Thursday, September 30, 2010

Shit SB Says in a Blog Comment to Her Dear Friend Christina

And also, I DESPISE THE SEASON OF PERPETUAL DARKNESS AND FAMILIAL DESPAIR, as I refer to X-mas. I wish I could sleep straight through the damn holidays.

Check out Christina's blog of fashion wonderment at the following link:

Christina is a lot sweeter than some of you motherfuckers, so be NICE!

SB's New Diet Plan

The photo-happy Vietnamese guy here at work took photos of all the employees for our yearly off-site meeting with clients. It's for a damn brochure so the clients can find us at the meeting and tell us how much they hate our products. Just kidding. OUR CLIENTS LOVE US!

Anyhoo, the camera-happy motherfucker tried to get all fancy and shit and posed us at a damn angle. Frankly, it just made those of us who are on the chub look EVEN fatter. This includes my burgeoning ass.

So today, I blew up the photo and printed that fucker out, so I could hang it on the door of my fridge. On top of the photo, I took a damn Sharpie and wrote: DON'T EAT THAT FAT ASS!

If this shit doesn't work, nothing will.

I also printed one out for the Moms, so she can show all her geriatric friends at the retirement community (trailer park) in Arizona what a fat ass her kid is.

And no, I'm not posting one on the blog. So fuck you. Don't ask.

A Friend's Post

Please check it out. Mark is someone I look up to. I think the reasons are obvious.

Link to Mark's article for Huffingtonpost:

I'd Like 5 Minutes with the Bullies and a Damn Baseball Bat

Link to story:

God bless Seth Walsh and his family, and I hope they sue the shit out of the school district and the kids involved.

What a world we live in.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Quote of the Damn Day: Mary Hanson

"I would like to be sent forthwith to the prison, and I would like to request death by lethal injection," Mary Nance Hanson told 3rd District Judge William Barrett.

When the judge advised Hanson that hers was not a death penalty case, she responded: "Well, then I guess I didn't do a good enough job."

Mary shot her former daughter-in-law to death in a preschool parking lot.

Story here:

People Are GROSS

[Thanks Jenn!]

Another Comment on a Friend's Blog by a Motherfucker with Poor English

These all pictures which you can share over here is really very great. These is one of the wonderful stuff in all these there are so many things which is great.

Somehow, I'm betting this motherfucker is one of the people I speak to over in India when I call my credit card company. Fuck that shit!

Actually, I guess it could be somebody educated in the American public school system.

Back Monday. You'll just have to be patient until then, motherfuckers. I know it's hard, but it builds character.

SB's Lazy Uninspired Fat Ass Is Taking the Week Off, Motherfuckers

Everything is fine. I'm just not into it. Since this gig doesn't pay, I figure, fuck it.

I'll be back next week with an update on the born-again biker NEIGHBORS FROM HELL. Dude is back from rehab. SB is thrilled!

Dipshit asshole motherfucker awakened my grumpy ass at 6:30 this morning by starting up his LOUD clangy piece-of-shit vehicle and banging shut the goddamn door to the party-plate car. Where the fucker was going at the hour is beyond me. Fucker and his wife are both unemployed deadbeats currently. My tax dollar is supporting these two hot messes and their cretinous offspring.

Clearly, I am in a shiny happy place this morning. The sun shines out of my ass.

Until next week, kiddies. . . .

Love to all my motherfuckers,


Friday, September 24, 2010

I Crack Myself Up

I'm sitting here in my poorly-decorated miniscule cube, laughing my ass off. I'm so weird, none of my co-workers even wonder about it. Or maybe, they just don't care.


You are probably gone by now, but you might be back!!! Here's hoping!

I love you, Jeannie!!


SB loves you, too!!!! I appreciate your reading, and have a wonderful weekend!


SB loves you!

SB Has a GREAT Idea!

I'm thinking about watching my blog Live Feed for random time periods and then trying to guess who each guest might be (by their geographic location) and then personally greeting each visiting motherfucker LIVE on my blog. Wouldn't that be some thrilling-ass shit for you motherfuckers?

Remember, SB THOUGHT OF IT HERE FIRST! Don't any of you thieving punk-ass bitches (possibly from North Florida) be ripping that shit off.

