The Angry Pirate

While I’m on the topic of supermanning hos, I have to go ahead and ask a question…

Fellas, I might seem a little bitter if you have been keeping up with my posts on the penis, but work with me here. Y’all do some stoopid sh*t. I’ll admit, us women might do some crazy sh*t, like pop up out of your bushes, sporting a wonder women costume, singing in a whiny ass voice Keith Sweat’s “Twisted”, (not that I have ever done that before) but at some point we have already established, good d*ck = a crazy ass b*tch.

So anyway, I’m at my friend’s house the other night and she has six male roommates, whom are all powered by the penis (men). One of the guys, Big M, was chillin’ with us in the living room, when I turned to the two of them and said, “I’m sorry but I have really bad gas.”

Big M gives me this look like I’m crazy. (I’ve only met him like twice, but whatever, it was a fair warning, right?) We all started laughing and he starts talking about how girl farts actually smell worse because they are so backed up from holding them in.

“I’ve never had a girl I’ve dated actually fart in front of me,” he said. Then he went on to describe how “perfect” his girlfriends have to be.

“One time I walked out on this girl right before we were about to have sex, because she had hair on her boobs,” he said. “It was like long and curly, like a pig’s tail. I just couldn’t do it.”

His comment switched our topic of conversation to sex (of course) and me telling them the true definition of supermanning a ho. And then Big M is like, “oh yeah, well have you ever heard of an angry pirate?”

“No,” I said, not quite sure if I really wanted to know what it was.

“It’s when a girl is going down on you and you’re about to cum, so you pull out and nut in her eye,” he said. “Then you kick her in the shin.”

He proceeded to stand up covering one eye with his hand while hopping up and down on one foot. “See, get it? She’s an angry pirate.”

Wait, hold up, just stop right there! So my question is, man you just nutted in my eye, why you also gotta kick me? Honestly, is that really necessary? I’m already mad I got juice in my face, but you gonna kick me in my shin???

See, get it? The penis is stoopid…

Thanks B*tches!!!

I would like to take the time to thank all my stalkers and people who can read really, really good. In the last month I’ve had little over 3, 000 people come visit and taste some Puddin’. This is awesome.

I started this blog because I was going through a hard time and I wanted to work on my writing skills. Then I got a little out of control and as we can all see, here I am, still scaring the sh*t out of people. I’m okay really. I’m highly medicated on orange juice, bagels and your blogs for your protection.

My passions are writing and acting crazy, so I’m glad I can share that with people. The sucky part is the more I get into this blogging community, the more I have to keep up with.

By the time I post a blog, respond to comments, wipe my ass, call my mom, curl my eye lashes, find my underwear, click on a blog to read, comment on that blogger, it is already another day and I’m behind. I feel like the person that comes in at the end of every conversation and tries to piece together what everyone is saying.

“Wait, what? Your dog speaks Spanish and you like to walk around the house wearing nothing but bubble wrap?”

Ok maybe I am a slow reader, but eventually I will catch up and return the love to all your great blogs!!!

I Say We "Superman" The Music Industry

Yes this picture is of me putting my hand in someone's face...

I have been really bitchy lately. Everything has been pissing me off. I don’t know if it is just me, or what the f*ck is going on around me. WIRED is really on my level with their February issue entitled “Things That Suck”, because right now, things really do suck.

Our health care system sucks, the fact that over $500 billion has been spent on the War in Iraq, sh*tty drivers, men, stoopid people (for example, the lady who posted for a hit man on Craigslist and now is serving time). I already have a bad feeling about the upcoming election and most importantly, the music industry sucks hard on my nipples. (Ouch!!)

I recently found a new blogger I’m diggin’, Eclectik, who wrote a really intricate piece on the direction of music today. Ten years ago an artist had to actually have a thing called talent to get a record deal. Today the music industry is looking for anyone they can mold into plastic and bubble wrap for distribution.

Then, even better, G-Sweet put me up on game, when he sent me an email describing what “supermanning that ho” actually means...

