An interview with a vampire...

Hello,

Right. The last blog post was a little on the serious side. Let me say one thing about that, I was drinking...heavily. And I was feeling a little blue. So, that's two things, but those two things are facts. And facts are what matters. I think.

Moving on...

I figured I'd Pistola Whip another blog post out before this year goes the way of the years of years past. End on a high note, tie up a few loose ends, mend some fences...you get the general drift.

It has come to the recent attention at the offices of Pistola Whipped that one of our dear readers and good friends has recently underwent some trials of the heart. In fact, her heart was ripped out of her chest (whilst beating), put on a train track, run through a garbage disposal, used as a shot put in Olympic try-outs and then tossed back into her chest cavity in an attempt to sustain several life systems.

In order to at least vaguely attempt to right this wrong, Pistola Whipped has really gone deep...deeper than ever before to find the correct elements that could possibly put some salve on our dear reader's deep wound.

Here is Pistola Whipped's attempt at the impossible...

Edward Cullen (from Twilight) interviews Gilligan (from Gilligan's Island)




Edward Cullen (EC): Gilligan, pleasure to meet you.

Gilligan (G): It's actually Bob Denver. How did you do this? I'm dead.

EC: Okay, Bob Denver...Gilligan. I have no idea who you are either way. As far as you being dead, I'm a vampire. I can talk to the dead. That's what we do.

G: A vampire? Right.

EC: Yes, I'm a vampire for a very popular book and motion picture series called Twilight. What elusive, wondrous creature are you to not know who I am?

G: I'm a dead creature. Remember? I died back in 2005.

EC: And how is being dead work for you? Do you miss how your heart swells and pressurizes hot blood through your thirsty veins?

G: Given that I went through quadruple bypass surgery to correct that very issue, no. Being dead is pretty lame. Kinda boring. I spend a lot of time smoking pot.

EC: Being dead for me is like a frequency, a hum of consciousness that operates at a different pitch.

G: You're a strange and intense little man.

EC: I've been told that before. In fact, I'm often compared to the director Jean-Luc Godard.

G: Never heard of him. I mainly worked with Sherwood Schwartz.

EC: Hmmm...what is your philosophy on love?

G: I'd guess I'd have to say, all we need is love. The Beatles said it best, I guess.

EC: Mine is that I'm happy with the death I have, but I do not have a margin to let just anyone come into my life.

G: Not really changing my opinion that you're kind of a ball of nerves there buddy. You could use a nice vacation on a desert island with a few beautiful women and some hammocks.

EC: No, I fancy dark brews while reading a book from a stack of books I have at my disposal in a dark corner of some trendy restaurant. Such an approach can only lead to satisfaction. I need to act on what is immediately available to me, I reckon.

G: Suit yourself, buddy. But with that attitude your eternity might last longer than mind.

Interview abruptly ends.

And that is what Pistola has to offer for the heartbroken and the downtrodden. Look with clear eyes and open hearts into the new year, even if it's through the bottom of a bottle.

May god have mercy on your souls.

Pistola Whipped '10

Thoughs of mortality on a Saturday night...

Good evening,

The night is a Saturday. The month December. The year is 2010.

I am 32 years old. Childless. Daughter to all or none or some. Single according to the government.

My backyard resembles a yard that a crater came shooting out of the night sky and sent snow flying into solid banks that encircle the patio. And that is where I lay. I don't feel the cold because I am not in a feeling mood. I stare up at the sky. There are stars, but they are faded and distant. If I were in California they would probably be magnificent and I could hang a dream or two on them. But here in Minnesota they are remote. Aloof. Dream free. They are winking at me. And I take it as an invitation to battle. Me vs. the stars.

Thoughts come rushing at me, it's like I'm not thinking them, but someone is throwing them at my brain like a bar dart. Aiming for the bulls eye, but hitting the peripheral instead. That bulls eye is protected like a national treasure.

Still laying here on the patio. Probably under this brick and this layer of clay and our plumbing and our foundation and then under this won't grow-a-fucking-thing soil are bones. I can see the bones like I can see the stars: dark matter and then a glowing light repeated like it's sewed into a quilt.

One day we will all be bones...or ashes, depending on your wishes. We go into the ground or on your mantel or scattered over a place you think matters to you. And those stars just keep on blinking. In one blink you're here and then you're not. Those bones are there with a steady stare. One big bone yard this country. Perhaps those bones will produce something that wars will be fought over one day. It doesn't matter to them because they are just watching, keeping time. They know we will join them soon. The stars just keep on winking, because they know the answer to the riddle and we lay on our patios trying to distract ourselves from the very thing that will kill us in the end.

