I dare you to watch all of this

Advice, State of the Blog Address, ETC.

I am excited to report that we -- as a blogging unit -- are closing in on Launch Time (LT).

As LT nears, Rob and I (and probably to a lesser extent Lauren, and to maybe no extent at all Jackie--who has yet to publish anything and hasn't even been approved by Rob anyway), ahem, Rob and I realize that we have no idea how to execute said LT.

We plan on changing the name to provide for a more inclusive future. Likely candidates include PREMIUMLIFESTYLEBLOG.BLOGSPOT.COM .
We are welcome for suggestion.

As we creep along with around 6 visitors a day (give or take), and as our 1 cent of ad revenue accrues interests somewhere deep in the vast coffers of google, it's hard not to wonder where we are going to find people who want to read crap like we blog.

What I'm saying is, we're a little short of ideas (personalized-matches?). But if you have a great idea about how we should execute LT, let us know by leaving a comment. Please be detailed and send diagrams if possible.

ALSO ADVICE I've recently come into an exciting new concept for a monthly advice column. Now that I have the formula for sure-fire success, all I need is advice seekers. Please submit your quandaries in the form of a comment and prepare to be amazed by the wisdom I'm about to tap into for y'all.

Now, for my finale, behold the P-FARR dude in period dress/facial hair surrounded by dirty hipster girls!@ Penny farthings are clearly hussy magnates, too bad they're so damn expensive. You'd have to ride in like every parade ever to afford to pay one off, leaving no time with the ladies.

OWI Weekend, ec cet'ra

Rob goes to court-ordered overnight alcohol counseling.

The Polk County OWI Weekend was designed more than twenty years ago so that Iowa could free-up its jails, and make a few bucks on the side. I arrived Friday afternoon at the Bavarian Inn to begin my 48 hour incarceration, remarking that I'd never seen such a classy jail site. I had, however, seen such a collection of corn-pone bumpkins many times before. The fashionable ones wore NorthFace fleeces, and I think everyone thought I was poor because I wore my grandfather's hopelessly moth-eaten cardigan all weekend.

For our class sessions, I sat at a table in the corner next to a young man who I thought was a little autistic and an older man who was easily 100 pounds overweight and, to my knowledge, drank nothing but Coca-cola all weekend. I quickly discovered that my roomate snored like a cement mixer full of bottle rockets, and although I had fantasies of blugeoning him in the night so that I could maybe get an hour of sleep, I knew if would get me sent home-no refund.

I learned quickly that staying away for fifteen hours of "class" was going to be no easy task. The first day we killed 45 minutes while all of the offenders put on different levels of beer goggles and tried to walk heel-to-toe along a taped line. I refused. Then, during the instructional video's examples of "songs about preoccupation with alcohol," several people brought up someone named Brad Paisley and agreed what a good show he put on. I guess I just didn't fit in with my fellow offenders.

As contradictory as it seems, I was the only one who could stomach the food without complaining, and the only one who wasn't concerned enough with the motel's hygiene to put on shoes or even socks when coming down to the lobby for the morning breathalizer.

Class consisted of lectures from our overly-enthusiastic instructor, who I call Chief John because he exclaimed that "The native populations in America hoot and holler because alcohol goes into their systems faster." You see, he liked to interject many anecdotes and tidbits with his lectures. He even introduced several terms that I had never heard and was therefore forced to invent definitions for, including: "acid reflex"-the inherent reaction one has when another throws acid in the face and "battered women syndrome"-a condition in which one experiences digestive discomfort from eating too many battered womens, often leading to acid reflex. He was also prone to using the phrases "ec cet'ra" and "Does that make sense?" I wasn't comfortable enough with him or my classmates to point out that no, it usually did not.

Instead I admired the paintings around the motel, including two identical likenesses of Neuschwanstein Castle, both taller and wider than my body lenth, which hung in the conference room. Lunch both days consisted of mystery meat sandwiches that tasted like they had been dropped on the floor and stepped on with a bare foot. Even this decrepid escape from class was ruined by my overhearing Chief John in the background, "You know if a horse died and you weren't going to eat it, you'd send it down river to the next people. Pretty soon the pilgrims realized that it was better to live upstream."

