Thursday, March 31, 2005


Everybody in "The Red Tent", say arrrrgggh...!
Now...smash something!

I was inspired by my sisters in pain, Birthday Girl Kat, Avatar, and Storm "Tampons as Corks?" Rider. SR doesn't cramp 'n flow but he is an honorary sister. Because we all hates us some feminine hygiene products and their insipid commercials. But that's tough titty, kid, because some woman had to cramp 'n flow in order to bear your ungrateful ass. Heh.

(Which reminds me, will someone please abort that evil, beady-eyed, misogynistic fetus in the Carl's Jr. commercial. I would personally like to give him an RU-486 enema. He needs to be yanked badly, or sold to Ortho as the poster child for birth control. Thank you.)

Aherm. For this reason, I have combined and re-written some of the worst offenders into a 30-second spot I hope will get time on Oxygen, Lifetime Television for Really Sappy Women, PBS ("OooH! She's moody! Must be PBS! -Bobby Hill), and other more realistic networks. So here goes.


MUSIC: Courtney Love sings:
There she flows
There she flows again
Cramping on that strang
And she just can't contain
This feeling in her thang...

Zoom in on a woman sitting in Central Park. This is LADY PROBLEMS. Mid-thirties. Dishevelled. She is bloated. She is moody. She is smoking a big fat fatty just to deal with it.

Some GIRL SPROUTS come over to where she is sitting and try to push their cookies on her, but she gives them the hairy eyeball, so they drop their goods and flee in terror. She starts in on the Thin Mints when...

Some SKINNY, HAPPY TEENAGE GIRLS (who do not menstruate because of their eating disorders) come jogging by perkily and she trips them and then pretends it was an accident. Their brittle bones break. She smiles quietly to herself, but due to the exertion...

Abruptly, she doubles over in pain and clutches her midsection.

Frantically, she looks around for a facility. Finding none - not even a Port-O-Stench, she ducks behind some bushes, where she roots around in her purse like an animal. This is not successful, so she dumps the whole thing on the ground.

We zoom onto...

A BIG-ASS PINK P*SSY HARPOON. It looks very uncomfortable but it is pink and has flowers and snappy sayings on the wrapper. This is supposed to make it good.

Furtively, she maneuvers under her Bloatzilla peasant skirt, shoving the dry cotton thing in while cussing effusively. We don't hear her over the music but we can read her lips and it's not pretty.

A man comes over with his evil spawn, covering its eyes and ears while pointing at her angrily and wagging a finger in her face. She stuffs a tampon in his mouth, then maces him with FDS. His face turns red and he runs off, horrified. She grins an evil grin.

Then, cut to a pink box of MENSTRUAL PAIN RELIEF. She starts crunching up the pills without water and chases them with some elderly, lint-covered Hershey's kisses recovered from the bottom of her purse. A visible sigh of relief, though her face is now covered with chocolate.

LADY PROBLEMS giggles, and spins, and does a pirouette, during which we see she has a big red splotch on her white pants.

There she blows
There she blows again
Leaking through that stain
And she just can't contain
This big stain that remains

Several bums passing by obviously wonder what she's on and make a run for the remnants of her purse and start eating the remaining MENSTRUAL PAIN RELIEF while she does a cartwheel of joy. Because people on their periods love to do gymnastics. Everybody knows that.

Halfway through her second cartwheel, the tampon flies out and hurtles through the air, hitting one of the bums square in the eye and knocking a squirrel out of a tree.

LADY PROBLEMS lands on her ass and dies of shame and blood loss anemia.

The screen goes black and we see a warning about TSS (Toxic Shock Syndrome):

"You can avoid any possible risk of getting tampon-associated TSS from tampons by not using tampons."



Wednesday, March 30, 2005


I'd like to shake his hand...!

There are lots of unpleasant things about riding the bus, but this guy (as well as the one I sat next to this morning, who had Tourette's), and well...not paying $2.75 at the pump, while avoiding even crazier guys panhandling while squirting your windshield with dirty water without your permission...that...kind of makes it all worthwhile.

On the ride home, I got to wondering about that man. Who is the guy who belongs to the voice which announces, "APPROACHING...MELROSE...AND BRONSON"?

Sometimes the bus drivers use this auto-announce hoopijoob when they don't feel like bellowing out, SUUUUUUNNNNSEEEEET! which is good, because most of them are kind of freaky-scary, and I couldn't understand them, anyway.

But then some of them don't use any announcements at all, which is shitty if you don't know where you're going, because, durrr, you've never been there before. So I actually quite appreciate the auto-announcer, Mysterio. Plus bus drivers tend to get surly if you ask them things, like, will they please pull forward, because they have run over your foot.

Sometimes, Auto-Announcer Guy has to say some really f---ed up shit, like, "APPROACHING...CHACACHACA AND GASSER...FOLLOWED BY...CACAPOOPOO AND HUAHUAHUAHUA *retching noise*..." or, "APPROACHING...HOOKER AND DRILLDOE."

It's a sketchy part of town, folks. What can I say.

And he does it all with a straight fac...er, straight disembodied voice. Wow!

So, AAG, I salute you...!

I would ask the bus driver who you are, but I'm not supposed to have "unnecessary conversations" with him or he will fine me $250.


Tuesday, March 29, 2005


So Jerky was edjumacating me about Korean food and what's in it and I still happily scarf it up, anyway.

Especially kim chi, which makes me gassy as all get-out and which she informs me is often fermented in a bucket under the sink next to the household cleaning products, and I still don't care.

My grandma used to grow sprouts under there.

My (Easter European, practically living in Mexico) grandma also used to pickle watermelon rind in the fridge, and I would munch it down (my dad and I are called "The Hoovers" for a reason) even though I can only imagine what kind of gas that gives you. Probably green, pickled, noxious mushroom clouds of it.

My friend Joe's mom would make green Jell-O molds with bits of canned asparagus suspended innit and the old man would slurp that stuff right up.

On my mom's side, my grandpa enjoys his Saltines in a glass of milk (eyyeccch) and he will chew, but not swallow, his meat. Apparently, my great grandma, his mom, Beullah "Missouri" Belle, told him it was bad for his digestion. Which, if you think about it, is sort of true. So growing up, I thought it was normal for people to have chewed-up balls of meat furtively stashed under the iceberg lettuce on their plates.

