I love your pretty pink panties, Alabama.

I am putting my foot down so hard Orlando is about to get a new fucking lake.
No morning should ever start with anything but sex, kisses, and tiny chocolates to melt in your mouth while you drink hot coffee. NO MORNING!
I dreamt last night I was cooking breakfast, not all night but that portion right before I woke up, so that when I did wake up I immediately went to pout face for realizing I would not have fresh bacon to munch on with my egg and cheese bagel that also did not get made. Waffles would have been awesome (mental note).

do not tread on me
your bad mood can't ruin my
great sex and coffee



obviously, I didn't hear a word you said.

how cocksucking saved the world

I watched this completely depressing movie last night called The Road.
This morning (ugh), sans coffee (whoa now), I have a few thoughts (Cheesus, help us).

The set up:
Earth is dying. Meh. That's optimistic. Earth, is dead.
Ash and dust everywhere.
No trees, no animals, minimal humans.
Barely any sun - it rains but probably toxic enough you shouldn't drink the water (but you will).
It's been like this for five years.
You are alive. Lucky you; Darwin is impressed I am sure.
McDonald's, if they were still serving, would only now be considered, food.
But they aren't, and you are starving. Total bummer.

So, in a complete wasteland, let's not waste.

Bugs (if there are any) will be eaten. Got that.
If you happen to find canned food anywhere: conserve. Never indulge. You cannot fill your belly with spam, canned peaches and gatorade if in the last month you only ingested three crickets, a few grains of wheat and a little acid rain. If you jerk it up anyway and puke, that's still food. Bag it up for later. Midnight snack.
One thing the 2010 Haitian earthquake taught me is that you can actually survive by eating dirt. Learn to make mud pies, silly. Microorganisms might keep your ass alive.

Head to the coast and then move south. Everything is better in the south.
If there is a chance in hell of plant growth, it isn't going to happen in the tundra.
Ducks are smart creatures. Be a duck. GO SOUTH.

Items at the top of your list to scavenge for along your journey:
Wagon or cart.
Blanket. Pillow (no need to be unreasonably uncomfortable now).
A good pair of boots and several pairs of socks. One change of clothes.
Toothbrush, toothpaste and mouthwash. Good oral hygiene is good.
Scissors. Can Opener. Knife. Fork. Spoon. Container to hold water.
Plastic bags. Duct tape. Fishing line. Hook.
Crossbow and arrows. If you cannot find this because you are outside of a city, then at night when you are lying fireside wishing you had a dirty martini extra olives, make some spears. Make something pointy. Learn to be stabby. You have to have a weapon and let's face it, guns run out of bullets.
If you find a book, pick it up, man. Read something. Disappear for a moment because when you wake back up it's still gonna be hunting for cockroaches and evading scavengers looking at you like a side of beef.
If a member of your party happens to die, yea, hate to break it to you but thats meat. Make a fire, smoke it up. Jerky will last you for awhile.
Use the stomach, blow it up, make a ball. Relax after your full belly of flesh with a nice game of volleyball. Or soccer.

This is all assuming that you are male.
If you are female, you probably committed suicide the moment there were no more tampons, Midol, and Whiskey to be had.
Or someone killed you. Which is probably a more likely scenario. You bitched and then someone put an axe in your skull.
Or someone keeps impregnating you and harvesting the baby/placenta for food.
Actually, this is not a half bad idea. Mental Note: Taken.

They call me Genius.
(nobody calls you that)

Revision 1.
Upon actual discussion concerning pregnancy + baby as a viable food source a revision had to be made.
Other peoples babies would be better to eat; too much energy is spent producing a baby, even if passed early.
The placenta wouldn't be calorically worth as much as previously assumed.
Plus, there is the whole pain factor and that just makes life even more shitty for women.

Revision 2.
Addition discussions have discovered semen as an alternative and easily renewable food source.
You could also use blow-jobs as a tool to get out of bad situations you find yourself in.
Add item to scavenge for: Chapstick/Vaseline.


double dutch anyone?

