You'll Die. Period.

The is the true story of the time my father explained my period to me. Every time I tell this story, he gets mad because he says it's not true. But it is true, he just doesn't want anyone to know what a heathen he is. And I have always felt obliged to tell it to the world.

When I was twelve, I started my period in Literature class and had no flippin idea what was going on. I had heard some of the girls talk about this secret club they were in, but I was pretty sure this wasn't it, because who'd wanna be in that shitty club?

Back in the day, we didn't get sex ed or health class until sixth grade, so I didn't recall hearing anything about this particular phenomena. I was scared.

So I went home and my dad was lounging in his favorite chair. The conversation went something like this:

Me: "Dad, I need to go to the doctor."

Dad: "What's wrong?"

Me: "I'm bleeding."

He looks up, interested. "Where?"

Me: "Uhhh..." I kind of look down. Then back up at him.

He leans up in his chair, very slowly, restraining a half-assed smile. "Uhh...shit. Don't tell me they haven't talked about this at school."

Me: "Talked about what?"

Dad: "Son of a bitch." He laughs for what seemed like a really long time. "Well sit down."

He leaves and returns with my childhood toys. What were once called pirates and ships had now apparently become tampons and pads. Suddenly I realized why my mom got onto me when I played with them on the front porch. Because they were a part of something evil. Tampons and Ouija boards...not to be fucked with.

So my dad tells me a little something about each of them and then goes into appropriate detail on the basic mechanics of how this stuff works. He then assures me he doesn't know the specifics about the fancy ones, like the ones that have wings and such. He tells me I'll have to take that up with my mother, but for now this should do.

scared girl

I guess he thought he was done. That that was the grand finale of this conversation, but I'm sorry. This was a blow to the plans I had for my life. I'm twelve and this thing is bullshit. I had questions!

Me: "Why am I having this?"

Dad: "Beats the shit out of me. All girls have it."

Me: "Till when?"

Dad: "Every month. Till you get old."

Me: "What?! Why?!"

Dad: "Didn't you ever read the story about Adam and Eve?"

Me: "That story was about a snake and an apple."

Dad: "Nothing gets by you."

Me: "I don't get it."

Dad: "Well that's just the way it goes. First your money, then your clothes."

Me: "What?"

Dad: "Anyway, do you have any more questions?"

I did have another question. It was the most important question I had ever asked in my life, and my dad would be the person to answer it. We were about to make a memory.

Me: "Well Dad. Does your blood replace itself?"

He looks me straight in the eye.

Dad: "No. After a few more of these, you'll die."

Baby daddy mysteries solved

Kids these days are lame. When I was a kid, we were awesome and we knew everything. For instance, I was watching the Young and the Restless the other day and my kid was eavesdropping, because even though he says those shows are dumb, he knows a little too fucking much about Victor Newman to say that with any authority.

Anyhow, he manages to cease his PS3 activity long enough to pivot around and say, " does she not know who her baby's daddy is? she DURRRHHH or what?"

I had to laugh. Seriously kid? You don't know about serial fornicaters yet? When I was his age, the little bitches that lived in the house behind me had already taught me about sex, curse words (including the c-word), and I'd seen a real life vibrator by then. For whatever reason, my parents hadn't thought it beneficial to install a stripper pole in our house like theirs had.

I like that my son doesn't know about these things yet, though, because that means I get to be the one to tell him. I'd rather do it than leave it in the hands of some ten year old heathens, who, by the way, were totally wrong about orgasms. That shit does not just happen when a boy looks at you, or when you share a Big Red. Imagine my disappointment.

By now my son has learned that if he asks a question he will get a straight answer, albeit PG rated. He'll walk away with appropriate knowledge of the subject without all that pesky imagery. Most of the time he'll ask me if he's going to regret having asked. Most of the time I say yes, just to give him an escape. On the subject of the baby's daddy though, he actually wanted to keep going.

"How is that even a thing?" he asked, not understanding that some women are hos.

"Well... " I started.

He interrupted. "No, wait. I get it."

"What do you get?"

"She was probably asleep when it happened, and I guess she's a heavy sleeper. And the guy didn't leave a note."

I just nodded my head and wondered what that would be like. You wake up pregnant and you're all like...what the fuck....they didn't even have the decency to leave a note!

"Well am I right?" He feels he's done a remarkable job, I can tell.

"You definitely get points for creativity and deductive reasoning."

"Pft. I knew it."


The Universal Hot/Crazy Matrix

A friend came over the other day and showed me this video. Apparently, it's already pissed off women everywhere. As a female, I am appalled that these women are proving the matrix right! Not really, I don't give a crap. I think it's funny, and I can appreciate the thought the guy put into all this. Maybe we shouldn't take ourselves so seriously all the time.

P.S. I'm a unicorn.

This past weekend the family and I went up to Austin to visit with my husband's cousin. She's a nice girl who lives on an estate with, like, at least a thousand little donkeys. Most of them are full grown but they're fun sized, no bigger than a baby regular donkey.

