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So it’s Halloween. The day when women get to dress as slutty as possible and men can indulge their inner transexual by dressing up as slutty women. The other day I was at the urban pumpkin patch, the supermarket, picking out the best gourd I could find and I was reminded of my all time favorite movies regarding the love of pumpkins, Benigni’s scene in Night on Earth.

I lived in the country, where there weren’t many women, and though you’re still a kid, inside you feel a man’s feeling, and there was no way to relieve this feeling. So the idea, not mine but a real intelligent friend of mine’s, of relieving ourselves with, to make love with … how do I say this? With pumpkins. Pumpkins. Warm, soft, damp, with seeds inside, so round — and we would — toom ta toom — help me find the words, Father — we relieved ourselves with these pumpkins.

Of course this naturally led me to google with the search terms “Sex with Pumpkins” and I came across an article about a young guy…

Police arrested Patrick Lawrence, a 22-year-old white male, resident of Dacula, GA, in a pumpkin patch at 11:38 p.m. Friday. Lawrence will be charged with lewd and lascivious behavior, public indecency, and public intoxication at the Gwinnett County courthouse on Monday.

The suspect allegedly stated that as he was passing a pumpkin patch, he decided to stop. “You know, a pumpkin is soft and squishy inside, and there was no one around here for miles. At least I thought there wasn’t,” he stated in a phone interview from the jail.

When he was caught red-handed (or in this case orange-handed) his reply was fantasic:

[The officer] went on to describe what happened when she approached Lawrence. “I just went up and said, ‘Excuse me sir, but do you realize that you are screwing a pumpkin?’ He got real surprised, as you’d expect, and then looked me straight in the face and said, “A pumpkin? Damn…is it midnight already?”

Oh man, good stuff.

This search also yielded a link to a site called Vegan Porn which immediately piqued my interest. There was a similar article about pumpkin sex which I am sad to report may lead to a 90 day jail sentence. So be forewarned: Don’t pumpkin-hump in public. And, I’d like to add, be sure to blow out the candle first.

Ok, y’all have a happy Halloween. And go ahead, eat all your candy in one sitting. I won’t tell your mom.

We don’t have much of a blogroll here at Girlspoke, so it’s fun to give some respect to fellow bloggers that walk the line around here. Plus, it’s another reason for me to cop-out of doing a legitimate post. I got a message from a reader the other day that directed me to a site that would certainly tickle my fancy. The website is called 5ives, which is all lists, all the time. Could you ask for anything better? No. The answer is, no. No you cannot.

Let me share my favorites so far…but I’ve yet to delve deep into the archives:

Five Groups, apart from “women and children”, who should get to leave a sinking ship first:

1. people who always use turn signals
2. persons who have never purchased a greeting card
3. Broken Social Scene
4. everyone who can and does continue to publicly breakdance
5. un-ironic wearers of suspenders

Clever, no? I’m partial to the turn-signal users. Though, I’d probably have some subtle differences if I’d made this list myself:

Jenna’s Five Groups, Apart from “women and children”, Who Should Get to Leave a Sinking Ship:

Note: “Myself” is not listed because I’d fall into the default category. Otherwise, I’d be number one.

1. Those who have accidentally flatulated–loudly–in public, at any point in their lifetime.
2. Victims of mailbox vandalism.
3. Anyone who has never, intentionally, eaten flax or any of its derivatives.
4. People that get slightly annoyed when they see emoticons, public display of poor spelling, or improper use of end-sentence punctuation.
5. Marines. Who else would give me mouth-to-mouth if I fell victim to…you know…the humid oceanic air?

And the next best?

Five kitchen tools that sound kind of dirty:

1. chocolate fountain
2. melon baller
3. meat baster
4. boning knife
5. corn holders

This is obviously right up my alley, so to speak. Not only is it a list, but it’s also sexual and immature–two adjectives that I always use when filling out one of those email forwards from a friend that ask me to describe myself! Again, this had me thinking of a Jenna translation…

Jenna’s Five Surgical Tools That Sound Kind of Kinky:

1. Glass Bead Mirror Warmer
2. Aspirating Suction Tubes
3. Bulldog Clamps
4. Bone Elevators
5. TIE: Headlights or Sphygmomanometers and B-P Cuffs

I bet you never knew surgery could be so much fun!

