tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33328810427332096122024-03-05T10:36:31.883-08:00When Life Gives You Shit (instead of lemons), Have a Recipe for "Shit Soufflé" HandyA Recipe for Life...and Laughter OR Ma Vie De Merdejanilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-53806718220156417202016-11-05T22:28:00.000-07:002016-11-05T22:29:39.164-07:00Bee Vomit & Baking Soda<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: yellow; font-size: x-large;">BEE VOMIT AND BAKING SODA</span></h2>
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<span data-offset-key="fc2gq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In order to save money, I stumbled upon a really easy makeup remover. Instead of buying the expensive cleansing towelettes, I bought baby wipes. But they didn't completely do the job (neither did the expensive wipes). </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="74krl-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I came across an article that said to try baking soda and honey. Well...suffice it to say that the first time I used this formula I used WAY too much baking soda and it felt like I was washing my face with course sandpaper:</span></span></span><br />
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<span data-offset-key="74krl-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Not in a good exfoliating kinda way either. We're talking I-fell-off-my-bike-and-my-face-scraped-the-cement-for-half-a-block kinda pain. OWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😵😡😰</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="1kjim-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The next night, I sprinkled just a large pinch and put more raw, unfiltered organic honey on my wash cloth. I fully expected to have a sticky face that was going to attract ants, fruit flies and gnats as I slept. Like I imagined when I saw this Ohio Players album cover as a kid:</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6NqUqRPkx0YQ3aDcnZF1k9hBZD_M1TC2d87H7D_yYjh-m95CtbnVNRczp_wgNySQHeOpXyLv49BGIIBYM-KLc6y1tYbh9jeM2PthxIUtjiLK6MEYzwBVgftPYkE-dqxOl_Ox1q2IUTYw/s1600/OhioPlayersHoney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6NqUqRPkx0YQ3aDcnZF1k9hBZD_M1TC2d87H7D_yYjh-m95CtbnVNRczp_wgNySQHeOpXyLv49BGIIBYM-KLc6y1tYbh9jeM2PthxIUtjiLK6MEYzwBVgftPYkE-dqxOl_Ox1q2IUTYw/s320/OhioPlayersHoney.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span data-offset-key="1kjim-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Or at the very least...the queen bee would find me, sneak in and lay larvae in my nostrils or something. ('Tis the curse of an overactive imagination.) 😳😱</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Nothing could be further from the truth. There was just enough baking soda to neutralize the stickiness of the honey and it left my entire face, free of oils but not dry as baked clay either. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0cnqLsTlWNe1mI2HTU7SQhQqQw_WPMpjTdTWh_N53GAx9QN0lKOEvSaH38TUKIM9_46ugm8F_Dxzm7XoqQy0D-DWpZoYi43UCTYFf5vqjGZ_F3m6jI5Cn8MwOwLc5cxjkcZgd2VXdcM/s1600/DesertClay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0cnqLsTlWNe1mI2HTU7SQhQqQw_WPMpjTdTWh_N53GAx9QN0lKOEvSaH38TUKIM9_46ugm8F_Dxzm7XoqQy0D-DWpZoYi43UCTYFf5vqjGZ_F3m6jI5Cn8MwOwLc5cxjkcZgd2VXdcM/s320/DesertClay.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was just right (to quote baby bear & his porridge temperature) AND honey has anti-bacterial properties so after a few days, all my oily skin eruptions seemed to disappear and my skin feels softer...more pliant. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I used to have to use 3 to 4 different products on my combination skin. A moisturizer, only for the eye area, an occasional acne med for my breakout oily areas & a fade gel for the acne scars.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have to say that now that I'm older, my skin has become FAR more sensitive and I break out in rashes at the drop of a hat so my doc gave me a prescription for 2.5% hydrocortisone lotion too. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I haven't had the need for any of them since! \o/ YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you 🐝🐝🐝for your sweet, healing vomit!!!!</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Love,</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2hmkq-0-0"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Janilani ☺️😘</span></span></span></span></div>
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janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-20267434794674359142014-10-25T21:55:00.000-07:002014-10-25T21:56:56.282-07:00Clown Terror Has A New FaceAfter hearing for years about American Horror Story, about 3 weeks ago, my friend Terri DVR'd the first show of the new season. We sat. We drank wine. We drank more wine...and we were both were introduced to our latest craze. I spent the next 2 weeks on Netflix catching up on the past seasons.<br />
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Prior to watching American Horror Story, the most terrifying clown I'd EVER come across was Pennywise the Clown from the book "It" and the mind of Stephen King and played to the hilt by Tim Curry in the film adaptation. <br />
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Pennywise hid in the sewers of the requisite creepy Maine town and his favorite food of choice was...kids. Sure it's a bit ghoulish but who am I to criticize the culinary quirks of clowndom's citizens? So Pennywise liked to eat kids. Kids can be annoying. John Wayne Gacy was a real-life killer clown and he creeped me the fuck out. I don't think he developed a taste for kids but if you were a handsome, young gay man, you might end up buried in the crawlspace beneath his house. <br />
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I LOVED Homey the Clown. He was hilarious. He belted kids across the chops with a quarter-filled sock. I was delighted by Caesar Romero, Jack Nicholson and Heath Ledger's portrayal of The Joker:<br />
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I liked clowns. OK...I did want to kick Ronald McDonald in his clowny little gladbags. But most clowns were OK...until I happened upon Pennywise. Pennywise fucked it all for me. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5thnpYrNwUYpNN4fDx_DvmlLz2c0OphQEgjlmaAHhsMadPtYo5al5H7cZfQ94_DjKuRFKyedgCwK-AiG-CPW-srOKarPFKt0SaMySd57NOjhhXmmn2-_SkmjRdWW3t_ShjATQYOKwrc/s1600/it-curry-10-weird-disturbing-horror-movie-facts-you-probably-didn-t-know.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5thnpYrNwUYpNN4fDx_DvmlLz2c0OphQEgjlmaAHhsMadPtYo5al5H7cZfQ94_DjKuRFKyedgCwK-AiG-CPW-srOKarPFKt0SaMySd57NOjhhXmmn2-_SkmjRdWW3t_ShjATQYOKwrc/s320/it-curry-10-weird-disturbing-horror-movie-facts-you-probably-didn-t-know.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
In the previous seasons of American Horror Story, I was introduced to a host of scary characters. But holy fucking shit! The thing that scared the living shit outta me and gives me nightmares is a character called "Twisty the Clown". Twisty doesn't talk...at all. He performs like a normal clown. Makes balloon animals, pulls bouquets of flowers out of his sleeve, has the eternally long string of knotted scarves in his pocket. The thing about Twisty is he can go into a murderous rage when his balloon animal pops or you don't find his antics particularly amusing. And sometimes he just murders for no reason...or maybe he has a reason we're not privy to. We have absolutely no clue what's going on in Twisty's mind. Because he doesn't talk. His creepy clown suit is filthy. Twisty doesn't seem to care about personal hygiene. Oh yeah...Twisty doesn't pull rabbits out of hats either. Usually...it's a head. A human head. He DOES appear to be wearing a real clown hat...made out of a real clown. In episode 2, we got a glimpse of what is under that giant rotten grin. <br />
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I would hand-feed my kids to Twisty. Morsel-by-morsel. Twisty is not mocked and I find his silence far more menacing than any clown I've ever encountered. The character actor behind Twisty's visage is John Carroll Lynch who last scared the crap out of me in the HBO series "Carnavàle". He has definitely upped the ante. <br />
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As a kid, I remember after Halloween trick or treating, sitting down with my parents to sort through the candy to check for tampering. No doubt if I had gone to Twisty's house, I'd have come home and dumped my candy on the floor...and human heads would have rolled out of my sack. I seriously doubt they teach "Head Severing 101" in clown college. <br />
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Go ahead and fuck with Twisty. I dare you. I double dare you. I triple dog dare you.<br />
<br />
HAPPY HALLOWEEN BITCHES!<br />
<br />
janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-43379305791716028502014-04-27T21:07:00.001-07:002014-04-27T23:51:40.922-07:00Curiosity Doesn't ALWAYS Kill The Cat...But Sometimes You Wish It HadWhile watching a TV series on Netflix, they mentioned what I deemed a sexual term I was unfamiliar with that started with "Cleavland" and ended with a guy saying to three prostitutes, "There's a glass top coffee table right there. Two of the three hookers said, "Uh uh...I'm outta here." The third said, "OK. But it'll cost you $1,000 extra."<br />
