Bogda's Time in Big D

Number of propositions for sex: one. Number of make-outs offered: one. Number of times ass has been grabbed: one. So far, I’m batting a thousand, my little chickadees!

Let's start with the first category: number of propositions for sex. Here's the story: I'm waiting for a cab on Weds. evening, Dec. 21st, cause I need to get from Georgetown to Regan National Airport. A little old man, who I learn is from Iran originally, picks me up. And holy shit, this cabbie is talkative! And he thinks I am just plain gorgeous, and says that I have made his day. Mind you, I'm rockin' some old jeans, sneakers and an orange polar fleece thing, so I'm not exactly workin' my game, but he is entranced nonetheless. The conversation goes from how gorgeous I am to how men these days want women that are too skinny. His words, not mine. Generally speaking, I like a nice quite cab ride, but my policy with cabbies is always the same: this dude can drive me into a bad area, skull-fuck me then leave me for dead, so if he wants to chat a bit, I'm cool with that. Keep the cabbie happy, that's all I'm saying. So, he starts in on how skinny women have no passion, and then he asks me if he can "speak freely." Not knowing what kind of Pandora's box I'm opening, I say "sure." The conversation goes from G, to PG, then straight to XXX in a matter of blocks. He starts telling me what he liked to do in bed, what he likes having done to him in bed, cultural differences between America and Iran, etc. All of this, coming from a short, 60ish year old man who is probably someone's grandpa. Unsettling to say the least, but I am paralyzed. I can't get mad at him; he asked if he could speak freely, and I consented. And another thing, the shit that was coming out of his mouth was unreal dirty, and I could not find it in me to tell him to stop. I mean, the guy kept saying how he liked to "drink pussy juices" and even made the slurping sound for me. Finally, right as we pull into Regan National, the $60,000 question come out, "will you let me make love to you?" "No, thanks though." I says, very nicely, in reply. I have told this guy I have a boyfriend who is 32 and 6'4", and VERY jealous, so I'm hoping this will shut him up. No such luck. He then asks if he can "dream about me." "Okay, why not" I say, cause the guy is going to jerk off to me anyway at this point, I might as well give him permission. I pay the man, take my bags, and go about the business of flying to Dallas. Shaken, but somehow a little wiser in the ways of dirty old men.

Number 2: make-out propositions. I have this pal named Jerry who has had a hard on for me for 13 years now. It's kinda unreal at this point. I used to try to get my ex's goat by reminding him that even though Jerry was one of his best friends, if I called Jerry and said "let's fuck", he'd be at my place faster than the speed of sound, regardless of his loyalties to my ex. Anyway, over the years, Jerry has earnestly tried to lock lips with me on 2 prior occasions. Both times involved the phrase "do you mind if I kiss you?" Even though the answer is always "yes, I do mind", he tries to lay one on me anyway. He gets a bit of cheek, and I get an awkward drive home. It doesn't matter if I have a boyfriend or if he has a girlfriend, he tries anyway. So, this past Friday, I called Jerry because he was going to be in town for a day or 2, and I wanted to hang out with him. We went to lunch, talked about deep stuff: his kind-of girlfriend, my man-luck, his career, Tex-Mex, etc., and we had a good ole time catching up. Meal was over, so I dropped him back at his lady-friend's house (his lady-friend that he is screwing, but not dating), and as he's getting out of the car, he says "give me a call anytime." "okay, will do" says I. Then he throws in "give me a call if you want to make out sometime." And I said "Oh Jerry", and rolled my eyes at him, which is how it always goes. But hey, at least I got an offer for some ass, that counts as something, right?

Lastly, the ass-grabbing. This one is less juicy, but I'm sure the guys will enjoy it cause it invovles girl-on-girl action. I went to an after Xmas brunch at my pal Hilda's place this morning, and I saw a bunch of my old pals. I've known my buddy Amber since the 7th grade, and she is greatness. Amber has been a tremendous support to me during some man-related unpleasantness this year, and I have helped her through some relocation unpleasantness after Tulane got evacuated, so I was really glad to see her. We have both lost some weight recently, so we were also anxious to see how each of us was lookin'. I got there, and Amber gave me a hug and said I looked great, and I said she looked great, and then we went on to make some samiches. About 5 minutes later, she come up from behind me and grabs my ass like a sailor and says, "look at that tiny, hot ass!" Amber doesn't even like hugging people really, so it was a shock to get handled so by her, but hey...I got some play, so that's cool. And if I was into chicks, I'd dig Amber.

