Again, Moving

This month is an ostrich on a canoe. Midnight, June 30th/July 1st, and I am running to catch one of the last busses to take me to the last train between me, and Clitty's house. Clitty, who is moving the very next day, has offered me a bean bag and conversation. But first must come the bus. I am thinking "Future Fry Cook. Future Fry Cook." This may be the last time I ever take this bus, and wouldn't it be funny to run into him again.

Instead, I see a hot guy fidgeting under the T sign. "Thank God." He says. "There's another bus coming?"

I reach into my pocket and pull out a stack of bus schedules. Like a good magician's assistant, he picks out the schedule for the 101, which will whisk us to Sullivan Square.

"Wow." He says. "Are you always so prepared?"

"No, I'm moving, and I found my T schedules just as I was leaving the house." Tonight has been cast glances out of focus. Move out. Is this my suitcase? Pile of unmarked papers. Where is my cell phone? Do I have everything I need? Turn off the air conditioner. "Where are you headed?"

"Allston."

"Me, too." I say, feeling inappropriately closer to him. "I'm going to stay with a friend on Ashton Street."

"I live on Ashton Street." He says. "Weird."

And the bus comes, and we exchange horrible roommate stories. My Melissa Plummer stories are trumped by his tale of a roommate who stole all of his possessions while he was at work, down to pictures of his girlfriend and his underwear. He keeps looking at me like I'm his favorite pint of Ben & Jerry's, and I think, hmmm...maybe something could happen, I mean...pictures of his girlfriend. He casually drops his girlfriend so many times during our conversation, that I think, perhaps, I should pick her up.

I'm tempted to get off at the same T stop as him, and talk more, maybe exchange contact info, but I want food and stability and focus.

At the all night pizza/sub place, the frat boys are screaming obscenities at the guy behind the counter. "Fuck moo." Says one. I presume I have missed the context for this.

I order chicken fingers, and Cherry Coke, and contact info for hot guys who are as oblivious to drunken frat language as I am. Two out of three ain't a Meatloaf song.

Clitty is tired, and chatty when I get there. I eat chicken fingers in her kitchen, let her cat chew my fingernails for me.

I want my own place. No more Landlord. A former and recurrent coworker has a friend "I think you two would get along great, but he's kind of particular about" and I don't care what he's particular about, I'm done moving in with particular people I don't know.

I know Zuzu. I know her particularities, and how best to mesh with them. So I head over to her house. Pup Ratzinger licks my eyes out, and nibbles off my nose. For once, I may have needed it.

For two days, we shop together. Mainly meaning, she shops, I assist as best I can. No one is selling focus or a way for me to move my suitcases, or a permanent place for me to move them to.

After Zuzu's, I spend time on Celeste's couch, playing The Vagina Game with her and Trick. It's fun, but I don't want to stay. I should be on The Vineyard this week, spending time with my Dad, but the people I'd planned on traveling with are having their own trauma. Little tragedies, like my own. I find myself longing for the days when I could turn my tiny grain of sand problems into beaches large enough for me to spread a blanket on and get comfortable. Melodrama seems just out of reach.

"I am so out of touch with the world." I tell Zuzu. "I focus on every day so precisely, that I have no concept of how to handle my future."

She pours me another Kahlua and Stoli.

Celeste, Trick, and I share a few Ginger Beer and Stolis.

I can't drink enough to sleep.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/125417.html

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

Slow Flashes (Part 17: I Am The Only One In My Circle Of Friends Not Moving On)

It's been 2:18 for over a month now. I get up at 2:18. I sleep at 2:18. Life at Zuzu's is consistently 2:18.

The last time it was 2:17 was when Renee Francois, a French student (quel suprise), moved in. Renee has the peculiar habit of launching into showtunes during the midst of conversation:

"Hey, Francois, how's the new job?"

"It's good for my brain...I could while away the hours, consulting with the flowers..."

It's cute until you're trapped in a car with him for ten minutes.

"Is he gay?" Zuzu asked me.

"Either that or he's French."

It was still 2:18 when he moved out last weekend. One of his friends, a very Elvis Costelloish nerd, came over to help him move.

"Stop oogling my tenant's friends." Zuzu said.

"I'm not oogling." I said. "I've never oogled anyone in my life. I'm ogling. Check out his ass." And for once, I wasn't calling attention to my favorite boy part because of its shape, but because of what was in the back left pocket: a red bandanna.

"What does it mean?" She asked. I made a fist with my right hand, a small hole with my left, and then punched the right hand through it. We tried not to giggle everytime Costello walked down the stairs. "It could just be something else." Zuzu said, but the next time I saw Francois walk down the stairs I noticed the red bandanna in his right pocket. I had to go out back and laugh into my fist until the look of my fist grossed me out, which caused me to laugh even harder, then I was thinking the word "harder", and I was a snort away from hiccuping.

Shortly after Francois moved out, Zuzu adopted Pup Ratzinger, an impossibly cute (not miniature, thank God) dachshund who only barks when barked at, and has a nearly insurmountable fear of stairs. For some reason he reminds me of Dmitri.