Pistola goes south of the border in honor of Thanksgiving and Eva Longoria

Hello,

How was your Thanksgiving?

If you want to know how mine was email me personally. Or don't. I don't care.

I had a few days off for Thanksgiving so I decided to secure a celebrity interview while I was away from the office. It was hard to find someone relevant, interesting and available on such an important holiday, so I decided to head south of the border where they don't celebrate Thanksgiving (I think). Yes, dear readers, instead of spending time with my family engaging in such familial traditions as sloth and gluttony, I went to el Mexico.

Pistola sits down for turkey dinner with Eva Longoria Parker (oops! should we still call her that?)



Pistola Whipped Gets a Life (PWGAL): Eva Longoria Parker! How in la hell are you? How is your show: the Real Housewives?

Eva Longoria Parker (ELP): Oh fine. Thanks. I am now going as just Eva Longoria and my show is actually Desperate Housewives.

PWGAL: Why did you drop the Parker? And yes! Desperate Housewives! That seems so much more fitting than Real Housewives.

Eva Longoria (EL): Ahem. Well, yes. I'm getting a divorce from Tony Parker.

PWGAL: Why would you divorce him? He's a hot piece of ass. And rich.

EL: He was cheating on me. You haven't heard? It's all over the press.

PWGAL: The only press I read is Midwest Fishing.

EL: Well, he was caught sexting another woman. Wouldn't you leave your husband if he cheated on you?

PWGAL: I'm not sure. I probably wouldn't be in that predicament because who would cheat on this? [Pistola pulls down sweatpants to reveal a pair of SPANX].

EL: Um, I thought this interview was supposed to be about my Mexican heritage?

PWGAL: OLE, senorita! Hold your horses! We'll get to that. What were we discussing before you interrupted me?...Tony cheating on you? So how is sexting cheating on you again?

EL: Sending images of your genitals and sexual suggestions via text isn't cheating?

PWGAL: Hell no. That's normal communication. What else is texting for? I send sexual suggestions out to my entire contact list at least cinco times a day.

EL: Well, that's disgusting.

PWGAL: Moving on then, is Thanksgiving sad this year now that your husband left you?

EL: No, it's not sad. I'm spending time with my family and friends. And for the record, I left Tony.

PWGAL: Eva, you don't have to be act so tough on this blog interview. Virtually no one reads it. Come on, remember back to when you and Tony were just starting off? What about all those years you spent together? Don't they mean anything now?

EL: Tony and I met about three years ago. What would you like to ask me about my Mexican heritage?

PWGAL: Right. Right. Do you know Antonio Banderas?

EL: I know him. He's Spanish though.

PWGAL: Is he single?

EL: No. He's married to Melanie Griffith.

PWGAL: Have you ever sexted him?

EL: NO! What else do you want to ask because I'm about to leave, you disgusting bitch.

PWGAL: Do you have that temper because you're a Mexican?

EL: Get me the hell out of here!

PWGAL: WAIT! One more question. Would it be weird if I asked you for Tony's phone number?

EL: Throws microphone at Pistola's head and leaves interview.

And there is Pistola's contribution to your Thanksgiving celebration.

De Nada,
La Pistola Whippedalez

The sun vacuum leads to lack of happy place...

Hello,

Well, it is yet another gray day to add upon the many gray days ahead of us. Us being the fearless Minnesotans of Minnesota.

Days like this I rely upon my happy place to make it through. Y’all know what I mean: our sunny beaches, our love nooks, our ninth innings of the last World Series game right before the win…our happy places.

But when I drew upon my happy place today, it was simply no longer happy.

Yes, folks. Pistola has lost her happy place.

For the 32 years I’ve been walking (sometimes drunkenly) this earth, I’ve also been going to Ten Mile Lake in northern Minnesota. Our family has a small, Friday the 13th-esque cabin nestled among the pines, overlooking deep, mysterious blue waters. I spent every summer of my youth playing tennis, picking mushrooms, identifying birds, fishing, swimming, jumping off (getting pushed from) the dock, watching massive thunderstorms tumble across the waters. Naively believing that this place would always bring me to a place of contentment, a state of calm that matches the lake on a still, hot summer day.

No longer.

Now when I think of Ten Mile anxiety fills me.

Let me tell you why:

1.) White guilt. Some would say I have a 'gambling problem'. And let me assure you, dear readers, it isn't because of the rush of blood to my head when I hit on a slot or the surge of adrenaline from a challenging gaze across the poker table. No, it's because every time I enter a casino I feel the need to throw money at the very people we kicked off of Ten Mile in order to make ourselves happy.

