Camp Wedding

I've been slack. So sue me. Updates shall be forthcoming!

**This is NOT the bride for whom I toil! This is a giant woman, dressed as a polar bear, eating a smaller woman like a twinkie.

Two C's in a K. In Hell.

See... it's funny 'cause Alexandra was deaf. Ahh, nevermind.

It's sequential! It's "art!" It's sequential art!!

Amazing bit o' rubbish!

George Washington didn't wear wooden teeth. He wore insanely complex, spring-loaded, hinged and wired dentures made from Hippopotamus bone. Somehow, that's worse. Although with a grill like that, home-skillet could've gnawed the fucking cherry tree down.

The Unfuckables, Part II

And now, the startling conclusion of The Unfuckables:

Holly had a cultivated green streak dyed into the thick hair that framed her face. She wore it parted in the middle like an new-wave Madonna, so as to best display the 9 or so inches of forehead she possessed. This was serious forehead. It was like her skull was wearing a turban...under the skin. Holly's wardrobe consisted mainly of a seemingly endless supply of paint-by-number tee-shirts that usually featured dolphins or kittens. Holly was considered the most likely to "pass" as normal of all of us. When she finally did leave us, it was for a more specific friendship with a pock-marked Motley Crue fan named Amber. Remember, this was the early 90's. It was not at any point in time "cool," "retro" or in any way good to like Motley Crue in the early 90's. This was the decade of shameful creme filling in the Motley Crue hydrox cookie of desirablity.
My 'best' friend was the green-eyed, future shut-in of the lot of us, an aspiring writer named Jamie. She was a mensa-approved genius who never met a bar of soap she liked, or an comic book she didn't. Jamie came from an "Unstable Home;" i.e. her house was carpeted in three solid inches of animal feces and her mom cried all the time. The smell coming off of Jamie was fantastic, horrific, and strangely compelling. She stayed over at my house on one occasion, and removed her shoes while we were playing on the computer downstairs. The smell woke my parents in their upstairs bedroom. I was instructed to either get her to put her shoes back on, or to call her mom and have her picked up.
Tonya was, without irony, the most attractive of the lot, and voluntarily joined our ranks. I couldn't figure out why until it was revealed that, at the then-age of 13, Tonya had electively become experimentally "loose." She also smoked her step-mother's Virginia Slims and would regale me with tales from the trailer park where she lived. I would sit in rapture, like a Bosnian refugee at an all-you-can-eat buffet, demanding that she tell me again about the family of raccoons that lived in the unused bathroom in her single-wide. Why was it unused? Because of the hole in the floor. I really liked that. As an adolescent, it struck me as being eminently practical. It was a ready-made metaphor for my own problem-solving skills. When, through negligence and ignorance, the raccoons of the world eat a hole through the particle-board floor of the toilet of your life, just shut the door and call it a loss. Besides, you can always go outside to take a shit. It's cleaner out there anyway.

Like the sands in the hour-glass, these were the freaks of my life. We more or less kept in touch until High School Graduation, at which point an interminable chorus-line of fetuses had been forcibly removed from the salty killing fields of Tonya's uterus; Missy had returned to Alaska; Jamie had ripened to the point where Haz-Mat units had to be called in to change her panty liners and Cathy still had no thumbs.
Forced by the cruel machinations of gene inheritance to forgo my original career path of "roller skater Miss America Princess," I instead learned to give head like a gay man in county lock-up and with the aid of Miss Clairol, joined the Legion of Undercover Losers. I could be ANYONE AMOUNG YOU. Except for Amber. All of her dreams came true, and she's currently working in the porn industry as "Anal Amber" or some shit.

Fun fact o' the nonce:
Workin' girls in ancient Rome had to, by law, keep their hair dyed blonde. This was because the more successful girls liked to dress nicely and have a walk-about occasionally, and sometimes, they were confused for actual high-class women. This was a problem for some dumb fucking reason. Theoretically, the blonde hair was supposed to be a sort of 'scarlet letter.' The plan back-fired when the upper-class ladies of Rome started dying their hair blonde as a fashion statement. If the whores were doing it, it must be okay, right?

