Trampy Thursday: Hints around the house

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Did you know over 80% of all sex occurs in the home? And only 45% of fatal injuries occur in the home. So we must be doing something right, as a nation.* Safety first!

I like to start the day with a little laundry. It’s a real turn on when your beloved leaves a trail of  used garments on the floor, a saucy scavenger hunt if you will. Then it’s up to you to get soapy with those socks!

See how much I am enjoying myself? There ought to be a law against this much pleasure.

Then I move on to the outdoor chores, like the pioneer woman I am. I have to water the horses and mockingly withhold affection:

Then I would cook dinner, but not eating results in a far sexier frame than tossing back a pot roast every night. So I open the fridge and look at things disparagingly, and then I close the fridge with a sassy bump of the hip. Ouch!

Then the nude housecleaner comes over to do the grout, and the rest is Miller Time.

*97% of all bloggers admit to making up statistics.

Finally!

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Speaking of maypoles of questionable lust, you have suffered and waited long enough. The Miley Cyrus sex doll has finally gone from a draftman’s sharpened stub of pencil, to a mold in China, to your greedy paws.  It’s the Finally Miley!  We have come a long way since the Olsen twin “are they legal yet?” countdown.

Now instead of the pointless fantasy that any of our nations losers will actually get to have sex with creepy child stars, we can just plug away at her synthetic counterpart. The nation has seen itself in the mirror, and is cutting its losses. Hope it won’t turn out to be too achey or breaky, or your money back!

Just in time to wonder what this little lady is up to:

The Day Before Friday: water is wet

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After a long, sickness hard day, check I like to relax with a hot shower as well as this guy!

I suppose it might be fun to bring friends, if they have suffered a similarly dull and taxing day:

Or sometimes I go for a swim:

The real secret to teasing the neighbor boys peeping over the fence is modesty. Let us never forget that sexy, sexy virtue, America. Clothe your desperate, orange housewives, put your teen pop stars in Catholic school uniforms, and only let them near a pole on May Day.

 

Low and slow

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How are we remaining healthy these days?

  • Regurgitation due to realization that calories in pills might cause weight gain.
  • Avoiding setting foot in Catholic churches, lest we explode. True story, I walked by one today, and I got this tingle in my thigh like one does right before spontaneous human combustion. I read about that in the Time-Life Mysteries of the Unknown series when I was nine. Beware the hot spot.
  • Springing for surgery in Thailand vs. the DIY version.
  • Daily consultation with Morrissey, who reminds us just how much worse life could be. At least three to five people love me!
  • Remembering that it’s almost Friday, the day sandwiched after Thursday but before Saturday. This concept is followed by the soothing or horrifying realization that all things are possible in America.

And all this healthy living is seriously threatened by Sunday, the worst day of the week, while we’re on the topic of the predictable and inexorable passing of time. You may think it’s Monday, or even Tuesday, but Sunday wields the power of dread, the very prod that stokes the fire of my soul.

If not for the eleven perfect minutes that elapse from my first sip of wine to the end of family dinner, I think I would opt out of Sundays. But then again, AFV is on! Tough call.

Honey I’m Home

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Hey there Vomkiteers!  I am back from my vacation to the bottom.  How was it down there?  Pretty bottomish.  Maybe not in the cellar of the Rock Bottom Inn, but in the garrett upstairs, mooning out of the window and getting crapped on by deformed squabs.  But that was yesterday and fortunately not only is today, today, but we are blessed with terrible recall.  Every day presents the chance to crawl up amnesiac from the bottom and emerge dumbly resplendent, at the very least to comb one’s hair, go to the corner store for a cup of noodles,  and possibly repeat one’s errors by nightfall.  Not that I ever make any…who remembers?

With such delightful white noise to keep me company, I have been very busy in the studio.  Working on some small things in the hopes of making a few sheckels next time out. 

My tattoo guy finally called back, left me a message.  Not only is he alive (hurrah!), but he is back in New York.  I am afraid to call him back, though.  Because  it means I will end up back on his table.  I miss it.  Just laying there in his studio while he holds me down with great strength in one hand and pricks my skin for a couple hours without even talking.  Don’t get me wrong, I want to go back to his table.  I thought I would set aside some money for it, and I didn’t.  Instead I frittered it away on prosecco and a 4G.  I do so love to fritter. 

Oh the mental insanity!  I entered my kitchen at midnight to get a glass of water a couple days ago and was greeted by a creature from Naked Lunch.

