Friday, August 28, 2009
Grandpa Ralph (the decedent) was the nicest man EVER and once got stung VERY BADLY by a jellyfish because he mistook it for somebody's lost fanny pack, and he was trying to help a bitch out. Bless his sweet soul! Wasn't that nice?
Have great weekends, all. I'll be back on Tueday, motherfuckers, unless I get splattered across 4-lanes of highway on the way up or back. Wouldn't it be eerie if it ACTUALLY HAPPENED now that I've said that? Think of the hits on my damn blog! Yes, even dead, I'll being checking the stat counter. Headline NY Post: Tragic Blogger Predicts Her Own Fiery Car Crash Death.
Link to story at True Crime Report: http//www.truecrimereport.com/2009/08/the_cat_butcher_of_texas.php
Frankie is a 20-year-using old wig-wearing crackhead, who is trying to go straight. Her daughter Neffe (their relationship is sort of endearing) is always trying to get Frankie's dumb ass to steer clear of bad influences, such as freeloading former friends. The daughter is the mother actually, as often happens where drugs are involved.
I think Frankie's ass is also addicted to wigs, because bitch has about 10,000 different ones.
On last night's episode, some family intervention counsellor was trying to help Frankie & Neffe learn to communicate better by having Frankie put words on a damn collage for when she runs into temptation with drugs. So Frankie wrote down words like love and understanding. I sort of fail to see how this is going to keep Frankie the crackhead from wanting to smoke that shit. But it was sort of a bonding moment for Frankie & Neffe. They both seemed happy as fuck with the counsellor and the fug collage.
Personally, I'd want to grab for the crack pipe and then stare at the damn collage after I was stoned. That shit is colorful! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I think my ass should get a job as a family services counsellor, if getting former crackheads to paste together fug collages is all it takes. SB could do that shit! It doesn't take a damn degree, motherfuckers.
On a side note, SB has decided that I want to be built like a crackhead. Frankie is skinny as a fucking rail. Teeny tiny.
If the show seems a little hard to get into at first, stick with it. Your ass will be rewarded when you get to see Frankie do the crackhead freakout dance. I make fun, but I sort of find Frankie adorable. I ain't inviting her ass to the house to stay or anything, but I'd sit next to her at a party.
Note: If your ass is short-bus material, that's Frankie on the right in the photo above.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
--George W. Bush
Nothing like a ringing endorsement from a drunk moron. You know I can't let it alone, people. At least there were no misspellings. The dolt must have finally figured out how to use spell check. Dumb motherfucker.
For nearly five decades, virtually every major piece of legislation to advance the civil rights, health and economic well-being of the American people bore his name and resulted from his efforts. His ideas and ideals are stamped on scores of laws and reflected in millions of lives -- in seniors who know new dignity; in families that know new opportunity; in children who know education's promise; and in all who can pursue their dream in an America that is more equal and more just, including me.
In the United States Senate, I can think of no one who engendered greater respect or affection from members of both sides of the aisle. His seriousness of purpose was perpetually matched by humility, warmth and good cheer. He battled passionately on the Senate floor for the causes that he held dear, and yet still maintained warm friendships across party lines. And that's one reason he became not only one of the greatest senators of our time, but one of the most accomplished Americans ever to serve our democracy. I personally valued his wise counsel in the Senate, where, regardless of the swirl of events, he always had time for a new colleague. I cherished his confidence and momentous support in my race for the Presidency.
And even as he waged a valiant struggle with a mortal illness, I've benefited as President from his encouragement and wisdom. His fight gave us the opportunity we were denied when his brothers John and Robert were taken from us: the blessing of time to say thank you and goodbye. The outpouring of love, gratitude and fond memories to which we've all borne witness is a testament to the way this singular figure in American history touched so many lives.
For America, he was a defender of a dream. For his family, he was a guardian. Our hearts and prayers go out to them today -- to his wonderful wife, Vicki, his children Ted Jr., Patrick and Kara, his grandchildren and his extended family.
Today, our country mourns. We say goodbye to a friend and a true leader who challenged us all to live out our noblest values. And we give thanks for his memory, which inspires us still.
President Barack Obama
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Note: Thomas Jefferson was actually simply named Tom, but I added Jefferson to honour my favourite founding father, and also to honour George Jefferson, who I sort of walk like.
You've got to get off your lazy shiftless asses and click for this one, motherfuckers. DO IT!
A few days after his brain surgery, I read that some of the Democrats in congress advised Ted's beloved wife, Vicky, that they really needed Ted's presence in the Senate in order to break a tie vote on an important issue (Medicaid). I think it says a lot that Ted made the great effort to show up and do what he felt was his duty, despite the fact that Vicky didn't want him to go. Ted Kennedy was made of stern and solid stuff. If I was Ted, I probably would have just coasted on the Kennedy name, but Ted worked hard for most of his life.
I remember both Bob Geldof and Bono marveling at Ted's knowledge of Africa's plight. They said he just rolled off facts and figures. He had totally done his homework.
