Thursday, September 30, 2010

Tranny 911

This is your lucky day.  I haven't been able to find any clips of this until now (probably because I'm lazy and give up quickly).  But here's an earlier version of Super Tranny Heaven (and Jonny McGovern's Chocolate Puddin') from The Big Gay Sketch Show.  This bitch is great.  From the big ass titties to the makeup to the spiked thigh-high boots.  GET INTO IT.


Big Gay Sketch Show: Tranny 911

Joanie McGovern | MySpace Video

BAM

This guy is somehow involved with Michael serrato a.k.a. Super Tranny Heaven.  I think he directed the first Heaven video, and he was in both looking cute.  Well I have to say I am enamoured with him.  It's his body hair and facial scruff.  It's no secret I'm a fan of slightly-to-moderately hirsuite gentlemen.  Mmm just look at him here.

Another Slice of Heaven

I shared her with you before, but please refresh yourself with Heaven.  She's back with SO many killer looks.  Doesn't $15,000 seem cheap for a sexual reassignment surgery?  I know my girl Calpernia Addams has a $40,000 vagina.  I guess Heaven got the back alley deal with some Mexican botox thrown in.  Anyway, I actually really enjoy this song, and the video is of course magnificent.  You might want to wait to watch it though, because your day is pretty much downhill after that.

My Hero

If I had a good voice, I would just start singing gospel riffs every time I get enraged.



You probably don't recognize this crazy woman, so I shall enlighten you. She has apparently been in Tyler Perry's plays. You remember him of course. I've seen a few of those masterpieces, and let me tell you:  they harmed my very soul.  Yeah yeah, Madea is funny and outrageous and blah blah blah, but the rest is just insufferable.  It's just in-your-face Jesus (I know you love me and all, but leave me alone) and shout-singing gospel.  Go ahead and skip them.  Tyler Perry doesn't need any more money.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

In Dreams

I had a dream last night that I was just chilling by myself, sitting on a stoop somewhere.  A woman and her young daughter came along, and the little girl just up and sat on my lap.  The first thing I noticed was that she had a cat nose and patches of blue fur on her face.  Oh, and whiskers.  I was nice to her and asked her what her name was (I don't remember) and how old she was.  She said she was seven, and I commented on her fur.  She seemed a little embarrassed at first, and her mother said it's something they don't really like to talk about.  I told the girl that I thought her fur was really cute, and I wish I had some.  She giggled, and then I woke up.  I have a general rule about kids:  I hate them.  They annoy me to no end when I encounter them in the wild.  I run away from them like a level 5 mage stumbling across a full grown Adamantoise.  I avoid them like the plague if I see them in public.  Now I think perhaps I make such a fuss because I'm scared I'll never have any kids.  I'll certainly never be knocking any broads up; and right about now, there's no prospect of a partner with whom to rear a child.  I have a friend who in pre-dating stages, found out that the guy in interest wants a kid by the time he's 30, whether he's with someone or not.  Is it just me, or do you not tell people that?  I imagine a woman telling a man (she's never even met yet) that she wants a baby within three years, and I see him heading for the hills.  And with us it's different.  We can't just trick a guy into getting us pregnant if we're desperate.  We have to go through lengthy adoption processes (if you're even allowed to, depending on what state you're in) or deal with surrogacy.  Buying a bitch's baby is EXPENSIVE.  And then she can always back out until the little bastard is born.  I have friends who already have small children.  I can't imagine caring for a child at this stage of my life.  I admit that I really want to, but not for another ten years or so.  Until I feel like I'm in a better place in my life (and hopefully with a man who has Oprah money), I'll continue the charade that I abhor children.  Nasty little things.  Twat vomit and crotch fruit, the lot of them.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Raaaaaspberries!

My eyes have been opened to the true craziness that is Carol Channing.  I've always known who she is, but not really what her deal is.  The only thing you need to know is that she is a crazy old broad. 

I remember watching this old Alice and Wonderland from 1985 and LOVING it.  Sadly I can't find an embeddable version, so you have to click here for it:  Carol Channing's Jam Song.

