Erica Scott: Life, Love and Spanking

Ruminations, opinionated observations, darkly humorous blathering and the occasional rant from an outspoken spanko and unapologetic attention wh–, um, hog.

Archive for the category “parody”

Vote for me?

So yesterday, as I was trundling along on the treadmill, my mind wandered as it is wont to do, and I had what I consider a brilliant brainchild.

Consider the following:

  • I am one kinky, nasty woman;
  • I speak my mind often and tell it like it is, even though some people would prefer that I STFU;
  • I know zippity squat about how to run a country, but clearly, that doesn’t matter; and
  • I tweet a whole lot (going on 20K now)

I should run for president in 2020!! Not just the first woman, but the first kinky president! Hey, if we can have a PeePee President, why not a Spanko President?

electerica

Imagine the possibilities for slogans!

  • Embrace your inner safe, sane and consensual sadomasochist, America! Spanking pain is temporary; nuclear vaporization is forever!
  • Healthcare that everyone can count on, permanently — no one will piss it away!
  • Erica Scott’s promises are as solid as a frat paddle — with no (loop)holes!
  • Erica Scott will stand with you — since she can’t sit!
  • You can’t have America without Erica!
  • Red is the New Orange!
  • Erica Scott: Make America Black & Blue Again! #MABBA

scenewithjoe

Of course, John would be the First… what? We’re not married, so already, I’m breaking tradition. But so what? We’ve been together for over 20 years; that’s longer than a lot of marriages. (Just ask the upcoming Commander in Cheat.) So, I guess John could be First Switch, Top of your Bottom in Chief. And then there’s my cabinet — oh, so many boxer briefs and panties to fill. But I think I’d start with Paul Kennedy as Spanker of the House, and make Alex Reynolds Secretary of the Posterior. Perhaps Michael Masterson should head up the Lap of Justice Department.

My White House pet would be a giant white dog (she’d have to be white, so I could name her — what else? — Snowflake, and any breed would work except sheepdog). I would train my faithful companion to always hide (or bury) wooden implements. She’d never bite anyone, but she’d growl menacingly whenever she sees someone anything orange.

One of my first acts would be to declare the non-consensual grabbing of pussies to be a capital offense. (Just to be clear, I’m talking about real non-consent, not our type of “oh, please don’t… don’t… don’t stop” consensual non-consent.) And ladies? From now on, no one will be able to get up into your business — unless you want them to, of course!

Tolerant, respectful people — of all nationalities and colors, all religions (or none), all genders (whether born or chosen), all orientations, all sizes and shapes, all ages and income levels — will be treated in turn with tolerance and respect. Those of us who choose not to follow the tried and true societal dictates will not be shamed, but welcomed. None of this bullying/prejudice/discrimination shit on my watch! This is America, not AmeriKKKa. (And yes, your leader will be spanked often for her shameless word play.)

I would redesign the Oval Office, of course. My office would need corners. All staffers would be armed with guns — squirt guns. And corporal punishment would replace capital punishment (but only for vanilla offenders, since kinky offenders would like it way too damn much).

What do you think, readers? Can you add any ideas? Would you vote for me? Come on, I couldn’t possibly be any worse than what’s coming. You’ve got nothing to lose but your inhibitions — and possibly your underwear. 😀

A (not so) sweet holiday fantasy

My regular readers know that, at this time of year, I like to write a naughty Christmas carol parody. However, due to the grim circumstances of 2016, I’m not in the mood to do so. For those who would like to revisit last year’s parody, I present “Elves Gone Bad,” here. In the meantime, my gift to you, in lieu of a parody, is a sweet (well, sweet for me) holiday fairy tale.

Once upon a time, there was a forlorn crybaby named Erica. She was unhappy all the time, now that her country had been taken over by a large orange fascist blowhard named The Trump, and she no longer felt safe or assured of her future. Despite the fact that his opponent got nearly three million more votes than he did, he still won, due to an antiquated electoral college and most likely Russian some outside influences. He was filling his cabinet with elitist millionaires, and everyone but the richest of the rich and the whitest of the white was basically as fucked as Ivanka in her daddy’s fantasies.