<br />
Well, I'm sure you can guess what I did. I sat down at my computer and I went straight to: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUh_z518OCTGjPgMvEOFVlhASwsD5TzmYvdqo5aH62rYsdSZXPZ9NYUtvxgq0iUBvek5oPmM4VjLnMRd5h8xPmUjJ7Rj2aOfSyxg9kTjZLBjhSxLguUo1KZy3UZXSHsp_fOdHWU7Uh3Ek/s1600/new-google-logo-knockoff.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUh_z518OCTGjPgMvEOFVlhASwsD5TzmYvdqo5aH62rYsdSZXPZ9NYUtvxgq0iUBvek5oPmM4VjLnMRd5h8xPmUjJ7Rj2aOfSyxg9kTjZLBjhSxLguUo1KZy3UZXSHsp_fOdHWU7Uh3Ek/s320/new-google-logo-knockoff.png" /></a></div><br />
Then I gagged.<br />
<br />
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I had stumbled on a Mother Lode of repellant, offensive, disturbing, disgusting, and deviant terms for what I had always considered a pleasurable act of love between consenting adults.<br />
<br />
I. Had. No. IDEA! OMFG!!!! And all this in spite of working for six months at a print company that made boxes for porno videos (and kids video games under a completely different company name of course!) <br />
<br />
I was responsible for inputing new orders for these videos and each order was accompanied by a sample of the box. I'm no shrinking violet, but I've never been into porn. I mean I was curious when I was young so me and my high school chums snuck into The Pussycat Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard to see the infamous "Deep Throat" triple feature. <br />
<br />
And you know what? It bored us. Plus, the floor was sticky. Extra sticky. Plus, the audience was chock full of men...in raincoats. We barely made it through all of Deep Throat and didn't stick around for the other two features.<br />
<br />
So that was the depth my porn education. Sure I had boyfriends that tried to get me to watch but I truly didn't understand why they always had to show two women together but never two men. Frankly (pun intended), I would prefer to see a veritable sausagefest than the proverbial up-close-and-personal vag shots. I'm sorry. I just find vaginas kinda gross...except mine. I'm very fond of mine. (No wonder I have so much in common with gay men.) <br />
<br />
I am a proud Gayboy Bunny. But girls licking each other just never did it for me. I wondered why man-on-man shots were never in "straight" porn. So I asked my boyfriend and the reply was always, "That's gross!" I so said, "But two women is OK?" Apparently this turns straight men on. OK. But I don't get it. I mean no disrespect to my lesbian friends and relations by any means. I love them. I love everyone. I don't mind looking at boobs. It's just a matter of personal preference I guess. So...I own no porn. None. <br />
<br />
The print company was run by a mostly female staff (no pun intended). Nearly all the office staff, the general manager and CFO were all women. We also had lunch together every day. Let's just say that my porn education was a source of a amusement for them. I had NO clue there were so many varieties of porn. We had titles that ranged from "Puffy Nipples" to "Spank My Fanny, Granny". I know. Ew. But sometimes we got things that were rejected. One title came in with a picture of a guy with a florescent orange traffic cone stuck up his butt. <br />
<br />
I was constantly in shock. And we discussed my shock every day at lunch. One title had a man on the cover with let's just say, a plethora of testicular and penile piercings. I have no clue why a dude would want to stick spikes through his dick. I was fascinated and horrified at the same time. We had titles that were high-end and artsy but we also had our share of low budget porn and I don't think I've ever seen more bad boob jobs in my entire life. One poor unfortunate had boobs that looked like Marty Feldman's eyes: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7AZClRamvd8pLNZu16RIR0a7wDuLZCgGoh-Bii0aT1uMP7n92PmWQCiPsN5U6L0ih0xB18db1T0FH7ZgpNM-JCGHWzLjCuC5RJuS7ZoH-B1vu4faE4T_gdkMasYzm78PW1etaqMvq29g/s1600/Marty-Feldman-1934-1982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7AZClRamvd8pLNZu16RIR0a7wDuLZCgGoh-Bii0aT1uMP7n92PmWQCiPsN5U6L0ih0xB18db1T0FH7ZgpNM-JCGHWzLjCuC5RJuS7ZoH-B1vu4faE4T_gdkMasYzm78PW1etaqMvq29g/s320/Marty-Feldman-1934-1982.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9xwE2lVWLk9mxt2QWJaIVZp0YLFtxFcnEIMxEnHhDMsKF9J-9KGA7fpH0ba_P83j0vnMeoj6L2fg3bpr_r5zxQ0jIXL2_uimJ7gin2IiYUUmuTgBbDkTIT3OTkrK_0BaUWbHr4s5CF48/s1600/marty_feldman_512.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9xwE2lVWLk9mxt2QWJaIVZp0YLFtxFcnEIMxEnHhDMsKF9J-9KGA7fpH0ba_P83j0vnMeoj6L2fg3bpr_r5zxQ0jIXL2_uimJ7gin2IiYUUmuTgBbDkTIT3OTkrK_0BaUWbHr4s5CF48/s320/marty_feldman_512.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Seriously. I think this was the birthplace of my distain for unnecessary plastic surgery.<br />
<br />
One day, I brought a title into the lunchroom with my eyes brimming with tears. I asked the general manager if I could reject the title because it showed a woman on all fours, smiling but her anus was so enlarged that in near tears, I said, "But how does she not poop herself constantly? She must have to wear diapers! Oh my God! We can't print this! This is cruel that she has a handicap and has to support herself in porn!" I didn't know what her condition was called, but I was appalled at the exploitation of this poor soul! <br />
<br />
Oddly, my outburst was met not by compassion and empathy but raucous and hysterical laughter. I didn't understand! I would never laugh at someone with such a horrible disability! They laughed so long, and so loudly at my indignation, umbrage and outrage that the CFO came in to tell us that even with the door to the lunchroom closed, she couldn't hear her phone calls. <br />
<br />
This was the mid-1990's and I was unfamiliar with the term "digitally enhanced" or "airbrushing" photos. This was before Photoshop was in wide use. They were familiar with the title in question, but I was seeing it for the first time. This was the only job I ever truly loved going to. We had so much fun and laughter. It paid well. Sadly, it was destroyed by internet porn.<br />
<br />
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Fuck Me. Pun intended...but NOT in ANY of the terms expressed on those lists! <br />
<br />
I never did find out what "Cleveland" had to do with coffee tables.<br />
<br />
Mea culpa.<br />
<br />
I am in possession of a macabre sense of humor and graced with a creative potty mouth but this...this...was...no.<br />
<br />
I have no intention of including hyperlinks to ANY of those lists herein. <br />
<br />
You're on your own.<br />
<br />
<br />
janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-57368353165428519772014-04-20T03:22:00.000-07:002014-04-27T17:27:31.770-07:00CHILDHOOD EXPERIMENTAL FAILURE #2A friend of mine just last week asked me why I hadn't blogged in a very long time. The last few years haven't exactly inspired a lot of happy thoughts or creativity. My imagination was as dry as a menopausal vagina truth be told. I took a nap today, awoke at midnight and had this retro real-life dream that I thought I'd share:<br><br>
<b>CHILDHOOD EXPERIMENTAL FAILURE #1:</b>
When I was a kid television was still in its early adulthood and I could no more distinguish what was real and what wasn't exactly real. I recently posted on my Facebook wall how I failed at my first television-inspired experiment.<br><br> After watching the 1968 Summer Olympics, the first time I encountered a swimming pool, I jumped in fully expecting to swim like Mark Spitz. As I stood at the bottom of the pool, completely devoid of any panic; contemplating why my limbs weren't magically making me perform a spectacular butterfly stroke worthy of an Olympic champ; all I felt was letdown. Had my Swim Fairy Godmother been having her mani-pedi? Nope...it was the first time I realized that maybe...just maybe...things that happened on TV weren't altogether true. A lot of things were! Like commercials for certain toys, bicycles, talking and urinating dolls, Tonka trucks, The Brady Bunch and Partridge Family (or so I thought -- turns out the Brady dad, Robert Reed was gay), etc. Though I never could get my motherfucking Slinky to walk down the stairs like the commercial promised: <iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/EZL6RGkPjws" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe> Fuckers!<br><br>
Anyway, suddenly a giant hand reached down, grabbed my arm and snatched me from the water. In partial panic and partial anger, my dad yelled at my mother, "Why weren't you watching her?" She had been busy getting my little sister into her swimsuit. My father looked at me and screamed, "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?" Completely devoid of guile I answered, "On TV whenever someone jumps into a pool they start swimming! I thought that's what was going to happen!" His look said, "I've-spawned-an-imbecile / her-egg-was-fertilized-by-a-Special-Olympics-sperm!!"<br><br>
OK...back to <b>CHILDHOOD EXPERIMENTAL FAILURE #2:</b><br><br>
My second fail arrived a few years later. Our family now consisted of me, my little sister Linda and my new baby brother Russell who was probably less than a year old. Who incidentally made me and my sister's life a misery.
