The Vampires Have Won

I have recently come to the terrible realization that I have lost. There's nothing I can do now. They have manipulated me to help them complete their nefarious purposes and it makes me weep in utter despair. What now? What now indeed...

Those of you aware of my battles against the great pregnancy conspiracy from our vampire overlords no doubt remember the shocking mailings I received of breeder propaganda and blood sacrifice. I thought I had done all I could to avoid being enslaved by these fiends but I now realize I may be too late. Apparently, I didn't know I was pregnant and already gave birth. I wondered how I got so fat and now I know the terrible truth. The most frightening question I have is, where is the baby? But then I wonder, when did I expel it? Is it watching me? Does it live in the crawlspace? Is it mad I keep intercepting its mail?

You may be asking yourself, how does she know this? Why would she even think of this? Well, dear fans, the evidence is clear and you can see for yourself after you gaze upon what I just received in the mail:

WAT!?!

We've hit crisis level, here folks. I have now received correspondence meant for a child of at least 18 months of age. Not only did I give birth secretly against my will, but the child also has super-aged like all of the kids do on television. You have seen this frequently, I know. A television program has a character that gives birth and next season their spawn is already five and talking. Or, on a science fiction program, there is something wrong with the creature and it ages quickly on camera. Or, the kids in those pageants made up to look older actually DO look that age now. This can only mean that all children on television are portrayed by vampire babies except for the Olsen twins.

Keep your wits about you, my dears. Hypervigilance is required in times like these. Who knows how many of us have been impregnated against our will, only to birth an evil parasite that now lives in an attic or similar environs. No hell beast, I will not drive you to casting calls. I will not. Most certainly not for anything less than 60% plus expenses.

Fuzzy Logic

I love Daiya fake cheese. It's the perfect product for someone like me that pretty much can't eat anything with gluten, casein or artificial colors... it's like crack. I put it in or on everything: tuna noodles, spaghetti, breakfast scrambles, nachos, burgers and pizza. Well, I would if I ate food other than prunes and champagne. I just like to have Daiya around in case I ever feel like eating something when I'm done being hot.

Not my handiwork, but it could be if I need to drive to get Daiya.

Unfortunately, there wasn't a place close to my home where I could purchase this treat. There are no Whole Foods or New Seasons stores closer than a 25 minute drive and Fred Meyer, a 15-20 minute drive, doesn't carry as wide of a selection of the Daiya products.

Sometimes I don't feel like rolling out of bed to find the phone and call my driver, so I'm forced to go by myself. I usually do my grocery shopping by walking, as drinking bubbly as much as I do and heading out on the road is not a fabulous idea. I might ruin my hair or someone's fence or something. I prefer to stumble down the street, making friends and being under the influence with people.

This summer, IT ALL CHANGED. I was skipping through the hippie section of one of my neighborhood markets when I spied ambrosia: Daiya Cheddar Wedge. It was cause for a most epic celebration. Although this was the only selection, it's my go-to melty pleasure. I quickly purchased a wedge and continued to do so weekly over the next month. In the middle of June, I noticed that a couple of the wedges had green spots on them, as you can see through the semi-transparent packaging. I put them aside and reached in the back and found two good wedges; I bought one of them. In the old days, when I actually gave a shit about being nice, I would have brought the moldy wedges up to the register with me. Not anymore. The expiration date was July 15 on them anyway so I expected they'd be getting a new shipment and trading them out any day.

The next week I walked back and the same three wedges were still there: the two moldy ones and one that wasn't, but I noticed the seal on that one wasn't good and I didn't want to risk it. At the end of June, I went to Las Vegas for a working holiday and had my driver take me to the Whole Foods while I was there so I could put Daiya on everything I ate at the champagne brunch at the MGM Grand. I spent two weeks in Sin City before I returned to Oregon. July 11, I walked to the store and was greeted by my three friends, the same moldy Daiya wedges. I pulled them out of their shelf and laid them on top of the tofu so someone would see it. I raised my cloak across my face and laughed maniacally as I darted out of the store.

