Tuesday, May 04, 2004


I don't care who you are.

I don't care if you are the late Mother Teresa, John Paul the Pope, or the President of the United States.

I am cursing your name right now if you aren't helping me move.

The fact that we haven't met does not matter. I am muttering your name under my breath as I hump article after article of my crap up a flight of slippery stairs. "John Q. Public, goddamn you!," I seethe as I bruise an ovary on a table corner. I have weird marks all over my body and I look like I'm either covered with hickies or am the battered wife of a colony of weasels.

by themselves, that's what I think.

I also think, the next doofus who tries anything funny with me is going to get this rebuke: "nobody f---s me unless they've helped me move." I am not even kidding about this. Even if it's only a shoebox, any and all interested parties are going to have to hump something besides me in order to gain entrance to my cathouse boudoir.

Except it is going to be guarded by four ginormous, sack-ripping, ferocious fanged felines, so I would not go there if I were you (as if you could even handle THE SMELL - ha.)

And speaking of damn fools and idiots with that superfluous piece of skin between their hairy ass cheeks...

There goes the damn hell ass neighborhood, and it was only my first day. I already have a card-carrying, licensed, professional stalker - or Stalky MacStalkerson, as my friend Neut would probably call him.

This complete loser bozo tried to pick me up when I was schlepping my shit out of my scabrous, ugly-ass car. I was all red in the face and panting, not to mention wearing Cranky's used boxers with doggies all over them, when he sleazed up to my door.

First of all, you do not, Not, NOT approach a woman's car, especially when she is alone, and has a full set of Ginsu knives at her disposal. It is not advisable to even slightly startle her; at the very least Bozo will come away with one-half of a two-ball sack, or a really bad haircut.

Fucking smoking a-hole didn't get it. He continued to follow me in his happy dick-red small-penismobile. I went around the other side of the building so as not to show him where I live.

Loser FOLLOWED ME AGAIN and sat lurking in his Dickmobile while I rang a friend's doorbell and stared at him like, are you fucking kidding me, Freak of the Week? You want me to get rid of that pesky other ball for you, since it's bothering your happy ass so much...?

Eventually he drove away, but he must have just circled the block because here he came again. "You are stalking me, Stalky" I warned while giving him the diseased, hairy eyeball.

Apparently the hairy eyeball is a come-on in his culture, or the fact that I hadn't killed him yet meant "TAKE ME, I'M YOURS" in his mind, because Loser Fuck appeared AGAIN, this time following me around to the garage. I decided to drop the semi-polite act.

"FUCK OFF. Seriously. F-U-C-K O-F-F. If you choose not to fuck off, I will call the police and have them fuck off for you; fuck off!!!"

Sprikenze ENGLISH?! Fuckez-vous Francais?! Fucketh thee off...!

He actually looked kind of bewildered at this. Like just because I was bending over, sweating, and carrying a bunch of pussy willows, I was obviously hot for his oily ass. I don't apeshitflinging think so. Maybe in his country, women who bend over, sweat, and do heavy lifting are ready to go, but here, we just want to be left he fuck alone (unless the man is wearing a uniform that says "Naked Male Movers, Strippers, and Chocolate Haulers, Inc.")

I don't mean to make a racial slur, but here it is - to the tune of "I'm Being Swallowed by a Boa Constrictor":

I'm being followed by an Armenian stalker
Armenian stalker
Armenian stalker
I'm being followed by an Armenian stalker
and I don't like it very much.

Nothing against the Armenian community, but I think this guy could use a few lessons on subtlety from Saddam Hussein.

I should have smashed my ugly green vase with the flowers on it over his clueless lousy wanna-be womanizing thick ass SKULL!

I never have liked that damn vase.


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