Friday, December 30, 2005
or
Instant Amazon
I never expected to shop for stripper shoes, but here I am, in a Harwin clothing boutique for "professional exotic dancers." Goddamn. All I have to say is: how do Bambi and LaToya climb a brass pole in these things?
That's an 8 inch platform heel on each of these little numbers. They made me approximately six feet tall. I was so intimidating that I couldn't walk. If only they'd had more ankle support, I would have bought them!
Thursday, December 29, 2005
or
No Such Thing as Bad Publicity?
Well, gentle readers, 2005 is almost over. It's that time again.
Time for what, you ask? Resolutions, perhaps? Nay! Looking back on the past year, I can't say that I haven't much to regret. I change for no one. (Heh heh heh. I resolve to laugh at everything!)
But enough of that. It's time, gentle readers, for my first annual tribute to Bad Girls. And when I say Bad Girls, I don't mean girls who drink too much wine, flirt with their bosses, and jump in fountains. No. I mean the kind of Bad Girls that makes you wince and die a little on the inside. Girls who flash their true colors in full public view. Girls who - strangely enough - usually benefit from the exposure, miraculously avoid Deep Trouble, or both.
Take Courtney Love, for example.
I could go on and on about what a Bad Girl she is, but it's all old news by now. Let's just say that I was willing to forgive her, until she sold a quarter of Nirvana's song catalogue to - you guessed it - fellow Bad Girl, Martha Stewart. Booyah, baby. You've come a long way. 
Or how about 20 year old "adult-film actress" Genevieve Elise Silva? She's got some fun hobbies. For kicks, she decided to "carry on an illicit relationship" with her kid brother's high school friend. Not only that, but she gave him XTC, weed, and speed, too. Oooee. Geneviva la revolution! Where were the girls like that when I was in high school? I mean, when I was finished with my homework on a wednesday night, I had fucking nothing to do. But this high school boy here never gets bored. He comes home from orchestra practice, eats a pop-tart, and blows crystal meth off of a porn star's hip-bone. Golly!
Speaking of statutory rape, I can't help but think of the lovely Debra Lafave, former employee of Greco Middle School.
Apparently the student body considered her the "Hot Teacher." And by student body, I mean a 14 year old boy in one of her classes. Hey, I have to agree with him. She is rather cute. 
What this blonde vixen was doing with a scrawny prepubescent is beyond me. Maybe her husband has the answer. However, if I know one thing about Debra, it's that she's too pretty for prison. Even her attorney, John Fitzgibbons, thinks so. Good thing she got-off light.Unsurprisingly, Bad Girls make bad moms, too - Tiffany Eagle, for example. For some reason, Eagle (right) decided that it was a good idea to leave her infant in the car while she and her friend, Ashley Tomaszewski (left), went into a strip joint to get plastered.
Not too terrible, right? Well, yeah, unless you take the 32 degree temperature into account. And the fact that the baby was wearing only a sleeper. Good one, Girls. (Author's Note - a.k.a. "Flame Food": That's what I call natural selection. A stupid woman leaves her infant in the cold, nearly sparing the gene pool her ill-begotten chromosomes. Amazing. Thanks to modern society, children aren't killed often enough these days. The laws beg revision. In fact, I think we should let evolutionarily unfit women do whatever they want with their infants. It'd be good for the species. Think of the Eagle baby - who survived, by the way. Who knows what kind of Bad Girl she'll grow up to be? No matter which side of the nature/nurture debate you're on; that baby is fucked.)
Here's another Bad Mom for you: Silvia Johnson - local "cool mom," drug-pusher, and petty prostitute.
She told authorities that she wasn't very popular in high school; now that she's all grown up, she copes with the painful memories by holding drug-laden orgies at her house for local teens. What a role model. Now I know what it means to give back to the community.And last, my favorite Bad Girl of the year, Miss Sabrina Harman, of Abu Ghraib fame.
What a smile, eh boys?
Monday, December 26, 2005
or
A Good Case For Mandadory Sterilization
Lo, gentle readers, I am a love-sick fool. Tonight, Kay, child of destiny (if you don't get it, flip back to the 9/1 post) permitted me to add him to "boyfriend" on the facebook. I've never been more giddy.
God, just when I think I'm too jaded and hard-boiled and tattered and bitchy for this stuff, I fall head-over-heels for a sweet little local boi.