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Whenever we tried to play with him, he would emit this high-pitched whine and my parents in unison would yell, "STOP TEASING THE BABY!" We were only trying to play with the little <i>enfant terrible.</i>
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Mom and Dad didn't believe their lives should come to a screeching halt just because they shat a few vag poops into the world. They took weekend trips, they took separate all girls weekend trips and all boys weekend trips. My mother was on one of her all girls trips. So dad had us for the weekend. We were pretty good kids but one night, my dad was out working in the garage with his macho power tools creating something wondrous (he <i>was</i> really talented with building things incidentally), but it always worried me too.<br><br>
<b>TRAUMATIC CHILDHOOD MEMORY #90:</b>
When I heard the song "Moonshadow" by Cat Stevens, I thought it was about a grisly industrial accident by moonlight. A lovely little ditty about a blinded, toothless, mouthless quadruple amputee!
I worried about my dad working in the garage after dark with his circular saw, goggles & improper lighting at night for years.<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/hr0rDW5j1KU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br><br>
But I digress. <b>Back to CHILDHOOD EXPERIMENTAL FAIL #2:</b><br><br>
Worthy of mention, some years later, when I became old enough to babysit solo on occasion, this is what they came home to:
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-9UvkKJ_gkN4kxnpbzJgs8bmmENqbRU8ZbNisfhK_S-FdPusByoucu6oYQpBKo-U8DB2k6bLQ0RRmcT1vZxN8yzCfdk9iWTo6Vkt2UlZrhTUydxHGUSNOoV4Fdv5_iev7taAwNEJdxMM/s1600/300x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-9UvkKJ_gkN4kxnpbzJgs8bmmENqbRU8ZbNisfhK_S-FdPusByoucu6oYQpBKo-U8DB2k6bLQ0RRmcT1vZxN8yzCfdk9iWTo6Vkt2UlZrhTUydxHGUSNOoV4Fdv5_iev7taAwNEJdxMM/s320/300x300.jpg" /></a></div> Enough said.
So I was left in temporary charge of my younger siblings. The night in question was much earlier in our young lives. My brother started screaming his lungs out. I tried bouncing him on my lap, making funny faces and sounds, rocking him and nothing I did abated his ear-splitting caterwauling. So, I did what I had seen repeatedly done on TV. In any and all situations on 1960's and 70's television if someone was having hysterics -- you slapped them and they promptly came around. I had seen this done repeatedly on all the TV dramas. So...I slapped my little brother in the face. *FAIL* He just screamed several octaves higher and quite a few decibels louder. My sister, "The Snitch" ran outside to tell dad that I had just slapped Russell in the face. I don't think she did it to curry favor or anyting. She was just being <i>brattily</i> informative.<br><br>
Well, Dad was livid. He snatched my little brother from my arms and screamed at the top of <i>his</i> lungs, "HAVE ME OR YOUR MOTHER <i>EVER</i> SLAPPED YOU OR YOUR SISTER IN THE FACE? HOW WOULD YOU LIKE IT IF I SLAPPED YOU?" I answered in the negative. No, I would prefer not to be belted in the chops. He took a deep breath and asked why I had smacked my brother. I answered honestly. "Whenever someone on TV is hysterical, someone slaps them and then they're OK again." Dad wasn't mad anymore and looked at me with an expression that said, "Me-and-my-wife-have-given-birth-to-a-retarded-boob."<br><br>
He was rendered speechless and shook his head and walked away with my screaming little brother in his arms.
As I've said before, I had to test theories to find their truth. I still do. I'd have either made a brilliant scientist or inadvertently ended up menstural wall goo by trying to come up with a better recipe than my professor.
C'est ma vie de merde!janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-34972471554679689622010-12-01T10:25:00.000-08:002010-12-01T16:45:39.799-08:00Janilani's Least Loved Christmas TalesGo get your cup of cocoa and gather 'round the fire kids.<br /><br />This is the story of what happened to Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer after Christmas. Yaaaaaaay!<br /><br /><a href="http://s25.photobucket.com/albums/c75/janilani/?action=view&current=Rudolph.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c75/janilani/Rudolph.jpg" border="0" alt="Rudolph"></a><br /><br /><br />After Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer went down in history just like the song says -- and his tour of duty serving Santa was complete; Santa shot Rudolph in the head and after removing the sleigh bells, he slit Rudolphs throat and hung him upside down in the shed to drain. Then Santa sharpened his new hunting knife that he bought on Amazon.com, gutted Rudolph and made a lovely and savory venison stew for all the elves and Mrs. Santa.<br /><br />Then Santa sliced Rudolph's meat very thin and made venison jerky and froze some venison steaks in preparation for the long, cold winter so he wouldn't have to kill and eat a few elves like last year.<br /><br />R.I.P. Herbie<br /><a href="http://s25.photobucket.com/albums/c75/janilani/?action=view&current=Herbie.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c75/janilani/Herbie.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Then Santa got his axe and killed The Abominable Snowman and made Yeti burgers because without any teeth, Snowy was only able to consume liquified walrus blubber shakes and Mrs. Claus was fed up with having to clean puréed walrus innards from her blender blades.<br /><br /><a href="http://s25.photobucket.com/albums/c75/janilani/?action=view&current=AbominableSnowman.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c75/janilani/AbominableSnowman.jpg" border="0" alt="Abominable Snowman"></a><br /><br /><br />But Santa spared Clarice a bloody demise because she and Rudolph had done the nasty! She was pregnant and Santa really wanted to have another mutant reindeer just like Rudolph to guide his sleigh for next year!<br /><br /><a href="http://s25.photobucket.com/albums/c75/janilani/?action=view&current=Clarice.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c75/janilani/Clarice.jpg" border="0" alt="Clarice &amp; Rudolph"></a><br /><br />Be good kids or you could end up like Rudolph or The Abominable Snowman!<br /><br />'nighty-night and Merry Christmas!janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-69074775866487634282009-10-03T17:01:00.000-07:002023-09-13T20:39:56.503-07:00Egypt's Poop WonderlandMonday, July 09, 2007 <br /> ...And the waters of the Nile ran...brown. <br />Current mood: crappy <br />Category: Travel and Places <br />I was so excited to be taking my first and only trip to Egypt . It's been a lifelong dream of mine. In going over my list of "things to pack" recommended by the tour group; I came across a strange entry. Toilet paper. Don't they use toilet paper in Egypt ? Why do I have to bring a roll of my own since the tour stressed that the hotels were superb. Also on the list was Imodium AD. I had toilet paper handy and threw a roll into the suitcase -- but I'd never used Imodium AD and had none -- and promptly forgot about it. I was going to spend 15 days in glorious, exotic Egypt !<br /><br />There was also the customary travel and cultural warnings. Don't go out alone if you're female. Dress in light colors and more conservatively. Stay hydrated because the temperature can get above 125°F. Don't eat any dairy because they don't pasteurize milk. In retrospect, this casual phrase should have been written: DON'T EAT DAIRY BECAUSE YOUR BOWELS WILL VOMIT THEIR CARGO AT A SPEED CLOSE TO WARP FACTOR NINE!!!!!!!!! <br /><br />When we landed after a 10-hour flight, everyone was tired, cranky and hungry. We checked into our hotel, went to dinner and went to bed. The next morning we had a wake-up call at 5:00am, breakfast at 6:00am and we hit the road by 7am. You travel early in the mornings or early evening because in the middle of the Sahara Desert -- it gets Satan-scrotum, scorchingly-hellish-hot midday. I was so exhausted and jet-lagged from the night before that I completely forgot the "refrain from dairy" caveat. That evening, I had two spoonfuls of pudding and then cursed myself mid-spoonful for forgetting. <br /><br />The Sphinx and pyramids were spectacular. I was fine. Day after that? Fine. I felt I'd dodged the bullet. So with the Cairo portion of our trip over, we boarded a plane to Luxor to see The Valley of The Kings. I was traveling solo so the tour company matched me with a female roommate -- Helene. Worthy of mention is the fact that thus far -- I felt no discomfort from the two teaspoons of pudding days ago. Nada.