So, I'm planning to take off for Flint in about an hour, that I may be there for Black Stone Cherry's headlining gig at the Machine Shop tonight.
Do you think I've packed a single thing for the trip yet? Fuck, no! Not unless you count the jammy pants that are still in my suitcase from the last trip to Flint. I was awake until 4:00 this morning; surely you'd think I might've at least put my makeup in its little zippered bag or something, but no. And see? I'm still not packing; I'm typing this.
Hmmmm...now I have the urge to fuck around with my iPod and make some playlists for the road. The theoretical road that I'm in no danger of driving on anytime soon.
You think this is bad? You should see how I act before a trip I don't want to take.
Back soon. Please don't anybody get naked until I'm home to see it!
The vagina is the ideal environment in which new life can gain purchase. Babies are made there, dreams begin there, the echoes can be deafening there, and was that just a vagina monologue I heard? Yes, the vagina is a mystical, magical, hypnotic garden of wonders, but like any other garden, when the beaten path is beaten no longer, that path grows over.
I have just such a horticultural experiment going on in my panty-clad laboratory. While I've always thought of myself as something of a plant killer, these brambles just won't stop a-growin'! I'm talking, of course, about the late-in-life second hymen. Its existence is a well-documented scientific fact (don't look it up; I expect you to just believe me). Understand that this is a totally accidental overgrowth; I mean, really, do you think I'd plan something like this? But there it is, and here I am, and my new plant friend and I just need to find a way to co-exist until growing season is over. Dear lord, I hope growing season is over soon!
While I wait for the harvest to begin, it hardly seems appropriate for me to refer to it in such an impersonal manner - it's lodged in my vagina, and for better or for worse, that makes us friends for now. At least very familiar acquaintances. As such, I feel as though a name is in order, so that my new hymen doesn't just feel like some twat-bound object.
There was a new arrival in my house this weekend; I couldn't be prouder.
No, I haven't adopted a kitten, nor have I given birth, nor have I brought in an exotic slut mistress/housekeeper (though I am currently interviewing applicants for that position). All I did was open the door and let the Red Rocket in.
The Red Rocket? you say. But gosh, Katy, we'd rather put knitting needles up our asses and then lick them clean than hear about the power tools you keep in your nightstand drawer. Have you no sense of decency? Is there no modestly left on the internet?
Relax, you nervous fuckers, I'm not about to start whipping out my electric twat kazoos; all that would get me is a lot of emails about the dangers of combining excessive moisture with frayed wires, and who needs that lecture for the 92nd time?
You'll have to take my word for it, but this Red Rocket does not get shoved into any of my convenient love openings. But, theoretically, if that did happen, the case on this wipes clean with no trouble at all.
If you need me, I'll be surfing the Web from my bedroom, accompanied by the gentle melody of The Nubbly Backdoor Jackhammer.
These little fuzzballs are farm cats who use my friend Bob's house as a headquarters. I would love to take the grey one in the last picture, but he's male, and I don't want Friday to get his dressy little nose out of joint and stop being a momma's boy. He takes these things rather personally.
In addition to the batch of kittens pictured above, there is also an even newer litter, but it was nearly impossible to get a non-moving picture of them with my camera phone. However, this li'l tortie really seemed to like me a lot:
She wanted to climb up my leg, and then settled into my lap for an extended nap. She's not old enough to purr, but I sure am, and I did. Now I'm very torn: On the one hand, I really, seriously don't need any more cats. On the other hand, the tortie is female, which might make less of a rivalry in Friday's jealous little mind. When she's a bit older (her eyes and ears can't have been open for long at this point), I may bring her for a visit to test the waters.
Yes, it's true, and I'll be the first to admit it: My name is Katy Barzedor, and I'm addicted to pussy.
Well, bugger me timbers, I knew I was just spreading myself wide for an assfucking when I bought that Amy Winehouse ticket on the black market (well, eBay, but close enough). While I've been pretty sure it would happen for a while now, it was just confirmed in a statement from Amy's management that she is canceling all her U.S. and Canada dates this fall to "address her health issues" (she and her hubby were in his-and-hers rehab, but apparently have checked themselves out of the facility and into a hotel, where they are currently sparring).