I swear, my brain should be patented. I'm contacting my cousin the lawyer to try to figure out how to do that right now.

The Poem SB Chose to Read in My College Poetry Class

Not Waving but Drowning

by Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

God knows I was much too far out all my life. A bitch can relate.

Note: If my ass can save a drowning bitch's life by sharing the photo above on my blog, I will be happy to do so, as long as the drowning bitch is not a republican or someone who has a cell phone with a loud personalized ring tone.

Shit SB Says

I am sigher. Always have been. My dad used to say, "You sure do sigh a lot." Life just doesn't meet my expectations, and I have a low threshold for assholedom.

Making Fun of a Friend's Foreign Commenter

These all pictures which you can share is really very great. I like all these models she is looking really very fantastic. I like these post.

This shit is mean, but it makes SB laugh. I always get some eloquent motherfucker like this when I call my credit card company. I have started to get really short and pissy, if you can believe that, with foreign people on the phone.

The other day, I told some poor Indian motherfucker: Look bub, I'm on lunch here. I need to make this short. Got me? The motherfucker kept calling me by my married name, even though the credit card I was holding in my hand had been changed over to my maiden name. On the third time it happened, after I explained that shit twice to him, I lost my shit.

There Are Some Chicken-Thieving Motherfuckers in North Florida

For those of you who have not already heard, Ms. Moon had SIX! of her beloved hens stolen the other night. SB would like to fuck the bitch who upset Ms. Moon up! Give my ass a damn baseball bat! It would be equivalent to a bitch messing with SB's cats.

I am simply disgusted with slimy humanity right now. And I'll feel really dumb if we find out a fox took the chickens or some shit.

Nah, I'll still be disgusted with humanity. I take that back.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Now, Here Is a Writer

Some Advice from SB--Heed that Shit, Motherfuckers!

When a bitch sends an e-mail with fifty other names on that shit, DO NOT hit Reply to All when you respond. I do not give a shit that your daughter held koalas in Australia. I don't know your cretinous offspring or you, therefore, I do NOT give a fuck. Got it?

[SB also does NOT have time to teach your dumb asses e-mail etiquette. I have a full-time job, 7 cats, 1 dog, 1 Viking, and a home to take care of. THINK FOR YOUR DAMNSELVES, PEOPLE! Use some common sense, as the Moms would say.]

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

I Just Like the Damn Poem, Okay? Fuck You.

If I want to feature poetry on this blog, I damn well will! Any of my readers who don't like it, can fuck off. Go watch Jersey Shore instead! Go be an ignorant bitch. See if I give a shit.

Dirge Without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.
Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look,
the laughter, the love,
-- They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses.
Elegant and curled Is the blossom.
Fragrant is the blossom.
I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave,
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

[Edna and I do not fucking approve, and our asses are not resigned.]

Shit SB Says in Comments to Her Very Stylish Friend, Sweden

The Moms and Daddums went through a phase where I could barely converse with them because nearly every sentence they said began with, "Well, Oprah said. . . ." I thought I was going to have to put them up for adoption or some shit.

Sweden's blog of cool can be found here:

Because I Love Ms. Moon

I am sharing this link (below) to Mr. Rabbath's fine film work for you motherfuckers to take a look at. As a REALLY BIG bonus, Ms. Moon, my idol, also appears in the film. SB is Ms. Moon's BIGGEST AMERICAN FAN. Actually, that may be her kids, but I am right behind them.;

Please feel free to share the link yourdamnselves.

The Born Again Biker Neighbors from HELL Update

I know you all have been waiting breathlessly for this shit. So here goes. . . .

About 7 or 8 weeks ago, Mr. Born Again went fucking insane after a family cookout in the back yard of our house. I personally think dude had a few Natural Lights too many.

The Viking and I were in the upstairs bedroom when we heard the fucker shouting and pounding on his wife's minivan at street level. She tore off in the van, and Mr. Born Again eloquently shouted: "FUCKING BITCH!"

Anyhoo, a few days later (after SB noticed that Mr. Born Again's heap of shit party-plate licensed car had been absent from the street in front of the house), one of the neighbors said Mr. BA had turned up the night of the FUCKING BITCH incident, drunkenly hammering on their door to use the phone. Mr. BA said: "That bitch took my phone. Can I use yours?"