I think one of the most important things that Ted did was to be a surrogate father to his many nieces and nephews. By all accounts, he was well loved and respected by the children of Bobby and JFK, as well as his own kids.
God speed and God bless, Ted. You will be missed.
[If you have anything bad to say about Ted, fuck you. Your comments are not welcome here.]
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
To order: http://www.thinkgeek.com/homeoffice/gear/b9b2/?cpg=cj
I must admit, I have this fantasy of being SO RICH that I could hire Elvis's old cook, Mamie, to make my ass fried peanut butter and nana sandwiches and ANYTHING ELSE MY HEART DESIRES. I would also like my own personal physician to write me any prescriptions I desire on a whim. Fuck man, who wouldn't? Yes, you would. Just admit that shit right now.
So far this morning, I've had a homemade smores bar, some Cool Ranch Doritos, and some full-fat cottage cheese. I just can't understand why my blouse buttons are gapping. If any of you smart motherfuckers out there can help, please feel free to leave comments. Only helpful comments allowed. Don't be mean motherfuckers! SB is a sensitive soul. Smart asses are always ultra-sensitive on the inside.
So don't you damn yankees feel all superior, because hoarding the toilet paper was the ONLY reason your asses won. THE ONLY REASON.
Too bad dear Shelby Foote isn't still around. I think SB's theory needs further validation.
With the help of Cottonelle (puppies!), THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN!
Note: SB only buys the Cottonelle puppies brand buttwipe, because it's the best. Well worth the extra money. SB must have luxurious Bobby Trendy toilet paper! I also always grab the pack at Kroger's, hug it to my chest, and cry "PUPPIES!" joyfully, whenever I buy buttwipe. It was a bone of contention with the ex-husband. For some reason, he found that shit embarrassing.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
He himself did his best to acknowledge it when times were sweet. We could be drinking lemonade in the shade of an apple tree in the summertime, and Uncle Alex would interrupt the conversation to say, “If this isn’t nice, what is?”
I myself say that out loud at times of easy, natural bliss: “If this isn’t nice, what is?” Perhaps others can also make use of that heirloom from Uncle Alex. I find it really cheers me up to keep score out loud that way."
I say "If this isn't nice, what is?" quite a lot to honor, Mr. Vonnegut, my favorite author and maybe my favorite human being. And then I almost always add, "God bless you Kurt and Uncle Alex wherever you are. I hope it's nice." It's a ritual I have, and if no one else is around, I say it to the cat or the dog. Who gives a shit? The main thing is to say it and thereby to recognize happiness. It's American Zen.
You know Jon Voight may well be the reason I'm a liberal democrat today. The film he and Jane Fonda starred in, Coming Home, was a HUGE influence on my young mind. I can't express how HUGE of an influence the film actually was (I have even considered chaining myself to a gate--or at least the post office--in protest of the war in Iraq--I loathe the damn post office, but that's another story), so it is particularly bitter to read this quote, like when Dennis Hopper became a friend of George W. Bush's and visited the White House and had dinner with that fucking moron multiple times. I'M STILL MAD ABOUT THAT SHIT. SO MUCH FOR THE COUNTER CULTURE, DENNIS, YOU DICK.
I'm glad Angelina keeps the kids away from Jon Voight now. My ass was feeling sorry. Now, not so much.
And yes, it's George Michael (or Jorge Micheals, if you speak Spanish), looking older (like the rest of us, if we had lived a very hard marajuana/anonymous sex- filled life). But I kid because I love--for SB's money, Jorge has the best voice of ANYLIVINGSINGER, except for perhaps Andrea Bocelli, who I listen to on Sundays because I find that shit sublime and also relaxing, even if the guy has a damn girl's name.
And I don't judge George for his lifestyle, because it's none of my damn business. I could give a flying fuckfuckingfuck about George's sex life, and marijuana should be legal anyway, and we all know it. George has a gift, and SB would forgive him almost anything (even murder) just to be able to listen to him sing.
Don't say anything bad about George in the comments section, either, because he and I grew up together, and I will always love him. He puts the boom boom into my heart.
They were all good-looking, with beautiful eyes and small frames. They hailed from Meridian, Mississippi, where at one time, SB's family (shamefully) owned slaves. The Donegans were quite wealthy until my great grandfather took ill with cancer and lost everything. I have a small dark wood stand that was rumoured to have come from the plantation, and that's all that's left of the old family homestead. Finito.
My (Great) Uncle Frank had astoundingly blue eyes and had worked for the railroad in his younger and adult days. At the family reunions, he would start into stories about hauling water while they were building the railroads when he was a young man. Uncle Frank was adorable, and his eyes were so amazingly blue, I couldn't look away. I didn't mind hearing the water-carrying story over and over, even though his son tried to put the kibosh on it, "Dad, she's already heard that story."