Here are some things I bet you didn't know about fun-sized donkeys:

  • If they kick you, it will still break the shit out of your leg.
  • They are as cute as a bug in a rug.
  • They make a very unattractive noise that immediately makes them less cute.
  • It's creepy when twenty of them surround you.
  • If you see a baby donkey you will want to bite it because it's so cute.
  • Donkeys warn other donkeys when there are visitors. It makes you wonder what they're hiding.
  • There are such a thing as show donkeys for the really sexy ones. These donkeys get special places to live indoors and the rest sleep outside with the other ugly donkeys. Just goes to show it's all about looks.
  • The donkeys I met were really polite yet mysterious.
  • The girl donkeys are separated by size. What this means is the fat girls all live together and the slim girls all live together. If a skinny girl gains weight, guess what? They move her fat ass over to the other field. Another fat girl voted off the island.
  • Donkeys do not discriminate based on the color of ones fur.
  • The donkeys didn't bite us, but they did bite each other, and have you seen the size of their teeth? It makes you never want to piss off a donkey.
  • If they didn't make that noise, I would consider befriending a donkey and dressing it up.
  • My husband will not let me have a donkey with it's voicebox taken out.
  • If you meet a donkey and you aren't nice to it, if it ever sees you again it will remember and kill you.

Do you know any more facts about donkeys that I've left out? If so, please enlighten me. I live to expand my knowledge to the expert level. And anyway, what else is there to do?

 Sexy. Mysterious. Seductive.

Sexy. Mysterious. Seductive.

How to ruin your chi

I've been a little stressed out lately. I haven't been my usual cuddly, passive aggressive self. Just a very not cuddly variety. When my husband said I was turning into him, I knew it was time to make a change.

Normally, I'm a green tea drinking, salt bathing, essential oil making, vegetable eating, coconut oil using, kitten loving, positive attitude preaching wino. But here lately I haven't done any of the things that relax me or give me perspective. I've been like a drunken toddler. You can't reason with those people.

Yesterday I decided it was time to get back to my hippy ways, all of which really did make me a happier person. OK. I didn't actually decide that. My husband decided that for me, because he said he couldn't live with himself anymore. That being said, I figured I'd start today out with a nice salt and vinegar bath. Yeah yeah. I know it sounds kind of gross, but it's the cure-all for bad days, sick days, or sore muscles. So what if you end up smelling like a potato chip. You'll be an awesome potato chip.

So I did that. I made my bath. I got in. In was magical.

I felt a little something on my back. Bubbles. Of course bubbles. I continued my positive thinking exercises. What are positive thinking exercises you ask? Well I'll tell you.

It's when you say things to yourself so your subconscious will be tricked into believing them. I'll give you an example. Our usual self speak goes something like this: I'm so fat. Life sucks. I'll never have any money. I'm getting old. Not very productive. So the trick is to replace these lies with better shit. But there's a right way and a wrong way to do this.

Wrong way - If you begin to tell yourself things like, I'm skinny. Life is wonderful. I have all I need. I'm am spry and youthful, your subconscious can argue with that. "Bitch please. You been telling me for 20 years you're fat. And your broke ass has wrinkles so don't even try that shit." This method won't work. You'll end up on the kitchen floor slathered in rocky road and crying for your mommy.

Right way - The trick is to say things that your subconscious can't argue with. Like, say, health, wealth, success, happiness, kittens. These are just words. They aren't making a statement that your inner bitch can contradict. Pick out your special words, say them enough, and watch your attitude transform. That's true shit.

So anyway, there I was saying my happy words and enjoying the bubbles on my neck. The issue here was that this wasn't a bubble bath. This was just a standard old bath bath.

The tickling on my neck intensified. These were some hardcore bubbles for a non bubble bath. Something didn't seem right. I lifted up and looked back to find...


The spider was the size of a miniature pony. I jumped out of the tub prepared for battle.

C'mon bitch, he taunted.

The reason they're so mean is because they're so unattractive, and there are no magic words to fix that shit.

"You can either commit suicide by jumping down that drain or you're a dead mother fucker." That's what I told him.

He smirked. It doesn't really matter what happens next. Your chi goes right down the drain with me. Spiders -951, you - zero.

That's when I sprayed him with Scrubbing Bubbles and then beat the shit out of him with my loofa.

The only thing I hate worse than hate is spiders. And the only thing I hate worse than spiders is spiders who are right. That one was right. My chi went right down the drain with his dead, fucked up little corpse. After that, none of my magic words worked. All I could think about was that spider was ON MY NECK. Hell naw.

Now I have to figure out a way to wash my brain out and try to get back to my happy place. There's little joy in fact that he's down the drain. He has family in this town. They'll come for me, probably when I'm sleeping, and bite me right on the face. Then when I wake up I'll see the mark and know they can get me anytime they want. That's the message they'll intend to send.

We have your chi, bitch. Come and get it...

A special tribute to the 4th of July

I was trying to think of what to write to celebrate 'Merica's independence, but then came across a few videos that literally left me speechless. As we all know, the most important thing about July 4th is what it stands for. This video is a testament to the commitment and pride of our fellow Americans.

In addition to reflecting on the true meaning of this day, we always want to remember to include Jesus in our holiday festivities.

Now that we've fully grasped the magnitude of what July 4th means to us, it's time to get hammered and shoot fireworks from really clever places. This is a monumental display of patriotism, don't you think?

What a brave American.

