Do you ever wonder... ? Sylvia Plath Edition

I wonder what would have happened if Sylvia Plath had her own baking show. Maybe she could have been fulfilled by her love of baking and the quest to make the perfect German's Chocolate Cupcake... incidentally, did you know that its not German Chocolate Cake... but rather German's Chocolate Cake, and that its not German at all! I know, right!? 

The More You Know!

Scouts Honor

So I was walking out of the Rite-Aid after picking up a prescription [long story, lets just say, "Six Degrees of Taylor Swift" is not a fun game to play] listening to the new My Bloody Valentine album on my headphones. As I exited the store I was greeted by a pair of little boys standing by a folding table selling tins of popcorn. One of them was talking to me but I couldn't hear him over the reverbic swell of Kevin Shield's white noise.

"---buy some popcorn to support our organization?" I heard the boy finish after I popped my earbuds out.

"Like I would support your shitty homophobic organization." I scoffed.

"But--"

"--but nothing!" I interrupted. "For an organization that is supposed to be 'protect and serve,' or some shit, its certainly filled with a bunch of elitist bullshit. If sexuality has no place in your crappy Scouts, then why does your organization support an out right ban?"

"But--"

"I'm not finished!" I interrupted again. "Those poor little queer kids want to learn to make a fire out of twigs and tie fucked up knots just as much as you little straight kids. In fact, knot tying more of a practical skill for them, since they'll be able to use those skills when they start going to those nasty BDSM clubs. So fuck your shitty elitist club!" I added, just before flipping their table over, scattering tins of popcorn on the ground.

"Excuse me, but what the hell are you doing?!" a woman was yelling as she ran up to us.

"Oh, so you must be one of these kids' mother, huh? Well let me tell you something, the Boys Scouts of America is a intolerant organization, and you should be ashamed to have your kids in--"

"Kids? This is my husband!" the woman said.

"Huh?" record scratch. I guess I should have noticed the one of the kids had a thick ass mustache and the a full grey beard.

"Yeah, lady, we're raising money for 'Lilliput.' Its organization that helps little people from being overlooked," the mustached guy said.

"What, do they buy you lifts or something? I'm sorry guys, I'm just really upset by this new My Bloody Valentine album."

"I know, right!?" the woman said.

"I mean, come on, twenty one years later and you give us 'Isn't Anything' part two?"

"But not as interesting!" the woman added.

"Oh snap!" I said, with a snap. I then apologized again for the confusion and bought all of their popcorn tins to make it up to them. The woman was helping me load them into my car, and as we closed the trunk I turned to her, "I'm sorry, its driving me crazy, so I just have to ask, how do they survive with such tiny little organs?!"

"I know, its totally weird. I just try not to think about it."

Do You Ever Wonder... ?

Do you ever wonder if hipsters, like, use a USRobotics dial-up 56K modem to download their porn? Like, do they totally troll Flea Markets and indoor swap meets to try and score one of those AOL free trial CDs. Or even for the super sleutly ones, a Prodigy disc. Or maybe even the super hardcore ones don't even use the interwebs, but they have a finely curated collection of Beta cassettes from the early 80's that they pilfered from the basement of that video store in Silverlake. Prized videoed with big hair both upstairs and down there... Sure, they could go even further back with some 8mm film reels, but that would be too easy. A truly dedicated hipster needs that extra little challenge, so it would be video all the way! 

... makes you think...

... nasty as I wanna be...

Now THIS is how you make an animated GIF, people... !

... anyone else suddenly hungry for a David Gandy, Ben Cohen sandwich... ?

A Tale of Terror Part IX: The Final Dream Warrior Child Master

[Missed the last part? Here is it: Part VIII: Never Hold A Grudge]

“Seven Days,” the Japanese girl whispered like a ghost. Well I assume she was Japanese since she finished her sentence with a one of those Japanese School Girl giggles, I guess it could have been one of those Cosplay White Girls. “Your library book is seven days overdue. You are going to have a late charge of 50 cents if we don’t receive it by tomorrow morning.”

“FIFTY CENTS! What is this, some sorta racket!?” I exclaimed. “You’ll get your damned book back,” I added before hanging up the phone in anger. Seriously, fifty cents? What am I, made of money? I grabbed the borrowed copy of the “Necronomicon Ex-Mortis” off the nightstand and was about to head out the door when the phone rang again.

“Yeah, I got it, I’m on my way--” I answer with an exasperated sigh.

“I’m your boyfriend now, Nancy!” a deep sexy says, and suddenly there is a tongue poking out of the receiver tonguing my ear. 

“Hey now, mister, slow it down, this isn’t Nancy. But if you wanna talk for a while, I’m all ears. I could even put the receiver down for a little bit,” I say, giggling like a Japanese School Girl, hoping that he picks up on my entendre.

“EW GROSS!” the voice exclaimed, less sexily. “Is Stephen there?”

“Wait, didn't you just say you wanted Nancy?”