Amy, Amy, Amy...I truly hope you can regain some control of your life. I'll gladly suck it up and eat this overpriced ticket if it means that you will gain some weight and stop fucking overdosing.
Please stick around and make more songs like this one:
Next thing I'll be buying an apron and a Jell-O mold
Just when I don't think I have any cherries left to pop, somebody comes along and punches a hole right through another figurative hymen. Tuesday night was just such a night, where I ventured out and did something I've never done before.
First off, I was hanging out with a new friend who is neither a sibling of mine, nor has she ever been married to one of my siblings, so that makes the evening unusual in and of itself, considering the company I've been keeping of late. But that wasn't the really freaky part, oh no. It's what we did with those two cute Asian girls that gave me my most recent deflowering:
Seriously, I'm 42 and have never had my fingernails done. So, we went out and did that, and pedicures while we were at it (I have to say, I gripped the armrests like a sissy and giggled and almost peed my pants when she was buffing the bottom of my feet, yes I did). But somehow, in all the other girlie things that have gone right over my head over the years, I didn't realize what a great occasion a manicure/pedicure is for gabbing. If we could get this done someplace with hors d'oeuvres and cocktails, that would truly rock the mighty rock; I'm sure places like that must exist, but I don't know of any around here. Who can get us a drink with our nail polish?
I managed to fuck up my nails and have to get retouched before we left, because I'm just not used to how long they stay wet and vulnerable (sort of like sorority girls). Therefore, I think it's a good idea for me to take a picture now, before I further damage the goods:
What? I got my own drink after I got home.
I kind of think this makes me an official girl, and anyone who doesn't agree gets slapped across the face with my dick.
When I was making my departure from the Hookers and Crack Motel in Flint on Saturday morning, I spied a piece of litter in front of my car that didn't quite look like a Mickey D's fries bag.
Upon closer inspection, I confirmed my suspicion that this night deposit was a bag of a whole different kind.
I refused to inspect the hood of my car, fearful that I might find cheek prints or hand and knee prints or dangly nipple prints. It's been raining for a few days now, so I'm pretty sure all the cooties have been washed off the Cruiser by now, if indeed it was used as a love prop for a business transaction.
After viewing these pictures repeatedly for editing and posting purposes, I feel the need to take a shower. In bleach.
Notes from the seedy underbelly of a kinda nice neighborhood
Katy Barzedor, reporting live from the Hookers and Crack Motel in scenic Flint, Michigan...
I'm not exaggerating; a bunch of people got busted here a few years ago for dealing drugs and for prostitution, all out of this lovely little building. So, of course, this seemed like just the place for me. Maybe I'll even make two bucks before all is said and done. I've spent a bit of time cataloging every potential jizz stain in the room. Ew, just found another one, right under my elbow. Oh, well; nothing a little anti-bacterial soap can't cure.
It's been a busy busy trip, but I'm getting to see just about everyone who was on my wish list, so I'm pretty happy about it. Yesterday, I had a wonderful visit with Snickers and some of my in-laws; it makes me exceedingly happy that I can continue a warm relationship with them, because let's face it - in-laws you love and like are rare indeed. I spent some time with my friend Shirley, but didn't get a chance to see her daughters, who are nieces to me in every way but actual relation, so I was a little sad about that. They grow up too fast behind my back.
Last night's dinner was at Sagano, the local Japanese steakhouse, with Arjay, Julia, and their three munchkins (this was the first time I met their gorgeous daughter, who was born earlier this year). Arjay managed to catch three shrimp when the chef flipped 'em; I didn't catch any, unless you count the one that fell between my eye and my glasses. We talked and talked and gorged ourselves, and then their younger son (is he three? Four?) decided he and I were going to hold hands. Now, granted, much of the hand holding led to his trying to pull me out of my chair so we could go look at the lion statues outside, but you know what? At this stage, I'll take hand holding where I can get it, by gum. It was damned cute, and if you don't think so, then I'm pretty sure somebody flushed your soul down the crapper.
Today, I wandered through the office where I used to work, where people took one look and then ran screaming for the fire exits. No, actually, I got a lot of squeals (happy ones, not the kind you hear when a man is tied to a tree and anally violated) and rapid-fire catching up (I haven't seen most of these folks in a year and a half). It was a lot of fun, but there were a lot of people I missed seeing; I'm thinking I'd like to make another trip next month with more advance notice, so those who want to see me can make plans, and those who don't want to see me will have time to hide under their desks before I get there.