What the fuck are you people running for?
There is no need to run unless you are escaping killers or tigers, or there is a fire you need to get away from (and then you only need to run far enough to get away from the fire, which is usually not that far, it qualifies more as sprinting and if you are on fire, please, never run).
Are you all training in the event you have to run? In this case, it wont matter to people like me who will just trip you so the tiger stops chasing us both (or killer, me nodding back like "We are cool right, you got her to mangle up and what not, no need to kill me too" and then I can walk away, again, no need to run here it will instill more confidence that you have the killers back if you act nonchalant).
Marathons: you aren't really running to travel (suddenly a massive amount of people in tiny shorts are going to vacation somewhere on the coast), a finish line counts for nil when there is no prize. Who cares if you are first if a cheetah can still kill you.
I might be able to see running for some pie, if the pie was at the grocery store and you needed to have that shit right the fuck now but only crazy people and pregnant people require pie that quickly and crazy people belong in nuthouses and preggers ladies should have some sort of pie retrieval person for them as this is an absolute safety issue.
Running, the baby could fall out of their uterus onto the floor and we cant have a bunch of cracked infant skulls mushy brains everywhere, plus, gross, who wants to see babies dropping out like that. Ms. Preggers in the midst of Pie Withdrawal isn't paying attention, drags the baby by the umbilical cord all over the floor and it being sticky, collects grit and dust and small bits of garbage to it GROSS. Plus, what happens if there is a dog around who grabs it and suddenly she is playing tug of war with a mean old dog but its not working out so well because her grip on the slimy infant sucks, dog wins, total bummer. Probably it would also be dangerous like when you get a snag in your kitted sweater and it starts to unravel CAN YOU IMAGINE?!
Umbilical cord elasticity.
*SNAP* back : Whip Whip Whip.

NO apologies.


and for providing me an outlet, always.

I am going to fashion hubby a beard of feathers so that he can pretend to be Turkey Claus and pass out gizzards.
Thanksgiving, Happy Thanksgiving to all. Preemptive, obviously, I'm fuckin' 'merikan, you're lucky I don't rain down sulfur bombs or bibles on your unsuspecting ass.

They had Christmas decorations up before Halloween ended this year, which made me want to puke up half eaten Laffy Taffy. Thanksgiving needs some more umph so it can get enough bounce off the ropes to clothesline Halloween and drop kick-Christmas back into their perspective corners. I love Thanksgiving. I love giving thanks. I have so much to give thanks for, starting with "today I woke up" and ending with "tonight, I have a bed to sleep in" and one day, ONE DAY, I am going to be thankful that little Cherub Jesus Claus is over shadowed by the mystical Unicorn celebration of Love and Light between Native Americans and those who would come to slaughter and eventually confine them (having publicly announced heartfelt blah blah blah erect a statue and have a moment of silence remorse for taking 99% of their land and committing genocide in the name of something entirely retarded like fear of turkeys, I am sure).
Pass the yams, please and thank you.

This year I am excited to celebrate with both my dysfunctional and new extended family together AT THE SAME TIME. I used to fear my personal delusion inventors leaking crazy onto others but now that I am in my thirties, I find times like these amusing and much anticipated. I almost hope my step father gets drunk and starts pontificating on the role of high fructose corn syrup in plate tectonics. Someone at some point will cry and someone (not naming names) will laugh hysterically as a result. A mouth will drop. Something will break, will included. It's like Insanity Bingo (get your cards, kiddies).
Thank you family, for making life so goddamn interesting.

We are traveling later that evening for to stay in an undisclosed location stocked with beer and unmentionables (imported Peruvian beavers). Which means basically my house is free to pillage and loot if you so dare to take on the hoard and laundry pile. Please don't steal my panties, especially the ruffly black and pink ones.
Thank you brother in law, for taking me away like Calgon should have if the plumbing was worth anything and I could actually take a bona fide scalding hot bath to wash these sins away.

The rest of the soon to be blurry days off will be filled with food, reading, bleach, laughter, sex and slack the likes of no decent human on earth should ever plan for.
Thank you Bourbon, for sponsoring my life long sobriety.

Seven other things I say thanks for today.
1. Dinosaurs having roamed the earth.
2. Rocky and Bullwinkle.
3. You.
4. There are no cracks in the sidewalk in front of my house.
5. Knowledge that bottled water indeed has an expiration date.
6. Impending hopscotch tournaments.
7. Seven.

All my love to the Universe, yours, theirs, and ours.

Tony Danza


Exit Route

[vent] [rage]
I seriously hate working on these damn things.
[/vent] [/rage]


Queen of Swords contemplates Three of Wands

I went home last night, read my tarot cards and then stared at the wall for awhile. Staring hasn't happened in quite some time. Its good. Staring, at walls. Glassy eyes, potential drool, random soft voice inquiring about the state of the leather bench at the foot of your bed.

Lately (the last 24 hours, maybe) I just haven't been in the mood. Not in the mood for bullshit. Not in the mood for responsibility. Not in the mood for wiping the counter off or making sure I eat.
Lately (the past week or two) I just haven't been in the mood for normal routine. I don't really want to watch the TV shows that I normally love; I try the news, that doesn't work either.
Shopping - no. Cooking - no. Reading - no.
We seem to be, at a stalemate.
I am confused.

