Tuesday, October 31, 2006

If Lovin' Deer Chili is Wrong, I Don't Wanna Be Right

Went to a pahtay last weekend, got all up in da Jell-O shots and venison chili…

I did not feel well the next morning.

Behold the debauchery!

Me as Debbie Harry's less attractive little sister, and my best bud, Foxy Brown.

My hair wouldn't cooperate that night, unfortunately -- more like Barry Manilow than Debbie Harry, which, of course, ruins the whole illusion...But just look at how big and red my mouth is!

Happy Halloween, Chicken Heads!

Friday, October 27, 2006

#5 in My Series of “Incredibly Bad Poetry by Celebrities or Fictional Characters”

The Saddest Clown

By Jared Leto

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Look at me, you bastardly bitches
Look into my mesmerizing lady eyes
See how they hypnotize? Now look away!
I am the Wal-Mart of magicians

Marry [sic] me, marry [sic] me
I am finished with you

I apply my angst upon my face
With wicked turn of wrist, the greasepaint
My deepest agony and despair
And I cry

[sic] me, marry [sic] me
I am finished with you

Scooby Doo is a magnificent cartoon
Because Shaggy smokes the weed -- I know it’s true
I scream out in pain, alone
I love myself, alone

Scooby dooby Doo, where are you?
You’ve got some fun
[sic] to do now

And the wind cries Jared
Can you hear it, fuckers? Marry me
Come weep with Mr. Silly, come
Walk beside the saddest clown on earth

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

From the Sublime to Homoerotic Sexual Sadism

I love The Travel Channel. The Travel Channel is my one-stop shopping experience, my all-in-one, one-size-fits-all, all-inclusive package, all-you-can-eat buffet chock full of everything from ghosts to gondoliers, black sand beaches to Bigfoot…And, of course, my lover, Anthony Bourdain.

So last night, I watched Bob Geldof in Africa, a supremely affecting postcard/love letter that documents Geldof’s last trip to his beloved continent, written and narrated by the man himself. It is, in one word, magnificent. Through his eyes and genuinely brilliant commentary, along with breathtaking panoramic shots of the many different landscapes, moments capturing Africans shopping in malls, buying groceries, sitting in a restaurant intermingled with heartbreaking images such as the poverty, the starving, the close-ups of the eyes of Ugandan children, children who have witnessed the worst humanity has to offer, we come to view Africa and her people in a whole different light.

To say I was moved would be an understatement.

I sat through the closing credits, my mind reeling with all that it had learned, my chest tight with emotion…I didn’t want to move from my meditation, even though I desperately needed to use the bathroom.

And as I contemplated throughout the next five minutes of advertisements, unmindful of my screaming bladder, the screaming car salesman, I found myself slowly coming around just as the first images of Tribal Odyssey: The Yawalapiti appeared on the screen, then fully snapped to attention.

Naked people tend to do that to me.

But what I found so intriguing about this documentary, besides the nakedry of bowl-haired, Brazilian tribal men, was the explicit depiction of sadomasochism displayed before my eyes.

Apparently, the Yawalapiti get really, really excited over a lunar eclipse, and to celebrate that excitement, as well as to ward off evil spirits that might take advantage of the coming pitch-black night, wreaking havoc upon the tribe and all that, they perform certain rituals involving whips and bare buttocks.

Allow me to paint a graphic picture for you:

Naked Indian Guy bends over, in full view of his likewise naked buddies, and they’re all hooting and hollering and smiling with glee, some clearly stoned out of their minds on some form of wacky weed, and a huge bear of a man, obviously the leader of this pack of bitches, stands behind Naked Indian Guy, raises his whip, and thrashes mercilessly until Naked Indian Guy whoops in pain and flees -- while giggling and holding onto his wounded buttocks…And hopping up and down…And giggling some more. Just like the little bitch he is. And the Tribal Bitch Leader has an erection, I swear to God, just pops a big ol’ woody right there on camera.

Needless to say, I was delighted, so much so, I just had to look up these hunky freaks on the Internet this morning so I could get another fix of indigenous pornography -- I mean, honestly, is there even such a thing as too much indie porn?