“Superman is when a guy ejaculates on a girl's back and puts a sheet on her back. When she wakes in the morning and stands up, the sheet is stuck to her back (like a cape), you have officially supermanned that ho.”

I have nothing to say about that. My only form of retaliation was over the weekend, I went out and bought a handful of albums that had nothing to do with “supermanning a ho”.

What happened to all the real artists?

Oh that’s right…nevermind...

Hey, just for fun, let's go back in time...

There, we go, that's better.



Can someone please tell me WTF is going on???

Where's Puddin'???

Amongst the feathers and Vegas showgirls, lurks some Puddin’. If you can spot the Puddin’, you will get… * drum roll please * …a whole lot of nothing!!! Yay! Hey, at least it's Friday...

A Stoner Tale: The Toothless Blonde

I broke down and rented that movie Good Luck Chuck with Dane Cook and Jessica Alba. I thought it looked stupid, but the guy at Blockbuster said that he thought it was funny. So I thought, “hey why not, he works at Blockbuster, he must know his sh*t.”

Anyway, I get home and I’m watching it (hella high), when there is this part where Jessica’s character falls and busts her face on some ice. She ends up breaking her front tooth and then swallowing it. (Or at least that’s how I saw it).

“I think I just chipped a tooth,” says her character.

I immediately start cracking up and have to pause the movie to take the time to call my friend E (no not the drug).

You see about a year ago my friend E was four wheeling with her boyfriend and knocked out her front tooth. She was cool for a minute, but told me after they got her in the car to take her to the doctor she started crying. A delayed reaction to the fact that she didn’t have a front tooth made her emotional. In the end, she had to go to her dentist and have her tooth realigned. After that experience, she was traumatized and for a long time had nightmares about being toothless.

Being a good friend, watching my highly recommended BB movie, I called her to laugh at her. The whole scenario reminded me of her story.

“I think I should blog about this,” I told her.

“Well just promise me that you keep me anonymous in your blog, so no one knows what I did,” she said.

“What if in my blog you are a 5’10” model chick, with long blonde hair, blue eyes and big boobs?” I said.

“Ok that works,” she said. “If I’m hot then you can totally talk bout me.”

What is the moral/point of this random ass story? Don’t get high and write blog posts…

When Crazy People Fall in Love

I was having a conversation with a coworker (someone at my job I actually get along with) and it seems I suffer from insanity.

We were having one of those girl conversations where we talk sh*t about boys and how they are good for nothing except killing spiders. Anyway she broke down the definition of insanity for me, which according to her is when someone does the exact same thing over and over again expecting different results. However, in my defense I would like to add in the fact that an insane person isn’t rational enough to understand what they are doing in order to stop.

I am well aware of what it is that I continue to do. So technically I’m just crazy. But we already knew that. Everyone knows I like to shake my ass for money and hop fences. The difference between Britney and me, is birth control and I don't have my head shaved under my hot pink wig.

Although I can’t even talk when it comes to the whole K-Fed thing. Come on ladies. Admit it. We have all wasted time on our own personal K-Fed. Ok maybe that is pushing it, because you couldn't pay me all of Britney’s money to date K-Fed. (Ok maybe a little bit). Anyway, my point is, he is the guy we do hella sh*t for, will always have in our hearts, but know deep down he is never going to change. Maybe K-Fed is a bad example. What I'm basically talking about is a toxic relationship.

I am still scratching at the walls and foaming at the mouth for some sort of breakthrough from this one particular guy. I guess doing E together and having sex wasn’t it. I try not to talk about him, because I thought I was over it. However, when I flip through old postings from when I first started this blog, there he is, crawling under my skin.

Recently he came back into my life. I thought things would be different, but I suffer from insanity. And I hate how people try to make me feel better by telling me, “you could do better.” Wtf is better? I don't get it. Isn't the point of love to work on what you got until you get it right?

It’s not even that I want to change who he is, but I know there is something missing. I can't quite put my finger on it and it’s driving me insane…

Oh Hell Yeah!

This post is dedicated to the folks over at Oh Hell Nawl. If you haven’t been over there stop by, you won’t be disappointed. Without them I wouldn’t have a blog to stalk every day and sometimes flick my bean to.