To add insult to injury, some* of his supporters were especially hateful people, members of a white supremacist movement called the Alt-Reich, gloating and sneering and name-calling. They were the ones who had labeled her a crybaby, among other nasty names such as “libtard” and “snowflake.” This last one especially puzzled Erica. She lived in the grand blue state of California, on the west side of the DSA (Divided States of America). She’d gaze out her window at the perpetually sunny sky and wonder, “What’s a snowflake?”

Another thing the Alt-Reich people were fond of saying was, “Suck it up.” “Suck it up, whiner!” “Suck it up, buttercup!” Suck what up? Erica couldn’t quite figure out what “it” was. She combed the Internet, seeking answers, but as was often the case, there were too many answers and not enough real information. At one point, she saw this picture of Mitt Romney groveling like a pussy eating dinner with Trump…

romney

…and was horrified. After all, everyone knew what Romney had to choke down for dessert at that meeting. “Oh, no,” she thought. “Surely they don’t mean suck that up? Ugh!”

So what was she supposed to suck up? After much thought (in between bouts of weeping), it dawned on her: California had just legalized marijuana. Erica was not a big fan of mind-altering substances, but in this new order, she figured reality was intolerable, so perhaps an alternate reality would be a pleasant escape for a while.

She then consulted her younger, hipper friends, whom she knew would be able to steer her in the right direction to the good stuff, and procured a huge blunt of the best weed she could afford. Settling herself at home into her favorite chair, ensuring she had plenty of peanut butter Oreos and Hershey’s Nuggets for later, she lit up and took a deep, deep suck inward, drawing the sweet, pungent smoke into her lungs.

Ahhh. Suck THIS.

As Erica grew dreamily stoned, she watched lazily as the smoke curled from the joint, drifting across the room and gathering into a cloud over the couch. She closed her eyes briefly, opened them, and blinked rapidly. “What’s in this stuff?” she muttered. For she could swear the sweetly scented puffs were coalescing and morphing into a shape, slowly but surely. She rubbed her eyes and looked again; to her shock, the amorphous cloud had settled into the form of a man, sprawled on the couch. As he came into focus, Erica could see he was in faded jeans, barefoot and shirtless, with long dark hair. His eyes were heavy lidded and slightly bleary, and in one hand he clutched a can of Pringles. His other hand came up into a lethargic wave.

“Who are you?” Erica spluttered.

“Just call me Gene,” the stranger said, stretching his legs out, then tipping the Pringles can to his mouth. As he crunched, she stared. “What’s your last name?” she asked.

He swallowed and yawned, then gave her a languid smile. “Everstone.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Erica groaned. “Everstone. Initial E. Gene E. I get it. What are you doing here?”

“You’re always crying,” he drawled. “It’s bad for your eyes. So I’m here to cheer you up with four holiday wishes.”

Erica shook her head. I’m really wasted, she thought. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she scoffed. “And isn’t it supposed to be three wishes?”

“What, you’re complaining ‘cause it’s more?” He shrugged. “Four is the standard these days. Inflation, I guess. So come on. What do you want? A few million dollars? Eternal youth? And please don’t bother me with that ‘world peace’ crap. Everyone knows that’s completely impossible.”

Erica took another hit, savoring it as she thought about her options. She sat up, curling her legs under her. “No,” she mused. “I want some things that will help restore the country to sanity.”

Gene munched a few more Pringles. “Go for it,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

“Wish Number One,” Erica began, her eyes lighting up. “The Trump resigns. He’s like, ‘Hey, I just wanted to win the presidency; I didn’t actually want to be president! This job is yuuuuge! It takes too much time away from my own self-serving interests! And people are mean to me!’ He then gathers up his entire family, including these two ghoulish greaseballs…

trumpsons

…and of course, his eldest daughter, whom he has lusted after since her adolescence  adores…

trumpivanka

…and moves them all to Russia, where he spends the rest of his days with his nose firmly embedded in Vladimir Putin’s ass.”

Gene snickered. “You sure it’s just his nose?”

“Ewwwww!” Erica moaned. “Please! Don’t go there; you’ll make me throw up. I’m high and I might aspirate.”

“OK, OK. Anything you wanna add to that one?”