There was a funny story that when Uncle Frank and his sister, Aunt Luna, were in the same nursing home, the aides sat them together for lunch everyday, and the conversation went pretty much like this:
Frank: Who are you?
Luna: Why, who are you?
Everyday the aides had to reintroduce the brother and sister to each other. It's a pretty good damn thing that the two were too old to be interested in dating.
One day, when Uncle Frank was in his 90s (and not yet in the damn old folks home), the Moms and daddums went over to Frank's house and found it open, with no sign of Frank at all. They walked all through the house calling, and then out back of the house--"Frank? Frank?"
My 90-year-old great uncle answered them from the roof of his small, tidy home, where he was cleaning the gutters.
I am amazed by the genes I carry. I marvel and am continually astounded by the blood that runs through my veins. I would have belonged to no other family than the one I have. I won the damn lottery.
I am almost certain my fate will be the same as that of my familial elders. SB will live until her mental faculties are all shot to hell, but my body will keep on ticking, until some major illness wipes it out. It was almost always final and swift cancer or emphysema or pneumonia that the elders succumbed to. As a kid, the hospital almost always meant a fatality. The Donegan-Spences went in, but they usually didn't come out. That may be why I am fairly hospital phobic. I've never been in the hospital since my birth, and I'm 43 years old now, so I think that's a pretty good record to have.
I am expecting the same fate as my forebears, and I will be proud to follow, whatever comes. I feel fortunate to carry the genes.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Hey, headless mannequins need lovin' (on steep rooftops), too! Can you say perilous plastic pussy plundering?
SB has admitted a Russell Crowe fetish. I usually like to masturbate during his films, so I don't see them first run in theatres. It makes the other people in the row uncomfortable.
Now, my ass fessed up, so what floats your boat? Don't worry--no one here will judge you. If they do, I'll just delete his/her damn comment. I am the Motherfucking Queen of this Universe! Everyone is allowed to be honest here. There will be no shunning. NO SHUNNING ALLOWED.
Note: The motherfuckers here (and this includes SB!) don't need to hear about your personal fetish in VAST detail. Just a general idea will do fine. I have no wish to start a Mannequin Lovers forum here. Here is a link, in case you think I jest, about der Mannequin Fetishists (the best part is the first comment underneath the damn story.) Link: http://undeniableliberalism.blogspot.com/2007/01/mannequin-fetishreally.html
Everyone can relate to F**k It. The Times. Saying Fuck It is like a massage for the mind: relaxing you, releasing tension, allowing you to give up on things that aren't working. Just starting to say Fuck It can transform your life. [This shit is exciting! I've always wanted to transform my life through cussing. Finally, a spiritual path my ass can actually embrace!] And John C. Parkin argues that saying Fuck It is a spiritual act: that it is the perfect western expression of the eastern ideas of letting go, giving up and finding real freedom by realising that things don't matter so much (if at all). This is the Fuck It way. [That's my new mantra--This is the Fuck It way, motherfuckers.]
About the Author
John C. Parkin, the son of Anglican preachers [poor fucker], realised that saying Fuck It was as good as all the eastern spiritual practices he d been studying for 20 years. Having said Fuck It to a top job in London, he escaped to Italy to set up the retreat centre The Hill That Breathes, where he now teaches regular Fuck It Weeks with his wife Gaia. He writes regularly on his website (thefuckitway.com) and has been featured on TV, such as The Graham Norton Show, and in the national press, including The Guardian, The Observer, The Times, Psychologies, Cosmopolitan and Red Magazine.
John C. Parkin, marry me! I believe I've just had a damn spiritual epiphany. I understand the main idea here is that when anything bad happens in your life, the proper response is to YELL, "FUCK IT!" That would definitely be a stress reliever for SB. Fo sho.
Here's something else for your church, Ms. Moon. I think we should add this shit to the spiritual exercises. Capiche?
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
We made it to MA last night at around 10 o'clock. Their house is beautiful and the view is wonderful. This morning after coffee, Steve proceeded to mow the lawn with his new riding mower. Dad took a walk. The next thing we knew, Steve was in the house with a deep gash/cut on his shin. He had decided to try riding the mower into the gully which runs down behind their house. When the mower got stuck, luckily he shut the mower off and then pulled it backwards and then his foot slipped and went under the mower and the hitch came back into his ankle and made a dent and a trangular cut in his thigh. Because it didn't bleed much, I'm hoping it's nothing serious. They're at the emergency room right now. Will let you know.
I was the oldest bitch in the wedding party, but I had the handsomest youngster (and the tallest) walk my fat ass up the aisle. The kid is a dentist, so once he told me that, I covered my teeth with my hands of course. Who wouldn't? Yes, you would.
The wedding party was in the full-on sun, and it was 90-fucking-degrees outside. Our asses were sweating--literally. Then the gorgeous (and I'm serious) day lodge where they had the reception was not airconditioned. And there were like 80 motherfuckers there to party down, and so there was no relief there. SB was so HOT that I stayed in the damn sleeveless dress that didn't fit me quite right the entire time. Normally, my tomboy ass would have been back in jeans and a t-shirt before you could say motherfucker.
