Tuesday, August 30, 2005


Just a short, uh. Burst today.

I've recently fallen into a vat of henna, and my friend remarked the roasted red color of my hair reminds him of Shirley Manson. Yipes. I mean, I'm not flattering myself. She's way hotter/shorter/angrier than me.

She must drink a lot.

Anyway, I remember reading somewhere that she wants "a man who will let me pee in his belly button".


Okay, I can see the potential erotic dominant/submissive b.s. and other pervvy implications of that statement. Also, it is probably a freak marketing ploy and wanton bid for attention. But still. The appeal eludes me.

It is, at the very least, extremely disrespectful to pee in one's belly button. And sloppy. Not to mention rude, crude, and totally unnecessary. And who's gonna clean that shit up...?

What would you do with a belly button full of pee anyway? Unless, that is, you live on a tarp.

Look, I don't even want to enter into it as this will no doubt become another spit vs. swallow type conundrum which somehow, I don't think Miss Manners would even dignify with a response. I think, in fact, The Belly Button Pissing Bandit should go on the list of Persons to Be Avoided.

Don't you...? No?


Postscript: okay, so maybe I'd let Nicole Kidman pee in my belly button, but she would do no such thing. Slap. You rogue. She's a lady.


Monday, August 29, 2005


My mom's coming out this week so there are a multitude of things I should be doing, but instead I find myself staring at Spanish television under the false pretense of becoming fluent in that language.

Instead, I end up seeing:
* a woman who has a wig dyed to match every outfit she owns
* a full cast of adult characters dressed up as schoolchildren
* way too many boobies (yes, there is such a thing, Maine)
* much too much titillation to be viewed by young children
* a nun reaching into her habit and producing some sausages and a sandwich for Cristina (Spanish Oprah), plus candy for all the little children and other foodstuffs which she throws into the audience
* a man in tights chasing around an animated spaceship with a mallet and indiscriminately bonking people on the head while missing the aliens completely and a chicken running around the kitchen table for no reason.

You can't make up this shit. Wonderful.

Only the Japanese are more whimsical in their programming, I think. Does this stuff even make more sense in its native tongue...? Sure, plastic bimbos play semi-nude street games with midgets and giant clowns, using chickens as basketballs (KFC) all the time around here.


Friday, August 26, 2005


Is what I'm gonna do in about 30 secs. if I don't get some R-O-L-A-I-D-S (spells relief).


...too late.

And furthermore, (#2), have you ever gone into a public restroom, sat down, commenced in doing your dirty, dirty business, and thought...what the hell was THAT?!
...and it was you?

Yeah. Kind of humbling, isn't it.

Mine sounded like a door creaking open and a small, yippy dog entering, followed by an entire class of 3rd graders playing "Hot Cross Buns" on the recorder; fireworks, and finally, a canary experiencing slow, painful death via a rusty garbage compactor.

Never again with the mung bean and cabbage festival.


Wednesday, August 24, 2005


Hokay, ppl./

Thjings I've thought ov telling de giy at werk (who doesn't likk me)(butt iz fukkin' w/ my hedd, er sumthin'):

1) *slamming his orifice door*///WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?!!???

*[poening door*////hay!/ Jest kiddin'.

Sekond think:
2-HEY!!! DO YOU EVEN HAVE A KOKK?!!! ER Wwhut???! GET IT ON-!!?!

Ity'd be a HUGHge rel==ef 2 know if he's gay/ er, whut. IM not Psy Co. I's just a nor mall women. WIT KNEEDS.
al; I'm sayin

Evvver had dis [prpb;;;em???? Beeing fascinated byyy someone woo doesn't ree-turn yer effection? Et leeast, not enyMUR? Beecuz, mebbe, dar was suddenly a SKEENIER gurl whut werked in yer bldg?! HUH?!!!

{/S/ Thees [post was NOOT writtenm by a ree-tartded kindergartener/ OI cam FER REA?L:" tyy[pe/!!! Wee; be bakk to nporam;al eenteelegence levål tomorry/




Gimmie a muzzle.

I really am going to hurt someone soon if people don't start behaving themselves. I will take immense satisfaction in it, and no, I won't be sorry.

Like this morning, this mini-man with a large German shepherd hissed at me the minute I hit the sidewalk (because I couldn't enter the street without hitting a car), "kareful the dog, KARE-FUL THE DOG! You're on a BIKE!!!"