Erica thought for a moment. “Yeah. The Trump has to wear electrically wired underwear at all times. Every time he tries to tweet, he gets a big jolt of juice to his junk.”

“You really should get stoned more often,” Gene laughed, cocking an eyebrow. “It gives you a wicked imagination.” He waved his hand. “OK, it’s done. But honey, now your people are stuck with Mike Pence, Mr. Funerals-For-Fetuses.”

“Ah, that’s Wish Number Two,” Erica grinned, extending her hand for a chip. “I have special plans for Mike Pence.”

“Do tell.” Gene stretched back, reached into a smoke ring and pulled out a bottle of microbrew. He cocked one finger and the top snapped off.

“Mike Pence finds himself trapped in a large room that’s locked from the outside. On one side, he’s flanked with a mob of angry LGBTQ folks who didn’t appreciate his views on how they should be forcefully converted; and on the other side is a group of very angry rape victims who were denied abortions, because, you know, Jesus.”

“And what happens then?” Gene smirked.

“Mmmmmmm,” Erica said, wrinkling her nose. “You don’t wanna know. Let’s just say that after they’re through, er, expressing themselves, ol’ Mike isn’t fit to lead a Boy Scout troop, let alone the country.”

“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy. OK,” Gene said, placing the Pringles can between his legs and waving his hand once again. “Consider it done. So now what? What about Speaker Ryan? What about The Trump’s clown car of idiocracy?”

“Wish Number Three,” Erica smiled. “In which Paul Ryan, Steve Bannon, Jeff Sessions, Ben Carson, Kellyanne Conway, Rudy Giuliani, Newt Gingrich, Michael Flynn, Rex Tillerson, Corey What’s-His-Face, and all the others in The Trump’s elitist parade are shipped to a newly discovered planet, an angry little red orb called Ignoranus.** Oh, and we throw in Ann Coulter and Sarah Palin too, because Coulter is Conway’s long-lost twin and Palin is… Palin. Here, they will govern over the planet’s citizens—snow white, sheep-like creatures—and spend their days in activities such as flag waving, burning books written by women and minorities, and target practice. Oh, and we build a giant wall in the sky so they can’t return to Earth, and so that all their hot air and noxious gases don’t infiltrate our atmosphere.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Gene chuckled. “OK, done. But what about those alt-Reich fuckers? Don’t you want to do something with them for your fourth wish?”

Erica pondered for a while, taking the last hit off her blunt and closing her eyes. Opening them again, she said, “Hmmm. If I were a deplorable like Mike Pence, I’d say they should all be put in conversion camps and given shock therapy until they see the light and realize they’re in the Alt-Wrong. But this is still a free country, so I say leave them be, let them go on with their miserable little lives.” She paused. “Well, sort of.” She gave Gene her best beguiling smile. “Can I have five wishes?”

“Wha—?” Gene said, with as much indignation as a stoned hippie genie could muster. “Now you want another one? What for?”

“Well, it’s sort of a two-parter. Please-please-please?” Erica wheedled.

“Geezus,” he grumbled, downing the rest of his beer. “You’re kinda spoiled, you know that?”

“So they tell me,” Erica murmured, blushing slightly. “But hear me out. Can you make it so the alt-Reichers wake up a different race? Doesn’t matter which, it can be random, as long as it’s not Caucasian. Pretty hard to be a white supremacist if you’re not white. Let them experience what it is to be persecuted, profiled and hated and see how they like it.”

“Very fitting,” Gene agreed, his soporific nature back in place. “Where does the fifth wish come in, then?”

“Well, they’re going to be mighty pissed off, and we can’t take away their guns and all their other macho toys, because who wants to listen to them whining about the Second Amendment for all eternity? Personally, I’d choose to let them all have muskets, which were the only arms in use when their precious fucking Second Amendment came to be, but that would be silly, I guess. So for those of us who just want to live in peace and equality, make us bulletproof, and make all our homes, offices, venues, etc. fire- and bomb-proof. Does that work?”