July 18, I went back expecting to see the wedges replaced but NO! THEY WERE STILL THERE! Someone had picked them up and restocked them back into their shelf spot. Now they were not only fuzzy but also beyond the expiration date. I pulled them back off the shelf and laid them on the tofu. Every other day I went to the store and put the Daiya on the tofu, and I would go back and it would be right back in its spot again. This went on until this last Sunday, when I finally found my precious wedges gone. I had played this silly game for THREE WEEKS, with the wedges being moldy on the shelf for a total of seven weeks. Now I have no idea of what to do with myself. My life's purpose is gone.

My furry friends. Ready for yiffing.

Vampire Babies Hunger For Your Blood

For once I wish my postal carrier would lose my mail on purpose.

This shocking follow-up to my now school-required reading, Corporate America is Trying to Impregnate Me!, reveals even more terrifying evidence that the government insemination drone is still pursuing me. I sincerely hope they have not already succeeded and I am incubating a Freedom Fetus to be birthed and inspire an episode of I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant.

In the aforementioned entry, I already listed all of my objections to carrying an abdominal parasite, and I assumed the government's efforts would cease once the truth was out. I was wrong. Approximately a week ago, I received more breeder propaganda in the mail. Only now, it was for the benefit of vampire babies. Vampire babies apparently need more blood and I refuse to enable this dangerous menace.

UPDATE!!! ALERT!!! UPDATE!!!:
Before I could even finish writing this entry, I was rudely interrupted by a research trip to Las Vegas. What I assumed was to be an informative exploration of fall's fashion trends so I could further adapt my accessories line turned out not to be the situation. Instead, I discovered the vampire baby conspiracy is growing further and faster than I previously supposed. I am frightened for my very life and you should be, too.

Before I left for my trip, I received a disturbing piece of mail. It was a brochure asking for my cord blood. Apparently, there are many babies out there that need it and they will do anything to get it, including the sending of mail to women that aren't even pregnant. They want me to get pregnant, and then give them all of my blood from some cord thing. I can only assume it's because it reminds them of a crazy straw and they can drink it fresh, directly from the source. This of course is highly disturbing and nauseating, and I have no choice but to attempt to recreate it through the medium of photography.

Realistic recreation of vampire baby.

While I was in Las Vegas, I could not escape the scourge of vampire babies. They were EVERYWHERE. There they were, at 2 a.m. on the Las Vegas Strip, commanding their human minions to push them along in their carriages, searching for victims. Sometimes they even forced their slaves to carry them on their chests. As vampire babies are cold and undead, they were likely absorbing the heat from these poor souls.

I could think of no other reason why a human would have an infant accompanying them in Sin City far after the witching hour if they were not engaging in the search for blood. And in 100 degrees no less. This was perfect hunting ground for a ravenous vampire baby. Pedialyte is a poor substitute for that which these demons truly crave, but more than one adult slave pumped their charges full of this vile substance in the hope they could slake the unholy eternal thirst. That and they gave them lots of candy.

The next day, the bloodsuckers would rise early and in some bizarre ritual of masochism, brave the morning sun after only few hours of sleep, determined to burn themselves into a screaming rage. These strange beasts would wail by the pool as the minions massaged SPF 200 all over their wriggling bodies, while their servants continued to fill them with candy or frozen yogurt or breakfast sandwiches or candy or soda and candy in the attempt to delay their need of blood. Of course, to the layman this practice may appear to be parents filling their kids full of sugar after no sleep in the effort to keep them awake, bribed and happy, but I know better. That would be abusive and there was simply too much of this occurring. It is far more likely the vampire plague has spread faster and wider than even I could have imagined.

This country has been blinded by political ridiculousness. Who cares about racism and homophobia, the war against religion, the moral realignment of women's duties to the righteous patriarchy, and a power hungry unstoppable black president in his quest to continually disenfranchise the poor rich white man over the age of 50? This all means nothing when facing the threat of vampire babies. Start stocking up on wooden stakes before the government starts requiring background checks on them.

And stay away from the M&M Store in Las Vegas. I think it's the international headquarters for the vampire elite.

About This #FridayswithMaury Thing...

That beyotch in the audience better keep her mouth shut.

My life is hard. I never knew how difficult it would truly be to give up an 80 hour per week work schedule and devote all of my time to foolishness. Who knew sleep was so important? Who knew eating was so overrated? Who knew Cosmopolitan had such awesome tips for keeping your man? I didn't at first, but now I know these things and so much more after studying the topics that enhance my new lifestyle. For instance, did you know there's a show where you can get free trips, lie detector tests for your cheatin' ass boyfriend, and paternity tests to prove you're not lying about the fact the kids are his? I recently discovered this on accident and I've been hooked ever since.