Then, Mr. BA proceeded to cry around about his awful childhood (fucker is in his 30s--get over that shit already) and said that the wife was really mad because he had carved the word MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE in his forearm in front of the kids. Now, why would she be mad about that? I just don't get it. And also, Mr. BA proceeded to tell our mutual neighbor that he also thinks he's a vampire. He just hasn't been fully turned yet. Uhhhhhmmmm, okay.

I asked the neighbor: "Who would want to give that dumb motherfucker's sorry ass eternal life? Then they would have to listen to the fucker whine through all eternity about his lousy childhood and shit. I wouldn't turn his dumb ass either."

Last night, SB's landlord phoned and gave my ass a heads up that Mr. BA would be returning (post-rehab) to the abode. I explained that I had my reservations.

This morning, Mrs. BA (a.k.a. FUCKING BITCH) was shouting at one of her kids through our shared bathroom wall. It went something like this: "I HATE IT WHEN YOU THINK I'M STUPID! IF YOU SQUIRT IT IN ONE EYE IT WILL RUN INTO THE OTHER ONE!"

Uhhhhmmmm, okay. Clearly, she is joyfully anticipating a reunion with her spouse.

Friday, September 17, 2010

China, You Suck and I'm Not Buying Your Shit Anymore

Link to article about catricide:

This Is How George Michael Could Look in Jail

SB admits to having a habit of reading the British tabloids daily. For those of you who haven't heard, George Michael was given a one-month jail sentence for his drug and driving adventures. He started his sentence yesterday.

This shit below from the Daily Mail, cracked me up. When I stayed in Britain for a summer, the Moms and I loved watching the news programmes, because the motherfucking newsies reenacted EVERYTHING. We found it really funny.

So this is how George Michael COULD look in jail. Laugh. Actually George Michael's hot ass probably looks a damn site better than this sorry-assed schlep of a motherfucker. It COULD have been more convincing, if they'd had the reenact-er wear the boots and leather jacket George wore in the Faith video or some shit. You just know George has somehow managed to dress up his standard jail uniform. Fucker is a STAR! He ain't wearing the same standardized shit the other cons wear.

Private Message to George: GEORGE, WE LOVE YOU! SB is YOUR BIGGEST AMERICAN fan, and I wish you strength during your current ordeal. Stay strong, brother!

A Conversation

If I take my pants down, will you look at my butt?


I think I'm growing a tail or something. I'm having pain in the tail bone area. And you used to diaper me and all. I figured you were a good one to ask. Even though it's a 40 year old butt, you've seent that shit before. I mean, you can't just ask anyone to look at your butt. And, it's not like I can check that shit out myself. I mean, I would if I could, but a bitch would have to be a damn yogi.

Quote of the Damn Day: Tom Petty

I'm a loser at the top of my game.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Shit SB Says

It's a momentous day. Someone just changed the grease at Frisch's and my onion rings are golden. . . . sublime. When you're old, shit like that really makes your day.

I Just Like the Damn Picture, Okay?

This one's for Ms. Moon.

He's Not Into that Shit, Motherfuckers

What do you suppose the Rappin' Reverend's not into? Drugs, porn, butt fucking, the republican party?

Apologies in Advance for This

SB is just in a very strange mood this morning. I felt the need to share.

Looks like God fucked up to me. He forgot the hands. Wouldn't it have been MORE of a miracle to have remembered the hands?

This One Is Tragic

What are the odds?

Link to story:

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Quote of the Damn Day: Hugh Grant

There is this place in Switzerland called Dignitas. I’m going to go to Dignitas on my 50th birthday – 50 is enough!

--Hugh Grant, who is turning 50, joking about checking into a euthanasia clinic

I Just Like the Damn Photo, Okay?

I admire the artist of this particular work. There is just so much going on here. This shit is visually stunning, people!

I particularly like the forced smile on the Asian guy's face.

Shit SB Comments to Her Idol Ms. Moon on Bless Our Hearts

I wouldn't know a June bug from my ass. You can call that bug whatever you like. It's your damn blog.