And then there are some random gems that prove this old bitch (she's kind of like Bea Arthur, she was never young) always had it.  Just pay attention to her ridiculous voice, spastic and insance posturing, and wig skills.





Carol Channing as Marlene Dietrich

Saturday, September 25, 2010

This Bitch Got Me Twisted







Oh, who is that cute latino boy?  JD Samson, that's an cute name for a jailbait looking boy.  Oh, that's a girl?  Well that just rocks my fucking world.  I had heard of JD's "wispy mustache," buut DAMN.  When I think of him as a boy, he's cute.  But when I think of him as a girl, I get a little pukey.  I mean, I'm all about trannies and doing whatever you want to do, but when I'm already having dirty feelings for him and find out she's just a hairy woman, it confuses me.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Thursday, September 23, 2010

A Quick Poem

From the genius Elaine Carroll:

There once was a man named OJ,
Who got really angry one day.
So he got out his knife,
And killed his ex-wife,
And left behind some DNA.

Dangerous Wands

YES.


Very Mary Kate

I guess this is really old, but I just discovered it. This trick does a great version of how I would like to imagine Mary Kate is: Very Mary Kate. There are too many to post individually, so check out the site for her videos, but I'll post one below for a quick taste. I love how Ashley is supposed to be the sensible one, you know, because she does things like eat: "I have to go. I ordered a spring roll."


Very Mary-Kate: Moving Out from Mary-Kate Olsen on Vimeo.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Random RuPaul

With the wonderful Judy LaGrange:

Pity Party


Last night was the final of three shitty interactions in one week. They were sad reminders of a harsh reality I can't change, and I really felt like doing some crying. I have this problem where I can't just cry for myself. It started a few years ago, and I'm pretty sure I even know what triggered it. So I won't cry immediately when something terrible happens to me, but I will sob like a fucking baby while watching Disney movies. Something in me says it's okay to redirect it. I don't know how to fix this other than getting to that point and feeling it for myself. That's what I needed to do last night. It was late, so I didn't have the option of watching What Dreams May Come. I settled for the quick solution to bring the tears: the series finale of Six Feet Under. The last sequence gets me every time, and last night was no exception. I quickly burst into suffocating sobs. The kind of crying that literally hurt. Then I felt sorry for myself for a few minutes after that, trying to get it all out. I blew my nose for five minutes and went to bed. I felt so much better this morning and not nearly as melancholy. I've been in a pretty good mood today, in fact. I don't know about you chrome heartless bastards, but I recommend a good cry every now and then. Here's the last few minutes of 6FU, but if you don't already know what happens and plan on watching the show, skip it:



Monday, September 20, 2010

Gossip Sniz



Oh, Gossip Girl. How I love and hate you. I like to watch it and chat with my friend Brady about how awful it is. We have fun. So this shit show is back for a third season. There's not much to say other than everyone is in a heated competition for who can be The Worst. There can be only one (worst)!

Dan is still a douche. A gullible douche. And he needs a haircut STAT.

Chuck should have just died. Now he's fucking the actress who played Fleur Delacour in the Harry Potter movies. She bothers me. Mostly because I've seen her topless for some French movie. Not what I wanted to see.

The parents haven't had much of a chance to prove just how shitty they can be.

Nate is still pretty and just begging for a face full of cock.

Blair is still a cunt. Surprise.

Vanessa. Yuck. This gypsy bitch is still slumming around. GO BACK TO HAITI, BITCH. No one wants you here. At least she combed some of the dreads out. A bitch wears so much chunky jewelry, you can hear her coming from two blocks away.

Then there's Serena. Woof. First of all, she spent this latest episode dressed like a hooker extra from Night Court. See the above picture. That's really the only reason I wanted to write this post. Just. . . ugh. Just soak it in, and deal with that shit for a minute.

