Mark Of The Beast

Old friends and new, lurkers and IRL, NOW the motherfuckers have taken everything from me.  As of about 6:45 this morning, my Biddy left me.

I was on here, TRYING to catch-up on the weeks-behind thank-yous to all of the good people, old & new, who’ve been helping me survive this most-illegal bullshit eviction on fucking earth, and she crept back into the bathroom, her “sauna” with the humidifier and her food & water, where she tended to stay when she wasn’t with me…  And at 7A, I went to get her and take her outside to graze like we did every morning that I could get up or had stayed up (and if I couldn’t get up with the sun, she still went outside to graze and be a cat), and, far too much like Janis Joplin, there she was, limp, alone, and in a pool of her own sick.  She always did still consider herself a “feral” cat, every bit as skittish, sometimes a little paranoid, and since we lost her brother in September, very solitary, when she wasn’t lying on me, walking across my bladder or worse parts if she thought that I’d “overslept,” or snuggled in the spot where my butt had been in the bed, her favorite, warmest place to sleep.  I was in here, sitting on my ass, on the fucking computer, and not 30 feet away, she was dying in the bathroom, alone.  Why they do that, I’ll never understand, but it’s what they do, and even though her eyes hadn’t switched to that reflective-cornea flatness that most recently-deceased animals show, and she seemed to be STARING AT ME, she was gone, her lungs wouldn’t take any air, she was cooling off and she was limp as a rag doll.

I’m sorry to relate every disturbing detail about her death, if it upsets y’all, I’m very sorry, and I don’t mean to offend anybody with this, but dammit, she was my KIN, my FAMILY, and even though I didn’t find out about her lung cancer and blown-out colon until, what?  A couple of months ago, if that long?  —  I never thought that she’d leave this soon.  Obviously, she’d been suffering silently longer than I knew, and I was too wrapped-up in my own lame bullshit to have taken proper care of her.  I smoked around her and her brother for over 14 years, and their lungs aren’t even a tenth of my sarcoid-ridden lung capacity.  Not making a moral statement about smoking, just saying that I’m what killed the two creatures on this earth, the two PEOPLE on this earth who loved me more than anybody other than my Nannie and my late nephew Tater.  She and I were still mourning Bubbe Boy, I still expected to hear his collar jingle follow hers, every time she came up around my chair for attention, treats, or to announce that Her Majesty was hungry.  I just hope that, wherever they are in the universe, that they are together again.  She missed him and she needed him as much as he did her, so if there is ANY justice in this fucktarded excuse of an existence, they are together, curled-up like commas and snoring.

The truly morbid part is that my baby, that warm, overly-furred part-Maine-Coon little cat, is in a plastic bag in the freezer, until I can find a place to have her cremated tomorrow.  The most recent vet she’d been to, the most overpriced flake I’ve ever met in my life, will probably want $300 for it, but that ain’t gonna happen.   If the SPCA offers cremation services, we’ll cross the river to Algiers (and yes, those specific rednecks skeer the fuck outta me, but at least, hopefully, the SPCA, will still have the same cool people that they had when they spayed Biddy, lo, those many moons ago), as they’re usually the most-affordable option.  I thought, in my stressed-out stoopidity, that I’d have at least another couple of months with her, that we’d have time to find a new place to live and that she wouldn’t have to spend too much time outdoors after we leave here in a week.  I don’t know how to go through the next day of my life without her, she was my clock, that other little heartbeat in the house that made even this hellhole seem like a house, if not a home.  She was the boss, even if I never did anything well enough to save her life.  Healthy, well-cared-for cats can live to be 20 or 25, I’ve seen it.  I’ve also seen 18-year-old cats who were suffering through existence simply because people couldn’t let them go.  I would never have subjected her to chemo or radiation or surgery, she was in no shape to suffer through that torture or to survive it, and having watched Papa and Nannie die of cancer, there was no way in hell that I’d do that to Biddy.  Couldn’t do shit right to save them EITHER.

Just wanted to let y’all know, as y’all are, aside from my “surrogate daughter” in Texas and, when I can find him again, my friend Anthony, y’all are my family, and most of y’all have been here for me when no other humans have, from before we lost Nannie, even, through losing Tater, losing the house, Daddy dying, being knifed in the back by ungrateful spawn of inbred mouth-breathers whom I’d wasted 26 years of my life on, so that their lies could KILL my father, all of the horrible shit in my life, so much of it brought on my by own stupid decisions, y’all have been here, y’all have cared, y’all have helped, and y’all have never wavered in your amazing capacity to love such a fucktard as myself.  So thank you, a million times over, thank you.  I don’t have an e-mail address for Debbi (see World O’Crap to learn about her book & her huge heart), but somebody also please tell her for me, okay?  I am fortunate enough to have that surrogate daughter and her fiance’ coming down here to help me gather-up the rest of my shit, as much as they are physically able (Candice was born with more fucked-up skeletal shit & arthritic shit than I will EVER see!), all the better to keep my belongings and remnants of loved ones past out of the hands of deputies, constables and the racist scumsuckers who’ve illegally deprived me of allegedly-federally-mandated housing.

Thank you all for being my friends, and for listening to my whining and bitching yet again.  AT&T are being uber-pricks, as is the “free” celly from Richard fucking Branson, about my being able to keep internet access whilst between addresses, so I may have to camp-out in the hipsterville area of the 8th Ward to be near the library hotspot, but I will stay in touch, I promise.  No need to worry about me, anyway, I couldn’t get off of this planet with a towel and a Hitchhiker’s Guide glued to my forehead.  But there’s no way in hell, even if I had the money, that I’d fork-out ninety bucks for an outmoded-by-six-years “wifi card” PLUS fifteen-bucks-a-day fees from that piece-of-shit “wireless store” at Wally World, who seem to be WAY the fuck behind the shit that AT&T allegedly offers for short-term/no-physical-addy wifi.  It’s just fucktarded cubed.  I’ll figure this shit out, as soon as I can wrap my dessicated brain around it.

I love y’all.
–Annti

What this is actually about is regime change for the Central and South American leaders who want to legalize drugs to put the cartels out of business. No way US ‘conservatives’ are going let those sweet profitable cartels get shut down. At least not the ones they control. Get ready to watch our tax dollars go to work increasing profits for some drug cartels, increasing profits for some ‘defense’ contractors, increasing kickbacks for some ‘politicians’, increase profits for some wall street bankers, wipe out a few rival drug cartels, kill lots of innocent bystanders and keep the drugs flowing full bore. Ain’t it great to be a US taxpayer and help make all that happen?

http://www.rawstory.com/rs/2012/03/30/general-u-s-may-export-terror-war-tactics-to-fight-drug-gangs/

Those of us who know Annti know how much she cared about Jada and how she felt about her never having a chance for a wonderful happy life. And our hearts and thoughts go out to her. If there is a souls journey after death may Jada’s soul have that childhood she never had the chance for here.

She wanted everyone to know that Jada isn’t hurting anymore.

You can reach her by phone if you have her number.  She’s not able to access e-mail at the moment.

I know that I’ve rarely mentioned it online, it’s not exactly from a “cool” phase of my life, but back when I was a 300-lb. 18 & 19-year-old dork with no friends (a few class “buds” @ that useless party-school “university,” but no one truly close, at least not anybody who’d be seen with me out in public…), I was a fanatical follower of the reunion tours & VH1 reruns of the original sit-com of The Monkees. When I was 3 & 4 years old, I distinctly remember watching those reruns (not many details, except that Moose Knuckle & Psycho-Cunt were INSANELY besotted with Daaaaaavyyyyy, and that it always pissed me off that they {producers/writers/etc.} always made Peter play “The Dummy”) with said felonious so-called “sisters” every afternoon when they got home from elementary school.

I missed the FIRST reunion tours, in ’86 & ’87, having just nearly died because of those cut brakes, having to acclimate to having lost 40 IQ points or more from the same wreck/closed-head injury, and finding something akin to a similar “soul” in Sam Kinison’s bitterness about “the church,” as I was coming out of that cult myself at the same time.  So the Monkees’ original reunions, including the shows graced by the presence of Himself, that “xian scientist” freak who nearly murdered his first wife (he was my other Favorite, until a certain Joanne on FaceBook told me the very bad shit that Maggie MacManus covered-up SO fucking well for 30-some-odd years…  *sigh*), the Texan (and aren’t they always so VOCAL about where they’re from?!?!?) who got the lion’s share of the publishing rights to their songs, aside from Boyce & Hart and Neil Diamond, those tours, I missed.  I did later get to see a xeroxed copy of Peter’s infamous Red Speedo picture (some chick climbed over the fence @ his hotel pool in ’88 or ’89, something that even I wouldn’t do! –  and got a VERY revealing photo), but that’s all I know from those tours, except that my fat ass SHOULD have been at the Greek Theatre in L.A. when Himself deigned to bless them all with His presence.  Bitter?  Moi?  Blame it on Joanne. I coulda lived my whole life without that information.