I have never seen a live waterbug (aka Really Big Cockroach) before.  I have only spied their carcasses in old factory buildings or alleyways.  Places my palm pilot warned me were unsavory.  And here I was in my own tidy kitchen, with the hellish spawn of Madagascar on my counter, its 2 inch antenna waving lazily in my direction.  I felt it sense me, we had communication.  I screamed, what do you think?  It scuttled a few inches, the merest gesture of retreat.  Once the initial spasm of terror was over, I realized I had to kill the beast.  But these giant things are notoriously tough.  You definitely don’t want to smoosh it with your hand or foot, for fear of the mental imprint of its crushed exoskeleton remaining forever in your central nervous system.  I opted to paddle it out of existence with a wooden cutting board.  And don’t you know that press it though I did, it did not go gentle.  It took many, many minutes before I finally heard a loud POP of its horrible shell cracking.  Nature, as if I were not proof enough, you are loathsome.

Run around in the radiation

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Looks like we are in for a #winningweatheradvisory, chipmunks. Yeah, I wrote that hash tag a few weeks ago, and then a shiny object caught my attention, and I spent numerous hours drooling on myself and refreshing TMZ to see if Charlie Sheen did anything depraved or predatory in the last 18 minutes. And the world is ending, but I’ll be damned if I am paying for The New York Times to find out exactly how and when. I am sure someone on Facebook will tell me. Or some part of my body will actually sizzle and fall off. Whichever.

I have some kind of granite-like writer’s block, but I realized the problem was that I was waiting around to write what I wanted to write. I so very much wanted to write something good. Until I can do that, I should keep my thoughtcrime to myself, right? Except the real world doesn’t work that way. He who blabbers most frequently within the confines of 140 characters wins the future! He who deploys the most ordnance without approval from Congress gets to… well, you can’t really win with that one.

So why am I torturing myself, holding out for inspiration for the perfect screenplay when I could just write a Katherine Heigl movie? I am going to cast my cares unto the Lord and torture the internet instead. That’s right, I’m going right over to Sheen’s house to borrow a cup of hypomania, and then it’s balls to the wall here in the United States of Vomitola. I am calling in Steve Strange, Pete Burns, and that walrus with a bucket if I have to. Content is irrelevant anyway. You can please half the people half the time, but you can never please Morrissey.

WINNING

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I know you are probably all tired of news Warlock, but I heard yesterday that Sheen has been offered his job back on his crappy show.  And to that I say “hooray”.  “WINNING!” I say.  Charlie Sheen is a very fitting representative for this country.  For this is a country of lardass “exceptionalists” led by a jug-eared bastard who understands the concept of civil liberties, but prefers indefinite detention.  I don’t think a tsunami could wash away 8,000 of our citizens because they weigh too damn much.  Operation Odyssey Dickrinse.  Awesome!  Can’t wait to pay my taxes.  I hope we will be melting the faces off some orphans in Libya.  They deserve it, for not being born here where they could all be Exceptional.  And did I mention really fat?  To sum up, we deserve a cultural representative in Charlie Sheen, a man who can stab a woman with a salad fork, and still be on the tee vee.  Who cares if he likes to bang rocks and beat women? At least he is not a government whistleblower.  Then he would still be naked in a jail cell, but without being charged with anything.  This is America, shoot someone in the face if you must, just don’t tell the truth. I am sure we will continue to pursue nuclear energy programs, even if Japan scorches off the face of the planet.  We were probably planning to do that anyway.  Charlie Sheen is the perfect icon for a destruction prone people incapable of learning anything.

My love will turn you on

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What’s to say, people? We are experiencing a grief hangover. Misery fatigue. The destruction in Japan touches us of course on a basic human level, but I have special selfish concerns as well. Licketysplit has been to Japan, but I have not. And it would have been better to see the place when it was not in so many pieces. Also in news of how the news affects *me*, I left a message for my (amazing!) tattoo artist, who had to return to Japan (most unwillingly) because of a visa issue, and I have not heard back. I hope he is safe. He owes me $200.

I timed it. I am capable of seriousness for 23 seconds. It is the grief talking.

Some other terrible things have happened, but I can’t talk about it, because the stories don’t belong to me. Suffice it to say, none of us are going to live forever, and some of us longer than others. It’s a leaky boat we are sitting in, might as well give it some gas. I was having morbid, sorrowful thoughts when I walked into Lu Magnus gallery on the Lower East Side last Friday, just in time to hear the Brooklyn Ladies Choir practicing to perform that evening:

In the middle of a dream
In the middle of a dream I call your name

And I felt simultaneously crushed and liberated by the beauty of their sound. As I fought back tears, my friend in the choir noticed I had come in. She turned, smiled and waved to me, still singing. In the warmth of her smile and their voices, it was so good to be alive, I will never forget it.

Hate Couture

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Poor Chevalier Galliano, aren’t you a bit swarthy to be pointing your pointy little finger? Poor, deluded little pirate! Survey says his mother was an Andalusian, his father a plumber from Gibraltar. From the most humble of beginnings to the tiniest of moustaches, such is the way of the tyrant!

Do you think he can make a comeback? At least he didn’t electrocute any dogs?