Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ auld lang syne.

Despite my sassy and sometimes cocky demeanor, I do have my mushy side (leave the Bitch Slave Boys to their dreams) and Robert Burn’s song actually always causes the tears to well.  Even typing them here, the music and words ran through my head, then took a detour right straight to my heart.

I’m actually going to a party this evening, which should make your jaw drop, because New Year’s Eve with all its forced frivolity is something I normally and obstinately avoid.  Don’t worry–I won’t drink and drive.  And won’t even get drunk.  Maybe a slight buzz if the mood is right, but I do mean just right.

A fair to middling year as years go.  But I blogged and you showed up.  Some of you called and we explored your fantasies, some of you wrote emails to say hello or comment privately on a particular post, some of you commented here, some of you were silent…but I felt your presence.  

We started the year out with a (much celebrated) public lynching for chrizt’s sake.  It broke my heart.  And you understood. 

I got sidetracked with way too many projects and — for a while — didn’t blog as often as I should have (no new savants in 2007!  But I promise more in 2008) and you still showed up and I love you for it.

You sent me dirty pictures and I published two that I thought were super sexy here and here.  And everybody agreed with us whole-heartedly … proving that we do, indeed, know what is fucking hot! 

Our resident Pervert Savant kept us entertained with his very original and always hilarious installments of Lingerie on the Razor-Wire, The Poignant Story of a Young Pre-Operative Transsexual Forced into a Life of Twisted Sex and Degradation in the Sordid Confines of America’s Penal System!

We went to a wedding.  And I must say that you looked absolutely dapper, my darling. 

I shared with you the inter-office emails my sister, Bethany, forwarded to me — including God vs. Devil and What Men Do with Post-Its.

We went parochial and liked it so much we did it again. 

We got hot and bothered, down and dirty, all fired up, queer kinky and lesbian lovely.  It was downright decadent and we didn’t even have to wash out our mouths with soap afterwards.

Humiliation was the kink du jour, so I was in turn a Righteous Bitch, a Heartless Vamp, a Cuckolding Brat.  And then I laughed my ass off while you begged for mercy.  Admit it, you loved every minute of it.

I lamented and you held my hand.  I was tacky and you pretended to not notice.  I bragged about my this and that and you were happy for me. So I bragged some more and still you were happy for me.  I fucked off and you waited patiently.  I got on my soap box and you didn’t even roll your eyes.  I pontificated and you just smiled.  I bloviated and you acted like what I said mattered. I fucked around with everybody and anybody and you forgave me. Or maybe it’s just that you like to watch?

We read poetry.  We found some cuckold poetry.  And then there was the poem that made me cry the very first time read it.  And who can forget Shakespeare’s sonnets proving he was a pussy-whipped cuckold?

I kissed you.  It was very French.  Did you like it? 

I fell in love or lust  — or something in between –  over and over again …with Bitchy Jones  …with Supervert   …with Jerotic  …with Slip of a Girl  …with Sweat Shop Sissy  …with The Provocateur.

Did I say fair to middling?  On second thought, it was a simply lovely year.

xo, Angela 

Gratitude is the memory of the heart.  ~Jean Baptiste Massieu 

So here comes Thanksgiving.  While I am quite capable of putting together a big feast, I will be having dinner with my mother tomorrow.  What many callers and readers don't know is that my mother was disabled by a devastating stroke at a very young age.  One day she was healthy, the next day her whole world–and that of her children–changed in a blink of the eye.  

I could grieve the loss of the mother who always bought the biggest turkey in the store, who sometimes tried to trick me into eating oysters by mixing them into the stuffing, who enlisted the help of my sister and me to make pumpkin pie from scratch and who always went beyond the call of duty to make–not just Thanksgiving–but every holiday something we would hold to our hearts and always remember.  

But I don't.  According to the doctors, that my mother is even alive is a miracle.  She might be in a wheelchair and need assistance with her daily routines, but her mind and heart are whole.  I am filled with gratitude for the memories I do have and for the opportunity to give back to her when she needs me most.  So I'm a pretty lucky girl, when it's all said and done.

So have a good one…and please don't spend the day alone.  Find someone, even if it's a bum on the street and you have to buy him his meal.  It just might end up being the best Thanksgiving you ever had.

Thanksgiving Riddles 

1. Why did the Turkey cross the road?  (It was the chicken's day off.)
2. Why did the Pilgrim cross the road?  (He was chasing the turkey.)
3. Why did the Indian wear so many feathers?  (To keep his wigwam.)
4. Is turkey soup good for your health?  (Not if you're a turkey.)
5. Why were the cranberries red?  (They saw the turkey dressing.)

