For those of you unaware, I am studying to become a certified personal trainer. The course is kicking my ass. There was no "welcome" section to this 2 year course. Instead, International Sports Science Assoc. jumps head first into what I would compare to advanced 6th grade physical science. I had to refer to dictionary.com on the first word referenced in unit 1 - Sedentary. Go ahead and laugh if you wish. I had no clue what sedentary meant but you can be sure I throw it around during conversation whenever remotely pertainable. To make matters more difficult, I am simultaneously attempting to get in shape. I killed myself at the gym last week only to become a lazy dog ("SEDENTARY") all weekend, consuming my body with an abundance of carbs mixed with a large portion of fatty acids that quickly made my butt their permanent home. At 10 pm Sunday eve I found myself sprawled out on the couch englufing a cone containing two hefty scoops of pistachio almond ice cream. I woke up this a.m. with an upset belly feeling sluggish and guilty.

I know you are already thinking what I am screaming - I am going to be one excellent personal trainer.

Naylor, here is your riddle.

golfer boy, golfer boy where'd you get that swing?
we met on the roof after a night of drinking.
"welcome ladies" in his baratone voice...
"you don't say" is naylor's phrase of choice.
the pga working you 12 hour days
with a year-round tan from the hot sunrays.
we cut up a rug in dallas 06
learned jager and sauasage are not a good mix.
naylor sailor tailor you're special alright
lets go find a patio and catch up some night.

In closing, I must wish Ms. Phillips a very Happy 31st!

~ Josie

ode to matthew

matthew oh matthew where does your garden grow
i have fallen for a man cant deal with no ho
lookin so pretty while singing pretty in pink
just give him your number and pass him a wink
oh no, he says, i am too meek
do you think he'd call by the end of the week?
for sure, i declare, you're honest and true
a gentleman would be happy to have you.
sit tight and drink that last glass of wine
we'll be passing out shots in a matter of time.
a catch you are with that carebear stare
tell me matthew why didn't you pay for cab fare?

riddle me timber

ramblin' riddles...
this is my current escape from the daily demands of life.
Some need work. More to come.
Enjoy!

There once lived a rascall named Jeff
some swear he might have been deaf
looking for a thrill
he copped him a feel
that girl named Nancy
was really a Bill!

In Texas lived a sweet gal named nikki
pretty, big boobs, but a smidgen too picky
she met a nice boy
but boy was he coy
what is that bump on his dicky?

Maybe was definitely weird
not only because of her beard
she cussed like a sailor
not a boy would nail her
'twas those hairy pits that we all feared

There once was a lad called Randale
a beer in his hand confessing a tale.
He favored the crown
many shots he'd take down
once got groped by a male.
Is that poop on your pants
we scream with disgust?
He cried go ahead and laugh if you must.
I don't remember what I did last night
I thought I went to bed but something doesn't seem right...

Aint much there
but I bet a ton of hair
No worry
I'm in no hurry
my friends have left me
and the night's getting blurry.

There once was a duo we'll call them a mess
a diva named stacie and a sadie named jess.
Got a ride with the line cook
they later confess.
Feels good to be bad
oh what fun these girls had.
Smokin, drinkin, chattin up the crowd
stacie is always screamin so loud!
Now it is time to stop and dwell
I wonder what story tomorrow they'll tell?

I fell for a gent we'll call him matt
he gave me his digits I gave him my hat.
He had a way with a ball
handsome and tall.
We had sex on his hood
damn it was good.
Candy is gonna make him fat!

elle my belle why do you look so down
you're one of my favorite people around
remember the time you slept in that tent
scott stepped foot in your shirt and to the truck you would vent
shot upon shot of german liquer
what a wild group of ladies we were
mustard mayo will always make me smirk
along with shannigans we got away with at work

stacie don't look so gloom
with friends all around the room
light up a smoke
and tell me a joke
still got that pic of me ridin that broom?

in a land far away lived a hermit named Jake
his 95 Cherokee a bandit did take
crunching numbers by day
a man with little to say
he enjoys a good smoke
nebraska football's no joke
a temper built of steam
the boy can get mean
just give him a drag
of that pipe or a fag

talkin 'bout my generation

Welcome back comrades!

I sent my sexy prisoner a love note this week, the first in months. Feeling a bit carried away, and an unscrupolous desire to take this creative edge one step further, I am enlightening you dirty dogs with a blog.

I’ve been a smidge indifferent about music this week. Generally speaking genres of listening election are dependent upon my mood. Radiohead is good for those days you wish to reflect - or slit your wrists. Hey now, that was a joke. Radiohead feeds my creative soul. Abba’s “Dancing Queen”, on the other hand, is great for those 4 am moments you find yourself in water next to a skiboat on the middle of the lake swimming in cut off jean shorts.