That is probably why I went vegetarian for 10+ years, in fact, until I left Texas.

Also, I have a sneaking suspicion that they used to eat scrambled cow brains for breakfast and liked it, but prefer not to discuss it, especially since that whole It's a Mad, Mad, Mad Cow thing. Thankfully.

I don't know if these customs are "from de old country", redneck, Mexican, or just...disgusting.

Did your grandparents do any of this or are we just nucking futs...?


Monday, March 28, 2005


I am like this superhero of clumsiness.

Last night, while looking around furiously for the source of the stanky cigarette smoke that was emanating from the new neighbor guy/guy who is fucking the new neighbor guy, I fell in the bushes and got my butt all wet.

There is nothing less delightful than a wet butt on a rainy day. Except maybe a new neighbor who, not wanting his apartment to stink, goes out on the balcony to smoke, which of course rises, and is sucked directly into YOUR apartment, so yours can reek, instead. Delightful!

I would have liked to have stepped in dog business, and then onto his face, grinding my heel into his nose, in order to show him what inhaling his stench was like, but no time - I had to go blow-dry my ass. I'll send down the welcome wagon later.

(Possibly in the form of a note suggesting that smokers in apartment buildings should only be allowed to smoke in their own cars, with all the windows rolled up, or in the street. And by that I mean in traffic. Die, smelly fuckers, die. Hey, I'm just giving them what they want, faster!)

Then, I had come slogging home in the rain only to crunch a poor snail on the sidewalk. Aaah! I hate killing snails! They are my friends! So I bent over to scrape poor dead Smedly off the sidewalk and *crunch*. Aaaah! Another gastropod dead! Oh the humanity!...*crunch* Son of a...!

*sniff* I am Pisser, Destroyer of Worlds with My Huge-Ass pontoon-feet, but I didn't mean to do it! I HATE STEPPING ON SNAILS IN THE DARK! *crunch*


I am the Godzilla of the class Gastropoda.

And earlier today, I dropped a Goldfish® on the floor, bent down, picked it up, and threw it in the trash. It hit some other trash, bouncing out of the trash again. I bent down to throw it away for the third time, picked it up, and my zipper busted. Great.

Enough of this I-Love-Lucy-but-lamer shite. I'm sick of being Miss Klutz America. Please pass me the hammer so I can attempt to pull nails out of the wall and only succeed in hitting myself upside my own head with it. That should take care of the problem, and I wouldn't have to smell smoke through the floorboards any more...!

On second thought, don't give me any hard or blunt objects. That would be just about everything. Like the time I went to answer the phone and clocked myself in the head with the receiver. Think of what I could do to the neighbor with common household goods if this is what I do to myself on a near-daily basis.

Have you ever almost put an eye out with your own knee? I hope not. It takes a special kind of stupid. Yes, that's right. I'm fucking talented. I can fall off a pebble or my own shoes. Beat that, Quasimodo Butt.

The only time the clumsiness comes in handy is when stomping and stumbling as loudly as possible on my floor, hoping to convince my malodorous downstairs neighbor to have a self-help eviction.

Now excuse me while I go shove these expired snails through Stinky McReekerson's mail slot.


Thursday, March 24, 2005


Right now
Gonna take you over

Hate baby hate...
You're only human
What can you do
It'll soon be over
Don't let your pain take over you

Dude. It's like, when they wrote that, they were thinking about this new Aqua-Velva commercial, i.e. 30 Seconds of Hell. It does pain me. It's fukkin' killing me, dyuuuude.


It's like that, but worse.

Agggh...! Who wrote this? Manhattan Transfer?! And what's with the "jazzy" choral arrangement?! Damn thing sounds like it was ripped right out of the 70's, but without a trace of irony.

Plus the oversexed voice over lady (just what the world needs - another oversexed woman) says "...that MANLY SCENT." Which immediately makes me think of the smell of balls. Yack. Let the slut HAVE her ball-sack smelling face. See if I care...!

It grates on me, folks. And who wears AQUA VULVA, anyway (besides Jason Champine of Royal Oak, Michigan)?! What a tool.

If Wet Vulva Co., Inc. is really shooting for a "younger, hipper" market, they sure as shit missed the mark with this fucked-up smooth jazz choral craptacular and Mr. Innocent Boring Golf Dad model. But what did you really expect from the makers of Just For Men® (whose super-annoying "no play for Mr. Gray!" spots - target market: divorced men trying to fuck much younger women - feature a guy dying his stupid 70's beard, so that he then looks like the same dorky guy, but with a different colored beard. I just LUNGE for men who use hair color on their FACE, don't you?!) and Brylcreem® (which apparently is trying to garner favor with the S&M market)? Anyway, I only wear Old Spice men's B.O. De-O, 'cuz I like my pits to smell like Grandpa Hollis.

Die, smelly sexist stuck-in-the-vulva-of the 70's pigfuckers, die.

I am really going to have to stop watching TV just to avoid this real dog's butt of a commercial.

That, and the way Tim Green's thin upper lip moves (or doesn't move) when he says "A Current Affair."



Wednesday, March 23, 2005


We get the strangest things in the mail.

Some postcards we have received...

Yeah, right.

I love this company's mailings, and want this on a t-shirt. Didn't know people got so devastated about leaks unless they were...y'know. Personal. Or Liberace.

And speaking of geldings...

Win a Spanish horse? Is that like, Spanish fly, with the thinger to go with it?

This woman looks entirely too happy about being "mounted". I am alarmed...are they background checking the "lucky" winner for a history of bestiality?! Note to self: Call Society Trying to Outlaw Inappropriate Thingies During Insane Crazy Kontests (STOPITDICK).

Next, these alarming pamphlets direct to you from the L. Ron Hubbleheads, who are still trying to get to one of our employees who dropped them for basically being a giant pyramid scheme. Unless they are now trying to get to me, in which case, knock it off, Jenna Elfman - I told you I cancelled my Earthlink account!

Is there something wrong with this picture, or is it just me...?

These women holding the thing always look blissfully, blissfully happy.

Here's another one:

Is that an e-meter, or are you just happy to see me?

She looks a little too happy if you ask me.