I also got to meet Balulah's new baby boy, who was born on the 8th (and happy birthday to Balulah herself tomorrow). Like his big sister, he is perfect and adorable. I hung out there and saw them, Mr. Balulah, and Balulah's mom and sister. Also, her mom's new Boston Terrier/Pug mix (yes, I'll post pictures when I get home and upload them) spent an inordinate amount of time trying to nurse on my arm. I was going to stop him, and then I realized it's the most action I've had in a while, so I let it go. I have dog hickeys on my arm. And no, there will be no pictures of that. Oh, and Balulah, I hope you find your TV remote sometime this month!
It's been a great visit, but I'll be glad to get my hands on the pussies tomorrow. I mean Eeyore, Friday, and Thirteen, of course. You sick fuckers. I miss my kitties.
Well, it's back to the Great Jizz Hunt; hope y'all find some jizz this weekend, too!
'Tis off to Flint I go I'll eat at Sagano And Badawest Is still the best Out on Corunna Road
No, really, I'm going for more than the food. But, I'll have to admit, the food makes the deal a little sweeter.
I will see some friends and family that I haven't seen in way too long (and meet some new babies that my friends had the nerve to birth while my back was turned). Supposedly, my hotel has high-speed internet, so I'll try to post my adventures from the road. That said, I really hope I don't have too much exciting adventure on the road. I had enough of that the other day on the way home from the movies when I got a ticket for expired plates.
Oh, completely off topic here, but did I mention that Squirl and I saw Hairspray on Monday? We laughed our silly asses off (luckily, so did the other ten people in the theater), and then when we got up to leave, Squirl danced all the way down the aisle and tossed her empty popcorn bag into the trash in time to the music. Hell, the music was so catchy that even I almost danced. Almost. And then I got a ticket.
Anyway, yes - I'm going to Flint in a few hours, and I'm not even packed. So maybe I'd better go do that shit, huh?
I'll be dreaming of a Big John's #25 half, no olives, no oil. And a Boston cooler from Halo Burger. There's serious doubt as to whether I will lose any weight on this trip.
Holy growling baby faces, Batman! I got my hair blown back by a bunch of little boys last night, and I liked it.
The last time I saw Black Stone Cherry live, I'd never heard of them and they didn't even have a CD out. But they sure made an impression, this quartet of barely-out-of-high-school rockers with a sound beyond their years and a rhythm section that would jump start King Tut. That was a few years ago. Fast forward to my hearing them on the radio last summer, and purchasing their CD, then proceeding to play the fuck out of it. Now cut to last night, wherein I drove up to Muskegon to catch BSC open for Saliva at a club called Cadillac Jack's. No offense to Saliva (I know one of their songs, Click Click Boom, and I like it a lot), but they were not the main attraction for me; my mission was to see if the lads from Kentucky could still burn up the stage the way they had last time I saw 'em.
There was a Grand Rapids-based band opening the whole show, a group called Pop Evil. They put on a short but fun, energetic show; the cute little lead singer even took his shirt off and stood up on the railing to sing (after which he declared that his legs felt like he'd been up there pooping). I even recognized their single that gets some local play:
The bar is set up in kind of an odd way for live music, as it's a long, narrow room, and the stage is on one side, rather than on the far end. I decided to just stand up by the stage, since I didn't plan to stay for the whole show. It worked out well, as I met some folks while we were waiting, and we hung out the rest of the time I was there. That's the one thing I really dislike about attending these things alone: if I need to get a drink or go to the bathroom, my spot is gone. But last night, I had somebody to save my place while I wandered off, and also some conversation between shows, so it was even a little more fun than it would've been.
When BSC took the stage, the girl I was talking to said, "Wow, they are young!" And they are. They're really just babies. Babies who make a joyful and raucous noise.
What can I say? The guys are all monstrously talented at their instruments, and lead vocalist Chris Robertson (who also trades lead guitar duties with beatifically baby-faced Ben Wells) has a voice that starts right in his balls and doesn't stop until it hits you right between the eyes (or the chin, depending on your preference). By the time their hour-long set was over, I was a sweaty but thoroughly satisfied mess...god, I needed a smoke right about then!