“That’s just my nickname for boyfriend. So is Stephen there or what?” he asked sassily.

“Sorry, kitten, you got the wrong number,” I said, slamming the phone down, only to have it ring again a second later. This time I was smart and looked at the caller ID next to the phone. “976-3845” the box display read. I recognized the number immediately, and the call was coming from inside the house! I could tell because it was my neighbor Karen Black’s cell phone number and she was standing in my breakfast nook, holding her cell phone up to her ear making a call to me. Such a strange woman, that Karen.

“They’re here…” she said, in her creepy wonky eyed way.

“Why are you--” I started to ask when the front door blew open. Like, totally blew-up-open-off-the-hinges shit and splintered against the wall. There, standing in the doorway, was a Zuni Hunting Fetish Doll! “You again?!” I exclaimed in confused dismay, instantly regretting that I gave Karen Black an extra key to my place. The Doll made a garbled noise and chomped its teeth before flying at Karen Black’s face. She screamed as it bit into her cheek with its razor teeth, pulling off half of her face. She fell to the floor like Amanda Bynes doing a Lindsay Lohan impersonation.

I screamed like a woman, because I’m a lady, and ran into the bathroom and locked myself in. The Zuni Doll began to bang on the door in frustration, then, a minute later, started to shove its tiny knife under the door in a feeble attempt to stab the bottom of my feet, but I had taken a step back and was out of range. Then it started to shove its little knife between the door and the frame. I started to laugh, since cursed dolls can be pretty stupid, but stopped short when I realized that it was using the knife to jimmy the door open.

“Crap,” I said as the lock clicked and the door flew open. It didn't miss a beat and leapt straight towards me. “Not the face! Not the face!” I cried like a little bitch as I closed my eyes and waited for its death blow. But then nothing came. I opened my eyes to see it literally rolling on the floor laughing.

“Oh my god, you should see your face,” it said in Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s voice.

“What the…” I trailed off in confusion.

“APRIL FOOL’S DAY!” Joseph said as he sat up and pulled off the Zuni Doll mask all Scooby Doo style.

“But it’s not April Fool’s Day! It’s October 13th.”

“Yeah, April Fool’s Day, see,” he said, pulling out his pocket calendar and pointing at the date, where it was clearly printed “April Fool’s Day.”

“Where did you get that stupid calendar?”

“The 99 cent store.”

“Damn you, 99 cent store!” I bellowed, shaking my fist into the air, “Damn You!” Then we made out and ate candied apples… if you catch my drift…

HAPPY HALLOWEEN YA'LLS

A Tale of Terror Part VIII: Never Hold a Grudge

[... in case you need to catch up: Part VII: Night of the Living Phantasmagoria]

The orbs hit my face with a greasy splat, before they split open, spilling chicken sandwiches all over the floor. The little hooded midgets immediately start pushing each other fighting for the pieces on the floor. Those who were quick enough to grab a piece, noisily slopped it into their greedy mouths.

“Eat mor chikin!” screamed the crazy delusional completely out of touch old kook of a man.

“Dan Cathy, I wouldn’t eat your piece of Shit-Fil-A sandwich if it were the last thing on this planet,” I said with disgust as I wiped a pickle off my cheek. This pisses off the little hooded midgets and they begin to claw and scratch at my legs. I kick two of them down and as they hit the ground their hoods fall off, revealing the overly pageanted faces of Sarah Palin. “Freaky ass clones that you can control with your shitty food?! It all makes perfect sense now! But aren’t their robes the wrong color? Were you all outta bleach?”

“Families! Families! Each mor chikin!” he screamed again, this time at the freaky Palin clones. At which point I had just about enough, so I strode over and punched the idiot square in the face. Now, being a lady, I’m not one for violence, but when you get chicken grease on a bitches face, you had best bet there are going to be repercussions, and besides, the guy is just a dick. After I cold cocked him, I turned and was out the door before he hit the floor.

I thought about going back to Joseph’s place, but by that point in the evening, I was just knackered. So I went home to my downtown apartment, figuring that I would just give him a call in the morning and apologize with some story about how I couldn't find cigarettes and that I need to go home to get my nicotine patches. Then of course I would have to get some damned nicotine patches, the lengths I go to keep my story straight.

After a long shower, I crawled into bed with a nice warm bowl of split pea soup and a copy of Morrissey’s latest zine, “You just haven’t Zined it yet, Baby.” It’s really funny stuff, especially when he goes off on the Queen or China, but mostly he just draws silly pictures of Johnny Marr pooping in public places. Anywho, so I was reading when there was a tap tap tapping at my window. So I got up and see that fucking Carl followed me home like a total fuckin’ creeper. Oh, and I live on the fifth floor, and he was the undead.

“Beat it, Carl,” I say through the glass.

“Let me in,” he says meekly.

“You ain’t the right one!” I say as I close the blinds. I turn to go back to bed when he crashes through the window. “What the hell?! You can’t do that, I didn’t invite you in!” I yell.