Now, go over and check out 5ives.com and tell me what your favorite list is. Or do you have another favorite site that you think we should all know about? Share it in the comments section! It’s Show and Tell time, kiddies!

Why is it all the cool death-inspired products only come out around this time of year? I know it’s close to halloween but isn’t death a year-round event?

Let me just say that I’m not of the Black-Eye-Makeup-Ripped-Stockings-Deathrock set, I just love me some morbid stuff. For example I cannot think of a better way to munch on chocolate than when it’s skull shaped. Though I would suggest adding a crispy-cookie center for that bit of crunch when you pop it in your mouth.

I love this one and, really, don’t see this as a seasonal item. It’s certainly got mass year-round appeal. I mean, I’d like to have one for every ex-boyfriend to cover the floors of my apartment…I imagine it would be nearly wall-to-wall.

Or if you have a sense of respect for the dead and prefer not to walk on them, why not try the same idea but as a towel? Rub all your parts dry with their parts. Or something like that.

I’m still trying to understand the logistics of this one. How do you get someone in the position to attach a toetag? Oh right, silly me.

According to the website, “These are actual toe tags used by funeral homes and coroners across the country. These toe tags are not pre printed. 6 tags to a bag of the unprinted variety and also included is a disaster pouch and printed tags.” Call me crazy but these look like regular ole paper tags, I was not aware there was a style for coroner use only. You learn something new every day. These, too, should be kept handy year-round cause you never know. And think of how happy the coroner would be when you’ve already done half his job.

Just to be clear, I’m NOT dressing up for halloween. I decided to be the agoraphobic fear monger hiding in her apartment and most certainly NOT giving out candy. And while my next door neighbors have their big blow-out party this weekend, I’ll be the bitter (uninvited) one that calls the cops at precisely midnight, goddamn noisy troublemakers.

So here we are, and it’s Thursday. Great. That means I have three full days to do my LEAST favorite thing in the world. Come up with a costume for Halloween. The one themed party event night that is almost impossible to shrug off. Especially in San Francisco. Everyone here goes apeshit for Halloween, I swear, for Christmas there’s nary a wreath to be found but for Halloween, if you don’t dress up you might as well hop on the funeral pyre and let the queens whip out their Zippos.

It’s really a no-win situation, either you go balls out and spend eight million dollars and an entire day searching for a bad ass costume, or you go to the corner store, get some kitty ears and a tail, and call it a day. I’ve done both and it’s just annoying. In fact it’s more than annoying. It makes me want to come down with a case of the syph for Saturday night so I don’t have to deal.

So, inevitably, I’ll fall victim to “Slut Syndrome”. Not all that original. Much has been said on the topic of why most girls take this as their annual opportunity to dress like a prostitute without the nasty side-effect of actually turning a trick. The simplicity of it is astounding. It appeals to me because basically, you can be a slutty anything. You can be slutty roadkill for chrissakes if you have the tenacity. I was once a slutty ladybug. I kid you not. I wore a short black skirt, a red sparkly halter (it was college, fuck off, they were in) and atop my cute little head, antennas with round red sparkly balls at the end. Now, I’m not entirely sure they were supposed to be ladybug antennas but I did my best. The slut part is really the point. Show enough leg and no one says a word about how much your costume sucks, they’re just trying to get a peek at your hooha. Vagina! An accessory for every occasion! Ask Lindsay Lohan.