But as I’m sure that all of y’all well know, it’s the baby of the group who dropped dead, suddenly and bizarrely on Leap Day, Feb. 29th, at his home in Florida (retaining political commentary about THAT until later).  For some fucked-up reason, every MSM/news outlet on earth is giving his age as SIXTY-SIX, which is horseshit, because he was THREE MONTHS YOUNGER THAN THE FALLEN UTERUS, who was born in 1946. He was 65. Unless, of course, he, Micky, Peter, Columbia, Screen Gems, Sony et al., have been lying this whole fucking time.  Wouldn’t surprise me, but the sudden revelation of his alleged “true” age now is beyond hinky.  Sorry that I can’t remember his exact birth date (he & Mike are both December births, one of them was on Xmas day, but I can’t recall at the moment which one was the xmas baby), but I do remember the year.  Peter’s 70, Mike will be in December, and Micky’s 68.

Davy was never my favorite, but he was a huge part of the group and of its success, and for the show, as well, obviously.  My condolences to his ex-wives, his new wife, and his many children, and especially to Peter & Micky.  I couldn’t prove it in court, but I think that Peter & Davy were the only ones of the group who maintained life-long true friendships, even after Peter was the first one to tell Screen Gems to go fuck itself after the second season.

I almost made the mistake of linking to a TMZ online post about Davy, until I found their recent post of THE MOTHERFUCKING 911 CALL WHEN HE WAS HAVING THE FUCKING HEART ATTACK. I’ve always loathed that midget shyster/shylock piece of shit Harvey Levin, but now I despise him to the 800th power.  It was pretty fucking horrific that he posted Rihanna’s evidenciary photos from when that closet-case Chris Brown beat the fuck out of her, but at least THAT served some sort of PURPOSE and showed the world that it wasn’t just “some bitch trying to ruin a MAN’S career,” as many said at the time. 

TO OBTAIN AND FLOUT THE 911 CALL OF DAVY DYING OF A FUCKING HEART ATTACK SERVES NO FUCKING PURPOSE EXCEPT TO MAKE EVEN MORE FUCKING MONEY FOR HARVEY SOULLESS-COCKSUCKING-HYPOCRITE-PSEUDO-VEGAN, PETA-SUCKLING COCKBITE LEVIN, LIKE HE FUCKING NEEDS IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Fuck you Harvey Levin, sideways with a rusty chainsaw, and no, standing on a box to see over the cubicle walls won’t protect you from it.

You just don’t do that shit to a dead man AND his grieving family & friends, you piece of shit.

And thusly I conclude this shoulda-been-a-tribute, but greedy motherfuckers hadda fuck THAT up, too.  The only consolation in all of this is that Antenna TV (yes, another SONY holding, like CBS, Columbia, Screen Gems, Infinity Radio, etc.), who have been MUTILATING the sitcom reruns (they cut off all of the outtakes & backstage interviews that were originally part of most episodes; Sony isn’t making ENOUGH money off of ‘em, they gotta kill the real-life shit to squeeze-in MORE fucking commercials for DEATH INSURANCE!!!!!!), recently (about a month ago) hired the best-ever “Voice Guy,” as in “THE Voice” for hundreds of radio stations & TV stations all over the fucking world, John Wells, who was The Voice @ my 1st radio station.  I’m still pissed that Ferguson got rid of John and hired fuckin’ Shadoe instead, but such is life.  Anyway, for the episodic marathon of Monkees shows all day today, tonight and undoubtedly the rest of Sunday, it’s John Wells paying tribute to Davy on the “station ID” breaks and segues from commercials to episodes.  I can’t imagine a more comforting voice than the biggest pipes to ever grace the Metroplex.  I still miss talking to his mama on the phone, she always wanted me to come to Dallas and go to work for John, but John didn’t appear to share that concept.  I’ll still always love that voice, though.  I was the first person on that first station to have my own John Wells-voiced sweeper (his engineers had a blast with it, too!), and I’ll always be damned proud of that.

But Davy, Manchester Midget, and the poor man who was accosted by a 5’9.5″, 300-lb. sweaty woman in a “Save The Texas Prairie Chicken” t-shirt and still TRIED not to look terrified in the picture, you will be missed.  And if Julie Newmar & Ursula Andress are still alive, they’d damned well better be at the fuckin’ funeral!

(I tried to find said picture on this computer, couldn’t, but if any of y’all have copies of it, please e-mail it to me, please?)

EDIT: Skip that link up top, (“Daaaavyyyyy”), those Canadian fetuses TOTALLY fucked-up every “fact” and date in the entire article.  Fuck, they’ve been around for 46 fucking years, couldn’t the MSM get this shit straight FINALLY?!?!?!!?

I shoulda done done this several days ago, but I’m an idiot.

I didn’t even have to ASK him to do it, but Scott of World O’Crap leapt into the fray nonetheless, and wrote a fundraising emergency post for me on WO’C that damned near ripped my heart out, it was so kind, so loving, so generous, so way-too-fucking-good-for-me, I did actually cry, as pathetic as that is.  I know, I’m a flying-cockaroach trainwreck excuse for a “grown-up,” but fuck, when your whole life is in the shitter and going downhill from THERE, and then somebody whom you respect and adore goes and puts shit like THIS up on teh innernets for you, how the hell would YOU react?

I’m not posting this to do more begging, I’m posting it because I am so damned proud to have friends like the family that I have @ WO’C, and even more proud to have a friend like Scott, who would weave a tapestry of words like this together just for my old useless ass. GO READ IT, DAMMIT, it’s fucking BEAUTIFUL.

And Moondoggie even reached-out, well, through the innernet toobs, anyway, to hug me and everybody else @ WO’C, in THE cutest picture he may have ever been in, so that’s EXTRA LOVE POINTS right there!!!  I do adore that big ginger goober.  I am in awe of his flatmate/dominatrix Riley, she is one of the few cats on earth as badassed as Biddy, but Moonie, like the FIRST Moonie, aka drummer for the Who, is nothing but funny, unconscious adorability, furry love and goofy as hell.

(For those of you who didn’t know me back in ’05 during the Katrina-evacuee-helping & animal-rescue-helping missions, the Hurricane Gustav waste of a good spine, the feral cat TNR/trap-neuter-release/rescue/relocate/rehabilitate work w/Cat Haven & my poor ol’ truck, etc., this group name refers to the amazingly-generous, huge-hearted folk who jumped-in with both feet to help me pick up the ball that EVERYBODY ELSE FUCKING DROPPED, when those who SHOULD have been rescuing human and critter alike DIDN’T DO THEIR FUCKING JOBS, especially those on the public payroll  —  when shit needed doing, these are the people, like all of you, who helped me GET SHIT DONE. Without them, and without you, none of my little ol’ “good works” could EVER have been possible, and y’all have helped a LOT of people and saved a LOT of animals, which is why we’ve gotten to become friends.)

This is an (attempted to be) “abridged” version of a letter that I just sent to my dearly-beloved friend Maria.  I’m sorry to dump this shit on y’all as a Cliff’s Notes mass-mail, I know how insulting that it must seem to y’all, WAY the fuck worse than those xmas “newsy” letters that people send out at random to brag about their accomplishments/their marriages failing, every fucking year, complete with full-color pictures, etc.  If anybody amongst the troupe sends out the GOOD xmas letters, please do not think that I’m insulting Y’ALL, ’cause none of MY friends are douchebags who send the SHITTY letters out. I can’t say or do ANYTHING right right now, like THAT’S new, but way moreso tonight, as of the news that I received as of 5P-ish, CST.  Just want y’all to stay updated on what’s going on, including the guy who’s SUPPOSED to show up for me to pay him not nearly enough to help me load & unload the truck @ the storage unit starting tomorrow, from ANOTHER letter, to another dearly-beloved, our very own fabulous author, Scott of Wo’C.

None of this makes ANY fucking sense, I know, just please try to digest it, because I don’t want anybody feeling left-out, especially if I am offline for any period of time and can’t tell y’all why or what’s going on.  I know, I sound like I’m becoming a mule for cocaine dealers or somesuch, but nope, nothing so “glamorous” for this broad. And yes, there are BILLIONS of real people, all over this town, this state, this country, this planet, who have it WAY the fuck worse than I do, to the forty-second power at the very least. I’m not trying to be the center of the universe (believe it or not), esp. since it has no center.  I just want y’all to know that this shit got a WHOLE lot worse, SUDDENLY and with NO WARNING, and that I’m homeless in TWELVE DAYS, instead of TWO OR THREE MONTHS.

I love you all and am so grateful that y’all are strong, brave, kind, and loving enough to be MY friends.

