Monday, June 28, 2010
I do not want to see this bitch's hairline running over and under her damn belly button. Bitch, WAX THAT SHIT!
Also today, my ass is not very coherent, due to insomnia and the cats on crack parade that took place in my bedroom last night. I got three hours at best. SB was ready to kill a feline bitch with the squirt bottle last night! When I saw the inefficacy of squirting water as a deterrent, I resorted to throwing the damn water bottle at the motherfuckers. I even threw a chair down the damn stairs to try and keep the hairy fuckers on the lower level of the house. That shit was SCARY. Also, that shit didn't intimidate the moggies one iota. Stubborn fucks.
Hope all of youse are having a better day than all of me.
Your grouchy motherfucking blog host in gloomy Buttfuck,
Friday, June 25, 2010
I met Dev in London back in 2005. He’s British but moved to NYC three years ago, claiming he needed to “escape the evil,” whatever that means. I like Dev because he over-thinks things to the point of paralysis and just generally freaks out about everyday life events, which makes me feel sane in comparison. He has all these weird germ phobias. He rarely eats, mainly because no food is clean enough to put in his mouth. When he does eat it’s generally a family sized bag of Chili Heat Wave Doritos, which he consumes methodically, carefully tipping chip after chip directly from the bag onto his tongue, so as not to contaminate the food with his hands. It’s very amusing. He also wears the same clothes for months at a time, which is strange considering the whole germ thing.
[Read more Carly at Slutever: http://slutever.blogspot.com/ She's a damn mess, but she cracks me up.]
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Hope all of you have a fantastic week. Y'all motherfuckers are loved.
Friday, June 18, 2010
What about those on the inside? What about those who descend into the bunker of the family? It shouldn't take Christmas for us to recognise that Santa Claus definitely had the right idea. Only visit people once a year and make sure, while you are at it, that you don't actually meet them.
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.
I have invested 90 percent of my money on prostitutes, the rest on Class A drugs, the remains I squandered.
I can count all the lovers I've had on one hand – if I'm holding a calculator.
You may look back on your life and accept it as good or evil. But it is far, far harder to admit that you have been completely unimportant; that in the great sum of things all a man's endless grapplings are no more significant than the scuttlings of a cockroach. The universe is neither friendly nor hostile. It is merely indifferent. This makes me ecstatic.
Link to article: http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23846265-artist-dies-from-suspected-heroin-overdose-days-after-play-about-him-opens.do
If you want to know more about Sebastian's demise, Google that shit. I wish to say no more about it here. I'm not a tabloid, motherfuckers.
Rock on, Sebastian. Save me a seat in hell.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Wish I had known him. NOT.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Britain has Branson and we have Donald Trump. Can we swap with the Limeys?
Link to the most adorable photos (Richard and Dita Von Teese):
[Side Note: SB tried to dress like Rick James in high school. It did not go over well in a small cracker-assed farming community. Bitches were not ready for THE FUNK.]
I understand from a local news report that motherfuckers from all over the world stopped in to have their pitchure made with Touchdown Jesus. In light of this, SB has a question: What kind of cheap-assed motherfucking vacation was that shit?
I could just see Daddums telling Steve and I that we were going to stay at Quality fucking Inn and go have our pictures taken with Touchdown Jesus for the annual family vacation. He and the Moms would have to bribe us with a pool at the motel to make that shit go over, and we'd still be thinking: Those cheap motherfuckers and shooting them the evil side-eye.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
In those bleak moments when the lost souls stood atop the cliff, wondering whether to jump, the sound of the wind and the waves was broken by a soft voice. "Why don't you come and have a cup of tea?" the stranger would ask. And when they turned to him, his smile was often their salvation.
For almost 50 years, Don Ritchie has lived across the street from Australia's most notorious suicide spot, a rocky cliff at the entrance to Sydney Harbour called The Gap. And in that time, the man widely regarded as a guardian angel has shepherded countless people away from the edge.
What some consider grim, Ritchie considers a gift. How wonderful, the former life insurance salesman says, to save so many. How wonderful to sell them life.
"You can't just sit there and watch them," says Ritchie, now 84, perched on his beloved green leather chair, from which he keeps a watchful eye on the cliff outside. "You gotta try and save them. It's pretty simple."
Since the 1800s, Australians have flocked to The Gap to end their lives, with little more than a 3-foot (1 metre) fence separating them from the edge.
Local officials say around one person a week commits suicide there, and in January, the Woollahra Council applied for 2.1 million Australian dollars ($1.7 million) in federal funding to build a higher fence and overhaul security.
