Nightmare Fuel. Writing. October 5.

Sara won't you play with me
Darkness falls, you hear my plea
Wander close into the street
Blades so sharp, I'll slice your feet

I want your little toes to keep
Hush my child, don't make a peep
Drag you screaming to my shed
Lay you down upon my bed

Sara came to play with me
Moonlit sparkle I do see

Your eyes will twinkle as my own
Gouging deep while scraping bone
Your cries are ringing in the air
My fingernails, you are aware

Tearing flesh from off your arms
Fright will surely bring more harm
My giggles shrill into a song
The cuts I'm making very long

Sara pleads, don't play with me
But bloodshed's sure to set me free

The axe is swung so very high
Landing hard below your thigh
Smooth white legs I chop to bits
Hurry now before you quit

One more cut into your belly
Hand slide in to gooey jelly
Your insides do feel warm tonight
Beating heart will bring delight

Fingers closed around it firm
Ripping now, you cease to squirm
Hold it close, I feel you near
My love for you, so very dear

Sara you will always be
Floating on the reddened sea

Soul adrift a wondrous flight
The pain I wrought with all my might
My gift to you this deadly night
Darkened streets do always bite

Nightmare Fuel. Writing. October 4.

Fish was selling at it's highest market rate since Joseph had moved his family to the bustling coastal town. Floods had ruined his last crop of wheat and before savings diminished completely, they had set out toward fate unknown. A larger community promised a stronger need for trade. For advancement. For growth.
The move had also been good for his wife's failing health. The cool sea air brought color back into her cheeks. She looked more radiant now than she had when they were first introduced; a harsh contrast to the many sullen looking women in town, faces filled with scars, begging for scraps of bread in exchange for favors unfathomable to a gentleman.

He walked the docks, seeking conversation, advice, any sort of discourse. Strange looks and whispers followed every footstep. New comers were not welcomed, questions even less. Every morning the seafarers headed out and he took note as they returned before the setting sun. In the countryside, it was habit for the fishermen to cast during the late hours, when feeding was more likely to occur. Routine here was much different he saw.
Back in town and drunk, the men became far more open to his presence. They shared stories of large hauls, blinding weather and, of course, legends. "BEWARE" they shouted with rolling bouts of laughter. He smiled with them, hiding rattled nerves. They said to see Old Tom in the morning. He would lend him a small boat for a portion of his catch, to get him started.

Tom was indeed old, or as weathered as years of sea work might make a man. They talked long and easy; agreed on a fair trade. Tom spoke, "Damn them, those liars, don't listen to a word they say." He scratched a rough face with the sharp end of a bloodied knife. "The deep has always had it's stories. Just a bunch of drunks with nothing better to do than talk. You fish as you like. You fish as you know."

And he had. The calm voice of age had settled Joseph's stomach then. Reassuring words now echoed hollow as he felt the pangs of a missing arm and fractured legs. Something large had overtaken his boat this first day out. Moments from his last breath, consumed in a painfully blurry instant, nothing but the present spoke. He felt his grip on the spongy flesh of this beasts tongue weakening with every wash of water that flowed past giant teeth embedded with rotted flesh unknown. As the putrid air pockets began to disappear and the pressure in his head increased, he welcomed the taste of salt in his lungs; a far easier nightmare than flesh dissolving slowly off his skin in the belly of this monster. "I am sorry, my love," he thought as the thoughts ceased to be.

The elder sailors chuckled over drained pints of ale. One of the men began sharpening his knife at the table. "You know," he said, "too young a man to have left unattended, such a pretty wife."
"She'll no doubt be waiting up for him to come home," chimed in another.
"Poor thing is probably scared out of her mind with worry," laughed the eldest.
The small group left too late and too drunk, to deliver bad intention masked by the solemn news. Terror in the deep was only rivaled by that back on shore.


Welcome Home

Pulling into the driveway, I glanced up. The dark curtains were drawn. He was here. And earlier than expected.

No sooner had I parked the car, I was bounding up the front steps to the heavy mahogany door. There was a small note taped there. “Quiet,” it read. I had already made too much noise. Shameful, I thought, though the promise of what was to come only increased the now pulsing between my thighs.

I paused to catch my breath, to focus. Anticipation in the form of glistening beads of sweat gathered on my temples. My nipples stimulated instantly by the movement of my satin camisole.

I slid my key into the lock, quietly slipping inside, easing the door shut again and locking us both in for the evening. I felt every rise and fall of my blouse. The house was cold but I already knew the warmth of the whips lashings would soon feel like noonday sunlight upon my skin; burning hotter as my flesh methodically reddened, lulling me into a dreamy state of heavenly submission.

The last golden light from a setting sun, slipped in from slits and edges of the draperies, softly illuminating the otherwise darkly staged room. He must have had the floors polished, the faint smell of wax reaching up to touch my nose.

In front of me, on the old oak table there was a small wooden box dark etchings covered the lid. It was my wooden box, kept away from me until moments such as these. Focusing on it, I smiled widely for a brief moment before scanning over the evening’s chosen attire.

Next to the box, lay a crucifix of tarnished gold; an aged bible whose pages frayed at the end and undoubtedly will waft musty when opened. Next to it, there were blood red rosary beads and a hairpin made of pearl. A dull gray woolen jacket and skirt were draped over a chair to my right. The fabric promised fitted, uncomfortable resignation. On the seat, there were black stockings I knew to be as soft as lambskin, soon to be shredded as the others before, and my corset of blue constraining movement further. His impeccable taste delivered no finer vision of bodily worship.

My heart now steady, I took to slipping off my shoes, placing them softly on the table. A door shut in the back of the house, startling me. The smell incense began to make its way out of the hallway; a soft mist indicating he was aware of my arrival, my presence required in a timely manner. We indeed had a lot of catching up to do.

Careful not to make a sound, I took off my business suit and placed it on the chair with my purse and keys. I eased into the imported silk stockings, my hair pulled back into a bun, carefully securing each clasp of the restrictive corset. I took my time getting dressed; smoothing out the rough fabric of the suit with my hands as the moments ticked slowly by. Every tiny detail attended to, as it would be minutely scrutinized.

One little peak before my affirmation began. Carefully, I lifted the boxes lid. A diamond studded collar twinkled against black velvet lining. My heart picked up it’s pace again. He had taken it with him on the business trip. I raised the lid and released, letting it slam shut.

I wrapped the beads loosely around my right hand and slipped back into my heels.

I grabbed the box and tucked it under my arm. I picked up the book, the cross on top.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women,” I whispered.

With long purposeful steps, I strode to the location of the closed door. My feet heavy, my heels thumping hard on the wooden floors echoing throughout the house, sure to reach his ears. I would suffer at his hands for having broken the rules. I would suffer at his hands for the redemption of my soul. My long awaited confession would be first; for whilst he was away, I committed the most lecherous of sins; the lascivious hallmark of an unrestrained predator, hunting in the night her targeted prey.

Welcome home, my love.


you're doing it wrong.

QR Codes.
They were made for smart phones to scan. It is fucking pointless for anyone to put one online at all. A link will take care of that. In fact, this is a verified idiot sign, one who clearly doesn't understand simple things like, underwear goes on your ass not head, condoms are for dick protection not water balloons, and pie is for eating not fucking.

Karma drivers.
I was taught how to drive in school. I read the handbook, studied it, managed to get my license and have now been driving for about 20 years. Road rage and people who forget to turn on blinkers, those guys that speed or cut you off in traffic, I honestly don't mind them. Most of the time, people just plain make mistakes, I know I do. I don't honk my horn, I think it is an obnoxious way to get someone's attention as when one is honked at me, my heart tends to skip a beat, so fuck that bad karma accumulating shite. What pisses me off more than anything are drivers who think they are doing you a favor by ignoring the rules of the road, so that they can look like good people. You are not good people. You probably go home and yell at your kids and kick your dog when it craps on the floor. Don't involve me in your balancing things back out in the universe game. If you are across from me at a four way stop and have clearly arrived at that place FIRST, fucking go. Don't wave me through. What is that? If I am making a left hand turn and you are oncoming traffic, don't stop like you are a traffic cop deciding who gets to go and who doesn't. I have already timed how long it takes to get to my destination, I do not need you to block traffic in order to aide me in my quest. Naturally, I don't trust any of you, no sooner do I go then I think you are going to ram me in the side. People are fucked up. I don't get it. Everyone just follow the fucking rules.