I would like to say that my feminist hackles are raised at the thought of pandering to the basest instincts of the male gender, but, eh. Not so much. It basically breaks down like this. I’m single. Halloween is just another party in my mind but I have to be slightly strategic about it. We’ve got the slut denominator and that’s critical, I can’t really afford to get on my feminist high horse unless I want to smugly chortle in the corner BY MYSELF as I watch all the slutty mcslutters get the action. This all sounds very degrading but men are simple creatures and those parameters have to be noted. If I walk in the room as a slutty librarian with legs that just won’t quit, I’ll get decidedly more ass than if I dress like Snoopy or Star Jones (although I’m not quite sure how I’d pull THAT one off). While I may not LIKE it, I have to fall in line. We all do, so let’s just shut up about it already and get slutty. I mean I almost feel a little entitled to it. The rest of the year I’m self-respecting girl so for one night of the year I might as well cash in on my 26 year-old bod and make it pay.

So, my point is, maybe this year we should all take it easy on the proselytizing and let the wannabe sluts be sluts. If you’ve got guaranteed ass or aren’t concerned with getting laid, by all means, Snoopy it is. I’ll be in the corner doing my best impression of stripper meets wicked witch of the west. Sans the hooha showing, of course. That’s just cheating.

P.S. This might be the best costume ever - SpiderCrotch! How appetizing.

This morning I came across a story that piqued my interest. Seems those wacky Dutch are looking into unconventional ways of taking care of their troops abroad.

October 25, 2006 9:45 a.m. EST

Komfie Manalo - All Headline News Foreign Correspondent

Amsterdam, Netherlands (AHN) - A leading female lawmaker in the Netherlands is asking the government to sent Dutch prostitutes abroad for deployment with Dutch troops to help the soldiers relax.

Annemarie Jorritsma, a member for the center-right People’s Party for Freedom and Democracy and the mayor of the town of Almere in the Netherlands, went on national TV to campaign for the “extra benefits” for the Dutch troops.

She said, “The army must think about how their soldiers can let off some steam.”

Her proposal immediately drew support from the Dutch sex workers union.

But the Vokskrant newspaper quotes an unidentified military spokesman as expressing reservations over the proposal.

He told the newspaper, “I don’t think my wife would like the idea very much.”

There are currently around 2,000 Dutch soldiers stationed outside of the Netherlands, majority of them deployed either in Afghanistan and Bosnia. [via All Headline News]

Now, I know what you all are thinking, “Cool, let’s hook the boys up!” Yeah, I’m all for sex as a form of stress relief. But something doesn’t work for me here. First off, how do these ladies get paid? Does it come from the soldiers’ pockets or will the government subsidize it? Will they have a set pay scale for service performed and who’s job is it to determine the specific rates? I think it could get pretty darn complicated.

And if that weren’t enough let’s just throw in the Law of Unintended Consequences. Let’s imagine for moment that all the red tape is worked out and the ladies are sent to Afghanistan or Bosnia. The boys are happy and the Dutch ladies are making money…sounds good, or does it? We all know that the sex trade is the oldest profession in the world so there’s gotta be local ladies. So the boys are getting it on with their hometown girls and the local ladies are out of work. Is that right? Not if they want to keep the peace in these regions. Cause if the money isn’t going to the local ladies their bosses won’t be happy and if their bosses ain’t happy they’ll look for other ways to make money like drug trafficking or worse arms trafficking, eventually involving policymakers leading to major instability.

So now you see, nothing is ever as simple and easy as it seems. My suggestion: give the soldiers booty vouchers that they can earn by doing extra work, make a deal with the local ladies to accept these vouchers (perhaps with backing from the UN) and everyone wins!

So I just stumbled in from an all night party-fest (’cause you know Monday is the new Friday) to find, well, nothing. No new post here on Girlspoke. I immediately checked my email thinking I’d find one of those heartfelt “I’m super sick and can’t write nothin’ today” emails. Once again, nothing. Hum. Now I’m worried. Poor Heather must be in such a bad state she can’t even type. Her fragile little fingers probably wrapped up in adorable little casts unable to even open the cover of her laptop let alone press that big power button. I thought for moment about calling her but realized that opening the cell phone would most likely cause excruciating pain. So I called the dairy and faxed over the only picture I had…

I began feeling better when I knew the cartons were going to press ASAP. One less thing to worry about, since her main fan base is milk drinkers I have no doubt she will be found and promptly returned to the heart-shaped bed.