The whole thing was almost surreal, and I knew that I would just have to keep quiet and wait it out until freedom rang Sunday afternoon. So that's exactly what I did, amidst the conversation which exhibited a lot of double negatives and not pronouncing the -g- at the end of words. In fact, most of my new friends seemed to have rarely, if ever, ventured outside of their social trailer park to consider any social phenomena beyond the fact that men play sports and women make scrapbooks. By the time 5:00 Sunday afternoon rolled around, I was delirious. I still didn't know where I was and it felt odd to speak from my lack of doing so for 48 hours. But I had survived, and I couldn't have felt more ready to go home for a night of scrapbooking.

Reaching for the stars OR How I baked my first Hardee's Style Biscuit. Bitch

I've tried to bake biscuits a few time, but never with good results. I've used various recipes from well respected culinary gurus, but the end product never lives up to my standards for a really good biscuit. It has always been a dream of mine to make a biscuit that meets the standard set by Hardee's, an industry leader in biscuit manufacture.

For those of you who don't know, not only do Hardee's biscuits represent the best we could hope for in a fast food biscuit, but they are probably the best biscuit makers ever. There are some biscuit only franchises in places like West Virginia, and these may even rival the quality that is consistently offered by Hardee's, but I maintain that no one offers such a good product on a large scale.

The secret to Hardee's biscuits is always said to be in the Biscuit Makers that they hire. Biscuit Makers are the old ladies that dress in all white and wear a white plastic apron. They come to all Hardee's restaurants way early in the morning, just to practice their sacred craft. Observe the following video...



I have a more cynical view about what makes a Hardee's biscuit great, my guess being that it has something to do with the ultra-secret recipe they use. Without access to which, we may never really know what the perfect ratio of shortening to salt is.

But there are recipes abound on the internet for "Hardee's Style Biscuits." Mostly, from untrustworthy recipe web Sites, that are stuffed with notoriously unreliable user generated content. More disturbing and confusing, is that there are always multiple, conflicting recipes for the same style biscuit on the same web Site. What a mess!

So, finally, I overcame the discouraging recipe web Sites, waded through the filth, and came up with, what I guessed was the most reasonable one to start with.

The recipe I chose claimed to offer Hardee's style biscuits. It didn't include any questionable ingredients, like yeast (in a quick-bread?!), and it was simple and easy to believe. So I rushed to the store and gathered the necessary ingredients. I also enlisted the help of a friend to insure I didn't get bored and quit before I finished.

INGREDIENTS::
4 cups "self-rising flour"

NOTE: I had never heard of this magical "self-rising" flour, so I did a little research. It's just regular flour with, go figure, baking powder, and a healthy shot of salt. But, not wanting to foul things up already, I purchased the best "self-rising" flour available in my state.

1 tbsp. baking powder
1 tbsp. sugar
2/3 cups Crisco
2 cups buttermilk

NOTE: You may have noticed that there is a tall boy of Coors in the above photo. While not absolutely necessary, it has certainly been said that happiness on the part of the cook is crucial to ultimate success. I couldn't think of anything that would make anyone happier than a tall boy of Coors, and I definitely attribute the modest success achieved to it's presence.

Whip the Crisco.

Mix in the dry ingredients

Mix in the buttermilk.

At this point you should have a glob of Dough. Taste it, it's salty and good. If it is unmanageably sticky, add a little more flour.

Sprinkle some flour on a counter top, and plop your hunk-o-biscuit on it.

Roll it out to a thickness of about an Inch.

Use a biscuit cutter (or just an empty glass) to cut out your biscuits, and put them on a greased pan.

Brush the top's of the biscuits Lightly with buttermilk. (avoid getting any on the pan because it will burn and smell bad)

When you've cut all the biscuits you can from your initial blob, ball it up, roll it out again, repeat.

BAKE them for as long as takes them to become goldeny brown on top (around 10-15 minutes) @ a temperature of 400 degrees.

For the most authentic Hardee's replica, it may be advisable to brush the tops of the biscuits with melted butter (salted) in the final hour (minute) of baking. We didn't do this, but wish we had.



While our end-product was by no means a passable forgery, it was a decent representation of the good that can be contained in the humble Hardee's biscuit. It was certainly the best biscuit I have made to date.

The most obvious difference between this and a Hardee's was in the texture of the outside, hence the butter suggestion. The inside was a near perfect replica.