Get the balls out of your face. Congress is a game of let me rub your moms asshole with my dick but NOT under any means stick it in. Hint: you scratch my back, I scratch yours. You cannot hold firm on some wack ideal you have that works for no one in real life. Sure communism sounds awesome on paper, but the reality is, most people are fucking greedy bastards who love power. One would always speculate about the neighbor doing what they were required for the team, coveting things they don't need across the fence, sleeping in dumpsters to avoid work. See, people are also inherently lazy. Check any tribe of primates. They spend half their life picking at themselves and rubbing on their nutsacks (at least the males), if they are not killing off every male, female and child of some randomly picked other group of primates. We are not that far off, I don't go a day without seeing at least 25 men adjust themselves, 5 girls post their tits online and the world is running around 20+ conflicts currently. Go back to school and take a history class for fucks sake, also check out something called Political Science. You have to know that you can't just elect 13 more senators to Congress once you become President Michelle Bachmann - are you fucking kidding me? The words that spill out of your mouth make Sarah Palin look like a goddamn Nuclear Physicist with a doctorate in English. I honestly consider you might not be able to dress yourself in the morning. This country has lost its mind to a nice ass and pair of tits. Twice now, retards, thats the beginning of a pattern.

Can you involve Christ in more of your public speaking adventures? Please. Hold another prayer rally for something. Do any of you even think about separation of church and state? Do any of you even think? You bring up all these already voted on and passed ideas in order to turn them around, instead of working to fix the current problems at hand. You enter into legislation shit like "Marriage is defined as this". Any of you miss the fact that we are going broke? Don't mean to break up your circlejerk with real problems but we have issues to attend to that have nothing to do with hiring an ex pro-golfing legends company to grant them state park land in order to build a memorial playing trail. The fuck.

GROW A PAIR, YOU PUSSYS. You remind me of a 3 year old daycare class. Drooling, wandering around clueless, no organization or coherent ideas except, let's play with blocks, what, or sticks, yea sticks. Party for the people? You sell out to corporations just as fast as Republicans and then lie like none of us can look the shit up. Fuck you and your intent to get reelected. Work together on something. You think you can at least stand united on one front? And you wonder why the Republicans stomp your dicks into the dirt, if anything they at least back each other up no matter what. You disperse like cockroaches anytime someone shines a light on you.

Its balls to ass. BALLS to ASS. I would rather you smell musty than like shit.

Texas and Florida.
What The Fuck.
You are doing it ALL wrong.
Florida: Collapse into the ocean please.
Texas: Secede already.
You collectively couldn't screw in a lightbulb without written instructions, a 40 minute YouTube video, monitoring by several scientists, and before fucking a cow in the ass, hip tossing a baby into traffic and shooting pandas for a new fur industry sponsored by Paris Hilton and OJ Simpson. I weep at night. WEEP.


the fool has a point.


don't be caught.

can't NOT look.

I didn't think it was creepy.

Me: Hi.
Him: Hi.
Him: How did we like school today?
Me: Are we role playing?
Me: uh.
Me: We liked school just fine, daddy.
Me: Can I get some tasty ice cream when I come home?
Him: No fool.
Him: How did the kids do?
Me: oh.
Me: Great, then.
Him: Don't be creepy.



the plan of plans of plans.

I have never considered voting for Ron Paul.
I always vote my ticket based on conversations with a Political Scientist who opened my eyes to nothing I feel like sharing with you today.
Wait. Back up.

Yesterday afternoon in a fit of unfounded psychotic rage and a little bit of pre-20's teenage generation X anarchy nostalgia, I decided to turncoat. Yea. I used that as a verb, what of it. I proclaimed on my soapbox (I am about to actually MAKE a real box I can randomly hop onto in the house because, I would just feel better, plus I am soap-boxing a lot, its the Italian + Mania in me, to be all TMI today) that I was going to re-register as a Republican and vote for the craziest bat-shit repeal everything (abortion, healthcare, I can no longer vote but have to bake pies for my cocktail needing dominant husband submitting to his every whim please allow me a scrap of bread, bring back public hangings in fact fuck the court system lets burn people at the stake, everyone must pray to God and also buy a dog and 15 overseas poorly manufactured lead-based painted tax-cut corporation national job market raping selling a piece of filling up a landfill breaks in 3 minutes plastic crude oil byproduct wasting shit junk product pronto) candidate at primary voting time, since as a current Democrat, I cannot vote that primary in Florida. And I wasn't going to vote then turn around and switch parties again so I could help make sure the Democrat ticket won, though this tactic is pretty good and should be noted for anyone reading this as a possible option. I may need to research and see if it could be done. Also, it would aide in my personal cause, which we will get to in a minute.
Back to the Hotel.
My purpose, not the afore mentioned infiltration set your fucked candidate up then run and hide voting peace and love behind the curtain, was to actually get behind electing someone crazy enough to burn the fucking country to the ground. You know, metaphorically (or fuck it, maybe truly too). I dream about infrastructure collapse like a 13 year old boy does JCPenney lingerie catalog models. I'm not kidding. I have wet dreams.
My friend Dave says: You are crazy.
My husband says: I will serve you with divorce papers.
My daughter says: You have raised me to believe everything coming out of your mouth right now is bile, WTF are you talking about.
And I will say, when they come to ask me to show my voting card: Oh, these mother fuckers? Oh, yea, they are Democrats, I don't know them.

Two years ago, I made my husband, a history major and man who forgets nothing, explain to me how Hitler and Mussolini came to power. The environment surrounding a mass amount of people backing these sorts of ideas, Fascists ideas (oh yes, it was said), how this could happen and take control of a nation. Stunned, I listened to everything parallel where I was seeing the leanings of the United States. He argued no, you are just paranoid. He now says, you might have called it. It made me ill at the time. And I cried, because I don't understand. We are socialists, you are a fucking socialist, whether you acknowledge it or not - your taxes pay for your roads, your schools, your infrastructure, your retirement, your elderly care, you help in crisis in states that are not yours, and then you personally donate fuck tons of money to other nations and people when disaster strikes. I hate to point it out to you, but you love others and you care about your neighbor and WHY you think this is a bad thing I will never ever understand. When trees hit my house in 2004 after the Florida hurricane Apocalypse, my neighbors gladly came to help us chop and remove them. So, why does this mode of thinking, your desire to aide, stop at your neighborhoods edge, the end of your street?
Because you are fucking selfish. You go back into your house and bitch about how much work you had to do to get the tree down, or compare how much you did against your other neighbor who had to take a break in the 100 degree heat because he has a heart condition. You secretly hate, and you know what, so do I (openly because I have balls enough to at least write fuck you at least once a week), but it is this bond that makes you my people, not the daisy chains and Kumbayah. And I have realized this. And for you, my people, I am turning, for you I am rising up and saying what we feel: FUCK YOU ALL EAT SHIT AND DIE IN ACID ALSO YOUR DOG SMELLS AND I HOPE YOU GET HERPES GET A JOB YOUR HOMELESS FUCKS LET ME GO TO WAL-MART AND EAT MY CAKE IN THE FROZEN FOODS AISLE. Because to be honest, no one on my street needs trees removed right now.

I decide to watch the FOX news Republican Debates last night. My sitting calmly turned quickly to standing up like I watch boxing matches, screaming, Did she really just say she would put 13 more Senators in office?!?! Then Ron Paul spoke. I like him. I like him enough to vote against my ex-party. I like him enough to bake cookies, thats how much I like him. He called the CIA out. He doesn't want Iranian sanctions. He doesn't want to continue blowing up shit. He likes Cuba and would probably let me buy their damn cigars legally.
Here is the plan (could change at any moment, let's be realistic carp-o-friends, as Dave called me out correctly: I have Etch-A-Brain, just shake and start over). I am going to watch. I am switching parties. And if he stays where he is at, I will vote for him in the Republican Primary and hopefully for President, because at this point, are you fucking kidding me. AND. If he isn't nominated for the party and doesn't show up on an independent ticket later, I am going to vote for burning the country down because the idea of pure chaos is so unbelievably tempting as a solution, I cannot deny my other side (it may actually be 75% and about to jack another 10%, just sayin'). Fuck it. NMFP - Not My Fucking Problem, go ahead and shove it down my throat like Linda Lovelace you bastards, I am opening wide and suppressing gag. For you. My haters, cause we gotta hate.

