Today is all about...

SPRING KILLING!!

I am finally going to get my "guest room" (abbatoir) in some sort of order. And this afternoon, it's all about getting rid of dead hitchhikers and re-seeding. My backyard looks like a mud pit Roger's little boy scouts would go to escape. And, as it is the first Sunday of spring, it's time for the lash to come out and padlocks to get put on the doors.

And that's all I have, folks. What are YOU going to do today?

Proud Pooping

(Yes, that goes for me, too)

What Have I Created?

It's a long story short, but I noticed the other day that Das Pood had a strange little nib on the end of his doggie Penaranamus. I thought nothing of it, since Penaranami are such strange beasties anyway what with venereal warts, scabs, piercings, and their whole indecision thing about hard or soft. Jeesh, I mean, make up your mind already!

Anyway, I let a couple weeks go by without noticing his Penaranamus again - I was busy, what with Roger coming over for Gay Dinner (no sesame or poppy seeds-all the seed must be in liquid form). When I did, whoo Nelly! The little nib that had been the size of say a little man in a boat had swollen to the size of a golfball, and lo and behold -- it was a TICK!

I promptly vomited, then stood up with resolve. I was going to master that Tick the way I mastered Roger's ass. I clamped that swollen arachnopod 'twixt my teeth as if it were glans that I was angry at, and let tug.

(dramatic pause)

Okay, so just let me tell you that to have a golf-ball sized tick explode in your mouth is frankly pretty gross, but to have that followed immediately afterwards by about a gallon of doggie semen is another thing entirely. (Note: Preferable to SlimFast, Bud Light, and Zima)

So now Das Pood has a taste for fellatio. On the positive side, Mutt has been dropping by and asking to take him for a walk on a daily basis.

Missed Ejaculations

We all make bad judgements, hairpin turns, and poopy messes on the chests of our loved ones and love-slaves. And when we do, sometimes it's really hard to "come."

I've been living here in the Dungeon du Chien for over 6 months now, sometimes with a gay love slave, sometimes with a poodle spraying carthweel-spinning diarrhea around the house for weeks at a time with strange bacteria that I only fed him like six or seven times as part of a scientific study. So shut the fuck up already and let me tell you how I've made my neighbors submit to me in the most degrading, ass-inspring manner.

Okay, most of them were easy. They brought me cookies or some kind of bar for a housewarming gift and were permitted to leave 72 hours later after having pleasured me up, down, and sideways, been humiliated consistently, and given me at least 4 usable credit cards. But the neighbors to the east consistently ignored me. I made a point out of taking down the combo leather'n'lace Stevie Nicks model curtains from that side of the house and paraded up and down in my chainmail nightie over and over to no avail. My crotchless Lederhosen topped off with a leather teddy with holes cut out for my Boobies also illicited no response. When I pull that one out at Gigi's I'm sure to get at least $500 in mandatory tippage.

That is until my friend the Cap'N (because she likes to go "crunch") and her love slave the PowerMonger came over for a bout of Enema Yahtzee (you get the picture). Anyway, to make a long story short I had first roll, and all my ass exercises had paid off. I didn't know my own strength, and when I pooped the Oldstyle Light enema out with the six Yahtzee dice they were expelled with such force that they shot right through my window, breaking the glass and shooting into the neighbors' yard. The PowerMonger threw up - that was easy! - and the Cap'N looked kind of pissed off.

"Okay, let's get out there and find those Dice, Worms!" I commanded them in my best Dominiatrix wheedle. They swiftly obeyed with the eyes of punished puppies. Meanwhile, Das Pood got to work lapping up Mama's floor mess.

Anyway, we were out there in our "special" outfits looking around for the dice when the old couple that lived there finally came out and initiated contact. The old fella - Hinkley, and his wife, Tori Amos, seemed a little stand-offish at first, but soon he was showing me where he had buried some of his hitchhikers. He had even buried one in my yard, back in the '50's, before he knew where the property line was!

It made me feel all warm in my nether-regions, so we invited Hinkley and Tori Amos back and then joined in the Enema Yahtzee and we had a stroganoff from last fall's Hitchhiker and a great time was had by all.

I guess it just goes to show you that when you think you're surrounded by cattle sometimes you can have a neighbor with similar tastes!

I have a plot laid out for Jeff back by the other hitchhiker, by the Maple tree.

A Turtle in the Bush is Worth Two in the Hand

Or One in the Bush and One in the Bungaranamus

That Jeff Shall Suffer The Torments of the Damned

In the villa of clarity the hermits bleat,
tits and ass and penis creep

In the lagoon of ignorance the cowards run,
with nipples flaring, away from fun

the night falls in a heavy, suffocating cloak, cold and alone are we.
the light for which you lust
flares once, then dies,
swallowed by a velvet ebon nothingness.
all hope must surely perish.

your passion throbs no more.
how could you cause such hurt?
lost souls surround us, crying,
save us from ourselves.
(Jeff sucks)

Mendel's Serenade

my bungaranamus is sore

I bumped my nose 'gainst a big chrysalis.

you ask for less in life, but you only get more.