“I’m not a vampire, dummy! Get your damned plot points straight,” he growls.

“Get out, the power of Christ compels you!” I scream, throwing the bowl of split pea soup in his face.

“I’m melting!” he begins to wail as he falls to the floor. “I’m allergic to gluten!”

“There’s gluten in split pea soup?” I wonder out loud.

“Bitch, there's gluten in everything…” he trails off as he melts into a blob on the floor that sorta resembled Kevin Dillon. I would have totally laughed at the irony of it all if it weren’t so disgusting. I grabbed the mop and bucket from the hall and started to up the mess when the phone on the nightstand rang. 

“… ha ha bitch, you still have a landline... !” the Carl-Blob said sarcastically.

“Shut it,” I say, pouring that last little bits of split pea soup into the middle of Carl-Blob, who let out, what I could only hope was, a death rattle. “Yello?” I say, picking up the phone.

Then a chill runs down my spine when the caller whispers, “Seven Days…”

[onto Part IX: The Final Dream Warrior Child Master]

---

I scanned the cover of the October issue of Morrissey's Zine, for those of you who are looking for it. I think there is a link if you wanted to find the whole issue.

A Tale of Terror Part VII: Night of the Living Phantasmagoria

[... last time: A Tale of Terror Part VI: Revenge of the Darksided... ]

As Kris Jenner pushes the button on the box, my heart stops in my chest when the creepy old guy reveals the “1,000,000” written in gold glitter on the inside of the box.That bitch don’t need the money--I need the money!

“What the fuck? That’s some backwards ass ‘Twilight Zone’ bullshit right there,” I protest as Kris Jenner fans the money in my direction. “Whatever, let’s go Carl,” I say as I turn and trip over his recently deceased body. Well at least one good thing came out of this, that fucking kid was working my last nerve, it’s about time somebody killed him. I was about to leave his corpse there with Kris, but that bitch had already wandered off. I started to feel bad, well not really bad per say, more like suspect numero uno. So I had to do something with the body, and fast.

Luckily I spied a hand painted sign across the street that read “Pet Sematary." Really, what is wrong with these kids today? Goddamn kids just can’t spell for a damn. I blame Facebook… and Twitter… and the Republicans. And another thing, is it too much to ask to know the difference between "their," "there," and "they're," come on youth of America, get yo shit together. Anywho, I muster all of my strength and drag Carl’s body across the street to the sema—er… cemetery. Fucker was heavier than he looks, like he ate a bunch of stuff right before he died, and not marshmallow fluff stuff, like led shavings stuff, you know, the stuff that comes from China. I swear, even in death this brat was annoying the crap out of me.

As I enter the pet sema—fuck… cemetery, I spied the mausoleum and crematorium at the far end of the grounds. The lights were on at the crematorium, and some funky green smoke was coming out of the chimney, so I had to be stealthy so not to get caught. Then Fortuna’s Wheel began to spin in my favor as I spied an open plot just a couple of feet away. I chucked Carl's lifeless little corpse in the grave, and after a little cramming and stomping, I finally got him to fit. Then I added a thin layer of dirt to hide the body. It’s amazing what you can learn by watching Dexter.

“Welp, looks like yer gonna have some company in the afterlife, Winston Churchill,” I say out loud, reading the name from the headstone.  Man, what a stupid name for a cat, I think to myself, but then apologize out loud, as if the dead cat could read my thoughts. Stupid cats.

After taking exhaling a deep sigh of relief, the sky opened up and started to pour rain down on me. I don’t know what the funk was in that smoke coming from the crematorium, but it starts mixing with the rain, making my baby soft skin itch. I bolted toward the nearest shelter to take refuge, which of course was the damned mausoleum--not that it was literally a mausoleum for the damned, but damned in the frustrated sense of the word, like you know, the closest thing could have been a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, but no, it was a damned mausoleum--again, not for the damned.

The inside was dimly lit and the air was buzzing with an odd low frequency hum. Bored, I slumped down against the wall and watched the rain. While I waited for the rain to stop, a naked punk chick danced across the cemetery; I think it might have been Siouxsie Sioux. After a few minutes, the low frequency hum sorta became a little soothing, like a white noise with people quietly whispering me to sleep. Just as I was about to drift off to Nap-Nap Land, I spied from the corner of my eye, a gaggle of midgets… dwarves? Munchkins? Fuck, I dunno, whatever… little people dressed in brown hooded robes, running straight for me. “Well I’ll be damned; it was a mausoleum for the damned after all!” I thought to myself.

To make matters worse, just as I stood up [to get my tits out of grabbing range, after all, there's nothing creepier than fat midget fingers on my tits. Whatever, judge it you want... some people don't like clowns... some people don't like creepy ass robed midgets in a mausoleum... but anyway], a miserable looking old man rounded the corner, followed by flying orbs that zipped straight toward my face…

[... on to Part VIII: Never Hold A Grudge]