Friendly Fucks: AKA Celebrity Crushes (Possibly, Probably, Definitely Vulgar)

In need of a fun diversion, I look to my tiny little list of blog topic ideas. One of the newest entries is “My 5 Fucks.” A recent conversation about spank banks, followed by me laughing and rolling my eyes, ended in the question posed to me, you know the age-old one:

Who’s the #1 celebrity you’d like to fuck?

I balked at this, because I’m a good girl. And I replied,

Only one?! I have to choose ONE?! Impossible.

So then I was allowed to name my top five. But good girls aren’t content with odd numbers. So let’s do a top ten, shall we?

Disclaimer: It seriously took me seven fucking forevers to come up with anyone. I imagine scenarios with strangers, not celebrities. There’s your little naughty tidbit. I wouldn’t actually fuck any of these guys even if they threw themselves at me, unless, of course, we were in a loving a committed relationship. Then I’d fuck them to death. TO DEATH.

Top Ten Celebrity Crushfucks

In no particular order, I present to you a Stephellaneous Spank Bank (only Stephanie has never actually spanked to any of them – I’m making this less fun aren’t I? Shut up.):

Crushfuck #1: Ralph Fiennes

I’ve had a crush on this dude since I was a kid. Seriously. This is one on the list I might actually fuck, if only he weren’t into older women. This motherfucker ages like a fine wine. And the accent. Ah, you’ll see several accented motherfuckers on this list. Moving on.

Crushfuck #2: Jason Momoa

Momoa
I know that look. Come here.
Momoa2
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It’s a bit early yet, but I may need to change. Ahem. On to the third candidate.

Crushfuck #3: Colin Farrell

I like my Colin like I like my dreams. Dirty. Dirty as fuck. Also arguably the hottest accent on the list. Seriously, y’all can have the clean shaven good boy look, though he does look hot in his specs. Let’s see. Ahem. Who’s next?

Crushfuck #4: Don Cheadle

One of the many on the list who is hot and known for his intellect. Just look at him. Grr.

Crushfuck #5: José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal

Oh, Oberyn Martell. Come and show me why they really called you the viper.

Crushfuck #6: Tyson Beckford

Uhm. Hold on. I need a moment. Oh! Oh yeah. I actually had Usher in this spot, but Tyson is hotter and would probably be far less likely to give me the herpes. Plus I’m starting to think I do have a think for tats.

Crushfuck #7: Omar Borkan Al Gala

This motherfucker right here is so yummy that he got kicked out of a cultural festival in Saudi Arabia, because the religious leaders feared his handsomeness would overwhelm susceptible females. That’s right. He’s from Dubai. I wonder what Dubai is like this time of year…

Crushfuck #8: Michael Fassbender

Well hello there, Michael. I’m Stephanie. Can I interest  you in breakfast? I mean a nightcap?

Crushfuck #9: Lee Byung-hun

LeeLee2

Heh….llo….there…

Crushfuck #10: John Oliver

Hilarious. Whip smart. Geeky. Cute as fuck.

~

I need a cigarette and a cold shower. Okay, not really. These guys are hot and all. But I tend to think of people who are more real to my life.

You know who you are. And thank you..for not abandoning me..even though I can’t have you. When so many abandon, so easily breaking promises, it touches my soul that you’re still here for me.

Boom. Like a pro, Stephanie turned a fun fucking post about fun fucking into something sappy and mushy!

Enjoy the eye candy, folks. Anyone you think I missed and should be spanked for failing to include?

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Music Tag: Because Music Gets Me High

Moose & Michelle at The Lonely Tribalist tagged me in a fun little music game. And I’m gonna do it! Because. Uhm. Because!

Onezo: Because it sounds fun! And fun is fun! And Moose & Michelle are cool!
Twozo: Because I’m busy as fuck! And fuck is busy! And I’m also stressed and depressed and scared about the flooding!
Threezo: Because MUSIC! Oh! Oh yeah, and I don’t know what the hell else to write. Woo!

