When this blog began, its purpose was to point out all the horrible things you sickies partake in and command you to cease and desist immediately. As time went on, I dropped any attempt to "change the world" or "clean up the internet" or "sleep without the aid of self-medication" and decided to just tell silly stories that amused me and sometimes take the time to rub your noses in your collective depravity and filth. Well, you weirdos have gotten FAR too comfortable in your shameful ways, so it's time for me to say it once and for all:
STOP SENDING ME FANART, YOU FUCKING PERVERTS.
Oh, sure, it all started out well enough. Someone's young son or daughter would draw a crude facsimile of a walrus or a chestnut or a tree and they'd send it in, all "Look, Dr. S! Look what Billy drew!" Complete lack of motor skills or discernible artistic talent aside, the pictures were innocuous fluff that I would secretly mock with my friends and then throw away. But, as these things are wont to do, soon my "fanart" started to get a little bit...strange. A turnip massaging a tortoise, a manatee hugging an ostrich, a school bus being penetrated by a dump truck. What did it all mean? Yes, it was all quite strange, and some of it came with long, rambling diatribes on the inevitable war between zoo animals and humans or just your standard racial slurs, but honestly, who among us hasn't pontificated long into the night on the subject of two little blind girls in a fist fight? Hell, I've hosted blind boxing matches in my living room more times than I can count. But I wouldn't be writing this if the end-all, be-all stopped at discrimination, senility, and mattresses with six breasts humping tables.
No, things only escalated from there. I started to receive mind-scarring, soul-crushing, nightmare-inducing pieces of "art" from people who claimed to be my fans. Would a true fan inflict the image of a walrus being anally raped by a disproportionate woman wielding a strap on? Well? WOULD THEY? Do you people even know I'm not actually a walrus? That's right, ya crazies, not a walrus! Human! Not walrus! And I swear to god, the next person who sends me some sick bukkake gangbang snuff picture is going to get the full wrath of Dana "Dr. Sex Walrus" McJuicergallbladder and the hardest working senior citizen in show business, the tough as nails, the unapologetically classy Miss Beatrice Arthur. The full wrath includes the two of us singing "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" while you're on the rack. Just, you know, to give you a heads up.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Hitler Mustache Miracle!
Tomorrow morning you're going to wake up with a Hitler mustache. You'll try to shave it off - three times, in fact - but it'll just keep growing back immediately. Facing the inevitability of facial hair you'll simply have to go about your day and live with the consequences.
You'll spend half of breakfast trying to hide your face from your wife behind your coffee, morning paper, an entire (slowly shrinking) waffle, and half an orange, but your cover will be blown when she grabs your ass, whips you around and rips the bagel out of your mouth. No one leaves without a morning kiss in her family. No one.
"What the fuck is that shit? Is that a fucking Hitler mustache?" Your wife swears pretty much all the time, so you'll have a hard time judging whether she's angry or just curious about your newfound facial accessory. You'll try to lie to her, tell her it's a Charlie Chaplin mustache.
"You know, the little tramp! That adorable scamp Chaplin's famous for? Oh, that tramp, always getting into mischievous and hilarious situations!" It won't work.
"Don't fucking lie to me, John, you bitch. Chaplin's mustache was much more unkempt, all out of control and shit, to fit with the fucking character. That shit you've got there is practically a fucking geometric equation."
"Geometric equation? What does that even mean?"
"Don't play coy with me, Nazi boy! Now give me a fucking kiss and get the hell out of my goddamn house. Good luck not getting your fucking head torn off. I'll see you at dinner, fuckface."
Things will go all right for most of the day. As all right as they can go when you're sporting the 'stache of the fuhrer, which means people are going to give you the kind of look the song "If Looks Could Kill" was totally written about. Your boss will force you to do all your work in the conference room with the shades drawn and threaten to fire you if you come in with the mustache tomorrow.
"Goddamn it, Jim, I don't care if you are the best pork products salesman in the tri-county area! Hell, I don't care if you're the best in the tri-state, it don't add up to a hill'a beans if you've got that goddamn thing all over your face! Now I've got no business telling you what to believe and what you can and can't do in the bedroom, Tom. I mean, I take an hour a week to make the beast with two backs with a hooker dressed up like the Maytag Man, I know we've all got our kinks, Steve. But nobody wants to buy bacon from a Nazi, Tim. Keep that stuff to yourself." Yeah yeah, he doesn't know your name and it makes you a sad little girl. Honestly, you're just lucky he's not calling you fuckface, fuckface. In my day people called us by the wrong name and we liked it!
Anyway, you're going to get jumped on the subway tonight by a gang of young, alienated, angry Jewish boys. They'll be small and frail, but their overwhelming rage at seeing your little postage stamp Nazi 'stache will give them the upper hand. You're going to have to break one of their arms and start screaming nonsense in a bad German accent, really put the fear of Hitler's second coming in them before they stop slapping and shrieking at you. Don't let the power go to your head, fuckface. Tomorrow when you wake up that mustache will be gone and any spontaneous delusions of grandeur had better damn well be gone with it. Your wife is stronger than ten scrawny Jewish boys and mama didn't raise no fool, she ain't got no plans to be your Eva Braun.
You'll spend half of breakfast trying to hide your face from your wife behind your coffee, morning paper, an entire (slowly shrinking) waffle, and half an orange, but your cover will be blown when she grabs your ass, whips you around and rips the bagel out of your mouth. No one leaves without a morning kiss in her family. No one.
"What the fuck is that shit? Is that a fucking Hitler mustache?" Your wife swears pretty much all the time, so you'll have a hard time judging whether she's angry or just curious about your newfound facial accessory. You'll try to lie to her, tell her it's a Charlie Chaplin mustache.
"You know, the little tramp! That adorable scamp Chaplin's famous for? Oh, that tramp, always getting into mischievous and hilarious situations!" It won't work.