And since I’m freakishly really, really good-looking, I was also asked to model some Oh Hell Nawl panties. Ok maybe I pulled out my Hello Kitty gun and yelled, “look at me! LOOK AT ME! I’m pretty! I’m f*cking pretty!” until they sent me some panties.

Oh, you thought I was actually going to put them on did you? Well, I decided to hold off, because I can’t wait to wear my new butt floss on a first * ahem * I mean, second or third date...

Chain of Fools

My life is too complicated right now, so I’m going to switch things up and talk sh*t about other people. Yay! I know, I'm excited too.

Was it DL Hughley on the Kings of Comedy who said, “there is always that one person at your job you are this close to slapping the sh*t out of? And if you can’t think of anyone, that person just might be you?” Well I don’t remember his words exactly, but my point is, there are definitely those people at my job.

I don’t necessarily want to slap them. It’s more of wanting to stick my foot out when they walk by, so I can enjoy watching them eat sh*t. (Is that mean?) I can’t even think of just one person I would do like that. There are like four or five of these mufuckas lurking around my workspace…

*First of all there is this dude who is fabulously in touch with his homosexuality. Comes to work with product in his hair, eyeliner lined just right and flaps his hands around way too much when he talks. The thing I can’t quite figure out is how his breath can be so funky? It is a funk that comes from deep within and boy is it kickin’. His breath would, no question, Ty-kwon-do that ass in a fight.

I’m just curious, how do you have time to put product in your hair, but not brush your teeth? I’m not playing when I say I can’t breathe when this fool talks. One time when he spoke to me, I accidentally breathed in and I swear I farted.

*Next there is the new guy. I kind of feel sorry for him, because no one really takes the time to show him the ropes. And someone needs to, because goddamn he is irritating. I will be in the middle of a conversation with somebody and here he come with some random ass, dumb ass question, like, “do you spell Fat Tire, P-H-A-T?” Looking at me throughout the entire question with a serious and innocent expression on his face. I’m like man it’s a beer not a woman! Focus. Fat Tire, I’m sure, is made by some ol country ass people who don’t know nothing about no PHAT.

*Now, I’m going to go ahead and categorize the next two people in the same group. The two that come to work every single day with an attitude, never want to do sh*t, complain about everything and then always want to be the first ones to go home. Stomping around saying sh*t in a whiny ass voice like, “Omigod, I can’t believe I have a customer! I only made three dollars tonight, I was going to go home an now they want to seat me!”

I’m sorry, why don’t you Debbie Downer take Negative Nancy home with you, where you two can sit on the couch and complain to each other that the remote is too far away? Don’t come into work with your clouded black aura blowing smoke in my direction. I might not want to be here either, but nobody will ever hear me at work crying like a little b*tch. Sh*t be happy you on the clock.

*Then there is Ruby. (I’m going to go ahead and bust her all out). Ruby isn’t one of the people I want to trip, but this girl is high ALL THE TIME. I just don’t get how a person can come to work that high? When I’m stoned, I like to sit on my couch, eat and probably laugh at some stupid sh*t. I would never get any work done. Although I wouldn’t even call what Ruby does, work. She kind of just floats around the building everyday. Always telling me band camp stories that are like 20 minutes long.

One time she was telling me this story and I kind of tuned her out, like I usually do. I guess she got to the end of her story, because she starts cracking up. “Get it? Get it?” she said. “No I’m sorry,” I said. I wasn’t really paying attention.” So she starts over, trying to tell me again and I cut her off like, “No, really it’s ok, I’m sure I had to be there.”

On The Come Down

So that whole drug hallucinate experience really f*cked up my week. I couldn’t tell up from down and what leg to put into my panties first.

Then of course I mentioned my ex in that last post who is ironically like a drug. I don’t know which one is worse for me, actually experimenting with E or him. One minute he makes me feel great like I could do no wrong. The next minute I’m laying cold in an alley somewhere grinding my teeth together, holding a paper cup, wondering what the hell happened. ???