XOXOXO
Joanna/Annti

——– Original Message to Maria ——–

(I wish that I could call you right now, but I’m such a fucking trainwreck, and my blood pressure is spiking so fast and so high, you do NOT wanna deal with THAT big hot mess.) Not like you’ve never heard me cry and freak out and whine like a little bitch before, but right now, I’m actually fucking TERRIFIED, and you KNOW how much I fucking fucking fucking HATE HATE FUCKING HATE fear.

Stupid moron bitch “tenant liason” bitch has been telling me ever since I got the eviction notice on Feb. 6th, that I should NOT rent a storage unit, that I should NOT move any of my things/boxed-up belongings/furniture/ANYTHING out of this apartment, that I WOULD be squatting here for the TWO TO THREE FUCKING UNBELIEVABLE FUCKING MONTHS THAT IT WILL TAKE FOR QUADEL/START CORP (The lying heartless bitches who were supposed to PROTECT me from the racist discrimination, from the threats and attempted intimidation, the endless harassment, the actual PHYSICAL ASSAULTS by the junkie/hooker/crackhead/schizophrenic grab-bag of lowlifes all around me, the EVERYTHING ILLEGAL THAT’S BEEN DONE TO ME, BUT THEY NEVER ONCE FUCKING DID!!!) TO GET ME NEW HOUSING, and that QUADEL WOULD CONTINUE TO PAY THEIR SUBSIDY TO THE OWNERS/MANAGEMENT CORP, MICHAELS CORPORATION OF NEW FUCKING JERSEY, THE WHOLE TIME THAT I’M HERE SQUATTING, WAITING FOR THAT NEW APARTMENT.

Annnnnddd THEN, about an hour ago {EDIT:  Now FOUR hours ago}, I find out that NONE OF WHAT SHE SAID IS FUCKING TRUE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Instead of the 2-3 months to get my shit into the storage unit which is too small and too expensive, I now have TWELVE MOTHERFUCKING OUTRAGEOUS COCKSUCKING DOG-FUCKING DAYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And I can’t even get a decent-sized dose of valium to keep my b/p from getting high enough to kill me.  Teh Dick was SUPPOSED to be 70 today, if he hadn’t pussied-out and died on PURPOSE (yes, actual medical & verbal explanations, long story)…  {Redacted for y’all’s benefit, ’cause most of y’all have heard all of that shit before, over and over again, how I haven’t been able to believe the fallacy that I have “nieces” or a “nephew,” [the YOUNGER, surviving "nephew," Tater was the only one who EVER appreciated anything or who ever really loved me/wanted me to be a part of his life] or that they ever loved or appreciated me, or that I’ll ever see my great-nieces & great-nephews again, for four years now;  they broke Teh Dick’s ‘heart’ by lying about me, got me “disowned,” etc., and were lying to cover THEIR felonies, etc., and HE wound-up dead.}

I may use this (my part here, none of your information or writing) as a form letter to mass-mail to my e-mail/online/IRL friends, just to give them the Cliff’s Notes of the sudden horrible news, I hope that it won’t offend you that I’ll be kinda Ccing it to others.  I just can’t tell this story over and over and over afcukinggain.  My body is twitching all over (no P/T in a week+) and my brain is a brick.

Sorry to dump all of this on  you, darlin’ heart, but that, as Cronkite would say, is the way it is.  I’ll probably have a P.O. box on the first, but won’t be able to have a home-healthcare aide again (the last one, a pure-hate midget bitch who treated me like a fucking MANGY DOG and tried to fucking KILL ME BY ATTEMPTING TO WRECK MY MOTHERFUCKING TRUCK WITH ME IN IT!!!!) until I can move into an actual shelter or apartment.  Dunno when the phone will be disconnected, but I’m going to pay to keep my Bellsucks address open and be able to use WiFi when I can find a hotspot. And no, those “free” phones for po’ folks aren’t possible, because they’re a fucking THIEVING SCAM to get ILLEGAL ACCESS TO MY CHECKING ACCOUNT, because they don’t tell you HOW MANY MINUTES YOU GET EACH MONTH, but they will DUN YOU THROUGH AUTOMATIC-ACCOUNT-BILLING WITHOUT YOUR PRIOR KNOWLEDGE OR CONSENT.  That’s why I don’t have a cell. A “throw-away” phone may be possible at some point in the future, and if it is, I will call you as soon as I can get one.  No pity or help whatsofuckingever from the F.U., just another fucking bitch-fight from her when I call her with this news.  Yup, there’s “family” for you. 

Most of all, I want you to be a witness to the fact that I have legally, through the USPS, invalidated my last registered-with-the-state living will/durable power-of-attorney/jury-rigged and/or half-assed “will” that I included with the living will. Ain’t perfectly legal, but it’s a state document.  ALL OF IT IS IS NOW INVALIDATED. ***NONE*** of my so-called “relatives” are to have ANYTHING to do with my living will, my organ donations, my durable power of attorney, my property & any cash, NOTHING except that the F.U. is supposed to get custody of Biddy, as there’s nobody else nearby to do it. I just hope, that if anything adverse actually DOES happen to me personally, like the most-likely-hypochondria-thinking possibility of a heart attack or stroke, that she’ll keep Her dog-fucking, dog-torturing, dog-beating, dog-EVISCERATING, dog-MURDERING retard flunky inbred no-neck neo-nazi-wannabe MASSAH, aka The Son King, WAY the fuck away from Biddy.  PERMANENTLY.  Other than that, Candice, who “adopted” me as her surrogate “not-tha-mama” ‘mother’ back when she was in 7th grade (she’s TWENTY-ONE AND ENGAGED NOW!!!!), is the ONLY PERSON LEGALLY ALLOWED TO HAVE ACCESS/RIGHT TO DISPOSITION OF/TO MY PROPERTY, POSSESSIONS, WRITINGS, INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY, ETC., AND ONLY SHE HAS MY DURABLE POWER OF ATTORNEY, CONTROL OVER/INTERPRETATION OF MY LIVING WILL, or any other medical/postmortem decisions about my corpse/organ donations/cremation, should anything happen to me after I am evicted from here on March 6th, 2012, as unlikely as such an event may be.
I know how negative, alarmist and ridiculous that it sounds to “publish” this to all of my online family, my REAL family, at a time like this, but you KNOW the nightmares that I have endured at the hands of the medical industry, and that if anything CAN go wrong, it WILL go wrong, and it will happen to ME.  And no one will ever be punished for any of it.  I’m a permanent take-yer-best-shot get-outta-jail-free card, even though only one cocksucker who’s harmed me has EVER seen the inside of ANY jail for it.

I’m hoping that, failing everything else, which, thus far, is just what’s happened, I can get a KOA camping/parking space somewhere nearby and can make a “tent” out of the tarp for me & Biddy.  Whatever the arrangements, you’ll be the first to know.  I’d rather be downtown at that RV park next to the interstate, but they don’t allow homeless bums like me to “camp” there, vehicle or not.

Again, I am so sorry to be dumping all of this shit on you right now, but I just found out that I have less than 12 days left indoors, about two hours ago. I can’t even process it yet.  Yes, I’ve been homeless before, but I eventually found a livable (no electricity except when borrowed from next door, no hot water & no baths except when neighbors would let me bathe at their places, no food that couldn’t be kept in an ice chest, 8 kazillion 5-pounds-each flying cockaroaches the size of my palm, etc.) squat. I don’t know how to do that anymore, and don’t have anyone or any organization or what-have-you who could hook me up.  I would give anything to be 23-26 again, and to have that energy, relatively “good” health, and the chance to do it all over again and BETTER, but such is life.  If my Nannie hadn’t died, if Tater hadn’t died, if Teh Dick hadn’t died, etc.  If the three people that I trusted the most in my life in 1993-95 hadn’t all treated me like a moron and lied to my face.  If I weren’t so fucking hyperlexic fucktarded.  So forth.

…

XOXOXO
Love,
J

To Scott:

Reason I’m freaking to YOU, in particular:  Instead of 2-3 months of “squatting” here in the apartment until Quadel/Start Corp finds me another apartment, I am actually EVICTED, yes, in the REAL WORLD version of the word, on March 6th, and have to have all of my shit into a storage unit in LESS THAN TWELVE FUCKING DAYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

…

Seriously.  I can cover the first month of the storage unit, until I get paid on the first, but I’ve only been able to find ONE guy who “most likely” will show up to help me load & unload the truck a couple times a night, though he refuses to tell me how much he wants in cash for the work, or if he definitely can do it or not or when.  And as he plays phone-tag games when he’s not even AT WORK, I have a filthy suspicion that he thinks that I’ll be “paying” him with pussy (yeah, I know, an egotistical assumption for a toofless meth-whore looking slob, but worse-looking/unemployed/cracked-out guys STILL hit on me, gross as I am, and so do cute European boys with bright blue eyes… until they see all of the broken-off toof stubs, anyway), and THAT.  AIN’T.  IT. His name, btw, is Dwight *****, in case I show up missing at some point between here and the storage unit joint.  About 6’2.5″, maybe 170 lbs., short-cropped hair, medium-brown “black” complexion, rangy and bony, nice smile, but evasive eyes.  Works at (cheap store in the neighborhood), right around the block from the apartment.