I apologize if you were expecting something more substantial here. My feelings can best be expressed by a still from an episode of Sex and the City:

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Frosty the Snizman


Frosty the Snowman Gay porn. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Only homos. The dildo picture is the best, but I also appreciate the several typos spread across the pages.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Back to the Bitch List

In an archeological coup, the fourth page of the famed Types of Bitches List has been unearthed. Please enjoy:

The Affair




















Mark and I will take tennis lessons from the one and only Novak Djokovic. You see, his uncle knows someone who knows someone who owes him a favor, you know how it goes. At first it will be considered a one-time thing, we'll take him out to lunch and the court; but then he'll see how atrocious our technique is and how charming we are, and he will offer more lessons. He'll quickly become a trusted friend, and Novak will relish the time away from the media. We'll watch movies together, packed tightly onto a sofa, the skin of our legs singing whenever contact is made. We will play fight and wrestle while wearing those cute tennis wristbands. After a morning of perfecting our backhands, we'll retire inside, sweaty. We'll continue our chatting as he showers. Those Serbians are not shy. Then one day he'll get a phone call, get a serious look on his face, and ask us in that sexy accent if we would excuse him for a minute. When he finally comes back inside, his eyes are pink, and he's choking back sobs. Mark and I will hug him and ask what's wrong. As we hold him, he will tell us that his girlfriend broke up with him. He was going to break up with her, but it still hurts. He will say that he's known for a long that time it wasn't going to work out and that he was trying to be who everyone expects him to be. This will of course bring on a fresh round of crying, and we'll do our best to soothe him. Eyes still wet, Novak will put on a brave face and insist that he's fine, that he knew it had to end because he was too different. When I ask how, he will look up at me shyly; and there, wedged with Mark behind him and me in front of him, he will kiss me. Our hands will start roaming, and Mark and I will kiss away his tears. Yada yada , double penetration of a tennis superstar, yada, jizz EVERYWHERE.







Monday, September 13, 2010

More Boring Fat Girl Stuff


I realized I haven't really been keeping track of the books I'm reading, so I should make a list somewhere. I want a record of it, and instead of storing an obscure list on my computer, I'll just do it here. So feel free to ignore this, as it is mostly for me. It strikes me just how much of a nerd I am when I look at all these together. The books I've read so far in 2010, in no particular order:


I Drink for a Reason - David Cross
Some Things That Meant The World to Me - Joshua Mohr
I Was Told There Would Be Cake - Sloan Crosley
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo - Stieg Larsson
The Girl Who Played with Fire - Stieg Larsson
The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest - Stieg Larsson
The Stranger - Max Frei
Dead And Gone - Charlene Harris
My Booky Wooky - Russell Brand
Wishful Drinking - Carrie Fisher
Chocolate, Please - Lisa Lampinelli
For A Few Demons More - Kim Harrison
The Outlaw Demon Wails - Kim Harrison
White Witch, Black Curse - Kim Harrison
Black Magic Sanction - Kim Harrison
The Coffin Dancer - Jeffrey Deaver
I Love You More Than You Know - Jonathan Ames
Angels of the Deep - Kirby Crow
Scarlet & The White Wolf - Kirby Crow
Mariner's Luck - Kirby Crow
Land of Night - Kirby Crow
The Hours Between - Sebastian Stuart
Warrior's Cross - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux
Wicked Gentleman - Ginn Hale
Turnskin - Nicole Kimberling
Mental - Eddie Safarty
31 volumes of Bleach
3 volumes Naruto
several collections of various x-men trade paperbacks
Wizard's First Rule - Terry Goodkind
Stone of Tears - Terry Goodkind
Blood of the Fold - Terry Goodkind
Temple of the Winds - Terry Goodkind
Soul of the Fire - Terry Goodkind
Faith of the Fallen - Terry Goodkind
The Pillars of Creation - Terry Goodkind
Naked Empire - Terry Goodkind
Chainfire - Terry Goodkind
Phantom - Terry Goodkind
Confessor - Terry Goodkind
Stardust - Neil Gaiman
Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang - Chelsea Handler
Disco Blood Bath - James St. James
Freak Show - James St. James
Faithful Place - Tana French
The Black Prism - Brent Weeks
The Way of Shadows - Brent Weeks
Shadow's Edge - Brent Weeks
Beyond the Shadows - Brent Weeks
Mistborn - Brandon Sanderson
The Well of Ascension - Brandon Sanderson
The Hero of Ages - Brandon Sanderson
The Warded Man - Peter V. Brett
Desert Spear - Peter V. Brett
Orange Is the New Black - Piper Kerman

Currently reading:
Sickened - Julie Gregory

Upcoming:
Kraken - China Mieville
Blood Meridian - Cormac McCarthy

Mean Disney Girls

I love it. I pretty much quote this movie on a daily basis, so any funny interpretations of it are welcome.

