Friday, May 31, 2024

In Which We Cannot Keep a Secret

 

One of my Chaturbate chums is my old pal Brain.  Before I get any further, let me just point out the screen name he uses is brewerbrain and yet I am the only one who refers to him as "Brain", everyone else calls him "Brian" which is so much duller and just plain wrong.  "Brain." It's right there in the screen name.  Do you think all the rest of the Chaturbate gang have some kind of dyslexia?  

Somewhere down the line, Brain mention to me that he had a friend who always teased him about his job, claiming that Brain was working on a secret death ray.  I thought that was pretty funny and since I'm always willing to swipe any joke so that I don't have to bother with coming up with one, I glommed onto it and have been riding that bitch ever since. 

Having worked for the federal government for decades, I had no trouble believing someone is in the death ray business.  What I refuse to accept is that someone could be in a secret business in the government.  I was trapped for several years toiling in the personnel office and I know all too well how much paperwork is generated by even a medium sized office of a small agency.  Are you saying somebody stuck with filing the stupid direct deposits and tax forms and explaining what the health insurance changes are this year, that that poor schmoe is going to keep his trap shut about who he works for?  What about the lawyers that have to certify that everybody went through the sexual harassment training? And the IT idiots who have to figure out the passwords everybody forgets? What about the vendors who need to come in and unjam the copiers?  Personally, if any attractive barista had complimented me on my sweater, I would have blabbed every secret the agency had been stupid enough to entrust me with.

So when someone wants to explain to me how the moon landing was faked or how COVID is a conspiracy and all of it is a secret which has only been pierced by some knucklehead with a podcast, I roll my eyes so far back I am able to look at the inside of my skull.  I am not naive, I know the government is capable of terrible evils and even that they have been able to hide some of them from a gullible public.  But I also know that the average office is not even able to get everyone to clean out the refrigerator when it's their turn.  I can only hope that kind of incompetence is enough to protect us from the death ray conspiracy.

Guys I want to conspire with:
This guy toils in the fields of feelthy pictures under the ludicrous name of "Flex Xtremo."  I am willing to overlook that because he is such an enthusiastic muscle bottom.


I went to the store to get raisins, it seemed like a simple enough task.  I thought they would be by the canned fruit, but no, and the produce section, another seemingly likely bet, also was raisin-less.  Finally, I ran them to ground in the snack section, which is absolutely wishful thinking on the grocer's part.


Our old friend Grag Stone.  That is not a typo.


Valentin, who only uses one name, like Cher, demonstrating car sex at its finest.


Yowzah.  I don't know why he's looking so cranky.  Maybe his back hurts from carrying around all that dick.


Lochie Carey, enjoying the breeze.


I already told you, that sock is gone.


Do you remember the Kinks' song I'm a Ape Man?  It comes to mind.


Thursday, May 23, 2024

In Which Credit Is Taken

Financial advice from mrpeenee

So every year or two, some evil little troll manages to get their grubby paws on my credit card number.  They then go on some low-level spree buying all kind of odd crap.  The first time this happened, they bought antique dolls and a topaz bracelet.  Mostly I was offended at the idea of brown jewelry being attached to my credit.  

Usually when this happens, my credit card company will contact me about some particularly suspect purchase (I should note, I legitimately make plenty of suspect purchases so good for them for parsing out the criminal ones.)  After I testify that I have never heard of the criminous business involved nor did I make that charge, the credit card guys cancel my card and I get to climb back up on the thrilling roller coaster of dealing with all my many recurring fees and charges tied to that now defunct card.

Do I need to explain why I'm bringing up this cycle of crime and punishment?  Yes, yes, I have once again been the victim of identity theft.  I got a text yesterday that innocuously asked if I had actually charged 30 something dollars for some company called wiworwe.me (who, in case you bump into them, you should be aware they are MOTHERFUCKING THIEVES, WORTHLESS SCAMMERS, and SHITTY GRIFTERS WHO SHOULD BE TRAPPED IN A CALL CENTER IN HELL.)  When I saw the text, I had some vague sense of unease, but I was sort of distracted and I just replied "nope."

The card company, god love them, I guess, immediately sprang into action and texted back to say they had canceled my card. Boom.  That's when I remembered that is exactly the result that happens when you admit that you don't recognize a charge.

I wish I'd had the sense to simply ignore the whole thing and written off the $30 as just some kind of fee the universe charges me.  Happy to pay that much to avoid dealing with updating all the many, many accounts I have tied to my now defunct card.  My rent, which I pay with the card, is coming up on Tuesday so I had to hotfoot it over to my landlord's website and change my account to some temporary cash source, my phone bill came through pretty much at the exact same time the credit card was dying so I had to fix that, and, for that matter, I couldn't even charge coffee at Peet's, the world's finest cafe. Life is just hard without a credit card.  I don't know how the Amish get along. 

There is a bright side to this.  I know from past experiences this is simply a brutally efficient way of cleaning up my finances by scraping off all the little fees and subscriptions and accounts that I have accumulated but don't really use or need.  I thought about that as I was dealing with the lady at the credit card company as she was going through a list of pending or possible charges.  I kept waiting for some luridly unlikely porn bill to pop up, but somehow we missed all that.  She instead focused on my $2 expenditure on Google for some word game I play.  Coincidentally, I had that same evening charged a really expensive flight to Houston for next September and she never even brought that up, but $2 for Google?  She was on that motherfucker.

