Psycho Babble

New Vocabulary Word:

Fucknugget! LOL! I don't even need to know the definition! I discovered this word in a book by Paul Levine: The Deep Blue Alibi. LMAO!

...just thought I'd share that little gem with y'all... : D

Bitches & Blogs

So, I was going to write about how my ghost-writer annoyed me in the last posting of this blog (duh, because she’s supposed to be a ‘ghost’ - You know, heard but not seen…writing FOR ME, not ABOUT HER!) The agreement is I send her audio tapes or emails of my drivel, and she’s supposed to write it/post it verbatim. Well, obviously, she screwed that up by blatantly announcing her existence to y’all! This is not good for my image as a single, spunky, virtual female who has her act totally together at all-most times! Anyhoo, I’m not going to write about that particular pisser today (yes, ME! I’m writing this myself! I fired her ass for insubordination and turf-trampling!) because it’s just ugly business you don’t need to know anything about!

So…let us begin anew…

Molotov has broken my heart. Yes, I’m as surprised as you are that this is even possible. Evidently, until someone breaks our heart we many times are not aware that they have it in their possession…especially if it’s a seriously introverted Havana bad-ass who kidnaps innocent females, carry’s unconcealed weaponry, speaks in broken English, and who sweats far, far too much! I am appalled (yet strangely fascinated) by my own taste in men!

Allow me to give you some background noise on where all this emotional crapola began:

Somewhere between the flooding of my suite with toilet water, and my last post (the post written by that ungrateful winch from hell…) Molotov and I started following each others blogs. Yes, Molotov is a blogger. He’s actually terribly amusing when he’s not being himself or trying to kill unsuspecting persons of various dark and creepy backgrounds. Anyway, the blog entertainment went from funny, to me getting jealous and insecure (I know, it’s almost impossible to visualize me being insecure! You can imagine what a shock it is to me as well! I’m traumatized by this newly revealed virtual weakness of my virtual character!)

What caused this upset? Molotov has started writing about other women in his blog…his ‘appreciation’ of other women. He didn’t mention me in his long list of women he worships. I didn’t know I wanted him to mention me…until he didn’t. So, as any other woman would do, I went kinda totally ape-shit. He of course (being of the male species where all things of the moment are the only thing they are aware of), is too stupid to know that I’m not crazy just because I’m throwing a spectacular fit!

Which reminds me, I simply MUST write a post about the benefits and enjoyment of: PMS – Ladies [and meatheads], it ain’t a ‘syndrome’…it’s an outlet for all the bullshit we unceasingly endure for three to four solid weeks at a spin! We ain’t making this shit up due to hormones – Hell no! If it weren’t for the damned hormones forcing us to react to our own emotional state and solid, rational concerns…we’d implode like a…well, like I don’t know what, but it wouldn’t be pretty, and the world would never change and grow (which is precisely what we’re bitching about in the first place you freaking idiots!)  PMS Power! Go Yo-Bitches!

At any rate, Molotov and I are at awkward odds at the moment. He broke my heart. I broke his. He broke mine again by deleting me as a blog follower (I believe he took it upon himself to determine what my thoughts about this were - Big mistake dear Molotov! Grrrrr!). I may be in the middle of breaking his again because I emailed him about his deleting me. I asked him if he wanted to delete me in real life too. He hasn’t answered…

(yes, I could say it all right to his face, but I just don’t want to risk seeing his potential facial reaction, or lack thereof, @ my inquiry(s). Nor do I wish to go ape-shit again for at least another week or two – it’s exhausting and drains me of my Vitamin B complexes, not to mention the ever important C!)

So…it all makes me wonder:

…if I fell into shark infested waters, would he try to save me (or at least seriously consider doing so)?

…if I went on and on about how handsome, smart, and sexy I found some other man/men to be, would it bother him? Would it hurt him? Would he just blow it off if it did hurt him?

…if I never joked with him again, or called him a shitty name, would he miss that? Me?

…if I never affectionately swatted him, would he long for that good-natured abuse only I deliver (using a most delicate rpm/mph ratio I refined and mastered years ago) ?

…and…will this man have the courage and intelligence to tell me his thoughts, fears, and feelings? Or will he just keep it all to himself because that’s the only life…the only way…he’s ever known?