It was so hot crammed in by the stage that I decided to go with my original plan and split after BSC played. I've just about got myself talked into going to see them in Flint at the end of the month, where they will headline and play much longer than an hour. I'm confident I can find my CD by then (I looked for it last night to no avail) so I can get their scribbles on it. I think that show is five bucks to get in, so everybody meet me there. No, really...just drop what you're doing and meet me at the Machine Shop in Flint. It'll be worth it. I'll even wear the assless chaps.
I leave you with a video of a great BSC song, Hell or High Water:
It's Monday morning; if you can't tie two coherent thoughts together, why should I?
When my eyes opened this morning, the first sight I beheld was Thirteen, on my drafting table, standing up and very purposefully pushing my lamp over. Then, when I got up and wandered into my office, I found that someone had snapped the bulb off the dominatrix leg lamp. The way I figure it, the cats want me in the dark so they'll have the advantage. I'm a bit afraid. Hold me.
I very nearly had an out-of-bowels experience while driving the other day: Barreling down the road, and the van in front of me turned right...then whipped around and right back out in front of me. I mean, right fucking in front of me. By feet. There were cars coming at me in the other lane, but there was nothing I could do except yank my car over to the left as hard as possible, and then just as hard back to the right to swerve around the fucktard. I just missed him, and just missed the car coming toward me in the other lane. The only reason I can think that it was even possible for me to pull off that maneuver successfully is the time I've put in playing the various versions of Grand Theft Auto. Now I feel like I should practice some more.
Digging Prince's 3121 CD a lot right now. Of course, Amy Winehouse is still getting daily plays (I can say with some confidence that Back to Black is my favorite CD of the summer), and I got a best of Tito Puente CD that's in heavy rotation. Mixed feelings on White Stripes' Icky Thump; it just didn't grab me right off like Get Behind Me Satan did, but it was interesting enough to bear further spins. Perhaps it'll grow on me. Still waiting for my copy of Myth Takes by !!! (pronounced "chk-chk-chk"). More danceable music for someone who can't dance. Go figure.
Thanks to Laura for pointing me to one of the most hilarious videos ever, French and Saunders' spoof of Gone With the Wind. Just when I didn't think it could get funnier, then the last scene came along and nearly killed me.
Festive Petulance (self portrait), acrylic, 8" X 10"
Last night, I finally decided that this sucker was done and I slapped my signature on it. I've been working on it since June (this one and the companion to the Whore Clown, but he's not done yet). This is the closest to realistic I've ever tried to paint; I just wish the colors showed better in the photo than they do (and also that you could see texture). But I figured, if I screwed up a self portrait, only I could be offended by it!
Now it's back to the clown portraits, I reckon. If you need me, I'll be squeezing into a tiny car with about 15 other clowns, er, artists.
Some days I pray for peace and prosperity Other days, I'd just like a sammich. And if we could talk to the seagulls, Get 'em not to piss on my hand? That'd be really top drawer, Top drawer, indeed.
I could fill a jar that's not there with your empty promises But then I'd never have room on my shelf For your pack of lies And all those vials I used to catch The venom dripping from your words; Time to clean house.
Everything's better with Blue Bonnet on it But never let me catch you with the butter in your pants. Hell's bells and whistles, I could never figure out what all those knobs are for; I'm gutshot gunshy guttersnipe blue... Thanks, my good man, I'll have the sunset for one.
(All photos were taken at Chicago's Field Museum on July 21, 2007, and have absolutely nothing to do with any of the text in this post)
I spent last evening in the presence of a true legend.
Of course, I mean my sister Squirl, just off the plane from Alaska (and still remarkably fresh!). And while I was basking in the glow of her flash-frozen squirliness, we also managed to attend a debate featuring none other than The Cock of the Walk himself, Ron Jeremy.
(If you don't know who Ron Jeremy is, you should be ashamed of yourself. Please go read his Wikipedia article, and then come back.)