Love you. Mean it.
(fingers crossed)


aren't you glad I am not your wife.

It's a funny thing, whenever I have had to move, my houses have always been swarmed by some sort of bug. Once it was mosquitos, the next grasshoppers, then moths, another tiny ants, and this one, the mother of all bug fears for me, palmetto bugs. My girlfriend says it is the bad energy being released and that I should expect such each and every time. Flying fucking cockroaches, coming in from outside, every night now and I am spraying chemicals so much and everywhere I am almost sure one of the cats or kids might die soon.
So. This has been my world but fuck it we have one more night in this house of poison, at the time of this writing; we close on the new one tomorrow and FUCK if I am sleeping in Creepsville any longer.

Setting. 1:30am. AM.
My husband has been asleep for about 2 hours. I have just taken my sleeping pill and it's kicking in, making me drowsy, aw sweet slumber, I am becoming mush in the blanketyness love... but then I hear something. A rustling. My eyes pop open. And I know. I know wtf that sound is and I know if I do not attend to this, if I don't look over for confirmation at least, I will be somehow attacked in the middle of the night. Possibly eaten. More likely mangled beyond recognition.
I cannot bear to wake my poor tired husband up, oh no. Let him sleep, I can do this, I can totally do this, I GOT IT HANDLED (he is usually called upon for these types of tasks). I peak over his side of the bed and sure as shit, on the floor, is a bastard fucking palmetto bug. I can't wake him. I have to do this. Be strong. So I grab a shoe. I steady myself and with all my might, like a fucking super hero, I LEAP over his sleeping body, right onto the floor like spiderman and start beating the ground as this fucker evades me like a ninja on meth. BAM BAM BAM and now I am screeching because I cannot kill it, have realized this in my head and assume it is going to go on the attack any moment.
Instead, it rushes into the closet just as my husband wakes up and is turning over to yell "WTF ARE YOU DOING YOU LUNATIC?!?!", ignoring him completely, of course, I begin now throwing every shoe of his and every piece of laundry on the floor to my rear, with no care what so ever, where it is landing, it's projection, it's launch power, NOTHING, all I know is something has to die and it has to die right this instant. I am screaming, throwing things, BAM BAM BAM with the shoe, yelling "FUCK YOU!!!", my husband is yelling at me "WTF IS GOING ON WHY ARE YOU THROWING MY SHOES, OMG WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!" until thats it. I have officially lost it. Not my mind, the palmetto bug.
So I back up and wait with that shoe in my hand, head full of meds, zoned in like a trained and lethal killer, all while being yelled at for "losing my shit", for "launching all the shoes across the room", "onto the bed", "in the next room", I even "hoisted out" with one hand "the entire shoe rack" to toss "into the" adjacent "wall", but to me it is all just very quiet, far away sounding and nothing to attend to right this moment. I have answered to nothing , I have spoken no words to my husband or acknowledged he is even awake. This is not helping, I am sure, in hindsight.

Then I open the door and call upon the cats. Come cats. Come help your mother. They saunter in just happy to be IN the room but they know some shit has gone down, as there is a mine field of shoes and clothing. I shut off the light and steady myself on the bed waiting. Perched like a gargoyle. Still no replies to this mutilated face my husband is now making.
He is obviously irritated (probably traumatized), how could you do this, what is wrong with you, do you know you are a lunatic, you have lost your fucking mind its almost 2am, why are you still awake, have you taken medication, I want to choke the shit out of you right now, you know you are going to kill me one day. The usual, you know.
And then, almost immediately, the cats bum rushed the bastard out (fucking love those cats, we have mind meld). I again leap over my husband (him increasing vocal levels, screaming at me "again"), onto the floor, and with a mighty cry of "FUCK YOU!!!!" BAM BAM BAM, I totally ended that bugs life. I stood up prouder than a Lion and shook out my mane, sweat beading on my brow, moonlight shining in to illuminate my kill. There was silence in the room and the love of my life, I think his jaw was just sort of hanging open.

I instantly returned to total girl and cried and cried until he agreed to get up out of bed and remove the carcass, flush twice, wash your hands with soap and hot water (the OCD in me has to be fed for these things). And he was able to do this because he was wide awake at that point, thanks to Super Jules, Insane Wife of the New Millennium.

The next morning, looking at the carnage around the room I said to my loving husband, "Looks babes, I totally cleaned out your closet for you". Never ever have I before thought he might actually choke me but I am telling you now, I came damn close, DAMN CLOSE.

Can't WAIT to see what's in store for tonight.
Totally sure he is excited as well.



I need the super power of giving out Herpes.

Cranky like there is a knife sticking out of my back in a place I can't reach to pull it out.

I watched the President's address, and the follow up puke-fest that was the Speaker of the House's jacked up reply. This is why I do not watch the news. I read it. Occasionally at that, because if necessary I can shut my browser, or burn the fucking newspaper, stomping the ashes screaming FUCK YOU. I cannot punch out a TV, this would electrocute me and as much as I would like to test out the theory that you have an orgasm when electricity zings through your body, I have a vibrator that can produce the same results. No need for destructive violence. My workhorse even plugs in the wall, I am that fucking hardcore.

If you are reading this and are a member of the tea party, then drop me forever as a friend now, because I will never get you, ever, we cannot socialize any more, we cannot be friends, that is all. Government works because those elected compromise, the system is chaotic, on the verge of collapse at any moment, any class in government illustrates this quite painfully, scaring me more than swimming with sharks in a chum bathing suit. Order within chaos, should be our nation's slogan, fuck that One Nation Under God shit. You give here, you take there. This bullshit stance that the House (and let's be honest, its the "newest" members, don't beat around the bush, let's name names, let's call people out publicly and shame them) is taking of "We aren't gonna take it" equals fucking insane, not to mention out of date, not even Dee Snider looks this clobbered up anymore. Default? First time ever? Are you fucking kidding me you assholes? And don't you dare say the president is holding his own ground and not budging in the same way, SOLVE THE FUCKING PROBLEM YOU HALF WITS, YOU WERE ELECTED TO DO A FUCKING JOB THAT WE PAY YOU FOR. CLUE: YOU AREN'T DOING IT FOR THE GOOD OF THE PEOPLE. Nothing about Boehner's speech made me feel like he was considering what was best for me. It was selfish, it spoke direct to a very limited audience that would benefit from no new tax cuts, lining pockets with more gold. Above $250,000, if you make above $250,000 in your household, for fucks sake, the tax hike won't mean you pay the government $10,000 more in taxes, why oh why can't politicians just be honest? They spit thinly veiled lies out like snakes in kitten clothing. On no, you commoners toiling in the fields, if we pass this legislation, every poor person in American will have their furniture, their cars and their dogs taken away immediately, don't let it happen!
I feel like I'm taking crazy pills.
I got ON MEDS to feel normal and THIS is the shit I get?

"Before I served in Congress, I ran a small business in Ohio." 20 years ago. Good job, so what. One rule of business that I DO know, you have to spend money to make money, and if you think simply cutting back on a budget is going to suddenly save everything, you are both misguided and probably watching more FOX news than should be medically allowed. That station needs a serious case of herpes and the universe as my witness, I hope everyone broadcasting or involving themselves with this Satanic entity (using your own religion, oh no we aren't religious, against you, why not try and cast the demons out of your own producers with your pitchforks and calls for burnings at the stake), go straight to hell, boy, go straight to hell. And get herpes.
How is it allowed to be called FOX NEWS?
I want to grind bricks in between my teeth.