Though if those engram dealies are designed by Pleasure Chest, I'm starting to see Scientology's appeal.* And apparently, I'm not the only one who's noticed this sketchwad female phenomenon...why don't they ever show a guy smiling while getting e-felched, huh...? Tom Cruise: this means you.

*Too bad they cost like $3000.


Tuesday, March 22, 2005


I am guilty of watching the nanny shows again, both ABC's Supernanny and FOX's rip-off, Nanny 911.

ABC's is a far superior show (I'm not just saying that because I have a giant lesbian crush on this woman), and besides, they didn't steal the idea from the other network, right down to the British Isles nannies. Yet both shows fascinate and perplex me. A) Because I have absolutely no concept of proper child-rearing, and B) because neither of them are anything like the show I was thinking of pitching.

I'm afraid that my show, SuperPisser 911, would only find a market in Japan, where they are both hilariously random and strong on discipline. Actually, in Japanese, "SuperPisser 911" translates literally as Why You Have So Many Kids, Anyway?!

But instead of making kids go sit in "The Naughty Closet/Room/Stoop/Rug/Trash Can", I would make them go to hell.

Also, since I don't really understand how the nanny convinces an already misbehaving child to stay on "The Naughty Step", I would have to nail them there.

Don't get all puffed up, I'd use carpet nails. Sheesh.

But not before strapping them into their chairs for dinner, so they could not escape. I would use "The Naughty Rope/Tree/Gallows/Machete".

Rather than complaining that the kids were on a sugar high all day, which makes them even more obnoxious than usual, I'd happily eat all their snacks while popping their Ritalin like a Desperate Housewife, except fat. Then, at mealtimes, they would not complain about having to eat my used tofu refuse, 'cuz they'd be ravenous.

Afterwards, instead of admonishing the kids for playing in the street, I would encourage them to "go play in traffic."

It worked for my parents and it works for me.

When I wanted to go shopping, instead of subjecting the huddled masses to my screaming brood, I'd have them go play with their little friends by asking them, "if Timmy jumps off a high bridge, does that mean you'll do it, too?" That way, I wouldn't need a sitter.

I'd also have them "go suck an egg" and "ask someone who cares", "go jump in a lake", and "go chase yourself", which would keep them happily occupied for hours.

That way, they'd be too tired from chasing themselves and egg-sucking to give me any guff.

I realize that some would consider this child abuse. That is why I do not have children. I am not allowed. But I think we can all agree that the kids on these shows are not responding to conventional methods. They need DISCIPLINE...! Discipline, and duct tape. And a lethal dose of Shutupazone.

The parents need discipline, too. One or both of them must undergo a tubal ligation/vasectomy by the end of each show, depending on who is the worst parent. Then, as a prize, I give them a kick in the pants and a nice pineapple.

Now before you hate me for hating kids, please consider this. I don't really hate them. I just hate loud noises. I like kids. Especially somebody else's. So much, in fact, that I am calling Child Protective Services on both shows for child abuse. You heard me. I believe that it is child abuse to show your kids toilet training on national television. How would you feel if, at your high school graduation ceremony, or at age 37, for your bachelor party, someone had gotten ahold of a DVD of Nanny 911 showing you doing "The Poopy in the Potty Dance" with some bint in a cape?!

Not good, that's how.

However, there is one point on which Supernanny 911 and Why You Have So Many Kids, Anyway?! agree. The commercials.

Last night during Supernanny, I noticed that FOX runs Ortho-Novum ads for their new birth control pill.


Thank you.


Sunday, March 20, 2005


There was a superbootytastic songstress/diva in to work today, but she didn't stay long because her voice was "not good".

I wish I was a pissylicious diva.

I could come in to work and stay for 2 minutes and then leave because I was "not good". Except I would be REALLY "not good", not just "not good" because my voice was tired and I needed to check myself before I wrecked myself, vocally.

And they'd gone and made fruit platters and everything.

But then...

This happens to me only very seldom, but I am in total awe.

He was here. CHET. Chet was here...! Eeeee...! Be still, my weirdo heart!

He also made this.

This man is my IDOL...!

I am such a geek right now, I could just piss myself. Be still, my beating tard...oh, f---- it (beating anyway).

Note: If you are not a child of the 80's, I wouldn't expect you to understand.


Friday, March 18, 2005


Isn't it odd that it takes something like a power outage to get us to act like normal, social human beings...?

When I used to live in this crackhouse in Hollywood, our power went out approximately every 30 minutes, but that was okay, because we had free cable. Not that there was any power on to watch it with, but still. Free...!

You could hear everyone in the whole ghetto shoebox building going, "BOOOOO! WAAAAAH...!" when the power went off and "YAY! WOOOOOO...!" when it came back on. And one time, a guy ran up and down the courtyard yelling, "I HAVE NO PANTS!", but that's another story.

Anyway, it was the strongest sense of community I felt there, during those power outages, until the management hired the Taliban to be our new apartment managers. We were all in the same leaky, sinking, crusty, stinking boat.

Everyone would gather in the courtyard and talk when the lights went off. That's kind of what we had going at work today, except we had donuts, dogs, and fire hazard votives lit in the bathroom so we could pee by candlelight. It was very romantical!

Then we went to breakfast while we waited two more hours for CPS to even decide to show up, and the boss had buggered off somewhere. I could hang with this every day.

Except that my brain cannot deal with the fact that there is no electricity, and the voices...the voices again...

ME: Oh, poop. The power's out.
SELF: You know, this isn't such a bad thing. People used to do quite well without lighting. Electrical appliances weren't even widely introduced until the 40's. Surely you, even in your limited mental capacity, can find some way to amuse yourself.
ME: I know! I'll use the computer...!
SELF: You can't do that.
ME: Huh...? But WHY not?!
SELF: Computer requires electricity.
ME: Aw, damn! Well, I'll call someone.
SELF: Phone also requires the use of electricity.
ME: It DOES?! But I thought it ran on...I don't know...phone juice.
SELF: You're really quite daft. (For some reason, my Self has a British accent.)
ME: Well ha ha, Self, you think you're so smart...I have...a CELL PHONE! whips it out
SELF: Mmm hrm. Guess who forgot to charge it last night?
CELL PHONE: *bleep* It dies.
ME: Oh yeah, Smarty Trousers?! I also have...A CHARGER! Plugs it in and stares at it for five minutes while nothing happens. Oh...damn.
SELF: Dear Lord, this child is dense. Sprays Me in the face with Lysol to test reflexes
ME: Unfazed...blinks I know! Let's go nuke a burrito...! Very dim bulb appears over head and then fizzles and dies.
SELF: *sigh*

Durrrrr. How are all your brains werking today?