So that's it, that's all my tales of my trip to Big D...so far (I'm only half way through my vacation, so think about what could happen next). Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of Bogda's Time in Big D! (Cool, space-ass-sounding music goes here)

Madeline Albright works out with me

Well, she works out at my gym, I should say. Honestly, I don't recall much about her career, all I know is that she was part of Clinton's cabinet, but I think he had a midget on his cabinet too. Maybe I made that part about the midget up, I don't remember. Back to Maddy, as I like to call Ms. Albright. Maddy has not aged well. And it's not like she had much going for her looks-wise anyway, so adding wrinkles and a saggy ass really didn't do her any favors. It's like someone took a wax figure of her and left it out in the Texas heat for an hour. The bitch looks like she's melted a little bit. Not pretty. But I'm sure she has a wonderful personality.

Mmmmmm...wine

Here's the deal, once I've had 2 glasses of wine down my gullet, I get entertaining. I talk back to the TV, I talk back to my stuff (i.e. The couch, pillows, shoes, etc.), and I apparently talk to things at Safeway. Yesterday evening, I caught myself smack-talking the hot dog aisle because I didn't find any low fat turkey dogs (which are lovely and delicious). But the thing is, I didn't even make words for the most part. I mumbled unintelligibly for a few seconds and slurred the words "ain't no dang-ole turkey dogs..." and then mumbled on some more. And I wasn't even drunk, not hardly! Just a bit punchy and loose-lipped. The best is when I back talk the TV though, those sessions are always comedy gold. The specifics of the talk are irrelevant, just know that every now and then, I'm telling my TV how it is, and it's funny stuff. The moral of the story is this: next time you see me, try to get me into the wine.

Ah...winter time

So, I was watching the news for the past few nights, and it looks like Old Man Winter dropped his wrinkly old sac right on top of Dallas, and just in time for everyone's holiday parties! And for those of your who know Todd "The Bod" Winters, I'll bet you thought I said Old Man Winters for a minute there, and you thought about Todd's nuts. Your perverts! He's a father now, his tea bagging days are over! Anyway, you'll get no sympathy from me, since most of you probably got a snow day out of the whole deal. Up here in DC, I just get fridgid-ass, 20 degree weather and some dude next to me at the gym letting out crime-against-humanity-style farts. Why is it that every jackass who ate nothing but chili for a week has to use the treadmill next to mine, then bust ass every 7 minutes? Seriously, if you've been eating out of the trashcan and have the bubble guts, don't work out. And certainly don't work out next to Bogda, cause Bogda ain't down with your stink. It's not like the animal kingdom here, pissing on stuff and smelling like poo does not turn us ladies on (well, most of us aren't turned on, there are a few freaky-freaks that are into that sort of thing, and more power to them). While I'm on the subject of turn-ons and turn-offs, here's an open letter to all the women who work out at public gymnasiums and sports clubs: please don't show me your bush. It's not getting me hot. Go ahead and take a shower and all, just be a little more discrete while walking from your locker to the shower stall, that's all I'm asking for. I have seen more bush than most horny 12-year olds with a stack of Dad's Gallerys at this point, and I have officially seen enough. The boys in this email chain might be imagining some sexy-style scene from Porky's here, with nubile young things languidly stretching and brushing each other's hair right before the pillow fight starts. But alas, 'tis not so. It would be one thing if I was getting to see some genuinely great-looking snatch, but every one I see is just plain unfortunate. Old lady snatch, fat lady snatch, boney lady snatch, super big and fluffy, outta control snatch, etc. There's one woman that I work with that use my gym, and now I can't look her in the eye, cause when I see her, I think "I've seen your bush....and it was HUGE!!!" It's hard to respect
someone once you've seen their "special purpose." But, I will say, based on what I've seen over the years, I have an absolutely gorgeous "bathing suit area." It could be in pictures, my friends. Or maybe it's just that I'm remarkably hair-free, or that I have some sense of personal pride. The world may never know, unless it wants to pay the $5.00 cover and see the show.
Nobody get's the $5.00 show for free!

Don't take any wooden nickels,

Love Bogda

CELLTONE GEL BABA DE CARACOL! (translation: CELLTONE GEL SANIL DRIBBLE)

I saw this product on a Univision infomercial this weekend, so I looked it up on the internet, and this is what I found:

The snail dribble is the natural secretion of the earth snail (Helix aspersa M) that contains alatonia, colageno, elastina, vitamins and nonallergenic natural antibiotics, combined in ideal proportion to regenerate and to maintain the skin healthful.

The snail dribble Gel, acts like smooth exfoliation that clarifies the skin, eliminates the small scars, warts, regenerates the natural colageno and the subcutaneous elastina eliminating the wrinkles and maintaining the colageno hydric of the skin. It contains 30 grams.