I assure you that I will continue my quest for a perfect reproduction, even if it means eventually taking a job at Hardee's.

Rob vs. The United States Postal Service (Test Center)

What can I say? Times are hard, joblessness is roaring through the nation, IHOP is suffering massive cutbacks, yet the government is still finding new ways to take advantage of us all.

Now I have never been a level-headed or rational person. In times of desperation I'm often at a loss, which is probably why I signed up to take the test to become a United States postal worker. Now the test center is not to my knowledge affiliated with the post office; it's actually an agency comprised of incompetent, scripted automatons who couldn't find work anywhere else.

Last month I called in to sign up for the postal worker test, and at the end of the session after I had given all of my information I was asked how I was going to pay the test preparation packet fee, which totaled over $100. I didn't know what to say, I felt abused, confused and blind-sighted. So I paid it.

I received the packet about six days later, after a failed attempt to contact the testing service center for cancellation. In fact, during the next few weeks, I tried to call about five times to cancel, each time getting no answer from the helpline. I was stuck. I didn't actually think I had it in me to work for the post office (after one week of employment, the test registration fee is refunded), and I wasn't getting any assistance from the "help center." Even more irritated, I finally connected with the sons-a-bitches today. After speaking to an agent, who was brash and unhelpful, I asked to speak with the supervisor, who repeated the same script which I had just heard.

"No cancellations, that's our policy." I was not informed of this when I registered, so I tried to make a legal point that they had to take back my packet and give me a refund because it was never made clear to me that that was not an option. They weren't having it. I was outraged and shaking in my chair. Who the hell were these people to deny an American their right to return an item? I argued and bickered for over ten minutes with the supervisor at this obscure USPS testing office, which I imagine is attached to a Chick-fil-a somewhere in the Cincinnati metropolitan area.

Finally, this man was so fed up with me and my OUTRAGEOUS request to return the god damn package (unopened, mind you) that he cut me off. He proceeded with the script, "Alright sir, is there anything else I can assist you with today?" This came off as the most smug thing that anyone has ever said to me. Not only had he refused to help me with my small request, he knew damn well that he wasn't going to be giving me any (additional) assistance. So I replied, "YEA, YOU CAN SHOVE A POLE UP YOUR ASS AND GO FUCK YOUR MOTHER!", and with that the call had ended. I hung up the phone, on the verge of tears, and thought of how I could remedy the situation and make ammends for the $100 that I had never needed more.

After bashing the test packet against my bedpost, I took it in my hands, walked calmly to the garage, doused the packet in gasoline and set the fucking curse on fire. As I watched the flames my nerves calmed and I knew that I would be able to live once again.

Taking my IBS to Orlando

I haven't been to Orlando for over five years, but I've had IBS (irritable bowel syndrome for those of you who know nothing about the latest "trend" in health anomolies) since I was about 12 years old. It has never been an easy condition to handle, let alone one to add to the anxieties of puberty, i.e. feeling that one's body seems a bit nubile or that one will never look like this:

All jest aside, IBS is no easy thing to live with. The condition is characterized by mild to extreme discomfort in any or all parts of the digestive tract, including constipation, diarrhea, or both. The precise cause is unknown, which makes treatment fairly hit-or-miss. I've been prescribed some of the strongest pharmaceuticals on the market, and none of them did anything to help me. In my experience, homeopathic remedies work the best. A friend's mother once concocted a mix of oat straw, nettle leaves and red clover into a tea which I drank one quart of every day; that helped moderately. I feel that if I were to combine that with my current supplement, acidophilus, it could do real wonders.

Not to beleave my current reactions to this beast which kept me running to the locker room every day after Mrs. Reed's science class in sixth grade, I will turn my attention to my recent trip to Orlando. It was a last minute family vacation that I was not in any condition to attend, seeing that I am unemployed, $80,000 in debt, single and living with my parents. I'm also going to be incarcerated this weekend, Jan 16-18, at the Bavarian Inn in Ankeny, Iowa to attend a court-mandated alcohol counseling session.

I arrived at Orlando International Airport on wednesday evening before setting my appetite on a sushi (chain) restaurant next to the DoubleTree, feasting on a meal of goons (*see recipe section), eggrolls, sushi and beer. Usually, I get constipated when I travel, so I did not incur any discomfort from the abundance of raw fish that I typically experience. But my luck was about to change.

