OTOH: Zombies LIKE brains...

I just got a PM from a girl where she writes that she likes our PM exchange, particularly because I have brains behind my PMs.

"Brains behind" my PMs. Huh.

... ;)

Here was my response to that:

OH, NOES! OH, NOES! ZOMBIES found out that I have brains behind my PMs, and the ZOMBIES ARE EATING MY BRAINS! HELP! HELP! ZOMBIES MUNCHING ON MY LITTLE BRAINS!

Zombie A: Yum, `phfina's brains! Pretty good eatin'!

Zombie B: Oh, I dunno, Joe (What? Zombies have names?!?! When did this happen?), I've had better.

Zombie A, aka Joe: Eh, a mind is a terrible thing to waste. Munch-munch.

Zombie B: Yeah, I guess you're right. Munch-munch.

OH, MY POOR BRAINS!

(`phfina snickers)

;)

Move over Max Brooks, your World War Z ain't got nuttin' on me.

Can't touch this!

Queen of the Hill

Check this:

http://halo.xbox.com/en-us/Career/HaloReach/GameHistory#/?game=1096142126

Particular the shy and quiet girl ... IN FIRST PLACE ... `phfina is her name, in case you were confused on anything.

You see this medal?

This medal is a new one for the enphfinamistress (that is Swedish) (kinda) (sorta) I call it "Hail to the Queen" but its actual name has a slightly more male-centric bent @_@

See, I was playing with a friend ... you know what friends are, right? Good, because I didn't until a year ago ... ANYWAY! ... well I was playing with a friend, Sgt Wulfy, and he's like 'Wat da hell iz dat!' when he saw that medal on the front page.

What the hell is that, indeed!

Well, it's a very special medal. It's meaning is this: "Kill 5 opponents in a row from inside the hill before it moves."

It was a medal that I never paid any mind to, because it's a boyz medal. A medal I would never get. Why? Here's why.

(Thank you for asking)

It basically means in the whole big bad well-protected map, you stand right in the middle of a little circle and stick out your chest and say: 'C'mon, fools! I'll take you all on!' and kill all of them, all of them throwing grenades at you and shooting your head 27 times and rocketing your ass well under cover, while you stand there out in the open in a little circle that everybody wants because you are a dumbass.

Like I said, a boyz medal. Bragging rights, and shit like that.

Well, my style is, like, totally the opposite. I like hide, under cover, take potshots from a grand distance, and then, if anybody returns fire, I run home to mommy and hide behind her skirt, because that's how I roll.

That's why I would never get that medal in my Halo career.

That I just got yesterday.

How?

Well, not on the map Countdown, that's for sure ... too many unbroken lines of sight across multiple levels. It's simply suicide to walk into the center circle. No, I'm the girl shooting at people in the hill. If you see me in the hill, check your pulse, because that'd be when hell just froze over.

No, it was on Ivory Tower/Reflection. All angles, all covered spaces.

I hate that map. It's a boyz map, because of this: AMBUSH! *BOOM* YOU'RE DEAD, now let me rub my dick in your face that I just punched because that's they only way you die: sword, shotgun, rocket launcher, grenades.

BOOOOORRRRIIINNNNGGGG!

Actually, the real way to survive a firefight is to have more planning and patience and start shooting their heads off WAY before you can see the whites of their eyes because you have a scope, so why not use it?

But what do I know?

Well, it was on that surprise attack map that I got it.

And here's how.

The hill/circle is just around the corner, so what does little `phfina do? Turn the corner and get shotgunned? No, she banks a grenade off the wall, and just as her 'this little piggy went to market' toe entered the circle, the announcer gleefully intoned: 'Triple kill!'

Whoa.

Then some random was charging up to me from across the map: headshot, headshot, headshot, headshot with my DMR and boom, he's dead.

Why do boyz have to charge straight at you from across the map?

That was kill #4 with me being in the hill. Then I noticed a sword lying on the ground right by me. I picked it up just in time to have three boyz jump my bones, but first I sliced, then diced, one of them before the other two lay me low.