2.) Guilt displacement. I blame Native Americans for my gambling problem and that seems wrong.

3.) Family. I haven't admitted to my family yet that I gambled away the deed to the cabin in a busted up game of 5-card stud behind the casino. Sorry about that.

4.) Skin cancer. You remember the days when the first thing you did in the morning was pop on your swimsuit, run out the front door, hop in the lake and get a sunburn that made your skin feel like it was about six sizes too small for your body? And you'd sleep like shit that night, but the next morning you'd do exactly the same thing? Well, those days are over. Now every mole on my body is already in stage four skin cancer.

And now my happy place has become the creation and solution to all my problems: the bar. So what can one do? I guess I'm off to my happy place. Bottoms up!

Pourin' one out for ya,
PBR Whipped

Voting leads to thinking...

Buenos Noches!

So, I did this thing we Americans call vote tonight.

Whilst I was perusing the ballot a few thoughts crossed my mind, like:

'Who are these people?'

'I'm hungry for a bear claw right now.'

'Who are these people again?'

'Would a bear claw be fresh enough so late in the day to be good?'

And, last but not least,

'All these combination running mates makes me wonder what other combos I would vote for...'

Which leads us to our next bit, Pistola Whipped cracks the combination.
(I know, you come up with a better name).

Cheese and crackers



Gimme 20-year aged cheddar and some Pepperidge or straight up saltines and EZ Cheese, I don't care which way you serve it, that's a combination that would get stuff done in Congress.



Lady Gaga f. Beyonce in 'Telephone'
That Jamaican accent that L. Gaga uses when she sings 'party' and then when Beyonce rips in channeling Tina Turner in 'We Don't Need Another Hero' during the breakdown KILLS! Put those bitches on a ballot and you got my vote any November 2.



Ralph Nader and Winona LaDuke.
Check.

The long part of Dennis Miller's hair and Tyra Banks' forehead






Everyone's minds would be so blown by this powerful and glorious combination that things would just get done. And get done fiercely!

Pistola Whipped is a democratic nation and welcomes your entries...

Got out and voted,
P. Whipped

Pistola speaks nonsense and then in metaphors....

Hello,

Are we all surviving?

Well, IT is here. You know it and I know it. Dang, we all knew it was coming. We could feel it in our bones. Some dimension is added in our perpetual depression. Our coffee tastes different. Instead of looking out the window to view our backyards hopefully we now look wistfully. And this thing's arrival sits heavily on our chests, like a small monkey might while picking lint out of a bellybutton. Our eyes droop as the television flashes images of better bodies, better kids, better lives and we fall asleep...

Wait, do you know what I'm talking about? Because I don't. Oops.

I'm doing some baking right now.

Yes! I know. I know. You are all asking how does lil' Pisty here find time in her busy schedule to bake?! Quite honestly it is hard to manage with a full schedule of Real Housewives of Atlanta, Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Project Runway, Teen Mom, 16 and Pregnant, Judge Judy, The First 48 and, of course, The Tyra Banks' Show, but I'm managing.



As I was adding in a teaspoon of salt, a tablespoon of vanilla, a cup of sugar and a dash of love, I was thinking: baking is kind of like a relationship.



You add attraction, you fold in interest, you sift in a helluva lot of baggage, a pinch of this and that, mix it all up, heat it all up and you get this delightful treat. But sometimes it isn't all what it cracked up to be. And sometimes what looks like a cow paddy ends up being the tastiest morsel you've ever tasted. Sometimes it's lovely and sweet and lingers on. Sometimes it doesn't bake all the way through and you get a big fat mess where you keep finding dried up batter bubbles in your kitchen for years and you think how do I keep finding these things and it reminds you of that awful cake you had to throw out. Sometimes you get something that is so amazing, wonderful and fascinating that it's gone before you know you even had it so good. And sometimes you get a recipe that you keep coming back to because it's always fun and challenging to make and the outcome is consistently a fucking delight.

Off to frost the old standby.

Stay classy,
Pistola E. Whipped

Let's tackle complicated themes like civics, sobriety and sleaziness...

Hello,

How’s it hanging and banging?

Once again I’ve let my civic responsibility lapse.
My blog = my civic responsibility.
This is the kind of rationalizing I do in order to get out of voting in non-presidential elections.

Things are a-changin’ here in the life of Pistola Whipped.

Let’s have a look how, shall we?

