It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 65

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.


Today's topic: Hair of the Dog

Okay, not really.  But I never miss an opportunity to promote this up-and-coming band, Nazareth.  My best friend from middle school was so badass that when she would get mad at her parents, she would go to her room and blast this song.  I would sit on her rainbow bedspread, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, amazed at her balls.  Her parents would sit upstairs and smoke and drink in silence and watch the clock, because she was the youngest of four and they were basically waiting until she moved out to make her room into the hot tub sex den.



Think about how often these dudes got laid in those outfits.

So, back to the topic.  Sort of.  A few things happened in the past few weeks that made me think of unsightly body hair.

First.  My daughters had a dance recital, and they are adorably talented and while I've seen Oldest Daughter at work and know she is a ballet rock star, this is the first year Youngest Daughter has actually known the dance and didn't just look cute and wander around confused in her $80 outfit.  YD did hip-hop, and did a splits-in-the-air-touch-your toes move, no shit, and I was all, "Who is that kid and why is she flexible and coordinated?" because that is so NOT my DNA.  However, her father is an '80s break dancer, so I'm waiting for "Baby's First Head Spin on Cardboard" to put in her book.

The other 50 dance numbers during the 3-recital gave me time to think about these girls' bikini areas.  Some of these outfits were pretty much bikinis and foot undies, and I prayed, "Please God, for their comfort and that of their audience, PLEASE let someone have told them about waxing."  Let me give you an example:

Much like this, without the pants.

At this point, Current Husband leans over and says, "I'm glad the girls were in the numbers with clothes."  I'm half German, so if I don't pluck my eyebrows every 20 minutes they grow together.  You can imagine what happens in bikini-land, and my vagina tells me it is allergic to wax, flame, or electroshock therapy.  This is why I now tell myself I'm not a dancer.  It's not lack of coordination, it's lack of bush coverage.

Second:  I had a massage, and Chad, my awesome masseuse, was subjected to my pre-game disclosure.  This happens every time, and now he just politely waits until I'm done purging all of my personal hygiene sins.  Sometimes I just don't shave my legs when I should, not because I don't want to, but because I sleep in and then I don't have time, and I go to work and wear pants so no one will know and forget I have a massage and won't be wearing pants.  My philosophy is that if I just TELL Chad that I'm sorry I haven't shaved in four days and I know my heels are gnarly and my varicose veins are worse than the last time I visited and I still have that Eastern German mole on my back, he won't pity me in his head while he is forced to rub these parts of my body down.  I will OWN IT.  But what he's probably thinking is "Julie, meet Wax.  Wax, strip Julie."  Then I just pray I won't get gassy during the massage, because I'm not going to own that.  The problem with gas during a massage is that if you clench, he will see it, or worse, feel your muscles tense up.  Sometimes I think Chad is subject to more torture than my OB-GYN.

Third.  I had coffee with a friend of mine, and she told me she was having dinner with her husband when he said, "I can't take it anymore, I have to pull that" and it was a hair in her mole on her arm.  I told her that while it is a pain that I'm getting more hairs around my nipular region, it sure is easier to pull them now that I can just pick my boob up off of my stomach, pull it up to my face, squint, put on my reading glasses, and pluck the hair.  When did getting older equal getting hairier?

I guess this post has no real point, other than the fact that hair is inconvenient and weird, unless it is on your head.  It doesn't have much to do with whoring either, because who wants to do someone with German bush, varicose veins, gnarly heels, a mole on their back, and nipular hair?

Oh, right.  CH!  Because when you get to his age, your vision is going anyway.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 60

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats. Or the people who read this post last year.




Today's topic: Massages and blockages.

This was spring break week for the kids.  Since I don't want to take crazy vacation days because I need to see The Black Keys this summer, and we are hoping to take the kids on the lifetime pilgrimage to Graceland and then Atlanta this summer, I only took Monday off.  Current Husband took the kids, plus another teen, to the Wisconsin Dells to party like a rock star, if the rock star was underage and liked waterslides.

I sacrificed and stayed home to work.  By sacrificed, I mean had a delicious meal of Spicy Basil Noodles with one friend one night, and a spa night and meal with another friend the next night.  It was tough, but someone had to do it.  On spa night, I opted for a facial and a pedicure, while my friend took the one hour massage.  During our post-rubbing analysis over a couple glasses of ice-cold Blue Moon, we had a massage discussion.

