My Gift to The Google Pervs

!!!FAIR WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS GRAPHIC IMAGES. NOT SUITABLE IF YOUR BOSS IS LOOKING OVER YOUR SHOULDER.!!!

There has been a lot of boob talk on my blog lately what with my predilection for running around topless and flashing the goods at who ever dares cross my path and my not so latent need to share with the world my public shame.

The google pervs love me.

Funny, it wasn't so long ago when I was known as the mom with the dead kid or as the one who always talks about her great love affair with battery operated love toys. Now I'm the chick who can't keep her knockers contained behind the fabric wall of her cheap tee shirts.

Look at me, setting the bar of personal achievement low enough that a baby can crawl over it. All that fancy education and thousands of dollars of student loans put to good use. My husband is soooo proud.

Heh.

With all the talk of boob flashing, naked swimming and nipple rings, I really ought to change the name of this blog to Titty Talk with Tanis: the boob's blog.

I'd like to tell you that I really don't let the girls hang out as much as I say I do, but my husband would just jump up and down in my comments section and label me a liar. However, like all good things, the boobery around here is coming to an end with the brisk fall temperatures. The free reign of nipples is over.

It's getting too darned cold to let the balloons hang loose.

Let's have a moment of silence for the girls, shall we?

However, just because I'm no longer able to show the girls off to the my school bus driver or the odd police officer who wanders my way or the neigbour who has now learned to drive past my front yard very slowly in hopes of brilliant displays of blindingly white flesh, doesn't mean that I can't talk about my boobs.

I try to contain it to *my* boobs only, because really, me talking about another woman's boobs is just kinda creepy. Bad enough that I wrote a public ode to another woman's cooter.

(Stay with me people, I'm working through some serious writer's block. Boob talk is the only thing I've got going for me right now.)

My boobs and my fondness for flashing them has not only scarred my children during their formative years (not to mention all those poor kids on the bus who saw the right one winking at them last week) but has increased the amount of email received in my inbox.

Mostly from my husband yelling at me to cover up but also from some oddly devoted, highly sophisticated male readers who think me and my boobs rock.

Since I believe in, and support this community we are building in the interweb, our blogosphere, I've decided to share with you some of my favorite and most recent fan mail. Nothing like emptying the fan mail bag to try and overcome blogging blahs.

(Note: The following is why I don't tell y'all where I live because I'm scared one of these fans might want a private peep show.)

First up is mebaby769 who writes, "Your pretty hot mom. I Love MILF's Can you send me some sexy picture of you?"

I'm am a hot mom. Mainly because I like to keep the furnace jacked up high and pretend I live in a tropical country. I'm a hot mom with children who have better grammar than you do, so I'm going to have to pass on your plea. But please feel free to keep on reading and flooding my inbox with your pervie request.

Next is Cliffy from my home town. Cool. Maybe I went to school with Cliffy. Cliffy writes, "you asre f*ck'in slut and your kids are f*ck'in ugly".

Hmmm, must have been that kid on the bus who flashed me his willy expecting me to get all hot and bothered for him. I laughed. Poor Cliffy. That wasn't the reaction he had hoped for.

I'm still laughing at you Cliffy. Because not only do you have a small, pus infected willy but you obviously spent too much time tugging on your snakeskin to go to English class.

Moving on to Jim who must be nothing but sweetness and love since his email addy is urlovetoy. Good ole Jim sent me this pleasant letter: "tanis, i saw you on television tonight and i jsut wanted to let you know how f*cking hot you are. i know i could rock your world. you look like a dirty whor. my kinda girl.especially with those titty rings you got. do me a favor and send me a picture of them. or any other part you want.i know u want to. it's why a slut like you goes on tellevision.your BIGGEST fan. and i mean my cock size."

Aw Jimmy, there are just no words. No nice ones, anyways. But thanks for pulling yourself away from the television set and away from all those free porn sites on the internet to write me this ditty. My heart just explodes with gratitude. It's good to have fans just like you.

I'd like to tell you what HOT ROD had to say but even for my seasoned ears, I blush. But he did promise to make me famous. I wonder if he means famous like Dooce or famous like Paris Hilton?

JRAM36, also known as Jon would like to know if I'm going to have a live nude cam any time soon. Maybe he should get together with Hot Rod and see what the two of them can put together.

Big E was very lovely. He writes, "hey interesting site you have then i checked out twitter and saw your taking boob requests well i'd love to see your boobs thanks."

This is what happens when one flirts publicly with FADKOG and Loralee while watching television and twittering. Oops. Bad Tanis.

Cliffy, my repeat offender, er, I mean my number one fan decided to write me another love letter. "you are f*ck'in slut"

Aw Cliffy. Don't be that way. I'm sure someone out there will love you and your pussnuts. It's nothing personal. I just like my men to be disease free and educated.

And finally I bring you one of America's finest, Capt. Jeff. "your blogg is a riot...!!!it's now on my favorites... btw, do you have any sisters with a libido like yours???"

Jeff, I do have a sister. A sister I love very much. And she's single too, so please know I will surely pass on your email addy and your request to meet her so she can deal with the freak show I am sure you are.