As my body crumpled to the ground I heard that dispassionate announcer solemnly state: 'Hail to the king!' and I saw the crown emblem that I thought I would never see by my name, but there it was.

That was my best. death. evah!

Why? (and thanks for asking) I died, but I died taking five snot-nosed boyz with me. Yup, *glow* it takes five brash boys with mad skilz to take out one scaredy cat little phfina.

And wars are fought by men, ... why, again?

Actually, wars should be fought by women, which means, not at all, because there would be a significant increase in lesbianism and there would be a whole lot of shooting and stabbing, but not with rifled carbines, oh, no: with ... other instruments, because this babe charges you screaming like a banshee, and you're like, duh-amn, she's hot, and she's like, 'Fuck this battle charge! I'll fuck you instead!'

Make love, not war, indeed!

And then, all the combatants would eventually synch up so that every month for three days hostilities of one kind would cease to deal with the more internal battles and R&R would be required with warm baths and (very gentle) massages and ice cream and chocolates

Uh, where was I?

Oh, yeah, they crowned me QUEEN (not the other thingie) of the hill and shouted: "Hail to the QUEEN" (not the other thingie).

But Queen? Ick, too ... responsible. You have to be made of iron and steel and raw determination. I see myself more as a ... well: faery princess with rainbows and winged unicorns and a harem of hand maidens with very skilful ... um: hands and very skilful ... um ... other things, and ...

Um, I have to excuse myself for a mo'

*ahem*

Pensées of a Young Girl as She Goes Out Running

Before the run, on a clear, cool summer morning:

Hmm, looks like a good day to go for a run. (endumbfuckified stupid little shit girl look, doi-doi-doi!)

During the run:*

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK, fuck, fuckin-fuck, fuck-fuck-fuck, FUUUUUCCCKKK! (fucked)

After the run:

O God, I'm gonna puke. (vomitous)

Up the stairs to her apartment:

My legs! My legs! Who stole them and replaced them with licorice sticks! (perplexed)

Checking my look, my mottled face with sweat running down in rivulets look, in the mirror:

Gah! (horrified)

Half-an-hour after the run, after her shower, in the bus:

You know, it should be FUCKING ILLEGAL to be sweating THIS LONG AFTER a RUN. (furious)

Typing a blog entry, now:

Ick. I feel sick. Ouch. My legs. And, huh? What's with my arms aching? (bemused)

Tomorrow morning, when I wake up early again, knowing that I ... 'should'? ... 'will'? ... go out for another morning run:

GROAN! (covers head under pillow) (in agony from 'day-after' aches) (resigned)

---

* breaking 'during the run' down:

At the beginning:

Aw, this isn't so bad; I should do this EVERY DAY! (chipper)

A third of a mile into the run, the first uphill:

Hm, why are my legs stinging? (Pensive, but, damn, I was going for 'thoughtful')

A third of the way, a hot babe passes the other way:

"Hey!" (smiling) (trying to appear nonchalant, like: 'yeah, I do this all the time, wanna meet afterwards for a wild night of fun, hot babe?')

Half way:

You know (angrily), what's worse than going uphill? Going downhill. God! Why do all the sweat glands kick into overtime NOW, dripping sweat RIGHT INTO MY EYES?!?! ... and all over the front of my ... YOU KNOW! (meaning everything in 'front' that you don't want other people to notice, but the sweat clinging to your running tee and running shorts makes all too plain to notice, you know)

Three-quarters of the way, the long, gently sloping uphill:

What THE FUCK DOES 'GENTLY SLOPING UPHILL' mean? FUUUUUCCCKKK! Fucking Fuck. Fucking fucking fucking fuck. Fuck-fuck. Fuck. GOD! I can't breathe. Lean into it, `phfina. (desperate, like leaning into it will help at all, and yes, I know: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID! 'Lean into ...it', geddit? ;)

Seeing my shadow in profile as I pant up the 'gently sloping uphill':

Fuck.*

(*) Meaning, remembering when I was in Monsieur Dupuis' French class back in high-school, and I always had to read the part of Jean-Paul in the text books, so M. Dupuis named me Jeanne-Paul in class, and that name got around school, and if you pronounce 'Jeanne-Paul' in Connecticut French really fast, you got my nick-name, that was totally physically accurate: 'Bean Pole'.

