Wednesday, May 31, 2006

ThePeach moves apartments during a heat wave: rambling, pointless post ensues

I moved today. I no longer live in an apartment with the approximate size and ventilation of a tent. Not one of those massive tents with separate rooms so that mom and dad can make sweet, tender love while their marshmallow-covered brats sleep – but 1 of those 1-person dome-shaped tents that TigerCat and I used to banish our mom to sleep in when we went camping because she had night terrors. Yes, we might have been cruel, but picture this scenario:

It is pitch black. It’s the middle of the fucking forest. There are wolves howling and owls hooting. The wind is blowing branches into the side of the tent. It’s cold. It’s raining. You have to pee but you don’t want to get up because it’s cold and raining and the shitter is half a km away and is a hole in the ground full of other people’s feces. And you are scared. So, so scared. Suddenly:

ThePeach: AH! AH! AH! AH! (and, let’s be honest: *wets herself a little*)
TigerCat: AH! AH! AH! AH!
Peach-Cat Mom: Wha? Shmeh? Whazrong? Girls? Why did you wake me up? Stop talking and go back to bedzzzzzzzzz……
ThePeach: *sob*
TigerCat: *whispers* Do you have to go to the bathroom? Come with me?
TigerCat: *sob*

And thus our mother was banished to the pup tent.

I don’t know why we ever camped at all. TigerCat always got so many bug bites that she became feverish and ill, I always – ALWAYS! – got strep throat, somehow, every time I ventured near the woods (I will never forgive my mom and sister for leaving me in a feverish coma for an entire day so that they could go to the beach – when they came back, I was sobbing gently into my germ-infused pillow). Our mom usually managed to injure herself assembling various bits of camping “gear”, such as a tent pole to the eye, which would cause her to swear and burst into tears, and then yell at us for laughing at her (being a single mom is a hoot!). And someone usually got some sort of rash. Yet we went every fucking year. Usually more than once.

When I was five, on one of my very first camping trips, I thought it would be a great idea to pick up fire. Literally. In my hands. One speeding trip to emerg and a morphine injection to my ass later, you would think my mom might decide that camping really isn’t for me. But no. She hates me.

What the fuck was I talking about?

Oh yes, I moved. Today. My apartment is huge.

I think that was the point of this story.


Sunday, May 28, 2006

ThePeach Celebrates Victoria Day Long Weekend

My friend QueenB’s parents own a cottage resort in lake country, and they are sweet enough to let us use a cottage every May 2-4. They also cook us food for when we come home from the bar, which makes them the Best. Parents. Ever.

Anyway, this year WeeOne, TheHubby, TheHippie, Cleavage, QueenB, Workahol and I all gathered at the cottage for 4 days and 3 nights of what promised to be excessive drinking, eating, and drinking. As we live in fucking Canada, we knew it was too much to hope for sun and warmth over the weekend. We were proven right by the hailstorm, constant rain, and the fact that we could see our breath anytime we ventured outdoors. Fucking Canada.

FauxHawk, who, along with TheCrazy and other assorted MedFriends, was going to TOP’s cottage down the road, drove WeeOne and I to QueenB’s cottage. It was a beautiful, sunny day and, as we drove out of UniversityTown, I think each of us felt a little lighter with the promise of the weekend ahead.

Until 10 minutes onto the highway, when FauxHawk got pulled over by the ‘Po.

Fucking, fucking speedtraps!!

FauxHawk got slapped with a $320 ticket. Apparently dropping the M-bomb doesn’t work on the ‘Po when you get caught driving 40 over the speed limit:

*Hawkmobile gets pulled over*

ThePeach: *doesn’t speak for fear of angering FauxHawk*
WeeOne: *doesn’t speak for fear of angering FauxHawk*
TheCrazy: *wakes up* Hey dudes, are we there already? WOOO Cottage!
ThePeach: No…FauxHawk got pulled over.
TheCrazy: Were you speeding??
TheCrazy: Listen to me, FauxHawk. Drop the M-bomb. I’m serious. Tell him you’re a doctor. You have nothing to lose.
‘Po: *knocks on window* We clocked you going at 144 km/hr, which is going to be $290, plus a $30 victim fee for your passengers here. Where are you heading?
FauxHawk: We just graduated from MedSchool and we’re going to a cottage to celebrate. Med. School.
‘Po: Here’s your $320 ticket.
FauxHawk: Med…school…?
‘Po: Bye, now.

