this is going to work out, but you’re such a cool girl, I just wanted you to know that.” Jill gets out of the car, drags her jaw off the ground and shakes her head. What the fuck? Apparently the “Good Guy” thought he could do better, but not without a thanks-but-no-thanks roll in the hay. What a sweetie. However, the good news about this one is that you didn’t really want him in the first place, more than anything it’s just annoying. While the narcissistic artist could probably still get in your pants if he tried hard enough, this guy has no hope of getting in your pants EVER AGAIN. Ha, eat shit Oprah.

Welcome to Humpday! Today I am putting the girlspoke powers in your hands. This post is up to you, I mean you’re writing it. Just like Mad Libs, the outcome is up to YOU! Just for fun, fill it out, take a screen shot and email it me (meme at girlspoke dot com). If we like it we’ll post up your mad writing skills. Have fun!

I’ve been thinking about your hands on my
all day. Can I put your hand there myself? Your fingers are so strong. I love how their slight roughness feels against the silkiness of my
. I’m getting
. Can you feel it?
me again; just like you just did.

Do you mind if I
your
? I’d really like to. Actually, I need to. Actually, if I don’t, I may just go out of my mind. Give it to me. Give me your
. Put it in my
. Do you like that? I like it. I like it a lot. In fact, I love it.

You’re getting so
. Touch my
. Look what you’re doing to me. I’m going to
my
so that you can
me there. Just like that. Just like that. Give me more. I need more.

Touch my
while you
me. Feel my
. It feels so good. Your
feels so good. Your
tastes so good. Does my
taste good? Tell me how good it tastes.

You’re driving me crazy. I’m ready for your
. Can I have it? Can I have it now? Oh yes. Thank you. Thank you. My
is on fire. If you touch it I might … You’re like a
of
inside me.

I can’t take much more. I’m close to
-ing.
with me. I want to
with you. It’s close; it’s so close.
me harder. Faster. Deeper. Harder.

*_{UPDATE: This screenshot was sent in by the lovable John R - Click to see. From Frederik the Fantasic: Check it out. Ooh, and from the Super-duper Alejandra: Clicky.. The awesome Graeme sent in this one: Looky. And the fantabulous Diantha sent this one: Go read it .}

And go check out Alexis’ Star Trek version at her site ‘Girl Friday‘

I love to think I have a twin out there somewhere in the world. Can you imagine…two of ME? Awesome. That, and I always loved Spy Magazine’s Separated at Birth. Some recent celebrity pictures have inspired me to do my own version…

Why didn’t I notice this in Rainman?

He calls it the FutureSex/LoveSounds Manifesto.

You be the judge.

I was talking with my trusty co-worker, Lisa, the other day. The topic? Another woman we work with (of course) and her marital situation. This lady was an exceptional conversation piece for about a million reasons, but today we focused on her ability to find a man. Now, you see this woman is morbidly obsese and has an attitude to match. She’s too good for everything, including performing the expected duties of a teacher or performing much of anything back at home. Call me judgemental if you must. It’s just part of the package.

For the sake of timing, we’ll skirt over her inability to teach and how she’s likely perpetuating all that is so very wrong with this country today. Let’s just stick with her and her husband. This alone lead to an epiphany of sorts for my friend and I. Need more background? Her husband is a state trooper (read: authority, rough, tough, healthy), yet she clearly holds all of the authority in the household. The husband and children (also men) do all the cleaning, and she spends her days at work spending all her (and his) money on online QVC. Further, she appears to have no nurturing ablitities, tendencies to be outgoing or kind, or otherwise redeeming qualities about her. Yet she’s constantly reminding her husband that she can pull the “divorce” card to further enforce her demands at any moment. Not surprisingly, her children seem to have no social lives and much of what the public knows about them is how their schedules revolve around the toilet and fast-food dinners.

So Lisa and I can’t help but wonder: how did a woman like this manage to score a man like that? In other words, we’d all love a man that could occasionally refrain from being an asshole and just respect us a bit. You know, even if we are being slightly irrational at the time. We’d also love it for a man to share in some household chores, right? Maybe let us do a little shopping? Eat Taco Bell without a disapproving frown?

Well, maybe. Our focus of study, remember, revealed to us that she, in fact, does not do the dishes, never cleans the bathroom and certainly never ever helps take in the groceries after they’ve gone food shopping. So where does this leave the man? According to our calculations, he’s probably somewhere in the house painting her toenails, dusting her piles of costume jewelry, or possibly disinfecting the toilet. Yuck. Is it just us, or did dreamboy just take a nose dive into the very toilet he was cleaning?