... like I said: Fuck.

Passing that hot babe again on her second turn, her: looking like a goddess, running past me, cool as a cucumber as I sweat and puff and pant like a 47-yr-old barfly on her 7th pack of cigarettes, ... this hour:

"Hey!" (tortured) (I don't think I carried off this 'hey' as well as I did the last one, however)

Making that last turn around a bush WAY overgrown onto the sidewalk, doubling the torque on my ankles:

It's a GOOD THING I'm not CARRYING a GUN because I would SHOOT that MOTHERFUCKER DEAD! CLEAN UP YOUR DAMN YARD, ASSHOLE! ('Neighborly')

Crossing the finish line:

O God! I'm fucking dead! O God! Fucking panties chafing my hooch and g-d 'sports'bra rubbing off my g-d nipples. Fuck. FUCK. Fucking-FUCK! ('Victorious')

PIMPLES!?!?!

Okay, so I have a black eye, again!

So I go to my doctor, this Hot Indian Chick, and she's like "Hm, ... head trauma?"

And I'm like, "Okay, whatevs," take the prescription meds and prayed that was that.

It wasn't. My eye got worse and worse. So I go back to my Dr, and she's like, "Oh, ... it's worse!"

And I'm like, "... yeah!"

And she's like, "Here, take more meds, ... do you want to see an opthamologist?"

I'm like, damn straight!

Even though I'm not, but you get my drift.

So I go to this ... Dr. and she's like, no joke, late 50s, 60s even, and she's like: New England, very no nonsense, very pragmatic, very tall and willowy, elegantly dressed, dignified, beautiful.

And she said a lot of things, and I was like, "Huh?" and wiped the drool off my chin and wondered if she wanted my phone number, you know?

But I digress.

And then she said it. "You have a ..."

And she said a bunch of other things, about clogged, get this, oil ducts?!?!

And she said a bunch of other things, but all my brain heard was: PIMPLES!

And I almost screamed: "DO I LOOK LIKE I'M TWELVE AGAIN?"

But I didn't, because she would have given me that withering, mothering, New England look and asked me: "Wait ... you're older than ten?"

Yeah, that kind of day.

And she gave me a regimen of medications, one, taken orally, twice a day that induces vomiting as a side-effect.

Great.

But so, okay, they're called something or other, and it's because I have very fine, delicate, tiny pores that got clogged, a lot of them, all at the same time, and, okay, now listen to me, to prevent that from happening, you wash your eyelids with warm-hot soapy water and then you put hot compress on your eyes, every day.

Okay. So. Yes. I take good care of myself, but it's back to high school for me and my acne treatments ... WHICH I DID ALREADY, BUT HOW COME NOBODY TOLD ME THIS AND NOW I HAVE PIMPLES IN MY EYES!!?!?!

And I get to take meds that make me puke. Bonus.

Girls. Hot-warm soapy wash your eyelids and hot compress after, or face death by embarrassment when I have to tell everybody I know that, no, my 'husband' didn't punch me, ... again! ... I just have pimples in my eyes.

Great.

I'm going to bed ... wake me up after I'm done with adolescence, please.

Fangirl

Okay.

SQUEEE!

That's not very informative, but have you ever met a fangirl who is?

Well, now you have, 'cause you just met me, biatch!

Like, for example, I squee like a fangirl over the Avengers, but I tell you why I'm squeeing. And it makes (reasonable) sense. So there.

So, a bit of squeeing first:

Cortana-angry/(nekkid)-babe ... what you didn't see in that clip was the (start of the?) campaign mission, with spiffy new, neato self-constructing weapons (ooh, techi-nerdy girl squeals), and bad-ass robotic alien enemies (eh *shrugs* ... I'm not into monster-closet-boo-scared-you cheap thrills).

Okay, more squeeing: Imma gonna save the galaxy!