You know what Cut, Cap and Balance sounds like? Another easy slogan some marketing fuck made up, so that those not paying attention have something small to seize on and remember, as most minds can only handle a list of three of anything easily. It's actually a pretty calculated move, for that I applaud the psychology behind the slick manipulation (nothing like routing for the bad guys in the movies, except this is real life and that dual citizenship in Italy is looking more awesome everyday I tell you). People will walk away from the two speeches numb and only remembering Cut, Cap and Balance, because its old world, advertising like, create a memorable theme and stick with it. Drink Your Ovaltine, shucks, "Wow that sounds awesome hunny, don't you think that Cut, Cap and Balance thing sure is swell, he sounds so smart and speaks to us in simple terms we can understand, want a cocktail now, go ahead, turn on the game, the potpie is almost ready". The fatcats get fatter, and business executives buy new summer homes. The knives are in our backs. We are all working too hard to survive. The Middle class is hanging on by a thread to a cliff and instead of saving themselves, they are going to hand sharp scissors to elected representatives only concerned with 1. Reelection and 2. Not losing their goddamn tax cuts. Hope you have a parachute handy.
If you make $120,000 and your friend makes $17 million, the amount you pay to the government SHOULD NOT BE THE SAME. Real life example, of people known, not a fucking joke, except for it is, it's a big fucking joke and people are not fucking getting it and I don't fucking understand.

I cannot tolerate the idea of a multitude of morons electing unintelligent, gun toting, fetus rallying, "simple" "like you and me" men and women (who are only being considered because they have nice asses, tits, and cheerleader rants about bearcubs), who know not a goddamn thing about history, who use "I was elected as head of my High School Pep Club/Football Team" as if it were a legitimate example of governing experience. Business men in office is a bad fucking idea. Those at the top aren't concerned about the mailroom employee, they are only concerned about the Board of Directors. You should know better. YOU ALREADY FUCKING KNOW THIS, YOU BITCH ABOUT YOUR BOSSES ON FACEBOOK, WHY DO YOU FORGET SO EASILY, FUCKING HELL. And business men who run companies, who fuck Medicare up the ass, that company admitting to over ten felonies - are you fucking kidding me? We elected Lord Voldemort/Rick Scott as our Governor and he is raping Florida as we speak, no apologies, no reach around, violating every safe guard, dodging bullets, as there were none, omgstfupleasegetherpes.com. You know what. He killed Harry Potter. Can you rally behind that? I hate you Florida, and that has nothing to even do with last night.

This is why I can't watch the news.
This is why I drink.
Fuck off Tuesday, you make me want to hurl razors.



want. maybe. uh. get back to me.

I leaned over my computer this morning and tiny sticks fell out of my hair, which makes me wonder what I was up to last night. Werewolf shenanigans I have no time for right now. There are must complete items on my procrastination list that I am working on putting off as we speak. A spirit of lazy so ingrained in my being it will take an exorcist to remove (round two). I am that into doing nothing, won't even bother to move my eyes in either direction or swallow the spit working its way down my chin when staring at walls.
Committed. I am committed to the uncommitted, 50% of the time, or with just argument, 52% of the time. Or maybe the paperwork was using the word in another context. Doesn't matter. Either way, the possibility of coloring books is HIGH.

Coloring books are one of the reasons everyone should have a 5 year old best friend. Also, legos. Legos never go out of style no matter how old you get. They need to put those things in nursing homes, up the happiness factor for those rotting, miserable as hell folks. No one really likes bingo damn it, I am not sure why this is the standard activity for the old. When I was visiting my grandmother, they gave out cookies for winning and it made me think of trying to organize a small and very slow prison break just to increase the blood pressure of some given up on life 'we are so bored please just kill us' folk. None of them wanted cookies. What about some Jack Daniels. Lap dance Fridays, late night porn hour on the community television (with popcorn and kleenex provided), weed, maybe some beer bong challenges, fuck it, hand out heroin. Its the end, shouldn't you be allowed everything you want?
I totally plan on becoming a heroin addict at around 70. Who cares. Give me.

So junkies, you cannot buy a pack of legos without selling an ovary (do people buy those things, I am speculating here) for the starter pack, plain blocks, no decoration, no flower pots or people. When did plastic blocks become too damn expensive? Most everything is build a space ship, pirate ship or methadone clinic complete with EXACT directions. Are the children unable to be creative anymore? What happened to jacked up looking houses, holes for windows (had to figure that shit out, didn't you) with tiny cars that looked like wagons? Lego sets can't already be vintage items, this idea is foul and I won't stand for it.

List of items needed STAT:
1. Blocks only lego set.
2. Fresh from the press, plastic dinosaurs with no moveable anything.
3. Silly Putty.
4. Werewolf coloring book with the large set of Crayola crayons, the one with macaroni and cheese orange in there, you know what I mean.
5. Heroin (you see what I did there).
6. Fingerpaint (the kind that stains everything) with some of that shiny, slippery paper.
7. Spaghetti O's, apple juice and some pretzels.

Get your asses over here.
We have priority work to get done.

you scream, i scream, stfu.


if you only knew

learned tool making

God damn stab-y dreams. Wake up in a panic thinking 'holy shit where is my shank!', fists balled up wanting to punch my poor adorable husband in the face.
Love is assuming the woman you married will either 1. Give you a stress induced heart-attack within 5 years or 2. Turn sociopath and stab you in the middle of the night for not putting the dishes away, but still go through the 'I do' paperwork then put her on your life insurance policy. I still wish I had some kidnapping and shake down money in a safety deposit box, just in case. He's working on it, you know, because we plan on one day going to head chopping Mexico for a visit as I want a zebra striped donkey so bad, I can't even let the dream die for a day (Totally think "Visit Head Chopping Mexico!" should be a new marketing campaign considered to increase tourism to the area; maybe make a deal with local drug lords that "cross your heart, hope to die" only natives heads will roll down streets or be perched on doorsteps. There could be a danger tour to the acid tanks or back alley prostitution parades, I have all kinds of worldly ideas, someone please give me a little influence, who's dick do you have to suck to get some shit done around here? Why can't everywhere be like Hollywood. Sad.).

I have to be prepared for every scenario. That's all I'm getting at. Tonight in fact, I think I am going to take a few plastic cups into my bathroom and make real shanks with only a book of matches, those cups and the toilet seat. TV teaches me all kinds of good knowledge I need to put into real world practice should the recall arise. If it is filed away, I only need to tell my head secretary to go to the cabinet for retrieval. This evades most but critical in the event my kidneys or jugular are ever to be at stake. You never know. Just look at Casey Anthony. Poor child spent 3 years behind bars and was completely innocent!
Sorry. Bitter. Someone shank me, not for my extreme sarcasm, but for mentioning her name at all, I hate everyone of you who ever interrupted my "Did you hear what's going on in ________ country" conversation starter for "No, but Casey Anthony licked a toad when she was 8 + an asshole at 18, and they think its linked to her kid killing habits, did you know a zebra striped donkey might be THE FATHER?!". You did this to me. Watch your backs in the shower, is all I am saying.

Other things on my to learn list:
How to make a working zip gun.
How to throw a spear (desert island scenario).
Proper shark punching techniques.
Foraging for berries and nuts that will not rot my intestines out.
Sewing up a major gash using sinew and a wooden needle.
How to properly battle the Decepticons (fuck you, it could happen)

Shank: its my new word of the week.
I'll shank a badger, just for fun.
I'll shank your mom, my cake ain't done.

it's required sometimes.


Billy Present's Jugular, Marijuana addiction implicated: Now on Breaking Fing News.

I gave up on my Facebook stalking experiment. Bummer, sorta. Like anyone expected I would finish this, please. So new to the game are you.
Data compiling, statistics and demographics on game app players, that was my plan, to catch non readers up. Or, maybe I failed to mention what I have been doing for the last few months, on the sly. Regardless. I haven't been on the site in over 2 weeks, since my G+ invite. Posting from my blog yes, but interacting, researching, not so much. It's kinda nice to give up on the manic task and not having to worry about saying FUCK and my mothers christian neighbor seeing it, running the report over, so she can call asking me who I am and crying again because I have tattoos and hate religion.
She still hasn't gotten it, her image will always be this vision of me wrapped in a sundresses, handing out daisies and singing early Beatles songs (I will always sing Beatles songs).
Well, thats what you get for doing acid and coke while preggers kiddies: a starving medicated artist, running through life with a pair of scissors in her hand and a toothbrush in her mouth. [Cue: After school special NOW.]