Really, all that stuff I said before was bullshit. The finale is the most important thing about July 4th. Everybody knows that.

Now that we've properly celebrated our freedom, let's wash our brains out with adorable images of fuzzy, patriotic kitty cats. You're welcome.

Happy 4th everyone! Be safe out there, but if you aren't, please provide videos.

How to lose a job in 30 days

If you're a regular visitor to this site, you know I haven't written much at all in the last month or so. I was busy - off trying to be a productive member of society and shit. Turns out that was STUPID. After a little over a month at a job, I quit on Thursday. Now, you may be thinking that the title of the blog suggests a different outcome. Trust me, I would have been fired this week, and since I'm such a proactive person, I took the initiative and went ahead and packed my shit up. I even sent my letter of resignation via email from my phone while wrapped up in the blankets of my bed. I'm good like that. But don't worry, I learned a lot from my experience at Shawshank, and as usual you can count on me to share my wealth of knowledge. So without further ado, here are five ways to lose a job in thirty days:

 The kiss of death.

The kiss of death.

1. The first ingredient is to take a lot of stuff up to work. This was a rookie move on my part, but for whatever reason I believed the rule just wouldn't apply to me in this case. I toted my Keurig up there, 19,000 little K-cups, three plants, lots of decorations, a fan, food, and of course the killer - the MINI-FRIDGE. That's what did me in. In the distance I heard what I now recognize as the sound of the Universe laughing it's ass off. At the time, I mistook the laughter as actual happiness for me. What a douche.

2. The second ingredient you must have to ensure your rightful place in the unemployment line is that you have to genuinely like all of your coworkers and they like you back. This should have, of course, been a red flag for me, as the Universe just isn't going to allow this kind of shit. Somehow that sort of harmony in the workplace throws something else off in China and causes tsunamis and possessed babies to be born. You have to harbor actual hate in your heart at the water cooler before the Universe is satisfied that you are exactly where you need to be.

3. Of course the third ingredient is money, and a lot of it. It's no fun for the Universe to toy with your life if you're only making minimum wage. Losing seven bucks an hour just doesn't have the desired amount of sting. You have to be in the best financial position you've ever been in before she pulls the rug out from under you. Those are the rules.

jealousy and bitterness.png

4. Being an overachiever can really be a detriment to a career, and best case scenario it'll piss off the wrong people. You can't just walk in a company where your boss isn't doing shit and start doing shit. It quickly becomes evident to the people who are doing shit that there's a weak link in the chain. The problem is that it's the guy who isn't doing shit that has all the influence and gives the big boss the best mouth hugs.

5. The fifth and most important ingredient is that the owner of the company must be a sociopath who'd apparently suffered a brain injury via pool cue to the temple. True story. But in order for it to all come together, he must work offsite so he truly has no fucking clue what's going on in his own company. It's only then that you get a call in your first week of employment and every week thereafter where you're cussed and screamed at by a seventy year old man throwing a two year old tantrum. This is a barrel of monkeys, let me tell ya. The last phone call of this nature came last Wednesday. It went something like this:

Sociopath: Why the fuck did you send those documents without my signature?

Me: I didn't...

Sociopath: Let me tell you why the fuck. Because you're fucking incompetent, that's why!

Me: I...

Sociopath: Let me make myself clear, if you can understand it. You're fu-cking in-com-pet-ent and should probably start looking for another fucking job!

Me: Ok.

Sociopath: Even a goddam simple dog can understand simple fucking commands like 'NO, DON'T DO THAT'...

Me: Yep.

Sociopath: I'm not signing this fucking shit! I'm sending it back! Click.

He's a warm and fuzzy guy, that one. So much so that my husband told me I wasn't allowed to go back there and that was fine with me.

When I first started, I thought my coworkers were mean when they actually made statements like "I wish he was dead" or "we're just waiting for him to die". Even after all the shit I put up with, I don't wish was dead. That's just wrong and not Christian.

When I get upset, I like to think about kittens to calm me down. In this case, the kittens are eating Mr. Sociopath after he suffers a terrible fall caused by a unicorn with dishonorable intentions. But he's not dead because I'm the boss of this fantasy so he never gets to die. And any fantasy with kittens or unicorns in it counts as Christian. Those are the rules.

Long story short, it was a big, fat, stupid waste of time and energy. Now here I sit, combing through Monster looking for the next big, fat, stupid waste of time and energy. And a waste of time and energy is OK with me, as long as it isn't run by a big, fat, stupid waste of space.

The heart wants what the heart wants

Warning: Today's subject matter is graphic and contains salacious adult content. OK. Not exactly, but it may make you feel uncomfortable and perhaps a little confused, and if so, contact your local family guidance counselor. They can work through those feelings with you.

I have a few favorite videos just like anybody else. Most of the time I look at cat videos, because I have mental problems, but sometimes I think outside the box and type in something different. Today it was "turtle having sex" - a total shot in the dark. I never really expected for anything to come up. But it did.

I like anything that makes me think. I thought a lot about this video, as it taught me many things and inspired so many questions in my mind. Here are the reasons why this video is one of my new favorites:.