"Don't fucking lie to me, John, you bitch. Chaplin's mustache was much more unkempt, all out of control and shit, to fit with the fucking character. That shit you've got there is practically a fucking geometric equation."
"Geometric equation? What does that even mean?"
"Don't play coy with me, Nazi boy! Now give me a fucking kiss and get the hell out of my goddamn house. Good luck not getting your fucking head torn off. I'll see you at dinner, fuckface."
Things will go all right for most of the day. As all right as they can go when you're sporting the 'stache of the fuhrer, which means people are going to give you the kind of look the song "If Looks Could Kill" was totally written about. Your boss will force you to do all your work in the conference room with the shades drawn and threaten to fire you if you come in with the mustache tomorrow.
"Goddamn it, Jim, I don't care if you are the best pork products salesman in the tri-county area! Hell, I don't care if you're the best in the tri-state, it don't add up to a hill'a beans if you've got that goddamn thing all over your face! Now I've got no business telling you what to believe and what you can and can't do in the bedroom, Tom. I mean, I take an hour a week to make the beast with two backs with a hooker dressed up like the Maytag Man, I know we've all got our kinks, Steve. But nobody wants to buy bacon from a Nazi, Tim. Keep that stuff to yourself." Yeah yeah, he doesn't know your name and it makes you a sad little girl. Honestly, you're just lucky he's not calling you fuckface, fuckface. In my day people called us by the wrong name and we liked it!
Anyway, you're going to get jumped on the subway tonight by a gang of young, alienated, angry Jewish boys. They'll be small and frail, but their overwhelming rage at seeing your little postage stamp Nazi 'stache will give them the upper hand. You're going to have to break one of their arms and start screaming nonsense in a bad German accent, really put the fear of Hitler's second coming in them before they stop slapping and shrieking at you. Don't let the power go to your head, fuckface. Tomorrow when you wake up that mustache will be gone and any spontaneous delusions of grandeur had better damn well be gone with it. Your wife is stronger than ten scrawny Jewish boys and mama didn't raise no fool, she ain't got no plans to be your Eva Braun.
Monday, March 10, 2008
You're a WereGibb!
"Son, you're finally 18 now and your mother and I think it's time we had a little talk."
That's how the old man's gonna sit you down and explain all about the cursed blood that runs in your family ever since your grandpa Cornelius (you're named after him, coincidentally) cut a bloody swath through a gypsy village (well, it was in New York City, so it was really more like a gypsy neighborhood) 'round about 50 years ago. This is the first you've heard of any gypsy murderin' in the family, so you'll pipe up all offended and shit 'cause you're a pussy like that.
"Why am I named after a murderer?!"
"Because grandpa Cornelius was a wonderful, hard-working man before what we now call 'the Crazy' took him. Why wouldn't we name a child after him? Can you think of someone better for our son to carry on the name of?"
You can think of a whole bunch of people you'd rather be named after but your dad's giving you that look again, the one that makes you nervous because even though he's never hit you or your mom before he's still a big man and now that you know about grandpa Cornelius' killing spree he makes you even more nervous because that's from your dad's side of the family. Breathe deep and force yourself to calm down, slim. Hyperventilating and passing out is for sissies.
"Anyway, Cornelius didn't kill every single gypsy in the village, so the remaining two or three or however the fuck many there were left got together and decided they should probably do something to avenge all their fallen gypsy comrades or something. With that settled upon they cursed dear Cornelius, cursed him up one side and down the other!"
You wish your dad would just get on with it and tell you about this so-called curse. You also wish it would be chest hair. Lots and lots of really manly chest hair. You're ever so sick of the other boys at school making fun of you and calling you derogatory terms meaning homosexual. Sigh. Growing up is tough, isn't it, little Faggy Von Queerballs? That's what the others call you. You've learned to cry silently at night over the years. It keeps the disappointment in your father's face from coming through quite so much every morning.
"So the gypsies got together and they said to Cornelius, 'for killing most of our friends and loved ones and children and shit you and every male descendant in your bloodline are totally fucked come each full moon! For when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie that is NOT amore! No, it will be something FAR worse than that. For on the full moon you will become...a WereSinger!'"
"What's a WereSinger?"
"You are, buddy boy, so am I, and so was grandpa Cornelius. None of them knew it at the time, but the curse those gypsies unleashed upon your grandfather was a truly terrifying thing that's haunted the men of our family ever since. You see, on the full moon grandpa Cornelius would turn into the most annoying popular singer of the time: Paul Anka. As time went on and new, more annoying singers emerged he changed from Anka to someone much, much worse. Barry Gibb. Unfortunately, the curse stalled out there. It seems no one has ever surpassed Barry Gibb for pure irritation, bloodthirsty egomania, and histrionics. Not even Glen Frey. That rat bastard."
This is where your dad will get lost in bitter, resentful memories of his time as a roadie for the Eagles and all the women, drugs, and money that son of a bitch Frey stole. So many drugs. You don't know who Glen Frey or the Eagles are, but it makes you scared when he talks about "the old days" because he gets what your mother calls his Crazy Eyes, except she laughs when she says it and then they usually go upstairs to have loud sex that makes you feel uncomfortable and wish you had a car so you could drive somewhere and sit on the hood of the car and think about deep things like the nature of being and whether checking out other guys in the locker room makes you as gay as everyone says you are. You wish you had a girlfriend. One that would let you touch her boobs.
"Anyway, Scout, that's it. You're a WereGibb. From here on out for the rest of your life until you go through man-menopause you're gonna turn into Barry Gibb once a month on the full moon, and you are going to be a raging jackass. Be prepared, kid. I just hope you can find a good woman...or someone who'll stick by you because times are gonna be tough for a while. You don't just wake up one day and find out you turn into Barry Gibb sometimes. Wait, yes, you do. It's the coming to terms with the horror of it all that takes time. So horrible..."
