My Very Own Dick Pic

 

Do not, I REPEAT DO NOT ever send a dick pic. Ever.

Do not, I REPEAT DO NOT ever send a dick pic. Ever.

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WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

This not-in-the-slightest fairytale post contains a blurred out dick pic I received as a love note.

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It all started with an innocent girl’s night out. My friends and I rarely get together, as everyone is busy with work, husbands and offspring (I of course, am extremely busy with my two pussies).

Ladies lovin' life!

Lovin’ life with ALee and G.

I’d recently found myself single and when our gaggle of gals ran into a group of Ohio guys at a honky tonk, my bestie G (you know, the one who almost got in a fist fight to defend my honor against an 80-year-old man) chatted up a nice fellow who had recently moved to Music City. At the end of their 82 second conversation, she turned to me giddily exclaimed, “I gave him your number!”

New Cat, New Cat your order is ready.

You bitch!

OK, so maybe I was overreacting a tad. I looked at the dude who was obviously an old frat guy (you know the look “fancy” leather flip flops, khaki shorts, golf shirt tucked in with a belt typically accompanied by swoopy bangs on foreheads – at least in the South anyway – but this guy had a shaved head) I thought it wouldn’t kill me to put my toe back in the dating pond, as dude looked normal.

And being that I’m from Iowa, I assumed we could bond over Big 10 football (even though I loathe THE Ohio State Buckeyes).  So I talked to the guy for about four entire minutes, he asked if I’d like to go to happy hour the following week and I accepted.

And soon after wished I hadn’t.

The following day I received no less than 23 texts and tried to be a good sport before turning into an extremely annoyed lady –

Nice meeting you last night! You too.

What’s for breakfast? I don’t cook.

Send me a pic! You know what I look like, I just met you last night.

What’s your last name? No Googling before our date.

Are you on Facebook? Isn’t everyone?

And on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on until I finally said (at 7:30pm) that I was going to bed.

Trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, I reached out to G and my sister who both thought maybe this guy was simply nervous and overly anxious for our date in a few days.

OK, OK maybe I wouldn’t write him off – yet.

But then, I received this the following morning…

Thought you might like this.

Um...creepy?!

Um…creepy?!

I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what the hell to say. Who sends half naked pictures to a chick when she’s already said yes to a date?

My silence seemed to only pique his interests more.

Do you like piercings on guys?

Do you want me to pick you up at 7:30 or 8pm? (we said happy hour you stupid fuck and I might as well put my photo on a milk carton if I give you my address)

Do you have any tattoos I’ll be surprised to find?

And after forwarding everything to my sister and G, I got two similar responses:

CRAIGSLIST KILLER CANCEL DATE IMMEDIATELY

Of course I was already in the process of excusing myself from hanging with this psycho because I was sure to be hog tied and either end up at the bottom of the Cumberland River or in one of his apartment rooms for 3.4 years before eventually gnawing through my own arm to escape.

Either way, no thanks.

Here’s how it went as I tenderly tried to turn him down…

The Break Up

Now I’m sure you’re thinking that I went easy on him as I used the word “reschedule” which I’d soon regret. But I didn’t know how much this D-Bag knew about me, having my phone number, so I went for the easing out of it approach.

Which didn’t seem to work well because this kept happening (I’ve blurred out anything associated with my job)…

photo 2

D-Bag kept sending me pictures of himself sitting at his desk, “funny” memes he’d found online and asking how I was doing. My silence was turning out not to be so golden.

The photo below came the evening that we were supposed to be meeting for drinks and I suppose it was allowing me to see just what I was missing out on.

I must say, a step up from his khaki shorts.

Oh gee, you look like 574,912 men that reside in Nashville.

photo 3

At my usual Friday night happy hour, I was laughing and showing friends what D-Bag had been sending over and over with no response from me and another photo popped up.

photo 4

THOUGHT U MAY LIKE THIS?!?!

He thought I might like this?!

photo 3

My initial reaction:

MY EYES!

MY EYES!

As the entire bar turned to look at our table because yours truly couldn’t stop screaming, “DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT??”

I happened to be sitting next to First Mate at the time – much to her arm’s dismay as I almost ripped it off upon seeing the penis of a complete stranger with whom I’d had a four (FOUR!) minute conversation.

Hold me. Hold me with your good arm.

Hold me. Hold me with your good arm.

I’m pretty sure I single-handedly polished off a bottle of Jager before stumbling home to pass out in the comforting paws of Ted.

Down the hatch

Please be a mind eraser. Please.

When someone doesn’t respond to your naked picture you’d think that would be the biggest hint of all time, like a neon sign blinking “STOP TEXTING ME YOU CRAZY ASS CLOWN” but it turns out this douche really wanted to get together.

photo 5

When he didn’t stop, I was going insane trying not to respond. Naturally, I was discussing this with everyone from work friends to girlfriends to my family. We couldn’t decide if going to the police would make him angry (or crazier) and if I responded, it would most likely egg him on.