Hot damn! Snail-trails are the panacea to all your skin ailments, and we had no idea! All this time, I was little little gold mines very slowly slide out of my life, almost taunting me with their secretions. But, now that I'm armed with this new knowledge, I'll be snatching those little bastards up left and right, so that all the snail-trail-miracle-skin-cure-goodness will be all mine! MINE!!!!

Best passenger page ever

Man oh man, I was at the DFW airport this morning, and I heard the most delicious page that God himself ever did allow. You know how they are constantly paging dinguses who aren't at the gate yet, or who got lost, or haven't checked in yet? Sure you do, we've all heard them. Usually, they go something like this "Passenger Brown, please pick up a white courtesy phone", or "Paging passenger Smith, passenger Smith, please report to gate 24." Generally speaking, those things pass in and out of the airport soundtrack unnoticed, but today...today, my friend, I heard something really special. "Paging passenger Crapboffer...paging passenger Crapboffer..." THAT IS AWESOME! It's like they were paging Mr. Shitfucker! Comedy gold, that was!

2 TON BALLS

This past Sunday, I was hanging out at my pal Wilksey's place, and we ordered a lovely pizza from Pappa John's. Said order was placed at 11:45 in the am. At about 12:35, the driver calls the apartment to get directions. Surely the pizza will come soon, I thought. At 1:00, we call the Pappa John's location we ordered from, and are told that the order has not yet left the building. We calmly pointed out that it must be en route, because their driver has already called us to get directions. They say "huh", and promise to call us right back. At 1:15, we call Pappa John's again, and ask calmly to speak with a manager. The manager says he doesn't know where the pizza is, but do we still want it? He then says he has no way of contacting the driver, to which Wilksey calls "bullshit." He says he'll try to contact the guy, then he'll us back. We finally hear back from the guy, and he says the pizza has left the building, and if it doesn't arrive in 15 minutes, it's free. Oh, it's free anyway...bitch! Is what I say...luckily, I am not on the phone at this point. The delivery guy shows about 10 minutes later (now it's 1:30), and he makes Wilksey call the Pappa John's manager again, and the manager graciously offers us 5 bucks off the pizza. Oh hell no! This shit is 2 hours in the coming, and you want to give me some shitty 5 bucks off crap!? Are you high!? Wilksey says no, we aren't paying for it, and makes the driver take the phone and hear this new info from the manager. The driver says okay, and hands over the food. And what happens next, is absolutely astonishing to me...the fucker actually holds out his hand and says "Tip". Not in a questioning way, a demanding, "where is my money bitch!" kind of way. Then he asks again, to which I reply from the top of Wilksey's stairs, "Oh hell no!!!" ON WHAT PLANET DO YOU DESERVE A TIP...JACKASS?! You are and hour and a half late, we've had to call your boss twice...fuck no, you ain't getting' no tip! But now I know why the pizza was and hour and a half late, the drive has 2 ton balls. Cause it takes 2 ton balls to ask for a tip after such shabby and embarrassing work performance.

Poop Grater

I came across this AMAZING article from the Dallas Morning news (see below), and the worl needs to knkow about it. There’s so much right with this article, I can’t stand it. I have spent all day telling my immediate neighbors at work about it, and I’m still not tired of talking about it. I’d like to start with the title of the piece, "Gripes of stench preceded pastry-tainting allegations." Pastry what smells of a mystery stench? Tell me more! Read the article yourself, cause it’s hi-larious, but I'll give you a brief synopsis for the sake of discussion. Apparently, a dude was saving what he crapped…drying it out until it hardened…then GRATED IT…and took the grated crap to the Fiesta (Fiesta is a local chain of Super Markets that cater to our Hispanic brothers and sisters), and sprinkled it liberally on baked goods. All on the sly. This went on for 7 months. 7 months, I tell you! People complained, but they never knew what was causing the poop-smell/taste. Finally, the Poop Grater got sloppy, and they caught him on video tape, “making a deposit” on some bread. So that’s the story in brief, now back to more reasons why this is cool. As I’m reading the article, I get to the part where the prosecutor gives his opening statements…and the prosecutor is a guy I knew in high school! How whippin’ sweet is that?! I know a guy, who knows a guy, who grated crap of his own manufacture, and then sprinkled said crap over baked goods! Holy Shit! And, my high school reunion is coming up in Dallas, so I might actually get to talk to this guy about the Poop Grater. That’s fucking Rock Diesel! “Good God Bogda, how can this get any better?” I says to myself…then it got better. I get to the end of the article, and find that the journalist who penned this most newsworthy story, has the email twyatt@dallasnews.com. This poor bitch’s name is 2 scant letters away from being twat@dallasnews.com. When I think about emailing this guy, I see him as a giant, hairy vagina, sitting at a computer, smoking a cigar. Now that’s good stuff.

