Sweet Family Memories

Growing up, my brother and I were pretty good kids. We did as we were told, got decent grades, and didn't fight too much. At least, there was no physical fighting. We never hit each other or even had very many real disagreements, but we did enjoy verbally needling each other with the worst insults we could think of. We could (and did) do that all day long, much to my mom's chagrin.

Since cussing was forbidden in our house, we couldn't just call each other an "assbitch" or a "shitbrain" like most siblings do. We weren't even supposed to say "shut up" because my dad thought of that as swearing. So we were forced to be a little more creative, and looking back, my parents should have just let us cuss. Then they'd have probably been spared all the offensive crap we came up with instead, like blasphemy.

For some reason we got into the habit of constantly telling each other that Jesus hated the other one. Man, that was fun. I can't remember why it started. Probably because we both loathed church, particularly the Sunday school my mother dragged us to every week. I especially hated that class, and would spend the entire hour arguing with and haranging the teacher with all sorts of sacrilegious questions.

"Why should I worship God when he was such a jerk?" I'd rant. "I mean, look how he treated poor Job? And turning Lot's wife into a pilar of salt just for daring to gaze back at her home was way harsh. If you think about it, why should anyone fear the devil? He never killed anyone, unlike God who would happily smite entire villages just for not praising him enough. It seems to me that Satan was the unsung hero of the bible for being the only one who refused to put up with God's abuse of power!"

I'm sure that teacher detested me.

Anyway, my brother and I came to really enjoy trading blasphemous insults. One of our favorites was telling each other that Jesus hated him. This had the added bonus of upsetting our mother too.

"Hey, guess what? Jesus hates you."

"Jesus called. He left you a message," we'd say while sticking up a middle finger.

"Guess how much Jesus hates you?" Spread arms wide in crucifixion pose. "This much!"




Poor guy, probably doesn't find that joke too amusing.



My mom, who was quite the churchgoer back then, was horrified.

"Stop it right now!" she'd hiss at us, looking around nervously as though worried that God would strike someone dead for our heresy. "Don't say things like that!"

Naturally that just egged us on more.

We then took to making up songs about how much Jesus hated the other one, usually sung to the tune of whatever cheesy song was playing on the radio at that time. I've forgotten most of them, but I do remember one he sang about me that went like this:

Sung to the tune of "Sussudio" by Phil Collins

There's this girl with a flat behind
who's stupid all the time
p-p-pruudio oh oh
Now Jesus don't even know her name
but he hates her just the same
p-p-pruudio oh oh

I retaliated with this:


Sung to the tune of "We Built This City" by Starship

Well Jesus really hates you, especially your face
and God himself agrees, that you're a big disgrace
Knee deep in the hoopla, you make them want to puke
all three of them together - Father, Son, and Holy Spook!


But our hands down favorite thing to do was question each others paternal heritage, which we did constantly. We loved to speculate on what sort of disgusting mutant had raped our mother in order to produce such a freak. A typical exchange would usually go something like this:

"You have a butthole in your chin."

"So do you."

"No, mine is more of a handsome cleft. Yours is definitely a cavernous butthole, and it's also slightly off center, which points to especially low quality breeding. Your father was most likely a mouth-breathing carnie who raped mom at the county fair."

"Well, your father is obviously a dwarf. Or possibly an elf. Or maybe both. You were probably conceived from the sperm of a hundred little people when mom was gang banged at a munchkin convention. You are a dwarf elf and this is your theme song.

Slightly under 4 feet high
with a ruler for a nose and three glass eyes
so hideous he'll make you cry
it's Dwarf Elf! Dwarf Elf!" I'd sing.

"Oh yeah," he'd counter. "is that what the voices are telling you today? It's so sad to watch your mental deterioration as the schizophrenia slowly overtakes your brain. It's inevitable, you know, since mom was raped by that demented guy who covers himself in tin foil and impregnated with you. Soon you'll be joining your real father down at the supermarket parking lot, babbling to everyone who walks by about how the CIA developed killer bees in a lab while trying to assassinate Castro. You are already starting to grow some bitchin hobo whiskers just like your pop. And once he makes you your own tin foil hat you'll be the spitting image of him."

If my dad happened to overhear one of these exchanges he would get upset. Although not, as you might think, at the suggestion that he wasn't our father, or that his wife had been gang raped by various trolls and lunatics. Instead he would be pissed off at the cussing.

"Did you just say the B word?" he'd yell. "Go to your room right now!"

My parents got used to these daily exchanges, I guess. We never really got in that much trouble for them. Except for this one day when we drove our mother over the brink.


I can't remember what we said that set her off. I'd like to think it was the time I told my brother that the real reason Jesus hated him was because God came down from Heaven one day after getting drunk on sacrificial wine and raped our mother while disguised as Phil Collins. And because God's sperm had been contaminated with Phil Collin's DNA, the resulting child - my brother - was a dwarfy idiot with bad musical taste and a propensity towards early balding, whom the angels referred to as Jesus 2: Electric Boogaloo.

"Look Jesus," they'd elbow him and smirk. "Here comes your retarded brother lil' Jesus "Shabba Doo" Shrimpstone. Wow, you must be so embarrassed to be related to that spaz!"

I'd like to think it was that one that drove our mother over the edge, but I can't really remember if it was or not. But lemme tell you, I'll never forget what happened next.

