You really do have to love the South

By Caity, A&M's favorite lesbian softball player


Firstly, I co-sign this sentence. “Fuck you I know I haven’t written in a while. Get over it.”

Secondly, a few things have happened since the last time we spoke:

Number 1:
I got a back alley massage that sent me into what I like to call "deep eval." This is where I sit down, pour myself a very stiff Kettle and tonic and evaluate where exactly it all went wrong. At what point, I wonder, did I set myself on the path to a $35 trial massage from "The Rub Club?" A massage that included a soundtrack provided by what I have to assume were 250 pound epileptics attempting to tap dance in the studio above this hell hole come massage parlor. A few things would have tipped most people off to the fact that this situation would not end well (namely, that it was in my neighborhood, which is very--I think "transitional" is currently the polite term), but I had legitimate neck pain and work at a non-profit, so I was willing to take a chance. Granted, my judgment has not been the best in the past when it comes to massages, so I might have taken that into consideration as well.

(Once, on a layover, I got an airport massage during which the strapping young man administering it got so close to knowing me Biblically I felt I should have shared a cigarette with him afterward. When I realized where he was headed, I initially panicked and wasted a good five minutes of what can only be described as heavy petting trying to figure out a way to politely ask him to remove his person from mine, before I started thinking clearly and realized he was hot and I was in the middle of an epic dry spell. I've never been afraid of some strange, so why the hell not, right? No? That's just me? Anyway, just as I was warming to the idea the little tease pulled out--I mean back. Moral of the story: Any 60 minute rub down is better than no 60 minute rub down in my book. Or so I thought.)

Then I met the woman I like to refer to as THIS BITCH. As in, "THIS BITCH came at me with some half-assed moves she learned off the 90 minute instructional video they showed her in the break room and 50 thread count sheets." I've gone entire weeks eating nothing but Ramen Noodles and the Wendy's $.99 menu, but my skin has not felt the touch of anything fewer than a 500 thread count since middle school. Well, that is if you leave aside an unfortunate evening spent in an Asheville, NC Best Western that included me passed out cuddling a bottle of Maker's Mark, two of my best friends having "the quietest sex ever" in the neighboring bed, and a dress I'll never wear again. But that's another post.


Number 2:
I joined my neighborhood softball team (Allie and Poodle, fuck both of you and your lesbian jokes in advance) with the hope of meeting a few of my fellow Atlantans, and perhaps having a few of the more attractive ones penetrate me. Things have not gone as planned. I'm not sure what I expected, but old, married and/or gay was not it. Thus far, the closest I've come is a drunken post-game conversation with my ex that included the phrase, "So, are we going to play footsie all night, or are we going to go home and have sex?" And that, my friends, was probably the classiest part of the evening. Upon hearing this story, one of my oldest, dearest friends put it best when she said, "There are, like, 2 million men in Atlanta. Only half of them have seen you naked. There's really no need for repeats at this hour." Real talk.


Number 3:
I went to my first gay strip club. I spent a good bit of time post-college squatting on my number one gay's couch in the Castro, so this may come as a surprise to many of you. (And by many, I obviously mean the 15 strong readership of A&M--Hi, Mom!) It was Pride Week in Atlanta, and a friend of mine suggested we make a pilgrimage to a classy little establishment called Swingin' Richards. Now, when I was in San Fransisco my laundromat was called the Sit 'n' Spin, and I would sit at the bar of Moby Dick's on the daily and slam cosmos with the biggest bears and bitchiest power bottoms the city had to offer, but none of it prepared me for Swingin' Richards. There's something about walking into a place and having one's first image be of an elderly gentleman being repeatedly, willingly and joyfully mushroom tagged in the face that one cannot prepare for. My favorite part, however, was the fact that on several occasions they edited the curse words out of the ghetto beats that provided the mood music to this little pageant.


You really do have to love the south.




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Caity's Time of the Month

*We've got tits! That's right. A&M has a female writer complete with anatomically correct parts. Enjoy Caity's time of the month, a segment written for the female side, from the female side of Apples and Moustaches.

By Caity



I'll be the first to admit that, at present, I am right below Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton on the list of individuals most ill-suited to rear a child. This, however, does not stop me from having certain opinions on the subject. Thus, when my Memorial Day festivities (Coors Light and the pool) were crudely interrupted by a small child with decidedly different conceptions of propriety than my own, I was concerned. Here's how it went down:

Inclement weather Memorial Day morning tabled our plans to spend the day doing hoodrat stuff on my friends' boat, so when a patch of blue sky opened up that afternoon, we packed the cooler, hauled ass to the pool and posted up. I was minding my own business and carrying on a very adult conversation about Best Buy's first quarter earnings report (seriously!), when a roughly 2-year-old gentleman paddled up to me in his bitchin' tube and floaties (already I'm jealous I can't rock this look anymore), gathered a big mouthful of pool water and spit it right in my face. He attacked from the side as I was mid-sentence, so a little baby-spit-filled chlorine water made it right into my mouth. I think we all know I've had worse in there, so I really wasn't all that upset about it. I did, however, feel a certain sense of civic duty to point out to this very small future member of the body politic that, in most cases not involving consenting adults, it is considered poor form to spit fluid into the mouth of another person. I turned to the little guy and said, "Well, that was not very polite." This kid had a tight game, though, because he looked right at me, smiled the biggest, cutest smile I'd ever seen and said, "I'm gonna show you a BIG splash!" I was puddy.

