XOXOXO! part deux

I know it’s been a while but I been busy! I think the last time we talked I was ‘bout to high tail it to the big city! But a ride to Tallahasee ain’t free, ya know. Thank God I sure got Uncle Stevie wrapped around my little twat like a duck taped maxi pad! And I got the Hyundai to prove it!



So I made it. I’m a little sore, but I’m here. And, shit ya’ll. I feel big time. Talle may not be New York, but it’s sophisticated to me!

I was strollin’ down the street ponderin’ the fact that I’d finally arrived n shit, and then that’s when I got it. The Fear. I’m mean, fuck, ya’ll. This is a big tittie city! I mean I know I’m hot n shit, but even Britney Spears cry-cry-cries in her lonely heart. And I sure is lonesome cause I ain’t got nobody here. All I got is a pair of boobies and a dream.

But I told myself, “Bunny Fuxxx, this is no time for cryin’! You march your sore little beehind into the best modlin’ agency in town and demand yurself an interview!”

So two blowjobs later I was sittin’ in the big office. I mean I was talking to the president and the manager of catalogue promotions! So I sat down, adjusted my titties, smiled like Samantha and told them my name. But they didn’t even care! And, ya’ll know I spent hours workin’ on that shit. I mean I almost came up with a really good pun! But they just ignored me. They were all like, “Do you have a portfolio or something?” And I go, “What’s a portfolio?” And they looked at me like I had worms crawling out of my Fashion Bug dress. (So cute!) So I’m all “Yeah, you might as well be talking about hygiene or sumthin’ cause I ain’t got no clue!” And they told me I had to have a book of pictures if they were ever gonna let me into their catalogue. I guess you gotta get all professional for the president of Sears. Anyway, I was like, “Ooooooooooh” (and I knew I looked hot cause I practice that open mouth look a lot in the mirror…and on Stevie Weebie) Anyway, I was like “Ooooooh, you mean my Myspace page! Well are ya’ll stupid or somethin’? Like I can actually drag my Dell in here alls by myself. I mean, for ass fucking sake, I’m a lady!” And I pointed at my boobs for proof.

Well you know how I said they were lopsided n stuff? (Uncle Stevie couldn’t afford more then 300 dollars for the surgery.) Well, when I pointed at ‘em, I looked down and I saw sumptin’ icky on my shirt. On the big one. And I was like gross! I probably dropped some twinkie filling on my shirt back into the lobby. Wait…omigod, I have to tell you this story real quick cause it was really funny. Before my interview I was waitn’ in the lobby n stuff. When they called my name I was eatin’ a twinkie cause I luuuvs a good cum filled cake and all. Butgoddamnit I couldn’t let that thing go to waste! So I stuffed the whole cake in at once. But don’t worry, I had that thing scarfed in a like 8 seconds. Don’t ya’ll know that’s my specialty? I mean, mamma always told me no lady makes it into show business without knowin’ how to swallow a twinkie in under ten. Anyway, I thought that thing got all Monica Lewinsky on my ass leaving the evidence on my shirt n shit, so I was like, “Excuse me, ya’ll.” And then when I went outside I invet- investimiga- I directed my eyeballs down further and I realized the stuff was all gooey! I was like, shit, I cant be lacktimating can I? I’d heard women who had babies can lacktimate if they got near a small child. And there was a baby in the lobby. But I can’t be lacktimating if I only had two abortions can I? (I know, I know I told ya’ll I was a virgin before but it’s been a few months and things change. And, besides, a girl’s ass can only take so much!) So I went into the little girls room to look at my boobies (thank you, Stevie! Muahh!) and I saw that one of them things was leaking! (In case you were wonderin’ it was the big one, double duh!) It couldn’t have been lackimation cause everybody knows baby formula is cum colored. triple duh! Anyway I looked down at the shit, and I saw, swear-to-fucking-Sex-in-the-City-goddess-Samantha there was fuckin’ green goo coming out my fake boobie like the boogie man melted and was oozin’ out my nipple!

And I was like, oh my god, wwfd? WHAT WOULD FORBIDDEN DO?? So baby, if you can hear me, I’m still here locked in the bathroom of Sears, with a leaky boobie and no more twinkies! Oh why didn’t I bring in my dell? Myspacers can you hear me??? I promise I’ll post, like fifty seven million more of my sexy ass cum fuck me pics on my page if you can puuuleaze call 911! I mean, no twinkies? No penis shaped cake with a mushy filling??? THIS IS A FUCKING EMERGENCY!!!!!!

