Mike Bloomberg Re-Enacts the Call Me By Your Name Peach Scene With an Orange

Mike Bloomberg Re-Enacts Call Me By Your Name Peach Scene With an Orange

I kept thinking of him as I lay in bed that sultry afternoon. Donald. Donnie. Don. How he called me by his name and I lovingly called him “Mini Mikey,” his pet name for me.  How he had penetrated me with his miniature manhood and stretched me to my limits.

I reached for the orange I brought with me. I held it in both hands contemplating the somewhat misshapen orb, for it was  a navel orange. The pocked skin of the fruit reminded me of him, orange and rough. The nubbin at the end reminded me of his petite meat.

I began to peal the skin, opening the inside segments. It all began to remind me of his ass. The white of the inner peal clinging to the flesh of the orange reminded me of the thicket of hair hiding his  orifice. Having to part it to find my way in.

I was seized by a desperate yearning.  I yanked my erection out of my shorts, rubbing it against the flesh of the orange. The citric acid smarted a bit , but I was too rapt in ecstasy to care. I came hard, drenching the violated fruit with my Bloomberg juice.

Spent, I was about to toss the fruit on the floor for the help to find later, when Don opened the door.

“Whatcha doing there, Mikey…er…Donnie?”

“Uh well, Mikey, I was just…”

“Whatcha got there, pal?” Don asked, thick tiny fingers trying to seize the oozing orange from my hand. ” I am yugely hungry right now.”

“Don’t. I can’t bear it,” I whimpered, tears welling in my eyes.

Don bit into the orange, juices running down his face. A secret service agent handed him his handkerchief.

Blogoversary the 7th

Still here. Though not prolific,  I’ve been at this for 7 years now. God willing, I will keep at this blog until incapacity or death takes me out. I was 33 when I started, and will be 40 in December. I sometimes read back on my old posts. Lisa, circa 2010, was such a different person from Lisa 2017. In some ways, I truly feel my writing reached its apex in the first two years here (while my mom was still around, my biggest supporter). I sometimes find myself writing stuff worthy of Lisa 2011, but it is what it is. Had you told me during the course of this novel , that my mom would croak, I’d end up living with a drag queen and a pathological liar, end up in a mental  hospital, live in a nursing home for a couple of months, and finally come to living alone in an apartment complex I had lived in when I was 8 years-old… Well, I’d have been horrified to say the least. If you had told me that Donald Trump would be president one day, I’d have believed you were the greatest bullshitter.

I still feel as though I stand on the precipice of disaster at all times, especially now, with Trump and Paul Ryan trying to butcher the dangling safety net. I owe my apartment, medicine,  and healthcare to Medicaid. While I doubt Trump’s “fix” to Obamacare will pass, it’s terrifying to think of block grants. What if taking care of people on disability becomes superfluous? What if one day I’m blogging homeless?

  Here’s to a new blog year that happens to not be catastrophic. Thanks for hanging in there with me!

Crap Satire and Thoughts at 3am

Is it just  me, or have we devolved in the past couple of months into something akin to our Neanderthal forebears? Has the noble WASP strayed too far from his isolated cluster and caught the bee virus? Whether we are Casper ghost pale,  a  delicate pearl  pink,  or a subtle tangerine hue, white people are devolving.  Our Trailer Park Titanic, which spurred on our glorious exalted orange 70 year-old Adolf  Adonis, has sprung a leak and is sinking faster than you can whistle ‘Dixie.’

Personally, I blame that black guy. Oh, it was all fun and games until all those Mexican Muslims infiltrated our electoral college and universities and got him  elected. Eight years of Kumbaya, Kenya, and free phones, it was time for change. We fashioned a golden calf from a golden man and commenced to worship him, chanting our mantra, “Make America Great Again!” America is great, now, but something is missing. That black guy was nice. This guy, his magnificence is too bright, an amber wave of grain knocking against our collective blue eyes. I can’t see anymore.

 

The above was a vain attempt at satire. Seriously though, my fellow white Americans, what the freaking hell? Is this hell? Maybe in an alternate universe, this is the liberal version of the Left Behind series. Our messiah left us for Hawaii and only David Bowie, Prince, and Carrie Fisher got raptured.  Guess who is the Anti-Christ?

