Milk and Cookies

Hungry little kittens--

We'll get to the cookies, but first, the milk.

Let it be said that if you've never had a mammogram, you haven't really experienced all that modern medicine combined with midieval torture life has to offer.

Poor thing. Here, let me help you approximate. First...we'll need a really heavy piece of machinery...oooh! I know--a GARBAGE TRUCK!

Your friendly garbage truck driver and his crew are total strangers to you, right? Good. Because everyone involved in this needs to have never have met you before, and you're about to let them see your tits, mmmkay?

While you're completely dressed from the waist down (no comfy robe for you!), take off your top and your bra. Move quickly, honey--there's an appointment right after you and there's no time to spare! Tops and bras OFF! Now run out to the garbage truck and announce your arrival to all your new friends.

Stand there in the freezing cold, with nothing but your skirt and heels to keep you warm as your nipples fly in the wind, while while the refuse enginner checks the equipment.



At this point, the garbage guy should manhandle your breasts as roughly as possible, maneuvering just one on the frosty ground just under the tire of his 3-ton mobile trash compactor, telling you to relax and breathe normally, for gawd sakes! Your body will need to be unbelievably contorted, and the manhandler will tell you to look over your shoulder backward and breathe normally.

Now for the fun part. The garbage truck driver should back over your mammaries as slowly as possible, stopping on top of them when the pressure is at its most intense.

He will then run around taking pictures of you.

Flip to the other side. Repeat. *Freezing cold, manhandle, contort, S-Q-U-E-E-Z-E, breathe normally, smile for the camera.*

Once he's done with you, there will be no sappy sentimentality. What did you think this was? This was business, bitch, and I reckon you need to get a move on before ol' girl behind you in line starts gettin' antsy.

Look, I'm kidding. Get the exam. Don't be frightened. The hilarity of it all kept me from being miserable. You will be fine. And, boys--be extra sweet to a pair that's been examined recently.

OH! THE COOKIES! You're in the mood for cookies now! The winner of the very first ever Sweet Tea giveaway is...

by virtue of a random drawing by my colleague William...

ALAN! All three Everyone's entries were awesome, though, and I can't thank y'all enough for playing!

Y'all be good, and get those mammaries checked!

Life Is Better With Dogs

Tender, cuddly little puppies--

One day my buddy Brad and I were discussing social politics. I was pontificating about how some social graces are required if for no other reason than to differentiate us from animals, but Brad insisted that we'd all be better off if we were more like animals--particularly dogs.

He was right:

Dogs are always happy to see you.

When a dog is middle-aged, it won't leave you for a younger owner.

Dogs don't care if their hair gets messed up hanging out of the car window--enjoying the moment is all that matters.

Dogs don't care if you're ugly.

No matter if there's nothing good on tv, you don't feel well, or you're just taking a walk together around the block--all that matters to the dog is that you're together.

Other than fetch, chase, and run-until-you-can't-breathe, dogs don't play games. You always know where you stand with a dog.

Holidays mean nothing to dogs. No gift is ever expected. Every gift is a bonus and they LOVE you for it.

As the old joke goes...what's the difference between a woman and a dog locked in the trunk of your car? When you open the trunk, the dog will be happy to see you...

For Brad and Jack the Wonder Dog, who chose not to endure another February, his least favorite month. Here's hoping that Jack's enjoying a steak bone and a belly rub in the sky.

Happy Weekend...From The Goose

Hey, guys...Goose here.

Just wanted to tell you to have a great weekend:

Get out and play in the snow:

Or just relax. Lie in the sun.

Let the wind blow through your hair.

Be careful and watch where you're going.

Hopefully you're not sleeping alone.

I've got my paws crossed that you're lucky enough to wake up between someone's legs.

And remember: BE GOOD. Be so good your halo shines:

Have a good weekend, you guys! Don't forget to leave a comment for some Hot, Sexy, Bad-Ass Chocolate Chip Cookies!

See y'all back here next week!

A Way With Words

Tender little toaster pastries--

Your responses to my Dear Old Granddad post tugged at my heartstrings,  tickled my funny bone, and just made me happier than a cross-eyed possum in general.

Here are some more classics, some sent in by the bleadership and others from memory and experience. Enjoy:

• My buddy Bryan correctly amended "I declare," often spoken as three words (I. De. Clare.), to also include, "I DO declare!"