I hope this is a phase. Really I do. It’s all fun and games to joke around about living life like a rockstar/pornstar, but in all reality, I’m not cut out for this type of work. I mean the sex is great, but other than that I’m going to need a minute in my hotel room with a hot towel on my head. I don’t know how else I’m going to recuperate between head banging and jumping into swimming pools booty butt naked.

So I took a minute last night to chill out, smoke some weed, cook some food and watch a little Chappelle. This is old, but he had me crackin’ up, fast forward to about 1:45…



He said, “n*gga WTF is juice?” LOL

Have a great weekend!!!

I'm in the building and I'm feelin' myself...

It’s weird. I thought I was wild in high school. I smoked, drank, cursed, did the nasty, and got away with curfew by “spending the night at friend’s houses.” The thing I’m realizing now is that I did my dirt, but I was never out of control. My parents were still highly influential even if I didn’t want to admit it at the time. My grades never slipped and I never got into it with the law.

So when my ex called me on Sunday and invited me over to “experiment” with him, I was surprised at myself when I said yes. It was high school all over again.

“Come on, just take half and I’ll take the other half,” he coaxed.

“No, I’m good,” I said.

Not too long after that conversation, half a blue pill was traveling down my throat. It takes about 45 minutes for E to kick in. Assuming that it was some “weak sh*t” we went ahead and split another pill, still not feeling anything. Not too long after taking the second one, the first one kicked in and it was all over after that. I was on a cloud.



I’ve never felt so good in my life. I called everyone in my phonebook at 4 a.m. to say, “I love you!” and “I feel great!” I also smoked a whole pack of menthol cigarettes, because each time I inhaled, the menthol felt like a breath of fresh air.

We stayed up all night talking, talking and talking. I swear that fool had a lot to say. I probably crashed about 7 a.m. I woke up at 8 a.m. to go to work, and he was like, “where are you going?” I’m like, “to work, I guess.”

I was still thizzed out at work. My jaw hurt from grinding my teeth all night and my pupils were still dilated. I tried to play it off, but I think everyone at work knew something was up.

I’m sure that was a one-time thing. It felt great at the time, but the aftermath was painful. Smoking all those ciggs didn’t help either…

* Sorry I’m so MIA in commenting on blogs. I hurt my finger. No. My keyboard doesn’t have the letter _ . No. Um yeah I know excuses, excuses, I will catch up on all your great blogs later! *

I Got The Hook Up

I officially buried my razr this week.

I was getting out of the car with a pile of stuff in my hands and of course the only thing to fall onto the ground was my cell phone. It broke into two pieces, separating the neck from the body.

Oddly enough it still worked after that.

Well, up until the next night when I set it down on the couch next to me and then accidentally bumped it with my foot, knocking it onto the floor. Kind of similar to a power outage, it sizzled on and off a few times before completely shutting down.

So I sucked it up and went and bought a brand new phone, with no insurance and a no commitment plan. A painful $250 later, I upgraded. All the jobs I have and that one still hurt. I don't know why, it's not like I was buying drugs or some booty. It's just that the only thing I ever spend that much money on guilt free is shoes.

However, the next night at work I got a party of 30 guys who requested a female server (sexist much?). Two bottles of jager, three bottles of patron silver, fifteen jack n cokes, four car bombs, ten vodka sodas, 100 beers, one lap dance and a couple of hand jobs later, they tipped me out for my new cell phone. Score!

When it rains, I get random phone calls...

Yesterday was a strange day. I actually went to work on time. I didn’t do much all day but sit at my desk watching the rain sprinkle onto the pavement and cars splash puddles on pedestrians. I did, however, witness a few couples screaming their brains out at each other in front of the building.

At my day job the office is joint with attorneys and therapists. Random? I know. Around lunchtime there was a couple who had just finished up a counseling session and started walking out the front door when I got a phone call. I’m on the phone with my friend for maybe about ten minutes before I finally tune into the yelling coming from right out in front of the building. I look out the window, the couple is still standing outside and the husband is ripping the wife another one.