Imma gonna act like a ... BOY! ... Not! SO Not!

Imma gonna kill me some nasty space bugs!

So, yeah, I'm all tingly and squee-y and saving up my quarters. But you notice something? (besides boyz being boyz, but that's like a non-news item) ... I mean and sure the hero is a (craggy old) boy, but you notice how much more present the female role is? And more than just a 'Imma here to give you the next waypoint and make you a sammich' role?

Check this.

Yes, it's fictional, but there are more girls on that team, and kicking ass, too, than there are boys.

Yes, I'm a fangirl, and an idealist, that I believe that girls can ... well, you know, be out there with the boys, on equal footing, kicking ass, and getting respect, not because they are girls only, but because they are, you know, real, contributing members of the team.

Yeah, I'm stupid that way, but that's one of the reasons why I'm squeeing. I'm seeing girls, I'm seeing me, out there, in Halo 4, kicking ass, taking names, smiling, a part of the team, respected.

And that's one of the reasons why I'm saving my quarters for Halo 4.

... oh, and do I get a steamy hot-smex shower scene with Cortana as an unlockable? I'd kneel down in front of her and make her scream, all right, but she won't be wearing her angry face, oh, no ... ;) *snicker*

T31-Needler Rifle

It's long, it's purple, it's deadly accurate. 'nuff said.

Imma gonna take my long, purple thing, and put it to some really good use. Right. Fucking. Now.

And then, after that, Imma gonna kill me some covies, with my long, purple needler rifle.

Some of you will get that, eventually. DO NOT ask your parents if you don't. I don't need any more daughters locked away from my wily (and limber) (and vigorous) grasp, thank you.

Oh, I do all my Shopping at Targét

It's all marketing, girls.

So, I went shopping today, because I had to get some more intimates, because I seem to be going through ... well: panties at a rather fair clip at work, and I have spares there, yes, but when you run out of spares for the day, what do you do? Well, you have several options, right girls, one of them, eventually is to go au naturelle ... but then, sitting down, you get this little wet mark on the bottom of your c.v.n.t.-high skirt and how do you explain that, you don't, right, because by then you're bent over the boss' desk and ...

... well, you know how the rest of that story goes.

But you can't say, around here, that you buy your panties from 'Target' ... 'tar-get' because that's way too plebeian ... you might as well admit to shopping at K-mart with Ray-man, Rain Man, and even he knows that K-Mart sucks. 'Tar-get' is just a step up from K-mart, and sounds too much like it, too. And when people say, 'well, Tysons I or Tysons II?' and of course you have to say 'Tysons Galleria' or else you might as go back to baristaing. (that's a word) (which you need a Ph.D. for, and I'm not joking)

So 'Tar-get' is out, but if you raise your nose, and say, 'Well, only the best, of course, Targé!' then people are all like, 'Ooh, the new French boutique? What did you get?'

And then you show them what you just bought over the weekend:



... There is a downside to all this.

(STOP SLOBBERING, you PERVS!)

And it's this. Bossman knocks his red pen off the side of the desk and tells you to pick it up, which you do, 'cause that's what we do, get the coffee, pick up red pens and ... well ...



(uh, huh: I went there)

But this time, bossman sees your black lace thong and he just loses his mind, and next thing you know, he's got his nose buried in your ass crack and he's sniffing away while pawing through your purse and he comes across monty in all his long purple glory (and no, no pics for you, as if I'm not banned already!).

So what does he do, but whine, clamber up on his desk and drop trou and beg dommy you to eff him up his big hairy ass with that big purple thing strapped on, so what are you stuck doing the rest of the day but going through your whole tube of lube with monty strapped on and your only view is this guys broad back and blue moon.

Turn off city, right, and what's worse is that he explodes like all-get-out over the payroll report you slaved over all day.

