BUYING EMBARRASSING CLOTHES FOR DEFENSELESS CHILDREN

Reason #172 why I'm never having a kid: because you just know I would dress the poor bastard up in this black velvet cloak with fringe. No joke. I actually snapped this photo and asked a fellow CNN Peon if I could buy this for her daughter. Oddly enough, she never got back to me. See, that's why she's a mom and I'm not.

LEAVE IT TO THE PROFESSIONALS

Get ready for some over-sharing today here on Peon Confidential.
Because I just learned something the hard way.
There are two things you should never try to do yourself:

One is electrical wiring and the other is bikini waxing.

But let's focus on the second thing.
So there I was at the Duane Reade, wandering around, reading trashy magazines, trying to figure out which chocolate bar was the least fattening and making a nuisance of myself when the Sally Hansen bikini waxing kit caught my eye. It seemed foolproof. Maybe even fun! And I thought to myself, I'm no DIY novice. I've hung wallpaper. I've painted the bathroom. I can do this. And how could a product with a comforting name like Sally Hansen steer me wrong? Yeah. Sally Hansen. She's the woman in the next cubicle who always has an extra stick of gum and sneaks off to have a cigarette after lunch, spraying herself with cheap perfume afterwards to cover up the smell of smoke.

Sally Hansen.

I guess I'd forgotten that names can be misleading. Look at Sallie Mae and Fannie Mae. They sound like a couple of Baptist sisters who might offer you some pink lemonade on a lazy summer afternoon.

I took Sally home with me and...let's just say this wasn't like other DIY projects. This was no wallpaper situation. It looks like a fucking warzone down there. No joke--it actually looks like Afghanistan. You know, bare but with a few scraggly tufts here and there. Like this:

My take on this sad affair? Sally Hansen is a Pussy Assassin.

Yeah. I know. I'm squandering my 1st Amendment rights by writing this stupid shit. But you needed a break from Weinergate, didn't you?

HOT DIGGITY DOG!

So-
This is thoroughly vile:

CASABLANCA (AFP) – Taking things a little too literally, a Moroccan man was jailed for six years for selling customers dog meat instead of beef, a judicial source said Friday.
The man, who admitted mixing the dog meat with chemicals to conceal the different smell and colour, was also made to pay a fine of 10,000 dirhams (900 euros, 1,185 dollars).

But it got me to thinking about the couple of instances where I have been absurdly drunk, and thought it was a good time to purchase a hot dog from a street vendor. Now, I know that "Law and Order" would have viewers believe that lawyers eat that shit every day--but this is a heinous lie. The only time locals ever eat a street vendor hot dog is when they are drunk. And not just buzzed, I mean bumping into the walls, singing into a beer bottle, arguing with/fucking the bartender plastered.
The only saving grace is that the next morning, you usually have little recollection of the whole disgusting culinary experience.

Except for the last time I did this. It was two thirty in the morning, and I was out with a pal. She could barely eat one bite, while I wolfed mine down. Afterwards, she told me the vendor had dirt caked under his fingernails. While I'd say she could have given me a heads up before I ate the dog, in the condition I was in, I doubt it would have mattered.

A few days later, I was late for work, and just pulled out the same dress I'd worn out a few nights before. I was in a rush, and did not notice until I was well on my way to 6th avenue that there was hot dog...slime all over the tit section of this dress. So I didn't just scarf that filthy crap down--I did it with a FLOURISH!

I haven't eaten another one since.

HUNTER S. THOMPSON

So-
Now that the election is over, I can get back to writing about useless shit...
I thoroughly enjoyed being Hunter S. Thompson for Halloween. But in hindsight, I may have taken the gonzo shenanigans too far. Questionable behavior included:

1. Getting very drunk and arguing with The Phantom of the Opera and Scooby Doo.
2. Grabbing my rather shy friend's right boob and shouting, "Nice knockers!"
3. Repeatedly flipping off a nice suburban woman who was trying to snap a photo of a nice pregnant woman.

The list goes on.
And on.
Maybe next year I'll avoid temptation and dress up as a more sedate writer. I can't imagine achieving this level of embarrassment if I were impersonating a Bronte sister.

Okay. I could probably find a way, but it would be tough.

CONDOM CREATIVITY

I've said it before and I'll say it again:
I love Florida. It's the Potluck State--you just never know what you're going to get:

PORT ST. LUCIE, Fla. - Police in Port St. Lucie are on the lookout for a cross-dressing man who snatched a 74-year-old woman's purse. As if that weren't odd enough, they're depending on a strange clue. The suspect left behind a condom filled with water he had been using as a fake breast.

