The Real Catty World (Part 5: Random Notes)

Back in the days of dorm rooms and keggers, when naked Colombians wandered the halls trolling for horny Insafemodes; back when straight roommates didn't want their in the closet but probably obviously gay roommates to walk in them during "special time" (generally third period); back when third period was a time for Latin Class, and did not mean you were dating a twelve year old girl; back when you just didn't feel like blowing the kid across the hall or helping him with his remedial math; back then there was a system. Each door had a crudely drawn map or a piece of construction paper with notes such as "In the room studying, do not disturb", "Decided to find out what my French teacher looked like...am actually at class", "Hockey practice" and other possibilities for where people were and what they were doing. This way you didn't have to waste your time knocking on the cute boy's door, begging for his sweet ass, because you knew he was rehearsing for some play that probably involved him wearing tights. This meant you had to go to your room and put a pin in the "Do Not Disturb" area of your map in order to go masturbate to the thought of the cute boy in tights.

I look back fondly on those times. Especially when I think of Fledge in tights.

Looking back on them fondly, however, does not mean I want to relive them. So when The Landlord casually mentioned that he'd like me to leave notes letting him know whether or not I was home, and where I would be if I wasn't home, I gave him the Spock eye. Apparently, I'm so quiet, that he's never certain if I'm home and if he'll disturb me. I pointed out that if I was disturbed I would cease to be quiet, come out of my room and say something. Still, he wanted the notes.

I debated using Post-It Notes and making various "In" "Out" "None of your fucken business, what are you a stalker?" statements for various occasions. I even debated carving the word here into the door with a question mark after it. There's your note, bucko.

I was just about to go out and buy a stack of Post-It Notes when I remembered the old map system. ten points I could possibly be at, one pin. Here's what I came up with:

"Doing lines off a whore's ass. Please knock before entering. BYOC."

"The moaning you hear is just a TV show I'm watching. What sounds like a squeaking futon frame is a digital recording of dolphins talking. It helps me relax. I'm certainly not having sex in your house. Oh, and don't bother checking for the cute Colombian kid downstairs, he's uhhh...not there."

"It may sound like I'm home, but that's because you're a delusional control freak who hears things that aren't there. Don't worry, though, I'm not having a conversation with your therapist right now or anything."

"On streetcorner making rent"

"That smell isn't pot smoke, I'm not even home. What? Stop looking at the door like that. Don't even think about knocking! Hey, I said--"

"Out. But not all in your face about it."

"I spent all of last night/this morning on a Moonbounce with the Brazilian national college soccer team. If you even think about knocking before 8 PM, I'll have Max decapitate you with a swift kick of his soccer ball."

"Turn around. Sucker."

"In Fallujah fighting insurgent terrorists to make the world safe for Democracy, just like a Good Little American Patriot. I'm definitely not sleeping with your boyfriend at The Park Plaza hotel. That would be wrong."

"I'm just sitting on my desk waiting for YOU whoever YOU may be to come in. Don't bother knocking, just come in. I promise the rattlesnake waiting on the other side of the door has been defanged. He's really a sweet little snake. He loves to be punched, though. Why don't you punch him on your way in?"

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/95042.html

The Real Catty World (Part 4: Still Crushin')

Crush. Crush. Crush. Orange Crush. Grape Crush. High School Crush. Crushed Velvet. Crush from Demolition. Crush. Crush. Crush. I've had every sort of crush imaginable. Hot boys with no brains. Smart boys with no asses. Big dicked, boner-brained hipsters, hippies who've met every criteria associated with the word thick you can imagine, I've even crushed on dorks with overbites so big you could hang them from the Sears Tower by their upper jaw. Does anyone remember Strawberry Crush or Watermelon Crush? Back in the days of Fresca and Tab you could get any type of Crush you wanted. The options were...well...crushing. I've been all kinds of crushed. Emotionally, physically, spiritually, agnostically. I crush. You crush. We crush. I have been crushed.

The two people I've fallen hardest for, I haven't been able to write about. MAMIP and Liam. Liam was a pretty typical crush for me: cute nerd who everyone thinks is quiet, but is secretly a jaded neurotic type with a killer body and hot nerd tongue. Not that we ever kissed, but the ex-girlfriend who stole his virginity, then did the whole "I think I'm pregnant" routine with him TWICE when he tried to break up with her, she told me the things he could do with his tongue were amazing. Unfuck her for torturing me that way.

MAMIP was far from typical. Sweet, charming, sincere, honest, sexy. He has a voice that makes women (and ten percent of the guys) orgasm from fifty feet away just by saying the word "Oy." His Portuguese Oy has often caused me to give a Yiddish Oi. His voice. A man that hot, but so sweet and shy shouldn't have that kind of voice. He should have to talk through JAWS...with a lisp. But no, he's got Voice.

Imagine my pants splattering surprise when, after seven months of not talking to each other, he called me. When his name showed up on Caller ID, I dropped the phone on the sidewalk, then scrambled to pick it up, elbowing two old ladies, and a toddler with a clear learning disability. "Hey (let's for the fuck of it call him Mark) Marc!"

"¿Stevie?"

He had dialed the wrong number. "No, it's Safey."

"Oh, hey Safey. I'm sorry I was trying to dial someone else."

Imagine how disappointed I'd be if that's how the conversation had actually gone down. It didn't.

After seven months, I'd had all the silence I could take from him. So I called him when I KNEW he'd be at work. How did I know? Certainly not because I called his work first to find out if he was there. What kind of desperate psycho do you think I am? Surely not THAT kind.

When his voicemail picked up, I smoothly left him a message: "Oh, Marc, I'm sorry I was trying to call my friend Martin. Hey, I haven't talked to you in ages. I don't know what you've been up to lately, but I miss hanging out with you. Maybe I'll stop in and visit you at work one of these days. Happy Holidays."

Oh, yeah. I'm smoove like Smoove B. I combined my awkward lack of social skills, creative dishonesty, and free cell phone minutes into a looooooooooooooooove trap. And that's why I dropped the phone, and beat up a couple of septuagenarians and an infant to get at my cell.

"Hey, Marc, how are you?"

"I'm good." And the way he said good was just...soooo...goooooooooooooooooooooooo

ooooooooood. It was twenty-someodd degrees and I was melting. "How are you?"

Well, I was, if not depressed, very much apathetic. No Internet access, I'm not fully moved out of my old place or into my new one. I've been couch surfing by request. A few nights with Zuzu, a few with Cali, now with Celeste. All in all this week has gone from not very good to wow, this is going to suck. Until the call.

I'd regale you with all the sensual details of our conversation, like how we're going to get together for coffee, even though neither of us drink coffee, but that sort of thing is boring. Instead I'll talk about all the sex we aren't going to have because he's probably still not out, and he lives with his close-knit family, and I now live with...

Ahhh, the new house.

The Landlord is The King of Signs. The door tells the mailman where to leave which letters. There's a sign on the bottom stair telling you to watch your step, and clean your feet. At the top of the steps, each bedroom door is marked with which roommate lives in the room. There wil be four of us, including the landlord. We certainly don't want to get all confused thinking someone lives in the wrong room. The kitchen tells you which glasses The Landlord would rather you use, as well as which spices go with which kind of food, and how long to dry each type of dish. Don't even ask about the full colored manual in the washing room. It has graphs. Plural. GraphS.

The first night that I crashed at my future house, there was a note telling me how to turn on the lights. Unfortunately, I couldn't see the sign because all the lights were out. This caused me to stumble into Roommate #1: The Frat Boy, who was stumbling drunkenly down the stairs. He gave the typical Frat Boy Mating Call "What the Fuck?" when he bumped into me. I introduced myself, he went to the bathroom, and then to bed. I haven't seen him since.

Roommate #2 is on The Real South Beach Diet. Pills. Many many many pills. Even Barry Bonds has called the house asking Roommate #2 to stop taking so many goddamned pills. It's freakish. The way he hunches over when he shuffles downstairs to smoke or take some pills. It's the only thing he leaves the house for: to get more pills from the pharmacy. Luckily, Roommate #2 will be gone in two weeks. I'm not sure who will be replacing him. Frat Boy will also be gone in the new year.

Roommate #3 is...I didn't get his name. He was talking to me for about ten minutes, but the entire time he was talking, all I was thinking was "pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty", which I'm pretty sure means he's straight.

Which beings us back to Marc, who isn't straight but he plays one in his social groups. I've missed him like astronauts miss gravity. He wants to see my new place. In my mind this means we're going to fuck all day, fall in love, make beautiful Brazilian-Irish-American babies. But I know in his mind, he's just curious about where I live. I'm fairly pessimistically certain that he's incapable of loving me with the furor that I love him.

Next week, I'll be back in his orbit. He will pull every bone, muscle, and organ into a new alignment. I will be so atrophied that the gravity of his kiss will tear through my body, leaving me as a pile of bones on the carpet of my new place. Crushed. Again.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/93103.html

At Least

I've got about sixty pounds of books, paper, and an industrial strength stapler on my back; on my shoulder is a bag carrying a 1998 era Compaq Presario, a CD RW drive, and accompanying computer paraphernalia; in my left hand is a duffel bag filled with clothes, assorted art supplies, and a pillow. It's cold, and I'm wearing neither a hat nor gloves. As I say goodbye to Zuzu, to head into Boston, she remarks how cold it is. Because I am incredibly daft, I say "At least it's not sno" fuck "wing."

It could be worse. I could have said "at least I haven't tripped over a rock, and caught my balance just in time to get a face full of explosive diarrhea from a cow" or "at least I haven't been abducted by Ann Coulter and had video screens that play only Jennifer Lopez movies and Old Navy commercials implanted on the inside of my eyelids". At least I didn't say either of those thi---shit.