Never given out a BOLO description of anyone who’s ever helped me move before, no matter who they were or how I knew them, but I just met this guy a couple days ago at DG and he SEEMED all nice & respectful THEN, but on the phone, I don’t altogether trust him. I’m hardly the expert on understanding human beings, let alone reading their squirrelly little brains, but I’m getting a bad/negative (as opposed to bad/”dangerous”) vibe from him, which reminds me a lot of other guys in my past, and not GOOD guys.  I do NOT have time for some motherfucker hoping to score when my fucking LIFE is on the fucking fulcrum, y’know?  But he’s the ONLY person in Orleans Parish who’s actually said that he’d help. Well, at DG, he said that he WOULD help, now he says that he MIGHT help. Any other questions?

I begged the nice varied-Arabic guys @ the corner store to loan me a cousin or a nephew or niece or SOMEBODY who’d do manual labor for insultingly-low pay, but no takers.  None of my physical therapy people can do it b/c of work schedules and mebbe they don’t love me THAT much, I dunno, anything’s possible, it’s not like anybody owes ME anything, outside of the aforementioned felons in my past/life/etc.  I’m the one in debt to EVERYBODY ELSE.  Except said felons and teh F.U.  SHE still owes me several grand, but I’ll never see it OR teh Dick’s will, even though it’s been almost 2 years since he died.  The main thing is that I actually am not physically capable of doing this shit on my own anymore.  It kills me to admit it, blows the fuck out of my once-aspiring-to-badassedness “image,” mostly in my own head, but there it is.  I’m old and crippled and exhausted and my hands are weaker than a drunken ferret, and far less predictable/reliable.  (And no, I’ve never given any animal alcohol of any form, thankyewverymuch.)

…

I am severely short of what I thought that I would have by now, even with token help from the F.U., and I do mean TOKEN. Not only is it the end of the month, and you know what that’s like, I know, but it’s the end of the month when I have no fucking CHOICE about doing this shit.  If the idiot bitch hadn’t LIED HER FUCKING FACE OFF TO ME FOR THE PAST MONTH, I’d have had this shit DONE already, even if I had to do it all by my broken-down fucktard SELF.  She told me NOT to get a storage unit, NOT to pack-up to move out, NOT to “worry,” and that I WOULD have those 2-3 months where Quadel (Reganomics subcontractor who writes the federal checks for the subsidies) would still be PAYING THEIR SHARE of the rent, ergo, *I* would still be “COVERED” by that, “legally,” and nobody would send Sheriff’s deputies here to throw all of my few remaining possessions OUT INTO THE FUCKING STREET FOR THE MAGGOTS TO HARVEST.

And yeah, there will be quality time in the truck, with Biddy and a tarp.  Don’t care about that right now. …   Just had ONE tire fixed today, because I picked-up a nail in the very thin/worn-down tread, so no telling if that’ll happen again or not.  I have NEVER had a disorganized move, EVER IN MY LIFE, at least not since my “parents” lost the house and threw me out without even letting me get any of MY stuff outta the fucking attic.  I’ve moved over 30 times in my life, and I have NEVER had to do it last-minute or because of a fucking EVICTION.  ALWAYS MY DECISION, MY PLAN, MY FRIENDS, MY WAY.

Now I’m at the mercy of some bony weirdo who thinks that he can play cellphone games like I’m some chick who’s trying to get him to ask me OUT or some similar stupidity.  …

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So now y’all, the Pickup Truck Rescue Missions + M.O.B. Mob, know the basics and the bullshit, hopefully not too much bullshit to tolerate. As I mentioned, I will stay in touch with EVERYBODY as much as I can, and if I hit the Powerball or some equally-likely freak-of-nature thing happens and I am NOT outdoors as of March 6th, y’all will be the first ones to know.  And, as always, I’m sorry to vomit so much fucktarded drama onto y’all’s laps (ugh, sorry, did NOT mean to draw THAT picture, but it gave me a minor chuckle about a sales doooood {not ENTIRELY a nematode like all other radio sales scum, but damned close} who received a most-unsuccessful blowjob once…  heh heh heh…  Hey, disgusting as it is, ya takes yer chuckles where you can get ‘em.  Especially when your “neighbors” are celebrating your misfortune by letting SIX-YEAR-OLDS IN NO FUCKING HELMETS RIDE UN-MUFFLERED, STREET-ILLEGAL 4-WHEEL ATVs BACK AND FORTH AND BACK AND FORTH AND BACK AND FORTH IN FRONT OF YOUR HOUSE FOR FOUR FUCKING HOURS STRAIGHT, IMMEDIATELY AFTER YOU FOUND OUT THE WORST NEWS SINCE, well, y’all don’t need reminding of that stuff}, but, if I DIDN’T let y’all know what was going on, how would you know? I suck at trying to relate to/communicate with humans, especially the BEST humans possible (yeah, that would be Y’ALL), I just hope that I haven’t clusterfucked this little “news update.”

Any questions, advice, directions to Piyush Jindal’s trust fund or that scumsucking douchebag Tom Benson’s McMansion, etc. are MOST welcome and happily received.  In the meantime, I’m going to throw a box of roofing tacks out into the middle of Pleasure Street…  it’s not even ironic, to name THIS hellhole “pleasure,” is it?

I love y’all so much, and am so grateful to not only share the planet with such amazing people, seeing as how the majority of the planet are outright flaming ASSHOLES, neanderthals, greed whores, knuckle-dragging fucktards, thieving genocidal war profiteers, oil & petrochemical murderers, and Bill O’Reilly, who qualifies for all of the above  —  but I am most grateful that y’all, these wonderful and remarkable folk, actually want to be my friends. And that y’all have stuck with me, all of this time, through thick and thin, or shitrain and shithurricane, hell-tornadoes and vomit-tsunamis. Yeah, I dunno what it is with the vomit imagery tonight, sorry about that, too, but it’s what the 40 cars parked in front of ‘my’ apartment, the unlicensed dirt bike douchebag with no muffler that keeps revving its engine (can’t tell sex or identity under that crotch-rocket faux-leather & helmet costume) ON THE SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF ‘MY’ FRONT FUCKING PORCH  —  if it didn’t hurt so fucking much, I would HAPPILY go outside and puke right all over EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THESE BASS-TUBE-ADDICTED MOTHERFUCKERS.

Hey, it’s not an assault if you’re BARFING-UP YOUR TOENAILS AND GIRL-PARTS, IS IT?!?!?

Shutting up now.
Love and gratitude,
XOXOXO
Annti/Ranty/Fearckadelic/ExposedJugular

Sincere & heartfelt apologies for so many of my nearest & dearest whose birfdays that I have missed celebrating already this month.  Seriously.  I know that it’s a lame-assed excuse, but I’ve never been served with an eviction notice personally before (my 17th birfday being another story entirely), so I’ve been preoccupied with shit that nobody wants to know about.

On the 10th, I missed the birfday of undoubtedly one of the coolest chicks on earth, seeing as how she & her family have allowed me to feel like I have an “extra” family in New Zealand:  Mrs. Die Frau Mentis, aka our own Mentis’ much-beloved wife.

And like an ass, I also forgot to send so much as an e-card on the 11th to one of the bestest friends ever to be found on teh innernets toobs, our own hell-raising Yankee, TERRIBLE, a man who makes Grizzly Adams look like a sissy and makes me look…  well, let’s just say, “bashful” sometimes…  heh.  Love ya Ted.  Sorry I cocked-up yer birfday.

Speaking of “not exactly bashful”… I also fucked-up and failed to commemorate, on the 13th (what was it with y’all Boomers’ parents and fucking in THE SAME DAMNED *WEEK* in May?!?!?), the appearance of the one & only Realist on our planet.  It ain’t been the same ever since…  heh.  Hey, if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here @ seditious.org, would we?  We’d still be fucking-around with those censor-happy Google-globe-eating-monstrous-megacorporation dog-fuckers @ BLOGGER!!!  On my “budget,” we didn’t have many options, all twelve people who still visit this joint, did we?

At least I have not yet shorted the nearly-and-dearly-beloved Larkspur of commenting fame here & @ World O’Crap, whose birfday falls on the 24th. I think that she’s going to be 39ish this year, lucky heifer, she looks it, at any rate…  in case anyone might not know her, that’s YOUR loss, ’cause she’s one helluva woman, a very acerbic commenter and commentator, funnier than all hell and a true-blue friend.