By TIM WYATT / The Dallas Morning News

Gripes of stench preceded pastry-tainting allegations

Testimony began Tuesday in the trial of a cabdriver accused of dusting pastries with his dried, grated feces at a Dallas grocery store last summer.
Behrouz Nahidmobarekeh, 49, faces two felony charges of tampering with consumer products in separate incidents in July at the Fiesta Mart at Ross Avenue and Henderson Street.
In his opening statement Tuesday afternoon, prosecutor Taly Haffar told jurors that the store workers went through seven months of customer complaints that unpackaged, fresh-baked goods "smelled and tasted like manure" until the defendant was arrested in late July.
Mr. Nahidmobarekeh pleaded not guilty in state District Judge Vic Cunningham's court. His defense attorney, Clark Birdsall, did not give an opening statement.
While a Dallas County epidemiologist testified about the possible health risks to customers who may have eaten the contaminated cookies, pastries and bread, the state's main evidence so far consisted of two videotapes of incidents on July 13 and July 24.
In those tapes, a man with his back to the camera is shown scattering something over baked goods in the store while other shoppers pass by. No one reacts to the man on the first tape, but employees eventually detect a strong odor coming from a bread bin and begin to clear out the products and begin cleaning up.
A second tape is similar, except that the store's security manager runs down and detains the man later identified by police as Mr. Nahidmobarekeh. Shortly after the suspect is led away, a young boy reaches up and grabs a cookie from the nearby racks.
"It looked like cracked pepper at the time," Albert Bazan, a Fiesta employee, testified. "But it had a real strong odor ... a foul odor."
Dallas police reports state that a hazardous-material team collected samples of the contaminated goods and that authorities alerted the FBI's terrorism task force.
Testimony in the trial resumes today. If convicted, Mr. Nahidmobarekeh could face up to 20 years in prison.

E-mail twyatt@dallasnews.com

Hippie Hair

I’m not sure if dudes have this happen, or if other chicks do, for that matter, but I woke up a few days ago, and my freaking hair was long as hell. I mean, it’s so long that it get’s caught in the car door when I close it. It’s so long that it get’s caught behind my back when I sit in a high-backed chair. It’s so long that Crystal Gayle asked for my autography. Well, not really, that last one was a lie. Aren’t I naughty? Tee-hee! The thing is, I only have myself to blame; I hate spending my money on getting my haircut. Right about now, the dudes that read this will be saying “damn sister, just shell out the 8 bucks for a Super Cut and call it a day.” Which segues into one of the major differences between being a dude and being a lady. Now dudes, don’t worry, this isn’t going to turn into a “down with dick!” diatribe, but y’all do have some advantages when it comes to hair cuts and dry cleaning. “That’s because we have less hair”, some of you might be saying, but I challenge you to find a lady with really short hair that pays under 40 dollars per haircut. Same with dry-cleaning. I can take a white button down, cotton shirt to a dry cleaner, and it’s 15 bucks to get it clean. A dude can take the same shirt in, and it’s a buck fifty to clean. What the fuck!? But, it balances out when one examines how expensive men’s shoes are (damn! They’re like 300 dollars for a nice pair!) Back to the issue at hand…seriously, it’s like 150 buck every time I get my hair done…can you believe that shit? I ain’t got that kind of money laying around, so I only cut and highlight my hair about 3 times a year. It’s been about 3 months since the last round, so I’m close to being due, but my hair is freaky-ass long for some reason. Maybe someone’s spiking my juice with pre-natal vitamins or something, I don’t know. Moral of the story, get a haircut, you damn hippie!

I got the coolest compliment this morning

So, I'm at the fridge, getting some ice for my Crystal Light Raspberry Ice beverage, which I enjoy frequently, and I see my pal Peter. "How you doin'? I says to Peter, and he says "Hi Pumpkin". I call him "Sugar", he calls me "Pumpkin", it's kind of our thing. It's also cool cause Peter is British, and he has this cockney accent, so when he says "Pumpkin", it sounds cool. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. So, I'm getting ice, and Peter comes by, and says "you're looking very silky this morning". That's the coolest compliment ever! Silky?! That rocks! It makes me sound like some harem girl, or high class call girl. Damn, that's gonna keep me going all day. Silky...that's good stuff!

