WARNING: This post contains material of a frank and sexual nature. Reader discretion is advised.

So…I feel very conflicted. I had a sexual misadventure Monday night that was (true to form) completely unfortunate and obscenely hilarious. Even as it was happening I found myself thinking, “Wow…this is so blog-worthy.” But I just can’t bring myself to chronicle the tale. A lot of the one-liners my dude said to me were priceless, yet raunchy enough to make Andy Dick blush. But I’m pretty open about talking about my sex life, and I am sure as shit always up for asking about your sex life, so it’s only fair that I share. So I’m giving you the PG-13, edited for TV version of the story instead of the full X-rated straight to a porn store near you version. If you are related to me, work with me, or just find the idea of me having sex disturbing, allow me to nutshell it: Sex. Went bad. Left. I only date weirdos. Fin. If you’re feeling more adventurous, read on. But you have been warned.

So I went on a round of successful dates with a 22-year-old hipster musician who lives around my neighborhood. We’ll call him…Blake. Overall I feel very “meh” about him. STATS! Pros: Sarcastic, really likes me, always has a compliment and most importantly, the best hook-up I’ve ever had. Cons: When he talks, I have elaborate fantasies about duct tapping his mouth shut, cokehead, likes tranny porn and is incredibly impressed with himself. I decided a few weeks ago that the cons outweighed the pros and cut off all contact. But you have to understand that I’m a gay frat boy trapped in the body of a 22-year-old woman. I can’t waste a good hookup, but I don’t want “emotions” or “feelings” to get involved. So I decided to entertain Blake’s request to hang out, but strictly on a hook-up only basis. One more sit-down with him and I fear I’d shove a salad fork in his eye.

Monday night we decided to make a sexin’ date, so I headed over to his place for the first time. In the straight-up ghetto. But one must make sacrifices for a decent hookup, so on I bravely went. I got to his place and headed down to his “apartment” in the basement, which he turned into his personal music studio. I was forced to get the full tour of his studio (including a long-winded explanation about the difference between Japanese symbols and American-made symbols…) while his friend burned some of his porn from him. Thanks asshole. Can’t you use X-tube like a normal person? After porny friend left, it was time to hop on the good foot and do the bad thing.

HILARIOUS THINGS HAVE BEEN EDITED AT THIS POINT BECAUSE THEY MAKE ME FEEL DIRTY WHICH IS SAYING SOMETHING. Let’s skip foreplay and cut directly to sex. I brought a condom with me because the thought of breeding with the world’s most boring cokehead is enough to become celibate and get thee to a nunnery. However, Blake insisted he had is own special condom he was going to use. Whatever, get to it, thought I. Two thrusts in and the flag went from full glory to folded neatly and put back on the shelf. Not happy. Blake insisted that this had NEVER happened to him before and it was definitely NOT me. Could I give him a little head to get things going again? Why not, we all need a helping hand (or mouth as it were) every now and then. Plus I had never given a blowjob to a dude wearing a condom before and frankly, I was curious. I actually didn’t really care at this point because I don’t really mind giving head and his condom totally tasted like English Breakfast tea. So now I wanted sex and a scone.

Back in position we went and things were going fine. Suddenly, Blake starts screaming and falls to the floor in pain. He starts hitting his now yet again flaccid dick over and over again and then ran to the bathroom. A few seconds later he came out looking embarrassed and in pain. Blake explained that he sometimes has a problem with premature ejaculation (STEEEEEEERICK ONE!) and wanted to impress me, so he bought Durex extended pleasure condoms lined with Benzocaine. Benzocaine. Benzocaine is a local anesthetic and fish tranquilizer. Why in the sweet name of Jesus would you want to put that on your penis? So the poor kid can’t feel his dick at all and then proceeds to have an allergic reaction to the Benzocaine causing him to lose it. I’m sure that was very scary, but I could NOT stop laughing. There I was, in the basement of a house in the ghetto wrapped in a sheet laughing my ass off while my date was in the bathroom screaming and running his dick under the faucet. This is my life.