I did have one once. I remember that much. In fact, I remember every damn detail of it. And I also recall sharing each of those details with as many people as possible, including those that became clearly uncomfortable at the start of my sharing.

But for all intents and purposes, no matter how much I’d like to or even how often I may have tried, I simply cannot have a sex dream. It just never happens. Well, ok, not never never. But I do have myself a bit of a situation. Aside from The One, (which shall be permanently rooted into my memory banks, even when I’m old and senile, I’m sure. Grammy, PLEASE stop telling us that story!) I have never had a sex dream that involves another human being.

So, are you with me now? Can we explore this for a bit please? Because it’s not like my dreams are completely devoid of sexuality. In fact, I’ll often have a dream where I’m fully aroused. But here’s where the problem begins. Oye. How do I even say this…

How about a scenario? That’s least humiliating, I suppose. Here’s the never-wavering sequence of events:

1. I am typically in a public place and become aroused–savagely aroused–for no evident reason whatsoever. Normally, when we’re explaining a dream, there’s that moment when you invariably tell your listener that “well, it made total sense in the dream.” Well, not so much here. I’m often wondering–mid-snore–why I’m suddenly horny. You know, while riding the escalator of all things.

2. I become overwhelmed with my need to orgasm. There is no visible solution to my, eh, problem.

3. Without undressing or offering explanation to friends, family, or strangers, I begin grinding my crotch against the nearest possible surface. This has included a metal pole and an escalator railing in the past. Only rarely will I actually use my own hands.

And you know the worst part? As I’m lying in bed, writhing around, I’ve got to be aroused in real-life too, you know? But I can never wake myself up enough to get some real-life action from the sexy stud next to me!

Sigh.

I don’t know. Maybe if this were all less cyclical and seemingly telling of some deep-seeded, unexplored issues, I’d have less of a problem…Well, actually, no. Patterns or not, I’d still be grinding my clit upon the nearest possible firm surface and not against my boyfriend’s bulging cock. And that is still quite the problem now, isn’t it?

Okay, so a few days ago I turned the ripe old age of 26. (That’s right boys, this ass is PRIME. Get it while it’s h-o-t.) Anyway, despite being at the top of my game physically, I’m a getting a leetle old for all the games.

I’m actually pretty over it. I’m pretty done with the late twenty to early thirty-something peter pans who defy all logic and are still JUST trying to get into your pants - even though conventional wisdom says they should be, oh, I don’t know, GROWING UP. In a city like San Francisco where it’s literally a straight man’s personal playboy mansion every god damn weekend, we straight shooting gals here on the west coast are left to play the universally fun game called, “Who just wants to get in my pants?” on an almost daily basis. The guys here are SPOILED and you consistently see some fugly d-bag walking out of a bar with a knockout on his arm. I mean it makes sense, if there are plenty of disposable women hanging around the less carefully you’re apt to treat them, and the less concerned you are about ending up alone – despite what a fugly d-bag you are.

Now, this is all fine and good. Not necessarily noble, but law of the jungle nonetheless. We’re the stupid bitches that LIVE here after all. Furthermore, the fact remains that a good number of females want the very same thing. It’s like trying to decide what kind of shoes to wear. It’s really about mood. Do I want to go out and shamelessly flirt with something yummy yet mildly retarded, or do I want to go have a serious conversation and meet a potentially interesting person for future dates? Like I said it’s about mood. And, I’m sure it is for guys as well. All I’m asking for a little honesty when it comes to intentions. I’m sick of guessing and you fools MUST be sick of lying. I swear, I would have so much respect for a guy who just came up to me and said with a weary brow, “Hey, so, you’re cute, and I’d like to sleep with you. I have more mommy issues than I know what to do with and I still would rather play video games than do the dishes. I really don’t want a relationship but I’d love to make you scream…in a good way.” I think I would buy HIM a drink. The world needs a little honesty and integrity and so I give to you the last bastion of both those virtues….

