Happy Halloween!

10 Things That Sound Dirty On Halloween, But Aren’t…

1. So…What’d you get in the sack?

2. Once you get under the sheet, start moaning and groaning!!!

3. Just hop on that broomstick and ride it!

4. Those small suckers are gone in a few licks!

5. I got the best piece from that house.

6. Quit screwing around on the porch!!!

7. Stick your hand in and guess what you’re feeling….

8. It was so filled and heavy, I had to use TWO hands!!

9. They’ll suck you dry if they get their teeth in you.

10. I bobbed and bobbed, but couldn’t get my mouth around it!

Top Ten Reasons Why Trick-or-Treating is Better Than Sex

10. You are guaranteed to get at least a little something in the sack.

9. If you get tired, wait ten minutes and go back at it again.

8. The stranger you look, the easier it is to get some.

7. You don’t have to compliment the person who gave it to you.

6. Person you are with doesn’t fantasize you’re someone else, you already are.

5. If you get a stomach ache, it won’t last nine months.

4. If you wear leather and chains, no one thinks you’re kinky.

3. Doesn’t matter if kids hear you moaning and groaning.

2. Less guilt the next morning from over-indulging.

1. If you don’t get what you want at one place, you can always go next door to get more!

Why Pumpkins Are Better Than Men
1. Every year you get a brand new crop to choose from.

2. No matter what your mood is, pumpkins are always ready to greet you with a smile.

3. One usually makes a better pie.

4. They are always on the doorstep there waiting for you!

5. If you don’t like the way he looks, you just carve up another face.

6. If he starts smelling up your place, you can just throw him out.

7. From the start you know a pumpkin has an empty, mush filled head to begin with.

8. A pumpkin is turned on (lit-up) only when you want him to be.

Question: Why don’t witches ever have babies?
Answer: Warlocks have hollow weenies.

Question: Why can’t Witches have babies?
Answer: Because their husbands have crystal balls

The guy had invited his girlfriend to attend a Halloween party with him, and he showed up at her door wearing only a pair of roller blades. “Uh, and just what on Earth are you supposed to be?” she asked. “What else?” he replied smiling. “I’m a pull toy!”

What did the lesbian vampire say to the other?
See you next month!

What do hillbillies do for Halloween
Pump-kin

Have a good one.

~cunt

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My Week In A Picture

;-)

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Because I can easily imagine Master saying this to me during a “slave Diva” moment…

Again, thanks Sharon!

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World’s Shortest Fairytale

Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy, ’Will you marry me?’
The guy said ’No’ and the girl lived happily ever after and
went shopping, drank martinis with friends, always had a
clean house, never had to cook, had a closet full of shoes
and handbags, stayed skinny, and was never farted on.

The End

*snicker*

seen here. Thanks, Sharon!

~~*~~

A man kills a deer and takes it home to cook for dinner. Both he and his wife decide that they won’t tell the kids what kind of meat it is, but will give them a clue and let them guess.

The kids were eager to know what the meat was on their plates, so they begged their dad for the clue.

“Well,” he said, “It’s what mommy calls me sometimes.”

The little girl screams to her brother “Don’t eat it, it’s an asshole..”

~~*~~

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Cold. We has it.

I’ll give you one guess as to who the snow shovel bitch is. Who needs Curves when you have snow!

I look like a heffalump with a head in my winter garb though huh? :D Like that kid in A Christmas Story.

It’s only -14F (-25C) with the wind chill today! Purt near having a heat wave. Must be why Am went to school wearing capris and sandals. She said “you can’t let the cold interrupt fashion, Mom” and rolled her eyes like I was retarded. Silly me, worried about frostbite and hypothermia. Damn overprotective mothers anyway.

So I got my message from the Universe this morning and it just cracked me the fuck up. It said, among other things, “Gabriel, did you register kaya’s epiphany yesterday?” Hee hee! I love it when it’s spot on with something. It makes me giggle.

Master is still sick, though on the mend I think. He’s done nothing more than go to work and go to bed and hasn’t read anything lately. So I’m still quitting but it’s still not an approved quit. I wonder, do I need to come up with a different name for him? If I’m not a slave, then I shouldn’t call him Master, right? I had some ideas for a new title. Maybe you can help me pick.

Satan.

The Grand Poobah of Cuntville.

Mofo.

Billy Bad Ass.

Demon Sadist of Cunt Street.

Teh Boss

Zorro

Beelzebub.

or Babycakes.

One of the commenters on that last post (Fyre) left a hilarious list of slogans for my new-found cunthood. I picked out my favorites to choose from.