[I'm not linking to Ms. Moon's fine blog, Bless Our Hearts, because I am a lazy motherfucker. Besides, if you haven't found your way over there by now, you must be dumber than hell. I'm not fooling with you people anymore. Get your asses over there NOW!]

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Such Realism

I just can't wait until 5:00 so I can go home and stretch out on the couch in the. . . . backyard? Say what, motherfucker?

For Those of You Interested in True Crime

Link to an interesting story about the untimely deaths of two beautiful young women connected to Richard Lippner:

This Is Going to Make the Moms MAD

Whenever I call the Moms and Daddums, they both pick up the phone on different receivers. The old man's usually out in his workshop in the garage, and the Moms is in the house. Everytime the Dads picks up and the Moms can't get to the phone, he informs the caller that she must be "on the pot." This gets the Moms VERY MAD. She tells him that the WHOLE ENTIRE world does not need to know that she is in the bathroom.

[Sorry Moms, but that shit is fucking funny.]

Quote of the Damn Day: Mr. Smarty Pants on David Foster Wallace

The closest thing I can think of that even comes close to explaining my quasi-unexplainable sadness at DFW’s death is my realization after seeing The Dark Knight, that Heath Ledger had just pulled off something rather extraordinary, and that I wished he wasn’t dead so I could see what else he could do. I wish you weren’t dead David. I wish you were still here, with us, writing, thinking, and living.

This statement just hits the nail on the head for me. Actually the whole piece was brilliant. Here is a link for anyone who is interested in reading it.

Shit SB Says

What can you get for a quarter nowadays? A jumbo gumball or a damn peep show, evidently.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Shit SB Says in Response to a Dostoyevsky Quote She Was Sent

"Perhaps it was owing to the terrible misery that was growing in my soul through something which was of more consequence than anything else about me: that something was the conviction that had come upon me that nothing in the world mattered. I had long had an inkling of it, but the full realisation came last year almost suddenly. I suddenly felt that it was all the same to me whether the world existed or whether there had never been anything at all: I began to feel with all my being that there was nothing existing. At first I fancied that many things had existed in the past, but afterwards I guessed that there never had been anything in the past either, but that it had only seemed so for some reason. Little by little I guessed that there would be nothing in the future either".

That's some nihilistic shit there, man.

More Shit SB Says

I'm so goddamn tired of hearing overly-loud personalized ringtones invading my aural space just because some asshole thinks his choice is really clever. I'm about to shove a motherfucker's phone up his ass.

Quote of the Damn Day from My Idol Ms. Moon

If I love you and I want to hug you, either submit or run like hell.

[SB's ass will gladly submit.]

Shit SB Says

The book burning minister is an ignorant asshole and a damn poor example of a Christian.

[And he can kiss my ass.]

God Is Fucking Serious About this Shit

My great friend, Nan, posted something hilarious for me on her blog.

Check this shit out.

Thanks, Nan. SB loves you!

Remembering David Foster Wallace

Yesterday was the anniversary of Dave's death. In remembrance of him, I'd like to link to his Kenyon College commencement address. It is a piece that meant a lot to me. It has stayed with me and even helps me to be less of a bitch while in line at the grocery store.

Rest in peace, Dave. You are loved.

Link to address:

Fun in the Oregon District

Yesterday the Viking and I went to gorgeous (NOT) downtown Dayton to watch the Steelers game (the Viking is a crazed fucking fan--fucker was running his skinny ass around the bar, giving the other Steelers fans high-fives and yelling and shit).

After the game, I suggested we drive over a few streets to our old drunken stomping ground, The Oregon District. Don't ask why it's fucking called THAT, because I don't know. Maybe some dumb Daytonian thought The Oregon District sounded glamorous or metropolitan or some damn shit. Don't try to figure Ohioans (and especially Daytonians) out. Fuckers are provinicial and dumb (George W. Bush won this state twice). And don't you damn dumb Buckeyes be sending me hateful comments, because they will NOT be published.

