Crushed Little Kids Adorn The Boardwalk

"Follow me! It's this way to the beach, kiddies!"

Sunday Sunday at the amusement park

See the fat kids spill their pop

Oh babe! Lots of flags and balloons

But someone sabotaged the roller coaster last night

Ran a turn and then it smashed right down

Through the crowded haunted house below

Oh no! Human hamburger, no.

And it's crushed little kids, crushed little kids

Crushed little kids adorn the boardwalk

See the tourists drop their jaws and cones

See the owners smell a big lawsuit

Oh Police! (call you lawyer first)

Make the witnesses go home 

They'll turn on the t.v. 

And see crushed little kids adorn the boardwalk

~ Dead Kennedys

Hey Kids! Now you can be a retard just like your Auntie Kage! Just follow this very simple step-by-step instruction guide to immediate hop-sitalization. Hooray!

Step One Gently cultivate some third degree burns from falling 

asleep outside one sunny day, like the fucking moron you surely must be.

Yes, those are my bare jahoobies.
This isn't occupied Poland, if I want
to Page Three my tatas, I will. Deal with it, or get out.

       Step Two End up in hop-sital because you have been found 

legally too stupid to care for yourself.

Step Three Enjoy a bit of pampering to regain your strength...

Step Four Once well on your way to recovery, find new and obnoxious 

ways to fuck with the people on your floor. The other patients, nurses, doctors, and defenseless octogenarians are an excellent place to start, but remember; it's your hop-sitalization. Be creative and have fun with it!

Well, I hope that helps. Now if you'll excuse me, I made a couple of new boyfriends tonight that I need to check on, make sure they're still alive. One I like to call Polski, on account of the fact that he's from....POLAND. Christ, people. Keep up. Anyhoo, Polski was sitting in the hop-sital corridor when I was doing a few plies and jetes at the nurse's station, waiting in vain to be acknowledged by a nurse before I turned to stone. I heard some hooting behind me and turned around to find Polski staring directly at my butt cheeks.

"I love dancing!" he told them. 

I shook my butt cheeks a little and said in a high pitched voice, "So do we!"

"We should go dancing sometime!" he cried.

"Yes, that would be lovely," my butt cheeks agreed. "What kind of dancing do you like?"

From his padded chair behind me, he crossed his feeble arms over his chest, then huffed and kicked out one leg and then the other.

"Like the Hebrews!" he cried, forced to talk to my face now that I had sat down in the chair beside him.

Another octogenarian just a few feet away overheard this remark, and leaning heavily on his Zimmerframe, he shuffled the few steps over to us, finally arriving just before my 150th birthday. 

He pointed a gnarled finger at us. "Now, you've got to be careful there," he began pedantically, and Polski and I looked up politely. "I used to teach languages, and it is not correct to call Jews Hebrews...."

I can't tell you what he said past that, cuz that's when I passed out from boredom. But it sounds like if both my sexy Lotharios live through the night, there is a good chance they'll be dueling for the right to my hand in marriage tomorrow! Or, in Polski's case, my butt cheeks. 

Regardless, I had better go and wax my bikini line. Ciao.

.

Drive By Shooting!

Aaaaargh! Fuck! They didn't announce our
goddamn wedding again, Kage! Who's to blame?!
WHO'S TO BLAME?!?!?!"

We're gonna get in our car, we're gonna go go go
Gonna drive to a neighbourhood
Kill someone we don't know


DRIVE BY SHOOTING!


We're gonna go out killing, that's what we're gonna do
It might be your sister, or it might be you!


DRIVE BY SHOOTING!


Sipping on the Night Train - FIRST GEAR!
Cruising down the Interstate - SECOND GEAR!
Smoking on the angel dust - THIRD GEAR!
I think my head's about to bust - FOURTH GEAR!


DRIVE BY SHOOTING!
WATCH OUT FOR THAT PIMP!!!