Yes, there were pictures, (I hate having my photograph taken), and NO, I'm not sharing. You will never see a photo of SB until my ass loses at least 30 pounds. SB is a vain motherfucker. I will, however, post a photo of my beautiful cousin once the wedding pics are developed. She was the prettiest bride I have ever seen. WE ARE VERY PROUD OF SHEILA. Most of her friends discussed her service works and how unselfish she is. DID I MENTION HOW PROUD WE ARE OF SHEILA? As far as SB is concerned, Sheila is the best of our family, hands-fucking-down. There is nobody I'd rather sweat my ass off for than her. I'd do it again twenty times.
Friday, August 14, 2009
I once proposed a TV special called A Manson Family Christmas. Why not? We've had A Partidge Family Christmas and a damn Osmond Family Christmas. Why the fuck not A Manson Family Christmas? Instead of carving the turkey, Charlie could carve swastikas on all the guests' foreheads.
SB wisely took Monday off to recover from that shit. Sheila has asked SB to speak at the damn reception, and that shit takes a lot out of me. I am a damn writer, NOT A DAMN SPEAKER! SB is always sacrificing for the ones she loves. It's my nature. If SB were a part of the Donner Pass Party, I would have invited the other's to eat me first. I can't help it.
I guess, since it's now August, and I haven't gone anyfuckingplace this summer, this also will be SB's summer vacation. I'll just pretend that Toledo, Ohio, is fucking Toledo, Spain, and then maybe I can enjoy that damn shithole some.
Have great weekends all. I love ALL my motherfuckers!
This is Football Jesus (I am calling it that so I won't upset my brother, Nick, over in England--his ass insists that soccer should be called football. He thinks American football is retarded.).
My one question, upon looking at Footy Jesus, is who the hell is going to have the balls to kick Jesus in order to get the damn ball away? It would have to be a pretty damn boring game to spectate. Nobody's ass is going to take a shot at the Holy One. NO FUCKING WAY. God in heaven would probably smite your ass straight down to hell for kicking his Boy. Do not stop. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.00. Just get your ass STRAIGHT to hell.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Now this is a talent SB would like to have at a party! It's a real showstoppah. The only party talent I have is double-jointed phalanges. I can do a mean Bela Lugosi impersonation. Children of the night. Children of the night.
Do you know why you're overweight?
Uhhhhhhmmmmmmmm, because my fat ass only gets up to take a piss or to stuff my face with junk food and guzzle more wine?
What really kills me is then the announcer's voice goes on to say: It's not your fault you are overweight.
Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaa? Who the fuck's fault is it then, if not mine? I don't remember anyone force feeding me brownies and pizza or commanding that I stop exercising.
On second thought, maybe it is somebody else's fault. I got mighty depressed the eight years that damn moron, George W. Bush, was in office. We'll just blame it on him. That was the one good thing that came out of his abortion of a presidency. It gave us a place to lay blame for ALL THE WORLD'S PROBLEMS. I know blaming is not productive, but it sure is FUN!
To top that shit off (I hate early morning exercise--actually, I hate damn exercise period.), the talkiest sonofabitch in the company pulled in behind me in the remote lot this morning and called out to me. AND I WAS JUST ABOUT TO MAKE A CLEAN GETAWAY.
SB FUCKING DESPISES chatty motherfuckers. Some people talk just TO HEAR THEMSELVES TALK. Maybe that's the only way they know they exist. That's way too existential a damn thought for this early.
My Uncle Gene (my idol even though he's a damn republican) hates chatty motherfuckers, too. If a chatty motherfucker calls Gene's crochety ass, he'll just hang up on them mid-conversation. I think he figures, at his age, he's not wasting anymore of his precious life on a chatty motherfucker.
Gene once got stuck in a van with my family and a chatty motherfucking friend FOR OVER AN HOUR. When we got to where we were going, Gene's ass hit the ground running (the damn van wasn't even fully stopped), trying to get away from this talky bitch. "Does that woman ever stop talking?" he asked me.
"Hell if I know, Gene."
Anyhoo, going back to my morning hike of tragedy--you can't get away from this person at work. If you EVEN NOD YOUR HEAD at this motherfucker, this CREATURE FROM HELL launches into their ENTIRE LIFE STORY. It does not take a breath. If you even say a word talking to somebody else in this thing's near vicinity, it will interject itself into your conversation, and then YOU CAN'T GET AWAY. EVER. YOUR ASS IS STUCK THERE FOR ALL ETERNITY.
I have a chatty motherfucking relative like that, too. You literally just have to start walking the fuck out the door, and then of course, her ass follows you, still talking, TO THE GODDAMN DRIVEWAY. It's horrible. You just have to drive away. I always check the rear view, once I hit the street, too, to be sure her ass is not following me. It makes SB a little paranoid.
