the Bucky Four-Eyes Cotillion

Friday, March 31, 2006

Future plumber


I'm not sure which is more of a crime - that shirt, or the fact that I'm dangerously close to baring my ass crack for the camera.

That vanity, by the way, is the one I wrote about using as my desk.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Pointless but at least there are no labia

Sunning the monkey

It was so gorgeous outside today that I thought it would be nice to sun the monkey for a while.

What? I didn't say there wouldn't be any gratuitous monkey jokes. I only made labia promises.

Is it just me, or do I sound like I need to drink myself unconscious?

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Ramblin' gamblin' bitch

So, I've been a total asshole lately about things like answering my comments, visiting other blogs, posting on a daily basis, responding to email...for these and other atrocities I'm statistically likely to commit, I apologize.

But seriously, I'm not sorry at all about the labia. That was just my artistic vision, in a blurry, drunken, glasses-smeared-with-the-jizz-of-strangers way. There's even some footage I forgot to put in, so you might see a director's cut someday. See? I've given you all something to anticipate, the way one anticipates a fiery anus after eating three dozen whole jalapenos. Sa-MO-kin'!

I picked up a nice JBL speaker set for my computer this week, as I don't see myself rebuilding a traditional stereo system for myself any time in the near future. The sounds kicks more than I could have hoped from a system of its size. Downsizing is important to me right now; in fact, I'm in the process of taking a bunch of music equipment I'll likely never use again and having an ebay store sell it for me. Think I could get anything on ebay for some of my old paintings? I even found some of the huge displays I did for Meijer when we had shoe brand promotions. Maybe I could hawk the stuff as "the opium-fueled hallucinatory creations of a disturbed young hermaphrodite with a taste for mayhem and Sugar Babies."

There's been a lot of blood sprayed and splattered on my TV screen in the last few days. Um, on the inside, not the outside. I've watched a number of graphically violent movies this week, including Scarface and Kill Bill Vol I. So far, I have not been struck with the urge to twirl with a big-ass samurai sword or blow people away with a hand cannon. I'll keep you posted, though. My biggest criminal urges right now deal with the crimes I'm committing against my waistline with every bite of junk food I consume.

A few days ago, I heard the very end of a news story, and it made such an impression on me that I had to go look it up on the web. There is an operation called Randall's High Diving Racers where, among other forms of entertainment, they arrange for high-diving pigs, who jump off a (not that tall) platform into a pool of water. Someone must have been questioning the humane treatement of the pigs in all this, and whether or not the pigs went willingly to the big splash, and the quote I heard that intrigued me was the owner Virgil Randall's defense of the act: "The divers make their own decisions. If I ever pushed them off, they wouldn't be diving pigs, they'd be pushed-off pigs."

I so want to start a band called The Pushed-Off Pigs.

And why does it sound vaguely smutty when I say it?

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

A kiss on the hand may be incontinental

I promised disgusting, and I think you'll find I've lived up to my tequila-scented word.

Oh - and the song is Hello Radio by They Might Be Giants.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Yeah, I'm here

Dear Internet as a Whole -

Hi! How ya doin'? I know it's been a couple of days since I've fed you anything new, and I hear your stomach beginning to growl. Frankly, I'm a little frightened.

I promised a couple of you unholy pictures involving a certain washed-up celebrity, but I just don't feel like I have the time to do it justice tonight. So here...look at the weird picture! It's very nearly a shiny thing!

Green ice, purple hair

I promise more consistent content after I get moved. Not too much longer now! And boy, will I have some content.

Question of the night: why isn't there a place near me that will deliver pizza, steaks, and sushi at midnight? Or any other time of the day, for that matter. I could work all night given sufficient culinary delights. As it is, I'm just floundering with pretzels and Reese's Pieces.

Who wants to bring me a pizza?

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Oy vey como va

Drunken certainty and self assurance: they will team up to fuck you in the ass like a rabid, unlubricated triceratops. If you take nothing away from this blog but that, I'll feel like I've done some kind of good in this world before my inevitable fall from grace and horribly vivid overdose on Reese's Pieces.

In the days before the formation of the Bone Rollers, I wanted nothing so much as to sing in front of people. While I can do karaoke, I really don't like it; there's only me onstage with karaoke, and I'm not one to make with the dancing, or any kind of stage presence for that matter. So instrumental breaks were awkward for me. Being onstage with other musicians is much better, as the audience will actually be looking at the guitarist during the guitar solo. Therefore, if I found out my friends were gigging, I'd show up and hope to be invited onstage for a song or two.

When I heard that Baba Luis, Mr. Clean, Scooter, and Bald Bill had started a band, I had to check it out, of course. I wandered into the Pasadena Roadhouse to the strains of Deep Purple's Highway Star being performed by the newly formed Drop Dirty - the band name was a tribute to the inevitable outcome of Mr. Clean's court-mandated drug tests. "Mr. Clean" was, like, an ironic nickname, see? I grabbed a table by the band (I'd say "by the stage" but the Roadhouse, like many bars in Flint, has no stage) and ordered a beer; when the song was done, they took a break and Mr. Clean came right over to talk to me.

The mild panic in his eyes was more than the usual one too many lines; something was up. And I knew the favor askin' was about to commence when Mr. Clean called me "Katy girl" - he probably doesn't think I remember shit any better than he does, but I do. And when he wants something from me, he always starts the sweet talk with "Katy girl..."

"Katy girl..."

Oh, shit - here it comes.

"Bill's green, this is his first full-night gig, and his voice is shot. Help us out, girl, come up and sing a set!"

Well...shit fire! He didn't need the "Katy girl" for that. Next, why don't you force me to pet a basket of kittens? That would be some real torture. I slammed my beer and ordered another so I'd have something to drink onstage. Mr. Clean and I huddled and discussed songs they hadn't done yet that I might be able to sing. We came up with a few titles, and reconvened around the floor spaghetti and microphones.

I remember we opened the set with a rendition of the Allman Brothers' Southbound that resulted in a burst of applause, the magnitude of which was wholly unfamiliar to me at the time; the feeling that I had just hit "the spot" with the audience was every bit as intoxicating as the beer I was drinking much too fast. We may have followed up with some Robin Trower - I sing the fuck outta some Bridge of Sighs tunes - and I know I followed up with some beer. I'm sure we also fell back on some Stevie Ray Vaughan, and before long, we'd done all the songs we'd planned before the set. There was still time left in the set, and the audience was giving me a whole lot more love than they'd shown poor Bald Bill, who was a gracious sweetheart - which one might not guess upon eyeing his six-foot-seven, muscular, bald, tattooed self - and just seemed relieved that he could take his raw throat offstage for the night.

I looked at the guys in the band for guidance, because by that time, I was pretty well buzzed. Scooter suggested Black Magic Woman. Mr. Clean asked me if I knew it. Did I know Black Magic Woman? Dude, I used to listen to Abraxas every day in high school. I've seen Carlos Santana in concert. I've heard the song a milllion and ten times, whattaya mean, do I know Black Magic Woman? Well, duh!

So off we went. Mr. Clean launched into the cool, snakey guitar line, and I grabbed the Shure 57 with a confidence that was both unwarranted and foolish.

