THE PRUNELLA JONES STORY starring Nicole Kidman

Yes, it's time once again for another edition of The Prunella Jones Story the true modern day Cinderella tale of Prunella Jones, a smokin hot freelance writer who overcame both ADD and a deprived childhood in the Inland Empire, by using her incredible body to become a Hollywood IT girl. Nicole Kidman stars in this uplifting story of a plucky gal who refuses to give up, even after she developed a serious drug/alcohol problem, gambled away her fortune, got dumped by both Johnny Depp and Jake Gyllenhaal, lost her alien baby to the Scientologists, spent time in a nuthouse AND worked as a personal assistant to NAomi Campbell. Click here for the last episode. Guess it's been quite awhile.

In today's episode, Prunella (played by Nicole Kidman) visits a hypnotist who regresses her back to a former life in the 1800's.



Hypnotist: Okay Prunella, I want you to clear your mind. Just lay back and relax and stare at this shiny thing......are you relaxed?

Prunella: mmmmmhmmmmm (drools)

Hypnotist: Okay good. Now I am going to count backwards from five and when I'm done you will find yourself in the life you lived before this one. Okay, five, four, three, two, one...........now tell me what you see.






Prunella: I'm in the English countryside on a magnificent white horse. I'm slender and gorgeous although my face looks a bit pinched, as if I can't move it much. Oh, and it looks like I'm rich. Sweet!


Hypnotist: Good, what else is happening?


Prunella: Uh oh, I've just found out that my husband ran off to Australia to get away from me. That bitch! How dare he leave me! I'm determined to go find him.






Hypnotist: Oh my! So what do you do?


Prunella: I get on a boat to Australia, of course! At least I think that's what it is. For some reason the boat I'm seeing looks like The Minnow from Gilligan's Island. Surely that little thing couldn't have gotten me all the way to Australia from England, could it?





Prunella: Now, it looks like I'm in Australia hunting for him. Man, I sure packed a lot of stuff! Ooo I look fabulous in a pith helmet too. And I'm wearing khakis with a little belt and leather gloves and...


Hypnotist: Yes, yes, nevermind the details. What happens? Do you find your husband?






Prunella: I sure do. But he doesn't want to come home with me. It seems that he'd rather ride around and pretend to be a cowboy instead. How dare he?! I'm super pissed. So I do the logical thing and decide to hang out and make him fall back in love with me.


Hypnotist: How do you do that?






Prunella: By proving what a good little farm wife I can be. While looking fabulous, of course. It appears that I do some chores like feeding the cows. Ewwww, they stink. In fact, I think I just stepped in a cow pie. Can you smell that? Ugh, the smell is choking me! (cough, cough)


Hypnotist: When I clap my hands you will no longer smell anything. (clap) Okay. Well Prunella, this life sounds very romantic. Does your husband eventually come back to you?








Prunella: Yes, he does. We've been through several lifetimes together. He can't resist me. He pulls me to his manly bosom underneath the wide Australian sky and begs me to stay with him forever and ever throughout all eternity.


Hypnotist: Oh, how lovely. So you spend the rest of this life as an Australian farm wife? Skip ahead to your death and describe that.


Prunella: Ummmm....no.






Prunella: No, it looks like I get bored with the outback and make my way to Paris where I become a performer at The Moulin Rouge, eventually dying of consumption in my lover's arms. HAwt. I like this life better than my current one.

Random Stuff

The other day I was watching the movie Rocky Horror Picture Show on my mom's big screen TV when she wandered in and started looking at it with me. After about twenty minutes of this, she turned to me with a very astonished look on her face and said,

"Oh my goodness, honey! I believe this movie is very homosexual!"

I have no idea why she would think that. What a filthy minded old lady she is!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here, for no reason, is a fashion critique.




The pink number on the right is okay, but it kinda reminds me of a mother-of-the-bride dress. Very blah. I wouldn't wear it.

The purple dress in the middle is really cute. Love the color and those little ruffles. I'd definitely wear it.

The checkered thing on the left is fugly, although those sleeves are pretty intriguing. You could hide a knife or even an ax in all that material. I would wear this if I were an assassin, otherwise no.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------






Someday I'd really like to see a flea circus. Do they still have them? It looks like fun in this picture anyway.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




Damn you, Ceiling McCain! Quit watching me! I need privacy for this.



This isn't my photoshop - I just stumbled upon it - but I bow to whomever created it.




--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



Only two bloggers took up my Mad Libs Barfday challenge, but luckily they were both exceptionally hilarious so I am posting them. This one was by Nudie Muse. This girl can mad lib like mad!

Also, I just love the word balls. Something about it makes me snicker like Beavis and Butthead.


Prunella Jones awoke early on the gloriously reddish morning of June 12th, 2008. It was her birthday and she was very itchy about it.

Galloping out of bed, she wandered over to the mirror and checked herself out.

"Happy birthday, you hot Motherfucker !" she said aloud. "You certainly don't look 62.2. Although your boobs could use a little massaging. Still, all in all not too bad." She then kissed her reflection, made a few sexy faces at herself, and began to plan her day.

This birthday was going to be freaktastic. Unlike last year, when she got super dry and ended the evening screaming in a trash can. Ugh, she grimaced at the memory.

Her birthday last year had started off well enough. She met some friends at The Boys Room. It was very mellow. They had danced and cruised. And then someone had offered her balls.

"Why not," she thought, and punched it.

The balls made her feel so good that she decided to have more. Then she went to a bar and started swerving. One ball quickly became four. She thought she was being witty and fun, but really she was being loud and crazy. And the more balls she had, the louder she got.

Finally, her friends ended up restraining her to the car as she was quite vogue.

She passed out right away, but halfway home she sputtered to conciousness feeling urgently poopy.

"Oh poop" she yelled. "Pull over! I'm going to plotz!"

"No, no," her friend cried. "We're on the freeway. Stick your ass out the window and breathe!"

The window was halfway down when she began to squee'd violently all over the place, much to her shame.

"Fucking Prunella, you lightweight!" her friend groaned as he surveyed the car with disgust. She started to apologise but no words would come out, only more balls.

Now staring at herself in the mirror, Prunella shuddered at the memory.

"That won't happen again this year," she vowed to herself. "Tonight, I'm only having one ball! I swear!"



The other one was by my favorite sexy stalker Mister Underhill. Unsurprisingly, he managed to work his penis into the tale.


The sultry morning of June 12th, 2008. It was her birthday and she was very apathetic about it.

Slinking out of bed, she wandered over to the mirror and checked herself out.

"Happy birthday, you beautiful slut !" she said aloud. "You certainly don't look 13. Although your lady parts could use a little stretching out. Still, all in all not too bad." She then kissed her reflection, made a few sexy faces at herself, and began to plan her day.

This birthday was going to be phaboo. Unlike last year, when she got super addied up and ended the evening publicly fornicating in a trash can. Ugh, she grimaced at the memory.

Her birthday last year had started off well enough. She met some friends at a hookah lounge. It was very mellow. They had danced and groped. And then someone had offered her mister underhill's peen, the most addictive substance in the known universe

"Why not," she thought, and loved it.

The pulsating veins made her feel so good that she decided to have more. Then she went to a bar and started snorting. One addie quickly became four. She thought she was being witty and fun, but really she was being loud and embarassing. And the more addies she had, the louder she got.

Finally, her friends ended up pulling her to the car as she was quite fucked.

She passed out right away, but halfway home she sputtered to conciousness feeling urgently horny.

"That won't happen again this year," she vowed to herself. "Tonight, I'm only having one peen! I swear!"


Thanks so much for playing, guys. I really enjoyed them.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



And finally, I thought up a new award which I'm calling THE MOST EGOTISTICAL BLOGGER AWARD and I'd like to present it right now to....(drumrole) myself! For my amazing last post in which I shamelessly compared myself to Jesus.




I was telling a friend about this post last night (although I don't give anyone I know in 3D my blog address, that way I can feel free to talk about them). She listened with one eyebrow raised skeptically and then gave me the most appalled look and said,

"Wow, you really love yourself, don't you?"

LOL! Yep, I sure do. Therefore I am pleased to accept this award. I'd like to thank the little people for helping me achieve this, my mom (love you), my stoopid boss (hate you), various buddies and favorite bloggers (I'm mad for you!), and lastly and most importantly, I'd like to thank God for making me so hawt! Thank you! Kisses!