My mom, who must have been in the laundry room, came charging into the kitchen where we were washing the dishes while taunting one another, screaming angrily at the top of her lungs.

"Stop it! Stop it at once! I can't stand it anymore!" she shouted, her face the color of a tomato. "You children are horrible! Absolutely horrible!"

Then she snatched up a damp dish towel and began flogging us with it while screaming about how horrible we were.

That was a bit surprising because she'd never smacked us before, but not really alarming. The wet towel slaps didn't hurt much. No, the really alarming part was that she did all of this while not wearing any pants! No underwear either, just totally naked on the bottom. She was wearing a shirt, though.

I guess she'd been doing laundry and thrown her pants and undies in? Whatever the reason, it was really disconcerting to have her yelling and smacking us with towels while her furburger was totally on display. We were pretty shocked.

And when I say furburger, I mean it literally. It was obvious that my mom didn't believe in using a razor down there. Her bush was positively sasquatchian.

(I know sasquatchian is not a real word. I just made it up to try to describe the hairiness of my mom's pubes. It did kinda look like she had Bigfoot in a head lock.)

My poor brother didn't know where to look. "Mommy, please put on some pants!" he pleaded, while trying to shield his eyes.

By that time she was in a frenzy and kept whipping us with the towel and yelling that we needed to be taught a lesson, and she was going to tell our dad to beat us with a belt when he got home.

Like I said, it was shocking. My mom was usually pretty modest. Not that she'd freak out if you saw her undressed, but she was never one to walk around naked or anything, especially not in front of my brother. We just stood there open mouthed and gaping, unable to believe what was happening.

Then, just as she began winding down, the absurdity of the situation struck me and I started laughing my ass off, which made my brother lose it too. Our laughter fired mom up again and she grabbed another dish towel so she could double flog us as we rolled around on the floor laughing.

"How....dare....you....disrespectful....horrible...." she panted in between whippings. I honestly tried to stop and get a hold of myself, but every time I looked up and saw that giant bush in between her petite little legs staring me in the face, I lost it again and cackled even louder. My brother laughed silently, shoulders shaking and shaking until he hiccuped.

"That's it!" My mom finally screamed. "Get out of my house, both of you! Get out now! I don't want to see you again until you learn some respect for God!" With that she threw the towels at us and stalked off. We got up to leave, but the sight of her angry little bare ass wiggling as she marched up the stairs set us off yet again. By the time we made it outside to the driveway we were clutching our stomachs in pain.

You know how it feels when you laugh so hard you kinda strain your stomach muscles? And it starts to hurt really bad, but even then you can't stop laughing? That's the kind of pain I'm talking about.

We spent the rest of the day outside on the grass, blaming each other for driving mom insane and bursting into fits of uncontrollable giggling that nearly made us gag, until she called us in for dinner. My mother seemed to be over it by then and never referred to the incident again.

If you ask her about it now, she claims not to remember ever doing anything like that and claims I'm making it all up. I know I didn't hallucinate this, though, because anytime I feel like needling my brother all I have to do is hum a few bars of the Primus song "Winona's Big Brown Beaver" while he's taking a drink. He ends up spitting and choking every time.



My mom has never understood why we nicknamed her Winona. She thinks this song is dumb.

Chicken Fight!

Did you see this? Gawd, Sean Hannity is such a sad little whore. It's so easy for him to offer to be waterboarded for charity when he knows there's not a chance in hell of it happening. Even if it did, you know they'd go super easy on him and he'd smugly announce that waterboarding was no worse than the log ride at Disneyland.

Anyway, I don't really want to see Sean waterboarded, much as he deserves it. I don't sanction torture (unlike the Bush administration). I sure wouldn't mind seeing a good fair fight, though. Especially if it was for a good cause.

So, here is my idea. Let's put Sean up against a couple of chickens. He can have some razorblades attached to his feet just to make everything nice and fair. Then put him in the ring with the chickens and let them go at it. Keith Olbermann can donate a $1000 to charity for every second that Hannity lasts. It could then be broadcast live on every news network.

Genius, huh! I predict some lucky charity would make about $10,000 before the chickens tore Sean a new ass and he ran away crying.

You know what would make this even better? If Rush Limbaugh went next. I'd empty my savings account to see that fat windbag - red-faced and blubbering with terror - trying to girlslap a couple of very pissed off chickens. I'd record the fight so that I could put it up on Youtube and keep putting it back up the very minute Fox News got it deleted.

What a shame this will never, ever happen. Rush would be too much of a wuss to even get in the ring. Oh, he'd talk big about it for weeks beforehand, but when it came time to actually start the fight, he'd whine about his hemorrhoids or something and produce a doctor's note to get out of it. Then he'd get back on the radio and claim that the chickens were Obama-loving Muslim Socialists anyway and his moronic fans would applaud and the Republican party would bow and kiss his hemorrhoid-laden ass some more.

Squawk, squawk, squawk! That's all these turds ever do. Go fight some chickens, Sean. Let's see what you got, tough guy.

Shameful Secret

I was just watching a few minutes of the clip below when it occurred to me that Levi Johnston (Bristol Palin's baby daddy) is a total *DRILF.