In the meantime, Ritchie keeps up his voluntary watch. The council recently named Ritchie and Moya, his wife of 58 years, 2010's Citizens of the Year.
He's saved 160 people, according to the official tally, but that's only an estimate. Ritchie doesn't keep count. He just knows he's watched far more walk away from the edge than go over it.
Dianne Gaddin likes to believe Ritchie was at her daughter's side before she jumped in 2005. Though he can't remember now, she is comforted by the idea that Tracy felt his warmth in her final moments.
"He's an angel," she says. "Most people would be too afraid to do anything and would probably sooner turn away and run away. But he had the courage and the charisma and the care and the magnetism to reach people who were coming to the end of their tether."
Something about Ritchie exudes a feeling of calm. His voice has a soothing raspiness to it, and his pale blue eyes are gentle. Though he stands tall at just over 6"2 (an inch shorter, he notes with a grin, than he used to be), he hardly seems imposing.
Each morning, he climbs out of bed, pads over to the bedroom window of his modest, two-story home, and scans the cliff. If he spots anyone standing alone too close to the precipice, he hurries to their side.
Some he speaks with are fighting medical problems, others suffering mental illness. Sometimes, the ones who jump leave behind reminders of themselves on the edge - notes, wallets, shoes. Ritchie once rushed over to help a man on crutches. By the time he arrived, the crutches were all that remained.
In his younger years, he would occasionally climb the fence to hold people back while Moya called the police. He would help rescue crews haul up the bodies of those who couldn't be saved. And he would invite the rescuers back to his house afterward for a comforting drink.
It all nearly cost him his life once. A chilling picture captured decades ago by a local news photographer shows Ritchie struggling with a woman, inches from the edge. The woman is seen trying to launch herself over the side - with Ritchie the only thing between her and the abyss. Had she been successful, he would have gone over, too.
These days, he keeps a safer distance. The council installed security cameras this year and the invention of mobile phones means someone often calls for help before he crosses the street.
But he remains available to lend an ear, though he never tries to counsel, advise or pry. He just gives them a warm smile, asks if they'd like to talk and invites them back to his house for tea. Sometimes, they join him.
"I'm offering them an alternative, really," Ritchie says. "I always act in a friendly manner. I smile."
A smile cannot, of course, save everyone; the motivations behind suicide are too varied. But simple kindness can be surprisingly effective. Mental health professionals tell the story of a note left behind by a man who jumped off San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge. If one person smiles at me on the way to the bridge, the man wrote, I will not jump.
By offering compassion, Ritchie helps those who are suicidal think beyond the terrible present moment, says psychiatrist Gordon Parker, executive director of the Black Dog Institute, a mood disorder research center that has supported the council's efforts to improve safety at The Gap.
"They often don't want to die, it's more that they want the pain to go away," Parker says. "So anyone that offers kindness or hope has the capacity to help a number of people."
Kevin Hines wishes someone like Ritchie was there the day he jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge in 2000. For 40 agonising minutes, the then-19-year-old paced the bridge, weeping, and hoping someone would ask him what was wrong. One tourist finally approached - but simply asked him to take her picture. [Only in America.] Moments later, he jumped.
Hines, who suffers from bipolar disorder, was severely injured, but eventually recovered. Today he says if one person had shown they were not blind to his pain, he probably would never have jumped.
"A smile can go a long way - caring can go even further. And the fact that he offers them tea and he just listens, he's really all they wanted," Hines says. "He's all a lot of suicidal people want."
In 2006, the government recognised Ritchie's efforts with a Medal of the Order of Australia, among the nation's highest civilian honours. It hangs on his living room wall above a painting of a sunshine someone left in his mailbox. On it is a message calling Ritchie "an angel that walks amongst us."
He smiles bashfully. "It makes you - oh, I don't know," he says, looking away. "I feel happy about it."
But he speaks readily and fondly of one woman he saved, who came back to thank him. He spotted her sitting alone one day, her purse already beyond the fence. He invited her to his house to meet Moya and have tea. The couple listened to her problems and shared breakfast with her. Eventually, her mood improved and she drove home.
A couple of months later, she returned with a bottle of champagne. And about once a year, she visits or writes, assuring them she is happy and well.
There have been a few, though, that he could not save. One teenager ignored his coaxings and suddenly jumped. A wind blew the boy's hat into Ritchie's outstretched hand.
