Gerald the Very, Very Large Spider

In San Francisco, you don't get much wildlife. Occasionally, you get a feral male cat who likes to bite defenseless 3-legged kitties, and lots of pigeons, but that's about it. The only genuine wildlife we get here in this city are hobos. They range from gargantuan to sickly skinny, fully toothed to toothless and every age from 16 to 80. It's bizarre, the wide variety of hobo. There are seasonal, varietal hobos as well as hobos whose public frequency is dependent on temperatures. 

Knowing my luck, however, I was bound to stumble upon something not many people get to have. And as my luck would have it, that something had eight legs. And large mandibles. 


Gerald. 

Gerald was a spider. More than that, Gerald was the spider who decided it would be a smashing good idea to set up shop in my window sill. The cats paced anxiously on the other side of the window, mewing at him. He didn't seem bothered, but I'm sure he had a tough exterior which only coated the soft, loving spider he was deep down. He had all his legs, all his eyes (I think) and a very impressive set of pointy teeth-things. And he was big. He was also an attention whore.


Gerald was disconcertingly placed in my window ledge, and would often look down on me as I slept. His pointy leg-hairs and the creepy way he spun his web all made me rest easier knowing I had him to watch over me. This one time, Pharrah decided she wanted to eat Gerald; I recalled  her back inside, but her tail caught the bottom of Gerald's web, and she took it with her. Gerald managed to salvage the rest of the web, and in the morning, a very disgruntled spider was re-spinning his web. He hated Pharrah ever since. Pharrah had it out for him, specially when I began to take pictures of him...


I would come home from work to make sure Gerald was still there-- talking to him, checking to make sure he had eaten. Boy he was HUGE. And a little creepy. 


And then, one day, when I woke up... Gerald was gone. He literally packed his web up and flew the coop. I don't know if the cats ate him, if I had accidentally swallowed him when he went to hug me good bye, or... what... but he was gone. :-( No web, no Gerald, no nothin'. 


I like to think Gerald finally got that job promotion he'd been going on about and moved out into the suburbs where he could finally buy a house, get a dog and meet a nice lady-spider (or male spider...) and live a quiet life. Maybe he would pick up Shakespearean acting in his off-work time, join a nice Masons group or get a part time job in the mall during the holidays as Santa Claus. 

Now I feel better about potentially swallowing him. Goodie!

All I Need to Know I Learned at Renaissance Faire

In light of the upcoming Renaissance faire season (at least for us Northerners), I have taken it upon myself to give back to the faire community. It is a community of givers and people who work tirelessly for themselves; who toil and slave away endless to climb that invisible social ladder that exists in all theatrically-minded microcosms. This community, chock full of inflated creator-types has much to teach the bottom feeders like myself, and I cannot express to them how invaluable I find their hard learned lessons have been. For who knows better about myself and my private dealings more than the mob? Vespasian knew this, which is why he began construction the Coliseum. I hang tenuously on every single word, every single opinion they have to gift me. For in that short span of three months comes the culmination of thousands of peoples' lives from all walks of life who share a single goal: popularity. Like Nero, I am seizing upon the mob's love of theatrics to better myself. However, I am reciprocating. It is to this community I bestow my gratitude and am giving them back what I hold dear in my heart: everything I need to know, I learned at Renaissance faire.

1. Share everything. Including your personal life, in great hyperbolic detail to everyone and everything. The higher you are on the Great Social Ladder of Renaissance Faire, the more people care.
   
2. Play fair. But only when you're being watched closely. Otherwise, sling mud profusely. You'll look like an ape when you do it, but boy! It sure is fun!
   
3. Don't hit people. Except when they're down or they're trying to steal your business but fail due to their own ego being twice the size of the actual man.
   
4. Put things back where you found them. Except for your personal morality and sense of accountability.
   
5. Clean up your own mess, only if you spill your alcohol on someone. Otherwise, your personal mess is for everyone to share in and get involved with!
   
6. Don't take things that aren't yours, unless it's married spouses, tankards, opening weekend business, ad space, volunteers and contracted acts.
   
7. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody, but only after faire has been closed for a month.
   
8. Wash your hands before you eat… wait, don't wash your hands before you eat. It's not period.
   
9. Flush. Wait. Nevermind.
   
10. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. They cause you to forget you're a rational adult and put you right back in the 7^th grade. I mean, we all act like it anyways, right?
    
