I want cock. Yes, cock it is and nothing else!

Panel from Blue Panels by Mel F.

So there was this evening recently when we chatted amongst women and somehow the topic shifted from whatever we were discussing at the time to blowjobs, namely what we consider important when we give head.

I said that the only thing I consider important is that I don't get any cum in my eyes, should he choose to cum on my face. Everything else, I don't really care, as long as we both enjoy it.

Then I sat back and listened and noticed that apparently the most important thing for many a woman is hygiene, i. e. a clean cock. For once I kept my mouth shut but made a mental note to further think about cocksucking and what I feel about it and on my way home I realized that I don't want a clean cock. I mean, I'm not into sucking a cock that hasn't seen water or soap for a week.

But I want cock that tastes and smells of cock. I don't want to lick and suck a cock that smells or tastes of limes, or peaches, or any other product of the fragrances industry. If I want lime, I'm gonna have me a Caipirinha, if I want peach, I wait till next summer.

If I'm sucking cock, I want to taste cock and I want to smell cock. And nothing else.

Things you should definitely put on your hard limits-list but probably wouldn’t ever think off (with soundtrack!)

Soundtrack 

Until a few weeks ago I was pretty sure I got myself a pretty reasonable, rather caring and mucho loving man. I mean, he sometimes was wickedly evil, but that’s part of the attraction, right?

But that all changed. Now I know he’s the incredibly cruel (censored) mothers warn their daughters about. 

But then, once nice evening, we managed to get our offspring to bed and to sleep reasonably early, hubby got the ropes out, tied me to the bed, put a blindfold on my eyes and went out for a while. Everything peachy, so far. Great, even.

Came back, teased me, teased me some more, but didn’t do the sensible thing (for instance whipping my ass or fuck my brains to mush, preferably both, no matter in what order).

Then I felt something on my tit I couldn’t quite figure out. It felt like a feather or something similar. Then another, on my belly. A third, this time on my mons.

And then I realized that he’d caught a few junebugs outside and they were crawling all over my body and that was when I knew I’d been wrong about my husband. Dead, dead wrong. 

I mean skin my ass with a bullwhip. Make me suck off the entire cast of ‘300’, including the Persians. Make me letting them take me up my ass afterwards. 

Sure, bring it on. And then some, I’m all game.

But. 

But!

BUT!!!

You don’t let bugs crawl over a woman’s naked body! Especially when that naked body is mine. That’s just totally wrong on every conceivable level. A big, huge, NO-NO!

PS: The bugs? He threw them outta the window when he finally was done laughing. None of them was harmed or emotionally wrecked. Unlike others partaking in this scene, I might add. 

It's almost official: I'm a sick fuck

I'm using gmail. They got this feature where they place ads relating to the content of the mails I received and sent.
Usually, that's rather boring, sometimes funny (like when I saw this ad for plus-size bras. There's a lot of things I need, but plus-size bras certainly isn't one of them. A thimble-sized cup will do nicely, thank you.)

So, usually I don't really care about those ads. But today. Oh boy, did I jump:
An ad for [URL="http://www.entomos.ch/"]entomos.ch[/URL], a company that sells insects as fodder. Crickets, hoppers, larvae, grubs, you name it.

No idea how Google got the impression that I might be interested in insects as food. But I guess it's time to face the truth: I'm a sicker fuck than I chose to believe.

Men are weird

Sometimes I really wonder how men can say that women are mysterious and inexplicable. That's totally wrong, it's the other way round. Men are so strange. Weird, even. Yeah, granted, there might be exceptions, but this here's my blog and in my blog I can generalize as much as I want.

Like, for instance, this: Recently I perved the web in search of a pic for a book cover and came across a pic of a gynecological exam. The gynecologist wore nothing except a garter belt and stockings, the girl on the chair wasn't sitting with her legs spread wide on the chair but kneeling on it as if she was waiting to be fucked doggy style (which she probably was with a uber huge dildo in the next pic, but I didn't see that. Neither did I want do). According to the tag on the pic there must be a whole site dedicated to pictures and vids of gynecological exams out there somewhere. *Gasp*

I'm pretty sure the customers of said site are at least 100 percent male. No woman would ever go to a site like this to perv pics of another woman on a gyno chair. At least no woman I know. If you're a woman and you do, then you're, well, weird too. Suck it up!