This week I suffer from a '50s itch. Some like to refer to them as classics, “oldies” if you’re nasty. This caliber of rock-n-roll is an extreme contrast to my preferred indie post punk genre (I’m cool like dat). As a young tomato, my father liked to entertain me with the notion that I should have lived during the 1950’s. You see, everything about this era fascinates me but ultimately what I fancy is the simplicity. Understated clothing, incomplex song lyrics, pristine television shows. Today lyrics are weird, disturbing, risqué and complicated. What happened to “ABC easy as 123”. Kindergarden basics, folks!

With less options life was easier during the ‘50s. Families lived as families should. Marriages were the real deal. People were easily pleased and led happy lives. I could easily be Betty Crockeresque. Pull the hair back with a ribbon, grab an apron, paste on a permanent smile, and employ the use of “dear” in every sentence. Cuttin’ a rug was easier back in those days, too, I am sure. Bopping, twisting and shaking all about. I don’t know what to do when I find myself on a dance floor these days. I know that Jess points down and I point up. For the record, only few know what this means and for this I am grateful.

Everyone has one. Those songs that, without a doubt, make you tear up and ultimately cause an all out boo hoo session? You can be in the best of moods yet something within your subconscious mind triggers this breakdown. One of those for me is Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel. This fine tune takes me back to when I was 12 years old and my family moved to the state I now call home. My parents played this tune relentlessly. I guess you can say it makes me sad for them, even today.

The things that entertained us for hours upon hours as children require inebriation nowadays before they begin to sound remotely entertaining. Standing on the pool table - poolsticks doubling as mics and guitars - interpreting the Go-Go's is rarely an option between my friends these days. There was always a 100% chance of an argument over who got to be Belinda Carlisle. Or sometimes, as if we didn’t get enough of the real deal, we’d rush home after school to play “school” – always bickering over who filled the teacher role. Sometimes, probably when we craved some form of personal spiritual release, we played “church”. Saltine crackers served as the host for Communion. Having attended a Catholic School for years, requiring us to attend Mass a couple days out of the week, enabled us to memorize every detail of the liturgy.

Today’s generation of kiddos are so removed from mine I don’t know what entertains them outside of meth and sex. Disturbing. I can promise you that I didn’t have the slightest clue what sex involved until I reached my teen years. My knowledge was limited to a man lying on top of a woman while unitedly moving the lower half of their respective bodies mixed with a little thrusting. p.s. - you're naked. GASP! The Catholic school I attended liked to keep us sheltered this way. Ms. Morrison, my 8th grade religion teacher, didn’t go into specifics during the sex education class she was painfully responsible for teaching – incidentally during religion class. The premise of intercourse was vaguely limited to something like “the engagement of a special act of love between a husband and wife”. My classmates and I clung on to Ms. Morrison's every word anticipating the 4-1-1 on the goods, but nothing. I flipped through my sex ed book only to be disappointed with pictures of blossoming flowers and shit. I remember finding the term “wet dream” in the glossary located in the back of the book. One fine Saturday afternoon I mustered up the nerve to delicately ask ma “mother, what is all this wet dream talk.” Without a word my mom nervously tip-toed out of the living room, walked outside where she found my father and whispered something in his ear. After humiliation numbed a bit I vowed to never ask the parents another sex associated question. To add insult to injury I am 32 years old and no one has explained to me what a wet dream is.

Years later my father uncomfortably confronted my sister and I with a half-assed “if you have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask.” My dad, a smart one he is, knew that we knew we were required to live and learn.

When I was 17 years young my “sex talk” came in the form of my father sitting my twin sister and I down and forcing us to intently listen to “Dashboard Light” in an attempt to scare us from men and sex. If my memory is correct, we were required to take notes and pass a quiz later. You might say it worked. I immpatiently waited to have sex for the first time until a week before my 18th Birthday. Opportunities were plentiful, but in the end I was a scared. I couldn’t escape the embedded fear that once I had sex I was no longer a young girl. I didn’t want to disappoint my dad, guilt ridden and all, even though he would never have known. In fact, I suspect my parents would be shocked to learn I was sexually inactive during my high school years.

My final sex talk, occuring right before I flew out of the nest, dear daddio tells the sis and I “If Mr. Brady can die of AIDS so can you. Wear a condom”. I will pass along this same wisdom to my children some day.