Anyhoo, the bar we aimed for, The Trolley Stop (again, don't ask), was closed. Fuck that shit! I wanted to sit in the damn courtyard behind the bar and have a damn beer, so we kept on walking, and the next bar was a biker bar. It is sort of a rougher place, but with a balcony overlooking the brick street that runs down the middle of the District. The clientele was rough but friendly (I told The Viking if we didn't work out, I figured I could pick up beaucoup dateage at said establishment), and the fucking music was great. We sat there and listened to everything from country to Mike Jackson to Coltrane. Good shit, man.

Across the street, next to the 25 cent peep show (I shit you not--what kind of shit would a motherfucker be peeping at for only a damn quarter??? The Viking and I agreed we would NOT want to see pussy that was only worth a damn quarter), sat this homeless looking dude, who the Viking and I started calling "The Dude," and Dude was pretty damn drunk, just sitting at a cafe table all alone in the sun, with his burned-out clothes and his pitcher of draft. Dude was jamming out to the outdoor music coming from the bar we were at. If Dude liked a song, motherfucker would go fucking crazy, and the Viking would fist pump and egg his ass on. SB is easily entertained and that shit was FUN! The Dude seemed to appreciate Mike Jackson and Coltrane, but the fucker would not budge for the cracker-ass country shit emanating from the speakers. I had to laugh.

At one point, a pretty good-looking lady of the evening (herewith described as ho for the sake of brevity), walked past The Dude, and motherfucker nearly broke his neck trying to check a ho out. Cracked me up. The ho was oblivious to The Dude. Bitch was looking fine and probably used to that sort of attention anyway, especially in a neighborhood with a quarter peep show.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Shit SB Says to Her Good Friend, West Hollywood Voyeur

COOLEST LAMP EVER IN THE HISTORY OF MAN EVER (except for maybe my Grandmother Peg's lamp, which had a naked ship's siren on the base, with exposed boobs, and a lampshade fit for a whore house, complete with gold fringes). You'd have liked Grandma. She also had a habit of wallpapering bathrooms in red and white candy stripe and even papering the back of the goddamn door, which made things a might confusing when one was inebriated. Bitch had style!

[Grandma said, "See Grandma is just like Andy Warhol," when she showed me the papered-over door. SB comes from cool people.]

Link to the very fab West Hollywood Voyeur. Check it out, motherfuckers!

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Jane Fishman on Misplaced Anger

Link to Jane's semi-weekly column at the world's finest newspaper (and yes, I am biased), The Savannah Morning News.
[Column printed below for you motherfuckers who are too damn lazy to click on that shit.]

Jane Fishman: In a crazy world, recognize misplaced anger

These are the best of times and the worst of times and in between, the most absurd of times. The other day I was toddling along in my car, the windows open, my elbow resting on the edge of the window, cutting through a neighborhood on my way to Victory Drive and points east.

Conscious of trying to drive the speed limit, I saw in my rearview mirror a car on my tail. I mean on my tail. I took a deep breath, and, while I don't think I slowed down just to prove a point, I did maintain what I thought was a respectable, decent speed as I passed kids on bikes, people behind mowers, dogs trying to cross the street.

When I got to Victory Drive, I turned on my right-turn signal, looked over and saw my tailgate buddy. He had pulled next to me. He also wanted to make a right-hand turn. I made the universal gesture with my face and hands (not the one with the middle finger) as if to say, "WTF. What's going on here? You can't wait a second? I make the turn first, then you. This is how we do it. "

Like me, he was driving with his windows open. He leaned across the passenger seat and said, "I bet you're a Democrat. You're a Democrat, aren't you? C'mon, tell me."

I understand that these are stratified times, tough times.

I understand that there's a 24/7 media designed to foment and inflame people's feelings. I understand people are angry that we have spent $53 billion in Iraq while our own school-age students are sitting in mobile units, that 4,400 American troops have been killed in that country, that we are about to see the same thing happen in Afghanistan, that with all the bailout money we have given banks we still can't get loans without giving processors everything but our blood type or our first-born.

I understand all that. But for this man to vent his anger by calling me a Democrat is strange, very strange, indeed. This was the worst he could think of?

Was it my 1996 beige Ford Taurus station wagon with one hubcap missing? My yellow CARA rowing shirt? My unplucked eyebrows? My unkempt, uncombed hair? I know it wasn't my incendiary bumper stickers (other than one from a radio station from Lafayette, La.). I don't have any.