EDIT: MASSIVE APOLOGIES to Larkspur AND KWillow, as I have no fucking CLUE as to how I combined them into ONE PERSON.  No excuse for it, just pure stupidity. Hope that both of y’all can forgive me. Not the first time that I’ve been confused as to real-life identities and mixing-up online nics  —  to this day, I still miss the fuck out of Mentata & Melior since the Katy, TX picture fuckup.  It was sent to me from a personal account that I couldn’t correlate with an online nic (never having seen said friend’s real name before!), so I inadvertently credited Mentis with it.  And have never heard from or seen the other two ever since.  So I hope to hell that THIS fux-pas won’t end-up with me losing two MORE friends. Can’t promise that it won’t ever happen again, just hope to hell that I can do better.

(Continuing, before the edit…) Granted, everybody on this list is, but I figured that that was a given, seeing as how my friends’ birfdays are my only real “holidays,” aside from dressing-up when I can for Halloween.  Nope, not a Wiccan, nothing against them (unless they start with that “I’m gonna HEX you!” bullshit, ’cause THEN rather heavy objects tend to become airborne, and not through “magick,” either!), and my only experience with Satanists is that they are one of THE most pathetic cults on earth (though those castrati idiots in California with the Nikes rival them for the title…  Westboro-NEVER-BEEN-BAPTIST-santorum-Spewing-So-Called-”Church” isn’t on the “pathetic” list, they’re on the ALMOST-AS-EVIL-AS-DICK-FUCKING-CHENEY List!!!), they don’t tend to bathe as often as, say, people in Fiji, where all that wonderful spring water is VERBOTEN to the locals, who can’t even get SANITARY SEWERAGE (for those of you who still drink that, albeit glorious, evil-dictator-enriching water who might not know yet  —  look it up @ Mother Jones, doubters), and they take Rammstein WAY too fucking seriously.  I just like Halloween ’cause it used to be FUN and the ONE holiday that they hadn’t whored-out to cheapskate fucking TOURISTS who DON’T TIP OR SPEND ANY MONEY ON LOCALS, just on made-in-Taiwan/China plastic SHIT from the hideous strip-malls formerly known as St. Charles Avenue & Canal Street.  Bitter?  Moi?  Perish the thought.

I wish you all another 30 years, or as many or few as you desire, of happiness, ever-increasing wealth & accomplishment, problems solved & dictators toppled, and promise that I’ll never be this slack-ass wif your birfdays again, even if I have to bathe @ the library.  Hey, free wifi!

And yes, I may well write again, someday, especially after the disgusting crabs-like PLAGUE known as Mardi Gras motherfuckers leaves town.  Yes, I know, 15 or 20 decent human beings might show up, but if y’all ain’t ever had to WORK in the Quarter for MG or Jazz Fest, you JUST DON’T FUCKIN’ KNOW. Yeah, we need the money, but it’s not like it’s ever been or will ever be EQUITABLY-DISTRIBUTED.  Did I mention that the motherfuckers DON’T TIP?!!!? They’d rather go to a $5 beer stall with no health certification that tip a hardworking bartender, wait-staff or dominatrix.  Of any and all sexes.  And they tend to treat EVERY woman in New Orleans like she’s PUBLIC PROPERTY and/or automatically some “whore” who was “asking for it” JUST BY LEAVING THE FUCKING HOUSE. And fuck a buncha “Drugged/Drunk Girls Gone Ripped-Off” motherfuckers AND Snoop, the rat-bastids.

Stay sober during the Amateur Drinking Hours, kids.  Y’all know.  And stay the hell off the roads if you can help it.

P.S.: Before anybody freaks out about the big-assed motherfucking rain band/tornado-spawning storm headed this way, DON’T!!! The worst of it will hit the “Nawth Shaw” nouveau-riche white trash who TELL people that they’re “from New Orleans,” but wouldn’t be caught DEAD associating with, “y’know, THOSE types of people” —  direct fucking quote. So I have no pity for them, sorry.  BUT: you don’t have to be a weather channel-junkie to know that it’s gonna be a biiiiggggg bitch.  Just watch the birds.  Out here in the boonies end of Orleans Parish, there’s a LOT of flat, empty land (used to be NEIGHBORHOODS, but the Waste Management & other assorted landfill fucks won’t let THAT happen again!) over which I’ve already observed this morning @ first light, DOZENS of actual HERONS (not impossible this far inland, but not common), WAY more bald eagles than we should see (they do love the fishing south of here, well, what’s LEFT OF IT), hawks, and yup, I even saw a pair of pelicans.  Dunno if they were natives or the filler browns that we had to bum off of Florida after BP’s INTENTIONAL GULF GENOCIDE, but they didn’t look AMUSED IN THE FUCKING LEAST.  Pelicans are generally coasters, great wingspan, catching thermals, generally fucking-around until they see sea food and/or tourists with sammiches.  This pair was, for lack of a better analogy, FLYING LIKE BATS OUTTA HELL. Yeah.  Not good.  So, sadly, no, I’ve not gotten my shit moved outta here before the cunts change the locks YET, but I don’t think that we’re in any bigger danger than the ruination of a parade by the most evil super-krewe ever formed, by the most-evil beady-eyed redneck, flat-headed Buddy-Roemer-wannabe-neanderthal, sexist-pig motherfucker who ever owned a radio station (and yes, I’m INCLUDING Galloways in that!), so all in all, WIN-WIN for me! (Nope, never going back to Mardi Gras.  12 years and I still don’t miss it.  ONE good thing about being back in THESE boonies.)

P.P.S:  ^^^DAMMITDAMMITDAMMITALLTOREDNECKISTAN!!!!!!^^^ Again, fucking sue me, but if I deserve any schadenfreude, dammit, it oughta come out of THAT minor-league politician’s flat, flagging, lily-white ASS.  I know, not a pretty cartoon to put in y’all’s  heads, but life, like Mardi Gras, ain’t purdy.  And fuck yes, the super-krewe got to ROLL and party their nouveau-riche-white-trash asses OFF.  Karma is just too fucking SLOOOWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!! Yes, I’m grateful that, as of 10A Sunday morning, I’ve not seen nor heard of any loss of life or property for all us “innocent bystanders,” as vacuous & inexact a phrase as that is, but fuck, if a storm system that big is going to run through the neighborhood, it oughta do SOMETHING besides skeer the shit out of my Biddy cat.

And no, I don’t USUALLY freak out when celebrities self-destruct, but dammit, the woman is DEAD a fucking WEEK ALREADY, you fucking media-whore VULTURES.  Let the bitch REST already. There were a lot of things wrong with Whitney, she was no “angel,” but dammit, when I was 16/17ish, even still in the same house as THEM, she was HOPE, dammit, for several generations of ambitious girls & women.  Don’t ever believe that ANYBODY in this country got rich or famous/infamous without CONNECTIONS and/or MONEY, and I don’t just mean the ones that come with diamond-studded kneepads.  Their agents will always portray even the most-talented people, when they first break, as having “struggled” for it for years, eating ramen noodles and living in cars, etc., but truuustttt me, the last time that a true “unknown” made it big was when Judy Holliday was cast in Adam’s Rib, and even that was a favor of the great Katherine Hepburn.  But I am so fucking sick of the fucking RED-CARPET-styled FRENZY of celebutards & vultures who get exposure & money by picking the bones of REAL stars, before the bodies are even cold.  Plant the woman, please, and let her fucking REST.  I’m so sick of this shit.

It’s like unknowingly tuning-in to a syndicated rerun of “The Closer,” and it just HAS to be the episode where she has to have her long-loved, long-haired, beautiful Kitty put to sleep.  At least HER long-haired (fictional) baby got to LIVE THAT LONG, and she got to hold her when it ended.  Hell, y’all know how it feels, to lose an animal “child” and/or a human child.  You never “get over” that shit, nobody does.  I can only imagine what Biddy must be feeling and thinking, she’s never been as open as her brother, she will always be feral in her thinking, even I have to WORK to get her to express anything besides snotty derision or food hunger.  I wish that I knew where she & I were headed, so that I could at least try to give her THAT much hope, and because she’s starting to get a little chest rattle, because she can never spend as much time outside as either of us would like.  I know that she misses her bubbe, but dammit, she is NOT going to leave me or this planet, I don’t care WHAT it takes.  Sorry to end on such a bummer note, but, well, kids, that’s fucking life.  Or not.

CBS News just broke into a rerun of “Mike & Molly” with a text announcement that Whitney Houston is fucking DEAD!!!!!!

I’d call for a trial & guilty verdict against Bobby Crackhead Motherfucker Brown for turning her into a fucking ADDICT and COSTING HER THOSE AMAZINGLY FUCKING GIFTED PIPES, but it wouldn’t do any fucking GOOD.