Digit, digits, digital, digitalis ...

Milk, Milk, Lemonade. Around the Corner, Fudge is Made!

I was having a fantasy fight with Roger the other night. That little worm claimed that a Cleveland Steamer or a Hot Carl is sexier than a pee bath, drinking pee, a golden shower or the old man in the canoe sinking in the Yellow River. (Hint: the man is old because he's wrinkled)

What Roger doesn't understand is it's not what he thinks is sexy, it's what I think is sexy that counts. If I'd rather see him with a ball gag in his mouth than have to look at his O-face, then he had better get used to the idea that it's much sexier.

Just look at the hatmaker. Sure, he'll go for a Cleveland Steamer in a pinch (hee hee), but he realizes the supremacy of urine-based bdsm. Sometimes you need to be elbow-deep in an armadillo before you realize how sexy what you're doing is.

Not Unless You Pry My Gun From My Cold, Dead Clam

You shivering weasels should know that Das Coot has not been a lazy blogger, but that you have all been over-anxious mongeese with cobra venom blinding your eyes. Yes, you heard me. Just like Bill O'Reilly, I have declared war on those who have declared war on those who have declared war upon Christmas. Recursive? No more than one of Roger's lesbian double-header videos, or a hitchhiker-inside-a-hitchhiker-inside-a-hitchhiker (Türdfücken).

My mother, Mrs. Refried Bean, and my Stepfather, Mr. Monsterdick, will be celebrating the pagan holiday of Poodsmas in just a few hours, lubricating themselves and me in a mixture of pig-grease, Mezcal, and the new Chipotle K-Y Jelly. Smokey! I'm inviting the Hatmaker over to play the role of the Wicker Man, and Roger is going to play Dustin Hoffman in 'Straw Dogs'. Skippy shall perform as Christopher Robin and Zornig shall be Tigger. And Das Pood shall be the Poop-Bear.

Jeff will make a special guest appearance as "the Gimp".

Homo for the Hollidays

Well, I finally had to give the Land Rover back to my body-building Bi- Boyfriend the Hatmaker, but not after collecting several hitchhikers down by Bentonsport to tide me over for my Winter up-keeping. I was giving one of them the whole "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again" speech when Das Pood really jumped down into the pit with him - I've got to stop watching that movie in front of my puppsy-wuppsy-wover-dover luv-dog!

Not wanting to make the same mistake as my fictional counterpart, that hitchhiker quickly ended up on the barbie and the other ones went for winter canning. I even went to the extra effort to make a Turdfucken (you put organs from one hitchhiker into the organs of another and then the organs of another - I think you can guess which ones!) for Christmas, and, boy, was it TASTEY!

I had my first venereal disease of the new year (thanks Torrid!), so things were a little slow around New Years as the Hatmaker pleasured me through a Dental Dam while I soaked in a penicillin marinade.

Other than that, Gay Roger has claimed if I buy him 13 bottles of the Doctor he'll help me put a "submit" button here on the blog, so all you pathetic tapeworms can submit appropriately, and often.

I'm More Self-Absorbed than Bounty!

I'm a User, an Loser, and an Abuser, so spread my ass-cheeks and get ready to swallow 'cause mama's about to give you a semi-liquid blog posting suited to fill the bellies of pathetic, slithering worms such as yerselves.

Update #1
My squirrel-killing fucker car finally went and fucked itself and it is officially dead. I got its death certificate notarized by my lawyer pal the Cap'N (we call her that cause she likes to go "crunch crunch"). So now, while I've been driving the Ford Expedition owned by my boyfriend the Hatmaker and cruising down near the Missouri border for some hitchhikers I've been stopping off at all the best car places, you know, Marengo, Ottumway, Bentonsport, Fond du Lac, just looking for a replacement when my man-whore takes his S.U.V. back over my cold, lifeless, trembling body with my gun.

I found a really terrible one in Fairfield - the home of Fairway, the Meditation grocery store with the good meat counter. It was a 1987 Volkswagen Golf with Tibetan prayer beads and a seat cushion made from the scalps of vanquished sherpas. But the fuckers wanted too much money for it - it's hard to barter with those T.M.ers when they don't know the value of a good piss-bath or even a good old fashioned spanking, the way Roger does.

Sometimes I laugh outloud for no apparent reason except for that asshole Jeff.

Snip It!

Well, the penicillin did wonders, and my Cha-Cha-Dilly and Bungaranamus are feeling much better. I traded in Slavey to my lawyer friend The Captain cause I heard she needed some help around the house.

But that's beside the point: I still have the papers, and no matter what you motherfuckers who "rent" whores have to say, I Own A Homo and You Don't. Naaa-naaa-naaa, Gay Roger!

On other fronts, my Squirrel-Killing car decided to get all Rogery on me and get limp at the last moment, so I've had to borrow an SUV from my friend Tippie.

I intend to do some trolling down towards Missouri soon since it's nearly winter and I don't have any canned hitchhiker put away for the winter.