The Bus and I are back together

After a few months of "seeing other people", the DC Metro Bus and I are back together, and let me tell you, I remember why I left her. Don't get me wrong, I love the Bus, really I do, but damned if she don't get on my nerves. The bus stop is about an 8 minute walk from my pad, and all summer long, I have been driving to work because I couldn't stand how sweaty I got walking to the bus, then waiting for her in the pounding sun. So, my car and I started to spend a lot of time together, and things just started moving so fast, and before I knew it, I was driving to work every day, like common trash. But it was so exciting! Air conditioning, leather seats, a 5 minute commute, no chance of getting caught in the rain...it's been real sweet what me and the car have. But the thing is, the parking for the car ain't exactly cheap, and like you always here, most couples break up over money, so my car and I have agreed that it's time for me to go crawling back to the Bus. But you know what, I've actually been pretty excited about the Bus again. There's all kinds of freaky-freaky types on the bus that make for great people watching, and the bus gives me the chance to take a little morning walk every day, so it definitely has it's advantages. But, this morning, I got onto a crowded, no air conditioning-havin', babies cryin', smelly cologne-smellin' bus...which blew. That bitch better fancy herself up for me tomorrow, or I'm going back to the car.

The Bus and I are back together

After a few months of "seeing other people", the DC Metro Bus and I are back together, and let me tell you, I remember why I left her. Don't get me wrong, I love the Bus, really I do, but damned if she don't get on my nerves. The bus stop is about an 8 minute walk from my pad, and all summer long, I have been driving to work because I couldn't stand how sweaty I got walking to the bus, then waiting for her in the pounding sun. So, my car and I started to spend a lot of time together, and things just started moving so fast, and before I knew it, I was driving to work every day, like common trash. But it was so exciting! Air conditioning, leather seats, a 5 minute commute, no chance of getting caught in the rain...it's been real sweet what me and the car have. But the thing is, the parking for the car ain't exactly cheap, and like you always here, most couples break up over money, so my car and I have agreed that it's time for me to go crawling back to the Bus. But you know what, I've actually been pretty excited about the Bus again. There's all kinds of freaky-freaky types on the bus that make for great people watching, and the bus gives me the chance to take a little morning walk every day, so it definitely has it's advantages. But, this morning, I got onto a crowded, no air coniditioning-havin', babies cryin', smelly cologne-smellin' bus...which blew. That bitch better fancy herself up for me tomorrow, or I'm going back to the car.

Damn you, America's Next Top Model!

I am so ashamed of myself. I spent all day Saturday, watching an America's Next Top Model marathon. All freakin' day. Like I had nothing better to do. I could have been cleaning my apartment. I could have been doing volunteer work teaching kids to read. I could have hung those curtains I bought a while back. Shit, I need to do that soon, I really want to see those up. Man, II could have hung those freakin' curtains, but no...I watched ANTM (oh yeah, that's what you call the show if you're one of the initiated). But, I did go out for a while with my pal Lyndie to some really sketchy furniture store in the ghetto. It was only open to the public for one day, how sleazy does that sound? I was expecting some fantastic cheap stuff, but the prices were like, regular store prices. Now, why would II go to the damn ghetto with another white girl, just to see some furniture I could get at Haverty's for the same price? All in all, I was disappointed. We went to a flea market after that, and then I went home and fell into the ANTM trap. Oh, you may think your will is stronger than mine, that you could flip the channel after an episode or 2...but just you wait...once ANTM gets its hideous little claws in you, your screwed. And not in the good Las Vegas kind of way. Curse you, ANTM (shakes fist in air).

Guess who's my bitch now?

The Exorcist Stairs! Oh that's right, your pal Bogda marched right up to those bad boys, smacked them square in the face, then rode them like they were Secrateriet. You dig? Oh yeah, and I liked it so much, I forced myself on those steps 5 times. That's right, you read that correctly...5 times. You better recognize!

The Exorcist Stairs

Most of y'all have seen the Exorcist, and some of you probably even know that it was filmed in Georgetown, my new hood. But what you may not know, is that the famous staircase that the priest falls down at the end of the movie, is really, really close to my office. They are FREAKY tall, and tomorrow morning, I'm going to run up those sumbitches. It all started with my pal Lyndie (Wilksey, if your nasty) getting herself a personal trainer named Ramond. Bogda was lookin' so fly from all her workin' out, so Wilksey wanted a taste, which is understandable. So Ramond has Wilksey running theses little sets of stairs all around the area during her training, and she gripped about it to him one day. Ramond's response was to say "wait until I make you run the Exorcist stairs." Which shut her up real quick. So last week, I was loitering outside of my office building with Wilksey and some other chumps, and Ramond rode by on his bicycle. He stopped to chat us up, and I asked him when he was going to make Wilksey run the Exorcist steps...Wilksey was not pleased. So, Ramond set the date, Sept. 16th is the day of the event. Wilksey decided that since this whole thing is my fault for reminding her trainer she was supposed to run them, that I have to run them with her. Pride is a funny thing, cause normally I would say "fuck that noise" and blow it off, but Wilksey must have smelled that response on me, so she started talking smack. Said I was scared to do it, said I couldn't handle it, said all kinds of crazy shit she'll be eating when I storm past her and run those fucking steps with such style and grace, the birds in the trees will fall silent, and time itself will seem to stop. And 20 minutes later, when her sorry ass climbs to the top, I will be lounging around, possibly enjoying a nice beverage served to me by a half naked cabana boy named Rauol, and I'll say "bitch please."