Notoriously indecisive and too many sparkly diamonds.
I will figured it out.
Just not today.
I am cool with that for now.

Can't tell if its the mania that makes me incomprehensible or something else.
I'm just a quiet little pile of mess.
With new shoes.
I have new shoes.

i do, actually.

Me: Why are you taking a stuffed penguin to school?

Kid B: Why AREN'T YOU taking a stuffed penguin to work?!?

Me: ....

Kid B: See.

: |


Diana Ross - Upside Down


wha uh hm no

I want some toast!
I want some pie!
I want a slurpee!
I don't even know why!

Bring me some candy!
A mouth watering treat!
Or I'll strip you naked
Bury you in concrete!

Eat a ham!
Eat some steak!
I don't want no apple
Jump in a fucking lake!

Wheres the treats!
I'll give you a trick!
Pull down your pants
Whip out your dick!

My pro-Halloween public cheer borders on free handcuffs, I think.

poison steaks.


this. is. your life.

8:00 pm. any given evening.

Me: Punch punch punch (Issues' tiny little punch punch punch to his side)
He: Why are you punching me?
Me: Punch punch punch (Issues' tiny little punch punch punch to his side)
He: Stop punching me!
Me: (Bites his arm, giggles, licks his arm slurp, cackles)
He: What the FUCK?!
Me: Punch punch punch (Issues' tiny little punch punch punch to his side) You love me.
He: Of course (Me: licks his arm) ... WHAT THE HELL!
Me: (Cackles loudly, slaps his exposed tattoos)
He: Why are you slapping me?
Me: Punch punch punch (Issues' tiny little punch punch punch to his side)
He: (Grabs both my wrists)
Me: (Shakes arms, then bites and licks his arms, moves legs up to push arms free)
He: (Deflects my bites and licks, moves his legs to pin mine)
Me: I can't moooooooooooooooooove. (Shakes wildly, licks his arms)
He: Oh my GOD! (Uses one hand to hold both my wrists and the other hand to hold my head still)
Me: (Cackles and growls, chomping jaws like rabid dog)
He: Something is wrong with you.
Me: OW!!!! (Cackles, try to move my head)
He: Raised by wolves.
Me: Ok. I will stop.
He: No you won't.
Me: Swears.
He: (Releases me)
Me: Punch punch punch (Issues' tiny little punch punch punch to his side and cackles)
He: Why are you punching me?
Me: (Wiggles hands all over his face, puts fingers inside his mouth and ears, cackles)
He: Oh My GOD (Me: Licks his arm) What the...
Me: (Cackles)

- silence -
- stillness -

Me: Punch punch punch (Issues' tiny little punch punch punch to his side)
Me: WANT TO WATCH A SCARY MOVIE HOORAY!!!! (Throws arms around him to issue hug and 58 kisses) (Maybe even 59)


just a theory.

Nothing to see here.
Move along, now. Move along.

Since it is so easy for others to cast away the judgment and analysis of individuals who have studied in their field for more than a few decades, I figure, why not be on the Hayride of Delusion too. The next time that I go to the doctor, I am going to be sure to let him know I think cancer is only a theory (no, I do not personally have cancer but I am beginning to not believe in it, because I am just kinda unsure about the whole thing really, I don't know "cancer" is such a big word, I am going to ask my pastor what he thinks first). I am going to say that on my way to his office I heard a radio host tell me that tumors were deposits of bad fat. The good fat was distributed properly but the bad fat lumped together and turned against you and only by eating mass amounts of high fructose corn syrup laden foods could you rid yourself of what was wrong. If he looks at me oddly, I will assure him I have read up on the subject online and there are at least a few doctors (2%) in his field who believe the same. I will thumb my nose in his face when he talks of chemotherapy and surgery because I am positive I know someone more qualified who can look at MRI's any way; my brothers cousin took a class in Anatomy back in college (he was an Interior Design major) and fuck if he doesn't always figure out who done it on that CSI Miami show, that bastard is one smart son ova bitch.

I can't stand the sheep, honestly you freak me the fuck out sheep.
You would rather take advice from someone you feel all warm and fuzzy about than a professional who has more knowledge concerning your subject than Wikipedia. You need to connect with your politicians like they were your family, when you know damn well you wouldn't elect your cousin or Uncle to any political office because the idiots still can't figure out how to program the DVR. You bury your head in the sand when you hear "global warming" and "overpopulation", consuming red meat like eating 15 oz at every meal is healthy and glamorizing TV families who have 6 or more babies at once because who doesn't love a fucking baby (What is Easter Island, Alex). You accept the gossip filled news they shout at you, sign up for their misinformation without verification, mainline lies as if you were not born with a basic set of reasoning skills and then have the balls to spread it all around like an alert that AOL is merging with AT&T and eventually taking all our first born children to work in coal factories.
Herpes. Its like you all have herpes and keep fucking without condoms.
If they said rainbow pants were cool, you'd sure as shit buy them.