I can understand a lot of things. I had once a boyfriend who liked to smell my feet when I came back from a day in the mountains or cycling. He never admitted to it and I never asked him about it, but I am pretty sure he had a 'smelly feet'-fetish. As an olfactory sensations junky I can relate to that, although I prefer different scents and smells. So, not too weird. 

But gyno exams. Very weird. Probably the most unerotic thing for almost all women. About as arousing as watching a slug devour your freshly planted Italian parsley. Very, very weird.

And so here we are again at the beginning: Men are weird. Nobody understands them. Well, not me anyway.

Maybe one day they'll come with a user's manual or an implanted help function. Until them, I'm out in the garden, keeping the slugs off my parsley.Men are weird

Sometimes I really wonder how men can say that women are mysterious and inexplicable. That's totally wrong, it's the other way round. Men are so strange. Weird, even. Yeah, granted, there might be exceptions, but this here's my blog and in my blog I can generalize as much as I want.

Like, for instance, this: Recently I perved the web in search of a pic for a book cover and came across a pic of a gynecological exam. The gynecologist wore nothing except a garter belt and stockings, the girl on the chair wasn't sitting with her legs spread wide on the chair but kneeling on it as if she was waiting to be fucked doggy style (which she probably was with a uber huge dildo in the next pic, but I didn't see that. Neither did I want do). According to the tag on the pic there must be a whole site dedicated to pictures and vids of gynecological exams out there somewhere. *Gasp*

I'm pretty sure the customers of said site are at least 100 percent male. No woman would ever go to a site like this to perv pics of another woman on a gyno chair. At least no woman I know. If you're a woman and you do, then you're, well, weird too. Suck it up!

I can understand a lot of things. I had once a boyfriend who liked to smell my feet when I came back from a day in the mountains or cycling. He never admitted to it and I never asked him about it, but I am pretty sure he had a 'smelly feet'-fetish. As an olfactory sensations junky I can relate to that, although I prefer different scents and smells. So, not too weird. 

But gyno exams. Very weird. Probably the most unerotic thing for almost all women. About as arousing as watching a slug devour your freshly planted Italian parsley. Very, very weird.

And so here we are again at the beginning: Men are weird. Nobody understands them. Well, not me anyway.

Maybe one day they'll come with a user's manual or an implanted help function. Until them, I'm out in the garden, keeping the slugs off my parsley.

Money makes me horney!

The other day I was standing in line at the supermarket and there was this lady in front of me. About 60 or maybe a few years older. A rather normal woman in healthy shoes and jeans and a T-shirt. 

It looked a bit weird, the T-shirt, grey with pink ornaments. It took me a while to figure out that the pink ornaments where actually letters. Now, I think printing words on clothes is almost always a stupid idea. Because, dear clothes manufacturers, words are meant to be read. You can’t just print a word or several or even - whatsitcalled? Oh yes, a sentence! - on a T-shirt and expect people not to read them. So, you better think good before you go ahead and write random stuff on clothes.

Since queueing was a bit boring and I had some unused brain capacity left I started to decipher the letters. There where random letters and fragments but I could also read “Rich Bitch”, “Money makes me horney” (sic!), “Oh yeah” and “Diamonds are girls best friends” (sic!). 

I must say I was quite tempted. Quite tempted to tap the lady on the shoulder and ask her whether she knew what slogans she was sporting.

However, I pretty quickly realized that such an intervention was bound to go downhill in free fall because it would have had to be started like this:

Me: “Excuse me, but do you know what is written on your T-shirt?”

Lady in T-shirt, possible answer 1: “Sure, honey, it says that I’m a well off bitch, money makes me wanna fuck, oh yes and carbon based jewels are a young woman’s best companion.”

That, to be honest, would have been the nightmare version. The other one is only slightly better, though:

Lady in T-shirt, possible answer 2: “No, my dear, what does it say?”

Me: “It more or less says you’re a whore with spelling problems.”

Which I would have never said, of course. I’d have said “oh, well, nothing important, really.”

Words on a T-shirt: almost always a bad idea

But since this two conversations played in my head while I studied the words I never asked her the question.

However, I decided to pay attention the following day. This is what I saw printed on clothes, amongst (too many) other things:

No.1 Certificate College for Cuteness

Happy Girl Revolution

Sexy Love and Kisses

Get up for Music!