He didn't stop.

Stop the madness!

I thought of sending a pic of me with runaway bride eyes (remember that Georgia lady and her eyes?!) and one of Camo’s menacing guns, D-Bag might piss himself and leave me alone.

Crazy bitch with a gun.

Crazy bitch with a gun. Look out.

But I refrained. I sat on my hands and D-Bag’s messages kept coming with no replies from this chick.

photo

By this point, he’d been texting to no one for over a month and I was beyond pissed off.

Furious.

You don’t fuck with an Iowa girl.

Don't mess with a girl who's been corn fed.

Nope. Don’t do it.

You don’t fuck with a crazy cat lady.

Image 6

Seriously. Don’t even think about it.

And you most certainly don’t fuck with a picture happy blogger who will be sure everyone knows that you, a gigantic D-Bag, work at the new downtown Nashville Omni hotel where you started as a Project Manager from Ohio but are now permanently residing in Music City.

There also may or may not be flyers up of him in all of his glory at the hotel.

Image 3

Bloggers mean business.

Sorry you if you can’t erase the images above from your mind.

But I just had to share because as D-Bag said…

I thought you might like it.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

 

 

Celebrate Two Years, C’mon!

Woohoo!

This is a CBXB celebration!

Ole!

Cel-e-brate good times, come on! Let’s celebrate.

Image 18

There’s a party goin’ on right here,

Cowboys and Crossbones has been blogging for two fabulous years.

C'mon!

 So bring your good times, and your laughter too,

Who me, loud?

I’m gonna celebrate and take Jell-O shots with you.

Whipped Cream

Come on now…

Cel-e-bra-tion

Let’s all celebrate and dance for good times.

 Good Time

Cel-e-bra-tion

We gonna celebrate and be fed food all night long.

 Feed Me

It’s time to come together

It’s up to you, what’s your dancin’ pleasure?

 Dancin'

Everyone around the world

Come on!

 DANCIN'

Cel-e-brate good times, come on!

This calls for cake, it’s all right.

 Want Some?

Cel-e-brate good times come on!

Skinny Pirates for everyone!

CBXB as Captain.

We’re gonna have a good time tonight

Let’s double fist, it’s all right.

 Bottomless...

We’re gonna have a good time tonight

Dress Teddy up,

Mr. Ted E. Bear with his Christmas flair.

Then get him drunk.

Winos

Oh Baby…

We’re gonna have a good time tonight (Cel-e-bra-tion)
Lose a shoe, it’s all right.

Red Solo Cups are so chic - only in Miami.

We’re gonna have a good time tonight (Cel-e-bra-tion)
Drink all this,

oh boy

Look like shit.

Look Like Shit

Woohoo!

Two whole years of good times, come on! (Let’s celebrate)

Bend it like Beckham a crazy dame.

Writing this blog is so damn fun, come on, stay tuned for more!
It’s a celebration!

Automatic dance party.

Celebrate with me and the pussies for another year strong! (Let’s celebrate)

Happy?

We’re gonna have a good time tonight, all of my readers, you’re outta sight!

Ted loving Ted

We’re gonna have a good time tonight, cheers to this year, it’s been dynamite!

Kiss my ass 2013!

See you all here again next year, we’ll celebrate, my blogging year three.

Insist

Everyone around the world, come on!

WOOHOO!

CBXB

CBXB!

How to Make Your Mom Piss Her Pants

And/or throw her back out…

When I was a kid, my friend Scooby (yes, the one who was just here this weekend. Miss our shenanigans? Do yourself a favor and click here,) had a knack of hiding in my front bushes at any time of the day or night.  He’d wait for the opportune moment to pop up, pound on the windows and give my mother a heart attack (her chair sat right next to the window), therefore making her piss her pants or throw her back out (thankfully, she has a strong heart but a weak bladder after two 10 lb babies).

The master of suspense would also creep around the back of my house on a Saturday night, while I was watching movies downstairs and just stand in the light outside the double french doors and stare.  My sister and I would scream bloody murder, therefore making my mother sprint like an Olympian to the basement from her slumber.

So what better way to spend a drunken Saturday afternoon when Scooby was visiting Nashville than to perform a surprise attack on my mom? It was a no-brainer in our book.

Bah!

Surprise!

Is that a pee face?

Is that a pee face?

Full disclosure: The pictures below are staged reenactments.  No mother was hurt during this photo shoot.

blah

She can’t believe history is repeating itself.

Full Disclosure: A reinactment

Do you like the props we added for dramatic effect?

I’m proud to state that no bladders were emptied and all back muscles remained in tact during this scare.

Does that mean Scooby is losing his edge?

Gotcha!

Revisiting the chest clutch.

My mom sure hopes this is true.

CBXB

CBXB!