Text 7 Dec 1 note #3 - Paula Freaking Deen

#3 - Paula Freaking Deen

Photo borrowed from Paula’s Facebook page.
Who: Paula Deen

Why: First of all, Paula is a real materialization of the American Dream. She also never dreamt her Southern as apple pie self would end up becoming an American icon, and her humility is very endearing to me. Paula has an awesome story. Plus, she guest starred in South Park which is one of my favorite shows, so yeah. She’s on my secks list just like Randy Marsh.

Look at her smile. LOOK AT IT. Shining, bright, white. Eyes as blue as the freaking sky. She is beautiful and kind, and sweet as cotton candy, y’all. “Paula has become an American phenomenon, overcoming poverty, doubt and agoraphobia to achieve success and acclaim she could never have imagined. Yet the most remarkable part of Paula Deen’s journey from her kitchen to fame and fortune is that Paula has remained every bit as genuine, real and full of love as the first meals to leave her kitchen.” (From Paula’s bio on her website, www.pauladeen.com.) Read on. This shit really happened.
  1. She’s real. She’s struggled just like everyone else. Her parents both died before she was 23. My dad passed away over three years ago, and I am still reeling. I just can’t imagine how it would feel to lose them both. Paula was also blessed with panic attacks and agoraphobia throughout her 20’s… “Your blessings are raining down on me. Wait! That’s not rain!” That quote was from Bruce Almighty, so don’t get mad at me for being irreverent.
  2. Paula decided that there was something she could do with all of her frustration AND still not have to leave the house because of her crippling social panic. She cooked.
  3. After being married for 24 years to her high school sweetheart, they divorced, and she was left with $200 to her name and the burden of raising two young boys and her younger brother.
  4. Instead of playing the victim like so many others have chosen to do, Paula overcame her anxiety problems to try a number of career paths until she started a catering service, making meals that her boys delivered.

It wasn’t long until her business outgrew her kitchen, and the rest, as they say, is in Rome. Or whatever. After becoming a star, Paula found love again and married Michael Groover at the Bethesda Home for Boys in Savannah, GA. The Bethesda Home for Boys. That’s her charity of choice. Orphaned children. The woman is a dadnabbit saint.

This past year she came out about her several-year battle with Type 2 diabetes. She has received a lot of criticism because her recipes include pinches of butter here and there and various fats in minimal quantities. *snicker* This is really the meat and potatoes of what I wanted to talk about. Paula grew up eating these foods because it’s part of her culture as a Southerner. She’s not trying to kill you with obesity, and she doesn’t walk around with a stick of butter in her pocket. That would stain her clothes. She shared these recipes in the knowledge that most people with some fucking sense can gauge whether or not they’re eating too many calories. That is your responsibility as the consumer of meals. Grow the fuck up and take some responsibility for your life and your arteries. The fact that she shares recipes for the nectar of the gods with you is a COURTESY, and you should be kissing her swollen feet for slaving over the stove and raining upon you flaky, golden nuggets of buttermilk manna. People are all mad at her for not setting a good example and whatnot. Profiting from her notoriety by selling foodstuffs that are high in calories and general goodness. It’s not her responsibility to know your cholesterol count, you ignorant bitch. It’s YOUR cholesterol.

In honor of Paula, I am declaring this day, November 16th, Paula Freaking Deen Day. On this day I will post an awesome picture of Paula on my blog every year. Since she graced the screen of my favorite satirical cartoon, her cartoony portrait is going up this time. You’re welcome.


How: I would totally let her bathe me in a tub of melted butter and feed me pie

(Source: ihaveaseckslist.blogspot.com)

Text 6 Dec #2 - L.L. Big time.

#2 - L.L. Big time.

Photo by Michael Wilson, hijacked from Lyle’s facebook page because I stalk him like that.
Who: Lyle Lovett (Not the L.L. you were thinking of, eh?)

