You are getting sleeeeeepy

You do not notice that I haven't posted since Monday.

You waaaaant to send me money.

You waaaaaant to send me naked pictures of yourself.




Note to those of you who haven't succumbed to my mail-order hypnosis: My little buddy Conor showed up at my door again on Thursday, this time bringing another park resident, his friend Jacob.

He introduced me to Jacob, and I said "I'm sorry, I don't have any kids you can play with!"

Conor answered, very sincerely, "Oh, I didn't come over to play - I just wanted you to meet Jacob."

Thirteen, of course, brought his little puffy social butterfly ass to the door while this was going on, because everyone should be petting him, right? I declined to let the boys pet him, as I don't want Thirteen that close to the door, and I am not inviting the kids inside. That's the last thing their parents need to worry about, some new park resident having their unchaperoned children in her house. Do I really give off that harmless a vibe to kids, or do the parents around here just do a piss-poor job at teaching the whole concept of stranger danger?

That's okay. Once the neighborhood tots see me out on my porch in shorts this summer, they'll be so traumatized they'll never even set foot on my driveway again.

A kid'll eat ivy too, wooden shoe?

I'm going to be totally random with you tonight, and you're going to like it. I just know it. Dirty whores.

• I struck sushi today, and I didn't even have to drive as far as Grand Rapids to get my chopsticks full of green roll and teriyaki salmon. Turns out there's a nice little place in Holland, about 15 miles south of me. That's right - after I have my miso soup and kani, I can head right over to Dutch Village Theme Park and Wooden Shoe Factory. It doesn't get much more pulse-poundingly exciting than in West Michigan, folks. But when I'm properly attired for the Tulip Festival and you're not, who'll be laughing out their ass then, buddy? Huh?
  
  
• How many times do you think I can go into Bed, Bath, and Beyond, use the shiatsu massage demo chair for about ten minutes, and then leave without buying anything before they ban me from the store?
  
  
• Color me completely awestruck by how long a roll of toilet paper lasts with only one person (and the occasional visiting urinator) in the house. I had no idea!
  
  
• The little fucking bastards precious kittens knocked my dominatrix leg lamp onto the floor a few days ago. Luckily, she is a sturdy leg and no harm was done save for mussing her cat o' nine tails.

I'm making my own meme now. Here's the tag: do it iffen you wanna. How's that for pressure?

• Last/current movie: Last movie watched, Jackie Brown (rental). Currently watching nothing because I'm on the computer, duh!
  
  
• Movies sitting out unshelved and in view right now:
  Deliver Us From Eva (rental)
  Crumb (rental)
  Hairspray (rental)
  Aeon Flux (the complete set of cartoons)
  Natural Born Killers
  Weeds, Season 1
  Waiting for Guffman
  Kung Fu Hustle
  Me and You and Everyone We Know
  
  
• Last/Current book: Last read, Villa Incognito by Tom Robbins. Currently reading: Make Your Own Damn Movie! by Lloyd Kaufman (this is some seriously hilarious shit, totally worth reading even if you have no intention of making a movie)
  
  
• Books lying about unshelved:
  Flickr Hacks
  PHP and MySQL for Dummies
  Apache, MySQL, and PHP Web Development
  Screenwriting for Dummies
  Digital Photography Expert Light and Lighting
  Complete Manual of Typography
  
  
• Last/Current CD: Last CD listened to was Alice Cooper Special Forces. Currently listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers Californication.
  
  
• CDs scattered about willy nilly:
  Tom Waits Alice
  Snoop Doggy Dogg Greatest Hits (Death Row)
  Joss Stone Introducing...Joss Stone
  The Cars Shake it Up and Other Hits
  Candye Kane Diva La Grande
  Rob Zombie Past, Present and Future
  

Ape-ocalypse Now

Won't you be my neighbor?

This morning, I actually had to get up to an alarm - can you imagine? Yes, yes, I hear your collective hearts bleeding for me. But it was important, seeing as I had an appointment to visit the accountant at H&R Block for the final word on my unlubricated ass fucking tax debt. To be sure, the IRS will still be up to the elbow in my poop chute, but at least it's not up to the shoulder like it was when I figured it myself. When you're about to be anally raped by the government, all you can do is think in terms of inches, as in, how can I get fewer inches of spiky steel stiffy up my fear-frozen fart funnel?