Five minutes later he came out and apologized for his current inability to perform. He proposed that he explain all of his studio machinery to me while he waited for the feeling to come back to his nether regions. I explained that I think I should hit the old dusty trail. “Wait! I’ve got some killer pot!”…Damn him…I can’t resist that! So there I sat high as a kite as he manically raced around his studio explaining the mechanics of his amps and microphones and how his computer worked in conjunction with each cord and blah blah blah... Now, I don’t mean to be heartless but…DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH OF MY LIFE IS SPENT BEING BORED ASSHOLE? I spend 8 hours a day, 5 days a week sitting in a cubicle trying not to fall asleep and thinking of new ways I can entertain myself without getting fired. I never thought I could be more bored then I am at work, but congratulations Blake, you proved me wrong (STEEEEEEERICK TWO!)

At least the situation really couldn’t have gotten worse. Oh wait, yes it could. Suddenly we heard a door slam upstairs. “Oh shit…get your clothes on! Get dressed! My dads home!!!” Um. What? That’s right kiddies! His basement apartment was in the home of his drunken and abusive father’s house. How lovely! Blake raced around the room picking up condom wrappers and spraying air freshener to hide the pot smell like a fucking 16 year old. It was at this point that I couldn’t find my pants. Why? Because Blake had hidden them under his bed. Why? I don’t fucking know, why did he think it was a good idea to put a fish tranquilizer on his dick? I got my pants on, grabbed my bag and was thinking of how I was going to gracefully leave when he said, “Well, I guess the odds of us having sex are out tonight. Why don’t we just sit and talk about more?” STEEEEEEERICK THREE! I’M OUT!

Sha la la!


I put the "ism" in "this is all just a defense mechanism"

Just call me Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Jr. because I too have a dream. I have always dreamt of being an Upper East Side socialite. Naturally, you can imagine the happy dance I did when I heard that Bravo was producing The Real Housewives of New York City. Finally, I could get a real look at the rich and fabulous housewives of this fair city! Well I’ve looked…and now I need to go to the nearest high school chemistry lab and borrow their emergency eyewash.

I feel like a young child who has sneaked downstairs on Christmas Eve to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus, only to see their father putting the gifts under the tree. No, I’m more traumatized than that. I feel like a young child watching the Easter Bunny get slaughtered and then forced to wear its pelt while eating the rabbit stew it is now a part of.

That’s right kiddies, mama learned a hard lesson this week: money can’t buy class or style, it can only shine the terd that is redneck white trash and give it an inflated ego. –Sigh- I once took a summer road trip with my friend Helena to Canada. What we learned on that trip was rednecks are everywhere; no Mason-Dixon Line can contain them. We met Canadians whom magically had southern accents and referred to Asians as “Orientals.” Rednecks have infected our neighbor to the north and now they have infected Manhattan society. These women are obnoxious trash. But worse than that, they’re obnoxious trash with money, and I am not impressed. I feel like if you took away their drivers, they would be any given housewives from my hometown. I would rather watch paint dry than The Real Housewives of Olney, Maryland.

Let’s go through each housewife and rip her a new asshole so I feel better about being horribly poor. Mind you the picture below has been airbrushed more than a plain white t-shirt at a Boardwalk stand.


On the left we have housewife Ramona Singer. This woman offends me more than any other housewife. Let’s start with the eyes. The only thing this woman and I have in common is the look on our eyes when I watch this show—wide in shock and horror. Seriously, how much plastic surgery do you have to get to look that intensely shocked at all times? What happens to her eyes when she is genuinely shocked? Do they fall out? Jesus. Next, run a goddamn comb through your hair lady. We just discussed how freak-show wide your eyes are so I know you see the cameras following you around. You’d think you would want to brush that Crayola-yellow hair of yours so it doesn’t consistently look like you just came from driving a convertible on the highway. I feel horrible for this woman’s daughter. Countless times they show her 12-year-old daughter cringe in embarrassment as her mother prances around calling herself a MILF wearing ensembles exclusively from the clubbing section of a Forever 21. Last time I checked you are richer than God and Chanel does not make spangly neon pink spandex/lycra halter mini-dresses. You do the math. The crème de la crème is Ramona’s jewelry. Oh Lawd Jesus where do I even start? ::Patsy sharpens claws and takes a deep breath:: I understand your husband is in the religious jewelry business and I understand that you want the world to know that Jesus died for our signs on the cross. That being said, there is no excuse to wear giant blinged-out crosses that look like the ghost of Tammy Faye’s style vomited all over them. Ramona is also seen playing tennis on her million-dollar South Hampton mansion’s tennis court wearing a cute tennis outfit and a diamond Playboy bunny necklace. In the name of Ralph Lauren, Michael Kors and American Sportswear, someone take this woman out back and shoot her in the head like Ole Yeller to put her out of her misery. And by her misery, I clearly mean my misery.