Each weekend, I devote so much energy to partying, it takes me an entire week to recover. I usually wake up refreshed on Friday, at about 12:45 p.m., to begin the cycle all over again. A few weeks ago, my television was on in the background as I was waxing my beard and the Maury show came on at 1:00. Well, I certainly never witnessed anything like it before and haven't since. It is its own microcosm, a study on today's society encapsulated into one refreshing hour of life changing mental stimulation.

147% sure I liked the new Star Trek movie.

I started tweeting my thoughts about the program each Friday at 1:00 P.M. (*See update at end of post*), using the hashtag #Maury. However, for some bizarre reason, my tweeting caught on and attracted conversation from a variety of sources. I changed my tag to something catchier, the inspiring #FridayswithMaury. Now, here's a complication: I have been waking up a bit earlier each day to go tanning outside and realized that awesome television is on EVERY SINGLE DAY. I don't think I'll be awake enough to manage tweeting everything all day every day, but I think I have the ability to add in a few more shows.

I can't really decide what I would like to do, so I'm leaving it open to you, my dear fans. Wilkos Wednesdays? Trisha Tuesdays? Or just a one-time, whole day event of nothing but court shows (Divorce, Mathis, Joe Brown, Judy, etc.)? How about a full day of a mix of shows, from 7 a.m. through as late as I can go, with a coordinating drinking game with copious amounts of mimosas? Soap operas? Discovery Health documentaries? I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant?

Let's have votes or suggestions. I'm leaving for Las Vegas on the 27th and the blogging and tweeting during that trip is going to be its own adventure, as I review events, locales, fashion, food and beverages in the way I do best. However, I have a few weeks left before that day to bring on some more tweet & blog action regarding our favorite daytime telly. Let me know your thoughts in the comments below or on Twitter, @JKesgard.

***UPDATE 10/24/13***
The television schedule around these parts has changed. #FridayswithMaury now occurs at 10 A.M. PST.

This is all your fault.

I'm Having an Affair with Your Girlfriend

The following smarty phone text conversation took place on the evening of Wednesday, May 29, 2013, while I was finishing up for the day at the school I routinely destroy for kicks. All dialogue in the series is accurate to what I received or sent; the content, format, spelling and grammar is unchanged. I do have the phone number of the Mystery Messenger but it has been redacted for possible future personal funtime use.

Mystery Messager (MM): Whos this (5:15PM)

Me: I am an enigma (5:16PM)

MM: Who (5:17PM)

Me: That depends on who is asking. (5:17PM)

MM: That a picture from my fucken girlfrieend.and.why would you be sendimg.it to.me when that is not her number (5:20PM)

Me: I haven't sent you anything and I don't know who you are. (5:21PM)

MM: Yea you did you sent me a pic from my gf (5:22PM)

Me: No, sorry. I have no idea of what you are talking about. You seriously have the wrong number. (5:23PM)

{End conversation}

I lied. *ahem* I LIED! I'm TOTALLY having an affair with your girlfriend. Well, I don't know if I would call it an affair more than a brief interlude when both of us caved to our most carnal of desires and documented it with pictures to be sent to our respective partners, but yeah, basically I did her. Lots.

Unfortunately, since you didn't identify yourself, I don't know specifically which girlfriend you're talking about. When you're a fabulous party girl like me, when I'm clubbin' it up hardcore I have no choice but to steal your girlfriend and get smoochy at least until the bubbles wear off. The only exception is the chance I met her in the locker room at my gym, and that's entirely different. It's serious, bro. I've been painting portraits of her and everything. I'll be happy to send them to your phone.

What a fucken girlfrieend may look like

Sexy Women's Locker Room Secrets Revealed!

Promise not to tell anyone else.

I have belonged to the same gym off and on for approximately 14 years. My attendance being spotty at times was due to my undiagnosed medical issues seeming to hinder any of my progress so I would quit. Or I couldn't find a suitable sugar daddy to pay for my membership. Anyway, I'm back to venturing to my sweaty refuge several times a week. It's a very demanding fitness regime: I sit on the oblique ab machines reading Self while everyone glares at me. Every once in a while I'll give a little half-hearted spin with a grunt to prove how hard I'm working. After that, I spend 90 minutes in the steam room clearing my throat, followed by walking up and down the slippery stairs from the hot tub to the cold plunge over and over for about an hour. Finally, I head to the locker room, where the real magic happens.

