teabaggers' ethos

truth be told, i think i remember i stoled above image offa the wondrously brilliant Trollcats but unfortunately, i can't remember so if this is yours — like, you maded it — please inform me straightaway so i can thank you properly that is, bestow upon you the best blowjob money can't buy. this is due to my lifelong penchant for Proper Attribution (my middle name) so far be it for me to inadvertently actually steal and/or take credit where credit's not due.

having said that, 'let's get down to cases' serious bidness: it's occurred that i would be doing myself a solid if i revert back to writing on pols as i did for three years straight on my poor, dead and much-missed site. this just might be a certainty since people like Failin' Palin can't help but give the gift that keeps on giving every time she opens her ill-informed wordhole and best of all, she's oh-so-easy to mock. but the thing of it is, in the interests of decency, i feel obligated to enlighten her, so OK, sarah: let's get down to basics. i shall remain a contented (yet giggly) bystander whilst you enjoy yer teabagging and the subsequent eponymous teaparty but if i were you, i'd enlighten myself by familiarising you and yours with the etymology of your favored Party of FAIL:

strolling down Memory Lane FTW: when first i learnt of SP's chosen party's name, i LMAO and ended up choking through the tears. newsflash, Sarah! no way, no how can you blame the (and i quote your oh-so-witty-NOT) Lamestream Media for this little gem: you done diddit all by yerself, so here, have a clue, one you so desperately need:


all kidding aside, let's begin with 'teabagging': (the following stoled from my hardcopy of Roger's Profanisaurus — a most lovely tome gifted me by the very-much missed and MIA dude, ChrisM, last seen being browbeaten in Manchester). anyway, take heed, Ms Palin: listen and learn:

TEABAGGING: 'A last resort sexual practise wherein the man lowers his balls into the lady's mouth'.

TSK! sarah, oh, sarah, is that really a word with which you want your party of brilliance to be associated? but hey, if y'all substitute 'the man' for 'republiKKKan' and 'lowers his balls' for 'fucks over the poor', it sounds like the typically rethug wack M.O as i've always understood it. alternatively, 'teabagging' is the practise in which said balls are repeatedly and unceremoniously slapped hither and yon against the recipient's face, throat, tits and what-have-you. nb: in Failin' SarahPalin's situ, i should assume the shoe totally fits, but hey — whaddoo i know?

but wait — there's more! this lifted from The Urban Dictionary: '...the insertion of one man's sack into another person's mouth. Used as a practical joke or prank, when performed on someone who is asleep, or as a sexual act' as well as 'To have a man insert his scrotum into another person's mouth in the fashion of a teabag into a mug with an up/down (in/out) motion'. sound familiar, Sarah?


then, there's my totally fave definition: 'An adult act performed by consenting republican/conservatives on each other to express their fake outrage to imaginary tax increases (most of these idiots actually just got a tax break). During this act one republican/conservative nut job (pun intended) drops his pants in public and slowly lowers his scrotum into the eager mouth of another right wing nut lover'.

the oh-so-boring (yet truer than true) obligatory caveats: 'Some basic Teabagging participation rules:

a) 'Participants have to be very low income (preferably on welfare);


b) 'Participants have to be avid Fox News watchers (this makes certain the participants are brainwashed to the extent of being borderline retarded);



c) 'Participants have to be republican/conservative'. (nb: goes without saying.)



ms palin, y'all couldn't have chosen a finer, more exact term for the hordes of pro-AmeriKKKan douchebags who hang upon your every mispronounced, mis-spelt word. in all truth, i wish you many happy hours on the receiving end of any and all teabaggers. damn, and y'all just might learn sump'n (though i know learnin's totally gay and shit).

but hold yer horses; there's still more. the venerable Internetz Way Back Machine (where nothing's ever losted) further explained this phenomenon: '...The cheeky Urban Dictionary has expanded its definition of "tea bagger" from "a man that dips his scrotum and testicles into the mouth of another person" to include "a conservative activist who is so ignorant that they protest against tax cuts (that benefit them) by throwing tea into a river."


'As any gay man who has ventured into some of our more louche nightspots can testify, the practice is venerated among go-go boys dancing on top of bars and boxes who will dip their family jewels into the welcoming mouth of a generous tipper...'


whoa, somethings amiss (and missing): where's Rush Limbaugh and his hillbilly heroin and his sex trips to the Phillippines (and/or Dominican Republic) when we need him most? and whilst we're looking for Rush, someone dig up his underage same-sex fuck-buddies pronto. step up, Rush, d00d — your country (and the truth) are sorely needing ya now. *cough*

and there y'all have it. but yo, sarah — FAIL. who the hell suspected y'all were so cool as to appropriate and integrate one of the most disgusting sexual practises into your party's lexicon? dunno about you but judging by the teabagging fiasco, i'm so waiting for you and yours to co-opt FELCHING, a term way more fitting, or haven't you heard?


permit me to enlighten you: 'The act of sucking or licking ejaculate (or other substances mixed with ejaculate) out of the orifice in which they were deposited. Most commonly used to refer to sucking out semen after anal sex, but technically sucking the semen out of your girlfriend's pussy...'


dunno about you but AFAIC, it all sounds like that which the Party of Fambly Values teach as well as perform on their own and all their rabid followers. true story: after hours of research, i finally dug up a photo of Palin herself, in the midst of thanking her master an adoring fan.

as well, she claims to be an equal opportunity animal lover (apart from clubbing those cute liddle seals) so here's proof positive that, far be it for Palin to discriminate, with liberty, justice and bestiality for all.