Naked guys I wish I could charge: 

Why aren't luscious rentboys like this ever involved with my charges?


I would absolutely open a new credit card expressly for something this good.


Pussy like this wants my credit info?  I will type it out for him.


He wants to know my mother's maiden name and what street I grew up on?  Okey dokey.


He probably just needs a new pair of roller blades.


Instead, I get some chiselers who probably don't even have a tanline.


I hope their time in hell gives them a sunburn.  Inside their butthole.


Denton Baxter, who I've always thought was cute in a goony way.

Friday, May 17, 2024

In Which We Go Backwards

 

So just to bring everybody up to speed in case you haven't been paying attention (and I know you have not been paying attention, you bad little puss,) I have scoliosis which has resulted in chronic back pain for more than 40 years.  Just as a side note, no one noticed I was developing into a hunchback in highschool even though looking at back photographs, it is glaringly obvious I was a teenage Quasimodo.

My latest foray into trying to deal with a backache that will just not shut up was getting trigger point injections.  I'd go to my orthopedist and he would shoot me up with long lasting lidocaine and some steroid.  It worked great, life-changing, better than any other treatment I have suffered through since Jimmy Carter was president.

I went in last Friday for my latest shot and the muscley little bitch (all the technicians in this practice look like they have to squeeze in their medical duties in between photo shoots as fitness models) announces that this shot is the last one I can get. I said "No." And then I said, "Nonononono." Nurse Muscle Bitch seemed unimpressed with my argument and just claimed patients are limited to four shots because of the steroids which can lead to osteoporosis, malpractice suits, blah blah blah.  I replied to all of his reasoning with my own brilliant point, "I don't care."

And I don't.  I am trying to balance a concern that I might develop osteoporosis at some speculative point in the future against living with an achy back all day, every day right now and I come down on the side of Future Mrpeenee is just going to have to deal with soft bones.  And that's if I live long enough for them to crumble.  Does that seem likely? No, no it does not.

But Nurse Muscle Bitch was not buying it.  He got the look on his face I'm all too familiar with from having tried to explain my ideas to other medical professionals, a look similar to someone trying teach multiplication to a not very bright child.  

Admitting defeat, I asked what I was supposed to do next.  He looked sort of baffled that I would expect him to offer any possible option and then suggested I get a Botox shot.  Maybe he thought the squinty, annoyed look I had developed needed some work.  Botox, got it, let's get on that train.  But no, his practice does not have that on their menu.  So where does he suggest I go?  "A pain specialist?" he offers in a very tentative manner.  He seemed concerned that I might continue to up the ante with even more difficult questions.  Did I mention he was really muscley?

So now I'm back to my old friend, the pain specialist with my old friend, the back ache.  My creaky old back and I, handed off from one doctor's waiting room to another like an old issue of Readers Digest.

More muscley bitches:

Maximo Garcia, costarring his Maximo Dick piece


Either this guy can stand in the garage or he can fit his butt in the garage, but not both at the same time.


Plop goes that cock meat and the world is a better place.


I miss my garden.


I wish I knew who this guy is.  I think he is terribly cute.


Cleanliness is next to godliness.  I just wish I was next to him.


Some dicks are Culturally Significant.  This is one of them.


Insipid art and really fine buttchcops.


Yes, yes indeed.


Look, I know we all want dick pics, but sometimes just being cute is enough.


Friday, May 3, 2024

In Which We Indulge in One More Kitty Post

 

If I was a therapist, I would hand this out to my clients and charge them for it. 

OK, OK, OK, I promise I am not going to turn this into a cat blog, but Octavia is still a new experience for me and I want to share it.  If you are not a cat person, I'm sure this is tedious for you, but bear in mind there are naked guys at the end. 

So I got a new brush for Octavia.  It's very fancy and sturdy with a device built-in that pushes up the base from below the bristles and thus dislodges the cat hair tangled in them.  I am suspicious by nature and figured this was just a gimmick; amazingly, It works.  I'm digging it and, more importantly, so is Octavia.  She purrs and allows me to brush as much as I want to. 

Perhaps you remember my previous cat, the Evil and Adorable Saki. The evil element in his nature meant anytime you reached towards him, you stood a pretty good chance of withdrawing a mutilated and bloody hand. Saki liked being brushed right up to the point where he didn't at which time he would make you regret your choices, especially those involving brushes.  Unfortunately, that point was never apparent until too late.

Saki PTSD, that's what I deal with.  Octavia loves to be petted, but every time I'm stroking her and she moves her head, I flinch back, convinced I am about to be maimed.  I think it's understandable, I still have scars from Saki, but Octavia deserves better so I'm trying to get over my mental handicap. 

Anyway, I'm sorry for the excess kitty updates, I'll attempt to do better and next week hopefully I'll resume my regular blogging: whining about life and closely studying naked guys. 

Naked guys:

Hats on backwards and big dicks, it's a classic combo.


Naps.  Who doesn't love them?

The aptly named Alton Hunk.  Russian and meaty.


A good tanline is so flattering.


What lovely head on that dick, which is different than just a dickhead.


Once again, I start out looking at cock and wind up admiring the decorating.  That is a lovely turquoise on the wall there.


I miss my garden.


Again with the backward cap.  I mean, if you're insisting on giving a blowjob, OK.


In Which We Take a Trip

  I was reminded of the following story by this charming illustration I stumbled across on Tumblr.  It is a sheet of blotter acid from back ...