11. Live a balanced life - learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some. And by "play" I mean slosh around in a vat of jell-o or mud in a bikini a size too small while a real-life cartoon takes pictures of you and posts them for creepers to see. Also, Catholic School Girl Night counts as "dance."
    
12. Take a nap every afternoon. In the street. While being paid. Because you can. It sets a great tone for the faire.
    
13. When you go out in the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together. Unless you're trying to climb the Great Social Ladder of Renaissance Faire, in which case you're free to gouge out eyes, slander, insult, berate and lie. Popularity is the key to having fun. Being popular is fun. Fun is cool.
    
14. Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: the roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that. Also, be aware that Styrofoam cups and raccoon tails and cat ears aren't period… and facial piercings, and off-the-shoulder-chemises…
    
15. Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup - they all die. So do we. So live it up! Get really really drunk and insult a few patrons!
    
16. And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned - the biggest word of all – "LOOK," is all well and good, but "DICK" is the operative word.
    

Well, my throngs of adoring groupies, I'm glad you've enjoyed this. Feel free to reprint it for your own benefits. I would be honored, but I would also expect it. I look forward to seeing you all in less than 2 months for our glorious Opening Day at the Renaissance faire! :D

How to Survive in Los Angeles

The Greeting:
It is of the utmost importance to make your greeting as loud and attention-getting as humanly possible. The first impression has more to do with how you greet someone then to whom you greet. If they are a good friend, you may forgo the formal greeting and you may commence with slang terminology. Note: Learning slang may or may not be helpful when dealing with Hollywood talent agents. Learn at your own discretion. See Slang, below.

What You Need To Begin:
What follows is a list of recommended staples one would need prior to moving to LA.

1. A cell phone (two if you plan on using one as a "business line.")
2. Some kind of addiction. Cigarettes are preferable mainly because everyone smokes; if you opt for a drug of some kind, crack cocaine is the only way to go.
3. Some kind of complex, but "little man" syndrome is not recommended. Tom Cruise called that one in the '80's and you want some kind of originality.
4. The presumption that you are prettier /better / more talented than the current Hollywood elite.
5. Some type of network where mindless bodies are readily available for miscellaneous reasons (see The Friendship.)

The Friendship:
Throughout the duration of a friendship, formed purely for selfish reasons, call only when you need an entourage to make an entrance. Drunken groupies make you look like a stud. Form networks of other Struggling Actor/Model/Singers so you can rely on each other in times of desperation. The friendship should only be continued in the light of dismal failure (wherein you both bemoan the life that is a Struggling Actor/Model/Singer). The friendship should be discontinued only after prominent success or if the said friend attempts to kill your career. Attempts at killing you will only give you an edge over the others, and thus should be overlooked as a favor done for you.

A Ride:
Never be seen using the Metro. If you need transport, use the Metro or Orange Line only in the cover of darkness and even then, Bono-type sunglasses and a do-rag are recommended. If you can, mooch off of someone else in your network who owns/steals cars. (Reality Note: Grand theft auto does exist in the real world-- it is not just a video game. If you're riding in a stolen car, be wary of speeding and loud gangster rap. Cops run plates. Minimize attention to self by listening to smooth jazz.) But failing all these and you are reduced to walk everywhere, walk in style. Ladies, do not remove your stilettos. You look cooler when you arrive in heels. Cool is fun.

Food:
Don't eat. When you eat, it implies you're human and weight gain/aging. That isn't cool-- skinny is. Besides, with the diet regime of coffee and cigarettes, who needs food? But if you must eat, vegan is the stylish way to go (think Pam Anderson. She's cool.)

Clothing:
Women, the less the better, unless you're a recent transplant and have yet to get on the Cigarette and Coffee diet plan (See Food, above.) Men, as long as you're tan and buff, pretty much anything goes. Except mesh. And flannel. Designer clothing is a must. Save up all your money to buy Chanel or Prada or Gucci, and then to look cool, wear all three designers at the same time. You'll bring to mind Paris Hilton. And that's cool. Don't worry about rent (see The Friendship) because with network friends, you can mooch a couch or and air mattress for a few months. Keep in mind: couch hopping is acceptable only in the Valley. But no one wants to let a network friend borrow their favorite pair of Jimmy Choo's. Don't even ask.

