Part of the Process

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Location: British Columbia, Canada

Yeah. I got nothin.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Ode To A Beautiful Night

The stars are shining, the air is warm, the city lights are reflecting and refracting off the river below, and the strip club is near silent.

And over at Pandagon, Amanda posts a link that proves that It's All Gonna Be Okay. Because no matter what the baby wars (with the "threat" of Muslims "outbreeding" the Godly Christians or Republicans "outbreeding" the Liberals), no species, no matter how prolific - be it the long passed Dodo, or that most hallowed and most appealing of flightless fowl, the Kakapo - can outlive massive doses of stupidity.

And here you have it, proof positive that Republicans are a dying breed. (Remember folks, this here excerpt was written by a Repub pundit, the wisest of the species, the, dare I say it? expertisers.) Heck, this is worthy of making up a name, it is.

Without further ado, I give you

Dennis Prager on why the left fears global warming more than the right:
The Right tends to fight human evil such as communism and Islamic totalitarianism. The Left avoids confronting such evils and concentrates its attention instead on socioeconomic inequality, environmental problems and capitalism. Global warming meets all three of these criteria of evil. By burning fossil fuels, rich countries pollute more, the environment is being despoiled and big business increases its profits.

Okay then. Why is this so funny? Well, remember, this is intended as an insult to the left.

That boy actually believes that being worried about social inequality and environmental problems shows that Teh Left is going craaaaaazy, while honest, salt of the earth folks are more concerned with pissing in their panties whenever a brown person waits for the same crossing light as them. Shit man, their brown, and their stopping next to me. Every good Godbag knows that brown people can't tell the difference between red or green lights! Take cover, Betty, their gonna bloooowwwwww!!!!

And if that quote wasn't enough to send you into the mad hysterics that it did me, there's always this one to fall back on:
The Left believes in experts.

That's right.

No need for thanks, you know I'm only here to please you.

Impulsive Out.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Post #3

Yeah, this is the third post on the same subject. But you know what? I don't like hiding behing the pillar in my building's lobby, hiding from anyone driving by outside, while waiting for the elevator. I don't like having to sprint down the street to building entry, timing it right so that little fucker won't know what building I went in to.

It brings back memories.

I didn't like sleeping with my back pressed into the wall, so HE couldn't see me if he found out where I lived, and chose to peer in the window.

I didn't like ripping my newborn child out of her swing to cower in the bathroom (the only room without windows) when I heard a car that sounded like it might be his stopping in front of my house.

I don't like cowering. I don't like fear. I don't like knowing that there's someone out there who has the legal right to use my child to get revenge on me.

Here's the thing:

You're right; I never loved you. I didn't. We only dated for three months. The only reason I let you move in was because I was too fucking lazy to find a new roomate. You were stupid, but maleable. I was bored, and lazy. And so we met.
Sure, I did you wrong. I gave you the time of day, and I shouldn't have even done that. As to how far things went, and how fast? I can't take full blame for that. Three months, is, after all, three months.

No matter: My child is not your weapon. You may have done what you could to alieanate all my friends (as if you could), and may have stolen every possesion I had (as if they weren't replacable), but you do not have the option of using my child against me.

You don't have that choice. It's not yours. You denied her: you debated her relation to you. You said that no woman who was carrying your progeny would refuse to marry you.

Pick one. Either you were wrong, or she's not yours.

Legally, she isn't. She's mine. My daughter. I carried her. We sat in the parking lot together, baking in the heat. We ate cornflakes. We went to the hospital. Then she became she, and lazed her slow-assed way out of me, lungs sealed, heart trembling, yet still refusing to be rushed. She came, and screamed for six months straight, and hollered when I put her down to take a shower, and roared when I changed her diaper, and frothed when I changed my socks.

But you wanted to use her against me. Not as your daughter, but as a free grenade to throw. And you sat outside the window, and breathed into the other end of the phone, went to my parents house and scared their dog. And you went to court, and hoped that they'd feel as badly for you as you did for yourself.