Fortunately, the snow had the approximate duration of the Nu-Metal craze.

My mission of the day was simple: write an Insafemode entry, buy black thread. I decided to tackle the thread issue first. I checked art stores, craft stores, goth stores (for all of your black needs), sewing stores, thread stores, spool stores, adult toy stores (my ADHD kicked in), and an urban clothing store called Black Threadz. Most misleading store name ever. There was no black thread to be found anywhere in Boston. I had to settle on Wilting Christmas Tree Green thread and hope it would match the project it was needed for. It did.

With thread in pocket, I headed out to meet a friend for dinner. And, though the food we ate made us both a little ill, we did have a good time hanging out. She wanted me to recommend band names for her. Here is a partial list of the names she rejected:

Sluttle
Sad Cookie Jar
Proudest Mouse
Soup for Breakfast
Compromise
Decidedly Ambiguous
Muppet Sandwich
Bukakke Laundromat
Elf Restraints
Frozen Yoga
Twitchy Hugs
Limp Handshake
Sharpie Mustache and The Cockslappers

There was more that's happened since my last update, and most of it is interesting to live, not so interesting to read about. Once assorted guests leave my new place, I'll be heading over there to begin the move in process. In the nicewhile, I'm having fun visiting with various friends who I never get to spend much time with...and stealing their underwear.

Drunken Conversations At Hampshire College

The band geeks are discussing how one of them got a 98% in band even though all he did the entire semester was sit between the two most talented trombonists and copy their arm movements. "I never once played a single note unless I was asked to demonstrate something solo. When I inevitably screwed up, I told my teacher I didn't work well with pressure. So I ended up with an A in the class despite the fact that I can't even play my instrument at all."

The pretentious know-nothing is discussing why he didn't like the night's poetry event. "Poetry is meant to be read on a page. Performance is sooo unnecessary. Because poetry should be like music. And the people performing had a guitarist, which is music, but it's not the kind of music that I like, so it's not musical. And anyway, the dick with two belts just cried the whole time while the other guy wasn't being as subtle as poetry should be. Poetry is meant to be performed, and I felt like I should have had paper in front of me to understand what he was saying."

I'm on the phone with an almost ex who says "'I'm so bummed you haven't come and visited me. I'm hanging out with your friend Jud, and we're gonna go to this dance club in a few minutes, and I'm gonna get him drunk and let him fuck the hell out of me. What do you think of that?" And since I'm The Other Guy that the Know Nothing was talking about, and I wasn't in a very good mood to begin with, I tell him, honestly, "I'm not sure which one of you two to feel sorry for. You're both terrible in bed."

The guitarist is being smoked out by a trio of girls who haven't said much to me when I've stayed in their apartment. When they leave to go to The Dance Party (which turns out to be one semi-cute Latino guy playing bad reggae and not wearing a shirt), the Guitarist says "It's good to be in the band, everyone always smokes out the band. And since I am the entire band tonight, it's gonna be awesome. Did you see those girls? They think they're so much better than every one else who lives here. Especially the two conventionally pretty ones. They hang out with the fat girl because they think it makes them look hotter. But even though she's a snob and kind of a slut, the fat girl is much prettier than the other two will ever be."

I'm on my way up to the computer because, apart from the guitarist, there is no one downstairs yet that I want to hang out with. J*Me (the dick with two belts), Erin, Casey, Brian, and all the other roommates who weren't cool enough to be part of the Snobs Smoking Out The Guitarist aren't back from the show yet. I'm nearly there when another girl I've never seen before says "I loved your show tonight." I give the obligatory thanks. "My brother has your CD on my computer." At first I'm flattered that her brother not only has my CD but has been playing it for his sister and saying how good it is. Then I remember I DON'T HAVE A CD. "My CD?" I ask. "Yea, my brother bought it in (location withheld until I raze it) from (name withheld until I pummel him into a little ball and kick him until he burns up in the atmosphere). It has the Math Poem that you did tonight, and five or six other tracks." So someone recorded one of my shows, and is selling it without my knowledge or permission for a profit. If I wasn't angry a minute ago....

After I've calmed down and written a fairly terse e-mail to Mr. Copyright Violation, I go back downstairs where everyone I wanted to hang out with has shown up, the Trio of Snobs has left as well as The Band Geeks (now who's the snob Mr. Mode?). J*Me is telling me about this guy we both barely know who "has a cock only about average length but it's wide as" and here he takes his tall Pabst Blue Ribbon Can and fellates it. This is my cue to wander to another conversation.

Over on the couches, which I will dub The Cool Corner, people are talking about other poets who've crashed with them. Steggy's name comes up as another good feature. And someone says "The first time Steggy was here, he was being all cool and really touchy-feely, and drunk...definitely drunk. And he turns to someone and whispers in their ear and the person shouts out 'BRIAN? BUT BRIAN'S STRAIGHT' to which Steggy replies 'I'm so confused, I've never seen so many gay seeming straight guys in my life.'" Amen, Steggy, wherever you are.

At 1 AM, J*Me decides he wants pizza. He lets us all know by screaming "PIZZA!!! I WANT PIZZA DAMNIT!!!" So, I go and get the number of the local pizza place, which is, naturally, closed, it being 1 AM. Domino's is open until 4 AM, however, so I begin asking for the number for Domino's. This gets all of the Politically Aware in a tizzy because the owner of Domino's supports the Pro-Life movement, so no one wants to support them. Whatever. Every corporation has owners or prominent members who have political values you're probably going to disagree with. Boycotting them for that is inane. If you want to boycott Domino's, boycott them because their pizza sucks.

An hour or so later the pizzas arrive. While we're sitting in the kitchen, munching on slices, Mustache Screwface (he wanted that nickname...don't ask) tells the story about how he lost one of his teeth during a stagefighting accident during a production of Cabaret. He says "I didn't really mind losing the tooth. It's kind of a manly thing to lose your tooth in a fight." "You didn't lose your tooth in a fight." I say "You lost it during a stage fight that was part of a musical. The only thing gayer would be if it got knocked out by a cock. Wait a second. Actually losing your tooth in a musical stage fight is gayer than losing a tooth to a cock. I could see how someone could lose a tooth while accidentally coming in contact with a cock. No one has ever accidentally been in a musical."

By about 3 AM, people start to head to their respective rooms. J*Me follows a cute straight boy who doesn't even seem gay to his apartment. The guitarist and I each take a couch. Upstairs, Pretentious Know Nothing has returned to bashing on poetry, which he clearly has never been exposed to in his miserable, keg party existence. He is trying to impress some girl and make out with her. I know this because he's also discussed his "making out prowress". I envision him on stage between J*Me and I, copying our hand movements and mouthing along with our poetry, hoping to get an A in Seducing Hampshire Students. I wish him all the luck in the world. And syphilis. I wish him syphilis, too.

The Real Catty World (Part 3: FOOD In The Rent)

I am a terrible judge of character. I confuse people's generosity with martyr complexes. I can't tell the difference between a wonderful, giving person with a few quirks, and a complete psychopath with moments of humanity. So it is that I completely misjudged the house that I assumed would be Gay.

I made the assumption because so many of the people who replied to my roommate ads were GGGGGGAY, and came right out and mentioned that they were looking for GGGGGGAY roommates. So when I read the e-mail from someone who had a house that he touted as having an "International flair", and made perfectly innocent statements that, because of my interactions with other "innocent" statement makers, I believed they were codes for "I am a dirty pervert who will give you a cheap place to live so long as I can fondle myself while I watch you sleep." This was not the case at all.

In order to prep myself for impending Gayness, I spent the entire two mile or so walk to the house listening to music that I won't admit to publicly, some of the artists' names rhymed with Wisteena Magumera and Whitney Gears.

I took off my headphones just as I approached a house where a man somewhere between his late fifties and late sixties was leaning over, working on a garden. Unlike the stodgy Harvard professor/landlords, though, his look was complimented by a natural unegotistical speech pattern, and actual eye contact. Borderline creepy eye contact. But borderline, so that's okay.

Once we went in the house, he offered me coffee. I don't drink coffee. So he offered tea. I don't like tea either, but I'll drink it when someone is politely trying to make me something hot to drink.

The house was gorgeous. Very well preserved (cleaning service comes in every other week), great natural lighting, nice open feel. In fact everything about both house and landlord seemed open. The only part of the interview that left a bad taste in my mouth was the tea that scalded my tongue when I drank it too quickly. The rent even includes food. FOOD is included in the rent. FOOD. You make a grocery list, the landlord buys you food. FOOD. Did I mention that FOOD is included in the rent? A comfortable, well lit house with rent that includes utilities, high speed internet access, cable TV, FOOD, LAUNDRY DETERGENT, no-coin-necessary washer/dryer, and cleaning service. Seriously, even if this guy kills me in three months and buries me in his basement, at least I will die happily in a sort of writer's utopia that has FOOD included in the rent.

If he rents the room out to someone else, I will be insadmode.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/86303.html

The Real Catty World (Part 2: Purely Academic Reasons To Get Out Of The Rental Pool)

Not too far from Danny's apartment is the wonderful world of M.I.T. Hot nerd central. Granted, it's also ugly nerd central, but let's not dwell on that.

M.I.T. is a forest of equations that you can't see through the variables. I've always wanted to be tangentially associated with it. It implies math intelligence. I my have blinked my way through Calculus, but I am exceptionally quick with basic math, and simple geometry. For example: a fifty year old man claiming to be twenty-one has subtracted twenty-nine years off of his age, which equals me not even sticking around for the interview. Or, if Safey is looking for an apartment, and you advertise having a swimming pool, when you mean that there is a gym across the street with a swimming pool, how fast will Safey run away from your apartment when you invite him in for lunch? Very fast.