Starbucks:
A word for newcomers to the Los Angeles region: you will find a Starbucks within a half-mile radius of your domicile. Find the location nearest you. Go everyday (Tip: along with spending money for designer clothes and your cell phone bill, section off a chunk of your money solely for coffee.) Go twice a day. The sooner you've got the day and night shift of the Starbucks calling you by your name/drink, the sooner you can bring a date or your entourage. Having others know you by a first name basis builds up your reputation. Plus, it makes you look cool when you play it nonchalantly in front of prospective one-nighters. A one-nighter is someone you plan on sleeping with only once in a drunken flurry. Men should do this frequently. Ladies, if you must do this, be discreet unless you idolize Tila Tequila.

Slang:
In this town of informality dressed up in Italian silk suits, you need to know both ways of speaking. Taking speech classes will help you rid yourself of any annoying regional dialect you may have from the continental states or an accent if you are from anywhere else besides Canada. However, Australian and English accents are acceptable, but only if you're able to do a decent American accent on command. But in order to communicate effectively with today's youth, find a few useful slang words and pepper your lexicon with them. A few good ones to try out to your dog or plant:
1. "Holla" (basic definition: What's up, attractive fe/male? I want to talk to you but the only coherent thing I could think of was "holla". Please think that I am cool.) "Holla" is to be said outside of context only if something really cool happens and cool seems so ubiquitously said.
2. "Bone out". To "bone out" means to get your ass in gear and scram, which should be used while in a car and you need to leave quickly.  
3. "Home-girl/home-boy". Referring to someone you consider being so close to you, they could live at home with you and you wouldn't mind all too much. The exact translation was lost years ago.
4. "Ill / Sick / Tight." Before the 2000's, each of those words had their own respective definition. Now, they've all been reduced to a singular meaning: "Cool."

Of Religion and Politics:
If you are a conservative, you have two options. 1) Do not let anyone know. Conservatives can survive in LA if no one knows you're one. 2) Switch sides. Liberals have more fun anyway. And fun is cool. A few things you can say in public to gain favor: "Bush sucked." "This country's going to hell." "Big oil sucks." Repeat as needed. And if you belong to any of the Western religions, find an Eastern one that seems similar to yours. Then switch. Western religions are so last century.

Agents:
Every Struggling Actor/Model/Singer needs one. If you don't have the money to afford one right from the get go, forego the Starbucks and save your money to get one. In the meantime, a temporary solution is to have someone back home like a sibling labeled "Agent" in your contact list on your cell phone. Then when they call and "Agent" pops up on Call-ID have them pose as your agent. No one with you will know the difference. And then when you've saved up the money to get a real agent, casually let it drop that you've switched agents because the last one didn't do anything for you except call you. You'll seem cool. 

Nightlife:
Get one. In LA, there are lots of local clubs and bars to frequent, especially on the Westside. Learn all of the restaurants and little cafes open after midnight. The more obscure the place, the cooler you'll seem to fellow entourage members. Here is a recommended sequence of events, which should transpire almost every night: After that quad-shot of espresso (see Starbucks, above), shower and dress with extreme care (when complimented, off-handedly mention that you just threw something on. You'll seem cool because of your natural flair for chic.) After you're ready, call your network friends, and find a place to get shit faced. Stay out until Last Call or security has to forcibly remove you. Either way works for going out with panache.

Failing All of the Above:
If it happens that you do not achieve your goals, you have one choice. Go home. You stay at the risk of being sucked into the world of Adult Entertainment or being a waiter for the rest of your days. Good luck!

 

Celebrities, or, Why I’m Awesome

These days, you see pictures of movie stars and other various celebrities plastered everywhere—like a rash you can't get rid of. It's itchy and has weird bumps and you don't know what the hell is going on but you know you're uncomfortable and you just want it to GO AWAY so you can get some sleep! >.>

But what is more annoying than just the itchy bumps and interrupted sleep caused by mere photos of spoiled people? When the spoiled people try to tell everyone else who isn't famous how they are "just like us!" As if. I read all the time in interviews with celebrities how "we feed our kids ourselves!" Or: "we clean up after ourselves!" Or, my favorite: "we get our own groceries and make our own dinners!" And they spew that with such enthusiasm! I think they're expecting applause after uttering those rehearsed lines. Hello… this isn't the Awards Show of You and you aren't getting a stupid trophy for wiping your own ass.