He later found out the teen had lived next door, years earlier. His mother brought Ritchie flowers and thanked him for trying. If you couldn't have talked him out of it, she told him, no one could.
Despite all he has seen, he says he is not haunted by the ones who were lost. He cannot remember the first suicide he witnessed, and none have plagued his nightmares. He says he does his best with each person, and if he loses one, he accepts that there was nothing more he could have done.
Nor have he and Moya ever felt burdened by the location of their home.
"I think, 'Isn't it wonderful that we live here and we can help people?"' Moya says, her husband nodding in agreement.
Their life has been a good one, they say. They raised three beautiful daughters and now have three grandchildren to adore. They have travelled the world, and their home is decorated with statues and masks from their journeys. Ritchie proudly points out a dried, shellacked piranha - a souvenir from their vacation to the Amazon, where he insisted on swimming with the creatures (to Moya's dismay).
Until about a year ago, the former Navy seaman enjoyed a busy social life, regularly lunching with friends. But battles with cancer and his advancing years have taken their toll, and now he spends most days at home with Moya, buried in a good book. His current read: the Dalai Lama's The Art of Happiness.
Every now and then, he looks up from his books to scan the horizon for anyone who might need him. He'll keep doing so, he says, for as long as he's here.
And when he's not?
He chuckles softly.
"I imagine somebody else will come along and do what I've been doing."
He gazes through the glass door to the cliff outside. And his face is lit with a smile.
Thank you for posting it!
Link to Midget Dancing with Cat from my brother Hank's WAY COOL photo blog: http://dreamslikethat.blogspot.com/2010/06/smallest-man-in-world-dances-with-his.html
[You only wish you were related to someone as cool as Hank. Unless you are a Moon/Thigpen, in which case you actually are related to someone as cool as Hank.]
SB is delighted. Thank God, the Lord saw fit to spare the iconic Hollywood Hustler Adult Superstore billboard across the highway.
Link to story: http://www.daytondailynews.com/news/dayton-news/jesus-statue-destroyed-by-fire-762245.html
Friday, June 11, 2010
Anyhoo, I was telling The Viking the other day that I think I can attribute EVERYTHING that's wrong with me, from asthma to the occasional yeast infection to depression (which is sometimes nearly suicidal), to having to listen to so much of Tom's cheesy music as a kid. Also, there was significant and lasting trauma having to watch him gyrate and throw his sausage-y schlong around when he danced on his weekly variety hour on TV. As a kid, I was frankly horrified by the outline of Tom's ginormous junk in his tight white trousers. You could see EVERYTHING God gave him (even his balls!), as Grandma Peg noted dissaprovingly, while still looking, might I fucking add.
It's a wonder SB didn't grow up terrified of the peen and become a lesbian who cleaves to the vagina and shit. [And may I say here that there is NOT ONE DAMN THING wrong with being a lesbian (I may become one yet--I consider myself a non-practicing lesbian), but it just wasn't my natural tendency as a youngster.]
Tom is still wearing clothes that are too damn young for him, and the fucker needs to have some damn dignity (like Rod Stewart needs to do also) and holster the schlong. SB has been traumatized for long enough AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THAT SHIT ANYMORE!
[Note to my UK readers: For some reason, Tom reminds me of Fred West. Am I alone in this? I am not inviting American commentary on this, so don't be Googling photos of Fred West and giving your two cents. This in ONLY for the UK folks. You can't understand the TRUE HORROR that is Fred West unless you are from the UK.]
Talking of Republicans, do any of you listen to Rush Limbo or whatever the jerk is called?
I thought it was a top-rated radio show, so I brought it up online and man! So boring boring BORING.
People phoning in to say: I'm from Texas and I'm a Conservative...
To which Rush Limbodancer replies: Thank you very much.
And that's it. And so the show goes on.
No topic. Just an endless rant from him and a few dull-as-dishwater callers.
I emailed in but I doubt he even knows where London is ...
His hogwash half-day (that's how long the show felt it lasted. A good 12 hours, if not longer) would never in a million years get on any radio station here. He wants to try listening to Vanessa Feltz. Get some idea of what a PROPER phone-in show is like...
Also, she interviews like a monosyllabic re-TARD. SB is NOT a fan.
Link to story: http://www.truecrimereport.com/2010/06/velma_brown_charged_with_killi.php#more
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The doctor who delivered SB's ass was named Dr. Young, and he was a chain smoker. Fucker would examine patients (even kids!) with a cig, complete with dangling ash, hanging from his lips. Whatever. I turned out fine!