Have you ever seen the Saturday Night Live skit that's a commercial for an album of popular songs performed by The Drunken Asses? They'll sing a line or two, then go dun-dun-dum-dun-duuuuh for the parts where they can't remember the lyrics? Yeah, that would be me.

Here's how the song went:

Got a black magic woman (heyyyyy, I'm so cool!)
Got a black magic woman (they like me, they really like me!)
Got a black magic woman (wait a minute, what goes here?) hmm hmm hmm hmm hmmmmmm...
(oh shit!)
Got a black magic woman (fuck!) hmm hmm hmm hmm hmmmmmmm

(Panicked looks around the stage, guys onstage beginning to laugh at me, okay, I could salvage it with the second verse)

Don't put your spell on me, baby (ok, this will even out)
Don't put your spell on me, baby (relaxing now, everything's fine)
Don't put your spell on me, baby (uhhhhhh....fuck, what comes next?) hmm hmm hmm hmmm hmmm hmmmmmmmmm....
Don't put your spell on me, baby (oh, that is TOTALLY wrong, oh fuck oh shit, oh damn, cocksucker motherfucker!)

At that point, I just sort of wandered offstage and right into the bathroom, where I stayed. For a while. I think Mr. Clean sang a couple of songs while I was in there. And I could still hear the laughter in his voice, long after I emerged, self-humiliated and sloshed, from the restroom.

To this day, if I see Scooter at a gig, he yells and asks if I wanna sing Black Magic Woman. Then he laughs his crazy hyena on crack cackle.

I shoulda gone for Oye Como Va. Not many would've noticed if I was fakin' Spanish.

Friday, March 24, 2006

Sheepdip? Does it come in ranch?

While digging through bookcases tonight, I came across a script from my 11th grade play, The Curious Savage. My character was Mrs. Paddy, a harmlessly insane woman who won't speak except to list the things that she hates, apropos of nothing.

Do you think, in retrospect, that I should have been insulted by the character's description? Did I get the part because Mr. Q knew I wouldn't be as pissed off as the other girls? You be the judge. The script says, upon Mrs. Paddy's first appearance onstage:

...Mrs. Paddy enters and stands at doorway R. She is a dumpy, middle-aged woman of awesome ferocity. Her close-cropped hair bristles from her head with aggressive hostility.

I was told it was my ability to clearly deliver long and complicated lines, but I have to wonder if it was instead because I either fit the description, or wouldn't be upset about it.

To be fair, though, the few lines I had were rather lengthy and complex. My first line was:

"I hate everything in the world, but most of all, I hate cold cream, hot dogs, codfish, crawfish, catfish, catnip, sheepdip, sawdust, subways, sewers, skewers, buttermilk, caterpillars, frictions, fractions, pins, puns, pens, policemen and electricity."

And also, to be even more fair, there was no casting me in anything but a terribly odd character role - I finally was able to admit to myself, years later, that I have all the acting ability and brilliant delivery of a snail on downers.

For the record, I do not hate crawfish.

Where am I going with this? Fuck if I know. Maybe there's been a little too much tequila in the mix lately.

Here. Have a drink. Then I'll make perfect sense to you.

Margarita blur

Thursday, March 23, 2006

All Jacked up

In case you hadn't noticed, it's not Halloween (if I wanted to be proper, I'd spell it Hallowe'en, but I'm more interested in being irritating than proper, so Halloween it is). Nonetheless, I think the time is right to whip out a creepy story. Really, isn't it even more creepy and surprising when I roll it out in March? No? Well, just play along. Humor me, and nobody gets hurt.

Mine was a bookish family, and we would actually buy books for fun. I feel I can trust you all enough to share the frank reality of our collective dorktivity. Sure, there was plenty of fiction in the mix - my mom really dug her historical romances, which were not bodice rippers, man - but my brother Timmy was always fascinated with facts and true tales. Timmy was responsible for many copies of Guiness Book of World Records and Ripley's Believe it or Not about the house. Thus did we come to be in possession of a Reader's Digest book about strange, unexplained phenomena. I think the book was called Amazing Mysteries or Unsolved Mysteries, or some such. I couldn't find it with a Web search, so I'll just let that detail go. (see update at the end of the post)

There were lots of other stories in that book, but I couldn't tell you anything else that was between those covers except for the strange and chilling tale of Spring Heeled Jack. That was the chapter I would come back to over and over again. For those unfamiliar with the story, Spring Heeled Jack was a menacing, demonic, jumping figure that was reportedly sighted on numerous occasions throughout England between 1837 and 1904. Described as tall, vaguely devilish, dressed in a cape and helmet, with metal claws, glowing eyes, and the ability to spit flames, Jack would leap out from the shadows and take passersby unaware. He attacked and molested several women, and terrified men and women alike with his sudden appearance and just as spectacular disappearance, all involving his jumping heights that an unassisted human could not.

It's widely speculated that this was the invention of a nobleman with a bizarre sense of humor and a low opinion of women, and that the jumping was accomplished with the aid of "spring shoes" (although no one has yet been able to duplicate anything like it that would actually work). It didn't matter, though; I was totally hooked on the story, and it's no exaggeration to say I looked at that book every day for a long, long time. And it was all safe and good. Demons don't really walk, or jump around, the earth, do they? Logically, this had to be a prankster with deep pockets and engineering skills. And in the daytime, I could read this story over and over again, all brave-like, analyze it all to hell, and wonder cavalierly why someone didn't just take a big stick and swat him out of the air, then douse him with water. Silly Victorians!

I mean, really. In the light of day, is this scary?

Stop or I'll dazzle you with my tight slacks!

Ah, but the night time is different. All things are possible at night. Especially scary, creepy things.

Once the sun went down, and I was outside, or even if I had to walk through a dark room in the house, my certainty that Spring Heeled Jack was waiting around the corner to pounce on me went up like blood pressure in rush hour. I could tell myself a million times "That's stupid. There is no Spring Heeled Jack. I'm fine." And I'd still jump as high as Jack himself if I heard an unexpected noise in the dark.

Peeing in the middle of the night? Well, that was out of the question. I'd have to get out of bed, in a dark bedroom, walk down the stairs, in a dark hallway, walk through a dark kitchen and dining room, and then make my way into a dark bathroom with cold, crooked tiles on the floor. Then, once I'd drained my frightened little bladder, I'd have to do it all again in reverse. No way was I gonna give Jack that much opportunity to spring out of nowhere and likely scare me to death before his claws even touched me. Walking home from friends' houses after dark? It was to be avoided, but if I fucked up and stayed past sundown, my walk home would be more of a freaked-out trot, accompanied by much craning of the neck this-a-way and that-a-way.

I was even more disturbed by the whole thing when I read that in the years following Jack's most spectacular attacks, parents would warn their children that if they didn't behave, Spring-Heeled Jack would jump up and peer in their bedroom windows at night.


As if it wasn't bad enough to grow up in a haunted house, I now had the completely unfounded fear that some demon-man with glowing eyes and flames shooting from his mouth would jump up and stare through my window while I slept. The thought of any face peering through any window at night was enough to send me into severe sphincter spams as a kid; the thought of a devil face leering at me through my second-story bedroom window was enough to make me lose control of every shred of dignity my bowel control afforded me.


