Vajazzle your Vajayjay? Discuss.

I found this today during my usual search for sex and death.  Vajazzle porn?  What the hell is that all about?  Which led me to a more detailed explanation of the process of vajazzling.  Vajazzling, for those of you who don't know, is the gluing of little Swarovski (which is Russian for really fucking expensive) crystals on the pubic area of a lady after she waxes down.  You know, right above the hoo-hoo.  From what I've seen on the interwebs, butterflies and fancy heart designs seem to be most popular.  I also saw one that spelled the word JUICY in multi-colored crystals, which would be perfect for the gal who would like to convey her sexuality with a tasteful sense of elegance.

Vajazzle Porn.

With free jewels included!

Fun for the whole family!

I guess a guy could do it too, but it would be so beyond gay that gay men would laugh at you.  You could call it Cockazzle.  Hey, don't anybody steal my idea.

Jennifer Love Hewitt started the trend when she went on Lopez Tonight (yeah, George Lopez has a talk show, and no, I wasn't aware of it either) and talked about how after a break up with her boyfriend she started vajazzling to make her feel better about her "precious lady".  I would have suggested that a new boyfriend playing with her "precious lady" would make her feel even better about things, but that's just me.  Although I do have to say that listening to Jennifer Love Hewitt talking about her privates makes my own privates get a little jazzled if you know what I mean.

Bryce Gruber can't wait for her man 

to try out her glittery new jewel pie. 

As you know, I always like to get to the nitty-gritty possibilities on these kinds of matters.

Let's just say, unbeknownst to you, your darling inamorata has gone and vajazzled her runway of love.  Bedtime arrives and you are pleasantly surprised that your dear treasure is acting frisky without you even having to beg.  Kiss, Kiss....uummmmm...  Down come the panties and whoooahhh!   "Ohhh, that's different...I mean....NICE!"  You say while she sashays a bit with her hands on her hips.  All the while you're thinking, "That's kind of weird, actually.  Did she do that for my benefit?"  Yes, dumbfuck, she did.  So get to it.  And you do.  It's non-routine sex and you're a guy so you put the vajazzle visual aside and bang away make the love.  Things get a bit sweaty and you start to notice that your personal nether regions are becoming vajazzled.  Even worse, as things progress, you're doing that ptooooey, ptooooey thing because you have little glass thingies in your mouth.  Bleeehh, this is worse than the 80's when you were always getting pubes in your teeth.  You then spend the next few days picking Swarvoski crystals out of your ass because they're stuck up in the sheets as well.

The tab for this little added spice to your sex life?  $175.00 and up.  Enjoy.

Just a quick comment on genital jewelry in...uh...general.  Not a big fan, myself.  It really is impossible to improve on nature.  (My views on fake plastic bobble tits are well known.)  For whatever reason when I see a photo of a girl with a clittie ring it's a turnoff.  It's a couple of things, I guess.  Why would somebody want to run a piercing needle through that most delicate of areas?  I can picture a lot of different outcomes from this activity and most of them are bad, oozy and possibly permanent.  Maybe it's because I've always been so protective of my own giggle stick.  Also, I've always had the impression, rightly or wrongly, that a woman who would do that to herself is probably not only open, but anxious, to do something kinky to you.  The kind of chick that on your second date wants to drip hot candle wax on your balls or make you shit in a diaper.  I know this may surprise you but The Funeral Guy was never much for fetish games or outrageous kink.  (And at my age I have to be mindful of my back.)   I've only had one experience with a pierced goodie button.  It was distracting and in the back of my mind I was afraid one of us was going to tear something.

So ladies.  If you want to vajazzle the "V" or hang a chain off your yum yum, go ahead, I guess.  But don't gild the lily for us.  I would bet if you asked most men they'd tell you that when it comes to that particular part of you, plain 'ol vanilla is just fine.

Cemeteries...They're not just for dead people anymore.