I sure hope the butthead isn’t that ‘strong’, or he’ll end up lonely his whole life (I don’t think I could bare that)

I can’t fix this. Just like you, I have to wait to see what unravels (and I am NOT going to let my ex-ghost writer effect the outcome of this! The hag is banned from the blog!)

Later, my little yo-peeps!

Mongrels and ketchup

So, I suppose you’ve been thinking I was either dead, or simply a dead-head. Well, truth be told…I am a dead-head. I am lazy, irresponsible, and amazingly fickle with my commitments…but that’s only when I’m not being hyper-active, compulsive/obsessive, and reasonably neurotic/psychotic. I bet you’re relieved that I’m so damn normal!

Anyhoo, last you knew I had Molotov banging at my door and ready to knock my delightful lights out for flooding the damn yacht with sewer water (he is SUCH a baby!). I managed to survive the onslaught of his exceptional temper tantrum with flying colors, and we eventually went topside for drinks and cigars with Mr. A. while the hired peons cleaned up the big mess I made.

As I’m sure you are aware, Molotov has quite a crush on me (as does Mr. A, which I’m convinced is due to my polite white-trash charm with a delicate twist of lemon…as well as my ever so perky Yo-busters), and I have guiltlessly manipulated these smokey bad-asses whenever possible. We gals must use our gifts without shame or flinching in order to keep our little world in tact. Do NOT apologize for this! Ever! (Amen yo-sista, Dirt!)

On another note, it came to my attention that Zynga followed my lead and started producing mafia and police items in a jealous attempt to get you to stop following my blog posts. Please note: it’s just a matter of time before the Yoville Witness Protection Program is also picked up and abused by these multi-millionaire Moguls (or should I say, Mongrels?), and alas, I will not get the royalty’s I so righteously deserve for coming up with this nonsense! Yes I’m totally pissed, but I will get over it!

…Hmmm, this would probably also be a good time to inform you that I went against my better judgment, as well as abandoning my heart-wrenching plea to you to boycott Pete’s Pet Store (see Tractor Pull: July 1, 2009), and I paid the $2000.00 for the goddamn goldfish – Shame on me, I know! Regardless, I named him ‘Flipper’ and would really appreciate y’all feeding him whenever possible, as I would prefer to spend my hard-earned yo-coins on decorations and a totally kool, super-slut wardrobe! Thanks!

OK, where was I? Does anyone really care? I know I don’t! I’d like to just get on with this blogging business rather than doing a bunch of recapping on the virtual yo-past! My God, this is why I lack commitment! It’s because of accumulated virtual clutter and a warped sense of responsibility, virtual or otherwise! I hereby release myself from this self imposed prison of ‘catch up’ (not to be confused with ‘ketchup’) Bottom line is: I’m still dilly-dallying in Cuba, and I no longer give a shit about helping with the YWPP! If Zynga is determined to riddle your walls with bullets, and your floors with chalk outlines…so be it (rhymes with ‘Soviet’)!

Alrighty, well, I’ve had enough of my own yo-bullshit for one day (Besides, Mega Man will be waltzing in soon and I need to turn myself into a sex-goddess so he doesn’t divorce me for having the chronic ugly’s!)

*Chow, my lovely Yovillians!

(*Yes, I know I spelled it wrong!)

PS: I don't know why the links are so freaking BOLD, it was not a deliberate act on my part!

Floods & Tugboats: July 10, 2009

I languished in bed pondering if Hell would be like this: where I would be surrounded by untold riches and beauty; engulfed in the calming gentle sway of lullaby waves; satin sheets caressing me out of the lavish sleep of Queens and Fair Maidens; my every need attended to with the push of a fiberglass button. Every need seen to and accommodated…every need, but for one. One lousy need would be willfully and torturously withheld from me: the need to have the freedom to leave. That deliberation caused me to ponder further, wondering if perfectly beautiful people live in quasi-hell because they can’t escape the beauty they’re trapped inside of, and if perhaps that’s what aging is for: to open the prison of perfection and to allow one to live without the support of push-button ego crutches. Then that particular pondering caused me to further ponder if perhaps the Heaven everyone’s trying so hard to get a membership into, might in fact become Hell after about, say 5 or 10 earth years (sooner for me, since I’m hyper-active). Is this shit mind-boggling or what?

