As summer begins its slow acquiesce to fall, I’ve found it necessary to do some renovating behind the scenes at the haus.
Most notably, the curtains now match the carpet.
Isn’t brown beautiful?
Posts archived in Sexiness
I was talking to a friend who expressed frustration that her more thoughtful posts were less commented than those that were quickly concocted—folks got all crazy-like commenting on toaster sandwiches but were kind of meh about her pistachio pops
Me I thought the pops rocked. Mostly because—as a keen observer of the human anatomy—I couldn’t help but notice they resembled something we like very much at the haus.
Those rigid pops—positioned erectly in all their cold, hard, and shiny glory—looked just like ….
Well you know what’s coming dear hannihaus readers.
Yes, I was going to say they looked just like Nicole Kidman’s botoxed forehead.
…
Oh and also penis.
The pops looked an awful lot like penis, which is not weird considering that where you find nuts, you often find knob.
But I digress.
One time I went to a company picnic and that time was last week.
It’s springtime in the Lone Star state and that means it’s BBQ season. Like most Texans, the people I work with really love meat, so we had lots of it at our picnic.
Look here’s a picture of my friend Shex enjoying a sausage.
Shex is wearing a funny Mister Rodgers sweater, so when I saw this picture all I could think was: It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a beauty would, would you be mine, could you be mine, won’t you eat my sausage?
I can see Shex singing this song, mostly because he is single and looking for someone to share his sausage with.
My friend Carolyn also enjoyed le pork.
She looks really happy. I think it’s because the sausage Carolyn’s holding is really fat. Some people say size matters. Who knows?
Me, I don’t like meat so much so I enjoyed another kind of traditional picnic fare called egg rolls.
I know. I was like WTF too.
So after we ate, it was time for games. I thought my boss would like it if I participated in one, so I did. I did this thing where you hop for 50 yards to the finish. It was pretty fun until the announcer started yelling at me to lift my sac. Although the 3 dudes I was competing against could claim otherwise, I don’t have that kind of equipment and I got real frustrated. But in the end everything made sense. See it turns out the “sac” the GameMaster was referring to was made of burlap. I did have one of those.
Look at me in this pic. I’m like WTF is this brown thing?
And then I’m like, cool dude it’s a bag. Let’s do a hip hop handshake to commemorate!
And then I was like, uh oh is this bag gonna make my butt look big?
And then the answer was, yes.
After the food and games I was pretty tired so I headed home. Carolyn, however, continued eat and enjoy her sausage. She sure was happy.
The end.
So I went to Texas and now I’m back in the eff-el.
Mission accomplished: I got a swank apartment in a cute little community called The Woodlands. And I tell you what, I’m ready to for a new neighborhood.
It’s not that I’m against religion or anything—Jesus is my homeboy and all that—but the folks who live next door are just way too overzealous.
Starting the Sabbath off with a bang (so to speak), Suzy Sexpants was at it again at 12:30 this morning.
Now I’ve never met Ms. Le Sex, but I can tell you that girl is a freak when it comes to Jesus. I mean, why else would she be screaming his name over and over in the dead of the night, like “Oh, oh, oh … Oh. My. God!” ?
And there’s this about her too—I think she’s interested in becoming an apostle of Christ. Around 1 am, I definitely heard mention of a missionary position.
…
Here’s hoping the cowboy-neighbors I have in Texas aren’t of the midnight variety,
xoxoH
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Oh and Because you asked for it, here’s pics of Chez Hänni, Texas edition.
The other day FancyPants and I were talking about how marriage is the new dating. We decided courtship is dead—society stuck a knife in its big, bursting heart and served it cold with some fava beans and a nice Chianti …
M.C.: ruining romance for everyoneAnd then, as her big ass is used to doing, Mariah Carey ate it.
…But I digress.
Anywho, it’s sad to say, but kids these days are slipping right past getting-to-know-you-ville and are advancing directly to man-and-wife town.
They are not passing Go.
They are not collecting $200.
Hell, many of today’s couples aren’t even making it through second dates.
It’s a shame, but it’s no exaggeration. I’m willing to bet that all of us, dear hannihaus readers, know someone who has made their way to the Chapel of Love (and lust) way too early.
Call me old fashioned, but I miss courtship.
I miss the idea of one soul seeking the affections of another.
I miss the good old days. You know, those antiquated times where instead of getting married right away, you got to know someone first …
by having kinky, deviant sex with them—sometimes incorporating strangers, sometimes incorporating sheep, and oft times inserting large inanimate objects in to dark orifices.
