Booty Music!

As many of you know, I lead a wedding band that specializes in not practicing until the night before a gig. Just kidding -- sort of. Anyways, it is my personal feeling that there is nothing that spells wedding more than BOOTY MUSIC!

Unfortunately, the nature of booty music usually doesn't allow for it to be reproduced in a live setting with real instruments. For example, much of it is synth- and siren-based, and I'm the only keyboard player. There are also several other limitations that prevent the general acceptance of booty music as a wedding staple. For example, the forefathers of the genre, 2 Live Crew, only offer such titles as "Me So Horny," "Pop That Pussy," "Hoochie Mama" (though somehow I got away with getting the song played at my sister's wedding, and almost played at my friend's wedding), and so forth. This makes booty music semi-inappropriate as the song for the father/daughter dance, but perfect for the couple's first (lap) dance! Another limitation is most of these songs contain rapping -- a skill which none of our current mercenaries...er, musicians, possess.

Despite these annoying shortcomings, there are those few precious sonic gems that can be performed live -- or at least, I can envision it being performed live in my head. Here's what I have so far:

- "My Boo" - Ghost Town DJs

Okay, that's only one song. But I'm also considering songs that are easy to rap, ones that almost anyone would sound good performing it as long as they have the proper enthusiasm:

- "Baby Got Back" - Sir Mix-A-Lot

Then there are those songs that we can possibly put some booty bass to:

- "Nice And Slow" - Usher
- "Unpredictable" - Jamie Foxx

So I need some help. I would like to be one of the few, if not the only, wedding bands in existence to specialize in presenting music to wedding-goers that allows them to dry hump their partner to their heart's delight, turn them around, bend them over and spank them mercilessly. Here are the guidelines for your suggestions:

- Must be an upbeat song that would induce rapid spanking on the dance floor.
- Preferably no rap, but if it's a "classic" track like "Daisy Dukes," we'll consider it.
- Songs that have a sung hook would be nice.
- Any song or slow jam that you think we can booty remix will be taken into consideration.

By the way, songs with nasty lyrics are acceptable -- we'll just mumble them :)

The Ass Massage

Man. Is my ass permanently broken? I hurt it a couple months ago while snowboarding (see January entries), and while I'm able to walk, run, jump, sit, twist and shake (no, I can't make my booty clap yet), I felt like I was experiencing residual pain while watching March Madness on Sunday night, lying on my bed. Okay, maybe not pain, but strange ass (haha, I made a pun-ny) sensations -- slight cramping, warmth (not because of farting), etc. -- it just felt like my buttocks was not as lusciously rotund as it usual.

Things didn't seem right at the massage parlor. Why I decided to visit a massage parlor instead of a doctor or chiropractor, I don't know. But what really bothered me was how the place was set up.

The office resembled a bar. A long, 3' 6"-high dark brown bar table about 20 feet in length separated the reception area from the actual office space, and on top of this bar was a 3-inch thick black faux-leather pad with scratches. Behind the bar were receptionists and doctors, and behind them, about 10 feet back on the wall, a plethora of cool knick-knacks and awards, some of which I swear were bottles of alcohol. There was even a TV to my left in the upper corner of the room above the bar, airing the March Madness games. To the right, about three-fourths of the way along the bar, the back wall disappeared, revealing a larger area full of office furniture and yuppie-looking slack-offs that I instantly detested.

At the reception area -- where I was at -- there were picnic benches, brown and weatherworn. The floor was cement and the walls were the complete opposite of the stylish wall behind the bar -- it was undecorated and off-white with plaster cracks.

All the people in the building were a bit strange. The three receptionists had on white lab coats and were standing directly behind the bar, working tirelessly but smiling, taking pride in their work. The one helping me was a cute white girl, about 5'9", red-hair, thick rimmed glasses. Behind the receptionists were the yuppies. There were about six of them just kicking it, sitting on furniture, talking, flirting, carrying on. They weren't dressed in typical work clothes -- just business casual, if that, but no doubt they were getting paid, and paid well.