Since the Hawkmobile got pulled over within the first 15 minutes of the trip, that meant that we traveled the next 2 hours in complete, horrible, tense silence. Nobody wanted to talk for fear of FauxHawk losing his shit, and FauxHawk didn’t want to talk for fear of breaking into gut-wrenching sobs (I’m speculating). It was not so fun.

But we made it; I kissed FauxHawk goodbye and ordered TheCrazy to get him smashed.

Then I cracked a drink and got baseline drunk, which I kept going the entire long weekend. As I was drunk for 4 days straight, my memories of the weekend are a little blurred. Here are some highlights that I have recalled:

* QueenB’s sister had 3 of her friends staying in the next cottage. They were all Business students and typical Type A’s. They also brought hair straighteners and Vuitton purses to the cottage, which made me and my dirty hoodie feel like a Hobo. But they were fun to hang out with, mainly because the leader of their group couldn’t sit still for one second unless she was playing some sort of organized game and she forced us to play along. Have you ever played Cranium while tanked? With a group of type As? Versus a group of hobo’ish, too smart for their own good UniversityTown geeks? It got real ugly real fast. I definitely threw at least one temper tantrum: “WHAT DO YOU FUCKING MEAN, THEY GOT THE SENSE-O-SKETCH FIRST???!!! MY TEAM GOT THE FUCKING SENSE-O-SKETCH LIKE 5 SECONDS BEFORE YOUR FUCKING TEAM!!! YOU COMMIE BITCHES ARE CHEATING!!!” Also, nobody could guess what my clay unicorn was because THEY ARE FUCKING STUPID!

* We also played “Kings” (the complicated drinking game involving a deck of cards) late into the night one evening. One of the rules of the game was that when you pick up a certain card, you get to make up a rule that everyone has to follow for the rest of the game, and if you fuck up then you have to drink. Our rules were that you could only ever refer to yourself as “The Captain” (as in, please pass TheCaptain the bottle of Bambino) and that you had to end every sentence you spoke with “cock”. Then it became “cock. ass.”. We’re so hilarious/creative.

TheHubby: TheCaptain needs more Bambino. Cock. Ass.
ThePeach: TheCaptain will go get you more! Cock. Ass.
TheHubby: TheCaptain loves you, ThePeach! Cock. Ass.
ThePeach: I love – I mean, TheCaptain lo-
ThePeach: Shit. Cock. Ass.

* TheHippie brought her guitar and I sat at her feet and sang along like the lesbian I am. Then we both sang in beautiful, lesbian harmony.

*Speaking of lesbian, TheHippie got so tanked one night that she slept in every single bed in the cottage trying to find me. We were supposed to be sharing a bed and I went to bed before her, and in her drunkenness she could not find me. Even though I woke up when I heard her come in, she walked right up to the bed I was in, and I had a conversation with her about how she should make sure to get into the right bed. She said “Ya, ok” and then walked into Cleavage’s room and got into bed with her. Cleavage kicked her out after a few hours. Then TheHippie stumbled into TheHubby’s bed and tried to cuddle with him. He got out of bed and woke me up. I then went to TheHubby’s bed and spooned TheHippie, and TheHubby slept in my bed. Order was restored in the universe.

* On our last night, we got high. Really, really high. And I got really philosophical, as usual. We were sitting around a table in the cottage, eating leftover salad, which prompted me to begin this conversation:

ThePeach: *gnaws on lettuce* You guys…we are like animals.
All: *gnaws on lettuce* what?
TheHippie: *hysterical laughter*
ThePeach: Seriously, guys…we are eating, get this, PLANTS. Fucking plants out of the ground. This lettuce is fucking grass. We are fucking animals.
TheHippie: *hysterical laughter*
ThePeach: If we’re just going to eat grass, why don’t we just let ourselves live like the animals we are? Why do we have the charade? Why do we dance this crazy dance of pretending? There was a time that we used to live in fields and give birth holding onto trees. Like fucking mammals. We are fucking mammals.
Cleavage: I totally get you.
WeeOne: You guys…we’re like That 70’s Show. Just sitting around a table high.
ThePeach: We used to live like that mammals we are. In the past. The past…
TheHippie: *tears rolling down face*
WeeOne: I’m Jackie!!! And TheHippie is Donna!! And TheHubby and QueenB are Red and Kitty!! OH MY GOD!
ThePeach: You guys…have you ever thought about the past? Like really thought about it?? Like evolution and shit. Shit.