By the way, I love my Ass. It's so hot. I just love to rub it up against my desk, or the bar. Or a Buffalo Springfield.

Jeff sucks, kind of backwards, like a South-American.

Counter-clockwise.

Red and Itchy Bumps

You filthy pus-sucking weasels have gone and done it! Here I was having fun with my gay male love slave, and someone (hint hint naughty Roger) went and played with him inappropriately and passed along an STD which Slavey passed along to me!

Now, pass the penicillin before I come over and excrete nasty fluids on you.

It's Officious!!!

I am a homo-owner. I have a thick sheaf of paper, a ring of handcuff keys, and a fistfull of "poppers" and the accompanying sense of elation to prove it! If I'd known it was this simple to have a leather-clad gay love slave I would have done it years ago. Have a super weekend and a fabulous tomorrow - methinks someone needs some discipline!

The Perverted Life and Fucked-Up Death of Petey the Pedophile Hemophiliac Penguin

Now, because the time has come and it must be told ... I am giving you (drum roll please) the story of Petey, the Pedophile Hemophiliac Penguin (TA-DA!)

Now don't get me wrong, I like critters more'n the next Gal, but for some darn reason or 'nother the beasties I get involved in seem to have a propensity for dyin' in the most violent and degrading manner! I know, it sounds funny, but it's funnier than you stupid assholes even think. I need only remind you of Robert the Randy Robin who went simultaneously through an industrial dryer fan, my food processor, and a lawnmower; Bakersfield the Bellowing Badger who managed to get electrocuted while his eyes were poked out by dull knitting needles while his severed penis was stuffed down his throat, or Oswald the Ostentatious Ocelot whose demise was so horrifying that I and half the patrons of George's are still undergoing counseling.

Anyway, one of my old Sex Slaves, Bart, works at a local zoo, and he was having a peck of trouble with a certain Penguin, who kept on raping the young Penguin chicks. His name was Petey, and he had no interest in adult Penguins, but he would bugger the young 'uns from dusk till dawn. Now, Bart got a good chuckle at seein' old Petey force himself on Penguin youth after Penguin youth, but it turns out that some fucks in some church group or other complained about the serial rapist Penguin and Petey's days were numbered - he either had to have a new home, or he was going to be fed to the other Penguins in a kind of fucked-up Satanic ritual that zookeepers get into (they like nothing more than feeding a species to itself - go figure).

So Bart called me up one night.
"hey Cooter, how's it hangin?"
"That's MISTRESS to you, worm!" I quickly corrected him.
"Oops, sorry, Mistress, yeah, I remembered that you have a thing for serial rapists?"
"No, it's killing hitchhikers. But tell me more; I'm intrigued ..."

And so It Came to Pass that Bart told me about Petey and his troubles; I was immediately enthralled and told Bart that I would take Petey off his hands and try to keep his appetite sated with some kind of young avians - I seriously doubted I could score a regular diet of Penguin chicken, but then I wasn't really sure.
"Just one more thing, Coot" Bart hesitated on the other end of his faggy cell phone.
"What, worm?"
"Petey's a hemophiliac and you have to inject him with Penguin Platelets to keep him alive."
"No problem," I lied.

So not only did I have to provide him with a steady diet of young Penguins to sodomize, but I also had to fulfill a vampire-like craving for fresh blood. Obviously, after having been involved with Jeff, I loved a challenge, so I decided I'd step up to the plate(let) and bat away until I got tired and killed the fucking bird.

...Anyway, to cut a long story short, Petey and I got along just fine for a while. I found that I could run down to the river and drain the blood out of a duck and it closely approximated Penguin blood to inject into Petey's junkie-like veins. The buggerin' of the youth was pretty fucked up - I found that if I put some Tequila in with his platelets he couldn't tell a Penguin Chick from a month-old chicken and he'd bugger away, then I'd have some fresh chicken for dinner. If I left him a little too sober I'd have to put on my Japanese School Girl outfit to deliver him the chicken in.

Anyway, we got along fine for a couple of months. I was using my coffee grinder as a centrifuge to separate out the duck blood - I'm a pretty damn good amateur phlebotomist amongst my many talents. But one night I was entertaining Roger and his Webelo in the Parlor and I didn't play close enough attention to Petey the Pedophile Hemophiliac Penguin. When I plugged into his vein I accidentally left it attached to my Juiceman juicer and when I came back in the room Petey had been turned into a couple quarts o' Penguin Juice. I quickly made Roger and the Webelo a pitcher of Bloody Marys and everything was hunky dory.

So the moral of the story is eventually someone will consume you, unless you consume them first. But don't let the misguided perceptions get in the way of true love like between Roger and his Webelo or Petey and all the Penguin chicks he sodomized and I ate.