Meanwhile, the patients in the waiting area were like zombies. There was an old Mexican lady in her late 40s sitting on the bench, devoid of spirit, wearing swap meet clothes. She was separating two children that were with her, both of whom just sat there, swinging their legs in boredom. Other patients dotted the room, all bored, stagnant, and wearing cheap clothing.

I was conversing with the cute receptionist -- asking general questions about my purpose at the office, her job, life overall -- when above the din came a booming voice. "Are you ready for an ass massage?!!!" yelled a man, sort of like that "Are you ready for some football?!!!" yell on NFL broadcasts. The therapist stood 6 feet tall and had brown hair, glasses, a lab coat, and a maniacal smile. He was wide-eyed and power-walking towards me from the yuppie area.

In what I swear was a split-second later, the therapist was standing beside me at the bar. I could only see his torso and the bar's pleather top because someone was holding my head against the padding, forcing me to bend over. What the fuck? I thought. The therapist's hands were already groping my bare ass cheeks, squeezing them so hard that it felt like they were in a vice. Wait, when the hell did I lose my pants?!

"Who wants to see a re-enactment of the movie Heat?!!!" the therapist yelled excitedly. I glanced back at the waiting room as a brown man in his 50s casually walked up about 10 feet behind us and to my right to view the re-enactment. His arms were crossed and he stood there expressionless. Then, only mere seconds after coming to see the action, he turned and casually walked out of the building through the revolving door.

Heat? At what part during Heat does a dude get his ass violated?!!! The therapist spread my ass cheeks apart, forcing me to fart. The smell that came forth was not ripe, but old and decayed. No one seemed to mind or care that this disturbing debacle was unfolding in their presence. In fact, though there were at least 20 people around us, no one even acknowledged our presence. A picture of Robert DeNiro's laughing face flashed through my mind, and I wanted to ask him, "Is there a part of Heat that I missed?"

Instantly, things changed. No longer was the therapist massaging my ass -- I was now sitting on top of the bar, pants still off, but boxers on. The cute receptionist girl was massaging my dangling legs and feet with warm lotion. Dude, it feels soooo good, I thought. My messed-up feet felt like they could run 10 miles. Then she began massaging upwards towards my knees.

Out of nowhere I was once again bent over the bar and my boxers were wrapped around my ankles. The crazy therapist dude had taken over and he was already at my hamstrings. Oh no, I knew what was coming next. He started squirting lotion on his hands to prepare for the "internal ass massage." I began to panic and tried to push myself off the bar. Wait! Where are my hands? I can't feel my hands?!!! I couldn't figure out what was happening -- I'm totally freaking now and trying with all my might to move. While I couldn't feel my hands, I could still feel my forearms smashed against my chest as I lay bent over the bar. My cell phone started ringing. "I need to answer my phone," I pleaded. Three rings. I continued to struggle to free myself from the bar, but now my handcuffed hands are behind my back -- not that I could feel them anyways. Five rings. I could feel my cell phone vibrating in my jeans pocket, but I couldn't reach it. I could feel my cell phone in my jeans pocket, the jeans that I was WEARING?

I woke up as my phone stopped in mid-seventh ring. I was still in bed. I couldn't answer my phone if I wanted to -- my hands were still numb from falling asleep on them. I had no idea what March Madness game was on TV, but the clock read 20-30 minutes later than the last time I looked at it. Time to write down as many key details from this before I forget.