The mystique of the women's locker room has been depicted in film and TV since the dawn of time. Everyone is walking around in matching underwear sets, removing them casually to all shower together, playfully slapping at each other or assisting one another in sudsy adventures as some man peeks/films/etc. This is an outrage. This is not AT ALL what happens in a women's locker room and it's time someone set the record straight. I'm willing to tell what I know as long as you promise to keep it a secret because maybe some of the other ladies wouldn't be so thrilled I'm sharing their sexy exploits. So, do you promise to keep your mouth shut? Yes? Good. Here we go.

Story #1

It was a quiet, peaceful evening as I sauntered into the locker room, casually tossing my golden locks about my shoulders in case any strong, hunky men were watching. At a quarter to midnight, you never knew what to expect at this 24-hour wonderland of delights. I dropped my bag onto the bench and sighed, as removing my clothes felt like such a tiring chore to do alone. If only there could be someone to assist me with the complicated nature of female clothing. I sighed again--a little louder this time--following it with a quick pucker at myself in the mirror, and was shocked to hear the sound of a man coughing for attention behind the next row of lockers. I shuddered with anticipation.

"Yes?" I breathed softly, folding my coat an placing it on top of my bag.

"Is it safe for me to come around?" The man asked, his voice echoing throughout the dimmed chamber.

"For now," I chuckled, hand poised to start unbuttoning.

The gentleman appeared around the corner of the lockers, wearing a uniform and clutching a circuit tester. A second man emerged behind him. It was clearly my lucky day. I felt warmth flush over my chest and up to my face.

"Oh, hi Jen," the second man said, who I now recognized as a manager of the gym. "The lights blew out back here and we waited until late when there weren't as many people around to look at the problem. It's not just the bulbs. It should only be another couple of minutes. Could you please tell anyone else that comes in so we don't have a mishap? There's the other room upstairs if they need to get changed."

"No problem," I replied... and did what he asked.

Story #2

Against my normal routine, I dared to enter the gym at an earlier hour than usual on a sunny Friday morning. The sun's rays shone through the pool room's windows, making the warm water twinkle invitingly. I walked into the locker room and was surprised to find women everywhere. It was exactly how I heard of it in legend: everyone was topless or completely naked, laughing as they helped each other dress or rub lotion into their tired muscles. I watched, transfixed, as they took up every available space in the large room. The benches, the showers, the counters. Everywhere I looked I saw a naked woman and her endless accoutrements. I couldn't believe my eyes, so I decided to trust my ears.

"And that's why I won't eat bread anymore. I saw it on the TV. When you toast it, it turns into sugar. It crystallizes into sugar," one woman said.

What someone eating a bagel may look like.

Another chimed in, "Oh, really? Well, I'm not going to eat any more bread, either. I don't need my diabetes to get any worse."

A third asked, "Then what am I supposed to do with all of this?" I looked over to follow her voice and noticed the giant pile of plastic bags of nothing but bagels and cocktail breads. The largest bank of benches was covered in all types of bagels, and tiny little slices of breads begging for cheese and meat to top them.

Several other women slowly shuffled over to collect the bread items, claiming that they just wouldn't toast them, then, and the bagels would keep quite well in the freezer. All of this was well and good but I SWEAR TO GOD the next time I come in here and all the Aqua Aerobics old ladies have their shit all over the place AN HOUR AFTER CLASS HAS ENDED and I can't find an effing bench to put my stuff so I can change or even get to a locker for cripes sake I'M GOING APESHIT and TEARING THIS PLACE UP SO HELP ME!

Story #3

I exerted myself fully through a most strenuous workout and felt horrible aches and pains all over due to the fact I was still recovering from a broken foot and the overcompensation for it placed strain throughout my body. Due to this, I still required stability assistance and remembered that one of the showers had grab rails in case I felt the need to grasp something hard.