“Have it your way.” Burger King

“Just do it.” Nike

I gotta say, the Nike slogan is one that Master The Grand Poobah of Cuntville (I’ll just try them all on for size) says to me fairly often. “Be like Nike, cunt. Just do it.” So that’s got strong possibilities.

Although I really like the Burger King message since that IS what I am preaching.

I suppose I should come up with my own anyway. “Just do it your way”? *snicker*

Acronyms are harder than I thought. I’ll have to remember this for a cunt cupboard activity.

COHIP (Cunt Ownership Has It’s Privileges)

FOSIM (Fuck Off, She Is Mine; or FOHIM – fuck off he is mine)

ACWA – (A Cunt With Attitude)

CUT – (Cunt Under Torture)

Anyway… time is up. Later gaters.

~cunt

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I quit.

So here is something that’s been rolling around in my noggin for a bit.

I had a lightbulb moment. It started as a flicker but it’s grown into a steadily burning fact. I’m gonna go with it.

I quit. I quit the whole BDSM, Master/slave, dom/sub … thing. I quit.

I don’t GET it. I mean, really, it’s so simple now that I see it. All this time that I’ve struggled and argued and confronted and and and.. just.. gone on and on about this, that and the other, trying my god-damndest to GET it.. and I don’t.

But now I know WHY I don’t.

I’m not doing it! I am not doing what the BDSM’ers are doing. Nope. Not at all. I don’t even understand what they’re doing anymore.

I’ve been a square peg trying to shove my way into a round hole for ages and ages. I’m like the Rabbi at the Catholic convention, not quite understanding why he’s drawing conflict every time he opens his mouth. Because he doesn’t know he’s a Rabbi and not a Catholic.

So.

I am not a slave. I sure as fuck am not a submissive. I may have certain aspects of my personality that mimic those of your stellar slaves and subs. But on the checklist of BDSM-defined slaves and subs? Nope. Ain’t working.

I am a cunt. Nothing more and nothing less. As far as I know, there are no rules or guidelines or right or wrongs to cunthood. I think that I get that Master gets to define my cuntness.

See, I am in this state of cunthood for a reason. I came into this relationship wanting some very specific things. And, to top it all off, I not only think I deserve them, I demand that I get them. I demand that I get them OR I retaliate by witholding my own contributions to the relationship. Apparently, that does not mesh well with the slave board of ethics.

I’ve just gone round and round with it. I don’t GET how someone gets nothing out of a relationship. I don’t get why in the hell they would even sign up for that! Nor do I understand how it is that they *create* happiness out of it. Happy with nothing? Say huh? What the fuck does that mean!?

I’m really unclear on how to maintain friendships with people who don’t see it like I do. I don’t mean that everyone has to agree with me because *obviously* people do not. And I can be friends with someone who doesn’t agree with me. It’s simply a matter of you do your thing and I’ll do mine, right?

Except.. no. I don’t know how that works really. Because being around someone who sees what I am doing as *wrong* has a certain effect on me. And that effect is not conducive to a zen state of cunthood. Sure, we could tiptoe around a conversation, careful not to step on a trigger button that might offend the other.. but that seems like a lot of work. Work that is perhaps doomed to failure?

Religion and politics, with power&money coming in a close third, are the root cause of the wars being fought. Religion and politics are a way of life. A value structure. Morals and ethics, your belief system, your reasons for getting out of bed every day. It’s all wrapped up in the way you LIVE. It’s because those on one side think their way of living is right and better and more just than the other side that they strive to either force their way on the other or, worse, to eliminate the other. That’s maybe how I view the approach to living this sort of deviant lifestyle, too. This is my way of life, it’s my reason for living, it has far-reaching, long-term effects on myself and those around me, yet, inevitably either I or someone doing it differently, tries to push that on to the other. It’s impossible, when you feel  strongly about what you do, to keep your opinions to yourself. Sincerity leads one to want to convert another. “Just listen to me. I am right! I am happy! And you will be too once you do it my way!”

So how does that work then, to have friends who feel just as strongly as I do about how they are doing what they are doing? How can they not attempt to convert me? How can I not attempt to convert them?

I know that some of y’all find extreme satisfaction in service. Me? Not so much. It really depends on the situation and what prompted the service, but service all by itself sucks ass. I get to say that because I am not a slave and I don’t *have* to either pretend I like it or turn it into something I like. I DO it because I am a cunt and I am an owned cunt, and my owner/ruler has told me to. But I also get to grump and complain while I do it because he doesn’t give a fuck HOW I do it, only that I get it done.