This continued for x hours, we ate a can of icing (another one!!! Damnit!!), a brick of cheese, and a jar of salsa – then we passed out.

* The next morning I vowed to stop eating shitty food so that my body would stop growing back fat. That lasted until we went out for breakfast. It was a valiant effort, though.

* 1 week later (last night, in fact), Cleavage, TheHippie, WeeOne and I smoked the last of the cottage weed. Then we watched a Family Guy episode about THE PAST. It fucked me right up. Everything came full circle.

That was my May 2-4. I need to go into detox.

TheCaptain. Cock. Ass.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Happy Birthday, TheNurse!!!

So it was TheNurse’s birthday yesterday and, in typical fashion, we all got shit-bombed. It’s 6pm and I’m still hungover. I love you, TheNurse.

Our night began with some pre-dinner cake Chez LePeach. I have to say, I bake a mean fucker of a cake. It was damn good. Unfortunately, the fact that I baked means that I now have half a can of frosting in my fridge once again. And we all know what that means: anytime I experience any sort of “feeling” in the next 2 weeks, be it sadness, annoyance, anger, happiness, boredom, or hunger – I’m going to eat frosting. My back fat is already screaming in anger:



After we ate a sick amount of pre-dinner cake (as we should, on TheNurse’s birthday!), we walked the 12 blocks to her friend’s house for a BBQ. Because I have skipped the gym for the past 2 weeks, I wheezed like an annoying asthmatic kid the entire way and, despite the chilly weather, got a good case of the sweats. I’m so sexy. I stripped off my coat and displayed my slooty tube top to the world about halfway there, conveniently as we were walking past the fire station. I like firemen.

As we were walking, TheNurse, in a rare display of foreshadowing, told me that I couldn’t let her get too drunk because she didn’t want to be as ridiculous as I had been on my birthday several months ago. Specifically, she didn’t want to be as ridiculous as I had been in the cab on the way home from the club.

*time warp to ThePeach’s Birthday*

ThePeach: I WANTS to get LAID!
TheNurse: Here we go…
FauxHawk: *shakes head in shame*
Cabbie: *laughs*
TheNurse: Peach, shhhhh…we’re in public still.
Cabbie: Hey, my name is FauxHawk, too! Weird!
ThePeach: Well, your names mightsh be FauxHawk but I’m probablys not gonna lays you!
FauxHawk: That’s sweet.
Cabbie: *awkward silence*
TheNurse: Hey, what do you know? My stop is here! *jumps out of cab*

*time warp back to present*

So, basically, TheNurse didn’t want to talk about getting laid in the cab and kept reminding me how ridiculous I was. Remember this conversation for later. God I love poetic justice.

We arrived at the BBQ, where I stuffed my face full of meats. Then I ate some dinner. Ha, I’m so clever.

TheNurse then started sucking on her sweet teat of life: Rum. TheNurse can drink rum like no one’s business. Seriously, I am in awe of her. She’s such a rummy. At some point, someone attached a sparkly birthday crown to her head that remained there for the rest of the night. It was hawt. At another point, we moved the part-ay to a nearby house full of mens. Hurrah! Except that the mens only socialized among themselves and had their own little cock-ranch of a dance party going on in the kitchen that involved a lot of stamping of feet and grunting. I was confused until someone informed me that they were all in the military. Then their behaviour made a lot more sense. I guess military men are afraid of cleave. Excepting, of course, ass cleave.

We finally made it to the bar and continued buying TheNurse more drinks then she could hold and dancing like the sluts we used to be when we were 20. Or was that just me? Come on, you all know that you went on the trampage, too. Don’t lie to me. Don’t.

