Young scientist loves birdsong, builds machine outside lab window that will give food when birds sing. Over the course of a lifetime, teaches birds not to hunt, but to sing. Scientist dies. No-one to fill bird feeder. Birds sing themselves to death. Possible alternate ending: People think birds dying are somehow a tribute to their great friend.
This is very Ulysses dog waits in trash heap until his return, dies happy.
So I put the call out on twitter, asking for some blog suggestions. Here’s how it went:
Marinaisgo: About to write a blog. What should I write about? I’ve been thinking about money, punk rock, and sex lately.
Bebe33:@Marinaisgo I like hearing about money.
Moopigpoo: @Marinaisgo I like hearing about sex.
Jaynatopia: @Marinaisgo sounds like the start of a novel
Marinaisgo: @Jaynatopia I only wish I had some sort of narrative
Jaynatopia@Marinaisgo it starts out with a sex symbol punk rocker breaking into the mob’s bank vault; now run with it!
Your wish is my command.
I’m a punk rocker, I’m sure that someone thinks I’m a sex symbol (that poor dumb bastard-thanks though,) and I often think about breaking into bank vaults, but probably only because I know I’m not supposed to. Does the Mob have it’s own bank vault? I can just see that meeting with the executives at CitiBank:
Don Vito: I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.
Citibank: And what’s that, Don?
Don Vito: Please, call me Vito, all my friends do.
Citibank: Ok Vito, what is your offer?
Don Vito: Citibank, my friend. I’m gonna let you build a whole other vault next to the one you already got just to keep my family money inside of. How’s that sound to you my friend?
Citibank: You’re joking, right?
Don Vito: No. Why?
Citibank: You want me to use bank funds to build another vault next to our existing vault so that we can keep your family’s money in it, which will only make us the most at risk bank in the city, possibly the nation?
Don Vito: I don’t see the problem here.
Citibank: I do. Not only will every rival hood in the…
Don Vito: Woah, who said anything about hoods? We’re a family. That’s a racist misconception of Italian descended individuals.
Citibank: Than why do you need a whole other vault to put your money in?
Don Vito: I’m sorry?
Citibank: Why would you need a whole other vault to keep your families money in, unless for illegal activities Mr. Vito…
Don’t Vito: Call me Don, please.
Citibank: Don, here at Citibank, we’re no strangers to handling large fortunes. Our most famous client, Mr. Stephen Baldwin, of the Hollywood Baldwins, has no qualms about letting his substantial fortune mix with the smaller checking and savings accounts of others.
Don Vito: Where does Alec keep his money?
Citibank: What?
Don Vito: Are you going to build my family a vault or not?
Citibank: I’m sorry. We don’t do that here at Citibank. Besides, it looks like you have a bankruptcy on your account.
Don Vito: I see how it is. I thought you might say that, which is too bad for you. Come on boys, we’re going to Bank of America, where they understand us.
Of course it would never happen like that. Citibank is just dying to get into bed with the mob. They would do anything to drop that fuck Stephen Baldwin. I heard he overdraws every single pay period. You should have stayed in Threesome, Stephen Baldwin. It’s a cruel, hard world out here. Even at Citibank. ALLEGEDLY.
What am I forgetting here. Oh yeah, the sex.
Well, I can tell you that Don Vito is destined to die whilst fucking his mistress, an unpopular girl who went to his daughter’s high school. She spent 3 years after graduation as a low-rent stripper in the ghetto, scrimping and tricking before she could afford to buy herself breast implants, and get hired at the good club, where she met Don Vito, and through a steady habit of refusing to give him a hand-job in the back room (mostly because he was gross), she became his angel and he set her up in a fancy 1 bedroom in a complex with a gym in the basement and a pool on the roof.
One night, while he’s huffing and puffing above her, chin sweat dangerously close to dripping into her grimacing mouth, while she moans “oh donnie, donnie, you’re drivin’ me crazy,” in an almost hypnotic manner, and tries not to remember her step-father who did the same thing every Wednesday night until he died while driving home drunk, Don Vitos’ heart gives out.
They found her three days later, when a neighbor complained about the smell. Doctor’s report that she tried to satiate her initial thirst by licking the sweat from the folds of his fat, where it had pooled as his body cooled and bloated on top of her. But in the end, she had been her own worst enemy, her prized breast implants had ruptured on impact of the old man’s body. Had it not been for the silicone leaking into her blood stream, she could have survived, licking sweat off the corpse of her dead Mafia don boyfriend while she waited for help to arrive.