It's almost as if they're retarded, or 2 years old, and they have to announce to everyone how they can do mundane things and expecting us to all exclaim in unison: Aw! Good job! Who wants a cookie? Oh. Wait. They can't eat cookies. Their contracts specifically state: No carbs or refined sugar until they hit 30. Expiration date, you know. Social networking sites do not help matters at all. Sites like Twitter and Facebook are yet another forum on which those brain-dead monkeys can self-postulate and peacock. Joy of joys. -_-


I wish I got a cookie for doing what I was supposed to do with my own two hands. Hell, I'd collect those cookies and sell them to schools so I can at least make some money DOING WHAT NORMAL PEOPLE DO EVERY GODDAMN DAY. I love how the stupid-rich movie stars try to glean every scrap of attention from everything. They shouldn't be called "celebrities," they should be called "opportunists." Srsly.

Conversely, I could become completely lazy and dependent on the external reinforcement of others, and refuse to move or feed myself unless I'm guaranteed a standing ovation. Let the games begin. People who do things so mind-numbingly stupid or lazy or socially irresponsible that it hurts: kind of like Octo-Mom, or the woman who is actively trying to weigh 1000 pounds.


But I think what really bothers me most about those people is their complete delusion. They really think everyone just gobbles this shit up like it's the greatest way to spend an afternoon watching other people feign normality. Incredulously, they believe what they have to say is important. I like to think of it as the Bono Complex. Pure narcissism is like pure cocaine. Shit hits hard, roughs you up and leaves you feeling more used than Vietnamese hookers after 1975. Too soon?

One day, I'd like to become the most famous Geek Girl EVAR. And when I do, I can assure you all that I will be the most lazy, self-promoting, selfish creature on the planet. I'll lock myself away and become a hermit, playing World of Warcraft for days on end—and I'll emerge only to work the Renaissance Faire or to do something so blindingly retarded that my royalties income will be secure for another year.

It's the American Way. Manifest Destiny! Onwards to Oregon!

Aw, shit. I just died of dysentery. Press space bar to start over… /fail

My friends, Jordan Grout and Shao Tam

I'm positive everyone out there has that 
one friend of which you're simultaneously ashamed and proud. You know: the dweeb who laughs a little too hard at dead baby jokes while in a Babies R Us. We know they are weird, we know they are loveable. We know that they are really fucking awkward. And we keep them around for a myriad of reasons. I happen to have such a friend. Well may you be surprised. LOL.

His name is Jordan Grout and he is an Irish piece of shite. Now, Jordan is one of the categories of Guys Who Go by Their Middle Name. You know, the quasi-douche M.O. "I think my name is so boring, so I'll go by my more interesting middle name. It works on chicks."

I know several of these guys, and while lovely in of themselves, I can't help but not take them wholly seriously, and I giggle at them, sometimes to their faces. Jordo claims he moved from Ireland as a toddler, but I know otherwise. They kicked him out. The Irish forcibly removed Jordan from their country because he's a gigantic asshole. Even as a baby. Now, when I met Jordo, he was going through his Cave-Man phase. 

He was creepy. He was hairy. He sat in the corner of our poetry class and made weird commentary which was amusing only to him. And yet, in spite of that, we became friends. To this day, I have yet to find a redeeming quality besides his ability to turn into Caveman Jordo. We've never had any adventures or journeys that seem to be a staple to enduring friendships. What we've had instead is mutual, irreverent sense of humor. I, of course, am far superior and better at pretty much everything. But I keep Jordan around for a basis for comparison. Also, he introduced me to Brian Peppers. How can you not keep that person around?? He laughs like a baying hyena, which is a great hobo-deterrent.

There have been legends told in the San Fernando Valley of this creature, this Jordan Grout. I mean, with a name like "Grout" how can one not make up wild (and mostly true) tall tales? I once heard Jordo wrestled a rabid Joan Rivers after a plastic surgery session went south. It has been said he managed to subdue the Wild Rivers with his crappy Irish teeth, peed on her to counteract the acidic stinging venom spurting from her eyeballs and hog-tied her to a Hummer; the city of Westwood gave him a medal—which he promptly laughed at and smelted into a chastity belt. He wears it to this day.