"Can I go now? I have homework to do?" You don't really. You did all your homework right after school, you fucking nerd, but this whole thing is making you very uncomfortable, as most things do. Your father will send you off to do the homework you don't have and he'll go upstairs to sit in his office and drink himself into unconsciousness before your mother carries him off to bed and ties him in. He forgot to tell you tonight's a full moon. You're going to tear a man's throat out tonight and wake up naked covered in his blood. Have fun, kiddo!
That's how the old man's gonna sit you down and explain all about the cursed blood that runs in your family ever since your grandpa Cornelius (you're named after him, coincidentally) cut a bloody swath through a gypsy village (well, it was in New York City, so it was really more like a gypsy neighborhood) 'round about 50 years ago. This is the first you've heard of any gypsy murderin' in the family, so you'll pipe up all offended and shit 'cause you're a pussy like that.
"Why am I named after a murderer?!"
"Because grandpa Cornelius was a wonderful, hard-working man before what we now call 'the Crazy' took him. Why wouldn't we name a child after him? Can you think of someone better for our son to carry on the name of?"
You can think of a whole bunch of people you'd rather be named after but your dad's giving you that look again, the one that makes you nervous because even though he's never hit you or your mom before he's still a big man and now that you know about grandpa Cornelius' killing spree he makes you even more nervous because that's from your dad's side of the family. Breathe deep and force yourself to calm down, slim. Hyperventilating and passing out is for sissies.
"Anyway, Cornelius didn't kill every single gypsy in the village, so the remaining two or three or however the fuck many there were left got together and decided they should probably do something to avenge all their fallen gypsy comrades or something. With that settled upon they cursed dear Cornelius, cursed him up one side and down the other!"
You wish your dad would just get on with it and tell you about this so-called curse. You also wish it would be chest hair. Lots and lots of really manly chest hair. You're ever so sick of the other boys at school making fun of you and calling you derogatory terms meaning homosexual. Sigh. Growing up is tough, isn't it, little Faggy Von Queerballs? That's what the others call you. You've learned to cry silently at night over the years. It keeps the disappointment in your father's face from coming through quite so much every morning.
"So the gypsies got together and they said to Cornelius, 'for killing most of our friends and loved ones and children and shit you and every male descendant in your bloodline are totally fucked come each full moon! For when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie that is NOT amore! No, it will be something FAR worse than that. For on the full moon you will become...a WereSinger!'"
"What's a WereSinger?"
"You are, buddy boy, so am I, and so was grandpa Cornelius. None of them knew it at the time, but the curse those gypsies unleashed upon your grandfather was a truly terrifying thing that's haunted the men of our family ever since. You see, on the full moon grandpa Cornelius would turn into the most annoying popular singer of the time: Paul Anka. As time went on and new, more annoying singers emerged he changed from Anka to someone much, much worse. Barry Gibb. Unfortunately, the curse stalled out there. It seems no one has ever surpassed Barry Gibb for pure irritation, bloodthirsty egomania, and histrionics. Not even Glen Frey. That rat bastard."
This is where your dad will get lost in bitter, resentful memories of his time as a roadie for the Eagles and all the women, drugs, and money that son of a bitch Frey stole. So many drugs. You don't know who Glen Frey or the Eagles are, but it makes you scared when he talks about "the old days" because he gets what your mother calls his Crazy Eyes, except she laughs when she says it and then they usually go upstairs to have loud sex that makes you feel uncomfortable and wish you had a car so you could drive somewhere and sit on the hood of the car and think about deep things like the nature of being and whether checking out other guys in the locker room makes you as gay as everyone says you are. You wish you had a girlfriend. One that would let you touch her boobs.
"Anyway, Scout, that's it. You're a WereGibb. From here on out for the rest of your life until you go through man-menopause you're gonna turn into Barry Gibb once a month on the full moon, and you are going to be a raging jackass. Be prepared, kid. I just hope you can find a good woman...or someone who'll stick by you because times are gonna be tough for a while. You don't just wake up one day and find out you turn into Barry Gibb sometimes. Wait, yes, you do. It's the coming to terms with the horror of it all that takes time. So horrible..."
"Can I go now? I have homework to do?" You don't really. You did all your homework right after school, you fucking nerd, but this whole thing is making you very uncomfortable, as most things do. Your father will send you off to do the homework you don't have and he'll go upstairs to sit in his office and drink himself into unconsciousness before your mother carries him off to bed and ties him in. He forgot to tell you tonight's a full moon. You're going to tear a man's throat out tonight and wake up naked covered in his blood. Have fun, kiddo!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Walrus of Love
Well, gentle readers, the time of greatness foretold in ancient prophecy is finally upon us. In a few scant hours I will be flying out to Los Angeles to begin shooting my new reality dating show for VH1: Walrus of Love (working title, feel free to suggest some others and I'll pass them on to the producers). That's right, kids, after several decades of nothing but drugs, sex, and wacky adventures Dr. Sex Walrus is finally ready to settle down and start looking for love in all the wrong places.
Like all other VH1 dating shows we start with 19 hopefully attractive women and one batshit crazy one. Through a series of utterly idiotic "challenges," equally stupid dates, and more boozed up lesbian drama than you could get out of watching all five seasons of the L Word in one sitting, I'll whittle them bitches down to two (fingers crossed) hot, sane, not fucking annoying chicks and decide who I want to have more sloppy make-outs on camera with and who has better tits before our inevitable break up on the reunion show. Through it all there will be guest stars, frightening parents to meet, possibly restraining orders, and almost certainly some bitch fights. So join me, robot Johnny Carson, Bea Arthur, the ghost of Joan Crawford, and maybe even Chester for Walrus of Love, Sundays at 8:00, only on VH1. LOOK FOR IT, MOTHERFUCKERS.
