Poochie Le Pew

Sniff. Sniff. The fragrance of fresh skunk in the air, that intense, sophisticated bouquet featuring warm woodland musks from one perfumed bandit’s anal glands.  Ahhhh….

Breathe it in.

In—ha—le.  Ex—ha—le. 

* Cough * Cough * Cough *

Out-hale. Out-hale. Out-hale! Gag! Gag!

Poochie Le Pew you wonder? Yeah, skunks and dogs don't mix well. Shocker right? 'Tis a very foul combo that I hope you haven't had the misfortune of gracing your doggie door.

Dogs love sticking their noses in places they don’t belong. Keep your grubby snout away from the receiving end of anything that is gonna blast and super soak your furry ass with a gun freshly loaded with greasy fart juice. Is this too much to ask? You do know which side your dog bone is buttered? Adding a skunk’s backside to the list of “Don’t go theres,” right between the garbage can and the crotches of my guests. K? Are we all clear here?

My dog, Palomino, got himself skunked a while back. Now to say he got “skunked” would be an understatement. He went out and clearly pissed off the Granddaddy of them all, the King of the Skunks. He got “SKUUUNNKKKEED.” You see the difference, right? Not remotely the same thing. No. No. BIG smelly difference. Captial “P,” Captial “U.”

Now this is a dog that loves a good stink. He reveled in the scent of dead squirrel once and decided that it was so very lovely that he just had to have it for himself. Just. Had. To. Have. It. Commence “Operation Roll All Over Squirrel Carcass.” Writhing and wriggling on top of it. Grinding every inch of stench from the decaying flesh beneath his large Labrador frame. Mission complete. Drenched in eau de toilette of decomposing rodent, he was happier than a pig in shit and smelled even better.

Even HE, a fan of all fermented things, was appalled with the way he smelled after his brief encounter with King Pepé. His sad eyes pleading with me, “help me.”

Exiled to the back yard, he sat, lowly, tied to the swing set until I could locate a magic potion. 

I never had any luck with tomato juice. Its only success was in emulating finger painting for adults with a mushy hairy nasty mess. Passing on that art project as an option, I immediately called the Vet. They suggested feminine douches, even said pharmacies usually have cases on hand for this very occasion. Presto chango, this was the rabbit in that hat I was looking for. Makes sense, cleansing and neutralizing odors of an intimate kind just might work on the stink of a more public variety.

Hi Ho! Hi Ho! It’s off to get my case of douches I go!

Enthusiastically at the pharmacy I requested my case of makeshift skunk-be-gone. The immediate look of horror on the girl’s face, I knew I had made a grave error and did not fully consider the execution of this purchase.

Back pedal. Back pedal. Back pedal. I began stammering and stuttering, “my dog got skunked, the vet suggested this.” She’s not buying a single word and her repulsion for me is clear and unwavering. This woman has now figuratively placed a giant “V” on my chest, like the scarlet “A,” but I’m the stinky “V.” Great.

I have a strong need to defend my personal hygiene. But what do you say? “I don’t need extra cleansing?” “I smell good?” “I wash habitually?” “I haven’t had any complaints?”  Feeling I can’t redeem any sense of decorum or pride at this point, I turn and walk away, dragging my humiliated, but squeaky clean “V” with me. Ya hear that? CLEAN!

Still needing a remedy for the dog, I grab as many twin-packs of disposable douches off the regular shelves that I can hold on to. I check-out with the cashier up-front and I get the hell out of there! A flowery mist of wonderfulness follows me out to my car and it ain’t from the dozen plus douches that I now have in stow. Just saying.

At home, the delicate deskunking process begins.  Scrub-a-dub-dub, it’s doggy douche time in the tub. Pour it over. Rub it in. Soak. Repeat. And it works!  Bottles and bottles of “Extra Cleansing” followed by equal number of “Country Flowers” and the dog is clean, deodorized and feminine fresh. Aside from his owner, this male dog is the second best smelling female in the house. Ah-em, second to the owner and he’s my dog. Got it? Good.  