Is the light on, but no one's home? Is the wheel still turning, but the hamster's dead...? Is there a naked loony in the henhouse, but no one's making enchiladas?!

I have no idea what I meant by that.

Do you...?


Thursday, March 17, 2005


Lately, I seem to be talking to myself a lot. I find this habit alarming.

I even find myself recapping to others the conversations I've had with myself, which is just queer, and think:

ME: Hey! We're talking to ourselves...!
SELF: No shit, Turdburglar Brain. Where'd you burgle that pea-brain from anyway, a cat? Because it's about the size of a wad of used chewing gum.
ME: Hey! Be nice to Me, Self.
SELF: Whatever you say, boss.
ME: Haven't you seen those SIMPSONS episodes where Homer threatens his brain by stabbing it with Q-tips or killing it with beer...?
SELF: Suits me.
ME: I mean, you should feel sorry for me when I can't remember shit, and have to ask you.
SELF: Well, somebody's got to remember stuff around here.
ME: Like this...?

ME: Hey...*why* are we mad at her again...?
SELF: Because of that guy we used to date.
ME: Is that the only reason? 'Cuz that's stupid.
SELF: No. She sucked a lot before that guy came along. It was just one of many reasons why we dumped her ass. We gave her lots of chances not to suck. On numerous occasions, she could have not sucked. But instead, she chose, indeed, to suck. I stand by my decision.
ME: Oh, yeah...you were right, Self!
SELF: Yeah. She was sucktastic.
ME: Thanks...!

So sometimes we get along. But mostly we argue. In fact, we have the same argument every morning:

ALARM: Bleep...!
SELF: Nooooo...!
ME: Noooooooooo...!
SELF: Get up.
ME: Noooo! Can't we call in sick?
ME: Yes!
SELF: No! Need dough!
ME: D'OH!!!
SELF: Must buy kibble. Must pay vet bills! Cats control my brain...!

And it continues, over:

ME: Huh? Why did I come here? *scratch scratch*
SELF: Don't do that in public...!
ME: Sorry. It itches. What do we need, again...?
SELF: Why don't you ever make a list?
ME: I can remember...
SELF: Yeah, right.
ME: ________. ...what do we need, again...?
SELF: Tortillas. We need tortillas.
ME: Hey...!
SELF: Now what is it?
ME: These tortillas are BROWN!
SELF: So...?
ME: We need FLOUR tortillas.
SELF: Flour is brown. What else would it be? Corn?
ME: Oh.
SELF: Moron.

And finally, in the liquor aisle...

ME: I know! Let's buy some SCOTCH!
SELF: Do you really think that's a good idea?
ME: Assballutely...!
SELF: I think this is maybe one of the reasons why you need help from me.
ME: HEY...!
SELF: I'm afraid to ask. What brilliant revelation have you had now...?
ME: It says MADE IN SCOTLAND. Scotch is from SCOTLAND...?
SELF: ...
ME: That's why they call it SCOTCH?! 'Cuz it's...uh, SCOTCH?!?
SELF: Surely you knew that. It's elementary, my dear Watson.
ME: I did not know that! Who's Watson...?
SELF: *sigh*
ME: WOW! Scotch is neat!
SELF: Oh, fuck it. What say we have some of that now? Muttering I've gotta get outta here, find myself a new body...this kid has got shit-for-brains.
ME: Cheers...!
BOTH: Aaaaaah. At last, we agree.


Wednesday, March 16, 2005


Callers I hate:

Plain Old Fashioned Wrong Numbers: damn it, my name is not Pedro, and I do not mow lawns. Now stop calling here or I'll send some nasty broad over there to professionally munch your rug.

Missed Callers. These are personally my least favorite. People who say, "you called me?" when what came up on their caller ID was the main company number, so it could have been anyone in the entire building. Some of them are even hostile about it, and/or don't speak English...why jou call me here, Juan Carlos?!

Then you have to spend five minutes explaining that, a) no me llamo Juan Carlos, porque no tengo un pene, and b) I did not call you. You called me. KNOCK IT OFF-!

Phone Trash - this is of course everything from people looking for jobs to telephone solicitors of all varieties. These are obnoxious. Salesmen are the worst. Especially the ones who don't ask, but DEMAND to speak to the person in charge of janitorial services, etc. As if you are going to tell them who that would be. However, I do on occasion, if that particular employee happens to chap my hide. I'm very democratic that way.

Redundant Message-Leavers. The ones who call all the time and leave a message on your cell phone, but it's always the same, i.e. Hi. This is StupidBoringPerson. Give me a call. This has no real information, therefore why should I call you? And why are you wasting my valuable cell phone minutes just so I can check your useless message? NO CALL FOR YOU-!

Nosey Neds - callers who ask, is Gino there? No, Neddy Nadsucker, I do not know if Gino has finally decided to grace us with his presence, because I am NOT Gino. And Gino is not me. It wasn't my turn to watch him, and I have no idea what is going on on other peoples' desks because I am unfortunately not omniscient.

Unless you are interested in who he fooled around with after the last company party, in which case I can help you.

Babblers and Dawdlers - people who take entirely too long to spit out what they are going to say. This category is inclusive of those who are driving while fiddling with the radio and blasting LOUD music in my ear, as well as those who just aren't sure what they want and/or couldn't be articulate if I slapped every syllable out of them.

And yes, this is up to and including people who eat Doritos in my ear and the pricks in suits who I can TELL are calling from the "executive washroom", because I can hear the urinal flushing - QUIT IT, you sick frat-boys-turned-CEOS! You are disgusting, boorish fucks and your wives and children hate you, too!

Obscene callers. Especially at work, where you're not expecting it, and you think they're a Dawdler, but when they finally do speak, they blurt something about bending you over your desk, and before you can think of a clever retort, you hang up because you are too flustered and the background noise you formerly thought was fumbling turns out to be furtive whacking. GAH!!!