UPDATE: Helen decided to play Mad Libs too! Check it out:


Prunella Jones awoke early on the gloriously snowy morning of June 12th, 2008. It was her birthday and she was very irritated about it.

heaving [herself] out of bed, she wandered over to the mirror and checked herself out.

"Happy birthday, you lazy biatch!" she said aloud. "You certainly don't look 76. Although your wrinkles could use a little bacon grease. Still, all in all not too bad." She then kissed her reflection, made a few sexy faces at herself, and began to plan her day.

This birthday was going to be whacked. Unlike last year, when she got super randy and ended the evening humping in a trash can. Ugh, she grimaced at the memory.

Her birthday last year had started off well enough. She met some friends at a cafeteria at the home. It was very mellow. They had sang christmas carols and peed. And then someone had offered her candy.

"Why not," she thought, and gummed it.

The sugar made her feel so good that she decided to have more. Then she went to a bar and started hoisting her ass off the toilet. One Depends quickly became four. She thought she was being witty and fun, but really she was being loud and whiny . And the more sugar she had, the louder she got.

Finally, her friends ended up binding her in a straightjacket on her way to the car as she was quite senile and violent.

She passed out right away, but halfway home she sputtered to conciousness feeling urgently lucid.

"Oh lordy-lou!" she yelled. "Pull over! I'm going to shit!"

"No, no," her friend cried. "We're on the freeway. Stick your ass out the window and breathe!"

The window was halfway down when she began to shit violently all over the place, much to her shame.

"Dammit! Prunella, you lightweight!" her friend groaned as he surveyed the car with disgust. She started to apologise but no words would come out, only more shit.

Now staring at herself in the mirror, Prunella shuddered at the memory.

"That won't happen again this year," she vowed to herself. "Tonight, I'm only having one Werther's Original! I swear!"



Helen, this description of my birthday is so eerily accurate that you had to have been there. Are you that nice blonde nurse whose name I keep forgetting that always brings me an extra rice pudding? You are, aren't you? C'mon, fess up I.......oh shit, it seems I've fallen and I can't get up! Where's that damn Life Alert button?

What Would Prunella Jones Do?

I was driving around the other day when I noticed a bumper sticker on the car in front of me. It said Be More Like Jesus. This amused me because the car also sported Bush/Cheney 04 and Don't Believe the Liberal Media! stickers. Does this person really think that Jesus would be a republican? Jesus was a hippy!

Still, I agree with the message. Everyone should try to be more like Him. He was pretty cool. But once I started thinking about it, I realized that I already am a lot like Jesus. This might sound blasphemous but it's true. I made a list. Check it out:


Ways in Which I am Like Jesus

I own a robe and sandles.

I like hanging out with sinners.

The devil is always trying to tempt me.

I'm very loving and forgiving. (Except for those people who really piss me off! They get cut!)

I drink wine a lot.

While I can't turn water into wine, I can turn wine into water. (Well, urine if you want to get technical.)

Long hair.

Low body fat.

A close friend once betrayed me too. Bitch slept with my boyfriend.

I may not have been born in a manger, but according to my mom I was probably conceived on some fresh hay in a barn. (She was such a little farm girl, my mother.)

My dad demanded obedience too.

I've been baptised.

I can heal lepers.




Of course, there are a few differences.


Ways In Which I Am Not Like Jesus

I don't have a beard.

I don't speak Aramaic.

I'm not a jewish carpenter.

I ain't dying for nobody's sins.

Barfday Mad Lib

It's my birthday. Woot!

When I was a kid I was crazy about Mad Libs and always got tons of them as gifts. Remember those? I decided to make one myself this year. As a present to me, do this Mad Lib won't you? Have fun and be creative. I'll post the one that makes me spit out my coffee.

P.S. Don't be afraid to be filthy. You know how I likes that.




Prunella Jones awoke early on the gloriously 1._(adj)__ morning of June 12th, 2008. It was her birthday and she was very 2.__(adj)__ about it.

3._(verb)_ing out of bed, she wandered over to the mirror and checked herself out.

"Happy birthday, you 4._(adj)__ 5._(noun)__ !" she said aloud. "You certainly don't look 6._(age)_. Although your 7._(body part)__ could use a little 8._(verb)_. Still, all in all not too bad." She then kissed her reflection, made a few sexy faces at herself, and began to plan her day.

This birthday was going to be 9._(adj)_. Unlike last year, when she got super 10._(adj)_ and ended the evening 11._(verb)_ing in a trash can. Ugh, she grimaced at the memory.

Her birthday last year had started off well enough. She met some friends at a 12._(place)_. It was very mellow. They had 13._(verb)_ed and 14._(verb)_ed. And then someone had offered her 15._(noun)_.

"Why not," she thought, and 16._(verb)_ed it.

The 17._(noun)_ made her feel so good that she decided to have more. Then she went to a bar and started 18._(verb)_ing. One 19._(noun)_ quickly became four. She thought she was being witty and fun, but really she was being loud and 20._(adj)_. And the more 21._(noun)_s she had, the louder she got.

Finally, her friends ended up 22._(verb)_ing her to the car as she was quite 23._(adj)_.

She passed out right away, but halfway home she sputtered to conciousness feeling urgently 24._(adj)_.

"Oh 25._(noun)_!" she yelled. "Pull over! I'm going to 26._(verb)_!"

"No, no," her friend cried. "We're on the freeway. Stick your 27._(body part)_ out the window and breathe!"

The window was halfway down when she began to 28._(verb)_ violently all over the place, much to her shame.

"29._(explitive)_ Prunella, you lightweight!" her friend groaned as he surveyed the car with disgust. She started to apologise but no words would come out, only more 30._(noun)_.

Now staring at herself in the mirror, Prunella shuddered at the memory.

"That won't happen again this year," she vowed to herself. "Tonight, I'm only having one 31._(noun)_! I swear!"

Why We Need a Good Looking President

Wow, it's been quite a while since my last post. Where has the time gone? Damned if I know.

I've just been spending a lot of time in the gym lately, trying to reverse the effects of gravity on my butt. I don't care much for working out and used to do a quick twenty minute run and a bit of yoga and call it a day, but now I have a new strategy. Now, I spend an hour or two on the treadmill just walking at a comfortable pace. The way I figure it, if you are moving your body for two hours not only you are doing good, you are less likely to hurt yourself that way. And it's also nice and relaxing. Instead of dreading my workout, I enjoy it. My gym has these nice treadmills that have their own TVs attached, so I can obsessively watch CNN and MSNBC and catch up on all the democratic nomination goodness.

I'm happy that Obama won, unlike my mom who is livid! She really, really wanted Hillary and now she's so pissed off that she says she won't vote at all. For some reason she really hates Obama with a passion.

"I'm not voting for that old A-rab," she'll say, glaring at me like I'm the one who made Hillary lose.

"He's not Arab, Mom," I'll say. "He's half Kenyan."

"I don't know why he's pretending to be black," she'll go on ranting. "He's not black! He doesn't even have big lips!"

Wow! My mom the racist!

"I can't believe this shocking racism coming from a woman who worships Oprah and has admitted to wanting to have sex with a black man," I told her. "For shame!"

She did blush a bit at that, but kept up her arguments about how Obama has no experience and he can't beat John McCain, etc...and I kind of tuned her out after that.

My mother has never been especially political, but she was very excited about the idea of having a woman president and kept the dream long after the numbers showed Hillary was not going to get the nomination. And I think she's pretty typical for a lot of Hillary's supporters. Now her hope is that Hill's will be vice president. Her exact words were, "he'd better pick her if he know's what's good for him!"

Hmmmm. I don't think it will happen, but I'm not telling her that. She might pop me one in the kisser.

Funny how people get so het up about politics, even mild mannered old ladies like my mother.

I've never been especially political either. I pretty much agree with the Emma Goldman quote "if voting changed anything, they'd make it illegal". All politicians seem so slimy, so bought and paid for by corporations, that I just feel completely hopeless and cynical and rarely vote. I will for this election though. Eight years of Bush and company's shenanigans is enough. Obama can't do any worse than they have and at least he's young and good looking.



Oh, Barry! You are so dreamy."



That's right! I am voting for Barak strictly because I think he's hot.

You see, day after day of watching CNN at the gym I've gotten sick of seeing ugly old white men sneering at the world from their podiums in Washington. And it occured to me that ugly old white men are bad for America. Everything sucks right now and it's all their fault. Plus looking at their faces all the time is a huge turn off.