'mmmmmm... I can taste see Russia!'

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state of the Slum(p) XIV

[editor's note @00,21: images and further edits to come. i hit 'publish' accidentally and then went 'fuck it' before i could finish cause i'm writing sump'n else. hmmpf... typical!]

[editor's note @08,48: wait, i lied cause i just woke up to see i've irrevocably fucked up the formatting within and i don't have the strength to close all the tags so i'm just gonna leave this as is, mostly cause i'm the only one who reads this shit for the sole purpose of reminding me of who the hell i am.]

*cough* holy fucking shit, i. am. WASTED... *giggles* y'know, and i keep thinking it's friday for some *wack* reason. and sometimes i honestly dunno whether or not i'm fulla shit or not but as long as nobody else's the wiser, then... anyway, i consider this POISON cause any change to my way-too-hip for my age outward appearance is total anathema AFAIC. and far be it for me to even touch upon that which my physical appearance detracts from any street cred i'd accrued over the years, so all i can do is go TSK!

this is cause of what i consider a step backwards: for the first time in fuck-knows-how-many-years, my hair is like totally one colour: dark chocolate brown (apart from the remaining red streaks and the purple off to the right). but how damn depressing! sad to say, the phrase 'selling-out' describes me in one of my way-rare guises cause just checking the mirror, i'm way too down, and totally not in the comfort of the old narcolepsy (One Can Only Hope but not if One Can't Afford). this displeases me muchly, but needs must an' all goddammit.

wait... have i wished death to anyone today? cause that shit always makes me feel better, so nah? OK, i choo-choo choose DickCheney about whom, i must say i was verily disappointed when he pulled through his latest heart attack or whatever. what did George Carlin (RIP) used to say? 'The good die young but the pricks live on forever...' even Christ weighed in and twat 'I'm trying to get dad to take Cheney to make up for taking Michael Jackson a year ago, but I think dad's afraid of him'. almost makes me feel sorry for god. almost. now, where was i?

back to the overt outwardly changes, i have it on good authority that all was done in order for me to attempt to pass for normal so i might snag an (excuse the expression) 'straight job' since i'm pretty much *whispers* desperate. now, 'desperate' doesn't come too easily to me, in fact when i'm like 'desperate', i can be seen kicking and screaming and punching and choking and eye-gouging in order to avoid said descriptor. biting as well. dirty fighting... whatever works.

and so, to think it's come to this: here i be just about a year ago, glorying in the me of me:


and blurry though they are cause i was totally beyond baked, these are way-accurate portrayals of who i really am WAS. :-(




after that, whilst hibernating over this past Winter, I Didn't Give A Shit (so to speak — even ask Chris) and ignored the haircut(s) and shit i oh-so-badly needed.


can we say 'FUCK YOU' 'unkempt'? suuuuure, we can. :-(


YOW! MY EYYYYYYES! *shudder* *cringes under the nearest dumpster and prays it's all over ASAP* yes, i'm wallowing, rolling about in liquidy-trash, complete with banana peels, coffee grinds, used bloody tampons and diarreah-wiped TP.

moving right along and distancing self as far as possible from disgusting vomit-inducing 'trash' (let's call it), FF to now so HAH! *mirthless laughter* i'm boring myself to death every damn time i catch sight of myself in whatever reflective surface lately. *sniffle* i miss me:


but lately, first, i'm all 'who the fuck IS that?' and then, way too quickly, i rather meekly quiet down when i very reluctantly recognise myself I COULD SCREAM. please notice way-boring mono-coloured fringe, sump'n i wouldn't advise anyone to accidentally happen upon me in any alleyway, dark or otherwise cause there's a very good chance i'll be in such a foul mood, if you lookit me wrawng, i'll beat the living shit outta yiz. y'know, I'm from Brooklyn and don't you forget it. *preens*


GODDAMMIT TO HELL! i'm so ashamed... and once again, truer words: 'Oh, how the mighty have fallen' *totally self-absorbed to the nth degree* damn, the things i do for a straight job and shit; i should really win an award or sump'n — like along the lines of Best Boring Disguise or Best Unobtrusivenessity. UGH. oh, and Most Successful Double Lifer but hey, we really don't wanna fuck with Sod so just forget it for now.

endnote: y'know what i think totally sucks balls? dunno whether it's the fact that i've always looked way younger than my age (last carded when i'ze like 35 or 36 waaah!) but within the past ten years, i seem to have gone from passing young to fucking invisibly old. i blame American values, actually. and i'm pretty goddamned upset at this shit. dig it, y'all: i'm the same goddamned human bean i've always been and it'd do rightly for y'all to remember that shit, but unless someone knows me from before, hey, whaddoo i know? only that, for all intents and purposes, i've been currently giving out OLD vibes and looks. grrrr...

one mo' time, my ego forces me to re-post my current fave, taken last week. having said that, let's see YOU pass for 40 or whatever. yup, again, Schadenfreude (delayed though it may be) reigns, so suck it up, bitches. LOL, in other news, i really dig this photo but couldn't tell yiz why, not if my life depended upon it.


in other news, it occurs to negate teh Ugly way above, so heeere's Hunter. :-)


notice how pissed he is at me, so pissed off he refused to turn to the camera, but i'm sure you get the general idea and so, 'tis way easy for y'all to extrapolate teh Ultimate Cuteness. but hey, let's change the subject so look over there: it's this French Art Nouveau poster i had on my kitchen wall in Brooklyn that's now hanging on the storage room door.


heh. did i ever say about my Wall O'Cats? when i was back at Uni, i rented a small loft with these dynamite exposed brick walls and high stamped-tin ceilings and shit, all in Downtown Brooklyn and that's where i had my first International Wall O'Cats and quite like a moron, loved to show it to people. but these days, i'd deny that shit to the death (not mine, yours).

hey, is it too early to get high yet? WHAT? i'll take that as a 'no', 'kayyyy?