  • I thought turtles laid eggs, or perhaps mated telepathically. I had no idea they actually did the business. I thought they were so innocent. I am fascinated.
  • While doing the business, turtle's do the equivalent of Meg Ryan's "When Harry Met Sally" scene. Badass.
  • As you can see, turtle's are just like people, looking for love in all the wrong places. I can imagine this little guy went out on the town and knocked a few back, then when he woke up was like..."Oh shit. I hope I didn't give that shoe my phone number..."
  • Or maybe I'm wrong on that last one. Maybe turtle's don't see color. Or species. This little guy was just walking along, minding his own business, when the sun shone just the right way on those shoe strings from across the room. It was magic. Their eyes met and the rest is history.
  • Or maybe I'm wrong on that last one. Maybe this turtle's just an everyday pervert taking advantage of what he views as a vegetable, helpless against his masculine wiles. What a piece of shit! And to think those people sat idly by and laughed as the rapist screamed his obsenities. That's a turtle I just don't want to know.
  • Turtles have really big dingalings. WHO KNEW!
  • The turtle was unsuccessful in inserting the wiener in any sort of workable crevice. Come to think of it, that's probably what all that screaming was about. Sexual frustration. Poor guy.
  • Turtles have SEX. Weird.

So as you can see, I learned and thought a lot today, and that should be everyone's goal in life, because knowing things is fun. And knowing really ignorant things is even more fun. Google something odd and be fascinated while learning something new today. You won't regret it. You can thank me by sharing your favorite videos. Happy Monday!

The fundamental problem with the jitterbug

This past weekend I happened upon a conversation my husband and dad were having about gay men.

Dad: Yeah. I knew a bunch of those gays back in Hollywood. You outta seen 'em do the jitterbug. Jesus.

At that point he gave his very best gay man jitterbug impression. If you ask me, it was a little too spot-on, especially for a 78 year old right wing extremist. Makes you curious about a guy's extracurricular activities, if you know what I mean. Just kidding dad. No I'm not. But seriously, no I'm not.

My husband eyed him closely.

Husband: So I wanna make sure I understand what you're saying.

Dad: It's pretty straight forward. <looks at husband like DUH>

Husband. Okay. So you're telling me that gay men should do the jitterbug like - what - real men?

Dad thinks about that for a second.

Dad: "Shut up."

Society dismembered

Recently I was spying on my niece and her friend while playing with Barbie dolls. I wanted to make sure they were playing well with one another, and they were. Creepily so. They were polite, giggling, and having what I would describe as a lovely time.

This really brought back some lovely memories of my own. Or should I say, anti-lovely.

My sister and I used to play with Barbie dolls. I used the term "play" loosely, because it was more like MMA Barbie Unleashed. By the time the smoke had cleared, there were blonde chunks of hair and singular little plastic arms and legs scattered across the battlefield of our room. Somebody would be crying while the other was saying something like, "Well, you shouldn't be a stupid, fat pig!"

About this time my mother would have had enough, and she'd head down the long hallway to our room. "What is going on in here? You two act like a couple of heathens!" Then she'd threaten to take us down to the mental hospital where she worked so we could learn to appreciate what we had. When she'd leave the room, we'd make faces at each other of how we imagined those retarded people to look. We were, indeed, heathens.

Watching those girls playing, though, reminded me of something else. We also had a Ken doll, and as a kid I was fascinated by the fact that there was just a little mound where his wiener should have been. When I first got to pondering this, I thought, well, that makes sense, because no little girl needs to see that. But upon further contemplation, I realized there was an entirely different reason for this.

Boys and girls are like oil and water from day one. If little girls are happy to rip Barbie apart limb by limb, you know good and well if Ken hadn't already been dismembered, they'd be happy to take care of that shit too. There'd be little broken dicks littering households all across the country. This wouldn't be good for future relationships because it would give girls ideas that they wouldn't otherwise have unless they'd seen a Lorena Bobbitt special. Fathers and brothers would cringe and become fearful, and the next thing you know, there would be a paradigm shift in the gender dynamic and women would be ruling the world. The men who run the Barbie company know this.

What they also know is that Barbie would become obsolete. Little girls would only want Ken dolls to rip the parts off of and make little dick necklaces. After that, they'd use the eunuchs to chauffeur Barbie and her girlfriend around. Little girls wouldn't dream of the picket fence or children anymore. If they did happen to have children, and they were boys, we'd end up like China, except opposite, throwing the boyfolk in the river. It would be complete chaos.

I can only imagine the effect this would have had on me and my sister back then. It would have exponentially increased the likelihood of us becoming major figureheads in the heathen movement. My mother would've ended up on 60 Minutes apologizing for us and offering excuses: "They aren't really mine. I found them."

It would be forever before women forgave all the years of oppression and learned to live with men again as equals, but it would never go back to normal. Men would be underpaid and under appreciated; they would cry, it would be a mess. So look. If you're wondering why it's still a man's world, I think it's quite obvious. It can all be directly linked back to anatomically incomplete Ken dolls. I know, I know...I'm in the wrong career.

11 ways to conquer writer's block

Writer's block hits us all from time to time, regardless of the fact that there are innumerable subjects to choose from in this big world. The brain just sits there, barren, excepting the occasional tumbleweed dawdling by. Few things are more frustrating to the creative person, and that's putting it nicely.

So, because I'm here to help, I've assembled the eleven methods I employ to conquer writer's block and get back on the path of awesomeness.