Baby Express Taxi Unlimited

I’m a Boy Scout, okay?

Smile like you never smiled before

Ski Right Inc.

Goodbye Hello my friend

Fun University Established

Then I had to stop and go to the nearest pharmacy. It was only 2 p.m. and I really needed 500 mg of Parecetamol to treat my headache. 

You’re merely the operative manager around here, thank you

Saturday morning my dear hubby and master went and bought three beds for The Girl Gang. Then he left for a stroll at the lake, taking the babes and leaving behind a note on the kitchen counter informing me that he’d bought the three beds.

Which I, upon coming home from buying groceries, found in a Tower-of-Pisa-esque pile on the landing. Roughly 700 boxes containing several gazillion parts and absolutely useless instructions. First I tried to ignore the boxes. Then I thought, ‘ha! I’m da woman in da house, there’s nothing I can’t achieve if I set my mind to it!’ 

For the next hour I did my very best not to set my mind to assemble those darn beds, but finally I gave in and started to screw, hammer, nail, tape and superglue them together. The first one I did nearly twice, but then I had it figured out. 

Dust-covered, sweaty and smelly I sat down on the patio with a cuppa tea and felt pretty good. Actually, I felt like the boss. Because, in my opinion, the person who nails, screws, superglues and spits together three beds in one afternoon is da boss.

Eventually my dear husband came home, handed me the two little ones and said that he was absolutely knackered after a whole day with them and it was my turn now.

Me: “Nope.”

Him: “Nope?”

Me: “Nope. It’s still your turn. I fixed those darn beds you just piled up on the landing. I’m knackereder than you are.”

Him: “Oh. Cool.” (I guess he was referring to the beds, not me being knackereder. Then again, I’m never quite sure.) He went upstairs, leaving me with the kidlets. “Whoa! Great! Good job! I thought I’d do it next time it rains.”

Me: “Uh huh ... Right …  I figured I’d do it before our daughters move out.” I made sure to keep my voice down. I’m a wimp like that. Well, almost. “Oh, by the way, as of today, I’m the boss around here.”

Him, still upstairs: “You are?”

Me: “Yes I am.” Doing my best to remain cool and calm while the twins engaged in a screeching catfight over who’s got the right to stand up with the help of our lounge table. There are four sides to that table so one would think it should be possible for them to use it both at the same time. But one would be completely wrong.

Him: “How come?”

Me: “I assembled three beds in one afternoon. That’s enough qualification for the job.”

He came down and grabbed me. Behind us, pandemonium. “You’re right, babe. You’re the boss. The operative manager. The CEO.” He paused. I swear I could feel the ‘but’. “Me, I’m still the chairman, though.”

Me: “Aha. What’s that mean?”

Him: “I tell you what to do, you do it.”  

Now that’s not exactly my idea of being the boss, but then he went on giving directives and they involved getting dinner fixed, the babes to bed and then putting the three brand spanking new beds to good use. 

Spanking being the key word, of course.

I think I can live with not being boss as long as the general strategies sound like the above.

Wanting to be a Guy and learning a Lesson

Wanting to be a Guy and learning a Lesson

I like being a woman. It’s so much better than being a man. At least I think so. It’s hard to really know since I only ever experienced being a woman. But if you think about multiple orgasms, not having to wear a boring suit all the time, multiple orgasms, enjoying a warm summer day sans culottes beneath your skirt and of course multiple orgasms it’s easy to see why being a woman beats being a guy by a mile.

Of course there’s those darn period cramps, but they’re easily made up for by, just to give an example, multiple orgasms.

However, every once in a while (but not too often) I’d like to be a man. Like last Saturday morning.

Quarter past five on a Saturday morning is the wrong time for the alarm to go off. Yet it did. Master quickly shut it up, but not before I was awake. Dragged my ass to the bathroom, peed, returned to the warm bed and snuggled up to him. Which is nice enough. Getting those precious minutes of sleep would have been nicer, though.

Swift and massive retribution for forgetting to turn off his alarm would have been called for. Alas, I’m not the Mistress around here and so my husband’s ass remained uncaned.

Instead, he started to fumble. I wasn’t in the mood, mostly because the night had been short and punctuated by interruptions and thus I was tired, but also because I expected one of the babes to wake up any second. However, he either didn’t want to notice or was still too sleepy himself to notice. 