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my own Independence Day 6,0

and so, after six years of living here in England, i still can't help but stop to gawk at all the givens, things that natural-born Brits accept as the norm. it's all nothing very special to em and seriously matter-of-fact, par for the course and totally home-grown, typically mundane whatevers, seen in whichever neighbourhood; architecture, statuary, gardens, hand-hewn stone walls (all individually built, stone by stone and as such, no two are alike); banalities that're sure to induce many a superior *yawn* from everyone present apart from me. case in point:


true story: i hadda be forcibly pulled away after first sighting the above. i say 'forcibly' cause a second or two after i took the pic, my arms were wrapped around the column and my lips were totally sucking stone, much to the amusement of passersby my friends' humiliation dismay. right, just like almost everything else, these next are pretty damn common, frequently seen moulded onto pre-20th Century houses, all of which elicit boredom in mosta the natives but cause me to forget myself: my outside voice totally kicks in after i verily freak, all uncontrollably shouty and shit. and amazing though it is, to a History-starved American like me, these are examples of 'daily English normal' and so our reactions upon whatever sighting couldn't be further apart on whatever damn spectrum. thing of it is, the Brits exude an oh-so-civilised and refined *yawn* or maturely intone 'Quite so' whilst an American like me is sent kvelling to the heavens, near maddened with joy at all the goddamned history in evidence.



OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD — i've never seen anything like it, and so, just thinka me as the Tourist Eternal and that's the way i wannit to be. now onto sump'n totally different: in days gone by, i woulda given my left nut to successfully appropriate an English accent and lying through my teeth call it my own, but lately, no way, no how would i ever even want one, not cause i don't think it's totally the epitome of class and cool but for the simple reason that, after the natives overhear my horrendously lowbrow crude Brooklyn accent, wonder of wonders, i instantly make friends, most of whom declare they're wildly in love with the dulcet tones in which they believe i tawk. totally *wack*, right? but so many couldn't be bullshitting me or could they? whatever, the Brooklyn accent stays so fuhgeddabbaddit and thank fuck for that.

moving right along, since Bastard Time's a-fleeting (and i honestly assumed it's like 20,00 saturday night, not having a clue as to the real time (now way after midnight on sunday, the 4th), over the past few hours i've whipped off three posts; one's called 'Snark City Guide to Downtown' replete with insults aimed at stereotypical New Yorkers with special emphasis on those hailing from Joo Yawk City, one called 'The Teabaggers' Ethos' (with more nasty yet true fun-facts directed to the glorious republiKKKans' newest, most favoured party of douchebags) and the last i penned was this — one of my posts (in an endless series — collect em all!) on the glories of my own Independence Day living here in Bristol and naturally, as always, it includes my copious and uncontrollable virtual drooling and ogling of any/all young Uni dudes over the layout of this, my adopted City and the edifices, gardens, statuary (bloody hell! both public AND private and most just lying about in public, like, and the thing of it is, nobody vandalises this shit or anything, totally amazing!

and then there're the fountains and memorials and oh, right: real fuckin' cemeteries! the kind you only see in films — Oh My Fucking GOD! *cough* right, where was i?

but i mean, holy shit! THESE, these buildings are like, normal here — buildings about which nobody born here gives a rat's ass or more than a cursory glance as they blindly bop on by:



here's yet another example of an invisible-to-the-natives Garden-Path Given. i see this shit and totally freak whilst my crew sees the same, yawns and rolls their eyes just praying to get the hell away from me and my shoutyness as soon as politely possible so fuck em. hard. oopsy, quiet bit aloud again (sorry, Rooney). :-)


in truth, i could've gazed upon this garden path with its columns and stiles all the damn day but i was being Shhhhush'd and asked to 'move on' so not wanting to upset anyone more, i reluctantly complied. i mean, they are my friends and all but not for too much longer.

OK, the thing of it is, as per usual, Time's gotten away with me, there's no way i can finish this shit, mainly cause i wanna commemorate this Day of Days by having Someone roll me a huge fucking spliff so we can carry Hunter out on the balcony. oooh, the Moon's all golden now, way high up in the East and it's so fucking cool cause the sky behind it looks all blue velvet and shit so it's time for me to tip. what was i on about again? right, i wanna commemorate this Day of Days, since rather coincidentally, my first real whole day of actually living here was on 4th. july 2004 and so, it's been six mostly wildass fun years of my lifelong dream come true and i don't wanna miss any of it. and yeah, i can say it till the cows come home and never get bored of doing it. and so...