Come fly with me . . .
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Lovingly whipping out the bottom 40, progressive-house, darkwave-industrial-trance, break-beat-jungle-drum-and-bass, psywave-acid-jazz-fusion-trip-hop remixes of your favorite goa-ravecore hits, and 80's pop
Doors open at 9pm, $10 at the grid, ladies free till midnight. $2 call-it-what-you-wills until 1am.
Reviews of DJ MiXTReSS LaRQuiNNE:
"doof. doof. doof. doof. doof, doof, doof, doof, doof-doof-doof-doof . . ."
-some acid-head by the club's back door
"MIxTRess LaRQuiNNE can turn any club into a churning melee of bass-induced frenzy."
-Groupie McSlutten, Wanque MegaZine
"I had a spontaneous orgasm when she played her original remix of the "My Little Pony" theme-song. Then my eyes bled. It was ok, I guess."
-DJ Spangle
"She hooked up with me once. She's got a real obsession with the, uh . . . you know . . . the . . . yeeeahh, uh-huh. WHAT? It's not like I did it for any reason other than she wanted me to! Oh. Oh, yeah, she's a pretty good DJ. Nice rack."
-Leonardo DeCreprio
"Her music makes me want to live like common people. And throw bar-stools."
- Charming Sickophant
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
or
I NEVER LEARNED TO REEEEEEEAD!
That's right, bitches. I am a horible speller. Of all my collage friends, I am probably the wrost. Why? Because I don't care. Sure, I could proofread my work and correct my mistakes, but why bother? I am libirated. As long as the message is legible, I feal that prefect spelling is just a fussy formality. It sloes me down. If I woried about spelling, my prose would loose its spontinaetey. And isn't that off-the-cuff, madcap ranting what your heare four?
Not too menshion that The Bard himself never cairred much for standerdizd spehling. Haha! If he can do it, so can I.
Furthermor, I refuse to submitt to the patriarichal systims that constrane our modern language. As a womyn, I reserve the rite to reject convenshional spellings in faver of a more dienamic fonetic methode. My feminin creetivity will NOT be supresed.
So, gentil reeders, if you stil have a problim with my spelling, kindlee direct you're coments to the nearest elephant anus. That is all. Goode eve.
What we need around here is another scandal. Not a doozy - just enough of a scandal to keep the concerned and irate public banging on my door. I do wish I could think of one. If any of you gentle readers has a suggestion, please do put it in the comments section.
Maybe I should make jokes about people with Down syndrome next. Or how about hare lips? Or maybe congenital fugliness not otherwise specified (CFNOS). Or maybe perpetual jerk disorder (from which I suffer).
or
E) I Can't Answer the Question, Because the Choices Keep Switching Places
So, my gentle readers, it's almost four in the morning. And here I sit in the cluttered living room, picking agitatedly at a bowl of cold brown rice, savoring the psychological unrest I've inflicted upon myself. Halucinating and paranoid, I swat an imaginary insect and spill the rice all over my lap.
I am a victim of finals, gentle readers. Pure and simple. Or rather, a victim of extraordinary sleep deprivation. Take it from me - an unrested mind HAS TO BE the most powerful legal hallucinogen known to mankind. I feel two tics short of schizophrenic.
At this point, studying is pointless. I tried, but I couldn't understand the practice test, because the multiple choice answers kept swapping places on the page. Stepping outside, I noticed that the cars, buildings, and trees looked like cartoonish stage props. It was as if at any moment, a giant maniacal puppet-master might reach into the scene and brush it all away. My own breath startled me - feathered white spirals attacking each other. Had such a vapor poured from my lungs?
Then the paranoia struck. Every shadow seemed to lurch in and out of its proper shape. What retinal impressions my mind could not immediately discern, it rendered into human form. I saw gremlins and gnomes everywhere. Silent figures. Deformed and creeping assailants. Massive tentacled insects. They were out to get me.
Peering at a neighboring building, I thought I saw a window turn into a lizard's eye - nictating membrane, and all - and blink at me. Slowly. In the distance, I heard Placebo's "Taste In Men" playing over and over and over. The more attention I payed the suspected "music," the softer it grew. My periferal vision saw beetles and worms at my feet - the kind that evaporate beneath a solid look.