While I never really do this, a dream analysis should be fun:

1) The office behind the bar represents the wonder and joy I want to know more about from life.
2) The reception area represents how my life feels -- plain, empty, and without hope.
3) The bar table represents the barrier I must cross to attain happiness.
4) The three receptionists represent my ideal self and/or those whom I admire -- hard-working, happy, purpose-driven people.
5) The cute receptionist represents the woman of my dreams -- similar goals and ideals as myself. Ironically, she is, as my sister says, who I'm pre-destined to marry -- a nerdy white girl.
6) The yuppies represent those who have a better life than I but have not earned it.
7) The old Mexican lady and her kids represent my co-workers and friends who have simply accepted their life as is though they are clearly unhappy.
8) The therapist represents fate and circumstance.
9) The brown man represents those people who have the power to intervene and change my fate, but instead just watch apathetically.
10) My fart represents my soul. Fate forces me to reveal my soul to the world, which is not young and vibrant, but tired and spent.
11) The receptionist massaging my legs then the therapist preparing to violate me in an even worse fashion represents fate teasing me -- fate gives me just enough of a taste of my dreams to keep my hopes up while it prepares to fuck me harder.
12) The fact that I couldn't feel my hands, which were later handcuffed behind my back, represents my feeling of helplessness and lack of control.
13) The fact that I went there for help and instead end up practically being raped represents the feeling that whenever I seek to better my life, I instead get fucked in the ass.

I FUCKING HATE NIGHTMARES.

Shit With A Capital "S"

As many of you undoubtedly know, I am in the job market. My search consumes me. I've been searching for a while. However, for the past two weeks, it has weighed heavy on my mind, and dominated my time. As such, the subject of my search for a better life usually comes up in instant messenger conversation with many of you. Unfortunately, many times, I'm at work when we talk about it (yes, it's mainly my fault since I introduce the subject).

I suppose it would be prudent to keep this on the down low. So far, one co-worker has caught me chatting about my job search. Luckily, she wants to leave more than me. Heretofore, I would like to enact the following system of talking about job searches, either online or on the phone -- "Shit with a capital 'S'."

When talking on the phone, we shall refer to my job search as "my shit." Simple enough? Good. Here's the hard part. When talking about the subject on IM, we capitalize the words that replace real, key words. For instance, if you want to ask about how my search is going, you IM, "How's your Shit going?"

From there, we shall proceed in talking about the search as if we're talking about my dating life, always capitalizing the keywords that mean something else. Here's a sample conversation we can have, with translations.

TheEgg: sup ostrich. How's your Shit (job search)?
Ostrich: it kind of sucks. all i'm finding on Match.com (Monster.com, et al.) are Ugly Bitches (wack jobs).
TheEgg: sorry. have you had a friend try to Hook You Up (friends referring you to openings at their work).
Ostrich: yeah, some are on the lookout, but most of the time their Women (workplace) don't have Girlfriends That Are Attractive (isn't the right kind of job) to me.


Easy, no? Let's practice some more, shall we?

Ostrich: man, i went out on a Date (interview) with this Chick (job) i met on MySpace (craigslist.org).
TheEgg: oh? what's up? was she Hot (a good company)? did she Want You To Be Her Man (offer you the job)?
Ostrich: she was Aight (an aight company). no, she didn't ask, but she did ask me out on another Date. she's looking for a Boyfriend (a bitch she can force to do anything she wants him to. ironic, eh?), and i know she's been Dating Around (other people were interviewing as well). i think if we Go Out Again (another interview), i can Nail Her (get the job).
TheEgg: maybe you should Nail Her on the second Date even if you don't want to. you just need out of your Current Relationship (current job).
Ostrich: true, but my Current Girlfriend (current job) takes care of me, and people are always Checking Her Out And Saying She's Sexy As Hell (other people think my job rocks, and in a sense, they're right). she Puts Out (i get paid), Takes Care Of Me When I'm Sick (i have health benefits), Brushes My Teeth (dental), etc. though she used to let me Go Out Whenever I Want (vacation policy rocks) before, now she's Not Letting Me Go Out As Much (stingy on the vacation time) and shit. Cuddling and Flirting (general terms for "you're doing a good job" type of things) is cool, and i enjoy the Attention (they appreciate you), but now she's getting all Clingy (micromanging) and Overbearing (overbearing). but like i said, she Puts Out. but she doesn't give me many Kinky Treats (perks of the job) these days, and she's never given me a Blow Job (pay bonus). oh, and her Life's Plan (401k) sucks and it Doesn't Really Include Me (non-matching 401k).
TheEgg: yeah. maybe you should consider Taking A Break From Relationships (take some time off between jobs) for awhile. just don't become a Man-Whore (job jumper).