SB also has another relative who gets right in your shit (face) to talk to you. SB's ass is always backing up, because I just CANNOT ABIDE A DAMN CLOSE TALKER. Get the fuck out of my space, motherfucker! Are you trying to look to see whether I have blackheads or some shit? Because that's the only logical reason to stand SO CLOSE to a motherfucker that I can fucking feel your stink shit breath on my face.
By the way, SB does not have blackheads. I use Biore, motherfuckers!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
I just went to get a piece of gum out of mom's coat pocket in the chapel, AND THEN I COULDN'T GET OUT, because the goddamn heavy wooden door jammed, and I just KNEW that if I turned around and looked, AGONIACAL BLOODY JESUS WOULD HAVE GOTTEN DOWN OFF THAT CROSS (DRIPPING GORY BLOOD) AND HIS HOLY ASS WAS STANDING. . . RIGHT. . . BEHIND ME. JESUS WAS GOING TO TRY AND DRAG MY PRECIOUS ASS TO HEAVEN WITH HIM, AND WHO WANTS THAT, WHEN THEY ARE EXPECTING SANTA TO BRING THEM A BRAND NEW 10-SPEED BIKE FOR CHRISTMAS??? Not me, motherfuckers.
SB didn't want to sit around with a bunch of boring overly-religious dead people, singing hymns on puffy white clouds and shit (because you just know heaven is a Lutheran-type place, where they sing too many goddamn hymns), when I could be riding my new 10-speed around the neighbourhood, rubbing the fact that I got it in the faces of the poorer neighbourhood children. Heaven can wait, motherfuckers!
Feel free to share your own tale of Jesus fright in the comments section. Since Catholics have the scariest goriest Jesuses, your stories are especially welcomed. No Scary Nun stories, though, please. This is the SCARY JESUS category ONLY! We lapsed Methodists can't relate to all that angry nun shit.
Uncle Gene (of Toledo, Ohio) is the older brother, and this is the way a telephone conversation between them went recently. Daddums was out at his place in Arizona.
Gene: I'm 81 now, and that's the median age of death for men. You had better hurry and come see me. I might be dead otherwise. [Clearly, optimism runs in my family.]
Larry: Gene, could you please wait to die until after I get back to Ohio? Otherwise, I'm going to have to pay for a damn plane ticket.
The 4-SALE sign on the bike reads: Italian Racing Bike for Sale. $250.00 FIRM (underlined twice). If you are a cheap motherfucker, don't insult me by trying to bargain. THIS IS NOT A YARD SALE OR THE DAMN FLEA MARKET.
If anybody is not too afraid to approach me after reading the sign, I may actually sell the fucker.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
I also get a lot of those uplifting chain e-mails. If you don't respond or forward that shit, the sender thinks you don't care about them or you're not a friend. SB doesn't need to send that shit out EVER. I'm not insecure. I know I have friends. How does it prove you're a friend because you forward some damn e-mail back to someone? That shit really sticks in SB's crawl.
I was telling the Moms the other day that sometimes I wish I was less popular. It takes a lot of damn energy to be popular. Sometimes I want to be a damn hermit.
I love this photo of John (in fact, it's my computer background right now). For those of you living under a rock, John Mellencamp is from Indiana [fucking Hoosiers can't drive, but that's another post for another damn day--Ohioans and Indianians are always sniping at each other because we live in such close proximity--that shit breeds contempt], and his nickname is Little Bastard. Ironically, SB's nickname (from the daddums and he ought to know) is Little Bitch.
John and I are both DEFIANT MIDWESTERN MOTHERFUCKERS, and don't you forget it! We fight authority and authority always wins. We don't brook any bullshit and feel almost totally the same way about the American political situation. We both despise George W. Bush. There isn't much I don't agree with that comes out of Mr. Mellencamp's mouth. He is a Midwestern fucking treasure, along with Kurt Vonnegut and Paul Newman.
Did you know Paul Newman was from Ohio? Did I mention that shit before?
I saw this shit on TV back when I was married, and Mr. SB deemed that shit too expensive [cheap motherfucker--I kid, I kid--we are divorcing as friends]. I even pleaded with him that purchasing the Instyler could REALLY BE REVOLUTIONARY and change my WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE! To no avail. NO AVAIL.
I've always wanted BIG NEWSCASTERY HAIR! Not having that shit could be what's standing in the way of my PERPETUAL HAPPINESS. Maybe if I had perfect hair, then I will be REALLY AND TRULY HAPPY.
I promise not to get all snotty when I have the BEST HAIR IN DAYTON, OHIO! All the men will be chasing my ass and shit, but I promise to stay the same HUMBLE SB you all know and love. BIG HAIR does not equal BIG HEAD.
My one wool sweater makes my arms and back itch. My ass doesn't even want to think about wearing that shit on my poonanny.
