Babies are @$$holes or Maybe Babies Come Out of @$$holes. Whatever, The Point is I’m Not Giving Out Accurate Information

My province is coming out with a new sexual education curriculum. It’s causing quite a stir. There are rumours that the concept of anal sex is going to be taught to fourth graders. Naturally this has many people up in arms. I recently overheard two teachers discussing the topic.

Teacher 1 “I had a kid ask me about that once. She wanted to know whether you could get pregnant from anal sex.”

Teacher 2 dramatically slams her hands down on the table in front of her and stops just short of bellowing “And what did you say?!”

Teacher 1 “I said yes.”

Teacher 2 emphatically “Good for you” then loudly added “I say any time a penis and vagina come near each other pregnancy can happen.”

I listened to this then went home to talk to Tex.

Unwashed “So I heard the craziest thing today, two ladies were discussing anal sex and were going around telling people you could get pregnant from it.”

Tex “Oh yeah!”  he said enthusiastically in the same manner that one might react if the Northern Lights were mentioned. “Anal sex gets you pregnant- and then you end up with butt babies, which are like hemorrhoids but way worse.”

If you’ll excuse me, I have to go pray to a stork. Or a cloud? Or perhaps I’m supposed to bury a really ugly potato and wish hard. I can’t remember. Regardless the point is I’d like a baby, and I have no idea how to have one what with my attending public school and all. What I do know is; there’s no way I’m having anal sex- butt babies sound awful.

I tried Googling "Butt Stork" and you don't even want to know what came up. Maybe they use the same one? (Photo Credit: cliparts.co)

I tried Googling “Butt Stork” and you don’t even want to know what came up. Maybe they use the same one? (Photo Credit: cliparts.co)

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Firearms, Surfboards and Close Eyed Terror Part 2

“Now you can shoot the big gun.” Tex* stated this like it was something exciting to be celebrated rather than an activity that was liable to kill the both of us and any unsuspecting passersby to boot.

That same weekend I had shot the antique .22 long rifle with little success. In Tex’s words “I think the grass around the cans waved in fear a bit.”  Once again Tex set up tin cans along a bench near the woods. And once again I readied myself to die. However unlike the last time, I knew that we wouldn’t be firing guns at the same time randomly into the air, like hillbillies celebrating the gunpowder Fourth of July as I had initially pictured. According to Tex that kind of behavior is “unsafe”, he may have given me an incredulous questioning look as if to say “Don’t you know anything about firearms and safety?”

(In case you missed my post about my first experience with guns and cowboy training please click on the following link to read Firearms, Surfboards and Closed-Eyed Terror Part 1.)

I didn’t obviously. Even without the threat of it raining bullets like a deadly version of the song “It’s Raining Men”, I was still nervous about firing the big gun. For one thing, I had watched Tex fire the big .30-30 Winchester. The explosion was enormous, standing fifteen some odd feet away from him and the Winchester, it was as though I could almost watch the sound waves moving towards me before they knocked me backwards. I couldn’t imagine standing next to that gun while it was being fired let alone receiving the kickback associated with pulling the trigger.

Beforehand while we gathered the necessary materials to shoot guns in the basement of the farmhouse, I nervously asked Tex “How much kickback does the big gun have?” This happened shortly after Tex and I had first met, so even though Tex was willing to let a gun wollop me, when push came to scared questioning shove, he wasn’t willing to actually use enough force to emulate what the gun would do. After I took an athletic stance, Tex pushed my shoulder back quickly and hard, I took a step to catch myself, but the experience was manageable.

As my shaking hands held the giant, heavy firearm, Tex once again reiterated the instructions. “Now you put the butt of the gun here, in this soft spot” He then demonstrated on his own shoulder. “I don’t have a soft spot there” I said, feeling around my bony shoulder for a padded section for the gun to kick. “Yes you do” said Tex authoritatively, before he reached over to feel my muscle-less, fat-less shoulder. “Oh, well if you had muscle or something, that would cushion the blow, after that, you pull the lever forward, then back, and now you’re ready to take aim and fire.”

To reassure myself, as I steadied the gun to fire, I thought of Tex pushing me in the basement. “It wasn’t so bad.” I repeated softly as I pulled the trigger. The sound was louder than anything I’d heard in my life, through ear plugs and safety muffs my ears rang. But the pain in my ear drums was nothing compared to the impact of the gun firing. Once when I was surfing, I got pulled out into the big waves far from the beach. A particularly giant set of waves flung me off of my surfboard, the next wave crashed the board down on my head which had just broken the surface after being pummeled and pulled under the water. I saw stars and lost a part of a tooth from the force of my head hitting my jaw. Shooting the .30-30 Winchester was exactly like that; my teeth clacked together and I felt dizzy from the impact and the noise.

Next Tex will offer to help me set off one of these. "You'll love it Unwashed- cannons are fun." At the very least, I think the kickback would be similar. (Photo Credit: Tex)

Next Tex will offer to help me set off one of these. “You’ll love it Unwashed- cannons are fun.” At the very least, I think the kickback would be similar. (Photo Credit: Tex)

I immediately put down the terrifying metal boomstick. “I’m done” I said. Satisfied Tex wrapped his arm around me “You done good Unwashed” he said without irony despite the fact that I hadn’t even made the air around the grass that was around the cans whistle.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who list “shooting guns” among their favourite hobbies.