"No KIDDING?!" I replied. I did not know that, a-hole. Thanks for rubbing my nose in the fact that I am carless first thing in the morning, in case I had forgotten overnight. And I wasn't gonna hit your big, unmuzzled brute of a dog. I love dogs. I hate you.

But I was only going <2 mph anyway, because the sidewalk was full of palm tree detritus, and you and Bruno could have stepped to one side, couldn't you? But no, you had to hog the sidewalk and be a flaming ass first thing in the morning.

I hate people of a certain persuasion who think that they can talk to a woman that way just because their culture raised them to be arrogant, mysogynistic pricks with vicious dogs in public. They make me want to get off my bike and beat them to death with a box of "heavy flow" Tampax.

I'll bet the dog, who probably also thinks his owner is an asshole, would gladly join me.

When I finally snap? Will you come and pry my jaw loose off of the nearest man's (probably upper management's) tender, juicy left buttock...?

I have already warned his assistant that this might happen, and/or she will be getting a call from a law enforcement agency regarding me, sooner or later...she's got a nice, soothing voice, so she can talk me down while you get the crowbar. 'K...?


Tuesday, August 23, 2005


Someone has been ripping off my shit.

I cannot imagine who would want to copy my poo, but to them I say, fuck you, (Fric 'n) FRAC. You suck moist, hairy, residual asswipe dingleberries of plagiarism.

Fortunately, no one seems to read their shit anyway, except for the kind person who alerted me. Can't even see it, or find anyone who's linked it. Good. Shit sucks - after all, it is apparently mine.

Furthermore, I am also incensed over the disposable phenomenon. Not that I'm an innocent -I've been known to sample the occasional throwaway wipes-the-floor dealy. Too bad they don't actually work. At least, not better than getting down 'n dirty on hands and knees with a bucket, naked and cussing, and slip-sliding all over the filthy, cat pee-encrusted floor until it shines like my t-zone on a hot day.


The thing that really kills me are those di$po$able toilet bowl bru$he$. What the...WHO CARES if you reuse a toilet brush? IT'S A TOILET BRUSH. Designated for cleaning the toilet-! What were you gonna do - lick it?! No. You use it to clean the toilet ONLY, not to brush your teeth, comb your hair, or exfoliate your bottom.

Jesus. People are acting like their baby was gonna suck on it or something. Which they might. Babies are stupid.

In which case, I would suggest merely storing the toilet brush away from the evil, drooling spawn, where you keep your other chemicals and household cleaning supplies.

Unless you are a typical mother, and are making crystal meth in your kitchen. In which case, there is no help for you, and yeah, you should buy the disposable crapper brushes.

And a gun.

Thank you.


Monday, August 22, 2005


I hardly ever respond to drive-by meme-ings, but I find this one halfway amusing because you're supposed to "list five songs you're really into," and I have had neither the budget, nor the interest, to purchase music since approximately 1986.

Either everyone else's priorities are out of whack, or mine are.

So here are my laughable five, and no, I won't tag people. You can tag and go chase yourself for all I care.

(You realize of course I had to look all these up, because I don't know who sang what song and where I heard them because I don't even have a functional radio anymore. And yes, I read by candlelight, and still churn my own butter.)

1. Kermit the Frog : The Rainbow Connection. Also "I Hope that Something Better Comes Along." Blow me if you don't dig a frog playing the banjo. "It's not often you see a guy that green have the blues that bad." - Rowlf the Dog

2. Bjork : Human Behavior. If you ever get close to a human/And human behavior/Be ready to get confused/There's definitely no logic/To human behavior...They're terribly moody/Then all of a sudden turn happy/There's no map/And a compass/Wouldn't help at all. So true. Was a toss up between this one and The Sugarcubes : Fucking in Rhythm and Sorrow: There is a naked person in my flat/He's got a weird expression on his face/Oh my god and jesus as well/...Goes out of the window and up on the roof/Naked man, naked man calm down!/I'll give you some strawberry cake...

I love their cute Icelandic misunderstanding of the English language.