Another redeeming quality Jordo has is his buddy, Shao Tam. Jordan, in a moment of pure spite and genius, decided to give my phone number to this tubby Asian fuck whom I'd never met (and have yet to meet in person to this day) who promptly began to harass me. Daily. And even sometimes at 2 AM. "Tits"… no joke.

Shao Tam is diry and wrong and inappropriate. And Asian. I have a sneaking suspicion he listens to disco music dressed in shiny spandex a la Richard Simmons. From what I understand of Shao Tam the Wortheless Hobo is that he is some kind of chef in a crappy restaurant in Glendale, CA. Why they would let this monster filled with volatile gases near anything served to other human beings is quite beyond my comprehension. But as long as he's not near my food, I can sit back from a comfortable distance and laugh. And I do. A lot.

Seeing as I've never met this fuck in person, I find it only appropriate to make up some things about him for my amusement.

1. Shao Tam wears shiny spandex and listens to disco.
   
2. Shao Tam is retarded.
   
3. Mullet.
   
4. He has Pant-Weasels.
   
5. Shao Tam was the inspiration for Jabba the Hut. 

           =















Well folks. That's all you're getting. I will leave you with Brian Peppers time: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RuOxnflYQ6E

MAYO!

-- County, USA—The Annual Mayonnaise Festival happens every year, but for some, this gathering of Mayo Aficionados is a brand new, and big, deal.

Held in the height of summer for one week, mayonnaise makers, eaters and friends set up shop on the east block of High Street and have a grand old time. One booth, run by some of the original participants since 1978, Bertha and George Mason’s We Love Mayo!  draws large crowds year after year. They offer homemade classic flavored mayo, but they also put some twists on old classics.

“We cure one line of our mayo with red chili peppers for about 6 months,” says Bertha, 79, of –County. “Folks our age can’t eat it, what with digestive problems and whatnot,” she continues, “but that doesn’t stop ‘em from trying,” she says with a wink, and nodding to the near by Port-o-Let.

Just down a way from the Mason’s classic booth is the newest addition to the festival: Hot Mayo.  “It’s our way of telling the world how new and hip this festival really is!” Missy Smith quips. Smith, 29, is the newest appointee in a long line of Public Relations administrators for –County. “We want the MTV Generation to come on down and be able to enjoy themselves along side their grandparents.”

Hot Mayo features two main attractions, not so much selling mayo per se, but selling an image the tiny host town is trying to renovate. The first is a large, clear vat of mayonnaise outfitted with a dunk chair on which local high school cheerleaders perch, waiting for the chair to drop them into the melting goo. Contestants line up and throw baseballs at a bull’s eye lever. “We’ve noticed we get a broader demographic with this one than with the kiddies’ pool filled with warm mayonnaise,” Smith muses. Smith doubles as the high school’s cheerleading coach. “The prospect of throwing something at a pretty girl seems to hit home with the other girls from school who might be jealous of them,” Smith goes on.

On the whole, Hot Mayo draws the largest crowd, using a pass-the-hat method to raise money for the cheerleading department. The kiddie pool, indeed, did keep audiences’ attention much longer: young girls in bikinis rolling around in the yellowing glop makes people want to drop their dollars.

“Overall, this looks like it’s gonna be a good year,” Bertha Mason surmises, looking into the setting sun on opening day. Silhouetted against the sunset, the ever growing line of elderly people for the Port-o-Let brings a smile to Bertha’s face. “It’s only going up from here!”

So This One Time, At the Mall…

This past weekend, the S.O. and I went ring shopping (squee!!). You know how malls are all packed to the gills with crap you don't need, and like, 12 million jewelry stores? Well, this one was no exception. We popped into the first jewelry store we saw. Jewelry salespeople are like vultures: they see the innocent carrion and they hover and circle until their pray makes eye contact.

We were in the store for about 20 seconds and BLAM! Weasel-Stalker-Guy pounced. He was one of those skinny, pale, greasy guys who thought his quasi-Hitler mustache was attractive. 

OK, now I understand that salespeople work on commission, and I understand that you have to be persuasive and forceful in order to make a sale. But there is an invisible line that must not be crossed, no matter how badly you want a sale. I'm talking about Mall Stalking. 

Its one thing to be weasel-y and pushy. It's quite another to become a weasel-y and pushy stalker. 

