Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


Spirit of Exes Past

Ok, because I had so much fun with yesterday's story, I'll share a new one. Well, an old one, made new, because I heard the christmas song "Frosty the Cokehead" and damn if it didn't bring back some memories.

Please note. Special Sauce does not partake of illicit narcotics. Special Sauce could pass a drug test any day of the week. Special Sauce would rather have a beer than smoke a joint, but she doesn't mind what other people do. Special Sauce is not, nor was she ever a cokehead.

Lest I sound like some shrill bitch who lives to make fun of her exes, let me reassure you. I'm not shrill (much), I'm only a bitch when people are stupid, and what fun are exes if you can't make fun of them? Besides, this one likes to tell people he's the reason I moved away from Key West. He's got a few jabs comin' to him.

Now, on to Roooooooob. No, I haven't changed his name. I won't use his last name, but lets just say it's a type of tank. He's not innocent, and if I were a total bitch, I'd turn him in on an outstanding warrant. Instead, I'll just make fun of him. Hee!

Rob started out as a fairly interesting boyfriend, although he too had the freaky snaggly teeth, and a penchant for cigars. (Boys, if you're going to smoke those turds, for the love of god, invest in some brush ups, a tiny bottle of listerine, and a spool of dental floss and carry them with you at all times, because kissing you after you smoke one of those damn things is kind of like licking out a litterbox.) Sure he had an unhealthy obsession with Star Trek, and lived in the hotel he worked at. And he'd make me feel like I wasn't cool enough to be dating him (yet he owned, and wore a straw kangol that made him look like he was wearing a Longaberger basket on his head), and did I mention he owned (and wore in public) a speedo? Um. Yeah. Oh. And his near encyclopedic knowledge of showtunes and his penchant for shaving bits that shouldn't necessarily be shaved probably should have tipped me off that all was not right in Robville.

Anyway. Stupid me decides it would be a jolly thing to invite Roooooob over to Thanksgiving dinner at our apartment. My roommate and I had no family down there, and since our respective mates didn't have family nearby, we thought it'd be a fun afternoon. Mistake 1- inviting Rob. Mistake 2- not telling him to shove it when he said he wouldn't come, because he doesn't "do" holidays. Mistake 3- insisting he come, or I would be "very disappointed". He came. Grudgingly.

Due to a timing glitch, our cocktail hour was extended for an extra hour and a half, wile the turkey finished cooking, and we were all rather rosy by the time we got to eat. Rob seemed to be making extra trips to the bathroom, which didn't phase me much at first- hell, we were all going a bit extra thanks to the wine. What I didn't know, until a bit later, is that he was going to the bathroom to snort coke.
Mistake number 4- Not telling him to fuck off when he was doing coke in my house. After dinner, my roommate and I cleaned up as Rob and "other dude" hung out on the porch and drank more. Then Rob and I watched TV in my room while my roommate and her mate got into a screaming match over something Mate said to Rob on the porch. And I found out about the coke. And I told him he was a fucking moron.

Good rule of thumb, illegal narcotics tend to make your Thanksgiving a bit icky. They also apparently cloud your date's judgement even if she hasn't partaken, because again- didn't dump him on the spot. Probably thought it made him a "wild guy" or something.

We still dated, and Christmas came along. I wasn't allowed to buy anything for Rob for Christmas- good, since his dealer probably didn't offer gift certificates- but he was adamant about getting me a gift. Little known fact about coke, apparently it makes you a really shitty shopper. Far be it for me to belittle ANY gift someone thinks to give me, but you do NOT buy your girlfriend blockbuster gift cards for Christmas. If she gives good, uncomplaining head, and surprises you with breakfast on her way in to work when you're finishing up the third shift, and lets you watch Star Trek when she would really rather gouge out her own eyes, she is worth a pair of earrings, damnit! Maybe a bracelet- no gemstones, just silver! A Sweater! A Skein of nice yarn! A Sarong! Something you know she'll like, because you know her tastes! The woman who puts up with your shit does not get blockbuster gift cards. The guy who delivers your paper gets blockbuster gift cards. Your mailman gets blockbuster gift cards. The woman who knows what your penis is named does. NOT. Get. Blockbuster. Freaking. Gift. Cards.

(Rob Junior. And now you don't have to get blockbuster gift cards either!)

Heh, and I was actually upset when a few weeks later he gave me the "I need some space to figure out if I need Special Sauce in my life" chat, which really means "there's a cute girl down at Express, and I'd like to get into her pants, but if I dupe you into dumping me, I can look like the sensitive dumped guy and get great rebound sex".

Again, maybe you had to be there. Truth be told, the Sauce is not a grudge holding girl. I do laugh about it now, and I also realize I was insane for the six months we dated. I hope the girl from Express was better suited for him, and they're happy doing whatever it is they're doing. I also hope he doesn't buy her any blockbuster gift cards for Christmas.

Just wait till I tell y'all about Stalker Tony someday. My first Felon.

(now you know why I'm willing to drive an hour and a half to spend some time with a really normal guy, whom I will still say nothing else about, lest I jinx things.)

Today's list:

knitted uteruses? HATE. (Although I may knit G. Monkey an ovary for christmas.)
K-Mart's wool socks? LOVE.
Sleeping all night:LOVE LOVE LOVE
lack of direction: Hate
Short attention spans: hate.


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