Prisoners. People who call from a prison phone. Self-explanatory.

Scammers. These may also be Prisoners. If you get a collect call and/or hear a message that says this person is calling from a prison phone/the Los Angeles County Corrections Department, this is most likely what you are dealing with. Do not humor them. If they ask you for the numbers on your copier, ask you to dial 9 for them (so they can call Tokyo) or claim to have your lost pet (in PRISON?! Man, Fluffy had a rough night!) do NOT respond! I don't care if you're elderly, doddering, and gullible. No good can come of conversing with a man who has been institutionalized, unless you are really that hard up. And under NO circumstances should you participate in phone sex with this person, even if the operator tells you that you are helping to catch a felon.*

BEWARE of the phone. If you think any of the above is bad, consider this: people will break into your house while you are at a funeral and make long-distance calls to Guyana.*

*True, first-person story from a good-hearted but very silly friend. And the Lost Cat thing? Happened to me. And the Guyana thing? My mom. FUN.

Maybe it's better just not to answer it.

The phone is a dangerous instrument, folks. Even now, I am eying it leerily. Before you use it, especially for business purposes, please take a moment and collect your thoughts, get rid of the background noise, and decide what you're going to say before you waste everyone's time and become a burr on the ass of phone-answering society. And stop whacking!

As for you answerers, if in doubt, just assume it is an obscene, whacking AND whacked caller, calling collect from a prison phone in Guyana. And he does NOT have your cat.

That way, if it isn't an obscene caller from a prison psych ward on Guyana who does NOT have your cat, you are pleasantly surprised.

Thank you.


Monday, March 14, 2005


I spent way too long in a dentist's office last week reading trashy magazines. Hoo boy, did it gave me a headache.

However, before experiencing near-brain death, I had the following observations:

I would really like to see a so-called "star" who didn't have to go out and get some overbred, undernourished dog from an evil breeder who has bred the brain and the hair right off the pooch. I would much rather see them with some kind of wonderful, rescued mutt in tow, preferably taking a big, steaming dump right on the red carpet.

Or, if they absolutely must buy while shelter animals die, like the superficial bitches they are, trying to use a poor animal to make them feel special and exotic, because THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING special about them as a person...ahem... one of these.

Similarly, I would really like to see a "star" who didn't seem to have to wear diamonds - ideally one who would wear only designers who don't use fur and only gemstones that aren't evil, evil lies mined by an even more evil monopolistic industry.

Grrrawddoggnuggetdamnit. But probably they'll just find some new and exotic breed that shits diamonds and pees Cristal. And then when they get tired of it, they can have it killed and make themselves a coat.

Then I read an article in The New York Times this weekend discussing the increasing number of women heading to the altar already puffed up. Apparently it's the newest fashion accessory - a big bloated baby bump! Great. Something else for women to be bitchy and competitive over - they have to have the rings, the place settings, the parties, the china, the fabulous honeymoon suites - and now a pre-packaged baby?! As if brides weren't scary enough as it is, Starzilla. I am horrified by this vision of behemoths in white, striving for a shotgun wedding because it's just just another added "accessory" (which a pet or a child should never be), something else for them to acquire for absolutely the wrong reasons. Is it not enough for these scary creatures to have a big, white dress and a big, white rock...they have to have a big, white ass too? Ugh. Ptooey.

And speaking of Starzilla, Bride of Al-Frankenstein...which is another quote I saw in STAR REFUSE Magazine (I think they dig through their trash!) Quoth the seedy "reporter", Star would get breast-mangling surgery if need be because, get this, "breasts are important to Al."

*blank look*

I can just see him in the Big Gay Mr. USA pageant, during the eensity speaking part of the competition: My name is Al, and my cause - what's really important to me - is world peace, gun control, literacy, racial tolerance...and BOOBIES.


Lastly, one more quote from the brain-dead of America: Mary-Kate-Jessica-Ashlee-Lindsay-Yum-Yum-Lopez loves clothes and isn't afraid to wear them.

*blank look*

*slaps self in forehead*

What the hell is wrong with people?

Why the hell do I keep reading this shit?!



So I survived it, like a bad movie sequel.

That's right, kids. Penis Week was not quite over yet.

Does it ever seem to you like all your ex-boyfriends* (*or whatever that was) seem to rear their ugly heads, one after another, in the space of the same week - like zits when you're menstrual...?

Is this a function of an oddball lunar cycle - some weirdo cosmic debris, astropoo, or what?

It happens every so often. Fortunately not that often, but often enough to make me wonder what the hell I did to the universe to deserve such retribution. Did I take a giant dump and send it into space? Maybe.

During a previous unwarranted invasion, one even had the nerve to call me out of nowhere - I hadn't spoken to him in years - and say that he was about to leave town and "would like to get naked." Ugggh - excuse me, but why is that my problem? You had your chance. Now here's $50, go and buy yourself a blow job. *shudder*

Then this past week, I heard from all the exes except one. I think he really pissed someone off by messing with me 'cuz now he's in Iraq. Kidding. I hope not. Although he definitely needs to be kept away from women.

However, I was not only the un-proud recipient of nekkid photos from one ex, I had a near-booty call from another. It seems I had forgotten his birthday (YES! Finally! I was feeling quite smug with myself for that.)

Yeah, so it was his birthday. And like myself, some folks feel lower than pond scum around that time. And sure, yeah, they think that because it is their birthday, they need to get laid. Perfectly understandable.

He was having a party. So I tried begging off by saying that I'd gained around 50 lbs. since he last saw me, which is mostly true, but that didn't work. All he said was, "gee, honey, your boobs look HUGE!" Crap. I also tried not smelling so good. Maybe he can't smell, because he told my ride he could "leave the Mrs." Yikes.

But mostly I just felt sorry for him. Besides myself and the friend I invited along, no one, NO ONE was there who was in his life just a few years ago. Which kind of made me pity him a little, if you can really pity someone with 3 houses and 9 cars.

Well, as much as I could pity someone with multiple properties and no shortage of scantily clad tanorexic biker women, who has BLEACHED HIS HEAD in some sort of mid-life-crisisy fit...well, I did.

(Last time he bleached his head, I wanted to put a life-sized cardboard cutout of Colonel Sanders on his doorstep, ring the doorbell, and run away - but he still wouldn't get the hint.)