Our bottom line, our final question for query was this: Is it true that the only way to get a man with a higher frequency of kindness and compassion is to become an unruly bitch, break his spine, and sit back and start getting fat? Is it true that the only way to get the studly dreamboat that will always make you feel safe and protected, is to deal with his tendency to be a complete asshole? In the end, Lisa and I definitively stated that we’d much prefer the occassional ass to the occassional man.

But come the fuck on. Are we back in 1935? With, like, a twist of dominatrix?

Editor’s Note: YES, 1935 is a very specific, scientific year for all this nonsense. Don’t question my sociology. And, baby, if you’re reading this, NO, I do NOT think you’re an ass! (Please don’t lock me in the closet again, ok? xoxo)

They say you haven’t truly lived until you’ve broken a bone in your body. Ok, they don’t say that, but they should. For the first time in my life I find myself gimping along in pain due to a badly sprained ankle (the “badly” is added by me, not my doctor. I have no idea if it is “bad” in comparison to your typical ankle sprain, all I know is that it fucking hurts. Although I’ve never been a sucker for pain, unless of course the pain is caused by a sharp smack against my bare buttocks in the throws of passion – hmmm, where was I? Right. This fat, ugly mass of a thing that has taken over what used to be my dainty lickable foot) A word advice: Do not throw the ole pigskin around in your backyard when your backyard is in fact a desecrated forest covered in abandoned fox holes.

I am not a graceful invalid. Crawling on all fours into my front door at midnight in pouring rain, crutches in tow, with the entire neighborhood peering out of their windows does NOT a happy Betty make. I have “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” style tantrums. My favorite being when looking for a box of painkillers, all I found was a box of condoms and throwing the condoms all over the bedroom screaming “I don’t want sex, I want fucking drugs!”

Betty doesn’t do helpless. I get frustrated that I can’t move quickly on crutches. Frustrated that I have to go up and down stairs on my ass like some pathetic child. Frustrated that I can’t take a shower by myself. No. That part actually isn’t so bad…

But slowly I am beginning to get better. Slowly I start gaining control over the crutches as opposed to the crutches having control over me. I delight in small victories like my first step on my bad foot. And even better, I’m even starting to give in to the loss of control and give in to the fact that I am helpless. Being cooked for and cleaned up after certainly has its perks.

In fact this helpless damsel in distress role I’ve unwillingly found myself in has even got some new fantasies brewing.

Me sitting at home, leg propped up in a cast, crutches just outside of reach. I’m wearing a flimsy skirt and bra, as it is so damn hot. In he comes. He takes one look at my sorry state and knows that I am powerless. Up goes my skirt and down come my panties as his rough hands puts me in the position he wants me in. Pathetic pleas of no quickly turn into yes as he sweatily fucks me bringing us both to orgasm.

Who knew having a sprained ankle could be so much fucking fun?

Really, really fucking pissed.

NOW? No, fuck you, it is a problem. I’ve officially hit the breaking point and I see no further use for the West coast attitude other than to make me shake with rage and indignation about the unholy façade that is grace under pressure. Fuck that.

Last night someone stole my bike. Now it really wasn’t my bike but one I was borrowing from my landlord, and now I have to pay her some ungodly amount of money for a bike I used for approximately two months. Awesome. Thanks a lot you piece of shit thief. I hope you burn in a hell of your own creation, which definitely includes pigeons pecking at your peanut butter slathered genitals.

R.I.P.

I think I must have a sign on all my belongings that say, “JACK me!”, because I have had a great run here in the last couple months with people trying to or succeeding in COMPLETELY FUCKING RIPPING ME OFF.

Oh, and Canada? Don’t let anyone try to tell you Canadians are peaceful and unassuming, they are a bunch of pilfering fucking asshats if you ask me. The FIRST night I was here I grabbed a bus from the airport to downtown. Excited and happy to be starting my big beautiful quest for self-enlightenment and a hot Canadian boy, I joyfully threw my luggage under the bus with everyone else’s. Chin resting on hand as I gazed peacefully at the twinkling lights of Montreal I must have been lost in reverie a bit longer than I thought. I got off the bus last, and climbed down the stairs to retrieve my luggage. I looked under the bus and lo and behold, there were no suitcases left. Shaking my head a bit I looked at the bearded burly man of a bus driver and inquired as to where in the name of Sweet Christ my bag was. He very helpfully shrugged his shoulders. Thanks farmer Ted, much appreciated. I’m not going to detail to you every important thing that was in the bag because I don’t want to go into a rage blackout, fall off the chair and bump my head, no health insurance and all, but I will tell you that there were more than a few things in there that are completely irreplaceable. For about two weeks I would be walking around my apartment, stop, ask myself where an item was, remember it got stolen and shake with bitterness for a couple minutes. That was fun, and it just about set the logistical tone for how things go ‘round here.

