Turkey-Cock?

Some interesting things I’ve learned recently:

1.) There is no cure for malaria.

Malaria, like true love, is for life. Symptoms include fever, chills, and weight loss, and can come back again and again throughout your life. A friend who caught the parasite from a mosquito bite in Africa is looking mighty gaunt recently and suspects he’s relapsing.

It’s only a matter of time before Hollywood starlets start intentionally injecting it into themselves, much as they do with Botox, which is derived from a POISON used in biological warfare.

An embarrassing aside: For some reason, I always associated malaria with diarrhea.


“Lyndsay Lohan? Yeah, I’m her personal trainer.”




2.) Turkey-Cock

This term caught my eye while looking something up in the dictionary. According to Webster’s, it’s either a male turkey, or a strutting pompous person.

I must admit, that’s not at all where I thought it was going. Huh.


"Quit ogling my barrel. And keep your filthy thoughts to yourself”




3.) Cod sperm—you’re soaking in it…

“Maritex, among the world's largest producers of cod liver oil, said it aimed to produce seven tons of processed cod sperm…for the international makeup market.”

Something in the fish semen helps keep skin taut and young. Allegedly.

It’s also used in chocolate, medicines, and breast milk substitutes.

Frank Hansen, a biotech engineer at Maritex, claims, “It neither smells nor tastes of anything,”

Uh-huh, you know how long men have been trying that line? It never works.


A good Samaritan volunteers his services.

Ah, Hell, Who Went And Spilled Wisdom All Over My Blog?!

I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make I deserve the life I make the life I...



Next time, clean up after yourself. Fatty.

You Died For Nothing, Stupid Bee!

I WAS ATTACKED BE A KILLER BEE!

I assume it was a killer bee because it stung me for no reason whatsoever. I go to open the door to my office building and—KA-STING!—it gets me right in the palm of my right hand. I never even saw the little bitch come at me. (Bees are girls, right? I can call them bitches?)

Hey, you furry fucking Hollywood bee, I didn’t attack your beehive, did I? No I did not.

I didn’t walk up to you and knock the pollen out of your filthy bee mouth, did I?

Last I checked, there are no flower fields on Hollywood Blvd., so it’s not like I’m all up in your place of employment making your life that much harder. Like you did to me!

Goddamn that pisses me off—unprovoked bee assault!

I know what you were thinking, bee, “If he’s allergic to beestings, his ass is mine. At the very least I’ll take out his writing hand. Fuck’s sake, I am the evil incarnate of the insect world. If I was a boy bee, I would have an erection, I’m so hot for evil, yeah, yeah, yeah! I’m going in!”

But guess what, bee? My hand’s not swelling up. That’s right, I’m not allergic to bee stings you fat little Nazi honey-sucker.

I LIVE!

And now, in the final, agonizing moments of your short, destructive life, take this thought with you as your cross over into the Great Unknown: You failed, and your death meant nothing.

Suck it, bee.





(Above) Source of the Holocaust.

I Would So TOTALLY Do Me

Well, I just had a pleasant conversation with the graphic designer doing the cover for my novel. She’s going to make it hip, cool, and in-your-face, which, it just so happens, is exactly where you want a book, up around the reader’s face area.

Now, I’m no Stephen King, I’m still new to the world of novel authorship, but if you get a cover, that usually means it’s a real book, right?

I also just heard from a director for whom I wrote a low-budget horror-action script. He’s going to bump it up from a $90,000 direct-to-DVD movie to a $3 million feature I could actually earn enough money from to buy my mother a house.

On a more nerdy tip, there’s the video game I’m writing and co-developing with my brother the Software Engineer. He just learned three different computer languages in less than three months; now machines do as his voice commands, computers levitate around his head, and his eyes glow an eerie green after the sun goes down.

And we always thought he was the slow one.

To recap:

(1) A book deal

(2) A movie deal

(3) A cyborg brother

All that while working a full-time day job. If I was an agent/manager, I would be all over me. If only because I used the phrase “on a more nerdy tip” correctly in a sentence.

Lesbians soothe my soul

My writing schedule

8 a.m. – Wake up. Calculate, can I sleep another 30 minutes and still get to work on time? Fall asleep sitting on edge of bed as I stare at my toes.

8:45 a.m. – Wake up again. Fuck, I’m late!

9 a.m. – Commute to Hollywood; hate on all drivers around me. “Yes, by all means, sir, cut me off, and by the way, fuck you.”