So I went, and calmly regarded the similarly bleached blonde - a cute little cow, kind of Mira-Sorvinoish but with a vaguely sad, donkey-faced expression (probably because she found me highly suspicious, which was right!) who was cutting his birthday cake I think she made from scratch, and ridiculously overdressed for a casual party - silky skirt, pantyhose, and spike heels with obligatory trashy ankle bracelet. She was as frilly and frothy and devoid of real substance as the cake. I thought to myself, a) hey, Self, I don't know if you've noticed this, but men in a mid-life crisis have no taste, and b) there but for the grace of God go I.

Well, there, but for the donkey face, and minus about 50 lbs.

Thank you, Jeebus*, for saving me from The Peroxide Head Man. Dude has a plan.

Hooray for closure!

*Sorry, I'm Jewish.


Friday, March 11, 2005


Note to Future Interior Designers of America: the area directly outside the restrooms and facing the Men's is not a good place for a lounge.

Why, do you ask...?

Well, because when I am sitting there, trying to quietly check my bank balance (or lack thereof) over the phone, the door swings wide open as people walk in and out of the men's room. And when they do, I subconsciously feel it would be rude not to flash a polite smile and perhaps a little reflexive wave. And then I feel like an idiot because I realize I've just waved to a man who has just peed and is still zipping up, as if to say, Hi! I know you've just been pissing and all, but still-! Whew! That was awkward! I see you're at half-mast! Nice one, Steve! Um. Hi!!!

And because I just can't help it, my renegade eyeball travels past him and to the guys who are still standing at the urinals, apparently chatting away with their junk out, which I think is just weird.

I have consulted the 5 other ladies in the building and they have confirmed this design flaw. It's really not our faults. We aren't perverted or anything, just trying to use the phone in semi-privacy while inadvertently violating everybody else's. Believe, the last thing we wanted to feast our eyes on were the baggy backsides of a bunch of you "Men at Work".

What are you guys doing in there, anyway...?


Thursday, March 10, 2005


Find out what it means to me.

It is Penis Week here at The Pissed Kitty Cometh.

You are all going to think I've taken a big horndog horse pill, as the male member seems to be the running theme this week, but that is not the case...I was simply doing a bit of research as requested by Non-Girlfriend when I came up with this dang lame name game.

But first, a bit of background material:

Non-Girlfriend: Is "peni" REALLY the plural form of "penis"? Inquiring minds want to know.
Me: Gee, NG, I do not know that. I must find out...!
Dictionary.com: pe·nis n. pl. pe·nis·es or pe·nes
MerriamWebster.com: Inflected Form(s): plural pe·nes /'pE-(")nEz/; or pe·nis·es
Me: Excuse me, waiter, but these penes are inflected...
Etymology: Latin, penis, tail; akin to Old High German faselt penis, Greek peos
Me: Excuse me, Sir(s)...but your tail(s) are on backwards...!
AcronymFinder.com: PENIS is also an acronym for:

Spectroscopy (NMR technique)

Me: Do you think they did that on purpose...? And of COURSE it's a weapon...grrr.

But, huh! I did not know that. And when have you ever heard anyone say, hey, Lorena! Slap some penes on the barbie...!? Or, Mission Control, the P.E.N.I.S. will engage in T-3, 2, 1...? Only never, that's when. Tsk, tsk.

Well, enough about them. You know what they say...too many cocks spoil the soup. (They're kind of stringy.)

But hey. Learning is fun!

Hrm. I wonder if *I* am an acronym for anything. Let's see...why, yes! I am an acronym for:

Rapidly Adapting Receptors
Rarotonga, Cook Islands - Rarotonga (Airport Code)
Real Aperture Radar
Recorded Accomplishment Rate
Refund-Anticipated Return
Release After Reception (token ring, IEEE 802.5)
Remedial Action Report
Remote Access Router (DSL Modem/ router)
Report of Actual Reimbursements
Rescue and Recovery
Resource Adapter Archive (J2EE)
Resource Allocation Request
Revenue Agent Report (US IRS)
Revise As Required
Rhodesian African Rifles
Roshal Archive (compressed file format; file extension)
Royal Australian Regiment
Runway Acceptance Rate

Pretty accurate, I would say. Ta-da...!

Or, make your own freakin' meme.

What about your name and/or initials...? Or fake name? Or dog's name, even? Is it a pretty accurate description of what you (or your dog) does in life...?

Go here...put 'em in, and lemme know what comes out.

Hopefully not any penii penes penises.


Wednesday, March 09, 2005


This morning - a jackhammer. That's what I like to hear before 9:00 a.m.

- A client (dialogue editor?) saying, "keep the 'teat', lose the 'rugmuncher'."

That actually is what I like to hear before 9:00 a.m.

In other body part and profanity news, I think I have finally dissuaded the lovelorn perv e-mailer of phantom d*ck photos by semi-reciprocating with pictures of: my elbow, a sandwich, and a cow tongue, respectively. Don't ask.

(Thanks to Avatar for the cow tongue and the crafty p*nis "disguise"!)

If the collection doesn't get rejected by the anonymous d*ck censors at my photo hosting dealy, it is posted here for all interested parties. Happy heckling, and happy t*at and r*gm*nching, d*cksm*ckers...!


Tuesday, March 08, 2005


What do you do when your ex-what-the-hell-was-he-anyway?, totally unprovoked, starts sending you nekkid pictures of his nibs?! Among other things....?

Do you:
~forward them to your girlfriends with accompanying "eeeeee!" commentary?
~forward them to your boyfriend?
~make a lovely online photo album for all your friends and family to enjoy?
~put 'em in Photoshop and draw funny mustaches on their genitals?
~print 'em out and send 'em to his mom?
~print 'em out and mail 'em to his current girlfriend?
~use 'em as cover art for your new band's breakout CD, Rejected Crotch?
~go home and take unflattering photos of your hamhocks in order to discourage him?
~tell him you have recently become impregnated, infected, or transgendered...?
~tell him that you actually bore his child four years ago and named him "Smedly" and that he owes back child support...?
~send him assorted images of other people's rump roast just to see what he'll do next?
~it's not like he'd recognize yours, anyway. He was drunk for those 2 yrs.
~put 'em in the cat box and survey your cats' opinion of said photos?