Ick. Who would want to fuck that? No wonder Laura always looks stoned.




This face is the stuff nightmares are made of.



I am completely serious. My new theory that I just made up is this: when ugly old white men are in charge things turn to shit. Consider Bill Clinton. The country was so prosperous the entire eight years he was in office that we actually had a budget surplus. And why was that? Because Clinton had the power of the sexy. He was young and vibrant. He played the saxaphone on MTV and was very flirtatious. It's why the republicans hated his guts. He had sex and if there is one thing republicans seem to hate, it's people who have sex. (Especially if they are gay or might need abortions.)



I would have hit that, oh yeah!


My dad (an uber republican who never missed a Rush Limbaugh broadcast) hated Clinton so much that he would practically foam at the mouth at the mention of his name. He was estatic during the whole impeachment fiasco. When I dared to say that I didn't see why Clinton getting a blowjob from a woman over the age of twenty-one was such a big deal and wonder why we were wasting so much time and money on such silliness, he looked at me as though I'd suggested we eat deep fried cat shit for dinner.

"Are you kidding? He lied under oath!" he'd cried triumphantly. "Do you want a president who lies?"

"Why was he asked about it in the first place?" I'd answered. "A presidents sex life shouldn't be anyone's business but his own."

It has always puzzled me as to why Bill Clinton's BJ was grounds for impeachment but Bush and Cheney could anal rape the constitution and throw billions down the sucking black hole of Iraq and republicans were fine with it, but now I know the answer. Repubs hate sex, therefore they are cool with ugly old white men fucking the country because there is no pussy involved.

This theory is not perfect, of course, but see how it explains a lot of things?


UGLY OLD MEN = NO SEX = BAD TIMES FOR THE COUNTRY


Who was president before Clinton? An old, ugly white man named George Bush Senior. The guy that gave us the first war with Iraq. Maybe if he'd been getting regular blow jobs we could have avoided the whole thing.


So people, I'm begging you, please, please do not vote for John McCain. Besides wanting to keep us in Iraq for the next hundred years, McCain is old, unsexy, and looks like Popeye. You know it's true, don't tell me he doesn't! Do you really want to have to stare at that mug for the next four years? I don't.



Ugh, all he needs is a corn cob pipe. Do not vote for Popeye! He will finish running America into the ground with his face.


With this premise in mind, I've decided that the best possible running mate for Barak would be John Edwards. Sorry mom, I like Hillary okay and all but John is pretty! Pretty, pretty! Not only would he and Obama turn the economy around with the power of their combined sexy, but the world would once again admire and respect us and America would be restored to it's place as the hawtest country ever.



Yum.


An Obama/Edwards ticket would be the greatest possible combination, don't you think? I really hope it happens. Join me in boycotting old, ugly, white men from Washington. Let's get rid of their asses! No more icky, sexless politicians! We need some good-lookers, both men and women. C'mon, at least do it for my eyes. I watch two hours of CNN everyday and Anderson Cooper can only do so much.

What's Up With All These Hideous Marc Jacobs Ads?

I'm not much of a fashionista.

I hate shopping and never buy fashion magazines. Most of my clothes are from Target or the thrift store. My typical outfit consists of jeans and a tee shirt or a gauzy, hippy type top. I don't spend a lot of money on clothes.

That said, I do like to splurge occasionally on an expensive, silky dress or fabulous shoes or something girly that makes me feel pretty. Sometimes an ad for a designer will catch my eye and I will take a look at their stuff when I do shop.

Which is why I don't understand these Marc Jacobs ads starring Victoria Beckham at all. They are hideous. The clothes are butt fugly. The lighting is bad. Vicky looks like she was put into a dehydrator. Lots of times I'll be flipping through a magazine and see ads that make me go WTF? But these - well dayum - these make me think I should have gone to art school. The people who designed these clothes and styled these pictures probably make ten times more money than me and obviously artistic talent is not a requirement. Seems like a good scam to get into.




This one was kinda cute, I guess. Fashion is supposed to be whimsical, I get it, ha ha. But the first thing that struck me was how ugly and stoopid those shoes are. Seriously, if I saw someone mincing down the street in those shoes, I'd point and laugh.




This picture is so appalling it sent me to the thesaurus to find the right adjective to describe it. Wretched works pretty good. Beastly brown fits too. That purse looks like the one my grandma used to carry to church. The dress is just....ewww, and is that a feather duster on her head?

Posh was always my favorite Spice Girl (yeah, I liked them back in the day. What can I say, I was young!) and she seems like she has a good sense of humor about herself, but dizzam! She really must be a cool chick. If that was my picture splashed all over the internet, I'd be crying and threatening lawsuits.






This dress reminds me of one of those crocheted doll toilet tissue covers. Is that thing on her head a question mark? How fitting. Overall she looks like an evil tooth fairy hovering in the air, ready to whip out a pair of plyers if there isn't a tooth under your pillow.

These ads are a joke, right? They've got to be.



Pros and Cons for Victoria Beckham

Pros: - ????

Cons: - Too numerous to list.



Pros and Cons for Marc Jacobs.

Pros: - Before these ads I'd never heard the guys name and knew nothing about him, so now he has name recognition.

Cons - Now I know the name of the person whose products I will never spend money on.


Attention fashion designers!!! If you want me to spend $500 for a dress or some shoes then you'd better make them pretty, by god. What's so hard about that?

Pros and Cons

There are pros and cons to everything in life, huh? Who'da thunk?

As a person with A.D.D. I have a lot of trouble making the simpliest decisions. I can literally dither for hours over what brand of shampoo to buy and it's maddening! Who wants to waste their time like that?

Recently I found a useful tip in one of those how to manage A.D.D. type books. It suggested making a quick list of pros and cons to whatever situation you find yourself confronted with. Dopey as this sounds, it has actually been pretty helpful to me. I love making lists. It's fun, and has made decision making a bit easier. But the bad part is that it's sort of addicting too. Now I find myself making quick lists of the pros and cons of absolutely everything! For instance, I just found out that I will be receiving one of those economic stimulus checks. Which is a good thing, I guess. I can certainly use it, but I don't really feel all that jazzed about it.


Pros:
- Woo hoo! Free money!

Cons:
- There's another bazillion we owe China.

Pros:
- At least if we are going to owe bazillions anyway, I'm getting a tiny chunk of the pie for once. And why should I worry so much about it since our fearless leaders obviously don't?

Cons:
- Uneasy feeling in pit of stomach.





This picture popped up when I googled "Economic Stimulus Check."



So did this one. I'm sensing a theme here.




At least I can add it to my new transmission fund. I should be able to get that fixed soon, thank goodness. I miss my crappy little Honda. My mom loaned me her PT Cruiser to drive around while I save money for the trannie and I gotta say it's not real impressive, although it does have some nice features.

Pros:
- Good gas mileage.

- The radio works.

- The transmission works.

Cons:
- it's a stoopid looking car! I'm sorry, but it is. So upright and goofy! I feel like Minnie Mouse driving around in that thing. Like old timey cartoon music should be playing while I drive down the street whistling and wearing a hat with a flower on it.

- kinda hard to see out of the back window. It's like there's a blind spot on the right hand side.

- the air conditioning doesn't work.


I shouldn't be such an ungrateful brat, though. It was really nice of my mom to lend me one of her cars. Otherwise I'd be forced to hitch hike. She's a wonderful woman, my mother. I love her like crazy, but like everything else she has her pros and cons too.


Pros:
- very sweet and loving to me even though I was a breech baby who ripped her all the way to the rectum while being born. All the way to the rectum!

- gives me hope that I will still be as cute as she is at age sixty.

- always making deelicious cakes and muffins.

Cons:

- my God, the woman can nag!

- forever trying to decorate my pad in "the country look" which can best be described as lots of gingham and pictures of ducks.

- always making deelicious cakes and muffins.




Just kidding, Moms. Ha ha ha.



Well, at least I can always blog about her. Blogging is mostly a big positive to me (so creative and fun!) but even it has a few problems.


Pros:

- loads of fun to write blog posts.

- you get to meet so many hilarious and cool people.

- comments! Leaving them and receiving them, but especially receiving them.

Cons:

- impossible for me to keep up with day to day.

- it can be really hard to figure out how to end a post sometimes.