• Here's a good one: Sump'n fierce. Used as emphasis. If you've been missing someone terribly, you would say, "I've been missing you sump'n fierce."

• Well slap me with a wet squirrel! (Courtesy of Sweet Tea Brother-in-law)
• Don't that beat all? (Courtesy of dearly departed Sweet Tea MeMa)
• Well, I'll be! (Generic, southern, country)
• Mercy goodness sakes alive! (Generic, southern, country)

     All used to demonstrate various degrees of surprise. I would give my left nut to hear Judge Judy work "slap me with a wet squirrel" into one of her verbal beat-downs.

• Of course you know the old saying, "Why should a man buy a cow if he can get the milk for free?" My dear old MeMa said, "Why should a woman buy a whole pig for just a little sausage?"

• Sometimes it's all in the pronunciation. My dear friend POW shared this little tidbit: My grandfather ("Papa") had his own special sayings...my favorite of which he used when watching professional wrestling. He said, "Oh, he got kicked in the grine." His accent made him pronounce "groin" this way.

• And you've never really received a comment on your personal style until you've been complimented for being so dolled up or gussied up.

• And finally: Sweet Tea Dad (referred to as DOD--Dear Old Dad--by his two progeny) has quite a way with words. Back in the day--I was around 20--we were walking up a hill after feeding the cattle. As one of us sped up, the other walked a little faster. Before you knew it, we were in a full on race and...well...he dusted me. At the top of the hill, as I leaned over, gasped for air, and gave him a look of shocked disbelief, he said to me, "Boots may be new, but it ain't my first rodeo."

There's more where that came from, kittens--we'll revisit on another day. See y'all tomorrow!

Separated At Birth?

Precious dearies--

Brace your delicate selves for another license plate post. This shit never gets old to me.

Isn't it funny how similarities can demonstrate a total absence of creativity?

For what it's worth, all these Hawaii-themed cars were driven by the most high-maintenance-looking women you can imagine. You love Hawaii? What a fucking revelation about a tropical paradise:

I got a speeding ticket back in 2008. Just as I looked down and realized I was going over TWENTY miles over the speed limit, I saw blue lights behind me. Yeah, I got a ticket, but for going TEN miles over (he could've sent me to jail)...AND--more importantly--he put my weight as ten pounds less than it actually is on the ticket--HUZZAH! And I have generic license plates. Lesson: Stupid fucking vanity plates impair your ability to pull the "lil ol' me???" act. I would've been slapped with the butt of a revolver faster than you can say "police brutality" if I'd been driving these:

Scratch that. THESE will get you ticketed faster than you can say, "Problem, officer?"

Never date these women. They imagine themselves to be creatures of distinction and entitlement, and no amount of evidence to the contrary will convince them otherwise:

Also on the "DO NOT DATE" list?

There's more where this came from, but I can only suffer fools for so long. Enjoy, kittens!



Fuckery of the Highest Order

Tethered kittens, poised to attack--

Something's been pissing me off for a long time and--until now--I've just grumbled under my breath at sporting events.

Let me just come out and say it: Unless we're going to require proper US National Anthem etiquette at sporting events, then we need to stop playing our National Anthem at them, with the exception of the Olympics (where the United States is actually officially represented, duh).

It's a shame, really, because this shit could not be easier. It goes like this: When the National Anthem is played/sung...

1. Stand still with your hand over your heart and sing along

OR

2. Stand still with your hand over your heart and shut the fuck up.

I'm pissed at ATHLETES. I'm pissed that they get paid untold millions of dollars to play a child's game to provide entertainment for a living, and they stand there, smacking their gum, scratching their steroid-shrunken testicles balls, and hopping from foot to foot as the national anthem of the country that has made them sickeningly rich is played/performed, as if they can't be bothered to stand their fucking entitled asses still for one goddamn song.

I'm pissed at PERFORMERS. Words fail me to describe the disappointment these douchebags deliver when they fuck up the words to ONE SONG. It's more than one song, dick--it's the National Anthem. And you're going to be singing it in front of a gazillion people--to include a country's worth of elementary school kids who are smarter than you will ever be--so learn it, goddamnit!!! And do NOT get me started on--ugh--vocal stylings. This is not the place, you self-absorbed, ego-maniacal bitches!