Don't just sit there and stare at your computer screen. That's just going to piss you off and make you feel like a bad writer, and you aren't a bad writer. You're a bad thinker - temporarily. That's where wine comes in.

Wine is the gateway to all creativity. All sorts of badass ideas throughout history were born of an empty bottle of wine, and they just keep coming. It's important to write these ideas down as they come, because it's likely you'll forget them by morning. Then in the morning when you go to read them, you'll be in for a real treat!

Sure, you'll get some weird thoughts that way, but you'll also get inspired, divine types of ideas too. Like the time I wrote a screenplay in three days. When I went back and read it a year later, guess what? It was still awesome. Thank you Franzia.


Nothing makes me madder than having a genius idea in a dream that wakes me up and then I forget it by morning. This is because I used to convince myself that I'd remember it when I woke up, but I never did. Keep a pad and pen next to your bed. It doesn't matter if you can't see, just write or draw whatever it is you're thinking about. And again, in the morning you'll have a real treat, but you won't have the regret of wasting pure genius.


Go work out. I've discovered this to be the single quickest way to get back to sitting on my ass and writing. After a few jumping jacks, an idea will come quickly, trust me.


Say curse words out loud. Shout them, in fact. This one is actually very effective for one reason. It's weird. We've been so conditioned to fit in and to conform to what others deem normal, so even when you're alone doing this it'll feel awkward at first. This works because it's like shaking the dust out of the crevices of your mind. Doing something that is out of the ordinary and probably not considered socially acceptable by others frees you up to think better. If you don't believe me, try it. For maximum benefit, combine words that conventionally don't go together, such as ass-shit! (hard to say five times real fast) or shit spackle! If curse words aren't your thing, "sphincter" works nicely.


Read things. The news, other blogs, books, magazines. Sometimes I just stand at my book shelf and read through the titles. It's amazing what ideas come to you through a word, or a phrase, or just a feeling you get from the writing of others.


Clean out your closet. This may sound strange, but everything you own holds memories and has an energy to it. I recently did this and ended up with a renewed obsession with Big Foot and equal and opposite feelings for Milk of Magnesia. And those things don't even have anything to do with a closet!


Walk outside in your pajamas and robe at 7:30 am with a glass of wine or beer. You don't have to drink it, but watch the faces of the folks who drive by. I like to stand at my mailbox and wave Miss America style. I have actually made friends this way.

Once a guy stopped and said, "What the hell are you doing?"

"An important experiment." I told him. "Well hell", he said, handing me a beer, "I don't want anybody ever saying I don't support the sciences". I later found out he was a police officer in the next town over. You gotta love the South.

By the way, I've never really gotten any solid writing prompts from doing this, aside from the experience itself, so it's still bona fide.


Google weird shit. You come across all kinds of interesting ideas by just Googling the first thing that comes to mind. Below are a couple of phrases people typed in that led them to my site.

 I didn't say I was proud

I didn't say I was proud


Get outside and plant things, or pull weeds, or throw a frisby around. For whatever reason, pulling weeds is the single most comforting and thought provoking activity I can engage in. Nothing like murdering grassy intruders to get the creative juices flowing.


Keep a thought journal. Write down every shitty idea you ever have. It may not be right for now, but you never know when these jewels may come in handy later. I take my journal everywhere with me, and if I don't have it, I text message myself and record it later. Yesterday I was looking through it and found the phrase "giant protruding vagina". My friend insists she has this, and it'll make a lovely read someday soon. Never miss these opportunities.


Write. Write even when you think it's shitty or when you don't feel like it. Write to please yourself and no one else. Write like you're the only person who will ever read it. Write with the understanding that it takes guts to do what you're doing and not everybody will like it. Those who don't get you don't get you, and that's OK, because you're doing it for those who do.

What methods do you use to get rid of writer's block? If you have a good one and you don't share it, you will go to writer's block hell or endure some other kind of shitty karma. So spill it.

When life gives you a serial killer, make lemonade

There are days when I wonder if my parents were paying attention when I was a kid. I say this because I had the clear markers of a serial killer, but nobody ever seemed very concerned. Maybe they did notice, but when you have as many kids as they had, I suppose it's fair to expect that at least one of them will come out to be a lemon. They had clearly accepted that.

I just want to go ahead and point out that I haven't killed anybody yet. But I'm a ticking time bomb. 

When I was little, I systematically maimed and tortured flies, and then condemned them for being stupid. My mom would watch me through the screen door, and I think she probably thought it was funny, but that shit ain't right. She laughs a little too fucking hard when she mimics how I used to talk to the flies.

“Now see, that’s what you get when you don’t mind me”, I would whisper before taking another whack at my tiny incapacitated victims. "I bet next time you listen though", whack!  I could do this for hours. I single-handedly controlled the fly population in my neighborhood. That's why the DEET truck quit coming by. They sent out a flyer once saying, "Looks like that crazy little bitch on Walnut has this covered." I was a hero. By the time it was all said and done, I would be responsible for the deaths of thousands of flies, some still struggling to get the hell away from me. "Stupid ass", I'd whisper. Whack!