Dear Facebook, Please Stick It Where The Sun Doesn’t Shine

I didn’t mind when you called me fat and lonely. The fat part was correct, winter and my vast consumption of marshmallows has led to a rather large and noticeable change in my weight and size. But I’m not going to sweat it Facebook, or at least I won’t sweat it until about April after which point I’m going to sweat it all off.

I even got the lonely part Facebook, it was your way of helping. Like my grandfather Facebook, you would prefer that everyone come in pairs. It was nice of you to try and help, but I’ve got this whole relationship thing under control.

However, your most recent trend of showing me bridesmaid dresses? I don’t even know where you’re getting that information from Facebook. What part of searching for Google images of ponchos leads you to believe that I’m going to always be the bridesmaid from now on and die in a house full of hungry mewling cats? That’s just mean Facebook, and completely uncalled for. Also the dresses are ugly. You have terrible taste. Please go back to showing me ads of women sporting A lines with the words “Now in size twelve to twenty-four” because you’re right Facebook, I never wear pants.

Not sincerely, and in fact quite angrily not yours,

The Great Unwashed

Deer Carcass Etiquette and Other Rural Tutorials

Tex is a rootin’ tootin’ cowboy. So it stands to reason that some of the men he knows are too, which was how I spent part of last night discussing the manners of hitting animals with your car. The conversation went something like this.

Tex “Around here, people will hit an average of two and a half deer in their life.”

Unwashed “What? Tell me you’re joking” I look frantically at Tex waiting for him to smile because he’s pulling my city slicker leg. When that doesn’t work, I turn to his friend Brayden*. “Tell me he’s joking” Brayden shrugs.

Tex “I made up the number, but it’s super common, although sometimes the deer will hit you. Unwashed, you drive so slow, that’s what will happen.”

Brayden helpfully chimes in “Don’t worry, they’ll just dent the door panels all to hell so they won’t open and you’ll have to get in from the opposite side of the car.”

They said this in the same manner that one would describe the process of painting a house, as if it was normal.

Tex “Why my Dad had a deer hit him in November. Super common, nothing to worry about.”

I sat there for a minute pondering this new information.  Then I turned to Brayden.

Unwashed “Is the etiquette to remove the deer from the road, or do you leave it there?”

Brayden “You move it” he answers, as naturally as one would of the question were about whether people wear pants or just overly long ponchos to work.

But summer days would be so much breezier in this. (Photo Credit: www.alpacapoint.biz)

But summer days would be so much breezier in this. (Photo Credit: http://www.alpacapoint.biz)

Unwashed “So let’s say I’m struggling to move a hundred pound deer from the road, will people stop and help me?”

Tex and Brayden “Whoa whoa whoa”

Tex “Deer don’t weigh a hundred pounds, that’s like the size of a dog, deer are waaaaaay bigger.”

For the record readers, it never occurred to me to estimate the poundage of deer, because the only times I’ve seen them are in a zoo “Oooh look deer!” and in a park “Ooooh look deer!”

Brayden “I wouldn’t worry about moving a three hundred pound deer off the road, the majority of the time the force of the impact moves most of the animal into the ditch.”

I may have gagged a little into my wine, so Tex and Brayden quickly changed the subject to another honored pastime of theirs- shooting milk at cats.

Tex “So you’re sitting there, pulling on the teats and then you start spraying the cats”

Unwashed “Is it like when you grab the super soaker and spray the cat for chewing the plants in the garden?”

Brayden adds kindly “Sort of. Also why are you spraying cats for being in the garden? That’s their spot.”

To clear up the confusion Tex adds “Cats love milk straight from the teat and will jump and contort themselves to get it.”

Unwashed “Ahhhh” all the while thinking that it’s nothing like having three super soakers lying around to keep the cats from mowing down on the azaleas as Tex and Brayden retell their childhood memories of groups of strays doing flips for dairy products

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who I call to move heavy road kill in the dead of night. It seems I need to bank my good karma in these here parts.

An Unwashed Cover Letter

I  re-wrote my cover letter recently, apparently the one I was using wasn’t appropriate. I’m publishing a version of it so you, my readers can decide for yourselves.

Dear Big Cheese,

I’m awesome. As in like super awesome. So awesome in fact, that you might think I can fly. I can’t but I am that great. You should really consider me for a job with your company.

Along with being super amazeballs fantastic, I have lots of skills. For example, I steal. A lot. But before you get too worried and start locking up the staplers, I should tell you that I only steal ideas, which I will bring to your company. Because I’m super awesome amazeballs great. It’s going to be marvelous, let me tell you. I’m sure you’ll love my habit of stowing unusual fruits in my clothing. It livens up meetings like you wouldn’t believe. My habit takes the joke “Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” and makes it fresh again when I remove an orangelo from my skirt and offer it as a snack to everyone “I know it looks like alien baby spawn, but it tastes good!”

Seeing as you’ll be contacting me soon, I’ll give my email address, I check it far more often than my phone, which I last saw under the seat of my truck when I drove it to the junk yard last May, sarahwritescreativethingshere@gmail.com . Also in case you missed it, that was a hint that I’ll need a car and a chauffeur. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.

Dragon fruitily and sometimes kumquatily yours,

The Great Unwashed

For the record I still don’t see what’s wrong with my cover letter. Admittedly it’s never gotten me a job, but who reads those things anyway?

Please “Like” this post to support my continued use of this letter.