Now, his mommies saw the whole thing go down, and the larger one was out of her chair quicker than you could say, "Here comes a big bitch." She said, "What are you thinking making me get up from my vodka drink?! Get over here!" Clearly this wasn't his first rodeo, because he took his sweet time (about 5 minutes of stern words and threats) making it to the side of the pool. I'm sitting there thinking, Oh, shit, kid; here it comes. We've all been there, and I'm not going to lie and say it doesn't suck. Just squeeze your ass cheeks together, bear down on that there diving ring and consider this round of public humiliation practice for middle school. When she finally got him out though, all she said was, "Come sit down over here and we're going to eat." I'm not complaining that the kid didn't get his ass beat, but a few choice comments hammering home the point that you don't fucking spit on people would have been refreshing. I, as an individual not charged with making sure he doesn't end up torturing cats and eventually telling some big girl to put the lotion on the skin, am allowed to think the incident was cute; his mommies, in my humble opinion, are not.

But what the fuck do I know? I thought it was OK to let my 5-year-old cousin watch Scream and the poor kid had nightmares for months, so maybe I'm not the arbiter of responsible parenting. I was seriously questioning my judgment until my knocked-up friend with whom I had been speaking said, "Let me tell you the difference between me and Earth Mother McGee over there. I would have been in that pool fully clothed and dragged his ass out. Then, he would have gotten whipped three times: once for spitting on a stranger; once for making me get my clothes wet; and once for interrupting my cocktail." Praise BE, sister!

Naturally, this brings me to how I found myself in a verbal altercation with a tattooed hippy fuck at PetSmart yesterday.

(Side note: Mom, if you're reading this, I have a confession: I have a dog. I'm sorry. )

I was on my way back from the gym a few months ago when my friend and I saw what looked like a really cute rat on the side of the road. We pulled over, and saw that it was, in fact, not a rat, but the most adorable puppy ever. He looked like a baby panda bear, but was completely malnourished and had a wormy belly. It was a Sunday and all the proper vets were closed, so we took the little guy to PetSmart and got him all fixed up. My friend already has a dog who does not play well with others and I'm only human, so the wormy little rat was coming home with me.

High on visions of responsible pet ownership, I pre-paid for a care plan that supposedly covered all of his shots and neutering. Flash forward to yesterday, and me arguing with the front desk girls because it's time for him to be neutered, and the puppy that was previously "definitely a Pit Bull" and that "might get to 45 pounds" is, at 5 months old, 40 pounds and quite clearly a Great Dane. The point is, now they're trying to horse fuck me on the price of getting him neutered. Here I am, in the middle of telling the vet that I don't give a shit what his certificate from the University of Tijuana Online Veterinary School says, he's not getting me to pay $150 for something I already paid for, when this douchebag walks in with his boxer. The boxer barks at Mr. Darcy (shut up!), and Mr. Darcy barks back. This goes on for what seemed like an eternity, with the boxer's limp dicked owner not doing a damn thing, and me telling Mr. Darcy "No! Sit! I said, no! Sit!" After about a minute of this I'd had enough and swatted him on his ass to make him pay attention. All of a sudden, homeslice wakes up from ogling his Birkenstocks long enough to yell from about 15 yards away, "Hey, that's not cool! You can't do that." Really, asshole? 'Cause I just did, and you'll notice whose dog is sitting quietly at present. I'm over it at this point though, and, unable to take the high road, yell back across the PetSmart check out area, "Fuck off, Cesar Millan! You'll thank me when he doesn't bite you."

That's real talk. Also, I quit my waitress job, so if anyone is in the Atlanta area and needs a baby and/or pet sitter, I'm available! Please leave your contact info in the comments section, and know that I'll need a stocked fridge when I get there.





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Caity's Time of the Month...

*We've got tits! That's right. A&M has a female writer complete with anatomically correct parts. Enjoy Caity's time of the month, a segment written for the female side, from the female side of Apples and Moustaches.


by Caity

My sister has been dating a real fucking douche-bag for some time now. Apart from acting like a 13-year-old girl with her first period on the daily, this future Tool Academy reject says things like, "You have a black hole in your heart" and "I just don't know if I can trust you anymore." Really? I saw that episode of Hannah Montana, too, and it doesn't end well. As if that weren't sufficient grounds for dismissal, I was looking at her Facebook pictures (shut up) and this grown, tax-paying individual blatantly frosts his tips. What? Sun-In and lemon juice wasn't cutting it anymore? Just had to go for the real deal? Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ, your balls called and they want to come home. What do you even say when you go to the salon?


Dick Lick McGillicutty: Um, if you could just lighten the top part of the strands a little bit...