Ten Things that Sound Dirty on Thanksgiving

1. Just reach in and grab the giblets.
2. Whew!  That's one terrific spread!
3. And he forces his way into the end zone.
4. That's the biggest one I've ever seen!
5. Talk about huge breasts!
6. It's broken.  Whenever I push the tip, nothing squirts out.
7. I'm in the mood for a little dark meat.
8. Tying the legs together will keep her moist.
9. She's 5000 lbs fully inflated and it takes 15 men to hold her down.
10. Don't play with your meat.

Turkey Shopping

A lady was picking through the frozen turkeys at the grocery store, but couldn't find one big enough for her family. She asked the stock boy, "Do these turkeys get any bigger?"

The stock boy answered, "No ma'am, they're dead."

Cannibal Thanksgiving

Two cannibals are eating Thanksgiving dinner.  One turns to the other and says, "You know, I really can't stand my mother-in-law.

His dinner partner answers, "Then try the potato salad."

Last but not Least

CLICK HERE for your card.

xo, Angela

Why hasn’t somebody bought me this?  ‘Cuz, as we already know, I certainly do have a serious shoe fetish. Isn’t it adorable? I found it at the sweetest little place, Locher’s, where the selection is quite darling-cutesy–naughty. Of course, I would never fuck for shoes. Well, maybe if it were for like fifty pairs of shoes. Okay, maybe ten pairs. Stop laughing. Now I’m off to tell Slip of a Girl about this wonderful find. Things this good just have to be shared.

xo, Angela

If you watch CBS Sunday Morning, which happens to be a most awesome way to spend an early Sunday, you would have seen the piece explaining the title of this entry:

The word “pique-nique” – loosely meaning to “pick a thing of little importance” – originated in 17th-century France. Edouard Manet’s controversial masterpiece, “The Luncheon on the Grass,” captured the country’s naked passion for dining outdoors, though in reality, most did it fully-clothed. “Peek-neek” became the English word “pic-nic” – first appearing in print in 1748 in a letter from the Earl of Chesterfield to his son.

“He writes to his son, this is a great line: ‘I liked the description of your picnic intended more to promote conversation rather than drinking,’” Heminway said. “So, I love that idea, that image of the picnic as a catalyst for conversation or as an excuse for conversation and discourse. I think we would have fewer problems in the world, if we forced our world leaders to picnic together.”

So it was a long Labor Day weekend, to which I looked forward, planning on not laboring a bit, taking a quiet pause for myself — minus the “pique-nique.” Because, as I’ve noted before, I DON’T LIKE PICNICS. Alas, friends and family had other plans and while not working the phone or writing, which is what usually occupies plenty of my time, I was dragged to two picnics.

Now if there had been lots of water –in the form of a river or pool or creek or lake– I might have had some serious fun, because I do adore water sports. No, I’m not talking about that kind, you dirty-minded bad boy! But it does remind me of a joke: You can drag a whore to culture, but you can’t make her think. I can’t remember who told me that, but to whomever: Thanks! Unless you were talking about me, of course. If that is the case, you can call me on my BDSM line so I can kick your ass.

So the picnics weren’t so bad after all. I played Trivial Pursuit (Genus Edition) as part of a team and we won three out of three games, thanks to the members who knew sports and history, and  who’s smattering of scientific information worked well with my smattering. I also made my world famous German Potato Salad, which was a big hit.  In fact, all I brought home was the empty bowl. The second picnic was more in keeping with the French definition (see above), with only 5 guests and myself, and all that was required of me was a bottle of wine. I did get slightly tipsy and giggly. And happened to sleep very well that evening. Could it have been the wine?

So I’ve not been manning the kink-O-phone and have gotten more than a few emails wondering where I am. Well, I am here, that’s where I am. Just taking it a little bit easy, dontcha know? I am also dog-watching for a sibling who is on a three week vacation and was waiting for a maintenance guy to show up to fix my garbage disposal and non-working light socket above the stove.  Diagnosis: Disposal motor burned out due to putting long stem roses into it. Light socket just needed new bulb.  I should just surrender and bleach my hair blonde.

And…I watched Dr. Phil, who I’ve totally done a turn around on. I used to think he was another “psycho-babble” blow hard. Now I think he blows hard all right –hard and righteous– because he tells it like it is without sugar-coating it. I mean, after all, if you wanna get right, then quit wining about your plight and do something about it–for Chrizt’s sake.

Hey! Maybe I could do the David Webb thing, and fantasize about Doctor Phil the next time I’m feeling amorous.

Nah. On second thought, I’ve got enough men on my hands.

xo, Angela