I arose nimbly and sensuously; with a soft angelic radiance glowing from my pearl and rose-petal skin; the morning sun glinting and dancing like glitter-stars off my golden, touchable locks that were gently kissing the edges of my dewy fresh face. NOT! I actually made a graceless scamper for the john looking like Cruella Deville after an all-nighter (trust me, I know this from former experience and bed partners), tangled up in make-up smeared bed sheets, with a record breaking wedgie (white with yellow smiley faces) gently yet firmly embedded in La-la-land.

I nearly took a major header as I slathered my way to the toidy with eyes opened just enough to navigate the location of my much longed for goal. Alas, success! I plucked, peeled, peed, patted, flushed, and immediately got my yo@ss sprayed by Yellowstone National Parks famous geyser, Old Faithful (mental note: don’t pee in the bidet ever again!). I washed my hands (only because I know you’re living your life vicariously through me at this moment, and I want to set a good example), and dried my yo-buns with a virgin-white hand towel, hoping to leave tell-tale tracks of spore, or a well placed dingle-berry.

I proceeded deep into the interior region of my illustrious chambers and nabbed the bowl of fruit that was nestled temptingly on a big-ass bureau. I looked the delectables over carefully, grabbed a ‘Red Delicious’ apple, took a bite, and headed back into the bathroom. I took another bite. Truly delicious! I plopped it into the toilet and flushed. The damn thing actually went down, so I grabbed a smallish ‘Gala’. Bite, plop, flush. It too went down, though the water stubbornly refused to follow. Oh, joy! Moving right along, I peeled an orange, removed the stopper from the sink, and stuffed the drain along with the overflow cavity with succulent orange pieces and bits of waterproof skin. I turned the water on and smiled at myself in the gilded mirror (the face in the mirror was really scary yet hauntingly familiar, so the trauma was quite mild and it didn’t prevent me from enjoying the moment). I meandered over to the tub for a look-see…

…I think you get the picture...

Amazingly, it took approximately 3 hours before the water finally made its way under the door to the hallway. So be forewarned dear friends: anyone wishing to attempt this trick when held in captivity, allow for plenty of time if time is going to be an issue for you. You may also want to consider not eating the fruit while you wait for the flood, as you will need the toilet if you do so, and hello, it will not be available. Personally, I would rather die of a toxic implosion of astronomical proportions, than to send little brown tug-boats bouncing and skipping merrily around my room!

Well, I can hear Diddle-ass cursing and thrashing outside my door, so it’s time for another WWW event – TTYL!

The Gorilla & the Gazelle: July 4, 2009

(I continue where I left off last time: Molotav entering my suite on July 2, 2009)

“What do you think of when you hear the word, mutilate?” Molotav asked me calmly and quietly, as he casually sliced the palm of his hand with a gleaming knife, drawing a wee-thin line of blood (Way too dramatic, don’t you think?)

I said, “Mmmm, makes me think of raw liver, or maybe spaghetti. Yeah, spaghetti, or no, wait, pigs-in-a-blanket. Yeah, that’s it. Now you’ve made me hungry, Numb-nuts, I think you should get out of my way so I can forage for sustenance and legal pain killers,” I attempted to shoo him from blocking the doorway. Didn’t work. He continued to look at me with the way–over-done dark intensity thing, and made no reply which I found unforgivably annoying. It inspired me to adjust my vocal chords to accommodate a voice much akin to ‘monotone alien’ and I began to chant, “Hungry (short pause), hungry (short pause), hungry (short pause), hungry…” while staring at him like a zombie.

He yelled sharply, “Enough!”, raising his arms in the theatrical manner that I call ‘swanning’, due to the fact that it is a standard defense maneuver of swans that are getting ready to beat you senseless with wings that span six freakin’ feet! (How cool is that?!) So, obviously, this guy’s intention is to be very threatening, you know, like it’s all the bonehead can do to keep from thumping all 100 pounds of me into next week. I need to be fully aware that he’s just this side of out of control so I better not push him by God, or I’ll be really sorry. Yadda, yadda, yadda, ooh baby, ooh baby…(yawn)(fart)

I tenaciously persisted, “Hungry (pause), hungry (pause), hungry (pause), hungry…”

“You will stop that this instance!”