The Rules (that you know I probably won’t follow) are as follows:

  1. List the first 10 songs that come on shuffle (no skipsies cheaterfaces).
  2. Then write your favorite lyric (or verse) from each song.
  3. Tag/link your enemies, frienemies, friends, puppies, presidential candidates, whatevs. FYI. You fuckin’ already know: Y’all are ALL tagged. Tagging makes me uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as wedgies. Almost. So all y’all are tagged. It’s fun. Dooo eeet.

Now let the games begin!

Music Wallpapers 7

SHE BE SUFFLIN’

Song the First: Elastic Heart by Sia
Favorite Verse: Very difficult to choose my favorite part on this one. But the following won out for its fierce will to fight and survive.

And I will stay up through the night
Let’s be clear, won’t close my eyes
And I know that I can survive
I’ll walk through fire to save my life

~

Song the Second: Diss Never (Dig Up We History) by Tricky
Favorite Verse: I love the flow and style this verse.

But when them missing, them can hold bad man responsible
But a true that a bad man job is invincible
But when them missing, them can hold marathon responsible
But a true that a man job is invincible

~

Song the Third: Modern American Gypsy by Big D and the Kids Table
Favorite Verse:

Some of us are born to not assimilate at all

~

Song the Fourth: Knock Me Down by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Favorite Verse:

Don’t be afraid to show your friends
That you hurt inside, inside
Pain’s part of life; don’t hide behind your false pride
It’s a lie, your lie

~

Song the Fifth: Cotopaxi by The Mars Volta
Favorite Verse:

Don’t beat around the pulpit there is no lost and found
Where is the devil waiting trying to disguise?
I’ve seen what you used to look like
Down here you won’t survive

~

Song the Sixth: Obvious Child by Paul Simon
Favorite Verse:

Well I’m accustomed to a smooth ride
Or maybe I’m a dog who’s lost its bite
I don’t expect to be treated like a fool no more
I don’t expect to sleep through the night

~

Song the Seventh: I Touch Myself by Divinyls
Favorite Verse: Uhm… I’m just. I’m just gonna drop the song and move on…

~

Song the Eighth: Wu-Tang Clan Ain’t Nuthing Ta Fuck Wit by Wu-Tang Clan
Favorite Verse:

And if you want the beef, then bring the ruckus
Wu-Tang Clan ain’t nuttin ta fuck wit
Straight from the motherfuckin slums that’s busted
Wu-Tang Clan ain’t nuttin ta fuck wit

~

Song the Ninth: Death is the Road to Awe by Clint Mansell & The Kronos Quartet
Favorite Verse: (Instrumental)

~

Song the Tenth: Iron by Woodkid
Favorite Verse: Oooo, I totally forgot about this song.

From the dawn of time to the end of days
I will have to run, away
I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste
Of the blood on my lips, again

~

This was cool and fun – certainly interesting to see what came up. A lot of these things I haven’t listened to in ages. And I’m shocked I didn’t get more 90s grunge rock or some of the heavy shit I was recently plowing through. And 80s! Where are the 80s, man?!

Thanks for inviting me to participate, Moose & Michelle!

The rest of y’all: get on this shit. It’s neato!

The One Where Stephanie Finally Does A Top Ten Post (AKA Stephanie Posts Again in the Same Week. It’s a Christmas Miracle!)

I’m not big on “Top Ten” or “Top Anything” posts (unless they’re snarky and funny), but there are some things I need to get off my chest. (And I don’t mean the spaghetti noodle that I dropped down into my decolletage a couple weeks ago, that had to be peeled from my boob. We need adult bibs, people.) So let me get right to it.

Top Ten Things My Coworkers Need to Cease. Immediately. Or I’ll Put Strychnine in the Guacamole.