[This post is going to make the Moms mad, because I AM DISCUSSING MY PUSSY IN A PUBLIC FORUM AGAIN. You can't be thinking about offending your mother when you are doing your art though. What if Robert Mapplethorpe (SB's favourite photographer) had considered his mum's feelings? That motherfucker would have had to have stuck to boring fucking stamen-protruding flowers. We wouldn't have had GREAT ART like Portrait of the Artist with a Bullwhip Up His Ass.]
Friday, August 7, 2009
Half the people here at work today are off (the parking lot looked like a ghost town), and it's a beautiful motherfucking day, and I don't want to be here. But I do look stylish in my new Bob Marley ringer t-shirt and Jamaican soccer jacket. You dig, mon?
I have decided to become a Rastafarian like my hero, Bob, and his fine son, Ziggy, so I am dressing the part on casual Fridays. I may grow some dreads, mon. I ain't decided.
SB recently purchased a new self-cleaning litter box for the cats--it has a conveyer belt that removes the turds and clumps from the box after the cats go wee and poo--and it works pretty damn good. However, Bella (the new kitten) is into flipping her shit out of the box and rolling it around on the carpet like some sort of crazed David Beckham. When I squirt her ass with water, Bella just looks at me like: Is that all you've got, motherfucker? Bring it on! She is the most stubborn little fucker I have ever raised, and I've raised my share of moggys.
Also, Ginger the shit eater, considers the new auto-poo box a sort of revolving sushi buffet, and her ass came downstairs this morning with cat litter all stuck to her nose. I love her, but she is dumber than shit. No pun intended. The canine species as a whole have really notched down, in SB's opinion, in the old intelligence department since Ginger has come into my life. You just ain't very bright when you consider shit a delicacy. That's an empirical truth, motherfuckers. Also, every time I let that bitch out, she runs over to the neighbor's side of the house to try and eat the cat food they have set out for their outdoor cats.
In the middle of the goddamn night, SB, who is semi-coherent at best when awakened, must run over to the neighbor's side of the house, in the dark, in my damn boxer shorts and yell at Ginger to get her fucking ass back to her side of the yard. Yes, the neighbours love me. And so does Jesus. THIS I KNOW.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
If Pete can look this good at 50, then there is hope for all of our pathetic common asses (if we can inherit enough money or whore ourselves out enough to pay for about a thousand cosmetic surgeries). I kid, I kid. Pete is one of SB's favourite people on this Earth, and I seriously mean that.
I was compelled to read the multiple pages and found them truly disturbing, maybe because they were so frank. It is pretty evident that George could be anybody's co-worker or neighbor. And that is what is making me feel pretty sick right now.
One of George's problems was that he hadn't had sex for nearly 20 years! That would fuck anybody up.
Here is the link to Sodini's blog at True Crime Report, but I warn you, it is really uncomfortable and chilling reading. SB's discomfort is your discomfort, motherfuckers!
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
God I'm falling in love with you all over again.
Thanks ya SB broad ya
I like that revolutionary spirit shit. If I weren't going to be cremated, I'd have that inscribed on my tombstone. I will send you part of my ashes as a thank you. Of course, I expect you to wear the ashes in a capsule around your neck in perpetuity, until you die yourself.
But aren't we forgetting the true meaning of this day: a joyful celebration of the birth of Jesus? Isn't it strange how the whole world observes Christ's birthday while absolutely nobody observes his beliefs.
Jesus was a great and radical philosopher. Here was a truly autonomous mind; here was someone who was prepared to do his own thinking, no matter what the price. A Jewish thinker enrolling in the school of the Greek cynics, he drew on traditions of outspokenness, shamelessness and unconventionality. He spoke of anarchy, anti-materialism and identification with the poor.
His message, quite simply, was that family and personal property must go. Only then could we have peace on earth and goodwill to all men. So we celebrate Christ's birthday by gathering our families together and stockpiling mountains of possessions to wage war on one another over TV schedules and who will clear up.
Gentle Jesus, meek and mild? No one made more trouble than this baby. The ass-like cult of Christianity that stands around his manger is the antithesis of the man. Christ was an anti-Christ. He was a true radical.
So do celebrate Christmas, my dears: that season when we remind each other of the birth, 2007 years ago, of a Jewish revolutionary by giving tacky commodities to the children of people we dislike.
Christ came to save us from sin. You might as well make his birth meaningful by committing them. Happy Kiss My Ass.
Here is an interview he gave about his interesting family. I really enjoyed reading it. Highly recommended for entertainment value alone.
From The Sunday Times
September 9, 2007
Relative Values: Sebastian Horsley and his mother, Valerie
Interviews by Ria Higgins
Sebastian: When Mother found out she was pregnant with me, she took an overdose. It didn't work. Neither did nine months of heavy drinking. Had she known I was going to turn out the way I did, I'm sure she'd have gone the whole hog and found the cyanide. Of course, I didn't find that out until much later. We were led to believe it was my sister she'd tried to terminate. She thought I was too touchy to hear such truths. And she's right. I'm a tad sensitive — I feel overlooked if an epidemic misses me out.