Open your mouth, take the pill, shut the fuck up and endlessly channel surf. Because we all know by the time you scroll through the programming list, its been 30 minutes and all new shows are now on. Numb your brains on the force-fed delusion that you alone are significant and not responsible for anything outside of your 2500 sq ft cookie cutter, Scandinavian molded, regurgitated nightmare, at 4.5% APR 30 year fixed.
Your Coach clutch is going to look pretty kickin' on that emaciated arm after the aquifer has dried up and you realize we should have used the water to produce more food instead of keep your lawn green. Wish I could see your color coordinating lipstick but the respirator is kinda in the way.

I can't believe you are allowed to vote.
Even worse, some of you get elected to office.
That, is scary.

Cancer. Just a theory.
Please pass the FD&C Red Dye #40.


...and CUE the Tiger Brand Coffee advert

Opportunities are like assholes, everyone's got one and they all stink.
Not it.
Opportunities are like assholes, you are not real sure what to do with them but eventually mother nature will figure that out for you.
Totally wrong too.
Opportunities are like assholes, when you get the change to fuck one, start slowly, build momentum and enjoy the ride because you never know when that chance will arise again.
It sorta sounds like sage advice from the likes of someone, full of sage.

Wait for it.
Wait for it.....

There have never been more famous words uttered.
(An abrupt, exclamatory utterance. Discharge.)

We will back after a few words from our sponsors.


gimme my free cookie

The pediatrician's office gives out animal crackers and stickers after visits. The dentist dispenses little toys in a bucket. Lollipops at the bank, free cookies at the grocery store, crayons and hats at restaurants and almost everywhere else they pass out balloons. American children have become accustomed to getting a free parting gift everywhere they go.
The reward system is bent too. In school, attendance and academic excellence is rewarded with candy and classrooms with ice cream socials, pizza parties, movies. Parents give gifts and money for good grades (as do all the fast food restaurants) which makes no sense to me because if you get good grades: Hooray you are well on your way to a bright future. Not: Hooray here is a Butterfinger and $20.00.
MTV, thank you for producing shows like Teen Cribs, My Sweet Sixteen and The Hills, so instead of dancing to the new Green Day or Lady Gaga video kids can talk at a young age about when they will "get theirs".

And we wonder why children feel so entitled in their late teens and twenties.

Our pubic education system lacks money and what they do have is sometimes appropriated for the most bizarro of things. I understand the need for renovations at schools but no one in their right mind can justify to me why an elementary school needs a digital marquee monument out front when a much cheaper version can be purchased. New computers are worthless if you do not have enough funding to pay a teacher to instruct the technology courses. Honestly, is P.E. really necessary after elementary school, is this not a function of the home, to teach our children to be active? In pure hypocritical fashion, why can my children buy frozen yogurt, cookies, candy and a host of unnatural high fructose foods in a school run cafeteria? Are apples and bananas really too costly, too tainted with pesticides so that eating them is more vile that ingesting the multitude of garbage options heavy with dyes and preservatives served up daily.
I have obviously missed something.

I do not understand how child raising has fallen on the backs of our educational institutions, and when considered necessary (Health or Life Management class) how half-assed it is carried out.
My oldest attends an AP Human Geography class in High School with 12 other students. In a poll taken in her class the other day, 5 of those students remember having gone through sex education in Health. Two of them had discussed with parents at home (2 of the 5, not 2 additional students). So less than half of this class, which is at the top of the barrel academically, remembers any education on sex, home or otherwise.
The class was horrified to discover the state of AIDS in Africa and frightened for themselves, most having barely understood what they had been taught prior regarding safe sex practices.
The teacher actually suspended questions the kids were asking that day because they were no longer about Africa, they were about sex and her job, she felt, might be in danger as a result of discussing such things outside of the scope of her lesson plan.
Oh. My. Fucking. Hell.

We fight each other locally about raising sales tax by a half a cent (are you kidding me, half a cent is really too much?) and nationally in Congress so that the threat of not being able to afford higher education looms like a black cloud over so many potential scientists, doctors, engineers who may never be because university tuition is skyrocketing. The cost of a four year college education resulting in a return on investment nightmare (depending on field chosen) for the amount of money a student is left with in loans after graduation.