Because that is what caring sisters do. Spread the joy trolls.

I know, I know. You are all so damn jealous that your inbox isn't flooded with love letters from porn-starved perverts everywhere. It takes a special talent to touch the hearts of so many desperate men.

But since I've tantalized tormented so many of you with the mental image of my beaver tails flapping loose in the wind, I've decided to end the mystery of what my naked chest looks like and share the goods.

Put an end to the boob requests once and for all.

(That means please stop asking me to email shots of my boobs, Shawn . Heh.)

Book mark this page for future reference, because after this the boob flashing is done. At least for the next six to eight months. Wink.

Behold. The beauty of thy breasticles:





Well, those almost look like mine. Not enough nipple hair to fully resemble my chesticles. Try these instead:



That's better.

Now if you squint real hard and use your imagination, you have a rather accurate mental image of what my melons look like.

Don't say I never did anything for you.

*And yes. Those are all real emails I received within the course of the last couple weeks.*

The Boob Whisperer

**I have a soft spot in my heart for Danny Evans. His blog, Dad Gone Mad, was one of the few things that could momentarily make me forget I was a grieving mother struggling to cope with the pain of suddenly losing my child. Danny is partially responsible for why I started blogging. He inspired me. Plus, I knew I could do it better than him. Heh.**



I'm not sure if this is the first guest post I've ever written, but it's definitely the first one I've ever written for a fucking redneck. A Canadian redneck. A Canadian redneck with children. A Canadian redneck with children, a filthy mind, and the distinction of having been the first person ever to have referenced her boob rings� in an interview with CNN.

Larry King: East Bumfuck Canada, hello.�

Tanis: Hi, Larry. It's an honour to be on your show“ and that's honour with a U, as in U wanna see my boob rings?

Larry King: (drops dead)

(Ed. Note: What's up with the Canadians and their fucking U's? It would be an honour for thouse of us whou speak English if you sunza bitches would learn houw to spell.)

Indeed, there's a lot about Tanis (or is it Tanius) to tease, but my favorite is the fact that she's one of the most misguided sports fans known to walk the earth. (That is, if you consider Canada part of earth.) See, Tanis The Boob Whisperer roots for the Edmontoun Oileurs. Are you hockey fan? If you're still reading this, you must not be. Because anyone who knows jack squat about hockey is guffawing himself or herself into severe bladder-control peril right now. The Oileurs?! Can U be serious?

Here in the land of literacy and spell-check, we know Tanis's team as the Oilers. Also as One of the Worst Teams in Hockey Right Now.

Larry King: East Bumfuck Canada, hello.

Tanis: Hi, Larry. It's an honour to be on your show. How bout those Oilers!

Larry King: (shits his pants, drops dead)

One of my closest friends, Dave The Ass-Spelunker, is Canadian as well. He grew up near Montreal, and despite the fact that he lives 10 minutes away from the Honda Center, home of the Anaheim Ducks (who are one year removed from The Stanley Cup), he still roots for his beloved Habs, who have probably forgotten what The Cup even looks like. But I give Dave at least a smidge of credit for finally seeing the light and moving his sorry ass-spelunking ass down to the U.S., where the cool people chill.

(As an aside, Dave The Ass-Spelunker's name is derived from the fact that he is a gastroenterologist. Part of his job is to remove objects that the fine folks of Southern California accidentally shove up their asses in pursuit of the perfect prostate massage. Dave and I were out playing golf one afternoon, and after consuming at least a six-pack apiece I said this:

"Hey, Dave? What's the weirdest thing you've ever pulled out of someone's ass?"

Dave thought for a moment, or perhaps he just thought he was about to throw up, and then he said, "Uh, that would be an eight-inch black dildo."

Wow,� I said. Eight inches! Was the patient's name Tanis by any chance?

Dave cited an annoying American law called HIPAA  which I believe to be an acronym for Hey, It's a Private Asshole, Asshole! as the reason why he couldn't reveal the identity of the aforementioned bedildoed cornhole. But I think anyone who reads Tanis The Boob Whisperer's site with even an iota of regularity knows the real truth.)

Larry King: East Bumfuck Canada, hello.

Tanis: Hi, Larry. It's an honour to be on your show. Guess what's in my ass right now.

Larry King: (spontaneously combusts)

Fail Whale

When I was 16, I was caught passing notes to a boy I was swooning over in our advanced physics class. There wasn't a lot of kids in the class (advanced physics people. Let's just say I was the captain of the geek squad,) and I wasn't particularly interested with the subject matter of the day.

I was more enthralled with the tall dark-haired boy who had limpid pools of green sea water for eyes. That boy rocked my 16-year-old world. At least in my imagination. In reality, he was struggling with his own sexuality and couldn't quite decide which side of the fence he wanted to play on.

Turned out, it wasn't my side.

But as an innocent 16-year-old who had only a handful of tongues down her throat in her day, he was all I could think of. I was obsessed with turning our blooming friendship into the romance of the century. After all, he had a car, lived near-by and didn't have a bossy big brother to chaperone our dates and make kissy sounds when ever we held hands.