The Police Sketch Artist Game



My new friend Judy taught me this game. She said she and a friend used to look up guys on the Illinois registered sex offender website. One person--the victim--would choose a guy, and only she would be able to see him. She would lie in bed pretending to be the sole surviving victim of this horrible man. She would then relate his information and what he looked like to the other person--the police sketch artist. How fun!

A Lovely Little Jaunt



I spent the weekend in Chicago visiting my dear kindred spirit Blanche. We went to high school together, but I didn't know her very well then. We started reconnecting this year, and I am so so grateful for it. She is a peach and a half and makes the world a brighter place. I took the train up, and you know how well that went. I stayed with her and her husband, and met Judy and Jim: also peaches.

We kikied for hours, and Blanche made us homemade pasta. A regular Martha Stewart, that one. She puts Ina Garten to shame. Bitch keeps a TIGHT household.

We headed to a club to see the wonderful Pandora Boxx perform. She was supposed to go on at 12, but there we were, milling around the place, waiting for what seemed like an eternity. Drag performers are notorious for their tardiness, so we thought nothing of it and busied ourselves with the goings on around us. Ooooh there was some shit. As expected, there was a plethora of shitty faggots. A few of them cute. Not many great looks, but oh well. It may have been cool outside, but it was HOT in there. One gay really committed to his whatever looks in the cardigan and beanie. I hope he had a heat stroke. There were SO many girls too. I'm not used to that at a gay club. And tons of lesbians too. As evidenced here:



I was a little shy about taking pictures, but then I thought, what the fuck? I don't know these bitches and probably won't see them ever again. Also seen: the trashiest skank ever. She had ratty Britney hair, raccoon eye makeup, a ruffle denim micro-skirt, and some kind of Ugg BOOTS WITH THE FUR. I didn't get a good picture of her unfortunately.

There were two go-go boys, which was a new experience for me. One was really muscled and meh in the face. The other was adorable and had a sexy scar on his midsection. He was still a shitty, shitty faggot. Look, even at my sexiest and lowest-self-esteemiest, I would never have danced on the bar in my underwear for money--and I've done some crazy shit in my twenty. . . one years. What really killed me was his Santa's little helper look. His red underwear was attached to red suspenders. The pièce de damn résistance that brought it all together was the mark of a crummy faggot: FLIP-FLOPS. Yes, boy was shaking his ass on the bar for dollars in flip-flops. I didn't want to be attracted to him, and at first I was determined. He won me over though. That mop of hair gave him a boyish cuteness, and he really did have a nice ass. We decided, however, that he was stuffing his underwear. Oh well. I still wanted to hate fuck him:



We witnessed a great scene through the window. There was a party trolley filled with all kinds of wasted people dancing and carrying on. There was one kid who had obviously started the party early, and he was swaying in his seat, chugging water from a giant jug. Luckily the traffic light was long enough for us all to observe. Some drunk buddy talked to him for a moment, and the kid drank more water, swaying the whole time. He gagged and fought the urge to vomit. This continued for what felt like a long time, but must have been only 45 seconds. It was a game, and I was really hoping he would puke before the trolley took off. He heaved more and more, and finally he threw up! All of us watching in the club cheered and laughed as the kid spewed onto the street. Fantastically hilarious.