~ Henrietta Collins and The Wifebeating Childhaters




It will come as no surprise to...well, any of you, that I am a sporadic and somewhat unreliable blogger. But to those of you who feel this way, may I defend myself by pointing out that a) I’m pretty, and b) get bent. I’m a busy lady.

  However, it has recently occurred to me that I have neglected a few things that are important to me, here in Bloggieland. Back in April, the lovely Stephanie at Seriously? Reeealy? Seriously? was kind enough to give me a lovely blog award - which I, shamefully, forgot to pass on.

“Disgusting!” I hear you cry into the atmosphere. Ah, but it gets better.

The Lovely Crkts Galore, over at Kick Her Right In The Habit, also gave me a lovely bloggy award, which I also forgot to pass along.

“War crime!” I hear you shout. But let me finish.

Yvonne from Attracted To Shiny Things has sent an award my way too, and suddenly I have realized just what an ungrateful cow I am. Moo.

What can I say people? Except that it really does pay to put a topless picture of yourself on your blog. As evidenced RIGHT HERE.

Okay, so now you need to pretend you want to know seven more things about me that you didn’t know before. I know that technically, I should be writing 21 things about myself, as there are three blog awards to hand out. But even I don’t want to know 21 things about myself, so I'm sparing you the agony and only writing seven.

1. I am once again in hop-sital for being too skinny, among other things. This means that  absolutely not a single one of of these sad old octogenarians wandering the hallways of the hop-sital looking for death or redemption will be safe when my boredom kicks in. Not ONE.
2. I was horse crazy as a teenager. I drove out several times a week to take english riding lessons on my horse, Chip. I didn’t name him, the poor bastard.
3. I became the manager of a coffee shop when I was 17. I had big dreams, baby.
4. When I was around 7 or 8, the whole family trooped down to Australia to meet the family. I remember being in the barn with my brother, sitting on haystacks as we watched my cousins’ band. I can’t remember who played what, but Justin, Sheldon and Gerard played INXS for us Canadian kids. I went back to Canada and for the next four-five years expounded to the world that INXS were, in fact, my cousins Justin, Sheldon and Gerard.
5.I have been writing something for a class I have been doing that I’ve decided to force you guys to read it, too. Suckers.
6. The only friend I still have from high school is a Jehovah’s Witness. Everyone else judged me and decided I was too worldly and closed their doors to me. So swallow that one.
7. I took the name Henrietta Collins as a way to be closer to my husband, Henry Rollins. Henry once released an album called Drive By Shooting, under the name Henrietta Collins and The Wifebeating Childhaters. I figure that since a) I want to be his wife, b) I want him to beat me, and c) I hate children, it was the perfect sobriquet.




Okay, enough crap about me, it is now time to ruthlessly drag seven other bloggers into the topless oil wrestling ring with me and force them to fight for the right to touch Henry Rollins' left pec. And again, I realize that because I received three awards that I should be giving you 21 new blogs, but also again, I don’t wanna. So piss off.

Here they are, in no particular order, for whichever award they would like to take:

Miss Sassy Pants at A Few French Fries Short Of A Happy Meal

Selena at Because Motherhood Sucks

Maxie at I Hate So Much

Lorraine and Roxanne at Late To The Party

Lemons at Lemons Don't Make Lemonade

Whiskey Girl at Whiskey Girl

The Onion Gypsy at The Onion Gypsy

Okay, that's it for now. I gotta go, I hear a sad and lost octogenarian trying to sneak past my room.

"So yeah, Henry and I were married on Halloween night in a graveyard, and you wouldn't believe how great sex against old gravestones can be! Here, I have a picture. You can see it because in five
minutes you'll forget everything I've just said anyway..."

I Love Confused Old Men

"Kage! Are we gonna get married or what? Hurry up!
These leather pants are melting my nuts off."