Of course, if it weren’t for the breast implants she’s still be giving $20 blow jobs in the alley behind ‘Big Jims Booby Barn’ on interstate 58. So there you go.
You Know Who
Paradise
555.FUCK.YOU
you_suck_go_die@yahoo.com
June 08, 2009
Sucker
Queen of Being a Lame Looser
1615 Idiot Ave Apt. #Eat a Dick
Suckerville, State of Depression, You’re So Fat You Have Your Own Zip Code
Dear Sucker,
Thank you for thinking that I was a good influence long enough for me to take everything from you.
If only you weren’t so bitter about what happened, you’d see how great it is here. All the women are beautiful, with traumatic sexual histories that cause them to love fellatio and hate cunnilingus. And their self esteem! It’s so low that I can hardly rest between energetic fuck sessions in which I reassure them (one by one or in groups) that they are lovable, even if they are not loved.
All of the babies have been aborted and all of the Gods are judgmental old white men.
Everybody’s so helpful and glad to see me. I’m so happy I took everything from you. Your loss has been particularly helpful in making me so universally well liked and adored.
Don’t Ever Change,
Your Misogynistic Self Hatred, XOXO *hearts*
I pulled this off of the freestyle thread on the Keith and the Girl forums. Just in case it gets deleted. Many are cheesy and only relevent to the post and/or day that they were made on, but I like them so I’m not changing a thing.
So… this is about to get really lame. Stop reading if you’re tired of hearing about my stupid momma drama. I’m hoping that this won’t just be another of the millions of poor me, I cut my self and the sadness pours out of me, LJ-style pity-fests, so here goes nothing.
Monday my mom called me, and if you know me, you know that I haven’t really talked with her since May of 07. After years of trying to be a good daughter and have loving compassion for her as a child of god despite her pill addiction and various other crippling, untreated personality disorders I decided that the only way to be a good daughter to her while still preserving my self respect was to take a break from her. Well, she never really understood the meaning of the word “no,” so she continues to call me every so often, much to my distress. While this will probably sound crazy to all you normal people out there, it makes very specific sense to me and probably will to you if you are lucky enough to have a chronically lying, manipulative addict for a mother like myself (and if you do, God bless you and thank you for not shooting yourself in the head).
Anyway, I recently moved from Anaheim (see Seven Years with Good Rent) to Hawthorne-surprisingly without a rent raise BTW-to be closer to work. I chose not to tell her I was moving, and not to tell her when I moved and not to give her my new address. Not so much because I mind her having these things, but really because I still don’t want to talk to her, and I see no need for her to have this information. So much for that.
So on Monday, I get a message from her that her crazy money hungry grifter of a fake Hindu holy man is coming to Hawthorne “I believe that’s the town you moved to” and would I like to come listen to this wack-job promise me eternal whatever the fuck I want for the low low price of $500 + every paycheck I’ll earn after he ropes me in + my estate after I die, especially if I am rich and old. Every normal person who’s reading this is probably just thinking ’she’s in a cult, it’s what they do.’ First, let me just say: aren’t cult leaders supposed to discourage their members from family contact? The one good thing about my mother being in a cult is that this fuck could keep her locked up in his fake ashram and far away from me. I’ll bet he knows she’s insane and has her calling me in the hopes that I’ll hire a team of anti-cult activists in a van to kidnap her and take her off his hands. No deal swami gimmi monie, no fucking deal at all.
Back to the facts. The facts which are this: The only important part of that message is the part where she lets me know that she knows what city I live in despite the fact that I did not tell her this thing. Remember when I said that I really don’t mind her having my address? I kind of don’t, but now I actually do, because she can’t just have my address and take solace in the fact that someone in this family is still dumb enough to communicate with her tongue chewing, toxic, carcass (Grandma, I’m looking at you-you’re a sweet old lady, but you’re letting the wolf in). She has to call me and lie through her teeth about something which she knows I care nothing for, all the while trusting that her secret mom-code will worm it’s way out of the phone speaker and into my brain like a fungus of anger and guilt. It totally worked.
So now I’m obsessed with the concept of her baffling ability to get under my skin a full year and a half after I decided that the door was closed, that the deal was done, and that she wasn’t allowed inside my fucking head again. She’s back like a cockroach, shitting and reproducing behind the stove of my subconscious, eating away at my mental property value shit by shit. Why do I do this?! Why is it that I absolutely lack the ability to be corporeal when faced with the succubus that is my mother and she’s not even here?