FUCKIN-A! I'M FINALLY LIVING IN ENGLAND — HOORAH! so take that, America, and shove it up your overfed ass. or bury it deep where the sun don't shine cause it matters not to me. OK, i'll be good and STFU now. maybe. no, wait — i lied: barring a few necessary and crucial annotations, all in the interests of accuracy, i feel the need to recap and so, last year i posted '...i wanna make a serious and rather mature announcement. *cough*

IT'S HERE, IT'S HERE, HALLELUJAH, IT'S HERE! *happy grrl dancing all over the place* today's my very own personal Independence Day and AFAIC, the now-glorious words – "The Fourth of July" — will never be the same. five years ago today i landed on British soil, not to visit Chris as i had every few weeks for the prior three months, flying in to London from Bonn, but i arrived to actually begin my new life here in England, living out my longest-held, fondest dream of dreams (the kind i never thought would EVar come true). i'm so climbing the walls with all the spoing that's in me which means i'm actually pretty damn close to "happy" (the rarest of rare occurrences to a lifelong anhedonic such as i am)...

'...from the Department of Strange but True: and dig — for once it totally ain't the drugs. I AM STOKED! (she shrieked unnecessarily, but diddit anyway to hear the sound of her own voice). wheeeee!?!one!'

moving right along, the year before that, in 2008, i tossed off another 'holy shit, i'm actually here!' post, my fourth State of the Slum(p) in which i did my usual, waxing rhapsodic over the absolute unbelievability that — yes, a-gain — i'm actually living here. feel free to give it a miss cause apart from my most excellent photos, photos that induce many a yawn from natural-born Brits but cause me to ooh and ahhh in total wonderment cause after all this time, everything that's exotic to me is a given to everyone born here.

shit! before i realised The Date, i was so writing yet a fourth post either called 'So it's come to this' or 'Oh, how the mighty have fallen' and was fulla my typically American whinging and quite a bit of foot-stomping, name-calling, road rage and much befouling of the yuppie neighbours' doormats but that's sump'n that'll have to wait for a less happy time. hang on, i just remembered the BP oil spill and Obama's foot-dragging on same as well as ex-VP Cheney miraculously surviving his latest heart attack (the one i was so hoping would do him in), so OK, i'm back to being suicidally depressed normal. how boring!


nah, i'm not high or drunk or dead or anything; why the hell do you ask? but ahhhh... it's good to be back... NOT. but shit, they say 'Every cloud has a silver lining' or whatever so i imagine my silver lining has sump'n to do with me being an ocean away from the capitalistic propaganda and all the hypocrisy and the sad, sad, sad deforming of perfectly decent American bodies all in the name of beauty or attention-whoring or whatever (i always get those confused).

and call me unpatriotic, but hey, here's one typical American lady i'm totally not gonna miss (even though i couldn't help but notice her ilk at almost every national holiday celebration for most of my adult life when i lived back there). in all truth, i applaud her balls and sentiment although i betcha she voted for bu$hCo but nevertheless, i bow down to this woman. no, i mean, rilly — i do.


wait — i thought of sump'n better (she laughed, deftly changing the subject): have i ever mentioned i harbour a hugeass sexual thang for the one and only Robbie Coltrane? cause i totally do — and bigtime. *whispers* damn, i even own the boxed set of Cracker. *sigh*


moving right along and having absolutely nada to do with my sexual fantasies 'thing' (let's call it) involving Mr Coltrane, on that prior note, i shall leave y'all to continue arranging vasty white lines on the silver tray which serves as my mirror. y'know, for purely (and i do mean pure-ly) medicinal purposes aesthetic reasons only, of course. needless to say (but being the Princess of Logorreah and Run-On Sentences), this is only to celebrate my number six (count em) SIXTH YEAR HERE as a happy lit-tle hosebag resident.

and if i were a generally genuinely pleasant person, i'd be glorying in this shit (as well as in the coke) but unfortunately, i'm not and so, the most enthusiastic mood i can muster ATM is some trivia i thought i'd throw in to divert yiz from the Coltrane admission as well as serve to remind y'all that we get first-run, uncut "foreign" films over here, in cinemas as well as those shown on TV, so grow up and suck it up, American Nanny State. disclaimer: since America treated me like shit for the entire time i lived there, i think it's only fair that i dis it back when the shoe totally fits, like always, so NYAH.

right, SG: happy Independence Day, as well as many, many, moar returns of the day. and lest we forget, my typically *coke shit-eating grin* goes here. :-)

endnote: do i win anything for throwing enough disparate shit against the wall to see if anything sticks? yes? nah? in yer heart of hearts, y'all know i deserve to. win sump'n, that is, so hmmpf... just sayin'. oh wait — almost forgot my parting shot, a taunt in which i attempt to summon up every single goddamned immature and puerile bone in my body:


HA-ha! i'm here and yer not so suck it up, looooo-zers. :-) in truth, try not to hate me, dudes. if you led the life i had done before i split the States, you'd be puerile and immature and oozing with Schadenfreude as well as having a heroin habit the size of which could've killed an elephant. i mean, just ask Mommy and Daddy (if y'all can find him cause he's dead), the Braintrust at the NYC Board of Education (who awarded me my Teaching Licence and double-life or not, i was damn good), that Harley-ridin' Wall Street stockbroker to whom i was engaged *smirk* hey, Alan as well as every motherfucking professor and shrink i had the misfortune of seeing professionally throughout my sad-sack imitation of a life (but you get the idea or at least, you should). oh my... i've said too much. again. um. sorr-reeeee — my bad. i'll STFU now. :-)