None of us had ever been to that particular venue before, so we didn't know there was also a giant basement, which was apparently where the performance was. By the time we wised up, we had missed the first set. Oh well, we saw enough to gag us. The opener, Jade (also from RuPaul's Drag Race) was great. She did a ballet number while lipsynching, and she was really on point. And en pointe. Pandora was her usually goofy self, and she delivered. She performed to what is becoming her signature song:





Super Pussy Smash

This truly is the best drag queen entrance I've ever seen. I want to thank my friend Blanche D'Almonds:



She really opened my eyes to some wonderful things this weekend, and I'll get into more in later posts. Right now it's about a performance you MUST watch:




BOOM. OVARIES. I also appreciate the high kick into death drop move. As Mrs. D'Almonds pointed out a comment to me, "her wig is pinned for LIFE." Yes, girl. Yes it is.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Saturday, September 11, 2010

It Will Be A June Wedding



Let me tell you about my boyfriend. His name is Mark. Mark R. I first spied him across the waiting room at the train station, and my heart leaped the instant our eyes met. It was love, lust, and devotion at first sight. He was busy with his computer while I pulled out my camera, putting the zoom lens to good use. Who knew that those few snapshots would one day be on the first page of an album labeled “Mark & Dan” with a heart around it? He looks like a cuter, healthier version of someone I once had a crush on. And more Latino. His surname is Latino, and there are hints of it in his features: bushy eyebrows, pouty lips, and always looking like he has on a trace of eyeliner and mascara.

After my impromptu clandestine photo session, he got up to use the rest room. If I were braver, I would have followed him in there. But sadly my bravery is relegated to other areas, so there I sat alone. Upon his return, he made his way to the line that was forming for the train, and it took me a couple minutes to follow. By this time, I was intimately familiar with the back of his head. He’s perhaps 5’11”, with a touch of muscle on him. His chestnut hair doesn’t have any product in it, and it’s apparent he hasn’t had it cut for some time. It has a sexy casualness about it that cannot be contrived. His outfit does rather confuse me: tan suede miniboots, stylish grey jeans, and what looks like a walmart uniform-issued blue sweater. It works on him though. His ass looks great in the pants. I got a peek at his underwear when he briefly sat down in line: the waistband and material indicate either briefs or boxerbriefs. My money is on boxerbriefs.

The doors open, and everyone spilled toward the train, not minding that there was a line in the first place. I made haste, and cut off several people to stay close to him. An extremely large man with nails too long for my taste and dreadlocks stayed between us, but I wouldn’t let him get in my way once on the train. The odds worked to my favor, and there were the perfect number of occupied seats. Mark sat next to a window, and I stopped in the row next to him. I saw a completely vacant row down the train, but I pretended not to notice it. Without even asking, I sat next to him. He immediately closed his eyes and slumped toward the window to sleep. The way his plump lips separated in slumber just a touch makes me burn. His two-day scruff only added to the lovable effect.

I was hoping that he would remain dozing when the man came for our tickets so I would have an excuse to oh so gently jostle his shoulder. Or should I go for the leg? That’s more intimate but more forward. When the agent came for our tickets, I hadn’t signed mine yet, so he handed me a pen. I do so on the iPad on my lap, and it seemed Mark hadn’t signed his ticket either. Instead of handing him the surface to write on, I scoot closer and indicate that he can just write on it while it’s on my leg. I swear I could feel every brief stroke of the pen through the layers of electronics and denim. It burned me, and I am convinced I will forever have his name written into my right thigh. He said “thankyou,” in the kindest voice I have ever heard. No pretense, just golden honey flowing to my ears.

Now he slept , arms crossed on his stomach, head tilted toward me. Thank goodness for that. I want to kiss his eyebrow, his eyelid, his gorgeous cheekbone, that endearing nose. Those eyelashes are two miles long and denser than a paintbrush. I want to run my lips over the stubble on his jaw, memorizing the planes and angles and noting where it gives over to the complete softness below his eye. His sleeves are slightly pushed up, and I take in the moderate amount of hair on his tan arms. His tan is absolutely natural of course; it’s just his complexion. I can tell that if I were able to peek down his shirt, I’d find chest hair. Just what I like.