HER:  "The person was great, but she spent a lot of time on my butt."
ME:  "You have a nice butt.  I would probably spend most of my time there."
HER:  "I was starting to wonder if she would move in."
ME:  "I don't think people in the Quad Cities give Happy Endings."
HER:  "You might be surprised.  I wonder if someone has ever been giving a guy a massage,
          and then suddenly he has an erection."
ME:  "You know that's happened."
HER:  "Yeah, because any guy, if you rub him anywhere near there, has to get a hard-on.
          I don't think they can help it, it's automatic."

We interrupt this Whoreticulture Friday
for an intestinal blockage.  No shit. 
(HA!  GET IT!?!?)

I started this post last night, as I usually try to do on Thursdays.  Then CH took an Aleve and it went down his airpipe, and I briefly thought he was going to die, and then, even though he repeatedly assured me he was okay, I had to call the doctor on call to be sure he didn't need to have his lungs aspirated, which he did not.  But it sort of took the wind out of my sails on Whoreticulture.  "I'll do it tomorrow," I thought, while I watched CH sleep and looked for signs of respiratory distress.  (He made it.)

Then I'm at work, and it's Friday afternoon, and everyone else seems to have left for the day, and I never took a lunch, so I thought, "Hey, I'll blog for a little bit."  I tried to start blogging, and then this very nice co-worker man comes in to my office area, I'm the only cubicle-dweller left, and we started discussing a co-worker's medical issue.  (Productivity at work today peaked around 2 p.m., and then I think everyone just sort of phoned it in.  If you are my boss, or think you are my boss, you are mistaken.  Go to thebloggess.com.  There is nothing to see here.)  Before long, I found myself victim to a 40-minute detailed description of his intestinal blockage.  Really.  Did you know if a doctor wants to "Run your Bowels" it means they cut you open and take out your bowels and hang them on hooks so they can examine your entire colon?  Now I do.  It's not something easily forgotten. 

Current Husband and I went out for drinks and then to see the musical production of "Avenue Q", and while I was eating my bruschetta and drinking vodka cranberries (River Baron vodka, made here in the Quad Cities and fabulous) I wasn't thinking about Whoreticulture Friday, or about whether or not guys get erections during massages, but instead about what that bruschetta might look like in my colon if it was hung out on hooks in the ER.  It made me think, "I hope if they ever have to Run my Bowels I am caught with broccoli in my colon, and not two boxes of Dots damming up a strawberry cheesequake Blizzard."

I'm sorry if I've failed you in the Whoreticulture department, people, but think of it as a public service.  Here is what we've learned:

1. Sometimes it is good to stay home while everyone else goes on vacation.
2. Guys probably get aroused during massages, but it's unintentional.
3. Be careful when swallowing pills.
4. Don't tell casual acquaintances about your bowels.
5. Eat healthy food if you think you'll be going into the hospital.

You're welcome, America.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 28

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. (Yes, KAREN, that includes YOU!)

Today's topic: Good Vibrations.

There have been a number of new followers of A Day In The Wife this week on Blogger, Facebook, and Twitter, and for those of you who are Whoreticulture Friday virgins, I apologize that this is how we begin our relationship.  Things to know:  I am only really bawdy on Fridays, I stick to innuendo the rest of the week, and you can always pause the music.  Welcome, and I hope you stick around for Monday.  It will likely be about gardening.  Without dildos.  

But let's pause for a moment to think about Gardening WITH Dildos.  Hmmm.  How does YOUR garden grow?  And what would one have in lieu of a green thumb?  Hos with Hoes?  Bloom where you're planted?  The possibilities are endless.

So a few weeks ago, the fantabulous Brenda at MummyTime (Are you not following her yet? I'll wait.) celebrated her first Bloggy Birthday by doing a giveaway.  It wasn't just ANY giveaway.  It was the MummyTime SuperMegaAwesome Giveaway.  She was giving away ad space on her blog and on her pal Veronica's blog Sleepless Nights; some gorgeous handmade cups by Kim, of frogpondsrock, an Aussie artisan; a blog redesign with Blog Designs by Sarah; AND?  The BeBe. A VIBRATOR, sold at Love Being Woman.  And please.  You cannot throw down with a vibrator without me trying to win it.  All one had to do was answer this question:
"Why do I need and want to win MummyTime's SuperMegawesome Giveaway?"

Here was my answer:

A gift?! For me?!? On YOUR bloggy birthday? Oh you shouldn't have! (Yes. Yes you should.) Why ME and not these other fabio followers? Well....

A) Ad space. Who the heck doesn't love a little narcissistic ME time? I DO! And when I am published and famous I can say to Oprah "I really owe it all to Brenda and Veronica, they are the shizzle."