Between two weeks without internet (Bell Canada makes Comcast look like a shining angel from customer service heaven), a broken stove, misrouted mail, electricity that frequently blows circuits, countless bad dining experiences and a stolen bike, I think I’ve handled things rather gracefully. But the bike was the final straw and for the last week that I’m here, if someone so much as SNEEZES in the wrong direction they are getting chewed out. I’m sick of playing Suzy fucking sunshine so if you’re considering ripping me off, screwing me over or just generally being an asshole I’d advise you to hit up the next customer cause I’m really fucking over it. See that’s the problem with the California “no worries” attitude, there are worries and there are things to be pissed off about and just because you tell yourself it’s no big deal doesn’t mean it isn’t. Instead it festers and bubbles and lays in wait until you remember that you’re from the east coast and WE DON’T DO THAT, we yell and whine and bitch and complain and if we don’t then we die. Simple, eh?

So in short, world, STOP FUCKING PISSING ME OFF!!!!!!!!

Thank you and goodnight.

Ok, ok…don’t get me wrong. I love being a woman. I especially love my vageegee, my cookie, my precious lady-stuff. It serves me well. But for some reason my body has decided that this month my gina will be the bane of my existence and cause me to suffer the worst case of PMS known to man. I kid you not. I have been PMSing for at least 2 weeks with no end in sight.

Symptoms include but are not exclusive to:
• Full body aches, from my eyeballs to my swollen ankles
• Tits that feel like needles are being shoved into them anytime they brush against something
• Lower back pain causing me to hunch over like a geriatric old lady
• Cramps that I would liken to being kicked in the pelvis every five minutes by someone wearing combat boots
• Complete and utter incapacity to process logic and communicate with other human beings

These symptoms translate to the real world in some of the following ways:
• Pain while grocery shopping, leading to inevitable purchase of large quantities of ice cream
• Yelling at customer service agent over the phone, followed by uncontrollable sobbing
• Inability to dress myself due to the fact that my entire wardrobe no longer fits
• Uncontrollable sobbing
• Consuming full pint of ice cream in one sitting
• Pouting, then when BF asks what’s wrong nearly snapping his head off
• Shreiking loudly at stranger that accidentally brushes against sore boobs
• Uncontrollable sobbing

It’s so bad that I can barely type right now without intermittently cursing at my laptop and crying into the keyboard while telling myself, “You’re fat and ugly and your readers hate you.” Well, I hate you too. I hate you so much. It’s your fault I’m having all this pain. Someone out there must’ve concocted a voodoo doll in my image and is currently shoving horse needles into my abdomen. I will find you and when I do I will bite your head off and chew it up into little tiny pieces then spit it out and glue it back together and sew it onto your ass with those horse needles, you fucking bastard.

Have a great day! And don’t forget to celebrate the upcoming Autumnal Equinox! I love you all!

There’s just some women that are hot but still non-threatening/likeable to the ladies. Ladies ladies but not in the classic eat pussy kinda way.

Here’s some of my favorite famous ones:

Amanda Peet

Uma Thurman

Sara Silverman (duh)

Rachel McAdams

Audrey Tatou

And there’s just some women that are hot in a threatening way. Whenever they are on camera they are all fantasy in behavior and no reality. I disapprove of such ladies cause they create some false idea of how women should behave or just be … like when dudes see ultra romantic male leads that can do no wrong- I’m guessing that’s intimidating for them too.

Here’s the top famous chicks that I wouldn’t lend a tampon to on account of me being catty about their hottedness:

Jessica Biel

Jennifer Love Hewitt

Elisha Cuthbert (2 cute, not fair.)

Edward James Olmos

Taco

Yay! I don’t make lists a lot but when I do I think I’m pretty damn good at it.

(PS- Check out Sexytime Comedy this Friday!)

(PPS-
)

I’m in an awful mood, girlspokians. So today, I give you a caption contest. In essence, I’d like you to do my job for me. C’mon. I’ll even start with the first one. As you can see, I tried to make them New-Yorker-classy. Let’s make this place rock…we could all use a smile. It’s no fuck, but it’s better than nothing.

Image One

Sometimes, the issues we have with our pussy need to be dealt with directly.

Image Two

Image Three

Image Four

Image Five

The winner of this caption contest gets the glorious prize of making me laugh at a time when I think I’m closer to sticking a stiletto in my eyeball.