EDIT: Show's off, that was the single most terrifying experience of my life and this is coming from a woman who has actually played golf with a gator. Those bitches were rough. And fucking crazy. All of them. Robot Johnny Carson had to physically retrain and remove one who kept shouting about being threatened with a good time. I didn't get too much of a look at her - nor do I ever want to, that voice will haunt my nightmares - but I'm scared it was Tiffany.
About halfway through the mixer Bea Arthur punched one out. I have no idea why, she just said this was a terrible idea and walked back into the house. I know now how right she was. The ghost of Joan Crawford started drinking and they convinced her to get up on the pole. God, why was there a pole? I escaped before the eliminations, thank the baby Jesus, with the help of one Ellen Page. I don't know if someone called her or if something in her just told her to come, but she may have well saved my life. I don't want to think about how five of those maniacs would have reacted to having their "deep sea adventure" end on the first night (God, I hated that script).
In the end I was left with only two things: the sweet, comforting embrace of the Page, and the nagging question of just where in the nine hells VH1 finds these monstrosities. Open casting calls in psychiatric wards? Methadone clinics? Random strip clubs? I overheard one offering robot Johnny anal for fifty dollars. She might have been a prostitute, she might not, I just don't know anymore. Goddamn your collective eyes, VH1.
I'm staying with Ellen for a while, this whole experience has just been too much for your doctor. Also, I think VH1 might be suing me. If so, we're going to need the greatest lawyer there ever was: Johnny Motherfucking Cochran. or a robot facsimile of him, you can never have too many robots. Either way, Page and I have a lot of work to do. Goodbye, beloved readers, may Chester take adequate care of you while I'm off making sweet, sweet love to Ellen Page (you were going to find out eventually) and fighting the forces of contractual obligations!
Friends Forever,
Dr. Sex Walrus
Like all other VH1 dating shows we start with 19 hopefully attractive women and one batshit crazy one. Through a series of utterly idiotic "challenges," equally stupid dates, and more boozed up lesbian drama than you could get out of watching all five seasons of the L Word in one sitting, I'll whittle them bitches down to two (fingers crossed) hot, sane, not fucking annoying chicks and decide who I want to have more sloppy make-outs on camera with and who has better tits before our inevitable break up on the reunion show. Through it all there will be guest stars, frightening parents to meet, possibly restraining orders, and almost certainly some bitch fights. So join me, robot Johnny Carson, Bea Arthur, the ghost of Joan Crawford, and maybe even Chester for Walrus of Love, Sundays at 8:00, only on VH1. LOOK FOR IT, MOTHERFUCKERS.
EDIT: Show's off, that was the single most terrifying experience of my life and this is coming from a woman who has actually played golf with a gator. Those bitches were rough. And fucking crazy. All of them. Robot Johnny Carson had to physically retrain and remove one who kept shouting about being threatened with a good time. I didn't get too much of a look at her - nor do I ever want to, that voice will haunt my nightmares - but I'm scared it was Tiffany.
About halfway through the mixer Bea Arthur punched one out. I have no idea why, she just said this was a terrible idea and walked back into the house. I know now how right she was. The ghost of Joan Crawford started drinking and they convinced her to get up on the pole. God, why was there a pole? I escaped before the eliminations, thank the baby Jesus, with the help of one Ellen Page. I don't know if someone called her or if something in her just told her to come, but she may have well saved my life. I don't want to think about how five of those maniacs would have reacted to having their "deep sea adventure" end on the first night (God, I hated that script).
In the end I was left with only two things: the sweet, comforting embrace of the Page, and the nagging question of just where in the nine hells VH1 finds these monstrosities. Open casting calls in psychiatric wards? Methadone clinics? Random strip clubs? I overheard one offering robot Johnny anal for fifty dollars. She might have been a prostitute, she might not, I just don't know anymore. Goddamn your collective eyes, VH1.
I'm staying with Ellen for a while, this whole experience has just been too much for your doctor. Also, I think VH1 might be suing me. If so, we're going to need the greatest lawyer there ever was: Johnny Motherfucking Cochran. or a robot facsimile of him, you can never have too many robots. Either way, Page and I have a lot of work to do. Goodbye, beloved readers, may Chester take adequate care of you while I'm off making sweet, sweet love to Ellen Page (you were going to find out eventually) and fighting the forces of contractual obligations!
Friends Forever,
Dr. Sex Walrus
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The Walrus of Wrath
There are only two things I hate, gentle readers. One of them is conversation hearts with completely idiotic and senseless things written on them, such as "WILD LIFE," "HEAT WAVE," and "AND." The other, however, is much more horrifying. Worse than furries, worse than Harry Potter/Snape slashfic writers, worse, even, than channers. It's trendfuckers. What is a trendfucker, you might ask because you're naive and innocent? Read on, and you'll find out. Turn away, and your soul may remain intact.
For those still with me, let me take you back to a simpler time when young actors weren't dropping dead once a week, pure cane sugar wasn't worth more than cocaine, and the Canadian dollar hadn't yet overtaken our own. For months I'd been telling people what not to do, what to stop doing, and what they'd already done that would inevitably lead to their destruction. It was clean, legal work and I enjoyed it like I enjoyed Spanish soap operas and fine beerdanay. Especially because it put me on the moral high ground, which I'd never had before. The good times were plenty and stardom was just around the corner for Chester and I. Then it happened, the tracker came into our lives.
It had been Chester's idea, but I supported putting the tracker up. At the time we had been having some problems with a dinosaur boy turned cyber-stalker and the plan had been to use the hit counter to flush him out of hiding and end the foolishness once and for all. It worked, but when all was said and done the counter remained, slowly and silently recording our hits and their sources. Chester, sweet child that she was, had put it up, making her its sole observer. As time went on the hits kept coming and we grew more popular, more accessible. But for every crop of hits directed to us from links and inter-pimps there was the little black death of a Google search. Things like "Hermione/Snape bondage fic," "killing a man with a stiletto," "Helen Keller/Annie Sullivan lesbian fanfiction," they all brought their hits and my poor, poor Chester had to carry the knowledge of the perverts visiting our little corner of the blogosphere until she finally snapped.