B) CUPS! I love cups! I use them every day, as a matter of fact, but nothing as pretty as these. I would say, "Oprah, you should have your mint julep out of these cups. I owe these to Brenda as well!"

C) THE BE BE!! HELL TO THE YES! If I win The Be Be, I promise that during every single orgasm for a year I will yell "MUMMYTIME! MUMMYTIME!" and you can take that to the bank. (No Oprah, you may not borrow The Be Be. Take it up with Brenda, you should have entered the contest.)

D) What blog couldn't use a makeover? There are many things I would like to do with my blog, but don't have the know how. While I am sure The Be Be would give me some transformative powers, I need professional help for techie things. Waxing my blog's mustache and shaping it's eyebrows is a must.

In any event, thanks for having the Mummytime Supermegaawesome giveaway. It's like an Internet Festival. xoxo julie

AND I WON.  A vibrator.  

God Bless the Internet.

Now I have to decide who should own it.  I could keep it for myself, yes, and I have to admit that I am a vibe virgin.  But it is SOOOOOOO tempting to give it away.  Who would want a vibrator as a gift?  Who wouldn't?  Here is my short list of great recipients:

• 
  
  Mother-in-law Christmas gift (I'd send it to you Mom, but I know you have one.)

• 
  
  
  End of year Teacher gift

• 
  
  
  Newly divorced friends

• 
  
  
  New Neighbor Welcome Wagon gift

• 
  
  
  Gift for Jen Lancaster at next book signing

• 
  
  
  Cellmate gift when I break Jen Lancaster restraining order

• 
  
  
  Store for CH to give to me when he only gets me a gas station gift card on our 15-year-anniversary later this summer

 

See?  The BeBe is the gift that keeps on giving.  And look how pretty they make it:

 In my drawer it would be next to some Tums, nail clippers and my picture of Damian Kulash from Ok Go Current Husband, but you get the idea.


But wait, there's more!  They have a You Tube video demonstrating how to unpack and power up your BeBe:
  


Dude.  I. Want. This. Job.  And doesn't everything sound fantastic in an Australian accent?  They could be saying, "And then you shove the whole thing up your arse!" and it would sound so lovely that you would go, "Oh, that's all?  It's so easy!"


On the Love Being Woman website, they have some interesting information, including the history of the vibrator.  According to the BeBe people, at one time women were prescribed vibrators to cure the symptoms of hysteria.  The site also reports that by 1917 there were more vibrators in American homes than toasters, which doesn't surprise me much, because really, What Have You Done For Me LATELY, Toast?


Seriously?  It's stuff like this that reassures me there is good in the world.  Happy people, promoting vibrators on the internet, but with CLASS and FACTS.  *sigh*  I love blogging.


But this post is just about the BeBe.  As a Vibe Virgin, I brought this topic up at my book club this week, and they suggested looking into The Rabbit.  (Can you imagine how thrilled my book club is when I don't show up?  Because then when someone says, "So, did you think the main character was suppressing their inner rage?" I don't jump in and say, "Hey, I won a vibrator!")  So next week?  Good Vibrations, Part Deux, The Rabbit.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend! 
 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 12, Resolution #9

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Natural Harvest Cooking

Alright, today's topic is especially cringe-worthy, even for me, but it is totally real.  And I am so incredibly immature that I can't stop laughing about it, even though I found this site about 6 months ago.  So eat your lunch/breakfast first, take a deep breath, and carry on.  Are you ready?  Let's do this.

Yes, Grandma, you are reading that correctly.

This amazing recipe collection is compiled by the esteemed Semen Chef Fotie Photenhauer, who states,

"Semen is not only nutritious, but it also has a wonderful texture and amazing cooking properties. Like fine wine and cheeses, the taste of semen is complex and dynamic. Semen is inexpensive to produce and is commonly available in many, if not most, homes and restaurants. Despite all of these positive qualities, semen remains neglected as a food.

This book hopes to change that."

And to this, I say, "WTF FOTIE!  Do you mean to tell me ejaculatory fluids are COMMONLY available in my favorite restaurants?  What restaurants are you patronizing?  Here are my guesses:

• Jack In The Box
• Fuddruckers
• Spank 'n Shake
• The Crusty Crab
• Orange Jizzius
• Choking the Chick-Fil-A
• Happy Joe's
• The Sans Pants Eatery

 I have four main issues with Fotie's blowhard assertions.