All because you bought something that you knew was going to get spoilt in the first 15 minutes of work, being so worked up by all the fantasies you have with you in that black lace thong, then you so not in that black lace thong, with your whole harem ... 'ministering' to your 'needs,' as it were. So you buy the 6-pack which you get you through the first hour of the Mondays, but here you are pumping away for so long now that your legs are cramping up and you're dry as the Sahara, but what can you do, 'Just Say No,' and find your ass out the door because Mr. Bossman finds his submissive streak and gets so turned on with you saying, 'My big purple cock is pumping your ass now, bitch! Who's your daddy?' And you find out you're his 'daddy' when he screams out your name, yet again, the third time this hour and doesn't this guy ever get tired out and how come he lasts only 30 seconds when he's doing you?

Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, now I'm off to a power lunch with a client, why don't you shower, Vera and tidy up my office while I'm away? And all you are is left with his spunk from his junk in you and a very, very frustrated kitty, but when he wants it up the ass, you have to put out for a whole friggen hour, wearing your panties so he can sniff your ass afterwards as he paws at your titties, man-handling them as if they were steaks on the grill, and that's supposed to be 'sexy'?

And girls like guys for what reason again?

I don't get it.

So, wear these things to work? Like for 10 minutes and then have to change out of them and (eventually) go au naturelle and don't tell me nobody notices that particular scent ... and the puddle under your chair might be a clue, too. Or otherwise have Mr. Bossman with his big hairy butt whining away as you check your fingernails and the clock confirms what your poor tired legs are telling you that, yup, you've been at this for an hour and you still have work to do ... because your performance review doesn't have an oval for 'sexual prowess.'

Yeah. No. Not likely.

Now, one can wear them elsewhere, in more intimate settings, and for more private occasions...

Yes, ... one can do that ...

Hm-hm-hm. Excuse me. Gotta take care of ... 'something.'

... and on that note ...

Okay, is this wrong?

trailers-dot-apple-dot-com-slash-trailers-slash-independent-slash-goodfornothing

Okay, strike that. I don't need to ask. It's wrong. It's so wrong.

I mean, like: the premise?

Cowboy kidnaps girl, calls her a whore (but an English whore, so that's ... okay, somehow?), and attempts to rape her but can't get his 4-inch weenie up, so he takes her cross country from doctor to doctor to cure his ... issue ... so, get this: he can rape her good and proper?

And because of his dedication, okay, get this: she falls for him?!?!?!

And when I say 'cowboy' I should be really saying 'anarchic psychotic sociopathic mass murder serial rapist,' right?

Or just 'boy' 'Cow'boy or otherwise.

(Boyz, I'm sorry, I have boy-issues).

Okay, that's so wrong!

But how come, watching it, it makes me feel so right?

It's the Stockholm-syndrome, girls-who-fall-for-mass-murderers-on-death-row sickness, I know. You know: the William Munny problem. A murderer of men, yes, but women and children, too, a drunkard, a callous bastard, riding into town, killing every swinging dick, riding out, having all the poor waifs waving their hankies as he rides off into the sunset (or actually under the torrential rain) and having to do an extra load of laundry with, get this: CALGON! because of the now-unwearable condition their panties are in.

Now, some of you girls might now be very green with jealousy, muttering, 'What's he got that I can't give you!'

*snicker* Well, that's your problem, not mine.

And then you're all like, incensed!, and scream, now, in my face, 'What!'

And, but, I'm cool as a cucumber (hmmm, cool cucumbers! ... ooh!)

Listen sister, put on your cowboy, well, cowgirl hat, strap on with monty, then mount this wild mare, and ride me until the cows come home. That'll solve the problem good, long, and hard ... and often.

And if that's not enough, get the 27-inch bigus dickus model, shove that thing so hard into kitty that the cock-head pops out my mouth, grab hold of that and bow-saw fuck me to death.

*Ahem!* *Whew!* Um, where was I?

Oh, yeah, the old West and getting fucked by a psychopath like nobody's business.

Okay, you want to know what's so, so wrong about this movie, that little `phfina, private investigator, found out on her lonesome, that nobody else told me but I found out anyway, 'cause I'm sweet, smexy, and so-damn-smart, and that's how I roll, huh?

Look at the movie producers.

Uh, huh. Guess which ... um: 'star' is one of the film producers?

