I ate Mozart's balls

It was my HUSBAND's idea! He's freaky like that, yo.

They were gluten-free. That was a nice surprise.

They smelled pretty good, too, which is quite a feat for the balls of a man who has been dead for 221 years.

How could I resist? Look at this face:

How seductive. Who knew that Mozzie had such bedroom eyes?

They came direct from Austria. I think. I didn't really listen to what was being said, I just started eating them with reckless abandon.

I can only imagine the number of folks who will be disappointed in this post.

Here, to make you feel better, I've included something shiny. (What?!? It always works for me!)

Come taste my balls. They have a subtle cherry flavour. No, really.

Not as amusing as Pete Schweddy balls, but it'll do, pig. It'll do. Happy Sunday.




My mouth is watering, just thinking about it.... BWAHAHAHA...
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Rap, The Superbowl, and Sex-ay Knees

So, just in case anyone was wondering/curious/losing sleep at night as to whether or not rap/hip-hop-pop music sounds wicked awesome live, um.

It sucks balls.

Hard.

I believe that there is no rap that sounds good live. It's just shouting. The Superbowl confirmed this, and it isn't even hard-core rap. I am pretty sure that Fergie and Slash would have made Axl Rose roll in his grave (since his career is totally dead  if he were actually dead).

Ohhh, woah woah sweet earful atrocity of mie-ine.... ooooh woah woah woah, sweet Slash-Fergie collaboration...

What.The.FUCK? Seriously? Reeeeally? Seriously?

That was brutal. I was in a restaurant with my mom, and even the restaurant noise, restaurant music, and our desperate attempts to speak very loud (to drown out the sound of her dying-cat-like-singing) were no competition.

I think I threw up a little in my mouth.

Oh Slash. Are times that hard, my friend?

So, it took me a while to decide which Superbowl party to go to. I had SO many invites (read: NONE), so I went to dinner for half, and then sat on the floor with the dogs for the other half.

Also?

Last night I got all dressed up to go to Toronto for dinner with BF and friends. Rocked a new dress with a wee patent belt, and patent knee high boots. Rocked out the red Christmas coat. Felt pretty good.

Was sitting in the car, while BF pumped gas, when I realized I was not as sex-ay as I felt:

Goddamn knobby knees, poor vision, dim bathroom lighting and KNEE EFFING HAIR.

Yeah. That is some serious hair on the knee. It's LONG people. How does one miss that? Clearly for weeks? Like, every time I've shaved for the past month?
I felt instantly gross.

Driving home the point that I shall never, ever, feel confident or sex-ay, because there will always be something just lurking around the corner to drag you down and make you feel like a hairy horse.

Just sayin'.

Fuck you, knee hair. Well played.



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