Hrm. 'Tis a quandary.

What would you do...?

For the record, I have already done 1-4.


Friday, March 04, 2005


They say that some people are so interesting that they could publish their grocery lists and others would read 'em.

I am not one of those people.


I do buy some weird-ass groceries though. For example, look at the bullshit they print on some of these labels:

On Silver Palate Oatmeal: SPLENDIDLY NUTRITIOUS and "...the nut-like flavor [ew!] of these memorable whole-grain oats are a delight to eat...these rougher, thicker oats cook up to a texture that provides sheer breakfast pleasure..." Plus is has a recipe for "Outrageous Granola."

I'm sorry, but I just don't get all that excited about oatmeal.

And also, on a can of organic baked beans: High in fiber, fat free, vegetable kingdom nourishment. Grown and processed for great taste, better nutrition, easy meals, and peace of mind. [WOW! All that from BEANS?] EDEN® offers only sincere food.

Okay, I don't know if I'm comfortable with my food having emotions. I just want it to make me take a sincere dump...! Isn't it bad enough that my yogurt is a "live and active culture?" Is that supposed to sound appetizing?! Yuck. I don't know about eating things that are alive, but I don't really like them to be dead, either - the reason I am starting to like Chik'n better than chicken. Oh, and these are great. Or should I say, they are a memorable Chik'n experience...?!

I am just waiting for the description, General Mills Donkey Doots™ are a REVELATION in food! They will make an orgasm of ecstasy and bliss ripple throughout your every nerve cell until you take a big dump of joy! to appear on a package.

I think they should start phrasing product descriptions as follows:

Here is some fake vegetable stuff in a box for you. Eat it! It is good. Plus it comes with no bonus dead animal parts* like bones or teeth. Yak.

*Or yak.

Hooray! It will not make you sick. Food is good to eat!



In response to Autumn's sound spanking of the "Ask Men" site, which our friend J astutely observed, "leans a little to the Leykis" (no link for THAT flaming a-hole), I propose this retaliatory solution.

For any men who are inclined to utilize his numeric system of rating women, "she's a solid 9", etc., we shall be forced to employ the following methodology:

1) Find the pig.
2) Strip the pig.
3) Brand the pig's forehead with a big "PIG" tattoo.
3) Okay, so number 3's a little illegal. Sigh. Unfortunate.
4) Observe the pig's pathetic excuse for his manhood. If it becomes erect in the process, cover it with Limburger cheese (via slingshot-like contraption) and bring out the bitey rats. Repeat if necessary.
5) Measure the hog's narsty schlong with a ten food pole marked with 1/2 micrometer increments. (Resort to microscopy if Mr. Wiggles is too diminutive for the pole method.)
6) Note the resultant number.
7) Proceed to refer to Pig by this number, ex. "he's a 0.5", or "he's a 0000.14."
8) Grin an evil grin.

Happy weekend, ladies and non-piggymen!


Thursday, March 03, 2005


*not an actual vet. Stands for Deceased Vaginal Marmoset.

Please, for the love of cheese, people. When you have a veterinary emergency, don't fuck'n write to a message board. Take Fluffy to the hospital or I will personally send a courier from KickYoAss Messaging to give you a big boot in the butt. Which you will then have to pay to have removed, while Fluffy's at the vet.

We have been having our share of weird medical issues lately. For example, Zippy's [WARNING: BARF ATTACK] claws have been growing into his feet. I have had this cat 16 yrs. and have never heard of such a thing, but I think when you get old your body starts doing some freaky shit. (My grandpa says, "tell me about it!" He has grown this one long, curly eyebrow.)

The vet tech says ingrown claws are not all that uncommon, especially in older, indoor cats. Sometimes they don't groom as well as they used to or their claws don't wear down enough. She called his freaky paws "rollerblades".

The really stupid part is that I used to trim his claws once a month for my comfort, so he wouldn't tear me a new one. I guess we're going back to our friend, Mr. Clippers.

He is all fixed up now and enjoys bitch-slapping me repeatedly before 7 a.m. on a daily basis, but do check all your kitty's claws regularly (including the dew claws on the front legs) and any extra toes she may have, as well.

I felt just terrible when I finally noticed the problem, but he was acting perfectly normal and I didn't think to look until I saw some blood on the bedspread that wasn't mine.

There are real and imagined cat problems, folks. I have had two extremely naïve and alarmed first-time cat owners call asking what was wrong with their cats, i.e. HELP! SOMETHING CAME OUT OF MY CAT...!

In these cases, respectively, the "things" were:
a) a hairball. Cats puke. They do that.
b) a Texas blind snake. This did not come out of the cat. It had gotten in under the door and was cruising around the apt. Nice.

Then, this morning Cranky calls in a panic, "help! My cat is acting weird!"

Now this has happened to me before. Once my neighbor came over in tears, also crying, "help! My cat is acting weird!"

In both instances, I looked at them and said, "uh. Yeah. It's a cat."

Cats, like women, are weird. That is why we love them.

But I have been perusing veterinary sites on the off chance that I could find an article on Weird Cat Syndrome.

Sadly, I didn't find it, but I did find all these issues. I paraphrase, of course, but the questions are real.


DISCLAIMER: The answers to these real-life questions are mine and are not considered sound medical advice. Do not attempt.

Q: Kitty was recently running all around the house in a disoriented state, urinating randomly. (The vet called this "drunken and disorderly conduct".)

A: Stop giving him beers.

Q: There is a hole in my cat. Is this normal?

A: I don't know...let's see. How does the hole I just made in your sack feel to you, Captain Braniac...?

Q: (Re: catching their cat masturbating - yes! And they get acne, too!) Our cat is behaving inappropriately with a blanket. He can get rather annoyed when we try to interrupt him, but when observed it must be stopped. I have on occasion turned him over to inspect his penis and just as expected it is erect and there is some discharge.

A: What else did you EXPECT to see, Mrs. DumbAss - you damn pre-vert!? Leave Tiger alone...he needs his privacy! How would you like it if he caught YOU flicking your Bic® and made YOU stop...?

People like you are the kind whut breed axe murderers.

Q: Dear "Dr." Pisser, My cat DingDong has been having attacks where she has major arguments with her tail. She growls, hisses, sometimes bites and occasionally runs in circles.