#Douchey Redneck I'd Like to Fuck


I'm really ashamed to admit this. I usually can't stand rednecks, guys who wear not-stashes, brainless Ashton Kutcher types, and anything even remotely connected to Sarah Palin (she makes me nauseous). However, young Levi is looking pretty bohunky with those bedroom eyes. Hubba hubba. I sure wouldn't mind climbing on top of him for a few hours of fun.

Although, he'd have to wear two condoms since his sperm have proven to be very good swimmers. And promise not to talk at all before, during, or after.

If those conditions were met then... oh yeah! Yee-haw! I'd ride 'em like a cowgirl!



Ugh, I think I just made myself a bit queasy.

Do you have a shameful secret you're willing to admit to? Tell me!

Check It Out

Attention Citizens!




Look what I just spotted at the grocery store yesterday. Chocolate covered prunes! Oh, they call them "dried plums" but they are prunes all right. Talk about a laxative! I ate a couple of handfuls of these after dinner (they taste pretty good) and went to bed, only to awaken in the middle of the night with an urgent need to drop a mighty deuce. They are basically a better tasting version of chocolate flavored Ex-Lax. So if you find yourself in need of a good cleansing pick up a bag of these babies. I imagine a cup of coffee alongside them would make the ultimate colon blow.

There, that was my public service announcement for the week. I knew you'd want to know.


And for all those who've been asking for it, here is your artsy nude pic of the week.







I finally got bored with the photoshop program but Blingee never gets old!

Who Is Dr. Zibbs? The Interview

Who is Dr. Zibbs?

I mean, apart from all the obvious stuff. Of course, everybody knows he's a world famous, wildly popular blogger, creator of the award winning That Blue Yak, and the internet's current "It Boy". But who is he really? I was recently given the chance to find out when he granted me one of his rare interviews.

I wasn't sure what to expect. I've never interviewed anyone famous before.

Oh sure, there was that one time I talked to Britney Spears's hair weave specialist, but that wasn't such a big deal. Plus, I've heard all the rumors going around about Dr. Zibbs and they are kinda freaky. You know the ones, about how he's really a 400 year old vampire/werewolf hybrid, who spent 200 of those years chained up in the basement of lunatic asylum. And how he supposedly penned Men Without Hats one big hit song, "Safety Dance." I've even heard that he once worked for Stevie Nicks blowing cocaine up her ass with a straw after she ruined her nostrils, and that he has 14 wives and 60 children in 49 different states. So needless to say, I was a bit intimidated.

Meeting the man did nothing to set me at ease. We made arrangements for him to stop by my house last night, which he did, roaring up the street at midnight in a rusty Ford Mustang filled with giggling blond co-eds and a guy in a bear suit, and driving over my bitchfaced neighbor's trash can in the process. It was one heck of an entrance.

"Sorry 'bout that," he shrugged, as he plopped down on my couch and gave me a killer grin.

Physically he wasn't at all what I was expecting. I mean, he had a hook for an eye! And another for a hand! And he was dressed in a clown suit! Apart from all that though, he was kinda hawt in a handsome, possible serial killer sort of way. I suppose I was thinking of that when I started the interview off with a really dumb question. (His answers are italicized.)

"So, Dr. Zibbs....um are you a serial killer?"

Uhhhhh....hmmmm," he thought for a minute. "Exactly how spread out do the killing have to be to make it a true serial killing? And what if victims weren't important?"

I wasn't sure how to answer so I just stared. He stared back. It was so quiet I could hear the clock ticking and the dog scratching her fleas. I decided to let that one go.

"Okay then, next question. What is your birth date and astrological sign? Do you check your horoscope daily even if you think it's bullshit?"

"My birthdate is January 8. I never look at horoscopes because it's BS and boring."

I was still slightly nervous so I made a dumb joke for the next question.

"Are those Bugle Boy Jeans you're wearing?"

"Why no," he seemed puzzled. "They're clown pants."

I blushed. "Sorry, nevermind. So, aliens exist and have been to our planet - yes or no?"

"I will say no because there is zero evidence other than the UFO image in that one pyramid," he said, then sat back and let out a belch so loud it sounded like a gunshot and made my dog jump.

By then I was starting to relax and get into the interview.

"If you could switch lives with a blogger for one day, who would it be and why?"

"Cameron because I saw a picture of his wife and she looked pretty cute. I'm not sure why he took it down."

"Maybe because dudes like you were skeeving on her?" I offered. Dr. Zibbs gave me a half smile that might have been amusement, or possibly gas since he belched again.

"If you were a pirate what would your name be?"

"Peggy "the parrot whisperer" McBeard.

"Have you ever worn a Fu Manchu mustache?"

"NO. I shave everyday. I grew a goatie once and a bit of it on the chin came in grey. Plus, it's hard to eat without getting food caught in it."

"Which finger do you use to pick your nose? Are you a righty or a lefty?" D'oh, too late, I remembered the hook hand.

Dr. Zibbs held up the hook, which gleamed wickedly in the lamplight. "I only use sanitized medical instruments," he sniffed.

"What is the secret of your success?"

"Being fabulous but I'm going to stop using that term because I think it might mean gay."

"I know you are a fan of Twitter. If you had to summarize your life in 140 characters or less, what would you say?"

"Creator and Taker of lives and souls," he chuckled and let out another gunshot loud burp. My dog, who had drifted off to sleep by his feet was so startled that she jumped up, barked, and farted at the same time.