1. Really, Fotie?  Food made from semen...that has wonderful TEXTURE?  Fotie, I get the impression that you have never actually tasted semen.  I haven't myself, but all of my slutty friends say it sucks.
2. And readily available and inexpensive?  I mean, yes, semen is all over the place in my house.  Get a black light in here and it's like, 'DAMN, someone cap Mount St. Helens!'  But semen harvesting seems difficult at best, and if you don't think there is any cost involved, you are sadly mistaken.  I would guess that 4 ounces of semen around these parts costs about the same as a six-pack of Bud Light and a half hour shoulder massage, with the occasional monthly Netflix charge thrown in.
3. Commonly available in most restaurants?  Are you telling me someone is jacking off in my food without my knowledge or permission?  I need to read the menus more thoroughly.  And not order ANYTHING with any type of cream sauce and make sure I never dated the chef.  
4. I am grateful for semen, truly I am.  I have three lovely children because of this wonder fluid.  But in my house, at least, it will remain neglected as a food.  Just ask CH.  As I always tell him, we're married now, that's a dating ritual.

What, you might ask,can one find in this 61-page tome of spunk eating?  I am SO glad you asked:

High Protein Smoothie

Unlike other high protein drinks, this one does not use animal proteins such as eggs or whey for nutrition. 

(No. This smoothie uses semen. So preferable to eggs, really.)

1 cup diced kiwi

1 ripe banana

1 cup of soy milk

1-3 tablespoons of fresh semen

Ice cubes (not to be confused with the rapper, Ice Cube, who would likely bust a cap in your ass if he were to drink one of your smoothies.)

Throw everything into a blender and liquify.   

(Don't you mean "toss off into the blender, Fotie?)

Chef's Note:  This is a great drink to experiment with.  Try substituting peaches or strawberries for the kiwi.

(Um, Fotie, don't you think we've experimented enough here?  How about substituting some yogurt for the semen?)

If you doubt the existence of this book or recipe, here you are: High Protein Smoothie, Natural Harvest.  You're welcome.

More than the recipes in this book, I love the reviews.  People are really funny.  It gives me faith that we can come together unite as a nation.  Here are my faves:

"Amazing"
We raised 400$ for a church during the bake sale becuase people could not get enough of the cream cheese cookies we made. Thanks Semen cookbook!"

"Finger Lickin' Good"
Highly recommended!! I made the Ribs w/ Tangy BBQ sauce for a party last weekend. Wow. They were finger lickin' good. My girlfriend couldn't get enough of them. We washed them down with Donkey Punch, another crowd pleaser."

By Viscous Semenian

"****Dinner Parties****"
I won't be asking people to come to dinner anymore...I will be asking them to come AT dinner !!

AND MY FAVORITE:

By Jenna Shannigan

"Any used copies?"
Does anyone know where I can find a used copy of this book? It would be the best Christmas present for my boyfriend (he's a chef), but I probably can't get the copy in time for Christmas without paying quite a bit extra for fast shipping."

Which generated this response:

"I have a used copy, but the pages are all stuck together... Honey, I don't think you WANT a used copy of THIS book!"

But Fotie is well-intentioned, and he truly wants us all to discover and delight in the culinary gift that is semen.  He gives this warning on the third page of the book, right after he thanks his unnamed friends for contributing to and tasting his gastronomical delights:

"NOTE:  This cookbook is written for consenting diners of semen.  Please do not add semen to your guest's food without informing them beforehand."

RESOLUTION #9:  Quit serving my guests the Spunk martinis.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!  And don't forget to send your questions to Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein at todd.hotnuts@gmail.com.  The First-Ever Taxidermied Advice Squirrel blog is being built at toddhotnuts.blogspot.com

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 5

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygeine mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Happy Endings
The Urban Dictionary definition of a Happy Ending is:
When a masseuse feels inclined to finish your session w/ oral sex or manual release (usually for an extra twenty dollars). "I was in China Town getting a rubdown and the girl gave me a happy ending; is that cheating on my wife?"

Again with the trip to Arizona. Bear with me, I'll get it all out of my system soon.

So four of the seven women decided to got to a spa (the other three chose to make margaritas and sit next to the house pool in sunny-and-88 weather) and let trained professionals rub lotion all over our mostly-naked bodies for money. I love massages, but I've found over time that there are things one should know before getting naked and crawling under the towel:

• Leave your underwear on. I'm just saying that because I don't want to be the person after you if you are all buck naked on the table, and who really knows if they wash those linens between massages.
• Don't eat spicy food, beans or eggs shortly before your massage, because I will guarantee you will end up gassy. And nothing ruins a massage faster than some misplaced flatulence. And if you are trying to hold it back, guess what? They are massaging the muscles you are clenching in desperation to hold back the methane. You're busted.
• Shave. Really, this isn't Europe. You either need to be freshly shaved or haven't shaved in three months, but don't be bringing your prickly stubble up in there.
• Don't be shy about specifying what level of pressure you want, because otherwise you may get Kevin Kick Your Ass or Lenny The Light Toucher. And you might be a Mikey Medium Massage, and leave disappointed.
• Don't start a conversation unless you want to spend your entire massage talking. If you need to talk, see a real therapist, not a massage therapist. But it's your dime.
• Know about a Happy Ending, in case you get asked. (I did not, thank God. More on that later.)