I sought to immediately correct his faux pas, “Instant, not instance. Instant. I-N-S-T-A-N-T. Instant. Meaning immediately, or without delay. Like, NOW, Toad-boy!” I stuck out my tongue and crossed my eyes. Well, that pissed him pretty good because his face turned magenta and smoke barreled out of his ass…oops, I mean his ears (I’m lying. Neither orifice did anything unusual or mind boggling in any fashion whatsoever. Isn’t it great that I still possess my sense of humor despite the perilous situation I find myself in?)

“Silence!” he yelled in a decidedly louder voice than before, perhaps hoping the bellowing volume would cause me to cease and desist from my obnoxious behavior- Yeah, right, sorry, but you’ll have to kill me first...

“Hungry (pause), hungry (pause), hungry (pause), hungry…”

The next portion of our heated social exchange went something like this:

Molotav: I shall cut out your tongue!

Me: Oh give me a break, Butt-breath! Either start chopping me up or chop me some veggies or something! You really suck at this! If you’re going to threaten people you need to be able to follow through! Don’t you know anything?

Molotav: You are itty bitty evil woman! I want to hurt you very badly!

Me: Oh, you do not, Mouse-terd. You like me.” (I smiled engagingly while batting my luxurious yo-lashes. I noted a slight hesitation pass behind his chocolaty peeps, which was an automatic 2 points for me and my womanly attributes as far as I was concerned – The fact that he had the looks and charm of a gorilla are irrelevant to the test results, as any righteous woman is fully aware).

Molotav: Your Mojo be messed up greatly. You are clazy!

(I generously chose to ignore his latest mispronunciation…)

Me: I don’t have Mojo, I’m a white gal. I have Jomo. I have Yo-Jomo! Tons of it! Gallons of it! Piles of it! I’m friggin’ amazing, Monkey-shit!

Molotav: You will stop calling me the names!

Me: No, I won’t.

Molotav: Yes, you will!

Me: NO! I! WON’T!

At this inevitable impasse Molotav sighed and his body sagged like a flaccid…balloon. It was beautifully perfect to behold. Without hesitation I rocket launched myself at him, screamed, ‘Hi yah!’ in my best oriental warrior imitation, and kicked the knife squarely out of his hand. I then clamped down on the disturbingly large anatomical protuberance jutting from his butt-ugly mug (e.g. his nose) with my impeccable, Colgate-white teeth. (Note: This aggressive and enthusiastic action had the ability to produce upwards of 170 pounds of pressure per square inch to his sensitive flesh and delicate cartilage!)

He screamed like a girl.

Convinced that I had briefly incapacitated him, I dislodged my fangs from where they had embedded themselves into his snout, and fled like a young gazelle. My gazelle image was but momentary, as I was forced to spit several times due to the salty brine absorbed by my tongue from his schweaty schnoz. While earnestly attending to the cleansing of my much offended taste buddies, I ran headlong into a glass partition. Time seemed to stand still for a foggy, though somewhat pleasurable in a weird kind of way moment or two, and then I collapsed into a dizzy heap on the floor (I’ve seen that in movies but never believed it could happen to me!). Needless to say, that is where Diddle-ass caught up with me, and unceremoniously drug me back to my suite. Rest assured he did not remain unscathed for his manhandling. I have the broken nails to prove it.

…more tomorrow (I hope). Let’s all try to stay positive…OK?
Happy 4th to you all! Embrace your freedom!

Shark Bait: July 3, 2009

So yesterday started out with everything going along just fine, though I was still unable to wear a brassiere due to my severe sunburn. I assumed Mr. A. and Molotav wouldn’t mind and that it may even assist me in my negotiation attempts – I figured my yo@ss worked in my favor so why not use the yo-busters in like manner? Anyway, the Limo & Molotav fetched me at precisely 1:00 p.m. and we shortly arrived at dock 114 on the Bay of Havana where Mr. A’s 220 foot posh pleasure yacht was moored.

(photo of Molotav & I arriving on Mr. A’s yacht, ‘Porpoise in Life’)

Social niceties were taken care of straight away. Mr. A appeared to be fully recovered and in a good, if not somewhat gregarious mood. This should have been my first indication that something was amiss, as Mr. A is normally quite reserved and subliminal. Molotav, on the other hand, was being his usual sour-ass self, which motivated me to give him the occasional evil-eye of contempt and loathing. At one point while Mr. A. was intent upon his meal, I caught Molotav's eye and displayed an open mouth full of chewed food which merely caused him to look away without any change in his expression what-so-ever. Jerk!

