they're not talking to you, dumbass

when i was around 4 or 5, i discovered in my parents' record collection this crazy LP. can't remember the name of the group now, but the record cover was of the typical exaggerated mind-fuck psychedelic post-sixties/early-seventies style-- weird pictures, paisley print, swirly colors, nonsensical phrases.

on said album there was an abysmal cover of Hendrix's "Foxy Lady". towards the end of the song they repeated Jimi's "here i come baby... i'm comin' to get ya!"-- in a strangely diabolical manner. i found this particularly terrifying-- especially considering the back of the album revealed a group of wolf-like men with long hair and huge sideburns and sinister mirrored sunglasses, basically looking like a wack version of Captain America from Easy Rider. i managed to hide the scary record somewhere on numerous occasions, but Mom always found it and put it back in the record cabinet, and everytime they brought it out i screamed like a banshee.

i wish like hell that i could track down that record somewhere.

waaaah. suck my theoretical dick.

apparently my upstairs neighbor does not care for the sound of my vacuum cleaner. good. i hope i drive him abso-fucking-lutely insane. my goal is to get him evicted and/or run his fat, wannabe kitten-torturer, overgrown fratboy wigger stoodent ass right the hell back to mommy and daddy's house-- or possibly to some dorm where he really belongs-- by the end of January 2003.

my next project is to duct tape my subwoofer to the ceiling, speaker side up. can't wait for the weekend.

dream journal 28 october

i dreamt i was being chased by Al Sharpton. not sure what he was after. i think he wanted to convert me to Baptism or something. i ran into the basement of a church to hide. there i discovered a secret society of people who had also been chased by Al Sharpton at one time or another. frightened, i was prepared to kill him, but they convinced me that violence was not the answer, and that i simply had the power within me to tell him to fuck off to his face.

"Can't you put the swab in further?"

please don't ask me to elaborate or say something witty. this is just one of those things that must stand on its own. and please don't ever get an STD. and please don't be eating ham.

as if Elijah Wood wasn't perfect enough already-- he's a Cornelius fan.

dream journal 26 october-- no glove no love

i dreamt that i entered a contest to win a set of Jason Schwartzman's mother's dinnerware. shortly, i was notified that i had won the contest, and not only that, but Jason Schwartzman would be delivering the dishes to me personally. they gave me an address where he would be meeting me. it turned out to be a huge farmhouse in upstate New York. the door was wide open so i let myself in. i was wearing a long denim skirt with a slit front and high leather boots. (pay attention; this figures in later.)

i quickly realized that no one was around. everything had been painted white. there was a big staircase to my right and a filing cabinet. i started up the stairs but then noticed a stack of small china plates on top of the filing cabinet. assuming they were my plates i took them. i also saw a little ornate jar behind them that i thought was nice, so i took that too.

as i started down the porch steps i saw that Mr. Schwartzman had just pulled up. he was driving a black Honda Civic with the sunroof down. "i got the plates, so i'll be leaving, thank you," i said. "those aren't the plates," he replied. "i've got them here." he pointed to the backseat of the Civic.

the next thing i know, we are making out on the front seat of the Civic, door open, our legs spilling out of the side. i straddle him as we kiss passionately and he reaches into the slit of my skirt and touches me. "oh my god, you're so hot," he moans. "thanks," i say-- not sure if he means i'm sexually attractive in general, or just hot, temperature-wise, to the touch. i lick around his lips and chin. i have a deep urge to bite him. i wonder if i should ask first, or just go ahead and do it and see if he digs it. i feel his fingers fumbling with my panties and trying to get inside me. "just so you're completely aware, i don't do this without a condom," i say. he sits up and replies that he doesn't think he has one. "what a shame," i reply. he asks if we can meet later and this time he'll bring a condom. "no, i'm not a fucking booty call," i reply.

(end of transmission)

all apologies to Jason Schwartzman.

*record scratching sound*... um, what?

do you know that Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen is married-- most notably, to a woman?

it's the pseudo-intellectual man's film

on a whim-- a terribly misguided, evil-spirited whim of malice spawned directly from SATAN-- i finally saw Vanilla Sky last night. i consequently spent the greater part of the day battling a monstrous urge to drink myself to death while tearfully mourning those three wasted hours of my life that i will never get back. ever.

it is seriously one of the worst movies i've ever seen. terrible dialogue and acting; horrible soundtrack. let me elaborate.

folks, Tom Cruise is busted. i hate to lay this on you in these most sensitive of times, what with crazy-ass snipers and bombings in Bali, and tensions generally running high. but he is *so* ugly-- with his nose and his hideous ugly teeth... ew ew ew. gag me with a rocketship. but that's not the problem with this film-- merely a symptom. basically it's about this rich guy-- we'll call him Tom-- whom nobody cares about because he is so boring. except for his friend, who is so whiny.

for about an hour and a half, the film drags on as Tom, his whiny friend, his Fuckbuddy and Penelope Cruz get up to some amazingly boring hi-jinks. at some point i wondered if downing a dose of Nyquil might ease the suffering, and i left the film for about twenty minutes to brush my teeth and take the Nyquil, all the while entertaining the vague assurance that i would miss the rest of the boring shit and by the time i came back the film would have picked up a little. boy, was i wrong. not about the Nyquil.

snug as a bug in my sedative haze, hour 2 rolls around. "what the fuck?" said BF. "i thought all this crazy shit was supposed to happen." "shh!" i replied. "i can't hear the gaydar."

