|In the context, "Pussy Is Pussy!", this picture makes perfect sense. |
In any other context, I'm a fucking idiot.
Got a black uniform
And a silver badge
We’re playing cops for real
We’re playing cops for pay
And ride, ride, how we ride
Let’s ride, loooow ride
Don’t move, child
Gotta big black stick
There’s six of us, babe
So suck on my dick
And ride, ride, how we ride
Let’s ride, loooow ride
~ Dead Kennedys, “Police Truck” - The song that, instead of offending me, makes me want to get M a police uniform for Christmas.
You’ll have to forgive me for so many things.
The first being the title of this post.
I mean, a Britney Spears reference? Really? A song title, no less? Fucking vom-worthy.
But in my defense, um....fuck off.
Secondly, thank-you to those who emailed and texted, asking what the fuck I did last weekend that was so bad, and why I haven’t posted about it, like I said I would.
As the more clever amongst you will have no doubt surmised by the pic, my clever little arse and I have landed ourselves back in hop-sital. Yay! What’s up, Doc?
Akshully, now that I look at it...that picture doesn't explain a goddamn thing, does it.
I don’t really want to tell you what I did to get here, but I suppose I must. The story can't really roll on without my doing so, can it? But my reluctance should give you an inkling of just how bad it was.
Oh, and it WAS.
Let’s see if I can skim over it quickly and with little-to-no-emotion, much like any and all my experiences in high school. Including my "first time”. Ugh.
Our tanned and blond-for-the-night-hero, Kage, decided to lie to all who love her and do a stag last Saturday night. She drove Trent the Tracker to an agreed location to meet a Limo bus. Limo bus was late. During the interminable wait, Kage’s self esteem went through Trent’s floorboards, and the executive decision was made that a couple of drinks would cure what ails her. Two drinks later bus shows up, and Kagie was in a great mood! She loves stripping! Does a great show, and decides why not sip some of the Alize they keep handing her - they’re also handing her tips by the hundreds, she’s obviously doing fabulously. They get to their destination - Downtown Strip Club - and The Stag Party asks Kagie and the topless waitress to accompany them inside to sell more dances. Kage, in her infinite stupidity, agrees. She hangs out with The Stag Party and has more shots, and has a vague memory of going back to the vip room with one of the guys and running into that cunt BABY MOMMA, who is working at the club illegally. This is Kage’s last coherent memory. She will discover the rest tomorrow when M comes to her Mum’s house to confront her about what a drunken fucking WHORE she is, and he knows ALL ABOUT IT cuz that cunt Baby Momma couldn’t wait to get on the horn and tell him every gory detail, of which Kage has no fucking clue.
The rest involves Kage being inappropriate in the VIP room, and getting in trouble with somebody’s mother or third cousin twice removed or some shit. Which would be fucking HILARIOUS, if it were anyone other than ME.
What I truly don’t understand is why M came to discuss it with me at all, and give me a chance to apologize, rather than to blacken my eyes out and tell me to get the fuck out of his life for good. The man is simply Jesus-like in his capacity to forgive my infinite fucktardism.
Though I think even Jesus would have given me a kick in the box last weekend.
In a brief aside...speaking of Jesus...some more of my current obsession...Dead Kennedys have a song called Plastic Jesus.
Here’s a little slice of that part of heaven for you:
Plastic Jesus, plastic Jesus
Riding on the dashboard of my car
But I think he'll have to go
His magnet ruins my radio
And if we wreck he'll leave a scar
If I weave around at night
And the police think I'm tight
They'll never find my bottle, though they ask (yes they ask)
Plastic Jesus shelters me
For His head comes off, you see
He's hollow, and I use Him for a flask
I don’t think it’s Jello’s song originally, but IT IS NOW.
Anyway, cut a long story short, the night ended with the consumption of something other than alcohol, BIG SURPRISE, and less than a week later, my scrawny ass is back in hop-sital, reeling with shock from the speed with which only I could bring about my own demise.
I was admitted on Friday night. I slept for three days straight, refusing to look at, speak to, or even acknowledge the presence of any and all staff, as is my given charm. I just bared my teeth at anyone who tried to wake me for any reason, other than to eat. Because my bed here is contingent on my continuing to eat.
Though all that came to an abrupt end last night, when I started considering swallowing bottles and bottles of sleeping pills, just to finally have some kind of turning point in this fucking drama.
I got out of bed then, and have had my head firmly removed from my ass since.
So things are going super duper.
Let's talk about my super freaky new obsession with Dead Kennedys, shall we?
This is so embarrassing, but the first I ever heard of them was...was...oh, God. It was from Richard Cheese. He covers their hit single Holiday In Cambodia.
|It gets weirder.|
I know. I KNOW. Isn't that terrible? Not terrible that Richard Cheese covers it, he fucking rocks that cover, what's terrible is that I didn't know who the goddamn Dead Kennedys were. I should be shot in the FACE. BY JELLO BIAFRA.
And this has nothing to do with anything, but I always wanted Dick Cheese to play at my wedding, should I ever have been so stupid as to have one. I thought he was the perfect blend of romance, soul, and offend-my-parents. But since I am more likely to get shot in the face by Jello Biafra than agree to let someone tell me what I can and cannot do for the rest of my life, I'm going to have to come up with another function for Dick Cheese to play at.
Any ideas? It would have to be something plausible.
Ooh, I've got one. Can anyone out there lend me their baby? Just for a day? I'll lure Dick to town by throwing a baptism or christening or sacrifice, or whatever it is you do with kids these days.
Yeah, that's it. Lend me your baby. Lend me your baby, so I can throw a hump at this lounge singer.
God. I just love him.
I just love Dick.
Anyway. What was I talking abooot?
Last week, I decided to look up Dead Kennedys and find out who they actually were.
And I fell in LOVE.
I love the music. I love the lyrics - the ones I could decipher on my own (about three words) and the ones I had to look up. I LOVE Jello Biafra!
And I now have an iPod full of Jello Biafra, screaming obscenities at me.
Me loves it!!!