The Unfuckables, Part I

I come from a long, proud tradition of ever-so-slightly inbred white trash from a tiny foot-hills community; the sort of environment where people die trying to prove a point with a cross-bow and a washing machine, and everyone's your cousin. I am the genetic result of a series of synaptic mis-fires on the parts of my mother and father. As a very small child, I wasn't without charm, but as the years and chromosomal warfare marched on things...changed. And by "things changed" I mean that I eventually grew to be an awkwardly proportioned lass, not entirely without semblance to a bi-pedal, shaved fetal horse. My nose and ears grew at an astonishing rate, outpaced only by my teeth, which grew not only fast but also in no particular organizational fashion. It was as if my mouth was a dark mauve nightclub that had been furnished by an interior designer with a morbid fixation on broken tombstones. All this awesomeness was complimented further by my mother's insistence on buying nothing but "Jordache" and "L.A. Gear" short-sets for me to wear, and my own aversion to both speaking intelligibly and bathing.
As I entered middle school, my genetic and social shortcomings became painfully clear. At first, I tried to fit in. I feigned allegiance in a top-secret society of Scientists committed to investigating the matrimonial predilections of extra-terrestrials, evidenced by carrying around a green notebook with the words "Alien Information File" written across the front that was full of illustrations of hollow-eyed Roswell rejects wearing wedding gowns and tiaras. I'd wring the grease out of my hair over the shrubs outside my school before I walked in. I wore tasseled black leather loafers with everything; even sweatpants. And yet nothing worked.
I don't remember the exact day I realized that I was not going to be able to integrate with the desirable portion of the student population. But in time, I came into a new strategy for selecting and securing minions of my twisted fantasies. a.k.a. "friends." I simply looked for an obvious physical handicap. It wasn't that I was scoping out gimps and crips per se; more that I would look for something obvious and mockable. If I found it without difficulty in under a minute, then they were a shoo-in. These were the "ones," as in "one minute." The scale only went up to "threes", because I (correctly) figured if it took me more than three minutes to find something wrong with someone, then they were waaaaay out of my league.
The system worked impeccably. By Eighth grade, I had surrounded myself with the most incredible, twisted, macabre, bent and broken vestiges of post-pubescent hormonally tormented humanity imaginable. We were quite the grab-bag of physical and mental deficients. There was morbidly obese Missy from Alaska, chosen for her insanely coarse, white-blonde hair, rampant acne, and inability to speak of anything without relating it first to something Alaskan. She farted frequently, but shyly, and could be seen puttering around the school with tears in her eyes because she never knew she'd done it til she smelled it, and by then it was too late. Next was Cathy-with-the-no-thumbs, the victim of two separate entirely preventable childhood accidents that resulted in the amputation of a digit from each hand. Her cleft-palate, however was congenital. Her parents organized the local "Haunted Barn" attraction every year, which is perhaps why Cathy had a bowl-cut well into the 1990's, which was quite possibly the greatest of all the tragedies that ever befell her. She loved to laugh though, and I can't say that the sound of her warbled, thick-tongued guffaws didn't please me.

Coming next! The action-packed conclusion of The Unfuckables!

Daddy Like

This is it! A picture with words!! Savor the sweet, sweet awesomeness of Abe.









And for those playing the drinking trivia game at home:
Funerals in ye olden days were seen as an opportunity to give people an assload of useless death-shwag. You couldn't even drive past a funeral (practically) in the 19th century without being presented with a Memento Mori. These could range from plates featuring portraits of the deceased, (hand-painted by his widow) to the most common; rings. The rings could be made entirely of hair, or include a few strands behind a setting or within a locket. What are commonly called "poison rings" in the modern lexicon were most often used as little memento holders, such as for hair of a loved one. Black gloves were common funeral gifts until the early 20th century. So next time you're sobbing over Grandma in her coffin, stop and think about how nice it was to not have to manufacture 150 personalized, hand-painted ash-trays bearing her image the night before.

Big Bad John

I'll bet you're wondering who I am. Well pish posh, sod and bother! I shall tell you. I am His Royal Highness, The Prince Alexander John Charles Albert "Johnny" of Wales! Mayhaps you have not heard of me. Sadly, I shan't be in the least surprised. I represent that rare sprig of the English throne; a male heir named "John." I also perished as a day-old infant, so do forgive my pretensions at appearing before you at a more advanced state of life. If you had any notion at all of how difficult it was to chase poon in the afterlife in the guise of a day-old infant, you'd understand. And Johns have it hard enough.
You see, we have a bit of the ole' curse upon us, it seems, with the appellation of "John." A nice enough name, but dreadfully rife with contentious overtones. Nobody seemed too terribly interested in using it until 1167, when the querulous infant who would become King John of England was born. His parents had already endured the birth and naming of three other sons, and settled upon "John" by way of a cop-out. No one REALLY believed he'd ever rule, but alas, these were dreadfully harsh times. He managed to live until 1216, without even once acquiring a desirable personality trait, it seems. He was lecherous and incestuous. He was a thief and a coward. He sired slews of bastards and kidnapped for his second wife, a child named Isabella (who incidentally, was due to marry someone else. Like I mentioned, hard times.) He had 5 children by Izzie, and then concentrated his full attention on undermining his seat of power by signing away Royal privileges in the form of the Magna Carta. By the time John's carcass was reverently shoved under an effigy at Worcester Cathedral, he'd acquired a few more nicknames, all of which seemed to direct an unreasonable amount of negative attention at the royal Trouser Trumpet. "Lackland." "Soft-Sword." And my personal favorite, "Bad." Clever, that.
So 'John' was quite the shitty name to saddle a young lord with for many a year. It was generally accepted that the name was no good and brought shame upon us all. But then, a few generations passed and people began to get a bit slack in maintaining the proper vigil of hatred for the name. Hence, my birth, to the most lovely Princess Alexandra of Denmark and Prince Edward Albert of England. I was to be the sixth and last of the litter.
But we Brits are a sturdy, stubborn lot. Not to pass up a good thing, my nephew, King George and his piece, Queen Mary saddled THEIR youngest boy with the name too! Alas, curse: 3, inbred royals: 0. "The Prince John" was buried right beside me. They congratulated themselves on this act of organization; "Our little Johnnies are together!" Bastards, the lot. Fuck 'em!

