You know how couples are always fighting about the toilet seat being left up?
Well, someone in my house put the seat lid down.
So, in the middle of the night, I drop trow and splat bare vulva on a closed toilet seat.
For about half a second I was totally afraid of the suction factor (make suction noise), like, oh, god, I’ll never get up, flashes of the fire department dart through my head.
Then, it was like- maybe I just live like this now, I just have a toilet lid under on under my clothes all the time. I mean, I do wear a lot of skirts.
But, don’t worry. It didn’t stick.
Actually, it was amazing, actually, because I’ve found my new calling:
I’m making homemade Rorschach Blots!
You can frame them, or use them in your psychiatric practice! Look me up on Etsy!
Follow me on Pinterest!
I’m lonely. Like, I’m so lonely that I’ve started a small animal shelter in the back seat of my Toyota. It’s only a raccoon right now, but I’m hoping to expand. I have my eye on the neighbor’s dog.
I’m so lonely I don’t even cast a shadow. That’s here just for show (gestures to spotlight shadow). You’re just here for show! (Screaming). Where were you YESTERDAY?!?!
I used to believe in love, but before that I used believe in God, so…
I’m pretty lonely. I’m so alone that it’s most of my last name. (Just add the ‘M’ for ‘ME!’) I’ve been alone for the lion’s share of 20 years, with 2 years is my longest relationship. So, I’m a master of loneliness. In my opinion, there are four levels:
LEVEL 1: “Gee, I wish that I had someone to share this with!” Or, as I like to think of it, “Youthful Optimism.” But, just give it time, three to five years alone, and those rosy cheeks and dimpled promises will wilt like daisies in the sun.
LEVEL 2: At two-to-four years alone, the light changes in your eyes and you begin to get desperate. I think it’s called ‘thirsty’ now, but they’re both just college speak for “so fucking horny that your ears are bleeding.” This is because your unused genitals are emitting a low-level hum, and it’s popped your eardrums, and now you’re partially deaf in both ears.
Regular sex will fix this right up, but, level 2, or as it will be now called, “I want it so bad you could put it in my ear,” is not the pinnacle of loneliness. Oh, no.
LEVEL 3: Ten years is 3,650 days. Ten years single is when you start questioning everything. That’s what you don’t hear about the fathers of Philosophy. They weren’t big thinkers, they were just really, really lonely, so lonely that they questioned their own existence. Ten years single is when you start wearing your steampunk cosplay every day. Or, as often as T-mobile corporate will allow.
It’s pretty ornate for a casual Friday, but your alter ego, Commander Cumulus Longfellow is part of who you ARE now. That’s the ugly hell of Level 3 loneliness. You ARE who you ARE, and you’re unprepared to change.
LEVEL 4: (Getting louder and louder…) After 10 years alone, the cute, ear-bleeding hum from level 2 has become audible to the people around you. Listen (slam mic into crotch while humming loudly). The existential crisis from level 3 has become full on nihilism- You don’t question who you are any more – you’re just marking off time until you’re NOT anything. You’ve given up on love, and even LIKE at this point. You have a Tinder, but it’s mainly to say bitchy things to well meaning strangers trying to get their genitals licked. They don’t know that idea of physical touch terrifies and intimdates you, and, now you’ve been alone THIS long, it actually causes you pain.
I know, I’m sorry.
Want to hear my vag hum again?
LEVEL 4 LONELINESS IS SIMPLY CALLED M’ALONE.
I want to address the label ‘Sapiosexual,’ which is a term for people who are interested in a person based on their intellect. There was a report this week, by Samantha Allen of the Daily Beast, that Sapiosexual isn’t a ‘legitimate’ sexuality. Her argument is that it doesn’t delineate between gender preference, and that mental aptitude is already a characteristic sought after in any mate, thus rendering it ‘redundant.’ I identify as Sapiosexual, and so I take issue with this. Sapiosexual, for me, supersedes gender. I can’t ‘get going’ without strong intellectual stimulation. So much so, that your genitals are less important for me than your brain function. It’s not like ‘I’m into smart men.’ It’s I’d rather fuck Elizabeth Warren than Forrest Gump. And, the next person who tells me that those are fictional characters gets punched in the dick. I’m not bisexual. I’m not into women; not about the vag at all, but what I AM into is grey matter. It’s okay with me if you don’t believe in it (Jesse Whitehead). Some people don’t believe that homosexuality is a thing. Some people still believe in love, hell, some people still believe in GOD.
I want to believe in God, but I also want to believe that it’s okay to scoop Nutella out of the big jar with my hand, and eat it like a honey bear.
I want to believe in God, but I don’t want to have to care that much about what other people are doing. It seems exhausting.