Several months of creeping with my other Facebook identity, here is my basic summary: Vampire/Mafia Wars players are detached folk. I suppose this sort of thing happens a lot to those frequently online, the tease of being whomever they see themselves to be very alluring; a large majority never posting real pictures of themselves or going by real names either. I do not implicate everyone in this, however there was a significant amount of these players that believed they were Vampires, dressed like them, discussed drinking blood as though this was common practice among friends during dinner.
Maybe it's just been awhile that I have socialized in these circles. Maybe the shit is on the menu at Sizzler, fuck, what do I know. If the television (late ex: True Blood) made a cool show about zebra striped donkeys playing in fields, everyone would want to be a prancing zebra striped donkey (then I wouldn't have to travel to head chopping Mexico in order to get my picture taken with one, damn it you bastards). Instead, we have Mob Wives, I Have Too Much Money and Time on My Hands Wives and Billy the Exterminator who wears spikes on his T-Shirt (I have never understood his need to bedazzle the attire, frankly it scares the children).
So, in the next few years I can look forward to an overabundance of roach wasp killers/raccoon armadillo releasers, snobby orange tinted New Jersey (actually in Iowa) suburbanites with 25k credit card debt but eight breast implant surgeries under their belt, and way more hoarders. But I don't mind the hoarders, this return to bird like nesting is actually fascinating in a evolutionary sort of way. Fucking lay some eggs already, geez. I am still waiting for the show where they find the dead body buried in the muck. Gonna be awesome. Hurrah, hoarders, I need a t-shirt and a donation hotline for support. This is Amerika get it STAT, before three minutes go by and I forget everything you said, omfg do you see that, the latest piece of shit celebrity news (don't we have tabloids for this crap) is broadcasting as Priority Number One Headline CHARLIE SHEEN (or _______) JUST SAID SOMETHING WE NEED TO ANALYZE FOR THE NEXT 5 WEEKS on every station, please, someone, stab me in the eyes or gut me, I really do.not.understand.
Giving up, the life force... draining. I... loved... you... all (my 1%).
[Aside: Lay off the makeup tv people, I could carve my name in your cheeks]

I say combine some things here. I want a Mafia Wars surge complete with Reality TV fuck you in the eyes show. Let's bring back the suit/hat wearing, gun toting, cop bribing, gangsters (not gangsta) and let them loose on the populace; blurred identities of course, no need to get people all arrested and stuff, there are enough non-violent pot smokers law enforcement can wrangle up to handle the prison population/slave labor needs of private corporations rolling in the cash vault like little piglets. I think Mob Wives was the precursor to this anyway, and why not. We have been obsessed with the "glamour" of the Mafia for over three decades. Hell, I am all for anything that culls the herd, including the release of all the privately owned tigers in the states (my mantra for years). The plan is flawless, takes care of the jobless, homeless, debt and small business issues, it would be almost like legalizing pot, except for it has just about the same chance of actually happening.
Leave it up to lawmakers to fuck underage boys in the ass then scream from a pulpit about not letting gay people have rights.
The rich just get richer.
The poorer get distracted by Vampire Wars.

Fuck it.
Just call me Queen and present jugular.



well. I sort of promise.

I love people. I don’t understand most of the world, but I enjoy it like going to the zoo. Watching behavior from behind safety glass and bars of steel is a great way to spend the afternoon. It can get nauseating when entering into the smelly monkey house and the hippos are generally fat assed mean bastards, but the diversity of the rest of the animals is quite amazing. Elitists, idiots, children, adults who act like children, professionals, separatists, creative types, extremists, peacocks, just plain cocks, dreamers, scammers, cookie-cutter sheep, snakes, pimps and hoes, and wanderers.
If everyone was separated by bars, it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t get along. They could growl, curse, throw shit and be foul all they wanted.
Bars and cages are needed. Tigers naturally hate on bunnies.

Friends have told me I come off as a dick. Cold. Mean. Heartless. Jerky. Bitch-esque. My husband frequently stares open mouthed and repeats, 'you know I want to stab/choke you right now', uh, a lot.
Honestly, this is always total news to me. I imagine in my head, I am like a tiny little bunny hopping around and wiggling my bunny nose looking for carrots. Maybe it is the cursing. I cuss, my god I fucking cuss. Maybe it is all the threats. Or the ninja chops to the neck when no one is paying attention. It's a game, people, you have to play back. Not my problem if you didn't get the rules ahead of time, shit.
People mislabel me and really, it's just that I am really shy and antisocial. Also, my face naturally grimaces in it's relaxed state. I generally look like someone just pissed in my corn flakes and I am about to take that person down with a machete. Maybe a blow torch.

I don’t want to seem like a jerk.
I want to be a fluffy cloud of happiness and love. I want to whistle while you work (Let’s not get carried away, I have no desire to work. Ever.), sprinkle fairy dust, emit light, carry you into fucking wet dream-land and urge you into orgasm. I hope I do that in some sort of twisted, head rolling, gutting you with semi-sharp knives sort of way. Raised by wolves, my husband tells me. The Universe didn't provide me with gumdrops. I have fangs, you know. Big pointy fangs.
I am trying. Really.

Don't stare, but please feed me.
I promise not to spit.
In your face.

hardware aisle, please.


unrelated Phil, tea-bags anticipating jazz whore

There is nothing worse than a name dropper. If you drop a name and do not have to explain who the person is (i.e. that Bob is a famous astrophysicist who assisted in discovering dark matter, in which case I may just drop to my knees immediately) then you are guilty of one of the foulest social crimes in humanity. Assumed elevation of ones self by holding onto the balloon string of another. This thing may not be wasted on others, but for me, as we are heading to the beach together, you might as well have just said you have genital herpes and the shit is damn near flared out all over your thighs. I am sure there are very famous people who have wonderful views on life and love, thoughts that we could share, some probably even play board games like me. But these famous people are not my neighbors. Oprah is not calling to find out how my three legged cat is doing. Paris and I are not going to lay out and get a tan. And if one famous person ever did, say hello, is it me you're looking for? I would answer no but hey, wanna play some UNO and listen to Miles Davis (if it was Jazz Sunday, otherwise maybe some Modest Mouse). Cause I am not a bitch. I just can't be bothered; there are a thousand other people, with stories and jokes I would rather meet, that I accidently run into on the street or through a simple comment left online. They are the real stars to me. The famous should be the scientists discovering things that we'd never understand. I know I have said this before. Its like SoapBox v2.0 or maybe even v3.0. I am reminded once again, and I must say, once again, those things we should never forget.
Never. Forget.

The Silent E.
Unless this concerns Zach Galifianakis, who is probably the only person with whom I would currently mother a love child with. And I bet my husband would even let me on account of him loving the show Bored to Death as much as he does, so WIN. I would jump on his back in a heart beat and wash away his soiled hands with my tears of joy. Tongue extended for personal Tea-bagging Happiness Festival 2011 (thru 2050 at least).

Top paragraph rendered totally moot, fuck me.
I'd open my legs faster than a Chopped champion getting into some packaged ground turkey.

Meds obviously not at acceptable levels for society.
Try again, doc.

Totally unrelated: I miss Captain Phil.


Rabbit and the Story of the Shredded ATM card

It's a rough life for my husband
huurah hurrah
It's a borked life for my husband
If he doesn't gut me with a spoon
I'm sure to raise his blood pressure soon
It's a fucked like for my husband

New song by the Furry Pterodactyls.
"You Have No Friends because You have Gingivitis" Album release party July 2012.