It was the Golden Girls that did it. Not the show, not the Robot Chicken Sex in the City/Golden Girls spoof, and not even one of the Girls themselves. No, the filth that had been brought into our house was a Google search for "Golden Girls femslash" and it was my fault, it was all my fault. I'd written the post as a joke, something I thought was so bizarre and terrible no one would ever even think to try it, but my falsified demand that people "Stop Writing Erotic Betty White vs. Betty Ford Cage Fight Fanfiction!" is what brought us here today. People, sick, terrifying people, wrote Golden Girls lesbian fanfiction. These people put their soul destroying creations on the internet and then encouraged others of a similarly disturbed nature to peruse the archives of their nightmare fueling works. Then these new people searched Google for this twisted filth and found my piece instead. Thinking it was going to somehow be the hot Dorothy on Rose action they'd been promised, they clicked, and with that click their little internet footprints were forever inscribed on our tracker and then my partner's already fragile psyche. To put it mildly, the shock of discovering that people not only write but actually read Golden Girls femslash pushed her well and truly over the edge. I knew I had to do something.
The last time I saw Chester she was sobbing into the chest of our transsexual receptionist and going on about "DICKSUCKER WHOREBAG! DICKSUCKER WHOREBAG! OH GOD WHY ARE THEY ALL SUCH DICKSUCKER WHOREBAGS?! OH MY FATHER, MY FATHER ALWAYS WANTS TO GO TO IHOP BUT I HATE IHOP AND THE WAITRESSES ARE ALL DICKSUCKER WHOREBAGS! AND CANADA, CANADA, WHY DON'T WE JUST SET CANADA ON FIRE ALREADY?!"She hasn't seen either of her parents since she was 16. So I did the only thing I could: I started calling in favors. I knew Cinnamon, our tranny receptionist was in no shape or mood to take care of Chester so I brought in Robot Johnny Carson. He was just like the real Johnny I had spent so many years and so many miles with, except he could crush steel and lacked a soul. With my partner in good, if not deadly, hands, my next task was to try to fix the damage I had done, but how? I knew, deep in my heart, that there was only one person who could help me set things right. What I didn't know is whether I could bring myself to face her and admit to all the trouble I'd caused. Then I saw Robot Johnny rocking Chester to sleep as he recited monologue after monologue from the real Johnny's years hosting the Tonight Show and I picked up the phone.
Miss Beatrice Arthur arrived the next day looking equal parts fabulous and terrifying and it was with a heavy, shame-filled heart that I told her the circumstances which brought us together again for the first time in nearly a decade. She slapped me across the face once, hard enough to knock the glasses off my face, and we got down to business. While Bea went out to gather all the firearms she could find, I made sandwiches and packed snacks. Momma always said stick to your strengths. Bea returned not only with half a dozen semi-automatic machine guns but with information. Despite several years out of the business she still had contacts in the underground. Underground of what, I didn't know, but she had tracked the original source of the Golden Girls femslash to a a little bumfuck town in Texas. The plan was clear to both of us: eliminate the originator of the abomination and its tentacles would die off. We set off that night, agreeing that the sooner we murdered and disposed of our internet menace the better. We had no idea what we were in for would require much more than just one drug-addled lesbian and a shit kicking senior citizen actress.
Texas was big and full of headcases and perverts, but it wasn't hard to track down the High Queen Creeper and we soon found ourselves sitting outside a Home Depot scoping it out. The plan was simple: one of us would go in and make a show out of a large scale bathroom remodeling project. Originally it was to be my task, but Bea said my accent was too West Virginia. Pulling on a blonde wig and sunglasses, she looked like Farrah Fawcett if Farrah had played Maude and sounded like a pack of cigarettes had taken up permanent residence in her throat. Southern cigarettes. But the creeper thwarted our efforts by going on a break at 11 o'clock in the morning, proving she wasn't just a frightful pervert but held bizarre time habits as well.
While Bea investigated the store I stayed in the car and dropped acid, an act that proved to be a mistake when she came back to find me curled up in the back seat of our pink 1959 Cadillac convertible, gibbering about furries and anthropomorphic planes having sex. Before the trip we had done a little research on our quarry, discovering several DeviantART and Furaffinity accounts, one in which the creeper pretended to be a Japanese man, and the heaps of furry porn and planefucking she had drawn as well as bizarre, half-crazed journal entries detailing her alleged stalking and harassment by a so-called "hate site," Something Awful, as well as her quest to become a samurai and the ongoing love triangles she regularly found herself in. Disgusting, amusing, and then downright horrifying as we found her Golden Girls porn. It was clear to us then that June, as the SA goons referred to her, was quite a ways out of her mind and had single-handedly created the Golden Girls femslash community which had thrown my partner into a catatonic state. The wig and dark glasses hadn't been nearly as convincing to citizens less under the influence than myself and one of June's coworkers had immediately recognized Bea and asked if she was there about June. After spending two hours in the parking lot keeping me from gnawing off the fingers on my left hand, Bea filled me in on the information she had managed to glean about June during her stint undercover. While they feigned interest in vanities and sinks the young man had told her all he knew of June, which turned out to be quite a bit. Bitch was chatty as fuck and lacked the ability to censor herself in any way, shape, or form.
