Sunday Afternoon, NYC

It's Sunday afternoon and God has gone fishing for compliments in a puddle of mud. All I have are four notebooks, this park bench, and five hours until soon arrives. My faith is in escrow. If you draw lines between my freckles you end up with a map of my failures.

I woke up this morning to the sound of birds chirping broken glass. Wind chimes whispered promises of contentment. I opened my eyes and found myself in the temple of another man. I turned to Mecca and preyed on forgiveness.

I took a bus without windows to a city I can't navigate. The bookstores were all out of Maps, and Mapquest told me they were six miles between where I was sitting and where I wanted to be soon. The problem with soon is that it never comes as fast as I'd like, but it goes too quickly. I decided I'd get to soon sooner if I walked the wrong way down a one way street, and sure enough my six mile journey was only a half mile long. The world is getting smaller by the minute.

I believe all this is in direct proportion to the expansion of my dreams. As my imagination gets bigger, your reality is shrinking. Soon, you will all be swallowed by it.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/127630.html

Insafemode's Seafood Diet

Still inbetween homes at the moment, couch surfing mostly with Zuzu and Celeste. At times like this, my eating gets very erratic. I don't get hungry very often, but when I do, I tend to eat utter garbage. Today, I decided to stick to a very specific mealplan. Only things that come from the ocean went into my mouth.

For brunch, Goldfish. For dinner, a healthy meal of Swedish Fish. And, of course, for desert, Phish Food.

By Saturday, I shall weigh five hundred pounds.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/125015.html

The Vagina Game

I've been spending loads of time with Zuzu and Celeste for the last few days. I then realized, spending time with Zuzu is not a very intelligent way to try and stay sane. She's one of my favorite people in the world, but the only time her and stable belong in the same sentence is when she's looking to buy a horse.

While watching Adult Swim with Celeste and her rockstar boyfriend, we began playing The Game. Not the rapper. The Game is something Celeste told me about months ago, and we occasionally break into without warning. The rules are simple, you take the name of a movie or an album or a TV show or whatever, and substitute one of the words in the title with the word "Vagina". Favorite results that I can remember are:

Chasing Vagina
The Lord of the Vagina
The Hunt For Red Vagina
Dude, Where's My Vagina?
Requiem for a Vagina
Vagina Night Fever -or- Saturday Night Vagina
The Thin Red Vagina
Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Vagina
The Eternal Sunshine of the Spottless Vagina
Fast Vagina at Ridgemont High
Vagina Fast, Vagina Furious
Willie Wonka & the Chocolate Vagina
Willy Wonka and the Vagina Factory
Moulin Vagina
The Vagina Monologues
The Vagina Takes Manhattan
The Vagina Before Christmas
The Five Thousand Vaginas of Dr. T
The Vagina Who Stole Christmas -or- The Grinch Who Stole Vagina
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Vagina Club Band
The Vagina From The Black Lagoon
Scary Vagina 3
Buffy the Vagina Slayer
The Vagina Chainsaw Massacre
Sisterhood of the Traveling Vaginas
The Longest Vagina
Joe Versus the Vagina
Vagina Everlasting
10 Things I Hate About Vagina
vagina earthquakes
under the vagina
boys for vagina
songs from the choirgirl vagina
to vagina and back
strange little vaginae
vagina's walk (or, scarlet's vagina)
tales of a vagina
the vaginakeeper
i'm not a pretty vagina
up up up up up vagina
so much shouting, so much vagina
vagina i.q.
knuckle vagina
reckoning/vagina (or: vagina/revelling)
Fried Green Vaginas
Vagina vs. Predator
The Man in the Iron Vagina
As Vagina As It Gets
Good Vagina Hunting
The Muppets Take Vagina
A Midsummer Night Vagina
50 Ways to Leave Your Vagina
Vagina Fantasy: the Spirit Within (Or, Final Fantasy: the Vagina Within)
Night of the Living Vagina (Vagina of the Living Dead)
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Vagina
The Sound of Vagina (The Vagina of Music)
The Usual Vaginas
Farenheit Vagina
My Big Fat Greek Vagina
American Vagina X
Cat on a Hot Tin Vagina
The Cat in the Vagina!
Babe 2: Pig in the Vagina
The Amityville Vagina
The Blair Witch Vagina
Bonfire of the Vaginas
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Vagina
Cruel Vaginas
Dead Vagina Walking
Dirty Pretty Vaginas
I'm Gonna Git You, Vagina
The Naked Gun 2 1/2: The Smell of Vagina
Oh Vagina, Where Art Thou?
All's Quiet on the Western Vagina
A Clockwork Vagina
Full Metal Vagina
Vaginas Wide Shut
Riding In Vagina With Boys
Raiders of the Lost Vagina
Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Vagina
Indiana Jones And The Vagina Crusade
The Unbearable Vagina of Being
The Vagina of King George
The Vagina Vs. Larry Flynt
Velvet Vagina (or Vagina Goldmine)
Wag the Vagina
A Fish Called Vagina
What Vaginas May Come
Deep Impact
The Talented Mr. Vagina
Vagina Begins
Vagina Wars
The Vagina Strikes Back
Return of the Vagina
The Phantom Vagina -or- The Vagina Menace
Monty Vagina's Flying Circus
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Vagina
Vaginas of the Caribbean: The Curse of The Black Pearl
Three Men And A Little Vagina
The Vaginas Of Baron Munchausen
Vagina Returns
Snatch