Yes, that’s right. The Booty Bar.

Every town needs one.

Oh, and I want royalties from all you dickwads who steal my idea. The first rule of Booty Bar IS…We don’t talk about Booty Bar. Just kidding. NO, the first rule is - All booty, all the time. You don’t come to Booty Bar if you are looking for a husband, or a date to your sisters wedding, or even a semi-coherent conversation. You come to booty bar if you want guys to buy you drinks, if you are willing to buy drinks, and if you are willing to go home at the end of the night with someone whose name you may or may not remember in the morning. This will be the first truly enlightened bar. It will mirror the zeitgeist of L.A. in the sense that everyone is superficial and skin deep and they DON’T APOLOGIZE for it, in fact they relish it. If you go to Booty Bar, everyone knows you’re there for booty, and they in turn are there for booty. The playing fields are leveled. Don’t you see? It’s brilliant. Guys can still swagger and boast and puff their chests out but they don’t have to pretend like there’s a real future at the end of the night, that there’s a chance for anything more than a damn good time. In essence, men don’t have to lie and women don’t have to guess. And really, what more can you ask for in a bar.

There will of course be very strict rules enforced. This is what will differentiate it from all those other poser booty bars out there that women still go to and secretly think they’re going to find a diamond in the rough, the kind that men still go to trying to find a “nice girl”. None of that bullshit at Booty Bar. Oh no, no, no. There will be no giving out of “numbers” unless those numbers are designated for the singular use of “booty calls”. There will be no talk of “heading to Napa” for the weekend or going for a jog together at Chrissy Field. Sorry, take your romantic interludes elsewhere. Anyone seen engaging in such behavior is promptly thrown out and banned from the Booty Bar for three Bootyless weeks. That’s right. THREE. Further, there will be no couples. You people are fucking everywhere and you WON’T get Booty Bar. You can inhabit the rest of the earth with your “Oh baby’s” and your inside jokes, but you won’t cross this threshold. However, if you are one half of a disgruntled couple that’s another story. Don’t ask, don’t tell is the Booty Bar policy but be careful because you’re girlfriend probably knows where to find you. Just like how your mother knew where to find those Hustler’s under your mattress when you were thirteen. Not rocket science. But, the Booty Bar welcomes all forms of immorality and tom foolery, so come, play, get laid – but you must be honest about it. There is no taking off of the wedding ring at Booty Bar - but don’t worry, I’m sure there’s a girl right beside you who, Just. Doesn’t. Care.

So there you have it my friends this is my gift to you, this is truth for the modern man, this is nobility in a raunchy age of meaningless sex and cute tops. This is BOOTY BAR.

The other day when I heard this story I was blown away. A guy is showing his multi-million dollar Picasso, when he accidentaly pokes his elbow through it. Oh bummer.

He began to tell the story of the Picasso’s provenance. As he talked, he had his back to the picture…[W]ithout realizing it, he backed up a step or two as he talked. “So then I made a gesture with my right hand,” Wynn said, “and my right elbow hit the picture. It punctured the picture.” There was a distinct ripping sound. [via New Yorker]

Aw shucks, seems like an honest mistake. And well, when you’ve got the kind of money that Steve Wynn, casino magnate, has what’s another 40 million? Drop in the bucket. As Mr. Wynn said, “It’s a picture, it took Picasso five hours to paint it.” Cool. You are obviously a true art lover Mr. Wynn, rock on.

I was thinking though how awesome it would be of Mr. Wynn could do something to bring back the value of the painting. That all depends on where the elbow hole was. Like if the hole were in the eye he could sew on a googly-eye, cool huh? Or what if the hole were in the stomach, he could tape on a rubbery alien toy poking from the hole. Perhaps he could add another hole and make it a contemporary statement on feminism and/or sex dolls??