I wish a n*gga would, in public, after a therapy session. So he growls around for about ten more minutes, when eventually they split off and go in separate cars.

Divorce! * cough * *cough * Divorce!

Then not even like five minutes later I hear a woman, with tears streaming down her face, walk past the office window. She’s screaming at someone behind her in a whiny voice, “you never listen to me!” Walking a few feet behind her is (I’m guessing) her man, who is like, “yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.”

The irony of the day is that married guy called me. Whoa, talk about random and awkward. Unless it is a position I wake up in after a night of drinking, I don’t do awkward.

I don’t even know why I answered. I knew it was his number, I guess I was just bored at work. For those of you that don’t know, this is the same guy who didn’t brush his teeth for a week because he used his toothbrush to clean his watch. The same guy who married his wife because she cleaned his Jordans without him asking. (Oh wow! She’s a keeper! Is that all I have to do to get a man? Clean his shoes and buy him a toothbrush?)

Well, if his title doesn’t already give it away, he’s the guy who casually tossed in the fact he was married after we were already dating for three months. Bastard. And let’s be honest I was kind of deep in it when he told me, so yes, the relationship lingered at little bit longer.

Why did he call? He basically wanted to apologize for how things ended between us. He felt bad about our situation and wanted to treat me to dinner or a movie. Something about preserving our friendship because I made him happy. All I really heard through the phone was, blah, blah, blah, dinner, blah, blah, blah. Whatever, I’m over it.

On another note…

This just in...

I think anonymousnupe just solved my dream dilemma with “The Hairbrush Song”...



see post below to read my about my dream. And yes I'm bored at work...

Another game of tag...

I was tagged again by Still_Pocahontaz and now I have to share 7 weird/random facts about me. Lets be real here, we all already know that I’m weird. So I’m going to switch it up. I’m only going to bore you with three more weird/random facts about myself and then I’m passing this thing on to seven people who I definitely want to hear weird unmentionables about. BTW you’ve been tagged…Slaus (you get on my damn nerves, * big smile *), C. Watson, ms. clumsy, Deutlich, Suite B, The Guv’ner and Chard.

Now, weird stuff about Puddin’…

1. The other night I had a dream that I got trapped in the club dressed like a hooker. When I finally got outside my ex’s Rover was parked in front. I started walking down the street when I heard him call out my name. I turned around and he threw a hairbrush at me then started laughing. * scene * It’s suddenly daytime, I’m still walking around lost, dressed like a hooker and I bump into my parents. Weird dream huh? I wonder what it means? Maybe that my ex is an asshole and I don’t want my parents to find out I’m a hooker? No that’s not it.

2. In high school I was a total pothead. Around the age of about sixteen or seventeenish. Now fast forward to today and lately I’ve been getting hizigh! * Tip of the day * Never go to Seven Eleven high. I’ve never spent so much money on junk food at one time in my life. And I couldn’t decide if I wanted Cheez-its or Doritos. So I got both and thought to myself, “Gosh I’m smart.” And do you know there is a snack mix actually called “munchies”?

3. Sometimes when I get nervous, I put my hands under my armpits and I pull them out and smell them! * just kidding * Um, one last random thing about me is I've never had a Valentine. Honestly. And February is just around the corner, so please send all bouquets to 111 Puddin' Avenue.

Oh, here are the original rules…
A) Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
B) Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.

C) Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs

The Chick Who Offended My Vagina

Remember before the holiday when I got all mushy talking about a potential bisexual experience? Well the b*tch never called me. So all my curiosity about eating box flew right out the window.

Then similar to the time I had one too many vodka cranberries in a karaoke bar, ya know, the place where the fat guy slouched over the bar for half the night, suddenly gets up and feels the need sing ten Nickleback songs in a row? Yeah, that place. The same karaoke bar where I met (stumbled upon) a guy who later turned me into a pretzel and stuck random gardening tools up my ass. (Don’t tell me this hasn’t happened to anyone else before)…Well like I was saying, the chances of reenacting that experience is parallel to the fact that I bumped into the same chick at the bar Saturday night.