A co-worker had to point out to me that I didn’t have to listen to her voicemail. To be honest, it never occurred to me not to. Here I just opened the door and said “please do come in, vampire queen, tear my heart out and eat it, shit it out and jam it back into my gaping, bloody chest wound. Can I take your coat?” What is so important that this woman has to say to me that I can’t hear it from somebody else faster and more accurately?
I don’t know what’s worse, the idea that this is the relationship that I get to have with my mother who used to be a real person, and not this cliche sack of nastiness, or the fact that I’ve done this to myself. I hold the only key into my mind and heart and I give it to her every fucking time. I don’t have to listen to a word she has to say. If there is anyone alive in this world who has lost the ability to command my attention, it should be her, and yet, I waste my time thinking about her intent, her process, her cruel and selfish actions. Why do I do it, why do I open the door like this? I guess I really have to know that every time she’s going to fuck with my head, I have to test the oven to see if it’s still hot, every single time.
The good thing that comes out of this for me is that next time I’ll be less likely to listen to the message, and the next time I’ll be even less likely than that. I think I just have to know a thing a hundred percent. I have to be sure that the mom that I knew from when she was sober; the good, loving woman that I trusted and cared about, who I learned from and looked to for guidance and comfort is completely dead. And no matter if I answer the phone or don’t, if I listen to a thousand messages from her or I never hear from her again, that trust is broken. I guess sometimes it’s better for me to check the message, just to be sure than to never check the message and think that I could have seen the person I loved again, if only for a little bit. But the truth is that there’s no romantic come-back. There were only 9 years of her life where she wasn’t a miserable cunt and just because I was there for them doesn’t mean anything now. I have a life that I cherish, that I built from practically nothing, and I can’t let the shadow of her addiction, of her depression and desperation cast itself over what I’ve worked so hard to carve out for myself in an otherwise dark and uncaring world. It’s sad that she’s such a mess, but I can’t fall apart because of it
If you managed to slog through all that I hope it was entertaining enough. I tried to make it at least a little bit funny in the middle even if it got pretty sad at the end.
I just wanted to say that I could really do without Christmas, completely. Like, I understand that there needs to be a festival of lights, long dark winter, the nights getting shorter in anticipation of new beginnings etc, but this is ridiculous. This is some bullshit. We’re all broke this year-fuck, we’re all broke every year and yet, we keep digging ourselves a deeper hole just to give crap to douche bags we don’t even like. Well, you do. Everyone I’m getting a present for, I like. And on the one hand it is rather nice to have a day where we remember not to be assholes and give shit to our friends instead of just focusing all our rampant American consumerism on ourselves and our pets. But on the other hand, it’s a lot of hassle and we’re all dealing with it at the same time. Everybody has to take vacation at the same time, everybody has to be at the airport at the same time, Isn’t there a better way?
Also, suck it Jesus, you don’t even figure in to this shit!
So I’ve been thinking about the last blog I wrote about Ben’s perfect family, and my anxiety over my lameness and overall lack of tact or breeding. And I understand that I’m being a complete ass. I should be overjoyed that the problem I have with my boyfriend’s family is that they’re too nice and too awesome, and that next to them I feel dwarfed and retarded.
After all, I could have Fairy Princess Holly from We’re Mean Because You’re Stupid’s in-laws who are terrible, hillbilly, present grubbing creations who don’t discipline their children and are grand marshaled by her morbidly obese, hover-round equipped mother-in-law who seems to delight in calling poor Holly fat, and telling her how awful she is. Of course, if I did I would be able to have an awesomely hilarious podcast about it like her, and not just sound like a spoiled rotten ass hat going “oh, Ben’s family is too fabulous! Poor me!” all across the Internets.
I honestly don’t have anything to say aside from what I already said, it’s just that I don’t have a lot to do right now as we’re basically just sitting around waiting for our 3 hour holiday lunch to begin, at which point most of my co-workers will probably eat like pigs and then complain about how much it sucked. Don’t complain about free food, people! I mean, we live on the same planet that the holocaust happened on, like, 60 short years ago, and you don’t approve of the free Chicken Parmesan? And this from a girl who’s last blog was about perfect in-laws being too perfect?