The woman said she believed the thief followed her while shopping. A witness told investigators he was wearing a short denim skirt and black tube top, and fled in a silver car with two other male crossdressers.

Police are processing the condom for fingerprint and DNA evidence.

In all my years of having, shall we say, less than large boobs, I've tried to remedy the situation in many ways. I've used tube socks. I've used Kleenex. I've employed the Wonderbra.
But a water-filled rubber never occurred to me.
Not once.

EDITOR'S CORRECTIONS IN MY LIFE STORY

I'm sure many of you have noticed that newspapers and magazines usually have a "corrections" section to rectify journalistic mistakes such as spelling a person's name wrong or referencing the wrong country. In broadcast news, the anchor has this honor.
It occurred to me that I would like one of these corrections sections for my life. So I present to you a list of corrections in my life, if I had the chance to go back and edit it:

-CORRECTION #1:

VJDutton was not a weird looking little kid with a Republican Side Part whose thighs chafed in her velour sweat pants and bra-less fat man titties bulged out of her unicorn sweaters. She did not spend her days making up songs about stinky underwear and creating dog food birthday cakes for her stinky dog Charlie. She was in fact a svelte, adorable little girl who smelled of strawberries and wore shiny patent leather Mary Janes.

-CORRECTION #2:

VJDutton was not a weird looking teenager who thought it would be funny to attend the high school dance wearing plaid polyester Herb Tarlick trousers. Repeatedly. She did not escape pep rallies by climbing onto the roof of the school and smoking pot. She did not represent her school in a state wide debate competition by reciting Mark Twain and wearing thigh high gold lame boots. She was in fact, the most popular girl in school, college minded, worshipped by boys and girls alike, and wore only the most stylish attire.

CORRECTION #3:

VjDutton did not attend three different universities and wind up graduating from University of New Orleans. While in New Orleans, she did not pick her nose while walking past a drunk clown lying in a ditch. He did not wake up at just the precise moment to say "Good mornin' there nose picker!" She did in fact, graduate from Harvard. While living in Cambridge, she became the toast of academia, charming everyone at Harvard functions with her understated style, wit and decorum.

CORRECTION #4:

VJDutton's first job after college was not as an activities lackey at a resort on St. Pete Beach. She did not begin her foray into professional life by wearing a pith helmet and unflattering khaki shorts, calling out bingo numbers, passing out towels in a tiki hut on the beach, alerting housekeeping when there was poop in the pool and organizing scavenger hunts. She did in fact, accept an entry level position at The New Yorker. The person who hired her immediately sensed her drive, ambition and skill, and knew she would make her mark on the literary world.

CORRECTION #5:

VJDutton's second job out of college was not as a VJ at CNN. She did not get paid to wipe ear wax off of IFB's. Nor did she live in fear of forgetting the script color code or eat corn and rice at two o'clock in the morning as her main meal of the day. She in fact got a promotion at The New Yorker, where everyone who came into contact with her found her brilliant and she enjoyed delightful lobster dinners with New York's literary elite every single night.

CORRECTION #6

VJDutton does not currently write an idiotic blog called Peon Confidential. She in fact is currently hard at work on her third best seller. Lines for her book signings regularly require several very attractive policemen for crowd control, as people scratch and claw each other just to get close to their favorite author on the planet.

LEADERSHIP SHOES

So-
I'm not a huge fan of polls. I once had to help conduct a poll for Political Science class. I was so uncomfortable with bothering strangers at home that after my third cold call I just started making up names like "Eunice Smiley" and gave them all intriguing answers such as,
"I hate all them thievin' politicians. I think we should cut their balls off and feed 'em to the wolves."

I can only hope that whomever was helping to conduct the following poll did something similar. Because if these results are true, I'm screwed:

NEW YORK (Reuters) - Got a passion for buying sneakers? It could be a good sign, with a poll finding that people who buy three pairs of sneakers or more a year are far more likely to be a leadership type than other people.
Mindset Media, a media company that examines personality traits of different consumers, found that people who buy more than three pairs of sneakers a year are 61 percent more likely to have the qualities of a modern leader. These qualities were defined as having ideas and vision, and a style with others that is both inclusive and decisive.

What does it mean if you've bought one pair of sneakers in the last three years? And I didn't even buy them. My boyfriend was horrified by the previous pair I'd purchased from K-Mart in about 1998. So he inflicted new sneakers on me.

And what does it mean that I am 100 percent more likely to buy three pairs of shoes per year like those in the above picture?

