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I recall that sage bard, Ice Cube, released a song in 1992, in which he too was lulled into a false sense that ‘Today Was a Good Day.’ A ‘good day’ to Ice Cube is no one opened fire. A good day to Lisa is avoiding K.’s ire.

She’s in Prednisone withdrawal and she was telling me around 2 a.m. about being scared. I asked her a little while later if she was feeling any better, but I didn’t hear back and assumed she had gone to sleep. I was preoccupied with setting my apartment to rights for my worker in case she came this morning. She did come, and I guess the joint passed because she let me go to Wal-Mart for cat litter.

I strolled through Wally’s Christmas decorations. I haven’t been out for a long time, usually just ordering everything from ‘Wally, the River, or the Bay.’ I didn’t have much juice in my phone or I might have recorded what I saw and have someone to share my internal monologue.

I avoided the Salvation Army bell ringer like he had the plague. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, but today it ain’t for me. I could moral grandstand and say it’s because of the occasional report of them discriminating against LGBT people. I don’t take that lightly, but in the big picture, they do more good than harm. I avoided him because it’s getting later in the month and because I felt like it.

Maybe it’s karma for draft dodging the Salvation Army guy, but I knew when K. didn’t answer my seen Messenger message that once again I had failed to show enough concern. It wasn’t intentional. The madcap race to make everything look better, sleep deprivation, being medicated enough to focus and gain enough willpower. It all converged; nay, conspired to make me a shitty friend while she has a potentially life threatening condition.

Later, I get a message from Z, our intellectually disabled friend she used to pay to feed cats. He’s in town for Thanksgiving until the 25th, home from the group home where he lives.

I pass this along to K. “Well, I’ve got appointments through the 25th, and you don’t need to be in the middle.”

I feel my eyes becoming incontinent, but text back, “Well, maybe you can call him.”

“Maybe you can call him.”

And this is K. who lords over everyone her 137 IQ, but has the emotional intelligence of a recalcitrant 10 year-old. So much for her online therapist helping her not to be a bitter cunt. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

The United Nations Wants to Send Me Money

• 

Amy Klobuchar and Joe Biden: My Dick was Made for Ridin’by Lisa B.

It was after the debate,

and Joe Biden needed

to masturbate.

The urge was just too strong

to whip out and stroke his dong.

Known as the ‘hands on candidate,’

Senator Biden was a huge reprobate.

Frottering the ladies and sniffing hair,

Joe’s wayward touching was everywhere.

He just had to find a room quick and soon

to drop his pants lest he become a buffoon.

Where was a bathroom, a closet, a trash bin?

Somewhere to commit his secret sin

.

Suddenly the senator’s ears were as alert as his dick.

A kerfuffle was going on in the thick.

A midwestern squealing, 

shrill and unappealing, 

wafted through a closed door.

“I said I wanted Perrier, not La Croix,

you thoughtless, dim-witted whore!”

The sound of a can hitting a wall,

frantic apologies, and a voice saying ‘damn  ’em all.’

Out spilled an intern and an aide,

running away like their boss was the plague.

Red faced with hands on her hips,

it was Senator Amy Klobuchar in a fit.

The eyes of Satan flashing firey hell,

suddenly, on Joe Biden her glance fell.

“Senator Biden, what a nice surprise!” 

Amy’s voice,  saccharine sweet,

declared without missing a beat.

‘Oh, Amy, you were so great!

You caused Senator Sanders’

socialist ideals to deflate…

And looking  so beautiful too. 

Let me give you a congratulatory hug 

and a little kiss. Hold still, I won’ t miss.

Mmm..Is that Pert Plus?”

“Well, you know me,

I don’t like to make a fuss,”

said Amy,  patting her hair.

.

Mr. Biden reached subtly her derriere.

“You’d make a great VP, Amy.”

“Joe, do you have a VD?”

“Nope, not me.”

“Then close the door; let me see.

I’ve always wanted to fuck you,

Senator Biden.”

“Well, Amy, my dick was made for ridin’.”

And ride is what she did,

frantic liver spotted hands

clawing against her soft skin.

“I’m not getting off,” moaned Klobuchar,

Bouncing up and down on his cock.

“You better make me come, mother fucker,”

she said, in threat and demand.

She perched on the dressing room table, 

Joe went down with his mouth,

on a vagina that smelled like cheese

but tasted like stale ale.

“Wait, I know what I need.

Get up and get me my purse.”

She dug to the bottom of her bag,

And pulled out a plastic fork.

“Fuck me by that wall;

I want to look in the mirror

and see it all.”

“Ma’am, I aim to please, 

Joe decreed,

But what Amy did next

nearly brought 

the geriatric man to his knees.

Amy shoved the fork’s handle,

without much preamble,

up Biden’s behind.

” Why-why-why-why?”

stuttered Joe,

who was about to 

shoot his load.

“It’s my kink,

plus I shudder to think

of ever being without

adequate cutlery.”