We got a drug
We're gonna try it out on you
Won't make you die
It'll getcha just a little bit sick 


Got a head cold
Got a chest cold
And it's three days old
(Goin' on forever)
Make you hazy
Make you lazy
Drive you crazy
For days and days and days and days and days
And years 


Barely got the time now
To stay on the job
Double up the dosage in your water supply
Make you even sicker 'til you're slippin' away 


Getting all depressed
It's getting all your friends
You can't get it up
For nothing that'll rock the boat 


The government flu


~ Dead Kennedys



It’s back into the hop-sital for me
Where I’ll sit inside and stare out at the trees
You can’t go out, you’re crazy, don’t you see?
You’re a threat to yourself and others, just like me


So I’ll sit in bed and pretend that I don’t care
That my teeth fall out and I’m losing all my hair
And---


Wait, what? Sorry? There’s a confused elderly gentleman in the corridor who doesn’t know who Henry Rollins is, or that I might not be married to him?

I’ll be right there! Lemme just print up a new wedding photo...



.

Saturday Night Holocaust

WEDDINGS ARE SHIT!
(except for ours, baby)

I drive down to the disco
Pompadour and pink lame
I bow and blow the doorman
He parts the chain, says join the game 


A quick line in the girls room
To the bar for the electrodes
A coin into the right slit
Tape my temple watch me go 


Now I want your perfect Barbie-doll lips
And I want your perfect Barbie-doll eyes
Slip my fingers down your Barbie-doll dress
Up and down your spandex ass 


~ Dead Kennedys
(insert orgasm here)



So, I tried to stay out of trouble on my last day in hop-sital. I really did.

It almost worked, too, since God sent me such a worthy fucking adversary.

MOTHER. FUCKING. ABODE. IMAGEREADY.

I was biting my nails down to the quick this morning, wondering how I was going to get through the day. Sundays BLOW here in hop-sital - there are no groups, so the only structured times we have are meals. 

That’s it.

The rest of the time, I am left to my own devices.

And that, as anyone who has ever met me very well knows, is NOT A GOOD THING.

I considered my options this morning after breakfast. What could I do to keep myself busy in a hop-sital all day? I had already stalked the fuck out of Jello Biafra on the Interweb, that series of tubes - there wasn’t a picture left standing of him that wasn’t already in my possession. And I wasn’t interested in stalking Trent Reznor today - I needed more than a moody prima donna to grab my attention, no matter how beautiful he was.

Oooops. Have I just said that? How odd. 

Anyway, I was starting to panic, sitting on my hop-sital bed with my MacBook in my lap. What I needed was a project; something to fill up my time, fill up my mind, and fill up my hands. Frustrated, I shoved my computer onto my bed and stood up.

Princess Sheeba looked up from her bed beside me, where she was engrossed in her 45,937th consecutive episode of Grey’s Anatomy. “You ok, Kage? Where you going?”

“I dunno,” I sighed irritably. “For a walk.”

“You’re not allowed to walk, you’re on modified bed rest,” she pointed out. “You’re supposed to be in a wheelchair.”

Pfft. Fuck that.

“Sorry, what?” I called over my shoulder with a wink as I shimmied towards the door. “I can't hear you, I have my iPod on.” And with a tip of my imaginary top hat, I tap-danced out of the room.

Once in the hall, I resumed walking normally and wandered down the hop-sital corridor, my hackles raised for any nurse who might tell me to get back into bed. I’m not sitting in a fucking wheelchair, either, I thought mutinously. The only reason my heartbeat was so rapid when we got checked this morning was cuz I was doing ballet when the nurses weren’t looking. I mean, really, it’s THEIR fault there was such a difference between my resting heart rate and my standing heart rate. 

They shouldn’t have turned their backs! DUH.

“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” screeched a familiar voice from somewhere in the hallway, and I turned to look over my shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you,” I rolled my eyes, then looked around quickly for the authorities. I had already been warned on more than one occasion to just leave this woman alone. The coast was currently clear, though, so I went and sat down in the chair directly across from the hop-sital's most annoying patient. 

Remember Creepy Crazy Old Lady from a while back? You know, she's one of the patients who lives in the hop-sital hallway, who has no idea who she is, where she is, or whether I’m her daughter, her nurse or her fucking Mommy?