Forget love, sweet love, what the world needs now is more boobs and fewer “I dos”.
Am I right?
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So, I’ll admit it. I’m down with the brown. I like me a little greasy Mexican action. I wanna give a shoutout to blog superstar, Askheychris. Not only does his writing kick my writing’s ass, he also has been known to paint his nails, which means he’s a—*gasp*—boy who wears makeup. Rock! Check him out.
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Wanna get me wasted? Vote in the sidebar. Another drink gets kicked off the AI Cocktail Countdown tonight.
I was 19 that summer. The city—like its inhabitants—was sweltering hot.
Beautiful 20-somethings poured like water from subways onto street corners and into restaurants and bars and old buildings. An urban pheromone factory, sex oozed from these golden gods as beads of perspiration gathered on breastbones and thighs hidden beneath stylish suits.
We were young. We were eager. We had (most of us) come to intern in the greatest political city in the world.
Washington D.C. was a far cry from Wasilla, Alaska where I grew up. Back home, under my parents’ watchful gaze, I’d lived the kind of churchly, modest life that is the hallmark of rural America. I won’t bore you with details, but I will say that my landlocked upbringing played a major role in the delay…
It was embarrassing. Most girls—by the time they are 17 or 18—have done it. And I suspect that in certain places, like California for example, girls probably start doing it at 10 or 11.
That summer—the one I spent in the city—I was almost 20 and I felt a dire sense of urgency.
My intern group was scheduled for a weekend trip to Rehoboth Beach at the end of July. On this trip there would be no parental supervision. There would, however, be dozens of sexy co-eds wearing next-to-nothing. And they’d be slathering lotions and flirting and frolicking. The only thing hotter than these beachside babes would be the sun under which they’d bake.
It was for this trip, that I wanted to be prepared.
The week before Rehoboth, I stopped into J.’s. I’d been there before, but this time was different. I was nervous. And I think he knew that. A handsome boy, when he looked into my frightened eyes and asked if he could help me, I said yes.
That day, in some cluttered part of the city, I passed through a proverbial gauntlet of maidenhood.
With my breasts cupped in a J. Crew top (75% off!) selected by a sales dude with my specifications, I was glad I’d finally done it.
I’d finally … for the first time … worn a bikini.
And shortly after my first time wearing a bikini, I experienced the first time wearing a bikini whilst throwing up in a children’s pool in Rehoboth. But that’s a whole nother story.
Til next dear hannihaus readers, adieu.
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Did my story get you all hot and bothered? How about you vote for a nice, refreshing drink? AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar. Next one gets kicked off tomorrow!
P.S. Maaa I’m sorry if I gave you a heart attack with this one.
Today I visited a Web site that had this cool feature called the Rumor Mill. Simple, all you do is type a rumor, click “Send That Shit In!,” and you’re good to go. Once submitted, your rumor will display, along with 29 other untruths, in a continuous, random loop.
Examples of rumors currently circulating include: “Armored maloogars are coming for me,” “You can catch Down’s syndrome from toilet seats,” “Smoking gives you herpes,” and “I have hemorrhoids.”
These rumors are pretty funny, because they’re all obviously untrue…
Well, except for the hemorrhoid one.
I really do have a hemorrhoid. And it’s a real pain in my ass… but I digress.
Because I like playing games, with a shout of “let’s get retarded in here,” into the Rumor Mill, I entered:
I have boobs.
Initially I thought it a winning submission. After all, everybody likes jublees. But then I got to thinking, my rumor really sucked, mostly because I’m a girl. If a dude had posted my rumor, it would’ve been funny, because boys don’t have boobs.
…But there again, apparently, neither do I.
Panicked at the idea of posting something online that isn’t comedy gold, I broke into a cold sweat. Nervous, I grabbed my necklace and gave it a sharp jerk. This caused my head to snap downwards.
Before I knew it, I was staring straight down the front of my low-cut, black Gap t-shirt.
Guess what I saw: boobies. But only the padded kind that come standard with my Wonderbra.
“Hot damn!” I thought, trying to push up the puppies I don’t have, “that is a good rumor after all!”
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Let’s talk trash dear hannihaus readers. Got a rumor? Dish your dirt here.
14 comments
February 22, 2006
Sexier Than Barry White and A Box Of Organic Dark Chocolate-Covered Raisins
At A Very Hip Software Company, every once in a while we hear the Voice of God. Booming and nebulous, an announcement from the Voice of God plays through our cube farm speakerphones and is always prefaced by a loud BLEEP and some static.