Here's a lovely example of both athletes and a shitty performer (who can't afford a mirror, apparently) behaving badly (be sure to note the  "to honor America" part):

And I'm pissed at the FANS. They're as bad as the players most of the time. The worst I've seen are the friggen Orioles fans. They always shout out a big fucking "O!" at the last, "Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave..." It's really caught on here in the DC area, though, and bled into all our professional sports, not just baseball. Infuriating:

And here's the latest. Sorry I'm a day late on this shit, but I can't get it up for sporting events, kids. Please enjoy watching this middle-aged hag in bedazzled Patriots shit screech through fuck up a song you've known since you were five:

I'd just like to say that there's a Sweet Tea bleader who's reading this from the shittiest place on earth, wearing the uniform of the country whose national anthem Steven Tyler just massacred, and something about that just doesn't seem right. There are also people reading this who have worn a uniform in the past, people who have children who wear a uniform, and people who respect the uniform by simply putting their hands over their hearts for our National Anthem, and Steven Tyler and all the other fucks who couldn't give a shit about honor or dignity will never understand.

I'm sure this is about money. It's just another business deal to these dicks. Steven Tyler got paid more for this one-and-a-half minutes of fuckery than I'll ever make in my life, so that's that. Still, what a way to live when every uniform in the armed forces and all the elementary school kids in the country pity you. Congratulations on that gig judging the world's most over-indulged karaoke contest, dick. Way to go, rock star.

How To Be Awesome At Being Awesome

1. Bake these chocolate chip cookies.

2. Bask in the hot, sexy, bad-ass glow of awesomeness.*

Hot, Sexy, Bad-Ass Chocolate Chip Cookies

1 cup butter, softened

3/4 cup brown sugar, packed

3/4 cup granulated sugar

2 eggs

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla

1/2 tsp. lemon juice

1/2 cup rolled oats

2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

1 1/2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp. salt

1/4 tsp. cinnamon

3 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips

1 1/2 cups chopped walnuts

Cream together the butter, sugars, vanilla, and lemon juice in a large bowl (I use a mixer for this). Add the eggs and mix until smooth.

Grind oats in a food processor or smoothie maker or blender until fine/dusty. Combine oats with flour, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon in a medium bowl.

With the mixer on low, add the dry mixture to the wet mixture and mix until just blended. Add the chocolate chips and nuts and mix by hand until thoroughly incorporated.

Use a small (1 tablespoon) ice cream scoop to scoop rounded cookies onto a baking sheet. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 10-12 minutes, or until cookies are light brown around the edges and soft in the middle. Store in a sealed container when cool to keep soft. OR store rounded cookie scoops in a bag in the refrigerator until ready to bake. You can bake one (yeah, right) or a dozen this way.

Serve with milk as a snack. Serve with wine as dinner. Serve naked as dessert.

A note: Don't make these on a day you plan on masturbating: they are FULL of nuts and chocolate chips, and mixing them thoroughly takes some serious elbow grease. (It's always been my dream to use the words "masturbating," "nuts," and "grease" in the same sentence. I rule!)

*Hey, man--I'm not saying that these cookies will get you laid at home or promoted at work. All I'm saying is they can't hurt. So don't come crying to me, all, "But you said I would be awesome, boo hoo hoo," and shit, if you find yourself single, unemployed, and un-bang-able, even after making these cookies. I can't do everything, you know. But the cookies are a start. You're welcome.

ONE LAST THING:  If you've been reading Sweet Tea for a while, 1) your IQ has probably gone down at least 10 points--sorry about that, and 2) you may have noticed that this is Sweet Tea's 100th post!

To celebrate, I'm giving away a batch of Hot, Sexy, Bad-Ass Chocolate Chip Cookies to a Sweet Tea bleader! I'll mail them if you don't live nearby, or I'll hand-deliver to a local yokel.

To enter, just leave a comment in the comments section by this Friday, January 27. (You can use a fake name in the comments section, but if you win, I'll need your info, you sneaky little minx.) A winner will be chosen at random (assuming more than one person leaves a comment HAR) and announced next Monday, January 30.

Weekend Glamour

Newborn fawns--

Because Lucille gets meaner than a dog shittin' tacks if she has to hold her bladder for more than one minute, we always go on our morning Glamour Walk as soon as the alarm goes off. This means that, during the week, I pick up her steamy little piles in the dark. Sexy, I know. Try to restrain yourselves.