The shower head was adjustable to many lovely settings but all I cared about was feeling the sense of my dirty deeds leaving my body. As I massaged shampoo through my hair, little bubbles floated away through the air, creating a magical scene of true joy. I have never felt closer to all of creation. In fact, I suddenly felt I was not alone. Turning ever so slightly to the left, I noticed a hand pulling the curtain aside and a tiny blue eye peered in at me through the crack. I playfully giggled to myself as she continued to open the curtain--OH DAMMIT one of those old Aqua Aerobics ladies AGAIN! GTFO OF MY SHOWER! You do not have an exclusive arrangement with the handicapped shower. SERIOUSLY. You look in here to give me the stink eye ONE MORE TIME and I'll send you to you meet your maker right quick TRUST ME.

Story #4

I saw her cautiously place her treasure into the locker before carefully closing the door. She looked around with a most serious expression on her face, the twinkle in her eyes belying her facade as she locked gazes with me. She gave a wistful smile, a sexy glimpse into the very depths of her soul. This would be our little secret, I told myself as I exited the room to go sit on the leg machines for an hour with the newest issue of Cosmopolitan. In the back of my mind, the sense of anticipation for what was to come in the locker room began to build. I simply couldn't wait for the payoff I expected. It was too much for me to handle and I was ready to explode.

Merely an hour later, I returned to the locker room and rushed to get ready for the shower just in case ONE OF THOSE DAMN OLD LADIES appeared. Anyway, I was getting everything out of my locker when I heard a most intriguing sound: moaning. This soft moaning was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of licking. My ears perked up and the hairs on the back of my neck tingled. The moaning and licking were soon joined by smacking and with this I couldn't hold back any longer. I peeked around the lockers and saw my special friend from earlier. She had retrieved the fast food bag and drink out of her locker and was clearly enjoying the Big Mac that had been sitting in there for an hour, its cold meat satisfying the deepest longing and undoing the entire workout she had just completed.

I hope you enjoyed this salacious look into the true sexy stories of women's locker rooms. You're just going to have to wait for the installment of stories from the hot tub and pool area. We'll save that for another day.

The guilt from revealing these stories is too much to bear.

Go Play in Traffic

Owie. The first picture. Ten minutes after the incident.

 I was sooooooo bored today. Seriously. After spending a month merely staring out of the picture window at the torrents pouring from the heavens above, I noticed a strange phenomenon in the sky. It was the color blue. "Oh, joy!" I exclaimed, tears pouring down my face as I raced out the front door to bask in the sun for however long I could. My skin embraced the light as it toasted away the years of my visible youth, the under layers of leathery bliss preparing to later emerge and give me even more reasons for a chemical peel.

What to do? WHAT TO DO!?! I was faced with the quandary of dry air and nothing to do. Since my creativity had been pickled away long ago, not much entered my brain. Weed the yard? Nah. Too boring and too many bees. Wash the car? No. That's peasant work. I then remembered something my friends from middle school used to tell me quite often when I was being especially awesome around them: "Go play in traffic." As that was something I hadn't yet managed to get around to, I decided that now was as good a time as any and set out to find a great intersection for my new favorite pastime.

It didn't take long for me to find a happy little intersection just a few blocks away from my home. This was good because I was so full of caviar and mimosas I was too bloated to move. Lucky for me, it also didn't take very long to find a big truck in front of which I could leap to my certain peril. And super sweet insurance payday.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Some of you that knew me back in my more responsible days may think that instead I was just walking to work as usual and was smacked into, HARD, in the crosswalk, when I had the signal, by a stupid effer with a small penis in his giant truck when he was making a right turn without looking when he did not have the light in his favor. But, you know that can't be the case because I don't do that sort of thing any more. I was simply dancing about in the intersection with nothing better to do and the guy had the nerve to plow into my arm and then recoil in horror from me at the utter destruction I probably did to his truck. I'm sure he sped off so quickly because he needed to go check on the damage.

I was so busy having a good time I didn't even think about getting his license plate info. It's okay because I wouldn't have much to squeeze him for since it's just my arm which is mostly okay. If only I had endured an injury that would require a neck brace or a wheelchair. Shit. I missed out.

Anyway, I coped the best way I could by FINDING ALL THE LIQUOR and DRINKING IT. And taking pictures of my bruise every few hours. Even after this is posted I'm going to keep taking pictures and updating the bruise situation every few hours. Enjoy my pain, my dear fans.

The aftermath.

6 hours after the first picture.

9 hours after 1st picture.