And even now, I hear something ticking. I have no analogue clocks. I have no timers. Where is it coming from and what does it MEAN?! Is it counting down my life? It's counting down to the day I die. How much is fucking left, huh? HOW MUCH?
I'm seeing spots - little colored specks that zip across my vision when I look from side to side. It's bedtime, yo.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
1) My uncle once: shook my hand. I think I've only seen him once or twice. I don't remember much about him.
2) Never in my life: have I watched the superbowl.
3) When I was five: I had a firm belief in magic.
4) High School was: suffocating. I couldn't stand the dress code. Most of the teachers had been broken by semester after semester of heartless students, or didn't know what they were talking about. The administrators had no respect for the students. I made a few good friends.
5) I will never forget: what it feels like to hold a baby duck in my hands.
6) I once met: the man of my dreams. He hated my guts.
7) There's this person I know who: can only feel sexual arousal if she imagines herself vivisected and disassembled. Freaky.
8) Once, at a bar: I ordered a 16 dollar martini.
9) By noon I'm usually: anxious and hostile.
10) Last night: I couldn't get to sleep. And then I couldn't wake up.
11) If I only had: said no.
12) Next time I go to church/temple: I'll be in a big wooden box.
13) Terri Schiavo: inspired me to write a living will.
14) I like: attention. More than just about anything, really.
15) When I turn my head left, I see: the bare white wall, a bottle of bubble mix, a thong.
16) When I turn my head right, I see: a losing lottery ticket, Jim Morrison (poster), the school-issued couch.
17) You know I'm lying when: I say I've got it under control.
18) In grade school: the other kids made fun of me on a daily basis. I was the fat kid.
19) If I was a character written by Shakespeare, I'd be: The Moor from Titus Andronicus.
20) By this time next year: I'll be in England. Maybe.
21) A better name for me would be: Malicious Bitch
22) I have a hard time understanding: mathematics.
23) If I ever go back to school I'll: take my Social Psych final.
24) You know I like you if: I ask you personal questions.
25) If I won an award, the first person I'd thank would be: God. Juuust kiddin!
26) I hope that: I live past 50.
27) Take my advice: and stop telling yourself that you don't need deodorant.
28) My ideal breakfast is: raw salmon.
29) A song I love, but do not have is: Taste in Men, by Placebo.
30) If you visit my hometown, I suggest: leaving as quickly as possible.
31) Tulips, character flaws, microchips, & track stars: don't rhyme. What? What was I supposed to say?
32) Why won't anyone: send me a love letter?
33) If you spend the night at my house: I'll offer you food and drink every five minutes, lend you pajamas, and give you my bed.
34) I'd stop my wedding for: a better offer.
35) The world could do without: restrictions on stem cell research.
36) I'd rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: shut up and do as I'm told.
37) My favorite blonde is: probably dead or in prison by now.
38) Paper clips are more useful than: just about anything. Lockpick, manicure tool, cleaning instrument, jewelry, hair clip, the possibilities are endless.
40) And by the way: I fucking hate your tie.
41) The last time I was drunk, I: drunk dialed my mom. MY MOM. AHHG!
42) My grandmother always: underlines the word "you" in our birthday cards (as in happy birthday to you). She never writes anything more than "Love, Grammy" in them, though.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
or
The Fashion That Dare Not Speak Its Name
I don't care who you are. If you're "goth," you're guilty. You've done it. I've done it. We've all done it.
Not only do you own that ridiculous pair of rubber bat wings (an impulse buy, I'm sure) but you decided to wear them out to the club. And aren't your friends impressed! But for all their ooohing and aaahing, you can't forget your dirty, dirty little secret. Those aren't just any old pair of rubber bat wings. They're brand name rubber bat wings. They're a floppy, angst-ridden testiment to consumerism! You bought them AT HOT TOPIC!
*gasp!*
Every time one of your friends detachedly compliments your choice of accessory, you can't help but wonder: do they know you're a corporate whore? Can they tell that your bat wings came from the same "bootique" as their kid sister's neko-chan cat ears and black lipstick? Would they imagine that you hogged the dressing room for over an hour, vascilating between the wings and a pair of stick-on vampyre teeth (both 19.95 plus tax)? No, no, certainly not. You cut out the tag, removed all the stickers, burned the receipt. No one will ever know!