I don't know when my Jack terrors subsided; I would imagine that I finally just stopped reading the damn book every day, and slowly but surely, my obsession faded to the point where I wouldn't automatically think of the jumping firebreather every time I went outside. Didn't think of it for years, in fact.

Recently, I saw something on TV that reminded me of Spring Heeled Jack, and all the time I'd spent as a kid being all freaked out by the story. I laughed heartily at my childish foolishness, at being frightened of what was obviously a person in a costume acting like an asshole. Isn't it nice to have some distance from our unfounded childhood paranoia? What a silly child I was.

Then I realized it was nearly bedtime, and I hadn't gotten the mail. So I got up, walked out the door and down the porch steps into the night...

And damned if I didn't flinch when I came past the side of the house. Because, you know, that's totally where Spring Heeled Jack would hide.

God, I'm an idiot.

Really, now - did you think you'd get through this whole post without at least one gratuitous schlong?

UPDATE: Many thanks to Evil Uncle Dave (suuuuper genius) for having more brain cells than I do and coming up with the very book in question!


Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Proof of my age

Butterfly breath

Last night, I had it in mind I was gonna post about a story that used to scare the piss outta me when I was a kid. So I spent a bit of time researching the topic and grabbing pictures to use. Now, the story still creeps me out a fair amount, so you'd think I'd have been wide awake at that point.


About 9:15, I nearly tipped over in my chair because I had nodded off in mid-sentence while typing. That was my cue to declare nap time. What? Naps are good for you! That's what I tell myself, at the same time as I'm telling myself naps are not just for old people.

So I went and took a nap.

Until 8 a.m.

Oops. That post will have to be later. I'm up to my ass in my own stuff that needs to go in boxes right now. But don't think I'm not thinking of y'all.


Monday, March 20, 2006

Chap slap

Yes, I did really wear my chaps at work on Friday, and Balulah video'd it. And I figure, why not traumatize everyone online?

Nifty psychedelic effects added to protect the identity of a co-worker who walked into the frame for a second or two.

Sleep well. MuahahaHAAAAAA!

Sunday, March 19, 2006

You, with the tiny dick - FUCK YOU!

Recently, several of my blogger friends have been subjected to particularly nasty anonymous comments - low even by troll standards. Yes, I know this is nothing new. And I'm not suggesting anything to cure it. But it's my friends, and I'm just fucking pissed, so I'd like to vent in rhyme. Please indulge me, or I'll let the monkey loose again, and we all know how messy that can get.


If you can't leave your name
And it's all about meanness
Please give some pirana
A taste of your penis

There. I've vented, and the monkey's hackles are down. I hope we'll all sleep better for it.

Electric Bucky Crocker
Electric Bucky Crocker will sweep alllll the trolls into shallow graves...

Saturday, March 18, 2006

Ring around the fucking rosie

Listening to: Black Horse and the Cherry Tree by KT Tunstall. I would never guess this chick is from Scotland, but you know what they say - if it's not Scottish, it's crap! It's hard for me to say what genre I would call this...almost gypsy blues? I dunno. All I know is, I can't stop playing it. Gotta love a song that starts out: "My heart knows me better than I know myself, so I'm gonna let it do all the talking..."

Thinking about: I don't have to wake up at 5:30 am on Monday.

Doing: Playing with my iPod.

My attempt at a post:

I suppose now would be as good a time as any to reveal my secret identity to You, the Internet as a Whole. Because, well...why the fuck not?

Take a deep breath.

Here you go:

May fucking queen

Yes, it's true. I am the May Queen. Can't you tell how thrilled I am by the whole thing?

If ever there were an example of Photoshop misused, it's this. My only defense is that I had just discovered brushes. I know, I know - how long have I been using this software? But when I saw the post on Dooce about Jason Gaylor's foliage brushes (used here with wild abandon), I started to investigate the other brushes I had no idea existed in Photoshop. I took the liberty of abusing many of them in this picture. I'm sure you all had me pegged as the type of girl who would be surrounded by a veritable halo of butterflies.

The xanax has mostly worn off, and I'm spending a considerable amount of time this weekend cleaning the shit out of my office. They just can't get rid of my ass! It's amazing how much bullshit I've accumulated in the six years or so I've been in that office. I dumped the music collection from my work PC onto my iPod today; tomorrow, I'll get the pictures off there, and then clean up the hard drive so there's room for the next person who has the computer (and so they no one sees pictures of me in chaps and has seizures). A gal at work gave me a huge stack of boxes yesterday, too, so I can finish my packing here and see just how much I have to move.

Maybe the xanax hasn't totally worn off, because this post is really going nowhere. But, just to let you know I haven't been taken over by a pod person, let me just say:


That was hollered loudly enough to bust up even the most stubborn kidney stones. For anybody who needs that sort of thing.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Less blubbering through chemistry

Today was my last day at work.

I may have mentioned before that I've worked for this company my entire professional career; counting all capacities from humble to the overblown position I just left, I've been employed there for nearly 14 years. Here's hoping that looks like loyalty, and not lack of imagination, when future employers have a gander at my resumé.

Call it what you will, my ability and complete contentment to stay with the same organization for so long, with no end in sight. I knew today would be a hard day. The last week has already been really tough, with more and more people finding out that I'm divorcing my husband and my company at the same time, putting lots of shocked, nearly betrayed faces in my doorway lately. It's been all I can do not to burst into tears, so today I was preemptive and drugged myself during breakfast.

Now, my doctor's instructions were to take half a xanax in the morning, and the other half in the evening. I never take more than half at a time. I took a whole xanax with my Mickey D's egg bagel and orange juice this morning. I was able to hug six, maybe seven people without any stir of emotion even reaching the surface. Even the CEO of the company came up and told me how much I would be missed and shook my hand (the man willingly touched me! My stock went up with my letter of resignation, I guess). The xanax, in its full dosage, put me in my own deeply insulated little mind space, and while I was not particularly effective at my work, at least I was not reduced to a sobbing mass of geek under my desk.

I knew it was time for another big dose when Balulah came into my office with a gift bag for me. Damned if it didn't get me choked up readin' the card, and I hadn't even opened the present yet. Balulah and her husband kick ass, in case I hadn't mentioned that before. They got me a super-sharp engraved money clip:

Engraved money clip - already filled
The engraving says "KTard Rumcake" - one of my many lovely nicknames. And yes, the money did come with the clip!

So, I did what any respectable tough girl would do - I popped another whole xanax. And it's a good thing I did, because not long after that, Arjay brought me the present he and his wife had gotten me. I'm still pinching myself, first of all because it just feels good, and secondly, I can't believe they did it - they got me a fucking 30GB video iPod.

My new iPod
You know I'm gonna carry the Quasimodo video around on this, right?

And they also had my iPod engraved:

Engraving on my new iPod
I know it's hard to see anything in this shot but the reflection of my camera, but the engraving says "Katy - Glory one song before I go" - it's a quote from a song in RENT. I am sooo getting myself an iTrip for this tomorrow.

Today was my last day at work. That could mean one of two things: Either I would be stripped of my keys and walked out to my car by security personnel, or there would be cake. Luckily, in this case, I took the cake. Only, by my request, it wasn't exactly cake.