1.) I’m dabbling in sobriety. And dear readers, it is a strange and new world. It feels weird to not be sick with a debilitating hangover at least once a week. I've had to find a new scale on how to base a person's merits since judging a person based on how they make a drink is no longer applicable. Oh, and the most unusual and positive change is to have some extra bucks in my wallet. Sobriety has created an alarmingly large amount of time in my life to pursue such hobbies as painting, writing, reading, staring at the ceiling, wondering what my friends are up to, watching even more reality TV than before and turning into a bore that obsesses over my eyebrow hairs. That being said, do my eyebrows look weird to any of you guys?

2.) I am going to write an article for a Minneapolis newspaper. Not the ‘Star Tribune’. Nope, not the ‘City Pages’. Negative on ‘The Onion’. Actually, in the likely event that I am rejected I’m just gonna go mum on the name of the publication. If they do publish my article then I’ll post that shit all over this blog. In fact, I’ll probably rent Conan O’Brien’s orange blimp and drive it all over the state with a banner that says, ‘I am the next CJ!’



And that is really about it.

Take it sleazy folks, because if you’re reading this blog, that’s probably the only way you can get it.

PW

Summer of '10 in pictures...

Howdy,

I went for a walk today and it dawned on me that I should really update this blog. I keep forgetting that I need to tend to this blog. I should be watering it, feeding it, mothering it, smothering it and even bleeding it just to the point of death before resurrecting it. Kind of like how I treat my house plants and let's be honest, my romantic relationships.

I wasn't sure what to write about. I've been off trying to pack 12 months of living into three months of time as we're wont to do here in Minnesota. Thus my usual stalking, er speaking with fabulous celebrities hit a dead end on the first warm day of June.

And BAM! it's September. That crisp breeze blowing through our screen windows ushers in thoughts of dark brews, fuzzy sweaters and past domestic disputes brought on by Vikings' losses.

With all this nostalgia and changing of the season, I thought I would encapsulate the summer of '10 in pictures. Here ya are!

We kick things off right with a Sunday Funday at Casa de Hayes (after a drunken biking accident):



The party was fun even with a super huge chin (brought on by above mentioned drunken bike accident):



Oh, and then there is that danged new Target Field the Minnesota Twins are playing in. I feel it's an accurate summation to say I've ate about 300 cheese curds there and seen Joe Mauer hit into about $3 million worth of double plays over the past three months, but golly it is a great ol' time:



I got that little thing I liked to refer to as my dragon-shaped bruise covered up:



Into a beautiful Minnesota lady slipper:



My work had a fabulous fund-raising event that friends and family attended:







And then there was July. I didn't take any pictures myself, but I think I can paint an accurate portrayal of the month by stealing images from the Internet.

It started with this:



And felt like this a lot:



And was finally diagnosed by this handy little pattern:



Oh, and I started to look a lot like Mary Jo Buttafuoco after a certain Long Island Lolita got to her:



Naturally July cannot go unmentioned with the totally awesome Jewell Stock:



Shall we move onto August...?

There was a delightful pool party at Ma and Pa Charron's:





More Labe tattoos:





And a goddamn hootenanny at the goddamn Mohler's:





A little Wheeler bachelorette party:





And of course the cherry on top of this delicious hot fudge (and a little caramel) summer...the annual Labe pilgrimage to Ten Mile Lake:









Until next summer,
I remain,
Pistola Whipped

Pistola goes to first base with Justin Morneau...

Hello,

How are you earthlings?

I’m well up here in the blogosphere. It’s been a little lonely, but I’ve been passing the time trying to find a blog post worthy of reading, by you, my dearest readers.

And I think it finally happened. I went out and interviewed many celebrities both alive and dead. I cured cancer. I re-wrote the American Constitution. Yet, after hours upon grueling hours of searching…I took it back to what I know. And what I know is Minnesotans.

So, with no further ado here is:

A little chatter with Minnesota Twins first baseman Canadian Justin Morneau:



PWGAL: Hi Justin!

JM: Hi there. How are ya?

PWGAL: Oh fine. And you? [cracks open a Labatt Blue and winks at Justin].

JM: Doing great.

PWGAL: On behalf of me and my fellow citizens welcome to America! [Pistola enunciating words slowly]

JM: Thanks. I’ve lived here for about six years now. I’m married to an American and I play baseball in America. Plus, Canada isn’t too far from here. So, I guess you could say I feel pretty American.

PWGAL: Right. If you’re so American name our current president?

JM: Barack Obama.