The highlights of the bar included the bartender accidentally spraying me in the teat with a stream of water, TheNurse grabbing my rack, TheNurse dancing on stage, and the fat awkward girl who knew all of the words to “I’m sorry, Miss Jackson” (ooooh! I am for real!).

Something that put a real downer on the night was the appearance of TheTool – TheNurse’s ex-bf whom I have mentioned before. He is what we call a real mind-fuck. I don’t want to get into the details, but he broke up with the nurse about 8 months ago (what was he thinking???), broke her heart, was a raging dick, and now bothers her because “they don’t talk anymore” and because “they haven’t fooled around since”. Mind-fuck. Anyway, he showed up, took a look at TheNurse’s hawt self, and bought her a drink. TheNurse took one sip, realized that he bought her a vodka-water, and gave it back to him:

TheNurse: I’m not going to drink this. It’s a vodka-water. Only anorexic girls drink this. What are you thinking??

So, TheTool came back with two Nurse-approved drinks and gave them to her. I, being the good friend that I am, hovered over the nurse like a back-pack to supervise her behaviour. She knows that she doesn’t want to lay him. I know that she doesn’t want to lay him. But does rummy know that she doesn’t want to lay him? I had to make sure.

No, Rummy didn’t want to lay TheTool. But she did want to yell at him, deservedly, on the dance floor. That’s my girl!! Give’em hell!

We left around 2:30 and got in a cab. On the ride home:

ThePeach: heh. Poetic.
TheNurse: Huh?
ThePeach: Nothing, continue.
TheCabbie: *awkward silence*
TheNurse: SERIOUSLY!! WHY DOES HE THINK I’LL LAY HIM??? I’M NOT GONNA LAY HIM!! I might vomit, though. Yep…soon.
ThePeach: Want to come to my place and eat more cake?
TheNurse: YES!!

So, TheNurse and I ate more cake, followed by gravol and advil. Just after 3, she left.

FauxHawk (ya, he was there the whole time. I didn’t mention him because he didn’t do anything significant. Except be hawt.) had to wake up at 8:30 to help a friend move, and I woke up at 10 to tell TheBoss that I wouldn’t be coming in that day because I was sick. Which is only a half lie. Then I slept until mid-afternoon and stumbled around in a hangover daze. I had to go to the dentist at 2. Let me tell you, the only thing worse than going to the dentist with a hangover is finding out that the person cleaning your teeth was at the bar with you and stayed even later than you did. Fucking UniversityTown!!!

She flossed me up real nice, though.



Monday, May 15, 2006

Hotels, Hot-Tubs, and Hockey Heartbreak

I just got back from a weekend in Ottawa with FauxHawk. He took me on a little romantic getaway, which was tres, tres fantastic. I’m currently happy, relaxed and my skin smells minty fresh! Oh, and it was nice to have “relations” without my little kitten jumping on my back or licking FauxHawk’s toes or just sitting beside us and watching while we warp his mind. You might think me sick for doing the sex with a kitten on the bed, but I tried the whole abstaining from dirty things while the kitten is awake, and since he is nocturnal and I am not – it didn’t work out. For me. And I’m more important.

So anyway, we went to Ottawa and stayed in an awesome hotel that made me wish that I were rich and classy, or just rich. Baby step, baby steps. In the car on the way there I dared FauxHawk to call himself “Dr.” when we checked in. This would be the first time he dropped the famous “m-bomb” since he wrote his big exam, and he agreed to my bet so long as I didn’t laugh when he did it. I made no promises. At the desk, the perky clerk asked for his name and he confidently told him that the reservation was for Dr. Hawk. I managed not to laugh. I’m a good girlfriend. Well anyway, I managed not to laugh until the clerk chirped “Enjoy your stay, Mr. and Mrs. Hawk!”. I laughed, FauxHawk shit himself, and an awkward time was had by all.

In the elevator:
*awkward silence*
FauxHawk: Did they just call you Mrs. Hawk?
*awkward silence*
ThePeach: Yes.
FauxHawk: How did they know you weren’t just my hooker?
ThePeach: How did they know I wasn’t your daughter?