Coincidence? Maybe. Small world? I think not. Me drunk again? Yes, of course.

Let me just say for the record I was on fire that night. I had guys whispering things in my ear like, “Let me buy you two drinks” and “I like your weave” all night. I didn’t get any numbers, but I did get a couple of room keys. Wait a minute, now I get it. Damn. Ok so what I was dressed like a hooker at a pimp convention on 5th street and I watch enough TMZ to know how to correctly flash my vagina. (Thanks Britney!)

Anyway, the chick that hit on me a couple weeks ago was there and she was all up in my ass. No you sick people! Not literally in my ass, she was just jockin’ the goods. She kept trying to dance and rub up on me, while whispering in my ear, “damn girl your bad, your bad.” I’m sorry just because you have a vagina doesn’t mean anything. You got my number and you didn’t call, so stop rubbing up on me. I’m going to treat you like any other man. I demand an explanation! I’m a catch b*tch!

So she starts telling me her see-what-had-happened-was story about how she didn’t want to scare me, blah, blah, blah something about how amazing I am, blah, blah, blah. I know, I know, get to the point. Basically there was no point, so I brushed her off and she spent the rest of the night stalking me. Relentlessly trying to get me into the bathroom so we could make out.

No, I didn't go! It takes three not two drinks to get my shirt off and my tongue out.

At the end of the night she found me again only to remind me that she still had my number and this time she was going to call. I’m so sure and Ms Puddin’ has had gardening tools up her ass before, gah! It doesn't matter if she calls or not, I'm over it. I think I was just caught up in the moment.

So much for the vagina, it's back to the penis...

Kodak Moment

New digital camera: $300

New Outfit: $100

Cocktails and cover charge to get into the club (mostly cocktails): $50

A close up picture of my friend about to take a chunk out of some big ass titties: Priceless…

Some things money can’t buy, for everything else there is Ms P holding a camera.

Somebody dipped into the Puddin’...

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Shakin' my ass into the New Year...

It’s 2008 and I have nothing to write about. I don’t know if it’s all this celebrating or the New Year, but I am having a creativity block. So I cheated and posted lots pictures to distract from my lack of writing, muahahahaha!!!

I got paid New Years Eve to shake my ass, with four other girls, at a high-end party in the city. I felt like a celebrity for a night as we pushed our way through the crowd and people kept asking to take pictures with us. When we actually got on stage to dance, I’ve never had so many camera phones up my ass. I didn’t drink as much as I did over the Christmas holiday, which is ass backwards, but I did sip on some champagne.

I guess I was nervous about getting drunk, because at midnight we did a dance performance with choreography and lights in high heels and I didn’t want to fall on my face. And I didn't, yay! It was definitely a different way to bring in the New Year, but I had a surprisingly good time.

There was an EMT back stage (in case anyone got too drunk and passed out at the party) who was kind of cute. Every time we went back stage I gave him a hard time, because the poor guy was back there until 3 a.m. all by himself.

“Do these booty shorts make my ass look fat?” I quizzed him, arching my back. I know I’m a dirty little whore, but at least it made him smile.

We left the party around 1 a.m. and headed to one of the girl’s houses to get ready for an after party. I don’t do after parties, so this was all new to me. I usually go home and go to bed after the club, but technically we didn’t really get to party yet. So I said, “f*ck it, lets do it!”

We changed our clothes and went to the party, which was in an “exclusive” warehouse. We didn’t get there until like 3 a.m. due to a Burger King stop and laziness to get ready. By the time we got there everyone was pretty f*cked up in their own little world. The DJ was playing the kind of late night dance music that only an Ecstasy popper could enjoy. Couples were making out in every corner and Guidos were dancing off beat, obviously feeling whatever hallucinates.

There was a random guy playing bongos off to the side of the dance floor. I didn't even notice him until some guy leaned over to me and said, “do you think that guy knows nobody can hear the drums over this loud dance music?” Which made me laugh.

Still, we partied, danced and laughed, in our own mini posse. Eventually I drove home and watched as the sun came up…