It was during this delightful luncheon that I got all swimmy headed and fell full-face into my plate of shrimp salad in mid-chew. That is the last thing I remember about lunch. Upon awakening, I found myself in an impressive bedroom suite with the sounds of water gently lapping close by. I assumed I was somewhere in the bowels of the yacht. I made my fuzzy way to the door, set on the task of finding either Molotav or Mr. A. to see what the hell had happened. Much to my consternation, I discovered that the door was locked. My reaction was to immediately start throwing a royal fit of screaming and pounding. Nothing appeared to be getting anyone’s attention, so I started to threaten to clog the toilet and flood the joint. That worked, for Molotav finally spoke to me from outside the closed door and informed me that I was now a piece of Mr. A’s property and I needed to shut up and behave myself or things would only get worse. My response was to scream (note: edited), “Bull-doodoo you mother-effing son-of-a-beached-whale! I am going to rip your effing head off and then cut off your god-doodled wanger with a hatchet and feed it to the effing sharks!”

Not surprisingly, this statement got Molotav to open the door…

…I’m afraid I must take pause at this point, as the recollection of these cursed events tends to exhaust me greatly. I shall write again soon.

Where Dirt comes from: July 2, 2009

Well, we all knew it was possible; we knew it could happen; we just didn’t believe our silly selves.
These swarthy badboys will of course live to greatly regret this foolish and sordid macho-Mafioso-maneuver ‘til hell won’t have it! *Aunt Prinvi didn’t raise no yodummy!

*Note: Prinvi isn’t my real aunt. My parents had abandoned me on the Shady Avenue Bridge that overlooks the beautiful yet treacherous Yogogo River at the tender age of 3 1/2. They saw fit to plop me there with a box of animal crackers, 2 juice boxes, a blanket, a small pink pillow, my favorite stuffed animal, ‘Grrrrrr’ (a cheetah), and a note explaining to whoever found me that they could no longer endure me, e.g. ‘free to good home’.

Prinvi happened upon me while taking her regular morning constitutional. I was covered in dirt and mud (I had presumably been playing down by the water) and galloping merrily along the wide concrete rail of the bridge with Grrrrr in tow, neighing and snorting like a horse at an ear-splitting pitch. Prinvi calmly approached me with a large handful of dewy green grass while telling me what a beautiful horse I was indeed, to which I responded with yet another whinny and resounding snort, afterward allowing her to coax my wild-n-wooly spirit to safer ground. She fed me an animal cracker out of the palm of her hand telling me it was a sugar cube, proceeded to systematically collect my few articles, and then marched me to her house with me moving along at a very handsome horsey trot. And that was that. She never reported finding me to the police, and the papers never mentioned a lost or missing child. So, I was hers for happily-ever-after.

Aunt Prinvi eventually found the ways and means to get the necessary falsified legal documents so that I could flourish like any other well-adjusted abandoned child. Our story has always been that I was the child of her deceased sister. Aunt Prinvi does have a sister, Linda Lou, but she is very much alive and well and in on our little secret.

Anyway, y’all need to know that I’ve been taken hostage by Mr. A and his salty-sea thugs. Please DO NOT inform the WPP authority’s that I am being held captive on Mr. A’s yacht, ‘Porpoise in Life’, against my will! I am totally pissed and these cracker-jacks have no idea how miserable I am going to make their pathetic sweat-stained lives! I was an abandoned child for a damn good reason! Please get word to my Aunt’s Prinvi and Linda Lou – There will be some ass kickin’ happening soon, and it won’t be ‘Yo’!

Shit! Gotta go! Someone’s coming!

Tractor Pull: July 1, 2009

As you can see, I was beach-boiled in suntan oil yesterday. I didn’t think the six rum-n-cokes would knock me out - I thought I would just ‘get happy’, ya know? Anyhoo, Molotov has informed me that Mr. A. will be going home from the hospital tomorrow and we shall wrap up (I hope) this negotiating stuff. In the meantime, I will continue to routinely laminate my screaming skin cells with solarcaine and aloe vera gel.