I don’t entirely recall why I did this, only that I did, and I enjoyed it deeply. I guess back in pre-Jeffrey Daumer 1978, this particular offense didn't present any red flags because I was free to continue my reign of terror on the daily, unencumbered by the laws of man or mom.

Brutalizing flies was just one of many fun hobbies I had. After all, I didn't have any friends so I had to find ways to keep myself busy. Most of my sisters and my brother were older and entirely too cool to hang out with their sociopathic little sibling.

One of the other ways I passed time was sit around and draw naked people. One page after another of naked people. Wieners and boobs, all day long. My mother was good enough to save some of these drawings for me. Special moments, you know. But again, no one seemed worried in the least, even when I would stand on a saw horse outside the bathroom window and watch people take pees. By the way, that saw horse would later become a special friend of mine, along with Robbie, my imaginary boy twin.

I had to create Robbie to have a friend, and it was also a way I could dress like a boy, since I fully believed God would turn me into one someday soon. But he never did, which only increased my anger toward the flies, and also snails. When my sister didn't have anything better to do, we'd collect snails, assemble them on the front porch, and then stomp the shit out of them. The crack and squish sounds they made were delightful, and when they'd try to get away, we'd just laugh and laugh because they were so slow. We'd even let them get to the edge of the porch, thinking they'd made it home free, only to pull the rug out from under them, which was very rewarding to the blossoming psychopath. Ah, good times.

OK, so my sister was a little off her rocker too. When I mentioned we should try to set fire to the bamboo field next door, she sure didn't attempt to be the voice of reason. "Okay. You go steal dad's matches and I'll be the lookout", she offered, always helpful. Did you know it's hard as hell to burn down a bamboo patch with the criminal skillset of a five year old? Our attempts were never successful, but we dreamed of being the great bamboo arsonists of the community, too clever for the authorities, who would sit around rubbing their foreheads wondering what masterminds had committed these crimes. We'd just kick back with our candy cigarettes and the clever smirks of badass ninja mother fuckers.

When I wasn't being a badass ninja mother fucker, I was peeing the bed. We all know what that means. Bed wetters later grow up to chop people into little pieces. I tried to shake it. I really did. But when you're having sweet dreams of death and destruction, who can be bothered with bodily functions? I don't know how my parents didn't give me away, but they hung in there and made the best of it. Maybe deep inside they knew I'd grow up to be famous. Perhaps not in the good way, but famous.

I'm sure, relatively speaking, my parents are delighted with the way I turned out. But it's not really because I ended up to be good. It's that I'd be a bad criminal. I couldn't even lift or drag a body if I had to and that's Serial Killer 101. That's why my husband feels safe around me, but does get a little concerned when I do push ups.

I don't even want to step on snails anymore because that's messy and they don't really have a fair shot. I like the hunt. So yes, I do still enjoy a good fly massacre, but I try not to talk to them anymore because I see now that people take notice of that shit, and I need to be a little more incognito.

But listen up. Just because it worked out for my parents doesn't mean shit about your crazy little kid. What if you daughter ends up with the upper body strength of a Yeti? Well then you're screwed. When your kid murders, exhibits multiple personalities, pees the bed, tries to set fires, and participates in voyeurism, you just shouldn't bank on the fact that it'll all work out in the end, because we see how that worked out for Daumer's parents. And nobody wants that kind of over-achiever in the family. The good news is, even if you do end up with a lemon, it's not too late for lemonade.

The true nature of humans

People who say that humans are mostly good have never watched babies play.


You can tell a lot about the human species by observing the newest, most innocent, utterly unsullied additions to the race; sweet little babies.

AWW, right?


Have you ever heard the story of Jacob and Esau? It's a warm and fuzzy tale that goes something like this:

Jacob and Esau were twins who hated each other as little fetuses in their mother's belly, and that bitter rivalry lasted the rest of their lives. Jacob even tried to pull Esau by his leg back into the womb while Rebecca was birthing them. That's some shit, right? If you don't believe me, go ahead, look it up. It's right there in Genesis. Little warring babies.

But it's not just Jacob and Esau with the problem. Not only have scientists proven that babies fight in the womb, but they continue these violent rampages into babyhood and beyond.

There seems to be an innate felon within us all. This can be clearly observed by watching babies "play". From day one, it's instinctual to want to take what someone else has. Let's just go ahead and call that what it is: blatant theft. Yet this is our first instinct.  If we aren't able to get what others have by conventional means, then we immediately resort to physical violence to obtain it. And babies don't care. Babies don't give a shit. Just watch as these twins duel over a toothbrush.

Observe how, when each baby has their turn at dominion over the toothbrush, they become calculating overlords, completely indifferent to the pain and suffering the other one is experiencing. When they steal, a downright sense of peace and calm washes over them. That personally scares the shit out of me.

Mean baby.jpg

It seems to me that people are geared toward chaos and destruction. We've all seen kids kicking down the brilliant sand architecture of their siblings, screaming, biting, and pushing one another in fits of jealously and rage. We are power hungry little dicks searching for any opportunity to assert our dominance over another human being.

But wait, you say. People do a lot of good too. People hug and kiss and are nice to animals and old people and so on.

WELL. There's a simple explanation for that one.