He Finds My Lack of Faith...Disturbing

Last night was trippy. My back was hurting, so I took half of a Vicodin at 9 PM and sort of putzed around in a happy little cloud until midnight when I went to bed. Then I had a panic attack.

Ugh, I haven't had one of those in ages. What happened was this – I was lying there under the covers listening to some music, eyes half closed and dreamy, when I started to experience a bit of cotton mouth, you know, very dry - so I got up to get a glass of water. I was just standing at the sink, sleepily filling the glass from the fawcett when it occurred to me that my throat could close up and I wouldn't be able to breathe. I'd seen that happen to a patient on one of those reality medical shows and it looked like an awful way to go. The doctors had to cut a hole in the person's neck to open up his airway but he'd still died. My heart began to pound in alarm at the thought that it might happen to me. In fact, it seemed entirely possible that I was having an allergic reaction at that moment.

Now I knew it was a silly. If I were going to have an allergic reaction it would have been immediately after taking the Vic, not three hours later, but you know how panic attacks are. (If you don't consider yourself lucky.)

I could picture it happening so vividly it was almost real - the horrifying feeling of my throat swelling up tighter and tighter, the desperate gasping for air, the frantic fumbling for the cell phone to call 911 and not being able to find it (I always misplace that sucker) and finally collapsing on the floor and dying, with my hands clawing my neck and my eyes bugging out of my head. Gah! Damn immagination! My heart was racing and my breath became ragged and a horrible feeling of doom descended on me.

"Doom, doom, doom," my brain bleated over and over, and the room became a bit spinny and I nearly fell.

But my rational mind recognized this as merely an anxiety attack, so I put my head between my knees and took deep breaths and told myself I didn't have time for this bullshit and it went away a few moments later. Freaky. They are so awful.

Afterwards, I got back in bed and started thinking about prayer. A panicky friend once told me that she prayed during her attacks, and she found that it helped hers to go away quickly. That led to me thinking about the time my grandma taught me the proper way to pray when I was a little kid. She showed me how to kneel in front of my bed and put my hands in the steeple position and recite this little ditty:

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Now I'm sure she meant this as a comforting thing as most people find comfort in prayer, but it terrified me. I spent a lot of time analyzing those lines as I was wont to do as a child. They made me extremely uneasy. I mean, if you break it down it's not really very soothing.


Now I lay me down to sleep --- okay this line was fine since it was true, although I never really liked going to sleep as a kid. I had terrible fears of being attacked by monsters, or possibly having a freezing cold, demonic hand reach out from under the bed and grasp my ankle and suck me down. Plus, it was just so boring to lie in bed.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep --- wait a minute, what exactly was I authorizing here? Was this really a good idea? I wasn't so sure. God seemed like a mean bully from the stories I read in my children's bible. He made a flood and killed everyone but Noah and some animals! He turned Lot's wife in a pillar of salt just for looking back at her old home! And he kicked Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden just for eating fruit from a forbidden tree. How unfair! Why did he put the tree of knowledge there if he didn't want them eating from it? The Sunday school teacher never did answer that one satisfactorily.

I knew I'd have gone straight for the tree. No snake would have been neccessary to tempt me. I was always getting into trouble for stuff like that.

After seeing the movie Star Wars, I began to picture God as looking like the Emperor, all shadowy with his face half hidden. Did I really want him keeping my soul? Heck no!

If I should die before I wake --- I'm convinced that these words are what initially started off my panic attacks. They set off gong sized bells of alarm in me. You mean I might actually die while I was sleeping? What the fuck? Why then were adults always poo pooing my fears of being killed by monsters during the night? Apparently it wasn't so far fetched.

I pray the Lord my soul to take – This was also disturbing. I pictured Jesus lumbering into my room with a hobo sack full of other people's souls, grinning dementedly at me as he prepared to pluck mine. And then what would he do with it? I knew my chances of getting into heaven were dubious at best, and besides, the way my grandma described the afterlife - full of choirs of angels playing harps and singing praises unto the lord as they flew around gold lined streets - well, frankly it sounded really boring. Almost as dull as church which was tortuously dull except for the part in Sunday school when we got to eat donut holes.

I knew I'd scream and fight Jesus if he tried to take my soul and he'd get pissed off and end up throwing me into the gaping jaws of Hell. Is it any wonder that I've had life long insomnia?

Even now that prayer strikes me as creepy. It didn't take long for me to substitute my own prayer. It went like this:

Dear God,

Please don't kill me while I sleep.

Thank you.

Your friend,

Prunella

(Although I just put the "your friend" part in there to butter him up, I was still terrified of him. Religion depressed me as a kid because I was convinced there was no way I'd ever be able to get into heaven unless my mom and grandma could persuade the angels to let me in. Otherwise I was screwed.)

I'm still not much for organized religion - none of them appeal much - but I do sort of believe in some higher power. Nowadays when I try imagining God I see him as looking more like Obi-Wan-Kenobi. The old Obi-Wan that is, not the hunky, Ewan McGregor version. (That would lead to blasphemous and improper thoughts!)

Yes, I am a huge Star Wars geek, thanks very much.

Anyway, maybe for the next panic attack I'll try praying. I know just how to start it off:


"Help me, Obi-Wan-Kanobi. You're my only hope."



**I guess this isn't a novel idea. Click

here

to read about a Jedi church in the U.K.

Ode to Juan Valdez

This is pretty much how my brain feels most mornings. I need some coffee.



My brain is like a lazy hobo
wandering around from place to place
babbling nonstop crazy nonsense
and swiging bum wine
till it collapses in a sodden heap
refusing to move and stinking up the joint.

And so I reach for the coffee
and make it extra strong.
Because caffeine works like a great big cop
who prods my brain awake with a swift kick to the ass
and a hissed suggestion.
"Get moving, Rummy!"

The Ballad of Paul and Prunella

Sitting here at my kitchen table
eating oatmeal and wearing a thong,
I think back on my recent trip to England
and wonder how it all went so wrong.

Cripes! Golddigging ain't easy
didn't know how hard it would be
all I wanted was money for a new transmission
and possible sex with Paul McCartney.

Meeting up with Paul was so easy
this is where it helps to be a cute chick.
He was backstage looking for a light for his ganja
so I sidled up to him, smiled, and flicked my Bic.

Paul was so friendly and a gentleman
I liked his crinkly, smiling eyes
As we spoke I hiked my skirt up
so he could get a good look at my creamy thighs.

We talked and laughed and flirted
as we sat back enjoying the pot.
I teasingly called him a total GILF
he winked and said he thought I was hawt.


But it was when he gently kissed my palm
that the flame between us ignited.
And when he asked me to accompany him back to his room
I answered, "Why, I'd be delighted."

And so we strode off hand in hand
into the soft spring night
Blissfully unaware in our giddy lust
that we'd soon be in for a terrible fright.



Paul and me strolling through London before the incident.


She confronted us as we walked through an ally
Paul's looney tunes ex-wife.
There was hate in her eye and crazy spittle on her chin
and in her hands she a held a very large (gulp) butcher knife!

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" she snarled.
"Step away from my husband, you skank!
I don't care if the judge says that we are divorced,
I haven't yet finished taking him to the bank!"

Paul got real mad then and yelled back at her
his face turned a bright shade of crimson.
In a shaky voice he urged me to run away fast
just in case she tried to pull an OJ Simpson.




Heather Mills showing her displeasure at seeing me with Paul.



Well, I am not very tough, not by any means
in fact I'm really quite wimpy
my only real weapon is a brazen smart mouth, so I said,
"Why don't you hop your ass on out of here, Gimpy!"

Bellowing with rage, she charged at me then
brandishing the wicked sharp knife
and I thought to myself, "what would MacGuyver do?"
God, I've watched way too much TV in life!

Paul managed just then to take away the knife
but the madwoman just wouldn't quit
quick as a wink she snatched off her peg leg
and began to pummel me with it!

She was quite strong and those blows really hurt
so in order to stop her attack,
I karate kicked her good knee out from under her
causing Heather to fall on her back.

Swooping up the fake leg I held it high above my head
like that guy in The Highlander movie,
and then I quoted the line, "there can be only one!"
because I thought it was funny - you know me.


The next thing I knew there were cops everywhere
and Heather screamed that I'd started the brawl.
They cuffed me and carted my ass off to jail
so I never did get to bang Paul.