The Harvard landlords are more honest. This makes no sense to me, as Harvard is much likelier to spit out lawyers and fiction writers than chemical engineers. Then again, little in life makes sense to me these days.

The Harvard landlords tend to be "mature gentlemen" who are looking to help out younger men. While odds are against all of them having hidden cameras located in the bedrooms and bathrooms, I'm pretty sure that I met more than one "gentleman" who had a library full of homemade amateur porn starring unsuspecting young guys. "I'll cook you dinner, and do your grocery shopping, and if you need a few extra weeks to make rent" I'll rape you in your sleep was inferred at the end of the sentence. No thanks, Grandpa.

Harvard students had some fantastic apartments. Most of them well out of my price range. But looking didn't hurt. Much.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/85934.html

The Real Catty World (Part 1: Danny)

The next few months are either going to be a catalyst for future writing or a Scared Straight program. Not that the two are mutually exclusive.

I'm moving in with gay people.

No, I haven't "met someone", or been cast in the first reality show to be aired on MTV LOGO: "The Real Catty World"; I've decided to move somewhere more affordable. While my current roommates are unquestionably the coolest people I've ever lived with, there are some things I couldn't deal with anymore: the way O would hide my shoes on the other side of the house, and scatter the floor with nails and broken glass; the way D would wait for me to go down to The Inconvenience Store, and then stick my geckos in the blender; their constant waking me up at odd hours in the morning to film them having sex with the underage girls they picked up at the local burn unit; the way O pronounces the word "the". I know, I'm being picky, but that's just the way I am.

So Tuesday night, I started looking for some local places to move to. Somewhere in the price range of broke.

My first Internet Search led me to a quaint little first floor apartment in Dorchester. Reasonable rent, no roommates, moderately furnished. It seemed too good to be...it was the apartment I'd shared with Melissa Plummer. Granted, she's two tenants removed from the apartment by now, it's still not a place I'd feel comfortable living. I'd be kicking ghost dogs all the time.

After assorted promising looking rentals that, of course, did not exist anymore by the time I joined WeTrickedYouIntoSigningUpForOurApartment

Search.com, I found a few local bonanzas.

Today I met with Danny. Danny is a 23 year old Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay guy. He goes through all the ads on the various apartment sites, and expresses interest in every gay guy under 30 looking for a place to live. His apartment is in a complex directly around the corner from the house I'm living in now. It's ripe with "The Danny Touch" as he calls it. Rainbow flags? Check. Titanic poster? Check. Various CD art from Madonna and Bjork albums sticky tacked to the walls? Check. Abercrombie & Fitch ads FRAMED and hung on the walls? Check. Rainbow bedspread? Check. I was shocked when I opened the refrigerator to discover that not all the food in there was covered in pink frosting. There were, however, Snowballs on the kitchen counter. "Because it's winter." Danny cheerfully pointed out. Thanks, Captain Obvious, have another pink star.

After a few minutes of reasonable conversation, I excused myself to the bathroom, where I tested to see how long it took for the water to get hot (thanks for the tips sarchal). I envisioned an elf with a blue candle swinging from pipe to pipe between the dozens of apartments in the building, trying to get the water lukewarm as quickly as possible. Sorry Link, next time use the ocarina of time.

When I came back out, we had an earnest discussion of the kind of guys I liked, and I realized I was being interviewed for something more than a roommate. Well, I could do a lot worse than Danny. He was very cute and seemed both smart and funny, but I'm not going to move in and have sex with someone I just met. That's what lesbians do on their second date, not gay guys. Gay guys don't have second dates. Which is one of the reasons why I didn't say "I'll be in touch" when I left.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/85531.html

The Popcorn Palace

Sometime in the late nineteen sixties, a four year old girl was given popcorn for the first time. Her eyes glazed over. Schmaltzy sentimental "jazz" music started playing. She envisioned a palace. A palace made entirely of popcorn.

When she turned twenty she was thrown out of Redenbacher management training for seasoning her popcorn with cocaine and nicotine. Her parents were killed in a freak bubble wrap popping incident, leaving her enough money to start her own business: The Popcorn Palace.

On an unspectacular Veteran's day in 2004, The World's Gayest Straight Boy and I were walking in downtown Northhampton, MA. We were, like most people in Northhampton, bored into walking comas. We saw the spectral version of Yasser Arafat sitting on a curb, waiting to die. As we step around him, we came face to face with a small sign for The Popcorn Palace.

"Have you ever been in there?" I asked.

"No." said Ansel.

So we went in. Our plan? To see the inside of the store, claim to be out of towners just wandering the streets and get the hell out of there without buying popcorn. The Popcorn Lady had other ideas.

Oh, she looked unassuming enough, popping corn behind the counter. But as soon as she was us we were marked. We were not leaving without popcorn. Lots of popcorn. A bucket of popcorn.

"Have you ever been here before? No? You're from out of town? Well let me tell you about our popcorn. We have sweet flavors and savory flavors. Here, try some, I promise it's not dusted with cocaine and nicotine, you won't be addicted, it's just popcorn. you are getting sleepyA handful of popcorn never killed anyone. Sure it went on trial for murder, but it was never indicted. your eyelids are so very heavyI just finished making a batch of vanilla popcorn. Try some, isn't it good? Wouldn't you like to buy a tub of popcorn? you want popcorn, lots and lots of popcornTomorrow the prices are going up. We hardly ever change the prices. sweet sweet popcorn makes all the pain go awayIt's been four years since we've raised the prices, but tomorrow everything gets more expensive. Imagine your good fortune at coming on the last day that popcorn is so cheap. I'm practically giving the popcorn away. Look at all the color popcorn tins. when I snap my fingers you will buy the blue tin Each tin comes with two savory flavors, and one sweet one. We never mix and match them. You should buy some online when you get home. Boston isn't that far. I could ship them in a day. And you could get any flavors you want. human flesh flavor is delicious Oh you're walking out the door? What a shame I didn't make the sale." *Snap*

"I think I'd like to buy a tin of popcorn. Perhaps with two savory flavors and one sweet. I would like it in...do you have a blue tin by any chance?" Wait, I didn't want popcorn. What the fuck was I saying?

So I spent twenty dollars that I don't have on a three gallon tin of popcorn. Sour Cream and Onion, Yellow Cheese, and Pina Colada. The Pina Colada is amazing. The other two flavors are...popcorn. The Popcorn Lady filled the tin to capacity, squashed it down with the lid, filled it some more, squashed some more, and filled again. There is now, a lot of fucken popcorn in the tin. "If you bring it back you get the popcorn for half price. Don't forget to wash it before you bring it back. There's corn oil in there." No shit? Corn oil in popcorn? "Corn oil rusts the tin. So wash the tin, thoroughly and dry it before you come back. And you will be coming back. Have a nice day."

The Popcorn Lady masking taped the lid shut, and sent us on our way.

We were about a block away when a woman ran up to me, looking as though she was going to give me her bag. "Hi, have I talked to you yet today? I'm giving an 85% discount to members of the community." I barely pause before returning to reality, I'd been hypnotized into buying popcorn, I certainly did not need...what the hell was this woman selling. "Radio pens." She held one aloft and walked away.

Radio pens? A Cross-Pen looking instrument with headphones attached. Oh, yea, a must have for everyone on my Christmas List.

Ansel and I came back to Campus, where I bought some Cherry Coke and, along with a bunch of Hampshire students, out a sizable dent in the popcorn tin. Errr...the tin is not dented, there is just significantly less popcorn in it. And I'm still hungry.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/83074.html

Pumpkin Clause

On September 1st, the church down the street from my house began its pumpkin drive. They put up a big banner: "Imported Indian Gourds for your autumn displays $5/lb." Their entire lawn and parking lot were filled to capacity with pumpkins of all sizes. All the little goody goody Jesus boys sat on the steps of the church, and waited for the customers to flood parking lot taking two pumpkins of each size.

By the time the first of October had come, there was no visible depreciation in pumpkin levels. The banner was flipped over, and now proclaimed "Halloween Pumpkins for Sale $4/lb, All Proceeds Go to Charity." No longer content to sit on the church steps, the Jesus boys began hanging out on the sidewalk and suggestively selling the pumpkins to every person who passed by.

As it happens, the church lies directly between me and pretty much everywhere I want to go, so no less than four times a day, I'd be accosted by a well-intentioned Christian boy, pleading with me to buy a pumpkin that I neither needed nor could afford. I needed a pumpkin the way I needed Jesus.

A week before Halloween there were still just as many pumpkins in front of the church as there had been on September 1st. The banner was flipped back to the original side, and was painted over in orange and black paint: "Halloween Special: Pumpkins for Jesus $3/lb. Proceeds go to homeless children." I was soon on a first name basis with the four Jesus boys: Jonathan, James, Joshua, and Devon. When I walked by they no longer asked me if I wanted to buy a pumpkin, they made small talk. The rest of the neighborhood were subjected to tantrums on the street.

On November 1st, the church was still packed with pumpkins. The sign had been re-repainted: "$1/lb pumpkins for your Thanksgiving display. All proceeds to benefit homeless children." Jonathan had obviously given up on his friends, who were grabbing on to the pantlegs of passersby offering to give free blowjobs with the purchase of three pumpkins or more. I imagined by the end of the week there'd be a new banner: "Jesus commands you to buy his cheap pumpkins or he will give all of your relatives AIDS." I was close.