Gene sat up, put his beer bottle on the coffee table and did a slow golf clap. “Works for me,” he said approvingly. “That way they can still have their weapons, but no longer harm innocent people with them.” He snapped his fingers, twice. “Well done, Erica. Have a good life.” And as Erica watched incredulously, he faded into a haze of smoke. The Pringles can and beer bottle remained; otherwise, she would have thought it had been a dream.

After indulging in copious quantities of chocolate (because this was a fantasy, so there were no calories), Erica cleared up and went to bed, thinking that had been a nice high and she’d deal with reality in the morning. That night, she had her first nightmare-less sleep in months, and when she woke, it was to the realization that her wishes had indeed come true. Gene, the Stoner Genie, hadn’t been a figment of her weed-infused imagination after all. When she turned on the television, the first thing she saw was the newly elected President Kamala Harris. Ms. Harris had chosen Elizabeth Warren for Vice President, and for Speaker of the House, she had picked George Takei, who everyone knew was the wisest man in the land.

And so, that was how Crybaby Erica sucked it up and saved the country. She lived happily ever after, and she no longer cried. Her mojo was restored and she was able to engage in kinky adventures once again. And they were even better, because all men were now respectful of women and safe words were no longer necessary.

You’re welcome, America.

* Notice I said some, not all. Of course I don’t think all Trump voters are ignorant white supremacists. That would be generalizing on my part, and heaven forbid I do such a thing. I almost feel sorry for the swing voters who just wanted a change and thought they were doing the right thing, as they’re going to be screwed along with the rest of us, but they brought it on themselves. Voting for a man who publicly mocks the disabled; is personally endorsed by the KKK; who is so fucking stupid that he spells “unprecedented” “unpresidented,” and who brags about how he can get away with sexually assaulting women “because he’s a star” is never a good idea.

** Ignoranus: One who is both stupid AND an asshole.

Just a few notes, because after this, I am going to do my best to avoid politics on here altogether: No doubt I’ve pissed some of you off with my flagrant disrespect for the office of the president. You’re right; I’m a very bad girl. Tell you what: I’ll give your CheetoFace NaziPants Donald Trump respect, just like you respected President Barack Obama, mmmkay? Remember all those memes, likening the Obamas to monkeys? Remember Michelle Obama being called an “ape in a dress,” or an “ape in heels”? Remember the picture of the White House lawn, with watermelons Photoshopped all over it? I sure as hell do.

And all your snarking about how Trump is payback for how you “put up with” Obama for eight years? I’m calling bullshit on that too. Obama restored the country after your idiot frat boy George W. Bush took us down the dumper for two excruciating terms.

potusstats_fb_20141124

So for those who don’t like this post, to them, I give back their own words: Too bad. Suck it up. You’re more than welcome to read something more up your alley, like Breitbart News. Oh, and this too…

14rk2q

(Of course, I mean that in the figurative sense, not literally. Because I wouldn’t actually let any of you anywhere near my ass.)

To my friends and faithful readers, I promise I will be back when my kinky mojo returns and I feel like posting on topic again. In the meantime, Merry Christmas HAPPY HOLIDAYS, y’all. 😛

Christmas carol parody, 2015

OK, kids. It’s time for some laughs. The country has gone nuts. Today I had to go to the dentist and got caught in terrible traffic because of a possible bomb scare in the area. Then when I finally got there, I found out I need another root canal. And I’m depressed as @#$% over a blog that wrote up my video with Triple A and referred to me as “mature” five separate times (and spelled my name wrong to boot). I need something funny. How about you?

For those who are new to my blog, I do this every year — write a spanking parody of a Christmas carol. For example, here is last year’s offering:

Do You Hear What I Hear?

This year, I’m keeping it basic — I wrote a parody of “Jingle Bells.” I don’t need to post a link to that song; everyone knows it. So without further ado, I present, to the tune of “Jingle Bells,” “Elves Gone Bad.” Sing along!

Oh, and…

grumpycatxmas

Elves Gone Bad

Bottoms pink
Paddles stink
Santa’s full of crap!
Oh, what fun it is to lie
Across Kris Kringle’s lap, hey!

Pants are down
Bad elves frown
Stockings full of coal!
But oh, what fun it is to wreak
Some havoc at North Pole!

Dashing through the house
Coming in the open door
Presents tossed about
Cookies on the floor!