Of course, there is a lot more to the story
but for now this is all you can know.
I've saving up all of the juicy details
for my appearance next week on the Dr. Phil show.

Fuck it

Fuck this no cussing bullshit!

Sorry, Mom.

A F**king Great Mother's Day Gift

I'm a grown up, dammit! And as a grown up I should be able to cuss like a truck driver in my own home if I want to. And I do want to, pretty much daily. There is just so much to cuss about in my life. Plus it's fun.

But it looks like I will have to start watching what I say. My mom has asked me to clean up my language as a Mother's Day present to her. Can you believe it? Here is how the conversation went down:


Me: What do you want for Mother's Day?

Mom: Oh, you don't need to get me anything, honey. You need to save your money so you can buy that new transmission for your car.

Me: It's not that bad, Mom. I can afford to get you something and take you to lunch. So what do you think you'd like?

Mom: No, no. I don't want anything.

Me: Mom! Come on.

Mom: Well, okay then. If you want to do something nice for me for Mother's Day, then what I'd really like is for you to stop using so much profanity - especially taking the Lord's name in vain. It hurts my ears and makes you sound uneducated. That would be the best present you could give me.

Me: Fuck, Mom! Wouldn't you rather have a pair of earrings instead?



I wonder why I love to curse so much? Neither of my parents did much of it. My dad absolutely hated bad language. He thought it was low class. My mom thought the same although every once in a while if she broke a dish, or stubbed her toe, she might cry out, "oh, hell's bells!"

When that happened my dad would be shocked.

"Really, Sarah," he'd admonish. "There is no need for that kind of talk!"

Thus chastened, my mom would look suitably ashamed.

My dad's favorite insult was to call someone a turkey. He was prone to road rage and loved to scream and complain about other people's driving, but the most he would ever do was roll down his window and shake his fist at the driver who'd angered him and yell out, "why don't you get off the road, you turkey!"

Hmmmm, now I'm wondering if he got that expression from watching the show Good Times?

I must have been about eight or so, the first time I heard some older kid utter the word bullshit. I loved it. It seemed so thrillingly bad.

"Bullshit," I'd whisper over and over to myself, liking the hissing shhh sound of it.

I always had an attitude problem at school, and muttering "bullshit" under my breath felt satisfyingly defiant.

"What did you say, young lady?" my third grade teacher would ask, glaring at me suspiciously.

"Nothing," I'd answer with an innocent face, but inside I'd be thinking, "heh, heh."


Ahh, the sweet memories of youth!


Well, anyway, it looks like those days are over. I promised Mom to clean up my language and I will. It's going to be hard though. I'm a verbal person who doesn't believe in bottling up feelings. So I've decided to come up with a few cuss word substitutes.

This is what I've written down so far:

consarnit

dadgummit

goldangit

horsepuckey

double dogdangit

tarnation

God's Nightgown!


For some reason, everything I can think of sounds like dialogue from an Erskine Caldwell novel about southern degenerates. Does anyone have any good suggestions?


Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you so cottonpickin' much!

Four Bitchy Poems About The Boobie Barn

Hang the DJ
I suppose I should start tipping the DJ better
so he won't play Air Supply songs when it's my turn to dance.
Passive-aggressive little punk!




She Does Not Bang
There is a girl at work named Paris
who dances like she's having a seizure.
Kind of jerking her limbs around and flailing about.
Really, she makes Elaine on Seinfeld look like a ballerina.
So I refer to her as The Epileptic
since I'm mean like that,
and also because she called me flat-chested.
Yeah Paris, your boobs are bigger
but bitch,
you cannot dance!



Mouth Breather
My boss is a mouth breather
his lips are never closed
even when he's not blathering.
He looks like P. Diddy
only goofier, if you can believe it.
Someday I'd like to kick him in the guts.



Wow, An Original Question
Customers, oh customers!
What the fuck is your deal?
Why are you constantly asking
whether or not my tits are real?

Springtime Freshness

According to Vogue, May marks the official start of Jesus sandles and electric blue toenails season.

My Plan to Get Out of Debt

Being strapped for cash really sucks, doesn't it? It seems like there is never ever enough. My debt refuses to get smaller no matter how much I pay on my credit cards. No sooner will I get one of them paid down then something will happen -- like my car's transmission will die, forcing me to plonk down $3000 for a new one. Since I have no savings to speak of it has to go on the plastic.

"Cha-ching, cha-ching!"

That's the sound of the good people at Visa tap dancing with glee on the shreds of my hopes and dreams.

It's truly shocking how much life costs these days. I can easily blow through a hundred dollars just filling up my gas tank and buying three measly little bags of groceries. Unbelievable! Do you know how long it takes me to earn a hundred bucks at The Boobie Barn? Well, only about an hour or so, but still, it's a hideous godawful hour. Believe me, the nights go by slooooooowly at work.

The obvious solution to these money problems would be to work more, I suppose, or get another job, but these ideas hold little appeal. My delicate, artistic soul cannot handle the nine to five drudgery of an office job. Been there, done that a million times. And I already spend way too much time at the strip club. Damn, it's a nasty place. I used to secretly delight in and be amazed by all the stupid drama that went on, but it got old fast. Now I barely even blink when a used tampon whizzes past my head as some pissed off stripper expresses her anger by throwing it at the smug faced manager. Gross, huh? Oh, the stories I could tell! Why they'd make you barf they would.

The thing is, how can one get more money without working or robbing a bank? I ruminated over this question for many days. Using a technique learned from watching the Oprah show, I envisioned myself with a brand new car, all my student loans paid off, and giving the finger to the credit card companies as I closed every last account. I asked the universe how to make this happen.

The universe never answered. That book The Secret is a total rip off! So I've just decided to get myself a sugar daddy.

This should work out fairly well though. Of course, I'm kinda picky. I don't want one of those run of the mill, idiot, record producer dorks who are constantly giving me their business cards and bragging about how they live next door to Tim McGraw. Ick! No, the man I'm looking for needs to be a creative type, cute, fun to be around, and super-duper loaded. Preferably a bazillionaire.

I'm thinking Paul McCartney would be pretty much perfect.



Back off, bitches! This sexy grandpa is going to be MY new sugar daddy! You guys can have Donald Trump.


Maybe you think I'm being unrealistic. Why would a big star like Paul want to spend time with an ordinary girl like me? Well, we actually have quite a bit in common.




-- We are both dedicated vegans, even though I cheat all the time by munching on cheese. Well, have you ever tried soy cheese? Bleh! Also PETA seems kind of stupid to me but if it pleased Paul, I'd be happy tag along with them when they throw fake blood on some fur wearing bitches. Heh heh, take that you rich hags! I mean....let's save the animals....yeah, that's it.

-- We both have a healthy appreciation for nature's finest green herb.

-- We are creative types. He fills the world with silly love songs, while I do my best to fill the web with stupid poetry.

-- I always tend to go for muscians anyway, I just usually bring home the young, skanky, penniless types. True, I've never yet been with a guy old enough to be my dad but hey, he's Paul McCartney! A Beatle! My third favorite after George and John. Ringo would be okay too if he'd shave off that scrubby facial hair.

-- Paul seems to go for plain-faced blondes with great racks and that pretty much describes me to a tee.

-- I'm younger than his kids but not so embarrassingly younger like say, Miley Cyrus or whatever the heck that girl's name is, would be. I'm a mature woman of the world! But if he wanted me to dress up like a slutty Catholic schoolgirl or something that would be fine.

-- I'm not interested in marriage at all -- gah, hell to the no! -- so I wouldn't be bugging him for a commitment. And I'm not a crazy ass gold digger like his last wife. A million or two would do nicely.

-- He'd never have to take me out to fancy parties. The jet set life doesn't interest me much. I'd be happy to hang out with him at his castle estate in the countryside, making up songs and crank-calling Heather Mills. That would be great!

-- Did I mention my rack? It's fantastic.


Yeah, Paul would like me a lot. His daughter Stella would probably hate me, but that poor little rich girl can fuck off. The old man deserves some fun and I deserve to pay off my credit cards.

So, my mind is made up. Instead of paying $3000 for a new transmission, I will head over to England to find Paul McCartney. It shouldn't too be hard. Years of watching bad television sitcoms has shown me that meeting a famous person is easily achieved by dressing up in a bell boy uniform and sneaking into their hotel room. Lucy did it. It worked for Marcia Brady too.