In typical Josie fashion, that was a tangent and a half. I am looking forward to the possibility of inclement weather and englufing a mouthwatering hot dawg tonight! Easy to please…just like Betty Crocker. CIAO BABY!

lets get ready to ramble

I suffer from an embarrassing ailment today known as the eye twitch. Not to worry, it is hardly recognizable but noticeable by touch. I have formed two theories on how such spasms came to be – overdose of caffeine or an overwhelming amount of stress. I dare to make contact with another in fear he, or worse she, will suggest I am being flirty. As such, life goes on. I have never heard of anyone suffering from a chronic case of eye twitch that failed to go away. Or have I? Nowadays your every day google search generates at least one perverse result. Who knew eye twitch was a sexual position. When I did find something of the medical persuaion I was stunned to find a testimonial that read “I had an eye twitch in my lower lid for almost 2 weeks straight!” I'm fucked! Fellow hypochondriacs trust me on this - stay away from those webmd bastards. Before you know it you are self disagnosing your tension headache as Metastatic Carcinoma.

I find it remarkably sexy when a man passionately grabs a woman by the back of her head and pulls her in for a maddening session of tongue tennis. You know, the kind of kiss that takes your breath away. Two faces meshing together like pb&j. Sigh.

Someone with chester cheetah paws has left his mark on my keyboard. Oh yes, t'was me.

Front or back door. - pap smear or lower GI? Lesser of two evils? Out of the two, what do you consider to be a more uncomofrtable procedure? The prep for the GI involves a lot of messy work and restricts one to their bathroom for hours possibly an entire evening. There is minimal prep for the pappy outside of a little extra hygiene perhaps a little trim. The question that begs to be answered - which is worse to perform? I hate it when the administrator of such procedure promotes casual conversation in an attempt to lessen the awkwardness "how was your summer?" It is most eerie if said convo is prompted during the breast examination. It's got to be horrific for that person who thought she was signing on for a nursing gig but really her primary duty is to be the legally required third party to all examinations - unless she gets off on such sick shananigans - and in that case get out of my examination room.

I am tired but mistaking sleepiness for hunger. I am giddy but have nothing to gush over. I am a little sad but I gave up negativity for Lent (go Jesus!) and overall ready for a warm bed and lovely dreams.

Cheers to all and to all goodnight!

jsass

twas enough to make a fish stare

The charismatic words above are not those of Josie Mc, sadly. The bewitching words were found in a nursery rhyme. True genious, right?

My attention deficit disorder combined with a mild case of delirium led my mind to wander about things I should really keep between me, myself and I. During my downtime I have begun writing jingles - if you will - for various items, such as condoms. Trojan is currently fully unaware, but when they learn of my marketing genious - I am G-O-L-D-E-N! "Wantin', feelin', lookin' for love - woah baby where is that glove - tear it open and give it a peal - slide on over and we're closing the deal".

Nursery rhymes. Children's tales? Don't be fooled. I am a confirmed believer that LSD was the magical tool utilized in conjunction with writing these whimsical yet startling tales. Not only that, children are too evolved for these bizarre-o limericks nows-a-days. While refreshing my big fat head with the odes of my youth, I couldn't help noticing there is an alarming amount of nursery rhymes dealing with manual labor and pigs. Baa Baa Black Sheep would not be socially accepted today. Someone, presumably white, asks black sheep if he has any wool and mr. black sheep claims he has three bags full, naturally, and one for [get ready for this] his MASTER. This has got Nat Turner written all over it. Hush-a-bye-baby buzzes about a bambino falling to its death. Anyone else wondering the same thing - why was baby in tree? Brrrrrrrriiiinnnngggg. Hello. Social Services is calling. Moving along to our next rhyme. For those of you unsavy rhymers, I ran across this oldie but goodie and it ties in second as my favorite - the I don’t want to go to Mexico No More sonnet. Of course you don't want to go to Mexico! How'd you sneak your ass over here in the first place, Carlitos? What you DO wanna do is over-populate our country, employ American jobs with your people, and instill a system where everything is 1 for English 2 for Spanish. Save your bellyaching for the chimichanga. In the rhyme I Love Little Pussy the tale ends with the ever lovingly “but pussy and I very gently will play”. Children's books, guys - save it for the soft porn. The classic Peter Peter would be frowned upon anytime post 1848 when the Womens Rights Movement shifted into high gear. Rub-a-dub-dub finds three men in a tub and asks "how do you think they got in there”. Bad mixture of meth and rum I think. The Old Lady In The Shoe was was apparently quite the little hussey bearing so many illegitimate children she didn't know what to do except whip the bastard kids.

Hey Josie, why the sourpuss attitude? I'm super tired, guyz, really. I need wings via redbull magic, but am settling for a cup of joe. Whiplash, as seen tearing up the ring below and looking mighty dandy in doing so, inspires me to keep on keeping on. I'm smitten, you guys, simply smitten.

~ J

this makes me a very happy girl...



if that clip only led you to long for more whiplash in action then hold your horses (wink) because there is more to come...