Beat Up Insafemode The Bruce Campbell Way

Tuesday night, I was assaulted by Bruce Campbell. It was past seven PM on an already trying day that had included work, a bus accident (the narcoleptic MBTA employee driving the bus I was on crashed into a stopped car at a traffic light), and stops at every house in the Boston area I have ever lived in (with the exception of the one I shared with Melissa Plummer). I was scheduled to meet Zuzu and Lot at 6:00 in Coolidge Corner. Due to the bus accident, I was running about a half hour late. Naturally, I was there about an hour before Zuzu and Lot.

The first thing I see at the theater is a sign that reads "All Bruce Campbell events are SOLD OUT." Bugger. I do a shakedown of the line, asking strangers for extra tickets. I get two. There are three of us.

When Zuzu and Lot show up, I run out of the standby line to give them my tickets, thus losing both tickets and line space. I will never make it in. Luckily, the ticket guy feels pity for the fact that I had worked my ass off for two tickets, and then gave them away, so he lets me in.

I am standing at the end of the aisle, trying to find Zuzu and Lot in the theater when someone knocks on my back like they're being chased by coyotes, and my back is the door of their insomniac savior. I turn around.

Bruce Campbell: Hi.
Me: Uh. Hey.
Bruce Campbell:You're in my way.
Me: Yes.
Bruce Campbell looks at me inquisitively.
Me:I should get out of your way.
Bruce Campbell: Yes. Yes you should.
Me: I'm going to sit down.
Bruce Campbell (laughing) : Ok, then. Good.

I sit down in the only empty seat in sight. Bruce shoots me one more look, snickers, and trots down the rest of the aisle to thunderous applause. He announces that instead of reading from his new book Make Love the Bruce Campbell Way, he is going to do a question and answer session for an hour, then start signing books. A woman to my left says really loudly in a thick indistinguishable Eastern Europeanesque accent "I am not shy. Is a book. Is down. Where?"

Bruce either doesn't hear her or chooses not to reply. Instead he calls on a random lady in the audience. Zuzu. She asks something about Sam Raimi. He answers it, then says something incredibly flirtatious to her.

"I am not shy. Is movie theater." Incoherent mumbling.

Bruce calls on some geeky guy.

Crazy Lady screams "I am from Latvia. I am not shy." Something Something "Russian mafia."

Bruce says "I don't think I called on you, but since you won't stop talking, what is your question?"

"I am from Latvia. I am not shy." Something Something "Upset."

"I don't know what you're saying."

"I am not shy." Rikki-Tikki-Tembo-No-Sorembo-Cherry-Berry-Bucci-Pip-Berry-Pembo "Kill me."

"Yea. Look Latvia. I don't know what you're saying. Why don't you ask your question to someone around you, and I'll call on them to translate."

"I am not shy." Blah Blah Super Soaker "Why won't you answer my question?"

"Because I don't know what it is. Who's next?"

For the next twenty minutes or so, Latvia tries several times to ask her incoherent question, despite the fact that she is never called on.

"You've gotten a hero's welcome here in Boston." Some sixteen year old in a black shirt says. "Is there anywhere you've ever been where you've felt like the local people didn't like you?"

"Yea." Bruce says. "I hear they hate me in Latvia."