Ahhhhhh. Sweet memories. 

For me, anyway. Her, not so much.

“Oh!” she exclaimed as I plopped down across from her, and she reached out and grabbed my hand. “I haven’t seen you since your wedding day!”

I smirked, thinking immediately of the headline I had just read not three minutes prior of Jello Biafra’s wedding in 1981:

Never. Fucking. Happened. YOU GOT THAT? *sob*

Let’s volunteer with the elderly! I decided gleefully, and allowed her to crush my fingers in her death grip.

“Ah yes, our wedding day! Wasn’t it beautiful?” I gushed happily, and tossed my hair back, like I was drunk on love. “Jello and I are just SO happy. What a beautiful graveyard for a wedding. And can you believe Hermann Goering showed up? Such a lovely surprise! And in drag, too! High as the sky, he was, but he danced so beautifully in the gown Eva Braun killed herself in, who could be mad? Oh, and we made the newspapers! Already! Ha ha! News travels fast here in San Fransisco, doesn’t it?”

She frowned. “Does it? I hadn’t noticed.” She waved my hand in the air for a moment, then banged it down hard on her food tray.

Ouch! 

Old whoor.

“Well, we just got married this morning,” I said, and laughed gaily. “But then, you were there, you would know.” I winked.

“Was I?” she said, and scrunched up her nose. Bang! my hand slammed down into her discarded, slimy toast.

Ugh, gross, I thought crossly. Goddamn karma!

“Of course you were!” I exclaimed, lifting both our hands out of her dinner tray. “You gave Jello away! You silly girl, don’t you remember? It was just before you left for your afternoon shift at Hooters.”

“Oh, yes, right, yes,” she said and patted my hand, then started to squeeze it, then started to pound it on the table painfully hard.  “You looked just lovely.”

“Thank-you,” I said warmly, trying to quell my panic and extradite my hand back to it's original owner. From my vast experience with this woman, I knew the procedure of reclaiming my hand could take anywhere from two seconds to two hours, depending on her mood. “Your Wellingtons were also lovely.”

“In the papers, you say?” she said suddenly, and I was momentarily stunned enough to stop pulling at my hand. She can’t usually recall the details of any of our conversations - as in, a few moments after the words have passed either of our lips, she has forgotten they were even uttered. We just start up a completely new, totally unrelated conversation every, say, 30 to 40 seconds. It’s quite fun, really, and she seems to enjoy having the company, instead of just being ignored by the nurses all the time. 

Well. She enjoys it, up until she just starts screaming again.  

“Erm, yes, in the papers,” I echoed, and smiled enthusiastically. "Jello is the mayor, after all."

“May I see it?” she asked, and I gulped.

"See it?" I repeated. 

Uh oh. Oops.

 Huh, I couldn't help smirking to myself and shaking my head. Whodda thunk it, Kage, you asshole? That you'd get busted by a crazy old octogenarian with DEMENTIA. Haha! OF ALL THE FUCKING PEOPLE - 

Um, HELLO? I interrupted myself. Get moving.

Oh. Right.

“Of course you may,” I said cheerfully, and tossed my hair over my shoulder, as though I hadn't a care in the world. She’ll forget by the time I take three steps away from her, anyway, I thought dismissively, as I went for broke and yanked my hand out in one go. Yes! I got it! Ha ha! MINE, BITCH! “I’ll just have William bring the carriage round the front lane. I believe Papa left the papers in there.”

“Alright,” she agreed, and looked up happily at the plain white hop-sital wall, as if it held all the answers to her muddled mind.

I stood up and backed away slowly for a few steps, then turned and ran back down the hall towards the dorm rooms, excitement brewing in my stomach. True, Creepy Crazy Old Lady wouldn’t remember a fucking THING in another thirty seconds, but there were plenty of other old people to fuck with on this floor. 

And Kagie needed a project!

I merengue’ed back into the dorm room, did a couple of twirls of victory, then flung myself onto my hop-sital bed and proceeded to download Abode ImageReady.