Let me say something here. We celebrate a lot of birthdays at work throughout the year, and the celebrations are often accompanied by either some cake I can't stand (I would rather eat a popsicle that's been up a cat's butt than eat a bite of carrot cake, for instance), or it's a production number with cake or pie, strawberries, whipped topping, ice cream...none of that seemed like a good idea to me for my going-away party. And, since it was my party, I could afford to be a prima donna about the whole thing. Balulah asked me for three days what kind of cake I wanted for my party. I hemmed and hawed, asked for angel's food cake, then changed my mind because that would require strawberries and the like, requested cinammon rolls, changed my mind again...just about the point where Balulah was going to give me a cake made from the sole of her shoe swiftly kissing my face, I hit upon the perfect solution:

TWINKIES, motherfucker!

I must say, throwing Twinkies to everyone at the table was a helluva lot more fun than cutting cake, scooping ice cream, remembering who wants frosting pieces and who doesn', dude, just let me throw Twinkies at you!

But the thrill didn't end with Twinkies for me. The folks in my division had all chipped in and bought me even more presents! I never realized how popular I would be in my hour of departure.

Don't pen me in
The pen is engraved "Katy" and it writes smooooooooth...

The girl, the gold watch, and everything
Now there's no way I can forget what time it is, or what my name is.

You have to understand, I have a real thing for pocket watches; they have always fascinated me, all my life. I've only owned one other one, given to me by Squirl on my 16th birthday. This one has a flip-up lid on it. It's so cool, I might just wear that and nothing else.

Did I mention that I wore my chaps at work today? Well, not all day. That just wouldn't have been comfortable. But I wore them most of the afternoon because, as I have been saying for the last two weeks, "What are they gonna do - fire me?" Balulah followed me around with a really nice camera for the better part of the day, so there will be more pictures when I get them from her. I promise you assless chaps with a side of inappropriate tongue. What? I'm not totally responsible for what I write here, as I have recently returned from drinks with Arjay and his Missus. Like last week, it's the tequila talking.

Perfect margarita
The perfect margarita is the one that happens to be in front of me at any given time.

So now, I'm back at the house, charging up my iPod, savoring the incredibly sweet cards and gifts I received, figuring out that some people actually like me, and realizing through my tequila buzz that the last dose of xanax has worn off completely, and that I'm gonna miss those geeky fuckers.

I'll be that whimpering, quivering mass over in the corner, with the kick-ass watch.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

We want the spunk, gotta have the spunk

Anyone who has Gmail or Google AdSense can attest to the bizarre ads that certain posts or email conversations can generate based on their textual content. Not their sexual content, you sick fucks. Well, that too sometimes.

Sexual content. Does that mean you are content with sex, or does it mean how much sex one can hold at any given time? And just how would that be quantified? By the inch? Humidity index? Thrust-O-Meter? The NADSDAQ?

Anyway - today, in the course of an email conversation, I beheld an ad for Cheerleader Hairpieces. Now, what the fuck would that be? Wiglets made from the discarded body hair of girls with too much spunky spastic spirit for their own good? Or what if it's sprinkled with the remains of toppled pom-pom girls? Come on, we all know it happens more often than "They" tell us. Thanks, but I'd rather have bald patches.

But wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, there just happened to be a link, a veritable wonderland of Cheerleader Hairpieces at my fingertips, and what kind of an asshole would pass up a chance for that kind of knowledge, the True Identity of the Hair in the Cheerleader Hairpieces? I could do an exposé on a mini-Geraldo scale. Score one for this past-freshness-date Harriet the Spy.

I followed the link. It was even scarier than anything I'd imagined.

Now, to be fair, I'm not exactly an expert on wigs. Aside from the infamous copper-colored plastic bouffant wigs of my youth, and the fifteen seconds I had on the pink wig at Halloween, I don't have much experience with fake hair; I've always had plenty of my own. But even an ignoranus such as this one could see hideous when it jumped off the page at me.

It's hairpieces, in cheerleader style, for cheerleaders. Cheerleaders who, obviously, don't have enough school spirit to just grow the hair themselves! I don't know about you, but it kinda leaves a bad taste in my mouth, like yesterday's jizz.

But it was all true. The page screamed at me:


Our Popular Spiral Curl Ponytails

Easy SECURE attachment

No more rollers ever!

Why take all that time to set your hair and have it not stay?

Our pieces are Designed and manufactured for Cheerleaders . They attach by a draw string and competition flexible flat combs in about a minute - or you can sew them in.

They stay put.

See attachment section for more information.

Do you see that? You can sew them in. That's tantamount to saying "You can transplant school spirit, man, just nail it on!" Oh, hand me the fucking barf bucket before I sully the couch. And what the fuck is up with Spunk extension style? Let me show you the instructions and you tell me if you want your cheerleader doing this:
  • Spunk is wavy so curl your hair a little.Unless you already have a wave in your hair. (I thought spunk was just splattery)
  • Make ponytail with thin band. (So there's more room for spunk)
  • Slide Spunk over your ponytail. (See how they always manage to get the Spunk in your hair? Is that hair gel?)
  • Make 2 stiches attaching spunk to your ponytail holder on top. (I always thought Spunk was self attaching)
But really, people, even putting the Spunk aside, you can call 'em barrel curls, you can call 'em spiral pigtails, you can call 'em piggies pigtails, but they are all still turd curls, plain and simple.

But perhaps warning you with words just isn't enough. I suppose in this kind of an emergency - and make no mistake, in my little world, this constitutes a dire emergency that could only be topped by flaming ringlets - I must resort to visual shock tactics.

Are you ready?

Cover your eyes if you're squeamish.

Here goes.

School spirit

I can honestly say that I didn't feel any Spunkier after I'd sewn on the barrel piggies. This is all faked school spirit you see here. Rah-rah-sis-boom-fucking-bah.

So, who's with me? I'm not sure how it should be done, but the cheerleader hairpieces must be stopped. Maybe your wife doesn't really have orgasms, maybe your dog really doesn't like you, but do you really want your cheerleaders out there fakin' it while they're shakin' it?

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

I got 'head from a gay man

I mean masthead, of course. Well, unless you mean my prom date.

But that's not the point. The point is that my lovely new masthead was designed, executed, signed, sealed, and delivered by none other than Jim from DAMMIT, we can't have nice things. Actually, he sent this to me last July, and I'm a dork and haven't used it until now. Why? Because that's what dorks do.

I love this masthead. Note the serpentine lack of arms, to match the snakeskin background. Who is that smarmy bitch? And why doesn't someone smack her, while she has no arms to defend herself?

Thanks, Jim! *blowing totally platonic kisses, so as not to impart cooties*

ps: I always thought that was my shadow behind me, but upon closer inspection, it looks like I am standing behind myself. I'm not seconds away from humping myself madly, am I?

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

All in good fun

I wrote this in college, and have dragged it out to parade in front of the Internet as a Whole now. Names have been changed to protect those unfortunate enough to be related to me. And the little niece I speak of here will be old enough to buy alcohol next month.

Our front porch was fully enclosed, and there were windows all the way around the room. It wasn't too frigid until winter hit, so we played out there at least seven months of the year. An old glider was pushed up against the west wall, where its grinding and squeaking could barely compete with the heavy-handed piano playing on the other side of the wall in the living room.

