Hey! It's your best friend Ronnie.
I post pictures at RADMOBILE.
I also spew offensive things on Twitter.
Comedy and bowling with these ladies last night @ronniewk @paige_lonewolf @missmayn (Taken with instagram)
I AM A COMPLEX INDIVIDUAL. ALWAYS THINKING. ALWAYS FEELING. ALWAYS DRINKING.
Barry from Storage Wars
You’re not man nor beast
You are shadows and light
I’m dead inside.
But lately I’ve been feeling super fucking dead & gutted & shit-on inside…that is, until today!
National Lampoon nominated me for Most Offensive Female on Twitter! This really tickles me in the pee-spot because I’ve been on Twitter for way too long and in that time I’ve never been on a “Best of Twitter” list or anything egorgasmic like that.
I’ve stuck around Twitter because I’ve met some spectacular assholes on that godforsaken website and because I have awful things to say and no one else to say them to! And because I want to dip my lil nib into the stand-up comedy game (eventually). And because I (we) want to be loved.
If you’re still reading this, I love you and I would be honored to have your vote.
@ronniewk
Kyle Kinane. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
GAME CHANGER
I remember where I was when these came out. It was summer, an incredibly hot summer. The air was thick with apathy, boredom bordering on madness. We were hungry for everything…and nothing at all. Our mania was a bottomless pit of listlessness. But something in us was alive and it was surging, it was growing and it needed that sweet stuff. The fructose, the sucrose, that saccharin drip, motherfucker.
We threw open the heaving doors of the convenience store. Our artificial oasis packed with The Shit, the time-honored nitty-gritty, everything us bratty, self-made tin gods could want…candy, soda, shitty toys, comic books, half covered up titty mags & the frosty grip of a soul-stabbing air conditioner. The perverted glare from the grunt at the counter meant we had to move fast. So what would it be?
“WarHeads?” “Are you fucking kidding me?! Masochism isn’t in my vocabulary yet.”
“Mega WarHeads?” “Motherfucker, what did I tell you?!”
“Ok…Airheads?” “They got “white mystery”?” “Nope.” “Then fuck ‘em.”
We snatched up some Laffy Taffy & a couple Caramellos. You had to eat those fast because they were always half melted. Whatever, we got off on the challenge. We yanked the handle on the ICEE machine waiting an eternity for that syrupy red nectar to fill our cup while that polar bear in the sweater mocked us from the top of the rumbling machine. Asshole. The lid looked like an empty plastic breast and we’d fill it till that red cherry freeze made a nipple out the top.
Greasy Grunt at the counter licked his lips while we paid with mom’s spare change & probably our innocence. Stumbling out of the devil’s lair, I saw it in all its teeth-tingling azure-sparkling glory, a box labeled BLUE RAZZ BERRY. Most of the time, Blow Pops just pissed me off. Sure, they were delicious. They satisfied that sugar high & scratched my sweet poison itch. But at what cost? Dealing with a wad of flavorless bubble gum was an unwanted gunky mouth pregnancy—a bleak atonement for fulfilling my wanton confectionary desires. But BLUE RAZZ! This was different. This was the game changer. The mark-up on Blow Pops was criminal to say the least, but I plunked down the coin and made off with the stash. It was worth it. It was so fucking worth it. That BLUE RAZZ was a femme fatale. She knew what she was doing. I pulled back that wrapper so fast, it was half-on, half-off. It was dirty. It was wild. That bare orb of deep blue goodness strutted across my tongue, her decadent dance of tart & sweet left me high & dry. There was no going back now. She made me her bitch. She tapped my veins and filled it with that sapphire dope and I loved it.
THE PENIS CAKE
I KNOW THIS IS LONG. DEAL WITH IT. OR GO HERE.
Let’s not beat around the bush, folks, this is a story about a penis cake (NSFW!). A cake shaped like a penis and decorated to be quite penis-like. If you can’t handle the stone cold truth about genital cakes, then this isn’t the tale for you. And if you can’t handle talking about genital cakes, then don’t ever bother baking one. That’s the moral of this fable. But let’s start at the beginning.
Once upon a time, I went to a bridal shower. Yes, conjure up this image in that beautiful brain of yours. Me. At a bridal shower. Surrounded by the kind of chicks who fucking love shit like bridal showers. If you’re familiar with my many, albeit brief, on-line diatribes, you’ll know that bridal showers are definitely not my thing. I don’t like forcing myself to be friendly to strangers, I don’t like playing stupid games, I don’t like everything. But there was the promise of margaritas and wildly inappropriate gifts, which are two things I can get behind and get all balls-deep upons.
And the margaritas were, indeed, flowing like wizard magic spell sparkles from a margarita machine(!!!). There was even a big ass bowl of queso dip & chips AKA my one true love. But then, out of nowhere, I saw it. The most magnificent thing my eyes have ever seen: A BIG OL’ PENIS CAKE. A PENIS CAKE! A PENIS CAKE. You guys, A PENIS CAKE. It was frosted bright pink with white icing details to differentiate the head from the shaft. There were even white icing veins and brown icing pubic hair on the testes sac.
(NOT ACTUAL PENIS CAKE, BUT STILL TOTALLY AWESOME)
Was I in heaven? I mean, besides the cheesy games, this was heaven. I found out which friend made the cake and immediately bestowed upon her tidings of gratitude for being a fucking penis cake virtuoso. She played it cool, said she bought the cake pan/mould at some sex toy store. I don’t fucking care! You made a penis cake and brought it to a party. This is grounds for reverence, lady!
To my utter horror, the “bride-to-be” was wasted and ended up dropping the entire DICK DESSERT and making a huge fucking mess. I almost started crying as I picked up crumbling pieces of shattered COCK CAKE off the floor with my bare hands. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
So fast-forward a few months later, I’m at a friendly little get-together. I’m a wee bit saucy (wasted) at this point and out of the corner of my eye, I see our sweet WIENER WONDER PENIS CAKE baker! I saunter up to her, smiles abound, and ask if she brought another penis cake to the party and, get this, she sighs and rolls her eyes at ME then screams, “Is that all you have to say to me?! Is that all anyone can remember about me?! A penis cake?! Really?!” and she storms off.
She, the necromancer of penile pastries tries to make me feel gauche? I don’t fucking think so. Look, if you spend time crafting any sort of food item that intentionally resembles genitals, you better fucking LOVE that shit. Also, maybe don’t be so insecure about it. You should be proud. I thought we covered this? Grounds for reverence and whatnot…
Look, I’m no stranger to private part panettones. My very own mother used to bake and decorate such wonders for her friends…a tasteful tart resembling a shapely woman’s mons pubis complete with pube sprinkles, deep-cleavaged confectionary ta-tas with piked carnation pink nipples… You name it, my dear mother has crafted it with well-earned self-satisfaction. That’s why I was especially excited to see a PENIS CAKE at that bridal shower. It was like I was home.
And if you ask my mom about the tasty genital indulgences she has made, she smiles wide with pride and offers to make you one too! Exactly the way it should go. Because my mom isn’t a crotchety cunt with a limited sense of humor. Whenever I was acting up as a teen, my mom would threaten to make me a naked lady cake for my birthday. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, MOM!
Although now, I’d welcome any variety of nudey cake with open arms. I guess we don’t know how good we got it sometimes… My mom gets it. She knows that you can’t just fuck with a PENIS CAKE and be done with it. Once you bust that fucker outta the oven and present it to eager guests, you’re stuck with it for life so just make it a part of who you are.
All I’m saying is, if you have the intestinal fortitude to bring a PENIS CAKE to a party, you better be prepared to own it ‘til death.