The facts were these (and quite disturbing): June enjoyed practicing her samurai "moves" in the break room, she regularly showed off her planefucker art to coworkers and refused to stop working on it at work, she drew World of Warcraft porn, she'd taken the up the online persona of a perpetually horny Japanese man to throw off her "e-stalkers," she was a furry, and she'd taken the virginity of several of her former roommates over the years. WoW porn, furry porn, plane porn, and now Golden Girls porn? There was no telling what horror she would unleash upon the world next. Maybe anthropomorphic Coke and Pepsi cans re-enacting Romeo and Juliet with a lot more cocks and orgies? Or how about Rape Stove: the anthro stove with a 12 inch dick that does nothing but rape other appliances who secretly like it? Or would she go for broke and destroy the entire artistic world by drawing a literary figures gangbang of Charles Dickens, Herman Melville, John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Aldous Huxley going to town on Emily Dickinson while Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath watched and lazily fondled each other? June's mind and fetishes were alarmingly unstable, she could snap at any time and bring about countless new horrible kinks. When we returned home would a Google search bring up Billy Budd/Queequeg crossover slash? Our newfound knowledge of June changed things drastically. The stakeouts, the surveillance, the planning, all would have to be done away with. To save Chester-nay, to save the world, this would have to be a rushed, in-and-out job.
We spent the rest of the day hopping around town, never staying in one establishment too long, waiting for June's shift to be over. At 4:57 pm we pulled up behind the Home Depot in the employee parking lot next to June's beat up '94 Toyota Tercel. Bea noticed she was driving on one of the donuts and cursed June's name. Bea loves her cars. We pulled the ladies nylons over our heads and sat down in front of the Caddy to wait. June's approach was as obnoxious as anything else she did, humming the theme from The Legend of Zelda out of tune, and we made our move. Bea took the offensive, posing as a mugger and distracting June while I crept around the back.
The planefucker immediately fell into a poor attempt at a martial arts pose. Right leg and both arms lifted, she shouted, "Ha-ha! You foolish fool! You dare to challenge me? You will soon see the error of your ways when I, Kenji, destroy you with the power of the samurAAAAAAIIIII! Hey, aren't you Bea Arth-" That's when I tire ironed the bitch right across the skull. Oh, Tirey, you were never meant for such violence.
We tied June up and loaded her into the trunk of the Cadillac and thus began the longest two days of my life as we made the journey from west Texas to Miami to send June off on her voyage to a new life on a Colombian cocaine plant aboard a white slave ship. Under normal circumstances the trip would've taken a day or less, but traveling with a planefucker hogtied in one's trunk is a bit like doing it with a gaggle of children. There's bitching, moaning, screaming, crying, constant threats of soiling oneself, and the ever present appetite. We gagged her, we knocked her out, we drugged her, but respite was short-lived every time and her caterwauling cut through over the radio, which Bea and I could never agree on anyway. Finally, with Bea and I pushed to the brink of sanity and murder (an act Bea had threatened the planefucker with several times) we arrived in Miami. We handed June off to Phillipe the French-Colombian cocaine dealer and white slave owner my contacts had gotten us in touch with and made our way home, arriving another three days later sleep deprived, run ragged, but having accomplished our goal.
Bea stayed in the guest house for an additional week, recuperating from our arduous dealings with the planefucker before we parted ways once again. Things between us could never return to those perfect days when we were both so young and carefree, but it was a summer I'd never forget. A summer...of love.
For those still with me, let me take you back to a simpler time when young actors weren't dropping dead once a week, pure cane sugar wasn't worth more than cocaine, and the Canadian dollar hadn't yet overtaken our own. For months I'd been telling people what not to do, what to stop doing, and what they'd already done that would inevitably lead to their destruction. It was clean, legal work and I enjoyed it like I enjoyed Spanish soap operas and fine beerdanay. Especially because it put me on the moral high ground, which I'd never had before. The good times were plenty and stardom was just around the corner for Chester and I. Then it happened, the tracker came into our lives.
It had been Chester's idea, but I supported putting the tracker up. At the time we had been having some problems with a dinosaur boy turned cyber-stalker and the plan had been to use the hit counter to flush him out of hiding and end the foolishness once and for all. It worked, but when all was said and done the counter remained, slowly and silently recording our hits and their sources. Chester, sweet child that she was, had put it up, making her its sole observer. As time went on the hits kept coming and we grew more popular, more accessible. But for every crop of hits directed to us from links and inter-pimps there was the little black death of a Google search. Things like "Hermione/Snape bondage fic," "killing a man with a stiletto," "Helen Keller/Annie Sullivan lesbian fanfiction," they all brought their hits and my poor, poor Chester had to carry the knowledge of the perverts visiting our little corner of the blogosphere until she finally snapped.
It was the Golden Girls that did it. Not the show, not the Robot Chicken Sex in the City/Golden Girls spoof, and not even one of the Girls themselves. No, the filth that had been brought into our house was a Google search for "Golden Girls femslash" and it was my fault, it was all my fault. I'd written the post as a joke, something I thought was so bizarre and terrible no one would ever even think to try it, but my falsified demand that people "Stop Writing Erotic Betty White vs. Betty Ford Cage Fight Fanfiction!" is what brought us here today. People, sick, terrifying people, wrote Golden Girls lesbian fanfiction. These people put their soul destroying creations on the internet and then encouraged others of a similarly disturbed nature to peruse the archives of their nightmare fueling works. Then these new people searched Google for this twisted filth and found my piece instead. Thinking it was going to somehow be the hot Dorothy on Rose action they'd been promised, they clicked, and with that click their little internet footprints were forever inscribed on our tracker and then my partner's already fragile psyche. To put it mildly, the shock of discovering that people not only write but actually read Golden Girls femslash pushed her well and truly over the edge. I knew I had to do something.