I want to believe in Jesus, but… what if they’re wrong, and I could have been coveting my neighbor’s wife and oxen this whole time? It’s too dangerous.
I want to believe in God, but I’m not a big, white, guy. And, so I feel like if god existed and wanted me to believe in him, he could have started there… I think we can all agree that’s the character to play in this LARP. That’s the avatar to have…
I was raised really strictly Christian, and there are a lot of really adult themes in the Bible, and you’re kinda’ just surrounded by these ideas. One that always fucked with me, personally, was the idea of Original Sin. I figured that if we had it, all mammals had it, and somewhere out there was a little cat Jesus on a little cat cross for their little cat sins. I thought this for a while, too. But, if this isn’t the truth - if there is no Cat Jesus (Gato deJesus), how do they get clean? Because my cat has done some things to my carpet that he needs to atone for. He’s dirty, and his soul is dirty, too.
I found the filter settings on my okcupid profile, and unclicked them. DO NOT DO THAT, Ladies. I had 1300 missed messages from penises of all walks of life. Professional penises, couch surfing penises, office penises, trade working penises, and penises still in school and looking for direction. 1300 missed penises. AND I’M NOT EVEN HOT. I’m TWICE your size. If I had 1300 missed messages from men, do you know what that means? That means that men would e-mail a literal sofa cushion for sex if it were shaved and oiled up (not Seth, he likes ‘em hairy, as we all know). After the Trumpocalypse, men will line up to hump flashlights. Any time I’m tempted to think of myself as unfuckable, I think of what Jason Biggs did to that poor pie. (I don’t know if millennials will get that joke, but he fucked an apple pie, okay? I think it was pretty obviously inferred…). And, the next person to tell me that’s a fictional character gets punched in the dick.
A reply to the man who asked if he could ‘eat me out all night’ and then
called me a ‘fat bitch’ when I said, ‘no:’
I’ve been called Shamu, Mimi, Shrek, AND Fiona,
Drew Carey, Chris Christie, Adele, AND wide load,
AND Big Bertha, and lard-ass, tubby, chubby, & meaty,
Fleshy, flabby, hefty, weighty, robust, and beefy.
On more than one occasion, I’ve been Rosie O’Donnell,
Porky, zaftig, stout, heavy, and ‘round as a barrel.’
Pudgy, fluffy, whopper, double bubble, and tank.
And, "Ssuuuuuuuuuueeeeee!" Which hurts a bit more than you’d think…
Whale-like, squishy, obese, and bovine -
Solid, burly, paunchy, portly, and elephantine.
I’ve been bacon, jelly-belly, tons of fun, and Crisco Kid,
And, ‘Heavyweight,’ which you’d think would hurt more than it did.
Corn-fed, dough-belly, bulgy, broad as an ox –
And, “Is that a dumpster? No, that’s just Jane’s lunch box!”
They’ve said: extra-large, BBW, big boned, and plus-sized,
Butterball, tub of lard, gob of fat, and five-by-five.
Hungry, hungry Helga, palette ass, husky, beast, blob, and butch –
Roly-poly, pot belly, pleasantly plump, pudge, and munch.
So, after all that, “Fat Bitch” seems easy.
And, yeah, I’m fat, but you’re lazy and sleazy.
I’m lonely, a lot. I mean, I have a lot of time to masturbate. I’m getting good though. I’m thinking I might make State this year. I’m kidding… that’s a young man’s game.
I’m so alone, I don’t even cast a shadow right now.
I’m so lonely; I’m running a small animal shelter out of the back seat of my Toyota. Right now it’s just the one raccoon, but we’re hoping to expand. I have my eye on the neighbor’s dog.
There are a lot of different kinds of fat people, I’m sure you’ve seen Gabriel Iglesias work on the matter. He self-identifies as ‘fluffy.’ It’s different for women. There are still degrees, and I’m at the high-end of the scale, I don’t quite qualify for “dayummmm,” I’m usually between that, and “eh, I’d probably still fuck her.” Which is nice, really, very body affirming. The step down from me is, “She’s got such a pretty face,” then it’s, “Well, you know she can cook,” and then, “I like ‘em a little thick.”
I look like I just finished eating an entire Suicide Girl.
And... I might have.
I ate a lot of things, today...
So, I’m typically all sex and dick jokes. But, recently, I was accused of lacking depth. Which is funny for a Sex Jokes girl – If I were shallow, where would you put the penis? There’s no lack of depth here, I swear it.
But, I do get it, at some point I need to branch out, and part of comedy is taking difficult material and making it livable. So, I’ve been trying to sit down and figure out what makes me bleed.