"I am not shy. People who use bad languages are not bridges."

I wonder what the bad languages are. Icelandic? Swahili? Elbonian?

"Could someone," Bruce asks, "preferably four large someones escort Miss Latvia out of theater?"

He then goes on to an interesting story about how, through his chain of logic, he's going to be playing Spider Man in Spider Man 3. I'm listening so intently to it that I don't see who it is that removes Latvia's Least Wanted.

After the session is over, Zuzu, Lot, and I head to the bookstore to buy a copy of his book. Latvia is at the counter. "I will not but this book." She says, waving around a copy of If Chins Could Kill. "He is trying to kill me. Always he follows me to the grocery store. Is Russian agent. He thinks I don't see him, but he is not bridge."

The lady behind the counter nods the service industry "you're a nutbag, but I'm stuck behind this counter and must talk to you" nod.

"Not bridge! Not bridge!"

Five minutes later, she leaves.

I purchase a blank book to use for a One-Off. While I'm at the counter, I compliment the lady on how well she handled The Latvian.

"Oh, it's nothing." She says. "Last week Mitt Romney was trying to kill her. The week before that it was Tony the Tiger. She's a popular mark for assassins and members of the Russian mafia."

The only thing I tried to shoot her with was a nasty look.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/122297.html

A Brief Conversation With God

God has Cancer. God is HIV Positive. God spent most of last Thursday night in Church looking for answers, but all he got were more questions. Now he knows why I haven't been inside a Church for years, unless I'm in the basement stuffing non-religious books into non-religious envelopes.

"I'm sorry." God says. "I don't mean to bother you, but..." and he begins weeping again. It's a quiet series of not quite sobs. It is to crying what hiccups are to breathing fire.

I take my headphones off, so I can hear him better should he resume speaking. I am sure he will resume speaking. He's God.

"I'm sorry. I'll be right back." And God gets up to collect himself.

Maybe I'm still dizzy. Maybe this isn't God at all, but some homeless weirdo who will hit me up for money just before "our" bus shows up. I dip my head back into Running with Scissors for less than a minute when I hear, "I got you something to drink." And there is God again, and he hands me a Cherry Coke. Homeless, maybe. Definitely God.

"I was in Vietnam." he says. I know this, because according to most spiritual people, and many sensible religions, God is everywhere. This is how he can both be in the White House advising our noble Resident, George W. Bush on how to get rid of Social Security and queers at the very same time he can be sitting next to me almost sort of crying. "I died over there. But they brought me back. I didn't want to come back."

So God is Buffy Sommers after Buffy The Vampire Slayer was moved from the WB to UPN. I can almost hear him singing "I was in Heaven.....Heaven." But, you know, he's God, and some people believe there is God in everyone, so of course there's a little bit of God in Sarah Michelle Gellar. I try to imagine Xander, Willow, and Dawn standing around a grave, and this short, unshaven, vaguely ethnic looking person climbing out of the grave and handing them each a Cherry Coke. I am so deep in this vision, that I miss something about drugs and death.

"I've never done anything bad." He says. "Anything. I'm always good, but everything is just so hard." And only God could ever look me in the face and claim "I've never done anything bad." It's the whole infallibility thing.

I want to say something comforting about the possibilities of The Afterlife or Reincarnation, but I figure, he's just spent the whole day in a Church being harassed by religious people, he's probably heard all the crap people pull out of their Holy Schwag Bags. So I mumble something about "I'm sure there's some sort of plan."

And he just stares at me.

I look hopefully in the direction the bus should be coming for. I want to pray for it, but I don't think, given the situation, that it would do me much good. The bus will come when it comes.

"I go to Churches every day. Every day. And everyone listens to me like I'm important. But then they leave, and I'm so alone. And nothing is better."

I take a really long sip of Cherry Coke to keep from saying anything.

"I'm a regular guy." He says. And then, "Here's our bus." And here it is.

On the bus, I sit near the front, leaving an empty seat next to me, but hoping he won't sit in it. He doesn't. He puts on his headphone. God is listening to Eminem's "Lose Yourself". I put my own headphones on.