I’ll leave him be for now. He needs his rest. When we stop in Chicago, we’ll both have time to kill, and find ourselves in a coffee shop. We’ll talk for hours, but it will seem like only a few minutes. His eyes will have a glow to them that I’ve never before encountered. I’ll want to nuzzle in the cleft of his chin. At one point, he’ll softly take my hand for emphasis while telling a story, but he won’t let go. His hand won’t feel sweaty; which is a wonder to me, because my hands always sweat when clasped with another’s. We’ll grudgingly part ways to go about our weekends, and it will hurt. We’ll hug goodbye: things are too innocent right now for a kiss, though we both want it. It will be a lingering hug, very tight at times, with rubbing instead of patting. It will be the kind of hug where our cheeks are pressed against each other, and the scrape of our facial hair is titillating. Eyelashes will brush against eyelashes, making me swoon. Apart for the weekend, I will feel empty the whole time, like I've had a part of my spirit removed. When we’re both back in town, we’ll meet; and this time it will start with a kiss. Then we will plan our future together, smiling and laughing. Because I know this is what will happen, I let him relax in peace on the train ride. We have an entire lifetime to live together after all.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Homework


I've been toying with the idea of changing my domain name for a while. I've decided against it for now, but I might buy it just in case I want to use it. It's a good one. I won't share so you vultures can't snatch it up. Suffice it to say, it happens to be in the fantastic documentary Paris Is Burning. The first thing I did was type my desired phrase into the address bar to see if it was an existing site. It is not, so my browser took me to a Google search of the phrase. The top hit was a link to a transcription of the movie. It's a little spotty, but it's great fun. See the movie if you haven't already, and check out the document here (if it asks you to download Japanese characters, just do it).

Oh Miranda

Until a couple days ago, I thought Miranda Sings was real. I'd only seen a couple of her videos, and I felt bad laughing at them. I just thought she was slightly autistic with a touch of palsy. I finally looked her up and found out it's just a character. Yay, now I can laugh. If you watch her older videos, you can see when she hasn't quite nailed down her look that she's so so pretty. And then you watch more and she talk about haters this and that and dating celebrities and whatnot. I guess I would have figured it out after a while, but there are some bitches making serious videos out there that are insanely laughable. But this is the first video I saw of her; and taking it as serious, I got a little uncomfortable and thought Mr. Rainbow was a douche:


Thursday, September 9, 2010

Just Because

Snizteresting


Well this is interesting. I just noticed that Blogger has a feature that tracks my blog's stats. Things like traffic sources, audience, and all-time posts. I don't think it's been around for very long since it lists only a fraction of the hits I know this website has had.

It would seem that a lot of my traffic is a mistake. My post with the most views is What Is A Hybrid Snatch? And other twat-themed posts are in the top ten. I'd say fine, that makes sense, I talk about ladyparts a lot. But based on traffic sources, it seems like straight guys are googling dirty things which lead to my site. Here's a list:


pussy type hybrid 186


pussy type: hybrid 105


hybrid pussy type 75


fuck you 56


adrien brody 51


fuck women 20


pussy types hybrid 15


fat fuck 13


gay fucking 11


pussytype hybrid 9


Oh well. Maybe along the way, some of those guys took a break between beating off to actually read a little bit and enjoy.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Totaly Disappointing



Until today I haven't owned a legit copy of one of my favorite movies. I was excited to find it in the mail today, but a little dismayed at the tagline on the cover. Please tell me it's not an accident.

Robyn's Björk Tribute



I have to start by saying no one can cover Björk well. It's impossible. Her crazy voice and the demons in her head make it so. I've heard a whole album of covers, and they all sucked donkey dick. The only other one I've enjoyed is "All Is Full of Love" by Death Cab for Cutie. And that's probably because the original is one of my favorite songs. Robyn's version here is. . . passable. She has a good voice, but of course it is nothing compared to Björk's psychotic elf version. That being said, I have a few comments:

a)Robyn, honey, I love you, girl, but get yourself some toothpaste.
b)I love how Björk looks absolutely UNBOTHERED (and for good reason).
c)I can't decide if Robyn's outfit is atrocious, fantastic, or both.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Books Are For Fat Girls and Ugly People







That's why my best friend says anyway. I disagree. Reading is fun! Right? I read a lot, and I have some good recommendations for you. I'll dedicate this post to just one book though.