Phantom Burrito Smell

So, check this shit out...I get home from a hard days work, you know...movin', shakin'...makin' things happen...that kind of stuff, and I walk up to my apartment, and I know someone from maintenance has been in my place. I can tell, cause I never lock the bottom, door handle lock thing when I leave, I only lock the deadbolt. So, I noticed that the door knob thing was locked, and I had put in a service request for several things (floorboards fucked up, broken microwave, and closet door off the track), so I used my deductive reasoning to figure out some body had been in my Soul Dojo. I walk in, and I know immediately that the floor is still jacked up, so they didn't fix that. Then, I noticed that the microwave is still broken, so they didn't fix that. It seems like maybe they fixed my closet door, since that's the last thing on the to-do list. But dig this, not only is the closet door still off the track, MY ROOM STINKS LIKE A BURRITO!!! I haven't had a burrito in 5 months, so I know it's not me, so I start looking around the room, trying to find the smell-source. I can't freakin' find it! Nothing in the trash can, nothing under the bed, nothing on the dresser, nothing in the closet itself, nothing in the bathroom...where is this damn burrito what's stinkin' up the joint?! Where, damn you!!?? Seriously, where is it...it stinks in there. I Febreezed the ever-lovin' shit out of the room, then walked away. If that doesn't work, the room is dead to me.

P.S. Spellcheck tried to replace "freakin'" with "foreskin"...that's funny. I love spellcheck.

A shout out to my bitches

Yeah, this is just a shout out to all my bitches, great and small. To Smooth, who's soothing Barry White voice and sound advice keeps me on the straight and narrow. To Stef (aka the Chocolate Poppa), who brings style and grace to all he surveys. To Ben (aka Fuzzy Rub-Rub) for taking such good care of my barbecue grill, for she is a fickle mistress. To my pal Harpy, for being so fuckin cool it's blinding. To Stephen Arnold Scott, for having a name I love to yell. To the Family Kusmanoff, who ply me with wine and sweet dogs. To Haney, who's turn of phrase cracks me up. To the K-Doss, who listens to me gripe about my man problems and fat ass. To Modell, who rubs my shoulders and dances so very fine. To Wilksey, who murders the English language in a charming way, and who got me my lovely new job. To The Senator (aka Haydn, The Sweater, Moustache) for reintroducing DC to the term "skirt", as in, "Harpy, quit being such a skirt and punch that douchbag!" To Slamber, Mistress of the Law for being a better person than the rest of us and trying to fix society. Finally, to all the rest of my wicked sweet pals, who keep me smiling and who don't mind my belching. Which is powerful and loud.

GROSS!

Man oh man, something foul happened at the gym today. Remember how I told you about the farting that went on a while back? Of course you do, that was funny shit. Well, today, my TRAINER cut one in front of me...and it was one of those nasty swap farts that stink up the joint for a few minutes. I think he was eating out of the trash can or something. It smelled like a dirty diaper filled with Indian food. GROSS!

The Sound and The Fury

So, here’s the thing: farting...audibly...in public, is generally frowned upon. But, like every rule, there are exceptions. For instance, the first time I went to a yoga class and some one cut it, I had to put my head down to keep from pointing and laughing at this poor jackass who downward-dogged and busted ass at the same time. Yoga causes crazy excretion, so I can hang with the yoga farters. However, other random assholes at the gym who cut it in front of me (a lady, mind you!) can just check theyselves. Case in point: I was working out with the Moustache a couple of Sundays ago, and we were next to this douche bag named Armando (or something equally fruity) who was using the pull-up machine. Now, I’m sure Armando was working hard, but he was also right next to me, and I don’t need to know what his more intimate smells are. It’s not like we’re dating or anything; I shouldn’t have to be exposed to belches/farts/ball-scratching/etc. unless you givin’ me the skins. Armando was definitely NOT givin’ me the skins. But, I digress. Back to the matter at hand, so Armando was pulling himself up on said pull-up machine, and he CUTS ONE…right next to me…and he doesn’t excuse himself or nuthin’! Can you believe that? And, IT WAS SOUND AND FURY! By that, I mean the thing was loud and stinky. Stinky! Right next to me! That’s a gym foul. Moral of the story: put a cork in it if you are in public, especially if there’s people with in a 1.5 foot radius of your ass. You dig?