3. Cat Stevens : Wild World. This is just about my favorite song, as it reminds me of growing up in the seventies, when my parents used to play it and blah blah. "...I'll always remember you like a child, girl." Unfortunately, I introduced it to this copycatty bitch who is no longer my friend, who hijacked it and said she wants it played at her funeral. Fuck people who try to steal your identity.

4. Rare Earth : I Just Want To Celebrate (Mocean Worker Remix) ...what the? Apparently I have to be bludgeoned with songs in order to like them. This is a damned catchy tune that has been bitch-slapping me on a near-daily basis for some time because it is going to be in the new Samuel L. Jackson/Eugene Levy film, THE MAN. It was also in the series finale of (see below.) Alright already, I get it. It's a good song.

5. Arcade Fire : Cold Wind. Played during the final moments of the semi-final episode of SIX FEET UNDER. Watched the series finale last night and was again hit over the head with the final song, Sia : Breathe Me.

See, I don't notice this stuff unless I'm whapped upside the head with it. Shit is good. But I'm devastated by the end of this show and these songs didn't help with all the emotional feelings 'n stuff.

If anyone would like to form a support group for Six Feet Under withdrawal, let me know. Meanwhile, I'll be sure to buy the got-damn soundtrack. It'll be the first CD I've purchased in years.

!@#$ing HBO.


Friday, August 19, 2005


I'm making a list, for my own evil purposes, of nicknames for much-loathed (or even tolerable, but "a bit hard to take") relatives, friends, and acquaintances.

I was going to confine The List to names for evil stepmonsters, such as:

The Slunt
Pretty Horrible Tits

or pseudo-/stepdaddies:

The Twat

(I know, I'm missing plenty)...but I thought everyone should be allowed to play. So feel free to let it fly at in-laws (Fugly, Jabba), redheaded stepchildren, (Shovel Boy), grandpas (Big John, the Hair Wizard), grandspawn (The Terrorist), ex-friends (Spit & Spat), ex-boyfriends, what have you.

Surely some uh, loved one has earned a horrible moniker you would like to share?

Mine was "Roach" (don't ask). And lately, "Bouncer" (not gonna tell you that, either).

I think my own stepmonster got off easy with "Piggy". Surely my mom could have been a bit more creative than that.


Thursday, August 18, 2005


*POW*! Right in the kisser.

Ever had one of those co-workers who insists on sending you this kind of insipid crap?:

Well, here is my barely suppressed sarcastic response:

Yeah. It's more like that.


Wednesday, August 17, 2005


My mother is coming to visit.

OH, SHIT. Better pay a visit to the Army Navy Surplus.

No, really. She's never been out to see me since I moved to L.A. 8 years ago, and she really needs to get away from the grandpoo (-Carole) of caring for her aged parents and trying to negotiate with her 4 sociopathic sisters. I begged, screamed, wheedled, cried, threatened, and manipulated, so now that she has agreed to let me fly her out, I have to show her a good time. Not the cat-pee soaked, horrid, moth-infested, wet-dog smelling, soggy, all singing, all dancing craptastic spectacular that has recently become of my life.

Got to:

1. Make sure boss doesn't screw me on the time off
2. Buy food (to pretend I can afford such luxury on a regular basis)
3. Litter-train my cats & clip their claws, just in case
4. Get an ashtray for her and a gas mask for me (she smokes - p.u.)
5. Purchase bottled, not box wine, so I can monitor her drinking (woo)
6. Rent a non-smoking car which will reek anyway - the smoking ones must really reek
7. Get bed off the floor, curse IKEA's name
8. Hide prOn
9. Convince local moth population to stop mating in my apartment
10. Furtively do laundry at someone else's house via breaking and entering
11. Hide any pictures of Dad & family
12. Fabricate alibi re: what happened to all those nice things she sent me
13. Purchase cardboard cutouts to pose as decent, upstanding L.A. friends and boyfriend
14. Soundproof apt. in case of any "discussions" or uh...loud "differences of opinion"...warn the local authorities, esp. L.A.P.D., to beware
15. Take meds.

Yep, it'll be fun-!


Tuesday, August 16, 2005


I made my own got-damn rubber band ball because it is a slow day here at the orifice, but I'll be doggone. You can buy them pre-made.

This guy didn't. Wusses.

Sometimes I think the world at large has too much discretionary time and income.

Me, I have to go to work for the Dykema Rubber Band Factory just to keep myself in rubber band balls.