PWGAL: [checks with assistant to see if Justin is right] Yes that is correct. So, let’s get back to you being a first baseman. Do you ever dream of getting to second or third base?

JM: Well, not really. I’m comfortable at first base. I don’t think that getting to play second or third base is necessarily a measure of skill, but more a level of finding out what you're good at and sticking with it.

PWGAL: Doesn’t anyone apply pressure to you to round the bases?

JM: Well, perhaps when I’m at bat, but when I’m playing first base, no.

PWGAL: At bat, aye? Is that what they call it in Canada?

JM: Call what exactly?

PWGAL: You know.

JM: No, I don’t think I do.

PWGAL: Come on Justin. I know you’re Canadian and all, but really? We’re talking about SEX! You’re a first baseman: guy who likes a little kissing before scoring the big home run.

JM: Wow, you think that I’m a professional kisser?

PWGAL: Naturally.

JM: No, I play baseball, a sport, as a professional in Major League Baseball for the Minnesota Twins.

PWGAL: I’m really not familiar with baseball or sports.

JM: Listen. I need to head to batting practice. Can we wrap this up?

PWGAL: Sure, Justin. Here’s a little parting gift from me [Pistola leans in for a kiss].

JM: You’re nuts. [Justin takes can of Labatt out of Pistola’s hands and whips it at her head.]

Interview abruptly ends.

A year of domesticity....

Hello dear readers,

I know it's been awhile. Sorry for the separation. I've really missed you all (Nate and Sarah).

The boyfriend and I recently celebrated one year in our new house. I'm publishing something I wrote prior to moving in with each other. It's good that I can look back over the past year and recall that it's been a fairly smooth ride...no restraining orders...yet.

Enjoy!

At what point in a relationship is it okay to throw romance, passion and the beauty and solace of one’s apartment or house for a shared living space?

I’m not exactly sure, but I have been thinking about it lately. And not just for fun but because it may be time. Yep, time to co-habitate with the boyfriend.

We’ve been dating roughly seven months, haven’t known each other even a year and yet here we are: I’m forwarding him house listings from MLS. We’re emailing about yards, square footage, mortgages and central air conditioning. And it’s fun…right now. Speculating about our future, dreaming of barbecues in the backyard with all of our perfect couple friends. Decorating to each of our own tastes, satisfying both of our odd collections. I can see myself now, shaking my head and fighting a smile as I re-wash the dishes that my boyfriend carelessly rinsed and threw in a pile next to the sink. Oh, good times. And I’m sure we can still maintain our interesting and exciting sex life after taking out the trash, weeding the garden, painting over the weird kitchen borders the previous owner chose to hang, paying bills and sending off the errant solicitor. I’m sure we won’t disagree or grow sick of each other. I’m sure we’re the exception to the rule.

So, why should we carry on the way we are? I mean what’s great about having a safe, solo haven where I can drink a bottle of Cabernet and listen to stupid songs and air sing at the top of my lungs and fall over and break my own stuff without having to feel guilty about it the next day? I actually don’t like standing in front of the open fridge door in my underwear dipping sweet and sour pickles into a jar of crunchy peanut butter. Well, I don’t actually like doing it in front of others. And I mean, I hate going on the annual weekend-long garage sale tour with my friends and picking up the grossest paintings I can find and hanging them on my walls immediately after getting home. I hate that.

And what do I do when the boyfriend and I get in a fight? It’s nice to go home and fling myself dramatically in my bed and shamelessly pound on the pillows with nobody watching except for the movie audience I am acting for in my mind. What bed can I do that in if he’s already doing it in ours?

I guess I’m struggling with a battle against the unknown. I know things right now are fantastic, awesome and truly fabulous. I still get smug when one of my imperfect couple friends (scratch them off the backyard barbecue list) complains about their boyfriend’s showering habits. Like that he doesn’t shower. And I know that mine does, because he has time alone in his own apartment where he showers and writes songs about me and emails all his friends about the super cool chick he is thinking about buying a house with. I can still imagine him doing all this independent stuff and that warm feeling surges through me. But is that warm feeling true affection or is it because he is doing stuff I don’t get to know about and do with him?

I imagine we’ll end up living together. It seems like the natural progression of this thing that I like to call a relationship. I suppose we’ll just end up being another couple, buying a house in order to play at being adults. Perhaps we’ll fail? Maybe we’ll succeed.

