Moon(ed)

Mar. 11th, 2012 07:21 am
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This is the moon on the night of my 33rd birthday.

Anthony: “WHY AM I CHASING YOU DOWN THE STREET WITH NO PANTS ON?!”

Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. Please leave any comments there.

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I am going to mark the occasion with this cake:

…covering it with hot pink icing, pop rocks, and gummi bears in suggestive poses.

Still planning the details for the rest of the occasion. There will be many pictures and good stories. :D

Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. Please leave any comments there.

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Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. You can comment here or there.

Mom: Charging phone again but mow wzchong Archer and the removalof the eggplant dildo from Silvio Berlezconi’s ass but the mother did Not kill him.

It may be the sake, but I had to Google Silvio Berlezconi to make sure that they weren’t in Jersey and locked in my mother’s basement.

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Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. You can comment here or there.

It was love at first sight.
I’m almost positive it’s an animatronic MC Hammer doll concealed in a young girl’s sock. But, it could be Satan. Or, it could be haunted by the ghost of a raver who ground up glow sticks into his cocaine. Whatever it is, it had to be mine.
Mine to give. Because nothing says “I love you” like a pink and violet MC Hammer glowing cocaine devil sock monkey dancing you a Valentine, holding a heart that says “Kiss me, I have a flaming case of herpes.”

Oh good.

Feb. 2nd, 2012 11:03 am
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Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. You can comment here or there.

‎”Then I’d have half a dead mobster AND a dead alligator that choked to death on the 380-pound wookie tit we called Fat Mike. There we were, Sabrina, Jill, and Kelly, standing over a heap of pink putrid man-jelly that smelled like pepperoni and fish.”

Oh, good. I found the autobiographical account of my amorous exploits.

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Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. You can comment here or there.

My best friend Spooky introduced me to Tentacle Grape (http://tentaclegrape.com/)

Some awesome little slut is going to do body shots of this off my stomach before I die.

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Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. You can comment here or there.

I wish to fuck I could figure out a way to do this in my living room without spilling vodka all over the goddamned floor again.

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Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. You can comment here or there.

As a child, I was Dexter and my brother was Dee Dee.

I was obsessed with Isaac Asimov’s neural networks and positronic brains, convinced that if we could discover super-conductive materials and establish artificial consciousness, that we could create electronic brains and cure autism.

I wanted – no, needed to save my brother. I studied engineering and robotics for years. While my peers were playing dress-up, I was building intelligent machines under the tutelage of assorted professors.

Unfortunately, those educational facilities were in urban environments. Just beyond their pristine walls, the maladjusted prowled in the filth like maggots. At the time of this tale, I am just a child and should not be alone in this place.

This is the story of one of the more surreal experiences of my life, and it is so absurd that it is difficult to relate.
I was sexually accosted, albeit largely without success, by the cast of old monster movies.

As I said, I was a child leaving the pristine cathedral of the scholarly and entering the urban sprawl. As I turned the corner, six costumed men appeared in a vehicle. Three got out.

Dread crept over me like a freezing tide.
But the evil that frightened me was inconceivable.
I was being paranoid. Unrealistic. Ridiculous.
Six, three, even two grown people investing that much creativity and energy into forming an unimaginable roving horde of child rapists – that’s insane.

I walked quickly, quietly, with my head down. My instincts were wrong. Their attention was not on me-
A tripped pebble bounced on the concrete immediately behind me.
That little sound rang out like a gunshot in my ears.
I wheeled around to face Frankenstein and Dracula masks towering above me like Chinese dragons, while Wolfman paced anxiously behind them.

Frankenstein could have reached out and touched me.
He was so tall and walked so fast, so deliberately. If he wasn’t in pursuit to assault me, if he was just a man on the street, I would have stepped out of his way before he ran me over. He leaned forward as he walked, so that his head was almost directly above mine.
I said nothing. I washed any expression from my face.
They were trying to terrorize me. I would not play.
Really, what would cowering do against a child rapist who went out and bought a costume for the event? They were beyond mercy. Beyond sanity. Beyond redemption.
They were going to rape me, and then kill me, since they couldn’t let me go.

I picked up my pace, facing him and walking in reverse.
In his eyes, I saw some sort of human recognition, human emotion. Doubt? Hesitation? Guilt?
Maybe he saw what I was thinking in my eyes.
Maybe he hadn’t thought this through.
Or, perhaps the gravity of the situation clicked in some small reserve of sanity in his brain.
Or maybe it was that I wasn’t cooperatively cowering.
I wasn’t brave; I knew I was already dead. There was no way out. There was only the question of whether I was going to die begging for mercy, or die castrating them with my teeth.
I was afraid, yes, but all I could see was a walking vortex that devoured children. How many before me? How many after me?
Potential targets flashed through my mind; my classmates, my best friends, my brother.
I was afraid, yes, but all those children were no different from my own loved ones. They were someone else’s classmate, best friend, sibling. I was on fire with their vengeance.
I wished with all my young engineer soul that I had a laser gun or a robot army.