Andrew Yang Math Professor and Pete Bootyjudge Student Porn Parody Story

Andrew Yang Math Professor and Pete Bootyjudge Student Porn:

“You wanted to  see me, sir?” asked Pete Bootyjudge. Pete’s cheeks blushed crimson as he looked at his math professor, Mr. Andrew Yang. Was it apprehension or the shyness of a young man horny for his calculus professor, calculating how fuckable  he was.

“Son, take your ‘Math’ hat off and close the door. Don’t you have any respect?”

“I..I’m sorry, sir. Forgive me,”  Bootyjudge said, almost in a whimper.

“Yeah, I bet you’re sorry. Do you have any idea why I called you into my office, Booty…” Mr. Yang  trailed off. “Bootyjudge, is it?”

“It’s Gaitise,” said Bootyjudge.

“Gay? What did you say, boy?”

“No, no. Gai. Tise. Gay. Tease. My family is from the Island of Gaita in the Mediterranean.”

“Well, that’s interesting. Gaita. Never heard of it, but we all got to be from somewhere.”

” Yes, yes, sir.”

“So, Bootyjudge” Mr. Yang snickered. Do you know why I  asked you into my office?”

“Maybe, sir.”

“Look at this grade! Mr. Yang shook  the test in his hand. “A big fat D.”

“Look, I’m no good at calculus. I’m good at theology, the arts. Not math…Even though I bought your math hat,” said Bootyjudge, a hint of a smile on his face, as he ran his fingers over the hat that hid his massive 4  inch hard on.

“There may be something that can be done to get rid of this big fat D you got here.”

“Uh, what?”

Mr. Yang crooked his finger, beckoning Bootyjudge to him. “I want you to judge my booty, Bootyjudge.” 

Mr. Yang stood up, went to the  the wall, and unbuckled his belt. He turned around, dropped his pants, showing his bare ass to Bootyjudge. “Well, what do you think?”

Bootyjudge looked at the man’s round,  almond colored bottom and felt himself salivate.  “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

“Would you fuck an ass like mine?” Mr. Yang spread his cheeks, showing a perfectly bleached asshole.

Bootyjudge gasped. “Oh, heavens, yes!”

“Come here. Kiss me, boy.” Their lips met, their hands clasped together. Tongues thrust in and out. Mr. Yang  licked up the side of Bootyjudge’s face, as the young man shivered. Mr. Yang opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a half empty jar of Vaseline. They looked into each other’s eyes.

 ” I want you  to fuck my ass until I come, then I want to drink all of your cum, every drop.”

“Well, OK.”

Bootyjudge and Mr. Yang were naked, Yang bent over the desk as Bootyjudge lubed up Mr. Yang’s taut hole.

“Aww yeah, fuck my ass, harder, harder!”

“Ohhh I can’t hold it anymore!” cried Bootyjudge after 2 minutes, pulling out his dick and shoving it into Mr. Yang’s mouth as he came. Mr Yang couldn’t help but notice that Bootyjudge’s hot jizz tasted like mayonnaise.

The Dreaded Lisa Mukbang Video

It’s long and cringy, so if you don’t get through it, no worries. I drink, eat, and talk to my phone. Quality content.

My BFF Thinks my Videos are Moronic, So Here’s Another One

I made my BFF (read: only friend offline) angry, and when she gets super mad at me, she lashes out at me verbally.  Today’s sin, and it was bad, was I didn’t get a stray cat ready to go to the vet a day earlier than I did. Now the vet doesn’t want to take her since it’s a Friday and she’s a colony cat. BFF won’t tell me if they took Callie in. She has a right to be pissed at me, but I think calling me a ‘lazy retard,’ saying my videos are ‘moronic,’ and not to expect her to spend a minute on me was a bit of an overreaction. Especially since I babysat her cockatiel who she was afraid was sick yesterday. Just saying. I think it will be OK to vent here,  because she’s said before, “I don’t read your shit because I know you.”

This video has been up a couple days, and I have a few more to spew out upon the world. Oh, to be unappreciated in one’s own time!

Fun Fact: This was actually seen by someone from one of  Walmart’s YouTube channels and they commented.

Aldi Grocery Haul: Now with Cat

 

As you can see, I have made yet another thrilling Youtube video, and if you have 6 minutes of your life that you don’t mind not getting back, give it a watch. I’m up to 13 subscribers. Will you be number 14? It might not be as exciting as MAGA Smirk Boy, but not many things are.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Bed, Bug, and Beyond

Hauling cast-offs from your neighbors’ trash is kind of like autoerotic asphyxiation:  It’s all fun and games until you’re well hung.

Oh yes, I’ve hung myself  well. Cimex lectularius, aka the bed bug, has taken hold of my home and lecturously clung to me, tying my noose in a rust colored bow. A creature smaller than a pencil top has wrecked my life emotionally, socially, and reduced me to semi -penury.