<br /><br />Imagine our delight when we were assigned one of the few rooms that overlooked the Great Nile River ! We opened our hotel room door and began hugging and jumping up and down for joy! All of a sudden with no warning whatsoever, the contents of my fartpipe went from solid to liquid. It happened as suddenly as the final episode of The Sopranos ended. Instantaneously. No warning whatsoever. No pre-gurgling, no pre-cramps. Hot Eau de Poo.<br /><br />I stopped mid-jump and I guess the expression on my face said or something close to "heart attack" because Helene said, "Are you ok?" I grabbed my guts and made for the bathroom with little, tiny Geisha steps because my butt-cheeks were clenched tighter than the Virgin Mary's legs to prevent the dread crème de cacao accident. Once in there, I realized that I'm wearing a jumpsuit that zips up the back! FUCK! I finally got the zipper down whilst dancing "The Merry Poo Jig" and I think I was shitting before my ass touched the seat. I was crappin' at a speed close to light. Apparently there was a little, itty-shitty, pissed-off Charlton "Moses" Heston in my colon commanding Yul "Pharaoh Ramses" Brenner to let his chocolate people go -- and make haste! So let it be written, so let it be DONE! And the poo Jews were liberated from Egypt ! Every last one. My poo runneth over.<br /><br />This lasted for about 20 minutes. Helene kept knocking and asking if I was ok and all I could manage was a groan. When I exited, I was too ill to even be embarrassed by Helene undoubtedly hearing the 140 decibel earth-shattering-space-shuttle-blastoff shit I just took. I was shaking all over, bathed in sweat and dangerously close to tears. I apologized and then I lay across my bed.<br /><br />Apparently the microbes have a gestational period. The next day at breakfast, we compared stories with other erupting travelers. We were traveling with 2 busloads of tourists and both buses were equipped with a bathroom. Both bus bathrooms smelled like a rotten camel carcass left in the sun. I'm talking O DEAR! One bus driver actually locked the john and told us it was broken because he got sick of the smell. Eventually, he was forced to unlock it or risk having to clean shit off his seats. The extreme heat, the vile diarrhea took its toll on us all. You'd take Imodium and be fine for a day -- then the medicinal butt plug would fail and you'd be back on the commode singing "Kumbaya." Someone's shitting My Lord, Kumbayaaaaaaaaaaaah! <br /><br />My ass was a Bosco-chocolate syrup factory and I turned every toilet into my own desert poo oasis. I have a horrible fear of crapping in public restrooms from my past "poop post-traumatic stress disorder" but I had no other choice. Technically I guess I could have crept behind the Sphinx or some other national monument -- but who knew the punishment if caught? This is a Muslim country after all. A rectal beating with a cane? Anal amputation? I wasn't going to risk it.<br /><br />By the time we got to the Old Cataract Hotel in Aswan, I was sore and in need of some Rectal Chapstick because my anus was swollen to twice its normal size from overuse. I'm sure my butt lips looked like I had gone 15 rounds with Mike Tyson punching me in the rectum. The further South down the Nile we traveled, the fewer creature comforts we had. When I rang housekeeping for some extra toilet paper, she showed up with 3 of these tiny one-ply 1/4" thick rolls. I'm used to the giant, bunny-fluffy 2-ply 4-1/2" double rolls! What the fuck is this? Nearly all the toilets had a hose attached to them but who wants to go to the Rectal Car Wash every visit? I didn't carry a hand towel to dry off anyway. I pictured Gomer & Goober Pyle asking with a Southern twang, "You want an anal-wax with that, Ma'am?"<br /><br />I began trading meds on the black market with our fellow travelers. Bartering. I've got Advil for some Imodium! Do you have any Kaopectate for some Midol? Imodium for Benadryl? Anyone got any Preparation H? Not just me -- others were coming down with moderate to severe bleeding hemorrhoids from the 1999 Lalapoo-pooza Crapfest.<br /><br />By the time we got down to Abu Simbel, the worst was over for me -- but only beginning for others. There was a really rude lady on my bus -- and I had witnessed her obstreperous harangue to a bartender the night before. I overheard her yell, "Don't you speak English!? What the hell is the matter with you people?" Ahhhh…The Ugly American rears her ugly little head. Sigh. You are in a foreign country and the entire world does not speak English Missy. But, she got her just deserts when we arrived back at the hotel because as our bus was pulling up (she was seating on the aisle) she leaned over her seat partner and barfed out of the bus window and as I looked over, I noticed a spreading brown pool emerging on the back of her pants. A befitting poo de grace. OOPS! Ms. High and Mighty had crapped her khakis! She shrieked, "IT'S COMING OUT OF BOTH ENDS!" I looked at her poor seat mate's face and he was beyond horrified. His expression was priceless. He wanted nothing more to do with Count(ess) Chocula. Judging from his expression, you'd have thought she'd crapped on his upper lip.<br /><br />I tried my hardest not to laugh but I almost developed a hernia from trying to hold it in. After all, she was an unpleasant, malicious person so this assuaged my sotto voce giggling somewhat. And you know what? By the time the trip was over, that big roll of 2-ply, bunny-fluffy toilet paper I brought was g-o-n-e! Always listen to the tour company children. Always. <br /><br />The good news is that I lost 10lbs on that trip and how many people can say that they crapped from Cairo to Nubia ? (In retrospect, probably lots.)<br /><br /><br /> Currently reading:<br />What’s Your Poo Telling You?<br />By M.D., Anish Sheth<br />Release date: 26 April, 2007janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-43978181856904815362009-10-03T14:55:00.000-07:002009-10-03T14:59:11.661-07:00Wednesday, November 21, 2007 <br /> Why Does the Body of Christ Taste So Shitty???????? <br />Current mood: peaceful <br />Category: Religion and Philosophy <br /><br />NOTE: For those of you who don't know, I posted this blog last year and my site was recently attacked and a malicious code placed in the blog comments of my blogs regarding religion which rendered my site inoperable. So in the interests of free speech which is sorely in jeopardy under our current administration, I extend a hearty "fuck you" to the "wrong-wing" extremists...<br /><br />If you are a Serial Christian, do yourself a favor and read no further...<br /><br />Though I'm no longer a Christian, sometimes I wonder about the strange thoughts that occurred to me while in church with some big, fat, sweaty guy yelling at me about my sins while he eyed the godhead titties of the choir director. It was especially traumatic because I went to a predominantly black Southern Baptist church which is one step away from Pentecostal Snake Handling. Freakish. Seriously.<br /><br />Yelling, eyes rolling up to the whites, screaming gibberish, falling out in the aisles, jumping up and down, the rending of clothing, and general mayhem which all seemed the fault of "The Mysterious Holy Spirit" which I wanted no part of since he made people spaz out in public. They drug one lady out by her arms, kicking and screaming with her dress hiked up over her hips and her girdle showing! Come to think of it, if she had vomited green bile and humped the crucifix -- we would've had the movie "The Exorcist" way before its time. Either that or unbeknownst to us -- we were attending Our Lady of the Sacred Epileptics Congregation.<br /><br />Whenever I would look up at my mother when someone had one of these apoplectic fugues or conniptions, my mother would say, "Well they're just full of the Holy Spirit." "Well keep that seizure producing SOB away from me" was what I was thinking. I was a terrified child and to this day, the sound of gospel music freaks me out. I didn't want the entire congregation to see my Underoo's. After being forced to eat flavorless Jesus, the seizure producing Holy Spirit -- and I had no clue what the hell was up...<br /><br />So, behold my twisted musings:<br /><br />Why does the body of Christ have to taste so bland? <br /><br />Hey folks! Why can't we at least have saltines or Wheat Thins? Wheat Thins even have fiber in them. So when you're trying to give birth to an oversized butt gherkin, and screaming to Jesus for assistance and/or relief, the thought may occur to you, "Next time, I'm having the high fiber Body of Christ!"<br /><br />Or, what about those little frozen pizzas? You'd have your choice of flavors: "Mmmm...the body of Christ is spicy. He tastes of pepperoni and sausage. Jesus is one tasty savior! I love the basil & cheese Jesus with extra sauce...try it next time!" Trust me. Willing souls would be lined up around the block for a taste of Jesus.