After finishing off the leftover sushi for breakfast around 9 the next morning, the family and I begain our trip to the all-ages appropriate, family-friendly cluster fuck that is Orlando at Islands of Adventure. I recommend the rollercoaster "dueling dragons" and the loony toons log ride; although I did feel a bit strange walking around dripping wet in early January, especially because my white shorts had become see-through and eventually black-bottomed from sitting on the pavement.

For lunch, we strolled down an elaborate life-size replica of an avenue that looked as if it had been ripped right out of solid city. Opting for a diner that made its employees wear mock 1950s garb, I decided to wet my whistle with a chocolate shake and get an order of chili cheese fries- Mistake #1, no person suffering from IBS should ever eat chili cheese fries. Ever. But after this indulgence, I didn't think anything of the chicken strips I subsequently ordered. It was smooth sailing until we were standing in line for the ET ride when, suddenly, it hit. That's the thing about IBS, sometimes you think you're fine and then, like a bullet ripping off a deer's head, it strikes.

I felt bubbling in my stomach and beads of sweat roll down my already gaping pores. Knowing that this meant the worst, I headed for the nearest bathroom. I was in there for about 15 minutes before I realized that I was going to live, and that I should never eat chili cheese fries again. The rest of the day went smoothly, including an unexpected highlight on "The Mummy" ride, which is just awesome.

Surprisingly, the rest of the trip I felt in decent gastrointestinal standing, and the only other time I thought about my IBS was when I made my parents take us to Cocoa Beach so I could jump into the ocean in January. I was diving into waves and floating in the surf when I had to pee. Naturally, I just took down my swim trunks a little and took care of this in the water, and I wondered to myself what it would be like to have a poo in the ocean. Would it be difficult to get away with? Would there be remnants left behind on the body of the offender? I considered trying it for half a second and then I realized that I needed to get out of the water because people like me probably shouldn't be allowed on public beaches.

Back in Orlando, I concluded the trip with a trip to Downtown Disney at night (talk about a shitstorm) and a dinner at Chevy's delicious mexican food. I ate crab and shrimp enchiladas and washed them down with scotch on the rocks. I also finished off my family's various dishes because I have a compulsive fear of leaving food to waste. Some of us never learn.

The Freight-Train Has Sounded (choo-choo!)

While the queer community has always been instrumental in introducing me to the awesome and perverse world of alternate sexual experimentation and practices, yesterday my roommate introduced me (the everly-perverted curious) to the world of urethral penetration, also known as "sounding". Within the heteronormative sphere I would generally be described as a straight woman [although I would never refer to myself in such constricting terms] it is not abnormal for me to involve myself in a conversation that touches on a variety of rituals from double-ended dildo play, male bodied female sexualization and vice versa, or even, oh, I don't know, anal fisting? I mean, after all, I do live here. But in truth, the term sounding was a completely foreign term for my meager vocabulary and it altogether crashed a train through my mutually exclusive deviance and virtue.

My roommate, a queer femme sex educator in a poly relationship with a male bodied female identified person (yeah, go ahead, read that again and go get yourself a snack) has been the information super bi-way for me and my other roommate. Yesterday, she indulged us in yet another one of the experiences she had with her partner which works both as our daily dose of gossip and an ordinarily modest amount of Q & A. However, I was more than a little perplexed when she went on to explain the extremely pleasurable encounter she had watching them "sound". My mind explored a great many possibilities of what that might mean, but it definitely never even broached the subject of urethral penetration. Upon a lot of investigation, my roommate patiently mollycoddled my array of questions and encouraged me to research the practice on my own.

This is what I've learned:

Sounding, an oft-taboo practice even for a weathered participant of the BDSM lifestyle, is the practice of imbedding long, thin, and surgical steel rods, called "sounds", into the urethra. In practice, an indivudual wishing to try this out should never use household objects for experimentation, as you risk breaking the object or omitting poison or bacteria into your body (a big turn-off if you ask me). Stainless steal sounds are ordinarily recommended because they are easy to clean and won't break inside of you.