Advertising is bent towards children and young adults, who whine and cry to their parents about what they must have and absolutely need.
Clue: Clothes, food, roof. Not: Abercrombie Jeans, Mickey Mouse Cereal Bars and PS3 games.
TV, the new babysitter, is fast being replaced by the computer; advertising fine tuned and directed; one click shopping, credit cards stored and now you don't have to even go to the store to purchase your latest poison.
Virtual worlds are creating a new breed of detached individuals who are taught the basics of socializing online through animals and childlike creatures mimicking the same environments they see their parents use every day; preparation so that when age brings access to MySpace, Facebook, cellphones and texting, they are already more knowledgeable than you on how and what.
Oh my ever-loving, masked identity, filter lacking, ticking time bomb of drama and psychological/social/emotional destruction.

All this distraction.
All this misdirection.
We have not been good stewards.

My parental guilt is overwhelmingly large today.
I am gonna cry and all I really wanted was a free cookie.


belly cast

Every once and awhile I get the pleasure of casting the belly of a pregnant woman to help preserve that memory for them. One day soon I will be able to do this far more than I get to currently.
Until then, here is Krystal's finished piece of which I am very proud.

If you reside in the Orlando area (or close to it), I can be contacted here for more information:


The girl who cried Hoarder.

Last night I got super paranoid and was forced to lie in bed, panicking in the dark. I had to lie to myself to bring about sleep (only 60% positive there was not an anaconda under my bed), which didn't help because I dreamt I was a hoarder, so when I woke up I was still panicking because there is nothing in the world scarier to me than being a hoarder. I am not sure if the reason is that I see the potential for it happening. Because I do. I am, a-scared.
I enjoy sticking garbage in those small sized bags you get from the grocery store combined with a hatred of taking the garbage out.
Score two.
Also, I am gaining weight.
Score three.
Last month I might have only cooked a smidgen of meals and was honestly considering using the microwave as storage for my new acrylic paints.
Score four and five.
The other day while shopping in Walmart (Six) I bought an angel figurine for no reason (Seven) and also had a strong craving for pork rinds (Eight) even though I have never eaten them.
I cannot find the cat (Nine) and figured a good solution to this was the purchase of another one (Ten).

I might be in danger of throwing some offspring in the trash if they didn't move around so much. I can't stand keeping things, in fact my personality is the first to go this morning, as it has been 24 hours and I haven't thrown anything away.
New Identity X: Cereal Killer bunny.
Get me some Golden Grahams before I shave your head.

I donated 10+ inches of hair to Locks of Love this weekend. It was my sixth time sending a ponytail in after whacking hard core into the mane of hair that took me 2 years to grow out for this purpose. On Saturday, in a reoccurring state of "she should probably be caged but we like to watch her bite things", I tried to convince my loved ones to get me scissors so that we could take it down to the scalp. Mostly I was kidding. Mostly.
But one day I am going to be around someone who is Pro me shaving my head (or drunk) and its gonna happen whether anyone is mentally prepared for it or not.
You just wait.
I have almost cut it all off in a Burger King bathroom before. And you thought those things were just places to get busy, snap.

I would like to purchase an Angora Rabbit fur wig, please.
In black.


Found: 50/50

earl grey please.

Bar tending experience helps one in all workplace environments.
I can hip toss a salesman to the curb quicker than he can whip his dick out and mention limited time offer.
You Shall Not Pass.

My new favorite phrase is: I am going to knock your dick in the dirt. 
I don’t have a whole lot of chances to say this, so when I do, I am probably going to be so excited, I will end up screaming it in someone’s face, fingers pointed right at them (I am part Sicilian, we speak with our hands and tire irons). 
Maybe I should go pick a fight today.
“I said HOLD THE MAYO, fucker! I am going to knock your DICK in the DIRT!”


Looks like its subs for lunch.

I don't know what is with all my dick references lately.
Apologies (You: Gratitude).
Penis envy has apparently gotten me once again. By the balls.
It's all this tea-bagger nonsense. All day, every day, whenever someone says the name, all I can imagine are balls being dipped on peoples chins, foreheads, noses, cheeks. No explanation about how you can turn the economy around or your views on education will ever burn this out of my head, I go straight there, every time. Balls.
It's a good thing the lot of you tea-baggers aren't worth paying attention to any way.
Dip dip dip.
Balls on your chin.


Found: Clowns suck.

I am saving my money up for a giraffe, fuck it.

Oh. My.
That is one movie wrought with kick you in the box cliché's and tear jerking cheese intention. There were so many things wrong with this movie, I don't even know where to begin.