Excerpts from an ode to Vodka

...Him (fuck I wish I knew his name) and I hop in the cab and we're off to the Bar. At this point I get the strong urge inside me to open my phone and call the Rog. I (yes, me!) take control for this brief moment and think...Hmmmmm! Do you really want to call the Rog with Him sitting next to you? ...of course not, so I text messaged him instead. After the drunken text message of something probably along the lines of "fuck off I hate you....I miss you and am still in love with you (you know I'm a crazy bitch and can love and hate him at the same time)..I put down my phone on the seat like I do in my car. Guess what, Vodka? IT WASN'T MY CAR. So now we have no phone, a dead hitchhiker in the trunk, we just ran over a squirrel, and the thong I shrunk in the laundromat is cutting into my Bungaranamus! I can't call my asswhipe friends to arrange to meet up with them, which means I probably won't be seeing much of you either (that's another topic of its own), I can't call my family, I can't call my booty calls and I can't call the Rog or any of his homie cabbies. I know this is my fault for relying on that damn phone so much, but why did you let me digest so much of you last night????

Did it stop there? Of course not! You know Vodka, I'm a good kid. I work hard, try and be a good person, respect other people and try to just enjoy my life. I have NEVER done an illegal drug, just never had the urge to do so, so why is it that last night you convinced me prescription drugs were OK? And why for the LOVE OF GOD did you convince me Viagra was the smart thing to do? In case you forgot, I'm a 29 year old woman with the sex drive of a 16 year old Rottweiler (yes people, I'm am-bi-gay-dextrous). So now after 2 orgasms, and 10 hours, I am still looking for a hard on. Thanks my friend!

...Jeff's a rancid pig fuck! Jeff's a rancid pig fuck!

Das Pood Ist Gay

Sure, we're all gay once in a while, and we've all experimented across the boarder, down by the fence, in da old Swimmin' Hole, or Any Hole at all for that matter, a time or two or 37. Hell, just look at Roger!

But my problem is that since my last trip to Noo Orleanz is that Da Pood has become extra gay, kind of like Charles Nelson Riley but without the Folk-Hero overtones.

Do you think that comes from the caging, or not having allowed him to eat all of the furniture when he was a little puppie?

Jeff left me with three hungry critters and the cocks in the field.

How can it be wrong if it feels so right?

Awareness, acceptance and understanding of the mind-body-spirit-bungaranamus connection continues to grow worldwide.   Traditional medical expertise of both eastern medicine, western medicine and nymphomania are converging more and more. 

As development of both the inner man's intuition and consciousness through meditation and an understanding of the human context and experience through reincarnation increases and expands along with the development of the outer man through goals and action, true integration and self realisation can take place, along with REAL self-gratification.

As humanity explores its origin, nature and purpose, and retrace the journey we each have been on to get where we now are, you and I continue to expand our awareness of balancing the right testicle with the left tit to maximise wholeness and holistic living.

The major objective of the Angel Below Self Help website is to explore ways to develop friendships with Angels that help us in our everyday lives. If Angels are our 'invisible' friends and helpers, then accessing their help in killing Jeff to live happier, more focused and peaceful lives is the main focus here at this spiritual self help site!!!

Pissed-Off Wood Shite

Ok. No holes barred. Once in every so often, ya gotta cut the penis off. Whether it's things or people, animals or organs, it's GOT to happen. Not a fun thing, not a (necessarily) happy thing. But why keep shit around that makes you unhappy? Particularly when you're a bunch of fucked-up pussies, whiners, and masochists like you poodle turds. But I digress.

Actions speak louder than words. I spent f***in' months telling my ex-hermaphrodite to do just that. Do I really need to tell my friends that? I'm DONE with it. Penis is penis. If it's ever going to grow, sometimes you just have to prune.

If I'm horribly pathetic for the next 102.83 hours, bear with me. I'm not a nice person, or honest, but I play one on TV. And if you choose not to bear down on me, please walk in a piss puddle anyway... okay?

Epiphany. I had one the other night during one of our famous Gay Roger GoutStorms (which is just about my favorite thing in weather). The epiphany was this: You are me. And I am me. And we are me together. That's it. Sound simple? It is and it isn't. For too long I've cared too much what other people thought of me. Everyone wants to be like me, loved like me, appreciated like me. And when someone doesn't comply with how I feel about myself, it throws me into a bit of a headspin. Having read a post by our favorite gay taxi driver, Rog, really drove that home, though.

Namasté. Walk in beauty, walk in love, and most important of all... walk proudly in Jeff's skin which you've cut from his still-living body.

I love my bad habits like I love my Bungaranamus

Some people bitch and moan about "addiction this" or "unsafe sexual practice that" or "Pardon me, Squire, I don't like RUAS". Well you pucker-faced weasel farts can all lap at the bounty of my left tittingale because while you're shutting your dildo-hole I'm going to tell you all just how it is. Look, I don't come to where you work and strap on the - ... okay, maybe I do, but you get the picture you fucking freaks.

Like for instance: just because my car killed a fucking squirrel I don't want to hear you mamby-pamby pansies come bitching and moaning to me. Look: I'm not Jesus. Okay, maybe I am, but that's besides the point, because even if I can raise the squirrel from the dead, why would I go to the effort, because 1) he's a fucking squirrel and 2) it was the car's fault, anyway. I know that that rancid whore Miss Meems would say it would make a tastey entree dans mon pot du crock, but I personally am not into Carolina Barbecue. I like fancier, slightly more gay fare (you know, chocolate-covered strawberries served by body builders wearing thongs, anything from the Judas Priest 1982 fan cookbook).