The last time I saw Chester she was sobbing into the chest of our transsexual receptionist and going on about "DICKSUCKER WHOREBAG! DICKSUCKER WHOREBAG! OH GOD WHY ARE THEY ALL SUCH DICKSUCKER WHOREBAGS?! OH MY FATHER, MY FATHER ALWAYS WANTS TO GO TO IHOP BUT I HATE IHOP AND THE WAITRESSES ARE ALL DICKSUCKER WHOREBAGS! AND CANADA, CANADA, WHY DON'T WE JUST SET CANADA ON FIRE ALREADY?!"She hasn't seen either of her parents since she was 16. So I did the only thing I could: I started calling in favors. I knew Cinnamon, our tranny receptionist was in no shape or mood to take care of Chester so I brought in Robot Johnny Carson. He was just like the real Johnny I had spent so many years and so many miles with, except he could crush steel and lacked a soul. With my partner in good, if not deadly, hands, my next task was to try to fix the damage I had done, but how? I knew, deep in my heart, that there was only one person who could help me set things right. What I didn't know is whether I could bring myself to face her and admit to all the trouble I'd caused. Then I saw Robot Johnny rocking Chester to sleep as he recited monologue after monologue from the real Johnny's years hosting the Tonight Show and I picked up the phone.
Miss Beatrice Arthur arrived the next day looking equal parts fabulous and terrifying and it was with a heavy, shame-filled heart that I told her the circumstances which brought us together again for the first time in nearly a decade. She slapped me across the face once, hard enough to knock the glasses off my face, and we got down to business. While Bea went out to gather all the firearms she could find, I made sandwiches and packed snacks. Momma always said stick to your strengths. Bea returned not only with half a dozen semi-automatic machine guns but with information. Despite several years out of the business she still had contacts in the underground. Underground of what, I didn't know, but she had tracked the original source of the Golden Girls femslash to a a little bumfuck town in Texas. The plan was clear to both of us: eliminate the originator of the abomination and its tentacles would die off. We set off that night, agreeing that the sooner we murdered and disposed of our internet menace the better. We had no idea what we were in for would require much more than just one drug-addled lesbian and a shit kicking senior citizen actress.
Texas was big and full of headcases and perverts, but it wasn't hard to track down the High Queen Creeper and we soon found ourselves sitting outside a Home Depot scoping it out. The plan was simple: one of us would go in and make a show out of a large scale bathroom remodeling project. Originally it was to be my task, but Bea said my accent was too West Virginia. Pulling on a blonde wig and sunglasses, she looked like Farrah Fawcett if Farrah had played Maude and sounded like a pack of cigarettes had taken up permanent residence in her throat. Southern cigarettes. But the creeper thwarted our efforts by going on a break at 11 o'clock in the morning, proving she wasn't just a frightful pervert but held bizarre time habits as well.
While Bea investigated the store I stayed in the car and dropped acid, an act that proved to be a mistake when she came back to find me curled up in the back seat of our pink 1959 Cadillac convertible, gibbering about furries and anthropomorphic planes having sex. Before the trip we had done a little research on our quarry, discovering several DeviantART and Furaffinity accounts, one in which the creeper pretended to be a Japanese man, and the heaps of furry porn and planefucking she had drawn as well as bizarre, half-crazed journal entries detailing her alleged stalking and harassment by a so-called "hate site," Something Awful, as well as her quest to become a samurai and the ongoing love triangles she regularly found herself in. Disgusting, amusing, and then downright horrifying as we found her Golden Girls porn. It was clear to us then that June, as the SA goons referred to her, was quite a ways out of her mind and had single-handedly created the Golden Girls femslash community which had thrown my partner into a catatonic state. The wig and dark glasses hadn't been nearly as convincing to citizens less under the influence than myself and one of June's coworkers had immediately recognized Bea and asked if she was there about June. After spending two hours in the parking lot keeping me from gnawing off the fingers on my left hand, Bea filled me in on the information she had managed to glean about June during her stint undercover. While they feigned interest in vanities and sinks the young man had told her all he knew of June, which turned out to be quite a bit. Bitch was chatty as fuck and lacked the ability to censor herself in any way, shape, or form.
The facts were these (and quite disturbing): June enjoyed practicing her samurai "moves" in the break room, she regularly showed off her planefucker art to coworkers and refused to stop working on it at work, she drew World of Warcraft porn, she'd taken the up the online persona of a perpetually horny Japanese man to throw off her "e-stalkers," she was a furry, and she'd taken the virginity of several of her former roommates over the years. WoW porn, furry porn, plane porn, and now Golden Girls porn? There was no telling what horror she would unleash upon the world next. Maybe anthropomorphic Coke and Pepsi cans re-enacting Romeo and Juliet with a lot more cocks and orgies? Or how about Rape Stove: the anthro stove with a 12 inch dick that does nothing but rape other appliances who secretly like it? Or would she go for broke and destroy the entire artistic world by drawing a literary figures gangbang of Charles Dickens, Herman Melville, John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Aldous Huxley going to town on Emily Dickinson while Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath watched and lazily fondled each other? June's mind and fetishes were alarmingly unstable, she could snap at any time and bring about countless new horrible kinks. When we returned home would a Google search bring up Billy Budd/Queequeg crossover slash? Our newfound knowledge of June changed things drastically. The stakeouts, the surveillance, the planning, all would have to be done away with. To save Chester-nay, to save the world, this would have to be a rushed, in-and-out job.
We spent the rest of the day hopping around town, never staying in one establishment too long, waiting for June's shift to be over. At 4:57 pm we pulled up behind the Home Depot in the employee parking lot next to June's beat up '94 Toyota Tercel. Bea noticed she was driving on one of the donuts and cursed June's name. Bea loves her cars. We pulled the ladies nylons over our heads and sat down in front of the Caddy to wait. June's approach was as obnoxious as anything else she did, humming the theme from The Legend of Zelda out of tune, and we made our move. Bea took the offensive, posing as a mugger and distracting June while I crept around the back.