I love cemeteries.  Always have.  Which may seem weird or not.  Its not like I had a lifelong dream to be in the funeral business.  (I always wanted to be a rock star so I could be buried in a cemetery really early.  Ha ha.)  It wasn't even that I liked funerals.  As a matter of fact I avoided them when I was younger always making some excuse not to go to one.  In fact, I was usually on the road, but I now regret missing the funerals of some family members.

Where I grew up in Ohio there were many old cemeteries that were suitably eerie at night.  Cemeteries were good places to go for making out and getting high.  Scared and tipsy girls were girls that wanted to get close to you.  Always a good start.  Mainly though, I just liked how quiet and peaceful cemeteries were.  And I'm speaking as one who is not a camping or outdoorsy type person.  I like looking at the markers and reading the names and dates.  Especially now that a lot of markers have pictures on them. They have a really nice mausoleum in Ivy Lawn Memorial Park where they have a columbarium with windowed cremation niches.  You can see where families have set up little dioramas with photos, medals and other memorabilia along with the urn.  Santa Paula Cemetery has a section where they have folks that died in the mid 1800's.  For California that's an old cemetery.  Fascinating.

For me, the best part of the funeral service is after it's over (and all went well) and I can start to relax while everyone is chatting around the casket before going to the reception.  My associate and I will people watch and take notice of all the family dynamics.  It's also funny to watch women all dressed up walking through the grass as their high heels sink into the ground.  Didn't think of that when you got dressed this morning, did you, honey?  The exception to this tranquil revery is when it's really hot and all I want is for everyone in their summer frocks and short sleeved shirts to clear the hell out so I can get my dark-suited ass back in the air-conditioned hearse.

Memorial Day festivities at Olinger Crown Hill Cemetery.

This story featuring Olinger Crown Hill Cemetery in Wheat Ridge, Colorado highlights a direction I've been seeing for awhile.  Cemeteries are sprucing up and holding events to bring folks in to give them something to relate the grounds to other than the fact that their loved ones are under it.  As Crown Hill general manager Kevin Wolfe wonderfully puts it, "People come to cemeteries, and they are always looking down."  Why do you think most cemeteries all called memorial parks now?  (You'll never hear a professional refer to a graveyard.)   I must admit I miss seeing upright tombstones.  Most places require ground markers.  Easier for the groundskeepers, you see.  Anyway, jazz concerts, fireworks on Memorial Day and summer potlucks are all on tap at Crown Hill.

 Wee Kirk o' the Heather at Forest Lawn Glendale.

At Forest Lawn Glendale there is Wee Kirk o' the Heather chapel that has hosted weddings for decades.  When I was doing pre-need for Forest Lawn I met a couple who were married there and their funerals will both be done there.  Married and buried in the same place.  Sweet.

Johnny Ramone's Memorial at Hollywood Forever.

Hollywood Forever ("Resting place of Hollywood's Immortals") hosts movie nights.  My co-worker went to one a couple of weeks ago and saw North by Northwest.  They set up a huge screen outside right on the grounds.  He said it was fun with kind of a punk crowd atmosphere.

I think this is a good trend.  Most of us will take our eternal rest in a cemetery.  Shouldn't you get to know and maybe even enjoy the place now while you can?

What one guy imagines the funerals I direct turn into.

And that guy is tbird, naturally.  Like Winston Churchill's pudding that lacked "theme", tbird felt the same about the new look of TFG.  To that end he sent me one.

If you love good caricature you have to visit the site of Victor Juhasz.  He is simply an awesome artist.

One of The Funeral Guy's services descends into chaos.  

Street Kill...L.A. Style.

I was looking for pictures for another post and I came across this guy's blog.  He has an interesting hobby.  He takes pictures of the dead critters he encounters on his Los Angeles walkabouts.

The interwebs have something for everyone.  He also takes photos of flowers and other city life.  I know L.A. pretty well, and this guy, whoever he is, captures the flavor of it quite nicely.  He must also really like to walk.  In this city he's one of the few.

Go here if you enjoy dead animal stuff (all in various stages of decomposition).