So here is what sorta happened. Sorta in the sense that it happened but probably my recollection of events is a tad skewed on account of me being what they call in certain circles, off (not like bad eggs), but that's just some over educated, palm pilot using, lab-coaters opinion. My friend Sarah thinks I am quite nice and smell pleasant, thank you Sarah.
This past weekend, in a fit of I am not sure, I somehow managed to shred my ATM card. By shred, I mean cut up into a hundred small pieces and slivers with an industrial pair of scissors that could probably cut through fingers though I have never tried this trick because I am not a magician and fingers cost money to sew back on, money I don't have. Yet (anyone have a lighter and want to make a bet?).
It went a little like this:

Illogical Wife: "I'll cut my ATM card up."
Logical Husband: "Don't do that I will just hold on to it then when you want it back, I will give it back to you."
Illogical Wife: (slides card over)
Illogical Wife: "I'll fucking cut it up, I swear to fucking god."
Logical Husband: "Come on, let's be reasonable."
Logical Husband: (slides card back)
Illogical Wife: "I'll fucking cut it up, I swear to fucking god!"
Illogical Wife: (throws card at husband)
[Silence - Minutes Pass - Assumed Manic Episode Logically Over Based on Past Manic Episodes - Result Should Involve Tears and Sorry's]
Logical Husband: (slides card back)
Illogical Wife: (leaps off bed, sprints to kitchen)
Logical Husband: (calmly follows to watch)
Curious Kids: "What's mom doing?"
Logical Husband: "Being mom."

He's a saint, I tell you.
Protecting the rest of the world, I tell you.
This kinda makes him Superman.
I make make him a cape, stay tuned.

Shredding ones ATM card is a very stupid thing to do. I almost ran out of gas, because I had no card. Every day for the last week, I have eaten lunch from a vending machine with change from my car or starved, I have not been able to purchase JACK SHIT, you get it, done, over.
Compounding this problem: I cannot call to get myself another card. Not because I am physically unable to but mentally, I cannot. Why is this you ask (no one is asking)? Because doing so acknowledges that I am an uber psycho retard in need of a cage. Please refer back to prior sentence referencing one, "Sarah".
So a big thank you to Heather, my coworker and blessed savior, who just happens to have a husband at the same bank, that was able to forward me a new card after she called him and explained the situation.
Complete with tears of hilarity, pointed right at me.

I am here for your amusement.
It's what I do. It's my job.
It's cool; much love.

Has taken on a life of it's own. Bravo.


Patrick. Bringer of Heads.

something needs to roll.

Coworker: What do you need me to do?
Worker: feel my pain.
Worker: that's all i need you to do right now.
Worker: hear my tiny tears hit the floor.
Worker: believe that angels are committing suicide in honor of the extreme fuck-up-ed-ness of this entire job, sacrificing their good karma to come raining down upon me like little sparkles.
Worker: i want to believe we can work through this.
Worker: will you hold my hand?
Worker: *sniff*
Worker: tight?
Coworker: Aye.
Worker: you are a true friend.

Random List Monday.

1. Never pass up the opportunity to drop kick someone from an elevated position. Waist high is good enough.
2. Always wear shoes you can fight in or defend yourself with when going out at night. Bitch slapping someone with a flip flop does very little to discourage anal rape.
3. Assume all people you know are potential serial killers. Act accordingly. Everyone has the potential to become a sociopath. You may realize too late. Avoid the axe.
4. Escalators are dangerous. Don't fucking play. Get on in an orderly manner, maintain position, step widely as you exit.
5. Mind the bus.
6. Shenanigans end up in eye loss 89% of the time. Your mom was right. Call her. Apologize.
7. Never, ever, whatever you do, in the heat of the moment decide it is a good idea to cut up your only ATM card into a thousand tiny pieces.
8. The whole "Eat More Fiber" "You Need More Fiber in Your Diet" "Fiber is Fucking Awesome" marketing ploys (the last being a very brief ad campaign in which the people responsible were immediately sacked), come off very lie-y, if you know what I mean.
9. You will never know what I mean, not really and this is probably best.

They're fucking clown shoes.

"Jay and Silent Bob are terrible, one-note jokes that only stoners laugh at. They're fucking clown shoes. If they were real, I'd beat the shit out of them for being so stupid. I can't believe Miramax would have anything to do with this shit. I, for one, will be boycotting this movie. Who's with me?"
- Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back

Thank you, hubasaurus, for the awesome beer purchase.


Down Low Dining Event, Molecular Gastronomy FTW!

I attended a Molecular Gastronomy event last night, yes, IN Orlando (*gasp*) that was beyond fucking amazing. If you do not know what molecular gastronomy is, then read up foodies. In short it's a mixture of food and science. Liquid nitrogen, enzymes, dehydration, reconstitution, deconstruction. Seriously, if you threw a few math equations in there (math = measurements + time + heat + ratios) my vagina just might explode.
Oops. Neveryoumindthemess.

I first saw this type of cooking on Top Chef. Then SyFy ran 6 episodes of Marcel's Quantum Kitchen (taped them all), which was a little cooking, a little science lesson and a little reality melodrama; 2 outta 3 ain't bad, quote-th the Meat Loaf. That was it for me. I had to have it at all costs. I began thinking of where we would need to travel to get to this type of restaurant - not every chef has this knowledge or this creativity and sure as shit, I would have never guessed in a million years, Vapid Plastic Orlando would have been one of them.
I stand, absolutely corrected.
O-town 1, Jules 0 (j/k my score is like 607,362.4, fools).

At first we felt a bit out of a place. When I made the reservations, we had not imagined it would take place with less than 20 people, seated together at a long table, where we mixed and mingled for over an hour with strangers before dining. Lots of wine. There was lots of wine.
But it made the experience all the more intimate. Uncomfortable turned into ease and ease turned into laughter. I met some interesting people I can not wait to see at next months event, which will feature South American cuisine. I was amused by Michael, White Wolf Cafe's owner (where the event was held), who I did not nearly get enough time to chat with. And then there was/is Chef Jason. We were able to walk into his kitchen and listen to explanations of processes and view preparation of elements we were to consume later. He had just enough information to tantalize the less knowledgeable, and an overabundance of terminology for the more researched. How.fing.cool.
Not to mention, he is also, a really nice guy.
(Or a serial killer in Chef Disguise, come on, I can't go all in even with Four Aces)

I am by no means a culinary expert. But I do like to eat, I tend to eat out a lot, I like to try new restaurants (as much as possible, Hubby rates restaurants on Beer Tap diversity rather than food quality, so sometimes I am straight up munching some chicken fingers - gah) and I can tell you where to get a few of the best dishes in town; one of those being the Filet Minion at White Wolf Cafe where Jason is the Chef and how we heard about the Down Low Dining event (another great place would be St. Andrews for the chicken fingers). Or well, I can at least tell you my favorites. There really is no way for someone to explain these dishes. I mean, I could try but you wouldn't get it, because you cannot smell or feel textures through words and all senses are required. To do so would be tainting art. I have snagged a few photos, however, of the Amuse, the Appetizer, our Salad and Main Course. They are here, for your viewing pleasure courtesy of photographer Jessica Feran.

but fuck me anyway, is how it always goes.


I dig on the idea of giant rats, just not real ones.

Hello Blog. The crack, sometimes it just gets in the way of PRODUCTION. oh. no.
When I choose not to write it isn't because I have nothing to say; I have too much and the flood of thoughts makes my keyboard kryptonite. Mar.
Speaking of ark building, it is being managed by some interesting RX planks these days but we will get to that some other time. The verdict is still out on this one, Jury, my Jury(!).

We are buying a house, Hubbasaurus Rex and I. Holy crap. A house to hop around in, where if I break the floor, I CAN patch it up with duct tape and no one can say SHIT or hold onto my deposit for repairs. And other such things. Like bright orange paint and striped hallways (hoping that sentence was wearing a Cloak of Invisibility).

After having looked at several potentials, we've pursued "the one": donated DNA, bone marrow, blood, first-borns and so many printed copies of paperwork, that the hippie in me feels sad for being responsible for the equivalent of cutting down at least 10 trees. We are infiltrating the fold by moving further into the suburbs, where I will suspect many more of my neighbors committing foul, foul acts in extra wide garages. Trimmed hedges in the shapes of BMWs. A vampiric HOA with Security Guard syndrome. I am totally out of place but can play this role and even get used to it. Love it. Debating buying one of those two seater golf carts, to ride over to the Country Club on Saturdays, dressed in a tennis outfit (fuck the racquet though), martini in hand (extra olives). 10am. I am a late riser but a lifer. Hell. This MAY be fucking heaven. Scratch all of that. Give me my apron and Martha Stewart magazines, I GOT THIS.
Besides. I live with John Fucking Barrymore. Bathrobe wearing motherfucker.

