Friday, September 30, 2011

Monsieur Pingouin

The fact that this guy is Belgian may explain a lot about the Mom's side of the family. Those fuckers were just crazy though. They didn't have enough money to be eccentric.

Monsieur Pingouin's bitch wife tried to spoil all his damn fun! What the fuck is up with that shit? Wives are always spoiling a dude's fun. I'm also guessing that maybe Monsieur's personal hygiene wasn't up to snuff--that may have been a factor too. He may only own ONE penguin costume, so his ass may have to wear that shit every day. If his wife had been nice, INSTEAD OF A BITCH, she might have sewn him duplicates and been supportive AND STILL MARRIED, instead of a naysayer.

Monsieur could save some valuable time and a whole shitload of effort, if he'd just sit the glass on a damn table and use a motherfucking straw. I guess when you wear a penguin costume, and people laugh at you all the time, you have to act all continental and lofty and shit about drinking wine.

Salute to Lobster Boy (Well, Sort of)

SB is sort of fascinated with Grady Stiles, a.k.a. Lobster Boy, who was famous on the freak circuit back in the day. I think the photo above is a might deceptive, and probably the moment after the photo was taken, Grady pinched the shit out of the kid sitting next to him. I read that Grady was an abusive father and husband, and I am pretty damn sure his demise was a result of a family member putting a cap in his uncharitable ass.

Anyhoo, Grady Stiles (who is dead now and could give a flying fuck and was probably so grouchy in life, he could have given a flying fuck then either), Sarcastic Bastard salutes you!

More Shit SB Comments to Ms. Moon

I think Cozumel for X-mas sounds like just the ticket. I'd enjoy mass in Spanish more, too, because then I wouldn't understand much of it.

Shit SB Types in an E-mail to the Golden Goddess, Ms. Moon

I am cautioned to believe too much in either science or religion. Like Alfred Einstein (as Grandma Peg used to call him), I think the answer lies somewhere between the two.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Quote of the Damn Day: Ronnie Kray

They were the best years of our lives. They called them the swinging sixties. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones were rulers of pop music, Carnaby Street ruled the fashion world. . . and me and my brother ruled London. We were fucking untouchable. . .

SB misses the Krays and their ilk. I am sick to death of fucking boring white-collar crime. All the real criminals with any personal style are long since dead now. What a damn pity.


Some Creepy-Ass Shit

This boggles the mind.

I Just Like the Damn Picture, Okay?

I like the damn guy A LOT, too.

Way to go STUPID ASSHOLE HUNTER. I sincerely wish that Hope had eaten you before you shot her.

I think bears are sacred.

STOP THE WORLD! Angelina let her 5 and 6 year old daughters get their ears pierced.

I hope they don't take the kids away from her. JESUS.

Your Cute for the Damn Day: Amur Tiger Baby and a REALLY BIG Tongue

You're welcome!

A Game of Yahtzee Got Out of Control

It happens bitches.

Fucked Up Statistic of the Day that Pisses Me THE FUCK OFF

From Harper's Index: The number of public statues of individuals in the U.S.: 5,193. The number of those statues that depict women: 394.

Fuck that shit.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Morrissey, When Asked Whether He Has a Mobile (Cell) Phone

No. I hate the way they ring, and when I see people use them in public I feel repulsed by that. I find it such an invasion. And also, I don't want to be tracked down and almost monitored every second of the day.

I Just Like the Damn Picture, Okay?

Moz in sunglasses.

Quote of the Damn Day: Joe Orton

Providing one spends the time drugged or drunk, the world is a fine place.

Shit SB Says to the Viking

Here, you can have this picture of me to show your friends. Well, you said you wanted a photo of me. This photo is from about 11 years ago, when I was on honeymoon with my ex-husband, who actually took the photo, but I was really skinny then because I was so miserable. I'll admit your friends might be a little thrown off when they do actually meet me, but what-the-fuck-ever. They'll get over it. It's more important that I look good.

If SB had the terminal cancer, I'd want everybody to STOP their lives and mourn and create memorial statuary of me, etc.

Clearly, Andy Whitfield was a much nicer human being.

Shit SB Says

I'm tired of Beyonce and her damn baby bump. Just have that thing already.

I don't get the chubby-chasing thing. GROSS.

Here's your cute for the day.

You're welcome, bitches!

I guess Madge still thinks a lot of herself.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Shit SB Says to the Viking at a Downtown Bar Before the Steelers Game on 9/11

If you didn't want to come back here, and I wasn't worried about embarrassing you, I would stand up right now and tell everybody to shut the fuck up. Seriously.

[Unbelievably, the stupid motherfuckers in the bar where we always go to watch Steelers games, talked through the 9/11 memorial presentation before the game. They even talked over Robert De Niro! What the fuck?! SB fucking bit her tongue SO HARD, it's a wonder it stayed attached. I wanted to slap some bitches around. To me, 9/11 is sacred, and I think it should be a national holiday so dumb disrespectful bitches can yak over the memorial presentations all day long.]

Friday, September 9, 2011

Shit SB Says About Shit Uncle Gene Says

Uncle Gene once told me that if I ever wrote an autobiography, it probably should be entitled: Fart in a Wind Storm. (I don't really think it was a compliment.) With the week I've just had, I agree, though, that the title is pretty apt. It's been a real motherfucker.

Tootsie, He No Looka Happy

I Just Like the Damn Picture, Okay?

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Quote of the Damn Day: Herschel Walker

We worry too much. We worry too much about everything. I think that’s why we die, we just worry too much.

[It may also explain why Keith Richards is still alive.]

If American Airlines Treated My Pussy this Badly, My Ass Would Sue!