I looked at him, paused and laughed. What else could I do? Several minutes later, when we arrived at a light at the same time, I looked at him again with a slight smile. This time he did not look at me.

The first person I told that story to threw up his hands and said it reminded him of a John Prine song, "Spanish Pipedreams," written in 1971.

This is the chorus: "Blow up your TV. Throw away your paper/Go to the country, build you a home/Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches/Try and find Jesus on your own."

The second person I ran into - a friend who lives in Savannah but is going to school overseas - preferred to focus on the idiocy of my tailgater's position.

Then she could hardly wait to tell me her own story of idiocy. She had just had her hair cut. During the session she told the beautician she was about to go back to Germany. Oh, the other woman said, how long does it take to get there? About eight hours from New York, my friend said.

Gee, the beautician said again. I wonder how long it would take to drive.

Well, my friend answered, until they build a bridge across the Atlantic Ocean, I don't think you'll be driving.

All worked up

It's a crazy world out there. We, the little people, are products of an underwhelming education system and pawns of a corrupt and disingenuous political system.

While they - the politicians and members of the corporate community, one and the same - go merrily on their capitalist way, they leave us all worked up and hating one another.

If I were more paranoid I'd say it was a plot.

Is it time to "blow up your TV" and move "to the country," John Prine style? Maybe. Or maybe we can fool them. Maybe we can decide to band together, the tailgaters, the beauticians, the Republicans, the Democrats, and find a little love of our own.

Last month, when I was on the road to Canada, getting gas somewhere in North Carolina, I locked the keys in the car. "Brother," I said, to no one in particular, as I paced and wondered what to do. It just so happened I directed my dilemma to a man also getting gas. He was a big man. He was driving a pickup that said "Big Al's Guitar Lessons." He must have been Al.

"I think I can help you," he said quietly.

After he finished filling up, he climbed into the bed of his truck, fished around in one of those locked compartments and pulled out what he called a "Slim Jim." Minutes later, presto, this big man wielding a "Slim Jim" set me free and set us on our way. He wouldn't take any money. How un-American. But how generous. How kind.

Suiciding Shrimp & One HELL of a Responsible Farmer

Hat tip to the beautiful, impossibly wonderful Maggie May at Flux Capacitor. Maggie is a real treasure of a writer.

Link to story about intelligent farming:

Tony Thomspon might have big bushy eyebrows, but he's pretty damn good-looking to me.

[SB loves you, Maggie! Thanks.]

SB Is Back

But posts may be light today. A bitch has some catching up to do here at the old grind, a.k.a. work.

On the bright side, a VERY COOL work friend brought me Billy Idol's fucking autograph from the concert Friday night. That's right, motherfuckers--BILLY FUCKING IDOL'S AUTOGRAPH! I work with the coolest and nicest people EVER. That shit basically made my WHOLE ENTIRE week.

This bitch hopes all of you motherfuckers had precious drunken rip-roaring holiday weekends. Tomorrow a bitch will report on her trip to the Dayton Social Security Office. Actually, it turned out better than I thought. I also need to update you motherfuckers on the status of the born-again biker neighbors from HELL. Fucker relapsed. Dude's in the rehab (it's a colorful story), and his wife still feels the need to YELL every fucking word. Bitch actually screamed at my ass in the damn porch window. Scared the shit out of me. SB HATES a mouthy motherfucker.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Shit SB Says to a MADD Representative

[Note for my motherfuckers who do not reside in the States: MADD stands for Mothers Against Drunk Driving.]


My name is Sheila and I am with Mother's Against Drunk Driving. Would you like to join us in our fight to prevent drunk driving today?

Actually, I'm for drunk driving.

[Long silence.] Excuse me?

You heard it right.

Billy Idol Tickets Are $61.00 a Piece Here in Buttfuck, Ohio

Guess I won't be going to that show. He is here in the Dayton area tomorrow. Poor sonofabitch. Hopefully he will say something like: Fuck you, Dayton. You suck!

We do.

I'd do the shortest show in history (20 minutes tops) if I had to come to Dayton, and I'd do it SO FUCKING DRUNK, I'd fuck with the damn words to my songs, especially the hits.