The S.O. and I decided we didn't like this jewelry store's offerings, we said we were still looking, and moved on. Weasel-Stalker-Guy followed.

To EVERY. SINGLE. STORE. 

I only wish I was joking. I didn't notice until the S.O. pointed it out, 3 stores in. 

S.O.: "That salesguy is following us."    

Me: "Who?" 

S.O.: "The guy from the first store. He's, like, followed us to every jewelry store."

Me: "No way! I don't even remember what he looks like." 

I turned and looked back to the store we'd just left and sure enough, that smarmy fuck oozed his way around the corner, glanced at us, and preceded to chat up the salesguy we'd just left. WTF. Who does that?! Why us?! Does anyone else have problems with similar Weasel-Stalker-Guys?! Seriously!!

I start panicking and acting sketchy myself, thinking I did something wrong and Weasel-Stalker-Guy is going around warning the other jewelry salespeople that my S.O. and me are horrible people who like fucking with salespeople. And we don't buy. If he was trying to convince us to go back to his store and buy his crappy stuff, he was going about it the wrong way. 

So I'm panicking, and looking behind me at the Weasel-Stalker-Guy and he catches me looking at him, and looks guilty. The S.O. is gallantly going ahead with looking at rings, I'm freaking out because we have a fucking Weasel-Stalker-Guy in a MALL and I have to pee. Just great.

It was at that moment I took out my level 264 staff with +788 spellpower and beat Weasel-Stalker-Guy to death in the middle of the mall. 

I just lied again. 

It was only +600 to spellpower. 

Whatever. 

Sue me.

My Creepy Poem

I decided I'm going to be Bubba from Forrest Gump. Everyone needs a friend with a shrimp fetish.

i see my shrimp fetish has made you distant and cold towards me.

well if that's how you're going to be about it, i'm going to send you buckets of shrimp to your house.

and leave shrimp poop on your pillows

and give you shrimp AIDS!

you know how dirty those fucking prawns are

PRAWN SEX

lolololololol

i'm amused

fukkin loooooooooooool

Brian Peppers Time!

http://encyclopediadramatica.com/Brian_Peppers

HIGHLY amused

i don't need you

or your speed

what, what?

did someone say speed?!

i mean

crank

er

...

rat poison?

lolol

are you off diddling Brian Peppers?

If so, type 1

If not, type "I love bleu cheese made from vagina yeast"

Jesus hates prawns

Jesus hates prawns time a million.

Reasons why I am like the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot and the Chupacabra: Now with more mange!

1.       When I swim in a lake and poke my head up, I, too, look like a mysterious maybe branch / maybe long neck of a plesiosaur!!

2.       I’ve been known to drain sheep and goats of their blood. 

3.       I’m a legendary creature that people only see in shadows and hear screeching at the moon on the hottest days of the summer... a trait also native to "The Predator"; we are often mistaken for each other which can get pretty awkward when planning your wedding and you accidentally put the chupacabra next to all of The Predator's goat friends.

4.       Photos of me show the extent of my mange, which I’m working on getting rid of as the S.O. doesn’t find it attractive. Also, it draws in flies. 

5.       Bigfoot likes fruit loops. So do I. 

6.       Tourists come from far and wide to catch a glimpse and perhaps a snapshot of me. And should they succeed, I’d maul them. 

7.       I don’t eat. I FUCKING FEED ON ANIMALS. 

8.       When I get on T.V., its grainy footage with me getting my newspaper in the morning, so I’m walking all fucked up and shit because I just woke up, and when I see people filming me, I get all spooked because I’m still HALF ASLEEP and run away. 

9.       I went to Nessie’s birthday party. Shit’s getting ooooold. 

10.   The name of my house is “Ape Canyon.” Srs.

Clouds are tricky, or people are liars

We know those fucking people. You know the ones who look up at the clouds and say "Oh, I see a cute wee bunny!" And when you go to look, you don't see anything. Just a bunch of fluff, but, like, you totally don't want to sound like a moron, so you kinda go "Oohhh, yeah…." And then you feel like an asshole because you lied about seeing a crappy bunny and then it dawns on you that your friend could potentially be high and/or on meth but then you go back to feeling like a moron because you really wanted to see a cute wee bunny. Smells like fail.