Gratuitous additional fact of the day:
For a brief period of time, Victor Fleming was simultaneously directing "The Wizard of Oz" and "Gone With the Wind." Can you imagine the mind-fuck? Hoop skirt-midget-Mammy-Tin Man-baby birthin'-more midget-burning of Atlanta-Poppppiiiieeessss!!!!
And that's not even getting to the Flying Monkeys.

It Came from your Ass

No really, it did. I am sure of it. My work day was long and sporadically busy; I didn't know what to expect when I came to the bathroom for a much-needed piss break. The only thing I was certain of was that you were responsible for the horrific, gut-wrenching cloud that met me as I opened the door. You were not a suspect at first. Sure, you stood there, the only person in sight, washing your hands. But it wasn't until your eyes darted furtively towards mine that I realized your shame. Your hideous, toxic shame. Still, your digestive assault earned my respect. I was prepared to like you, to commiserate with you on your phenomenal achievement... but then you took even that from me. Emboldened by my silence, you wrinkled your nose in an affected and wholly unconvincing manner and said "Shoo! Don't you just hate when people make a mess?"
I narrowed my eyes at you. You felt my scorn; my reproach. The burden of your lie hung in the air as thickly and uncompromisingly as your bilious rectal leavings. I HATE YOU, I thought. I REALLY, REALLY HATE YOU.
You cowered then, knowing that I saw through your pink sleeveless shirt, crunchy perm and clumsy make-up job; saw through the bulging, pasty thighs that met fully, 10 inches below your sex where they seemed to be pulling the cuffed hem of your shorts into your twat, like two beached albino walruses fighting over a khaki blanket in a too-small hotel room bed; saw through all this and more to the twisted black soul you so ardently tried to hide with your sagging, sighing, swollen bladder of a shoulder bag. It was then the only thing between us... the last vestige of camoflauge you possessed.
Swollen bladder! It was in that moment, breathing through my mouth, that I decided to let you live. I had to take a piss too bad to deliver any machination of jurisprudence upon your filthy, dimpled person. In the manner of any prey delivered of its doom, you scurried away. Undoubtedly you intended to meet a swarm of sun burned, over-fed children, or to pretend to "look" at the books for a few moments more. We both know you don't read, you nasty, smelly slammerkin.
Relieved of your presence, and the 5 cups of coffee I'd had since my last visit, I too washed up. The door swung open, admitting the person of an elderly woman who instantly wrinkled her nose at the fetid cloud of feces that still veritably pulsated in the close air around us. She looked at me with something more than a question in her eyes. I answered with a proud sneer, my head held high. Sweeping past her frail personage, I administered a curt smile and left. Her gentle gagging was like a lullaby as the door finally shut behind me.

The restroom at my place of employment is equipped with a small device placed high on a wall that releases a sordid "HISS" sound every ten minutes or so, accompanied by the expulsion of some concentrated quasi-fruity-smelling vapor. Under the best of circumstances, such as at a fruit stand, this would not be a convincingly fruit-like smell. When administered at regular intervals in the ongoing effort to mask the vicious aroma of female effluvium, it's just VILE. And sad. And wholly inadequate to the task, regardless of the degree of concentration.

It's never going to smell like anything except for something good that has been tragically ruined by ass, so why not just start over from scratch? Why not just have a spray that smells of something MORE offensive than shit to begin with? Eau de Corpse? Whore Twat? Sulfur? Elephant Smegma? Pick your poison. Not just for commercial use either! Indigestion at a house party? Your guests in the living room will NEVER suspect you've pinched a greasy dook... they'll just sniff the air throughout the night as they refresh their cocktails, and think that the indigent hoarder who lives upstairs finally succumbed to age and disease, and is lying in a fetid pool of his own bile and toppled National Geographics.