"Ha ha, good dog!" Dr. Zibbs cackled and stood up. "We've done ten questions, right? Time for me to motor."

"Wait!" I cried. "I feel like we are just getting started here. You don't reveal much. Can I ask ten more?"

"Sorry baby," he grinned. "I intentionally don't reveal too much. But if there's anything else you want to know just ask me. I may or may not tell you but...." then he winked (with his good eye, not the hook one) slapped me on the ass, and was gone.

From my window I watched him climb back into the chick filled car. The guy in the bear suit waved and blew me a kiss as Dr. Zibbs gunned the motor and backed over my bitchfaced neighbor's trash can again - spraying garbage all over her otherwise perfect lawn - and then raced off into the night.

So, who is Dr. Zibbs? I, for one, still have no idea. And he likes it that way.

Vacay Over

I'm back now. Did you even miss me?

I meant to write a long post describing my vacation in detail, but I'm feeling too lazy so instead I just made a up a handy score chart for rating the experience.



Hilton Head Vacation Score Chart
Rated 1 - 10 with 10 = the best

Beach - 9

Hotel - 8

Weather - 6 (very chilly, but it did warm up nicely on my last day)

Restaurants - 8 (good seafood)

Alcohol - 10

Companionship - 10+ (I met up with a very handsome and mysterious man from my past and we boinked like bunnies)

Tacky Souvenirs - 3 (couldn't find any super tacky ones, dangit)

Drive There - 2

Drive Home - (-)14


All in all, it was a nice little vacation apart from the drive there and back. And that mostly only sucked because of the fucking state of Georgia. Fucking Georgia kicked my ass!

Attention all residents and lovers of Georgia. I am now about to slag on your state in a rather harsh way. Read no further if this will inflame you.


Georgia is a big ass state. And the thing is, it's really boring to drive through. There is nothing there except for trees. Why do they bother with speed limits? You should be able to go a hundred mph in order to get through it as fast as possible. Instead they have speed limits that go from 55 to 65 to 70 seemingly with no other intent then to be able to ticket drivers. I saw more cops holding radar guns while traveling through Georgia then I've ever seen in my life.

Plus they have very few rest stops and two I did pass were closed. For someone who likes to stop and pee every 60 miles or so it was torture. Sure, I could pull off the freeway into one of the numerous little shithole towns scattered here and there, but I was reluctant because I noticed a curious thing. Most all of these exits had railroad crossing arms at the entrance and again at the spot to get back on the freeway. Why? To block travelers from coming in....or leaving?

In my overheated imagination I became convinced that these little towns were full of crazed and horny albino pinheads lying in wait for women driving alone. As soon as one pulled over into one of their crappy gas stations, they would then give the signal.

"Close the gates, Cleteus! We got us a woman what ain't related to us! Hee haw! Geh geh geh!"


I vowed to avoid these places, but 200 hundred miles later I was desperate for a pee so I had to stop at one. I called my mom first though and told her the name of the town just in case I was never heard from again, so they'd know where to look.

I swear, I could practically hear the banjos playing as I got out of the car. The first thing I noticed when entering the store was a large, hand lettered sign on the ladies room door that said, "Restrooms for paying customers ONLY!" The second thing I noticed was that the word "customers" was misspelled. And the third thing was that the mean hillbilly at the cash register talking to what looked to be the town whore and possibly his sister (the had the same missing teef) was glaring at me, so I couldn't just sneak into the bathroom.

Grudgingly I bought an overpriced bottle of water and then made sure to splash the seat when I finally peed. It wasn't hard to do considering there was no toilet paper. Fucking Georgia!

On the way home, I found that a few portions of 75N were closed down to one lane so they could do some sort of roadwork. Basically it took three and a half hours to go 80 miles. I spent the entire time making up poems about how much Georgia sucks. Here are a couple of examples:


Fuck You Georgia!
I hate this state so bad
Your fucked up traffic is making me quite mad
Screw you, Georgia!
This state's a piece of shit
no one should ever visit
(if you do bring a toilet kit).


Georgia sucks, this is quite true
If it were a band, it'd be Blink 182
If I lived here I'd have to sniff glue
every single day
instead of monthly like I usually do.


There once was a hawt girl named Pru
stuck in traffic while trying to drive through
this hideous state
making her quite irate
said Pru to Georgia, "Fuck you!"


I thought that I should never see
so many toothless hillbillies
even more so than Tennessee
Four out of five dentists agree
the only thing to do in Georgia is flee.


Well, there are many more since I was stuck for so long but I think you get the picture.

In conclusion I'd like to say, Hilton Head Island is lovely, go visit sometime if you can. But avoid going through Georgia as it sucks ass. That is all.

Hilton Head Update

There are so many things to like about Hilton Head Island. Beautiful scenery, a great beach, tons of really good restaurants, AND the local Piggly Wiggly is dedicated to making sure everyone can find the butt wipes. Who couldn't get behind a place like this?

Road Trip!

I packed up my bikini and headed to Hilton Head Island yesterday. Oy, what a drive that was! It took nine hours. I've got plenty to tell you about, but right now the beach is calling...

Later!

The Musical Fruit

I've never been a big fan of beans. They're kinda yucky IMO.

That said, I was hanging out with a couple of vegans on Saturday and ended up having a bean and cous-cous burrito with them and it was pretty good. The burrito also contained shredded cabbage, hot peppers, and salsa. I liked it so much, I had seconds.