I lie. That’s how the conversation would have turned out if the comeback that I thought of 24 hours later had been said. This is how the conversation actually went:

In the elevator:
*awkward silence*
FauxHawk: Did they just call you Mrs. Hawk?
*awkward silence*
ThePeach: Yes.
FauxHawk: How did they know you weren’t just my hooker?
*awkward silence*
ThePeach: did either of us actually press the button for our floor or have we just been sitting here for 5 minutes?
FauxHawk: shit.

After we made it to our room and scavenged through all of the free stuff (“a shower cap! A FREE SHOWER CURTAIN!! – oh, The Simpsons…), we drove to The ScotiaBank Place to see Game 5 of round 2 of the Sens versus the Sabres. I’ve been a sens fan for a long time (and still don’t understand what an off-side is, but Mike Fisher is pretty), and even though I knew a comeback was pretty much impossible – I held put hope. As per usual, my hopes were demolished in a soul-raping rampage of heartbreak, but who doesn’t love watching their favourite team get eliminated in overtime with a one-man advantage – live? I would have thrown my shoe at a Sabre out of anger, but I was sitting in the very last row and probably would have hit the head of the guy in front of me. I have bad aim.

There was one highlight of the game, however. The guy in front of me (the one whose head was blocking my shoe projectile) brought his very small child to the game. I would guess that he was 3 or 4. When we lost (ugh, even saying it hurts), nobody in the stadium talked for about 5 minutes. It was dead silent. Then the guy beside me shouted loudly, slowly, and clearly: WHAT. THE. FUCK???? The small child turned around and looked at the guy with his big blue eyes and a confused look on his face and we all knew that he had been damaged irreparably. Someone has a new word to tell mommy when goes home!

FauxHawk and I dejectedly headed back to the hotel but soon forgot our woes thanks to the magic of Egyptian cotton sheets. My shitty Ikea sheets are now dead to me. Dead!

The next day we went to a spa and got massages, minty-fresh steam baths, and hung out in a hot tub like the pretentious bitches we wish we could be. Nothing funny happened because apparently I’m not witty when I’m relaxed. Don’t worry; I’m sure that it will only take 1 day of work to suck that out of me with astonishing speed. Not the work so much as TheBoss. Like on Friday, when FauxHawk came to see me at lunch and TheBoss randomly walked in, saw FauxHawk, and asked:

TheBoss: So what’s the deal with C-sections? Do women get them because they’re vain or to maintain the tightness in their vaginas?

I should probably get used to people asking random vag-related questions when FauxHawk is around, but I really just don’t like hearing my boss say “vagina”. Or “tight”. Ever.

This entry has been really rambling and I am tired. The only reason I’m awake is because I’m afraid of mice and there was one – alive – in my garbage can when I got home today. I did the mature thing and jumped around shrieking until FauxHawk took the garbage can outside. Talk about the end of a weekend pretending to be rich and classy. Welcome back to Universitytown!!

I just want soft sheets and a mouse-free apartment.


Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Another Strange Day at Work with TheBoss

Sometimes my life is surreal. Take today, for instance. I was sitting in my office, dutifully entering data and talking to 3 or 4 friends on msn, when TheBoss strolled in.

TheBoss: I don’t wanna do work.
ThePeach: Me neither.
ThePeach’s Mind: Let’s go home early!
TheBoss: Let’s go for a nice, long walk in the park together.
ThePeach’s Mind: So you can molest me, kill me, and then hide my body behind a bush?
ThePeach: Yes, let’s.

So, we went for a little jaunt around the park as he talked to me about…um…actually, I think I stopped listening after he started telling me about his weekend cutting down trees on his property, so I really have no idea what he said to me. But I did mentally plan out my evening tv schedule (American Idol, House, Sex and the City).

After about 15 minutes of this, TheBoss turns to me:

TheBoss: Don’t you live just around here?
ThePeach’s Mind: NO! NO!
ThePeach: Why, yes I do.
TheBoss: I know!! Let’s go to your apartment and visit your kitten!!! *gleeful hopping*
ThePeach’s Mind: So you can molest me, kill me, and let the cat eat half my face before I am ever found?
ThePeach: sure, ok.