Sometimes, things can get a little confusing.

TheEgg: what's your Type (field of interest)?
Ostrich: right now, the Qualities (what i'm looking for in a job) i'm looking for are Intelligent (white collar job, not blue collar), Sugar Momma (big company), Local (uh, local), and someone who can hold it down Financially (pays at least decently). however, i wouldn't mind The Girl Next Door (a really close by job) as long as she's Cute (respectable company with decent pay). but yeah, if she's Hot (well-known company) and Cute (decent pay), that's a plus. especially if she lives Down The Street (local).
TheEgg: that's not what i asked, dumbass. what's your TYPE?
Ostrich: i told you already. what else do you want to know? i'm Divorcing My Wife (leaving my current career) and don't know if i want another Wife (career) like her. i ain't looking for a Fling (temp job) either. a Hot Girlfriend (semi-permanent stint with a well-known company) who's got a Cuteness to her is ideal until i figure out what i want in a Wife. with any luck, my new Girlfriend will be The One (career for life).
TheEgg: but what's your TYPE? do you like Big Asses (?) Boobs (?) Short (?) Tall (?) Brains (?) Nice Face (?) Dark (?) Light Skinned (?) No Teeth (??) Missing Limbs (???)
Ostrich: ummmmmm, huh?
TheEgg: damnit!!!! what's your TYPE?!!! your TYYYYYPPPPPPPEEEEEE?!!!!
Ostrich: oh. um. yeah. let's just say that, overall, what she does for a living is important to me. i would prefer if she works in, oh, Marketing, Advertising, Project Management, maybe even the Music Business again.
TheEgg: SCREW YOU (screw you) and your SHITTY SYSTEM (double entendre)!!!
Ostrich: Shitty System. hahahahahaha!
Ostrich: anyways, what else is up?
Ostrich: hello?
Ostrich: hello?
Ostrich: ...... :(

As you can see, sometimes you gotta state what you mean outright, but what comes before it should still refer to things in context of the coded conversation, and the key points should still be in caps.

NO MORE OF THE SAME OL' SHIT! - Ostrich

Epilogue: After re-reading this, I have come to an epiphany. A job really is just like a girlfriend/wife. You spend all this time pursuing one, getting all prettied up, being polite, being a fuckin' man in order to convince them to let you be a part of their lives. Then you become her bitch.

Get Your Butt In Gear!

It's Monday. Let's kick things off right!

- No more procrastinating.
- No more deliberating whether or not you should or shouldn't.
- Now is the perfect time to mix things up a bit.
- No more excuses.
- No more keeping opinions to yourself.
- Follow through.
- Make your presence felt.
- Put your money where your mouth is.
- Actions speak louder than words.
- Kick some ass and take names.

You know what needs to be done. GO FOR IT!

She Stands On The Toilet

Last night I came upon feature material for the Ostrich Diary(ahs) that wrecked havoc on my mind and job search. The topic was presented to me through a most unlikely source -- Dimple. Why unlikely? Because Dimple doesn't like matters of the ass, nor what is expelled from them (maybe it has to do with the fact that most cute hotties of her caliber have class). So Dimple, I commend you on your courageousness in sharing this important, earth-shattering story with the world, despite your squeamishness with ass issues.

Dimple: hey. got a good one for ya.
Ostrich: go for it.
Dimple: that ONLY you would enjoy
Ostrich: um, now i'm scared...
Dimple: so there's a woman i know, that i just found out ... she goes to #2 standing ON the toilet. like perched on the seat.
Ostrich: does she stand on the seat? does she lift the lid? do women's restrooms have lids that are liftable? if so, why? no guys go in there to take a piss....