I had a wedding photo to make.

 Well, I reasoned. Not a wedding photo. Just a photo, really. These people were well beyond reason; they wouldn’t know a wedding photo from a cum shot, if I cut the picture out of a porn mag while I was sitting in their laps.

I was happy as a clam, though, because I don’t know SHIT about ANYTHING - I can barely turn ON my MacBook without help, let alone cut out Jello Biafra’s head and superimpose it onto another picture and make it look real enough to fool old people into believing that we were just married this morning, and that THEY were THERE! 

This was going to take at LEAST ten minutes.

Ugh. Famous last fucking words.

I FUCKING HATE YOU ABODE IMAGEREADY!!! AAAARRRGGGHHHHH!

Actually, all things considered (like my immaturity, mental instability, potential rap sheet, etc.) it’s amazing that no one got hurt. But, needless to say, it turns out I don’t quite have the intellectual capacity to learn all of Abode ImageReady in one afternoon.

God damn it!

And so, the old folks of Blah Blah Hop-sital remained safe for yet another day.

I know, I know. 

I'm disappointed, too.

I can’t WAIT to get out of this hop-sital tomorrow, so things can just get back to normal. 

You know, where I just tell old people to go fuck themselves.

"I LOVE MY WIFE!"

Soup Is Good Food

M'Jello, fighting over my luscious body, AGAIN...

Oh, God. I’ve done something terribly wrong. Really, really wrong.

I don’t know how I’ve done it, exactly.

I don’t think I’ve been doing anything differently. I certainly haven’t made any particular, conscious effort to. But alas, somewhere along the way, I have fucked up horribly.

The others girls, here in hop-sital, in the program, they...they...

Christ. I can’t even write it.

Fuck.

They...they like me.

UuuuuuuggggghhhhhAAAAAAAAAAA. DA FUCK?!?!?!?!

I don’t know how it happened! I swear I didn’t do anything differently. I’m the miserable cow I always am. Mr. Reznor (my iPod) is always in my ears. I am constantly aloof and unavailable. And even if I like them (and by sheer accident, I do) I am careful not to let them know it.

So how the fuck did this happen?!

I found out this morning at breakfast. Ugh.

We were all chowing down on our respective brekkers, and Dachau asked LynnLynn which day next week we would all be frogmarched down to the hop-sital cafeteria and lined up before the firing squad (ie: the real food).

“Well, how bout Tuesday?” LynnLynn asked, and most of the girls shrugged their slender shoulders and mumbled their assents.

“But Kage won’t be here!” Dachau cried. “We have to do it before Kage leaves.”

My eyes snapped up from where I was dithering at the far end of the table, and I misswallowed my (small, heh heh) mouthful of Bran Flakes. I started to cough and choke. (Surprise, surprise).

“Are you okay?” Debbie Gibson looked up worriedly from beside me.

“Fine, fine,” I spluttered, and slapped my chest. “Sorry. I got some food in my mouth.”

The conversation moved on, but I was terribly shocked. What had Dachau said? Why did she say that? What did that mean?

There were two more suspicious events to come. Both took place in the dorm room this morning, after breakfast.

The first one was expected, but still managed to surprise me all the same. I mean, she said she was gonna do it, but I was like, YEAAAAAAAH, right. Like you don’t have better shit to do on a Saturday morning?!

Remember Day Program? Of the romantic Christine Daae curls, flute-playing, book-review-writing, oozing-with-potential goodness?

She came to hop-sital today.

Why, you may ask?

No, she’s not dying. No, she’s not interviewing witnesses for my upcoming murder trial if I don’t get out of here on Monday, as planned. She wasn’t even here cuz she left her cell charger behind when she graduated from this program, eight weeks ago.

She came to see ME. Day Program came to visit me in hop-sital, to see how I was doing, and to say hi.

 I was stunned, to say the least. I mean, yes, she had said it, and yes, she had confirmed it, but I didn’t think she’d really do it. I could be miserable to her on the phone, she didn’t have to come all the way down to hop-sital to get some.