Which, of course, is all besides the point that my willingness to fuck or be fucked doesn’t necessarily have to enter the equation. 

Anyway, “Der Hunger kommt mit dem Essen”, as the saying goes and, true enough, pretty soon I found myself getting in the mood.

It would have been pretty much perfect if the kids had slept for, say, another 10 or 15 minutes. Of course they didn’t. I heard first one, then two start to babble and - poof! - gone was my mood. Not that I think it’s necessary to get up and hurry to their bedroom. After all, instant gratification isn’t a concept we want to teach them. But I just couldn’t help listening for changes in the sound of their babbling. 

So, no multiple orgasm. Not for me, anyway. Nor for my master, which didn’t come as a surprise since he’s a guy (mwahahaha!). But, and I really envied him for that ability, he obviously wasn’t bothered by the babes in the least. While my mood was gone in a flash.  

And that, to be honest, is pretty cool. To be able to enjoy to fuck despite your spawn preparing itself for major pandemonium. I wish I could do that, too. But I guess it takes a guy. 

On Sunday we went for a long walk across the hill into town to meet my brother. One hour after we left, in the middle of the forest (it had snowed in the night and thus it was really beautiful. There was even some sun for a change) hubby mentioned that all three girls were fast asleep. 

Him: “They’re fast asleep.” *raising eyebrows suggestively*

Me, looking around, seeing nothing but trees and snow and thinking of my ass being frozen solid. “Here? Now?”

“Nah, I though we waited till we arrive at your brothers and ask him whether we could use their bed. Duh!”

“But …”

“Hush now and spread ‘em. Mwahaha.”

This time the girls stayed fast asleep. And I learned that one should never miss out on a chance for a quickie, even if it means a cold butt.

But it’s a bargain, sweety-pie!

I’ve recently researched French castles for a book I’m tampering with and found a website where you can rent several dozen châteaus in all sizes and all over France.

One of them, Château de Farville near Paris, caught my eye. It has all the amenities you’d expect from a place like this. 12 bedroom suites, 2 master suites, all with en-suite bathroom of course, indoor swimming pool, helipad, 420 ha surrounding parks, hunting grounds and whatnot, library (actually, it has two libraries), chapel, theatre, spa, hammam, tennis court, billiard room … you know, the works. 

They don’t say anything about a dungeon, but we all know that those castles always have a dungeon.

Last, but definitely not least, it’s got a moat. I mean, it actually has A FRIGGIN’ MOAT!!! Not that a moat is a very useful feature, but … but … well, it’s just beyond cool. 

Imagine rolling towards that castle in your Bentley (ok, a rented Bentley, but still a Bentley), then across the moat and through the gates, where the chauffeur opens the door for you. Fan-fucking-tastic, is all I can say.

Château de Farville and it's friggin' moat.

However, the best thing isn’t all those features and amenities or the moat and frankly I could do without a golf course (but I’d like to make use of the helipad, as long as there’s a Bentley bringing me from the helipad across the moat to the castle, that is). 

No, the best thing is the price. 75’000 € a week for the whole château. Per week. Plus expenses. Plus taxes.

That sounds expensive but I think it’s a bargain. The castle has room for 40 people, after all. 

I told my dear master about it and asked whether he thought we’d have a hundred thousand Swiss francs to spare and would it be ok if I reserved le Château de Farville in July for a week so we could celebrate his birthday there with a couple of friends? 

Quite to my surprise, he didn’t jump at the idea. Not immediately. Ahem. Actually, he didn’t jump at it at all. Instead he gave me a look I interpreted as a “you’re totally crazy but at least it’s a good kind of crazy, a kind of crazy I know how to deal with”-look, reinforced it with a stinging slap on my ass and sent me to bed.

Where I lay awake, thinking about all that. Of course the focus of my fantasizing pretty quickly shifted from birthday celebrations to other, more explicit scenarios. Would be cool to not just party, but actually indulge in debaucheries and depravities in such a place. But the ‘what’ doesn’t really matter.

What matters is that I know that if I ever have 75’000 Euros I don’t know what to do with I’m gonna rent this place, invite a few dozen friends and people I like to spend time with and then I’m gonna party for 168 consecutive hours. 

In the meantime, I’m content with writing possible (although not very probable) scenarios, predominantly explicit ones.