Oh sure, some wacky hijinks will probably ensue and various hilarious misunderstandings might make things a little more difficult, but it will all work out in the end. At the very least I'll get to meet Paul and possibly learn a "Very Important Lesson" which will turn out to be something really, really stupid, like all rich people are miserable and I should be happy being my poor yet spunky self, gosh darn it!

Good plan, huh? If for some crazy reason things don't work out I suppose I'll look into getting another job, but really I don't see how this could fail.

In Case You Were Wondering Why the Polygamy Wives Have Such Dopey Looking Hair

C'mon, you know you were. Even Meredith Viera couldn't stop herself from asking such a stupid question during her interview with them. They told her there was no signifigance in their tinny robot voices. Yeah right! They were, of course, lying. Allow me to explain how their hideous hairdos came about. The following story is 100% true! Ish.

It happened a few years ago. You see, I was time traveling back to the year 1969 to visit my groovy hippy lover and attend Woodstock, when something went wrong -- I'm not sure what. Maybe I zigged when I should have zagged -- and the next thing I knew I found myself lying on the ground, surrounded by a bunch of chicks wearing Little House on the Prarie dresses. At first I thought I'd gone waaaaay back to the 1800's or something but no, the women told me it was 1969. I was just at an FLDS compound in Texas instead of the dairy farm in New York.

I slowly sat up, feeling a bit dizzy. Time travel is hard on the body. The women gathered around, fussing over me and made me drink several cups of Mormon tea. My sudden appearance out of thin air had awed them. Between that and the red tee shirt I was wearing (the color reserved for Jesus) they were convinced I was some sort of an angel sent from heaven.

Well, I couldn't resist going along with it. "Of course, I was sent here by Jesus to check up on you people," I said.

Knowing it would take a few hours to reset the coordinates on my time travel thingee (too technical to go into here) and feeling hungry and curious about their beliefs, I said to them, "please bring me some food and tell me what goes on here."

"We are all sister-wives who love each other almost as much as we love our dear husband," said the one in the light blue dress.

"We are modest in dress and thought and do exactly what Dear Husband tells us to do," recited the one in a darker blue dress.

I tried not to be too judgemental, but as they revealed more about their lifestyle I started to get nauseous.

So I took a stab at reasoning with them. I talked until I was blue in the face about how marrying off thirteen year old children to old men was creepy and wrong. I ranted about women's rights, and asked what they thought happened to their sons after the older men drove them off, but you know how hard it is to change people's minds. They simply sat and stared at me, smiling like zombies, till one lady started muttering that maybe I wasn't sent from God after all. Maybe I was an agent of Satan.

The other wives began to look alarmed at this thought. It occured to me that I had better turn things around quickly, since I was going to be stuck there for a few more hours.

"You're right," I said to the disgruntled chick. "I was just testing you all to make sure you were holy. Good job!"

They relaxed then and I breathed a sigh of relief. Who knew what these whack-jobs would do to an agent of the devil? I had visions of being burned at a stake or thrown down a well, while these gentle women threw rocks at me and chanted, "Satan! Satan! Satan!" Thinking about it pissed me off, so I decided to fuck with them a little before I left.

"You know, sisters," I began. "The Lord is very, very pleased with you all. Really, you are doing so well. But there is one little thing.....well, it's your hair. He finds it quite frumpy."

Their eyes grew very big. "But...but we grow it long so that we may wash His feet with with our locks when He comes back, just like we are supposed to," a Laura Ingalls look-alike sputtered.

"Yes, He likes that part." I said. "But He finds those flat braids and buns you wear too boring. He wants you to add a little more ooomph and dazzle. Maybe some poofiness in the front." I thought about giving them some big Bon Jovi type hairdo, but decided that might be a bit too messy for them. They were very tidy and neat. A mohawk would have been cool, but they'd never go for it. I sat and pondered the humiliating hairstyles of my youth till it hit me. Of course! Vanilla Ice!




So I spent the rest of the afternoon puffing and fluffing and getting jiggy with their tresses. The ladies seemed to like their new do's, and I have to admit it gave me tremedous enjoyment to see them sporting lame ass, suburban, wigga hair in the front. Helll yeahhh!

"Word up, yo!" I said. "My work here is done and now I must leave you. Now remember, God himself has given you this hairstyle so you must never, ever change it no matter what your husband says."

"Goodbye, sister-angel," they called, waving until I disappeared into a cloud of sparkling red dust. By the way, time travel is fun but that red dust can really ruin an outfit if you don't watch it.

After that I went to Woodstock and took tons and tons of drugs, so I'd kinda forgotten about those poor, brainwashed FDLS wives and that mean prank I pulled on them, till they showed up on the news two weeks ago. It made me chortle to see their descendants still wearing that goofy style. Even though I do have a bit sympathy for these chicks, I'm glad they are losing their children -- the brainwashing has to end somewhere -- and that creep Warren Jeffs needs to go to jail.

Of course, while watching Larry King interview them (badly, when is that old goat going to retire?) all I could think about was how much I wished I could have convinced the wives to wear a mullet. How rockin would that have been?

Oh hello there, good people of blogland! My name is Velveeta and I am a very good friend of Prunella's. I told her I would post something as she is too crabby to do it. You see, she had very bad news. Her car needs a new transmission, which will cost her nearly $3000. This has made her veeeery, veeeery angry, and she has been cursing and throwing things all week. And the screams! I yi yi!

I told her chill out. I said, "buck up little soldier. It will all be s'okay. S'okay? S'alright? I say this in my tiny, hilariously high pitched voice. And I smile real big and encouraging like this.



See? And then what does she do but give me the finger and snatch my new weave off. It is a nice weave too. I just got it from the Britney Spears collection for 7/11.




(sigh) It is veeeery hard to be a friend to someone so ungrateful but I try I really do.

Why Do I Carry So Much Freakin Crap Around In My Purse?

This is my purse. It's not very big, but it's pretty damn heavy. That's no surprise, I guess, seeing how it is stuffed full to bursting with things that I really don't need to be carrying around with me. How does this always happen? Whenever I change bags I start off with nothing but my keys, wallet, checkbook, tampons, and maybe a lip balm, but somehow or the other I start to aquire things until it's as weighty as a boulder. My handbag is like my own private Sisyphus's rock, and someday it will crush me. Or at least cause major back problems.


Here is list of what I'm hauling around today besides the wallet, checkbook, cell phone, etc..

1. A hardback book. (I usually carry a book around with me at all times as I am terrified of being stuck somewhere with nothing to read. This one is called The Center Cannot Hold - by Elyn Saks and it's about one woman's struggle with schizophrenia. It's a really riveting read.)

2. Clear scotch tape.

3. Gum.

4. Earplugs. (I bring them to wear when I go out to concerts in an effort to save my hearing, but never bother to put them in.)

5. Hair trimming scissors. (Why are they in my bag? I don't remember.)

6. Kleenex.

7. 1 teabag, Lady Grey flavor.

8. Fruit flavored Mentos. (They are the freshmaker!)

9. My lucky rock.

10. A bottle opener/corkscrew/knife thingee.

11. Tarot cards.

12. 1 and 1/2 Lara bars.

13. Billy Bragg CD case (no CD inside the case).

14. My address book. (So that's where it was! I was looking for that sucker.)

15. A cheap bracelet from Target (just in case I feel a sudden need to accessorise).

16. Nail polish. (Why? You just know it's going to break and spill all over everything.)

17. False eyelashes.

18. A polishing cloth for glasses.

19. My purple librarian glasses without the case. (I lost it somewhere.)

20. A lucky blue dot torn out of a National Enquirer. You are supposed to rub it and it will bring money to you. Hasn't worked yet, but I am ever hopeful.

21. Dark chocolate covered graham crackers.

22. Junk mail.

23. Old lists of stuff to do that I probably didn't.

24. A box of homeopatic calming drops. I don't know if they work as I've never opened the box, but it's comforting to have them with me just in case I freak out or something.

25. An Itunes download of the Into the Wild soundtrack. I need to download that thing today!

26. Burt's Bees lip balm (my favorite).

27. A little skeleton figurine riding a motorcycle. (I bought it at Goodwill a couple of weeks ago for fifty cents.)

28. 17 ATM receipts.

29. 1 coupon good for $3 off dinner at my favorite Mexican restaurant (expired of course).