1. No one drives like Secret Service except Secret Service; no Winnebago handles like a Porsche.
2. You cannot fly a plane low through a crumbling city. Ever. Or through ash. Duh.
3. Being close (i.e. 200 yards away) to an exploding super volcano would kick your ass harder than 10 nuclear bombs.
4. A floating "Ark" as large as a city cannot maneuver like a speed boat.
5. Why take a giraffe? Every time I see a giraffe it's eating something. I would have filled that Ark with lots of chickens. Lots of rice. Beans. Plants. Not Giraffes. Who the fuck needs a giraffe when there is nothing left?
6. No tsunami will ever be as high as Mount Everest. The water is displaced, not doubled spontaneously.
7. The ash expelled into the upper atmosphere from a Super Volcano isn't dissipating in 27 days.
8. Why go to Africa? Once the water recedes, it recedes everywhere. Go home.

Silly Hollywood. Try harder, come on.

A more realistic version of this story is that the solar flares happen, 2% of us pay attention to it (because, Housewives of Orange County and Monday Night Football are on), the weakened magnetic field allows more radiation in and damn it, we all get cancer together then die.
The End.

Today I feel dumber for having watched this movie. Like stumbling upon a walrus raping a pig, I shockingly could not turn away. I had to know what happened in the end, mostly because I was waiting for the total destruction of all civilization scene (I like those movies better). And also because my coworker never shuts up about solar flares. Seriously. Never Fucking Shuts Up. And I know, I KNOW, he has gotten 85% of his information from this movie. He is that guy. We will have that talk.

I like seeing Hollywood's regurgitated version of the happy ending. It's like returning to the scene of a crime; dirty massage parlor, cash in hand, dick hard as a rock. Please take your blouse off and get the oil.

Back to THE YEAR 2012.
We may in fact be headed for global disaster but I highly doubt any Mayan, whose beliefs in bloodletting and human sacrifice certainly turned out to work in curing disease and causing rainfall, had anymore insight than a long haired hippie in sandals on the other side of the planet whose beliefs held we are indeed, also headed for total destruction. You know who we all should be paying attention to in the Year 2010? Those little men in white coats called Scientists, who figure shit out. It's their job. It's what they do.
By the way, they say were fucked too. My argument here is moot.

Kudos. We are going to die. All of us. Got it. Check.
Can we maybe move forward then? Stop killing each other in the name of god X, or principle Y, or natural resource Z?
How about everyone starts living. Together. Peacefully.
I think about how nice it would be for advanced knowledge of some horrific approaching global disaster so, like in the movies, we all get together Kumbaya and hold hands and and we pass round Coca Cola to enjoy these last days with smiles. But that's too Hollywood. Because we do have advanced knowledge concerning disease, geological and astronomical phenomena, pollution, overpopulation and what do we do?
Argue about whether a man can truly love another man.
Argue about divine appointment of land.
Argue about what one can do with their own body.
We watch people starve.
We watch people die of disease we can cure.
We watch someone's house burn down.
Funds are appropriated to Pro Sports teams rather than education.
Funds are funneled into bigger and better weapons that kill rather than healthcare that saves.
We complain about government, each other, and anything that does not suit our lazy, egotistical lifestyles to include the noise level of a completely biodegradable chip bag, such that a company would discontinue manufacturing it as a result of the complaints.
I complain about you, you complain about me.
My mind cannot process the current level of illogical behavior.
I really do not understand.

I hate us. Sorry, but I do. Absolutely fucking hate us.
We won't get a Hollywood ending and you know what, we don't deserve one.
No one is going to sing Kumbaya and I had so hoped to get to play the tambourine.

Stupid movie.


Found: The other magical meat

you positive?

need. coffee.

My back is on fire after sitting through another inking session yesterday.
He''ll eat your face off.

Nobody likes a serious girl. Nobody likes a cutesy girl either.
I have come to this conclusion via top secret government funded research and analysis.
3.75 out of 4 people want snake girls.

I’ll settle for a cup of coffee, but you know what I really need
(toast with cyanide jam)

I watered a plastic plant this morning.
Gonna be a John Waters day.
A wig.

Every morning, I get my cup of coffee. Every afternoon, I get my cup of water. I do not rinse my cup out well in the afternoon, so its more like coffee water but serves its hydration purpose. I also never remember to drink all of the water; it just gets tossed into a potted plant the next morning when I stagger to the coffee pot to begin the daily cycle.
So as the construction workers beat back the sugar plum fairies dancing through my head this morning, revelation cometh.
Slowly I am making the all the real plants in my office addicted to caffeine. And even worse, on the weekend, they may be having withdrawals.


bathroom rules

Rule Number One: If I am around ANY bathroom and you happen to be around me and said bathroom because you or I are about to enter/exit, don’t ever fucking talk to me. Ever. It’s just weird. Let us just be invisible.