Ron Jeremy and a pastor named Craig Gross are on a short midwest-eastern U.S. tour called The Porn Debate. Although I will readily admit to having viewed perhaps more than my share of porn, I don't necessarily disagree with what Gross does, and neither does Ron: Gross has a ministry that specializes in helping people overcome porn addiction. He's not trying to shut down the industry, he just wants to offer help to those who feel they need it. So he's not a bad guy, and he's not foaming at the mouth or anything. Likewise, Ron Jeremy isn't some idiot sleazebag who's standing at the podium yelling, "Porn RULES! I'll fuck anything that moves! Who wants to see my MASSIVE SCHLONG?"
Ron Jeremy, penis safely tucked behind his podium.
Tardist, Theirzal and I drove to the show together, and we got there early enough (and waited in line for what seemed like a Twinkie's half-life for them to open the doors to the back bar) to grab a table right in front of Ron's side of the stage. I'd figured before the show that the place would probably be packed with porn fans, but I'd forgotten that I'm in west Michigan now; there were lots and lots of people there who were vehemently anti-porn. Personally, the debate wasn't especially the reason I was there; I just wanted to drink in the aura of a Porn Legend in person, and I've been a fan of Ron "The Hedgehog" Jeremy for as long as I've been watching hardcore (which, if I really want to depress myself, would be about twenty-four years). I'm not sure if Pastor Craig has the same kind of cult of personality in his world, but he definitely had a strong following there, holding his flyers that read, "Don't spank that monkey!" on one side and "Stop flogging that dolphin!" on the other.
Squirl grabbed a cab at the airport and met us at the club, arriving during Ron's opening remarks, so she didn't miss a lot of the debate. Basically, since Ron agrees with what Gross' ministry is doing, they bring Gross' personal views on porn into the picture so they actually have something about which to argue. I have to tell you, I was more hot after the pastor's opening remarks than I was after anything the porn actor had to say; Gross read off a list of the most perverse movie titles he could find, and after hearing the word "anal" in endless variations falling from his boyish lips, I must admit that if I'd stood up at that particular moment, the gap between the chair and my happy clam would have looked remarkably like when you break off the first piece of hot pizza and the mozzarella cheese streeeeeeeeeetches but doesn't break.
Give it to me, baby - Uh huh, uh huh!
Gross' opinion of porn is that it just shouldn't exist, because it isn't healthy for anyone of any age, and he considers magazines like Maxim and Stuff as "training wheels" for the unrealistic expectations of pornography. He believes masturbation is wrong, that the porn industry does nothing for women but degrade them, and that fantasizing about someone other than your spouse during sex (with your spouse, of course) is unfair to your partner. I don't really have a problem with his opinions - he's absolutely as entitled to think all those things as I am to think that porn is a great companion for the dateless or for couples who want to get new ideas. My only problems with anything he said were when he would make sweeping generalizations about the adult entertainment industry, or when he kept trying to link Internet kiddie porn to the adult film industry. He also doesn't seem to think that any woman could actually like porn, or enjoy anal sex (again with the buttsex...I think he was trying to hit on me).
When Ron made his opening statement, one of his points was that some women do indeed enjoy taking it in the coal chute. He said he didn't want to embarrass any of the women in the audience, and then asked for a show of hands by any women "who know someone who said someone she knows likes anal sex." A great showing of hands shot up, followed by some hearty laughter from everyone, including the pastor. Ron proved that his brain is every bit as huge as his schlong (which, in the final question of the evening, he informed us was 9 and 3/4"), as he took notes point by point on Gross' opening statement and then rebutted each in turn. ("Rebuttal"...is that going back for more anal?) He refused to take the "kiddie porn on the Internet" bait, and pointed out that the adult film industry has no control over who posts what on the Internet, and that anybody in the room could commit a crime, videotape it, and post it to YouTube; would the porn industry somehow be responsible for that? He also showed a letter from the FBI thanking one of the adult film studios for helping them to track down and prosecute a child pornographer; it seems the porn industry has no more tolerance for pedophiles than the rest of us do.
That manila folder is crammed with clippings that Ron used to bolster his arguments, although he had to have the moderator read aloud some of the ones with smaller print. Hey, maybe all that jacking off does have an effect on the eyesight!
