Friday, July 10, 2009

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!

Saturday, July 4, 2009

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!

Friday, July 3, 2009

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.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

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!

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

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!
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