But I can’t talk about how I grump and complain and stomp my feet and sigh and throw my hands in the air.. because in the land of slaves, that’s shameful behavior. Best case scenario- it’s frowned on, worst case scenario- it’s grounds for ‘release’. And.. not only am I not free to talk about it, neither is Master! The judgments surrounding the type of Master who would tolerate such behaviors? Profoundly ridiculously insulting. Honestly. Not even Master can admit that he enjoys it. Not even if he explains that knowing that I don’t want to serve, but do it anyway, is so much more of a turn on for him than happy-happy joy-joy, thank-you-for-letting-me-serve-you-Sir, can-I-kiss-your-feet stuff.

I am possibly maybe a masochist. I do not eroticize pain unless I do the paining to myself. Pain… hurts. A lot sometimes. It makes me squeal and beg and cry and try my damndest to get away from it. That’s generally why he ties me up first. Because I’ll bolt, given the chance. He likes that too. He also likes that I crave and need and want and beg for exactly the sort of beating that I hate. Makes his job easier I guess. He’s not reduced to having to kidnap unwilling girlies from the street to scratch his itch. He has me. A willing participant to torture. A cunt.

Stoic, calm, submissive behavior during a beating bores him to tears. He wants reaction. He wants panic. He wants tears and snot and begging for mercy. Any attempt on my part to withold such reactions only results in a harder beating and a very unhappy sadist. I’m not so sure that my fighting during a scene qualifies me for slavery. It seems like I should be graceful and silently grateful to be getting it. And um.. fuck that. It hurts. But it does qualify me for cunthood according to my made-up rules.

You know what else I don’t get? The whole spiritual movement in BDSM. I am not one of the cool kids who has reached that level I guess. To be honest I think y’all are making it up but I won’t tell you that because “just because I don’t have it doesn’t mean it isn’t real” and all. I know that so I generally extend the benefit of the doubt to you all. But in my secret bitchy place (which is not so secret but very bitchy) I think y’all are full o’ shit. (grins)

But that’s okay! Because as a cunt, I don’t have to be spiritual. I don’t have to be anything but what he tells me to be. The only worship I have to do is to a cock and the occasional stinky set of feet. And even at that I won’t be reveling in the privilege. I’ll be wrinkling my nose and telling him his tootsies are rotten.

I don’t have to find joy where there isn’t any. I get to frolic in the things that I hate with a passion. I get to have my “force fetish” scratched without it having hidden meanings of anything bad. I get to dance out of reach and sing “make me” and then run like hell, because he will make me and it will hurt.. and I love it. I get to say ‘no’ and ‘fuck you’ and ‘kiss my ass’ and I get to be stubborn and willful and difficult. I get to cry and I get to say how much I hate it and I get to ask for something more and I get to tell him that he is wrong sometimes.

I get all of that, and more, because I am not a slave. I am a cunt. And cunts have different rules. So there.

So you see? Bitchy opinionated cunts have no place in the world of BDSM. What I want, where I’m going, how I’m getting there.. it’s all at odds with the way the rest of the BDSM culture is going about their business. This should mean that I’m no longer going to be told how I’m doing it wrong because I’m not doing it. Make sense? You can’t tell me I’m a bad slave anymore because.. hahaha! I’m not a slave. Not even a sub.

I don’t submit. I don’t acquiesce. I don’t do anything of the sort. I offer myself up to be conquered. Overpowered, crushed, beaten, reduced and trampled. Repeatedly. It’s how we do it. It’s what floats our boat. A constant and ongoing process of trampling, up until, once and for all, it’s done.

When it’s done… you won’t have to listen to me babble about it. I’ll be squirreled away, taken out to be beaten and used and put away. Those are not the obvious slave aspirations, but they ARE cunt aspirations.

I am reinventing the wheel. *beams*

I don’t fit in, and more importantly, I don’t WANT to anymore. Y’all do your bdsm thing. We’re gonna do our thing. Now I just gotta come up with some cool acronyms and catch phrases.   ;-)

~cunt

(I suppose I should add in here that I’ve not yet informed Master of my decision to reject all things BDSM and possibly, maybe, tonight or tomorrow or whenever he reads this, I will be retracting my statements. But until then, I quit.)

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The Corrected Quote

Fighting on the internet is like competing in the Special Olympics. Even if you win, you’re still retarded.

:-D

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Finally, an honest Christmas letter!

(In an email sent to me this morning by my friend. God I love her wit!)