You didn't even want anything out of it: you just wanted a public forum to call me a bitch.

Well, here it is:


And to your alter-egos, that drive alongside me at night, and demand submission:


Done. I've said it, twice. Is that good enough for you fuckers? Will you beleive me now? Because it's the truth. IT'S THE MOTHERFUCKING TRUTH.


Now leave me the fuck alone.


That's some shit from the seventies, isn't it?

No, that's where a couple of guys feel like they can follow me home and threaten me, simply because they know that deep down, it's kinda close to being okay, just as long as you don't say that out loud.

But you were mean to him.

You don't see it? You honestly don't see it, do you? That boy drove along side me. Hell, to look like he wasn't pulling that shit, he then sped up to circle the block, then DROVE ALONG SIDE ME AGAIN. And repeat.

Let's put this in context of a trial. I'll be the judge.

Well, okay...Since you're the only public voice I have, I guess I don't have a choice, now do I?

We'll be editing your reply. But next: Were you flirting while at the bar?


No seriously, you're a young woman, single, 88.4% straight, yet you're telling me you weren't flirting?

No. I was hanging out with my girlfriends. The closest I came to flirting was telling one of the bartenders that I'm not into straight guys....Wait. What the fuck does it matter if I was flirting or not?

Well, don't you think you might have brought this on yourself?

What? Pardon? Are you serious?

You met him prior, didn't you?

Yeah, he made some asshole comment, and I ignored him. So what?

But what did you do to deserve the comment. You were dancing, weren't you? And to Shakira, if I'm not mistaken.

Well, yeah. I was wearing an ankle length skirt, and an anklet, and an Egyptian necklace. Kinda gotta dance to Shakira, given the circumstances.

So maybe you led him on, given the dress. The song said, "My hips don't lie," so don't you think that maybe he misread your hips?

What of it? Did he misread me flipping him the bird as he sped off, the first time, after I told him to fuck off, repeatedly, since he was cruising along side me, alone, at night? And after I'd called him an idgit, prior to his retreaving his car just so he could tail me with less effort? How was that leading him on? And how would that matter, anyway?

Well, I'm just sayin': You're cute. You've got real big tits. Maybe it's just not your place to be galavanting around in bars, and clubs, and pubs, and restaurants, and parks, and school, and on the streets, and all that shit. It's just too tempting.

Tempting?!? Fuck that, no one sober wants a peice of me. It's not my fault if he was too drunk to realize that. I'm bitchy. I'm scared of commitment. I get knock-kneed and tongue-tied around people I'm honestly attracted to, and that makes me a shitty conversationalist. Plus, I've got really scrawny chicken legs. That's not tempting. That's his insanity.

Well, obviously you fooled him. Maybe you should dampen it down a bit, ya think?

No! I only danced with the girls! I didn't even talk to the guys that are friends with the group. The only time I had any contact with men was when I was going too or from the dance floor, and they tapped my shoulder, and you know what? I kept walking, and pretended I didn't notice them! I didn't flirt, with anyone, at all!

But you earlier admitted to flirtatiously mocking the bartender for being straight, did you not?

No! That's not what I said! Well, it is, sort of, but....Wait: What does this have to do with anything?

I'm just setting up the hypothesis that maybe, you were being a flirt. And that may have caused the alleged stalker to reason that you would be attracted to him, too. And therefore his following you home was a completely reasonable response, given your demeanor.

(Turns to face the camera): And as this shows, ladies, you'd be better off not to cause such contraversies. Don't mock men by entering bars or pubs, and be certain not to wear a skirt which exposes your ankles to them. Although I'm sure you're too naive to realize the response that a well turned ankle (especially when combined with Shakira), will elicit, trust me when I say: You don't want to find out.

Stay home. You're safer there. And better safe then sorry.

Why I Live Across The Street From a Strip Club:

Here's the deal: You act like an asshole, I'm gonna call you an assshole.