30. 1 little plastic grey alien figure that I bought for a quarter out of a machine. Her name is Gleep, and she often commands me to set things on fire.

31. My digital camera.

32. Assorted pens and eyeliners.



No wonder my shoulders are always sore! I just weighed myself holding this thing and it is five and a half pounds. I'm an idiot. And did you notice that there are no tampons in the bag? Naturally, the one thing that I would actually want to have with me when I leave the house is not there. Yep ladies, I'm the girl that hits you up for a pad or tampon or whatever you've got when you're trying to do your business in the restroom. Sorry about that.





Look at all this crud!




What's that, Gleep? I should do what?....No....no I couldn't! They are my internet friends..I..I..don't want to harm them. Please don't make me!

This made me laugh like crazy. What a rotten brother. I'm glad you tube wasn't around when I was a teen.

"In the butt" is now my new favorite phrase.

Evil Eye

There's a stye in my eye
and it's feeling quite bone dry.
How I wish that it would hit the road.
Because I can't stand the itch
my eyelid's swollen like a bitch
and it looks like it just might explode.

This stye resembles a fat pink tick.
To gaze upon it would make you sick.
Here is a letter that I wrote to it:



Dear Vile and Painful Eyelid Lump,

Go away! Go away! I've had enough of you. Why won't you leave?
I've been coddling you for days. I've soothed you with wet tea bags
and hot towels. What more do you want? You've teased me by shrinking
down and acting like you are leaving, but then roaring back the minute
I apply a little mascara and liner. Quit doing that! I need to wear
that stuff when I'm working at The Boobie Barn, as I suffer from
plain face syndrome. No one will tip a girl with no lashes and a mutant
third eyeball shooting out of her face. They are cheap bastards at the best
of times. And some jealous bitch dancer started a rumor that I had an outbreak of herpes in my eye. I bet it was Paris. I'm going to fix her good! As soon as you go away, that is. So go away!

I've got things to do. Now poof - be gone!


Thank You,
Prunella

P.S. Beat it!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



Dear Prunella,

Ha Ha. Suffer!

Kisses,

Your Stye


P.S. I see my dear friend period bloat also stopped by to pay you a visit.
Say hello for me, won't you?

A Public Service Warning

What can I say about Tom's Oven Baked Fries?
They are so very great.
The jalapeno and cheddar flavor is particulary good
which is why I overate....them.

If you try even one of these zesty little sticks
you'll want to shovel them all down your throat.
Your fingers will be coated with spicy orange dust
and your stomach will balloon out with hideous bloat.

BEWARE!

Her Boots Aren't Made For Walking

Well, my computer problems have finally been fixed. At least I hope they have (knock wood)! Being without it for a week made me realize just how very addicted I am. Don't ever leave me again, my precious, precious interweb!

Although, not having a working computer did force me to spend a little more time paying attention to my mom, which is a good thing I suppose. My mom is a fun lady. But, good Lord, the woman can talk! I mean, yeah I'm used to her nattering on and on endlessly, but when I'm surfing the net it's easy to tune out her chatter. It's sort of like hearing the grown ups talk on a Charlie Brown television special, all "Waaammph, waaaamph awaaaampha waaaamph." Requiring me to do nothing much except mutter, "yes ma'am," every once in awhile.

But without the cushioning glow from my monitor, I was actually forced to start listening to what she was saying. Apparently she knows every single thing going on in this neighborhood at all times and she worries a lot about terrorism and gangs.

I also noticed that she leaves the house early in the morning wearing a strange getup. She has this red, cape-like poncho with slits that she puts her arms through, a Britney Spears styled newsboy type cap and giant bug-eyed sunglasses, her usual mom jeans, and a pair of boots that look like something Wonder Woman would wear if she was a senior citizen. Those boots are sassy! Way too sassy for running errands.

"Where are you going in that outfit?" I asked her the other day. "You look like you're ready to fight crime."

She just stuck her tongue out at me and said, "wouldn't you like to know, Miss Nosy."

Now this is very unlike her, as she is usually happy to give you a minute by minute detail of her daily plans. It got me thinking and soon I deduced what was really going on. I think....no, I'm pretty sure my mom might be a superhero.

This is not a joke. I am dead serious. If you watch movies at all you know that it's common for superheros to disguise themselves as ordinary, everyday people. That way they can move around easily amongst the rest of us and no one will ever suspect them. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Here are my reasons.

1. My mom is a very virtuous person and a total do-gooder.

2. She disappears for hours during the day, saying she's going to the YMCA to walk or having lunch with her friends but that's an easy excuse, isn't it? Who's going to check up on her? And who knows what she's up to at night when I'm at The Boobie Barn?

3. You have to see this outfit! I think the bug-eyed sunglasses give her extra strong vision powers. Perhaps she can melt steel with them too. That poncho looks like a cape. Every super hero needs a cape. I wish I could post a picture of her wearing this ensemble but she won't let me. She did, however let me snap a photo of the boots. Tell me these boots aren't made for kicking bad guy ass in cushiony comfort. They are sassy!



My mom modeling the sassy boots in question. She knows how to strike a fierce pose!


4. For an old lady she is very strong. She's constantly pushing the furniture around in order to vacuum under beds and dust under the TV. The one time I tried to move my couch from one room to another, I threw out my back.

5. Well, that's all I have so far but I'm sure some more will occur to me.

Just a minute ago she came dowstairs dressed in her action garb, saying she was heading out to go shopping at TJ Maxx.

"Yeah right," I said. "I'm on to you, old lady. You're really on your way to cleanse the mean streets of downtown Nashville of villiany and wickedness, isn't that right?"
And then I sang a little theme song I made up for her (to the tune of Spiderman.)

Sassy boots! Sassy boots!
She's a hottie in sassy boots.
She fights crime.
All day long.
And then at night she hits the bong.
Look out!
Here come her sassy boots.


And instead of getting annoyed with me for joking that she smokes marijuana - she never would in a million years! it's against the law! - my mom just smiled mysteriously and said, "Maybe I am. I'll never tell."

She is. Her name is probably Sassy Boot Woman.



Want to see which superhero you are? You can take this quiz to find out. I'm Catwoman.

I Have Angered the Internet God

Gonna teach this sucka a lesson!


I don't know what I did, but my internet connection has been awful all week. Very, very slow and then it will go out completely for several hours. Whenever that happens I fall to the floor in screaming convulsions of anger, foaming at the mouth and cursing in tongues. Geez, when will this agony end? Should I sacrifice a goat or something? I set a glass of wine and a bowl of Cool Ranch Doritos in front of the modem last night, and promised to quit shoplifting lip balm and bowling balls if the internet would only please, please, come back to me. It's my precious! When I woke up this morning I noticed that the wine was untouched, but the Doritos bowl had been licked clean, and the connection has been a bit better. What does that tell us? That the great cyber god is a teetotaler who enjoys flavored tortilla chips, that's what!

Or else that my dog, Shirley, got into the chips. Whatevs.


*By the way, when I tried to picture what an angry web deity would look like, the closest I could come was a miffed Mr. T in a dress. Do you see it, or I'm a way off the mark? What do you think He would look like?

Kumquats!

Ever tried them? These little suckers are delicious. They are like little tiny oranges that you can pop in your mouth and eat, peel and all. It's a very tart/sweet taste. And I love the name kumquat. It sounds like some sort of pelvic exercise, doesn't it?

"After having a baby, Jan did fifty kumquats a day to tighten up."

Or it could be used as a term of endearment.

"Come to me, my little kumquat."

Or maybe I'll use it as an alternative to cursing.

"Oh kumquats! You kumquating beeyotch!"


Hmmmm. Okay, I don't really know where I'm going with this. Oh well, what else is new, huh?

8 Reasons Yesterday Rocked

I woke up early, but not at the crack of dawn like I usually do. The sun was shining and the birds were chirping and I was full of energy and good cheer. For a minute I was puzzled. What was different? Why had I been able to sleep in past sunrise? Then I realized that my neighbor's dog was not barking (1) for once! Maybe some investigators from the Humane Society had shown up and arrested my bitchface neighbor and I'll get to watch her being led away in handcuffs on an episode of Animal Cops. Or maybe someone had thrown the poor mutt some poisoned meat and put him out of his misery. Either way it was nice to finally have a night of uninterupted sleep!

I bounced out of bed and made my breakfast. Fresh squeezed orange juice and whole grain toast with vegan cream cheese and candy sprinkles (2). Yum yum.