I’ve been pissed @ Whitney for a long time, for wasting a genetic gift that fewer than 1/10th of 1% of all human beings ever see, but THIS IS A LITTLE FUCKING MUCH!!!!!!

I’d been trying to come up with a really decent post this month, not just birfdays, which are monumentally important to me, as they’re my only real “holidays,” my “thanksgivings” to the universe that I have the wunnerful friends that I have  —  but I really wanted to come up with something interesting about Madame CJ Walker or some other balls-out innovator & civil-rights warrior, and then THAT is smacked in my face.

I am also sorry that I forgot to tell anybody to watch or not watch the maggoty parasitic bullshit on tonight’s “48 Hours,” as the coldest-hearted bitch on earth, Susan Cowsill, who LEFT BARRY HERE TO FUCKING DROWN BEFORE KATRINA EVEN HIT LAND, pleas as to how “hard” those Cowsill kids’ lives were, their daddy was such a dick, they should’ve gotten the “Partridge Family” show, since it ripped THEM off DIRECTLY, blah blah fucking blah poor fucking Susan and all her ex-husbands.  I wonder if she’ll plug the fact that she’s SELLING VIDEOS MADE AT BARRY’S NEW ORLEANS JAZZ FUNERAL, IRISH WAKE, ETC., INCLUDING A VERY INTERESTING EXCERPT BY ME —  but nobody who actually KNEW any Cowsills, especially THE DEAD ONES, gets a comp. I’d have to fork-out at the “family” website just like anybody else.  Go, watch, just don’t enter it into a ratings diary if you have one.  Observe the sickening slavering corpse-mangling and enjoy Susan’s whining.  And nope, no fucking links, even if tonight’s “48 Hours” is a rerun, if you wanna make money for Susan, ya gotta dig that shit up yerself, ’cause SHE’S the one who OWNS the “family” website, et al.

P.S.: Welp, I fluffed it on the air date of the Cowsills/48 Hours clusterfuck.  Sorry ’bout that.  I’ll probably air during sweeps, end of the month/beginning of March (if I’m not totally senile about such things, not having worked in the media in over a decade…).

ALSO: It’s not over yet, but I’d like to say a big hearty FUCK *YOU*, LORNE MICHAELS, as he SHOULD have flown Maya in from L.A. to do a proper tribute to Whitney, considering how much MONEY that they made off of MOCKING THE WOMAN IN THE WORST TIMES OF HER LIFE. There’s about 20 minutes left, so maybe I shouldn’t hate the South-slandering Canadian bigot TOO much tonight, YET, but I don’t have a good feeling about it.  Maya Rudolph is the only person who’s ever impersonated Whitney in even a VAGUELY-respectable manner, but even that was tinged with laughter about mental illness.

Oh, wait. After a shitty Zooey Deschanel skit about Maryland accents and crab boils, they flashed a picture of Whitney with “Mary Katherine Gallagher” in a cathlick-skoolgirl skit.  Mebbe it’s just me, but I don’t think that Whitney was raised anything but baptist. I guess that I’ll have to look that up…  which is exactly how much effort was put into that little BLIP of a photograph as they cut to commercials. If anybody besides me actually watches SNL anymore, feel free to amend/P.S. this bit if they DO pull-off a decent tribute in the next 17 minutes.

“Terrible –

So far, 25,957 supporters have raised $1,037,167 toward our Two-Term Fund.

Every time that number goes up, it means one more person just said they’re tired of the Obama bashing from the Republican candidates and it’s time to fight back.

So let’s keep that number moving.

Please pitch in $3 or more to the Two-Term Fund today:”

my reply:

What I am tired of is President Obama ignoring our laws and allowing extremely dangerous criminals that began a war of aggression and instituted a policy of torture that resulted in numerous deaths, many of them of innocents, to walk free on our streets. The laws are very explicit about these crimes and about failing to prosecute them, especially for political reasons. President Obama and AG Holder are committing a very serious crime!

Terrible
veteran

I’m not actually LATE on this month’s birfdays!  I am late for Happy Chinese New Year of The Black Dragon (if anybody knows what the hell that means, please tell me) & Korean Lunar New Year, sorry, hope that y’all partied your asses off for ‘em, but as for birfdays of people who HAVEN’T ripped my fucking guts out by stabbing me in the back more often than Caesar’s acupuncturist (remember when Annti was an auntie?  Yeah, THOSE gutless twunts.), I’m not late yet!

Unless there’s anybody who hasn’t told me after all these  years, these are the only 2 January birfdays that I’ve got on the list:

On the 26th, my dearly-beloved but been-disappeared-WAY-too-fucking-long, oughta-have-the-ACLU-on-them-Arkansas-hillfuck-inbred-mouth-breathing-cockbite-motherfuckers friend, formerly known as “Neal-O,” who is, like the WM3, being persecuted by crooked fucking redneck hillbilly motherfucking PIGS, and unjustly tortured in ways that oughta result in HUMONGOUS fucking lawsuits.  If you get to see this, Neal, and I hope that you can, tell those tapeworms-for-brains motherfuckers that you call “relatives” that Annti is COMIN’ FO’ THEY ASS!!!!!! Well, fuck, a bitch can DREAM, right?

Annnnnd, on the 31st, ’tis that sweet-talkin’, tool-lovin’, bullshittin’-like-a-pro, one of the VERY few people on earth who MIGHT be able to out-cuss me, rusty-fusty-musty old fart, Busted Nuckles. Wish to hell that I had his ornery ass down here to work on the truck…  and several of my asinine-bigot-moron “neighbors.”  Again, allow a bitch to dream.  Yeah, I’ve got my own MagLite, tire tool & baseball bat, but it ain’t like anybody’s going to vouch for MY side of the shit.  Good luck getting an “honest witness” in THIS motherfucking neighborhood, much less a pig who’d go to the effort to find one!

Hey, don’t look at me, it’s the Ornery Basterd’s fault, he got me all het-up again with a fine rant and a half…  and yes, one of these fucking  years, I’M GONNA FINISH THE FUCKING BLOGROLL, IF ANYBODY EVER ACTUALLY COMES HERE TO READ THIS SHIT!!!!!!  So there.

Happy-happy, joy-joy, etc., I’ve got food poisoning from NON-NATIVE SHRIMP (“CAP’ SAL’S on St. Claude will fucking KILL YOU, and they fucking LIE about where they get those so-called “fresh” shrimp  —  yeah, I fucking SPLURGED FIVE FUCKING BUCKS ON SHRIMP FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A YEAR, and look where it got me!!), so that’s as excited as I can get right now, but I hope that all yer black dragons are draggin’ wagon-loads of money wif ‘em and that y’all both have SEVERELY better years  —  hell, for ALL OF US!!!!!!

XOXOXO

THE.  WORST.  MOVIE.  EVER.  FUCKING.  MADE. is being broadcast, nationwide, right the fuck now.

And it’s on a “network” (HA!) marketed towards “African-Americans,” known as “BOUNCE.”

And yes, as I have previously remarked, Teh Fallen Uterus is IN this monstrosity.  *I* could’ve been in it, too, *I* could’ve met JACKIE FUCKING GLEASON AND RICHARD FUCKING PRYOR, BUT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Bitch.

Yes, I’m way the fuck behind on January birfdays, and I’m sorry about that, but life just fucking SUCKS sometimes, don’t it.

But any entity that claims to be “for” African-American people, that plays a virulent, vomitous so-called “movie” like “THE TOY“ —  why don’t they just do an all-day fucking rerun of “BIRTH OF A FUCKING NATION“?!?!?!??!!? It’s just as “important” and “progressive” as THIS piece of shit!!!!!

There’s a very good (though with THE sloppiest research ON FUCKING EARTH, from what they know about the Civil Rights Movement in this country!!!  FIVE FUCKING YEARS BEFORE ROSA PARKS SAT DOWN IN THE “WHITE” SECTION ON THAT BUS, AFRICAN-AMERICANS IN BATON REDNECK REPUBLICUNT ROUGE WERE DOING BUS BOYCOTTS!!!!!!) mini-series on PBS right now, about Apartheid and the U.S. & international efforts and pressure on S. Africa to bring it to an end.  Talk about your neck-breaking cultural fucking WHIPLASH…  Saw 3 episodes of the mini-series last night, and then wake up to THIS shit.  ‘Cause, y’know, ALL Southerners are alike, all black people in the South are poor (yeah RIGHT bitches!), and all southern women are ILLITERATE FUCKING BIMBOS like the yankee whore that they hired to play Gleason’s arm candy.  Richard Donner should’ve been drawn & quartered after this racist piece-of-shit debacle.