Sounders should also be sure to use a lot of lube, as the sound is prone to be a painful procedure if the urethra is not properly dilated. This can in turn cause tearing of the fragile tissue which could be dangerous if forced too deeply. Lubrication allows the sound to more easily slide into the urethra, however the width and length of the sound is a personal preference so if it is not easily inserted, a shorter and narrower sound may be necessary. Silicone based lubricants are best to use since they last the longest in use and generally do not contain any sort of sugar, which is masked as glycerin in many commercial lubricants. For this reason, saliva should also be avoided because it dries quickly and also contains natural sugars which can lead to urinary tract infections.

Those in the know find that using sounds creates a very pleasurable sensation that is felt upon penetration. They are also gaining popularity among the S&M community as a means of power play. When used on a male-bodied person, certain sounds make reaching erection very difficult, therefore if the penis begins to engourge, the individual inserting the sound is forced to wait until the erection peter's out (haaaa!) to go any further. This underscores the identitied roles of submissive and dominant and can be interchangeable depending on who is in charge of the sound at any given time.

The main concerns in sounding are the prospects of cutting or tearing the urethra and creating an infection. Therefore any sound needs to be cleaned regularly and inserted slowly and carefully each time. Stretching of the urethra is to be expected, and irritation may consequently be a result of this, however if the feelings continue for an extended period of time or the individual experiences blood in their urine, they must seek medical attention.

The most important factor in sounding (and any sexual practice) is the maintenance of communication and safety between you and your partner. Sure, it may sound like a pretty far cry away from good old missionary position, or even, gasp, anal sex, but if you're confident and comfortable enough within your sexuality to experiment with yourself or your partner, anything is possible. So go out there and get it on and get sounded!

SOME FUN FACTS ABOUT SOUNDING:


Van Buren sounds have a pronounced curve at each end, for the purpose of penetrating far into the urethra, eventually reaching the bladder.

Pratt sounds are longer urethral dilators [double ended ones can be as big as twelve inches long] with slightly bent and round ends. These are geared more towards the male bodied user.



The Dittel sound has a flat and rounded end and is the most standard sound on the market. These can be found in many high-end fetish and sex stores.


Hegar sounds have two rounded ends and are moderately short and slightly curved in shape. These are currently the most affordable sound and many of websites sell them in complete sets of up to eight for as little as 40$. These sounds are suitable for the male of female bodied person and are generally considered the most safe. They usually consist of slightly curved double-ended sounds that vary in size to range for the ability and comfort level of the individual. Whether a beginner or an expert these sounds offer the most diversity.

If you are interested in learning more about urethral penetration, please feel free to voice your opinions, experiences, or questions, and be sure to visit the following websites:

BMEzine
UrethralInfo
UrethralPlay

Love,
Lauren

Boiling bear-heads: A recipe for success

This is a great way to spend an evening with some friends.

The other day my friends found a dead bear by the entrance to a cave-hole we know about. It only looked to be about two days old or so. Brilliantly they used a machete to cut off its head and paws, you know, for a little bear keep-sake. Nothing so special you might find it on a shelf at Hallmark, but good enough to adorn a mantle or create a great conversation-piece key-chain. What follows is a sure-fire recipe for to cure a, perhaps rotten and maggot infested, bears-head.

NOTE: We had no idea what to do with the paws so we boiled some and left some raw, with varying degrees of success. Only time will tell, so look for future updates in this department.

Ingredients and Supplies:
24 Pack of Buch Beer (or regional equivalent)
Large to Giant Cauldron
Water
A good amount of fire wood.
Bears Head

Obviously the most important supply is the beer. You're going to be standing around a fire with a big stinking pot of boiling bear head, for a long time. Don't skimp on the beer.

1. Get your fire going, big is good, you wanna produce a thick bed of coals.

2. Once you have coals put your giant cauldron on, do it, and fill the cauldron with water.

3. While your water is getting hot, go ahead and take as much excess bear parts off the skull as possible. The more successful you are here, the less rancid smelling your project will be.

4. Put the skull in the boiling water.

5. Wait, drink beer, do other stuff, it don't matter. Try not to inhale the resulting steam. Make sure that there is enough water to cover the skull at all times.

6. After about five hours, the skull should be looking pretty clean. Sadly the teeth will have fallen out, but these are recoverable, maybe.

At this point you're pretty much done, probably dump the shit out in the grass somewhere you're not going to have to look at it for a few days, but where it will get enough sun to help finish off the process. Check the skull every few days until desired result is reached.

I'll update this with some pictures soon, hopefully.