Last night, on my way home from a three a.m. grocery store run, the church gates were left unlocked, and a new sign proclaimed "Get these fucken pumpkins off our property, you heathens." Ok, actually, it said "Free Pumpkins" but I knew what they meant.

So, feeling somewhat bad for the poor Jesus Children, I began an early morning project. I dropped my groceries off at the house, and began taking as many pumpkins as I could, and distributing them to the doorsteps of all my neighbors. Soon, every house on the four streets surrounding the church had one big and one small pumpkin on their porch. At around four, I feared getting caught, and returned home.

This afternoon, I made another pilgrimage to the store to buy Cherry Coke. James and Devon were sitting on the front steps of the church, laughing and smiling. I waved.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/80087.html

Emptyful

On my way home from the grocery store I saw a poster that said $200 costume contest tonight. $100 for gentleman in funniest costume, $100 for lady in sexiest costume. On another day, I might have pondered the inherent sexism of this obviously frat boy planned party. Today I was thinking, to make it fair, shouldn't it be $100 for the gentleman in the most desperate costume?

Today, I am the most desperate man at the party. I've got two hours before my first hookup since Ethan referred to me as Safey. It's not hard to fall into the familiar routine of shower, shave, tweeze, doubt. It's in the shower that doubt arrives early. I've spent most of my life as a writer, hanging around other writers. I enjoy long-winded, well written sarcastic LiveJournal posts. An e-mail with six paragraphs of witty misanthropy can cause me to fall in love. So why am I going to meet someone based on a "Send me back a pic if interested" "I'm interested, name the time and place" "Three o'clock, here's my address" "See you then" e-mail exchange?

Apparently, my love is a symphony of urbane observations. My lust is "Nice hair, let's fuck."

I spend a half hour in the too hot shower. The bathroom gets so steamy that I have to kneel in order to see my reflection in the mirror. There's an analogy or a metaphor here that I'm not interested in seeing.

I'm embarrassed by the way my hair is thinning in front, the spot of dry skin just northwest of my lip, what feels like it may be the start of a pimple on my butt. I should call this off. I really don't have any hope for love, and given my history with meeting strangers for sex, I don't have any hope for lust. Odds are the picture was fake, he lied about his age, he's married, he hasn't changed his underwear since the Carter administration, he thinks patchouli is an adequate substitute for personal hygiene, he kisses like the Tasmanian Devil. Odds are, I'll leave his house feeling empty, and not empty of sperm, but empty of dignity. I know all this will come to pass. Still, I lather my face with shaving gel, and pick up the razor. I do a seek and destroy mission on my ass, and discover there is nothing remotely pimpular.

I'm just about to finish shaving when I knick a place on my neck. I will always have at least one blemish.

I toss on jeans and a shirt, and call the number he gave me to let him know I'm on my way over. The phone rings four times. I pray for the machine. I don't want to do this. At some point in the shower I stopped seeing this as an opportunity to get off, and started thinking of it as the real ending to my novel. The Last Hookup. One more real story. Not the bullshit Fox and I might live happily ever after. The real ending is me having learned nothing, putting on my jeans and my fuzy Lucky shirt, and walking to some stranger's hope with the hopes of sticking my dick in his ass.

I get the machine. His name is Matthew. I leave a message on his machine. Crisis averted, I can go back to sending suggestive e-mails to the cute boy in Chicago with the self-deprecating wit and the digital camera.

The phone rings. Matthew.

I pack a bottle of watermelon lube and condoms in my bag, and head out the door.



Most of the guys on The Internet are either deceitful or else they've been victimized by a ruler maker with a cruel sense of humor. Seven inches is often four and a half. I don't ask people for their cock size not just because I know they'll lie but because I don't have a huge kielbasa myself. Also, I'm an ass man, what do I care how big their cocks are?

What Matthew either lied about, or has been conned to believe is that he's 6'1". He's close. He's pretty much my height. I'm 6'. I don't understand why he's added inches to his height anymore than I understand people sending out old or fake pics. Obviously, I'm going to find out before you even get your clothes off.

We head immediately to his bedroom, where we talk. Matthew seems like a nice guy. He's a poet (shoot me now) getting his MFA at a local college. He's occasionally gone to a reading I host, and a reading I frequent. However, we've never been at either place at the same time. Lovely. I've been rather proud of the fact that I've never let my poet life and my sex life intersect. So when he leans in to kiss me, I pretend not to notice the Selected Poems of Elizabeth Bishop collection sitting on his desk.

His kiss. Our kiss. Our kiss is bad. His breath tastes like stale nicotine. Have I mentioned how much I love the taste of nicotine? No? There must be a reason.

Most of the problems with our kissing are not Matthew's fault. We are completely out of synch. I am lips when he is tongue, I am tongue while he is lips, he is tongue while I am wishing I was somewhere else.

It isn't long before our clothes came off.

In a normal relationship, or at least a well-thought-out hookup or one night stand, you and your partner have some sense of what the other person likes/wants. Matthew's body is not proportionate to what I was looking for. I don't ask him, but I'm fairly certain he isn't all that thrilled with me either. Understand, he isn't ugly. Far from it. He is very cute in a nerdy sort of way. And I generally find nerds quite sexy. But his weight is in all the wrong places for me.

After a few minutes of awkward kissing and skin on skin, he rolls over and asks me to rim him. Despite my well publicized liking of the ass, I haven't had a lot of experience licking of the ass. I've only ever rimmed two guys: Victor, and some guy during Whore Month who didn't even warrant his own story.

Matthew bends over, showing that he does, indeed, have an ass, but much like the rest of his body it isn't the shape I prefer. I soldier on. Slather some watermelon flavored lube in the vicinity of his mangina and dive in. And much like diving too deeply into a pool with too much chlorine, my eyes start burning and I can't breathe. Why? His ass is not proper rimming shape. There is no position I can find where I can breathe. It could be worse. At least his ass is meticulously clean (as it should always be when meeting for sex).

I give up and begin fingering him. His breathing gets heavy, and, though I won't realize it until a few minutes later, he comes. He then sits up, covering the wet spot on the bed with his ass and attacks my mouth with second hand tar. He also begins licking my ear. Have I mentioned how much I love having my ear licked? No? Hmmm. Funny, that. I figure he must enjoy having his ear licked, so I decide to sacrifice my tongue to save my ear. I breathe heavily into his ear while doing some more licking. Then, just as he is getting into it, I can't do it anymore. It is too absurd.

As soon as I stop, he pushes me back on the bed, and begins snapping his finger around my nipples. Not sexy. I move his hand down toward my cock. While our arms were moving my hand brushes his chest, and I realize he's already come. I'm not even on the same continent with coming.

He proceeds to go down on me. I think. I stop paying attention at this point. I am trying to remember whether or not I'd locked the door on my way out of the house.

"Want to 69?" Not really, but since I'm here, sure, why not. I begin nearly gagging on his cock. I don't think it is big, I haven't really noticed it one way or the other. While I try various ways to get him off using my mouth and hand, he is...what the hell is he doing? Is he still blowing me? I can't feel a fucken thing. "I want you to come on my chest." Yea, and I want sarchal's Diesel Cords on my bedroom floor. There are some things you have to be patient for.

And he is patient. In the time it takes me to come, he comes again. This time I see it with my own eyes, and it does nothing for me. I kneel there, passionately jerking my cock, for what seems like months. If our roles were reversed, I probably would have gone out for pizza while he was jerking off. I would have gone out for pizza in Italy.

While he towels off, I put on my clothes and jacket, stuff my lube and unused condoms back in the bag, and head home. I am barely out of his house when I notice a woman in a burka walking toward me. Most days, a woman in a burka would set off my inner-activist, I'd think how wrong it was for a woman to be forced to cover herself. Today all I can think of was how comfortable she looks. How warm. How safe. If she'd just come from robbing a bank or fucking a stranger, nobody would be able to pick her out of a police lineup. I am walking the streets in tight pants. And my fly is open.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/78855.html

Election Day For Whores

I'm distressed to learn that any fake ad I place on Craigslist gets hotter reponses than my real ones. Some people think it's cruel that I occasionally place ads when I don't really intend to whore myself out anymore, but if someone interesting, or at least someone hot, responded to my ad I'd consider them. Unfortunately, everyone on Craigslist is either illiterate or has finely honed fetishes that I either can not or have no desire to fill.

Aside from the usual crop of thirty-eight year old uggos who want me to suck their dick, ignoring the fact that my ad mentioned that I was looking for someone younger than me, and that I wasn't looking to suck anyone's dick, today I received enough extreme fetishes to hit Craigslist Bingo.

1.) A straight chick, who is so out of shape she can't walk, is apparently looking through the men for men section hoping to find someone she can convert. I did not reply.

2.) Two "straight" guys looking for a "young, petite male student" to suck their dicks while watching television. But they "don't want to do anything gay." I'm sorry, getting your dick sucked by a guy is gay. Even if it's by a young, petite student. I know, the Catholic Church and NAMBLA would like you to believe that if you're getting your cock sucked off by someone who looks like a little boy, you're not necessarily gay. Well, you are. And odds are, if you're only into young, petite, submissive boys, you're probably not just gay, but a pedophile. Please register at your local precinct. Also, my ad says I'm 27, not 17. I did not "misleed" you.

3.) An absolutely hot, physically flawless specimen e-mailed me at 8 AM, responding to an ad I'd placed the night before. I was out voting. When I came back I had his first e-mail (8:04) with pics exhibiting his incredible hotness. I also had a second e-mail (9:25) accusing me of being a pic collector. Dude, I was not at the computer. Your hotness gets overruled by your impatience, poor grammar and excessive use of exclamation points. And the third e-mail (9:34) threatening to "xpouse" me was so funny that I'm thinking of having it framed, and hung up on my wall.

