Liverspot of the Seas

So, about this cruise….

We’re on a humongous boat, right? Freedom of the Seas holds something like 4500 passengers. That’s a lotta flesh lolling around on the pool deck, sister.

And it’s Spring Break so, as you would expect, there were a lot of families – who, evidently, all brought their grandparents. No sane adult would book a cruise during March unless they were related to that whining, snot-smeared mess. And yet, there were so many Maw Maws on that boat, they shudda re-named it Liverspot of the Seas.

Fortunately, all of them lusted heartily after The Cojones Brothers, which flattered and frightened them both. They’re cute that way.

The pasty-white American MeeMaws and PeePaws toddled around with hats and UV blocking pantsuits and discreet little gin & tonics. Appropriately polite and demure, they wandered in slo-mo around the pool deck or huddled in confusion in front of the elevators or stairs or buffet lines. Basically, smack dab in the middle of every ingress or egress.

The uber-tanned European Nonnies and Poppies bowled us all over going too fast, too loud and wearing too little. I agree that “tan fat looks better than pale fat” but, dude, if I can’t even tell if you are wearing a swimmie suit under there??  While I was pulling my Miracle Suit down over my own flat ass cheeks and up over my squooshed in uni-boob, I kept looking for Nonni’s thong strap. Any strap.  The…uh… vertical strippy strap was deep in the abyss. The waist straps were visible only one at a time during the side-to-side hip sway portion of the program.  Luckily, they were just a blur of body hair as hustled to cop a lounge chair in the sun.


We saw a unidentified “rap star’ with a bevy of women he rented from the Playboy Mansion. Beautiful bodies of indeterminate origin. They did not wiggle or bounce. Nor were they able to make facial expressions. But, as far as ornamentation goes, they won the prize. Even, I, Anita Merlot, an admitted aficionado of the high: heels, hair and hooters, stared in morbid fascination. Males, both toilet-trained and non, stared with a different kind of fascination. And found out later why they have that big table of jewelry on the Promenade Deck…

There was the guy that sang “My Way” at every single karaoke. He was pretty good. But, here’s a tip: no one likes a karaoke ballad. Ballad = Boring Buzzkill.  Even Frank himself would have left to go find Dino in the Casino.

There was the reallllly tall guy whose hands touched the ceiling when he got his boogie shoes on at the nightclub. Oh whoops… we know that guy! Step back from that ledge, my friend….  His own wife wouldn’t dance with him but some broad with too much badonkadonk for those skinny jeans was. Oh hell…. That was me.

Aside from that, our little grouplet was perfect. Duh.
No one got too drunk to find their stateroom, no one showed their boobs or butt (although one of us came perilously close during karaoke), our teenage Studmuffins-in-the-making made lots of friends and curfew and, most importantly, my water-proof mascara held up well.

I think next time, I go on a cruise, all y’all should go with me.

Everyone is a Fudgie when you’re in the middle of the deep blue sea!

The Cojones Brothers

I’m probably the only person to come home from a cruise less tan than when I left.

I was religious about schmearing self-tanner on my previously chronicled lily-whiteness. My embarkation photo is sun-basked and glowing. An excellent start.

But, as the week progressed, the nights got longer, the mornings got earlier, the shower got smaller and, frankly, I quit giving a flip.

To tell you the truth, I was feeling pretty superior. (never believe anyone who starts a sentence with “to tell you the truth”.)


By enduring three weeks of no-booze & no-carbs, I successfully lost enough of the winter lard to fit into my swimsuit without scaring small children. I got on the boat, had a couple of drinks with umbrellas and some crackers.

Poof! The next day, I looked in the mirror and saw the Michelin Man with orange streaks. Mrs. Puff Goes on Vacay.





My Shower Experience was a cross between a porn movie and the shower scene from Psycho. There was some part of my nekked body pressed up against that glass the entire time.
Evidently, it was not that sexy because when I stumbled out, I ran into my husband coming at me with a steak knife.





I got to shake my Groove Thang on 70’s night, throw down a little Benatar on 80’s night and embarrass the young people by singing Ke$sha. I’m a multi-generational exhibitionist.

I did not fall off my sky-high hooker heels or have any wardrobe malfunctions. Oh, there was bouncin’. And I had to stop and pull my Spanx outta my crack a couple of times.




But enough about me, (and you have no idea how it pains me to say that…) the absolute highlight of the trip was watching my Studmuffin, and his equally studly brother, AKA The Cojones Brothers, prance around on the karaoke stage.

Having been raised good little Lutherans; the boys can carry a tune. That being said, having been raised good little Lutherans, they’d just as soon raise a little hell.

While singing The Kink’s Lola, a poor, unsuspecting, military-looking gentleman was recruited from the audience and wooed onstage. We’re talkin’ “wooed” with a capital “Woo!”  I’m not sure he knew what that song was about at first, but he certainly did by the end! Woo!
Shooting Star seems like a nice little ditty on the surface. But until you’ve seen one dude stomping and strutting the lead like Billy Idol meets Bruce Springsteen and Mr. Harmony grinning ear-to-ear, bouncing between an arm-waving Tigger dance and a few well-placed pelvic-thrusts, you ain’t seen it done right.


The crowd was enthralled or appalled, depending on how you interpreted the bug-eyed, slack-jawed stares (shock or awe?). I do know that at one point, Tigger threw down a few Stephen Tyler screams that had the Red Hat Club squealing like it was Beatlemania.

For the rest of the cruise - on the elevator, at dinner, at the pool – all of a sudden we’d hear, “Hey! It’s the Cojones Brothers!”

Billy/Bruce accidentally walked in on the You’re Never Too Old To Line Dance class. Backing away slowly….

A screech: “Look! It’s one of them Karaoke Boys!!”

I’m not sure exactly what happened but he came outta that room a little mussed, a little flattered, a little scared. There were nine Maw Maws and the dude from Lola. I’m not sure who got a hold of him. Woo!

They loved it! Oh, they hemmed & hawed and look all “Aw Shucks-y” about it, but let me tell you, forty-something year old married men will take whatever adulation they can get. Or get away with.

Unfortunately, I have been threatened with a fate worse than death if I posted any pictures or video that I may or may not have of The Cojones Brothers. Actually, that’s not true. One Cojone begged me to post them and the other Cojone did the threatening. Which adds up to: I just don’t have the balls.