And in case you’re wondering about teh F.U., scroll to the “garden party” (SUPPOSED to be a fund-raiser for “the klan,” because ignorant stereotyping fucking cockbite YANKEES DON’T EVEN KNOW THAT THE C.C.C. {Conservative Citizens’ Council} is for the RICH crackers and that the KLAN is for the fucking PO’ WHAAT TRASH!!!!!!  The C.C.C. may not still “formally” exist as an incorporated entity, but believe me, those social ties are STILL THERE.)  — you’ll only see her for about 1/3 of a second, but that pissed-off face, you will NOT miss.

It just breaks my heart that “Uncle” Ned Beatty, Richard Pryor & Jackie Gleason needed the money enough to commit an atrocity like THIS.  Cocaine’s a helluva drug, ain’t it Rick James?

(BTW, the penthouse office featured as Gleason’s HQ is the top floor of what is now a J.P. Morgan Chase/Chase Manhattan bank.  Nobody else in B.R.R.R. has that view of the river.  And Chase was one of the last U.S. companies to pull out of South Africa, apparently…  must be fate.)

April 3, 1986  —  around 3:40 in the afternoon, after Teh Dick had made me almost an hour late for my yearbook photography assignment (last one I’d ever have) to WASH THAT CHEAP, PAINTLESS, FUGLY PIECE OF SHIT EXCUSE FOR A CAR (Nannie’d given them OVER A GRAND to buy me a decent used car, and they spent EIGHT HUNDRED on a beer can body with a cop car engine dropped into it, and neither one of them had ever even BOTHERED, not even REMOTELY, to teach ME how to fucking drive), after he’d made me GO BACK INSIDE that morning when I noticed that big fucking strap of metal that was supposed to support/protect the electrical wiring and brake cables, just FLAP! hanging down from one end under that ugly egg-shaped 1979 Chevy Monza From Hell that I only got to have for five weeks.  I had tried crawling under there myself to see what the fuck, and he (curiously late in the day for him to be leaving for work, as he usually left at before daylight) yelled at me to GET INTO THE FUCKING HOUSE, and that HE’D FIX IT.

Made it to school and back in one piece, and he and his precious Son King and the trailer-trash gutter-whore that he’d knocked-up all seemed pretty fucking pissed about that.  Not saying that Teh Dick never did anything for me, but the majority of it was in the last 10 years of his life.  We all already know what his SON did TO me, not FOR me, and how I hadda start life all over again, from scratch, at the age of 13.5, now knowing that everything I’d been told/conned/bullshitted by them was nothing but out-and-out fucking LIES.  Weird place to be, as you’re finally giving into the gut-conscious doubts about the cult you’d clung to so ferociously.

So I finally got to leave for North Park to take those damned pictures of every fucking sport at one time, the track, tennis, softball, baseball, you name it, and I got approximately 1/5th of a mile from that ranch-style hellhole house when the brakes went out.  I remember everything up until the moment of impact, even though I wish I didn’t.

And now, my neurologist tells me that while the poisoning by Ocshner’s “pain management” CHILD “doctor” on that fucking BACLOFEN, which must be frat-boy speak for POISON THE BITCH did paralyze me for 6 fucking hours, it didn’t leave any distinguishable marks on the old shriveling noggin.  BUT, of course, there are now BLACK DOTS on my brain that he has yet to explain or give me any kind of prognosis about.  Mostly in the left brain, the hemisphere that was the first-impact site during that car crash, as the bony prominences inside the skull made some pretty bad fucking damage on the mushy grey shit.  Some damage to the right side (I always WAS so right-handed that all I can do with the left is type and tie shoes, so that didn’t seem to matter much), but nothing like what it did to my science & math.  I was supposed to get a scholarship from the Air Force, y’know.  Yeah, I know, recruiters lie faster than they breathe, but my ASVAB scores were, for that time in way-back history, were pretty remarkable for a “girl” in the electrical/electronic department, and they SAID that they wanted to send me to engineering school and have me work on and develop jet engines.  Not a shabby fucking gig.  Yeah, I was a pseudo-nouveau-hippie back then, a pacifist when it comes to blowing up other people’s shit, but DAMN, I’ve always been fascinated by how shit worked and how to play with every electronic gadget I could get my hands on, from TVs to stereos to VCRs to stealing music off of MTV by running my VCR through my stereo, because I could hardly ever afford to buy 45s, let alone ALBUMS or full cassettes, except at yard sales, and later, vinyl record conventions.

ANYWAY, that’s what the U.S. gubmint told me that my brain was good for, and it sounded like a pretty sweet deal.  Until the brakes got cut.

And now, 25+ years later, my hands can’t hold onto a cold drink or a cigarette without dropping ‘em sooner or later, my “jewelry-making” shit has fallen to the wayside because my hands can’t concentrate or co-operate on ANYFUCKINGTHING, even the sewing machine, my legs get the dropsy sometimes and as I’m walking along, one will just STOP and drag behind the other, and I almost face-plant every fucking time.  And I’m sorry if I’m boring  y’all with my bullshit medical whining and so forth, but fuckit, nobody reads this shit anymore anyway.

But those black dots are mostly concentrated on the left hemisphere of my brain, and a lot of the damage that’d been ascribed to 10 years with no relief from that herniated disc in my neck pulling my spinal cord out the back of my neck and then pushing on those nerve branches that control hands and feet  —  may not be that simple, or ever going to recover, even if I *do* finally get the bone mechanic shit fixed PROPERLY this time.  Why now?  Why the fuck NOW?!?!!?

I can’t have a fucking SECOND of fucking HOPE, just once in my life, that I could possibly, just maybe, GET SOMETHING OF MY FUCKING SELF BACK, even for just a little while?!?!?  I can’t even fucking DANCE anymore, dammit.  I never was that good, never learned to dance with a partner because nobody ever let me learn, and when I was old enough to go out, nobody ever asked except for horny drunk losers who didn’t wanna know my name or my face.

Speaking of whisky dick and wasted hope…  I retired from fucking, flirting, all of it (in “polite” company, I call it “dating,” but who in the FUCK ever asked ME out on a proper fucking DATE?!?!  2 guys.  In my entire life.  And both of ‘em were sorely disappointed, of course.), back in July of ’06, when I could no longer stand the humiliation, the pain, the cruelty of being cheated-upon by another closet-case, WITH A DUDE SO FUCKING UGLY IT WAS EMBARRASSING THAT THAT WAS THE “OTHER WOMAN.”  The lying thieving asshole part of it, where he lied about taking his schizophrenia medicine and then faked “conversations” with his “voices” just to mock me and hurt me, that shit didn’t help either.  I tried to be compassionate, I didn’t want to be a fucking hypocrite, I’m bisexual too, so I couldn’t turn ‘im down outright because 99.9% of all bisexual men are diseased sociopathic PARASITES who only fuck women (especially long-single FAT GIRLS) to keep a roof over their heads and food in their ungrateful guts.  Let whomever runs the cause nowadays vilify me for being sick and fucking tired of bi-boys, I don’t give a fuck, I’ve MORE THAN EARNED THE FUCKING RIGHT. 3 in one lifetime is MORE than enough.

Anyway, so I retired.  I didn’t give up that magnificent Toshiba Magic Wand that Robin sent me when Ol’ Faithful finally died, I ain’t DEAD YET, but I finally learned how to turn it all off, the rest of it.  The pheromones, the automatic response to attractive males and females, the craving of the touch of another human being, of just being HELD, of meaning something, even if it was nothing more than a half-assed orgasm (for THEM, of course, never FOR ME!), just for a minute, to another living breathing human being.  I was burnt the fuck OUT.  Dead.  And damn if I didn’t fucking LIKE IT THAT WAY.

I’d been wanting to be neutered since I was 5 years old.  I was already sick of being the sex slave of the heir apparent, tried to off myself in a swimming pool and got busted for it, but dammit, I didn’t want my CUNT telling me to OBEY ever the fuck again, ANY MORE.  I’d been looking for saltpetre all of my fucking life, to arm myself against the pathetic neediness that was so fucking cliche’ freudian it made me sick to think of myself being used as a cum-dumpster, even though that’s all I ever was.

So I finally got what I wanted.  I’d been dead inside for so long, it was such a relief to feel dead THERE, and there, and there, and all of the other places.  I felt like my heart might actually regrow a cell or two, now that I was a neuter-by-choice.  Maybe it did, I dunno.  I poured myself into artsy-fartsy shit, even though the narcotics killed the right-brain that had always let me WRITE, when I could do nothing else, I could still WRITE, but not anymore.  The drugs had stopped being “fun” a long fucking time ago, but being A DEAD-HEAD of the wrong flavor, that wasn’t any fucking fun.  Y’all have been here, you’ve seen the decline and fall.  But at least I fucking TRIED to get my brain back, to get my body fixed, to somehow, someday, have a fucking LIFE again, once I finally got back to what was supposed to still be “civilization” again.  Ha.