Of course, all this combined with a trip to Meijer to fight the hordes of feisty retirees for gummable foods (I don't really need gummable food...I just like to be mean to the other shoppers) had me quite exhausted, so I stretched out on the bed (which, magically, becomes a couch when company arrives) and zonked out.

I'd been asleep for at least an hour when I was awoken by someone knocking on the front door. Normally, I sleep right through this, even though my bed is a foot from the door. I've missed several deliveries because I've slept right through a grown man's knock. But someone this afternoon was persistent, and who knows how long the knocking had actually been going on before I woke up and noticed it? This must be important. I hollered "Just a minute!" and hopped into my pants, still pretty out of it and in real danger of falling over with one unjeaned leg. My hair was, of course, pointed in at least four distinct directions, but this sounded too urgent to wait for grooming.

When I opened the door, there stood before me a very earnest little chap, probably 8 or 9 years old, wearing a blue bicycle helmet. I wondered if perhaps I was still dreaming, or if those flashbacks they always warned me about were finally happening. He looked up at me and seemed taken aback for a second, which is actually a natural response, given how I look when I'm freshly awakened. Although I figured him for a candy salesman - and there are a lot of those in the park - I didn't spy a box of chocolate bars anywhere.

He finally worked up the nerve to talk to me. "Hi, um, I'm new here. Well, actually, you're new here. My friend Robbie used to live here, and I noticed your car here, so I thought I'd come over and meet you."

Slightly amused, I told him my name was Katy and he introduced himself as Conor.

"Nice to meet you, Conor," I told him, thinking that would be the end of the conversation.

"Nice to meet you too. Do you wanna meet my mom?"

You will all be proud to know that I refrained from asking, "Is she hot?"

Actually, it didn't even occur to me. I thought, geez, is she outside with him? Is he thinking of taking me over there? Is he going to get her and bring her over? With my eggbeater hair and my ice-cream-for-breakfast breath, I told him I wasn't feeling too well and declined the offer. He then asked to pet Thirteen, told me where their house was, and departed.

I wonder if his mom even knew he was coming over here, or if he just took it upon himself to foster friendship with the new neighbor lady. Maybe he overheard her looking out the window, muttering, "That bitch in the sunglasses and leather is simply dreamy!" Or it could be that the neighbors are all wondering just what's up with the chick who dresses like a lumberjack and has all the cats in the windows, so they called over the cutest kid in the bunch, gave him five bucks and said, "Go find out if she's a lesbo!"

All in all, I have to think none of the parents in the park would let their kids come anywhere near my porch if they knew this was on the other side of the front door:



Musician's oath

The fruits of my drunken labor

The magnetic poetry I ordered when I was drunk is now here. So far, the only set I've opened (there are five sets...told you I was drunk!) is the movie quotes collection.

It's St. Patrick's Day, and frankly, this Irish whore is saving her strength up for the hoisting of the pint. I don't even know if that's true or not, but there is a kick-ass band from Flint playing downtown tonight - Rev. Right-Time and the First Cuzins of Funk. If I feel like it, I may wander over there later and get my groove on.

So, in lieu of my usual paragraphs of blah blah blah, I leave you instead with the wisdom of the magnetic poetry.



It's a Wonderful Airplane




To Have and Have Animal Crackers

Frighteningly enough, "Freebird" IS an option

Dear Internet as a Whole,

I always thought the whole "You should never drink alone" line of thinking was perpetuated by prudes with small minds and stick-filled behinds. What's the difference between tossing back a few to yuk it up with your buddies and tossing back a few to yuk it up with yourself? I think I'm pretty good company when I'm drunk, quite the conversationalist, if a little handsy. But Tuesday night, I discovered that a compelling reason to have a friend close by while the wine flows is that you have the safety net of someone there to stop you.

Stop you from what? Whatever. Anything that will potentially mortify you when you sober up. Unless, of course, it's really more fun to let the drunk go on and see what could possibly happen next. That's the stuff of legends. Drunks are fun. When they're not vomiting.