Then for dessert, I had one of those decidedly non-vegan bottles of Starbucks frappuccino.

Right around the same time, I suddenly remembered that I'd forgotten to take my daily multiple vitamin so I popped it in my mouth and happily set off for a night of booty shaking at The Boobie Barn.

You see where this is going, don't you? For while I cluelessly drove to work, singing along at the top of my lungs with The B'52s CD on the car stereo, an evil death cloud was brewing in my stomach.

That's right, the combination of beans (which I rarely eat), cabbage, grains, caffeine, dairy, sugar, and vitamins created the kind of hideous gas that can only be described as nuclear.

By the time I got there, the farts were slowly beginning to leak out. At first I wasn't too worried. The situation seemed bad but controllable. I figured I could always suppress the worst of the stink until I could go release it in the safety of the bathroom stall. But it soon became apparent that there would be no controlling this gas.

Try as I might, I could not keep myself from farting every three seconds or so. The best I could do was squeeze my butt cheeks together to keep from farting audibly. It seeped out of me in a noxious wave of silent-but-ultra-deadly stink fumes, and by the time I had gotten my false eyelashes and thong on, the room smelled like hot shitty ass. The other girls were wrinkling their noses and looking around, but I decided to act oblivious, having grown up with the rule: "The first one that smelt it delt it"

To help you visualize this scene, I've thoughtfully recreated it in this picture using nail polish.

Dramatic Reenactment of the fartroversy:





"What the fuck?!" One of the girls screamed. "Whoever doing that shit is a very nasty individual! Nasty!"

There was a chorus of yeahs, so I figured I'd throw mine in too. Then, of course, being me I had to take it farther.

"My god, it smells like an ass factory in here!" I yelled. "One of y'all should be ashamed!"

Then I picked up a bottle of perfume (Maybe Baby by Benefit) and started spraying it around the room. It was a good thing I did, because another wave of eye watering stink picked just that moment to slip out and waving the fragrance bottle around helped to disburse it a bit.

Everybody took my cue and started squirting perfume and cologne around which soon created an even worse stench. I'm not sure how best to describe it. A bouquet of rectums set on fire and put out with toilet water comes close except maybe browner. Whatever, I'm surprised it didn't immediately peel all the paint off the walls.

Needless to say it was a very, very long night.

For the other chicks anyway. I ended up having a great time. By the end of the evening I was lifting up my leg and daring customers to pull my finger. What fun! No wonder my dad enjoyed that joke so much.

Artsy Nude Photo Of The Week

As you can see, I'm still not tired of playing with these fancy photoshop tools yet.

Have a great weekend.

Where The Wild Things Are

I don't know anything much about birds, except that there are tons of them here in Tennessee and most of them seem to be situated right beside my bedroom window. And they all like to burst into song at the crack of dawn every morning. It wouldn't be too terrible to awaken to a few gentle twitterings and tweets, but the birds here are LOUD and one especially has a call that sounds just like he's saying "Fuck you..hee hee hee...Fuck You!"

I call him the the Fuck You Bird and fantasize about buying a BB gun and blasting him out of the tree.

I've never seen so much damn nature as I have since moving to Tennessee. My backyard literally teems with life. There are all kinds birds and snakes and little rodenty creatures, and I even see deer from time to time. Not to mention all the greenery and flowers and bugs.

This is a radical change from Riverside, California where I used to live. Riverside is pretty urban and very close to the desert. The only wild animal life I ever saw there were one or two fat and fearless raccoons digging through my garbage, and loads of dead skunks lying in the road after having been run over forty or fifty times.

It was still pretty noisy, although in a completely different way. There weren't a lot of birds around, but I would usually awaken early several days a week to the sound of my drug dealer neighbor beating the shit out of a deadbeat customer in the street, or else some sequence of screaming, gunshots, and police sirens. To hear all four at once was not uncommon. You get used to it though. I slept like a baby in my old neighborhood.

But all this woodsy stuff here in the burbs freaks me out a little. I've never been much of an outdoorsy type girl. Grass makes me itch, and pollen in the air makes my nose run. I much prefer to admire the beauty of nature the way God intended, by watching documentaries on Animal Planet. Coming face to face with wild animals scares me.

Last night, my dog Shirley cornered some sort of small feral beast in a tree and wouldn't stop barking. I hoped she would get bored and come back in after a while, but she stubbornly refused to come when I called. It was about 11:00 P.M. and I knew the neighbors would be getting pissy, so I reluctantly grabbed a flashlight and went out there.

It was super dark as there aren't any streetlights around here. I couldn't tell what sort of animal Shirley was barking at, all I could make out was a dark lump among the branches, but it's eyes glowed a devilish red as I shined the flashlight on it and it hissed in a way that made all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

"Come on, you stupid mutt!" I yelled at Shirley, and attempted to grab her collar but she kept skittering away from me. By that time her frantic barking had turned to howling and she started growling at me for trying to pull her away.

"Shit!" I thought. I didn't know what to do. In Riverside if a dog barked for a long time at night, someone would just go over and shoot it. I almost wished that would happen. This is why I don't own a gun because lemme tell ya, I was tempted to shoot her myself. I knew if I didn't shut her up soon, there'd be a whiney note in the mailbox tommorrow, saying something like this:

Dear Neighbor, I am going to call the Home Owners Association on you! I didn't pay good money to live next door to a godless heathen who sunbathes in the nude and can't control her beagle! Blah blah blah, etc.

