Sunday, September 29, 2019

All About My Ass

Life is difficult when you have no ass.
My name is FirstNations, and I have no ass.  Flat as a pancake.  Hank Hill assless.  No butt whatsoever.

Regular slacks and jeans hang weirdly in the back, so I wear cotton knit, which hides a multitude of sins, and are baggy naturally.  My lack of an ass is nobodies business but (Ha) my own.

I did not know that I didn't have an ass until Sir Mix-A-Lot came out with his dumb song 'Baby Got Back.'  Until then it was enough that I had big tits. And with those I was winning in the 'Hey baby check me out' game. That was all I needed.  (And a belt.) But after that song came out, ass afficianadoes came swarming out of the damn woodwork to sing the praises of bulgy buttocks, and videos featuring women flapping their enormous cheeks rapidly, or in time to music, became rampant.

This was what the new Sexy looked like.

 You can't have just any old ass either - it has to be shaped like an apple.  Nothing I have is shaped like an apple. What I have is shaped like an apple that has been run over by a car.

I cannot sit for very long before I am shifting about uncomfortably, no matter how soft the seat might happen to be.  The only tolerable position is to have one leg thrown up and over the left arm of the chair, which isn't always something you can do, like if you are on a train or a bus or an airplane or at a funeral.  Someone is going to have something to say about it. On a long flight, I am in a pretty fair amount of pain by the time I shuffle off that plane.  All I want to do is find a place where I can lay on my stomach.  Unfortunately, that's when my tits get their revenge.  "Not sexy enough, huh?  Go ahead.  Try and lie on your stomach."

I am not able to wear underwear, because they roll down the back of me as I walk, and they fall off.  No word of a lie.  My legs are curvy enough, I just don't have the wide hipbones needed to hang the waistband from.  Same reason I cannot wear pantyhose.  In fact the last time I wore pantyhose was Christmas about 2003.

There I was, all dolled up for the company Christmas party.  A department heads' wife!  Seated at the front of the room!  I'd gone to a beauty parlor and had my hair and makeup done! (I know, right?)  I was wearing a beautiful holiday dress and even heels.

And pantyhose.  Pantyhose pulled up all the way to my tits, where they were held in place by the band of my bra.

And this worked.  I was able to walk from the car to the banquet room and wander around, and that was nice.  It wasn't until we'd been seated for awhile and I was feeling nice and comfortable, when I had to go hit the ladies room. Thinking nothing of it, I stood up, and my pantyhose went 'Flurp! Vzzzzzz!' and rolled all the way down to the middle of my thighs.

Now when you are in a position like that, you can do three things.  Hold it, which HA.  I've had two kids, so that wasn't going to happen.

 You can clutch the rolled margin of your hose, and totter off with your hose all super baggy around your calves and ankles.  I sure in fuck wasn't going to try that, not with my husband's boss and crew and work buddies and their wives all over the place.

 What I did was to ooch around a bit there in my seat, just as though I were settling in, and meanwhile my hosejust continued to roll their way downward, fell down over my knees, and landed in a warm puddle around my feet.

 Then, my lap and legs covered by the long tablecloth, I kicked
 off my shoes, nudged the pile of nylon way back beneath the table, and then slipped my shoes back on and walked to the bathroom bare-legged.

I wonder what the cleaning crew thought about that.

This is about all I have to say about my ass. I am perfectly happy with it otherwise. It works well. It gets me around.  All it's inlets and outlets are in tiptop shape, and I don't horrify my gynocologist.  And she's not just being nice, either.  That woman has told me some stories.

At sixty years old, this is the best I can hope for without resorting to surgery, and seriously...just, no.  I'll buy a granny cushion, and to hell with you, Sir Mix-A-Lot.

Saturday, September 28, 2019

Bill Gates

I lived in Seattle in 1984.  My daughter wasn't even a year old.  I had left my husband and cycled through three different womens' shelters before I found a place to live and got on Welfare.  Seattle in those days was pretty mellow.

Now I don't mean that real shit wasn't happening.  It was, everywhere.  But in Seattle, things were being done to assist the populace.  The vast majority of those things were funded by Bill and Melinda Gates.

Bill Gates saved the people of Seattle in the 1980's.  His foundations funded some incredibly forward thinking, humane programs for the homeless and the poor.  He hired stinkin' EVERYONE, be you facially tattooed, morbidly freaky or terminally white. If you could pass the Microsoft Mordor brainiac gatekeepers, you worked at Microsoft.  Period.

Bill Gates went to my Dicks Drive-In.  You would see him driving his shitty car around the area, and there he'd be with his shitty haircut and bad suit behind the wheel, talking on his space age Bluetooth setup (it probably wasn't Bluetooth but some custom comware that he'd whipped up in his basement.)  He would wait in like at the Dicks for his Dick Burger and his three Dick sauces - a substance that never turned if left in it's funky little plastic container unopened - and his large fries, and then leave his enormous cannonball wallet on the drive-up counter and off he'd go, chewing on his burger.

Dicks would call him and leave a message:  You left your wallet here again dude.

He would come back the next day and pick it up, and they'd make sure that he got his shit together. "Mr. Gates, are you sure you have your wallet?  Have you checked the contents? Now make sure you have it in your car.  Is it with you?  OK.  You have a good day now."  It held up the line forever.

I would walk to that Dicks - it was only five blocks from where I was living in a railroad apartment - and be standing in line when Bill Gates came driving through, holding up the line, causing a lot of back and forth on the speaker system.  He was a neighbor.  You smiled at him or not, but you knew he was there.  Richest man in the world at the scuzzy Dicks Drive-in off Capitol Hill getting his burger and fries and Dicks' sauce in his shitty car with his shitty haircut.  Whores all over the place.  Welfare moms and kids and stamp crackers, because the Welfare office was nearby.  Hard, bad traffic.

He gave that whole city hope. In the beginning, anyway.  He was a rich dork, and so he didn't quite have the rich dude thing down right.  He actually gave back to the city there for awhile, before he got interested in third world toilets.  You felt like there was hope, like you had something to fall back on, because there were so many programs being bolstered by his money.  I was a dirt-poor woman with an infant on my hip, I knew I could depend on the programs I needed at that time to be up and running.  And those programs were the difference between me and the street.  So don't talk no shit about Gates to me.  He's changed, his agenda has changed, and he finally figured out how to be a rich. But when I needed it, his cash was working for us out there in Seattle flat on our asses, and he went to our Dicks, and he was OK.