Top 5 Reasons I’m not a lesbian

After I finally kicked my meth habit and divorced that ratfuck, Tan Peluski, a lot of ladies have been coming on to me in the check out line at the cigarette outlet store. Don’t get me wrong, I love tuna as much as the next bitch, but I’m not prepared to go chick’n of the sea for good, if you know what I’m sayin’. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. Every time I’ve let a liquored up sailor poke me in the nether regions with a half-wood, I’ve pondered what it would be like to dine on nothing but fuzzy pink tacos for the rest of my life. I could do it. I really could. Only these five factors are in between me and life of fisting happily ever after.

  1. Intelligence, or actually, the lack of it. I like to fuck stupid people. Let’s just say, I sure as hell don’t want to fuck somebody smarter than me. What’s the fun in that? Stupid people are more easily manipulated and misled. I like that in a person. Now, I hate to stereotype, but let’s be honest, if you’re goal is to nail something stupid and gullible, you want something with a dick.
  2. Looks. I like to fuck somebody uglier than myself. Now, again, I’ve seen some dykes out there that would give my grandpa a run for his money in a Wilford Brimley look-alike contest, so you know, just cause you have a dick doesn’t mean you’ve seen the fat end of the ugly stick. But it helps. Between the back hair, the nose hair, the ear hair and the fact that grooming yourself makes you appear gay, the odds are stacked against dudes in the looks department. Ladies are all, “does my butt look big in these jeans?” And guys are like, “I switched to suspenders so my gut could hang free.” Ladies wear makeup, perfume, heels and all manner of frocks while men just prefer to stay ugly, stinky and plain. For a woman as haggard and used up as myself, this is a definite perk. Next to most of the troglodytes I date, I shine like the Hope Diamond under track lights. Sparkly.
  3. Needs. Women have them in abundance. They need love, humor and understanding. They need romance and long walks on the beach. They need communication. They need affirmation. They need shopping trips and back rubs. Well I ain’t got time for all that shit. A man’s got one need and as long as I take care of it with one of my many orifices (or my hand if I’ve feeling fucking lazy or got a genital wart flare up), he’s fucking happy as shit. Men are the hamburger helper of relationships, you just add what you already had laying around.
  4. Dicks vs. clits. Let’s say you got one of them fancy new video games and you have your choice of controller. Would you want the one that fit perfectly in your hand, or would you want the one the size of a grain of rice? Yeah. Me too.
  5. Vaginas. Now again, don’t get me wrong here. Approximately 28 days out of every month, a vagina is a lovely soft, frilly little flower. But the other 3-5 days? A total fucking horror show. I know because I have one. It’s not just the blood people, but the blood in and of itself is enough to give a person pause. I mean really? If a man bled out of his dick every month I would have to think long and hard before I put it near my face, let alone in my mouth. But damn, it’s all the other crazy stuff that comes out of there. Chunky stuff. Gooey stuff. At least when you swallow a dude’s load you can position it at the back of the throat, but with a lady you’re just wallowing in it for God knows how long (see #3 and #4). No thank you, ma’am.

So, sorry lady with the amazing gray mullet from the cigarette outlet, but Marian Adcock is going to stick to cock and balls from here on out because she prefers to date stupid, ugly simpletons who tend to keep their blood inside the body.

Tan Peluski is a Rat Bastard


There’s been a lot of talk lately about what a rat bastard my ex-husband, Tan Peluski, is. Well, I’m here to tell you that you don’t know the half of it.

Tan Peluski is the type of guy who wouldn’t think twice about fingering your grandma when nobody’s looking. He’s the kind of asshole that takes you to Sizzler for steaks and when the food comes he plucks one of his own pubes, drops it into the mashed potatoes and then refuses to pay. We all know that his jokes aren’t funny, that his breath smells like canned cat food and he’s such an outrageous alcoholic that he practically pisses 151. I say practically because I’ve tasted it, and it does not taste the same. It will, however, get you wicked fucked up.

You might ask yourself how a piece of work like Tan managed to get married once, let alone seventeen times. As wife number five, I can tell you that whiskey and vodka are two of the biggest contributing factors. Might have been the Vicodin too. Not to mention Tan has really amazing testicles.

Fantastic. Testicles.

And I don’t mean he’s brave or courageous. I mean he has some very attractive testicles. Perfectly sized, balanced and fuzzy; like two sweet little nectarines in a velvet pouch. The kind you want to rub your cheek up against.

But don’t get me wrong. His cock is worthless. About as worthless as porpoise on Quaaludes. Come to think of it, it looks a lot like a porpoise on Quaaludes. A blind, porpoise on Quaaludes ramming up against your inner thigh until it just sort of rolls over and gives up.

Yeah, but I didn’t come here to humiliate Tan. Well, not entirely. I also wanted to write about the other side of Tan, one that rarely gets talked about. I’m talking about the Tan Peluski who takes time out of his busy schedule of drinking and insulting strangers to dress up every Christmas like Santa Claus and visit trailer parks across Portland. You might have heard of the Trailer Park Santas? Yeah, he’s started that program. They’re a registered non-profit organization and to be honest with you when I heard that he started a charity my first thought was, tax scam. But I’ll be damned if that old crusty piece of dried up puke doesn’t actually go out and spend time with those lousy rugrats. I know because I’ve seen him do it.

Ok, he does smell like an old moldy shoe, but it’s not like those snot-nose little bastards know the difference. Most of them are strung out on Ramen noodles and second hand smoke anyway.

So my ex-husband, the impotent, alcoholic, foul-mouthed, racist, ugly piece of shit that he is, dons a festive rented Santa suit and invites little kids and attractive teenage girls to sit on his lap and experience the beautiful fucking magic of asking Santa Claus for a gift. And you know, it’s just pathetic and heartbreaking to hear the things they ask for. Sticks of gum. Shoe polish. Crack cocaine. It’s just sad.

Of course, that’s the thing that makes Tan special. Tan understands disappointment. He understands rock bottom, and the thing that I respect about him is he doesn’t lie to those kids. He doesn’t tell them that they’ll actually get their presents and he sure doesn’t tell them that they’re bad.

Except the ones that want crack and weapons, but the rest of them, they’re good kids.

So Tan tells the good ones that Santa can’t bring them presents because they’re little trailer houses don’t have chimneys. Isn’t that sweet?