I'm probably going to Hell for this...

…but this guy at the gym this morning, ran so gay! I mean, he must have had the score from Pricilla, Queen of the Desert running through his mind the whole time. I was on the trusty elliptical machine, minding my own beeswax when I first noticed him. He was pretty much directly in front of me, about 8 yards away and one of the treadmills. Keep in mind that I had time to kill, and this dude was making such a spectacle of himself, I couldn’t stop watching him. Hopefully he didn’t get the heebie-jeebies from me. It’s a crime I didn’t catch this guy on video, cause it’s not going to be the same effect trying to just describe it, but I’ll try. Picture a regular looking dude, running on the treadmill in his t-shirt and shorts. Now, take that dude, and push his hips forward, and make his back super rigid straight. He’s running into oblivion, and his dick is leading the march. So that’s his basic posture, not let’s move to his arms. Imagine how a Tyrannosaurus holds his tiny little arms really close to his body; now imagine that Tyrannosaurus is this guy. His arms are bent at the elbow, and his forearms are raised to his shoulder level. The finishing touch is that his wrists are fantastically limp, and his hands are flapping wildly. GAY!!!! It was awesome, I’m so glad I was there to see it, and document it for posterity.

Moustache Chronicles

So, about 4 weeks ago, I joined the Washington Sports Club. Sounds fancy, aye? It's the only gym near my apartment, so that's as fancy as I get these days. With my new membership, I got a free session with a person trainer. The guy who sold me the membership, Norman, told me he had someone special for me to meet...just the right trainer for me. I'm thinking, how cool, Norman is lookin' out for ole Bogda. We walk into this office, and there sits a tall, lanky dude with a handlebar MOUSTACH! You know, strip on the top lip, then bam! bam!...down the sides. Good stuff. And then, Norman introduces me to the Moustache, and his name is Chad! Chad?! I can't stand that name! That's a douchbag's name, and you know it. But I figure, this guy is going to be constant entertainment, so who am I to resist? So the Moustache and I talk about what my goals are, and I make an appointment for our first session. So, I show up at the appointed time, and he has a Magnum PI moustache! Hot damn! My trainer has a whole moustache wardrobe, and I get to see it 3 times a week, sweet! The work out is okay, oddly enough; the warm up we did was the hardest part of the whole session. For the last 5 minutes, Chad says he will stretch me out, because I had mentioned how bad my flexibility is. The first stretch we do involves me laying on my back, with one leg straight on the ground, the other leg straight in the air and Chad trying to acquaint my leg in the air with my shoulder. Not gonna happen. The next stretch we do is the same leg in the air, but now it's bent at the knee...so Chad can acquaint said knee with the aforementioned shoulder. Again, not gonna happen. But Chad has this tactic of getting the stretch done: he stretches me for a few seconds, and then has me stress that muscle group out to tire it, so the muscles get more relaxed for the stretch. Good logic, so Chad has my right foot in his hand, and we have just tried to get the ole knee to the shoulder, but we don't get too far. So Chad says, "push against my hand". "Okay" I says, then I push as hard as I can. I knocked Chad down. I mean, completely knocked him over. Turns out, I have freakishly strong haunchs! The same thing happens every time he stretches me. One time, he was stretching me, and he told me to push against his hand, and I knocked him over, and some chick working out nearby said "who's training who here?" And Chad got all embarrassed. And another time, Chad asked for a minute to get ready for my push; he braced himself pretty well, so he didn't get pushed back, but when I stopped pushing, Chad fell forward, almost on top of me. I almost got some play! We have had 5 sessions so far, and he knows what's coming when we do the knee to shoulder stretch, so today...he asked me not to push so hard. Ha! I broke his spirit after 5 sessions! I rule!

Blogda is the Champion!

Bums, like gas station attendants and lesbians, dig me.