I knew it would go like that because I've already received a couple of those.


The thing in the tree hissed again, louder and more angry sounding and I began to worry that it might have rabies. If it did, it would surely jump out of the tree right on to my head and scratch my face off. Scary! Can you imagine what a nightmare that would be? I stood there paralyzed with fear for a good ten minutes or so until it occurred to me to turn the hose on and pelt Shirley with a stream of cold water.

That finally did the trick. She's a total wimp when it comes to getting wet and ran inside immediately. I went to bed after that and forgot about the whole thing until the Fuck You birds woke me up this morning. I really hope that rabid possum or whatever it was is gone and won't be coming back anytime soon. Jason Vorhees in my backyard with a chainsaw wouldn't scare me nearly as much as a small furry savage critter that can scratch and bite.

Fucking nature!

Don't Try This At Home

Ugh, yesterday I really felt like crap, all worn out and headachy. I suppose it was my own fault though.

No, I didn't go out and get drunk the night before. I've pretty much quit drinking because alcohol has too many calories. Also, it tends to make me even louder and more obnoxious than usual and eventually end up vomiting on my shoes. And hey, now that I'm ponying up $200+ bucks for a pair of heels, I don't want barf on them!

So no, no alcohol was involved. But, just because I no longer like getting liquored up doesn't mean I don't enjoy a good altered state of consciousness every now and again. Who doesn't? So I decided to try a little experiment.

I've often wondered what would happen if you combine massive amounts of caffeine with a sleeping pill. Would it be like dreaming while you were awake? Would the two just cancel each other out and do nothing? Would you get pleasantly fucked up? Or end up hurling on your shoes? Since there was nothing good on TV that night, I decided to find out. (Though I did change into an old pair of sneakers first, just as a precautionary measure.)

First I drank an energy drink that listed 60mgs. of caffeine on it's label. Then I had a double shot of espresso. Just in case that wasn't enough, I munched on a few of those Starbucks chocolate covered espresso beans. Delicious!

Feeling the heart pounding, teeth clinching rush come on, I then went to the medicine cabinet for phase two of the experiment. I had planned on taking an Ambien, but was annoyed to discover that the bottle was empty. Geez! Why do I do things like that? Why would I take my last pill and then put the bottle back in the cabinet instead of throwing it away like any normal person would?

I blame the filthy lyrics of heavy metal rock music and Tipper Gore for failing to protect me from them. They have obviously rotted my brain.

Since there was no Ambien, I took three, 3 mg. Melatonins instead. Then I laid down on the bed to see what, if anything, would happen.

I had hoped for a soft and dreamy yet lucid state, that would help me achieve a very profound level of meditation, allowing for greater insight and inner wisdom.

Instead, I quickly fell into a coma-like sleep so deep it was like being buried underground. I woke up three hours later with a pounding headache, aching muscles, and a lake of drool pooled all around the side of my face and inside my ear. Gross! I never did get back to sleep after that but while lying there I did experience a sort of trippy hallucination-type event.

Wow, was it ever weird. and the funny thing is, you were there, and you, and also YOU! I'll tell you what I remember of it.

It started at the Berlin Wall. All This Trouble and Krissyface and I were hanging out there, singing a few salty sea shanty's and smearing green paint all over each other when XL came over to us.

"Hi guys," he said. "Did you know blueberries are good for your brain? I just ate three buckets full and now my smarticals are tingling, and I can play the spoons and smell bacon a hundred miles away."

At that point we all smelled the bacon, warm and wonderful so we began walking towards it. Then I found myself inside Paula Deen's cozy house, sitting at the kitchen table next to Joyless Prole who was wearing a Pope hat and crying. I wondered why he was so sad, since he looked quite fetching. Plus, Paula was frying us up some kind of buttery dish and the aroma was making my mouth water. But when she put a plate down in front of me it turned out to be a menacing looking raw pig's heart with a hypodermic needle shoved through it.

"Eat up your pie, Pru," Paula Deen hissed, through angry gritted teeth. "Eat it or I'll shove it down your goddammit throat!" Then she burned me with her cigarette and I started crying too.

Next, I met a strange lady who turned out to be Girl Interrupted. She made me nervous. She took me in and gave me breakfast.

And I said, "Oh, do you come from the land down under? Where women glow and men plunder? Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?"

"No," she said. "I come from London where the women can grow a beard on command and the men belch a lot."

"I don't believe you," I said. "Prove it!" So she grew a beard right then and it was very handsome.

Then we were walking down a long road when a pickup truck pulled up next to us. There were 40 giant slobbering Rottweilers in the back, along with a demented albino playing an evil banjo tune and grinning dementedly at us. Suddenly a man stuck his head out of the cab and whistled at us, and even though he had a hook for a hand and another for an eye, I recognized him as Dr. Zibbs.

"Get in," he ordered, handing us both a jar of mustard with his hook. We did as we were told and we all drove off just as the banjo player switched to a KISS song. I think it was "Lick It Up."

After a while I found myself in a really nice red sports car being driven by Wendy B and Bill Stankus. There were two steering wheels, and as Bill turned one way, Wendy turned the other and they argued about this back and forth in a strange Click language.