Jeff will be devoured by Sailor Ants in a weird post-apocalyptic world where I read to him from Oprah's Book Club and make him listen to Starship. In the future, somewhere around the Book of Revelations.

This vagina

I'm looking at my vagina.

It's something I do from time to time.

Right now, it's stained from soil. It smelled good to me, like green, yet looks unappeasing to others. Stabbed and bleeding follicles from clearing the earth of pubes and last year's cover. Dirt under the vulva. I'm unsure whether I should touch my bread with it.

I love my vagina.

I kidnapped the future and ransomed it for the past

I pick the goddamn terror of the goddamn gods out of my nose! My droppings bore through the earth and erupt volcanoes in the Cosmos! But YAH-HOOOO! let the Men from Mars bear witness! So step aside, all you butt-lipped, neurotic, insecure bespectacled False Prophets!

I'll freeze your seed before it hits the bathroom tile! I bend crowbars with my meat ax and a thought! Father Time's hands are my ideal playground! I'll drive a mile so as not to walk a foot; I am a human being of the first god damn water! I am a Thuggee, I am feared in the Tongs, I have the Evil Arm-vein, I carry the Mojo Bag; I swam the Nile and didn't get wet! Yes baby, I'm seven feet tall and have 666 rows o' backbones; I was suckled by a pterodactyl, I gave Mother Nature a high-protein tonsil wash!

YEEE HAW! Yes, I can drink more wine and stay soberer than all the dipshits in China! Yes, I'm the purple flower of the Bermuda Triangle, give me wide berth; when I drop my drawers, Jesus swoons! Anything for a laugh!

Schlemeel, Schlamazel, Hausenpfeffer Incorporated

I've been running around like a chicken with its head cut off and that head stuck up its chicken ass for a little over two weeks. No more! I've got a pocket full of pain pills, a gallon of Sangria, and some lithium-ion batteries for my pal the Lady Finger, so Watch out, world!

Give me any chance I'll take it
I'm going to make the same stupid mistakes over and over. I love it! So fuck you! Particularly in the love arena. So bring it on-you've been served!

Give me any rule I'll break it
I'm not going to teach my heart to fear, or judge, or crochet, or have anal sex. It knows all these things already!

I'm going to make my dreams come true
Another pudwhacker, yes? If I want to shave my cha-cha, then I am going to do it. If I want to do it in the middle of Market Street during rush hour, then call the firemen cause mama's got a house on fire!

Doin' it my way
I would still like to know more about how to clean up the mess I might make, but a little dirt never heart anybody. At least that's what Gay Roger says.

There is nothing I won't try
I am going to re-enact some Cambodian war attrocities down near the Missouri border. No apologies. I don't have to read Vogue magazine if I don't want to.

Never heard the word impossible
I'm going to match Roger enema for enema just to prove that my Bungaranamus rules the roost.

This time, there's no stopping me
I am going to re-write the Magna Carta and shove it down Scott G.'s throat, but in a friendly way.

Jeff's head will look peachy next to my dead hitchhiker's.

Five Things ...

Five Inanimate Things I Love:

1. My Lady Finger ... not the digit, my dildo
2. My can of Van Kamps Pork'n'Beans cause there ain't no gas shortage on Market Street!
3. Raccoons, of course!
4. Dilbert
5. Amateur Pornographic Photography

Five Sounds I Love:

1. The snapping of Jeff's brittle bones beneath the wheels of my S.U.V.
2. The squeak-squeak of something well-lubricated sliding in and out of a special place.
3. The sand-paper sound of something sliding in and out of a not-so-well lubricated place
4. The swish of an S.B.D. Poodle Fart
5. The sound of a man pissing

Five Words I Love:

1. Fag
2. Bungaranamus
3. Poop-shoot (or is it Chute? Either way works for me!)
4. Ritualistic Execution (thinking of Jeff again)
5. Dead Deadhead

Five Places I Love:

1. My Cha-Cha
2. My Bungaranamus
3. My Left Tit
4. The little man in the boat
5. Coralville

Dis is Da Pood

Dis is Da Pood...whorin' around, all over town. The hair is cut for paddles becuase baby-wayby such a good swimmah!

Jeff likes to lick Poodle Ass because he is a dirty two-timin' ass dog.

Asswax

This is the fourth time I've tried writing this one single silly, disgusting, vomit-inducing post. This retching, vile, stinky, pus-filled, red and itchy single post. This horrifyingly disgusting, morally bankrupt, child-frightening cat-piss-soaked silly post. Suffice it to say, I want to apologize for all the rotten words I wrote yesterday. My apologies for being a total and utter bitch to a man that I care for. My apologies for waking up on the wrong side of the bed. My apologies for alienating all my friends and freaking out at everybody. My apologies for killing small animals and leaving them as peace offerings to Stoopie and Mookah that rancid bitch. My apologies for calling that rancid bitch Mookah the rancid bitch that she is. My apologies for peeing on Roger that one time he asked me not to. 'Nuff said.