Hot tea and Adderall were also important parts of this nutritious breakfast.


Mister Sprinkles makes everything taste better. All food should come out of a clown shaped container if you ask me.



After breakfast I took a quick shower but avoided shampooing my hair. I'm letting it get good and dirty before I dye it back to my favorite shade of hoochie blonde. A hairdresser gave me this tip. Apparently the grease and oil help keep the bleach from eating holes in your scalp. Plus filthy hair makes it is easier to keep my tard bangs swept to the side(3). It will be such a happy day when those things grow out.


Since I wasn't scheduled to work at The Boobie Barn(4) I decided to go shopping. Although I only had $19 in my pocket that was plenty as my favorite places to shop are Goodwills, Thrifts, and Dollar Stores. Check out this cool Chewbacca notepad(5) I scored. Perfect for a girl who loves wookies and making lists.



Chewbacca is my favorite. You know, it always bugged me that at the end of Star Wars, Han and Luke got medals but Chewie didn't. What was up with that?


On that note, this video (6) made me laugh.




And later while practicing my normal afternoon yoga routine, my chakras suddenly fell into place and I attained enlightenment(7) accepting the divine within myself and becoming one with the universe. That was pretty sweet.


Namaste! My mantra goes something like this - Krishna, Krishna, Gesundheit. Try it sometime.


I ended the day by attending a Lesbian Spanking Festival(8) with my good friends Lindsay Lohan and Paula Abdul. Unfortunately I don't have any pictures to post from there. I brought my camera with me but.....I got busy. Sorry.


All in all yesterday was pretty perfect. That gypsy curse my family has been living under for generations appears to be lifting. Finally! Good thing I met that psychic who lives behind the dumpster of the 711. She's the one who clued me in. A thousand dollars to get rid of it seemed a little excessive to me, but it looks like that money was well spent, huh?


**One of these things may be a lie. Can you guess which one? I'll post the answer in the comments.

Tucksworth and Tacos

Let's say you have a monkey. A batshit crazy one, but he's your pet and you love him. Then one day he disappears and you receive a letter informing you that he's been kidnapped. You'd probably assume it was true and try everything you could to get him back, right?

Well, not if the monkey in question was Tucksworth.

I was suspicious from the first when I got that ransom note. For one thing, it was written in fingerpaint on the back of my electric bill. Also, it was smeared with Cheetos dust and grape jelly, two of Tucksworth's favorite snacks. In fact he enjoys eating them together. The only other person I know who likes that kind of gross combination of foods is Britinia. I wondered briefly if she might have had something to do with his disappearance but she denied it, and I realized she was too dumb to plot anything as complicated as a kidnapping. Sheesh, she can't even manage to get a decent weave!

And then there was the picture that had been stapled to the note. Remember the one, of the monkey getting electrocuted? It didn't really look like Tucksworth, but I was so horrified I didn't question it. Upon further examination I realized it had been cut out of Stop Vivisection Now! pamphlet. I'd been duped. That rotten little ape hadn't been snatched at all! He just felt like running off. The whole kidnapping thing was a scheme to get me to send him more Adderall. I guess he really developed a taste for it after downing my prescription that day he freaked out. I was pissed off that he'd pull something like this, but not really surprised. Tucksworth loves drama almost as much as he loves Cuervo Gold and fine Columbian.

Alert reader Helen let me know what was going on after she spotted him in this Taco John commercial. Thanks Helen!





Look at him ride that dog!

I didn't think I'd be seeing Tucksworth again now that he's famous and all, but he crept home late last night full of remorse and begged me to forgive him. He looked really tired and his fur was all straggly. All the money he made from his acting job is gone. Lord knows what he spent it on. My mom didn't want him back. She hates his mess and thinks he's too much trouble. He IS too much trouble and a spoiled rotten brat besides, but it's hard to resist those sad, pleading, monkey eyes.

This morning I woke up to find the cats tails tied together and my mother furiously scrubbing cream cheese and peanut butter off of the TV screen. I guess I'd better have a talk with him at some point. I'm too exhausted to do it right now, though. The new managers of The Boobie Barn installed a mechanical bull and they are making every dancer learn how to ride it so we can participate in Buck Naked Bullriding Fridays. I'm not very good at that sort of stuff. I can't seem to stay on for more than three seconds. Plus it gives me motion sickness.

I scrawled this poem in the employee rest room last night.



The thing about Buck Naked Bullriding
is that it makes you bruise your shins and throw up your tacos.
Other than that it sucks.

3 Threes

Three Reasons My Neighbor Deserves a Dagger in Her Midsection

1. She leaves her dog outside 23 hours a day and he barks his head off.

2. She never answers her phone or responds to any complaints about her barking dog.

3. She wears super tight, ugly sweatsuits with the word Juicy written on the butt and has major bitch face.



Three Reasons The Boobie Barn Should Be Set on Fire

1. It's been taken over by a new management team even worse and more moronic than the last, hard as that may be to believe.

2. They have decided to install a mechanical bull so we can have something called Buck Naked Bullriding Nite. Hee haw!

3. Five words. Frat boys with water pistols.



Three Things I Hope I Can Do Today

1. Get rid of those stubborn mildew stains in the shower.

2. Take back my horribly overdue library books.

3. Refrain from stabbing my neighbor and setting The Boobie Barn on fire.

The Devil and Miss Jones

Do you ever feel like there is a devil on your shoulder urging you to do bad things? I have one of those. He looks like Richard Dawson from the 70's when he was on that show Match Game, except with devil horns. It's so damn hard to resist Richard. For one thing, he has that charming accent. It always makes whatever foul thing he's suggested sound perfectly reasonable, almost a shame not to do really. And he calls me "luv" in that cheeky way of his. He's just so good at wheedling.

For instance, this morning he recommended that I chop up and snort my daily Adderall pill.

"Go on then, luv," he said with a grin. "You've been good for quite a while now. You deserve to have a little fun."

"Quit it, Richard," I said, uncomfortably aware that the very thought made my heart pound with anticipation.

He knew he was getting to me and pressed his advantage. "Well just swallow a couple more then, three or four. One won't do anything much. You need it. You're very muddle minded lately."



Tell me, could you resist a suave motherfucker like this?


I'll admit I was super tempted. I opened the bottle and stared with longing at those gleaming orange and white pills. I poured out four and held them in my hand, considering.

But luckily I have an angel on my other shoulder who convinced me to only take one by shaking her head and giving me a stern look. She doesn't always win, but she did today. Thanks, babe.



My angel. She has her work cut out for her.


By the way, if your cable carries Game Show Network then I urge you to check out The Match Game. It's so amazing to see the stars smoking while they play the game, and the humor is so naughty. I swear the other day I saw Betty White give Charles Nelson Reilly the finger.

The Ballad of Lil' Stripeyhead

I'm watching you.



Let me tell you a tale that begins right here
in a house in Tennessee
about a plucky, scruffy, tiny cat
by the name of Lil' Stripeyhead Lee
and this kitten she lived with no other thought
than to eat Friskies and scratch at her fleas.

Till the day that my mother decided to come
to my house in Tennessee
and bring with her a cat who is hideously fat
and bad tempered to the highest degree.
This cat's name is Mae and she's older than dirt
and therefore not terribly pleased
to make the aquaintance of another feline
especially one covered in fleas.

Stripey was thrilled, from the first, to meet Mae
and she sniffed her new friend with glee
"I love you, let's play!" she seemed to say
while sharing her Chicken of the Sea.
But day after day, refusing to play
the old cat would smack her and flee.
Yes, day after day, the old biddy named Mae
rejected these friendly pleas.
Hissing and pissing on Stripeyhead Lee.

But this little furball, for one so small
is determined to a remarkable degree.
And she will not rest till she succeeds in her quest
to make Mae her playmate it seems.
"Love me!" she cried, "I will not be denied!
Quit trying to run off and flee.
From my love you will never be free!"
Sniffed Mae, "Get away from me."

Now a day won't go by that I don't hear a cry
from the frustrated Stripeyhead Lee.
And the sun never beams without bringing me screams
from the pissed off Stripeyhead Lee.
And as much as she's tried, Mae just cannot hide
from this kitten, this kitten she must live beside,
in a house in Tennessee
with this stalker named Stripeyhead Lee.



Love me, bitch!"



Halp!