It was nice to see her, though. She’s doing really well. Like, REALLY well. She was smiling and happy and laughing, and all that other nauseating stuff that makes you want to kill a person, unless they deserve it. Which she does, so I let it pass.

I was actually surprised when she said that she still has five more weeks to go of Day Program for her eating disorder. She just seems so...over it. Her life is moving on, she’s doing all these exciting new things and her eating disorder has nothing to do with any of it.

I’d never tell her, but I’m very proud of her.

The second suspicious event came after Day Program left, and the other incarcerated mentalers and I had finished our Morning Snack.

We were all going outside for a walk. I always strap Mr. Reznor on when we go out on our walks, and for whatever reason, the counselors never try to stop me - even though technically we are still in group, and I shouldn’t be listening to music.

It’s funny, but nobody seems to want to get between me and my iPod. Huh. How odd.

I was by the lockers, already strapped in for sound, but was just searching through my iPod library for something. I overheard LynnLynn talking to the other girls, and I listened while I flicked through Mr. Reznor’s files.

“...so we have two new girls coming on Monday, one’s from Our City, and one’s from Southern Province.”

“So that means Kage really is being discharged on Monday?” Debbie Gibson asked softly.

(My discharge date is still just a vicious rumor - started by me - that has not been confirmed by anyone of importance yet. You know, like a DOCTOR.)

“Oh. Um,” LynnLynn said awkwardly, and pressed her lips together. She looked up to the lockers to see me watching her, and I smiled winningly, to let her know that I had heard.

“Hi, LynnLynn,” I said brightly.

“Oh, God,” she groaned, and I whooped.

“I am leaving on Monday, then,” I said gleefully, and clapped my hands together purposefully, as though I have a whole life out there, just waiting for me to come back and live it! Which I don’t.

But when I looked around, nobody else was smiling. In fact, they looked subdued.

Well, that’s not very nice, I thought, as the other nutters looked away, and remained mute. They could at least be happy to be rid of me. 

Then I thought, I’d prolly be sour too, if I had to stay. So whatever.

We went out into the cold day for our walk. I trailed a few feet behind the others, feeing antisocial and singing along obnoxiously loudly to...wait for it...(actually, you shouldn’t have to wait for it, people, it’s the theme this month)...Dead Kennedys:

"Soup is Good Food! 


We're sorry, we hate to interrupt
But it's against the law to jump off this bridge 
You'll just have to kill yourself somewhere else
A tourist might see you, and we wouldn't want that 


I'm just doing my job, you know
So say uncle! And we'll take you to the mental health zoo
Force feed you mind-melting chemicals
Til even the outside world looks great."

We weren’t outside very long - it was just too cold for a bunch of chicks with BMIs below 16. We went in through the back of the hop-sital, and up the elevators back up to Unit 32. As we all trudged back down the hall towards the dorm room, Debbie Gibson pulled on the sleeve of my jacket, and motioned for me to pull an earbud out of my ear.

“Hello,” I said, somewhat reluctantly. I was listening to a new song, goddamnit!

“Kage, I just wanted to tell you, I think you’re really beautiful,” she just blurted out, and my eyebrows shot up, while my mouth popped open in a perfect ‘o’. Da fuck? I wasn’t expecting that. “You’re really tall, and I’m tall, and I always thought that made me look fat, but then I look at you, and you’re tall, but I still think you look thin, and that you’re beautiful.”

(Debbie Gibson is only 16 years old, and has less self esteem than a battered and punctured blow-up doll, despite being pretty and intelligent, tall and feminine.)

Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around my waist.

“Fuck me!” I exclaimed.

After a stunned moment of silence, I wrapped my arm awkwardly around her shoulders, and patted the top of her head. She’s not a DOG, Kage! I thought, rolling my eyes at my own stupidity.

“Debbie Gibson, you silly girl,” I said, and allowed my cheek to press against her head. “Guys LOVE tall girls! You’re just too young to know it, cuz high school boys are retarded. I didn’t know that shit when I was your age either, but trust me. Being tall is awesome.”