Either the clouds are fucking with you and want you to think you're retarded, or, people are liars. I'm thinking both. 

Those communist clouds up there. All like, happy and shit. And when one cloud gets too big the whole sky turns gray. And you just know they put up that screen so we can't see what the other smaller clouds do to that one big one; and then the skies clear and… no more big cloud. Cannibalistic commie mother fuckers. 

That's all you are getting today. I'm cranky-pants, and I'm going to stop writing before I call you all Sex Pickles. Muno = Sex Pickle. Why this would be on a children's show about LCD is beyond me. 

Signs you’re a Whore

I have decided that my last post about my cat was me cheating. I lied to you all. I'm only 4 days into this thing and I'm already lying to you. How can I expect to ever break out of my writer's constipation if I'm lying and cheating? What the fuck is wrong with me? Like, seriously. It's like lying to a therapist. It's like lying to Jesus that Santa Claus stole your cookies on the eve of his birth and expecting Jesus to take your side over that of a fat carnivorous man in a red suit.

When I told the S.O. about the topic of this blog, his eagerness to help out was almost alarming. His enthusiasm for some things makes me think on some occasions that he is most likely an alien. Like, pigeons. Pigeons are totally aliens. Have YOU ever seen a pigeon nest??? I rest my case. Anyway, the S.O. helped out with this, because he rules so hard (as opposed to soft? O.o)

1. You say stupid, incoherent, grammatically incorrect things like, "I got spider-bit in my pant area," and other classics. 

   
   
   
2. You get Christmas and/or Thank You cards from the local high school varsity football team.
   
   
   
   
   
   
3. People call you by different names.
   
   
   
   
   
    
4. You're often mistaken for Amy Winehouse.
   
   
   
   
   
5. 
   
   You bathe in public fountains.
   
   
   
   
6. 
   
   You have a shopping cart. It's named Bruce.
   
   
   
   
   
    
   
7. When you wake up (where-ever you are) there is loose coinage sprinkled around you. Also, feeling like P-Diddy.
   
   
   
8. You know the doctor at your free clinic on a first-name basis.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
9. 
   
   You insist upon wearing garish red clown-lipstick everywhere you go.
   
   
   
10. Your arm-pit hair is in cornrows because "people are kinky like that."

    

Pharrah: The Life and Times of a Housecat

I’ve had cats my entire life. My first cat I got when I was four or five years old, and it was love/cat torture at first squeeze. I carried her around by one arm, tied strings around her neck and took her for walks, which she vehemently protested, and dressed her in my best doll clothes. I agonized for days, nay, for weeks over the best cat-name EVAR. Rainbow Brite Princess was a huge contender, so was Fairy Princess Rainbow. The more “rainbows” and “princesses” I could cram in there, the better. I couldn’t make up my mind; I mean, she would have to live with this name for the rest of her little kitty life!!! So I went with:

Klammy. 

Fast forward to present day. I’ve had one cat since Klammy died, Ophelia, who had a thing with water and a major case of autism. I added Pharrah to the collection after I stole her from my little sister. In her kittenhood, Pharrah was youthful and spritely. She’s about 3 right now, and some things have changed. Drastically.

Like her weight. Here she is, delighting in her fatness. 

Awhile back there was a slight panic in San Francisco because the seals that visit Pier 39 disappeared. Well, I know where one of them went. Jesus, she is SO FAT. 

Pharrah is an emotional eater. When she’s happy because I’ve come home, she eats. When she’s pissed off and wants to barf all over me for abandoning her for a weekend, she eats. When you touch her, she runs to her food bowl and gorges herself so long as you are there to watch her. 

She also ate all her cat grass and cat nip I lovingly planted for her. I took time and money to make sure she didn’t feel left out when I had a wee garden and planted her fucking cat grass and how am I repaid?? By little cat grass carcasses strewn about my room, carelessly tossed aside when they no longer provided a struggle to live. 

Pharrah then barfed them up. Everywhere. Fucking fail.

She also exhibited some signs of Stockholm syndrome when she had fleas. It was creepy.

Here she is being fat and seal-like.

What a fatty. I’m sure me calling her fat doesn’t do much for her eating disorder. Mommy’s not perfect, sweetheart. 