I was cured, at least, of my cunt.  Yeah, I missed the smell of a man, the taste of a woman, the touch of a human being who really hated my guts but who wanted to say that they’d planted a flag here (you’d be surprised at the “old college friends” that you run into later, when none other old college friends are around, who suddenly DO wanna fuck you, but then give you NOTES on your PERFORMANCE!!!), you never stop missing that, no matter how old or damaged you get.  And yup, no matter what I appear on the surface: scarred, sagging, totally-top-teef-toofless, irreparably broken, what THEY always see, no matter how “interested” or repulsed they may be, is ALWAYS a giant, Schlitz-Light-neon-style sign that screams, “DAMAGED GOODS!!!  Come one, come all, Losers, Users & Abusers take yer shots!”

And then, the Sunday before the fake-ass xmas date, I was in The Dungeon, which no longer exists as I have known it the past 17+ years (more on that later), sitting on those tortuously-unpadded barstools, with my meager offerings of gothling jewelry, cheap purses out of fabulous fabrics, etc., on the ass-ledge thingamabob attached to the wall next to the upstairs DJ bar, with its miniscule dance floor that I used to fucking RULE, back when I had a spine and a neck and a pelvis.  Not even ONE taker, nobody even LOOKED for a last-minute gift that was better than a fucking GIFT CARD, nuttin’ honey.

Four or so hours of this shit, spending money I don’t have that I hadda bum offa Redcane, as per the usual, in walks this guy, about my height (pre-spine-height-losses), young, SO fucking YOUNG, but pissed-off and adorably trying to appear all cynical and bored.  Brilliant ginger hair, and then it hit me  —  THOSE EYES. Like a fucking hypnotic magnet.  Biggest, bluest eyes I’ve ever seen on an actual human/living creature, including anime’ and E.T.  Blue eyes are a rare thing in the non-old-money/nouveau-riche-white-trash-klan-wannabe neighborhoods of this state.  And as I shot the shit with the female bartenders, other chicks looking to bum a cigarette but not buy a damned thing, there he was.  Standing there, waiting for the chicks to disperse.  Said that he was 31, I called bullshit, he admitted to 27.  Should’ve demanded I.D.  Smart, funny, Scots-Irish, politically aware, and he just kept STARING AT ME.  Like I was something special or something, not like he wanted to drag me behind a dumpster & slit my throat, which was the usual “come-on-look” in Miami.

I told him, eventually, that I was “retired,” that I’d not let another human touch me (though I’d come close to committing homicide mere moments before he arrived, on a fat aging fucktard who thought that he was the love child of Meatloaf and a wild boar, and that’s really insulting Meat AND wild boars!) in any meaningful or intimate way in over 5 years.  But damn, he wanted to kiss me.

And I know where every single surveillance camera in that building is located and aimed, and wasn’t any way in HELL that I was going to provide the new oughta-be-in-New-Zealand-as-an-extra-in-the-next-Hobbit-movie motherfucker down front with the entertainment.  So we adjourned to the “front” of the Dungeon bar (a separate entity that Chicky absorbed into the main structure, at least thematically & fiscally), where I had, by gauging the cameras & their angles, figured that we could make out & flirt, etc., with relative “privacy.”  For a bar.  In the French Quarter.  Shut the fuck up, it can TOO be done.  I just didn’t pull it off entirely THAT night.

Even knowing that I wasn’t going to “put out,” he wanted to come home with me.  He was weird about some things, very self-protective, but hey, he was the first human in 5.5 years that I thought that I could actually TRUST  —  I gave him the leeway.  We had a lot of fun, or so I thought.  Until his fucking cell phone alarm goes off 3 hours after I go to sleep, minus the cuddling that I’d craved.  Wham, not so much bam, and no thank you ma’am, he was OUTTA HERE.  Told me to call him, didn’t mean it.  The usual shit.  Except this time, it actually fucking HURT.

I was THE HUNTRESS, back in the day, I used THEM up, chewed ‘em up and moved on immediately.  I always left the theoretical door open, gave even the biggest losers that I’d sunk to dragging home with me the opportunity to treat me like a  human being, or at LEAST gracing me with a fucking COURTESY CALL.  Rarely did that happen, and the very few times that it did, I turned into a fucking DOORMAT, as those familiar with my rants will attest.  Dunno why, but I was a pathetic loser, every fucking time, and every fucking time, they turned out to be the parasitic, ambition-free, uncaring little penitos that I knew, ohhh, how I fucking knew, them to be already.  But I was too fucking stubborn, too fucking proud, to admit defeat until THEY fucked-up badly enough for me to “justify” the eviction from my house and/or life.  I was tough enough to take ‘em all on.  Even the crackhead bi-boy (“Bisexual,” my fat tattooed ass, he PREFERRED MEN, ESPECIALLY IF THEY BOUGHT HIM FUCKING CRACK!!!!!!  And  yes, I actually WAS, back in ’99, stupid/naive/affected-by-prednisone-and-vicodin ENOUGH to take him for “JUST an alcoholic.”  Fuck, I’d had to fucking RAISE the alcoholic who allegedly spawned me, I was USED to THAT shit, right?) who tried to kill me in my own bed.  I saw all of the big ol’ billboards of warning signs flying past, and ignored every fucking one, as the worst example of a “feminist” who ever fucking lived.  And we all know what I got out of THAT.

And then, outta nowhere, this redheaded kid, almost young enough to be my spawn, with those HUGE BLUE EYES, convinces me that, despite the younger, skinnier, possibly healthier bitches in the bar, including the hot bartendress in the Venus bar (“barmaid” STILL pisses me off!), HE wanted ME.  Yep, he was THAT drunk, and THAT good of a salesman.  I wish that I’d been able to be drunk enough to see through him, as apparently, my narcotic-inflicted sobriety has destroyed my bullshit radar for good.  Maybe he really did mean well.  Maybe he really WAS attracted to me.  But those whole 10-minute phone conversations afterwards did NOT support his initial assertions.  He was just being “polite,” I s’pose.  But then, I’ve NEVER been the girl that anyone takes home to Mother, unless he’s a flaming-queen schizophrenic trying to convince Mama & evil-prick Step-Daddy that he’s “straight.”

And I’m sure that this boy has NEVER had to convince anyone of his heterosexuality.  He just wouldn’t ever want to have to explain to anyone why on EARTH he’d ever be seen in public with the likes of ME.  It shouldn’t piss me off, it shouldn’t hurt, it shouldn’t leave a mark, but it does.  I’ve been over this shit for DECADES, hence The Huntress persona, the one-nighters that I always initiated with nothing more than one determined moment of eye contact across a crowded bar.  And hence the retirement, not from a feminist stance per se, as I’d used that as my reasoning for having more sex than all of my platonic guy & gal friends could EVER get in college, to prove some retarded point that I really can’t recall right now.  I’m TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT.

So… since this was before I knew about the black spots in my brain, what made me so weak and so stupid?  Dain bramage from multiple attempted murders?  Dain bramage from 14 years on and off of fucking narcotics because of hack “surgeons” and “titanium” hardware that never holds?  Or was I just so weak and lonesome because this was my first no-longer-an-aunt/not-even-a-FALLACY/PHALLUSY of a “family” “HOLIDAY SEASON” since MY SON, yes, a fucking CAT, MY BOY died? It can’t just be those eyes, or that hair, or that voice, or the words that were all lies.  I can’t have regressed THAT badly, to where I actually FALL for that shit again, can I?  Yeah, yeah, we’re all human, we all fuck up, blah blah blah fucking blah.

I need empirical EVIDENCE, I need a fucking EXPLANATION.  WHY NOW?!?!?!? It wasn’t just those huge blue eyes, dammit, and it sure as hell wasn’t the 10 pounds of corseting and bustier to make me look like I still have tits and didn’t have to wear the hideous back brace for a change.

It may finally be time to put me in The Home, kids, and divvy-up Annti’s belongings, ’cause apparently, I can no longer be trusted to take care of myself the way that I have to TAKE CARE OF MYSELF. 3050 WORDS for this shit.  Fuckit, at least it helped ME, or it might in the future, somehow.  I’ll never be a part-time half-assed dominatrix again, I didn’t really enjoy anything but the outfits about it before, anyway, but dammit, if I can’t KICK ASS TO SAVE MINE anymore, I’m ready for The Home.

oh oh looks like Darth forgot to stack the Montana Supreme Court the way he did SCOTUS. It seems that not only do they not consider corporations citizens protected by First Amendment rights but they don’t consider the filthy anti-America Citizens United decision to be worth a plug nickel. Expect to hear of Cheney going in for another new battery soon and of a predator drone attack on the Montana Supreme Court building.

http://www.rawstory.com/rs/2012/01/02/montana-supreme-court-upholds-ban-on-corporate-political-spending/