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Nightmare of the Missing Day

before i launch in to this week's horror, in which i totally lost a day, i wanna credit the artist above: 'This image copyright © 2005, Paul Bielaczyc and Aradani Studios', about which he writes:

'Where do nightmares come from? Are they figments of our imagination, or physical beings that exist in our world? These creatures come out at night, and feed upon our dreams. By doing so, they sustain themselves, but also twist our peaceful dreams into frightening visions that terrorize our sleep.'

i'd bet on 'physical beings that exist in our world', but whaddoo i know? but OK, having said that, i must get this next shit down. my personal situation is such that, if i get an entire three hours' uninterrupted sleep every night, i consider it 'good', much to my despair. not kidding here: this shit began a few years ago and it seems to be my 'normal' now which bothers me muchly as i'm totally accustomed to sleeping for the better part of 12-15 hours straight, at a time, but hey... 'they' say that the older one gets, the less sleep one needs, all to which i shout out a resounding BULLSHIT. now back to bidness.

because i've been having medical problems (*snigger* so to speak — please notice i'm deftly skirting all the mental and emotional problems i've been harbouring) ... hey, wait — where in fuckall is this train going? right, OK, so on monday i visited my GP...


... and moaned my ass off cause i just know that three stinking hours' sleep every night is like seven to ten hours less than i need) so he prescribed me some utter crap ostensibly to help me get to sleep and remain unconscious throughout the night. and so, being the dutiful patient i am, i followed his instructions to the letter and dropped the first one like 23,30 monday night. but then, almost instantly, not only was i wider awake, but pacing the floors whilst my bod was pouring perspiration and my limbs were actually twitching, along the lines of that which's termed Restless Leg Syndrome. y'know, the thing of it is, if i didn't know better and/or if i hadn't been drug-free for ages, i'd swear on a shitload of Bibles that i was going through heavy-duty heroin withdrawels.


fast forward to a few minutes later, as i paced the floor, marching back and forth from balcony to bedroom. then out of desperation, my virtual lightbulb went on and somehow i remembered i'd been hoarding the remains of my precious Valiums so, after digging em up, i dropped three 10 mgs. being an impatient sort (and having a hugeass tolerance to whatever extra-legals), i immediately thought 'fuck it' and hurriedly dropped yet another three 10s, making it 60mgs of Diazepam in toto, coursing through the bloodstream of my 90 lb. system. helpful hint: 'Don't try this at home, kids, especially without doctor's supervision'.

anyhoo, only then did blessed sleep descend upon my oh-s0-weary bod and head and thank fuckity fuck, not only were my eyelids growing sandy and heavy but i recall thinking '60 mgs? i laugh and point in their general direction'. in all actuallity, as i LOLd i attempted to point but my fingers wouldn't hold the pose as i slowwwly made my way to the kitchen intending on washing the dryer-than-dry pills all down with a huge glass of OJ. result? empty glass was discovered on the kitchen floor near a puddle of sticky thick orange juice-y substance but not until two days later (and all i can say is 'thank fuck Hunter hates citrus'). but i digress.

back to near-midnight monday and the side-effects came on in full force but the worst was yet to come: as i walked crawled into the kitchen on all fours, the nightmares began. now this is sump'n new to me: i've had many a nightmare in my life but never have i had em whilst totally conscious, completely awake. to say i was frightened doesn't cover it. i was fucking terrified cause i saw these Reptilian beings outta the corners of my eyes and horror of horrors! their tentacles were snaking nearer and nearer to the back of my ass, which thanks to my crawling, was held high in the air, as i thought to avoid any physical contact with the Nightmare (pill-induced?) monster and his or her goddamned ugly dripping poisonous (?) tentacles.

i mean, dude! c'mon! i'm on the floor and shaking my ass off, trembling with terror. i think i shouted out 'mother-FUCK-er!' cause the yup neighbors above me all went 'Shhhhhhh!' but at that point, i didn't give a shit cause i'd rather be shushed by yuppie neighbors than have even one ugly sucker-laden tentacle latch on to me.


long story short: the next time i opened my eyes, i was shit-sure it was tuesday AM so imagine my horror when i checked the Calendar on my iPod and saw i totally lost a day. this shit hasn't happened in ages and ages and in truth, i've only ever lost any time when sleeping it off ('it' being yo' drug or booze of choice, so fill in the blank as you see fit).

'gobsmacked' doesn't cut it and neither does 'gutted', both of which i totally were. and so, when i came to yesterday AM, i was so convinced it was tuesday, i jumped in the bath, quickly threw on my clothes and actually appeared at a job interview which i'd set up last week. whoa, was my face red (especially when they gave me the most snotty of withering looks topped off when some dumb twat had the temerity to snark at me about 'not knowing my days'.

in all truth, i can't afford to keep on losing Time like that. but every cloud has a silver lining and i actually found one here; in my confusion, i heard a line from an as yet-unwritten poem repeating over and over in my head:

'Reality is a nightmare from which I can't awake'.

in truth, dunno if i shall ever actually pen that poem but i'm with this dude cause he summed it up rather succinctly in the image below. ahhhh... a dude after my own heart.