I wasn't puking drunk Tuesday night, but after reading in the tub for an hour with a giant glass of wine, and then washing that down with its twin, I was definitely loose and undoubtedly up to no good. When I say "Tuesday night" what I really mean is "early early Wednesday morning" because this was happening after 3 o'clock. So, obviously, there was no one I could really bother in my state of liquid gregariousness - even drunk, I know better than to wake people up, especially those who have to work in the morning. Don't wanna put my friends and family through the hassle of needing to beat the shit out of me.

So, it was left to me to amuse myself. Luckily, I happen to be very easily amused.

First, I found myself drawn by the allure of Amazon.com. Online shopping while inebriated can be a hazardous activity, but luckily, when the smoke cleared, I had done nothing more harmful than ordering some magnetic poetry. It's always a relief to peek at my inbox when I awaken and not find any confirmation emails for emergency overnight shipping of the complete 12-volume DVD library of A&E Presents: Holy Men's Hemorrhoids - A Mystic Interpretation.

My biggest shame of the night was yet to come.

There was a dangerous combination brewing deep in me, a volatile mix of buzz and boredom. I wandered out into the living room, sat down on my bed, and started wading through the early morning infomercial swamp. I can still hear cheesy steel drums in my head from all the times the Girls Gone Wild promo was shown. There is no mercy in 4 a.m. television programming. Losing patience with the regular channels, I decided to check out the on-demand offerings.

None of the movies looked good to me, and when I tried to pick an HBO show, I found that Charter actually expected me to have a subscription to HBO to view the programs. The nerve! It was slim pickin's as far as I was concerned, and I was on the verge of turning on the PS2 for some all-cheating GTA: San Andreas when I saw...the shameful thing, the thing I oughtn't talk about here, the thing I should never admit unless in the company of a licensed therapist. This definitely falls into the category of "It seemed like a good idea at the time..." And even worse, the people who send me my cable bill will see what I purchased, and they will know I'm a total weirdo, and they will in all likelihood tell everyone they know. How long will it be before the whole world knows? That's why I thought it was just a better plan for me to 'fess up to it right now, get it out of the way, self administer a healthy dose of preemptive shame.

I...I...

I ordered the Karaoke Channel.

Did you know there was such a thing as the Karaoke Channel? I sure as fuck didn't. They sucked me right in with that one. They have hundreds of songs online at any one time, and when you pick one, it plays the musical accompaniment and displays the lyrics onscreen. What kind of dork subscribes to the Karaoke Channel?

This kind of dork, apparently.

If you left your computer right now, pulled your pants up, marched down the hall, fetched a fairly recent dictionary, and looked up the definition of pathetic, I'm pretty sure you would be shown the picture of a wine-soaked fortysomething woman, sitting alone on her bed at 5:30 a.m., singing Borderline and Don't You (Forget About Me) while staring at the TV. See also: Karaoke Channel, losers. At least when I watched those three episodes of General Hospital Wednesday I had company (hi, Squirl!).

General Hospital and the Karaoke Channel. Maybe I should christen the house, like a yacht but with much much cheaper champagne, and call it The Guilty Pleasuredome.

State of the Cotillion address

So many things I want to do.

So many things I have to do.

Only about half of each list is actually getting done these days.

No matter how grounded I keep thinking I am, the truth is that I'm still going around in a bit of a daze. This is not to say that I don't carry on in a spectacularly half-assed manner even on my best days, but right now, it's even worse than usual. I swear I'd lose my tits if they weren't attached (and slapping me on the knees as I walk - oh yeah, forgot to put on a bra, too!). People who see me are probably convinced I'm about three staggering steps away from living out of a shopping cart. You know what, though? They're totally out of line there - it's five steps, fuckers. Five.

I sleep a lot. There's no way to put an exact number on it, because there's a fine line between flipping aimlessly through the TV channels and actually sleeping, but I'd be willing to bet I'm asleep at least as much as I'm awake, if not more. The cats alternately love it, because I'm in one spot with enough room for them to cuddle and/or attack me, and hate it, because I'm not up feeding them. There is neither rhyme nor reason to my sleep schedule, because I usually sleep for a few hours, get up for a few hours, go back to sleep for a few more hours, and so on. Obviously, that will all have to change once I get a "have to leave the house and go to it" job. Because I doubt I will find any boss, no matter how understanding, who will say things like "Oh, just sleep when the need hits you!"