Think of all the humiliation we'd all be spared. This isn't just on the pooper; the burden of the "what's that horrific smell" charade falls on us all.

That is all. Oops! Almost! Today's delightful minutiae:
-Cleopatra, the "Last Queen of Egypt" was of Roman descent, had an older sister whose name was also Cleopatra, and married two of her younger brothers at various times to keep the peace at home. Take THAT, West Virginia!

A Wedding Story

Undoubtedly, more will follow in the "Wedding Story" genre. For now, there is this, the first installment.

I love weddings. Lemme say it again for the deaf kid in the back... I LOVE WEDDINGS! I adore the macabre family dynamics, the elaborate costumes and the utterly bizarre food combinations foisted upon the paying audience. I adore wedding culture. Cursed with a genetic disposition towards meddling and dogoodery, I have frequently found myself ass-deep in wedding bliss, shunting weighty, bloated confections of sugar and lard from inadequate kitchens to hastily draped tables in homes and halls. I have directed photographers and caterers, and on more than one occasion, engineered impressive last-moment wardrobe adjustments to bridal gowns using nothing more than a mouthful of tacks, spit and wads of human hair. MacGyver could masturbate for hours just thinking about some of this shit.
The pageantry is a draw, sure. But it requires a certain masochistic streak to do it all more than once. Or twice. You get screamed at, threatened and sobbed on... and that's when things are going well. There is always the inevitable mishap regarding food temperature, unqualified religious personnel or absent future spouses that adds a certain toxic shimmer of additional drama, especially if one has been up for over 40 hours baking an emergency wedding cake for the happy couple. But those are often the best weddings. The engorged, bedazzled and be-girdled guests all kind of become a greasy blur after a while. A left-hook from the bride is forever. <3

Soonishly, a friend and former love will be taking the "next" step in this great game of growing up, and will marry a man that she has dated for a respectable length of time whom she is suitably enthralled with and they shall engage in activities becoming to a young, beautiful couple. My role in all of this is to be crafty when necessary and to maintain heroic stoicism when in the presence of people who may know that I used to fancy her. It's wrong to love a bride, if you aren't the one she's marrying. I don't know why, but it is. I've made the dress I am to wear, I'm working on a "meaningful" gift for the happy couple, and I am in the final stages of constructing their "cake wall." (Or at least, the support for said wall o' cake.) I bought a "well played, old chap" gift for the groom. I've lent supportive ears to the bride as she fretted over wedding traumas and frustrations from the thousands of miles that separate us.
I'm doing my part, (playing my part) to ensure that she has the best fucking day of hideously ill-advised revelry that money, blow-jobs and empty promises can provide. But when that day comes, inevitably, I will join the ranks of innumerable others whom I have watched from various ceremonial vantage points over the years, with a fake smile on my face, a polyester dress not quite hiding the sweat trickling down my ass, loving, and losing, a bride.


Fun Fact of the Day!
Hitler wasn't actually a vegetarian. The "false fact" of his eating habits arose out of a Nazi doctor recommending a meat-free diet for Adolf. He apparently followed it religiously... except when he wanted to eat an entire pig or some other ruminent. Then, shit got meaty. Reeeealll meaty.

Vague Witticisms

This is it, my foray into the world of contrived exhibitionism! Welcome! (sound of crickets chirping...) Well... Here we go anyway. Today's blog shall be about Abraham Lincoln, because he's been on my mind a lot lately, and because this is a benevolent dictatorship.
Abe had a high-pitched voice and he giggled a great deal. Especially when he was telling "funny stories" or reading great works of literature to unsuspecting aids. He liked to lay on the floor while he was reading or practising a speech, sprawled across as much acreage as he could cover with his person and rubbish, much in the manner of a teenaged boy. His hair was almost always sticking up at odd angles and he fancied himself hideously ugly. His eyes where a charismatic, brooding grey. He quite possibly never owned an article of clothing that fit him properly, especially pants. Legion are the comments from spectators to his public appearances, remarking on the quantity and quality of ankle and shin visible beneath his hem. He shuffled around his home, both in Springfield and Washington, wearing a knit cap, woolen shawl and slippers. Basically, he was your grandma, give or take a pair of sock-garters.

Fun historical affectation of the day!
Anne Boleyn had a rudimentary sixth finger on one hand. This inspired her "Super Power" in the ill-fated (long-awaited) Crotch Rot Comic of the Wives of Henry VIII. "The Six-Finger Hold." Katherine Howard was going to chuck her head around like she was throwing the hammer for the Russians in the Olympics or some shit. Anne of Cleves would have subdued her enemies with a violently offensive smell. More on A.o.C. another day. Anyway, I never could come up with suitable attributes for the rest of them. I blame it my childhood case of worms.