And the fact that the bouncers also feel that you're an asshole does not reflect on me.

Therefore, you do not have the right to drive by me, twice, on the way home.

Or a third time.


Advice to all single women:

Move into an apartment across the street from a strip club, and only go home at closing time.

If someone is harassing you, feel free to, quite literally, jump on a bouncer. Seriously, grab some bouncer, and don't let go. If it hasn't reached that point:


I don't care how safe you feel. The shortest, slimiest, least-suspect guy will be the one who circles the block repeatedly.

Never Open Your Door Unless You Know Who's Watching You.

And that's life. I know it, you know it. We know it. We live it. We know that if I didn't hide myself with the stripclub patrons, then dash across the street when he drove around the corner (again), I would have deserved it, had he broken into my building and raped me.

He was at the same bar as me. That means I wanted to fuck him.

He spoke to me. That's damn near the same as pissing on a tree, that is.

Fuck it, I'm tired, I'm cranky, and it's way past my bedtime. And I'm not being to clear, am I? So here goes:

Really, this is it. All of it:

Him: Hey, bartender, that chick wants you!!!

Me: blank stare, followed by silence

Two hours later.

Him: Hey, Baby!

Me: You're an idjit.

Him: Why you sayin' that mean shit to me?

Me: What ev'.

Bouncer: He bugging you?

Me: No, he's just an idjit. You know him?

Bouncer: Fuck, no.

Me: Well, if you meet him, let him know that pulling this shit isn't gonna get him laid.

Bouncer: Alright. You okay?

Me: Yup.


And that's it. That's all I had to do with this guy. Until he drove by, that is. And needed and "explanation" for why I was so rude. Or when he drove by the second time, with less accolade to my beauty. Or when he whipped around the corner, on the third round.

I love my strip club. I love it's patrons, that aren't willing to go home at closing, and instead mill around out front. I love the bouncers that are too fucking lazy to attempt to pack those millers off home.

Because, guess what? If I didn't go straight from the bar to the strip club, I could've been in real trouble. And don't tell me that Tool wasn't trouble, the boy was willing to circle the block THREE TIMES because of me.
Me and the fact that I stomped on his manhood by calling him and idjit.

What ev.
I don't have the energy to fight right now. If you don't get this, I can't explain. So I give.(Now let's hope like shit that he didn't see the building I went into, or I'm sure in deep doodoo, ain't I!!)

Saturday, June 17, 2006

In Other News

Ann Coulter is peeved that she's not news. Check this:

"Liberalism is a godless religion. Hello! Anyone there? I've leapt beyond calling you traitors and am now calling you GODLESS. Apparently, everybody's cool with that.*"

Poor, dear Ann. All she wanted was a little attention, and no one delivered. Don't worry, Annie, I'm here for you. I'll listen. Occassionally. When I'm bored, and need a laugh, anyway.

*Straight from the Page of Ann, that. I won't link there, as I'm pretty sure that'll give my computer some fucked up virus, but you can find it on your own. Google it. Done.

Friday, June 16, 2006


I got nothin', beyond my endless supply of writers block. So I feed you instead:

506 Comments About Blowjobs.

Go nuts. Get off. Hell, give someone head, or don't, as you choose. Run around the streets poking someone with a bratwurst while screaming, "Cocksucker!!!", or just tell people that you are purposely writing a contrarian post because, well, you wanna, and sit back and watch the commotion.

Whatever you do, Do Not Comment.
It's over, it's done. You don't want to jump on that bandwagon. The only reason I'm still talking about it is because I'm that person that laughs uproariously at anything you say, then proceeds to repeat that Funny straight back to you, fifty times over, garnished with an obnoxiously hyena like laugh each and every time.

Not wanting to dig through the whole mess? Here's the breakdown:

My bad, I got four paragraphs into a detailed breakdown, then realized that I was finally bored with the subject. So you don't get none.