Everyone knows that an ant, can't. Move a rubber tree plant.

And now, because I have adult ADHD (translation: goofing off) syndrome, some historical notes on another kind of rubber.The linen one looks painful. Plus it must have wrinkled like hell.

You can't iron that shit.


Monday, August 15, 2005


McDonald's "Fruit and Walnut" salad scares me, especially in the configuration on this sign, as illustrated.

Not only does it taste like nasty chemical poo, it looks extremely suspicious and alien. I wouldn't eat that if I were you. It might try to take you to its leader.

The spazzy anorexic femme-bots waxing rhapsodic about getting a "fruit buzz" in the commercials are just part of its alien conspiracy. However, the aliens need to come up with some better bait than that. Fruit...ha. Nice try, creepy crawlers.

Also, seen in a car window this a.m.: TOFUZILLA.

Coagulated bean curd is not to be trusted, either.


Friday, August 12, 2005


I am so proud. This is better than when I met Madonna.

We had occasion to host a show including the hilarious and talented Joe Wilson, otherwise known as Mr. PoopyCaca.com, otherwise known as The Jar of Air Guy.

Don't call him that.

Joe is currently writing a one-man show based upon this goofy, yet controversial Ebay auction which, in the end, left him with little but a bunch of entertaining anecdotes, a headache, and facial alopecia.

Apparently, you can't sell questionable items on Ebay unless they involve The Virgin Mary and/or toast.

Joe is an wily genius bursting with entrepreneurial spirit. I like that. This is what makes America great.

I can't wait to see his completed show, or better yet: Jar of Air: The Musical.

I would now like to sell my hand, since I shook his. If you want, I will wipe it on you and then you can pay me in cash, bank check, money order, lewd acts, or cat food.

Hurry up 'cuz I just bounced the rent check.

-Bouncer, the Wonder Tard


Thursday, August 11, 2005


Me ca. 1992 with Bitsy, too much Sun-In, melanoma, a bad attitude, and the clap.*

*Not really, but it makes this sound interesting.

I've been in a funk lately, like Funky Cold Medina, only far less sexy. Just kind of a half-assed one - not the kind where you don't want to get out of bed at all, even to pee, or not eat. You might say I have a very mild funk, like a lingering odor - you're not sure where it comes from until you look at the bottom of your shoe.

Yep, I know where this came from too, and it's just as fragrant. It smells like sour grapes mixed with dog doo.

The fact is, everyone I know, with the possible exception of the 300 lb. sweaty man, seems to be moving in a positive direction - or if not positive, their life is changing in some way due to their making what could be somehow construed as the next logical choice.

That is, their lives are progressing.

Me? I'm in a rut. Not to say I'm feeling sorry for myself, but I made more money, had more action, and I think I was smarter (!) when I was 17.

Sad. No one should peak at 17, with peroxided hair and half a brain and a penchant for dating Elvis impersonators.

Oh well. I'll get over my little snit as soon as my friends (even the crazy ones...ESPECIALLY the crazy ones) stop getting married and start getting divorced. Yes, I thrive on the misfortunes of others. I'm a bitch, but at least I admit it.

Just to show you what I'm experiencing of late, here are some of the wonderful folks about to tie the knot, or similar:

1) Bitch from Hell Drama Queen who made life like watching a Lifetime Television for Women snot-drooling tear-jerker all the damn time: already on her second marriage. I guess there's a market for this shit.

2) World's Most Boring Man, who categorically refused to stop wearing brightly patterned MC Hammer pants from 1986: also married.

3) The Evil Raisin: engaged. Self-explanatory.

4) Guy who Molested Me in my old apt. building, then stalked me by calling through the intercom, since I refused to give him my phone number...looks like a cross between Garfield (the cat) and W.C. Fields, except fatter: engaged.

5) Poop-Flinging Crazy Chronically Unemployed Anorexic-Bulimic 35-yr. Old Child With No Health Insurance just moved in with someone. This girl cannot hold a job any better than she can hold down food and once started crying like a cranky 2 yr. old just because I woke her up before noon. Chick has had herself committed to the haha house twice just to get some guy's attention. Once, I went into her apartment with a thing of Clorox Cleanup to battle the mold growing on her dishes, out of her sink, and up the wall. When she got back from Le Bin Loony she said, "thanks. I was just going to throw those dishes away."