Back at the house, Dr. O. and Landlord are discussing putting a party together for our departing roommate. "McDonald's?" Landlord offers. I pray he's joking, and then he laughs. God is so close, he has no choice but to listen. It's like I'm in his head.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/115561.html

Motion Sick

Where is my "Future Fry Cook"? It's 10:30 in the morning, and I have no one but Augusten Burroughs and a creepy looking woman with a banana peel sticking out of her shoe for company. I have Audioslave's "I Am The Highway" on repeat in my discman. I am about halfway through rereading Running With Scissors, and I'm getting really into it when the bus begins to lurch. My eyes shake. A piece of the hot dog omelet I had for brunch makes a mad dash for the outside world, but after a frightening two seconds seeing the light of day through my trachea, it returns to my stomach. For only the second time in my life, I'm motion sick, and have to put the book down.

The first time I was motion sick, I was sailing from Jacksonville, Florida to Portland, Maine with my dingleberry grandfather and his douchebag son (my uncle, not my Dad). I had a pleasant/smooth sail all the way up to my home on the Cape, but while we were docked in the Cape Cod Canal, I made the unfortunate decision to eat a large bowl of lobster bisque before we set sail in the midst of a really bad storm. That happened when I was twelve. In the intervening sixteen years, I haven't been anywhere close to motion sickness.

Before the boating trip, I was only vaguely aware of what motion sickness was. Kevin, the friend who my parents had basically adopted, was motionsick pretty much constantly. Even a brisk walk made him dizzy. When we were thirteen, my parents took us white water rafting in Maine, and during the car trip up there, we had to stop four times to let Kevin puke. And we were bringing him white water rafting.

The lurching bus brings me my first thought of Kevin in over a year. I'm thinking of writing down a few memories of him when the bus lurches again. No writing for Safey. I am so focused on not being sick that I miss my bus stop, causing me to spend three minutes longer on the bus, as it lurches through a stoplight. I hate lurching. If Ted Cassidy were still alive, I would cockslap him in the eye.

When I finally make it off the bus, I am an octopus on rollerblades, a one legged turtle surfing on an armadillo's back. Luckily, I work near a hospital, so if I do fall and get a concussion, a hot doctor is only a few steps away.

I do not fall and get a concussion.

Still, my head hurts. All the customers are either whispering or screaming. One manages to do both simultaneously. I am trying to figure out what the Lithuanian woman who speaks no English would like in her coffee, when the phone rings. "Safey? It's Helga. I'm going to be a little late for work. My son is having a baby."

There are three things wrong with Helga's statement; "My son is having a baby." One: boys do not have babies. Two: Helga does not have a son. Three: Helga is seventeen, so while it is possible that she could have hidden the fact that she had a son from me, the odds that her son is old enough to reproduce are fairly nil.

"What?"

"My" *cell phone static* "is having a baby."

"Whatever. How late are you going to be?"

"Maybe ten minutes."

Helga never shows up to close the store. This is the third week in a row I've had to close for someone because another employee just didn't show up. My head hurts. I need to sit down. My son is having a baby, and it is motionsick. If I sit down, I'll fall asleep, so I run to CVS to pick up some Coke. I plan on filling the Coke with our cherry syrup, because the CVS doesn't sell Cherry Coke, but I accidentally add Boysenberry syrup to my Coke. It's not as awful as it sounds. But it's close.

The phone rings. I expect it to be Clitty, as she hasn't called in nearly a day. A new record. It's not Clitty. "Thank you for calling the MBTA." the phone says. I have not called anyone. The recording has called me. I hang up the phone because I need to sit down, and I don't think I can handle sitting down and talking on the phone at the same time. I have to clean the espresso machine soon, but my son is ringing and his Boysenberry is sick.

I wanted to go to the Audioslave show tonight, but Boysenberry didn't show up to cover my shift, and CVS is motionsick. I didn't have tickets anyway. I've been listening to the radio all week to try and win. The last time the WBCN Ticket Load is announced on the radio, I call the station. Instead of Audioslave tickets, they are offering tickets to see Papa Roach. No, thank you. The DJ announces that he has taken the last pair of Audioslave tickets for himself, but to make up for it, he's going to play a half hour of Audioslave music. I decide to crank him. I call up and ask if they still have Nirvana tickets available. He laughs, then hangs up on me.

The espresso machine is still giving me its dirty look. Cleaning it will require getting up and moving. Instead, I call my house to check my messages. I don't have any. My voicemail is motionsick. My Boysenberry son is ringing the espresso machine. The MBTA wants tickets to Nirvana.