Shit SB Says in a Comment to the Goddess, Ms. Moon

My grandma taught me that THE BIGGEST EVIL in the world is to think you have power over anyone else's body. Look at the Nazis. Prime example. Of course, this country is loaded with Nazis, too. And I'm not talking Femi-nazis either.

Rush Limbaugh is a goddamn idiot, and I don't give one iota of credence or thought to anything that moron says. I have negative regard for him and his followers. Less than zero.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

The Human Race Is Disgusting

The primates might evolve, but we sure as hell don't.

This is a shitty week, and this is ALL I am fucking posting.

I always have a hard time, like a lot of people, with this time of the year, due to the fact that it encompasses that sleazy old whore, September 11th. Fuck her. And on September 12th, sweet David Foster Wallace opted out of this WHOLE DAMN MESS, so that's two sucky shitty events, side-by-side, like a one-two yellow-bruise-leaving ugly punch. Because of my depressed mood, a bitch is leaving your asses with ONLY THIS (link below), in remembrance of both tragic shitty fucking days. I will remember Dave and the 343 fallen firefighters and other victims and rescue workers of 9/11 all week long, and I shall drink copiously to them over the coming weekend.

I've been having horrible dreams and generalized anxiety for several months running now, and I'm pretty sure it's attributable to the upcoming 10th anniversary. I think I'll feel a whole lot better when this damn bitch-of-a-week is over.

Friday, September 2, 2011

A Remembrance of DFW

This made me smile.

In the year 2000, my friend and I rented a car and drove all the way from California to Bloomington, Illinois, where David Foster Wallace was teaching at the time. I wanted to finally meet him in person, after I had been publishing his books in Italian for a few years. He had told me on the phone I could meet him at the local secondhand bookstore. The store had a big mirror on the back wall, and when he entered (I was already there) I caught him looking at himself in the mirror, with a curious expression. Unlike in any picture I had ever seen of him, his hair was surprisingly short, and he was wearing no bandanna.

He addressed me with a funny Spanish “Señor Cassini?,” probably thinking the Spanish could easily pass for Italian. I told him I expected to meet a longhaired man, and he replied, “Yeah, I just had a haircut, and I can’t get used to the way I look now. When I entered the bookstore a minute ago, I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror.”

He was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and I noticed how he had apparently cut the upper part of his right sock, in order to carry his wallet in it. We then went to a restaurant for lunch (cheeseburger, french fries, Coke—he taught me what a “free refill” is: we have nothing like that in Italy; if we did, everyone would drink liters and liters of free soda) and had a nice, long, complicated conversation.

At one point, he confessed with obvious embarrassment that he and his girlfriend had recently gotten cable TV, which he had for a long time resisted getting, and he told me how every time he found something good to watch, he immediately feared that there might be something better to watch on the next channel, and therefore he would never stop zapping, and never really watch anything at all, which usually resulted in an argument with his girlfriend.

He insisted on buying my friend and me lunch. When I asked him to sign copies of his books I had been carrying with me during my road trip (a copy of Infinite Jest and Italian versions of his books I had published), he wrote, “To Marco, who actually made me pay for his lunch.” (In the meantime, the waiter had prepared his doggy bag; Dave had eaten only half of his cheeseburger and was happy to take the remaining half to his Labrador back home.)

Then we moved outside the restaurant, to the parking lot, because I’d asked him to show us on a map the road to wherever my friend and I were going next. When he opened his car door to get a road atlas, I saw his red bandanna in the back, and asked him if I could have it. He told me I could, but in exchange he wanted the T-shirt I was wearing, and that I had bought two months before in Rome, at a flea market, for 3,000 lire (a couple of bucks). It was a Lucky Charms T-shirt, and he said he used to eat Lucky Charms every day when he was a kid.

Exchanging pieces of clothing in a parking lot outside a restaurant in rural Illinois must have been quite strange, and therefore my friend decided to take a few pictures of this mise en scène.

Later on, all the other times we met (not many) or corresponded, directly or through his agent, Dave made sure I was informed about the status of my T-shirt. He said it was “the gym T-shirt,” the one he used as much as he could when he went to the gym.

One day, two years ago, his one time in Italy, we were in Capri. He was there for a literary festival, and when he saw me he said: “Hey, Marco, I’m sorry—I left your Lucky Charms T-shirt back home. That’s my favorite T-shirt.”

Then he started to explain to his wife what he meant by that. I mentioned to both of them that, years before, I had lent his bandanna to Zadie Smith for an afternoon. She was impressed by the fact that I owned David Foster Wallace’s bandanna, and even mentioned it in a foreword to a book (an anthology that was, incidentally, named after one of his pitch-perfect short stories).

Those were the subjects of our talks: my T-shirt, his bandanna. Not books. Not writers. Not fiction. Just silly clothing. Lucky Charms.

—Marco Cassini

Alabama Coach, Nick Saban, On the Kent State Shootings

Nick was a freshman at Kent State when the God-awful shootings took place over 40 years ago. You can't be from Ohio (or the surrounding area) and not carry the memory of the shootings with you.
I'd never seen anybody shot before. Even though I didn't see them shot, I saw them after they were shot. It's a horrible thing.There's not a May 4 that goes by that I don't think about it -- really think about it. Forty years seems like a long time. But it doesn't seem that long to me.

Coach Saban and his championship Alabama team will be meeting his old alma-mater in Alabama's first regular season game this weekend.


Quote of the Goddamn Day: Ms. Moon, My Hero & Idol of Beauty and Truth

I just keep yearning for the old days when people who claimed to hear god's voice in such dramatic and unbelievable ways were treated for mental illness instead of running for president.

SB SAYS: Amen to that shit, motherfuckers!

I Just Like the Damn Picture, Okay? (For Morgaine)

Him was SO PURDY! SB had the distinct privilege to see Michael in concert with INXS a few years before his untimely shitty demise. I will always love him.