The well-worn, buff-colored tiles on the floor bore the scars of the slings and arrows of outrageous children, the kind of children who never went anywhere without a crayon or a black El Marko in hand. The kind of children who perpetually shot their BB guns in the basement, dimpling the paneled walls in the back of the family room, the battleground of Barzedor Kids Vs the Little Grey Plasti-Goop Fighting Men that my brothers turned out by the hundreds for occasions such as these. The kind of children who, all said and done, basically didn't give a shit for the propriety and sanctity of indoor behavior. I suppose Squirl and JD could be excluded from that category of those with utter disregard for the home; the two oldest of the quintet, they obviously respected Mom and Dad more than the rest of us did. Tardist, Timmy and I were the little shits in the family.

Tardist is eight years older than I am, and Timmy outranks me by five. We used to get up on Saturday mornings to watch Scooby-Doo and chow down on doughnuts and Cap'n Crunch before Mom and Dad got up. Tardist would often amuse himself (okay, and me) by pinning Timmy down, passing gas in his face, and then sighing in satisfaction: "Aah! Just like rotten eggs!" Timmy would always holler in protest, which would wake up Mom and Dad, and then he'd get yelled at for it.

Spending so much time with brothers like that, I had two choices: be a victim or be a fellow grossout. The latter seemed like a lot more fun, so I did my best to develop a true flair for the ruder and cruder things in life. This strategy seemed to pay off to a certain extent; when they weren't torturing me or conspiring to cheat me out of my birthday money, I was allowed to join in on some of their borderline-sociopathic little diversions. They taught me how to make Chinese flip comics (which invariably featured some tasteless motif, generally involving vomiting or mutilation), how to squirt a healthy stream of Hawaiian Punch between my front teeth (oh, how it splattered so artfully on the yellow tiles of our kitchen walls), and how to induce belching at will. Timmy actually asked my permission (which I eagerly gave) to blow up my Dr. Zaius Planet of the Apes doll with a firecracker; it was glorious, with monkey pieces flying in every direction!

They let me play board games with them. Timmy was always a game freak; he developed a massive collection of sibling rivalry in a box. Tardist was the sore loser in the bunch. If you were his opponent, and you were clearly beating him, there was no way to react without rousing his temper. If you gloated, he'd throw a fit and upset the board; if you played poker face, you were patronizing him, so he'd throw a fit and upset the board. I vividly recall the way the red and blue plastic pieces of Stratego looked in flight; we always hoped he wouldn't toss the Risk board -- those pieces are so little, you always lose five or six troops in the couch.

There was, of course, a food-chain hierarchy involved in the little dramas of our lives. Tardist tended to target Timmy primarily, and Timmy turned the torture machinery in my direction. He'd come up behind me at the kitchen table and rap on the top of my head (not gently) several times in rapid succession (he called it "Corkers," because this was before the advent of "Noogies"). He'd hoot on me without mercy for the show tunes I constantly blasted on my record player (one step above the Close n' Play). He tagged me with the nickname Bucky Four-Eyes (and the ever-present variation, Buckaleena).

To be fair, he was not wholly without provocation. I was not a passive victim. Maybe I was just stupid; I sometimes went out of my way to irritate and spite him -- all in good fun, of course.

A company that was sending him a series of books in the mail (they were little history books for kids called "Step-Up Books," but they smelled like barf, so we called them "Throw-Up Books") had his name wrong on the mailing list, so that his semi-monthly packages came addressed to "Tina Barzedor." It never ceased to be funny to me, and it never began to be funny to Timmy.

Aside from his passion for board games, Timmy loved to build model airplanes. To this day, whenever I see balsa wood, I think of Timmy...and then I feel sorry for his wife. He took great pains to put the models together just right (he's a journeyman carpenter today), and he took pride in his finished work. He also tinkered with model rockets, and I think that must be where I found the parachute.

My friend Robbie and I were out on my front porch one afternoon, basking in the hot rays flooding in all those windows. We were playing with some Batman action figures he'd brought over; I think he had a Riddler and I had a Penguin. For some reason, Timmy had one of his rocket parachutes hanging upside down from the ceiling over on the southeast corner of the porch. Looking back and forth between the parachute and the umbrella in the Penguin's fist, I started to get ideas in my little pea brain. Without further ado or remorse, I found a pair of scissors, cut the strings of the 'chute to pull it down, and scotch taped it to the Penguine figurine. Robbie and I spent the rest of the afternoon outside, lobbing the Penguin into the air and testing the waft time afforded by the contraption. Robbie went home and I forgot about the matter. I forgot until I heard Timmy screaming bloody murder out on the porch, and I could fairly see the veins standing out on his forehead and his eyes bulging out of their sockets. I tried to lie my way out of it, but the scissors lying under the dangling, severed strings made a damning case against me. Timmy and Tardist both rode me something awful about lying (they even devised a plan to teach me a lesson, but that's another story).

There was always trouble for me on the front porch. With its panoramic view of and from the street, the room somehow always invited me to succumb to my undoing right there before god, country, and the neighbors who already thought I was a little crackpot.

I subscribed early to the "Room of One's Own" theory, though I didn't know what that was at the time. Since I didn't have my own bedroom yet, I was forever in search of my obsession, an office. Maybe it was in my blood, since Mom had been an executive secretary and also harbored a strange desire for office supplies and paraphernalia. Maybe it lent a sense of importance to all the scribbling and doodling I constantly did in notebooks and sketch pads (maybe it still does -- ooh, the thrill of new Pilot fine-point blacks pens and a fistful of sticky notes...god, Im moist as a snack cake!).

Squirl had handed down a little plastic white vanity that she'd played with at my age. Of course, she used it for its natural, intended, girlish pupose; she'd kept makeup and hairbrushes in the drawer, and she'd primped in the mirror. By the time I got it, the mirror was gone -- no big loss! -- and I hastened to remove any girlie stuff that was left in the drawer. This had become, in my hands, a desk. Wherever that vanity went was my office. For a time, it was right out in the dining room by the kitchen door. That wasn't private enough, so then my office was the little hallway between the back door of the music room and the bathroom. This afforded me the best privacy, but something in me was unable to resist the urge for a window office. I hauled my prissy little desk out onto the front porch and proceeded to scribble and scrawl in the full glory of the sun pouring through the windows.

A most memorable incident precipitated my move back to the bathroom hallway: One fine day, I was feeling a little vicious toward Timmy (for some reason, or perhaps for no particular reason), so I decided to take it out on him in print. There were times when nothing felt better than to write something exceptionally libelous about someone and then gloat, knowing that you were superior and the poor bastard didn't even know it. When I was really little, and Mom and Dad would yell at me for something, I'd take my revenge by drawing pictures of them with pig noses. That showed 'em. With an evil, gleeful feeling, I put black Flair marker to newsprint
tablet and proceeded to wax more verbose than I probably should have at my age:

Timothy Barzedor, the rather feminine blonde boy, was running late for school. He spent a long time in front of his bedroom closet, trying to find the perfect purse to go with his frilly pink dress...