Last night, while Zuzu was training Ratzinger, Landlord, Doctor O, Straight Roommate and I went out to a French Bistro to wish bon voyage to Straight Roommate, who will soon be replaced by an Evangelical Christian. I couldn't imagine why Landlord was inviting an Evangelical to live with us until I saw a picture of our future roommate. He's a Chinese guy in his early twenties. Landlord would invite Reverend Phelps to live with us if he looked remotely Asian. "Don't prejudge him because he's Christian." Landlord said when I rolled my eyes at his the picture he's brought with him.

"It's not that." I said. "Look at the banner he's standing under: Crusade for College Christianity? Crusade? No one in their right mind would combine the word Christian and Crusade these days unless they were trying to evoke negativity or violence. Why not just call it 'Kill a Campus Muslim for Jesus'?"

We argued semantics for a few minutes until the hot, obviously straight, Asian waiter took our order. I don't like American French Food. Pate disgusts me, and if I'm paying twenty dollars for an appetizer, it better suck my cock before I eat it.

Dr. O and I split an order of escargot in garlic butter that was amazing. Then, I had some lobster bisque. For $8 I got two tiny pieces of lobster in about an ounce of bisque. Next time, I pick the restaurant.

This whole week has been a series of papercuts with elaborate bandaids. No working computer means I spend more time Chez Zuzu, overindulging on homemade food and watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force with her son, Lot. Put some ice on it. Because yet another coworker was late, and I spilled coffee on myself, I had to skip a night out with a cute non-poetry-slam bisexual and his friends. Instead, I spent hours on the phone talking with cute friends in Iceland and California. Kiss it and make it better. I still haven't made it to the post office, and I have a ton of shit to send, so I go home and eat a half dozen macaroons I bought at the French restaurant. Bathe me in Bactine. Fuck papercuts, all of my problems are two tiny pieces of lobster in an ounce of bisque. People would kill for my problems.

Except Tuesday night.

Tuesday night was a six pound order of escargot sauteed in battery acid. Tuesday night was Reverand Phelps with automatic weapons. Instead of a papercut, Tuesday night was a guillotine. For the eleventh time in one day, I'd identified someone as the cutest person in the world. I watched him watch me watch him for ten minutes before he came to the counter to order some "Mode?"

No one has called me Mode since I was a camp counselor over ten years ago. "Grant?" I can't believe I was checking out one of my former kids, why he must only be...25...ok, I can believe it. I just forget that the "kids" I counseled were only three years younger than me. The chasm between 14 and 17 seems immense, but 25 and 28? Who cares?

I walked around the counter and hugged him. An act that would shock most of my friends who seem to think I wrap myself in barbed wire to keep people from touching me. "How've you been?"

"Better." He said. "I've been much better than today. My mom's here." He waved in the general direction of the hospital. "Breast cancer."

"I'm so sorry." I said.

"Oh, it's no big deal. It's just that this is the first time I've been back to Mass since the Bernard thing."

"Bernard thing?" I asked.

He gave me the Velociraptor Look. "You don't know? Oh my God, it must have been after you left. Do you want to go out for a drink after work? I'm buying."

I don't remember the last time I said no to that question.

For the next hour, I flashed through disjointed memories about my days as a camp counselor at Camp Davis. Nothing emotional, just a series of snapshots of people I'd forgotten. Bernard. Bernard was my nemesis. When I was an eleven year old camper, Bernard was a twenty year old counselor. He taught archery. All the cool boys got special permission to spend time with Bernard at the range, while the rest of us suffered through gymnastics or horseback. I was not cool, so I hated Bernard. The first year I was a counselor, Bernard was unemployed due to his mistakenly thinking he was more valuable to the camp then he was, so I got to work on the archery range with his assistant. Sure, the cool boys spent a lot of time hanging out with me, but so did the uncoordinated girls, the boys with lisps, and even the girls who smelled like their fathers' insecurities. When Bernard returned the next year, I was banished from archery, forced to teach swimming to the kids not cool enough for bows and arrows. At after work parties, Bernard shunned me, and spread the rumor that I was a fag. I wanted to shatter his smile into arrowheads.

Oddly enough, it was Bernard who offered the peace pipe. I was dragging a cooler down to a beach with a group of Irish friends when Bernard drove by in his black Jeep and blew the horn at me. "Hey Mode, I'm having a party at my house tonight. If you and your friends want to stop by, that'd be cool. Just bring some beer."

So a sixpack of Zima and a sunburn later, my friends and I were sitting on Bernard's porch, listening to the Black Crowes and mingling with some of my other coworkers. The night was fireworks with no calendric meaning. I stumbled into the kitchen for another Zima when Bernard grabbed me by the hair and said "Take your faggy ass friends and get the fuck out of my house."

The people around us supplied the "What the fuck?" for me.

"You come into my house, trash my living room, drink my beer, and..."

"What are you talking about?" his girlfriend of the week asked. "The living room is fine, and he brought the beer, remember?"