On the weekends, though, the alarm is OFF, bitches. This means that there's usually a bit of daylight for our morning Glamour Walk. And because my eyes are as sensitive a beauty pageant stage mother, I wear sunglasses in the tiniest bit of light.

Anyway, as I was picking up a hot handful of shit last Saturday, it occurred to me what a vision of loveliness all the passers-by were getting as they flew by:

Look familiar?

Slow down, boys...there's enough Sweet Tea to go around. Play your cards right and maybe you'll get to pick up Lucy's shit one of these days.

Form a line, please...no pushing.

Have a good weekend, dear bleadership! See you kittens right back here on Monday.

Help An Old Lady Out

My fresh little spring chickens--

Your Sweet Tea is a little old lady at heart. Always has been.

I have old-lady taste in fashion.  When I was a kid, I begged for a pair of sturdy nurse's shoes (What can I say? I saw the nurses wearing them when we visited my grandmother in the hospital and they resonated with me. I've always been sexy like that.):

And I own more cardigans than anyone I know (yes, they are really arranged by color and yes, my closet is pink):

I have old-lady taste in food. Nothing makes my tummy as happy as pineapple upside-down cake. I like to wind down for the evening with a glass of warm milk. I don't understand how food--such as my beloved deviled eggs--could ever be "in" or "out" of style. And I pity the dumb bitch who gets between me and my cuppa Sanka.

I have old-lady taste in men. Do not judge when I tell you that my version of Heaven involves the words "Gene Hackman," "tuxedo," "martini," and "leopard print throw":

I have old-lady taste in decorating. No new-fangled stuff for me. Most everything in my house belonged to some long-dead person before it belonged to me--furniture, dishes, artwork, everything.

This is where you come in, sweet bleaders. I've been seeing these old butterfly pictures at flea markets, estate sales, and junk stores, and they've got my wheels a-turnin', but they're not exactly what I want:

These are a little closer: 

I want one with real butterflies. Like these, but real:

Do you know what I mean? I feel like I've seen a gazillion of these in my lifetime, and now I can't find one to save my life.  I don't know--the prints and the paper butterflies are pretty--maybe I should just go that route? What do you think?

In any case, IF YOU DO happen to come across any cold, lifeless, dusty butterfly carcasses pinned to a piece of cardboard for the sake of art and education, please let me know. I will be happy to reimburse you for the cost of procurement.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to indulge myself with a little warm milk and a Metamucil chaser...

RIGID HALF-INCH

Nimble kittens--

When it rains, it pours. All these hotties on the Sweet Tea Hottie Radar! You know what I'm talkin' about:

Not to brag, but your humble Sweet Tea has been gettin' more ass than a toilet seat. These hot pieces were running into each other on their way in and out of the Sweet Tea Boudoir, and, well, that just won't do.

It was time, kittens--time to install a revolving door. So a while back, I cancelled all my afternoon engagements and called a trusted associate, Alan, in for help.

When Alan walked in the door, I surveyed his, uh, equipment. As Sweet Tea is former Army and Alan is a former Marine, I jumped at my earliest opportunity to make fun of him for daring to bring in a pair of GOGGLES as eye protection! "What are you? A little girl?" I taunted.

Then Alan started (heh heh) drilling. He took out his RIGID HALF-INCH (yes, that's what it was really called) and got to work.

Under Lucille's fearsome tutelage, he climbed up on the ladder and asked me to hand him the drill thusly: "Sure would be nice if I had a RIGID HALF-INCH right about now."

Because I made fun of him for the goggles, he wasn't wearing them. So--like a little bitch--he totally made a show of all the dust that got in his hair and eyes:

Turns out--shocker--his RIGID HALF-INCH wasn't quite enough. Off to Lowe's we went:

I also owned Alan's former-Marine ass for a second time that day, when, upon seeing this life-sized cutout...

...I said: "You want sympathy?" And then I paused, giving him a chance to finish, and...HE MISSED IT! You know what the next line is, right Sweet Tea bleaders?

"It's in the dictionary between shit and syphillis!"

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NOTE: It's possible that, instead of installing a revolving door to my bedroom, Alan was just hanging a light and moving some furniture for me...

...in exchange for wrapping his lovely girlfriend's Christmas bracelet.

Possible.

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Thanks for the rigid half-inch, Alan, and thanks for being such a good sport.