Fuckbuddy starts to get loco. instead of telling her to just fuck off, like any real man would do, Tom decides to take the high road and simply PRETEND SHE DOESN'T EXIST. lovely. he gets into a car with her and she wigs out and drives off a bridge. yay! oh wait. he lives. and his face is fucked up. of course i'm giving away the whole damn plot! not like you'd ever want to see this piece of shiat.

anyway, Tom now finds himself faced with the crushing uncertainty and self-consciousness that normal people deal with every motherfucking day. unable to get a grip, he goes from a frightfully boring pretentious twat with a 'tude, to a frightfully boring pretentious twat with a fucked-up face and a 'tude. he goes to a bar and asks for a tequila. "what kind?" asks the bartender without making eye-contact. "why don't you ask me to my FACE, BITCH?" screams Tom. (whoa!) dude, it isn't your face. he just saw Mission Impossible 2. nonetheless, he gives Tom free drinks all night. he should have put rohypnol in them. that would have been pure comedy gold. but he doesn't. meanwhile, Penelope runs away. shit, i'd run like hell from that trainwreck, too.

blah blah blah blah, fucked up shit, blah blah blah blah... and then the ending, which is, well-- it's hilarious. seriously. it turns out Tom cryogenically froze himself--

(excuse me while i laugh. hahahaha. it's still funny, even after 24 hours.)

--and set himself up for perpetual lucid dreaming, which somehow went terribly wrong, resulting in nightmares. but they've fixed the glitch that makes all the fucked-up shit happen, says the Tech Support Guy, and now he can choose to keep himself unconscious in a never-ending beautiful dream world, or re-awaken to live a "real life" once again. he chooses a "real life". awwww. and ew. then they all stand around for another agonizing ten minutes, looking at each other.

God, it was horrible. then the credits came on, and said it was directed by Cameron Crowe. no fucking wonder! i feel raped now.

i feel violated, manipulated, and inexplicably depressed. Cameron Crowe must be coming all over himself right as we speak.

happy birthday to Ed :-) CAN YOU READ THIS ED? I SAID HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

i say we all chip in and get him a laptop.

kubrick? i thought you said huge dick

A CLOCKWORK ORGY (1995)-- Best Film of 1997 at the Berlin International Erotic Fair. International, people. intimidated as i am in the wake of such serious-fancy-acclaimed-ass artistes, i find my plans to go as Alex DeLarge for Halloween have been seriously compromised. should i stick to the original vibe, or let innovation be my muse?

i go as Alex every single year, btw.

whoa-- Guy Ritchie is HIGH.

OMG quantum physics, pr0n, quantum physics, pr0n Lol KthxBI!!11!

the impossible is possible tonight

We'll crucify the insincere tonight
We'll make things right, we'll feel it all tonight
We'll find a way to offer up the night tonight
The indescribable moments of your life tonight
The impossible is possible tonight
Believe in me as I believe in you...

i was listening to some old CDs, and was reminded of how much i like the Smashing Pumpkins song "Tonight Tonight". particularly the ending-- i just like how the lyrics and strings and percussion and Billy Corgan's voice all come together so perfectly and culminate very dramatically. i love how it's so positive and affirming in such a weird Smashing Pumpkins way.

i also listened to R.E.M.'s Green. stand in the place where you live! now face north! think about direction, wonder why you haven't before.

well, i never

planning to see the new Reese Witherspoon flick? heads up! Family.org's excrutiatingly hip "Plugged In" film review advises that Sweet Home Alabama contains more than a few scenes of "passionate kissing" and "homosexual jesting and innuendo"-- meanwhile, back at the Fashion Show, "women bare considerable amounts of cleavage". mind you, that's purely aside from the copious "violent content" and "drug and alcohol content". all in all, "backhanded homosexual endorsements and 25-or-so too many misuses of God’s name will leave Christian families feeling a little sour."

the mere idea that she allegedly blows up a cat (wtf?) is enough to keep me away from this movie, i'm afraid. well, that, and the fact that it just looks incredibly dumb.

"Spit on my pussy," says Nikita. Azael drools a bit of saliva on his finger and rubs Nikita's pussy. "No no," she says, wagging a finger at him and cocking an eyebrow over her slanted eyes. "Spit on my pussy." But he can't bring himself to do it. He goes back to trying to hump her.

a behind-the-scenes eyewitness account of the "World's Largest Reverse Gang Bang"-- featuring a cast of characters including, but not limited to: an incredibly creepy albino guy who's trying for a world record of 20 consecutive orgasms (he claims his "at home" record is 40), a midget porn actress called DynaMite, an anarchocapitalist, some Slavic chick, and of course-- Bisexual Britni. here's a tip: disaster ensues.

latest search requests

i wanna fuck ellen feiss-- don't we all! but it ain't happening here :-( try ellenfeiss.net.

london today happening-- as in... "it's not a rave, it's a happening!" or, what's happening in London today? either way, beats the hell out of me, Lieutenant.

fandomination; fandomination.net; fanfiction NC-17 fandomination-- yes, yes, yes-- it's all here.

mary kate and ashley vids-- that one where they were secretly filmed showering together and Mary-Kate started rubbing her tits against Ashley's and then they 'accidentally' kiss and Ashley bends over to shave her legs and shows her ass and Mary-Kate says, "oh Ashley, your ass is as big as a horse!" and they giggle and try to get shampoo in each other's eyes? yeah, lent it to Boog, and he never gave it back. goddamn.

9-11 remix heaven DJ Sammy-- get the FUCK out of my sight.

imogen tits brit-- whatever it is, it sounds delightful.

nicky paris hilton got blow-- they certainly do.

is it ok to walk through an airport scanner during pregnancy-- why not? damn near the whole planet's been taken over by retards-- what's a few more?

hirsute women freaks-- you're definitely in the right place.

pics of stella white girl i have fucked in Kentucky-- intriguing! we know her name is Stella, she is white and lives in Kentucky, and somebody fucked her. and possibly took pictures of it.

"graphic novel" multiple sclerosis-- who the hell would wanna see that?