It all starts back in babydom. This is where we typically discover that blatantly annihilating our enemies gets us into trouble. OK, we conclude...I can't be seen doing THAT shit apparently, so I'll do it when no one is looking. But babies are real stupid, so people are usually looking, in which case they get caught yet again. This happens continually for years as they grow into children and observe what works and what doesn't. But all along we're looking for loopholes in the system. A way to do shit wrong.



It's not until later that it clicks in our brain in one way or another: if I don't want someone taking my shit, I can't be taking their shit. This is not to say that we don't WANT to take their shit, or WANT to leave dead bodies in our wake, but empirical evidence suggests that this approach just doesn't work.

Consider every movie that's ever had to do with the end times. When there is no one to enforce the law, people turn like bad milk.

So basically any good behavior we exhibit is not a result of us becoming better people, but rather a result of our inability to get away with felonious activity. After all, if you don't want someone raping and pillaging your house, you don't rape and pillage theirs. Even though you really want to, the consequences outweigh the benefits, and we reluctantly accept our place in a new world of rules and regulations. And we do our best to fit in.

Just look at this little terrorista. She says she'll punch you in the face. I, for one, believe her. Later she'll learn better tactics, but for now it's her bread and butter.

The sad truth is, humans aren't mostly good - humans are mostly bad. We learn to adapt to the new ways. Since most of us suck at getting away with stuff, and most of us don't want all the crap that comes along with being a criminal, we convince ourselves that good abounds.

If that were true, it wouldn't be so hard to behave, or to be happy, or just to simply be nice to one another. We drink, we read Deepak Chopra, we self-medicate, and we pray - whatever it takes to shake our true nature. We're still liars, only in different ways.

But deep down, we're just little czars waiting to come across a sand castle without a proper moat.

How to analyze your children's artwork

You can tell a lot about how your kids will turn out by analyzing what they draw as young children. These illustrations can be quite prophetic, in fact. Recently my niece found these drawings of mine in my mom's cedar chest. Let's examine them, shall we?

We'll begin with an easy one. I think I drew this somewhere around the age of ten and it's pretty self explanatory. My parents could clearly deduce that I was going to turn out to be the crazy cat lady, which is great if you have substandard expectations for your children.

Let's get inside my ten year old head for a moment. It appears the dream I had for my life was to dress like a hobo and clean up cat shit. And apparently wear Aunt Jemima head scarves because I knew I'd be too lazy to fix my hair. At ten years old, this was my brilliant plan for my life. Today this is, of course, a ridiculous notion. Who has time for a head scarf? I wear my hair in a pony tail.

Crazy Cat lady.jpg

Dear Susan.jpg

Next we have a drawing of a really big sock and a really little person.

Normally, this would not be a red flag to a parent because there's nothing disturbing about it on the surface. But look closer.

Obviously the sock couldn't be that fucking big, in which case any parent could reasonably conclude that their kid was destined to be a liar, or at best, someone who exaggerates a LOT. Which is a liar.

And when you think about it, all writers are liars because they just sit around and make shit up all day long. What am I? A big fat liar. Next.

This next one should have clued my parents in on the fact that something just ain't right. Since I can't remember what was in my head when I made this, I can only surmise that it was one of two things.

One, these are witches boiling and dismembering babies, or two, it's an evil baby dismembering other babies while two ladies sit ring-side and clap. Neither of these bode well for little me. Furthermore, this message is clearly directed at my dad. Hey Jim, give me ice cream or I'm gonna start killin' some babies. I mean, that's a pretty grandiose threat for a five year old. I can't spell "from", but you have no idea what I'm capable of mother fucker.

 Sociopath in the bath

Sociopath in the bath

 Obvious lesbian

Obvious lesbian

This is one of my favorites. This isn't my work, but my niece's. In case you can't make it out, it says "No boys allowed, just girls, and that's final".

This may seem like an innocent warning to keep boyfolk out of the tree house, lest ye get cooties, but if you think that, you'd be wrong.

Rather, it's an obvious sign that the author has every intention of being a lesbian.

OK. That's not really true. But we've already established that I'm a big fat liar.

Here we have a depiction of a female telling this charming cowboy that she's not "enchrsted".

Most parents might think, great, she doesn't plan on being a hooker. But let's dig a little deeper.

First of all, the woman is wearing a strapless bodysuit, not unlike something you'd see in Stayin' Alive. She's also wearing entirely too much makeup and has already been knocked up. I think it's safe to say she's not married, because no guy is going to let his wife walk around like that.

And I'm not even really convinced that she's not a hooker. She may just be checking to see if he's a cop first.

What's worse, she's obviously an unfit parent seeing that her baby's about to get impaled by a cactus and she doesn't even care. I think what we have here is a textbook case of a slut playing hard to get. This is not learned behavior folks. My parents were Baptist ministers. Not really. But I obviously had an innate understanding of how to work it at the ripe old age of seven.

Not interested.jpg

What tha.jpg

I don't even know where to start with this one. On one side, we have the obvious "cool kids", and on the other, I can only guess that I was making fun of retarded people.

What kind of fucking asshole does that? Especially considering that I best fit in group number two when I was a kid.

But I'm obviously celebrating the nature of these claw-footed, mentally handicapped folks with no muscle tone, and dammit, I'm ashamed. I think my mother saved this one so I'd always know what a bad person I am.