In other words, he wasn't Boo. No. This boy was everything my recently-broken-up-with Boo wasn't. And I was determined to make this boy mine. So I did what I could to snare him in my web since I didn't have any boobs to push under his nose. I wrote him a soul-shattering note, detailing my love for him and how I thought he walked on water.

Only to have my physic's teacher intercept it and force me to stand in front of the class and read it aloud. To him.

That boy? Never spoke to me again. And my cheeks flamed so hard my sweater burst into flames and I ran screaming down the school corridors, burning with embarrassment and smoke trailing from my arse.

Good times. For the rest of my time at that school I was called Shakespeare.

I seem to have a knack for finding myself in embarrassing situations like that. Like the time I was smack talking certain family members only to find out they were standing behind me as my husband desperately tried to shut me up with his pleading eyes and I prattled on and on about how evil said family members were.

They just sharpened their knives and then rightly nailed me to the wall as I blushed a thousand shades of red.

Or my all time favorite stupid move was when I was on the radio, guest dee-jaying for a sick host and I chattered about how sexy I thought the female station manager was during a commercial break. I all but composed an ode to her boobs and described in great detail how I wished I looked like she did, only to find out I pressed the wrong button and was on the air.

With the entire city, including my very Christian in-laws, my grandparents, and my HUSBAND listening to my little 'whoopsie daisie!'

Funny. The station manager never asked me back. Yet that afternoon, they had the highest ratings they had gotten in two straight months. Heh.

My point is, I've gotten quite comfortable in letting it all hang out for the world to ogle. (Just ask the girls in the lobby washroom in the San Francisco Westin. They got to see more of me than meets the eye. And they didn't even have to ask.)

Still, there are some moments in time, I absolutely cringe with regret and remorse and a sense of "holy hell, how can I be that freaking stupid?"

Like when you walk into a shiny, almost invisible glass door at store because you are too busy ogling the two hot men on motorcycles and they are totally watching you and you can't believe men that hot would find you attractive and so you push out your chest and smile and act all flirty just to smash nose first into the glass door you had presumed (rather faultily) was open and blood pores down your face, your ego explodes and the two hot bikers almost fall off their bikes with laughter and then drive away marveling at your extreme dorkiness.

Not that I'm speaking from experience or anything. Ahem.

Last night, while on the twitter boards, I had one such moment. I was direct messaging a friend and we were discussing the loves of our lives. Our little boys. Our angel boys.

In a moment of stupidity, I sent her a direct message that wasn't so direct and more along the lines of posted on the public twitter timeline, that while I loved my husband dearly there would always be someone else I loved equally, if not more and how I missed that person dearly.





My OH SHIT! look. Or as my husband says, an invitation for oral action.

I thought nothing of it.

Until one minute later and my email was lit up like a switch board and twitter started going nuts.

"Um, excuse me? What?" one twitter peep asked.

"Care to share, darling?" another inquired.

"I can't believe you are cheating on Boo you two faced slut. May you rot in the fiery pits of hell you damned adultress," was another.

Scratching my head, I couldn't figure out what was going on. So I hopped over to the twitter board and took a look around. That's when I saw my twitter. My very public twitter that, taken out of context, could look very bad for a happily married woman.

My cheeks lit up like a match tossed on gasoline soaked kindling and suddenly my internet came to a flaming stand still as I tried to erase the message. Murphy's freaking law that when you need to erase something on the twitter boards you get the damn fail whale while everyone else reads your dumbass remark and starts composing storylines and soap operas around it.





Damn you fail whale. I curse thee.

Needless to say, the message got erased and I spent the better part of the hour explaining to people that I am happily married and have no desire, no prospects even, to leave my husband. (And that facker better think twice about leaving me or I'll hunt him down to the ends of Earth and force feed him his nuts. Heh.)

Still, there are no words to explain just how relieved I was my husband was at work and doesn't know what twitteritus is all about.

At least he didn't until he phoned a few minutes into the drama and innocently inquired what I was up to as trying to untweet my twit.

"Um, I just told the world I'm in love with someone more than you."

Pause.

"Well, is he at least better looking than me? Cuz that would totally burn if you decided to trade me in for an uglier, used model. I do have some pride you know."

"Sorry, sweetie, but this dude is younger and cuter. I was talking about our son."

"Ah. Well, don't worry about it. I totally love him more than you. I can't blame you. That kid rocked. Looked just like his daddy. Who happens to be sexy man candy," Boo teased.

Ha ha. Man candy. Keep thinking that dude. I'm still not sucking on your lollipop when you get home, I teased him right back.

"You know Tanis, maybe if you focused more on sucking my sugar stick of love, you'd have less time to publicly embarrass yourself. And your thighs wouldn't be sporting second degree burns from an overheated laptop," he explained.

I thought about it for a second. Or less.

He had a point. But I think I'll just buy myself a muzzle and avoid direct messaging on twitter from now on.

No lock-jaw and less drool this way.

And maybe I'll stick to instant messaging from now on. It's far less painful to embarrass myself one person at a time rather than a cyber room of twitterati.

Oy.