This went on for a while until we all got out of the car and took turns shooting a cheese sandwich off of Warped Mind of Ron's head with an AK-47 while Ron sang a little song that went like this:

Gosh, these bullets are a blizzard.
Don't hit me in the gizzard!
Oh I'd rather lick a lizard
than have to watch The Wizard of Oz.

Then 800 midgets showed up and we all danced a hoe down till the sky began to rumble and purr.


Freaky, huh? The purring turned out to be my cat Jackie Waffles who had snuggled down on the drooly spot by my ear. He likes wet things. Where the rest of that bizarre head trip came from, who can say?

All in all, it was an interesting experience. Though because of the wicked hangover it caused, I won't be doing it again. Not anytime soon anyway. Well, not real soon. Maybe next week.

Shit, I'll probably do it again tonight.

I woke up this morning thinking about a really crazy romance novel I read when I was about fourteen or so. I can't remember the name of it, or who it was by, which is making me sad because I'd really love to get my hands on a copy. It was truly one of the most insane books ever, and I know it's been a big influence on my own writing.

From what I can remember the plot went like this: A good old southern boy with a rednickish type of name (Delbert or Delmont? something like that) decides to leave his shitty southern hometown and make his way to California. While stopped at a gas station he meets the heroine, a trashy girl who's been abandoned there by her last guy. She basically offers Delbert her pussy in exchange for a ride to California. He likes the idea, so he hitches up her rickety trailer to his truck and off they go, fucking their way across the country.

Since it's a romance novel they fall in love of course, and have a lot of strange adventures. At the end they meet up with this really kind preacher and his wife (in Texas?) who are building a roller rink for the members of their church. The preacher feeds them, gives them money, and lectures them both on how they should quit sinning and get married. They argue and squabble about this advice and storm off, and you figure it's only a matter of time before the two are declaring their love in a happy ending, right? But that's when the novel took a completely bizarre turn.

In a very WTF plot twist, the preacher goes completely nuts, gets a high powered rifle, and starts shooting the church members while they are blissfully roller skating around to disco tunes. He also slits his wife's throat. Then Delbert and the chicky (maybe her name was Candy? Sandy?) meet up with him while he is surrounded by cops and convince him to turn himself in.

I think at the very end they do go on to California together but that may be wrong. I can't really remember, even though I must have read it a hundred times or so. Does this book sound familiar to anyone? It was published in the 1970's by some little publishing house, I think. Not Harlequin or any of the other big romance publishers. I found it at a thrift store and the cover was missing.

I loved it because it went against all of the romance novel cliches. The characters were flawed in a delightfully quirky way. The hero wasn't all that dreamy, he had a temper and got into a few fistfights. The heroine was kinda slutty, and not all that bright. Then there was the whole whacked out holy roller/roller rink murder rampage.

I really doubt something like this would be published today, which is a shame. It was a million times better than that stupid piece of shit Twilight book. I'll never understand the appeal of that one. Bella is a boring twit who stumbles around so much she should wear a retard helmet, and Edward is a dull weirdo. Would you really want to be with a guy who spent his nights staring at you while you slept? Ewww.

Of course, maybe I'm hallucinating again and this book I've described is just my dream novel. If it rings a bell though, I'd be eternally grateful to the person who can tell me the title or author.

Just Because It's Friday....

...and because it's Joyless Prole's birthday, and I felt like it, here are a couple of "artsy" nudes. Happy Birthday JP!

A Bit Of Family History

I've recently learned something very interesting. My family is cursed.

From what I've been told, it all began with my great-grandfather, Ebeneezer Malachi Jones, back in the early days of last century. Apparently Ebeneezer was a dour, prudish, bible thumping old bastard who hated anything fun as he figured it must be sinful. He preached against dancing, card playing, sex for anything but procreation, and said that God required every bit of extra money go to the church (that he ran). Only by listening to him, he assured the beaten down members of his community, would they ever be allowed entrance into Heaven. Ebeneezer wasn't really all that popular, but considering the only other church in town advocated snake handling and arsenic drinking, he pretty much ran the show.

So when a group of gypsies wandered into his village one day, bringing with them laughter and music, and selling a potent Ecstasy/Viagra-like herbal concoction they saucily named "Kingdom Cum", my great-grandfather didn't like it one bit. He doubled his preaching efforts, calling the gypsies, "Satan's Salesmen", and issuing warnings that drinking their love potion would cause promiscuity, insanity, and baldness.

He really should have thought of a better threat though, as he himself had a huge bald patch that he tried to cover up in a Donald Trump-type comb over, but which, of course, fooled no one. Also, his wife was not quite right in the head (she thought she was a duck) and his daughter was the town slut.

Well, quite a few of the townspeople found this quite amusing as you can imagine. They laughed openly at Ebeneezer and quit attending his church, preferring to spend their free time guzzling gypsy drink and boinking like bunnies.

Humiliated and seeing his income threatened, Ebeneezer tried everything he could to drive the gypsies out of town. He accused them of witchcraft. He called them Socialists. He made fun of their facial hair. He said God was getting really pissed. When none of those things worked, he set their caravans on fire and shot all of their monkeys with a pistol. That worked.