She talks when I pet her. I like to pet her. That’s a lie. I don’t pet her. I don’t know why I said that. She would just as soon as barf in my sock and let me find it at 6 am when I’m groggily getting ready for the gym than let me touch her in a loving manner. Ingrate.

I’ve Got Worms, and Reasons Why I am a Certified Lunatic

Childhood is a delicate time in every person’s life. Dreams can be made or destroyed, people and places indelibly imprinted on the mind, to serve as either fond memories or warnings of past doom.

As Easter was Sunday, I’d like to regale you of an episode from my childhood.

I grew up in suburban San Jose, in a crappy neighborhood spackled over with a nice name called Almaden Valley. And while it was a suburban area, wildlife was rampant (I mean, we heard Raccoon Sex, for crying out loud. Did you know they do it in trees?! How’d you like to be camping in your backyard only to be woken from horrible snarling monster noises coming from above you and be too terrified to even piss yourself, much less try to go back to sleep…)

 

I digress.

Our first Easter out of Orange County was different than usual. We had a backyard full of shrubbery which to hide eggs, as opposed to flat grass and a pathetic lemon tree. Step-Mother was delighted with the endless possibilities of outsmarting her small step-children—a joy that has assuredly been passed on to me.

The dyed eggs were left in the fridge, and my sister and I went to bed with dreams of cool things, not eggs, in our wee heads. Come a foggy morning, we rise to gather in the kitchen, which had a nice view of the backyard. Leah, my sister, and I were already peering out the window, trying to get a head start on one another. Step-Mother gleefully handed us baskets, made sure we had shoes on, and released us.

Oh, what joy I experienced, having spotted a blue egg nestled in the arm of a tree. Success! Leah hadn’t a single egg in her basket. I ran around like a horse on meth, collecting the obviously hidden ones: pink, yellow, purple… I glanced at Leah, who had stopped along the fence, staring at a blotch of colors, but I hadn’t time to figure out what my stupid sister was doing. I had to kick her fucking ass to prove once and for all that I was far superior in my egg-finding skills.

Minutes pass, and Leah is still in the same spot, but she’s squatting now. WTF. I grow curious, and walk over to where she was, and noticed the blotch of colors was really an egg, which had been viciously and mercilessly thrashed about and left in shambles. 

Shocked, I began to look around on the ground for the rest of the eggs and saw that every single egg not at eye-level was in a similar state of dilapidation. Leah looked frightened, as if the horrible creature that had devoured the egg was coming for her next. Step-Mother, seeing us stopped dead, walked over, looked at the egg disaster, and laughed.

“Honey, the raccoons got the eggs!” And that, ladies and germs, is the best fucking Easter in the whole fucking world.

A close second is where I mistakenly went to a church function with a neighbor, thinking it would be fun, and when they sat us all down to draw a picture of Jesus, I dived in.

All the pictures were hung for the parents to come and see, and my parents knew in 5 seconds, which picture their pious little daughter drew: the snarling monster with bloody fangs.

lololol

My Vagina

In an attempt to discipline myself as a writer, I thought it would serve my best interest if I began a blog to practice my mad-fatty writing skills. Also, to stop the maddening thoughts from clogging up my neural functions so I can think linearly. Ha. I figured it'd be best if I started out with a bang, so the rest of this journey can be downhill from here: just like life! :D
 
I'd like to open this blog with a discussion about Vaginas. 

While most girls I know have quaintly named their Vag something dopey like "Betty" or, in an effort to be pathetically sexy, "Kitty", I have proudly named mine Rancor.

If you men knew what a pain in the vagina having a vagina is, you wouldn't be so keen in trying to have sex with one. I mean really: they aren't pretty. A lot of women I know are always spouting crappy slogans like, "Power to the Pussy" and shit like that. Like their flappy vag is something to which people should kow-tow. I claim shenanigans. 

I think vagina=vacuous waste of time where people pour time and energy to result in more time and energy wasted in trying to stop thinking about said vagina. I think it's a practical joke on God's part. 

Insert inappropriate joke here: 

Q:Why do women get their periods? 

A: Because they fucking deserve it. 

However, we do have the best way to smuggle things across state/country lines. What would you smuggle if you had Nature's Pocket? I'd try to fit in the entire Twilight series up there, just so I can write a disturbing letter to Stephanie Meyer about how I crammed her entire crappy story up my cooter. Win? I think yes. Epix win.