I can’t blame Massengill or Summer’s Eve for the unjust disgrace and shame my poor “V’ had to endure here. Nor can I attest to whether their products can renew girly parts gone wild. But I can tell you, a vinegar-and-water douche can come in handy at unanticipated and surprising moments. Due to that fact, I’m suggesting a new picture for their boxes:

NO!

YES!***

***4 out of 5 Pooches recommend for that “not-so-fresh” feeling!!

Fifty Shades of Blush, Flush and Pink

Late to the game, as always, I finally surrendered to the “Shades of Grey.” This phenomenon has infiltrated and oozed its way into homes and boudoirs everywhere, traumatizing some and exciting and stimulating others. Much like “The Blob,” notorious hunka-hunka burning goo that it was, absorbed people and engulfed entire communities in its hungry wake, “Shades” has slimed the globe in “Mommy Porn.” You can run, but you can’t hide!

Say what you will, but that E.L. James is one lucky biotch. She, self-admittedly, is “not a great writer.” I concur. But with her bondage-busting trilogy still flying off the shelves and a soon-to-be-made movie, she now can afford as many ghostwriters or writing lessons that her kinky little heart desires. She might not have written a literary masterpiece but she did stumble upon a fan-fiction pot of gold. Congrats to her, that lucky, lucky, lucky, RICH, biotch.

Curled-up, best-selling marital aid firmly in hand, this single girl was all-a-quiver down below in short order. Quivering and queasy were not my loins, however, it was my stomach. A bucket. Stat! My quest for some Tums was not set off by the endless and annoying repetition of words, nor was it the outside of mainstream sexcapdes. S&M kinda shit existed before this book. We all knew that right? This particular exposé had mommy panties far and wide all hot, bothered and twisted up? The hot lukewarm at best account didn’t put a single wrinkle in my gotchies. My gastrointestinal tract, however, was wound-up up like a pretzel. Abusive relationships tend not to bode well on me and this book read more like that than a steamy romance novel. Certainly the intention of this book was not to sensationalize the manipulation of a young innocent girl but it did an abominable job of portraying a fully consensual sexual relationship.

“Shades” follows the relations of soon-to-be college graduate, Anastasia Steele, and hottie-tottie young “multi-bagillionaire” businessman, Christian Grey. She had the fortune misfortune to interview the mysterious Grey for the university paper. And so it began… the sexual exploration and exploitation of Miss Steele. 

My contempt for both of these characters was deep, deeper than any one of the poundings dished out by Christian Grey. He went at her sometimes like a jack rabbit coming off a celibate retreat. He was so sexy and romantic that way.

Not since Susan Boyle has a woman been so virtuous and naïve as Ana Steele.

The sacrificial virgin here had never really “explored” the mouth of another with her tongue (aka kissed), never partook in sexy-time of any kind, never entertained the idea of touching herself, never got drunk, and was not using any modern day technology; no laptop, no smart phone, no E-mail... no vibrator. Seriously? Was she hiding out with the Duggar family for all of her 21 years?

She was whiny and weak and I wanted to slap her upside her nauseatingly innocent and dense pigtailed head. Pigtails, Ana’s cute incognito defensive mechanism against her sexual predator. How very clever of her. That should work quite well.

While “grey” was uttered quite possibly a thousand times in this book, it was pink, in every rosy hue, that was splattered on nearly every page. Our leading lady’s face blushed so often that Bashful Dwarf should really be considered when casting her in the movie. Puce, she even turned the color of puce? James was working that Thesaurus and color wheel hard at that point. Nearly as hard as I was banging my head against the wall. I stopped when I achieved "puce." "Pink" was the desired color of Ana's behind after Christian got a hold of her, as well. Pretty in pink? Christian thought so.

The painfully immature Ana talked to her subconscious and "inner goddess" so much that I was convinced she was either a young child with imaginary friends or was Sybil herself. These friends of hers were with her every step of the way. They danced. They cheered. They did back-flips. They even hid behind the couch, which is something she should have done. Hide Ana! Hide your gullible ass!