So, my name is Jane, now.
But, I was born Christie Flores, in New Mexico in 1980. You see, we were part of this witness protection program – because my ex-husband went to prison for 11 years when I was 21.
Just like everything in life, the witness protection program has tiers. There’s the federal level, which is what you see on TV, and what I grew up looking at, like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. I had associated it with some oddball glamour – not unlike infamy.
I also thought prostitutes were glamorous, but that’s Julia Robert’s fault, from Pretty Woman. I had some really fucked up ideas from 90s cinema, guys. But, I digress…
And, there’s State level witness protection, which is what we received. It means that they’ll help you prosecute the criminal, and they’ll help you change your name, social security card, and birth certificate. But, if you’re not a high-profile case, they charge you for it.
It’s an expensive undertaking, changing your identity. It was $600 to change my name, $400 to change my social. I’ve done it twice, so ‘Jane Malone’ is actually a $2k name.
I had this idea in my head that they would relocate us, or help us relocate, but you’re really on your own, unless it’s a really important case, and since I didn’t have a real job, we ended up living in my parent’s house. So, I don’t know how effective witness protection is if you live in the same house you grew up in. Even if your driver’s license does have a radically different last name on it.
I mean, our names were different, but my parking space was the same. And, I don’t know how much that really deters a determined killer.
My ex has said that he’s going to slit my throat one day. And, I used to be worried about it – but, as I’ve gotten older I’ve discovered that I’m probably the last person he wants to meet in a darkened alleyway. We have unfinished business – like Kill Bill style unfinished business. Like, I might invest in a yellow track suit, except I know I’m not long and lean like Uma Thurman. I’ll look like a lemon with a racing stripe. Somehow, that’s less intimidating than you might imagine.
He went to prison for Child Molestation, he’s a pedophile.
I’ve been rejected – not just socially, but sexually – by most people on the planet. But that was his thing, especially. Like, he used to reject me sexually all the time. And, when I was married to him, it was hurtful, but in hindsight, it makes sense.
I went through a rough period after it happened, and because I’m fucked up, I thought why a three-year-old more fuckable than I am? This is bullshit. That’s the roughest joke, guys, I swear. We won’t go further than that.
People ask me if I knew, if there were any hints that he might be so inclined. And, I don’t know that I can say I noticed anything weird, except that he used to find Crysta from ‘Fern Gully’ hot. I mean, she was hot.
I never noticed anything odd, really. I mean, he beat me up a couple times.
Like, one time he beat me with the heel of a Doc Marten boot. I wore crescent moon bruises for a week. Like part of the Star Sailors, I was Sailor Moon Bruise.
But, I got married at 17, to a kid I didn’t know very well, because we were pregnant. So, I don’t know why it ended badly…
I never thought it would come to this, you guys. But, here we go; let’s talk about ‘grabbing a woman’s pussy.’ We all know what I’m talking about, so I’m going to try not to say his name.
In my 20 years of sexual activity, I’ve never once requested that anyone ‘grab my pussy.’ There’s a reason that this particular move isn’t foreplay, and is purely assault.
Because, it’s not fucking sexy.
If I came up to you, and pushed my finger between your ass cheeks (like with your pants on and everything), you wouldn’t get hard about it. It’s NOT foreplay.
Beyond the fact that this is assault, it’s really, really odd behavior.
It’s a primal, aggressive, and flat-out-weird as fuck to do to someone in this era. Like, this is some serious caveman bullshit. I’m waiting for the video where he just clubs a girl over the head and has his lackeys carry her off to the limo to be devoured.
“Grabbing” a pussy is probably the worst way to interact with one, and as a proud owner, I can confirm that they’re not really ‘grabbing’ shape (It’s like grabbing someone by the back?). It almost makes you question if he’s actually seen one. Though, I’m sure he’s molested his share of women.
Also, can we talk about how shitty he must be in bed, if this is his warm-up? Do you think he actually morphs into Jabba the Hut in his golden boudoir?
(The illusion is complete!)
I can’t tell you how sad I am that any woman has ever put out for this idiot. Personally, the thought of his sexuality makes my vagina zip itself up, all my juices dry, and my uterus retracts so far into my body that it’s hard to clear my throat, the fallopian tubes make it look like I’m wearing a choker from the inside. It’s creepy.
And, I’m depressed. I can’t believe how naive I’ve been! This whole time I’ve been cultivating a personality, building character.
Fuck substance, you guys.
Crotchless pants are the way to success in this world. Why didn’t I buy more chaps? My wardrobe feels so incomplete.