I'm still sleeping in the living room, because my bed is also the couch right now, but I'm working on rectifying that (although I will miss sleeping with the giant TV right in front of me). I've got furniture picked out that I want for the living room, so my couch can go in the bedroom and become a full-time bed, but I figure there's no point in moving brand-new furniture in until the painting's done. The bedroom is almost completely painted (I just need to add the accent trim), and then I can order my chaise for in there. Yes, I want a fainting couch. No, I need it. My inner southern belle demands it in the sternest of tones. Once the living room is painted, I can have them ship me my love seat and another chaise (yes, I will have two fainting couches in the house - what if another southern belle drops by and gets the vapors?). Hopefully the lure of new furniture will be the carrot on a stick I need to get the painting done. Who knew you could paint with carrots?

This morning, I also made myself get up and take care of an odious task, even more odious than passing by one of my large bathroom mirrors while I'm naked. I paid a visit to a nice accountant at H&R Block and gave her my tax information. See, I've always done my own taxes before this year. But my financial and residential statuses were both extra complicated in 2006, and when I filled out my own 1040, as well as forms for Michigan and Illinois, I kept coming up with figures that could only serve to fuck me harshly in the ass with a pointy crab fork. After the accountant went through my paperwork, it appeared I'm still getting reamed, but for less than I'd calculated. The difference was...hmmm...enough to buy a love seat and a chaise.

All in all, even though a normal person would have a lot more finished, my point is that things are getting done around here. Hell, I might even get the crazy notion to groom one of these days. But don't hold your breath for that one.

Short stack

• I went to a great little diner for breakfast the other day, whereupon I ordered a short stack of banana walnut pancakes. About halfway into the heartier-than-thou meal, I realized that I was forcing each bite down, and while the bananas tasted good to me, everything else was hitting my tastebuds like poop on a skewer, and my gut felt like I'd swallowed the Pacific Princess' anchor. At that point, I had to finally admit that my long-tenuous relationship with pancakes had to come to an end; I just don't like 'em anymore.
  
  
• Ordering DVR service from my cable provider was kind of a last-minute decision, but now that I have it, my TV viewing has taken on a whole new, shiny dimension. Never again will I miss a crucial second of General Hospital, and my sister and I can sit for hours and analyze the shit from the week before. We can also pause and go frame by frame to catch the actors making the stupidest possible faces. It's glorious, just fucking glorious.
  
  
• I'm in the process of painting my bedroom right now, and my hands look like I jacked off the Incredible Hulk:
  
  
  
  Well, maybe I did.
  
  
• Looking around town, I see a lot more freaky people than I used to see when I was growing up here. Seems I will have to make an effort to stand out as a true nut job around here these days.
  
  
• I'm guessing you all probably lie awake at night, wondering just what I do with my social time now that I'm suddenly a swingin' single. Well, baby, here's a taste of my high life:
  
  
  
  I can sense your intense jealousy from here.
  
  

Whoreville Redenbacher

It's hard for a working girl to shuck off the greasy, well-used condom of her past and strive for something better, something nobler, something far removed from swallowing sausage and spitting spooge. In some cases, it's her heart that holds her back, for she was meant to be a whore, and deep down, right next to her IUD, she knows it. Sometimes, it's the money that keeps her saggy ass on the streets - it's hard to say "no" to cash up front, even if it is only two dollars at a time. Tax free, that adds up after a few months, you know.

Me? I stayed in the game for too long because I was terrified of one fierce pimp named Livey.


Fo' shizzle.

When I first moved to Illinois, Livey saw me coming a mile away (although, with her one eye, she wasn't quite sure from which direction I was approaching) and hurried to greet me and offer me her "benevolent" protection. Being the tender young whore that I was, I was flattered by the attention and her seeming kindness to a stranger in town. She made me feel special, and even though I knew I wasn't the only girl turning tricks on her behalf, I was certain that Livey and I had something different together, a deeper spiritual understanding that transcended the roles of a jizz-spattered hooker and her sponsor.

