Archive for the ‘Horrible Stuff’ Category
We have entered The Ass Age, and The Apocalypse is sure to follow. I would like it to hurry up.
I’m not certain about the beginning of The Ass Age. Jennifer Lopez was the precursor many years ago but no one could’ve imagined what was coming.
Astute bible students may have predicted it, though.
And when the ass saw the angel of the LORD, she fell down under Balaam: and Balaam’s anger was kindled, and he smote the ass with a staff.
That’s just one of 143 times the word ‘ass’ appears in the bible. And as we know, Things Happen For A Reason. The Lord was warning us about the worship of asses. And in the fullness of time, it has come to pass.
Kim Kardashian is the Anti-Christ, obviously. We are suffering for her sins. I am, anyway.
That huge ass is following us everywhere, threatening to block out the sun. Maybe it’s causing Climate Change for all we know. It keeps getting bigger. It will need a wheelbarrow or crane or something if it keeps growing at its present rate.
What does that huge ass want from us?
It has already spawned disturbing imitators, especially in the art of hip-hop, who might be the Apostles. How many Apostles were there? I once has an awful wall-hanging depiction of The Last Supper that I used as a rug, but I failed to count the attendees. Were there eight? Ten?
Whatever. Nicki Minaj and Iggy Azalea are two, and Khloe Kardashian makes three. When we get the full cohort, the doomsday clock will strike midnight. The End Times. It will be a bummer for most of us but for others it will come as a blessed relief. No more huge asses taunting us, frightening us, swelling uncontrollably the The Blob.
We will be free.
My dog is senile. He is sixteen years old, even though we refused to admit he was getting on.
Living in denial was easy until he lost his mind.
Poor Pico! He is completely nuts. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or where he’s going or what to do when he needs to move backwards or turn around.
He howls for hours. He pants and whines. He often needs help to stand up because his rear legs are so wobbly. He has arthritis and I don’t know what else. The vet advised us that any kind of surgery was out of the question. I like her for not trying to squeeze money out of us.
She’s a wonderful vet even though she’s unsure about penises. My BFF remarked that Pico’s penis is probably the first one she’s seen in years. I think that’s to her credit. She didn’t mind at all when Pico shat on her floor.
I don’t know whether ‘shat’ is a word but I’m using it anyway. My dog has been shitting in the house for more than a week. This ties into my recurring dream that everything is Shit.
This morning, Pico backed himself under a couch and started howling. The more I tried to pull him free, the more he reversed, moving more of his body under the couch and getting stuck. I tried to lift up the couch like mothers can do when their child is underneath a car, but this supermom thing doesn’t seem to work with dogs.
I ran outside and got the drug dealer from the house next to the house next door. He lifted the couch and took a phone call from someone named ‘Josh.’ “I’ll call you in a few minutes, babe” he told Josh.
I am really at a loss here.
Pico still likes his food, even though he forgets where the bowl is. Otherwise, his life seems pretty awful, with all the confusion and anxiety. I personally will not be the one to pull the plug because I’m already permanently traumatized.
Advice, dog owners?
Those were the days, right? I haven’t thought about her until recently, when someone wrote to me, urging me to catch up on her antics. I was too lazy to bother.
But on July 11, I tweeted this:
Less than 24 hours later, bam, I received this comment on goddamit.com, waiting to be moderated:
What? My dead son? The comment was sent from Denton County, Texas. Guess who lives in Denton County?
What is wrong with people? Is it just Trophy Club or Denton County? Do people understand the concept of losing a child? Hello? Earth to Denton County?
I don’t know what’s worse, the cowardice or the deranged free-floating hatred?
Anyway, get a grip, Jane, Mom or Aunt Karen. This is some fucked up shit.
It wasn’t until I had my second child that I discovered the joy of piggies. He thought they were cute and longed for a pig as a pet.
I didn’t feel we could handle a pet pig, even though my research revealed that pigs enjoy watching TV and having pedicures. Some pigs grow to over 250 pounds and have bad tempers. We made do with our dog.
Meanwhile, I have come to love piggies. They are just so fucking cute! Few things are cuter than really cute pigs.
So I liked this photo of a gold pig on a matte black box-thing.
Doesn’t it look beautiful? What great design, I thought. Whatever the fuck it was. But then,
Oh no! It is sleek packaging for a EXTREM, a new brand of Iberian ham, launched by a company called Agriculturas Diversas.
Something about the shock of seeing ham while enjoying the silhouette of a nice golden piggie has really driven home to me what my vegan friends have known all along.