Suddenly you spy the makeup-happy gamine you've had your eye on for months. What's her name again? Scapula? Despondance? "Nice wings," she says. "Where'd you get them?"
Nevermind her name, you'd better think quick! If she finds out you shop at Hot Topic, that's it. It's all over. She'll know you aren't a true goth, and then you'll NEVER knock platform vinyl boots with her - not in a million years. Should you lie and tell them you made them? Yes, yes, that's it. You made them. Made them out of sorrow and nightmares. And death.
She calls your bluff. She wants you to make her a pair too. Sweet Osirus, now you're in a panic, aren't you? Well, it's your fault for wearing the damned things. You'd better just 'fess up. Don't worry. No one can see you blush under all that foundation.
"I, uh, . . . well, you see, I actually . . ." you stammer, dropping into a whisper, "I got them at Hot Topic."
"What?"
"I got them at Hot Topic," you say at normal volume, only this time, through your teeth.
"WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER THE MUSIC."
"I GOT THEM AT HOT TOPIC! But I didn't really want to. I mean, I don't shop there. My stupid mom gave me this gift certificate, cause she thinks I actually like that crap. I mean, seriously, she doesn't understand . . . "
But it's too late. She's already walking away.
Go. Go home and fantasize about hanging yourself with your misguided, commercialized fashion sense. You uncultured clod.
*applies black eye liner*
WHAT?
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
or
Faaaaaaaaaaame
I suppose I know why you - my gentle readers - are here. You want to find something vile that you can take away in a neat package, show your spouse, and say "By god, my life's worth has been restored, because I now know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am more valuable to society than this girl."
Ok. I aim to please.
Here's a high resolution photo of the kitten I maimed this morning.
PSYCH!
Sunday, December 11, 2005
"Ok."
"When I say 'jump,' you say what?"
"Um, how high?"
"NO." *slap* "You just fucking JUMP, and you hope that it's damned well high enough."
"Oh, I see."
"Now get me a cup of tea. With milk and sugar."
"One lump or two?"
Thursday, December 08, 2005
or
Forget Chicken Fingers; Have Some Hung-Lo Duck
Stop the presses. Put down that danish. Pause your first-person shooter. Thell your kid sister to keep a hand on the steering wheel, and listen up. Ths could change your life.
Today I found out that the longest bird penis (that's right) in recorded history belonged to an Argentine lake duck. How long, you ask? A wangle-dangling 42.5 centimeters - or approximately 16.7 inches. See for yourself.
Some scientists theorize that the drake's ginormous wang is the product of "runaway sexual selection, where female preference drives male anatomy to ever-greater extremes, as in the peacock's tail." Others suspect that God created the drake for man's purile amusment.
The drake needs a name. I'll call him Clyde.
I suspect that Clyde was a lonely duck. Despite his magnificent endowment, he never got on well with the ladies.
Imagine that you are a female Argentine lake duck waddling around a tranquil pond, maybe dabbling in the mud a bit, turning over this leaf or that stone in search of a tender worm. The sky is blue. The hawks have been driven from their natural habitat by the local farmers. All is well.
Suddenly, Clyde come rabbling out of the bushes, dragging a botchy, cork-screw-shaped appendage nearly half a meter long. And he wants to scrub your ovaduct. Now THERE'S a mating display! Better hope that the drag on that thing keeps Clyde from flying after you! Whoo hoooo hoooooooo!
Quack.
or
See No Monkey - Part Deux (The Awakening)
THEY'RE ALIVE, gentle readers. ALIVE. Boy oh boy, am I glad that I didn't donate the "failed" Sea Monkey juice to the National Trust (i.e. the Thomas Crapper memorial museum). Because, you see, they have HATCHED.
At last. A tank of brine shrimp.
*turns to Micro-view Ocean Zoo (R)* Hellooo, little shrimples. How are we squirming today? My you're the hungry ones, aren't you? Look at you, snapping your chitinous mandibles at each other. What zeal!
Oh, now now, Flippy; play nice. Don't disembowel your neighbor. Keep your segments to yourself.
And in time, I will selectively breed an aquatic attack force the likes of which has never been seen before! Loyal only to me! Ruthless! All I have to do is awaken their hunger for mammal blood . . .