Central Florida Super Cuts Associate: Oh, you mean you'd like me to frost your tips? Dick

Lick McGillicutty: [hangs head] Yes.

Central Florida Super Cuts Associate: [Rolls eyes and says in Tagalog] Queen.


You want to know the episode of Dawson's Creek I remember most vividly? Season 2, episode 1. Pacey, convinced that a new school year spells big changes for him, decides to frost his tips. I remember this episode because it was the day my 10th grade heart shattered into a million tiny pieces that I'm still picking up. At that moment I realized that if Pacey could fall for this fuckery, then perfection was an illusion and I've been looking for love in all the wrong places ever since. Taking this to its logical conclusion, I thought it would be appropriate to compile a list of the "10 Least Appealing Things a Gentleman Has Said While I Had No Panties On." I have some real winners, but I decided to include some of the gems from my best loved (read sluttiest) friends, as well.


The 10 Least Attractive Things a Gentleman Has Said While I Had No Panties On:

10. "I never hold in farts."

9. "Whoops...maybe I should have taken a piss beforehand."

8. "I am not Zach, I am his father. Zach is resting after last night, young lady. Now, get some clothes on so I can take you home."

7. "Hey, could I borrow twenty dollars tomorrow for a cab?"

6. "Maybe if you had another drink you'd be more open to it." (For the record, I did and I was, so this one could be out of place.)

5. "I did meth earlier so I'm probably not going to be able to fall asleep for a while."

4. "Wait, if I started the medication on Tuesday I should be fine to do it today. Right?"

3. "I never lost my suckling reflex...want me to show you?

2. "I see you're fine with the ball gag. What do you say to a game of anal ring toss?"

1. "Check out my new Christian Dior sunglasses."


I know the readership of Apples and Moustaches are an elegant and sophisticated group, but should any of you have your own klassy stories to contribute, that's why Jesus invented the comment section.



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Caity's Time of the Month...

*We've got tits! That's right. A&M now has a female writer complete with anatomically correct parts. Enjoy Caity's time of the month, a segment written for the female side, from the female side of Apples and Moustaches.

By Caity -


Today, I would like to extend a warm "fuck you" to the state of Georgia. Specifically, to anyone involved in the writing, implementation and/or enforcement of Georgia Statute 3-3-20, regarding the sale of alcoholic beverages on Sundays, election days, and Christmas Day, which states:

(a) Except as provided in subsection (d) of this Code section or except as specifically authorized by law, no person knowingly and intentionally shall sell or offer to sell alcoholic beverages on Sunday.

Thanks to your Puritanical asses, I was forced to watch the regional theater production otherwise known as the Oscars stone sober last night. Apart from cribbing all of Jericho's Oscar picks and, therefore, winning $10 off my roommate, that was probably the most painfully boring 3 hours of my life, including the time I got tricked into chaperoning my little cousin's elementary school sock hop. And I had to do it all without my best friend--Kettle One.

I know what you're thinking. "Well, Caity, you should have planned ahead and stocked up on Saturday." To quote Jack Donaghy: Thank you for telling me what I already know--you should work for the Huffington Post. This isn't my first rodeo, smart ass. I tried to stock up on Saturday, but my friends had to cancel their trip to New Orleans for Mardis Gras, so I took Mardis Gras to them. You see, then, the only thing that ever came of my planning ahead is a headache and confusion about why my sweatpants are in the kitchen and there is an unopened pack of raw bacon in the bathroom. True story.

Except for watching Hugh Jackman and Zack Efron battle tooth and anal beads for the title of most obvious closet case in Hollywood, all the drinks in the world couldn't have made that show entertaining. Consuming copious amounts of vodka would, however, have given me something to do during the 2 HOURS of technical awards besides shout obscenities at my television and wait for the next parade of has-beens. Cuba Gooding Jr, anyone? However, I will never--never--get over being robbed of my celebratory "Even Helen Keller Could Have Seen That One Coming" double-shot when the camera honed in (twice) on Angelina Jolie's fake ass smile during Jennifer Aniston's presentation.

This brings me to my next question: Who the hell is manning the sinking ship that is Jennifer Aniston's career? Now, I spent my formative years watching VHS tapes of Friends, so this comes from a good place, but whoever let her go onstage with that would-have-been-cute-2-years-ago braid and Jack Black needs to be shot. It was probably the same person who let her appear in a movie called "He's Just Not That Into You." I mean, why? The snarky commentary writes itself.

Hot tip of the day:
If you find yourself at the center of a very public divorce, don't spend 4 years conspicuously "not" talking about your ex-husband and his road whore of a baby factory, only to turn around and take half-hearted bitch slaps at them any chance you get, while promoting an unfortunately titled shitshow of a movie. And if you do, under no circumstances, should you choose the Oscars, where they are both nominated and sitting front row, to parade your C-list, tool shed, cabana boy as if anyone's impressed. And finally, if your masochism compels you to such self-immolating behavior, at least insist that you be the one to slowly open the envelope, take a long glance at her no-talent ass, and hand Best Actress to some other hoe.




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