In our colorful search we have come to understand better, the terminology associated with housing for sale.
For your future or current aide:

Pond view actually means: Ditch in the front or backyard.
Handyman special actually means: You will need to gut the place or burn it down and rebuild.
Unoccupied actually means: There will be dead roaches everywhere, be careful where you step.
Needs TLC actually means: Walk gently so your foot doesn't go through the floor.
Natural beauty actually means: Dirt in place of grass, hedges look like trees, vines are now making their way INTO the house.
Rustic beauty actually means: Old ass fixtures/appliances or miles from anything you need (hospital, store). Spiders. Rats.
Colorful neighborhood actually means: Rednecks, cars on blocks, houses painted weird colors, piles of junk everywhere.
Charming actually means: Appliances pre date 1970, wallpaper. Lots of it.
Modern actually means: Early 90s cookie cutter, lazy architect, non-licensed contractor, may not withstand 25mph winds.
One owner actually means: Someone just died in the house or has been sent to a retirement facility (see Unoccupied).
Great schools actually means: No one has been murdered in this neighborhood in the past year.
Quirky actually means: We took the garage and made it into 5 closet-sized bedrooms, in a maze pattern with a sink somewhere in the middle you will have to hook up to your water supply, if you want but you dont have to.
Unique actually means: See above.
In-law apartment actually means: There's a bed in the tool shed out back.
Spare bathroom actually means: A toilet and sink in the garage.
Urban living actually means: Ghetto (see Colorful neighborhood).
Zero lot line actually means: When you open up your bedroom window its going to hit the next house. If you spit out of your bathroom window, it will land in your neighbors kitchen. Hope you use public transportation or a bike because there is parking for only 1/4 a car.

We have none of these. We have big red front door, move-in ready with a pool and garden which we have come to understand is described simply as MONEY.
Now on to packing the old house up in boxes.
May stack and use them to create an indoor maze.
I dig on the idea of giant rats, just not real ones.


sometimes I just don't even understand what they consider as my role


Kid A: Today I found out the dinosaurs at the Science Center, they're not real. As I suspected.
I asked a Camp Counselor "Are those dinosaur bones real?". He said no. They are just plaster casts.
It just like Santa Claus. All lies.


tweet tweet tweet

boy: let's tweet. we need a name.
boy: doesnotplaywellwithothers
girl: offmeds
girl: borkedfork
girl: feverishvag
girl: badvag
girl: cagedvag
girl: vaginacage
girl: vag in a cage
girl: cagedvulva
girl: straightjacketvulva
girl: tapeitshut
girl: omfgitbleeds
boy: genitalcandy
girl: genitalpop
girl: bringmeds
girl: donatelithium
girl: lithiumRus
girl: dentaljam
boy: iholdyourbreath
girl: bananasandblow
girl: junkievag
boy: nottheboozetalking
boy: theboozetalking
boy: talkingbooze
girl: nevermindthedrugs
girl: whitegloveheresy
girl: headpuke
boy: ragingtardon
girl: ragingtardation
girl: tardationnation
girl: nofoundation
girl: theassinclassy
boy: theassinclass
girl: hypotardon
boy: i can see this having 30 tweets an hour and then none for weeks

boy: hipolar
boy: highpolar
boy: crassballs
boy: imustbetrippin
girl: youmustbescriptin
girl: umustbescriptin
girl: hideyourscabsplease
girl: coverthatplease
girl: medicatethatnow
girl: burnitwithfire
girl: killitwithfire
girl: omfgstfukthxbye
boy: inspecthergadget
boy: OMGLOLkillyourself
girl: nocureonlyjelly
girl: omgloldietard
girl: OMGtardLOLdie
girl: nocureonlyham
girl: halfbakednutsack
boy: omgloldieretard
girl: omgloljustdie
girl: itshangingoutdouche
boy: shortbusgenius
girl: shortbusmensa
girl: mensatoast
girl: ltgovdouche
girl: ltgovdouchemd
girl: eatbullets
girl: tardbullets
girl: bulleteater
girl: bulleteaters
girl: bullet_eaters
boy: faketeats
girl: youregonnadieLOL
boy: LOLyouhaveaids
boy: tasteslikeshame
girl: tardsofafeather
girl: eatthehead
girl: aidsbus
girl: jesushasaids
girl: jesusherpes
girl: eatmyaids
girl: lickmytardbus
girl: windowlicker
girl: cortisonejesus
girl: lithiumjesus
girl: tardmessiah
boy: whatwouldjesuspoo
boy: WWJPoop
girl: WWJpoo
girl: cheesuspop
girl: untrainedtard
girl: retardus
boy: retardoricardo
boy: retroactivetard
boy: retroactiveretard
boy: contaminatedtard
boy: youarelemmings
boy: lemmingwhisperer
girl: mfinglemmings
girl: mindthebus
girl: infrontoftraffic
boy: runthoughtraffic
boy: enditnow
boy: tornadorally
girl: itsmyoxygen
girl: arsenictornado
girl: cyanidetornado
girl: fuandurmom
girl: fuandurdog
girl: wtgmedhead
boy: offyourmeds
boy: rxroulette

girl: rxroulette
girl: fucking hurrah.

*edited to appear twice as fucking manic.


Problems? I find solutions. It's my job. It's what I do.

Answering phones at any business these days is kind of like being an exclusive club's doorman. You are hip tossing more douches to the curb than you are letting through the door. So many people vying for the chance to sell you something, requote something, get you a better deal, offer you a special promotion, anything and everything to get their foot in the door so that they can get the money that you are spending.

It is a skill. There are some people very well talented, very well versed, and very cunning in their approach and methods. That is also why it is a business. They hold seminars, give classes, write books, there are companies set up to teach others how to do only this. I have read more sales books on the matter than I care to discuss but it my experience as a bartender that provided me with the unique filtering ability needed to recognize phone sales people posing as current vendors, clients, old classmates, and even, the occasional friend (if one day someone were to call here professing to be the owners grandparent, I swear to all that is holy this would not surprise me at all). Bartenders have bullshit radar like superheroes on spinachB12crackmeth. You get something by them and you can probably bust into Fort Knox.

98% of these daily calls never reach my ears because Heather, our angelic office presence of love and light, who represents all the gloriousness behind this company by being the first face the first voice the first person to warmly cuddle you into the fold as a client, blocks the majority of the "bad guys" like a championship fighter with 2 million wins under her belt. Today however, the other slippery 2% slimmed their way to me and after it all, I was left staring at a very large camel lying on the ground moaning in pain and I had to help that camel, I did, I swear it to you now, I had to HELP. THAT. CAMEL. I had to slip into my Cape of Creativity and save our office from the evils of Solicitor X because GOD DAMN IT TO ALL HELL, I am tired of hearing about how much fucking money I can save on my car insurance.

Things that do not work: Logic. Reason. You cannot simply say, I do not want your product. They call, they call again, they keep calling, they keep calling, oh wait, there is a call on the other line, and its them again surprise. They can tie you up evading questions like: What is the purpose of your call? Who are you trying to get ahold of? What is this regarding? Can I help you with something? One guy calls on Monday, a girl on Tuesday, on Wednesday its an automated service (Thursday they give it a rest) and for Funtastical FTW Friday they bust out the overseas call with special special deals designed to knock your socks, shoes, bra and panties off!

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
The consulting company I used to work for spoke this as a MANTRA (stfu consulting brain damage, please get out of my head, its been years, go the fuck away, please, omg I seriously hate yoooooooooou) and now regurgitated here, I feel a little unclean and kinda douche-y. Just kidding. Not really. Sorry. Rewind.
So far we have employed wrestling and boxing as tactics. No more. Now, we dance. This afternoon, around 2:25pm, I created a fictitious Purchasing and Human Resource Manager who goes by the name of Britnee Schultz (BS, if you want to get right down to it). She is now in charge of reviewing all proposals prior to any decision making for the company in terms of copy paper, printer ink, office supplies, new medical or dental insurance, software purchases, dog fighting, gun control and imported Chinese heroin. EVERYTHING. SHE IS CURRENTLY REVIEWING IT ALL. We set her up an email account and are now going to put everyone is contact with HER, because its her fucking job now, not ours.
"Oh yes, Office Supplies, you need to speak to Britnee." "New printer catalog you say, the person to speak with would be Britnee, let me give you her contact information." "Oh, you don't say, fantastic rates for dental insurance, amen, we were just reviewing that, in fact, Britnee is your go to girl."