LOL, if only! *cough* i mean, now let that be a lesson to y'all, boyz and grrls ('don't bite off more Valiums than y'all can chew, aighhht?). BTW, if it's not apparent, i haven't a clue as to what the fuck i'm tawkin' about (here, there or anywhere) but Shhhhh! don't tell the authorities. ;-)

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mail of the day

sent yesterday by TPFKAPM: 'Dear [blank], Please [blank]' and then, nothing but a link which i followed, and then read shit reader-submitted examples in the format exemplified above, like:

'Dear Good Looking Colleague, Please continue to bend down, but this time, please don't look up and see me staring down your top'.

oh, how i laughed... NOT the rest were in a similar vein but AFAIC, it was all too much so i shot off sump'n way near and dear to my cold, cold heart. it read thusly:

'dear "hipster" douchebags, we totally own the word "hipster" having inadvertently paid our dues way back when, so give it a rest and give it the fuck back, you lameass poseurs. and whilst you're at it, for fuck's fucking sake: GET YER OWN DAMN MUSIC'. sincerely, Unrepentant_Punk.


hmmpf... i'm still working on this next one, in order to embreven it down to teeny-tiny bits of info so even the most brain-dead Gen X-er, Y, Z-er or Noughtiers can dig it without taxing their poor widdy bwains: OK, *cough* 'and whilst yer at it, don't you goddamned dare term that weakass "music" of yours "Rhythm & Blues", i mean, What The Fuck? to my well-versed ears, your pale millennial imitation of R&B is sump'n i very diplomatically term 'Philly- or DEE-troit or even R&B-Lite' (if y'all can excuse the image conjured therein).

but wait, i ain't done — don't try to bust the same kinda moves to any of that 'music' gawh-bidge in any true R&B club, y'know, the kind that Maceo was last seen at, hittin' up the cigarettes machine. i mean, if you try to use that phoney bullshit with me, your ass'll be so grass, yer head'll spin. point being: he ran in for fags — he didn't bother with the damn jukebox. true story!

fun-fact: Did y'know? y'know the costumed dancing chicks in the background of almost every music promo-vid? those you laud as being all groundbreaking and edgy and sexy and shit only cause their underwears are worn outside their costumes? y'all know the ones (style over substance; it's only fancy-shmancy Showgirl plumage as well as the bulging exposed TITS). well, gather round and dig a bit of history, my apt lit-tle pupils: way back when, when R&B was newly ripped offa the best of, (read: most acceptable-to-whites) Black Culture (i.e., when music was music and i ain't lookin' at you, Elvis), beautiful as those lovely back-up vocalists were, the best they could hope for were to join the line of synchronised dancers moving in unison behind the leadsinger, always in the background, and dig: they were looked upon as nothing more than bootilicious scenery, designed to promote the star of the show in the best possible light.

and (wonder of wonders!) sometimes, just sometimes, they actually got to sing a solo. truth be told, it happened less frequently rather than more cause they 'shone' (i'm being kind here); they shone during the infrequent times when the scripted choruses called for some 'Oooh, Baby, baby!' all to make the star sound better. hey, didja ever wonder why the lead singers in pre-Beatles 1960s girl bands were way more attractive than their back-ups? it doesn't take a genius to figure that shit out but as always, i digress.

prime example: The Supremes. apart from the way talented Diana Ross, there were Florence and Mary but hey, does anyone know the names of the chicks who stood behind Martha (she of the Vandellas)? without Googling? so keep on keeping on with your phoney R&B, which causes me lotsa LOLz whilst y'all show yer ignorance about the real, true thing... the roots. R&B roots. and uh... far be it for me to point out aforementioned ignorance disses the current crop of R&B-lite acts as well. ooh, did i say that out loud? whoa... my bad. ;-)

anyhoo, on to more positive things: here's an example offa the top of my head: has Amy Winehouse ever heard of Willie Mae Thornton? hey! don't hit me; i'm askin' an honest question, here. and if she has, has she attempted any WMT covers? is she even able? in truth, i don't wanna know. *shudder*

and hah! don't start me on living legends like Aretha. not for nothing, i laugh and point in the general direction of what's considered R&B these days — need i elaborate? nah, didn't think so: think poseurs, k? and the thing of it is, everyone's so damn ignorant unless their parents are heavy-duty R&B purists, they've got nothing with which to compare the real thing with the watered-down substitute for which it's passed off of late. but YOW! *ducks* hmmpf... be that as it may but to anyone apart from myself who still happens to be reading: dig it cause i shall have the last laugh, as i always do.

i mean, i'm still waiting for this generation's Solomon Burke or Wilson Pickett or James Brown or even Betty Everett and my personal fave, Freda Payne. i won't say 'Aretha' cause no way, no how, would i sully this post by referring to her. and so, *smirk* if the current crop of (scuse the spression) R&B Lite singers are any indication of that which kids revere as R&B, so be it but whoa, are you d00ds fucking deluded *snigger* so have it your way, K? y'know what they say, right? ignorance is bliss (but whoa, yiz are all so missing out on shitloads of top-notch genuine stuff).

if i bothered to care, i'd go 'I weep for you all', but i don't — now let's cue up some Seal and party like it's 1994 or whatever.

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note to self: *burp!* SOS

O HAI! hey, why does the above image remind me of a badly-drawn Magritte? dunno? nah, i dunno either. but back to present-time, yeah, i think i'm still here (that is, last time i checked) but i've been pretty much out-of-it lately. y'know how it is — busy, busy, busy tryna find another soul-eating job and then, after each and every day of going through the motions; like an automaton tryna pass for normal, it's just soooo easy to drug drink myself into oblivion, detach what remains of my mind and then, fall out, kinda like in a coma, but unfortunately for me not. if the foregoing is way too lengthy for comprehension, suffice it to say, i chose Criminality as the best and most profitable way to spend my time over the Winter and Spring hols.