As the angry gypsies left town - with giant bags of gold strapped to the backs of the women and children, since the monkeys were all dead - their ancient king pointed a withered brown finger at my great-grandfather and said, "A curse be upon you, Proctor Jones. Neither you nor any of your descendants shall ever be allowed to forget the way you have wronged my people. Not unless you truly practice what you preach. Muyhahahahaha."

With that, he spit on the ground, made the sign of the evil fork, and then belched three times in a row. The gypsies all cheered and made rude noises, screaming and hooting, "Shit yeah, now you've been cursed, biatch!" as they slowly lumbered away.

Ebeneezer gloated as he watched them go. He paid no attention to their silly voodoo and indeed, forgot all about it, being super busy as he was trying to get the townspeople to quit partying and start fearing Hell again. It took some doing, but luckily for him the corn was a bit moldy that year and he was able to point to this as evidence that God was really, really mad.

Ebeneezer's slutty daughter, Martha, was the first to take notice of the curse. Knowing of her father's punitive attitude towards sex, however, she wisely said nothing. Ebeneezer heard whispers and snickers that the gypsies revenge had come to pass, but saw no evidence of this himself. That is, not until a few weeks later when he found himself a bit frisky and decided to make his wife perform her biblical duty.

He had barely gotten down to business when he heard a strange sound, sort of like a high keening moan.

"Did you hear that?" he asked his wife.

"Quack quack," she muttered, (remember she was completely insane).

He looked around uneasily but didn't see anything unusual. The bedroom was completely dark except for one loan flickering candle that he had forgotten to extinguish before getting freaky. Murmuring a quick apology to Jesus, he blew out the flame and went back to sating his filthy desire.

"Sccccccrrreeeeech," the horrible noise started up again, louder than before. It sounded remarkably like fingernails on a chalkboard, or a passel of screaming monkeys. Ebeneezer was again startled, but he knew all the monkeys were dead and besides he only needed another 15 seconds or so to finish up, so he ignored the commotion and carried on.

But he never did get to bust a nut that night, for the next round of unearthly screechings were so loud the bedroom window pane shattered, spraying glass all over the room.

Ebeneezer jumped up and ran to the door, barely remembering to pull up his special holy underwear with three hundred tiny buttons. Fifteen minutes later, when most of the buttons were closed, he commenced his investigation. Flinging open the door, he fearfully peered out into the night. What he saw out there made what was left of his hair stand on end.

For there in moonlit yard stood a ghostly white caravan hitched up to seven glowing monkeys wearing tiny caps with little bells on them. Gathered around the wagon stood several spectral gypsies, holding tambourines and fiddles. As his mouth dropped open in shock, the transparent gypsies smiled and began to play a hellish tune that could be heard throughout the village. The women beating their breasts and ululating, the men fiddling and banging tin cans together, and the monkeys gnashing their ridiculously long fangs and scratching angrily at the reins, resulting in an ear numbing cacophony.

As Ebeneezer watched in horror, one of the demon monkeys broke free and ate his daughter's cat.

One by one the neighbors timidly appeared, holding candles and torches and gaping at the eerie apparition.

"What is going on, Proctor Jones? What sort of ungodly display is this?" they demanded.

Before Ebeneezer could gather his wits about him to try to form an answer, the phantom gypsies sang out, "Intercourse! The wicked proctor is having intercourse!"

The crowd gasped. "Is this true, sir?"

"No! No, I..." Ebeneezer began, but the gypsies cut him off.

"In the butt!" they sang. "He's putting it in his wife's butt!"

The shocked crowd gasped again. One woman screamed. "Sinner!" they cried.

Ebeneezer hung his head in shame. And as he fell to his knees and admitted his hypocrisy to the townspeople, the ghastly, glowing zombie gypsies slowly began to disappear, their nightmarish song fading quieter and quieter until once again the only sounds heard in the village were the chirping of crickets, and the quacking of Proctor Jones poor, crazy wife.

Now, you might think that the gypsy curse would be ended when Ebeneezer confessed and recanted his sanctimonious ways. He certainly hoped that would be the case, but alas, it was not. Gypsy curses are apparently really hard to get rid of. From then on for the rest of his life whenever he tried to do the nasty, a ghostly Romani band would appear and serenade the neighbors with a blow by blow account of his actions.

Worse, he couldn't even masturbate as that would make one lone monkey appear, hooting derisively and making filthy gestures, and my great-grandfather was far too prudish to give the gossips more reasons to wag their tongues. He spent the rest of his life in bitter, sexual frustration which caused him to become an ardent supporter of the Republican party.

His daughter had no such compunctions though, being a slut and all, so the villagers grew used to wailing of the ghostly gypsy band.

And though the eighteen children she eventually bore all had different fathers, they were bastards who carried the Jones surname, and thus were doomed to the curse.

Growing up, I never heard a word about this bit of family history. I certainly never heard any screaming gypsy songs. (That may be because my parents slept in separate beds.) Although, now that I think about it, I did hear a lot of screeching monkey sounds when my brother hit puberty.

As you can imagine, losing my virginity was quite a shock. When a ululating woman in a kerchief showed up at my date's frat house and sang a song entitled "Prunella's Getting Gang Banged", I figured it had to be a hallucination from all the roofies in my beer bong. Now that I know the real reason, everything makes so much more sense.

I mean, don't get me wrong. It still sucks and all. But the good news is that those horrible squealing noises are not coming from my vibrator. You don't know how much money I've spent trying to get that thing fixed!