I tore through James St. James' Disco Bloodbath in a few days. I had already seen the movie based on it starring Macauley Culkin and Seth Green: Party Monster. Oh you've seen it? Crazy goodness, right? It's all about the wild New York club scene from the late 80s to early 90s. And murder. Delicious murder. I always enjoyed the movie, but the book just did me in. It. Was. Fantastic. I don't think I've ever been so entertained by a book. It's not that it was so laugh-out-loud funny, it was just crafted so well. I read it on the iPad and made good use of the highlight function. I must have highlighted a total of 3 pages of text. I need to get to work memorizing it. I thought it might be fun to share with you the best of the highlighted portions. The euphemisms and dragtalk will spin your head, so pay attention. The first is a great quote from Party Monster the movie that I just had to include:

"It doesn't matter what you look like. I mean, if you have a hunchback, just throw a little glitter on it, honey. Go dancing."


Another time, Musto and I were posed in our corner of the Palladium bathroom with our force fields UP. We were saying deply superficial things to each other, and looking very soigné doing so. Nobody would have dared to approach us. We were that good.

"Oops! Anal Leakage! Gotta go!"

"Sometimes I kidnap leettle children and SET THEM ON FIRE!"

Futuristic Geisha Gangsters (what a fantastic look! oh this is me writing, not JSJ)

Just your average, typical trailer-park trannie from Austin, Texas.

Ida stripped naked and pulled a full string of LIT CHRISTMAS BULBS, one at a time, out of her ass.

It wasn't all sequins and cocktails, kids.

Speaking from experience, there are people who have too much space between their ears, and given the time, do nothing but free fall forever inside their heads.

So let it be noted. So let it be done.

There was a spirited debate over who it would be more fun to fuck: Macauley Culkin or Emmanuel Lewis.

Everybody enjoys a good overdose.

Gone the way of Stacy Q and men in pearls.

"I know. Apparently Valerie Harper got all the different ways to tie them from her personal secretary. My favorite is the turban style with the big ball in front. Makes my nose look smaller."

For almost nine months in 1990, I wore a bloody wedding own and glued flies to my face. Some say I was a bit touched that year, and to be sure, there was a slightly unbalanced look about me then. I just like to think I was being fashion forward.

But, I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a bag of cocaine today.

"Let him have his moment."

"Gurgle snerf."

Drug addicts are funny that way. Just spinning around, lost in their own little world. Doing so much, accomplishing so little.

When it's right, you can feel it from the tip of your heel to the top of your wig.

Hmmm. . . yes. . . why, by cracky! I think she's right.

I only weighed about twenty-seven pounds. . . but those were SOME TWENTY-SEVEN POUNDS, I tell you! Each and every one of them STYLISH TO A FAULT! TWENTY-SEVEN pounds of fabulosity!

This was without a doubt the lowest, saddest moment of my life. Friendless in Poughkeepsie. Dancing alone on bloody stumps. At least I looked amazing. I'll give me that much.

"He looks just like Brooke Shields in Pretty Baby." And he did. A sexy little baby.

She picked up the plate of glass from the glass-top table and held it high over her head (where she got the strength and the balance to do it, I'll never know) but she stood there, for about ten or fifteen minutes (or so it seemed at the time), with the glass gleaming wickedly in her eye and that terrifying expressions on her ugly old mug of pure lesbian rage unbound.

Michael began having crack seizures. Just for the attention, I was convinced of that. Always at the MOST INAPPROPRIATE TIMES.

For better or worse, we were all family by this stage of the game, and like all families we were capable of monstrous acts of cruelty to each other.

(I guess this a quote from Stanislaw Lee): "I give you bitter pills, in a sugar coating. The pills are harmless--the poison's in the sugar."

But before the cutrain falls, let me leave you with one question--ponder it as the events unfold, then riddle me this:
If one day, Mother Teresa was out weed whacking and accidentally chopped off Hitler's head--WOULD THAT NECESSARILY BE SUCH A BAD THING?
I mean. . . if a person commits a crime, and no one cares--can we all just adjust our lip liner?