10 a.m. – Arrive at gay publication, where I’m the only straight editor.

10:30- noon – Edit book of gay porn. Is blow job one word or two? Check Stylebook. Ah, it’s two.

11 a.m. – How about buttcheek? Butt cheéque? Butt cheek! Thanks, Stylebook.

11:45 a.m. – Teabagging? What the hell does that mean, Stylebook…?

Oh.

11:46 a.m. – Feel a sliver of my soul slip away.

12:30 p.m. – Eat lunch at my cubicle while I read screenwriters’ blogs where they complain about things like, “Producers are such assholes. They don’t get my vision. Should I accept an assignment even if I just don’t ‘feel’ it?”

12:31 p.m. – What…? What? No, you shouldn’t accept it. In fact, you should quit, leave the screenwriting profession right now. Jesus, God, Jesus, there were times I could barely pay my rent, and you’re turning down screenwriting work, sweet gentle Christ, who do I have to blow in this town to get a fucking major agent or manager or even an assistant’s cousin’s sister’s dog-walker to read my movie scripts!?!

Sorry about the "blow" comment—I meant “fellate.” I should know better.

12:32 p.m. – Another sliver of my soul slips away.

2:30 p.m. – Sneak away to the corner coffee shop. WRITE NONSTOP.

3 p.m. – Miss my family back in Texas. My niece must be so big now. Another sliver—DON’T THINK, WRITE LIKE YOUR LIFE DENPENDS ON IT.

4 p.m. – Get new book assigned to edit: “Ultimate Lesbian Sex Stories Involving Honey, Rope, And Low-Hanging Chandeliers, Vol. 2” Feel my soul healing just a tad. Yay lesbians!

6 p.m. – Commute home. “Yes, Lady-Doing-45mph-In-The-Fast-Lane, that is my middle finger being flipped at you. You may sit on it and rotate, or not, as you prefer.”

7 p.m. – Grab can of soup to eat. Look for can-opener. Fail to find one. Gnaw on can. Pound can on countertop. Attempt to open can with powers of mind. Put can back in pantry. Eat cheese.

8:17 p.m. – Don’t watch TV. Don’t watch TV. Don’t watch TV.

9 p.m. – OK, that’s enough TV.

9:20 p.m.- Seriously, that’s enough.

9:35 p.m. – Turn it off! I should be writing. Wait, so there are actually people TURNING DOWN writing jobs? The fuck?!?

9:40 p.m.- Read Why Television Sucks blog. Ha! Funny Lesbian TV Lady. Feel more of my soul come back. Yay lesbians!

9:45 p.m. – WRITE

10 p.m. – Still WRITING

11:30 p.m. – So tired…DON”T STOP.

1:26 a.m. – Eyes blurry…write

1:45 a.m. – Fingers cramping…wrt

2 .m. – Room getting draker… wrrt

red 53 a.m. lesbianz yay weeeeee…

Narcoleptic Aztecs

I recently found out why my Aztec Indian ancestors lost to my Spanish ancestors.

Recently discovered anthropological illustrations (on velvet, oddly enough) clearly show the two major problems the proud Aztecs faced. And they weren't the superior weapons and diseases carried by the Spanish, as I was always taught in school.

1. The women were narcoleptic. Most of the ancient velvet drawings show the women asleep on the ground or in the arms of a warrior, who was then unable to fight off the invading Christian hordes.

2. The men couldn't aim straight. They would shoot arrows into the sky and not at the Spaniards directly in front of them.

And so their mighty empire fell.



"Seriously, woman, third time this week. Hey, what are all those white guys doing with my stuff?"



Wake up! Shoot straight! Wake up! Shoot straight!

Praper grammr is four pooseiss

Hmm, by the looks of the meager comments on these many posts over which I have sweated (swat, if you will), not many folks stop by to enjoy their freshly squeezed Bangladoink.

Perhaps a catchy slogan would help.

1. Bangladoink: For people with penises. Or without.

2. Just do it.
Might want to think about it.
Is that really the best course of action?
It can probably wait till tomorrow.
Aw, fuck it.

3. Bangladoink: It’s what’s for brunch.

4. Bangladoink: No lubrication required.

5. Bangladoink: Some swelling may occur.

6. Bangladoink über alles!

7. Get your 20-foot-high breasts here.

8. Bekaus praper grammr is four pooseiss

9. STD-free since ’73.

10. Melts in your mouth, not in your hand… So, keep it in your mouth.



*And a freebie for the Diary Industry—“Milk: The other white drink.”