OK nah, SOS ain't a cry for help not yet, at least, it's *snigger* Same Old Shit. rather, Same Shit, Different Day (your mileage may vary). and like i said last night when Gemma, Liz, Teresa, Rooney and Danny stopped by to cut the gigantic rock of neige to test shit out, when asked why i wanted 'in', i glibly quoted Susan Traherne who said it best: 'I have a weakness... I like to lose control'.

truer words! *rolls eyes in a rarely lucid moment* thank fuck these people don't really know me! *cough* anyway, alla that couldn't have fallen upon more eager ears especially when i caught my bosses' 'looks' in re: me, looks from which i read: 'Mah kinda grrl — no way will she work for us, sans clothing, sans long nails and/or doubly masked or not' but let's move on cause the less said about that, the better. and so... all i can gasp out is 'meh!' *feigned nonchalance* score 1 for boss-man and score like 10+ for the oh-so-clever SG, all of that due to their most obvious oversight and underestimation of my own little resources (and i do mean 'little').

LOL, who's LOLing now, douchebags d00ds? you ain't the ones whose faces are squished in the fettucine (yet i am... *puke* and all... hey, didja ever notice how Parmegian smells almost exactly like human vomit? nah? yah? no matter... but i *puke* digress.

moving right along down the ol' Cryptic Highway, thanks to popular demand, thanks to getting kicked outta L's car and bouncing on my ass nearly 100 foot i found these on one 50 metre stretch as i dragged myself way painfully home.




yep, y'all get whut y'all see: they're all 'normal' windows with no hidden agenda to be found. but what flipped me out is (think: Easily Impressed Bloody American), they were all within a tiny curved street whose buildings ran the gamut of a shitload of disparate architectural styles, so hah! take that gritty boring Manhattan grids and other way banal more mundane shit, nyah! oops, soz! (not very bloody likely really.)

and so, in closing — hey, look over there: it's one of my fave Hunter-LOLCats again. and lest you've forgotten, he carries a message which totally stands the test of time as well as the epitome of his attitude. and dig: he's tawkin Scots! clever kitty, does your intellect hold no bounds?


fun-fact/did you know?: 'Repetition works, David... repetition works, David.' *in a Robert Downey Jr voice* and IMO 'repetition is tantamont to shoving whatever shit down people's throats for the upteenth time', and there y'all have it. :-)

nb: post no. 354, written whilst wasted — is there any other way? helpful hint: do not (i repeat) do not attempt to find coherence or reason within cause you'd be hard-pressed to find either and you'll only end up wasting more time.

OK — *hic!* — my work iz dunnnne...*urp* hey, is this thing on? cause i gotta hugeass hairball that's just dying to come out — hur- *puke* ewww... i'm so verily disgusting. *preens*

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un-fuckin-fortunately present

yup (she sighed, with shitloads of dismay, that which can't be translated into my typically nauseating diarreah-of-the-mouth over-verbiage). but why the prolonged silence? *mirthless laughter* hah! — totally not up to yours truly but at the request — nay, the command — of those way hipper-than-thou me (and enough said about those motherfuckers theyze all, the better for us all. in the long run. hmmpf...

anyhoo, if things go as planned (and let's not fall back on that over-used phrase, apart from i did, so ignore me please — fanks in advance), i intend to be back 'shortly' with multitudes of explanations all the way up the wazoo (as stated in similar veins, the kinda veins one might care to employ using the now-too popular, much maligned — yet totally true — cliche' describing The Revolving Door Of Paris Hilton's Vagina (as well as every single chick espousing the 'sharing' of her 'love'), so here's hoping, y'all! i mean 'hoping' not to thee nor me, but 'hoping' as long as every Tom, Dick and Harry hailing from Bum-Fuck Nebraska get the general idea. can we say 'Hoo-Er?' shurr we kin — an' wit' gusto.

'mmmm... Hoo-Uhz... glurghlll-drooool... *retch* sho pash the T'unnuhboid... wha? Mogen Dhavid'z wha's lef'? wha-evuh...' *GLUGGITY*


SFX: *hugeass hack-y coughity* whilst above speech is enunciated/slurred with medium-sized phlegm bits which commence flying hither and yon, flung from speaker to audience, majorly spreckling the inner sanctum. in all actuallity, some drip whilst some adhere. but nobody notices (cares?). *shrugs* no biggie. *smirk*

OK, moving right along in a departure from what was witnessed early this AM on the wrong side of town to in other more palatable news, given i've not shown my ugly face here in ages, speculation's totally rife out so don't be daft — have y'all forgotten already? whenever i deign to truth-tell gossip-monger here, i'm totally and irredeemably straight wasted and as such, immovable from Clifton Village 'high' as well and as we all know, my Spotless Reputation is Totally Spotless (so sayeth The Goddess of Slums all of which give me Carte Blanch to write whatever the fuck i wanna with impunity. got problemz with that? there's a support group that meets every wednesday so feel free to vent to your heart's desire i double, nah, i triple dare yiz.