Rule Number Two: Don’t answer your cell phone in the bathroom. In fact, don't even bring it in there. When you talk at double volume in order to cover the sound of you urinating (or god only knows what else you do in there), it appears to me that you are shouting to yourself. Thats schizophrenic behavior, mate, and I might have to make a mental ward call.

Rule Number Three: If you are in charge of placing the water cooler somewhere in the office never put it near or in sight of the bathroom. This is just plain disgusting even though it seems to be the standard for water cooler placement committee everywhere I have ever worked. Gross. I don't want to drink that water and damn it, I am fucking dehydrating over here.

Rule Number Four: Bathroom time is alone time. We do not need buddies like we are in kindergarten; please do not ask me to escort you to the toilet.

Rule Number Five: Shut and lock the damn door. ALWAYS.

Let us never speak of these things again.



I have multiple personalities. The one that writes is mean. The one that edits is sarcastic. The one that reads it later online is 80 years old, keeps too many cats, has never heard the word cunt uttered, is repulsed by homeless people asking for cigarettes and paranoid the neighbors are looking through her garbage.
You have no idea how difficult it is for me to function.

My husband told me yesterday I suck at painting.
My husband told me yesterday I was better at writing than all of the other creative visual nonsense distractions I continuously pour my heart and soul into, which produce no money what so ever, not even enough to reimburse my expenses and only wears me thin enough to be on the verge of total nervous breakdown 85% of the time, so help us all.
Total lie.

He did say, yesterday, HONESTLY (way more than that Glenn Beck guy), and RATIONALLY (way more than that Christine O'Donnell chick) that he thought I could make money writing.
Beer money, maybe (lie, I'll be the top 1% supporting Bush tax cuts screaming in outrage that the help is stealing the silver).
I know what it can absolutely do and that is entertain like, 20 people I personally know. So far that's working out pretty good for me. Liking at least 20 people that is; most of you already know how I feel about the exponential troglodyte population growth curve. Other than that, it's a total crap shoot in my opinion. People these days tend to hand out cash to overly made up plastic housewives, people who birth more than 10 kids at once, and anyone willing to eat cockroaches for others entertainment. That cash, is not my cash.

I decided to submit some written work to a random internet website I stumbled upon while looking for porn. Sorta. More like I am submitting my already written blog, because I am both:
1. Lazy
2. Currently involved writing another "thing" which I am pouring my creativity into, minus this and thatfox, which really only keep the mania going so the cycle can continue (3 c's in a row, score).
I have no time for scheduled writing assignments, which reeks of rules and time management I will no doubt, fuck up. Besides, thats their schtick; republishing web content in print form (and the roster is not so bad). So if they liked my asshole-ish email, and then my erratic blog content, I will be totally internet famous and promise to buy all the pitchers of beer for the rest of time!!!
If not, I got another days worth of writing done, entertained myself, 20 others, plus, found some more porn.
Now that's a score.

The submission request forum post asked for a two paragraph email on why my voice was important.

Why My Voice is Important
The Blog Goddess former known as HeyJules
(Who once blogged, was stalked and threatened, and eventually deleted all online content from the internet only to start blogging again because mania causes her to make loads of irrational decisions. Also, boredom.)
Now Known As TheWoodRabbit
(Who is in the process of making more irrational decisions: Hooray for us all!)

My voice isn't important.
Kidding (lie). But neither is yours. Or theirs. So there. Funny, the only voices that seem to impact repeatedly are those who, strangely enough, don't speak for themselves. They buy self-images from public relation specialists, have representatives that issue edited press releases on their behalf, or do speak only to retract everything uttered for having offended someone who has little reason to be offended in the first place. So uptight, this tiara wearing, entitled populace of sheep. The voices that are actually important warn us about overpopulation and disease; enlighten us to the possibilities of stem cell research or exploration of our universe (in which the voices that monopolize then scream bullshit and try to enact legislation instructing us all to believe in the tooth fairy or some other nonsense).
They aren't considered important because they haven't starred opposite Matthew McConaughey nor have endorsement deals with Coca Cola. Oprah or Bill Maher isn't waiting to book them for any upcoming shows. They don't know "The Situation" and probably don't own anything to have been seen on a runway.
They could think you out of a paper bag, turn it into a origami King and use it to beat another intellectual at Chess before you replied "plastic" to the cashier in the checkout line. Value misplaced on what's in the bag, the distraction, an endless nauseating cycle of consumerism far out of control (my reply is valued at $29.95).