For whatever reason, Frankenstein hesitated, pausing until I was just out of arm’s reach.
Dracula glanced at him and followed suit.
Wolfman stopped and glared at them, as if to say that he didn’t get all dogged up for nothing.

Wolfman dropped his pants and ran around me in a circle, holding his dick in his hand and miming twirling a lasso. To be fair, that little white boy might have called it “dancing.”

He said something, something I can’t remember any more. It was something ridiculous, and muffled by the mask. Something about his penis and his intentions. I think it was a question. I think he asked me if I wanted his penis and suggested something about sodomy.

I remember the mounting fear of being raped, and by an unshaven lunatic in a plastic mask, who was holding his gooey, leaky shaft in a costumed paw, and dancing…DANCING…around me in a circle, with that sideways-skip-hop made famous by the New Kids On The Block.

It was the first post-pubescent penis I’d ever seen, and the ugliest I’ve seen to date. I know the trauma of Oogly Dick pales in comparison to the tragedy of child abuse, but please hear me; in all my life, all across the internet, including fan-art and 4chan, this was the Ugliest Penis Of All. Before I watched it harden in his hand, I thought it was part of the costume.

Now imagine that going into your butt.

As a side note, I love it when “normal” people tell me about their nightmares.

Because I was a child, I was completely unprepared and unarmed. So, I ran for the nearest well-populated, well-lit area like my life depended on it…because it did.
Unfortunately, the only thing nearby was a six-lane highway.

I ran out into traffic like a swan diving into a lake, arms swinging and all.
It was dangerous, but being killed by a Mack truck would have been a merciful end, given the alternative.

I stood there, on the line between the second and third lane, staring back at them.
I knew they wouldn’t follow me onto the road. They were cowards.
In the craze of terror, I was so angry that cowards nearly ended me. It was shameful; like dying in your own bathtub when you wanted to come home on your shield.

A carload of Latinos screeched to a halt beside me. The driver was leaning out the window, screaming something in a language I didn’t understand. I walked to his window and leaned on the horn, screaming for help with cathartic hysteria.
Several local businessowners came out to see what was causing the traffic problem which worsened exponentially by the second.

I was saved.
And now, with the only road blocked and an angry mob after them, they would know how I felt.

I never told that story before. Thank you for listening.

It comes to mind tonight because I was accosted in a convenience store.
It caught me by surprise; I’m a mother with an infant son; most people are too decent to approach me. Before I was a mother, my friends and I traveled in packs. But tonight, the baby was with his father, and I was alone.
The perpetrator may have been the most aggressive sexual appetite I’ve ever encountered. It was a potentially physical situation.
He was angry with lust. His emotional expression would have been equally suited to a tirade of racial slurs.

He was going to eat that ass with zeal or some muthafuckas were gonna die.

His near-cannibalistic enthusiasm was alarming at the time, but in the aftermath, I can’t write that without giggling. I wonder if some people are deaf to the sounds emitted by their own mouths.

What struck me was my emotional response.
I wasn’t offended. I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t embarrassed.
My first impulse was to look for the nearest object with which to beat the crap out of him, as if this were a scene from the zombie apocalypse.
Like I’d have to find something to use to hack those bitches to pieces before they ate my brains.
Yes, through my ass and all the way up. Fool.

*sigh*
I wish we lived in a better world.

Studies and professionals suggest that the only defense is a good offense. Universally, every source has advised me that almost all predators (criminals, stalkers, rapists, et cetera) will only attack what they perceive as prey. In short, if he thinks you’re going to kill him, he’s not going to break into your house. Or stalk you. Or try to rape you. So, be feared, and you won’t be eaten.

Eaten. Haha.

I just wish there was a more peaceful way to exorcise demons from one’s life.

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Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. You can comment here or there.

After seeing Hatchet Harry in Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels:

I recognized a need I’d never noticed before – I needed a big, double-sided, black plastic cock.

So I drove down to the adult store behind a nearby U-haul and picked up the Doc Johnson Black Giant Double Dildo.

I’ve been partial to Doc Johnson ever since I endorsed the Juli Ashton anal starter kit:

And while I continue to support the latter and have weaponized the former, I must say that Big Black must be wrapped in Saran Wrap at all times, because the smell is abominable. It reeks of rubber, like a freshly opened pool toy, and even with years of regular use, the smell will never fade.

While I was in the shop, I also noticed the Love Ewe.

At the time, I had a roommate named Eric. Eric was a nice guy – a little on the heavy side, but he was a great cook and a lot of fun to be around. But, since he didn’t have a girlfriend, well…there was only one thing for a good roommate to do.

At first, I thought I’d rent him an escort, but there was the simple obstacle that we lived in the same house, so when her pimp cased the joint, he’d be casing my house, too.
So, I googled alternatives, settling upon an inflatable doll. When I googled “hot inflatable dolls,” I found this hilarious review.

NinjaPirate.com is an awesome site, and his quest for sex (Example 1 and Example 2) reminded me so fondly of all the single men that I knew that I felt confident in taking his advice.