I'm doomed...
Doomed to work the window at Wendy's while wearing ridiculous shoes.

FAT TUESDAY

In honor of Mardi Gras, I am sharing this outrageously tacky picture of me in New Orleans, circa 1998. When I found this I wept for my past fashion crimes. I know now what I should have given up for Lent that year, despite being a Lutheran.
Let's just analyze the many degrees of awful featured in this photo:

1. Tight, stone washed jeans; tapered, hitting at the ultra flattering "above the ankle" length.

2. Rayon half shirt.

3. The Donger Belt. (Definition: Seen around style-deprived waists from about 1988-1999, this atrocity hung low sweet chariot, with a silver tip to give it weight. Some had Native American designs/tuquoise for an even saucier touch.) I know you can't see the belt, hidden under that manilla envelope, but trust me...it's lurking under there.

4. Trollish half boots.

5. The long-strapped mini-purse that would draw attention to my fat thighs by jauntily bouncing against them as I strutted down the streets.

I honestly cannot believe I ever thought this ensemble was acceptable. In fact, not only did I think it was acceptable, but I must have thought I looked damn good. After all, I allowed a photographer to preserve this sartorial wet fart. I sincerely hope I was just drunk the entire time I was in New Orleans and couldn't tell the difference. Forgive me Stacy London, for I have sinned.

Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez!

ONE WORD YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR FROM DAD

So-
Yesterday I called my parents' house. My Dad and I don't usually talk much. He usually makes a comment about the weather and then hands the phone off to my mom. I love him, but since I'm not a doctor or a hockey enthusiast like he is, our conversational material is limited.
But yesterday, our conversation went like this:

"Hello?"
"Hi Dad."
"Hi Kid. I'll tell ya, I've been rethinking my theory on the Human Papilloma Virus. I think it stems from the smegma of uncircumcised men. Women have unprotected sex with uncircumcised men, and are exposed to it. Smegma is the link. Huh. Well, here's your mom. (Shouts in the distance) Honey! The Kid's on the phone!"

In all honesty, I did not even know that "smegma" was a medical term. I certainly did not wish to hear that word so early in the morning...from my Dad.
I think this is why I have a hard time buying him a Father's Day card. They all have sweet pictures of a jolly Dad on a fishing boat, or playing golf or pushing his daughter on the swing set.
I've looked, but none of them have a balding man in a velour track suit, swearing at the hockey game on TV, eating canned soup and talking to his kid about smegma theories.

BOWEL MOVEMENTS: TAKE ME HOME

Tragedy has struck:
There is no winner for the Name That Peon contest.
This is most upsetting, so I will not dwell upon it. I wanted to give out a t-shirt, thereby garnering publicity for Mama D's and offering a gym t-shirt for someone else.
Alas, it was not meant to be.

Anyway,
I was talking to a former CNNer the other night, and I came to a truly fascinating conclusion:
My bowels prefer their home base toilet.
It's true.
It's as though they have Toilet GPS. They know! Only my own toilet will do.
When I am on vacation--I will be stopped up for days.
When I am at work--never happens.
At a friend's house--no way.
The only other place my bowels will accept is the Lord and Taylor bathroom on 5th Avenue.
How fortunate this is for Lord and Taylor! It's like they won the lottery.
But does any one else have this problem?

Yeah.
Wow.
I wonder if Al Gore is pleased to know that his invention has spawned discussion about Toilet GPS...

Happy New Year, by the way.

LET THE VAGINA BREATHE

I'd like to thank the person who posted about her "tweenie". If I could, I'd buy you a drink. So consider this a virtual toast to you.
For a while now, I've been asking any women I know if their mothers told them "you have to let the vagina breathe." I am amazed at how widespread this adage is, and how each mom puts her own spin on it:

MY FINNISH MOM: "Saara, don't wear panties to bed. The piiko needs to breathe." (And no, "piiko" isn't actually a Finnish word. No one knows where it came from. But this doesn't stop my mom from using it.)

MY OHIO FRIEND'S MOM: "Honey, you have to air it out. You'll get twat rot."

MY JEWISH FRIEND'S MOM: "Bubbulah, the vagina is like fine wine. It has to breathe."

MY TRINIDADIAN FRIEND'S MOM: "Let a little breeze into your tun tun." (Not sure if I spelled that right.)

MY NEW ORLEANIAN FRIEND'S MOM: "Boo, respect your area and let some air in."