A: Dear Mama DingDong, I'm very sorry to break this to you, but your cat is retarded. In the future, please do not keep a brother and sister cat together in the same room and allow them to breed.

Q: I recently got married and my new husband brought his 5-year old cat with him. She has decided to use my love seat as a scratching post, and has a VERY nasty habit of wolfing down her food only to vomit it up later on my carpet, my bed, my bathroom floor, wherever. I have caught her scratching the love seat several times and have taken her over to the scratching post we have provided, but she's not interested. I have also tried squirting her when caught with a water pistol, and yelling at her - and I've even tried soaking the part she scratches with ammonia as a deterrent. Nothing works! She's driving me crazy and I'm about ready to give her her marching orders. I know it sounds crazy but I think she does it on purpose - she likes to vomit on my bed or on the carpet near where I usually sit. Since she's been an outdoor cat (and she does have 24-hour-a-day outside access at my house as well) my husband has refused to have her declawed - he thinks it's cruel. Can you shed any light on why she behaves this way and what, if anything, can be done about it? She isn't making herself the most popular member of our household. - Alice

A: Alice - you are a fucking neurotic, intensely irritating cunt. I don't know how women like you manage to get married except that men like your husband obviously were raised by nasty, abusive mothers and therefore think that you are normal. That is why Kitty hates you. I hate you, too. Please kill yourself immediately so that Kitty and her daddy can be happy instead of having to miserably co-exist with such a high-strung twat.

Oh yeah, and before you off yourself, try hacking off the upper thirds of your fingers, because that is what declawing is. That is why it is now illegal in some of our more enlightened cities. Hurts real bad, doesn't it? Good. Now please die.

Thank you.

Ahem. In almost all cases, the real answers were:

- Take your cat to the vet.

- Take your cat to the vet.

- Take your cat to the vet.

However, there were also some unconventional solutions proposed. Such as getting Kitty's head examined, sending Kitty to a kitty head doctor, or prescribing kitty Prozac.

Goooood. Too bad they don't have Kitty Asylum™, a miniature padded room, because that is what I think these people really need. And possibly one for themselves.

But my favorite doctor's "solution" in regard to behavioral problems is to use an AIR HORN. An AIR HORN...! I can just see it now:

OWNER: NO, Mr. Timples! Pumping your little red Christmas light into my bedclothes is BAD!
KITTY: Mrrrooooowwwr! starts crab-walking toward his owner looking extremely poofed-up and ominous
KITTY: MrrrowwwrrrrRRRROOOWWWRRR!! severs owner's femoral artery in attempt to stop the evil blasting honking noise
OWNER: (croaks)
KITTY: (eats his left buttock with great gusto!)

Yeah, Dr. Doom. That's a good idea...!

Come closer. I want to tell you something.






Wednesday, March 02, 2005


The chair is not my son. Hee, hee! - Michael Jackson

I am, I said! To no one there. And no one heard at all, not even the chair. - Neil Diamond

Well, last night I got my ass kicked by wicker. And I think I'm having a nervous breakdown.

See, there was this beat-up wicker chair out on the curb and I wanted it. I really, really wanted it. Sure it was ugly. Sure the butt-spot was sunken in. But it was spacious and palatial. And it wasn't really for me. It was for the cat.

Yes, I know I can get wicker at Pier I, but do you know how expensive that shit is? I bought a wicker over-the-toilet-thingy (or étagère, for you snooty types) there and some chairs, and Katina has gone to town clawing the over-the-toilet-thingy, and I've come to find out the chair frames are made of plastic painted over to look like bamboo. !@#%$$$!

So I knew my cats would love the (free!) wicker chair. Plus it already smelled like cat pee, which was perfect.

And since I am the Carless Wonder, and could not get any of my suck-ass friends to pick me up, except for two whose trunk doors were beaten in and wouldn't open, I decided my only choice was to try to lug the thing home. It's wicker, right? Not heavy, right?


The thing had a pretty sturdy frame. I would say it's at least 75 lbs. And even with my powerful hindquarters, I could only drag the thing about thirty feet at a time. It was a lost cause.

So if you saw a woman grunting and heaving a huge-ass bitchsmacking piece of wicker on her back like a Pier I Mutant Ninja Turtle shell, and dodging traffic while trying to be inconspicuous, and furtively making phone calls to ex-boyfriends with trucks while expecting one of the nearby homeowners to come out at any minute and say, "what are you DOING? You can't be here! Get that thing off my lawn!" and call the police on her, uh, yeah. That was me.

In the end I had to cut and run, stashing it in some bushes. I'm afraid my beautiful wicker cat mecca might be forever lost to us. And I might even get a fine for littering. Which would just be the diarrhea icing on the crap cake that is my life.

I haven't been this depressed since I tried to move my glass table top by myself. (I almost killed myself moving it; it stayed intact until the very last minute; I cut my hands; the a-hole neighbor wouldn't let me unload on "his" curb, and then the cops came and told me I couldn't unload in a red zone, even though the only other place was 2000 feet away; it broke.)

Maybe I should stop looking at the ugly-ass wicker chair as a metaphor for my life. Smelly. Alone. Rejected. And abandoned in some bushes. It doesn't get to ride in a car, either. It is too fat to fit in the door. No family to call its own. And any minute now, a dog will probably lift its leg on it.

That chair and I were meant for each other. Sob. Well, at least it's not unwanted.

Lucky motherfucking chair.


Tuesday, March 01, 2005


We had a famous Latin American actress in for a session the other day. She kept calling because she was lost. I was attempting to help her but she chapped my hide. It went something like this:

LATINA DIVA: 'elp! I am loss!
ME: Where are you?!
LD: Ay em on Cleenton St.
ME: Go down Melrose.
LD: ¡No! ees too mush trafeec.
ME: Uh...okay. Turn around...

Five minutes later...

LD: 'elp! I am loss!
ME: Where are you?
LD: Am on Meelrosse.
ME: Go down Melrose.
LD: ¡NO! Ees too mush trafeec.
ME: *sigh*

She was annoying but now I feel bad because I heard that she does a lot of animal work...but then again, so does Spamela Anderson, and her "puppies*" sure look tortured to me.

*NSFW...uh...thanks, Avatar!


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