Why: All of my friends think I am quirky in the least, but mostly batshit crazy, for my obsessive worship of this man. I’ll tell you just like I told them, “Bite my ass, I love him.” Period. He is beautifully obscure. He is different and tasteful and eclectic. He writes brilliant lyrics and is arguably one of the best song writers ever born in Texas. Sure, he’s wiry and not extremely good-looking by some standards of measure. (Although not good-looking by most standards of measure is actually attractive to me because I don’t like cookie cutters or molds.) But his brain… I would secks that brain silly.

I haven’t always been into him. I didn’t actually yield to his resplendence until I was at the Big State Festival in Texas a few years ago with the douche bag of colossal magnitude that I used to be engaged to. (We will just call him DB in fond remembrance of his douche bag ways.) We were there to see Willie Nelson (who is also the dog’s bollocks), but Lynyrd Skynyrd was playing on one of the stages at the time. I wasn’t feeling it, and I got tired of sweaty dudes with weird accents showing off their underarm hair, so I started to walk around. I was extracted from my people watching by Lyle’s soulful, folksy delivery. I walked toward his stage, opposite the corner Skynyrd was on, mesmerized by this glorious man that stood beside his choir of brethren. Tears rendered me almost visionless as my eyeballs stang with the salty product of my eargasms. I could hear my brain, “Lyle Lovett? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re crying over Lyle Lovett?” Granted, my brain was familiar with the greatness of the kings and queens of classic country, soul, and blues and such, and that was really what she was taught to love all her life. But this was something different. I retorted, “Brain, you simple little bitch, shut the fuck up and listen.”

Lyle lulled me into an actual place. It was a completely different world where people and lines and colors were smeared, and all that was left were beautiful strokes of sound, softly caressing over one another into a vibrant, harmonious masterpiece. I forgot how much of a jerk DB was (for a second, until he scratched himself). All I could listen to were the velvety vocal harmonies and minimalistic but impeccably timed and blended trills of the masterful instrumentalists. I was transported. I fell completely in love with Lyle, not exactly as the person, but as the artist. The guy standing in front of some infinitely delicate thing, contemplating on letting the droves in, maybe worried that they won’t appreciate the essence of the spirit of the thing, but not hindered because he would rather the few see the beauty than noone at all. I don’t know if you realize this, but I will tell you as an artist and writer myself, that takes monstrous balls. I have bathed in Lyle’s brilliance ever since, and that is that.

If you’ve never given two shits about music or Lyle Lovett, you really ought to dabble. Do a taste test. I started with the, “It’s Not Big. It’s Large.” album, then I worked my way back. His latest, “Release Me,” is brilliant, too, and I’m pretty sure everything he touches turns to gold and that he pees pure liquid gold. He is into charities of various sorts and also loves to travel and has pictures of peacocks and pretty animals. But that is neither here nor there. I think the world would be a shithole without his music. Well, maybe not a shithole, but definitely a less interesting place for me, and that’s reason enough. See for yourself in his completely classy and untarnished performance of the National Anthem: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h61Zi-8evsg. If this doesn’t move you, and you are an American, there is something wrong with your soul.

How: Slowly on a fluffly cumulus cloud with a dimmer switch on the sun and golden candles afire all over

(Source: ihaveaseckslist.blogspot.com)

Link 5 Dec fuck everything.»

FUCK EVERYTHING. I just put some text on this fucking GIF and shit. Original GIF will be first comment. Do with either as you will. Sorry if the text version is a tad pixelated, had to enlarge it. 

Yes, loverlies, I’m feeling like a ray of fucking sunshine this happy day, and this is the expression of that euphoria.

Text 3 Dec #1 - The obvious… Hubs.

#1 - Okay, the obvious. Hubs.

Who: John Dunning, my husband and chaperone

Why: He’s a super duper great guy. He is generous, accepting, honest, compassionate, hard-working, the list goes on and on… He is also the only person I am legally allowed to secks. So if you’re wondering if you can take me literally, ever, on this blog, the answer is ‘nope’. At least not when I say I’m gonna hump someone into next week. We signed a contract, and we’ve been over it. It is a concise and binding agreement.

John comes from good stock. His entire family is the same way. They are some of the most generous people I have ever met, and I have met Mother Teresa. Okay, I never actually met her, but that point was important for making my case of how generous my in-laws are. And honest. And kind.