A native Los Angeles rat.  

Don't know which gang he belonged to but, 

he is most assuredly deceased. 

More new stuff.

I have decided to set-up an email address for The Funeral Guy.  You can click on My Profile and there it is.  Send me weird stories or other items of interest.  Or just say Hi.

Here it is.   thefuninfuneral.death@gmail.com

This is an experiment.  Do not send me pictures of your penis.

No Penis.

The Funeral Guy Motto

Arghhhhh!!

For some reason with this new template some of my links are not highlighting.  They are there, but they don't highlight until the cursor rolls over them.  Error messages keep popping up whenever Cheyenne, my tech gal tries to fix them.  Bear with me.  For now if you want the links to the stories, you have to roll your cursor over obvious places.  I know this is a major pain in the ass.

I am tired and I'm tired of fucking around with this.  Cheyenne has left in a huff.  I'll offer her drugs in the morning after her shift on the pole to see if she'll come back and fix it.

Update:  Looks like I solved it.  Something wrong with that hot red background.  Who needs Cheyenne?  I'd fire her ass, but she's easy on the eyes and works cheap.

TFG has an even newer look.

Taking tbird's pithy critique to heart, I am taking not 5 minutes, but 10 this time to try to give this site a little more pizzazz.  (My mother always said I was easily influenced by bad companions.)

Hope y'all like this 'cause I don't want to overthink or overdo this like I'm an interior decorator who is tweaking on meth.

TFG.

TFG has a new look!

Do you like it?  If you don't...tough shit.  I did it because:

a) I was bored.

b) It didn't cost anything.

and

c) It took me about 5 minutes.

The content will remain the same, i.e. anything that amuses, disgusts or interests me.

Thank you for your patronage.

Look Mommy! Look!!! That lady is playing bouncy lap with that man.

This is such a great performance of drunken public fuckery that I'm shocked that Laura Hall is not involved and it didn't happen in Britain.

I've never been to Batavia, New York, but I can only imagine that they don't see shit like this in their parks every day.  (Unlike MacArthur Park in LA which is like one of Dante's Circles of Hell...illegal alien edition.)

Suzanne Corona, 41, and her fuck buddy, Justin Amend, 29, were caught by police boning on a picnic table in Farrall Park at 5:00 in the afternoon.  Oh, no!!!  What about the chilluns?  When the coppers walked up and asked them what they were doing Suzanne and Justin said, "Just talking."  Which may have been the case but while they were "just talking" they were also just fucking.  Police also report that the couple appeared to be intoxicated.  Hmmm, fancy that.  Sounds like we need to start issuing Asbo's in this country to skeevy rumdum skanks who can't even be bothered to go behind a tree to get their public freak on.

Suzanne and Justin.

AKA The Romeo and Juliet of Batavia, NY. 

What gives this story its "hook", as they say in the newsbiz, is in addition to being charged with public lewdness, Suzanne, who is married and a mom, is also facing an adultery rap.  She could get 90 days in the pokey (tee hee) and a $500 fine.  I say they put Suzanne in the ducking stool and make her wear a Scarlet "A" for a year.

Suzanne, with admirable self-reflection, apologized and admitted that her behavior was inappropriate, but told police "[they would] understand if you knew what my life was like."  So what is her life like?  Well, her husband is "transgender" and they "never have sex."   That sure as hell would be enough to turn anyone into a stew bum fuck tramp that boinks younger guys on picnic tables in the pubic (typo, but I'll keep it) park.  (Question:  Did Suzanne not know that her "husband" was an impotent transgender when she married him?  She doesn't seem like the type who would have any moral compunction about sampling the goods before marriage.)

For all her contrition, Suzanne seems pretty incensed about the adultery rap, and will fight that one all the way.  Her husband is standing by her, you see, so it's really nobody else's concern.  Putting aside the outdoor sex show, of course.