Unfortunately, all I could find, besides the television listing on The Travel Channel website, were a couple of uninteresting pictures featuring clothed Yawalapiti doing mundane things (probably taken by some Christian missionary who came prepared for the camera shots by bringing Hanes underwear and Depends adult diapers), and this:

A Yawalapiti bitch being scratched with the teeth of fish.

Not as good as whipping, I admit, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Did I mention that Anthony Bourdain is my lover?

Friday, October 20, 2006

Thank You, Sir! May I Have Another?

Last April, I wrote a post about how upset I was at Lipton for ruining one of their best products, Lipton Alfredo Noodles, by changing the original recipe from white semolina to whole grain. For those of you who read that post, you'll remember how devastated I was by the loss of my good friend, Alfredo. Those of you who haven't read my original rant, I urge you to do so now, so you'll understand my wrath -- and also because you'll see that I'm not alone in my rage, frivolous as it may be.

I'm sure you will be happy to know I found a comparable product to love, one that makes me happy by staying white:

Raise your fists, y'all, and shout with me now -- White power! White power! White power!

Oy, that comes across so wrong.

Well, anyway, today I've another complaint against corporate yahoo ding-a-ling ding-dongs who can't keep their big, fat paddle of parental guidance off of my consumer ass -- Kellogg's, to be exact. First, please allow me to wax delirious about the demise of a once favorite breakfast staple of mine -- Kellogg's Eggo Blueberry Waffles. Which I rarely ate for breakfast, mind you, as I usually forgo that most important meal of the day in favor of three large mugs of coffee and five cigarettes, but instead enjoyed my waffles (heaped with butter and Aunt Jemima maple syrup), as either a mid-day snacky-doodle or nighttime treat while watching Larry King crouch menacingly over his desk.

Jesus Christ, what was I writing about again?

Oh, wait, I remember -- I was writing about corporate America bending me over its artificial knee, pulling down my electric-blue thong, and swatting my rosy, bulbous buttocks over and over again until I admit my liking for whole grains and tofu.

Needless to say, I do not respect my daddy. I break the fifth commandment gladly and without shame. I do NOT honor my faux-father, nor will I ever. I am an obstinate, willful child who will defy any attempts to break me. Fuck you, Kellogg's, for turning my beloved blueberry waffles into cattle feed, a product that once delighted and astounded me with its chewy, crunchy delectability, but now tastes like cardboard covered in urine. The butter, the syrup, the mountain of cat food I pile atop those purple-flecked bricks of shit, do not disguise the gritty non-goodness.

I HATE you, Kellogg's! Do you hear me? I HATE you! And so do my children. And so does my grandmother. And my darling husband, Banjo Boy, who usually eats any damn thing put in front of his drooling piehole.

Time to scout out a replacement waffle. I sigh, heavily.

I have enough problems as it is, you know? I despise the little annoyances of everyday life enough for ten hateful people.

I sigh, deeply, madly.

Just another brick in the wall…

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

So Sayeth the Angel, "ELECTROshock, Idiot!"

Here's a little story to help you drift off tonight...

Round about eight o'clock tonight, I was lying in bed, watching the encore season finale of “The Flavor of Love," 'cause, I missed it last Sunday due to drunken circumstances, and as usual, I was enjoying myself immensely, loving New York and her devious, Satanic ways, digging on her unique insanity, when all of a sudden, an angel came to me. She hovered over my bed, bright as the Mexican sun, and said to me this: "Ms. Lori, your grammar skills are slipping."

I told her she was losing her holy mind. "Me? What exactly are you implying here, Miss GlowyPants? My grammar is perfect, always. I am a true grammarian of the highest order, and I don't appreciate you coming down here to hassle me, woman."

And the angel replied, "That may be -- sometimes. But you sure screwed up royally on your blog posts about the Rolling Hills Ghost Hunt."

"The hell I did."