About this time, I had the ungodly feeling that eyes were upon me, deeply unfriendly eyes, eyes that smoldered and spun and shot red lightning all around the rims. I had that portent of deep shit. Too late, I realized the foolhardy nature of my sitting with my back to one of the windows facing the living room. Before I even turned around, I knew what I would see: Timmy, eyes blazing, nostrils flared like a rabid bull, biceps tensed and hands balled into fists. He had, of course, read every word over my shoulder, each with more rage, until his seething anger was tangible through the glass. Needless to say, there was no escape, and he came out there and whipped my ass. Every writer must suffer for his art (or because of it, in my case).

We took it, we dished it out, and we all deserved each other. Now we are, by all appearances, grown to adulthood, and Timmy owns the old homestead with his wife and kids. In my visits, I have noticed that the front porch still holds the same spirit of piss and vinegar. When the kids go out there, there is always a scuffle, crying, and an immediate protestation of "I didn't do it!"

Some things never change: Timmy has now amassed a roomful of board games, plus a generous assortment of video games, a pinball machine, and a pool table. I still delight in sequestering myself in my office (I haven't, however, written any spiteful tales of men in dresses lately). Tardist still doesn't like to lose, although now his game is (I feel the gorge rising now) Sega Video Golf, so he can't really flip the board in the air anymore (UPDATE: Tardist is now an X-Box devotee).

I've passed on the plastic vanity/desk to my neice, Rachel, who delights me by sharing my office supplies fetish (it's in her blood, dammit!). I realize that I should have shared my little poison-pen story with her as a cautionary tale, but it's too late for that now. When, by her request, we included some sticky notes in her Christmas package, she proceeded to concoct slanderous statements about her brothers, like "Keith, you are a butt" (this came complete with a drawing of butt cheeks with a gold star stuck in the middle). After she placed this in Keith's room for him to find later, I surmised that my best bet would be to clear out before the re-enactment of the Barzedor sibling fireworks commenced.

Laughing, I headed out as quickly as possible, with pictures of parachutes, squirting Hawaiian Punch, and feminine blonde boys with gold-starred anuses dancing in my head.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Randumb wisdumb

Bugged out four-eyes
Don't it make my green eyes red?

  • It wasn't that long ago that I cleaned in my home office, tossed out years and years' worth of crap, but now I am looking at the items stacked around the room, the closet, the desk, with a different eye, the Moving Eye. The Moving Eye sees things differently from the Cleaning Eye. The Cleaning Eye sees things that can be kept because they can just be shoved right back where they were with little effort. The Moving Eye sees things that will likely never be used again, and therefore are impractical (some bordering on the stupid) to bring along to my new headquarters.

    Don't worry, people - you don't really think I'd leave a single toy behind, do you? The action figures and the old notebooks are non-negotiable. I also vow that when I get moved, I will take my favorite nine-inch toys out of the box finally, and take some pictures.

    You sick fucks, I mean my deluxe Babylon 5 action figures. Get your collective minds out of the gutter.

  • Actually, don't. You should never be far from the gutter when you read my posts. If you are too far away, it will only hurt worse when I drag you down, yet again, and scoop you through the floating things we'd all rather not talk about.

  • When I had nipple rings, I used to fantasize about tying helium balloons to them and getting a little assistance in my fight with gravity. But now I realize that would've just looked like two naked weasels were attacking my face.

  • You think I could get my twat tattooed to look like a coin purse? I think the worst part would be inking the zipper on the labia.

    Maybe I should have it done up to look like Chumley from Tennessee Tuxedo:


    Or maybe it should resemble Dr. Zoidberg from Futurama:


  • I may post about my digestive distress when I get liquored up, but here I am totally sober, talkin' about makin' my vagina look like a walrus. On purpose. So, do you guys prefer the drunk obnoxiousness (for which there is an excuse), or the sober obnoxiousness (for which there is no excuse)? Paper or plastic? Ginger or Maryanne? Oral or rectal?

    Aw, dammit, I promised I wouldn't talk about my ass. Although, I wasn't especially talking about my own ass there, so I think I'm still good.

    Just another ass-free day down at Cotillion Court.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

Chicks with dicks

Hello, Religious Police and Intellectual Property Rights Department? I'd like to report a theft of the most despicable kind: plagiarism of a cartoon religious tract.

A few weeks ago, I happened to chance upon one of those little comic books that members of some churches leave tucked away in public places. This wouldn't be my first encounter with this form of animated gospel interpretation - I found them often as a teenager (now I wonder if that was so coincidental). I saw enough of them, and read enough of them aloud dramatically, to become something of a conoisseur of the artform, and I learned that the pinnacle of the cartooned gospel interpretation/warning message was anything being surreptitiously slipped onto the market by Chick Publications. Chick is the king. So when I found the comic recently, the first thing I did was flip it over to see if it was really top drawer; it wasn't. I heaved a sigh and read the silly thing anyway. Really, I have all kinds of better things to do, but sometimes a girl's just gotta stop and smell the religious tract.

It started off with a question, which always pisses me off, because nobody told me there would be a quiz, and I was in no way prepared.

What is your life?
My a series of upright moments followed by sudden downward motion and bruising.

Am I in hell?
"Am I in Hell? How did I get here?"
I'm gonna guess it was the '80s porn-star moustache.

Have you fellows heard the latest dirty joke?
"Have you fellows heard the latest dirty joke?" "My, what a nice one!"
Personally, if my teenage son talked like that, I'd smack him for bein' a pussy.

How did this guy find time for covetous idolatry and cheating sodomy, all the while juggling his duties as a disobedient homosexual and thieving hypocrite? He was one busy lying whoremonger.

Lake of fire
I can think of no better argument in favor of making reservations!

The tract amused me sufficiently, obviously, and I was willing to let it slide that the quality was not quite...Chick Publications quality. That is, until I went to Chick's website and saw that this "What is Your Life" tract was stolen, almost panel for panel, from a Chick tract. It was like a designer knock-off! I can't even begin to convey to you the outrage that is burning a grail-shaped pattern in my craw.

The tract is called This Was Your Life and here are some of the purloined panels.





So what's the penalty for thievery of cartoons about God? Whatever the outcome, we can only hope it results in a new comic.

He speaks for us all


Veinface made like he was hurt that I hadn't featured him here in so long. This is why. He always attacks me when he has a public forum.

Why must you thwart me, Veinface?

But really, I will stop talking about my ass now. The end.

Friday, March 10, 2006

In the olden days, we just used a cork and hurried home

UPDATE: Wow. I really posted that, didn't I? Behold, the power of tequila.
For the record, my ass is just fine today, thank you.

To paraphrase
South Park's Eric Cartman, How come everything this week has involved things either coming in or going out of my ass?

I don't know. That's just the deal, m'kay? And besides: it's Drunken Blogging Day, and my tequila would like to say a few things to y'all.

Today, for the second time this week, I had lunch at Mongolian BBQ. For anyone who hasn't seen the hearts coming out of my eyes, I love that place (well, technically, those places - it's a chain). I can have something totally different every time, and if it sucks, I can only blame myself.

Not that I have something totally different every time; I can be horribly predictable when it comes to dining. There are some restaurants I visit often enough that the server scarcely needs to take my order. Last weekend, I was at the Japanese steakhouse, seated at a table with nine other people, and the waitress zeroed in on me first, saying "You drink Sprite, right?" Yes, ma'am, I do. And obviously, I'm in here a little too often. When I was eating at Don Pablo's once a week, our waitress knew my entire order, every time, before I gave it. Any variation was rare and would cause much raising of the eyebrows.