So the four of us are sitting in The Quiet Room, purportedly set up to get us in the mood for all of this bodily manipulation. We are brought water and neck warmers. The neck warmers are little C-shaped pillows full of eucalyptus or lavender, and are slightly hot. You wrap them around your neck, hence the name. Friend D was the last one to get into The Quiet Room because she was having a body wrap. When she arrived, the spa owner asked D if she wanted a neck warmer, and D, seeing that we all had them, said yes. The owner came back shortly and sheepishly handed her what looked to be a beanbag kittycat, and it was not fresh out of the wrapper.

OB: "Is that...a CAT?" (laughter)
Friend A: "It looks like it belongs to a baby - did it come out of someone's car?" (more laughter)
ME: "Or did she just imply that you are a pussy?" (gales of laughter, because I am the writer of this story, so I get the biggest laughs)
Friend D: "Um, guys? It smells like bacon."


Baconcat poses two problems. First, we are not relaxing, we are laughing so hard some of us could be slightly wetting ourselves, and therefore maybe their Quiet Room furniture. Second, D is a vegetarian, so the smell of Baconcat is not bringing her to her Happy Place so much as her Vomit Place. However, she cannot remove Baconcat because D is so polite that she wouldn't want to upset the owner by banishing Baconcat to the floor. So she endures the smell of old meat around her neck. In the form of a pussy. With an OB-GYN in the room. It's sort of metaphorically funny and upsetting at the same time.

The door to The Not-So-Quiet Room opens, and there stand the men giving the Swedish Massage to Friend A and me. One man is well muscled, dark, and mysterious. He says, "Who likes it rough?" with a swashbuckling, winking demeanor and a Russian accent. Friend A shoots out of her seat, throwing her neck warmer on the floor. "ME!" and she trots off down the hall. The other man negotiates his way around the corner in his walker and adult diaper and says, "Why am I here? Cindy?" Clearly this man was mine.

(Okay, so he wasn't really using a walker or wearing an adult diaper, and he actually seemed like a very nice guy. And he gave a great massage. But is that funny? No. And I'm an entertainer, not a historian.)

So my guy takes me to the room, and the massage commences. One problem I have during massages, other than the fear of having gas, is where to put my arms. If I am laying on my stomach, it feels like they should go off of the table and lay on some little armrest, but these things do not exist. I ended up resting my arms on the headrest, sort of up over my head. So we are about halfway into the massage, and Grandpa Jim walks behind my head and starts massaging my shoulders, but the problem is that it makes him lean over me a bit. Since my arms are over my head, my hands seem to be inadvertently rubbing him in the crotchal region. As I contemplate what to do, my eyes snap open, and I am looking directly at his black stockinged feet, which is a little weird. He doesn't wear shoes? And then I realize I am more concerned about the fact that he is shoeless, rather than the very real possibility that I am rubbing his nether parts. I move my arms by my sides, and Father Christmas and I have no more problems.

However, when Friend A comes out of her massage, she is full of information. We go to a gelato place next door to (figuratively) debrief her.

We learn that the Russian has massaged Roger Moore, as in Bond, James Bond. We also find out he is a go-to guy for a number of porn stars and the gay community. My friend breaks the no-talk rule and asks the Russian if he's ever given a Happy Ending. He says that he did have a client once who mid-massage grabbed his hand and put it on the genital region, but the Russian said he politely but firmly pulled his hand away, and said "This massage is over." He said he couldn't be rude, because when he sees the client's face, all he sees is a $100 bill, so he has to be discreet. But that's as close to a Happy Ending as he was willing to admit. But they're out there.

On a random side note that will only fit under the umbrella of Whoreticulture Friday, I have to say that somehow over the weekend the phrase "strap-on penis" came up (No pun intended! And after 25 years of conversation, your topics tend to expand by Day 3 together) and one gal said she wants to wear one. Not sexually, mind you. She just wants to wear a penis around all day and see if it makes her act like an ass. And kick her dog. It's something to consider.

And thus concludes stories about the Arizona trip, because the rest of what we talked about is secret and private. (See girls, I kept most of it in the vault!) Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!