S’up?

 

There are two things to do when you find you have a bedbug problem. First, tell everybody! Brag to your 1.5 friends that your previous state of having no blood relatives has been remedied by playing host to a growing family of consanguinious creatures. Your 1.5 friends may become .05 friends that are willing to touch you with a 10 ft. pole, but now you will have many bedfellows who find your society delicious.

The second thing is watch how you become as popular as a prostitute with mouth herpes on a Tuesday night. Watch as your friends inspect their domiciles as you wait with bated breath for the horror that your new family might have jumped  ship for tastier fare. You will begin to see your bug relatives in every speck of dust, feel them, and itch from them when they aren’t there. You begin to wish for a bolt of lightening to strike your apartment and incenerate your tiny family. Your new relations are about as well esteemed to you as  your Appalachian cousins, but unlike your cousins, your bed bug family won’t abandon you. Lucky you.

 

I began suspecting when I killed a tiny blood red critter  walking its merry way across my pillow. It’s a baby bed bug, I inwardly squealed. No, came my angry reply to the voice within, it’s a spider mite tracked in by one of my cats. I told my psych nurse about the sighting and she agreed with my surmise.

A few nights later, I saw another insect, chubby and waddling. That’s an odd looking cucarocha.

And then December 26. D Day. I saw a bug close enough for me to grab  and I captured it alive in a pill bottle.  Oh dear God, that sure looks like an unfed bed bug. The poor little thing couldn’t keep itself right side up and flailed about so pitifully I had to stop looking at it.

I drew a bath and stripped off, afterward using jackets to keep me warm  on the couch and benzos to lull me to sleep. It’s going to be a great new year.

Much of the next day I stayed on the couch, deep in the depression only suspecting bed bugs can do to you. You know no one will want to be around you anymore, that your life is over until your home is napalmed. I looked online for stories of losing friends due to bed bugs. Of course there’s stories of lost friends and one Yahoo Answers contributor answered to the fearful friend of a bed bug sufferer, “just get new friends, eww.”

I took my prisoner, who had croaked on its own accord to a nearby exterminator. I caught one of the guys towards quitting time, and he turned up the bottle, made a face, and replied, “yeah” when I asked if it was a bed bug. I promptly went to McDonald’s and ate two Big Macs.

What is worse than a bed bug problem, you might ask. OCD, bed bugs, and mingling your worst fears into that mix. I feared telling my landlady for fear of being evicted, because around this  time last year I was threatened with eviction. I feared telling my social worker for fear of losing the assistance  I get on my rent.

Both scenarios led to the same conclusion in my mind,the trifecta of  my worst fears, a game show called Rest Home, Homeless, or Dead.

Generally Hospitalled

The day was agonizingly beautiful. The sky was an endless robin’s egg and the bright sun bade me release t

Dumpster diving

he bonds of my apartment walls for the worthier pastures of mass transit and dumpster treasure. What is 87 F (31 C) for those of us seeking adventure, the Holy Grail, and something besides potato chips in our cupboards? Apparently, 87 F is a lot, as I felt all 220 pounds of my glorious body begin to broil medium well in the afternoon sun. Three huge bottles of dish washing liquid, Lisa Frank magnets, and a squished bottle of generic fruit punch and I began to feel the ill effects of heat exhaustion setting in .  Outrageous fortune beset me yet again when I realized the bus I boarded was air conditioning free.  Once I got home, the effects of my romp, plus the thoughts in my head erupted. And I vomited. In the trash can by my bed. In the commode. In a bucket of Pinesol by my commode. In the bathtub trying to calm down.
“Either I got heat exhaustion or that tooth that had that mild abcess is going septic,” I told my friend.

But back to vomiting.  In the yard waiting  for my friend to come get me. Desecrating a Walmat plastic bag in the car on the way to the hospital.  And once in a nifty vomit bag as the wheel chair I was in made too many jerking movements -but I apologized to the waiting room as any genteel southerner would.  I  vocalized that I wanted my mom, never mind that this section of the waiting room was where I finally was away enough from my mom to shed a tear at her impending demise back in 2011. Now, four years later,  Lisa the Stoic, is replaced by OCD Lisa chanting a mantra of “I’m so scared.”

Then the nurse, while taking my medical specifics gave me a pill, Zofran. Zofran, named for the ancient Greek god of Emesis and Refusing to Suffer in Silence. I was fine in 15 minutes.  Not sepsis. Not this time, Mom. I felt like an idiot as my panic subsided. I’ve vomited many times alone without alerting the media, but the heat exhaustion, sepsis in the tooth scenario weighed deeply in my mind along with other anxieties. I asked the triage nurse if it would be OK for me to go since I felt so much better. “Absolutely!” She said with a trifle more enthusiasm than necessary. But here I am a month later alive and  well, and I see they’ve moved the entrance to the emergency department, probably they’re hiding from me.