Do you have any great artwork you'd like to share? I'd really love it if I could make fun of someone else besides myself for a change. Go ahead, email me your best artwork, or perhaps your child's, and I'll do my damnedest to return a proper stereotype. I'm here to help.

Why girls date a-holes: MYSTERY SOLVED

For years and years I’ve listened to “nice guys” incessantly whine about how girls only want to date assholes. They complain that they treat women like gold only to be dumped later on for some unemployed tattoo artist named Rowdy. Admittedly, I’ve seen this happen a lot myself. However, it’s not for the reasons “nice guys” think.

The first thing to understand is that there are three kinds of men in this world: the nice guy, the good guy, and the asshole.


The nice guy is the guy who will write you a haiku in calligraphy class, carry your purse behind you in the mall and kiss your cat on the mouth.  He has more estrogen than a lactating baboon and only has one setting: IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU. He’s willing to negate his plans, be at your beckon call, drive you to another guy’s house – whatever it takes – all just to watch the glitter fly out of your lady parts. All the while he’s tucking his wiener between his legs and sending hand crafted, heart-shaped bagels up to your work.

 Sweet baby Jesus.

Sweet baby Jesus.


The good guy is the partner every girl dreams of finding. He is a rarity, and is seldom seen in the wild due to the speed at which he is scooped up and married off. It’s like free money. Nobody let’s that shit sit around for more than a few seconds. He’s the guy who will give you the shirt off his back, but also has no intention of taking any shit from you. He’s not anyone’s doormat, but he’s there when you need him. He’s kind to animals and old people, will fix your car, and tell you when you’re being an asshole. He wants to please you but is prepared to disappoint you if need be. He’s a man you can respect.

Bad Boy.jpeg


Lastly, we have our standard, everyday asshole. He’s a smartass, most likely a cheater, for sure a liar, sometimes jobless, always arrogant, usually good looking, and definitely nice smelling. He’s confident and simple. He doesn’t need to send a pukey message in the sky; he has pheromones with the capability of detonating your uterus. He’s happy to beat someone up for you because he likes to put on displays of machismo. He will always be there to open jars, because he firmly believes  you can't.

Because the good guy doesn’t stay on the market long, girls are usually left with only two choices: the nice guy or the asshole. The girl doesn’t pick the asshole because she likes the asshole. She picks the asshole because he’s her best bet when there are buffalo afoot.

 Ancient nice guy is pictured here donning an elegant handcrafted tippet and matching loin piece.

Ancient nice guy is pictured here donning an elegant handcrafted tippet and matching loin piece.


Regardless of what century we’re in, we humans possess ancient instinctive characteristics in the very fiber of our beings; a primitive nature that we aren’t even aware of on the surface. Survival of the fittest and all that stuff.

So at the end of the day, deep within her primal nature, a woman is still seeking a man who can slay the symbolic buffalo.

It all goes back to prehistoric times when men ventured out from the cave into a wild and perilous world bursting with dinosaurs, giant fucking tigers and lots of buffalo running around, all to provide for their families. All men originated from assholes, because let's face it, you had to be a dick to kill little fuzzy bunnies and big fucking tigers. We would have never made it otherwise.

These brave men got all the tail they wanted because, despite the fact that they were assholes, the whole tribe was taken care of because of them. It was a no-brainer for the cave chicks that these were the men you wanted to align yourself with, lest ye be eaten by a big fucking tiger.

Now, there were of course men who stayed behind in the cave with the women. These were the guys who were feeble and were in charge of the cave art. They helped the women make bone necklaces and made up the first poems ever written. Because they stayed with the women all day, they would easily fall in love while gazing at them over boiling furs. The cave women didn’t make eye contact though, because they were very aware that if they got caught up in that shit, they wouldn’t eat any fucking buffalo, or wear any fancy fur boots.

They knew nice guys don’t kill buffalo. Nice guys pee sitting down and whine about how those little necklace beads chafe their fingertips.

It just so happens that today’s nice guy is the direct descendent of those particular cave gentlemen. Ever heard of Discovery Channel? Look it up.

While most the men of this period were only assholes, it was inevitable that even the feeble cavemen would get laid from time to time. Evolution on each side produced offshoots, like the nice guy and good guy and variations thereof, but the asshole remaining virtually unchanged over time, much like the roach.

So it should become quite clear to the advanced thinker such as yourself, that our primal need to be protected and fed cannot be realized with a man who's not capable of slaying the buffalo. Even if we own our own fucking gun and have a full pantry, there's something to be said for the fact that if we were in need, our man would not run from the big fucking tiger. 

This story was inspired by an acquaintance of mine we'll call Buttercup. Buttercup lives with his parents and doesn't have a job. He is a hypochondriac, extremely overweight, smokes heavily, is addicted to pain pills, and plays Dungeons and Dragons or whatever nerdy shit it is they play these days. He constantly whines and boo hoos about how good he treats girls, but they always end up going off with some asshole, not staying with the nice guy. Forget slaying the buffalo, he can't even go buy buffalo meat from the grocery store, but he thinks being nice is his problem. Boo to you Buttercup, and all the rest of you pansies.

Go ahead. Ask me anything about cavemen. I'll know the answer.

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