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Or
I Dream of Jenna with the Bleach Blonde Hair
Because my living room lacked that certain je ne sais quois, I went out and bought myself a big, glossy, full-color poster of Jenna Jameson. I think it adds the touch of class I've been seeking in my interior decorating scheme. Something to counterbalance the five foot tall black-light, strands of christmas bulbs, optical illusion posters, lava lamps, and school-issued furniture. Hot diggity damn.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
or
I'm Want My Money Back
I've been stood-up, gentle readers - stood up by a pack of brine shrimp. I'm sure that most of you are familiar with Sea Monkeys, the instant aquatic pets that even your senile maiden aunt couldn't fuck-up.
Well, somehow I fucked them up.
I don't know where I went wrong. On day one, I filled the Micro-view Ocean Zoo(R) tank with tap water and the packet of purifying powder, stirring the mixture for sixty seconds, as the instructions described. The next evening, with Kay as my witness, I emptied packet number two - INSTANT LIFE SEA MONKEY EGGS - into the solution. And stirred. And waited. But nothing happened.
No matter, I thought. My eyesight is crappy. They're just too small to see. I toddled off to sleep with visions of grinning anthropomorphic brine shrimp wriggling in my head.
But the next day, I saw nothing in the tank. And the next day. And the next! Even today, almost a week later, neither Kay nor I can find any white, twitching signs of invertebrate life.
CURSE YOU MONKEYS! Where are you? Did I somehow kill you with my overpowering need to nurture something? Am I unworthy?
So I'm going to write the company. The literature that came with the tank says they are absolutely guaranteed to grow. I take that guarantee very seriously. I'll update you guys when I know something for sure.
Friday, December 02, 2005
or
Parting Shots of Piss and Vinegar
Everything I needed to know about human behavior, I learned from "Cassie Hall":
Cassie Hall( extremely proud mother of 2 children(one of which is an outstanding moral citizen educating his 4th grade class on Angelman Syndrome . . . and just so you and all of your friends know, my 9 year old told me the other day that "people that say mean things about other people must really feel bad inside." (emphasis added)
Well put, Cassie. Yes, that comment was directed at me - blue meanie and venom-spitter extrordinaire - but I think, in this case, it's more aptly applied to your comrads-in-misfortune.
No matter how wronged you guys felt, there's no reason why you had to become so bitter and insulting towards me. It's sort of funny. It's amazing how "[children with Angelman's syndrome] teach us about patience, unconditional love, belief, understanding, etc. They teach us about what is *really* important in life" (Tami). Uh huh. Sure they do. That's why you guys have been wasting your time here.
I'm really fucking convinced now. Honestly.
A serious shout out to my favorite miscreants - Ms. Julia "East meets Best" Matsuno; Mr. Alan Orlanski Esquire; Andrew, The Baron of Park; Corey, my sister in arms; John "No Matter How Many Legs It Used To Have, I Can Cook It" Heidelmeier; Grey Goose; that guy your mom warned you about; The Daylight Shadow of a gentle giant; Kay, and his band of Dandy Fuckers; and last but not least, the woman who spawned me, surrealgertrude.
You guys are incredible. When I finally manage to claw to the top of an unstable third-world government, you will all be named senators for life. The job comes with piles of dirty money. And guns. Lots of guns.
If I forgot your name, you didn't make a big enough stink. Better luck next time, old chap.
I'mma go finish my homework now. Mebbe soak my head. Ugh.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Photo courtesy of BMEzine.com
or
Fuck, Can't We Move On To Something More Entertaining?
I am honestly very sorry that I made the Angelman's post. I'm never going to write anything like that ever again.
Not only has it attracted a host of jackals more vituperative and ill-mannered than myself, but it has sparked the MOST base and foolish flurry of arguments I have EVER seen on a blog.
Now I ask you, how can anyone expect to look better than me when he makes ad hominem statements such as
Are you a girl or a boy? I saw that picture of you with blue hair. Regardless, you are one ugly SOB. Seriously though, if you could post to your readers explaining what sex you are, I would be most appreciative.
Aren't you guys trying to be the better man?
And frankly, it's all getting a little dull. But please, keep giving my blog address to other concerned parents. The traffic simply can't be beat! I've wanted my whole life to attract this much attention, and now you're giving it to me - for free!