She considers herself an artist, meaning someday, she'll be found smearing her own poo on the walls of her ghetto shoebox and calling it art.

I'm sure she'll make an excellent wife and mother.

Don't worry. I'll stop feeling sorry for myself out of consideration for people who have actual problems. This was just a bit much "good news" for one week.


Wednesday, August 10, 2005


People who aggravate my Irritable Bowel Syndrome at work and why:

THE MOM - It's not that I don't like children. I just don't like your children. Please do not bring your spoiled bratchild to work and allow her to hit me (ME! The most destitute, prostitute, person in the building, except for the valet and the janitor) up for money for cheerleading, i.e. Future Sluts of America. "Keeps 'em out of trouble", my ass. Cheerleaders do not need money, they need to have their legs strapped together.

I'm not worried about your daughter, though. She looks like the offspring of Satan's sister and Malachai from Children of the Corn, so as soon as the gets to high school, she will learn she's not pretty and be forced to develop a personality of some sort.

THE COMPLAINER - Oh, for crying out loud. None of her gripes have anything to do with me, but there's no stopping her once she gets started. I've learned to just pretend to be listening and not try to get a word in edgewise. Actually, I can relate, because she sounds just like me if I had no internal editor. And La Menopause.

THE LETCH - Dear Letch. Just because I let you hug me at the company Christmas party, and you just so happen to be the same height as my boobs, does not mean that I want to boink your midget ass or become your Future Ex and take your kids to Chuck Up Cheese someday. Forget about it. You secretly hate women, I can tell.

THE SMARTASS - Last week, he had an entire car delivered here, as if my boss wasn't gonna freak 'cuz he is a Virgo and can't deal when anything is out of place, let alone 3/4ths of a car in parts which suddenly appears in the lobby.

Smartass also is a Republican, even though he looks like the cover of Frampton Comes Alive! except he's balding on top. Also has a mail-order bride who calls and leaves unintelligible messages because she doesn't understand how to use a phone. It's cute.

CAPTAIN HOSTILE - Because he keeps denying what he told me (if you say, "but you told me _________", the response will be "don't challenge me, young lady" (I'm 30)...I'm just going to start recording everything he says. When he fails to remember what his original instructions were, I'm playing 'em back.

CAPTAIN HOSTILE'S KISSASS - I hate to see him encouraging negative traits in this person, who Cap. is obviously grooming to be his replacement. Dude is The Sphincter Police and narcs and squeals at every available opportunity.

Not bad considering my list at Disney was ten times this long. I no longer have to deal with The Tank, The Dragon Lady, or Bitchy Armenian Mom Whose Kid Lives with Her Parents for Some Unknown Reason, or Hyper-Motivated Asian who Works Overtime and Doesn't Charge the Company for It (Making the Rest of Us Look Bad), or Girl Who Goofs Off Constantly and Blatantly Sleeps in Meetings, Yet Gets Away with It While I Get Busted for Having a Particle of Lint on My Blazer.

And at least I'm not still in Texas, and I don't have to work down at the DPS (that's DMV to you Californicates) and sit next to a stinking woman who uses the trash can as a spittoon.

Who are the thorns in your side?


Tuesday, August 09, 2005


As if commercials weren't annoying enough already, now I'm losing my shit over enunciation problems.

1) The "All About the O" Overstock.com woman - I think this bitch is finally gone, or at least I haven't seen her in a while. She's German or some shit, because casting people looooove to make things more difficult for themselves instead of just hiring someone with the proper accent. I've seen it happen. Anyway, weird orange lipstick-wearing chick can't pronounce "clothes" so she says "it's all about the codes." Codes to what? You thing you hab a code? Here, have some non-non-drowsy "code" medicine, and maybe you won't notice when I put you on a plane back to Germany. Freak.

2) Jack in the Box - this round-headed CEO bastard is perpetually on my nerves, but lately I've been noticing he can't say, "fire-roasted salsa." Instead of säls-ah, he says "salzzza". Typical dumbass executive. He probably can't spell worth a damn or turn on the microwave by himself, either.

3) T-Mobil - Catherine, Catherine, Catherine. First you marry Sir Scrotum Scarybottom and squirt out his wrinkly old seed-lings, and now you're trying to look all cute with affected speech patterns. Well, fine, Zeta. I admit you're eerily, scarily beautiful. Now please stop saying "more minutessssh" instead of minutes.