"Are you okay?" An unfamiliar woman on the other side of the counter asks.

I lie. "Yes."

"What time do you close?" She asks.

"Between seven and eight."

"Yesterday I came at 7:15 and there was nobody here." She says.

"Yes." I say, pulling myself up, using the mini-fridge for leverage. "If it's slow, we close around sevenish. If we're busy it's closer to eight."

"But yesterday, at 7:15..." My son is a minifridge with tickets to Nirvana. I grab some Boysenberry for leverage.

"I'm sorry." I say. "Can I get you something to drink? Maybe a cookie?"

She shakes her head and walks away. I grab a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie for myself, and begin to clean. Once the cookie has successfully voyaged into my stomach, I grab a lemonade from the minifridge, I add four spoons of sugar (it helps the medicine go down), and drink and clean and drink and clean and it's 8:30 and I'm beyond late for getting home for dinner. I grab a slice of pizza on the way to the T.

The T lurches. The pizza is made of aluminum and velcro. I need to get off the T. Copley. Sweet sweet Copley station is next. I get off, and wander around Newbury Street. Last time I was on Newbury, Dmitri and I were in the Hello Kitty Store buying lollipops for one of his professors. And for us. Each of us took a Hello Kitty Pop home. I still have mine. When I get home, I'll suck it away until I can suck no more. Goodbye Kitty, you make me motionsick. I grab Dmitri for leverage, but he hasn't been here in nearly a month. Fuck you Boysenberry Street, fucking with my memory.

It's not long before I'm in Newbury Comics, wandering around the used CD aisles. Before I moved to Pieceofshitdeserttown, I was a CD collector. I wanted to own every piece of music I loved. I had over 1,000 CDs, and I listened to as many of them as I could, as often as I could. Since I moved back from Pieceofshitdeserttown, I've bought one CD: Modest Mouse's Good News For people Who Love Bad News. Last year, I lent it to Celeste. I haven't seen it since. I'd be bitter, but a year and a half ago, she lent me Kingdom Hearts. She hasn't seen it since. Tonight I need music. I rebuy the Modest Mouse CD, as well as the best of Stone Temple Pilots, and the Velvet Revolver CD. A total of $20. Not too shabby. I count the rest of my money: 1.80. .90 for the bus ride home tonight, .90 for the bus ride to work tomorrow morning. At the bus stop is a woman who smells like the MBTA and Nirvana. I wait behind her for ten minutes, while two fags in hot hats talk about something I can't begin to comprehend. The way they wave their hands make me motionsick.

When the bus arrives, I get a transfer, and shut my eyes. I wake up in Central Square, my head is a minifridge filled with Boysenberry sailboats. I want leverage.

The wind cockslaps my face. I shake my head and look at the bus schedule. I have 45 minutes before my connection shows up. I open Running with Scissors and begin reading where I left off in the morning. I feel my head clearing. All of my instability is pouring out of my eyes and into the book about Augusten Burroughs' childhood. I didn't have a relationship with a pedophile until I was 19. My parents never left me with their crazy psychiatrist for more than an hour at a time. I'm the one in my family who writes crappy poetry, not my mother. My world comes into focus. Nothing is spinning anymore except the pinwheels that someone has attached to the back of a woman's wheelchair. I am content, and ready for anything. Modest Mouse is singing "The Good Times are Killing Me." A man motions for me to take off my headphones.

"Do you know what time our bus comes?" He asks.

Our bus? "9:45." I say.

"Good. Good." He says, inferring how much he's going to enjoy our special waiting time. "Mind if we talk?"

I look closer at him, trying to see if he's a police officer, a family member, someone I've wronged, a hallucination brought on by too much Boysenberry Coke and motionsickness. There are tears in his eyes. "I just need to talk to you about something." He says. That's when I realize, I'm sitting at a bus stop in the middle of Cambridge, and about to have a conversation with God.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/115354.html

Odd Jobs

Every morning, on my way to the hospital, I find the hottest guy on the bus and try to picture how Interesting our life will be when he realizes that I'm his soul mate. Usually, there's a body part to fixate on: eyes, hair, the back of their head.

Today's obsession was all eyes and fauxhawk until he folded his copy of The Metro, revealing a bright-green (eye accentuating) t-shirt that read "Future Fry Cook". This suits him probably more than he'd like to admit. But is this his long-term career path or do his shirts and jobs change by the season?