You've got to check out the video.  First of all, the husband looks like a tool and a wimp for standing gamely next to his trollop of a wife, but he sure as hell doesn't look transgendered to me.  I also like how the other half of this sexy time criminal enterprise, Justin Amend, slinks away from the camera like a guy caught masturbating in the church school parking lot.  But the best part is listening to Suzanne trying to spin her way out of her liquored up lewdness.  Like an ace attorney she weaves a tightly honed defense of "Yeah, I was fucking this dude in the park, but it really wasn't like fucking because we both had our clothes on and maybe his cock was just exposed around the zipper area if you really want to get technical about it but nobody could really tell what was going on so what's the big deal anyway?"

Translation?  They were doing cowgirl.

I think Debrahlee's settlement just got a lot smaller than her surgically enhanced bazongas.

Well that didn't take long.

Before she was a poor, sexually harassed victim of the frat boy culture at Citibank, Debrahlee Lorenzana was just a 26 year-old shrinking violet who decided that her first boob job wasn't porny enough, so she decided that she needed to go up to Playboy proportions.  Or, as she so demurely put it in the 2003 Discovery Health Channel series, Plastic Surgery New York Style, "That's what I want to be: tits on a stick."   Her ultimate goal, you see, was not to be a high ranking bank executive but a "cross between Pamela Anderson and Carmen Electra."  This particular surgery was on top of her liposuction and tummy tuck.

Oh, did I mention that Debrahlee is a single mom with a son who will probably be slamming heroin by the time he's 15 because his mom is a shallow, self-obsessed, club-crawling gold digger?  My favorite part from the series is where Debrahlee is dancing in da' club with her jouncing jugs about to fly out of her tube top.   And this was before the double-D upgrade.  My second is when she is with her friend in the market and she holds two melons up to her chest and giggles like a simpleton.

The video is here.  Listen as Debrahlee (in that godawful nasally, New York Puerto Rican Minnie Mouse voice) explains how she figures bigger tits will help her "determined manhunt" to find "Mr. Right".   Someone with the looks of George Clooney or Ben Affleck and of course, "educated and successful".   (Kind of like when the whores on Craigslist mention that they prefer "generous" men.) What Debrahlee brings to the table is the promise of happiness "because I'll be looking like a little Playboy Playmate."

Debrahlee Lorenzana.

Just your typical struggling working mom.

Now I wasn't there in the Citibank office during Debrahlee's employ, but that's surely not going to stop me from speculating.

Let's picture Debrahlee.  It's seven years after her nattering, bubble-brained appearance as a young bimbo on the make who's looking to purchase bigger torpedoes to add to her man snaring arsenal.  As far as we know she still hasn't found Mr. Right.  Although I would bet you a dollar to a donut that she's probably fucked a whole bunch of Mr. Hornys during the search.  Debrahlee is probably just figuring out that just as a woman can smell a sex-starved desperate schlemiel from a mile away, a savvy New York yuppie can similarly sniff out a determined single mom looking for a wallet to marry.  The perfect scenario for the male hit-it n' quit-it maneuver.  (Plus that voice...Oh, my god, how many guys have sat through dinner listening to Debrahlee prattling on while thinking..."How much more of this crap do I have to listen to before we can head to my place for some serious fuck time?")

We're now in Citibank 2010.  Debrahlee is thirty-three and the vision of a closing window is starting to get a little more vivid.  In addition to the sexy outfits and the fuck me shoes, Debrahlee starts putting on the vamp just a little too much and the suits are starting to get uncomfortable.  The Citibank execs are perhaps seeing a little too much sexual tension in the workplace.  It's probably not too much of a stretch to imagine that Debrahlee's mind is more on the successful mens then it is on productive work.  So out she goes.  Debrahlee takes her shot at a possible settlement and some surefire publicity.  As I said in my previous post I could be totally off base on this one, but we'll see.

Debrahlee's attorneys are starting to spin once again that Debrahlee can't be faulted for being a volcanic bobble-titted sex bomb.  They compare her enhancements to a woman who gets her hair done or has a nose job.  Nice try, but when a jury sees that video they may have a different take.

H/t tbird.