Yes for some, their arrival is heralded by Pomp and Circumstance. But for the Voice of God, we do it with a BLEEP. It’s anti-climactic, I know.
Anywho, the Voice of God, (which really sounds a lot like the executive assistant), announced over the PA that sexual harassment training was starting in the middle lounge, and if you were scheduled to go, get there now.
(‘God can be kind of bossy.)
“Why do I have to go to stupid anti-harassment training?” I whined. And then, because I am an exemplary employee, I sucked it up and hot-footed it to the Hall o’ (anti) Harrassment….But first I was sure to exit the Boob Scotch video playing on my desktop.
Heh.
So, the meet was actually o.k. I learned a lot about respecting others’ rights in the workplace. And I also learned that Manuel – because he announced it to our instructor – felt he had been sexually harassed at the company Christmas party.
Apparently he was uncomfortable with the fact that someone grabbed his waist during the congo.
“But Manuel,” a co-worker responded, “It was kind of hard not to pull you into the line, especially when you had a maraca in each fist, yelling ‘let’s congo!’”
“That’s a good point,” Manuel replied thoughtfully. And the he was quiet … save for a jarring outburst of “cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-CHA!”
OK so here’s the deal. Now that I’ve been through my training, I’m not sure if it’s insensitive of me to say this, but I’m gonna put it out there:
I’d have sex with this hair. Wouldn’t you? (Don’t worry Mom and Dad. You don’t need to chime in on this one.)
I got my hair did (at Angel’s infamous Bit O’ Charm) . I look like a rock star. That is all.
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Hey, all the cool kids are doing it. Click here to join my map, Hannihaus Rocks!
I really should feel bad about how I cranked up some emo tunage for three eardrum- busting hours this afternoon. Emo is an acquired taste, you see, and it’s likely that my neighbors do not appreciate the sad, screechy vocals of skinny, floppy-haired, 17-year-old boys as much as I do…
But come to think of it, maybe I’m wrong.
I mean, judging from the ruckus going on upstairs at the ungodly hour of 1 am this morning, my neighbors are HUGE emo fans. I don’t know if skinny boys were involved, but I’m fairly certain there was some disheveled hair, as a libidinous lady, and her (apparently very skilled) lover participated in a high-pitched hootinany.
Yes, Suzy GetSumBooty was at it again…
and again…
and again.
Seriously, I couldn’t get to sleep until like 2 am, and even then I felt like I needed a shower and some cuddling first.
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In other news, I nearly cut my off my finger while slicing a butternut squash.
It has been bleeding for hours.
That means, if I do not write tomorrow, I am a) dead from loss of blood, b) having a difficult time typing with the stumpy remains, or c) am pissed off and pouting because I am on a veggie fast, which is what landed thumbkin on the chopping block in the first place.
Durr.
Around the office lately, there’s been a lot of talk about “The One.” The One is this mysterious techy superstar who has skillz that like only .0000000000001% of the world’s population can attest to.
And even though I’m no tech superstar, I want you, dear hannihaus readers, to know I’ve got skillz to. I’ve got mad skillz, but somehow I don’t think the ability to sweat on only one half of my body or eat five pounds of pureed turnips in one sitting makes me a highly marketable candidate for… for… well, let’s face it, it doesn’t make me a qualified candidate for anything really.
But I digress.
Okay, to recap, around the office we’re always talking about The One, right? That being said, I didn’t raise an eyebrow when I got an e-mail from a coworker with the subject line “The Real (Big) One”.
Nope, there were no alarms going off in the bat cave, there were no red flags being raised, and no elevation on the that’s-some-crazy-crap-o- meter. Things were, for all intensive purposes, business as usual.
So, included in said Real (Big) e-mail is a hyperlink that I assumed would take me somewhere work related, as I was, indeed, at work. But then, I see it. At the end of the URL are these words:
“godspenis.html”
I clicked through, and this is what I saw: (Click here for the divine dillywacker).
As a result of having seen this glorious, nature-made spectacle, I had no choice but to engage in a game of verbal, penis-centered ping pong. Between doing actual work, the day was fairly peppered with witty commentary that included the likes of “It’s not that big” or “that’s what she said”.
And now I need your help. What say you dear hannihaus readers? Have we a caption for the floating phallice?
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PS we are still taking applications for the super fabulous Hännihaus personal assistant. Although the decision rests solely with me, I would like to invite you to chime in. We’ll have a poll posted on Sunday, so apply today!
Hännihaus
German for "totally awesome blog!"
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