You'd pass old Doc Young's house, and the motherfucker would be out, mowing his lawn near dusk, with a cigarette in his mouth. Doc was also fond of riding his bike the 15 miles in to the hospital to deliver babies, my ass included. I turned out fine!
Fucker prescribed some sort of nerve pill to the Moms (it wasn't my fault--it was my brother Steve's) once and asked her how they were working for her. Doc told the Moms that they made him kind of jittery when he took them. Doc sampled shit before he prescribed it. Fucker wasn't going to prescribe shit he hadn't tested for safety himself. Now, that's a doctor who sacrifices for his patients! [The Moms turned out fine!]
One day, Daddums walked into Doc's office, and Doc was down on his hands and knees, peering into a floor vent. Daddums got down and joined Doc, asking "What are we looking for?"
"I dropped my damn cigarette down the vent," Doc replied. The office didn't burn down. Everything turned out fine!
God bless you, Doc Young, wherever you are.
[This one is for Ms. Moon, my fucking idol.
And I still miss Jeff.]
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Here is a link to some info about this weird evilness.
[And don't laugh because my source is UFO Digest. Fuck you and your highbrow ass if you're too lofty for that shit. I am the daughter of a man who reads books with titles like: Why Jesus Was Actually a Space Alien, while he's on the crapper. Jesus COULD HAVE BEEN a damn space alien. Stranger things have happened.]
Anyhoo, if the black-eyed kids come to my door, their creepy little asses will be given an unceremonious boot.
[Note to black-eyed kids who may be reading: DO NOT COME TO MY HOUSE. YOU CANNOT USE THE TELEPHONE. YOU ARE NOT WELCOME. FUCK OFF.]
In honor of Grandma, or Weedge, as we called her for some goddamn reason, here is a photo of a rare albina monkey. I'm going to be featuring albinas on Sarcastic Bastard until my ass gets bored with that shit. Albinas tickle me.
[Note: And if you're an albina and take umbrage, I understand. But fuck you. We're not censoring our shit around here to accommodate your feelings. The republicans and Christians must suffer, and you're not special either. Actually, SB has a cousin who's an albina mortician. Seriously. That means I have albina family, so I can say what I want.]
And third of all watch out, if anything like this happens again just tell them calmy "no" and if they dont go simply command them to go in the name of god, i am an athiest but this does work.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
I hate vegetables. So shoot me. Anyway, I was up half the damn night, sick to my stomach. I feel so bad still, that I didn't even want a cup of Joe this morning. Now, that's sick for old SB.
Anyhoo, if I find anything of interest to share, my ass will post later on. If not, then fuck it.
SB's fat ass is hitting Krogers for salad fixins at lunch. I will simply clothes-pin my nose and gag that shit down!
Love to all my motherfuckers.
Friday, June 4, 2010
I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a professional spinner of lies.
Of course, novelists are not the only ones who tell lies. Politicians do it, too, as we all know. Diplomats and military men tell their own kinds of lies on occasion, as do used car salesmen, butchers and builders. The lies of novelists differ from others, however, in that no one criticizes the novelist as immoral for telling them. Indeed, the bigger and better his lies and the more ingeniously he creates them, the more he is likely to be praised by the public and the critics. Why should that be?
My answer would be this: Namely, that by telling skillful lies - which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true - the novelist can bring a truth out to a new location and shine a new light on it. In most cases, it is virtually impossible to grasp a truth in its original form and depict it accurately. This is why we try to grab its tail by luring the truth from its hiding place, transferring it to a fictional location, and replacing it with a fictional form. In order to accomplish this, however, we first have to clarify where the truth lies within us. This is an important qualification for making up good lies.
Today, however, I have no intention of lying. I will try to be as honest as I can. There are a few days in the year when I do not engage in telling lies, and today happens to be one of them.
So let me tell you the truth. A fair number of people advised me not to come here to accept the Jerusalem Prize. Some even warned me they would instigate a boycott of my books if I came.
The reason for this, of course, was the fierce battle that was raging in Gaza. The UN reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded Gaza City, many of them unarmed citizens - children and old people.
Any number of times after receiving notice of the award, I asked myself whether traveling to Israel at a time like this and accepting a literary prize was the proper thing to do, whether this would create the impression that I supported one side in the conflict, that I endorsed the policies of a nation that chose to unleash its overwhelming military power. This is an impression, of course, that I would not wish to give. I do not approve of any war, and I do not support any nation. Neither, of course, do I wish to see my books subjected to a boycott.