Saw this paragraph on a blog post about safewords recently:

"The first thing you need to understand about the BDSM community is that we are committed to one thing above all: mutual respect. We respect each other's kinks, and we seek to help one another to realize our fantasies."

First I lol'd.

Next I thought: What a load of utter, complete crap.

Then I stopped reading.

Finally, I laughed my ass off.

Goodbye folks ... or: It was fun while it lasted, but now I'm past it.

Yep, that's right. I'm past being a submissive. That is, I'm still submissive. Every once in a while. When I have a little bit of time between everything else that needs to be done/taken care of/worried about. Sometimes Master even gets lucky and manages to get me into a submissive mood when all I can think about is everything else but being submissive. 

But that's not what I'm talking about. Times will change, our kids will grow, there'll be more time for the fun things and eventually we'll send them all to the scout camp for two weeks in the summer holidays so we can fuck like the bunnies, hurt or being hurt and tease and please each other for 168 hours straight. 

Without. The. Smallest. Interruption. 

Especially without having to stop right in the middle of some really and totally serious fun because someone needs their nappy changed. GRRRR!!!
To put it in a nutshell: Everything is gonna be alright. Most things already are most of the time.

Anyway, the reason why I'm not a sub anymore is that I simply don't want to be associated with subs anymore.
Because submissives are TEH DUMB. My apologies to all of you who are submissive but not dumb. I know there are a few of you out there. Me included (ahem). But the vast majority is, well, frankly, quite dumb. And I don't want to be mixed up with them anymore.

There's of course a problem with not identifying myself as a submissive anymore. If I don't put anything in the designated box or identify as a sub at a munch or party I'll have to explain all the time (and people most likely still wouldn't get it on account of they're being people and people like neat, clean labels).
I'd identify as a kinkster, if I had the slightest clue what a kinkster is and if it didn't call for a lot of explanations. All the other labels which get thrown about in the lifestyle don't really fit.

Human would be good, but then again, identifying as a human is kinda even worse than submissive. So, I think I'll just identify as a mammal for the time being. That's accurate enough and still leaves room for interpretation. 

As usual, Oglaf's got it pretty neatly summed up.

PS: Don't even think about arguing whether subs are TEH DUMB. Or dumber than any other given group within the BDSM-lifestyle group-thingy. I say it is so and nothing you say will change my mind. Period.
Also, this is my blog and if you think submissives are not TEH DUMB you can post your opinion all over the world wild web. But not on my blog. You can say that I'm surprisingly smart for a submissive. You can call me a fucking elitist (coming to think of it, elitist is even better than mammal) and should try getting an appointment with a good surgeon to get that stick outta my ass. That's all fine with me.
But you shall not say that I'm wrong about submissives being TEH DUMB.

The seven basic Rules of contacting your soon-to-be sub

Every now and again, I get one of those uber-idiotic messages from some guy who thinks that just because he likes to think of himself as a dominant person I've got no other choice than obey his orders. 

The following scribbling has been triggered by such a message. 

The seven basic Rules of contacting your soon-to-be sub

So, you've lurked for some time on some social website or forum. Like this one here, for example. You noticed this gal. Yeah, she's hot. Course she is, with a bum like that. Cute tits, too. Also, you figure she's smart. You don't exactly understand all of her posts, probably because she knows the difference between dominate and dominant. 

Yeah, there is one, believe me. 

But that's chickenshit and we all know it. Because: this chick with the cute ass which she displays on her avatar is yours. That's all that counts. She's the one destined to suck your divine cock whenever you need your divine cock to be sucked. She's the one rolling on her back and spreading her legs whenever you feel the urge to bury your divine cock in a hot, slippery pussy. With a little bit of luck she'll also do your laundry, go to work (while you perv the web!) and cook fantastic meals for you, which of course she serves naked, wiggling and jiggling her cute, firm ass and tits and flashing her pussy which she managed to shave between picking your stained underwear off the floor and getting you a Warsteiner from the fridge. 

Yeah, agreed, that slut is just about perfect for you.

The only problem is that she doesn't know all that yet. Yeah, incredible as it may sound, your overwhelming Domly Domliness hasn't yet managed to make itself noticed by her. No, no worries, that hasn't anything to do with the fact that for the last three weeks since you signed on you only lurked in the shadows of this site. It's her fault. She failed you. But, wrong as it may seem, you can't yet punish her for her negligence and ignorance. In order to give her then sound thrashing she deserves, you must first make her truly yours. And to make her truly yours you got to contact her.