4.) "Straight" Asian guy who likes to dress up as a woman and get spanked. I wish you all the luck in the world, I'm just not into that. E-mailing me your phone number, and pics of you in drag after I respectfully declined to meet you is not going to accomplish anything. Even if you e-mail the information to me again, an hour later.

5.) There's this guy who lives down the street from the house I lived in when I first started this journal. Every day. EVERY DAY, he posts at least ten ads about how he wants "straight" guys to just knock on his door, whip out their cocks, throw on a condom and fuck him silly. After seeing his ad for a few weeks, I finally responded to it in February. I figured it was right down the street, and I'd never done anything like that before, even during Whore Month. Why not? Well, I asked him for a pic. All he had to say was "I'm in the closet, and terrified of being exposed (or xpoused, if he preferred), I don't feel comfortable sending out a pic," and I would have either gotten so drunk that I didn't care, and headed over to his house, or I would have wished him luck, and filed that fantasy away for another day. Instead, he got super aggressive and sent me all these e-mails about why he shouldn't have to send a pic to get laid, his offer was so good, it shouldn't matter if he weighed 800 pounds and had a skin condition. Ummm. Yea. Now my fantasy is to meet someone who's fucked him. I want as much info as I can get before meeting him. Someone needs to write this man's memoirs, and I think I'm the guy to do it.

6.) There's this one asshole who posts ads every couple of months with these really specific age limits and things that he's willing to do. While his ads are always hilarious to read, I get the impression that he's fucking with people, and probably collecting stories for a book. I hate that shit.

7.) Special Occasion posters. These people always suggest that they're only being gay because it's some sort of holiday. Their birthday, Christmas, Ramadan, Arbor Day. Today, every tenth ad had some reference to "pulling levers" on "Erection Day". Oh, ha ha you clever faggot. I'd never noticed the similarity between election and erection until today. Really, you and the other thirty-five people that posted that today are the supreme height of witiness, why don't you go write a LiveJournal entry mocking other people for their Craigslist post. That will show them, huh?

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/78062.html

Another Personal Post

From an actual ad:

My boyfriend dumped me because he said I was needy. All I wanted was love, respect and the few things a relationship was based on. He never wanted to give me any of those things. Material things do not make up for emotional things. Why is it that was supposed to be an apology for not giving me the things that I want. I posted this here because Iknow he reads these. Im not sure what hurts worse

Uhhhhh, I would have dumped your needy ass, too, bitch. Jesus, it's one thing to confess something like this to your friend or in your Livejournal (*coughs politely*), but why the hell would you post a thing like that in a place where people are looking for casual gay sex.

Oh, right, because you wanted your boyfriend to see it. Well, if Elvis or Tommy, or any of my other exes posted an ad like that I'd certainly run out to take them back. In fact, I'd buy a car so I could drive over, pick them up, warmly embrace them, slap the handcuffs around their wrists and drive them to the nearest institution so they could get the help and attention they so desperately need.

If I were to place an ad on Craigslist this week (which I might do just for the amusement of viewing the responses, I don't think I have time or the interest for whoring this weekend), my ad would look like this:

Tricks For Treats

No, not those kind of tricks. I'm not offering anyone money for sex. I'm broke, too.

I'm a 27 year old versatile redhead looking for someone my age or younger for safe fun. I have the weekend off from work, and would rather not spend it masturbating to reruns of Queer as Folk. So, if you're a guy in your twenties, looking to get fucked or better yet interested in a full day of various positions/techniques, drop me a pic, and I'll reply in kind. While I am fairly open minded about things, I tend to be on the French Vanilla side of kink. I don't want you to dress me up in high heels and a Red Sox uniform and flog me with a leather whip. I also would appreciate keeping our bodily fluid interaction to saliva and sperm. Otherwise, let me know what you're into.

If you're a closet case, it's Halloween, put on a mask and an outift and pretend you have a fucken spine.

Busted

When I was living in Burlington, Vermont, a few of my friends were discussing how often they masturbated. I was distracting myself by imagining what our waiter would so like with my dick in his mouth.

"And I bet Adam masturbates at least a dozen times a week." The Dagster said.

"Probably more like twenty." said The Soggy Blind Lesbian.

They'd have been pleased to know that my actual masturbation per week average was comfortably between their guesses. But I wasn't going to tell them that.

I'm an incredibly sexual person. Deviant some might say. Still others would shout "Whore!". One of the things I'm proud of, though, is I have (or had until this journal) a low sexual profile, and I'd never been caught masturbating. I've walked in on friends, roommates, the Brazilian water polo team...wait, no that last one was a fantasy. The point is, while I've walked in on easily dozens of people masturbating (though not at the same time, that would have been awkward), I have never been caught with my pants down.

*cue ominous music*

While I may have masturbated between fourteen and twenty times a week back in the good old days of 2001, lately I've been in a serious rut. My libido isn't shrinking, it's just that I live with two roommates, one of whom has a six year old child. There is nearly always someone awake at my house. Usually working on the computer which is within close visual/audial range of my bedroom.

This morning marked...entirely too many...days/weeks since the last time I had an orgasm. At around four-thirty my mentally six year old, physically thirty-something year old roommate finally stopped playing "City of Heroes" and went to bed. I made myself some apples and peanut butter to celebrate my domination of the room, and appease my inner-kindergartner.

At six, the child/monster roommate went off to school, and the other adult roommate headed for work. I decided to literally seize My Opportunity (that's what I call him).

I opened up a dozen or so various porn sites. Remembered that pictures on The Internet just aren't doing it for me these days, and opened up my Porn Playlist on Media Player. I clicked on "random" and hit the forward button. The first movie was twenty minutes long. I decided that would be the duration I'd, pardon the pun, shoot for.

About fifteen minutes into the session, the phone rings. I'm waiting to find out if my book about bad gay sex experiences is coming out, Luckily, caller ID is in sight. It's not my publisher. If it had been her, I still wouldn't have interrupted my special time with my long neglected right hand. After all, I could legitimately claim I was doing research for the sequel. While I lean back from looking at the phone, I accidentally squish my left hand into the plop of peanut butter that I had yet to eat. I go to shake the peanut butter off my hand (yes, I know that doesn't work, but my brain was lacking proper blood flow at the time), and knock the dish on to the floor. For whatever reason, my dick decides this would be a great time to come. So I do, loudly and messily. There is now a broken dish, come and peanut butter all over the floor. And I hear footsteps.

I'm not sure whether the footsteps are my roommate coming upstairs, or one of the people from another apartment going down the stairs into the lobby. Just in case it's my roommate, I leap up to get paper towels, only to discover my feet have fallen asleep. I have just enough time to yell out "Fucker of God!" before I fall, pants around my ankles, on to the peanut butter, come, and dish covered floor.

My shouting attracts the attention of the neighbor who was coming down the stairs. I am briefly thankful that there is a door between us. "Are you okay in there?" Then I remember the door is not locked.

"Fine. Just dropped a dish. No need to come in."

I realize that, as I made to brace my fall, I cut my right palm on one of the broken dish pieces. So now there's blood in the mix. Our floor looks like a discount tie-dyed t-shirt. God, what if my neighbor, whose name I don't even know, came in and saw me like this? Would he laugh? Dial 911? Be aroused?

I imagine my book being released posthumously. "It was the greatest marketing gimmick you could ask for." My publisher would say. "A guy writes a collection of awkward sex stories and is found dead of embarrassment after a stranger walked in on a bizarre auto-erotic ritual involving blood and peanut butter. It's like John Waters meets Mel Brooks in a dark alley."

Luckily, my neighbor believes that I'm ok, and leaves. I fail to pass out or die. Instead, I hobble over to the kitchen and realize that we're all out of paper towels.

original posts: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/73473.html
http://community.livejournal.com/2_much_sex_info/147353.html
http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/864233.html

Razzy, Donna, and My New Favorite Oxymoron

When I was just four years old, the family dog died. I don't remember too much about it. I'm not even entirely sure if Razzy was a Rottweilier or a Black Lab. He is a big and blackish blur in my memory. My father told me some confusing nonsense about a "puppy farm in the sky" which led me to picture a floating garden with puppy heads growing in neat little rows.

Shortly afterwords, my parents and I went out to choose a new family pet. Over the years my mother had developed an intense allergy to dogs and cats, so eventually we were the proud owner of blue parakeet. He didn't lick me nearly as much as Razzy had.

There was never much drama surrounding family pets. I've owned one cat, three parakeets, umpteen billion fish, two hamsters, an assortment of gerbils that I bred for a local pet store, two chinchillas, six leopard geckos, one calote, one anole, and one flying squirrel. Not all at the same time, though I did have a gecko, the cat, the squirrel, the calote and the anole all in the same house for a brief period of time.

On the rare occasions that the pet died (the squirrel and Spider the Chinchilla I gave to a friend of mine), I buried/flushed it (buried the fish, flushed the cat obviously) and went on with my life.

When Zuzu's cat, Eureka, died after sixteen years, she and her son were understandably devastated. Eureka had been the only family pet. A true member of the family. I loved the little furball, even though he pissed all over my papers when I decided to move to Vermont.

After a few weeks of grief, Zuzu decided to go pet hunting. Because Zuzu is stubborn, and, well, batshit crazy, she couldn't go the normal route of pet stores or animal "shelters". Instead, she decided to call another one of our crazy friends for advice on what type of dog to get. A golden retriever? Too big. A miniature dachshund? Too likely that I'd punt it through a window when I visited.