I ran out of the house before he could respond. I stopped on the porch and looked at my friends. "We have to leave. Now."

From that day forward, we spoke in scowls and glares. Then I grew up, took a real job and forgot all about him.

"He molested us." Grant said after out third shots of tequila.

"Fuck." Was the only thing to say.

"Didn't you ever wonder why it was only the cute boys? Why he called everyone he hated 'fag'?"

I hadn't. Then again, I'd been a naive 18 year old when I'd left.

"He made me hate myself for years. Then I found out he'd started messing around with my little brother and..." He took another shot. "It had to stop."

My tongue was granite, my eyes seized.

"There were so many of us...Jared ended up in jail for some hate crime thing. Brad still won't talk about it with anyone. And Ryan ended up killing himself."

No.

No.

Must not break shot glass in fist. Must not shake Grant until he sucks his story out of my brain to some place safer. Must not drive back east, find whatever cell Bernard is currently occupying and rip his balls out via his ear canal.

"Fucked up, huh?"

I heard nothing else until goodbye. A brief hug.

I gave him my phone number and told him to call me if he needed to blow off steam. I've spent enough time in hospitals this past year staring at white walls to know the loneliness of fluorescent lights.

"Sure." He said. "I'll probably come down and get coffee from you tomorrow. Mom might come with me. She'd shit if she knew you were here. You were one of her favorite counselors."

"That'd be great." I said.

I didn't see either of them on Wednesday. Thursday was my day off. Yesterday I took long breaks, and spent most of my non-break time reorganizing shelves. I'm staying at Zuzu's to avoid the temptation to answer the phone at my house. When I close my eyes I see a slideshow of kids with question mark eyes and closed mouths. I wish I'd been smart enough or strong enough to help them back then. Today, I'm thankful I'm out of earshot.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/116423.html

The Real Catty World (Part 7: Regular)

You are not regular. I don't care if you shit every day at 8:45 AM, spend from 9-5 in a cubicle crunching numbers and drinking coffee. The fact that you like "24" and "Desperate Housewives" makes you average, but "average" and "regular" are not the same thing. Six inches hanging straight down may be average, but it ain't regular.

Three customers at work today asked for a "regular" coffee; one meant a medium black houseblend, one wanted a small houseblend with two creams and two sugars, and one wanted a shot of espresso. Words failed me, but not as much as the word "regular" failed them.

When a person writes a personal ad, and says he's a "regular guy", I picture an obese black underwear model with blonde hair, purple eyes, wearing only a sweater vest and six Swatch watches. His ass has a door over the hole that says "unleaded only". You know, regular.

I don't like regular people. My friends have style: Zuzu is adopting a miniature dachshund (against my advice) and, because dachshunds are German, naming it Pup Ratzinger. Celeste uses a 1950's era medical kit as a purse, and even writes with pens shaped like syringes. Dmitri drinks ketchup straight from the bottle when he's nervous. My friends don't even have regular names.



Landlord woke me up at 5 AM to tell me my room was messy. I knew this already. "Why are you in my room anyway?"

"I'm looking for dishes." he said.

"Try the kitchen." I rolled over and fell back asleep. I dreamed I was on "American Idol", freestyling a Christian gospelesque song while Billy Joel plaeds classical piano. I have this dream every Tuesday. It's a regular occurrence.

I rewoke up at 9:30, had eggs and toast with my new roommate, an Australian woman who tests the effects of psychotropic drugs on schizophrenics. I call her Dr. O.

"When I was sixteen," I told her, "my roommate, JBOB and I took mescaline for the first time. Just as the high started kicking in, we were given free tickets for a preview showing of Natural Born Killers. When it let out, we alternated between hiding in doorways and searching the city for Laura Palmer's remains. I haven't touched mescaline or NBK since."

At ten thirty, I caught a bus to work. A complete stranger with piercing green eyes said, as he stepped off the bus, "I love your haircut."

I stammered out a weak "Thanks?". He turned around and waved. His shirt said "Future Fry Cook". The film version of my life has run out of extras.

I was barely at work for a half hour when Clitty called. Twice. Fuck Clitty, I should refer to her as Needy Smurf. No, that's too harsh. Needy Bitch. She's been telling my coworkers she's my girlfriend, and she constantly "calls me back", which is remarkable only because I never call her first.

After an uneventful day of pouring coffee, I took the T to Quincy to mail books to prisoners. As I opened the door to the church I heard "Safey?" And across the street was my beautiful ex-not-quite-boyfriend, MAMIP. "It really is you."

I wondered if he was surprised at my haircut, the fact that I was wearing the shirt he bought me, or that I was entering a church. Turns out, one of my illustrious former coworkers told him I'd moved back to Arizona. "Right." I said. "Just after I had breast augmentation and took up drinking kerosene and lighting my belches on fire."

He stared blankly at me. I am on the receiving end of this look more than I care to admit.

We exchanged new phone numbers and soap opera stares until he had to go to work.

When I was finished with my volunteer work, I headed over to Zuzu's for dinner and BTVS. Then I headed home and went to sleep. Alone.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/114642.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

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