<br /><br />If I'm expected to eat the body of Christ, why can't I have a choice of what part I want to eat? Does it always have to be crackers? "I'd like to have a wing and a leg of Jesus and hold the 'slaw please." Who said it had to be crackers? And if it does, can't we at least spread some Smuckers Jam on Jesus?<br /><br />If I'm supposed to drink the blood of Jesus, why can't we make it more pleasant by turning it into a Jesus Tasting Festival? "This vintage of Jesus tastes awesome...fruity with the full body of Christ." Can you pass me a thigh of Jesus with some mashed potatoes and gravy please? Thanks."<br /><br />Technically, the wine is supposed to only represent the blood of Christ so why does it always have to be red? Why can't we have an amusing Chardonnay or Rosé? I don't want a heavy port or Bordeaux first thing in the bleedin' morning! Or fuck it! Let's all just drink blood! Slaughter your pew neighbor and drink his blood.<br /><br />If your church is too cheap to serve wine, and your only choice is grape juice; why can't I have grapefruit juice instead? Or orange juice? Juicy Juice makes a great cherry juice and its 100 percent Jesus Juice with no high fructose corn syrup and you get a full days supply of vitamin C too!<br /><br />What if you don't like wine and crackers? Assuming that all of Jesus is simply delicious -- why aren't we allowed to explore the possibilities? "I'd like to try the toe jam of Jesus please" which probably tastes like the finest caviar. What about prime rib roast of Jesus with horseradish?<br /><br />While we're on the subject, why does Jewish food taste as bad as the Body of Christ? I know he was a Jew but really! Ever tasted gefilte fish? Matzo? Who the fuck did the cooking for these unfortunate souls? Probably Mel Gibson.<br /><br />Why does un-leavened have to mean flavorless? Instead of bitter herbs, what about a pot of collard greens & un-leavened corn bread and some fried catfish? Your suffering should be over with by now especially if you're supposed to be Gods chosen people! I'm beginning to think differently since he forces you to eat that shitty food. <br /><br />I'd rather dine on a bucket of chum.<br /><br />After the Mohel circumcises a little Jewish infant, what happens to the foreskin? Is that what those fried pork rinds are really made of...like Soylent Green? They certainly don't taste like chicken and I thought babies were supposed to taste of chicken. What a gyp!<br /><br />I shudder to think of where the idea for Hebrew National Hot Dogs came from? Penis of Jesus? Shudder.<br /><br />Because of the shitty food factor, I truly wonder if Jesus was a black man because obviously Big Mama Mary's cookbook sucked. After all, former slaves made the diet of organs, guts, gonads, chitterlings (pronounced chiddlins), pig's feet, ribs and shit work! Where art thy culinary creativity?<br /><br />Another reason I have questions about his ethnicity is if you ask ANY black man to die for the sins of the asshole that just beat him to shreds with a whip -- the reply would inevitably be, "Fuck those muthafuckas! Mary! Get the donkey! We out!"<br /><br />What do we really know about Jesus? I'd like to cut thru the holy bullshit and see the real Jesus...and taste him too!janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-2369388872948287052009-10-03T14:53:00.000-07:002009-10-03T14:54:27.989-07:00Please note that this blog has no "Vermin" category so I was forced to utilize the colorless, characterless category of "Blogging." <br /><br />However this is not by choice.<br /><br />************************************<br /><br />I have no idea how the hell this happened -- but I have been besieged by...flies. Since I’m not crestfallen nor depressed at present and since I have not let the dishes go unwashed, nor the bodies of my ex-boyfriends pile up (as I prefer to leave them bleeding by the side of the road) I don’t understand my present (and I gag at the word) infestation.<br /><br />I did NOT bring home a bleeding, rotting corpse of deer, buffalo, moose, steer, goat nor yak.<br /><br />I am not using offal to decorate. I prefer to leave that sort of thing to Jack the Ripper, Ed Guin and Jeffrey Dahmer. The Martha Stewarts of Corpse & Abattoir Decor.<br /><br />I opine -- I may have been pitched into The Amityville Horror cosmos.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, as I was in bed moaning in pain (I’m having a hysterectomy in June so no worries) -- I noticed a faint buzzing noise. I pulled the covers up over my head but I could STILL hear it! I finally pulled my bedroom curtains aside to discover...a lone bee. I have no idea how he/she gained access but I pulled out my trusty can of Raid and ended his/her confusion and hive-separation anxiety with a quick burst of Mercy-from-a-Can. <br /><br />Note: I know bees have been dying by the millions but the little fucker was in my bedroom...IN MY ROOM!!! Where I sleep --and where my little dog plays with her toys. <br /><br />I don’t kill them when I encounter them outside...I just karate kick them as I’ve seen my courageous friend Christina do. She’s a venerable Hong Kong Phooey when it comes to drop-kicking flying insects.<br /><br />Sometime late last week I DID notice, when I got home from work that a fly did enter my domicile. I faintly remember thinking, "I’ll get the little fucker later when he/she begins buzzing around a light bulb for a luminescence fix."<br /><br />But those that know me personally know that I have a shortbus-riding puppy named "Claudine" who smokes meth all day when I’m at work and tends to have her daily meth-induced fit when I walk in the door so my attention was averted immediately upon my arrival...and the fly...momentarily forgotten. My kitchen faces the dying sun in the East (in the evenings) so the last vestiges of daylight fade as the darkness descends.<br /><br />This past Friday, I settled in for a relaxing weekend but before the sun had even set -- I noticed an abundance of flies on my kitchen window screen. I grabbed my Can of Death (as flies do not deserve mercy) and began my murder spree. I killed them all and swept their little bodies up and discarded them. <br /><br />End of story...or so I thought.<br /><br />This morning I appeared to be "fly-free" and I took out the trash just to insure my weekend euphoria. <br /><br />But at about 2pm, I went to my computer and noticed double the amount of flies on the kitchen screen -- so thus began another killing orgy. I got about 30 little dead bodies, and swept them up (again) and tossed them in the outside trash. But hours later...another 40 soldiers showed up in a troop surge! What the fuck?! There was NO trash in my apartment at all at this point! Everything that could have bred flies or their wiggly little scion was gone! <br /><br />WTF???<br /><br />I didn’t leave floating turds on Spring break partying in my toilet!!! <br /><br />So, I killed the next generation. I did this two more times today and still there are the few lone individuals who don’t know the war is lost and over...flying around trying to find fallen comrades or the last of the Vietnamese-fly prostitutes. They apparently don’t hear the faint buzzing of their dying compatriots nor heed the felled --trying to end their agonizing death throes by bash their brains out against window sills, computer screens, TV screens, light bulbs and glass panes.<br /><br />I have checked behind the trashcan to make sure I didn’t accidentally miss the can and discard an egg yolk on the floor or carpet. I’ve looked everywhere for hidden puppy turds...(and goat carcasses.) Claudine hides them herself. I’ve never had a dog so "anal" that instead of scratching on the door...prefers "turd-hide-and-go-seek!"<br /><br />Nothing.<br /><br />Since nightfall, I have sent at least another 10 confused and slow-flying flies to meet their Lord of the Flies and buried them at the outside Arlington National Cemetery. <br /><br />Could the one lone fly terrorist have caused this...carnage?<br /><br />It’s 12:39am...and the forest is quiet...finally.<br /><br />I’ll report back if the Congs make another assault.<br /><br />Vaya Sin Moscas Mi Amigos...Sin Moscas.<br /><br /><br />9:00am: Morning update: So far this morning four lone soldiers attacked and were brought down by heavy sniper fire. <br /><br />I shall be a vigilant sentry against villainy on this beautiful Sunday morning.<br /><br />12:32pm: The body count is now up to 8...oh shit! Another one. Must reload...Charlie is relentless.<br /><br />4/9 -- Update: Peace is restored...finally<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />For the single person, there is no turkey and all the trimmings. Christmas dinner is heating some Campbell's Soup for One and eating chewing gum for dessert.