My silliness offends him
My creativity is threatening
My sexuality upsetting.
My words, my voice, my actions, my being
He finds just too obscene. Seen,
But not heard
Cower from the public eye
He asks just who am I?
Who am I...
What word did I just speak?
Unladylike
improper
sounding like a freak.
Can't speak of boobs,
brassieres,
God forbid we call them tits
He does not enjoy my wit,
Does not appreciate my skit
Hush.
Not approved
Removed
My speech, my song, my dance
My voice
Silenced.
The result being full-on censorship.
Philosophically, I scream
Aching to defy Mister Man In A Tie
who dare try censoring me.

A slightly more poeticized version of this entry:
http://onda-bianca.livejournal.com/306747.html

This was the response to being personally censored. I never did post a real entry about the deal, but if you are an inquiring mind wishing to know, feel free to ask! ;)

I hurled a plastic hot dog at another girl. It bounced off her head, inducing a series of moderate seizures. At least you would have thought so based on the squawking that ensued. A turkey and a ham all in one, this girl caused the kindergarten version of the Spanish Inquisition, resulting in the extended use of the timeout chair, a device I had up until then been unfamiliar with. If they would have asked, I simply would have clarified that she refused to play with me in the wooden kitchen equipped with fake food and that was the real injustice. What else was I supposed to do? I didn’t mean to hit her anyway. I just didn’t want her hot dog anywhere near me.

Approximately 15 years later, I was stocking up on food for the fantasy kitchen in my own kindergarten classroom. I conveniently left out the hot dogs. Call it censorship. Banned substances. Hot dog paraphernalia was now a para-no-no. Of course, I would come to find that hot dogs were the least of my worries. Instead, I had to dodge snobby parents, kicks, bites, screams, flying objects, and poop in the sink. I was coming home each night filled with salt-filled boo-hoos, praying for hot dogs.

I currently reside in the realm of second grade. While the road is often bumpy, I don’t give hot dogs a second thought and can rest assured knowing that 99 percent of my students are potty-trained. Thankful doesn’t just come on the last Thursday of November.

I had a bad day. My heart needs a hug.

Halloween is over though. So I'll save the boo (hoo)s until next year. Or at least until I have the time to be cohesive. My current word of the day is discombobulated. Or disheveled. Dis-something anyhow.

Speaking of "dis" we'll work on "distraction". I like big hats. And I cannot lie.


Feel free to finish the much overused reference. I can't help myself. Neither can you?

In other news, my tribe in the land of LJ Idol has immunity this week, so votes aren't really necessary. But I still kinda want to be a big deal As we all know, internet votes for a contest without prizes are always successful in validating ones potential of "big deal". So go ahead, click my box.

Poll #1489050 LJ Idol, Season Six – Tribe Current, Week Five
This poll is closed.
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: None, participants: 179

The Ballot:

Not too long ago, I made a post discussing luscious lady lumps. Many asked for pictures. Here they are:




Granted, today wasn't a particularly good hair day...but you get the idea.

I won't jump through hoops for votes, but I'll certainly hula through them!



Yeah, remember that chicken entry? That's the one we're voting on.

Gracias!

Poll #1485615 LJ Idol, Season Six – Tribe Current Events, Week Four
This poll is closed.
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: None, participants: 262

The Ballot:

Everyone loves large luscious lady lumps. A plump rump drives an intense desire to jump up and hump. So do a good pair of tits. When one does not possess either, they have to be resourceful: clavicles, calves, and hair. Big Sexy Hair.

Sometimes, the “Big Sexy” needs assistance, resulting in the $9.99 plunge referred to as “Bump It”. Seen all over the infomercials and now hitting the shelves of retail markets like Walgreens and Walmart, Bump It adds lift to otherwise flat hair. A modern day bee hive, the Bump It works as well as any sort of junk in the trunk.

No, I’m not being entirely sarcastic. I really did buy a Bump It. I’ve been wearing it since Thursday. I like it. And you would have thought I was bumping up the junk in the trunk with the response I got:

Thursday: PTO night at my school. I was in the hall speaking with another teacher (even *he* noticed the bumpity bump bump bump) when a man walked by with a couple other dads and their little ones. As he passed he said to me, “oh baby, you make me wish I was still in school!” True story, I even have a witness. I suppose no one can resist a bustlin’ bump!

Friday: I was zoom-zoom-zooming in the vroom vroom (known as Betty) when a car pulled up next to me. He honked. I looked over. He motioned for me to roll my window down. I laughed but did not oblige. He then made all sorts of sexual gestures (V shaped fingers, tongue wiggles, motions about his large…feet, etc). He tried to get me to pull off the road. Has his past experience led him to believe this would actually work? Really now? Or did the bump cause temporary insanity?