So, we crossed the street and started down the sidewalk. Then TheBoss started telling me about this exercise program that he started doing, and said that I should start doing it too because it would tone my ass and thighs. This is just one of the many times he has insinuated that I am a fat fuck. Let me recount some of the past times for you, which won’t be hard seeing as how they are burned into my memory with an intensity similar to that of a ‘Nam Veteran’s flashbacks: no matter what I do, no matter how many times I beat my wife with an empty whiskey bottle, I can’t get them out of my mind. Like the time he came into the lab while I was eating a cookie:

TheBoss: Uhoh, what are you eating???
ThePeach: A cookie.
TheBoss: *singsongy voice dripping with condemnation…and song* uhoh!! Watch out for your muffin top!!!

(For those who don’t know, Muffin Top is a term to describe the fat that hangs over low-rider jeans).

Or the time he came into the lab while I was eating fries (my friend brought me lunch – I swear I’m not a pig):

TheBoss: What are those?? Eh?? What are you eating??
ThePeach: Fries.
ThePeach’s Mind: You son of a bitch.
TheBoss: *picks up a pencil and pokes me in the love-handle area repeatedly* You’re going to get chichou!! CHICHOU!!!

(For those who don’t remember, chichou is a term I picked up in the Dominican Republic that means muffin-top, according to Billy Boy. I rue the day I ever told this to TheBoss).

And then yesterday, as I was drinking from a bottle of water:

TheBoss: Uhoh!!! What are you eating now???
ThePeach: Well boss, at the moment I am drinking from a bottle of water.
ThePeach’s Mind: EAT ME, YOU FUCKER!!
TheBoss: Oh, I heard swallowing and just assumed it was chocolate.

I would like to point out that I am actually a fairly trim, fit person. I am by no stretch of the imagination a stick-insect a la Terri Hatcher (her face scares me…so many veins…), but I am and always have been thin. Real-person thin. SO really, I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with TheBoss other than the severe psychoses that you’ve probably already picked up on. Yet he may or may not be driving me towards a body-image related complex. I found myself hiding the timbits that I bought today, fearing his reaction. And then after I ate them, I threw up and took a laxative.

KIDDING! ...Too far? too bad.

Anyway, where the shit was I?

Right, so we’re walking down the sidewalk towards my apartment (why??), and TheBoss decided to tell me about his new work-out regime (Why???), and then he hinted towards my apparent obesity (WHY??), THEN he decided to show me his workout routine as we walked (WHY??!!!). So, he put his hands on his head and, in a feat of flexibility, performed a series of lunges for 2 blocks.

TheBoss: *lunge*
ThePeach: Wow, that’s great.
TheBoss: *lunge* Try some with me!!!!
ThePeach: No.
TheBoss: *dejected face*…*lunge*.

Finally, we made it to my apartment. Let me tell you, there’s nothing in the world more awkward than having your boss in your home. But luckily, he didn’t kill me OR molest me. But he did, as usual, rape my soul.

TheBoss: So, this is where you live.
ThePeach: Yep.
ThePeach’s Mind: Touch me and die.
TheBoss: *looks around*…wow…I should really pay you more.
ThePeach’s Mind: But if you did, you’d take away the one joy I have in my life: living like a hobo.
ThePeach: Yep.
TheBoss: So, this is your cat. He’s really cute and OH MY GOD ARE THOSE GRANOLA BARS???!!!
ThePeach: Yes. President’s Choice Granola Bas. They’re my favourite. They’re expensive but I love them. ..I only have a few left…I bring them for lunch every day…
ThePeach’s Mind: Don’t you ask for one, bitch. Don’t you do it.
TheBoss: I’m starved!!! I love Granola Bars!
ThePeach’s Mind: Help yourself to my welfare delights; you do only make 100 grand a year.
ThePeach: …Would you like one? *the almost silent sound of a piece of my soul dying*
TheBoss: I’d like two!!

So, TheBoss ate 2 of my delicious granola bars and we walked back to work. On the way back…

TheBoss: It’s way too nice outside to work.
ThePeach’s Mind: please please please let me go home early.
TheBoss: I think I’ll leave early!!
ThePeach’s Mind: YYYESSSS!
TheBoss: You can leave early, too. Just as soon as you get the rest of that data entered.
ThePeach: …but…you just made me go for a walk with you for over an hour…I didn’t get much data entered yet.
TheBoss: You better work fast then! See you tomorrow!