“You think?” she mumbled, from inside my neck.

“Fuck yeah,” I said. “It’s some kind of Amazonian thing, something about being able to wrap your legs around their face and snap their neck with your bare thighs. They love that shit.”

Silence.

Hmmm. Too much, I decided.

“What I meant to say is, I still wear heels, and look how tall I am,” I said enthusiastically.

She gave a small laugh, then released me, and wandered into the dorm room, and off to her bed. I wandered back to my own in silence, feeling surreal.

See what I mean?! They fucking like me! I’m sure of it! Even when I say stupid shit like that.

Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?!

Just...just leave, I guess. Right?

Right.

Phew!

THAT was close.

I Kill Children

Why I hate children - Exhibit A.

Ever wanted to die?
Of course you have
But I won't, till I get my revenge
Been butt fucked one too many ways
I don't wanna see people any more 


Things I never ever saw before
Make me see them for the shit they are
Take as many as I can away with me
Anyone can be king for a day! 


So I kill children
I love to see them die
I kill children
And make their mamas cry
I kill children
I bang their heads in doors
I kill children
Can hardly wait for yours
YOURS


~ Dead Kennedys


*Things That Are Exciting Me Inappropriately While In Hop-sital*

-The Black Flag album title “SLIP IT IN”. Whenever I see it in my iTunes, my nipples get hard.
-Listening to Dead Kennedys and pretending that Jello's yelling at me and swearing at me and telling me to Suck His Dick in the police truck.
-Stumbling across random porno online, no matter what I fucking Google.
-Imagining a caribou with a shotgun, shooting Sarah Palin between the fucking eyes.
-Watching anything Jello Biafra, circa the year I was but a glint in the milkman’s eye, to the year of their obscenities trial.
-The vicious snap of rubber gloves (though they must be green, like Jello’s).
-Being added to a spaz blogger’s lesbian porno collection (see my profile pic) and receiving a rubber chicken for my efforts. Hooray!
-Imagining Nancy Grace’s head exploding (strangely rewarding).
-Remembering the last time M and I "watched" The Colbert Report in my single little bed at me Mum’s house (very torturous, cannot lie on my tummy and think about it at the same time).
-Imagining that I am a science God who has created the ultimate Pleasure Gelf (a divine meld of M, Trent Reznor, and Jello Biafra circa 1978, that would do only MY bidding).

That is all that I have accomplished today.

Stealing People's Mail

Quick, M'Jello, quick! Hide in my panties.

Drivin' in the mountains
Winding 'round and 'round
Rummage thru your mailboxes
Take your mail back to town 


And we got license plates, wedding gifts, tax returns
Checks to politicians from real estate firms
Money, bills and cancelled checks
Pretty funny pictures of your kids 


Stealing people’s mail


People say that we're crazy
We're sick and all alone
But when we read your letters
We're rolling on the floor 


We better not get caught
We'll be dumped in institutions
Where we'll be drugged and shocked
'Til we come out born-again Christians


Stealing people’s mail


~ Dead Kennedys


Not a bad day, here in hop-sital.

Poor Mary Lennon, the family therapist. She wanted to give us anorexics a Christmas treat, and went trotting off to Blockbuster to find us a great movie to watch in Group therapy today.

Snort. She should not have asked the staff for help. Or at least, she should not have said it was for a group of ‘young adults’. Heh heh. Ah, Christ. It was fucking priceless.