Father was wealthy, so we grew up in an enormous house. My first memories of Mother couldn't be more vivid. If you were standing in the drive and saw this technicolour explosion out the corner of your eye, it was either a fruit cart or Mother. She'd pick us up from school in a hat that looked like an exotic bird had just landed on her head. And she'd think nothing of combining it with long, cerise velvet gloves and an ostrich-feather boa.
On sports day Father would turn up in the Jaguar and Mother in a skirt so tight it looked like she had more legs than a bucket of chicken. She wallowed in vanity; I wallowed in embarrassment. Then there were her more informal dress occasions. Taking us to school when we'd missed the bus was one. She would get out her open-top blue Triumph and drive us in wearing a silk negligee and a fur coat, hair so dishevelled you weren't sure it was her.
But really Mother oscillated between two extremes. She was an intoxicating cocktail of glamour and suffering. If she looked like an opera diva one day, you'd mistake her for a bag lady the next. She lived on a diet of booze and pills, and as a result spent huge amounts of her time in bed. She had as much chance of bringing structure and discipline into our lives as of growing orchids in the Moroccan desert. Motherhood wasn't her thing.
The situation with Father didn't help. I have no recollection of a time when she was happy with him. She was only 24 when they got married, and hardly knew him. When they turned up at the registry office, a local journalist asked her if she and her new husband were compatible and she replied: ”I have no idea. I've only known him a week.” As a child, all I remember are the fights and misdemeanours — burning his stuff, crashing the car, shoplifting from his shops. Then there were her visits to the ”bin” when the drinking got really bad.
Father was no better. He was also an alcoholic — and a womaniser. He died from alcohol a few years ago. He also suffered from a spastic condition that eventually left him in a wheelchair.
By that time, though, they'd divorced, and I hadn't spoken to him for years.
He didn't give a toss about me. And I hated him. But I hated Stepfather even more. He was a tosspot. I'd come home to find him in bed with Mother, and Father in bed with someone else. Clearly everyone in my life who should have been vertical was horizontal.
Anyhow, although we called him Stepfather, Mother never married him, and when he died I was pleased to learn Mother had got up one morning and rather than sprinkling his ashes in the Ganges, she'd sprinkled them on her porridge. Revenge? Amusement? I'm not sure. Knowing about her own family I can sympathise with her moments of madness. Her father, nicknamed Jack the Bolter, did a runner before she was born. And her mother suffered from depression and eventually committed suicide.
When I reached my twenties I went through a phase of not wanting to see my family. I wanted to create my own world, which, as it turned out, was equally mad. I realise now that my childhood was probably the happiest time of my life — which gives you an indication of the hell I've endured since. The funny thing is, life is really no different now than when I was seven — I'm back to sitting in a darkened room, making and breaking things.
Mother lives on her own now. She's a bit like a boat without a rudder: she's been blown around all her life — by family, by the breath of other men. She may not have been a good mother, but that's not a criticism, it's an accolade. She's been more like a muse, a co-conspirator. And underneath all her vanity, insanity and green silk dresses is a compassionate, poetic soul. Without her influence, both good and definitely bad, I'd never have become the artist and writer I am today.
Valerie: I was not a great mother to Sebastian. I'm not being hard on myself, or even revelling in guilt, it's just true. They say lovers don't make good parents, and my husband and I were besotted with each other. We'd only known each other 13 days when we got married. But not only were we both young, we were heavy drinkers.
I don't think Nicholas ever went to bed sober and I was always in a fog. Sebastian and my other two children were accidents and, though it seems shocking to admit, I drank all the way through my pregnancies. Fortunately, Nicholas's family were wealthy, so we lived in a huge house. It had endless rooms, endless places for children to hide — which meant I didn't have a clue what they were up to half the time.
Sebastian was mischievous. Once, he set fire to his sister's doll's pram. Then wheeled it next to our oil tank. His sister came screaming in to tell me. I rushed down to find him standing there waiting to see the action unfold. Another time, fire engines came roaring through our village to put out a haystack ablaze in a field. The whole place could've gone up. Only later did I find out Sebastian had started it.
I tried not to be drunk when the kids came home from school, but ultimately I just wasn't good at coping and the drink was a form of escapism. I ended up in the bin on more than one occasion and, in the end, my marriage broke down. Sadly, Sebastian's relationship with his father had never been good. He'd always made Sebastian feel inadequate and stupid, which he wasn't — he got a place to study English at Edinburgh University. But he never forgave him. His father died a few years ago of alcoholism and Sebastian refused to go to the funeral.
Sebastian opted out of university in the end because he met Jimmy Boyle. Jimmy was regarded as Scotland's most violent gangster. He was just out of prison and had found a new calling as an artist. Sebastian was fascinated by him and found out he was setting up an arts centre for ex-prisoners and addicts. He offered to help and Jimmy took him on. The two of them became very close. Jimmy was like a substitute father. He was even best man at Sebastian's wedding.