When the formal part of the debate had finished, assistants with microphones roved the room and took questions from the audience. Some of the folks had a hard time getting to their point, but I do remember one girl who took issue with Gross' remarks about how porn studios entice actresses into more and more perverse sexual acts by making a sliding scale for pay according to the difficulty or potential discomfort of the deed in question (and he, not for the first time in the night, took the opportunity to use the phrase "double anal" here); the questioner pointed out that in any business in a capitalistic society, the rewards are generally higher for greater effort or risk, so why should the adult film industry be any different?
There was a pretty girl in a gorgeous white dress sitting at our table, and she disappeared as the microphones traveled the room. I realized that she had gone over to one of the mikes, and her question began, "I hate porn, I really really hate porn..." and went on to be not so much a question as a laundry list of why she was so offended by filthy films and images. Ron was talking to her, very respectfully, from his podium, when a few porn fans in the audience started trying to drown her out. Ron got pissed and yelled, "Hey! Let her talk! She has a right to hate porn!"
So, all things considered, it was actually a pretty civilized affair; I came away with a new appreciation of Ron Jeremy from the neck up. There was a meet and greet afterward, but we decided to leave when we saw the long line; Squirl had, after all, endured about ten hours in airplanes and airports, and she was good and ready to go home by that point. I apologize for the crappy quality of the pictures, but I'm always nervous about taking my D50 to shows, for fear of being asked to *gulp* put it back in the car. So, it's Kodak C530 photos for you.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go find DVD copies of Faster Pussycat Fuck! Fuck! and Honey We Blew Up Your Pussy 2.
Find her finer, sneak up behind her, wrapped like a mummy 'til you finally unwind her
Oh, yeah - it's time for another all-out round of "What Search Terms Did You Sick Fuckers Use to Find My Blog?"
Of course, people continue to find me daily with terms like "labia," "butt plug" and "kielbasa queen," but they also manage to surprise me once in a while.
spider monkey butt...Sorry, he's only a cat who looks like a spider monkey. Go spank your monkey somewhere else.
tiny fuck...What's tiny about it? The time spent fucking? The size of the genitals used? Are we talking about further eroticizing Hobbits?
figurines erotic...That's just plain wrong. Unless you mean my Girls of Sin City collection, then you're spot on. Well, okay...the Spiderman Mr. Potato Head is pretty sexy, too.
dick fuck...Now dick tired.
peepee porn...The older I get, the more I urinate. Do you think I could turn it into some kind of career?
giant fo shizzle...I'm not even sure what that means, but it's got a nice ring to it.
how to photoshop jizz...When you can't be bothered to make real jizz. Actually, you don't really have to use Photoshop to get fake jizz; just leave a bottle of shampoo on the counter, let your cat knock it over, and voila! You have fake jizz all over the bathroom sink.
greasy urine...Frighteningly enough, this is not a new search term; in fact, I see it with almost as much regularity as "kielbasa queen" shows up in my searches. Why is it greasy, and why are so many people interested in reading about it?
hermione's boobs and vagina...Sorry, I'm not in possession of those. Anyway, the only Hermione I know has teats, not boobs.
ass tonguers...For the anus craver in you.
punished husband...Isn't that redundant?
bondage diagrams...For those knots they didn't teach you in Boy Scouts.
gumby's mom...has got it goin' on.
skirted schoolgirl boys...I hope they're little plaid skirts. With saddle oxfords.
mom lets me dress as a girl...Well, she tried, anyway.
pussy haters...Is this like the updated He-Man Women Haters Club?
sunburned tits...They smell just like bacon.
penis fish...Poor penis fish. His wife won't put out, and now he's got a bad case of blue gills. Or am I getting that wrong? Is it, perhaps, fishing for penis? What would you use for bait - vagina-dipped worms?
flintstones smut...Yabba Dabba Do Me!
labia play...in three acts.
granny anus...and grampaw Scrotum.
schlong pics...I've told you over and over again that I do not have a penis, and yet you keep coming here looking for it. That's it - I'll be over to your house later with a 12" strapon. So much for the "alleged" schlong; I will leave you with granny anus.
ass and vagina shifter ride...Sorry, but I like my ass and vagina right where they are. However, if you can do something about shifting my boobs higher, call me.
moving eye in asshole...Note to self: make sure things are dead before swallowing.