It’s disgusting to eat a pig. Not that I eat much bacon or ham, but I will never do it again, and I won’t cook it for anyone either. Bastards. How dare anyone hurt a nice piggie!
I’m not giving up burgers thought, because I love a good burger with fries, and I’ve already chosen a burger and fries as my last meal, should I end up being executed.
Carol Coronado, 30, stabbed her three young children to death and then got into bed with them. The children ranged in age from 2 1/2 to 2 months old. That is red flag number one.
Earlier that morning, Carol had called her mother to say she was ‘going crazy.’ Red flag number two.
Carol’s mother was at work so she called Carol’s sister-in-law, Sandra, and asked her to give Carol a call. Sandra, whose brother Rudy Coronado is Carol’s husband, now reports that Carol denied anything was wrong, but did admit to being exhausted. Sandra could hear babies crying in the background, but that was not unusual. She quotes Carol as saying, “Just tell your brother to calm down.” Red flags #3, #4, and #5.
Rudy’s mother arrived in the afternoon, while Rudy was outside working on his car. She emerged from the house screaming that the children were dead. She had called 911. Police came and led Carol out of the house, naked under a blanket and covered with blood. She was covered with stab wounds, most of them superficial.
Now, this next part is key:
Carol Coronado, who was taking classes on the Internet, stayed at home with the children while her husband went out early each day to sell car parts at the Alpine Village swap meets.
She kept a cluttered home, which triggered some discord with her husband.
“I believe that was their main issue,” the sister-in-law said. “My brother wanted the house clean for his girls. He wanted to come home to a home-cooked meal.” ~ (my italics) Daily Breeze, Larry Altman
Here is the house, described as a former workshop or converted garage. I’ll take the liberty of calling it a shithole.
I’m thinking, Andrea Yates. I’m thinking too many babies, postpartum depression, trapped in a shithole, demanding husband, desperation, no way out.
What are you thinking?
I received a price-list in the mail for a new waxing salon in my neighborhood. As a child of the sixties, I am innocent of the ins and outs of waxing. All I know is that is hurts and I don’t want any.
But this price-list is so captivating! I had to read some of it aloud, just to savor the language.
‘Buttocks strip’ struck me as the funniest, most poignant words I had ever read. It evokes so much…
But then, I noticed ‘Buttocks strip touch-up.’ Hmm.
I also noticed that men are charged more than woman, even for knee waxing. Would anyone actually go to have just their knees waxed? Why? I challenge anyone to explain this.
I love this fucking price-list. It is poetry. It came from ‘Uni K Wax Center’ and you can like them on facebook.
If you live in the US and watch TV, you have been bombarded with commercials touting drugs for low testosterone. Never mind that doctors agree only a small proportion of men – about 0.5% – need testosterone therapy.
The ads are funny at first, then it might occur to you that a lot of money is being made by pharmaceutical companies preying on mens insecurities. Not only that, but they are pathologizing the aging process. But of course it gets worse.
High testosterone levels increase your risk of heart attack, stroke, and death by 30%. Averse effects of testosterone drugs are creating a whole new class of lawsuit. But those constant ads keep nagging that if you just feel kind of icky, kind of grumpy and apathetic, IT COULD BE LOW T!!!
So I went to the website Is it Low T and took the quiz. I had a strong feeling, no, really an absolute conviction that I would test positive for Low T. Here is my score, where I lied about my erections because I wasn’t sure how to answer.
As you can see, I’m in big trouble. I’m not even a man and I have fucking Low T!
When I was a weight-lifter, in another lifetime, many of the guys at my gym were huge pro bodybuilders. At certain points in their ‘training cycle,’ they would bulk up by taking steroids and pure testosterone. You could tell which ones were using, because they were easily enraged and prone to acne breakouts on their backs and shoulders. Their feeling was obviously, Anything for bigger muscles.
Now, men are urged to raise their testosterone levels if they’re feeling sad or tired or don’t always feel like having sex. Look at that poor suffering couple above. He looks around 20 but awwwww, he can’t get it up. She’s not helping with that awful white bra. Is she a nursing mother or something? Anyway, this image comes from an article about Low T. I wish she would just masturbate and leave him alone.
Here is a chart showing the rise in testosterone prescribing between 2000 and 2010:
I don’t know about you, but I see plenty of repercussions. Angry, acne-ridden men who want to fuck all the time when they’re not dropping dead of a heart attack. I’m just not into it. If you or your sad and apathetic husband still see more testosterone as the answer to you problems, bookmark this ad:
“Quintessentially English, the snail brooch, delicately produced from a real snail shell, beautifully creates the suggestion of back gardens after a summer rain.”
No thank you, Viv. Over and out.