I have an appeal that most find unconventional, but that gas station attendants and lesbian dig. I mean, the best pickup lines that have ever been used on me have been delivered by one of the above. Sometimes Taco Bell employees take a shinin' to the ole Bogda as well, but they have the lamest pick up lines. One time, while driiving through Hillsboro Texas, I stoped at a Taco Bell for a taco (I know, that was a real curve ball, wasn't it?). While I am waiting for said taco, Jackass McGee behind the counter says "that's a really nice sweater". "Thanks" I says in reply. "Did you make it yourself?" How do you respond to that? I mean, it's not like the sweater was bedazzled or covered in puffy paint, it was just a plain, roll-neck, green sweater. I just sort of stared at this idiot while he smiled at me, thinking that maybe he was kidding, but he wasn't. "Uh......no... I bought this sweater...I don't know how to knit." I says. "Oh...well it just looks really good on you...here's your party taco and your Coke." says Mr. Wonderful. "Thanks." I said in reply, then I left. Did you make it yourself? I mean seriously, what an assmonger. Anyway, back to my fan base. Gas station attendants have flirted with me ever since college, one even propositioned me for sex. Of course, I said "no thanks", and I stand by that decision to this day. Cause he was gross. And smelly. And dirty. And like, 20 years older than me. Gross. But my gas-jockeys have consistenly been there to make me feel like a woman, and now I can add pan-handling bums to that list as well. "But Bogda, how did you come to this conclusion?" you may be asking yourself right now. Based on my lunch break, ye of little faith! So, I'm walking to Subway to get me a nice Turkey samich, and some Doritos, and I walk by this round, toothy (but not in a good way) bum, and he starts acting like I'm freakin' Elle McPhereson or something. "Oh honey, you are BEAUTIFUL! Oh my God, good Lord mama! It was worth it to get up this morning just to see you today! You don't have to give me no money por nothin', just seeing you is more than enough...etc, etc." As I was walking off, I told the guy I would be back after lunch with some money for him. So, I goes to Subway, I eats my samich and chips, and I start walking back. For a minute or 2, I think, just walk on the other side of the street, that way you don't have to give him any money. But then I started to thinkin' that if I stood this bum up, maybe he would turn into a mad, spitting-type bum who hassled me everytime I wanted to go West on M street. I was in a tight spot; avoid bum and possible get spit at tomorrow, or go back and give bum money and stay in his good (and probably crazy) graces. I choose to give Toothy some cash. I was back towards the office, and I see my man, all curled up on his empty milk crate with his cup of change. He stands up and comes over to me, all smiling, saying "Hello, Sunshine!" I gave him 2 bucks and said "I told you I would be back, didn't I?" Then he smiled and kissed my hand. What a gentleman. I guess having someone make you feel like the most exquisit creature that walked the Earth is worth 2 bucks, even if he is a bum.

Shitfuckhelldamn! It's snowing like nuts!

10:26 AM
Guess what? It's snowing like nuts up here in the DC area. I woke up this morning, and it was chilly in the hotel room. Oh yeah...I still live in the Vermont St. Residence Inn since the movers have yet to arrive with my goods. I miss my goods so much, especially my bed. God, I love my bed. The Residence Inn is okay all around, but the bed they have provided me is like a bad relationship; I just keep coming back to it, but neither of us is happy about it. Evil bitch-queen bed, I shoulda never gotten involved with you! Anyway, back to the subject. I wake up this morning, and it's chilly. Chilly, not cold. I take the morning shower I so love taking, and it starts raining outside. No big deal, just a wee bit of rain. Breakfast happens, then I call the valet to bring my car around. Oh yes...I valet...since RTC is picking up the hotel bill (I also watch alot of pay-per-view). So, I'm waiting outside for the Shark, and it is gettign colder by the minute. It's still raining, but not heavily. All of the sudden...BAM! It's snowing! No transition rain/snow bullshit...SNOW! I have never seen a change so fast in my life. Superman can't change from Clark Kent that fast...I mean damn! So it's snowing, and that's kinda cool, cause maybe that means we'll get to leave work early. I get the Shark, drive to work, then settle into my cube. Now, my cube is pretty cool. It's regular cube size, but I face a window, so I can see what the weather id doing. Now here I am, wokring dilligently on some changes on a Weight Watchers project...and the snow starts coming down in sheets. Sheets. I have never been in a blizzard, but this is probably how they start. It was like snow was being hurtled down from some vengeful God, it was that violent. I couldn't get anything done, I was too busy eyeballing the crazy snow.

1:50 PM
Aremgeddon has been narrowly averted...the devil snow has stopped. Unfortunately, I think we will have to work a full day. Nuts to that! We have these windows that are in the back of our cubes, and they are at a bit of an angle. Snow has piled up on these badboys, and every now and then...snow slides of the windows...making an eerie scuttling sound. It completely creeped me out earlier.

2:01 PM
Alright my pretties, Blogda has to pretend to work. Love, luck and lollipops,

La Blogda