Numero One-o: Ladies, I know you like to hover over the toilet. It’s probably the only time you ever hover over anything. Maybe you get off on it. Maybe it’s a workout for your quads. Maybe you’re doing some weird, fucked up kegel exercise that can only be done while hovering over the toilet. Look, you do you. And I’ll do me. (Or wait. Yeah, okay, I will. But hopefully not only me. Wow, can I digress.) But please, for the love of all that is good and dry, please wipe up your little piss puddles that you dribble all over the motherfucking seats. And while you’re at it – you know that can of Lysol on the back of every tank? CLEAN YO SHIT UP. Nasty twaffles. (That’s twat + waffle for those not in the know.) (Now you’re in the know.) (It’s better than being in the no.) (You’re welcome.) Oh. And one more thing, you nasty hagwipes.

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Numero Two-o: I know you’re on your little New Years’ Resolution health kick that you’ll scrap in a few more weeks. Some of you have already scrapped them. (You’re my favorites.) I get it. Okay? I could stand to lost a donkey’s worth of pounds. And I know I should get on that, but fuckin’ hell I find it hard to self-motivate. (AND she’s off! Digressing again!) But you and those fucking green drinks. I have a bullet (I’m talking about the juicing bullet, not the one in my nightstand. Perverts.), and I used it for a while. Perhaps I’ll use it again when I’m feeling brave. They taste great if you do them right. But please, please, on behalf of everyone in this godforsaken room, please do not drink a thirty-two ouncer and then happily go about your day while you choke us all with the noxious fumes coming out of your exhaust pipe. I’m seriously choking on your colon clouds, and I can’t fucking take it. It brings tears to my eyes, and my clothes smell like your asshole. And I hate you for it. I fucking hate you for it. Cut that shit to a small drink every other day. Or I’ll kill you. Slowly. With a spork. Stinkhole.

Numero Three-o: Not exactly a cease immediately, but more like a WHAT THE FUCK. Ladies, again, I’m talking to you. Why the fuck are there footprints on the back of the stall doors in the bathroom? Are you propping your feet up  and using that for leverage while you push out the mess you’re about to leave on the toilet? Are you so backed up that you have to damage the lock on the door with your pushing? Are you propping your feet up to hide so that no one can see your feet and know it’s you making us plug in a candle warmer by the sink? (We totally still know it’s you, because we can recognize the ringtone on your phone. You do realize you’re getting the assgerms of everyone who’s ever used that stall today ON YOUR PHONE, right?) Are you in there getting fucked, propping your feet up? If so, I hope it’s not by Panel Van Paco. Because I’m pretty sure he prefers little boys. (Yes, I work with some fucked up people. And yes, I’m being mean and leaping to wild assumptions.) I don’t get it. But those footprints are about a size ten. So I’m pretty sure I know who’s doing it. Ahem. Queen Bitch.

Numero Four-oStop with the ginormous attention-seeking huffs you make at every little thing you’re working on. Every five fucking seconds. I don’t give a rat’s ass, and I’m not going to ask you. Every five fucking seconds. What the fuck is wrong with you. I’m not doing it. It’s bad enough I have to listen to your ragehuffs, I sure as hell am not going to willfully subject myself to your asinine rants that you only brought upon yourself by being such a fucking bitchwhore.

Numero Five-oCould you please stop asking me every single time I cook soup, why it makes exploding sounds in the microwave? For the Last. Fucking. Time. It’s the carrots, people! Carrots go boom in the microwave. Next time you ask, I’m gonna tell you that you have 10 seconds to reach Minimum Safe Distance. And then Kablooey. Because I say we nuke the entire thing from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.

Numero Six-o: Stop showing me pictures of your baby. It’s ugly. And I don’t give a fuck. It’s all wrinkled, and I know it came out of your or your wife’s vagina, and that squicks me out. Stop making me think of your vagina. Stop making me picture your vagina. Stop telling me how many stitches it took to make your wife’s vagina fuckable again. Stop telling me about your precious babe’s head that was misshapen by your wife’s vagina. I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT ANYONE’S VAGINA. And I don’t want to look at eighteen thousand pictures of your baby Every. Single. Day. You’ve done what almost every human in the history of ever has done. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Popopopopopopopopopopop. Like gremlins. And gremlins were mean, and mischievous and stole all my candy. And had to be exploded because of their vaginas. Stop. It.