I don’t have a lot of time, so I’m gonna make this quick.

I’m currently working on a campaign at my agency that is doing some ads in the style of Gary Larson’s Far Side. We’re not exactly copying him, we’re just using his style to establish the tone of our campaign. Needless to say, to get into the style, I’ve had the pleasure of flipping through numerous cartons he did throughout his career.



Despite the nauseating commercialism of his cartoon, if you really dig through the anthologies, it’s hard to deny the brilliance and cool-as-fuckness of this guy's shit. When I see talent like this, I would think no one could be enough of a dick to piss on his haha parade. But I was wrong.

This is a letter the LA Times received about Gary Larson, while he was working there as a cartoonist.

I cannot understand the cleverness of this Gary Larson. Do these come from the inmates of prisons and are sold to him, which he turns and sells them to you?

What lies behind these warped cartoons? I wish some one would clear their meaning (of them) to me.

To me they are a waste of space and are an insult to an LA Times reader who can find no reason for them in your newspaper.

Signed R.E. Lewis


This hit close to home. There’s been a lot of talk amongst bloggers and on the blogs themselves about negative anonymous comments lately.

Given I’m not the brightest bulb on the tacky Christmas tree, forgive my lame little attempt to wax philosophical. Plus, I haven’t read Ayn Rand since I was a teenager, so I'll probably get this wrong anyway. (I’m really not even trying to allude to her philosophy, but it feels a little Ayn Randish). But it just seems to me that in this world we're stuck with two types of peeps: creators and the sit-on-their-assers. Not to say that bloggers are THE creators of the world, but there is something to be said for the simple fact that we are doing something other than smelling the tips of our ass exploring fingers. There are also hoards of sit-on-their assers, existing as part of the amoeba-like masses, contributing very little – i.e. The Anonymous Commentor. He feels the need to spew out his point of view, much like a drunk spews his late night vomit, while never producing anything himself. But how can his opinions count for anything until he attempts to fucking do something!? Opinions are about as useless as Stephanie Klein working in a strip club. Maybe try putting down the bag of cheetos, wiping the cheese off the keyboard and coming up with your own fucking idea or two! And if you've gotten yourself far too drunk on idiot absinthe to create anything intelligent, then will you kindly put a dildo in that ass you call a mouth and shut the fuck up? Maybe then you'll spew a little less vile chunky cheese colored vomit all over the net and this whole blog world might smell a little better. Cause for fuck’s sake, all we're trying to do is entertain you, and make you go hahaha a little fuckng bit.

blue and clockwork orange

It’s been a busy week. I’m moved. Unpacked. (sorta) But still waiting for those bitches at Ikea to deliver the furniture. Apparently it takes three weeks to bring a goddamn loveseat.

Anywho, it was a long week and I’m too tired to bring the funny today. But I do have a little something I’d like to leave you with before we part.

This week is the start of one of my favorite times of the year. The time when Saturday mornings great me with the hiss of an open Heiniken and the smell of filet on the grill. Where obscenities float through the air so frequently, you can almost grab one that’s drifting by, and pet it like a chinchilla. And my favorite, the shit talking, and all the glorious fighting. The week where we kick-off a little bit of the ultraviolence.

(music: Synthesizers and kettle drums)

College football.

But on Monday, there will be a game that has the potential to tear my little brain in two. For my most hated teams will face each other off, like two forces of evil in a final apocalyptic (yet annual) battle. My friends, you know as well as I do that these are the worst two teams in existence. A fan of one of these school was either too stupid to get into UF or dumb enough to pay $30k/yr for the same education in MIA. And that’s an absolute truth, isn’t it, oh my Brothers?

Now, I can handle watching just one of these schools play. It’s easy. I just root for the other team. But when they both go head to head is when my little neuron fibers start to frazzel like hair in a fire.

I want you to loose.




No, you!



No both of you!

Agh! This hurts!

Ah! The pain!

The brain tearing neuron implosion of football fandom confusion! I am utterly beyond my capacity to wrap my mind around this moment!



But still there is hope. Two hopes to be exact. The first is the wish that both their offences will suck major llama nuts. The second -- their defenses will be good enough to keep the other team from scoring, but egregious enough to never intercept the ball themselves.

And then no one will score at all.

And they will both lose.

But there will still be one winner.

And that will be me.

(music: More synthesizers and kettle drums)



Your friend, Concha Libre.

Shaking her ass.

And her number one foam finger.

That looks like this:



Go gators. Or as we say in Libre land, “¡viva los gators! y ¡viva la concha!”