MASTURBATION PIONEERS

So as you can see in the photo above, I am petting the kitty. Note the maniacal look on my face. I really seem to be taking immense pleasure out of that sweet pussy...which naturally reminds me of my first foray into the joys of masturbation.
Yeah.
That's right.
I'm opening the hamper here and flinging my dirty laundry all over the mother fuckin' joint:

I was about eleven, relaxing in a Saturday afternoon bath. I was something of a late bloomer, which is code for saying I was a chunky pre-teen with bad hair and a closet full of velour sweat pants and unicorn sweaters. No one wanted a piece of this ass. There were no folded pieces of notebook paper asking "Will you go with me?" No one wanted to hold my pudgy hand at recess.

Now, what I lacked in looks I made up for in resourcefulness. Our bathtub had a large lever that jutted out. You were supposed to pull it up in order to stop the drain. So while I was bathing, I glanced at it a few times, mapping out my plan.
Okay it wasn't much of a plan...
I humped the lever.
And dear readers, it was good.
It was so good that I began taking baths on a shockingly frequent basis. I'd come home from school and head right for the bathtub. I'd wake up on Saturday and hop right in the bathtub. I bathed so much my fingers were pruny for three months straight.
Eventually the novelty wore off. But I'll never forget my sexual awakening with that highly fuckable lever.

Okay--here's where YOU come in.
We're all Anonymous here. Anyone else care to share their stories of masturbatory exploration?

RESTRAINT PANTIES

As promised on Friday, I took 20 actual search keywords that people have used to find my website and created a story around them...Enjoy!


While eating her HONEY BUNCHES OF OATS cereal, ex-PAN AM STEWARDESS Midge Dallas was reading her husbands pile of REJECTED PENTHOUSE NASTY LETTERS. It crushed him each time got yet another rejection. After the one he received today he had jumped on one of his PURPLE CROTCH ROCKETS and sped away, his MAGNUM PI SUNGLASSES hiding his tears. She knew he needed to be alone, and would most likely seek solace at the HOLYLAND Experience Bible Theme park. There he would eat a Gladiator Burger and caress his FURRY MUSTACHE to soothe his pain. He went there whenever sadness engulfed his life. Like when he saw the Lifetime TV movie starring Patrick Duffy called, “LITTLE BOY BLEEDS TO DEATH AT WALMART”.

Midge skimmed his latest failed effort in amateur porn. This one detailed the time he stole a Chinese knock-off GRIMACE COSTUME from MCDONALDS and made a customized hole in it so he could engage in PANTY PISSING. He didn’t seem to understand that Penthouse readers were more tantalized by terms like SPRING BREAK, BIG BREASTS, and BEACH than they were by stories about husbands pissing on WIVES’ PANTIES.

She sighed and sniffed her STINKY PINKY RING. She wasn’t sure why, but it smelled like cabbage. She put her cereal bowl in the sink, walked into the living room and turned on the TV. With little interest she watched a commercial with a POSING MODEL IN A BIKINI LAYING DOWN and caressing a kitten. How she hated PUSSY PEOPLE. Midge was a dog lover through and through. As if on cue, her dog Charmaine Goldenrod jumped up on the couch with her. She had given the Pomeranian her stage name from her days working the STRIPPER POLE at several ATLANTA STRIP JOINTS. Those had been some tough days, until she landed a steady gig at MAMA D’S ARTS BORDELLO. And it was Mama D herself who encouraged her to pursue her dreams of working for Pan Am. Too bad the airline folded six months later…

At least her husband Dirk Turquoise had entered her life right about then. They rode across the country together until she grew tired of their CROTCH ROCKET GAMES and they settled down. Everything was perfect…except for his frustrated Penthouse Letter dreams. He was convinced that if they published his letter, he could get noticed by a literary agent and sell his book called, “Zen And the Art of Crotch Rocket Maintenance”. If only she could convince him to give it up. If only she could get him to see that some dreams weren’t worth pursuing. If only…

Just then the door flew open and Dirk burst in with a crazy grin on his face.
“Honey, I bought you something. What I have in this bag is gonna give you the wildest night of sexual ecstasy you’ve ever experienced…And I’ll get enough material for a Penthouse Letter that is guaranteed to get published.”
He handed her the bag and she peered inside.
“Dirk, what are these?”
He licked his mustache. “They’re called RESTRAINT PANTIES.”

GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT

So, each morning I check my website statistics to see how many people visited and what they looked at. I also check the process by which they stumbled upon my site. Believe it or not, it doesn't always involve me saying "Please look at my website and I will buy you beer." The following is a list of actual search keywords that brought people to my website:

1. honey bunches of oats
2. purple crotch rockets
3. rejected penthouse nasty letters
4. little boy bleeds to death at walmart
5. stripper pole
6. stinky pinky ring
7. magnum pi sunglasses
8. restraint panties
9. panty pissing
10. Holyland
11. mama ds arts bordello
12. grimace costume mcdonalds
13. atlanta strip joints
14. wives panties
15. furry mustache
16. pan am stewardess
17. crotch rocket games
18. spring break big breasts beach
19. posing model in a bikini laying down
20. pussy people

Now-
while I have absolutely NO IDEA what "restraint panties" are, in the interest of giving the people what they want, I will create a story over the weekend using all of these keywords. If anyone has any plot ideas, why, feel free to chime in.
Stay tuned. On Monday this tantalizing tale will be unveiled...

MY CHILDHOOD REPUBLICAN SIDE PART

In response to yesterday's comments section:
Look how my six-year-old self blends in with Trent and Newt perfectly. All I'm missing is an American flag behind me...and a couple of teeth.

STROKER QUALITY CONTROL

So-
I just got off the phone with a relative of mine who lives in Canada. He said that as a way to make extra cash, he does porno quality control. (We are a very refined family indeed.)
What is this you ask? Well, he gets paid a buck a movie by a local Adult Entertainment Center to sit and watch porno (yes, I keep referring to it as porno, because I think it sounds funnier.) This is to ensure that no one has edited their own home movies into them...
I am NOT making this up.
Apparently, some people are so desperate for their 15 minutes that they will rent porno movies and spend the time and effort to add in x-rated footage from their all-inclusive honeymoon at Sandals resort in the Bahamas.
While this type of quality control operation may sound like a cushy gig, he says it gets pretty dull. So he sets up a couple televisions side by side, puts the DVDs on fast forward and plays the Benny Hill theme for his personal amusement.

I got to thinking about other things that would be funny if they were edited into a porno:

1.) Celine Dion's performance of AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long".

2.) The intro to "The Facts of Life".

3.) Clara Peller's "Where's The Beef?" commercial.

4.)The Solid Gold Dancers.

5.) Three Bongs and A Tootie

BEA ARTHUR'S BIGGEST FAN

I'd like to follow up the last post about demographic mysteries with a startling piece of information I just heard from my mother:
Apparently, my father, who in his earlier years lost half of his teeth from playing hockey and the other half from beer-soaked fist fights, who ran the Honolulu Marathon one day after getting surgery, with blood streaming down his thigh as he crossed the finish line, who has at various times in his life told a nun, a kindly kindergarten teacher and a gaggle of sweet-natured hippies to "go fuck yourself", who once set his own broken nose after fighting off a Samoan twice his size outside of Matteo's in Waikiki, who drove my pregnant mother around at 100 miles an hour in his Corvette; this man, now in his 60's has become devoted to watching...
The Golden Girls reruns.

So word to the folks in ad sales...you just never know, do you?

DEMOGRAPHIC MYSTERY

So there I was, watching The History Channel and ironing my clothes. (How's that for an arresting opening sentence? I mean, why else do people move to New York, if not to experience the type roller coaster lifestyle I lead? Bet you can't wait to read what happens next...)

While the program was pretty interesting (Cities of the Underworld) I was more fascinated by the commercials they chose to run. Clearly, no one in ad sales at The History Channel assumes that somebody like me is tuned in. Why? Because back-to-back they ran ads like:

1.) Male Guards. It's like a cupped maxi pad for incontinent men. Now, I have no problem with the product of course. I'm sure it's necessary. It's just that--have you seen this ad? All these senior citizen men are gathered together; out in the wilderness, bicycling, hiking, having the time of their lives, presumably pissing their pants. The tag line, uttered in the same bombastic voice used in movie trailers booms out: "Protect yourself, guys."

2.) Levitra.

3.) Cialis. These ads kill me too. So Grandpa pops a Cialis and is about to bone Grandma. But then the kids and grandkids drop in uninvited! Cut to cheery scenes of all of them eating lunch, playing in the backyard, laughing, enjoying the sunshine. Meanwhile, I'm just waiting for Grandpa to throttle one of them and bellow:
"No more ice cream, no more swing set--just when are you little shits gonna get the fuck out of here? Grandpa's got a stiffy. Now scram!"

The point is, who decided that "Cities of the Underworld" is programming geared towards incontinent men with errectile dysfunction? Are there studies taken? And how are said studies conducted? Seriously, if anyone has some answers, I'd be much obliged if you'd pass them along...