Thank you.


Sunday, August 07, 2005



There's a whole passel of 'em downstairs right now, before fucking 1:00 on a Sunday. One of 'em even had the nerve to touch me. I said, "aaaaaagh-!" Cranky semi-apologized, telling Mr. Grabby I was "pre-coffee." Urrrgh. Shudder.

Now one of 'em is belting out showtunes, while another does her best to look provocative despite the fact that she is married for support reasons so she can go out and audition for commercials, but the joke's on her. She gets hired to play wives and mothers, and pregnant women, even though she's not pregnant, since she's maybe a size 6, which in L.A. = a cow.

Then she proceeds to smoke, which is only going to make her look old and wrinkly before her time, and when she dies alone of emphysema after her husband has left her for being such an attention whore, she can ask herself if was all worth it for that 2 seconds in an Arby's commercial.

Ha, ha. Stupid actresses.

I think I'll hold an audition of my own, where for 45 mins., they have to absolutely shut up. No emoting, no being all loud and actory, no showoff jazz hands, nothing.

I'll bet you $1.50 they can't do it.


Friday, August 05, 2005


I had something meaningful to say here, but was distracted by this catalog which arrived in the mail for an employee who retired some time ago.

Oh, my.

Look at this crap. This is the biggest load of poo I have seen since the Miles Kimball catalogue. Are they still around...?

Oh, yes. Still around, and still selling World's Tackiest Shit, like sock garters, female urinary containers, and the like.

Oh, my.

My grandfather, when he could still see, used to love this stuff. Now he has a bird clock that plays a different bird noise every hour, on the hour. That thing scares the scat out of me. It sounds just like real birds, except ones that just so happen to be velociraptors, and Chinese.

It frightens the bejeezus outta me.

Maybe it's a good thing he can't hear so well anymore.


Thursday, August 04, 2005


Firstly, have I told you lately that I love you? You. No, not you...yeah, you. But I shall refrain from spewing sappy Rod Stewart lyrics, because his daughter is an ugly, fat-skinny cow. Yeuuughhh. And I've had enough cornball tripe for one week.

So another insult from the smug-married types has unwittingly come flinging my way and clobbered me upside the head without even asking first.

I sent an e-mail to someone, trying to get them to come to my show, because I have sat through oh-so-many of theirs, and trust me - they were interminable.

Got one back saying that they couldn't come because they are too busy planning the wedding and basically rubbing my nose in their couplehood. "But have you seen our website?"

Wha...? NO. I had not. Yet, against my better judgment, I clicked on the link.

Not bad. A bit florally for my taste. The usual links depicting the sordid story of their meeting, the bride's initial rejection of the groom-to-be (small penis; she thought she could do better, but then got fat and homely, and decided to settle for his besotted ass), and what not. Then it went on to show the bride (allegedly) quoted as saying that they belong together, more than any other couple they know.

Okay, that insult was twofold. 1) They're insulting my intelligence, and 2) they're insulting anyone else in a couple who happens to be reading this saccharine nightmare.

And, (3), that's funny...because I've met the bride, and the last thing I recall her saying in regard to the groom was, "eyucccchh." Accompanied by a repulsed shaking of her head. But I don't suppose I should include that on their card, eh...?

Because I enjoy the sensation of nausea coupled with irony, I pressed on to "About the Ceremony."

...wait a minute. They password-protected that shit.

Okay. I understand the need to keep your vital details away from the general public? But c'mon. This is hardly a celebrity couple. They made me read all that barf-inducing shite, and I'm not allowed to read, IN GENERAL, about the ceremony, because I'm not a "registered guest", i.e. NOT INVITED...? But it does tell me where I can forward the gifts/money/Russian hookers for the bachelor shindig...?! I don't f.ing think so.

I want the part of my brain that icky-sticky sweetness lodged itself into surgically removed-!

Fuck them. They're not even getting a card.

But perhaps I'm being too harsh. Maybe I will FedEx them a gift...of VOMIT.


Wednesday, August 03, 2005


I am habitually late.