Hmmm. While the other questions are of vital importance to me, I believe "does she stand on the seat?" is the biggest issue. I mean, c'mon. The only time I've seen anyone stand while taking a dump was when my niece did that about a year back, and even now she assumes a little squatting position. While standing at the toilet before my morning shit, I couldn't even fathom taking a dump while standing in the fully upright position. You'd have to really squeeze since your butt cheeks are so close together. And even then, it'd probably come out like toothpaste.

Ostrich: wait. so she stands straight up while taking a dump?
Dimple: no she squats on the toilet seat
Ostrich: she does that for #1 too?
Dimple: no she squats, but feet on floor for that.

We won't even go there. Besides, I've heard other girls do that too, so no biggie.

Ostrich: how did she get around to telling YOU of all people that?
Dimple: we found out cause there are footprints on the seat.

Footprints on the seat? Like with toes? So does she take off her shoes? If so, that means she's willing to touch the seat with her feet, but not her ass. That's weird. Maybe she grips the seat with her toes. Though if she lifts the seat, then she could probably wrap her toes around the edges of the bowl better. However, if it's a cushioned seat, maybe that's easier to grip. Then again, if she does leave on her shoes, what if they are heels? Or what if her shoes don't have traction?

Dimple: when she goes #1 she misses 50%
Ostrich: noooo!
Dimple: haha. yes.
Ostrich: if she misses while #1-ing, how often does she miss when she #2's? that's a farther distance. dude. how does she aim? what happens if she misses?

Can you imagine that? Walking into a stall and seeing poop on the toilet seat? You can clean up piss and not leave too much of a stain and people would be none the wiser. But poop? That's gotta leave a mark. And aiming! She has to have her feet right at the front edge of the seat and squat just enough so that she can get the shit out, yet still make it so it just drops into the back of the toilet. And how ripped and buff are this woman's quadriceps?

Ostrich: how does she reach the toilet paper?
Dimple: (no answer)

Seriously. This troubles me. If she waits until she's done, gets off the seat, gets the toilet paper, then wipes, there is soooo much potential for poop to go everywhere. If she holds the toilet paper, that leaves one less hand free to brace herself. Either way, after wiping, she probably has to aim to make sure the toilet paper falls into the bowl as well.

Dimple: she's like 56. what if she falls? shatters something?

Good God. 56 years old. Bless her soul, she's still alive. As a conservative estimate, let's say that she poops every other day. That's still approximately 130 poops per year. And lets say that she's been doing this since she was 16 years old. So 40 years. That's still roughly 5,200 times she could have eaten it in the bathroom.

And the age factor. There's will be a point in time when she'll be too old to take a shit this way, but not incapacitated enough to require someone wiping her ass. What then? Is that 10 years from now? 20? 25? I'm betting the most likely scenario, unfortunately, is that she will have a bad fall and be mandated by caretakers to actually sit on the seat.

Ostrich: does she hold on to the walls of the stall to get up? if there's no walls, how does she balance? does she take off her pants completely? panties? does she always wear skirts? does she just wear skirts with no panties?

So many more questions, yet so little time in a day -- in a lifetime -- to ponder all of them. Let's at least try to tackle these.

I'm betting she has to use the walls to balance. Maybe she even has to face backwards and use the front wall and the rest of the toilet assembly to hold on. I know I would. It'd try out the different scenarios myself (the getting up on the toilet part -- I'm not dumb enough to go through with the shitting), but I'm sure I'd end up in the hospital, and that's a tough one to explain. Every bathroom is different, so I'm sure she has a method.

If she's wearing a skirt, she still risks pooping into the skirt if she hikes it up. Pants? No way. She has to take them off. So she strips in the bathroom? Hmmm. Maybe she wears loose skirts, and no panties. Normally that sounds hot. But in context, that's gross. And she's 56.

Dimple: thought you'd be the ONLY one that'd appreciate it
Ostrich: oh, you know me so well :-)

Alas, one burning question does remain -- WHO THE HELL POTTY TRAINED THIS WOMAN?!!!!