Next up is yentah Jill Zarin. My only gripe with Jill is her daughter and the fact that she scores a .02 on the Fabulous Richter Scale. I feel like I’m having dinner at any given Jewish friend from High School’s house when I watch her segments. Now I went easy on Ramona’s daughter, so I’m going to unleash on Jill’s. I had high hopes for Jill’s daughter—she’s 14 years old but looks 18, hates her rich step-daddy and is going to “detox” in Martha’s Vineyard. Holy Marissa Cooper, batman! Disappointingly, this is a watered down plot line. We’re forced to watch awkward just plain uncomfortable interactions between her and her stepfather that are boring and sans intrigue and she’s going to “detox” not because she’s a 14 year old alcoholic or something equally fabulous, but rather to lose weight for a week. Boo let me help you out. You a little curvy, but you don’t need to spend $10,000 to spend a week in Martha’s Vineyard with someone telling you to put the honey cake down and pick up an apple. Ain’t nothing wrong with a little extra meat on your bones. But stop wearing the Official Insecure Young Fat Girl Outfit. The Official Insecure Young Fat Girl Outfit consists of tennis shoes, socks pulled up and then folded over once, denim shorts and a t-shirt. That shit doesn’t look good on anyone. Those demin shorts will ride up and get trapped in the crotch of anyone and maybe your thighs aren’t an area we want a denim camel toe pointing to. Use that 10 grand you were going to use for “detox” in Martha’s Vineyard and get thee to Bergdorf’s and go one-size-up crazy, and then get a drinking problem like a proper 14-year-old Manhattan socialite.

Everyone bow for Countess Luann De Lesseps. I can’t be impressed with this piece of (married into) royalty because I think she’s impressed enough for the both of us. The Cuntess is seen in a preview for a future episode reprimanding a fellow casemate for introducing her to the help. Honey, you host “The Countess Report,” a cable-access television show in the Hamptons. Wayne and Garth had less of an attitude and were far more relatable.

Bethanny Frankel. Comparable to The Real Housewives of Orange County’s Jo, except Blade is bald and 99% less interesting.

Lastly we have Alex McCord. I can stand Alex the most out of all of the housewives. Sure her husband looks like Eddie Izzard if he got beaten with an ugly stick and we see her ass in a thong, a dish I don’t think anyone at this table ordered, but I think I like her. She lives in a nice area of Brooklyn (Blair has seen her on the subway!) and is pompous in all the right ways. She has a French nanny for her two ridiculously named children (Francois and something else equally destined to make him gay), summers in St. Bart’s instead of The Hamptons, and along with her husband is viciously trying to climb the social ladder. Now that is what I want to see. That is proper snobbery. Thank you Mrs. McCord. Too bad at the top of that ladder is a bug eyed woman wearing hot pants and pasties in the shape of Playboy bunnies asking her daughter if she thinks she’s a MILF.

Sha la la!



I am, for the most part, a prim and proper blue blooded Yankee. However, I currently live in a town that is a bit more down country then urban. Our biggest news story this week is about a monkey named Chico.

The Feds first had interaction with Chico the monkey in 2005 when they went to check out a fake diploma ring. The little critter threw feces at the officials the entire time, their response give the monkey a stern look and say “PLEASE DON’T THROW YOUR POOP, ILLEGAL MONKEY”

Chico ponders throwing feces (THIS IS THE REAL CHICO)

As to be expected Chico did not listen, and for three years plotted his revolt. A week ago he escaped into his affluent neighborhood. Chico’s first victim was a 18 year old Japanese exchange student. The small animal continued to throw poop, bit two others, and hid in the trees keeping officials at bay for hours.