I have always been this way, with the possible exception of when I was 17 and would get to work early in order to flirt with the staff Elvis impersonator (don't ask). I have been given a talking-to about it most every place I've worked, with the semi-exception of this one. I think they realize I'm mental (it's like a group home for bonkies in here), and since have to ride a bike a la Pee Wee's Big Adventure to work, no one's said anything about it. But still.

Usually, I pooh-pooh anyone saying they can't get their shit together, but I really can't get my shit together. It is almost beyond my control, what happens in the morning.

For one thing, I suck. I have uncontrolled blood-loss related anemia, and you know what that means, several days a month. There is nothing I can do about it. Iron pills go right through me like a bleedin' Ferrari.

Consequently, I have trouble waking up, even with The Most Obnoxious Alarm Clock in the World.

Also, sh*t falls on my head in the morning. No, actual SHIT. I don't quite know what to do about this. Even getting my clothes ready the night before ain't gonna stop any passing seagulls, airplane toilets, dog bombs, etc. from ending up on my person. Which necessitates the removal of said fecal matter, resulting in my being late. Again.

Furthermore, what I thought was a dog bomb last week turned out to be a "present" from my own cats, the crusted remains of which still lurk in the tread of my shoe.

Oh, the humility.

The cat ritual in the morning is another reason why I'm late. I cannot do the muck-out, clean up, and slop-feed before I go to bed. It will simply be undone the moment I wake up.

This morning, for instance, I ran around in my usual headless chicken fashion, hauling out the feed bag, swabbing the poop deck, dumping filthy animal food-trough wat-er, and picking up miscellaneous bits of biohazardous waste. Then I have to irrigate the cat grass, and Iddy expects his bowl of ice water at precisely 8:00 a.m.

Unfortunately, Iddy is blind, and when I'm rushing around, cannot seem to avoid bouncing off my shins like a hairy football. He's even shaped like a football. But I fear for his tiny, tick-like head.

So then I have to coax him out by shaking a bag of treaty-treats and apologize.

This is why I get to work generally 5-20 mins. late. But to be fair, I always work overtime and leave late, too.

So please, boss. Don't shitcan me. Even though I smell like one.


Tuesday, August 02, 2005


Who are these people who keep livestock in the city? No good can come of this.

This very morning, I saw a chick-chick-chicken chickening out near Wilshire. What the cluck? There was an accident nearby. Perhaps the chicken had escaped from the wreckage via the jaws of life to cluck and peck in the vicinity? I hope she had just stepped out of her yard momentarily to survey the neighborhood grub population. I almost considered picking her up, except:
1) what was I going to do with a chicken? Take her to work,
  a) flapping, and
  b) clucking, on the back of my bike...? Put her in my apartment?!
2) what would my cats do with a chicken? Would I come home at the end of the day and say, "OK. Who won...?" (I suspect, the chicken.) No.
3) If I'm late to work again because of a chicken, I'm gonna get sh*tcanned for sure.

Sadly, this is not the first Chicken Incident.

My aunt tells a humorous story about being awakened by a chicken 1) flapping and 2) clucking on her carport in Houston. It lives in infamy.

Growing up, the girl next door had a hot dog-pecking & eating chicken. I'm thinking one of those could be plenty useful. It could be an attack chicken for any unwelcome exposed male genitals. Then, you could use the chicken guano to fertilize your lawn. (It's organic!)

Also, when Cranky had his old beater car, and when he couldn't find parking, he would drive to an outlying area near the highway exit ramp known as ChickenLand because the ethnic families there keep chickens even though they are in the middle of fucking Los Angeles.

Unfortunately, sometimes cars would come speeding off the 101 without looking for loose livestock (drivers in Los Angeles never even look for pedestrians), as there was no chicken crossing, and sometimes a car + a chicken 1) flapping, and 2) clucking = Car: 1, Chicken: 0.

This pisses me off. I do not need to be starting my day by seeing a wasted (not even twirling on the fun rotisserie = ferris wheel for carcass) pollo NOT 1) flapping or 2) clucking, in the road, in the inner city. So fuck you, urban keepers of chickens! Unless you keep your chickens inside, with your house pets (I do not notice my lease explicitly prohibiting live poultry), then...

I'll cock-a-doodle YOUR doo.

P.S. Fuck you, Carl's, Jr. Chickens are TOO good for lots of things.

What do you think is typing this blog?

Nice keyboard-pecking chicken...nice, nice.


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