What if he comes home one night and I’m on my knees, earnestly air-singing along to Bob Seger’s ‘We've Got Tonight’ and he likes me for it? Even loves me for it? And what if he likes doing that too? Then perhaps we could listen to the Kenny Rogers/Sheena Easton duet version instead and fall down and accidentally break each other’s stuff (I’ve never liked his Ikea chairs anyway). Maybe it’s jaded to think too far ahead in the future and assume that all the day-to-day stuff can get in the way of the cool thing we have. I think Bob sums it up the best, ‘We’ve got tonight, who needs tomorrow, we’ve got tonight babe, why don’t we stay?’

Yours very truly,
PW

Much pondering on this day of rising...

Hello!

And Happy Easter to you, too.

I've decided to take my fate into my own hands. If I can learn one lesson from the Jesus Bunny, it's to overcome my own demons and rise above. What better day to celebrate this new lease on life than Easter Sunday?

I guess, arguably, Arbor Day could count...



I digress.

Remember the list I made several weeks ago after being heartlessly rejected from graduate school? I barely do, so let's refresh. It was a list of the five things I would like to do with my life. I've considered the list and the reality of it is, well, it's not very realistic. The idea of being a detective is interesting, but the idea of being a cop in order to become a detective is not interesting. So, let's check that one off the list.

Alt-country singer/songwriter? I don't think I should mistake the facts on this one. Just because I can relate to a lot of the pinings of other sad bastards and own a few western-style shirts does not make me qualifed to write or sing alt-country songs. Crossed off the list.

The product of a trust fund made the list. This is an example of the way I think. Or more accurately, the way I don't think things through. I'm not the product of a trust fund nor will I ever be. That is something one is born into and after 32 years of life I've finally accepted this is not me.

Also, I included a Real Housewife of Minneapolis on that list. I actually wouldn't mind doing this so much, except for the fact that I'm a.) not married, b.) living at poverty level and c.) not into shopping, plastic surgery or anything that any of those Real Housewives broads are into. And also, this show does not exist, so once again...I'm kind of a moron.

But novelist was on there...I've been thinking on this one. I have no patience or the talent to write a great American novel, but I would feel comfortable being a series writer like Carolyn Keene or Louis L'Amour or Nora Roberts. And two of my favorite genres are mystery and western fiction...so to combine the two? I could even pull one of my alt-country western style shirts on to sit down and write...what do you think?

In the event the western meets the mystery in novel form...what would an appropriate crime be to kick off the series? Cowboy Jack in the barn with a noose? Harlot Lorraine in the saloon with a pistola?

Get back to me,
Pistola

Lists...

Hello,

A lot of things have happened over the past week:

A lot. Of. Things.

1.) I graded my friends. Some, but not all, were happy with their grades. This is some sort of example of life, I think.

2.) I saw the move Crazy Heart, which I won't bore with my dear readers with all the wonderful and depressing things I felt after viewing it, except I felt wonderfully and depressingly affected during and after viewing it.

3.) I'm on my 8th Budweiser

4.) That has nothing to do with this list.

5.) Larry McMurtry. I'm a fan. Past Lonesome Dove. Read his memoir and loved it. LOVED IT.

6.) This has been a big week for Pistola Whipped. One big-ass week.

7.) Yours very truly,

8.) Pistola Whipped

Your final grades are in, ladies and one man...

Hello,

Thank you for checking Pistola Whipped gets a life for your official grade from the Saturday night sauna party. People who did not attend are encouraged to read and start their work-outs for the next opportunity to party and be graded by yours truly.

Here we go:

Jenna 'my gray pussy hair is woven into a meaningful, Native American basket' N.:
A+ for first to arrive, last to leave
A+ for wearing a costume
A+ for drinking one bottle of wine, a half case of beer and a shot of Ny-Quil the night before and then drinking three times as much the rest of the weekend and still looking good, well as good as Jenna's ever gonna look
A+ for an A+ Papes game
A+ for partying on Sunday



Total Grade= A+

Anne 'why can't I grow pubic hair' R.
A+ for having the party
A+ for no ER visits
D for not putting lasagna in fridge overnight for post-party snacking
A+ for partying the next day

Total Grade= A+

Kiwi 'she earned her name by sucking every cock in New Zealand on a whistle-stop tour' B.:
A+ for driving the furthest for party time
A+ for having the 'oh shit moment of the night' when a frozen Guinness exploded in her face
A+ for sticking to only two mimosas on Sunday



Total Grade=A+

Jen 'do I need allergy meds or did someone just cum in my eye' MoMo:
A+ for edamame hummus
A+ for writing 'I wanna take you clown town Jenna...peen' in the nastiest, best semi-professional Papes game ever played
B- for almost choosing to watch TV and feeling sorry for herself on Sunday instead of partying