Notice I say "when I was eating at Don Pablo's once a week"? Well, probably about the time all my stress at home kicked into high gear, I found myself becoming terribly sensitive to foods that I'd previously been able to eat with no penalty for early withdrawal. Suddenly, a cup of salsa at DP's would send me screaming for the bathroom, at a dead run, within minutes of finishing the last bite. Certain other foods that I really like, eel for example, began to have the same effect on me. I'm sure it can be tied directly to my nerves, but knowing that didn't do anything to stop the hurry-up-and-get-back-out attitude so much food had taken with me.

Consequently, I've had to choose my foods and seasoning carefully. I tend to go for the not-so-spicy sauces at Mongolian BBQ so as not to upset the assle cart. And I have been fine as a result.

So, today, I did what any garden-variety moron would do, and I switched up for the kung pao sauce on my mahi mahi. It's Friday, it's Lent, and I was with a passel of Catholics, so I pretended to be one of them and ate fish. Well, no - it's true I was surrounded by Catholics, but the mahi mahi was on my plate simply because there were no crawdaddies. Motherfucker! I become extremely annoyed when there are no crawdaddies. Anyway, I was just fine at lunch, and even the ride back was not in the least uncomfortable.

Then I got back to the office and sat down at my desk. And the kung pao went kung pao!

Within perhaps 30 seconds, I was up, out of my chair, and pushing women, children, and lepers out of my way in an insane dash for the bathroom. I could tell that things were going to happen on their schedule, not mine, and my only hope for salvation was the speed with which I could cloister myself in the stall and drop my drawers.

The good news is I made it before something terribly unfortunate happened and I earned myself a new nickname. I'm not crazy about my current nickname, Ol' Plain Titties, but it beats the hell out of "Almost Home" or "Poop Girl" doesn't it? The bad news is that the seas were rough. There are many, many areas in my life where modesty is severely lacking, but in a public bathroom I usually display enough modesty for any ten vestal virgins in white gloves and perfect lipstick. Today, there was no margin for modesty. Things were happening, things beyond my control, and with all the racket I may or may not have been making, I was hoping hoping hoping that no one would come into the bathroom and have to bear witness to my junkyard butt symphony. Someone did come in, somewhere around the aria, and she finished and left rather quickly, for which I did not blame the intelligent mystery woman.

When the battle had been fought, I pulled myself together as best I could, pretended to have a scrap of dignity left, and hobbled back to my office. As I sat in front of my computer to attempt to complete some meaningful work after my hotseat joyride, I looked up and beheld a green note taped to my monitor. Of course, it had been Balulah in the bathroom. So she left me a nice little note, asking if she should join in with a sympathy AAARGH! There was also an Immodium chewable tablet attached to the note.

That tablet was more welcome than bag balm at a chapped nipples conference.

(who the fuck decided it was a good idea to give me tequila and a high-speed internet connection?)

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Bitchin' and shoppin'

Sooooo not creative tonight. I just don't have anymore asshole left in me.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Pucker up

I have decided, in my ponderous way, that all horror movie titles should have the word "asshole" in them. Because what is scarier than an asshole?

To that end, I give you:

  • The Hills Have Assholes
  • The Texas Asshole Massacre
  • Last Asshole on the Left
  • Asshole the 13th
  • I Spit on Your Asshole
  • Asshole on Elm Street
  • The House on Asshole Hill
  • Asshole of the Dead
  • Little Shop of Assholes
  • House of 1,000 Assholes
  • Assholes of Death
  • 13 Assholes
  • Assholeraiser
  • Sleepy Asshole
  • Assholetergeist
  • Asshole Dead
  • Asshole of Darkness
  • Bram Stoker's Asshole
But then I figured, why should horror flicks have all the fun? What about other movies?
  • Citizen Asshole
  • Twelve Angry Assholes
  • Gone With the Asshole
  • Star Assholes
  • The Poseiden Asshole
  • The Towering Asshole
  • All the President's Assholes
  • Dog Asshole Afternoon
  • The Thin Asshole
  • The Asshole Josey Wales
  • Pale Asshole
  • The Good, the Bad, and the Asshole
  • Asshole Full of Dollars
  • Assholeblanca
  • Monty Python's Asshole of Brian
Okay, now - I know you thought of some while you read this. Let's have 'em! Show me your assholes!

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

When it comes to huge openings, a lot of people think of me.

Today, I'd like to talk about cocksuckers.

There will be two distinct categories of cocksuckers: those who are actually sucking cock and who will not take this as an insult, and those who are just cocksuckers because they're hateful, and are called cocksuckers because that is something else they would hate.

Let's start with the hateful noncocksucking cocksuckers first.

Unbeknownst to me, disciples of the wretched, hateful, and syphillis-covered Fred Phelps were right around the corner from me yesterday afternoon. In case you hadn't been scarred by the knowledge yet, Fred Phelps runs a "church" in Topeka Kansas (Westboro Baptist Church, home of the hateful noncocksucking cocksuckers) which specializes in hate hate hate, all in the name of God. The "church" is mostly made up of his extended, in all probability inbred, family. Why would these soulless, inbred, chicken fucking, noncocksucking cocksuckers be in my neighborhood, you ask? Why, to stand across the street from a church and protest the funeral of an American soldier.

Yeah, I said they were protesting the funeral of an American soldier. Apparently, these inbred noncocksucking cocksuckers have nothing better to do than travel the country and protest soldiers' funerals, and to stomp on American flags, and to hold up charming signs like these:


Why do I get the feeling that this is not what Jesus had in mind at all?

And why would the inbred, noncocksucking cocksuckers feel the need to protest the funerals of American soldiers, and to remind us all that God hates us? Why, because we live in a country that caters to and coddles homosexuals (in other words, allows them to continue breathing). Because, you know, it's the fags that are destroying America, with their brokeback leather, and their toned, well-oiled bodies, and their evil neighborhood gentrification schemes.

I saw this on the news when I got in from work yesterday afternoon, and you can't imagine the hissy fit I threw when I realized that these inbred, noncocksucking cocksuckers were right around the corner and I had completely missed the opportunity to drive past and heave a shit-filled diaper at them. Or give them a puppet show with Quasimodo offering his big, blue Play-Doh dick to the Gargoyle. Or park behind them, open my car windows, and sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow in falsetto until their brains melted and their bodies fell limp, no more evil instructions to perform, their carcasses nothing more than smoked sausages under their spiteful placards.

Come on, people. Even a sick fuck like me has a threshold where I feel like basic human decency has been violated. I believe in freedom of speech - look at the bullshit I write here every day! - but protesting a funeral, especially the funeral of a soldier who had nothing at all to do with the issue stuck like a burr under these noncocksucking cocksuckers' saddles, makes even a four-eyed libertine freak like me say "Shame on you!" Whatever your politics, whatever your religious beliefs, to attempt the disruption of a funeral for someone who did you no harm is just an awful, pointless display of hate that I cannot fathom.