I guess I should have known better, especially the first time she bitch slapped me when I only brought home three fiddy for the entire night. She's just stressed out, I told myself. A pimp's got a lot on her mind. But the slapping started to happen more often, and I started to see less and less of Livey when she wasn't there to collect her money and/or bitch slap me. I continued to deceive myself until the night I came in early from my shift (it's always prudent for a girl to come in off the street when she can't feel her own labia anymore) and found Livey making a bunch of familiar promises to some new whore in town, plying her with high-octane catnip and Mogen David. Dejected, I made up my mind right then that I needed to get out of the game and free from the clutches of the vicious little tortoise-shell pimp.

Easier said than done. When Livey caught wind of my plans to fly the cooze coop, she cornered me in my room and let it be known in no uncertain terms that her lack of front claws would not prevent her from cutting me open like a whore-shaped Jiffy Pop bag.





For a few more weeks, I stayed on to work, terrified of what might happen if I disobeyed Livey. You don't really know fear until you've had a flatulent one-eyed cat hold a straight razor to your throat. Essentially, I was her slave at that point.

So what happened? How did I get to Michigan without incurring the pimp's wrath?

Well, truthfully...I don't think Livey actually knows I'm gone yet.

I knew that leaving a dangerous thug like Livey would require a cunning plan and some inside help. Secretly, I amassed a huge stash of the most potent catnip available on the grey-striped market, and I recruited several confederates within the organization to make sure that Livey was kept 'nipped up enough pass out. Anytime she would wake up, she would be told it was the same day, and then given enough 'nip to fall into a pimp's slumber again. The night I left, I knew it would arouse suspicion if I carried a suitcase or boxes of any kind, so I picked out a few of my most sentimentally valuable items (of course, that includes the rhinestone bicycle) and tucked them into my rectum for safekeeping. Then I fled, ran like the wind, put the pedal to the metal, vamoosed.

For all I know, Livey still thinks it's February 20th and is completely unaware that I haven't brought her any money in weeks. Just the same, it'll be a while before I stop looking over my shoulder, jumping out of my skin every time I see a tortie perched in someone's window. I hook in disguise now, fearing that Livey will find me and fuck me up. Do you have any idea how hard it is to turn tricks while wearing a Groucho nose and glasses? Kids, stay in school - don't end up a paranoid, pussy-whipped whore like me. If my cautionary tale can save even one of you from a fate similar to mine, I'll feel like all of this was somehow worth the trouble, worth the agony, worth the heartache.

Now, can someone please help me get this wingback chair out of my ass?

Shopping the light fantastic

Perhaps I shop with a different eye than everyone else (I don't mean the brown eye - I think everyone shops a little bit with that). Sometimes I see products and displays that just make me stand, awestruck, for a few minutes, like I just wet my pants and don't know what to say about it. Of course, then I remember that I have a camera phone, and through the miracle of technology, I can share my trips through the store with You, the Internet as a Whole.

I was browsing the merchandise in Target a few weeks ago when I happened upon this sign:



Now, those of you who are normal (I know there must be at least a few of you) will look at this and say, "So fucking what? A girl with a purse, and a stupid 'cha cha cha' tagline. What's your problem?"

My problem is that I cannot see "cha cha cha" and not preface it with "diarrhea" - it's something I can't help, much as I can't change the tide or keep my desk organized for more than 15 minutes. And since the advertising folks at Target weren't accommodating enough to actually put the word "diarrhea" on there, all I can think of is that the girl is carrying a purseful of...diarrhea, cha cha cha. That's just gross. So why does she look supremely pleased about it? Is she planning to launch the contents of her purse at a romantic rival? Come to think of it, that would be pretty sweet. Diarrhea at ten paces, to the death.


This afternoon, I was wandering the aisles of the dollar store when a rather, um, unusual cleaning product caught my eye.