Eggnog on the walls
What a mess they’ve made
Fun will end when Santa sees
Just how they’ve disobeyed!

Oh, elves gone bad
Santa’s mad
Time for OTK!
Oh, what fun it is to brat
Until you have to pay, hey!

Elves gone bad,
Santa’s mad
Gonna spank them all!
Reddened elves will rub themselves
As they go deck the hall!

All About That Red: Part parody, part rant

I promised y’all a spanko parody, didn’t I? I was going to wait until I was in a lighter mood, but you know what? Life sucks all to hell right now, and I don’t see that changing any time soon. So I’m going to counter my tears with a little comedy.

So OK. One thing I need to make clear before I say anything else: This is not, not, not about anyone’s consensual hard spanking play. I know some people like to play really intensely, and some bottoms relish being the recipient of that. So if you’re mutually into that, more power to you, and carry on.

No, I’m talking about an attitude I’ve see pervading FetLife and other sites lately — how “it isn’t a proper spanking” until you see blood, and bottoms that resemble a barbecued steak, rare.

Beat them more, harder, faster. Hand and leather? Forget about those; use wood. Heavier, thicker, bigger paddles. Still not enough? Move on to rubber and braided cat ‘o nine tails. Tear that ass up good. And if those still don’t do the trick, have you considered a circular saw, or a nail gun?

OK, I’m being facetious with that last part. But you get my point.

I’m also talking about the comments my fellow bottoms know and love so dearly — the peanut gallery, the armchair (or basement, as it were) critics. “You call that a spanking?” “Needs a lot more red.” “OK, now that the warm-up is over, time for the real punishment.” And our favorite: “I could do a better job than that.”

Because, you see, pink and red just aren’t enough for these bloodthirsty barbarians.

I really resent the implication that if you don’t suffer lasting damage, you’re some sort of wimp, or that a “real” punishment has to be all about agony. What about head space? What about interaction, taking the time to learn and push your bottom’s emotional buttons? Nahhhhh… just beat them more viciously.

Hence my parody. And for those who have been frustrated with my earlier efforts because I so often riff on oldies that a lot of people don’t know or remember, this one is from 2014 and was played so far past death, you’d have to have been living in an underground cave to have not heard it. It’s Meghan Trainor’s “All About That Bass,” her anthem for women with curves. Here it is as a reminder:

Personally, I think countering fat-shaming with skinny-shaming is obnoxious. But whatever. The song is undeniably catchy. So without further ado, here is my version, “All About That Red.” This goes out to all the Uber-Doms who think that a bottom is just a piece of meat to pound, whether it’s wanted or not.

Because you know, I’m all about that red,
‘Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that red,
’Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that red,
’Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that red,
’Bout that red,
‘Bout that red

Yeah, it’s pretty clear, I ain’t no pain ho
But I can take it, take it,
Like I’m supposed to
‘Cause I’m yellin’ ow ow, the tops are keepin’ pace
All the right sass and all the right faces

I see the FetLife pics, those bloody photos pop
I know those tops are mean,
Come on now, make ’em stop
If someone’s beating beating, say your goodbyes
‘Cause every inch of you is precious
From your bottom to your thighs!

Yeah, my spanker, he told me,
Don’t worry about your bum
He said, “I love your booty, so
Trashing it would be dumb
So all you sadists with your big ol’ axe
You think you need to grind,
Do it on someone else, ‘cause
You won’t be touchin’ this behind!

Because you know, I’m all about that smack,
‘Bout that smack
No thudding

I’m all about that burn,
‘Bout that burn,
No bleeding

I’m all about the marks,
‘Bout the marks,
Not carnage

I’m all about the strict,
‘Bout the strict,
Not brutal

I’m bringing mercy back!
Go ahead and tell them Uber-Dommies Bye
No, I’m just saying, I know you think you’re tough
But I’m here to tell you
Every inch of you’ll be broken on your bottom from your top!