The angel smiled, shook her head sadly, then waved her delicate, obscenely boney hand across the span of my bed, and before my weary eyes appeared my Rolling Hills Ghost Hunt posts. It was awesome. All three-dimensional-y and sparkly...Sublime, beautiful. But as I admired my shimmering words, chuckling ever so softly at my own humor -- praising myself, really -- it dawned on me that something just wasn't right. Not right at all.

Goddamned angel was spot on. I royally screwed up, and my once swollen head deflated with an audible, swift shhhhhffffttttttt.

The angel laughed and laughed, and kept on laughing till my beloved New York faded from the TV screen. I blinked back tears of anger, tears of wonder, of gratitude, then ran the fuck up here to my office and fixed my...

Oh, this is so hard...


Good night, everyone. And God bless!

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

You Know, I Just Ain't Feeling It

The initial high and burst of creativity I experienced after the ghost hunt was lovely, but, frankly, it’s just not there anymore. Could be due to the unholy pain of my latest muscle/joint attack coupled with the return of -- and more severe than ever -- shitstorm of my faulty mitral valve, which manifests as a large, beefy-handed nun in a neon blue habit who whacks me nonstop with a metal ruler in my left chest whenever I lay my head down to sleep, or could be the delicious anxiety of dealing with my extended family and their problems, which they are always so kind to involve me in, or it’s possible, nay likely, that I just don’t give a fuck. I’ll go out on a limb here and say that because I’m feeling overwhelmed about many things going on in my life, things that make me want to drink entire bottles of Absolut, my usually humorous (ahem) take on life has dissolved into a giant puddle of ennui. So there.

I apologize to those who actually do give a fuck about my most excellent time at Rolling Hills, but I’m going to put “The Night Paris Peed Her Pants” aside for the time being. Besides, despite his promise, the three foot tall, one-eyed Hasidic Jew whose name I do not know, never sent me that picture, the only good one, really, of me and my freaky electroshock therapy room spirit buddy, so, yeah…Not very godly of you, little sir. Not godly at all.

Also, I believe an apology is in order to those who read yesterday’s (now deleted) post on my MySpace blog... It’s not like me to use the “C” word, nor do I normally refer to people as “corpse-eating sphincter-sniffers,” no matter how repulsive I find them to be, but, jeepers, I did yesterday, among other atrocities of the epithetical kind, and so, I’m sorry to anyone who witnessed my breakdown of good sense and decorum.

And on that note, here, for your amusement and disdain, is a picture of me at Rolling Hills “speaking” to Emme the Psychotic Nurse, who assured me that she is not, in fact, psychotic, but merely a misunderstood soul who enjoys haunting her bedroom closet and remembering the days of abusing orphans. Emme decided to leave her closet for a bit, and is standing directly in front of me and my trusty rods. Rock on, Emme, you sick, twisted bitch, you.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

I Feel Dead People

Listen, when I've had some sleep and can think clearly, I shall post details about one of the most amazing experiences of my life, along with pictures. It may be a couple of days yet, may be tomorrow, depending. I'm waiting on some pics that were taken by my friend, Maria, as well as one that was taken by a fellow ghost-hunter dude whose name I do not know, but was kind enough to promise that he'd e-mail a great shot he'd taken of me with my leetle ghostie friend in the electroshock therapy room...Am I babbling? Probably. I got home around 5:30 a.m. and just decided to stay up.

I may never sleep again.

ADDENDUM: Ah, my prediction of not sleeping has come to pass...Freaking, frigging insomnia...Still waiting on pictures from the ghost hunt (oh, please, Mr. Hasidic Jew Guy Whose Name I Do Not Know, have a heart and keep your promise), but I did review the ones I took on my rappity-crap piece of crap digital camera...Sort of. Still have to download them on my husband's computer, or I might just put the software on my computer, which makes more sense, really. Of course, in my home, nothing should ever make sense.

I know for a fact I captured at least two orbs, which isn't exactly mind-blowing evidence, I realize, but damned if I can tell where they are on that camera of crap.

Hey, did I mention I feel like hell?

I want to growl obscenities in someone's ear.