Maybe if it's not too big a waste of ammo, I'll shoot you in the head when the Zombies really do show up. This has always been one of my biggest fears. Hell, it might just be my biggest fear if I really own up to it. I'm sure it's a phobia of some sort since it is rather unrealilistc. See, I admit it. The possibility is very slim. But we'll just see who ends up a drooling walking corpse when the time comes. You tell me if Mad Cow Diease isn't just a cover up for rare cases of spontaneous Zombieism. I have my cast iron ladle and I know how to use it!
Monday, June 25, 2007
I was NOT surprised (much) to find that my blog merited a NC-17 rating. I was however surprised by WHAT merited such a rating!
This is what displayed directly below my rating after I submitted my site:
This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:
Ok, I admit, I'm a bit of a potty mouth when left to my own devices. But can anyone tell me why MASOCHIST is on that list? I don't even think I used it in a sexual context, though truth be told a little spanking is always appreciated. And STEAL? What the hell people?!
Now for a story...
When I was a young girl I lived on a farm. On this farm we had a dozen cows, a few chickens, and an ass. It was my chore to muck out the barn every day after school. It was very hard work. The cows weren't too bad, as they usually stayed outside, but the ass slept in the barn every night. One day after shoveling ass shit from a barn stall, I wandered over to the hen house to steal their eggs off their nests for breakfast the next morning. On my way I passed two of the cows fucking. It looked uncomfortable. I figured the heifer had to be a masochist to enjoy that. Right then some ass fucking moral majority piece of shit decided to steal my right to free speech and he actually thought I would roll over and take it like some masochist bitch. I killed him and wrote this story using his petrified dick and a pint of his own blood.
Parts of this story are fictional, but not all of it. You decide which is which.
And Always Remember Kiddies - Words Don't Mean Shit!
Thursday, June 7, 2007
I was forced by my Bestest Friend in the Whole Wide World to buy new shoes recently. I absolutely fell in love with them. They spoke to the outcast in me. The girl who would refuse to speak for days at a time and thought drowning herself a suitable escape plan from the hell of school in Podunk, USA. The poet who killed and perished between lines. The punk who wore combat boots to work in the kitchen of her own restaurant where she would sleep in the booths at night rather than drive home. The elegantly melancholy ghost who dabbled in l'amour with blonde haired hippies whose fingers could play anything, pool playing Jeep driving good ol' boys, wicked wiccans, and punk rock drummers who rolled their cigarette packs up in their shirt sleeves. The woman who still takes her coffee how she leaves her men; dark & bitter.
I manage to forget my own age until something I take for granted is challenged. And so it happened. When I showed off my kick ass - ass kickers the first reaction I got was "Those are great Pirate shoes!" Pirate shoes?, I asked in astonishment. What? I have long lusted after Pirate shoes, those beautiful soft leather boots that loosely encircle your thighs like a lover. These shoes were NOT Pirate shoes! They were Punk shoes! They were kick your ass sexy irrelevant PUNK skull and crossbones shoes! Dammit all to Hell the thought NEVER crossed my mind... Pirate shoes, pfffft. As if. Though I lust after Johnny Depp with every other woman who felt those first vague stirrings while watching 21 Jump Street, I would never look at these shoes - my PUNK, Cyndie Lauperish, pointy toed, pieces of footwear perfection, that I would have gladly worn to see Henry Rollins perform back in the 90's - and think "Cool sparkly fingernail polish, LOL, Avril is soooo much cooler than Ashlee, teenage angst shoes!" When did it happen that my anti-establishmentarian hieroglyph become some banal Walt Disney trademarked rub-on tatoo!? When did the irreverant become the endorsed? I'm done. I need a couple of swigs straight from the old SoCo bottle to restore my faith in the world. Shit. Henry Rollins now does stand up. The whole thing is beyond me some days.