Damn, this is going to be a good popcorn flick to watch, with my hand between my gf's legs, and her hands very safely strapped down so she needs to depend entirely on my light, fluttering, teasing fingers to please her as she watches the embarrassing, steamy or sweet scenes on the screen.

'Cause for me? My bosom is heaving under my corset, and my knickers are stained, again, under my petticoats.

Uh, huh: I found my movin' bodice.

Wrong? Yes! Hell, yes!

... but so, so, mmhm, so right.

Excuse me a mo' ... I have to ... 'excuse' myself.

Surgeon General's note: the use of 27-inch strap-ons have been deemed to be detrimental to women's health and has been observed to cause cancer in, well, mostly sheep.

Disclaimer: all actresses strapping-on and being ridden are professionals. Do not attempt any acts described herein in the safety and comfort of your own homes

... and if you do, pm me first.

Architects are pervs

There's no two ways to look at it: architects are pervs.

But, you say, 'No way! My friend is an architect and he's a total square. The definition 'geek' has his picture by it in the dictionary!'

Okay, you want proof. I'll give you proof.

So, in my safe little efficiency block building, two story, it is one of many buildings that form a quadrangle, okay, still with me? My flat faces in. Okay, fine, so my 'deck' overlooks a big rectangle of brown permagrass ... and all the other buildings with all the other apartments facing in.

Question. Where is my bathroom?

Another question: where is the window ... no: WHY is the window of my bathroom right next to, no, damn near IN the shower?

Okay, so, last night a three am ...

Okay, so I'm sick, okay? My head is the size of Kansas, which is impossible, because my cute little button nose feels like it's the size of Texas!

So I wake up, because I can't breathe, except through three tons of snot, and take a nice hot shower, I look out the window, ...

and there are other lights on. Other people watching I-don't-know-what on the tube at three am.

Can they see me, all lathered up, rubbing the washcloth over my sweet, smexy, (*sigh*: preteen) bod?

WHO DESIGNED THESE BUILDINGS WITH WINDOWS IN THE SHOWERS?

Pervy architects, that's who!

That was proof number one.

Proof two: office buildings. Where do they put the mens? RIGHT NEXT to the womens, that's where.

So some guy just whislin' Dixie just waltzes right in there. LIKE IT HAPPENED, LAST WEEK!

What's he get an eyeful of?

Well, what everybody knows what happens when girls go to the powder room, because they go in as a group, and come out all bubbly.

WILD LESBIAN SEX ORGIES, THAT's what that pervy guy gets an eyeful of!

And who designed that that way, KNOWING some schmuck would just waltz right in there during our wild lesbiotic orgies?

PERVY ARCHITECTS, THAT'S WHO!

That's proof 2a, proof 2b is this.

Those pervy architects KNOW what women do when the fly solo in those commodious stalls. THEY KNOW. They read my post so they know girls are stripping down to their all-together and touching their tiny (and super sensitive) titties and thinking naughty, smexy thoughts. THEY KNOW this. So they also know the girls in the adjacent ('commodious') stalls are getting all hot and bothered, just thinking about the preteen in the next stall getting all oiled up and nekkid so she's ready to take it long, hard, and often, and those pervy architects KNOW that these girls think about this and get oiled up with their 'natural' oils and ...

AND THEN! There's all those boyz and girls READing those blog posts about preteen girls getting all nekkid in office building and school bathrooms across the nation, and who does this benefit?

CALGON! THE TRUE CULPRIT!

("Take me away" is their motto. 'Take me away,' indeed! 5, 6, 7, 15 times a day!)

They KNOW panties are getting moist, no, not 'moist' SOAKED, they are getting SOAKED, and do you know how many extra loads of laundry are being done EVERY DAY, ACROSS the nation? Because of PERVY ARCHITECTS in CAHOOTS! with CALGON put all these stalls RIGHT NEXT to each other so some poor, sweet (not-so-)innocent girl can't strip down to her sweet, smexy self and ... 'relieve' a little built-up stress (it's also called 'blowing off "steam"' or getting a full head of steam, OR EFFING CLIMAXING YOUR BRAINS OUT AS YOU CUM AND CUM AND CUM!)