I put my vote in for a chihuahua. I'm not a big fan of little dogs, but ever since I heard someone read a poem about how they shiver because they're in a state of constant orgasm, I've had an affinity for the little Taco Bell spokesmen. Plus, if Zuzu ever brought the dog over to my house, I would sit in front of the lizard tank and say "Heeeeeere leezard leeezard leezard" over and over again until it either stopped being funny, or the dog died of starvation.

Zuzu decided to call our friend Eve to get her opinion. I love Eve, she's a rock star. She served as bridesmaid to dozens of couples during the night they legalized gay marriages in Boston. The thing is, if you ask Eve whether or not she thinks you should get a chihuahua, she will give you a six hour lecture on the history of dogs beginning with their evolution from dinosaurs to their current role as purse accessories.

It was during Eve's canine magnum opus that Zuzu and I first heard of a lesbian couple who bred border collies. We agreed that border collies were beyond cute with their hypnotizing eyes and reserved nature. So Zuzu contacted the breeders (lesbian breeders? I've discovered a new oxymoron!) and set up an appointment to meet with them. But she weren't just going to go to their house and hang out with dogs, Donna and Elaine (the lesbians) wanted to show Zuzu the breeding process. So why shouldn't I tag along? What's more exciting than a Sunday afternoon kicking back a few Jack & Cokes and watching dogs fuck?

We reached Donna & Elaine's at around 11 AM. We had heard the dogs barking since 9:15. During our conversation with Donna, we had to yell in order to be heard. I was amazed at the way Elaine seemed to waltz around the room completely oblivious to the constant yapping of puppies. Turns out she's Deaf.

After some ASL dialogue, and witty repartée, we were ready to watch the breeding. At least, I thought we were ready.

I'm familiar with canine sex habits. Male sniffs female. Male gets erection. Male commences fucking. Mother Nature makes male doggy's cock so engorged with blood that he can't pull out until his little spermies have established property rights in female's uterus. No big whoop. The lesbians, however, had a different breeding method.

While we watched, a male dog, who we'll call Harrowed, was picked up by Elaine. Donna entered the room with a female dog, appropriately known as Bitch. Bitch was put down on a table so that her face and Harrowed's were level, though Harrowed was still being held by Elaine. Harrowed began sniffing her face. At this point, Donna brings out a large tube and begins jerking off Harrowed into the tube. When the tube is filled, Donna attaches it to a syringe and proceeds to inject it into Bitch's vagina.

"Oh don't look so traumatized." Donna said, while I sat in a chair looking and being traumatized. "How did you think dogs were bred."

I know how dogs are supposed to breed. What these people, these lesbians were doing was just cruel. Just because they can't get pregnant without use of a sperm donor and a turkey baster is no reason to inflict their lifestyle on their dogs. Fuck marriage and adoption, lesbians should not be allowed to breed dogs.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/73027.html

Flyer Monkey

A witch, an orphan, and The Phantom of the Opera walk into a bar. The bartender says "What the fuck?" The orphan says "Can we use your restroom?"

Last Wednesday night, my roommate announced that he would like to go to Las Vegas. I went over the pros and cons of the city, as I saw them. One of the largest cons (besides Celine Dion and iodine filled shrimp) on my list was the barrage of people who stand outside the casinos smacking flyers against their palms and sticking them in the front of your face. I referred to those people as soulless inbred pieces of shit. This week I call them colleagues.

When Zuzu called me and said that a company wanted to pay me $20 an hour to dress up as The Phantom of the Opera and hand out flyers, I thought...well, I didn't think anything, little green dollar signs flashed in my eyes, my dick got hard, and I began to drool. This is clearly a sign that I need to reconsider my career options.

On Thursday afternoon, I listened in on The Conference Call of the Damned. Dozens of people from around the country who, like me, had chosen to sell their dignity in order to play dress up, called and asked ridiculous questions of the incompetent managers running the promotion. When the managers felt they had distributed all the appropriate knowledge to us lowly pions, they deigned we could hang up the phone, one of my boneheaded colleagues shouted "I'm SanFranPhantom2004 on AIM, IM me." I considered donating some of my pride to him, but I know he'd only abuse it.

Friday night I went to see/participate in a show with Steggy and veritable who's who of my friends list (meaning that if I posted their journal names you'd be like "who's that? I've never seen them comment before"). Unfortunately, I didn't get to do any Insafemode stuff, but that's ok, I got to satirize Steggy AND hear a bunch of my favorite poets from MA. When I got home shortly after midnight, I sat down to watch John Stewart bitch slap Crossfire. The doorbell rang. At 1:05 AM some motherfucker was ringing my goddamned doorbell. Zuzu was that motherfucker.

We drove to her house, my humble abode circa 2000, and then again circa 2001. After some pistachios and chai, she gave me the first of the bad news. Chuck the Incompetent (what can you expect from a grown man who goes by Chuck?) had told both men in the promotion that they would be the phantom. The other guy being a 75 year old man. The other character in the promotion being Oliver Twist. Now, for the benefit of mankind, I was willing to concede that I should be the one dressed as a twelve year old orphan. So I put on the torn shirt, ripped corduroys, green neckerchief, and paperboy hat (I bet you'd like to see a picture of that you sick fucks). Meanwhile, Zuzu put on her Tracy Turnblad costume.

When I lived in the house with Zuzu, her husband and their son, the neighbors gave us lots of dirty looks. More than a couple of people believed that we were living some sordid swinger life. I can only imagine what these neighbors were thinking when they peered through the windows at 3 AM and saw Zuzu in a big wig and a housedress featherdusting while I wandered around the kitchen dressed like a twelve year old orphan.

The next morning Chuck called to give us moral support. He called Zuzu's house and told us how stupid the people from the California promotion were. He called the other half of our team and told them how stupid the Chicago people were. He also mentioned how hard it was to cast the New York show, what with all the black people replying to the ads. "You can't have a black Phantom of the Opera. That would be like a gay Oliver."

The promotion was scheduled to start somewhere in the city at nine. At 11 or so, we all met in a parking garage, introduced ourselves and walked out into the public eye. Actually we walked into auditions for the fucken Real World. Picture 2 men, and 3 women dressed in Broadway show costumes weaving through hundreds of 18-24 year old "reality TV" hopefuls. There were a few cat calls. And yes, by putting on ridiculous costumes and walking the streets of Boston we sacrificed a bit of our dignity. You can make fun of us for that. But while we're losers for pretending to be somewhere else, if your narcissistic ass gets a part on The Real World, you'll be branded a loser just for being yourself. May you all get stuck on Road Rules, trailer trash.

From the very beginning of Day One, I got all kinds of flirt play. Mostly from fairly hot looking women, but from a few Broadway geek gays, too. I was returning the flirt to one such boy when I noticed this really sleazy looking Skeletor standing in a puddle of his own drool. He limps over to me and starts talking to me about how much he loves musicals, and he's really happy that young men like myself are able to make money acting in musicals. Whatever, freak. After a few seconds of me obviously trying to ignore him without being so obvious that I drop character, he asks what high school I go to.

EWWWWWW. Look you middle-sighted Skeletor looking pedophile, I'm not at all flattered that you think I look young enough to be in high school. I felt like calling over one of the cops that was in the area and asking them to beat him with their nightclubs.

I understand the attraction to youth thing, but if I'm sixty years old and approaching what I think to be a high school student on the street in an attempt to get some play, I hope they taser my testicles and drag me back to the senior citizen concentration camp.

Don't get me wrong, I don't see anything wrong with old people and young people dating (I'm a little grossed out in most cases, but to each their own deviance) but old people harassing teenagers is just bleurgh. No amount of Viagra in the world...

The rest of the day was smoother than a queen's upper lip. People loved us. Hordes of tourists demanded to take pictures of us, and then took flyers by the handful. Not one was thrown on the ground. We were promotion whores. Around oneish we hit The Commons, where we were serenaded by a homeless man dressed as The Cat in the Hat. If I'm ever down on my luck, I will write an inspirational story about this man. At three we turned around, and began our pilgrimage to the car. All in all, a fantastic day.

The second day began the badness. Being smarter than the coma patient who dreamed up this promotion, I suggested we head to the Theatre District and hand out flyers about a Broadway themed television show to the people who were paying top dollar to go see Broadway shows. This is why they pay me the big bucks. Unfortunately, parking in Boston on Sunday near the Theatre District is an ugly zoo. It took, literally, hours, for us to find parking. While the women searched for parking Grandpa Phantom and I headed to The Wang to pass out flyers. We were quickly told to disperse.

When we met up with Zuzu, The Witch, and Thoroughly Modern Millie, we decided to hit up some high traffic locations that we'd avoided the day before. On the way there, we made a return trip to The Common. This time, instead of flocks of tourists, there was a mob centered around one of the park bench areas. The Phantom and I were leary of the mob, so we stood back while the womenfolk began pestering the people of the mob. That's when I noticed the cross. So did Zuzu and "Millie," both of whom backed off. Meanwhile, during a moment of silence for the homeless Christians of Boston, a woman in a witch costume was handing out flyers for a television show. Oddly, no one was struck by lightning.

Other highlights of the day included being waved into a senior citizen home where all the residents took pictures and flyers, and getting free advertising by the Duck Tours staff who took flyers, and pointed us out every time they drove past us, making sure to note the TV show we were promoting and when it airs. Go Ducks.

On our way through the North End, we encountered some sort of hockey team who took pictures with us. After the photos were taken, I handed one of the ugly monkeys a flyer which he refused. He said "I don't watch no Broadway shows" much the way a hooker will tell a cop "I don't suck no dick for crack money."