If this sort of honesty through t-shirt slogan catches on, I can finally land myself a blue shirted "Future Doctor" or better yet, a black shirted "Living Off Multi-Billion Dollar Inheritance".

I see myself flipping through my closet, filled with "Recovering Bartender", "Former Loss Prevention Agent", "Jester-Suited Fudge Maker Eventually Embarrassed Into Finding Real Job". I would keep the pretentious "Occasionally Makes Money Off Writing" in the back, with the stonewashed denim suit and the Kurt Cobain flannel.

Future Fry Cook clears his throat when he notices that I'm staring at him. I blink my eyes twice and redirect my imagination out the window.

At work, I tell Celeste a revised version of my fantasy: "An entire closet of patchwork t-shirts reading "Odd Jobber".

"What about 'Marginally Employed Barrista Approaching Thirty'? Or 'Whore With Crippling Emotional Distance'?"

"Laugh It Up 'Flakey Artist Who Pours Coffee Near Hospital'."

This will never catch on. I'd rather wear a shirt that had pictures of all the ugly guys I've slept with. At least then I'll be able to point out that it's all stuff from my past, not my future. No, really, someday I will be a famous novelist. I'm not a "Future Waiter", I'm a "Former Waiter".

I'm in the middle of coming up with a color scheme for my line of "Future Job Wear" when a guy with the most beautiful eyes in the world approaches the counter. He is the fourth person with "the most beautiful eyes in the world" that I've seen today.

I'm convinced that he's about to tell me how hot I look in the black hat I've been wearing to hide the fact that I didn't have time to wash my hair this morning, but what he actually says is "I'd like a hot black Colombian with lots of head."

Me, too. Oh, wait, he means the coffee.

I've really got to find a new job.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/111443.html

Penguin Lust, Unrevisited

There's no conceivable reason why ACDC's "For Those About to Rock (We Salute You" is stuck in my head. No one around me recently has sung or referenced that song, no one has rocked (or appeared about to), and I have not seen someone salute anyone since I shaved off my Hitler mustache in the mid nineties (I'm kidding, I'd never shave off my Hitler mustache...I mean, I've never had a Hitler mustache).

All week long, the wrong things have been popping into my head: that horribly catchy Maroon 5 single, Manamana, the word "phlebotomy". At work, a softspoken man was trying to order a raisin scone, and I kept hearing him say "bra strap, bra strap, bra strap" over and over.

The crazy quotient in my life keeps escalating. My mother called last week to tell me she heard an ad for a job on the radio that would be perfect for me: bag checker at Logan airport. When I tell her that I'm not the least bit interested, she asks if I'm content to bag groceries for the rest of my life. I've never worked in a grocery store in my life, but now I'm considering it just because I think she's prejudiced against supermarket clerks.

Yesterday, she called and asked if she could visit on Saturday. Just as she hung up, Zuzu called and suggested driving to New York City on Saturday to see a poetry event. When I reminded her that Dmitri is going to be in town on Saturday, and that he might not want to spend ten hours of his visit in a car, I realized that the real issue was that I didn't want to be trapped in a car for ten hours with Zuzu, Dmitri, and Zuzu's latest "boy toy", a guy who, within the first five minutes of my first conversation with him, brought up both how easy it is to murder someone AND how complicated his life has been since he was released from the mental institution.

Today I received an e-mail from someone saying that they were removing me from their friends list because I mentioned in an entry that I don't like cunnilingus. If you've read enough of my journal to decide to add me as a friend, and you don't realize that I'm not going to be a huge proponent of cunnilingus, I just don't know what to say except: "Penguin lust."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/105323.html

Craisins

Tonight's fortune cookie (What? It's left over from last night. It's not like fortune cookies aren't already stale.)...so...tonight's fortune cookie says "Although it feels like a roller coaster now, life will calm down."

Oddly enough, tonight's fortune cookie, despite being from the same place, is a different color than last night's, and this one doesn't have any Chinese translations on it (last night's informed me that the chinese word "tang" means "sugar").

But, back to the fortune. I'm not sure I want my life to calm down. Ok, I don't ever plan on doing anything like a Foam Party again, and I doubt I'll ever meet another guy via a dating site, but I do have a friend visiting from out of town, and I'd hate for him to be bored. Don't get me wrong, I don't anticipate the visit being anything you're going to read about (unless he brings penguins, then I'll be erecting a monument in his honor [author's note: this is the first time in the history of this journal that "erect" has been used in a non-sexual manner]).