On the subject of inflatable sheep, he wrote the following:

A lot of guys pretend blow-up dolls are jokes. As if they’re ugly because nobody takes them seriously. Until it’s their bachelor party and someone gifts them a blowup doll. And then the bachelor is like, “Oh! You got me a blowup doll! That’s funny shit, Nate. Nate, you old dog you. Buying me a blowup doll. That Nate. Thanks Nate.” Then the guy goes home and fills it with water and fucks it. Of course he does.

A few years ago my friends got me a Lovin’ Lamb for my birthday party. I reacted like it was funny and I pretended to take it as a complete joke. But the whole remainder of the party, all I could think was, “I can’t wait to go home and fuck that Lovin’ Lamb.” Then I went home and filled it with water and fucked that Lovin’ Lamb.

That’s right. I went to town on that faggoty gay little lamb. And I know you’re jealous and you’re going to go out and buy one right away.

But here’s the thing. When you purchase a brand new Lovin’ Lamb or maybe Lovin’ Kangaroo if you’re Australian, it will be stiff and obnoxiously loud. Your family or whatever will hear it in the other room, they’ll think you’re making balloon animals. What you do to make it soft is exactly like a new baseball mitt. You put it in the dishwasher with a bunch of rubber bands around it and your dick stuck in it so it conforms right. After three or four loads, it’ll be pliable and soft so you can pitch it to that doll until it somehow, against physics, has an orgasm. And if you want, you can try the black sheep. The black ones are much more warm and sensual, but usually more noisy and only work if you drape gold chains on them.

So, I knew Eric would pretend to be disgusted – and he did.
And I knew he would take that sheep back and fuck it to death, so I gave him the above advice, and then the sheep disappeared.

One day, several months later, I was cleaning the house and ventured into his room in search of dishes and soda cans. I peeked under his futon and – lo and behold – there was the Sheep, sad and deflated.

Wanting to rekindle the joke, I pulled at the inflation device and began to blow it up.

To my surprise, wind blew out the butthole of the sheep like a low sigh.

I dropped the sheep for a moment and stared in disbelief. Then, I picked it up and ran to Eric.

“You fucked it to death!” I yelled.

Eric, who was standing in the kitchen cooking dinner, was more than a little puzzled.

“The sheep! You killed it with your penis!” I accused.
“What?” my other roommate asked.
Composing myself, I explained, “I was cleaning up in Eric’s room and I found the sheep. I went to blow it up and air started blowing out the…vagina. Look!” I pointed at them with the gaping hole in the rear of the sheep, “There’s supposed to be a sheath there, where the penis goes. The sheath has been ripped out from the inside, which means you fucked the sheep so hard that you tore off its little inner fuck sock and now it’s just a popped balloon!”
“It wasn’t me!” Eric insisted, wide-eyed.

What you have to understand about my house is that people came over all the time to hang out with us, watch movies and play video games. There were literally anywhere between five and fifty unique bodies inside those walls every week…which meant that it wasn’t inconceivable that someone had entered Eric’s room and, presumably with his permission, raped his sheep to death.

“You let someone fuck your sheep?” I asked.
Eric said nothing.
“On the futon?” I asked, suddenly glad I’d given him that futon with no expectations of a return.

This evolved into a multi-month rape mystery as we investigated, like a pornographic game of Bestiality Clue, who had raped the sheep to death.

We never did solve what will be one of the great unsolved mysteries of my life, along with “who stole my severed foot.”

But that’s another story.

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Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. You can comment here or there.

You don’t believe in astrology – good. You’re not supposed to, because it’s illogical.
So are gods, ghosts, the afterlife, and magic.
So shut the fuck up and let me enjoy this moment. :)

I’m so glad I didn’t have a Pisces child. I’m a Pisces. I’m a March 11th Pisces. So is she.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of my time in high school.
Minus the drugs. Naked Kraken, though – that part is spot on.

We old.

Jan. 6th, 2012 07:52 pm
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Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. You can comment here or there.

Went out for cat food at midnight because…hey, would YOU say “no” to this?

Picked up Garfield: A Tale of Two Kitties for the kid.
I’ve never seen it, because Lorenzo Music is one of my favorite voice actors of all time. Bill Murray harmed his career and is now performing his signature character (Garfield).
To me, Lorenzo will always be Ralph, the All-Purpose Animal.
Bill Murray will always be that voodoo doll I keep at the bottom of my cat’s litter box.

So they had a sale on Hellraiser movies (6 for $5). I like to think I have the entire collection, but I’m not sure. The films are so similar that they blend together in one painful streak. But, it was Hellraiser or Evil Bong.

…I may have to go back to the store.

They carded me, on the movie purchase – you must be 18 or older to buy it.

As of 2012, you would be 18 if you were born in 1994.
I was in high school in 1994. You?

I stumbled over this topical image today.

You know what makes me feel old? That people younger than I am are complaining that they feel old. :)

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