Poor Mary Lennon, you should have seen her FACE as Love, Actually progressed. Remember the love-scene fillers? You know, the stand-ins for the love scene that was going to be shot? First they were clothed, and the guy had the girl bent over, grabbing a pillar, while he humped her arse. Mary Lennon blushed and looked away, and I covered my giggles quietly in the corner. The next time they were on screen, the girl was topless, and the guy was told to grab her breasts. Mary Lennon’s mouth dropped open, and I bit down on my fist to keep from laughing out loud. Then he was told to massage her breasts, and Mary Lennon actually covered her eyes. I thought I might howl, so I put my face into my tea mug and started hyperventilating, as quietly as I could. By the time we got to the scene where the guy’s standing there, butt naked, and the girl’s kneeling before him, simulating fellatio, I thought poor Mary Lennon was going to go into apoplexy. In my continued efforts to inhale quietly into my mug, I ended up snorting fucking tea up my nose, and started to choke. When we finally saw buddy’s face from between the girl's legs, Mary Lennon jumped up from her chair and ran to turn off the movie, and I coughed and spewed tea all over the dining room table.

Definitely the best group I have ever participated in. Hands down, ass up.

Rest of the day has been grand as well. Happily stalking thoughtfully perusing information about Jello Biafra, staying awake in Groups, and not threatening to kill snap at anyone. Yay.

Black Momma also stopped by from Day Program, most likely to settle the poll back at Children’s Hop-sital as to wether or not I am still alive. I bet LOTSA people lost LOTSA money - including me. (Had I been invited to place a wager, I would definitely have played smart and bet against myself). It was nice to see her, though; we sat and chatted for over an hour, and she seemed quite excited by the entirely different species of Kage she received today, as opposed to the one she got last week.

I love Black Momma. I want to be Black Momma. You know, if I were interested in liking other people, like she is. Which, thank Christ, I am not. But if I were, I’d want to be just like her.

Other than that, I don’t really have anything of interest to report. Would you like to hear some gossip about the other mentalers I am incarcerated with, this time around?

Of COURSE you would. There's no shame in it. At least, not for you. You're not writing about them on the Interweb.

There’s three others right now. Princess Sheeba, who is in the bed next to mine, Debbie Gibson, who is on the other side of the room, and....wait for it....WAIT FOR IT...

Dachau.

There’s always ONE.

Holy Christ, there’s always something new to learn in this shit hole, you know? Like, for example, do you remember Auschwitz?

(If not, or if you want a refresher, go here: Auschwitz Dying)

 The first thing you noticed about Auschwitz was her skeletal face, and how she looked like she came directly from...FROM...


AUSCHWITZ, PEOPLE!

C’mon, that was an easy one.

But yeah, that’s the first thing you noticed about Auschwitz - her sunken cheeks, her lips receding to show her teeth, her eyes too large and empty. But this one, Dachau....well, and please don’t shit in my Bran Flakes for my saying this, but Dachau makes Auschwitz look like Richard Simmons, lying fat and bloated on a beach in Cuba.

I am not exaggerating when I say that she is quite possibly thinner than most Auschwitz/ Buchenwald/ Dachau survivors. And the non-survivors! (ie: dead). There is nothing there. Nothing.

I’ve never seen anything like it, and here’s the kicker - she acts normal. Her face hasn’t suffered - her cheeks aren’t hollow, she's still pretty, her lips are still plump. In fact, if all you saw was her face, you would have absolutely no idea that this girl was sick. Until you looked up, and saw that all of her hair was falling out. And that she was so thin that she has to PIN her SPANDEX PANTS CLOSED, even around the CROTCH, and that her hips look like this:

Now, I know I’m anorexic, too. Well, not anymore, actually, so piss you. But even I, who once restricted what I ate and did all the same stupid shit this girl did, cannot stop staring at this girl’s bones and sharp pointy edges and thinking Jesus Christ! What the hell is WRONG with this girl?! Doesn't she want to pierce her clit one day? How can she do that if there's nothing there? There isn't even any FLESH. 

I'm certainly not advocating that Dachau should gain some weight and go live her remaining teenage years drunk and completely effing bonkers as I did - I'm not just looking for a more interesting way for her to die. But it WOULD be a lot more interesting than starving to death in here.

The girl's gotta EAT.

Pretty fucking ironic, hey?

I must be cured!!!! Heh heh. I’m fucking OUTTA HEEEEEERE.

Police Truck (Ooops! I Did It Again)

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?

Oh yes.

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!!!


MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM. Jello.