But, back to roller coasters. Apparently, when I was a kid, I used to love rollercoasters. At some point, one of those amusement park staples made me puke. And since then, no roller coasters for me. When I was nine or ten, my parents tricked me into going on "Thunderbolt Mountain" at Disney World. Man, they paid for that. I cried like a fashonista at a Phish concert.

Eventually I learned to appreciate fast, non-rollercoaster rides. I've gone white water rafting a few times, and I don't even want to contemplate how many tickets I've spent on The Gravitron at various fairs. But I hate fucken roller coasters. So if my life is a roller coaster, well...maybe a change is in order.

But, back to not boring people. I've discovered the ultimate conversation killer: craisins. Any time you're talking with a hot guy and you want to cause an uncomfortable silence, just mention the word "craisin". It's definitely going to be my safe word if I ever do any bondage play, which I'm never going to do, because I'm boring.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/103827.html

Jalapeno Vagina

This morning at work, one of my coworkers brought me a gift: Mexican candy. How sweet, I thought. How fucken wrong I was.

Has anyone on this list ever had Mexican candy before? I've had Australian candy, Austrian candy, Brazilian candy, British candy, Canadian candy, Chinese candy, French candy, German candy, Italian candy, Nigerian candy, Swazi candy, Swiss candy, and Taiwanese candy. Some I liked (Swiss chocolate...mmmmm), some I wasn't particularly fond of (toffee is...ehhh), but all was easily identifiable as candy. The four objects that were presented to me as Mexican candy was a textural and flavorful affront to God.

I don't know what the hard chunk of rock in the center of my "candy" was, but it was covered in a squishy layer of CHILE POWDER. Let me repeat, the "candy" that I was given was covered, not in sweet sugar or whatever it is that makes sour worms sour, but CHILE FUCKEN POWDER.

It would be rude of me to spit out the candy I was given as a gift, however, as the gift giver was quick to point out, my eyes were watering. I was also on the brink of puking. Seriously, I haven't gagged that hard since I blew the hippie with the nine incher and the gallon of patchouli he used in lieu of showering.

"Why does everyone gag on my candy?" She asked. "Is good, no?"

No. Is not good. Is very very bad. And the mango lollipop that she gave me should have been good. I love mango. Candied mango is one of my favorite snacks in the world, but candied mango is covered in sugar, while this...lollipop?...was covered in...yeup, Chili fucken powder.

The flavor was so intensely awful that I started to hallucinate. I envisioned a troop of hot Mexican men that I'd wronged handcuffing me, and forcing me to give cunnilingus to a stank woman with a chili powder covered vagina.

It took a whole gallon of Cherry Coke, and a few hours of intense therapy to get the flavor out of my mouth.

E-Balls To You, Dingleberry

I believe the term "I don't give a shit" comes from the way hate constipates people. I've written at least seven different journal entries tonight that I couldn't finish because I was writing from a place of anger. Each word popping the pimple of the huge ass that incited this seething.

No, that's not right. I like asses, and this person is definitely not something I like. He's not an ass, he's not a cock, he's not even a douchebag or a skidmark, he's a dingleberry: that little piece of lint and shit that sticks in a crack of what may otherwise be a nice piece of ass. Who cares about some scenester hanger-on-er who wants to instigate worthless confrontation? I shouldn't let something so insignificant piss me off. The next time someone mentions said dingleberry and what that dingleberry may or may not have said about me, I will smile and nod and busy myself thinking of something worthier of my time: amateur curling, the dietary habits of banana slugs, collecting Pez dispensers. Every time I have the urge to make a retort about what a talentless waste of sperm said dingleberry is I shall say only: Penguin Lust.

Everyone has their foils: Brain has his Snowball; sarchal has his Tony, The Idiot; cyns has his goths. Mine is a goth, as well. The sort of Goth who not only wears all black, but owns a scorpion, several pacifiers, and glow sticks. He lives for misguided confrontation. He's got the Livejournal full of stories about how the government is all mean and shadowy, and how he should be running the country. But really, he's just a coke addict from a rich family who has delusions of grandeur, and we already have one of those in the White House.

I'm sorry, what I meant to say was Penguin Lust.