Fuck the cradle of love. Fuck the cradle of love. . . .

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Cats Do NOT Like to Cuddle, Bitch!

When I was a little kid, Nana, this nice old broad who lived next door to us, bought me a little book showing what kitties like and DO NOT like. It included helpful shit, like how to hold a kitty so your eyes don't get scratched out. Thanks, Nana! (Her ancient ass is probably dead now.) Basically, if a moggy's damn ears are flat, a bitch is NOT enjoying the enforced bonding experience, and a hapless human bitch is about to get slashed and gashed.

And then, there is the particular feline mode of expression in the photo above. Check out kitty's face. Bitch on the couch is about to lose his damn testicles.

Tobias Wong Hung Himself in His Sleep

Now, here's one I have never heard of before. Motherfucker was more productive in his sleep than I am in waking life! He designed costumes for his cats in his sleep, people! Holy shit.

Link to article:

[And yes, I read daily. Fuck you. It's like when old people read the obituaries everyday, but it's online, so that shit is adapted for my generation. A bitch doesn't like to get black newspaper print on her precious hands!]

SB Will Be Back Next Tuesday, Motherfuckers

Consider yourselves warned! In the spirit of Labor Day, my ass is taking a mini-vacation from paying work and the damn blog.

Happy Labor Day, motherfuckers! Stay safe and shit. See y'all on Tuesday.

More Shit SB Says to the Dear Ms. Moon

I always find the fall light so lovely. The fact that I notice it so readily is attributable to Mrs. William Faulkner, who is long dead and gone now, but God bless her.

Mrs. F. once commented to her husband how lovely the diffused light in August was, and of course, her husband, being the resourceful type and likely generally a drunken pain in Mrs. Faulkner's ass, promptly did what all good artists do and stole that shit and entitled one of his books, "The Light in August."

I always think of poor sweet old Mrs. Faulkner this time of year, when the light is special and indescribably lovely.

God bless Mrs. Faulkner. God bless us all.

Admonitions to a Special Person by Anne Sexton

Admonitions to a Special Person

Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.

Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes),
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.

Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.

[Note to the fucking reader: I just dig this shit. Anne Sexton is one of my favorite poets. She always nails it.]

Shit I Say to Ms. Moon, My Idol

Yes dear, my ass is wide. It is also getting flatter as I age. At this rate, I may soon have Yoko Ono butt.

[Disclaimer: Yoko Ono butt is okay if you are Japanese and shit, but it looks fucking weird on a well-fed American.]

We Bitches Have All Been Obsessed by Some Deadbeat at One Time or Another

I think it's safe to say that most of us bitches have been obsessed with some loser at one point or another, but this shit takes the cake. Like I say, some choices are better than others.

Link to a very strange tale of stalkerism:

Quote of the Damn Day from My Dear Friend, Shane

It is a cold day. It feels like there's ice outside. The sky is bright blue but fragile. It always feels like this when junk is seeping out your body. It's as if all the evils of all the world are hanging about outside waiting to descend upon you. Wind, noises, rain, smell, light. It is all there and all intrusive, like the the unwelcome touch of an unwanted lover. Coming off heroin feels like rape.

If you haven't yet visited Shane's blog, Memoires of a Heroinhead, you are in for a damn treat. He is one of the best writers I know and a very kind, gracious person as well. If you have a stereotype of a heroin addict in your head, it will likely change drastically after your encounter with Shane and his work. I very highly recommend his blog. I've read very few blogs from beginning to end, but I was compelled to read Shane's entire blog the first weekend I encountered it.

Shit SB Says

I don't believe in evil. I just believe in choices, and some choices work out better than others. Ignorant simple frightened people invent labels like good and evil, God and Satan. They feel safer when they can shove everything into a simplistic neat little category, when the nature of life itself is anything but simple. I find this tendency very tragic. This simpification causes much of the ugliness and the formidable problems of the world.

Morning Conversation with a Co-Worker

Do you have any Shout Wipes. . . . for my butt?

[Momentary stunned silence.]


I have some spots on the back of my fucking pants. I knew I shouldn't try and wear off-white. My ass is so big, it's like a magnet. Stuff just sticks to it.