Around two o'clock we headed toward The Opera House, where The Lion King would be getting out. Unlike those assholes at The Wang, the lovely staff at The Opera House were more than happy to allow us to hand out Broadway related flyers to the people leaving a Broadway show. Right around the corner from The Opera House, a mob of people with photos snapped hundreds of pictures of us, and took hundreds of flyers. They were there to take pictures of The Yankees leaving their hotel room. And so it was that a mob of Yankee fans, Red Sox Nation, the audience of The Lion King, and five soulless TV promoters shared the same block in Boston, MA. We gave out ten thousand flyers. TEN THOUSAND in thirty minutes. They had given us five days to give out fifteen thousand. Chuck and his bosses should each fly out here to Boston and suck my cock for coming up with the "pass out flyers in the Theatre District" idea.

They won't. Chuck would probably have said something like "I hope you didn't give any tickets to the gooks or the spics. They don't like Broadway shows."

Now we had a conundrum. We'd signed up for five days of work handing our flyers. In one and a half days, the tickets were all gone. We decided as a group to call Chuck and ask him to send more tickets, hinting that we might need more, not letting him now that we were finished with the job. So Chuck mailed us out more tickets.

For whatever reason, we were forbidden to work on Monday (further proof that Chuck belongs to some weirdo cult for the creatively challenged). So this morning, the witch, the phantom, "Millie", Zuzu and I met in the pouring rain to hand out flyers in malls. This is, by the way, completely against policy in every mall in America. Incompetent Chuck and friends had not arranged any place for us to go in case of rain. I knew, having done my tour of duty as a mall worker, that handing out flyers on their property was going to get us in trouble. Once again, I came to the rescue. I harassed the nice folks of Borders and Barnes & Noble, all of whom were overjoyed to take stacks of flyers from us. Still, we had been contracted to hand the flyers out on the streets, so in my two size too small shoes (which I forgot to mention earlier), I trudged through the rain where angry suits, aging Valley Girls, and the sort of black-eyelined cutting pseudo-goth whose LJ name likely includes the word "bitch" "pain" or "vindicated" refused to take flyers.

There are five common moves used to avoid getting flyers:

Move #1 is the no-eye contact fly by. I approve whole-heartedly to this approach. You don't want the flyer or your time wasted. I agree that you have a right not to talk to me, hot and charming as I may be.

Move #2: The two handed cell phone approach. This says that you would take a flyer but your cell phone is so heavy that you just can't carry anything else. This is usually accompanied by a shrug.

Move #3: The head shake and grimace. Kind of like the no-eye contact fly by but with a "Fuck you for interrupting my very busy day of molesting children and stealing from the poor" cherry on top.

Move #4: Feigned interest. You listen to the spiel, ask questions, then leave without taking a flyer. Have you nothing better to do? I don't. If I did, I'd be doing it. Either take a flyer or go back to your job at Starbuck's.

Move #5: Arm waving hostility. This is accompanied by screaming and moral outrage. Luckily, none of the promoters in my group were the recipient of move #5. But while we were in Harvard Square in the wind and rain, we were interspersed with people trying to get donations and volunteers for John Kerry and a similar group for George Bush. One poor sap asked some liberal looking guy if he'd like to donate to Kerry. The guy got really indignant and began waving his hands and screaming "I've already given $500 to the Kerry campaign and $500 to the Democrats. Thanks to this ridiculous McBane law (his ignorance, not mine), I can't legally blah blah blah. Why can't you guys give me a pin or something so you know that I've done all I legally can. Stop harassing me blah blah blah." While he ranted, I asked the pro-Bush people for a stack of flyers, and stuck them in the manpurse the guy was carrying.

At the end of the day, wet, sullen, burly, blister-footed, I dragged myself to the bar where I have, on occasion, met my prospective publisher. I hoped she would show, see me in all my raggedy glory so she would be inspired to either speed up the publication/check cutting process or at least see the limits I was willing to go to get material for my next book.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/67715.html

Virus Coming At Choo

The file attachment said "Downloadable Virus". I downloaded it simply because I wanted to support truth in advertisement. And while I've heard of viruses that do horrible things like delete your harddrive, give your dogs worms, e-mail kiddie porn to your parole officer, or give you AIDS, the "Downloadable Virus" virus is different. As soon as it was done downloading, all of the plot points and non-penetrative shots were cut from my porn collection.

Usually, I leave my computer running for weeks on end. My computer repairman says it's good for my computer. He tells me this every month when I go in to have him fix whatever's wrong with it. For whatever reason, last night I turned my computer off. When I turned it on this morning, it was a completely different machine.

Instead of a crappy 1995 Packard Bell Statesman, it was a Dell XPS that's so large it doesn't have to access The Internet, it actually has the entire Internet inside it.

Have you ever been to one of those technology museums where they have pictures or scale models of The Univac? The entire Univac could fit in the cooling system of the Dell XPS. But unlike the ugly 1950s dinosaur reel to reel look of the Univac, the Dell XPS has the a futuristic blue look that just screams “Look at me, I’m almost as trendy and cool looking as a Mac!”

The XPS turned on instantly when I turned it on, unlike my Statesman which took approximately six hours to load through Windows 3.1. All of my icons were alphabetized, and all the useless programs like Microsoft Internet Explorer, Microsoft Office, and well, anything with Microsoft in their name were deleted.

This Downloadable Virus was the best thing to happen to my computer since they invented Lemmings.

I decided to send a copy to everyone in my contacts folder. When I clicked on the send button, the computer actually told me who would and wouldn’t bother to even read my e-mail. Wow, technology is astounding.

The only downside to the virus that I’ve discovered so far is that it doesn’t allow pop ups. How will I know how to spend my money if I’m not constantly barraged with Lava Life Dating Service, and Sovereign Bank ads?

The reason why I’m writing about this, is that if I can get four thousand more people to download “Downloadable Virus,” I will get a free iPod. Despite their cool, pink minimalist ads, I’m not sure what an iPod is, but I iMagine iT must be cool iN order for iT to have a liTtle i at the beginning of it. Does anyone know what the i stands for? It can’t be Internet, because Internet is always capitalized, which is weird because according to our Yale graduate President there are several internets. Who decided which one got the capital? I mean if we had two presidents, would one be a president, and the other a President? Now that I think about it, after our last completely legitimate, no funny stuff at all election, I remember a bunch of people referring to bush as the Resident. Maybe I misread those bumper stickers and t-shirts, maybe it said pResident. mAybe tHere’s mOre tO tHis cApitalization tHing tHat i’M nOt cLever eNough to uNderstand.

Anyway, if any of you have time to help me get the iPod thingie (it kind of looks like a hearing aid, not one of those cool little Miracle Ear things, but one of those huge old Game Boy sized things that death people had to wear in ancient times), I’d really appreciate it. I really want to be as cool as this guy.

In other exciting e-mail news, I got an e-mail from Geneology.com that says they can trace the Safemode family all the way back to the Civil War. This is really cool because I thought I made the name up. Apparently I just appropriated someone else’s legitimate last name. The legitimate last name of a descendant of one of those brave men and woman who battled the British in the Civil War. I feel really guilty about this. I’m thinking about finally just coming out and giving my real name in this journal. Stay tuned!

Speaking of (actually it’s more like “typing of”, aren’t I clever) staying tuned. I was totally enamored by the pResidential debates this week. That Bush is a fantastic public speaker. He has that je ne say kwa, whatever that means, that makes me believe every word that comes out of his mouth. And he keeps his emotions so carefully guarded. He must be a hell of a good poker player. Kerry, on the other hand, strikes me as a bit of a spoiled rich kid. He didn’t have to work his way up through the ranks of the metal class the way Bush did. All he has to do is snap his fingers and Teresa Hunt’s gives him fifty-seven varieties of money to spend on all those negative TV ads from the Swiss veterans.

Those Swiss are so shifty. How can you trust a bunch of people known only for their meatballs and massages? My mom tells me that Sweden is the biggest province in France, and we all know how shifty those French Nazis are. They’re pancakes, just like sEnator Kerry.

Well, I have to go now. I have this really kewl idea for a Snape/Sirius/Hermoine/Frodo/Dax fanfic that’s going to totally change the world of dribble. When I’m done, Hairy Potter fans aren’t going to be able to sit for a week, and not because they got their asses kicked by the audio/video kids.

Oh, before I go, someone in nonsensicals posted something about me being a troll. I happen to take great pride in how well trimmed my body hair is. Is it possible that troll refers to my habit of cruising for gay sex under bridges, or is this one of those trendy new internet terms that I’m not privy to?

Oh well, as the late grating Maury Povich said, Until Next Time America!

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/64898.html

Break Up Letters To The Damned

On October 6th, 2004, I posted a meme in my LIvejournal, asking people to break up with me. In return, I would break up with them. These are the breakup letters I'm most proud of:

Chris,

This may be the wrong time for a blender. Too soon for the microwave and cappuccino machine, as well. I think if we call Wal-Mart now, and let them know that the wedding is off, all our relatives will be able to return our wedding gifts for a refund.

I'm truly sorry things didn't work out between us. Maybe next time you'll remember there is no u in matrimony, though there is a y and an o, but without the u, those letters spell yo; as in yo, Chris, I can't believe you cheated on me with Dick Cheney. You're so dumped.

***

Brandon,

You're right. It isn't me. It is you.

It's the way you crush entire cans of Pringles, and scatter the crumbs on my waterbed. It's the way you melt candles into my ear while I sleep. It's the way you always drink all the Sunny D, leaving me with a fridge full of OJ and Purple Stuff.