Did you hear that?
That's my horn, bitches.

Game on.


Post apocalyptic shirt, you my only friend.

"Why were you late for work today?"
"Uh. Because I was mending my shirt."

I bought this shirt for 4.99 two weeks ago. The shirt is awesome by my standards, which means it is plain in color, fits and doesn't make me look fat (to myself, I might still look fat to other people but I don't give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Total lie.). When I put this shirt on for the first time, I knew it was going to be one of "those" shirts, the kind I wore until it fell apart, the kind I passed out still wearing after a hard night of sex drugs and rock n roll, the kind I shoved deep into my vagina pre-coitus (anal sex, obviously. Half lie). This damn shirt, even at 4.99, should not have started falling apart within a day but fuck it naysayers, I am going to save this shirt with my bare hands, because if there is one thing I love to do, it is proving my worth post-apocalypse.

The problem area is a seam right below my right breast. Both materials on the separate panels are some sort of hybrid nylonish cottony something. It pulled apart not in the way one could simply sew it back together without having to remove the entire seam running the length of the shirt, then re-stitching on a machine. Uh, no. I didn't want to Frankenstein it, so hand sewing was out of the question too. My solution was stitch witchery magic. This invention is the mack daddy and the daddy mack. You place it between two pieces of cloth, heat with an iron, and WA LA, it acts as some sort of fantastical cloth glue. Problem here is that I didn't have two pieces of cloth to glue back together so much as I had a bunch of shredded fibers I needed to miracle into cloth again. Whatever: we shall overcome, we. shall. overcome. The seam that shredded is tiny, the material already pulled taut. So I figured, I might try and use the stitch witchery to bind it together by mimicking a layer of thinly applied glue to the back of the whole seam burst. Genius. Yes, thank you. I placed the two pieces of material together as close as I could get them, put a piece of the stitch witchery behind it and behind that, put a piece of wax paper. Be the glue. BE THE GLUE. Yes, this can work. This will TOTALLY work!
Iron. Heat. Wait. Inspect.
My shirt is now glued to the wax paper.
Try again.
Same result.
Flip the wax paper over?
Try again.
Same result.

One might say I had wasted half an hours worth of time, but I counter that by saying a scientist's time is NEVER wasted (I am not a scientist). My fingers are tacky, the iron is pretty much ruined, the shirt smells a little like burned but fuck all if I don't look totally awesome having done all this experimenting while: bare foot, topless, wearing jeans and also a very nice hat. FTW! All you really need sometimes is to just feel like a fucking badass. Aw yeah, fuck you post apocalyptic shirt, I still got my smile.

Looking like Michael Jackson on his tippy toes, I grabbed my hat, leaned my head back, looked to the sky, my other hand reached into the air, and summoning all the power of GreySkull: I turned back to the garment, issued a soft high pitch sound like "YEEEEE", took the seam, added more stitch witchery, SHAZAAM went my fingers as I smushed it together (!), BLAZE went the iron as I blasted heat in its general direction (!), WHAM, BAM, ZIP ZOW ZOOM!!

Inspect. Uh. Ok. Right.
My shirt looks worse than had I Frankenstein-ed it with needle and thread, yea, and probably a torch too, but I got a cool hat on, so I totally put the shirt on ANY WAY.
I am gonna wear this bitch till it falls off me and blows away on the wind, like a frail leaf. One day, if you happen to be staring at my right breast and see a fucked up seam, you would be meeting my post apocalyptic shirt. Say hi. Patches? You bet. Frankenstein stitches? Hell yea. Next week it might require a tracheotomy. I intend to give it a quadruple bypass when necessary. This shirt may outlive your children.

I love you 4.99 shirt.
There is not a god damn thing I won't ever do for you.

Other things that make me handy at the End of the World.
1. I know how to properly select, chop and split wood.
2. I have built many tree houses, forts, and shelters from found material.
3. I have little morals, so killing in the name of defense or food is A-OK with me, pass the hammer boss.
4. I can catch, clean, and cook fish.
5. I know how to filter and sanitize water.
6A. I can sew cloth (+).
6B. Blood, guts, ooze and burns don't bother me, so if I needed to, I could probably sew your skin (double +).
7. I have teeth like a beaver.
8. My skin seeps a high caloric sugary substance.
9. I breathe fire, so we wouldn't ever have to worry about starting one by rubbing sticks together FUCK THAT I'LL COOK UP OUR MEAT AND KEEP US SAFE FROM BEARS!


Score: 1 : 1

Fire: i have not eaten.
Fire: i want to eat.
Gasoline: i just had a hot dog
Fire: you bastard.
Gasoline: but i guess i could come down there
Fire: no.
Fire: i will just die here.
Fire: thats fine.
Fire: fuck it.
Fire: i will just DIE.
Fire: don't mind me smelling up the joint.
Fire: probably why i am in danger of murdering someone.
Gasoline: not really selling me on lunch here
Fire: i gotta sell lunch?
Fire: jesus.
Fire: help.
Fire: me.
Fire: stay.
Fire: alive.
Fire: its.
Fire: cold.
Fire: and.
Fire: dark.
Gasoline: ok ok
Gasoline: i will come down but no murdering
Fire: don't tell me what to do.
Fire: your chances of survival are high though.
Gasoline: i'm not telling you what to do
Fire: i give you 86% survival rate
Gasoline: i'm telling you what not to do
Fire: you just said no murdering.
Fire: no murdering is a directive.
Fire: do not murder.
Gasoline: no it's a condition
Fire: if i was in the process of murdering
Fire: which i am in a constant state of JUST ABOUT
Fire: then, it is a directive
Gasoline: no
Gasoline: no
Fire: don't argue with me on this one.
Gasoline: a condition
Fire: a condition if i am at rest.
Fire: which, i am obviously, not.
Gasoline: if you want me to drive down then you cannot murder
Gasoline: if..then
Gasoline: see
Gasoline: the conditional
Fire: its a directive.
Gasoline: no.
Gasoline: a directive is x:=x+1
Gasoline: a conditional is if x=1 then fuck off
Gasoline: see the different format
Gasoline: if..then
Gasoline: your programming skills leave much to be desired
Fire: dammit jim, im a doctor!
Fire: don't tell me what not to do.
Fire: better?
Fire: now, come get me.
Fire: my legs just went numb.

theoretical color mixing fail

Gasoline: I have a problem with The Wrath of Khan
Fire: what problem
Gasoline: two of them really
Gasoline: first up
Gasoline: there's the cheesy coincidence of names
Gasoline: Khan Noonien Singh is his full name
Gasoline: Dr Noonien Soong
Gasoline: is the creator of Data
Gasoline: Singh and Soong are pronounced the same
Gasoline: a little lazy there on the names
Gasoline: but the big problem i have
Gasoline: is that Kirk's son is white
Gasoline: after all the green bitches kirk fucked
Gasoline: why is his son white
Fire: overpowering genes.
Fire: and his mother is white.
Fire: not green.
Gasoline: bull shit
Gasoline: once you go green you aint going back to no plain vanilla bitch
Fire: but his mom is white.
Fire: are you missing this key fact?
Fire: doesn't matter if you dont go back or not.
Fire: if his sperm and her egg created him, he is white.
Fire: not, pale yellow.
Fire: or lime.
Gasoline: but im saying kirk wouldn't have fucked that bitch
Gasoline: that cant be
Gasoline: he would have knocked up a green or purple bitch with 4 tits and 2 pussies
Gasoline: i mean really
Gasoline: if you could fuck a purple dude with two well placed cocks that pushed your buttons perfectly would you ever go human again