John has a knack with all things mechanical. He learned much of that from his father. If it’s broken, he can fix it if he has the right tools and fixin’ things, and that’s pretty hot. He learned how to work until you’re literally going to drop from his Momma. John would rather die than tap out. He has awesome man-handling arms, and he is at times (at least I think) supernaturally strong. He’s a good shot, and that will come in very handy in a zombie apocolypse. John and his ex-wife raised two of the most well-behaved children you could ever meet. Well, they’re adults now, but I’ll kiss your ass if you catch them not minding their Ps and Qs. Though he came from pretty humble beginnings, John and his partner started a successful company and have been running for over 10 years, and stayed afloat even during the economic crisis. He has laser beam focus, and I severely lack any semblance of that. He likes to listen to music and… TADA! I’m a singer. We go together like peas and carrots. Sometimes peas and jelly beans… but mostly peas and carrots.

Also, if I tried to write a blog about people I would secks, and since I’m legally obligated to secks my husband, I think it only appropriate to talk about him. But he is all that and a batmobile.

How: Any way he wants it except for the way(s) I find repulsive or too painful to consider. Nowhere does that contract say anything about that. We’ve been over it. ;-)

(Source: ihaveaseckslist.blogspot.com)

Text 1 Dec The stupid shit I do… #1

I brought my lunch with me today. When I brought it to the microwave, I placed it carefully on the second shelf and noticed it was abnormally cold. I closed the door. I looked for the control panel on the front right and got frustrated when I couldn’t find it. I realized it was the refrigerator. I am having another cup of coffee while I wait for my lunch to warm in the MICROWAVE.

Text 1 Dec What the hell am I doing here?

I created this blog to talk about other people and why I think they’re great. I think. I just started it, so I really don’t know where it will take me. Thankfully, I can just create another blog when I change direction, or change the name of this one. I am also assuming people are actually going to read this shit. I suppose before I start considering my current audience of vapor, I should tell you who I am and what the hell’s bells I’m doing here.

I am a female writer from South Louisiana, and I have had a rather interesting life so far. At least I like to think so. I am currently residing in North Louisiana with my husband and two fur babies. We also have two fantastic sons from a previous union. We co-own the local party rental business, Majestic Tent and Event (which is great for meeting cool motherfrickers such as yourself), and we have a number of varying interests. I am also in a band with some of the bad-ass-est musicians in Shreveport. We (yes, I’m going to shamelessly plug the Soulfish Blues Band here) play a huge variety of music because we can, and we can be seen somewhere around the area twice every weekend except the weekends that we can’t, but those are far and few between.

I have met a lot of different people from a lot of different cultures because I like that shit, and I have learned to not judge people. But when I still feel the compulsion to judge them, I’ll do it here with as much praise as I can muster. And snarky humor. And correct grammar (which is ironic because these are sentence fragments, but if I have to explain this to you, you are not going to find this humorous, so save yourself the time, and that’s funny because this is a run-on.) When I post about a person I think is crappy, I will probably use sarcasm, and that’s the way it’s gonna go because it’s mine.

I will talk a lot about people I would secks. I do not mean this in the literal, although I may have contemplated the subjects’ of my writing genitals in secret. I will probably not reveal who those people are, however, unless it is relative to the post. When I say, “people I would secks,” I mean people that I think are noteworthy for one particular reason or another. So at the end of the day, if you think this blog is shit, you will still probably learn some cool things about some random dogooders, and that is worth the gander. Even if you don’t care about those people, it will almost always be good for a chuckle. All of those good side effects of this blog will energize you because it’s good juju. It’s like coffee… for your brain.

So… Thanks for reading, and I will try not to make you sorry that this is how you are spending your time. Also, some people asked me to keep writing because I crack them up. I have an obligation to those people. I mean, I see them on almost a daily basis, and if this doesn’t work out, we will have a lot of awkward silence until it blows up in a self-loathing, I-told-you-noone-gives-a-shit-about-what-I-say kind of argument. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

(Source: ihaveaseckslist.blogspot.com)

Text 1 Dec


An Oak tree. A Live Oak, to be specific.

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