Another day, another barely deserved but soul achingly earned dollar.


Ps – I totally ripped off Asian Cymbals’ last blog entry, where she gave her stomach a hilarious, hilarious voice. If you found this entry in any way hilarious, the credit is owed to her.

Monday, May 01, 2006

ThePeach is Confused by Mens

I’ve noticed a pattern in the people that I know, and, much like the days of attempting to understand the patterns pointed out to me by my grade 3 math teacher, I can’t make sense of it. Circle, square, circle, triangle? Fuck you, Mrs. McGowan – your “math” is dead to me.

I have many friends in relationships at the moment, and those that aren’t currently committed to the one-gina or the penI have been in the past, and can relate. I’ve bitched about this strange pattern of behaviour in the past, my friends have bitched about it, and now I am going to bitch about it again. Why, you might ask? First I must ask a question. Have we met? I didn’t think so. My name is ThePeach and I bitch about everything. If you don’t know that by now then I probably don’t like you. Don’t ask anymore questions.

Here is my query:

When did men stop wanting to have the sex?

Those men currently reading my blog are probably laughing their asses off right now at the ridiculousness of my question – but I ask you, chicks who read my blog: don’t you think it’s true? I can probably rattle off at least 10 female friends right now who have told at me, at one time or another, how they almost have to force their boyfriends into bed. I had a conversation on msn the other day with a good friend who was bitching about how she never got laid by her boyfriend, and how she had to repeatedly force him to do the sex with her when she got desperate enough. Just the other night, under the influence of way too many drinks, another friend confessed that she was humiliated by how her libido was so much higher than her bf’s, and how she had to force him to do it with her. One of my friends actually had to chase down her fuck-buddy – in a cab - when he left the bar without her because he would rather go to sleep than lay her hot, hot self. She literally hunted him down to make him do her.

Another piece of alarming evidence comes from a conversation with someone I work with:

Workchick: I’ve tried everything. Sexy underwear, no underwear, candles, brazilian waxes…after a while, it just becomes humiliating.
ThePeach: I hear ya.
Workchick: What does a woman have to do to get laid?? By her boyfriend??
ThePeach: I find that 20-25 minutes of watching Dave Letterman silently in bed often does the trick, but it’s not foolproof by any means.
Workchick: Fuck!! I hate the Letterman foreplay!!
ThePeach: But you have to admit that he’s witty.
Workchick: I just want some throw-down, you know? I just want my boyfriend to THROW ME DOWN.

And my friends are hot. HOT. Lots of people want to fuck them. Shit, I want to fuck them. Apparently the only people who don’t want to fuck them are the mens who actually get to do it.

This is not ok with me. Dear mens who read my blog: please tell me what is going on with your gender. When va-j-j is literally being served to you on a platter, why do you send it back to the kitchen? Because you only want it when you have to hunt for it, like some kind of cheetah taking down a gazelle?

Most of the gazelles around here have lice and a meth problem.

I will conclude with the lyrics from the vocal stylings of an artist by the name of Tenacious D:

Fuck Her Gently by Tenacious D:

This is a song for the ladies
But fellas listen closely
You don't always have to fuck her hard
In fact sometimes that's not right to do
Sometimes you've got to make some love
And fuckin give her some smoochies too
Sometimes ya got to squeeze
Sometimes you've got to say please
Sometime you've got to say hey
I'm gonna Fuck you softly
I'm gonna screw you gently
I'm gonna hump you sweetly
I'm gonna ball you discreetly
And then you say hey I bought you flowers
And then you say wait a minute sally
I think I got somethin in my teeth
Could you get it out for me
That's fuckin teamwork
Whats your favorite posish?
That's cool with me
Its not my favorite
But I'll do it for you
Whats your favorite dish?
I'm not gonna cook it
But i'll order it from Zanzibar
And then I'm gonna love you completely
And then I'll fuckin fuck you discreetly
And then I'll fucking bone you completely
But then I'm gonna fuck you hard

I bet Tenacious D’s girlfriend has a skip in her step every morning.