But luckily that's easier done than said if you are willing to follow these few rules:

1. Keep it short. 

Hot, smart chicks like her most likely are inundated with messages from asinine Doms. That shouldn't deter you, though, because you are special and not asinine at all. However, writing an elaborate introduction and explaining at length why she's destined to be your devoted fucktoy won't likely yield any results, for she most likely can't be bothered to read all of those messages with hundreds of words and paragraphs and shit like that. Instead, she'll just look at the short ones. That's actually good, coz it safes you lots of time and struggling with grammar and that other thing, what was it again? Oh yeah, spelling. Keep it short and you don't need to bother with that much.

2. Be concise

Concise is an adjective and it means "giving a lot of information clearly and in a few words". Neat, eh? What's even better: We already have half of the second rule covered in the first one. Yay!

3. Be cryptic

Gals like a bit of a mystery. They want their imaginations getting turned on. They want to imagine you as that tall dark stranger while they lay in their beds all alone at night, fantasizing about getting dominated and used by, well, you.

4. Be firm

Do not use conditionals. Look it up yourself if you don't get it. Not "I want", but "I will". The chick in question doesn't want to read any if-thens, either. All she needs to know is what's business. And it is your job to tell her.

5. Be domly

OK, OK. Domly isn't a real word. But you know what I mean, right? That quality that lets her know that you're not some douchebag, but in fact a real dominant alpha male. Or, rather, because proper capitalization is key to let your domliness shine through: A real Dominant Alpha Male.

6. Do it

A lot of potentially domly Doms remain single wannabe Doms because they never get down to business and write that crucial first message. OK, I admit it: much too many actually do it. But they're still wannabe Doms. You're not. You're the one who will soon dominate this hot chick with the cute tits and the tight ass and feel her full, soft lips wrapped around your divine dick. That's exactly what separates you from the wannabes: Her lips (all of them!) wrapped around your cock.

7. Write it. Now!

This is easy, if you followed me up to this point. You can also copy/paste my little example of a first message to your future sub here: "Hi bitch. I will dominate you!"

It's short, concise, cryptic, firm and hellishly domly. You can even leave out the "Hi". It's not really necessary because female subs don't expect to be greeted, they're used to being taken for granted. If you want a personal touch to your message, you can also swap "bitch" for "slut".

That's all there is to it. Really. 

Now excuse me while I get naked and roll over on my back in eager anticipation of your domly domliness and your divine cock.

Shove them elsewhere

Thou shalt ... err ... I ...
He told me to tell you ...
whatevah!

The 10 Kink Commandments

(as seen on the world wild web)

1) All activity must be safe (we do not cause true harm), sane (we only engage in activity when we are clear of mind), and consensual.

Oh shit. The clear of mind thingy totally ruins it for me. Can't remember when, if ever, that happened to be the case.

2) We must always be respectful of our partner’s safe word (red/yellow/green) and their hard limits.

What if mine's «sissy»?

3) We only enter into activities after we have gained trust, education, and an open mind.

Or else, if I'm just too damn horny to keep my legs closed.

4) We must always be polite and ask questions.

Polite? Eww, crap, polite is sooo boring. Someone please pass me the caffeine infusion, I'm falling asleep here.

5) We must not touch other people's equipment without permission.

You know, this here isn't about adults enjoying some kinky time. This here is kindergarten where you're taught the basics and if you don't learn fast enough you'll be hit on your fingers with a splintered ruler.

6) We must always be clean, hygienic, and mindful of our own equipment.

Because of, you know, the SPERMS. Err … germs. Germs, not sperm. 

7) We must always be mindful of aftercare.

Remind me later, ok?

8) We do not engage in humiliating and degrading scenes for solely our own amusement.

But … but … but it's all about me, isn't it?

9) We always protect each others anonymity from the harsh eyes of the vanilla world.

You protect yours, I do with mine whatever the heck I want.

10) Most importantly, we do not forget to have a good time.

*Snaps to attention* "Yes, Ma'am/Sir. This slave dutifully reports that fun has been had by, well, hmm, by her. Dunno about you and frankly, I don't give a rat's ass, either."