I'm tired of reading things written by people with e-balls. The people who, a generation ago, wrote angry letters to the editor about how the kids these days don't understand the importance of seatbelt safety. These days, every one of these ultracrepidarianistic dingleberries has their own blog that they use to vent their frustration, and they take every "attaboy" directed their way by another delusional dingleberry as justification that they're right thinking, and.... Why are you all looking at me like that?

Penguin Lust.

I should be flattered that that dingleberry called me an asshole. I think assholes are hot. And maybe I am an asshole. After all, you are what you eat.

Penguin Lust.

Tomorrow afternoon, while said dingleberry is at his high paying, but admittedly high-stress job, getting frustrated because his life is just sooooooo hard, I'll be smiling and passing espressos to the same people that piss him the hell off. People who are angry at life, who don't know how to perform simple tasks so they take out their frustration on customer service people like me and the dingleberry.

But, you know what, they don't take out their frustration on me, because I'm not some ball of rage looking for any excuse in the world to have an argument, or write some shitty "poem" about how corporations are baaaaaad, or Dick Cheney is eeeeeeevil. Yawn.

People are generally nice to me because I've finally reached the Zen of Not Caring What Dingleberries Think. Non-dingleberries can tell that I'm not just smiling at them, but with them. And dingleberries know that while they can get my adrenaline rushing for a minute or two, in the end, I'll just laugh them off because...Penguin Lust.

I've wasted too much time on this. While I wrote this snarky entry, I could have been doing something more enjoyable like clipping my toenails, or writing a musical about foosball rage, based on the wit and wisdom of Anne Coultier. I shall devote no more time to this.

I'm sitting on my comfortable bed, listening to the soothing sounds of a cat being raped by a carpenter's belt full of nails on chalkboards. It's snowing outside, but I feel warmer than I ever felt when I lived in Pieceofshitdeserttown. I want to go outside and roll in the snow, bask in the glow of Penguin Lust.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/101765.html

Doo Doooo D'Doo Doo

The radio where I work is really adept at playing static. Pop static, bluegrass static, math rock static, it runs the gambit. I'd prefer to keep the damned thing off, and rock out to the music in my head, but this week, The Catchiest Song in The World has been stuck in my head.

If you're not old enough to remember the old Muppets sketch (which is not the original time The Muppets sang that song...it goes back past the Red Skelton era...which is waaaay before my time), you've probably seen the Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper Commercial. Damn that song.

All day long at work, people word order Banana Nut Muffins, and since "Banana Nut" has the same rhythm as "Manamana", I'd sing "doo doooo d'doo doo/Banana nut!/Doo doo doo dooo/Banana Nut!" until I was forced to pour scalding hot espresso down my pants and slam my head in a cabinet. Still, the song would not go away. It got to the point where I actually hid the muffins to avoid people saying "Banana nut". Naturally, this plan didn't work.

Random customer: "Where are your banana nut--"
Me: "Doo doooo d'doo doo"
Random customer: "--muffins? Are you ok? Why are you slamming your head in a cabinet?"
Me: "Banana nut!"

I shall be fired before the end of next week.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/100392.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 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

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

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.

Who Let The Penguins Out?

I have decided to move again. I can't take the cold so I'm going to move to a warmer clime like Siberia, Moscow, of the North fricken Pole. It was twenty degrees warmer today in Moscow than it was in Boston. When I went to open my front door today, my hand broke off on the knob. You read that right. I am now typing one handed, and not because LJ entries turn me on.

I went to the aquarium today and asked one of the workers if he would consider letting the penguins out to play. I think he thought he was coming on to him, though I'm not sure what "letting the penguins out" means in perv. The sea lion I could see, but penguins?

When I'm a millionaire I'm going to buy me some Emperor Penguins and let them loose on the streets of Boston. Sure, they look cute on TV, but imagine walking down the street on your way to the grocery store and seeing a flock of pissed off four foot tall penguins waddling towards you. Everyone assumes penguins just eat fish, but there's not a lot of human flesh around in the Emperor Penguins natural habitat. In fact, it gets so cold in Antarctica that every type of bird migrates except for the Emperors. They're some hardcore fucken penguins. I bet if I start feeding them human flesh, they'd develop a taste for it and start running amok in a way that even Alfred Hitchcock couldn't imagine.



The new Opus strip wouldn't be very popular then, would it?