Additionally, since I have so much time on my hands I’ve taken the liberty of writing a petition @ Pete’s Pets store about the outrageous price on the gold fish! {$2000 Pete?! Your head must be firmly embedded up yer yo@ss! Tell ya what! I’ll get some forceps, and if you’ll push…I’ll pull! Maybe you’ll get a revelation and head towards the bright white light! Hell, if we have to, we can hook you up to a tractor to pull the damn thing out!}

As potential customers, Pete needs to realize that we can get a gold fish, fish food, fish bowl, assorted decorative stones, AND a cheerful plastic water plant from Wally’s-Big-Fart for about $15.00 + tax! It is my hope that you will all support this petition to Pete as well as boycott his store until we make him see the blessed sunlight once again! Hallelujah!

Basking: June 30, 2009

Mr. Alvarez’s personal bodyguard, Molotov (a very scary dude), fetched me today to see Mr. Alvarez at the hospital. Mr. A was alert and talkative, as well as insistent that I remain in Cuba (his treat) until we can complete our negotiations. I agreed and have returned to the hotel with the intentions of basking on the beach and getting quietly & enthusiastically schnockered whilst acquiring a much needed beautifying tan. Molotov volunteered to slather my lily white yo@ss with tanning butter, but I politely declined his invitation. He smiled and said something in spanish then walked away chuckling. It is highly likely that I will have to bitch-slap him at some point, depending on my PMS fluctuations.

'Thriller': June 28, 2009

My hangover knocked me on my yo@ss for two full & miserable days. I have been informed that Mr. Alvarez came out of his coma (briefly) several hours ago. To further add to this bazaaro situation, the bellboy burst into my room yesterday morning yelling ‘my kill jock soon dade’. Naturally I heard the word ‘kill’ and pulled my gun on him. After much pleading and groping at his nether regions, I realized he was telling me that Michael Jackson was dead. I put my gun away and gave him $20 to forget about it….

Cuban Hangover: June 26, 2009

I’m afraid I drank quite heavily with Mr. Alvarez all of yesterday and last evening. I am too hung over to negotiate. I don’t think this will be a problem, as Mr. Alvarez went into an alcohol induced coma at approximately 1:23 this morning, and has been hospitalized……

Note: Mr. A and I ended up getting along quite well, and I dismissed the notion of a trip to Nova Scotia, provided of course that he recovers from the coma.

Negotiations: June 25, 2009

I continue negotiations with Mr. Alvarez here in Cuba. My US sources tell me I may have better luck in Nova Scotia. I shall consider a side trip to see wud up wid dat! TTY soon, provided I am not dead, kidnapped, incarcerated, or en route to other regions!

Overview: June 10 thru June 24, 2009

My original diary/message entries have been lost, due to someone sabotaging my computer. Personally, I believe the ability for everyone/anyone to just show up in my apartment whenever they feel like it enticed someone to corrupt my computer…as well as to drink most of my latte’s. I am delighted & amused by the fact they I have yet to purchase a toilet, though they probably just peed in my pools or plants instead…

At any rate, the facts remain, the issues remain: the government is not furnishing those of us in the Witness Protection Program with proper security. They have allowed all sorts of riff-raff into Alton Towers, and tolerate untold numbers to mill about outside the premises (See Photo). At some point, one of us is going to be ‘offed’ due to this blatant lack of safety precautions.


I have taken it upon myself to acquire additional protection from outside sources. Naturally, hiring U.S. Mafioso was out of the question, as most of us are here due to having testified against them. I determined to go to Cuba to seek help. Though I am/was aware that the Cuban Mafioso has U.S. connections, a one Mr. Diego Alvarez was reportedly the leader of an independent ‘family’. I proceeded to make arrangements to fly to Cuba to meet with him, and was able to find a reliable source for the large amounts of valium I required in order to get on a small aircraft filled with sweaty, scowling, non-english speaking men. The trip itself remains quite hazy, though I do recall missing the last step getting off the plane and landing on hands and knees, my skirt flying up over my back and exposing my fine white yo@ss to the entire aircraft crew. I will say, they are all much friendlier towards me now, if not outright flirtatious.


I was shortly directed into the awaiting silver limousine sent by Mr. Alvarez, which whisked me away to a lovely hotel owned by him. After attending to my skinned hands and knees, I was able to rest for several hours before meeting with him...