<br /><br />No wonder suicides go up around the holidays.<br /><br />Merry Fuckin' Christmas bitches!<br /> Currently listening:<br />Have a Holly Jolly Christmas<br />By Burl Ives<br />Release date: 01 June, 1995janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-28642928667142880242009-10-03T14:52:00.001-07:002009-10-03T14:52:41.311-07:00Camembert SupermanThere is a Holy Prophet in our midst CAMEMBERT MAN!! I'm quite serious. <br />Current mood: confused <br />Category: Dreams and the Supernatural <br />I had a really weird morning...<br /><br />I got up at 5:45am to be at the market when they opened because, I hate people. Especially the bellicose, rude and angry day-before-Thanksgiving shoppers. Since I only needed cream cheese and Martinelli's Sparkling Apple/Grape Juice (I like it when I have a hangover), I could be in and out in no time flat. Which I am happy to declare is exactly what occurred as I am making some tasty desserts for tomorrow. <br /><br />Now the weird part. Upon leaving the Ralph's Grocery (a fine establishment by the way) someone off to my right screamed at the top of his phlegm-enhanced voice, "COKE! COKE! COKE!" I heard it continuously until I got out of the parking lot. <br /><br />Before I reached my fucked-up wreck of a Honda my thoughts were as follows: <br /><br />1. How nice this somewhat disheveled man who smells of Camembert, mildew and a backed-up septic tank is trying to tell me this tasty beverage is on sale and I'm about the miss this fortuitous occasion? <br /><br />2. He thinks I'm a dealer and he wants coke? <br /><br />3. He prefers to read the Ralph's circular aloud...really loud and Coca-Cola IS in fact on sale? <br /><br />4. He has given up crack and now prefers cocaine and is screaming, "COKE! COKE! COKE!" to express his joy? <br /><br />5. He is ON crack, coke AND Coca-Cola? <br /><br />6. He is in fact reading the Wall Street Journal's stock page and the Coca-Cola stock has hit rock bottom and he is attempting to alert everyone in a 4 mile radius of this momentous event? <br /><br />7. He wants someone to assist him across the street to the 7-11 and purchase a Big Gulp of Coca-Cola for him because they discriminate against people who smell of Camembert? (I even would have offered to show him the many uses of an empty Big Gulp cup. Portable bathroom.) <br /><br />8. He is just an escapee from a lunatic half-way house...a half-way house where they use Camembert instead of roll-on or stick deodorant? <br /><br />(Note: At present my dog is running around the living room at top speed and slowing only to chasing her tail. I think she needs Thorazine. I suspect she smokes crack all day while I'm at work.) <br /><br />9. He is trying to inform the denizens exiting the market that Coca-Cola goes well with Camembert?<br /><br />10. He is actually that Reverend that got caught buying meth and a male prostitute and this is the unfortunate reality of his life today or is he in fact Mark Foley? <br /><br />They say the insane are close to divine however I don't remember reading any biblical passages where any of the prophets smelled of Camembert, mildew and leaky septic tank...and were oddly obsessing over some form of Coke. "Behold before thine eyes! Bear witness to the straw and lines of pure white coke...and the angel of the Lord reeked of Camembert...and well, we'll just throw in some Eau de Mildew & Old Fermented Feces. And the angel shouted unto mankind, COKE! COKE! COKE!" And the people were confounded, confused and scratched their heads (and sometimes balls) in confusion.<br /><br />Thus Sayeth The Lord<br /><br />So have a wonderful Thanksgiving but I don't think I'll be coming near any Camembert.janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-3259457349329846512009-10-03T14:51:00.001-07:002009-10-03T14:51:34.493-07:00The Wizard of Oz on WeedEver watch The Wizard of Oz high on weed???????? <br />Current mood: nostalgic <br />I remember some 20 years ago -- me and a friend smoked a shitload of weed and watched The Wizard of Oz and we came to the following conclusions:<br /><br /> <br /><br />1. The Wicked Witch was a bulldyke. She was stalking Dorothy relentlessly and calling her, "My pretty." Plus she tried to injure anyone who came near her. Kinda obvious observation in retro, huh? Miss Gulch? Same. Wanted some Auntie Em hooch.<br /><br /> <br /><br />2. The Tin Man and The Cowardly Lion were flaming homo's because they were ALWAYS crying like bitches about something. The Cowardly Lion had little red bows in his hair and a fuckin' Superfly perm after he gets all gussied up in order to see The Wizard for Christ's sake! Little red bows? ON A DUDE? <br /><br /> <br /><br />3. The Cowardly Lion & The Tin Man were lovers. How could you miss that? Ever ass-grabbing, hugging and weeping. <br /><br /> <br /><br />4. We speculated on the benefits and disadvantages of having a dick made of straw, tin or a small furry lion cock. We were riding tin just in case you were wondering.<br /><br /> <br /><br />5. When my friend looked at me with bloodshot eyes and asked me why there were no black people in The Wizard of Oz, quick as a flash I said, "Who do you think the fucking Flying Monkey's represent?!" Extra helping of fucked up, sure -- but in 1939 Hollywood they always had to have The Black Villain.<br /><br /> <br /><br />6. We shared the fantasy of midget orgies because if you got fisted by a midget...it would probably feel like a really big dick.<br /><br /> <br /><br />7. They were all junkies. The lot of them -- hence the poppies (heroin) and snow (cocaine) falling from the sky. No wonder they skipped all the way to Oz. It's called a speedball children. Yes, and Toto too!<br /><br /> <br /><br />8. The Lollypop Guild never got any pussy. Look at their expressions. The Lullaby League were little tutu-wearing under age cock teases.<br /><br /> <br /><br />9. Dorothy, being the heroin/crack whore that she was -- would probably be reduced to selling pussy to get out of Oz. Clicking your feet together just fucks up your shoes dear. You're surrounded by horny dwarves. They'll pay. Trust me. Suck the Snasage.<br /><br /> <br /><br />10. Speaking of horny dwarves – Glenda, The Good Witch looked like a wedding cake and we had no doubt of what she commanded of The Munchkins once everyone left Munchkinland. How many was she hiding under that giant dress? Why do you think she has that ultra high-pitched twittery laugh?<br /><br /> <br /><br />11. Judging from the difficult time Dorothy had saying good-by to The Scarecrow, we knew -- we were absolutely certain of her copulation with The Orowheat Boy. <br /><br /> <br /><br />12. Toto should have pissed on the apple-throwing trees.<br /><br /> <br /><br />13. Toto should have pissed on The Wicked Witch of the West. <br /><br /> <br /><br />14. When set ablaze by The Witch why didn't The Scarecrow Stop! Drop! And Roll!? Richard Pryor didn't heed this little nugget of wisdom either.<br /><br /> <br /><br />15. Finally, we would have had to put the beatdown on Glenda The Good Witch for not giving us the shortcut in the first fucking place. Oh, you bloated pink cunt! You let me almost get killed by The Wicked Witch, Flying Monkey's, speedballs, and getting pimped by The Wizard, when I could have been home days ago? Scarecrow, hold my basket! I'm shoving that wand up her ASS! <br /><br /> <br /><br />If I've offended anyone for mutilating a classic film loved by young and old, have a nice, hot cup of Shut the Fuck Up! <br /><br /> <br /><br />…and kids…say no to drugs. A mind is a terrible thing wasted.janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-88981289234105858982009-10-03T14:45:00.000-07:002009-10-03T14:48:52.140-07:00TittiesHOORAY FOR TITTIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <br />Current mood: irate <br />Category: Life <br />Why oh why are titties such a huge deal here in the US? I came across the following article about the cover of Babytalk magazine: <br /><br /> <br /><br />http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20060804/od_afp/afplifestyleussocialbreastfeeding_060804023916<br /><br /> <br /><br />In the second paragraph of the article, one reader says: "I was offended and it made my husband very uncomfortable when I left the magazine on the coffee table." Uh...yeah lady...he was uncomfortable because his dick was hard. It's called a boner. Say it with me, B-O-N-E-R. Newsflash: Men are attracted to orbs. They are hard-wired for this. This will never change. This is natural and necessary for the propagation of the species. You'd know this if you read books.<br /><br /> <br /><br />The nipple isnt even showing in the offending picture. The baby certainly looks happy. But to the baby -- its simply lunch. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Most European beaches are either nude or at the very least topless. Jamaica has a topless & nude beach, so do Bonaire & Aruba. Men and women in this country seem to be in a state of titty-denial. It's just a nice natural way to sunbathe. Why are Americans so tight-assed about seeing a titty? It's not a big deal. Hell, when I go on beach vacations, I set my knockers free. If you dont like it, dont look! As for the crucifixion of Janet Jackson for showing her titty at the Super Bowl? Think about it. The FCC made sweeping changes...all because of one titty. Aren't there more serious things to worry about in the world than a titty? <br /><br /> <br /><br />I saw a PBS presentation of Moll Flanders starring Alex Kingston some years ago and during a couple of love scenes; you got a glimpse of her titties. Now I expected the PBS crowd to be a bit more sophisticated...uh uh. PBS was scheduled to re-run this wonderful show and cancelled due to...yep...you guessed it. Outrage over those two brief shots of titty! <br /><br /> <br /><br />I'm a straight girl and I think tits are beautiful...well natural non-synthetic tits anyway. Small, medium, large or godhead...they're all beautiful. Ask your average straight OR gay man and they think the world of tits. But heaven forbid we show them anywhere else but in a porno movie or mag. Why not? What are we protecting our kids from? European kids grow up seeing tits on TV and they don't seem to be any worse for it. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Most American males had to subscribe to National Geographic to see a titty. Which...by the way...the last time I watched a show on the National Geographic channel...they had pixilated the titties of the autochthonous tribe of wherever. Sigh...it's just a titty. Fatty, bouncy mammary glands. What have titties done to deserve such scorn and contempt? Did a titty bomb Pearl Harbor? No. Did a titty kill Jesus? No. Did a titty create the TV show Cop Rock? No. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Well maybe French kids are worse off for their titty exposure. Wearing berets, listening to accordion music and fuckin mimes. Who hasn't wanted to kick a mime in the nuts just to see his wordless ball-aching gestures? Maybe that's what corrupted their culture. The Naked Breast. I'd rather free my tits and eat good ole French fries than cover my tits and eat Freedom fries.<br /><br /> <br /><br />I still don't understand why a lot of women aren't satisfied with the tits nature gave you. Do you have two? Celebrate them! Some women aren't that fortunate! Ever hear of breast cancer? Don't mutilate your bodies to fit into some kind of unrealistic body image. Reject it. Send that boob job money to UNICEF or the Peace Corp and help save the world! Be happy with who you are. Love yourself as is. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Is the titty truly responsible for the fall of Rome or Western Civilization? Lets see...Osama, Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, Pinochet, Saddam, and Milosevic...not one titty in the bunch! Maybe we need MORE titties. Hell I bet the Middle East wouldnt be as fucked up if the men there weren't forced into fucking goats because their religion forbids a good titty fuck or Allah forbid...sex! Course I've never actually seen a goat titty...maybe they are more attractive than human titties. After all, who am I to judge? Cow titties are just plain weird looking. Maybe if Hitler, Stalin and his fellow mass murdering fuckheads could have benefited from sucking a few tits! If it would stop the wars of this world, Ill gladly sign up and volunteer my tits! Osama, don't blow that up, here...feast on this titty instead. Incidentally, I also heard Osama has a mad-crush-love jones on Whitney Houston. Hey Witney! Put the crack pipe down and do something for your country! <br /><br /> <br /><br />I read somewhere that there will never, EVER be peace in the world until power is shared equally with women/aka The Titties. This would seem to make sense in light of the fact that the Middle East is always in a state of low boil. THEY NEED MORE TITTIES IN POWER!<br /><br /> <br /><br />So lift your glass of milk high in salute of TITTIES!!! Say it with me, "HOORAY FOR TITTIES!!!"janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-46433330039774362202009-07-03T17:54:00.000-07:002009-07-03T18:05:31.383-07:00A Tale of Two Poos, Part 2To continue my tale of human misery and woe:<br /><br />So after all the labor pains, I felt a tug as I gave birth to my unholy ass suckling. There was no nurse or midwife to assist in the birth and whisk my butt bullion away and wrap him in swaddling clothes and pass out cigars either. Dead quiet. No splash. I was initially afraid to wipe for fear of seeing a splash of blood and seeing that fetal reptile peering out – the one that burst out of the thorax of John Hurt in the movie "Alien." I also didn't want to confirm the fact that I was probably hemorrhaging. I was scared. But nothing was there on the toilet paper. So as I got shakily to my feet, and pulled up my pants, I turn and looked down to behold the most extraordinary, fascinating piece of art deco poo craftsmanship ever. In appearance was like nothing I've ever seen. A tightly convoluted coil of uniform brown is what I beheld. A brain made of poop is what it looked like. It seemed fashioned by Fabergé in the most exquisite detail I've ever seen in poop. I gave birth to an ostrich-sized Fabergé egg! I just stood there agog and full of awestruck wonder. Enthralled, I wished for a stick to poke it -- to see if it had the hardness of freshly kilned earthen brown ceramicware. I just flushed my work of art. Who was I going to share it with?<br /> <br />How could my gastric juices and probiotic-filled intestines have fashioned this? Did I have little artistic Keebler Poop Elves working in my innards? I wanted to call The Mutter Museum to see if they were interested. I have not consumed anything from Taco Bell since the birth -- purely out of fear.<br /> <br />A note to my ever-faithful readers: I just wanted to let all concerned parties know that I daily consume fiber for breakfast and supplement my fiber intake by taking a dose of bulk fiber every night. Your concern for my colon warms my heart…and my ass. This is a tale of the preternatural so bear that in mind. An abhorrent anomaly of nature. I still refuse to carry personal lubricant.<br /> <br />To this day, I have an unnatural avoidance of poo. This stems -- I'm certain from a trauma that occurred in high school. Oddly enough, it was in the middle of my 5th period ceramics class. My stomach gave an unearthly lurch and I asked the teacher for the hall pass and found the bathroom in my particular building locked so I had to go to the next building. The bathroom was mercifully deserted and my need was fire. I ran into the very first stall and pulled down my pants.<br /> <br />Also worthy of note was the fact that I was also a part of the dance production team -- and I was wearing tights and a leotard under my pants and a shirt over that AND a jacket over that. Now I was hopping up and down trying to free myself from my prison of garments to release the steaming torrent flow of hot, molten liquid poo au jus. I had to remove my jacket -- then my button-down shirt -- then pull down my leotard --then my tights before I could even reach my underpants. Time was against me as the torrent of magma prepared for an eruption. I finally yank my pants down and sat -- and not a moment too soon. There was no time for the pleasantries and the conveniences of an ass gasket. I just sat and Mt. Vesuvius spilled her bounty. I was shaking and sweating. Wave after wave. Finally, as the lava slowed, I noticed a smell. But not of my own creation…oddly enough…it was of…vomit.<br /> <br />As I began to regain some semblance of normal consciousness, the smell of vomit overwhelmed me. I looked down between my legs to see if some freshman had ejaculated her lunch on the floor where my pants were pooled around my ankles. Nothing. I looked to the left of the toilet. Nothing. Right. Nothing. Then when I swiveled around…and nothing, but nothing could prepare me for what I beheld. The entire back of the toilet AND the seat on which my naked ass sat -- was painted in vomit.<br /><br />I looked to the heavens for succor but my God was -- pointing and laughing at me. Deliver me. PLEASE! Let me wake to find myself safe in my bed and this was all a nightmare. I was mortified. Beaten. Humiliated. Laid waste by…well...waste.