Here's the shorter breakdown:

If you wanna see the commentary on a caustic rant deteriorate from tongue-in-cheek joking into completely unwarranted personal attacks *over blowjobs, for christ's sake* see Twisty's posts. (That'd be the links in the "506" and the ".", I'm pretty sure.)

If you wanna see people go off on how Twisty has no right to write what she feels like on her own damned blog, see, um, "About". I think. If I'm right, then "Comment" will get you too one liners involving blowjobs, and Rick Santorum's penchant for Bush head. Or vice versa. Or a combo. I can't remember.

Last but not least, if you want excruciatingly detailed comments on the methods and manners of the best darned blowjobs ever, click on "Blowjobs" (Oddly enough, that wasn't planned).

There. That oughta keep you amused for the next 36 hours.

You're welcome.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Must. Update. Now.

1) Writer's block's still going strong. I ain't got shit.

2) Ever had to sit through a business math class while your two week disposable contacts, which you've been wearing for the last nine months straight, decide to free float around your eyeballs, causing your eyes to turn into beady little faucets, and your nose joined in the waterfall game? No? You may be lucky.

3) Ever had to sit through a business math class while your passive-aggressive instructure, who reminds you of your mother, lectured on how e proved that God existed, and any good mathematician should know that? Once again, Lucky.

4) In other news, I finally bit the bullet and put The Kid in swim lessons. For your information, I'm terrified of having The Kid around water. Scares me shitless. But I'm gonna get through this, because the only thing that's gonna keep her safe around water is knowing how to swim and learning water safety skills. That, and she's a freakin' fish already.
Wish me luck. She doesn't need it, she's stoked.
I, however, am panicking.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Two Points

1) I'm already cheating: There's three points. Number one being that I have some serious writer's block, which shouldn't even be possible for this level of bloggery, but hey, it happens. I can't even muster a giant happy face. So instead, I'm sending to places that are writing things:

2) Read this here post at Feministe. And if you're brave, try to make your way through the comment thread as well (I didn't, but I'm a lazy assed fuck and it's way passed my bed time anyway). After a bit of internal debate, I came to the conclusion that this should not be an issue. Nicole/Nicholas is a child. A pre-schooler. Give me one good reason why a pre-schooler should have their identity formed around their sexuality. I've said it once, I'll say it a hundred times: Kids and sexuality don't mix. Remember that. Live it, love it, learn it.
There's something seriously wrong with our society that a child should have to decide that their transgendered at the age of five. Who wrote this gender shit in stone? Not history, that's a load of bull. Turn back a hundred years, and you couldn't tell the difference between a boy and a girl. It just wasn't an issue.
I'm not saying that Nicole isn't Nicole. Hell, I'd lay bets that she is. But the fact that a five year old has already determined that her nature is so different from other boys that it could only mean that she's born with the wrong gender doesn't say anything about Nicole, it says something about the drooling fetish we have with sexuality and gender as a society as a whole.
This isn't about a girl, or a boy. This is about a fucking child.
When did we get to the point that pre-schoolers are studying the issue of the biology of gender, and making life changing decisions based on that?

3) I lied again. We're gonna get up to four points. I just discovered that there is a reason for those people who type all in caps locks. Seriously, Keep your fingers off the shift key. I don't care if you're not typing anything, and you just wanna rest that there pinky for a minute. Don't. Because if you pass that eight second mark, you'll lose all control of your keyboard to the Microsoft demons. Don't do it. Back away from the shift key.

4) I was going to write a much more grand opener for the newest, shiniest link on here, but between the procrastination, writer's block, complete inability to schedule, and the fact that after spending the last half hour trying to figure out how to get that fucking caps lock off, it's now way, way past my bedtime, I'm just gonna plunk that link down here. New Millennium Nigga. Read. Laugh. But laugh in a "it'd be funny, if it wasn't true...I think I'm gonna cry," kinda way. You will enjoy. Heck, I'm offering up a money back guarantee on that one.

5) I got a new fish tank. I'm gonna beg, borrow or steal a camera to commemorate this occasion. Until then, I'm going to bed.