Numero Seven-o: Stop spoiling shows and movies that you know I have every intention of seeing but haven’t gotten around to it yet. You know who I’m talking about, geek boy. I know you’re doing it on purpose. You even admitted it. Stop it before I stab you in the nuts. And I know all about the pain you suffered for your vasectomy to keep from reproducing again with your cheating-ass wife. You’re a good dude. You’re fun. You make me laugh, uproariously. But if you don’t stop willfully spoiling shit for me, I will stab you in the nuts with those scissors you keep in a little leather case on your waist. What the fuck is that about, anyway? FOR NUT STABBING, SPOILERHEAD!

Numero Eight-o: For the umpteen-zillionth time, I don’t drink coffee. I’m not gonna suddenly sprout the coffee drinking gene today. Yes, I’m human. Yes, I’m an adult (mostly). Yes, I’m American. Yes, I’m tired. I don’t like coffee. I love the aroma, but I hate the bitter flavor. Yes, I’ve tried it with milk. Yes, I’ve tried it with sugar. Yes, I’ve tried it with honey straight from a bee’s asshole. (Yes, I know that’s not how bees make honey. Shut up.) No, I’m not gonna change my mind when you wave a mug of coffee fresh from the shit piles of Guatemalan bats that’s been further flavored with hazelnut or vanilla or your grandmother’s earwax. I. Don’t. Drink. Coffee. You’ve quizzed me about this every fucking day for three and a half fucking years. Leave me alone! Or I’ll steal your cane and beat you with it!

Numero Nein! Nein! Nein!-o: I know it’s January. I know it’s cold. I know you can’t wait for summer. I know you’ll say you can’t wait for cooler weather when summer does hit. I know it’s Wednesday, and we’re “halfway through the week, yay!” I know you can’t wait for Friday. I know you can’t wait for the weekend. I know the supervisor is a lily-livered dickwhistle. I know you can’t wait for lunch. I know the time is dragging. I know it’s 3:00, which means fresh coffee time. I know you’re pissed because he got “your” parking space again. I know you hate me and the world and life, because you say so every fucking day. I know the networks are running slow. You say these things. Every. Single. Day. Almost all of you. And I’m sick to death of it! I hate the office humdrum. I loathe the monotony. I hate Corporate America with my whole being. And I know I’ve been guilty of the same. And I know it’s not all your fault. And I know you’re just trying to find ways to make it through the hell of working for the man. But I’m fucking sick of it. And you’re not helping.

John Muir is My Hero

Numero Last-o: Please stop looking at the clock and reminding me of the time every quarter hour. You are not helping the day pass any faster or easier. You are, in fact, making it drag on indefinitely. You are reminding me that my life is slipping away second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month…and I resent you for it. I know you’re a sweet lady. Aside from your raging racism. (Thankfully, you actually let me gently point out when you say racist things.) But please. You’re lengthening my work days, and it pains me so.

Numero Bonus-o: You know how you always bitch and moan about people interrupting you when you’re so clearly mired knee-deep in a hodonkey of a project? You know how when you’re done and you see me so clearly mired knee-deep in my own hodonkey of a project? You know how you do that thing you hate other people for doing, by interrupting me for mindless chit-chat or to brag about your life, or to complain about your life and how you have it worse than anyone else on earth, or how if you were in charge you’d change everything because you’re so obviously doing all the work around here while you surf Facebook and Pinterest or take phone calls about your upcoming cruise, or by finding something you need to one-up someone about? You know? Ringing any bells? Stop. Fucking. Doing it. Queen Bitch, I’m looking at you again.

work etiquette

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I know I’ve missed a shitton. I’ll probably think of heaps more right after I hit publish. But these still stand. What are your biggest work-related pet peeves? Or hell, any! Oh Oh, I just thought of one! (See Numero Bonus-o.)

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This post brought to you by:

Assholes and butterbeans. Because butterbeans are assholes.

Queen Bitch for inspiring so much of this post.

Cold green tea with honey and ginseng. Because I’m trying not to drink soda, and I’m tired of water.

People that soothe my soul and make it all okay. You know who you are.