<br /> <br />I was seated in someone else's gut chunks. Does life get anymore fucked up than this? I immediately reached for the toilet paper and one thin, wispy sheet came out of the holder. There were no giant rolls back then. No ass gaskets. No toilet paper? Yes. Apparently life DOES, in fact, get more fucked up than this! So I scooped up what dignity I thought still remained; and with my pants around my ankles, went to the next stall, and there was nothing. No room or toilet paper in the inn. Jesus in the Manger didn't have it this fucking bad. The third stall proved bare as well as the forth and fifth stall. So I went for the course sandpaper-textured brown paper towels that the L.A. Unified School District saw fit to provide us with knowing that it would surely irritate the crap (excuse the pun) out of my sore assmeat only to be thwarted yet again! Yes. Life is now at its apex of "fuckedupness" and my humanity at its nadir.<br /><br />I was faced with a choice that no pubescent teenaged girl should ever be faced with. Do I wipe the vomit from the ring of my ass -- or do I wipe my dripping asshole? I wanted to cry. I was helpless. Friendless. Alone in my wretchedness. Weighing my choices, I wiped my asshole. I don't know why. I gingerly pulled my clothes up and had to wait for the afternoon school bus as the strangers vomit dried around my ass ring.<br /><br />I was bused from West Los Angeles to Van Nuys daily and the ride took an hour on the 405 freeway. So for an hour I…I marinated in the vomit of a stranger. Then I had a 20 minute walk home from the bus stop. I told no one. Not even my best friend. I was so humiliated, demoralized and stripped of vanity that I told no one…not even Phyllis -- and I told her EVERYTHING. I didn't even tell my mother. I got home, went straight to the restroom, stripped and took the longest shower known to mankind and bundled my clothes and shoved them in the washer on the hot cycle with half a box of detergent.<br /> <br />If you are acquainted with me personally, please don't take offense if I clean your toilet before using it. I have post-traumatic stress disorder. There are but a few scatological cognoscenti in this field. Me being one of them.<br /><br />So, I am sincere in my avoidance to things the body seeks to rid itself of…especially poop. I almost barfed into my baby nephew's diaper when changing him. Mon Dieu! I had no idea that a little 5-month old baby on what is essentially a liquid diet -- could produce such butt sludge. After all, he was on formula, which is off-white in appearance and rice cereal, which is also off-white. WHERE THE FUCK DID THIS CHUNKY-PATINA GREEN PEANUT BUTTER POO COME FROM? I didn't feed him anything green. It wasn't like he ransacked my fridge whilst I slept and ate a plethora of collard greens! And MY GOD! The sheer volume astounded me. I have no children and this is on purpose.<br /><br />People who have children always say, "Well it's not bad. It's like your own poop." HUH? WHAT? What on Earth makes you think I'm fond of my own? That's why they invented a wonderful product called toilet paper! I don't want to see it and I only check after wiping to make sure I'm clean. Then I used baby wipes for double protection against the dreaded skid mark. I don't look into the Kleenex after I blow and I don't look into the toilet after I'm done. Well until the birth of this particular butt neonate.<br /> <br />How can something that tastes so delectable come out so alien to the way it went in? The mystery still confounds me. The whole process. I only put it to paper to allay my fears and bewilderment. Ever see The Shawshank Redemption? Bet he suffers from post traumatic stress too.<br /> <br />I still owe props to Mark Saldana who wrote what is possibly the funnies poo blog ever: <a href="http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=42850309&blogID=138267978&MyToken=78f06040-0bfd-4084-b16f-db3b6ef4f5d5%22"></a><a href="http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=42850309&blogID=138267978&MyToken=78f06040-0bfd-4084-b16f-db3b6ef4f5d5%3cWHY%3c%20FONT%3e%3c/FONT%3e%3c/FONT%3e%3c/FONT%3e%3c/STRONG%3e%3c/A%3e"><>>Why Mark Saldana Hates The Yankees</a>janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3332881042733209612.post-5019316542494145992009-07-03T17:40:00.000-07:002009-07-03T17:54:05.502-07:00A Tale of Two Poos, Part 1After a night of drinking with a friend, and a late night/early morning trip to TacoBell…so begins my tale of woe:<br /><br />My colon seems to adhere to a strict schedule. Once upon rising and once before bed. Well, this unholy Taco Bell butt burrito decided to make its blessed journey into the world...at work. Fuck! I hate shitting at work! I almost never do. Well, I must have been in the bathroom for 45 minutes straining, grunting and bearing down. I sounded like I was in the labor room or at a Muscle Beach weight-lifting competition! I also pondered if all this 'bearing down' might cause a stroke and I wondered if my co-workers would find me stock-still on the floor of the bathroom with a turd half-in and half-out of my ass and my face frozen in a rictus of agony. <br /><br />Would they laugh before calling 9-1-1? You bet they would!<br /><br /> Ever try to put your fist in your mouth? This turd had a Chupacabran thirst for ass blood and eldritch intelligence. I finally reached the conclusion that this turd was simply too big for my asshole and might have to be surgically removed but I hadn't given up yet so I tried to suck it back in for a try later on at home. Nope. It was stuck half way. So then I pondered on what to do. I didn't have any rubber gloves handy and I was NOT going to touch it with my hands because...I am a lady.<br /><br />My new brother-in-law, Bill*** told us a story over Thanksgiving Dinner about when he was in the service and had the same problem -- except it was due to chocolate milk and he was in a barracks bathroom that had no stalls and he ended up yanking the stubborn "ass planet" out with his hand. Ewwwwww! Not me. If only I had some twine I could try and lasso it. Future Olympians could use it in the hammer throw. Yes, I had already considered getting up, spinning furiously and trying the rectal hammer throw with my butt cutlet but we were one! Locked in single combat. <br /><br />As I sat, I pondered walking to my boss's office hunched over with my pants around my ankles and asking him to either assist me -- or let me go to Urgent Care and do you mind driving? He has a van. I even tried grabbing both sides of my ass cheeks and pulling them apart and bearing down. Apparently…Lady Luck was busy in the next stall. <br /><br />This chunk of shit was holding me captive and I could not release the other chocolate hostages! I also had flashbacks of this being Elvis' last performance -- and his deathbed ended up being bathroom marble. We have linoleum at work. I was going to die on cheap linoleum! I figured it was a befitting end. Me and my over-sized butt gherkin in an eternal embrace. What would the mortician think? Would they have to lay me on my side in the casket? Would I now become the poster girl for Ex-Lax? "Don't let this happen to you – take Ex-Lax"…and a picture of me, dead on the bathroom floor…with a behemoth chuck of boo-boo protruding from my butt. Would they erect a Ronald McDonald House for Constipated Kids in my honor?<br /><br />On the other hand, if I did manage to pass it, would it leave my asshole in tatters? Would I exit the bathroom with my over-stretched, shredded mucilaginous, intestines slung over one shoulder like a lariat trailing the tattered remnants of my colon with a sanguinary torn assmeat tip -- like a colorectal bridal train? Would a co-worker provide a helping hand and carry the train? Would I even have the balls to ask? When it came out would it give an audible pop like a champagne cork? Or would this be the fat man doing the cannonball into the pool? Maybe if I had some lubricant. Fuck…where am I going to find anal lubricant RIGHT NOW!?<br /><br />Sigh. I just gave up and sat there. Waiting. Just like in the Wild, Wild, West of olden times. Me at one end of the lonely, tumbleweed-strewn, dusty, dirt road -- and my cowboy hat-wearing turd at the other. An old fashioned showdown with the theme from "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" playing in the background. An ass off.<br /><br />Then…I felt it. My ass infant moved. I began to squirm and shift side-to-side. I was 'The Little Engine That Could' chugging away…I think I can…I think I can…I know I can…I know I can…I KNOW…then it was over. No noise, no blood, no tearing asunder. I wiped. Nothing. <br /> I was alone…(to be continued) <br /><br />***The name has been changed to protect me from future litigation.janilanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01767007335898692832noreply@blogger.com0