Now to the 'real' stuff. The hitchhiker's head did not bring me any luck whatsoever, therefore it shall rest peacefully with all the other dead animal bits given to me by Bake and the other body parts given to me by the First Presbyterian congregation.

My day started off on the wrong tit. I'd gone out with Tippy and the Mongol the night before and had a scale 4 hangover, an overworked Cha-Cha and a size 7 poop-chute. Then the Mongol called right before I had to open the bar and I was a bitch. I admit it. I was mean to him and had no right to be, and it made me feel shitty all day. Because why should I feel shitty when he should just fucking lighten up.

But anyway, Gigi's was pretty quiet for the most part, just the usual regulars: Henry, the sweet old man that has brought me a fresh remaindered dildo every day for ten years; Harold, the old retiree who brings me Alpo to make into burger patties for him; Brad and Ken, "jogging buddies" who come in every Saturday and overtip me...

But then... some guy I'd never seen before came in and sat down at the bar. He'd just returned from Missouri. He showed me the scar from a bullet wound on his scrotum for which he received a silver star, told me a few horror stories that I don't feel would be appropriate to relate here. They're not my stories. They're his. His name is Cletus and he's in the Kewanees. The guy couldn't speak. He stuttered and had trouble getting his thoughts out. He really fucking pissed me off.

He would cry, then apologize. He wanted a hug, so I gave him one. He wanted me to screw him with a strap-on while giving him a reach-around, so I did. Then he asked for a Hot Carl, and I tried to tell him that some things cost extra.

What the hell do I know? I only served him one shot, but he was there for almost two hours. I didn't realize just how wasted he was (I thought maybe he had Roger's Ass Syndrome), and I didn't see him walk in. But when he started to leave, it was pretty darn obvious he'd been doing some ass activities somewhere else. He almost fell down a few times, he couldn't walk a straight line... I followed him out and offered to kick him in the nuts, but he wouldn't accept. What would you do? I was worried about him, so I called the police to intercept him. Told 'em he was selling crack and child pornography. I felt bad doing it... but he could have hurt himself. And he was a real fucking asshole. That happened toward the end of my shift.

So pretty much business as usual. What a bunch of fucking morons.

Diseased Ass Sucks!

All right, so last night I was hanging out at Gigi's with that bitch Mookah and her friend Stoopie. For whatever reason, we were just GETTING OFF on 'female problems'. Having sat back most of the evening just dipping into the conversation like a fondue pot from time to time, I decided to tell the story of THE TIME I HAD A DISEASED AND SICK ASS **tympani roll, please**

At the time I'd been dating a frisbee golf team, and to blow off steam from enduring hours of their ego, I'd go the pleasure palace and play benwahball. So there I am one day, abooth, when I just got this overwhelming urge to piss in the corner of the booth. I ran to the corner, eked out a flaming drizzle of pee, when it struck me: somethin' wasn't right with my cha-cha! Not only that, but there was an incessant alarm coming from the region of my Bungaranamus. Hmmm...

So after the game (which didn't last nearly as long as my many treks back to glory hole), I went to the Rx for a little OTC medication for this nasty, irritating affliction. I'm sure all you ladies know what's comin' next. Yep. The stuff turned my urine flourescent gatorade and my poo-poo into the consistency of whipped chocalate mousse. After about three weeks of this, I decided I better do something 'cause the stains were starting to bother people and Mike said he'd have to replace the carpet again in Gigi's. Luckily, being colorblind Roger didn't notice the stains on his lighter colored t-shirts. But still, it was getting to be a problem.

Here's the great part of this story... I'm not sure I've ever been more embarrassed in my life. Oh wait. I have. I'll post a new section for that... Anyhoo, I go up to the counter in a very crowded waiting room, and this **blind** woman asks me why I'm there. I demurely tried to tell her I needed to be treated for a sick ass, whereupon she repeats it, only about 60 gazillion decibels louder. Ok, great. Thanks bitch. You got the Mennonite women to blush.

Eventually I'm shown to a restroom and given a bucket to poop in and a thermos to pee in. However, they've changed the rules for pissing into a damn cup from when I was in dominatrix school. I couldn't just hold it under the stream; I actually had to SPREAD (*ahem*) myself in such a manner that I guess would allow no pubes to fall into the specimen cup. Which is bulshit because I had no pubes as I had just been to LaShame for a pubic electrolisis/waxing/shave. Why a pube or two would throw off the test, I don't know. Unfortunately, somewhere in this process, I missed rule number fucking seven or something, and when I let myself go, my gatorade and poo went EVERYWHERE! The last time I had pissed on my own self was the night before when Roger ducked. Boy did I punish him for that, but that's another story.

So there I am, covered in my own pee and excrement, so obviously now I'm aroused.