Really, when I see people like this, it just makes me feel really bad for my Christian friends, all of whom I believe are what I would consider real Christians (you know, all that loving your neighbor crap that pansy-lovers like me go for). Don't think that I believe these people represent you, because I DO NOT. So, hugs to you guys. I know y'all get it.

Alrighty, then. Stepping back now, and amusing the fuck outta myself by posting about another subject Fred Phelps would likely despise. Rubbing my hands together with childish delight. And on a side note, how does this make me any different from my dear mother, who regularly fires off sassy liberal letters to the editors of several local papers? I'm turning into my mother, right in front of the Internet as a Whole! Beware, as the flowery descriptions for animal body parts shall commence soon. I would explain that last remark, but really - it deserves its own post.

On to lighter, fluffier matters. Like whipped cream for the eyes. Or something. Anyway, here are the cocksuckers who smile while they do it!

Sometimes I see a movie or TV show that I like while I'm watching it, but then the more I think about it, the more I begin to love the movie or show, and then before I know it, I am obsessed (let's save my childhood obsession with Broadway musicals for another post, m'kay?).

I knew this had happened to me the day I held a serious half-hour conversation about the motivations of the characters on The Sopranos, found it had happened when I began to speculate about what might occur next on General Hospital, and I just realized it has happened to me again as I listen to this damn song about a wig for the 25,372nd time.

It's true. I have the biggest crush in the world on Hedwig, angry inch or no.

"I scraped by with baby-sitting gigs and odd jobs - mostly the jobs we call blow."

If you are like I was until just recently, and you haven't seen Hedwig and the Angry Inch, stop reading this and go rent it. Right now. And if you are one of those people who will immediately counter with "Waaaaaah, I don't like musicals, and I don't like movies about fags!" then you should go away now and not come back here. Especially for this post, because from now on, this post is all about musical fags.

It's not like this is a new show, and plenty has already been said (better) about it. But I saw it for the first time recently, and I have to tell you - I can't believe I missed out on it until now. So much time, Hedwig, that you and I did not have together. Not to give too much away, it's a story about a sex change gone horribly...well, nowhere distinctly male or female. Hence, the "angry inch." It's also a story of trust and betrayal, and it's sidesplittingly hilarious, and it's weird, and it has some killer songs (it was originally a stage show, but I have only seen the movie), and it is just wrong on so many levels.

I just can't count the ways I love this movie. Watching his East German mother throw his American GI father out, yelling "That's focked op! That's focked op!" or the whole oven bit (I would love to say more, but it's even funnier when it's a surprise), the picture of Luther in the trailer, having my suspicion confirmed that putting a bra in the dryer warps it...and when Hedwig utters the line I used as the title for this post, I knew we were kindred spirits.

More fabulous than Fred Phelps? Survey says....ding ding ding ding!

And how, I ask you, how exactly am I supposed to resist a show where Hedwig's (small) band of devotees wear foam wigs in Hedwig's honor?

I really need to have one of these. Kitschy kitschy ya ya da da.

I went to iTunes earlier this week and downloaded a couple of songs from the show, and I'm sure the guys in the office across from mine would really like to come over and slap me right off my chair if they have to hear Wicked Little Town or Wig in a Box one more fucking time.

Sorry guys, but that wig is a character all in itself, and I will hear its praises sung, over and over and over and over...

Here, give it a listen. It starts out slow, but give it a second, it builds up steam. Guaranteed you'll catch yourself later humming "I put on some makeup, turn on the eight track..." You will love me or hate me for it, but it will stick in your head.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Got a shamrock in my shoe

For those of you who just can't get enough of the Beverly Hillbillies on spanish fly, and for anyone foolish enough to be curious about my singing voice, I give you the video for a very abbreviated, rough version of my song Chica Mojo (yes, I have sullied my own song this time). Obviously, it's not done, it still has another verse, blah blah blah, bitch bitch bitch.
This was the last song I was working on when I discovered blogging, and then sorta dropped everything in favor of blogging. Blah blah blah.

Friday, March 03, 2006

There's sex! There's violence! There's farting!

I really had every intention of writing a real post tonight, but...
Well, I'm up to my chapped ass in other things I need to be doing right now. So I'm being lazy and giving you more cartoons.

This batch is from (brace yourselves with extra AquaNet) 1984. This is what I was doing when Big Brother was watching.

For all of these, unless you want to squint to read my crappy handwriting, you'll want to click on the picture to go to Flickr. When there, click on the little magnifying glass button above the picture that says "All sizes" and view the large size. Much easier on the eyes. Well, from a non-squinting standpoint. You may still want to find a sharp object with which to blind yourselves after you've seen these, but you might as well be horrified by a decent-sized image. Even an assault on the eyes should be done with the best possible resolution.

We Called Him Escargot Breath

We Called Him Escargot Breath
Can you believe nobody ever hired him?

The next two cartoons were inspired by outbursts of left-field spontaneous storytelling by my brother, Tardist. So you can blame him. Yeah, that's the ticket...

Precious Appendages

Precious Appendages
I wish I had a velvet-lined cheek box.

All I Want for Christmas is a Porcelain Millinery God

All I Want for Christmas is a Porcelain Millinery God

No, I don't know what the fuck I meant by that title, either.

Now, that was a nauseating ride down memory lane. If ever there was a reason to drink heavily, this was it.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Sketch of the day

So, I hear the rumor goin' around is that I was a nice girl, a clean girl, a sober girl, before I started this dirty blogging bizness.


Sorry, I just choked on laughter there a little. Nobody thinks that, right?

But just in case any of you still have lingering doubts, I'd like to show you some cartoons I drew in (I'm pretty sure) 1986 as Christmas presents. Yeah, I was one cheap-ass, underemployed biatch back in the day, and so my idea of a "great" Christmas present was to draw some lame-ass, sicko cartoons, then hit the copy machine at the library and make copies for my family and friends. God, I used to get some shitty looks from the librarians. Some people just don't appreciate penis and vomit cartoons. And I'm sure my family and friends were extremely underwhelmed by my gift (I gave these, and worse, to my parents, fer chrissake).

So, let's flash back to that magical time that was Christmas 1986.

Cat fashion
The current resurgence in cat fashion is, of course, the pillbox hat...(veil is optional)

Granted, that's not disgusting or filthy, but you have to admit - it's fuckin' weird. You think Mom and Dad shoulda brought in the professionals at this point?

The king's pate
"Bring me my pate!" demanded King Jiggney, prodding the waiter with his rather impressive pee pee....

King Jiggney's got some serious model cheekbones goin' on there. And why did I not include a picture of the pee pee prodding? But you have to give me props for bringin' the pee pee action in the clutch.

Denial corner
Denial Corner "I'm not REALLY gay - not unless you want me to be."

Okay, again we have the pretty boy with great cheekbones. Have I ever told you drag queens piss me off 'cause they're so much prettier than my born-female ass is? Well, same goes for this guy.

And finally, one that is art and poetry, all in one bargain-basement presentation!

Big scoop of doom

The general concensus
Seemed gloomy for the man
He was doomed to a life
Cleaning out the cat's pan....

I guess I just didn't realize I was that, well, reflective at that age. Or that obsessed with cat poop.

At least now you know why people don't clamor to be on my Christmas card list.