yo, wait — hang on.. where was i? obligatory bleurgh! *puke* ahhhhh... thass better. hey, mind your toes! damn, i toldja not to wear sandals whilst reading but — TSK! would you listen? do you EVar listen? serves yiz fucking right for choosing 'hip open-toe spike-heeled fuck-me sandals instead of more sensible shoes. like Cons, or the more favoured Parachute Jump Boots (extra added protection!). morons. *snigger*

right, almost forgot: d00ds! according to yer too-infrequent mails, i'm not painfully totally aware i've *cough* lost my edge *smirk* (if i ever had one), so hah! cause i take it from whom it comes losers, so do yerselves a biggie and refrain from pointing that shit out (y'know, the obvious) cause yer all so damn wrong, it's laughable. but to be polite, thank yiz all and muchly! this is me SO caring. :-)

oh yeah, i almost fogot the self-absorbed, ego-centric seriousity: yeah, a BOOK. put that in yer pipes and smoke it or whatever and whilst yer at it, sit on it and rotate... NYAH. and quickly. *smirk* so here — you lucky lit-tle fucks... 'my lit-tle monsters' as Lady CaCa oh so condescendingly calls her um... 'fans' — no doubt utilising her newly glommed English-accent in yet another blatant rip-off of her idol Madonna, to both of which i can only point, laugh and shout 'POSEURS!' *smug* thing is, far be it from me to EVar call yiz (or anyone who digs me/or not) ANYthing in a faux British accent. *snigger* can we say 'charlatan'? suuuure, we can. however, way past the phoney accent, i'm not 'big' enough not to impart a very raucous and Schadenfreude-filled NYAH! :-)


anyhoo, next up are the very belated birthday present and Mother's Day photos i took for Mommy but failed to post in time cause i had extralegal things going on (whom, at last count, was 90-goddamned-3 years old (?!?) — dear lord whom-i-don't-believe in, fucking SHOOT ME.

but wait! there's more! i called this one Late, Late, Later for Mommy:


last month found me trekking up Pembroke Road (for reasons i shall not divulge here but believe me, they weren't pretty). what made it all worse was, it was like 21 temperature and 90% humidity and that shit totally didn't add to my typically foul nature but since i found myself pretty much broke for reasons filed under Extra-Legal Nefarious Indulgences i figured i'd take some pics of the one thing guaranteed to send my mother on a header (the 'possibly-break-your-head-and-die-kind').

thing of it is, ever since i split NYC for EU, my mother has taken a number of falls, all of which cracked her skull and flattened her face and all of which needed Emergency hospital attention. the reasons for each of these unfortunately life-threatening mishaps can be deftly summed up in her very own words: 'I was busy admiring Neighbour X's beautiful garden and didn't watch where I was going'. damn, i so admire the elderly — totally thrown (and i do mean 'thrown') for a head-cracking, near-death loop and all thanks to the sight of pret-ty flowers. one can always hope.

now being the loving and helpful first-born i am, i thought she'd adore seeing how they did it here: no manicured gardens, neither in private backyards nor growing up fences, sidewalks and walls, and that's actually sump'n i truly admire. and so, i thought i'd give Mom a taste of that which i see as routine occurrence like every damn day. so here, Mommy — a very belated birthday to you as well as a heartfelt though tiny sample of the bonteous wild, multicoloured vegetation belonging to some of the homes and streets of Clifton Village. take note, Mom — these are givens... no 'biggies' here. and the most lovely thing is, all pics were taken in the space of about 8 or 9 metres. take that, Brooklyn!




hmmm... wouldn't it be great if she (in her own words) 'took a(nother) flop' when viewing any/all the above? holy shit, i totally didn't say that. nah, Mom, i kid. no... i mean, rilly. :-)

nb: i just don't play a piecashit ingrate daughter on the Internetz. i do it in meatspace as well (and believe you me, not only have i got plenty of practise, i've got way too many totally valid reasons). and as usual, just sayin', Ma, i'm totally kidding you. right, Mommy... rilly i do. 'kid', i mean. here, have one of my shit-eating grins, ghostly as it may be. :-)


hey! don't blame me for shite quality — blame Mr Asswipe who took too much MDMA (the pig) despite my bestest and most fervent warnings that when it comes to that shit, i'm totally the Princess of Dosing Em Best. but would they he listen? hah! fuckin' douchebag... }-(

soz, Mom; totally forgot: happy belated birthday and Mother's Day. :-)

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scene of the crime

*cough* it's totally not necessary to share details cause nobody's interested in old Punky grrls who drink too much when they're already ripped, then think it a great idea to fall on their asses on their way to The Crime on the street for the attention, then lie there for the attention, taking photos.

nb: we got away with it. ALL of it. :-) in other news, i'm shocked and mortified that Replay Ray took my name in vain (in the wordyness below the image). it's weird cause i was all


until i spotted my mention — TSK! moving right along, i tried to capture my purple hair; y'know, for the record. uh... FAIL but i did manage to snag that lunatic look i'm wearing more and more frequently these days.


ARRRGHHH! MY EYYYYYYES! *cough* OK, from my fave mail this week starring me and him (way at the end in italics) so first me and my big mouth:

I'm in ur Jobs Centre, stealin' yo' bandwidth. :-) that is, if 'ur' = Council taxpayers and 'bandwidth' = ... never mind, still a bit drunk from last night. *half-formed analogy dons boots, grabs stick, takes hike*

whooooah... I /am/ still drunk. still. let's move o-HIC! on. :-)

Hee. What'd you do last night?

[edited to say i didn't think it necessary to tell him that amidst the other night's festivities or whatever, laws were broken. many, many laws.]

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