Yeah, my spanker, he told me,
Don’t worry about your bum
He said, “I love your booty, so
Trashing it would be dumb
You know I won’t be no whipping girl, willin’ to take your wrath,
So if that’s what you’re into
Then go ahead and kiss my ass

Because I’m all about that red
‘Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that sting,
‘Bout that sting,
No blisters

I’m all about that belt
‘Bout that belt,
No rubber

I’ll all about good tops
‘Bout good tops,
‘Bout good tops!

Ode to our stress relievers (AKA spankers)

OK, without going into an abundance of detail, let’s just say this past weekend sucked eggs. Saturday was a whole lot of stress and aggravation and heat and traffic, culminating in a horrible fight between John and me. In the car, on the freeway. Fortunately, I’m sane enough to keep my head while behind the wheel and I didn’t crash us into a divider (or another car). But it was highly unpleasant. Many apologies (both of ours) and a million tears (mine) later, we are OK. But it left me feeling shell-shocked, fatigued and tense. I hate fighting. I hate confrontation. And I go into emotional overload.

So I was more than ready for ST today, and guess what? He was more than willing to help me with my stress problem. Whatta guy, huh? So, to the tune of the Rolling Stones’ “Mother’s Little Helper” (embedded below), I have penned “Stress Releasing Helper.”

What a drag it is, being stressed

Life is oh-so-hard today,
I hear every bottom say,
Baby needs something today to calm her down
And though she’s not really ill
When she’s acting like a pill
She goes running for the shelter
Of her Stress Releasing Helper
And he puts her OTK
Spanks her till she feels okay

Feeling like a shrew today
I hear every bottom say,
She just can’t stop acting out, it’s such a drag
So she eats a frozen cake
Till she gets a stomach ache
And goes running for the shelter
Of her Stress Releasing Helper
And he knows just what to do
Spanks her bottom black and blue

Spanker please, lots more of these,
I’m still not sane, I need more pain!
What a drag it is, being stressed

Jobs are such a bitch today,
I hear every bottom say,
Bosses think you’re there to work, how fucked is that?
Now they want her to stay late,
She says “NO, I’ve got a date!”
And goes running for the shelter
Of her Stress Releasing Helper
She forgets about the rut
While he’s whaling on her butt

Spanker please, I’m o’er your knees
I’m full of steam, please make me scream!
What a drag it is, being stressed

Life will piss you off today
I hear every bottom say
Plain vanilla every day is just a bore
It’s a spanking that she’ll need
Not the pills and not the weed
She goes running for the shelter
Of her Stress Releasing Helper
He will spank her backside bright
And she’ll sleep in peace tonight

Feeling so much better. Thank you, darlin’. You’re so much better than any drug (cuter, too). 🙂

It’s song parody time again

Been a while since I’ve done one of these. I do need to keep up with my fellow parodist Lea, after all.

Today’s offering is based on the old standard “Fever.” It’s before a lot of y’all’s time, but it’s been covered countless times and the most popular version was done by Peggy Lee. However, ever the contrarian, I think Peggy Lee’s version sucked. So I go back to the original and (IMO) the best, the most soulful and sexy, the version by Little Willie John. Give a listen; I think you’ll find it’s quite the cool song. Pay attention to the lyrics.

And now, while the song is fresh in your mind, here’s my spanko version.

Never know how much I need you
Even when I whine and swear
When you put your hands upon me,
I get a feeling that I’m gonna be bare

You give me spanking,
When I’m sassy,
Spanking when I’m in a pique
Spanking, every evening
Spanking all through the week

Listen to me, brat girl
Hear every word I say
No one can tame you the way that I do
‘Cause they don’t know how to make you obey

I’ll give you spanking
When you’re naughty
Spanking when you say I’m meek
Spanking, every evening
Spanking all through the week!

Bring it on, I tell you
Take my stress away
Raise my skirt, take my panties down
And I’ll believe you when you say that I’ll pay

You’ll give me spanking
When I’m edgy
Spanking when release I seek
Spanking, every evening
Spanking all through the week

Hand lights up my bottom
Belt burns my upper thighs
My eyes fill up when you call my name
‘Cause I know you’ll take me down to size

You give me spanking,
When I bait you
Spanking when I give you cheek
Spanking, every evening
Spanking all through the week!

Hope you enjoyed! One more song you’ll never hear quite the same way again. Happy Hump Day. 😀

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