Total Grade=A

Aileen 'give it to me rough' Char-Char
A+ for bringing the Grain Belts and Crock Pot meatballs
A for kicking it in the sauna for a super long, almost unhealthily long time
A for marrying Justin and hanging with his sister's friends

Total Grade=A

Nichole 'do it to me one more time (in my ear)' K.:
A for doing dance party, sauna party and Papes party all in one night
A for staying until the wee hours of the night
A for diving right into the game of Papes and playing like a pro (see Jenna N. above)

Total Grade=A

Heather 'I wear tampons in my tear ducts' B.:
A for finally playing Papes like a champ and bringing more beer
C+ for coming late to the party
A+ for partying the next day

Total Grade=A

Nell 'she was dressed like she wanted it' B.:
A for bringing a little Martha Stewart to an otherwise prison inmate-like party
B- for not getting Dan to somehow take off his clothes
A- for putting the semi into semi-professional Papes

Total Grade=A-

Gina 'sweats VD' B.:
A+ for bringing a Diet Coke to the party in order to ease her hangover from the night before and only drinking one sip before switching to booze
A- for bringing Jenna's mom into a Papes round: in Barb's large and in charge vagina
B for partying the next day, albeit not with us



Total Grade=A

Leecy 'lick me left, I'll lick you right' Free-Free:
C for showing up, like, 11 or 12 hours late
A for last to leave
A for having the most remarkable hair change, or having in the words of Jen, 'spooge-white hair'

Total Grade=B+

Jessica C.
D for having only two drinks because she had to work at Gymboree the next morning
A for having only two drinks because she had to work at Gymboree the next morning
B+ for tolerating Kiwi's friends and liking us, I think

Total Grade=B+

Jen W.
C for being the first to leave
A for being one of the first to show
B for drinking six Coors Lites in one sitting



Total Grade=B+

Nikki W.
C for being late and leaving early
B+ for showing up wasted
B+ for having solo dance party

Total Grade=B+

Kimi L.
Didn't make it for legitimate reasons, can make up at later date.

Total Grade=I (incomplete)

Jennee 'should have, could have, sometimes on my lifepath' D.
B for funny, papes like pre-party email/text banter
D for not coming to the party

Total Grade=U (unexcused)

And our honorary party attendee:

Dan 'one pump, I mean one pape' K.
A for being the Cindrella story in the game of Papes
D for being the only male

Total Grade=C

And here is a little something to leave you with:
Jenna 'Gym Teacher' Nerb Nerb doing the ol' 'elastic riding up her butt, causing friction with her butt hair'.

Big money ideas have to start somewhere...

Alfeederzane,

I think that's German for 'what's up fuckers?'

And I'm rather in a German state of mind after watching another riveting episode of Project Runway with German's very own pride and joy, the baby-making machine Heidi 'Boom Boom' Klum.



What if she started a show called Projects Runaway?

It could feature runaways from the projects making fashion forward outfits for situations like posing on a milk carton or what they will be wearing in 2018 when they do those age-projection picture deals.



Chew on it,
PW

Pearl Jam secret performance leads to meltdown leads to discovery...

Hello,

Due to Pearl Jam playing a 'private' gig for Target-only employees at Target Center today...I had an official (Pearl Jam fanclub member) meltdown.

Un/fortunately, I'm not a Target employee so I could not see them play, but because my best friend is a Target employee I had play-by-play info via text messaging. I was so jealous I cried like those tween girls you see on Time info-mercials watching the Beatles.



How much Pearl Jam stalking did I do today thinking they would play at a local club instead of flying the private Target jet straight back to Seattle?

How much breathing did you do today?

There's your answer. Scared of me?

Yeah, pretty much everyone else is when I reveal the Pearl Jam obsession.

Guess what I did find out?

If you Google Pearl Jam and Minneapolis...

Pistola Whipped is the second thingie to come up!!!!

I think it's because of that interview I did with Charles Manson when he posed as Teddie Vedder, the lead singer of a Pearl Jam cover band, which is found earlier in this blog.

No matter what, this is truly one of my greatest achievements in life.

Yours very truly,
Pearljamola Whipped

WTF?

Hello,

Another day in Minneapolis and another day closer to death.

This is where I'm at.

How about you?

Perhaps I should stop whining, but then where would that leave me?

Remember when growing up was a great and shiny thing?

I do.

Yours very truly,
PW

Rejection leads to top 5 list....

Hello,

How is everyone?