So here I am sitting on this toilet with my HAND covered in pee, my left LEG covered in poop, my right KNEE covered in pee, and a nice puddle of both at my feet. Shit. God, was I horny. How could this really get any worse? I'll tell you. That OTC medshit STAINS. I was in that damn bathroom for half an hour trying to have an orgasm. And did I mention that it was a normal hot and humid August day in Iowa? You know, the kinda day you wake up and half convince yourself that it really would be ok if you wore your underwear outside. Which is what I'd done.

So what's a girl to do? Well, I held my head high, walked back up to the counter, handed my steaming bucket o' special sauce to the blind bitch (with a matching day-glo hand), and shouted "Here's my sexy waste, now lick my pee-covered boots!" The Mennonites were cowering by now, but damn it, they got down on their knees and within half an hour they had tongue-bathed me into cleanliness. My ass felt much better after an Amish tongue-lashing.

And that, my friends, is the story of THE TIME I HAD DISEASED ASS.

But Jeff sucks more.

Pardon me while I hump your leg

Today I feel like bitching a little you pathetic pork sandwiches because I'm not getting laid and it's all your fault you stupid fucking assholes. The Mongol I've been doing on the side (he repairs electric motors in Keokuk after training with Janda Electric - "Make no mistake. This is a big one.") hasn't been coming around lately after I told him to fuck off. Like, duh. He pisses me off when he takes that kind of shit seriously and the restraining order was obviously a joke. Man, am I being blown off? Again? Kinda pisses me off. Why is it that most of the guys I date have an IQ of 145?

Well, enough of my (Olympic) sex life. Let's discuss sex with raccoons. First, you need really strong leather gloves. Full body armor, the kind they train police dogs with is also a good ideal. And a beekeeper's hood can't hurt either. Either that or have them declawed/de-teethed and then remove their dentures. That and a jar of Bacos. Methinks their little masked visage is just so...sexy!

I'm a secretary. My world is somewhat limited. But today, well... it's all about me.

My cha-cha needs attention! My poodle just can't fit the bill no matter what Spackle says, and he knows his way around a hound.

If they ever make a movie of that asshole Jeff's life may Keanu Reeves play him.

Party on You Faggot Cicadas

Ever have one of those years when the world just pisses you off and you tell it to fuck off and then you get a gun and start blowing people away at a shopping mall, or wherever? Good. Or when the world is so close that you just want to reach out and fuck it, except its too big and dirty to fuck in its entirety? So you just rub the edge of your desk instead? I'm having a combination of this shit and I don't like it. Kill everyone that I meet, or throw them to the ground and fuck them. Kill them and then fuck them, or fuck them and then kill them? The ultimate dichotomy of the praying mantis - here's for women's lib!

Life has to be a constant orgasmic experience or I'm going to bitch at all you pathetic pudwhacking pussies.

Okay, so this post has nothing to do with cicadas except that they all live underground, come out and fuck and then die. I mean, how gay is that?

Jeff is the episiotomy of shithead fuck-for-brains putrescent nasty.

Another em-bare-Assing story

So many to choose from... but today I've decided to tell you one of the many stories of my intimate tawdry winsomeness.

Wince upon a time when I was just a silly little lilly-livered young fresh thing, I was engaged to a hermaphrodite named Sally-Bob who didn't appreciate the full roundness of my most excellent wonderfull-ness. Maybe that's why we were engaged, I'm still not very clear on that point. So, we broke up, kind of like an amoeba that divides through reverse osmosis or is it photosynthesis.

It absolutely fucked me up. But one day I decided to show him/her what he/she was missing out on. I went to a hot and raunchy boutique here in town called Vulva Americana. I think it was owned by the same people that ran Moda Americana, but I have never been quite sure on that. It was right next to the Travel Agent that always had signs for sex tours of Cuba but like that rancid bitch Mookah says the cigar doesn't have to be Cuban to be enjoyed if you know what I mean.

So I bought myself one of the most flattering outfits I could find (I am still paying this thing off and I haven't fit into it for YEARS), and went home to doll up and hose myself down, not necessarily in that order. Damn, I looked hot! Roger says so too, in case you're thinking I'm getting a little full of myself, cause I showed him some of the polaroids.

So, this hermaphrodite worked downtown at an adult emporium on the ped mall that had huge boarded up-windows that would have overlooked the whole area. I think it was so people couldn't see in as opposed to not letting Sally-Bob see out. There I was, strolling leisurely by his/her place of business in my hot saucy bitch outfit, and decide to bound gracefully (like a nutria, no less) down the very shallow steps of said ped mall directly in front of his/her place of business. Well, it was a windy day. And did I mention that my hot bitch outfit was comprised of crotchless Lederhosen and a chainmail bra? Once again, did I mention that it was windy?