I thought it was just the election, but, no. He’s ruining fucking everything. I’m having to do a complete political screening for all my dates now. It’s so much work… And, so few men are passing. I mean it is a difficult quiz, like, T or F: Women are people? T or F? People deserve basic human rights. And, this one is really controversial for some reason: T or F? We shouldn’t shoot unarmed black men. Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK, AMERICA?
In the year 2014 – List of Guys I don’t Blow: People who neglect their hygiene, and exes (because I don’t look in the rearview mirror – I’m not heading that way!).
2016 – List of Guys I don’t Blow: Trump Supporters, Republicans in General, Police, Men who are afraid of the word ‘Feminism,’ Anyone who uses the phrase ‘locker room antics,’ #AllLivesMatter, #BlueLivesMatter.
Where I’m starting to sway is on the personal hygiene and exes, I’m thinking, maybe they weren’t such bad guys, and I could incorporate more shower work into my sex life... This isn’t good, guys…
Like, his bullshit is affecting MY PERSONAL SEX LIFE, and he had gone too far before (not just because I’m half Mexican, and you don’t fuck with the bringers of Tacos), but NOW it’s FUCKING WAR. You fuck with my orgasm, you’ve fucked with my WORLD, bud.
Now, I was raised extremely strictly by a huge Mexican daddy.
He’s a large, Machete looking, 70’s style, Naval boxer, and I can’t imagine what my 5’ nothing of an Abuileta would do to him if he had ever said something like that. She'd have fucking steamrollered him.
Trump wasn’t raised well. No matter what he thinks of his genes, his nanny did a piss poor job.
And, I think it’s an epidemic within the 1%.
They forget that we are the legs they stand on, and, guillotines are on sale on Amazon.
Guys, I’m fucking tired.
I don’t know… It’s like an sexistential crisis, only it’s more ‘been there, done YOU.’ All of you… Sigh…
Like, I’ve been dating for twenty years. It feels like I’ve dated every man on the planet. I’ve tried every flavor they make. I know I may not have fucked you, specifically, but I’ve fucked enough men with your body type to have a pretty good idea about your junk without ever having to have seen it.
Let’s call it an educated guess. And, the saddest part is that I’m pretty accurate, like scary accurate.
Like one of those really good police sketch artists, where the guy they caught looks just like the sketch. And, you know his buddies were like, “dude, she even got your freckles right.”
One where you KNOW his mom recognized him. “He always did have that miscut foreskin.”
I’m just fucking tired… Like that Madeline Khan song, from Blazing Saddles:
Sick and tired of love, from below… and above…
I’ve been with thousands of men, again and again…
I’ve decided that I’m going abstinent.
But, I haven’t been fucking anyone for the last five months, anyway, so this change won’t really affect anyone. I’m making it official, though, because it makes me feel like I’ve got control over it, as opposed to what it is:
A timely exit from the dating pool, just as my eighteen-year-old daughter happens to be entering it.
On account of gross, right? That’s no coincidence.
And, It’s not just that I’m biologically obsolete, either, which is fucking charming…
I’m not exactly your typical dating material. Not everyone is into older, chubbier, tattooier, stand-up comics, and I’m definitely a unique sale. Like, I’m nerdy and quirky, but not in a Zooey Deschanel way, more like in a Lizzie Borden.
Someone is probably going to get hit... In the head… With an axe.... Like 40 times...
Like, I think you can tell just by looking at me that I’ve made up a rich back-story for my cat.
So, going celibate is a good decision. I promise, I feel really good about it. I’m just waiting until October 1st, because I really hate the last guy I fucked.
So, I’m taking a minute to find someone and cleanse my palette, so to speak… (That’s the grossest way I could think of to convey that sentiment.)
I’m going out with one last bang before I put it down forever.
One last fuck. Kinda’ like the last supper, but not as many attendees, and not nearly as well catered. It’s just sausage on the menu.
And, I’m taking a lot more care with choosing the last fuck than I ever did giving out the first one, let me tell you.
Because I had so MANY fucks to give at that point. I was 16.
It was a whole new world of dicks… A fresh penised landscape everywhere…
Nothing but opportunity for spiked seating, if you know what I mean…
But, alas, no more.
I have a bit of a beef to address, before I go:
I never found anyone, it didn’t happen for me.
So, ladies, this is to you. If you did happen to find a great man, and you’ve been with him for a while, could you please do me a solid and fuck him? I can’t handle how many really awesome married men go without. I’d totally donate $.35 per day to this cause. It’s very near and dear to my heart. Cue the music…
I will fellatiate you…
If you will fuck choke me…
I’m not going to fuck your man, I promise. But, YOU definitely should.
Life is hard. So should be dick, you guys...
I'm Jane Malone.