Names changed to protect the guilty:

I love getting the Christmas letters some folks send out. They keep one informed of the going-ons of another with tales of what they have been up to throughout the year. I have often thought of sending one out myself. Yet, I’m not that good at lying. Okay, omitting some things! Oh come on now, you know they don’t include the really good going-ons.
 
My Official Christmas letter.
 
Dearest Smith family,
 
It has been another wonderful year for the Jones family! We started out last January with high hopes for our eldest son, who you know was injured in a car accident the fall before. We are most glad to report he is doing great. Leaps and bounds ahead of where the doctors thought he would be.

As for me I am still working part time at the nursing home. Yet most of my time is spent at home keeping the family together and on the right track.
 
Wishing you and yours a very merry Christmas,
The Jones family
 
 
Same letter, but now with some reality thrown in.
 
Dearest Smith Family,
 
What a fucking year it has been! As you well know we brought the new year in running from one hospital to another through the snow and the muck to visit our eldest son who was injured in a car accident the fall before. Well, the dumbass, who either climbed in a car with a drunk driver or was the drunk driver, is doing well. He took quite a bang to his head and the doctors weren’t sure he would survive it. I am happy to report he did and is ONCE AGAIN living at home. Fer fucks sake, do they ever leave and stay gone? (sneaks a sip of rum) Though he often forgets our names and refers to us as ‘assholes’ or ‘dumb bastards’ he can dress himself and wipe his own ass. So yes, things are improving there.

On occasion I am blessed with the presence of my only grandchild, Katie. A beautiful young girl almost 3 now. I am happy to report the cast is now off her arm and it’s all healed up. I am not sure where her mother actually lives as they have lost their home but, hey, her boyfriend is now out on bail from a domestic battery charge, so that’s good. Katie’s language skills are definitely improving. She can and does say ‘bitch’ as clear as a bell. (finishes off rum)
 
Fuck me to tears, (loads gun) if I see Santa, his ass is mine.
The Jones family

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Ladylike

There was a time when I pretended that I didn’t poop. I mean, how ladylike is pooping?!

 I don’t even like the word. Poop.

 I’m not sure why anything and everything bathroom related became a major embarrassment to me. There are no traumatic events surrounding bathroom activities in my childhood that I can remember. But, nevertheless, I much prefer doing “my business” in an empty house.

That could be why asking for permission to use the bathroom was such a stumbling block for me though. Here I was, pretending that I didn’t do “that” anyway, now having to announce it. Not only would Master know for sure that I do indeed do “that”, but he also knows when and for how long and how often.

 Mortifying I tell you.

I’m over it now anyway. What was once a stammering, blushing, eye-contact-avoiding plea is now a loud-and-proud announcement. Yay for progress, eh?

Just last night, in the midst of some hugging and kissing, I hopped up and gleefully announced “I gotta poop!” It really wasn’t until I saw the amused look on his face that it dawned on me that I’d ruined the romantic moment. I laughed and asked, as I was racing from the room, “Bet you miss those days when I was all shy and coy about it, huh?”

So, I’m normal. I poop. Big deal.

 But.. I don’t fart. I swear! I’m not ready to admit that one yet.

Truthfully, living in a house with two males who find odiferous body gasses to be the funniest thing ever, I can honestly say that I don’t fart like they do. My God… the pair of them contribute to at least half of the ozone depletion.

Master claims I fart in my sleep but I don’t believe him. If I’m not aware of it it’s simply not true.

Given the fact that I’ve only recently come to terms with admitting that my bodily functions perform like everyone elses, the very idea of having to ask *permission* to fart just blows my mind (no pun intended. *snicker*) .  I’m tossed back into Mortified Alley at the thought.

It’s one thing to sneak one off, silently and privately, while trapped alone in a cage or behind the thick door of the cupboard. It’s one thing to pretend to need something from the other room and disapear for a quick second. It’s one thing to hold it in all day and let your body take care of itself while you sleep. It’s entirely another thing to have to ask to do it, to draw that attention to it, to have an audience listening for it.

That’s seriously a new level of mortification.

Which is why, when I read this post from slut on display, I was cracking the hell UP, in mortified, omg-i-hope-Master-never-reads-this-shit, embarrassed glee. Seriously.. go read it. I admire this woman beyond all measure because I think, in her place, I may have blown up before obeying.

And then to be told it was “cute”. Too fucking funny. I loved it.

Ladies do not fart. Unless they are sleeping. *snicker*

~cunt

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BWAHAHAHAHA. My son had that same look.

moar funny pictures

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