As I was 'bounding', my left foot got caught up in my right Lederhosen leg, and I went full Ostrich bonzo sprawling toward a bed of daffodils. You know how when you trip and you're just propelled forward by the sheer force of your clutziness? Well, my push-up chainmail bra sheared off about an acre of flowers. I couldn't do anything for a full two minutes other than just lie face down in this flower bed and pretend to myself that I was having a bad dream, while trying to stealthily masturbate. Unfortunately, a really good lookin' guy gave me a very real hand up (up my bungaranamus, that is), all the while laughing his ass off as I picked earth out of my nose, my bra, my hair, my cha-cha - maybe going crotchless with no undies on the ped mall wasn't such a good idea.. and then I looked over to the door where my ex-fiance was standing, also laughing. Moral of the story? NEVER try to be something you're not. I will never in my life try to be graceful again; it just doesn't wear well on me. But crotchless Lederhosen do...

Jeff just lies there like a puddle of sick diarreah because he is a puddle of diarreah and it smells bad.

Fratty Boy Shirt Good

This morning I saw the best t-shirt in the world (barring my Roger Bradley: Homewrecker shirt). A guy walked into the local Ejaculate and Evacuate (Kum'n'Go to those of you not up on the latest lingo) with a pink tee on that said (on the front) "Moustache Rides" and (on the back) "Five Cents". Methinks that's pretty killer. And fratty.

I just love frat boys. Especially with a fine Chianti.

Did you know? Ten out of ten worthless motherfuckers are named Jeff.

19-inch Monster Cocks and other Totemic Virtues

Fuck the universe, fuck your mother, and fuck the horse you fucked just before you got here, again, and then in the immortal words of the leader of our shadow government, fuck yourself.

Now that that's out of my system and you've fuckered yourself into a state suitable for listening, this morning I stumbled across the shriveled head of a hitchhiker that my old boyfriend Bake gave me as a love offering. This guy would come to Gigi's (the bar in which I work/play) and leave some of the strangest things for me in my tip cup. Once it was an Arab strap (a kind of cock ring I later gave to Roger), another time it was one of Chuck Aukema's teeth, and even once (having been somewhere else for a month) he turned up with a place to put my weed. But this one day in particular, he left me the head of a hitchhiker with a dollar bill stuffed in his mouth. I don't think the guy had any idea I knew who the hitchhiker was (hey, I'm from Southern Iowa and you can't swing a tortured Poodle without hitting a dead hitchhiker in the spring), but suffice it to say, the next time I saw him, he got an earful. I took the whole thing as an insult... I mean, what's up with the dollar bill? Shouldn't it have gone in my panties for a lap dance? Am I right here?

Oh, and just before you stupid sons-of-bitches think that the title of my blog came from an oomphamism about my cha-cha, you're totally wrong. I was at the table the other night, and when push came to shove (we were playing spin the bottle again - everybody's been switching from Poker) it turns out that my bearded friend Scott G. was traumatically circumcised by a snapping turtle in the Turkey River up by Elkader and then he had to switch to being Jewish what with being circumcised and everything.

So no, it's not about my Cha-Cha you moronic, limp-wristed assholes, you make me sick. It's about Scott G.'s former foreskin which became a Cooter-Snack. Do you understand????

But in the picture the big Cooter is going to eat the little Cooter. Just because it can.

By the way, contrary to popular belief, Adolf Hitler was not responsible for the Holocaust. Jeff was.

¡Bush!Whacked!

Spring—it is almost here and it makes me itchy in my hoo-hoo dilly. Not a bad itch, or a literal one, because an itchy hoo-hoo dilly is kind of like a crabby hoo-hoo dilly...not an itchy bungaranamus which can be fun if properly tickled, but that's a story for another day...

Point being:  I don't have anything to write about.  Well, I do... but it's shit for another mood.  Public and social enlightenment, sexual epiphanies, bitchy friends, meth labs, good times... I may share some of these thoughts, but then again, I may just hoard them and tell you to take a flying fuck off of a fuckin' board fashizzle my izzle.

Naw, I was suckin' on some log and inbetwixt my piña colada (no, I don't like being caught in the rain. But making love in the ruins of your tape, yes, I can get into that) and my next tanning session I caught site of some strange, Missouri-like wilderness on the old Boob-Toob.

See, I grew up in the wild southern reaches of Iowa. Its kind a a no-man's land between the civilization to the North and the wild, untamed Hillbilly incest sexuality of the State Of Misery.

Nighttime in our neighborhood was always something magical for us. The fags would come out of the gay bars, the prostitutes would be on every corner, my half-brother Spackle would be undulating on the front porch to try to earn some pesos, and every kid on our block would congregate to tell sex stories, or to kick the shit out of some honor student until it was time to go home.

I'm not sure what made me think of all this. I think it was the change in my pocket last night that I pulled out and locked in my lock box to keep it away from that thief Kratz.

Oops. Almost forgot.
Jeff is an evil, vile, disgusting piece of crap.

Roger is a Fat Bastard

It's Wednesday and Friday is gone. Boy, isn't that a fact? At the risk of offending Skippy (ya little punk), I got to squat to write. It's like how some people like to do their daily reading, or another ritual involving a bran muffin.

Speaking of Bran Muffins, Roger is such a shit. High fiber this, high fiber that, that god damned Doctor is going to make him diabetic, and using it in enemas is just way too sticky!

Jeff sucks.