I didn't hear about Sebastian's marriage to Evlynn until afterwards. That's just the way he is. I was also in the dark about his addictions. Initially it was drink, which I understood because of my own problem. But then he switched to drugs. By this time he'd moved back to London and broken up with Evlynn.
She was great — it was tragic when she died of an aneurysm a few years later. But by then Sebastian was addicted to heroin. I only found out when he was so ill he had to go into care. I freaked out. Luckily he pulled through.
Sebastian can come across as extrovert — the way he dresses, talks, his smile, his wit. He has always been able to make me laugh. But then there's a part of him that runs very deep. He's sensitive, emotional, easily hurt. I think that's why he keeps a distance from his family. Being too close makes him feel vulnerable. And yet it's his sensibilities that make him so creative, whether it's through his painting or writing or any other means of expression he can find.
He can also be unforgiving, vengeful even. Once, when a woman offended him, he went to Tiffany's, got one of their beautiful boxes, put one of his turds in it and sent it to her. Let's just say he has his bad days, and it's times like that when he'll say: 'Why did you give birth to me? That's the worst thing you ever did.” I always have to say to him: ”Sebastian! You couldn't wait to be born. I barely got to the hospital when you came out like a shooting star.” And that's what he's been like ever since. The only difference is he couldn't possibly share his universe.
He'd insist on finding his very own.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
It is RAINY and UGLY and as DARK as Dick Cheney's corrupt asshole here in Buttfuck, Ohio, today, and I just have nothing funny to share, so basically I have NO HUMAN WORTH TO ANYONE. We'll try again tomorrow. In the immoral words of that annoying red-haired little bitch, Annie: The fucking sun will come out tomorrow. Bet your anal sphincter that it will.
[Okay, so I took some liberties. I made the fucking lyrics mine. So shoot me.]
p.s. I would go gay for this Annie. This is the GOOD Annie.
Monday, August 3, 2009
The young people like it. The older crowd (including the Moms) mostly don't. One fucking rude person (former friend) even came right out and said she didn't like it. Her fucking opinion was unfuckingsolicited. If I didn't like her hair, I wouldn't have said anything at all.
Well, I like it, so fuck it. I look like a trendy fucking member of Duran Duran or Kajagoogoo or some damn shit. I be stylin, peeps.
This particular hair colour cost my ass just over $200.00, and it took 3 motherfucking hours total. Well worth it. Well worth it. And don't ask me for a goddamn picture, because SB is photo-phobic, and your asses aren't getting one. And if you keep bugging me about that shit, it will make me hostile (okay, MORE hostile). Just pretend the photo above is SB.
I finally tried on the bridesmaid dress for my cousin's wedding (my ass had five fucking months to see if that shit fit and lose some weight, but I just tried it on yesterday--two weeks before the wedding--I procrastinate a little), and my fat ass couldn't even zip the side zip up, so I called and cried to a customer service person at J. Crew today, and those fine people are rushing me a dress two fucking sizes bigger. Thank Christ! The stress was giving me heart palpatations. My Aunt would have killed me if my ass didn't match the other chicks in the wedding. I did not want to have to call and tell her at this fucking point that I would be wearing jeans. Sheila (the bride) could have given a shit--she's laid back like her cousin here--but it would have created much familial strife and umbrage.
Also over the weekend, the Moms and I attempted to assemble a midgety wang fucking console table that I bought online from the Target. CAN YOU MOTHERFUCKERS SAY--NEVER AGAIN--ALONG WITH SB???
The fucking Chinese--there must have been 500 or so screws, widgets, screw covers, and other ill-fitting assorted hardware pieces. I kept cursing the damn Chinese craftsmen, as I screwed in the 20th mini-screw of about 60 fucking total into the back side of the table. Damn midget-dicked motherfucking wiley wang asshole cunt sonofabitching Chinese craftsmen!
I have a theory that war with China is inevitable, and the Chinese know that shit and are only nice to us now because we purchase so many damn goods from them. The Chinese designers take their revenge by making those goods as fucking frustrating as possible to assemble. I lost about 2.3 years of my life to that cocksucking console table.
It is hard to even enjoy the damn thing because I give it the side-eye and sigh every time I walk past the fucker. I hope I will overcome this feeling of UTTER DESPAIR in time.
The Moms and I only got to step 2 on the goddamn instruction manual before we threw up our manos in despair and called daddums to come and bail our retarded workshop asses out.
Then, hours later, after we finally got the fucker assembled, SB finds out the damn console would make a good desk for a dwarf. SB is 5 foot 10 inches, so now I've got a midgety console to sit my glass of wine and books on. I bought a damn stunning Bob Marley coffee table book specifically for the WANG table, and I have to turn the fucker sideways to fit it on the table top, and EVEN THEN, that shit hangs over some.
The Disdainful One, for some goddamn reason known only to cats, likes to lay under the table though. So there is that.