If letters had eyebrows, these would be arched.

Evil must be baked at 650 degrees.

LET'S TALK ILL OF THE DEAD, SHALL WE?

Funny, that no matter where you are in the world, there's always someone eager to help you destroy yourself.

I mean, who blessed this unholy union of tack and greed, anyway?

Why, oh why, must we always go through pigs to get our truffles?

And when I looked in the mirror for comfort? Why there was some strange leathery old faggot staring back at me with yellow, rheumy eyes.

Prunella Turkeyneck!

I kick a palm frond from my path, then reflect how nicely it would look rising out of my wig--did I have a couple dozen bobby pins tucked into my clutch?

Friday, September 3, 2010

Squirtle, I Choose You!



I found this adorable little creature in the parking lot at work. At first I thought it was dead. It wouldn't be the first time I found a random dead animal in the parking lot. But after a moment, it slowly moved its little head. Maybe Parking Lot Squirtle defeated the Parking Lot Lobster that I saw back in April. Squirtle was just sitting on the black top, and I didn't know if I should do something with it. It reminded me however of an incident from a couple weeks ago.



It was a hot, sunny day and I encountered a worm on the sidewalk. I was convinced there was no way it would survive on the hot pavement, so I felt terrible and planned to move it to some moist earth. But then a thought struck me: how fucking arrogant of me! Who did I think I was? I was prepared with good intentions to move this worm to what I thought would be a better life. But really I didn't know what was best for it. Maybe it was on the way to see its little worm babies. Or perhaps it was "meeting the sun," giving up on its life. Who was I to get in the way of his plans? So I let the worm be.

I put the turtle back where I found it, said good luck, and went to wash my hands. No salmonella for me, thank you! I hope it's okay. Part of me wanted to go back and bring him home. But again, I thought of the worm and stayed put. Maybe next time I'll snatch that shit up in a pokéball.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Awwww



Sea otters hold paws so they don't drift apart. TOO FUCKING CUTE. I found this adorable tidbit because I was looking for more information on otters. Not real otters, mind you. The gay slang. Are you familiar with bears? Well otters are the sexy version: lean, hairy gay guys. I like that.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Living Nightmares

Well, I know what will be haunting my dreams tonight:

Ready for Dick on Valentine's Day


Also from the best friend pile today comes a delightful paragraph about revenge. Earlier this year I had a date with a guy we'll call the Joker. I liked his smile, but the bff said he looked like the Joker. Old school giant grin Joker, not new school Heath Ledger jagged face. Nothing came of the date, and really I was just smitten because I was so attracted to him. He was a complete mess in every other aspect. I saw him last weekend, and he's not as cute as I thought he was. I generally like 'em skinny, but this bitch was a toothpick. He looked like Ethan Hawke with AIDS. Anyway, Brady asked me why I even thought I could date such a mess. I told him "I wanted to jizz all over his jokerface." This was his response:

You could still jizz on that fugly joker's face. We could lure him to an undisclosed location with promises of big cock and then get him naked, on his knees and blindfolded (ready for dick on Labor Day). Then BAM you pull off the blindfold and jizz right in his eye. Then he'll have to have an eye abortion to kill your baby.

EYE ABORTION. I love it. That phrase also works for when you wish to unsee something. Allow me to explain the hilarity that is being ready for dick. It comes from this fantastic video that I've shared before (that is worth watching at least once every day, as are all videos by this guy):





At about the 1:20 mark, Blanche says "giiiirls, ya'll ready to get dick on Valentine's Day?" So now we've worked that phrase into our everday lexicon. If I'm getting ready to go out and look cute, then I'm ready for dick on Valentine's Day. If I'm feeling snizzy and want to play with myself, I'm ready for dick on Valentine's Day. If I have a date and plan on making a move, I'm ready for dick on Valentine's Day. From there, the leap to other holidays was simple. Hence, ready for dick on Labor Day. You could also be ready for dick on Guy Fawkes Day, Boxing Day or Arbor Day.