The real Chico has had a taste of youthful fear and he wants more!

Everyone in town is obsessed with this news story, Chico is truly the talk of the town.

I wish I could quit you,


Go ask Alice

Bar trivia. What could be better? A bucket of Miller High Life, getting rowdy with your friends on a Monday night, exercising the brain cells you are simultaneously killing, and the sweet smell of healthy competition in the air. My roommates and our friend Jaimie have started a tradition of going to trivia every other Monday night. My favorite part of trivia might be the team names people chose. People really stepped up to the bat Monday night! My favorites: Ashole, Unseasonably Awesome, I Used to Fuck Guys Like You in Prison, No Guts No Gloryhole and my personal favorite, I Gave up Meth for Lent. This team name was so funny to me, I apparently felt it extremely necessary to change my Facebook status to “Patsy McBlogger is giving up meth for lent.”

…I’ve gotten some feedback about the status…and I think I accidentally started a rumor that I’m a meth addict. And let’s keep in mind I’m from a very shallow and extremely gossipy town. What pisses me off the most about this situation isn’t that people might actually think I’m addicted to drugs, it’s that they think I’m addicted to crystal meth. Why did it have to be the most white trash drug on the market? Damnit!

As I was scanning slides this morning I started contemplating which drug I wish people thought I was addicted to instead of meth. Your drug of choice is like your handbag—it’s a status symbol. Saying I’m addicted to meth is the equivalent of walking around with one of those god awful handbags that was so obviously purchased from a stand in Time Square, adorned with spangles and a tacky pattern or picture of Marilyn Monroe (please see below for helpful visual.)


Oh no, I will not have this. If everybody is going to think I’m addicted to drugs, I’m going to be addicted to the Fendi of narcotics. But which one?

Coke: Initially I thought coke was the way to go. But while coke may be expensive, it still doesn’t speak that highly of you. When I hear someone’s addicted to coke, I automatically visualize acrylic nails, a lot of silver jewelry from Tiffany’s and one hell of a fake tan. I may have dabbled in that look a few years back, but it just wasn’t me. Sorry coke.

Marijuana: Although highly enjoyable, if Marijuana were a handbag, it would be an eco-friendly 100% undyed hemp sack. Not me. Sometimes I spray aerosol hairspray in the air for fun.

Ecstasy: I’m not Katie Holmes and this isn’t Go.

Caffeine Pills/Speed: Way too Jessie Spano.

LSD/Hallucinogenics: Can you even be addicted to Hallucinogenics? I feel like Hallucinogens are one of those drugs everybody does once in their life, a stop sign laughs at you, and you decide never to do it again.

Prescription Pills: Very Valley of the Dolls…While I appreciate the “I stole these from mumsy when we were playing tennis at the Connecticut house” vibe a prescription pill addiction gives off, the recent and tragic death of Heath Ledger might make said addiction too trendy. Never be a slave to fashion.

Whippets: Whippets are the Jansport backpack of drugs. Not appropriate over the age of 14.

Heroin: Hardcore. But also, kind of cool. Trainspotting IS my favorite movie…and it makes you skinny as shit, so people back home would imagine poor recovering Patsy in a Kate Moss-esque kind of way. Also, a lot of hardcore hipsters are into heroin, so it has street cred, but not in a trendy kind of way. Heroin is like a 1990’s Louis Vuitton pocketbook with a really long strap (please see helpful visual below.)


Yes, that style of handbag is scary out of style, but it’s Louis Vuitton, which makes it ironic and cool. It’s irreverent and quirky…like me?? Heroin! Heroin is a perfect match!

So if everyone could help me out and tell at least one gossipy friend that I’m addicted to heroin, I would really appreciate it. I refuse to have people I don’t care about and will never see again picturing me mixing battery acid and Sudafed in my kitchen with no teeth and a scratched up face!

Sha la la!
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