This illusion of importance is created by our recent technological advances which allow anyone with an opinion, internet access, an email address, and limited ability to type phonetically embarrassing idiot code (LOL) to share themselves via social media, blog, forum, comment, or the lesser known bile of the great cyber deep: the chatroom. To put it simply, we aren't that important, any of us. Just a random group of cells, housed in a complexly constructed but extremely fragile shell, living with other organisms, attempting to forever kill each other (and destroy the environment that sustains us) like psychotic viruses, stuck on a big chunk of rock circling a star, in a evolving solar system, helping to make up only one of a bajillion galaxies, in an ever increasing universe.

What I say isn't going to change anything, therefore my voice isn't important; not even in Ego-land, where Id and Superego point out gross grammatical errors and tell me I'm fat.
But(!) but, some people tend to think my voice is interesting (might be the tourettes). Some days, even amusing (might be the prescription medication). I suppose on that account I fall into one of your categories o'publication. Or maybe you'll just have to pull restraining orders after the barrage of WHY NOT ME I'M IMPORTANT TOO emails you are bound to get, henceforth. Either way, we'll be in touch.

minimalist wednesday

its wednesday.



the stars. they ridicule me.

An appointment with the devil at the crossroads.
Soft glow of the moon illuminating my exhaustion exhaled. Shards of cruel intention scattered at my feet, flicker.
He slides up behind me, his hands moving slowly over my hips. I quickly forget the rage, lulled. My need for explanation, dissipates.
Time ceases. The air dares not move.
Eyelids heavy with the nefarious honey on his lips; senses multiplied with every liquid gold suggestion that sweetly creeps down my neck.
Overwhelming repulsion stimulates and my need to be touched, deepens. He cradles my reasoning. Laughs at my projected weakness.
Clouds move in with the beating of wings. The sky turning black as crows gather amongst the trees to bear witness.
“Careful, little girl,” he whispers as a hand moves to my throat.
Still. Silent. His. Again.

“Your penmanship is stunning,” he sighs as hasty apologies scrawled on a napkin, fall from my fingertips.
Discourse melts into the cold, sordid pavement. Pure foolishness welcomes fortune's delivery.
My back against his chest, his hands move first to caress, massage.
His nails begin to dig, and rip. My flesh ignites, climax arrested as delicate strings of pain dance.
Heart beats force air from my lungs. His malicious laughter mocking obstinate desire.
Damn you. Damn me.

Pretension crumbling before him, I am slowly released.
He walks around to face me, bound lesson plan open in his hands.
Red marks and slashes bring me to quiet shame.
Comments in the margins mimic chastity; overt deceit teases with barbed tongue.
I couldn’t remember being present for half the instructions. Absence a defense moth ridden and stale.
A wicked smile spread across his face. He wasn’t buying the innocence. And he was right not to.
Oblivious nature to justify happenstance that is, yet is not. Hypocrisy, a sweet poison we share.
Down on my knees. Wrists again bound. Head hung, I seek reticent absolution.
As I look up into his eyes, he mouthes the words “repent” and tears of sorrow roll down my icy cheeks.
I cannot.

The bright lights of a city on fire. Demons rise like smoke, as I watch it all burn to the ground.
A noose loosely placed around my neck. He makes his exit and once again, I am alone.

The stars.
They ridicule me.

eat me.

me neither.



If I was famous, I would need a Rider for all appearances (to include dental and gynecology appointments).
This is what the famous do. Demand shit and get it.

12 bottles Fiji water (chilled on ice)
2 bottles quality Cabernet Sauvignon
2 bottles Australian Sauvignon Blanc (chilled on ice)
6 cans of Red Bull (chilled on ice)
1 bottle Jagermeister (chilled on ice)
1 bottle Jack Daniel's
12 cans of Coke
Pita bread
Fresh Hummus
Shrimp Cocktail
Olives with Garlic Cloves in the center
Cheese tray (assorted)
Fruit tray (watermelon, kiwi, star fruit, and Bing cherries)
4 Medium Rare Filet Minions, seared and thinly sliced
1 Key Lime Pie
1 pack Hubba Bubba Strawberry bubblegum
1 pack Hubba Bubba Watermelon bubblegum
Over sized red couch with lots of fluffy down pillows
12 Nerf hand crossbows with extra darts
6 BigWheels for adults
Bob Sagat
Red Panda

Unless fame came in the form of great stupidity or illegal activity, in which case this list consists of 1 orange jump suit.