When I see "red rocket," all I can think of is the South Park episode where the boys are jacking off Stan's dog and chanting "Red rocket...red rocket!" So, seeing this in the store only brought questions to mind, like "Is this made from dogs' penises, or is it made to clean dogs' penises? And since dogs constantly lick their own penises, how much cleaner could this shit get 'em?" Also, why is the little alien guy so fucking impressed by the cleaner/degreaser? If his civilization is advanced enough for interstellar travel, don't you think they have something even more advanced than this to polish their dogs' penises? You can't tell me he wasn't bribed.

If you think this is bad, just wait 'til you see my photo essay from the All Weiners, All the Time warehouse.

Lazy Bucky's quickies

The fun part will be looking at this tomorrow and thinking, "What the fuck did I mean by that?"

• I got my first speeding ticket, ever, the day I brought the cats to Grand Haven. We'd already made it into Michigan and I felt like I was in the home stretch. Guess I was kinda driving like that, too, when I saw the state trooper pull out of the median and turn his lights on. I steered into the right lane, and he followed. Well, shit fire. He was a pleasant enough fellow, and when he saw that my driving record was virginal, he ticketed me for 75 in a 70, which would generate no points on my license (unlike the truth, which was that he clocked me doing 84). Seriously, it's a miracle I've never been ticketed before - especially in Illinois, where the speed limit is 65. I regularly zipped through that trip at 85 most of the way. Perhaps I need to amend my lead-footed ways. Or get a radar detector.
  
  
• Now when I want stuff beyond gas-station snacks, I have to Go Into Town. Doesn't that sound country as hell? "I have to Go Into Town. You want me to fetch you another bolt of that fine gingham?"
  
  
• Friday was scrambling down the hallway this morning, and I saw Eeyore (all 18 years of him) race up and jump over him, long ways, and keep running. Fucking jumped over him. I think someone is having a second kittenhood. Also, Friday and Thirteen are starting to figure out what catnip is for. Outta sight, maaaaaan.
  
  
• Today, I gave myself a Major Award:
  
  
  
  That's right - it's the Dominatrixxx Leg Lamp!
  
  I have the feeling that if I put this baby in the window, the neighbors won't snow blow my driveway anymore. (Did I mention that my new neighbors cleared my driveway for me after that nasty storm last week? They kick ass.)
  
  
• THE UGLY FUCKING CURTAINS AND VALANCES ARE GONE, ALL OF THEM!
  
  
  
  
  
  They are all currently in a box placed conveniently next to the road, where some nice men in a big truck will take them away tomorrow to be ritually sacrificed, for the aesthetic good of mankind.
  

Three-ring lunch

The tale you are about to read is completely true, except for the parts I blatantly fabricated.

For the entire time I lived in Illinois, Circus Kelli and I had been talking about getting together for lunch sometime, but we hadn't actually done anything about it. Finally, on my last Friday in Illinois, we made plans to meet during her lunch hour. I'd picked the classiest joint the uppercrust had to offer - of course, I mean a Long John Silvers/Taco Bell combination restaurant. Diarrhea on a checkered platter. Well, to be more accurate, diarrhea from a checkered platter. In either case, ain't no better way to get your diarrhea, folks.

Now, you know what people always say about meeting someone you know from the Internet. All that talk of pervert and deviant and serial killer...yes, I'm sure all those things are being said about me. But I'm only copping to the first one. It was with a great sense of trust that I met Kelli in person, because how harmful could someone be when she drives the Blameless Mommy Van? She certainly looked angelic enough:






We had a great time at lunch, being stupid and laughing a lot. But then, after my third shrimp and a quarter of the way into my second slab o' fish, I could sense that something was slightly off. The whole room seemed to tilt and the walls began to breathe, each wall with its own plastery set of lungs. The napkin holders were too busy throwing dice to give a rat's ass, and I had the uneasy feeling that the ketchup dispenser was planning a mutiny, against what is still unclear, but its sense of malevolent discontent cut through the greasy air like a frisbee through whipped poop. About the time I thought to comment on how very odd that was, everything went dark, and I remember wondering who the hell turned off the lights.

When my eyes fluttered open again, I realized that I was in the back of a van with my wrists duct taped so as to extend my arms straight out on either side. There was this noise I kept hearing...ssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhp-click-ssssssssshhhhhhhhp-click...what the fuck?