It’s all about the bump. These things never happened to me before I inserted a bit of plastic equipped with teeth to the top of my head. So it stays. Not because I necessarily enjoy lewd gestures or lame pick-up lines by desperate men. It’s all about the appeal. Bump appeal.

It makes no difference why the chicken crossed the road. The fact of the matter is that the chicken is ironed onto the pavement and it’s too late for explanations. Gallus gallus domesticus…gone gone deadicus. It’s for the best anyway. After all, before the swine came the bird flu- a possible pandemic producing mass panic. Don’t ask questions, it only makes sense that its squawk be silenced. Try not to gawk.

But gawk is what we do. It’s human nature. Last year, I was responsible for the death of 14 baby chickens. My second grade class was incubating eggs for the local 4-H group. These eggs would later turn into eight piece McNugget meals but I didn’t mention that to my students. They were just expecting fuzzy balls of yellow fluff. We knew we were right on track to experience the joys of chickenhood as the first egg began pipping. Others followed. The weekend came. Avoidable tragedy struck and each one of our feathery friends turned into an individual muck of yellow yuck. No tears were shed. Instead, everyone stopped and stared…adults included. Because dead chickens are fascinating.

There were no tears shed for John Mohammed either. This D.C. sniper from 2002 was executed earlier this evening. His last meal was chicken. With red sauce.

http://www.usatoday.com/news/nation/2009-11-10-sniper_N.htm

I've always stuffed my bra. Between the padded push-up bras, gel inserts, and even the water bra, Victoria Secret has made it possible for grown women to enhance the size of their chest, no surgery required. When I was in college, working at the ice cream store named Jiffy Treet (yes double the e), I couldn't afford fancy stuffed boob sensations. It was quite obvious that mother nature had not blessed me with the "boom boom pow" boobs. And I was okay with that.

Except one particularly slow day, I was left alone with a box full of waffle cones. Just like a good bra, these cones were padded. Oodles of foam. Deciding to try out my own design skills, I took a sleeve each of foamy fluff and molded each into the shape of a boob. Not being able to fit into my existing bra, I duct taped the foam over my bra and began walking with a swag.

I looked like the Dolly Parton of dairy! As I began to shake what my momma meant to give me but didn't, the man named Sam from the camera store next door walked in.

Sam was cute, not hot; over six foot tall, shaggy brown hair, and lean. He wore a lot of khaki pants and green shirts with collars. His shoes were colorful. He drove his 1980-something tan Honda to the camera store at the same time each morning. He sold cameras. Sometimes, he would buy ice cream. Then he'd go home. He was the kind of man that looked like the central focus in an independent film. Plain, ordinary, and quiet...but deep. So I thought. Over the years, I grew a small infatuation for Sam...as did everyone else.

Sam had seen many sides of me. He saw me during my blond hair stage. He saw me with brown hair. He saw me with pony-tails, pigtails, and even overalls once. But today, Sam saw something completely different out of me. Sam saw me with waffle cone-foam boobs.

Sam never tipped. But today, he added his dollar to the tip bowl and cried, "Tips for tits!"

Speaking of "Tips for tits"...vote for my Smile entry in the poll below. Because tits make everyone smile!

(Edit: This week, you can only vote if you are a friend of the LJ Idol Community. Feel free to join and vote if you want...but I won't be offended if you just hold off until next week!) :)

Poll #1481885 LJ Idol, Season Six – Tribe littlebit1988, Week Two
This poll is closed.
Open to: Friends, detailed results viewable to: None, participants: 201

The Ballot:

I never did buy into the idea that the moon was made of cheese. After all, everyone knows cheese originates from milk which is produced from the udder of a cow. And hey, (diddle diddle) cows don’t really jump over the moon. Thus, the chance that the moon actually consisted of cheese-like material was slim. Skim even. This I learned early on. Knowing these facts,however, did not curb my fascination with cheese.

And fascination it was. The allure of this processed curdling substance began during a week-long stay with my grandparents the summer of my Kindergarten year. Living on the outskirts of Chicago, they decided it was time to venture into the city for my first zoo experience. And an experience it was. By the time it was all over, we were hungrier than a pod of Milton Bradley’s hippos. Only hippos don’t eat minestrone soup from local Italian diners. And we did.

When the bowl filled with thick hot liquid mixed with unidentifiable vegetables was placed in front of me, I did not know what to do. I was supposed to eat this? Luckily, my disbelief turned into astonishment when a second bowl was placed on the table, filled with powdery white crumbles that I later discovered to be Parmesan cheese. Spoonful at a time, I splashed, not sprinkled, the dairy particles into my soup.

I was flabbergasted to see that these once firm particles were disappearing into the soup. A science experiment at its finest, I continued to schlung the moo by-product into my meal until it no longer dissolved and piled instead. At this point, both my grandparents noticed the molehill turning into a mountain and could do nothing but turn it into a Kodak moment.

“Say cheese.”