The planefucker immediately fell into a poor attempt at a martial arts pose. Right leg and both arms lifted, she shouted, "Ha-ha! You foolish fool! You dare to challenge me? You will soon see the error of your ways when I, Kenji, destroy you with the power of the samurAAAAAAIIIII! Hey, aren't you Bea Arth-" That's when I tire ironed the bitch right across the skull. Oh, Tirey, you were never meant for such violence.
We tied June up and loaded her into the trunk of the Cadillac and thus began the longest two days of my life as we made the journey from west Texas to Miami to send June off on her voyage to a new life on a Colombian cocaine plant aboard a white slave ship. Under normal circumstances the trip would've taken a day or less, but traveling with a planefucker hogtied in one's trunk is a bit like doing it with a gaggle of children. There's bitching, moaning, screaming, crying, constant threats of soiling oneself, and the ever present appetite. We gagged her, we knocked her out, we drugged her, but respite was short-lived every time and her caterwauling cut through over the radio, which Bea and I could never agree on anyway. Finally, with Bea and I pushed to the brink of sanity and murder (an act Bea had threatened the planefucker with several times) we arrived in Miami. We handed June off to Phillipe the French-Colombian cocaine dealer and white slave owner my contacts had gotten us in touch with and made our way home, arriving another three days later sleep deprived, run ragged, but having accomplished our goal.
Bea stayed in the guest house for an additional week, recuperating from our arduous dealings with the planefucker before we parted ways once again. Things between us could never return to those perfect days when we were both so young and carefree, but it was a summer I'd never forget. A summer...of love.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Stop Punching People Because You’re In Love!
I mean it, Kaylie. Don’t get me wrong, I find your constant happy smile to be as soft and sweet as that of the lone cupcake which avoids being trampled by a rampaging T-rex, but still, you’ve got to be practical. You can’t keep going around punching people in the face and stomach while screaming “I love you, Chris!”; I mean, sure, most of us have thought at least once in our lives “I could punch someone” or “I could run someone over in my car, I’m so happy,” but we don’t do it, Kays. It’s called self-control, kiddo. And assault and battery laws. And if you end up in jail, who’s going to star in my musical, huh? Here I’ve spent years of my life slaving over a masterpiece that will make Andrew Lloyd Webber weep with envy as he listens to the music of the night on Broadway and you want to ruin my dreams?! How dare you shatter all my plans for Amish! The Musical with every nose you break! I will not let you fuck up my chances of cutting a movie deal with Peter Weir, so shape up, missy. Otherwise, the only singing you’ll be doing is in your very own version of Shiv: The Musical, and while that also seems like a fabulous idea for a musical, I can only devote my genius to one award-winning piece of theater at a time. Maybe I should just drop you: all that promise you once had has been discarded like an empty cupcake wrapper lying on the street. Someone get me Sara Ramirez on the phone; I need her talent and the guarantee that in the end, there will be a bathtub full of money for me to bathe in, paper cuts be damned.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
You Are One Pissed Off Prom Queen!
Well, actually you're not. You're actually a 35 year old man in pique physical condition with two not-evil children and a wife who isn't cheating on you with your pool boy. Oh, and you have a pool. It's a pretty nice pool, too, when it was described as "lagoon-like" it actually fit the bill. Also, you're pretty sure your Realtor never slapped the shit out of herself like Annette Bening did in American Beauty. Nevertheless, today is the and only chance you have to act like a pissy, self-involved 17 year old girl who thinks her shit don't stink just because she's the most physically attractive female in her class of just over 100 students.
When your five year old daughter tells you you're the best daddy ever you should shout out, "Damn straight! And don't you fucking forget it, little girl!" Then give her a piggy back ride downstairs to breakfast.
When you're getting dressed for your lunch meeting with a client and your wife can't decide which tie you should wear, citing the fact that you look rather dashing in both the blue one and the red one, you should simply nod and reply, "That's right. I'm motherfucking elegant. Like a swan! An angry, belligerent swan!" Then throw your wife down on the bed for a quicky before your meeting.
At nine o'clock tonight when your wife suddenly remembers she never put the load of laundry she was doing in the dryer and goes downstairs to rectify the situation, call after her, "Make sure you use fabric softener, damn it! Snuggle! Unscented!" Help her fold the sheets, it's a bitch for one person to do alone.
Call your wife a pathetic whore who doesn't deserve to even so much as kiss the ground you walk on as you make love tonight. Curse at her, insult her vagina, do everything in your power to convey that you are really goddamn angry even though you were just crowned prom queen. When she finally breaks down and starts to cry after you call your children ugly little brats just scoff and then scowl at her. However, when the clock strikes 12:00 your day as a pissed off prom queen is over and it's time to start making up for all the horrible things you said and did in the last 24 hours. Good luck!
When your five year old daughter tells you you're the best daddy ever you should shout out, "Damn straight! And don't you fucking forget it, little girl!" Then give her a piggy back ride downstairs to breakfast.
When you're getting dressed for your lunch meeting with a client and your wife can't decide which tie you should wear, citing the fact that you look rather dashing in both the blue one and the red one, you should simply nod and reply, "That's right. I'm motherfucking elegant. Like a swan! An angry, belligerent swan!" Then throw your wife down on the bed for a quicky before your meeting.
At nine o'clock tonight when your wife suddenly remembers she never put the load of laundry she was doing in the dryer and goes downstairs to rectify the situation, call after her, "Make sure you use fabric softener, damn it! Snuggle! Unscented!" Help her fold the sheets, it's a bitch for one person to do alone.
Call your wife a pathetic whore who doesn't deserve to even so much as kiss the ground you walk on as you make love tonight. Curse at her, insult her vagina, do everything in your power to convey that you are really goddamn angry even though you were just crowned prom queen. When she finally breaks down and starts to cry after you call your children ugly little brats just scoff and then scowl at her. However, when the clock strikes 12:00 your day as a pissed off prom queen is over and it's time to start making up for all the horrible things you said and did in the last 24 hours. Good luck!
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