The Boots

Here is yet another side-splitting tale from the Chrissy Crypt. Please enjoy with a nice cup of tea while you sloth around in your home on a lazy Sunday in your over-sized warn sweats. It is that kind of a read:

The Boots
(A true story lived and retold by Chrissy Logue and Erica Ronhovde)

In his usual fashion, Dr. Nelson was vague about what his students needed to wear for the day's field study in the San Juan Islands (where he was teaching his annual summer school for Seattle Pacific University). Everybody, including his hottest, sexiest, smartest students, Erica and Chirssy, had no mud boots which were apparently necessary for the day's events. So Dr. Nelson drug a pair of rubber boots from the campus dive shack for the students to fight over once the had arrived at their destination for the day.

As the rock-tattered university van approached the marina, Blakely Island's one gleam of civilization, it was down to Erica and Chrissy for the use of the boots. The girls decided to take to the boots along for the boat ride, and they would decide who would get to use them later. Several miles of frigid wind and half a sun burn later, the boat arrived at Spencer Spit, the area of study for the day. The girls had yet to decide what to do with the boots, and looking at the sight, wondered if they would even need the boots after all. The final decision was to set the boots on the crest of the spit in front of the boat, so they could access the boots had they approached terrain requiring them.

The spit was small and uneventful, and Dr. Nelson drug the class over every square inch of it discussing everything from crabs to pickleweed exhaustively and inefficiently for for over 3 hours. By the end of it all, Erica and Chrissy were starving and ready to get back on the boat, as well as the rest of the class. Everybody slothed of board, and as Dr. Nelson directed all four of them to specific boating duties, they shoved off the pathetic excuse for a "biology adventure." As the boat slowly turned back toward the mouth of the bay, the crest of the shrinking spit slid into view with a surprising sight.

The flat slit of the spit horizon was so ungracefully adorned with big, black, awkwardly abandoned boots. Breaking the horizon with their synthetic shape, one boot stood, and one lie on it's side as they silently sent out their victim cries of SOS. Spotting the intrusion crowning the beach, the girls looked wide-eyed at one another in dumbfounded bewilderment. It was too late, and quite frankly too embarrassing to point them out and attempt retrieval. Laughing and fearful of the discovery of the boots MIA, the girls sat as calmly as possible as the boat sped away from the spit that would soon be gone under the rising tide, freeing the captive boots forever.

Another song to shame my name... and my hair color.

It is most likely a curse that I am blonde and that my name is Chrissy. I recently heard a song that REALLY puts my name to shame. The lyrics are below. Wraning: not for the faint at heart- it is pretty much soft-core porn. The song is "Fuck the pain away" by the Peaches. Gag me quick, I only had stomach enough to post the relevant section of the lyrics:

Suckin' on my titties like you wanted me,
Callin me, all the time like blondie
Check out my chrissy behind
It's fine all of the time
Like sex on the beaches,
What else is in the teaches of peaches? huh? what?