She was so sheltered that she could barely bring herself to talk about her girly parts. “Down there” or her “sex” was her verbiage of choice, and it was hair covered when she did mentioned it. Her chacha was hairy! Ick! Ick! Ick! Her roommate insisted that she shave before her first date and clearly didn’t instill proper womanscaping technique on her. Get that vajayjay in order Girl! What the hell is wrong with you?



Self-explanatory? Pretty & picture perfect for an Island and not for much else.

 
And this man of Ana’s dreams, you wonder? Let’s see, he is jealous, controlling, overbearing, demanding, moody, will not tolerate being looked at or touched, wants her to sign a contract to control every aspect of her life, inside and outside of the bedroom, and to sequester her away in his tower in the Seattle sky. Oh, but hold that Blackberry that Christian bought for you, because he’s also rich, powerful, ridiculously handsome, and supposedly has a pretty impressive package, so that nullifies all the bad, right?

This man was so temperamental that every other second Ana was worried whether she upset him or pissed him off. She asked herself “what’s his problem” so many times that my eyes rolled back into my head. Uh oh… eye rolling was not allowed and was deserving of punishment. I’m in trouble now. Ana, let me take this opportunity to tell you what his problem is, he is a dick. He’s just a dick. Don’t over think things.


He did try to warn her however. He declared early on that he is “fifty shades of fucked up.” Ummm, Sayonara Buddy. It’s been nice knowing ya! Don’t let the door of one of your numerous Audi’s hit ya on that fine ass as you drive far far away from me. Forever. That would have been too rational a response for our insecure heroine.

The "handsome" part was really lost on me as well, with the first depiction of him being with “unruly dark copper-colored hair.” You mean to tell me this man is a ginger? Nothing against gingers at all, but wild red hair wasn’t stirring up any amorous feeling inside of me and I couldn’t shake the mental images that had popped into my head. So the beautiful Christian Grey looks like:

Ana did love herself some tea!

No?  How about this:

Perhaps this then??

To each his own I guess?

Mr. Red Hair here has a playroom chock-full of erotic toys, the “Red Room of Pain.” It’s even equipped with suspension gear on the ceiling. Kinda offers a whole new meaning to the phrase “give a flying fuck,” huh?

Anyone care to cross the threshold with him? He shall be addressed as “Sir.” It’s in the rulebook. Breaking any of the many rules at any time? Go directly to the Red Room of Pain to receive your ass-whooping. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

  

Now if you’ve always thought about this kind of thing or are curious, have fun with that. More power to ya. Be careful. Safety first. Stop, drop and roll. Whatev. But if you are conflicted, brought to tears, feel “debased,” don’t do it. Just say “no.” Please. Don’t be an Ana.

 

While this book ended with them being caput, of course it’s not their final good-bye. That’s crystal clear. This degenerate will end up being Prince Charming. This kinda dude is a wart-infested frog. He’s not going to morph into anything else no matter how many kisses you bestow upon him, no matter how obedient you are to his every whim and wish, or no matter how many times you let him spank you. This fantasy works for you? Fine. Enjoy it. But Ladies, don’t expect this kind of thing in real life. Don’t expect deep-dark to turn into fun-loving. Uh-uh. No way. Ain't gonna happen. Move on.

So why did I continue to read this book? I enjoyed the E-mail banter between the two, I’ll admit that much. I love a good text volley and their back and forth was some how, some way endearing.

There were also parts just so unbelievable that they were down-right humorous. I trudged on for the comic relief. The newly deflowered and still completely inexperienced Ana managed to give a gold medal worthy blow-job. 10-10-10. She went in for the deep dive and never came up for air. First attempt, gag-free and with perfect form. Hysterical. Truly.

Equaling entertaining was the tampon scene. You know, nutin’ says romance to a girl like a guy yanking out her tampon and flinging it across the room. You wanna invite Aunt Flo to your parties, that’s cool if that’s your thing. But let’s leave the sanitary products out of it, shall we? 

I was also interested in the physiological side of the story, why was Christian the way he was?  Why is he emotionally unavailable and not only wants to beat his partners, but needs to beat them. You know, that biotch James never answered that question for me. Inquiring minds want to know. Now I need to read books #2 and #3 to find out. Well played James, well played.