"grandma grabbed" "my penis"...then she got run over by a reindeer. Only now we don't feel so bad about it, seeing as she still had your penis in her hand.
cat butt plug...Again, I'm unclear; is this a butt plug meant to be inserted in the cat's ass, or is it using a cat as a butt plug? If it's the latter, I'm here to tell you that there will be some resistance.
"feet behind my head"...unfortunately, they're my own.
vagina look likes...You mean a genital substitute? Pussy Helper?
win a tampon...I don't even want to know what the loser gets.
pictures of dirty tampons...Is that what the loser gets?
dirty cat ass...Yeah, 'cause you didn't use that cat butt plug. Duh!
"chia penis"...When you want to disguise your sex toys as houseplants.
the name is rocket man not red rocket!!...Wow, how emphatic. The way I heard it, Elton John is a Red Rocket Man.
jizz be gone...Jizz be nimble, jizz be quick; shoot some over the candlestick.
girl having sex with a cat...I sure as hell hope it's declawed.
vagina-fisting...Sorry, I can't today - I'm far too busy putting a 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew up my ass.
jizz on my shizzle...You know, this sounds like a dream I had this one time...um, never mind.
electric prods cunts...That'll get those darned lazy cunts moving!
bleached anus pics...because why shouldn't my anus shine like my teeth?
big ol' titty...Just the one? I really do prefer them in pairs.
broken penis...Don't know my own strength!
caught jacking off...That's not true. It was an itch, goddammit!
"big butt" muffled...We never heard it until it was too late.
i want to fuck kelly monaco...Yeah, take a number. I was in line waaaaay before you.
"trailer park" "boobs"...I haven't seen any yet.
piss in a bottle...So much tastier than piss in a can.
not disgusting pictures please...I'm not sure at all how this brought them to my site. Something must be wrong with the search engine.
slut spit on my food...but that'll cost you extra.
fucky fucky...that'll cost you more than just sucky sucky.
"bear in a bee suit"...Now that's my kinda kinky.
bucky back mountain...just as gay, but with less dick.
long labia...How long were they? When she dropped her pants, the kids thought they'd gone to Fruit Rollup heaven.
mummy penis photo...I heard this very muffled voice saying, "Shrinkage! It's shrinkage!"
This morning, I got a phone call that I hadn't wanted to come, but I knew might happen anyway. Smidge, wonderful, fluffy, evil Smidge that I adore and worship, relapsed and passed away earlier today. That cat never failed to delight me, and I was always honored when she chose my company, even if it was only because I had kitten chow in my room.
Let me come atcha from a few different directions here, like ninja Hare Krishnas:
Credit where credit is due: I was downtown again today, because I could no longer resist the call of the Tip-a-Few Tavern's unparalleled bean burritos. As I left, I pulled around the corner to turn onto Washington, and I found it blocked off, and filled with more rides! And there were all kinds of crap food booths along the waterfront; I guess they had just started setup when I was down there Monday afternoon. So the layout is different, but I am hopeful now that I can go down there later with a camera and get some mah-ve-lous midway photos. Grand Haven, you fuckers didn't let me down after all!
I now have air conditioning! After deciding that a replacement for my central air unit would just be a little outside my budget this year, I went to Home Depot last weekend and picked up a 10,000 BTU portable unit that works wonders in here! All the cats gave me an extra round of cuddling to thank me for bringing comfort, at last, to their fur-covered existence.
It's come to my attention that too few of you are familiar with the music of Amy Winehouse, and in my opinion, that's a goldurned shame. Through the magic of YouTube, here's her single Rehab.
Oooh, to go with my running gay boy theme, I've found a new gayer-than-gay show on Bravo! It's called Welcome to the Parker, about this five-star resort in Palm Springs, the oddballs who stay there, and the oddballs who work there. On the first episode, this group of buffoons from Hollywood descended on the place to have a ping pong tournament, rented the most exclusive suite on the property, and proceeded to act like drunken, destructive pigs all weekend. The staff's restraint was amazing; if I worked there, several of those fuckers would've gone home early with a ping pong paddle lodged firmly in the anal cavity. There are a lot of highstrung people working for the resort, so I fully anticipate some spectacular meltdowns as the season progresses. And the gay Asian guy who delivers room service is so cute I just wanna pinch him as he rides past on his little bicycle.