My head was murky as week-old piss, but it finally dawned on me that Kelli was measuring me.

"Are you measuring me for a coffin?" I asked in a groggy voice that was much calmer than I felt at the moment.

She looked up sharply, obviously not expecting my consciousness quite so soon, and then she burst out in laughter that was rather serial killerish, in my opinion. "So, just because you met me on the Internet and I drive a van, I must be a demented murderer? Is that it?"

"Well, that and the fact that you drugged me and now have me taped up in the back of that very van," I countered as she continued to measure me. "You mind telling me what this is for, then, if it's not for a coffin? Trash bag, maybe? Oriental rug?"

"It's for your costume, " she offered, not looking up from her work.

"My costume? What kind of weird fucker are you?" I tried to pull free of the duct tape but I was still too weak to put forth any kind of tangible effort.

"You fool!" she hissed, letting the tape slam back into the receptacle. "It's the Circus! The Circus needs new blood!"

"Damn, now you want my blood?" Can't say I was too fond of that option, either.

"It's just an expression," she explained patiently, in the kind of voice people normally save for conversations with the severely retarded. "The Circus needs some different performers. We can only trot out Sweet Pea's symphony of farts so many times a night before she needs a nap. And then a burrito. So I've made it my mission to hunt down some new faces that we can put to work."

Oh, no! I was being sold into clown-white slavery! Stalling for time as I formulated a plan, I asked, "So, what is this costume you're fitting me for?"

Kelli smiled in a cheerfully demented way. "Think Penelope Pitstop, climbing out of a very, very tiny car."

"Noooooooooo!" I shrieked like Vader when Padme died. "You can't put me in that much hot pink all at once! It's against the Geneva Convention."

She laughed killerishly again and said, "If you don't like that costume, your other option is that we put you in your chaps, paint a bullseye on each of your ample ass cheeks, and invite members of the audience to throw cactus plants at you."

A mere mortal might have begun to make amends with the Powers That Be at this point. I never got to consider that option, because at that moment, a faint buzzing sound could be heard, an odd sound, like muffled, synthesized flatulence.

"What the hell is that?" Kelli demanded as I began to chuckle. "Are you farting in my van? I just had these seats cleaned, you know!"

Now it was my turn to laugh. The giggle was on the other foot. "Did you really think I'd come to this meeting unprepared, Ringmaster? That I wouldn't have a backup plan?"

"The only backing up you'll be doing is into an elephant's tusk," she snarled, but I could tell I'd put her off balance.

"Homing device," I told her, then elaborated, mostly to hear the sound of my own voice. "I have customized butt plugs, you see, and I maintain a prespecified amount of pressure on my buttplug at all times. Oh, yes - my sphincter is a thing of wonder, like a trained sand worm. So when you drugged me into unconsciousness, and my talented sphincter let slip its magical grip, the trusty butt plug automatically sent an SOS and coordinates to my personal rescue crew, the Eaton Posse. They'll be here shortly, Ringmaster. Best for you to just let me go now."

Kelli was fuming by then, trying to decide whether or not I was bluffing. I was getting warmed up to my own speechifying, so I continued on, "Tell me something - how can you, in good conscience, kidnap Circus slaves in this vehicle and still call it the Blameless Mommy Van?"

She abruptly stopped fuming, whipped out a utility knife, and deftly cut my wrists free of the duct tape. Then, before I could react, she flung open the rear doors of the van and shoved me out onto the ground.

"Oh, my god!" she exclaimed from her perch in the back of the van. "I can't have anyone as stupid as you in my Circus! You're untrainable."

I looked up at her, not comprehending. She threw her hands up in the air, exasperated, and yelled, "It's Flameless Mommy Van, you fucking retard. Flameless! Geeeeez!" With that, she slammed the doors, and a few seconds later, fired up the engine and nearly ran me over in her haste to exit. It was like she couldn't get away from my dumb fast enough, just in case it was contagious.

Sometimes being stupid pays off, because the whole posse thing was bullshit. The only magical qualities my butt plug has are the flashing lights and its ability to play Funkytown.