I've had the recent pleasure of getting rejected from getting into graduate school. Rejection is delightful. It feels good to cry, scream at God and ask 'why me, Lord?' and then have a reason to go and get drunk with your friends.

Since my future is now squashed into smithereens, I've taken the past week to reflect, build character and stare at my ceiling.

Whilst staring and reflecting, the question 'what should I do with my life, Oprah/Suze Orman?' kept going through my head.

Constantly beating oneself up for failing invokes some interesting developments, such as the one I'm going to share with you, dear readers. I've decided, in list-form, to design my future by drafting my fantasy careers. Analyze carefully. This is a high-stakes league.

Here is Pistola Whipped finds a dream career:

5.) Homicide detective, but only if I could be on A&E's The First 48.
4.) Alt-country singer/songwriter. Like Lucinda Williams, not Sheryl Crow.
3.) Novelist. No qualifiers.
2.) The product of a trust fund.
1.) Real Housewife of Minneapolis...hook me up Bravo.

So, what do you think? Possible?
What are yours?

I need to get to work on my future.

Yours very truly,
Pistola Whipped

Pistola gets all Merriam on her readers...

Hello again,

How is every one?

I couldn't sleep last night. Usually when the insomnia settles in I start thinking of various scenes from my past. These typically aren't pleasant; most often they're full of regret, shame and anxiety.

Last night was different. I thought of a new word:

Wonky tonk. Noun. An American sports bar where British people go to get schnockered.

i.e. Hooters



Or...

Wonky tonk. Adjective. Describing an action British people perform that is exceedingly American backwoods.

i.e. Lady Gaga looked all wonky tonk riding that horse.



Yours very truly,
Pistola Webster

Hello bloga, hello la la and hello dolly...

Hello,

It's strange how this lonely blogosphere works. One quits blogging for a couple of months (the equivalent of centuries in blog time) and then suddenly decides to write again and readers come out of the blogwork.

For example: Barb. Barb posted a comment shortly after I blogged yesterday. It didn't appear that she was a Sexy Lady (I'm sure you're sexy Barb, just not in the Internet porn way) or someone trying to sell Viagra as most of my other comment authors have been. Quite frankly, I don't know anyone named Barb. So, Barb, hello! Hopefully you're legitimate and not Eric aka-ing as a female....again.

Let's move on, shall we?

As mentioned before I've taken a rather lengthy hiatus from blogging. Winter in Minnesota has a tendency to kill any creative thinking and since this blog is teeming with creativity, it died along with the first deep freeze. Now, ponderously, it has risen its roaring head and secured yet another riveting interview.

Today Pistola Whipped goes la-la with Lady Gaga:




Pistola Whipped (PW): Good day! Would you like a spot of tea?

Lady Gaga (LG): Hello. Sure, tea would be great.

PW: Oh, golly. I didn't think you'd actually want tea. I don't have any. I thought the British were more polite than to accept tea from a stranger.

LG: That's okay. Let me just text my assistant and he'll bring us some.

PW: Assistant-pfff. The British [Under breath].

LG: Excuse me?

PW: Nothing. Let's start the interview.

LG: I'm ready.

PW: You don't have much in the way of a British accent. Do you work with a trainer to sound more American when you're in America?

LG: I was actually born in New York City. I'm an American citizen.

PW: Oh right. Do they train you to say that too? Like you have this whole American rags to riches, rose to fame story, that sort of thing?

LG: No, I'm an American. Where did you get the impression that I'm British?

PW: Well, you're the offspring of Iman and David Bowie, right?



LG: NO! What? Are you for real?

PW: Yes, of course. I read the first two sentences of almost every article written about you. It invariably begins with, 'Lady Gaga and David Bowie....yadda.'

LG: If you cared to read further you'd discover that David Bowie is not my father. The press likes to compare my musical persona to that of David Bowie's.



PW: I think if the press compared me to a musical persona it would be Barbara Streisand. Don't you think?



LG: [Signs. Starts texting.]

PW: All right. Moving on, your music is almost as remarkable as your fashion style.

LG: I take some offense to that comment. My music is what I'm known for. My style comes second.

PW: Right. So, if you were wearing a pair of Lee jeans and a turtleneck and singing 'Poker Face' people would still listen?

LG: I believe so. Yes.

PW: Do you know Barbara Streisand?

LG: [Signals to assistant, takes of microphone and walks off interview.]

Once again another star interview folks! And I'm sure you all learned something: Lady Gaga is no relation to David Bowie.

Yours very truly,
Lady Pistola-ola