There is no hope for any of us. Although this is making me think that there might be:
Tell me, is this obsessive linking good for you? Because it’s really good for me, and I’ll probably keep doing it no matter what you say.
I think that I will be the kind of old person that surrounds myself with my furniture. My bedroom furniture will be huge, and I will probably be small, like my own grandmother is today. I might buy a platform bed so that my children won?t have to throw away the box spring when I die. Or maybe I?ll have a box spring bed, so that they will. Part of me wants the cleaning and dismantling of my house to be long and difficult and heavy.
My dining room furniture will be massive, more so than the bedroom set. I refuse to own a lonely coffee table; I will buy my coffee tables by the truckloads and stack them in empty rooms along with extra dining tables, extra beds, extra sofas and exactly thirteen metal bed frames. Contemporary bedroom furniture is far too thin and easily transported. My children will suffer as I suffered.
I want them to painstakingly cart away each bed, each dining room set. I want them to take them to their individual homes, and keep them until their children will cart it to their homes. Centuries from now, across humanities viral sprawl I want for my furniture to live on without me. I want to have so many couches, so many coffee tables that surely, surely at the end of time, the last thing left will be something I loved, something I breathed on and left to my children. Something they took when there was nothing else left.
This was an assignment for my African American Literature class. We were told to write about our first memory of race in a non-linear way.
Race? I?m thinking in the shower. Shaving your legs is so gross-it?s totally just another way for the autocratic beauty industry to tell women that our bodies are in need of discipline. It?s a phenomenon that goes back thousands of years like how orthodox husbands can?t touch any women but their wives, and not even then when she?s on her period. Feminism is about being able to do what you want anyway.
So I do what I want and I shave my legs in accordance with the beauty autocracy. Do you know that I never actually had real leg hair? You know how there?s two kinds of leg hair, the little kid kind and the grown-up kind. I bet that?s every woman in the western world. Gross. Why can?t capitalism give me back my leg hair? I want all the leg hair I?ve ever shaved off right now. I want what you took from me. Lately I?ve been thinking a lot about lotus feet, especially when I shave my legs. I always wondered why they didn?t just cut off the women?s feet completely and put little shoes on their amputated ankles. Oh that?s a horrible thought. I feel sick. That should really be deleted. Maybe that?s just too much subjugation. How is it that we always think we know when to stop? After six years of constant orthodontia they tell me I?m not good enough yet. We want to create a hairline fracture in your upper palate and expand the bone plate a little every month. I started crying. Upper palate? That?s my face. You want to break my face. They make midgets do that to their legs. My face is like a midget leg. Fuck. I?m supposed to be talking about race. My grandmother jokes that I?m not a real Mexican because I don?t like spicy salsa.
You?re not supposed to say midget anymore. You?re supposed to say little person. Am I avoiding the subject of race? Possibly. I have no idea what to say. I think I had bigger problems as a kid. I wasn?t from the most tranquil environment if you know what I mean. But midget is a legitimate term. It applies to all adults five feet tall or under. My friend is a midget, among other things. Is it arrogant to suggest that I had bigger problems as a kid? That I was some sort of anti-racist messiah? Maybe I was just way too concerned about real shit. Everyone knows that race is just a social construction. Maybe it?s the bi-racial thing.
Once I was watching In Living Color with my dad and the Waynes sister came on and she was dressed like a little kid, and her mom was a maid, and she had a monologue about how in black world you mom doesn?t have to be a maid, and how in black world everyone likes you and and and you get new dresses everyday or something. I thought it sounded good. I?ve always wanted to live in a world where my moms different than what she is and I get whatever I want, which is basically what the television tells me I want. Kim Waynes, we should hang out. Right, race. I?m getting sleepy. I can?t think about this. My dad once told me that we were the only family that he knew that drank cool-aid after the kids grew up that was not black, and by we I mean them, his family. I wasn?t allowed to have cool-aid. So cool-aid belongs to black people and my dad is drinking it on the sly. What do they need it for? What is it about cool-aid that makes black people drink it? If only black people drink cool-aid then why do you drink it too? Because he had black friends in high school. And that?s not what he said, he said that the predominant amount of people who drink cool-aid after childhood are black, but we do it too. It?s funny because we?re a statistical outlier: drinks cool-aid, over eighteen, not black. I mean them, not me, I wasn?t allowed to have cool-aid. I didn?t even especially like it.