My family hails from Appalachia. They are a homogenous group (inbred?), Republican all the way back to Lincoln, and had they known my mom and I were democrats, that was a disownable offense. My grandparents knew, but what can you do? Just don’t let my second cousins find out! It was bad enough knowing that my otherwise gentle grandfather would rather be “a knot on a dog’s dick than be a democrat.” Since I’m already disowned because of my mom not keeping in contact with them, my second cousins do not know whether I’m alive or dead. Good riddance, they said in ever such a kind way after Mom died, not rude, just evasive (it’s the southern way). Do they ever think of me? Like when members of their family croak? Oh wonder what happened to Pat’s mentally deficient daughter?

Anyway, I had a point to this last part. Because being abandoned even by people who barely know you sucks, that is why I don’t unfriend people on Facebook for different points of view, microaggressions, macroaggressions,  racist remarks, homophobic, Islamophobic ,phobicphobic remarks. I think what does it feel like to be tossed away even online? What if you’re my second cousin fallen off the turnip truck and you just don’t know any better?

 

Image from photosforclass.com

I Originally Put This on Facebook

​I went to a Tim Kaine rally the day before the election. This is just a guess, but I think maybe 100 to 200 people showed tops. I’m almost certain they were  in a much better financial class than me (not difficult to  be since I’m on disability, but I surmised most were well off) and I saw maybe 4 minorities in all in a predominately black neighborhood.

 I knew we were going to  lose. 
There were certain variables, however, which made me hope I was wrong:

It was 3 pm on a Monday, when most people are at work or waiting for their kids after school.

Tim Kaine is a very nice person, but about as interesting as paint drying.

Other variables to consider, which made me  believe I was right that we would lose:
Donald Trump came to my town twice campaigning. Twice.  While we aren’t exactly a small town, we aren’t a big metropolis either. He made a lot of people believe he gave a damn about  them, which is laughable but true.

Hillary didn’t come here once this time. Where else didn’t she show up?
Trump rallies are circuses. People like a show and a place where their resentments can be openly displayed.
Hillary had baggage, big baggage. The emails. A huge segment who took their ball and went home when Bernie lost.
Hillary is no Obama. Few people possess the charisma, eloquence, and grace under pressure that Obama has. Likely, there may never be another person quite like him in politics while we are still living.
People underestimated  the hatred a huge population of Americans have for Obama. I didn’t, but a whole lot of people did.  The racism might be hidden under the surface, but  many  people think why am I working, while the ‘other’ gets all these benefits. If you don’t believe me, read any forum where someone mentions a question about her  government phone, food stamps, anything that might keep a poverty-stricken person from  falling through the net. Is it any wonder that Trump can mock a disabled person in front of his masses of supporters.

OK, I’m done. If you actually read this, wow thanks! (Don’t unfriend me)

2016: Blood, Sweat, More Blood

Is it just me, or has 2016 gone down as one of the most awesomely horrendous years in history?  Well, post-plague, post-Hitler, post-mom croaking anyway. It was bad. Can it get any worse? Probably.

I’ve been treated for bed bugs three times, the last time was today. They aren’t all dead. I fully expect a bed bug or two to  outlive me, enjoying the last flowing drops of my lifeblood on my death-bed. #Optimism.

Philippe, my cat of 15 years, died in the early morning hours after Mother’s Day.  A friend kindly offered to allow me to bury him in her yard among her feline deceased. I wrapped Phil’s mortal remains in a sheet, taped him up in a box, placed the box in a vinyl laundry bag, and boarded the bus for her house. No one knew on he bus, but someone was singing  Amazing Grace, a funeral favorite in my family. #Icantmakethiscreepynessup.

And well, Donald Trump  got elected. I just knew he would. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe it will just all be a real hoot. Maybe under the narcissistic, sociopathic facade lies a heart of gold. #Seigheil.

Help Bearman Feed the Poor and Help the Japanese for FREE

Image via Wikipedia

I think most of y’all are familiar with Bearman over at Beartoons, right? The fellow with the green hair that looks like he had it styled at Donald Trump’s salon?  Yeah him. Well, besides being a super artist of  political/pop culture cartoons and commentary, he’s socially conscious too. 

Bearman will give the first $500.00 he gives away to a Cincinnati, OH food bank .  If  he  does more than $500.00, the rest will go to the Red Cross to aid Japanese earthquake victims up to $ 1000.oo. This is his 3rd year sponsoring charities All without you donating a blood red cent or giving personal info. BEARMAN DOES THE DONATING!!! 

I will let Bearman himself explain his terms on his site. For instance, this post I am writing will make him donate $10.00.

http://beartoons.com/2011/05/01/bearman-cartoons-charity-challenge-2011/