*Whew* Where did that come from?

I'll tell you where that 'came' from! It came from PERVY ARCHITECTS designing schools and office buildings KNOWING that a poor, sweet girl like me CAN'T POSSIBLY last 8, 9, 10 hours in an office building PARTICULARLY during CERTAIN lunar cycles without needing to ... 'rebalance'? and of course, where does a girl go to do that, the bathroom stall, the fourth from the entrance, but OF COURSE every OTHER girl KNOWS that and as soon as sweet little me says, 'uh, I have to go to the bathroom, ...' there's this MAD rush to get to stalls three and five.

Just sayin'

Proofs 2a and 2b.

(And I'm so resisting writing 'or not 2b' as that kind of sad humor runs rampant in my family, who files their bills under 'S' ... for Shakespeare ... oh, God, spare me from groan-inducing humor!)

Proof 3: restaurants and sbux.

Where is the uni-bathroom, right? Secluded, out of the way, in back, unobtrusive, safe, secure from prying eyes...

OR SO YOU THINK!

Where's the kitchen? Or the office, huh? EVERY SINGLE time. EVERY time. In EVERY restaurant and sbux.

Right next to the bathroom.

You ever check the bathroom for holes before you lift up your skirt and pull down your panties? Huh? Do you? HUH?

Didn't think so.

EVERY time cute girls go to the bathroom, just watch, you see the wait staff book it to the office or the kitchen?

What's the big rush?

I'll TELL you what the rush is: they're going to the beaver flash. Uh, huh. I ain't lying.

AND WHY is the supply closet in the bathroom, and inaccessible to customers, and WHY does the supply closet have a back door that leads to where? Uh, huh. Notice how the supply closet backs RIGHT to the kitchen? Ever notice that?

AND WHY are there ventilation shafts connecting the kitchen or office to the customer bathroom? They're both internal rooms, so you need to circulate air ... INTERNALLY?

No, you don't.

Ventilation shafts have these big holes to let 'air' or ... prying, PERVY, eyes peek at the beaver shot, and then, you know, a girl doing her bizniss takes all of 10-20 seconds. Why is she in there for 5-10 minutes?

We know why, girls. And so do the wait staffs, and cooks, and managers, and matron-d's and ...

They're all voyeuristic bitches and bastards watching a poor, sweet innocent young girl trying to keep an even keel from getting out of the pervy clutches of Joe Neanderthal pawing at her the whole dinner date she only agreed to because 1) she's dirt poor, and 2) she somehow stupidly hopes that if she says yes this one time (TO THE DINNER, YOU PERVS!) he'll leave her alone after that but no, he has to be 'affectionate' and paw at her the whole meal, getting her all hot and bothered but not for Mr. Square-head No-neck with hair on his PALMS?!!??!?!

But curious, idle fingers do need something to diddle ... I MEANT 'WORK ON!' JEEZ and ...

and so all the wait staff just SO HAS to go back to the kitchen to get the dessert at the same time poor hot and bothered girl needs to adjust her dress.

And who designed all internal-bathrooms-right-effing-next-to-the-office-and-or-kitchens in restaurants and sbux?

PERVY ARCHITECTS!

Ok, so you checked for holes, so you think you're good?

THINK AGAIN, BIATCH!

You know, mini cams these days blend right into tile work.

Who knows this? Very well?

PERVY ARCHITECTS UNDER THE PAY of mean, domineering supervisors and managers who get off in looking between the toes of poor girls who kick off their heels and stockings to give their poor aching feet a rest so they can relax and take care of bizness, but no.

You're not safe from prying eyes .. FACILITATED BY PERVY ARCHITECTS ... at home, at work, nor at a swanky restaurant or sbux.

And in the bedroom?

PLEASE!

WHY do you think telescope companies are pulling down a mint of money, huh? Did you think Joe Square JUST SO wants to gaze at the Pleiades?

Oh, he's gazing at the Pleiades, all right ...

BETWEEN YOUR KNEES!