Finally, however, after careful consideration, I made up my mind to come here. One reason for my decision was that all too many people advised me not to do it. Perhaps, like many other novelists, I tend to do the exact opposite of what I am told. If people are telling me - and especially if they are warning me - "don't go there," "don't do that," I tend to want to "go there" and "do that." It's in my nature, you might say, as a novelist. Novelists are a special breed. They cannot genuinely trust anything they have not seen with their own eyes or touched with their own hands.
And that is why I am here. I chose to come here rather than stay away. I chose to see for myself rather than not to see. I chose to speak to you rather than to say nothing.
This is not to say that I am here to deliver a political message. To make judgments about right and wrong is one of the novelist's most important duties, of course.
It is left to each writer, however, to decide upon the form in which he or she will convey those judgments to others. I myself prefer to transform them into stories - stories that tend toward the surreal. Which is why I do not intend to stand before you today delivering a direct political message.
Please do, however, allow me to deliver one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: Rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this:
"Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg."
Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will decide. If there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?
What is the meaning of this metaphor? In some cases, it is all too simple and clear. Bombers and tanks and rockets and white phosphorus shells are that high, solid wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them. This is one meaning of the metaphor.
This is not all, though. It carries a deeper meaning. Think of it this way. Each of us is, more or less, an egg. Each of us is a unique, irreplaceable soul enclosed in a fragile shell. This is true of me, and it is true of each of you. And each of us, to a greater or lesser degree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: It is The System. The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes it takes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause us to kill others - coldly, efficiently, systematically.
I have only one reason to write novels, and that is to bring the dignity of the individual soul to the surface and shine a light upon it. The purpose of a story is to sound an alarm, to keep a light trained on The System in order to prevent it from tangling our souls in its web and demeaning them. I fully believe it is the novelist's job to keep trying to clarify the uniqueness of each individual soul by writing stories - stories of life and death, stories of love, stories that make people cry and quake with fear and shake with laughter. This is why we go on, day after day, concocting fictions with utter seriousness.
My father died last year at the age of 90. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school, he was drafted into the army and sent to fight in China. As a child born after the war, I used to see him every morning before breakfast offering up long, deeply-felt prayers at the Buddhist altar in our house. One time I asked him why he did this, and he told me he was praying for the people who had died in the war.
He was praying for all the people who died, he said, both ally and enemy alike. Staring at his back as he knelt at the altar, I seemed to feel the shadow of death hovering around him.
My father died, and with him he took his memories, memories that I can never know. But the presence of death that lurked about him remains in my own memory. It is one of the few things I carry on from him, and one of the most important.
I have only one thing I hope to convey to you today. We are all human beings, individuals transcending nationality and race and religion, fragile eggs faced with a solid wall called The System. To all appearances, we have no hope of winning. The wall is too high, too strong - and too cold. If we have any hope of victory at all, it will have to come from our believing in the utter uniqueness and irreplaceability of our own and others' souls and from the warmth we gain by joining souls together.
Take a moment to think about this. Each of us possesses a tangible, living soul. The System has no such thing. We must not allow The System to exploit us. We must not allow The System to take on a life of its own. The System did not make us: We made The System.
That is all I have to say to you.
I am grateful to have been awarded the Jerusalem Prize. I am grateful that my books are being read by people in many parts of the world. And I am glad to have had the opportunity to speak to you here today.
[I don't know Haruki, but I sure do like him.]
"It's not my victory, it's yours and yours and yours. If a gay can win, it means there is hope that the system can work for all minorities if we fight. We've given them hope."
- Harvey Milk, after winning a seat on the Board of Supervisors in 1977
Thursday, June 3, 2010
My personal message to Bill O'Reilly? Suck it, motherfucker.
Link to info about Vanity Fair's article on Penn.
Faker banned from funerals
By STAFF REPORTER
A FAKE mourner was caught repeatedly gatecrashing funerals and loading up on FOOD — storing it in Tupperware containers in a backpack.
The man — who has been dubbed the 'GRIM EATER' by funeral bosses — was collared as he attended his 15th wake this year.
Funeral director Danny Langstraat said the man — who is in his 40s — was now on the radar of all undertakers in the Wellington area of New Zealand.
He said this week: "He was showing up to funeral after funeral, and he didn't know the deceased.
"We saw him three or four times in a week.
"He had a backpack with some Tupperware containers, so when people weren't looking, he was stocking up on food."
[Amen to that shit, my brother.]