I can't take the way you mispronounce my name. It's not Bitchtits Macfuckyourself, it's Trent. They don't sound anything alike. I don't want to even get into the names you call me in bed. Who can keep track?

I'm sorry you never loved me enough to make eye contact. It's over.

***

I should have left you at hello. When you told me you wanted to plug me in like an improper fraction in an equation, I hoped you were merely being derivative. But the day I came home to find you'd screamed the glass out of my windows, I shuddered.

I'm not sorry. Somehow I knew you'd lick the creme out of my Oreos and replace it with strychnine. I had the feeling that when you offered to make me breakfast in bed, you'd intended to grind my up into sausages while I slept.

It's over Enola Rayne. I can't be with someone who can't kill me with kindness or a cutting remark. Call me the next time you're in Big City. We'll have coffee over for dinner, and spill beans across the desert that's formed between us, waiting for a stalk to rise to the sky.

***

Is that all I was to you? A Bea Arthur substitute?

Fine, you can have your Ben & Jerry. You always did have a thing for hippies with corporate expense accounts and an infinite amount of Chubby Hubby ice cream.

But while you're up there waiting for the license for a polyamorous civil union, I'll be laying out on a chaise lounge with Tom & Jerry. Tom, who scratched my back while you were guffawing at Rose's St. Olaf stories, and Jerry who starring in those American Express commercials way back when you were nothing but a tadpole in a whale's jumpsuit.

Goodbye Joshua, may your right hand twist around your heart, and your sweet sweet blood drip on to the cold tundra and disappear like a Branch Dividian's faith at the No Longer Pearly Gates. You were never Gallileo. You weren't even Mr. Wizard.

***

Last night, I thought of you while I was raking the house of leaves into a pile big enough for a bonfire. I'm burning all the love notes you forgot to write me. I hope their smoke will reach your nose as you inhale the cologne of your next lover. The smell will remind you of the barbequed potato chips I used to sneak out in the middle of the night to buy you when you were depressed. You'll cry. A tear will slip down your cheek, and solidify to at the touch of your marble floor. Over the years, the rotation of the Earth, and its changing orbit will lead the tear back to me. On the day it rolls from beneath my leather baggage, I'll accidentally crush it like an amethyst egg beneath my Hush Puppies, and release the sound your voice makes when he kisses you. I'll sigh without knowing quite why, and then go about my business.

***

Tonight, much to my dismay, I realized I am biassexual. I can love everyone except you. This may have something to do with all the times you've forwarded GW Bush's calls to my voicemail, or it could be the way you make like your flipping your hair when you're angry, even though you're as bald as Mr. Bigglesworth's baby after chemotherapy.

Whatever the reason, I can't get past it anymore. It's an SUV parked sideways in the middle of a highway.

You can call me if you ever find yourself with a quarter and no one to call. Just don't expect me to pick up.

***

Felch,

I regret to inform you that upon reading your letter, I seem to have accidentally run over Ethyl with the lawn mower a few dozen times. Hildegard is mourning the loss by pissing in all of your fetish boots.

I wish I could say I was surprised by your sudden descent into BDSM, but I knew from the moment you asked me to puncture your cornea with a needle full of boric acid, that our love would be the Gigli of gay marriages.

I wish you the best of luck in your future career as a duct tape repairman.

--I see fandom

***

Wolf,

That isn't a dress I'm wearing, it's a garbage bag. It's raining outside and you jacked my raincoat.

Maybe we weren't meant to be together. You were always stealing zucchini out of my crisper to do God Knows What, and I haven't been able to find my furby since you discovered that he vibrated when he laughed.

Look, you're a nice girl (by which I mean fat) with a great personality (ugly as a bulldog with burn scars), and I'm sure you'll find someone who is right for you (if you start hanging out with coma patients). I just hope that after all this, we can still be friends (please don't ever call or e-mail me again).

--yeafS

***

Canth, you ignorant slut,

The word you were looking for isn't wimp, it's pussy. As in canthlian is such a pussy every three weeks he has to stick tampons up his nose to keep from bleeding on his shirts.

How dare you imply that I don't have the world's largest cock. You can see my phallus from space, bizznatch. I would tell you to fuck off and die, but that would entail you getting laid again, and I don't think anyone else should have to suffer through the shitdick that sex with you entails. (Yea, I used entails twice motherfucker, you want to make something of it? I'll skewer your entrails, if you get what that entails.)

Off and die,
--do me I fanse

p.s. Can I have your new boyfriend's number after you off yourself?

***

Steggy,

Somewhere beyond the prosaic desserts of Key Lime and Waterlemon Meringue, inbetween the Molehill Mountains and Buttermilk Sea, is a practically fractally challenged diva with test pattern vision and a plexiglass heart.

She is of no consequence to you.

You who would batter pancakes like mouthy wives, and hide your ample sausage in the freezers of bisexual women. You are a washcloth. You are an ampersand.

When The Mango Princess went pregnant with pauses, you swallowed her down like an "I love you."

I can't be with a man who swallows I love you hoarse pills but would proudly change me into Regie Cabico. How can I love a man with a fetish for diapers and burning firewood children for a mere spark of inspiration? How? I can not. I can not love a man who cracks jokes like Formica and pisses on the rugs of prematurely balding furries.

If I can not love you I must curse you. An inch of snow for every bunny-suited giggle. An uncomfortable couch for every frantic waving of hands. For your propensity for verbose moroscosity, I sentence you to four weeks of winter with an unplugged refrigerator full of cheese and only an unlucky dragon for company.

Is it not common knowledge that Goulash the Great climbed down from his pumpking patch hideaway and showered golden poetastiness on the formaldehidden corpse of Coyote the Bear? And when Coyote the Bear eased into the hot springs and made to steal Goulash's newspaper and picnic basket, did he not run thirty-seven miles to the nearest coffeeeshop where he stopped for a nice cup of chameleon tea? Lo, we shall never know for sure.

But it iswritten that Goulash, upon hearing your name, dropped trou like a charcoal briskette, and said unto thee, “pthththththththththth.”

You think you can stoat your way into my bedroom with your electrolyte play and French Fry manicured toenails? Well, pishaw to you, fruity. You were never the Tidus of my Final Fantasy XXX.

***

J,

You're a pimple where genitalia should be, a troll on a bulletin board. When I woke up, after a night of huffing swampgas and kickboxing with sasquatches, I understood why people waterproof witticisms and bury ostriches upside down in sanddunes. You're biscotti in a breadbasket, an unavailable number on CallerID.

***

You fucken pussy-licking, dildo breathed, shit stain. How dare you think you could break up with me. Do you know who I am?

I'm the Simon to your Garfunkle. The Garfield to your Odie. The Odin to your raven. The rave to your hokey pokey.

Did you really think I would shatter like a Faberge egg on a concrete patio just because you decided my cock and vocabulary were too much for you? Well I'm made of stronger stuff. I am asphalt wrapped in Laffy Taffy with an admantium shell.

You couldn't dump me if you had a million friends. My ego is too heavy for you to even lift you pansy-assed, narcissistic, unfocused eyed sceintist! Trying to back out of this relationship now will slowly kill you. The long nights crying into your bedpan wondering why you ever gave up someone who could make you come just by whispering your name in someone else's ear. The endless days masturbating to the last grocery list I mad eout and ordered you to go shopping for. You'd miss me like you were a pie wielding liberal, and I was Ann Coultier.

Can't you see? I'm trying to save you from a life spent wishing you had just shut up and let me fuck you. So ziplock your windbag shut and bend over.

My Newest Pet: Peeve

I've been up for less than an hour. I've had my breakfast, and done my friends list checking, and I already have a new pet peeve:

Why, when I'm eating breakfast, do so many people on my friends list feel the need to post pictures of their or someone else's asshole or vagina? Fucken ewww. Let's forget for a moment (or maybe, blissfully, forever) the vagina pictures. Let's focus on the assholes posting asshole pics. I'm an ass man. I love me some ass, but the actual asshole is not attractive. Especially when it looks like it just got done passing a Buick. Good god, I've spent a good chunk of my life fucking gay hos up the ass but I've never seen such nasty-ass assholes. Do these people have to sit on fire hydrants to get that look? I'd link the pictures, but I respect your right not to have to see upclose shots of anal cavities.

Why can't these people post up close pictures of other things I like. I'd love to be able to write:

Why, when I'm eating breakfast, do so many people on my friends list feel the need to post pictures of their or someone else's Cherry Coke or Pepsi Blue? Fucken ewww. Let's forget for a moment (or maybe, blissfully, forever) the Pepsi Blue pictures. Let's focus on the cokeheads posting Cherry Coke pics. I'm a Cherry Coke man. I love me some Cherry Coke, but the actual bottle mouths are not attractive. Especially when they look like they just got done passing a Buick. Good god, I've spent a good chunk of my life drinking Cherry Coke from the bottle but I've never seen such nasty-ass bottle mouths. Do these bottles have to sit on fire hydrants to get that look? I'd link the pictures, but I respect your right not to have to see upclose shots of carbonation cavities.

That wasn't nearly as painful (unless you count the Pepsi Blue reference...did they learn nothing from the sweet tasting tragedy of Crystal Pepsi?), was it?

A lot of you may be wondering what this has to do with my sex life. You're hoping beyond hope that there's a point here that has nothing to do with goatse or fire hydrants. Maybe it'll be about my relationship between my asshole & a Cherry Coke bottle. To you I say, that's really fucken gross. My point is, Ethan's ass looks like he sat on a church steeple and slid all the way down to the ground.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/46381.html?view=2874157#t2874157