Scary Interview

Poll and List

The Crocodile Princess called to ask me a question, which I will pose to my readers (select few friends, uncles, and Crocodile Princess' colleagues).

"Do you think it's a good idea that you have that blog up with all those sexual things when you are trying to get a job as a teacher?"

I am torn. Do I change the name of my blog to maybe Quenguela sticks it to the man? Or do I have to get rid of this? Any expert opinions? I know it is out of character for me to be concerned with what people think, but first I am a high school teacher in the incubating stages of possible employment (what the fuck!!!) and second I am a lewd anarchist.

Anyhow. I will leave you with a list of important facts for the week.

1) The scariest interview you will ever see is in the process of being edited. Yes there will be an upcoming video. You should purchase depends before you watch it because it is so spooky you might shit your pants.

2) The best way to shake up Passover is by offering to cook a rotisserie chicken and stuffing it with a bacon wrapped loaf of wonder bread.

3) My toenail is bruised, so I painted it red while the rest of my toenails are pepto bismo pink.

4) I registered my cat to vote.


Sike/Psyche!!

She don't speak English.

Sike/Psyche!

She speak cat jive.

Sike/Psyche!!

She votin' for Obama

Sike/Psyche!!!!!

She votin' for McCain because she love his grin and twitching eyes

5) If you are anything like me then when you order a hamburger this is how you might feel. "I'm halfway through the hamburger. I don't want it to be over. I love hamburgers especially with thousand island and pickles." In order to skip over the anxiety of impending hamburger ending, you should just order 2 hamburgers. I do it all the time now and trust me when I tell you eating hamburgers has gone from anxiety inducing to pure gluttonous pleasure.

6) blank

Quengela (pronounced kuen-gue-la) the Nun Bones in Sin City

I can't take full conscious credit for this because I dreamed it last night.

Once upon a time there lived a Nun named Quengela. She was sick of being chaste and sick of living the pious life. Quengela befriended a gaggle of mischievous miscreants who talked her into going to Las Vegas. She knew that Vegas meant the end of her nun days, but she was ready (she was also horny). The flashing lights, the sound of nickels pouring into buckets, and the big titty-ed (sp?) showgirls of Sin City tempted Quengela to partake in her very first copulatory experience. Since she was such an old lady and had never boinked a man before, she wanted to do it with style. Usually Celine Dion played music at Caesar's Palace, but on this fine day Quengela the Nun would take to the stage. In preparation for the event she studied images by Keith Haring that depicted rudimentarly drawn stick people in various adult positions. On her way to Caeser's Palace she drove down the strip in a big ass Cutlass hoopty. She was ravenous and drove fast. Gas was pouring out of her car like water from a busted fire hydrant on the streets of Spanish Harlem. As she crossed a bridge there was a line of waiters walking below in spiffy white suits holding plates of food with the metal bowl things covering it. Gas was pouring out of her car onto these people but she didn't care at all. She didn't care about Jesus, she didn't care about the diners whose food would be soaked with gasoline, she didn't care that her ride to the Palace was completely dependent on foreign oil, she didn't care about traffic laws. All she cared about was one thing: duplicating the pictures drawn by Keith Haring. She arrived at Caeser's Palace and the wild crowd was cheering. She took the stage wearing the veil of her habit and some daisy dukes. The following few minutes were incredibly acrobatic and triumphant and much too adult for this blog. Quengela the ex-nun left Caeser's Palace with fireworks glimmering in her eyeballs.

Tribute to a Crocodile Princess of the Bayou

I honor the woman who instilled defiance in my soul…Deborah Kay Weiss. I salute you Mommy and thank you for being such a bad ass skank. Your laugh is as wild and infectious as the cough of a tuberculosis patient. And for those of you who know her, she speaks like English is a religious doctrine to be flagrantly ignored at any given moment.

Here is an example of what she has to say about people telling her what to do.

“I don’t like anyone to tell me how to act, behave, or be because I am the boss of me. I don’t like anyone to tell me that I am lying because if I want to lie, I can lie as much as I want to because I am the boss of me. I like certain weather climates…HOT! I like my house and my yard spotless and I don’t like anyone to mess it up. I like to be safe. I am street smart by staying out of the street. I like to shop and I don’t like it when anyone tells me I have to stop. One day when I lived on Spain St. in New Orleans I came home from school and Sylvia the maid put my clothes in my drawer and I could tell someone had been in my drawer. This was not okay, so I pitched a fit, crying and screaming. I wanted everything to be a certain way and that was STRAIGHT. All of the clothes straight. I had another drawer that was filled with lots of little special things: jacks, cards, bracelets, pennies, nickels, little toys and I never wanted anyone to ever open that drawer. When I got sick or pretended to be sick I had a little glass “mammy” [she’s from the south] bell that i rang when I wanted my mama or sisters to sit with me on my bed. I would ring the bell and make them get me something that I might want. The Jews are too bossy for me. Religion thinks it can tell me how to be, but I can celebrate Christmas and still be a Jew if I want because I am the princess of me.”

-Mommy

Here is an example of a wise teaching that she imparted to me on a note she packed with my lunch in high school. I encourage you to take the same advice this very day.

“Wake up you silly head
Get out of bed
And listen to the coco shosho”

Now you wonder where I come from…

My Problem With Authority Revisited

Wise men tell me that I have to choose themes in order to write stories. I don’t like it when people tell me what to do because I want to do it by myself. Henceforth, the subject matter of this blog that is 99.8% my first blog will be exactly the same words as it was before. Don't even think of telling me this is a bad idea. It is an act of laziness that writers of high esteem would never think of doing. I am not a writer of high esteem, I answer to no one and I can be as fucking lazy as I want. with that said, read it again. I am sassy as fuck, and as defiant as a revolutionary rhinocerous.

It all started like this. I was sitting on my front porch rocking back and forth, to and fro, fro and to on my black garage sale rocker when a gyroscopic policeman stood in the driveway with his chin up when it should have been down. He wanted me to take my brew back into my house and to stop being so boisterous. I looked at that scoundrel, batted my eyelashes, and gave him a little come hither with my really long index finger. Today was the day. The man would not take me down. I would take the man down to the basement where I would give him a nice blow-j. To be honest, I just took a liking to him even though I’m an anarchist. That cop, he was as cute as a button on a grandma’s titty, but he wasn’t as cold as a witch’s titty, thank Allah. Guess what though. I bit his peener off.

NO ONE will tell me what to do, not even that old scooter brain I call my sister. She tried to tell me to turn on the TV when I just didn’t want it on, so I’ll tell you how much I hate authority. When she was sleepin’ sound, I put her hand in a bucket of hot water and she damn right pissed all over the bed, but I then realized that she was in my bed and pissed on my 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets and I wanted to kill the scallywag. It’s okay though. It just goes to show I can undermine myself without even intending to.

My problem with authority is so strong that I want to bludgeon the authoritarian group who systematized sound. I will subvert you dear sirs as soon as I get out of this fucking fly bottle. I can subvert everything if I want because no one is the boss of me. I can turn the earth upside down even though that makes no sense because it’s a sphere. I will cut the earth in 2 and put each half flat-spot up. That’ll show them. Fuck the police, even though I love the taste of swine. Fuck me, fuck the free world, and fuck my mom too. I don’t like it when she tells me, ‘Tabitha pick up your legos.’ I hate her. She needs to pick them up, I simply don’t want to and I don’t care what anyone says. I decided to set a booby trap. I connected a buzzer to my mom’s larynx and every time she tried to tell me what to do, I pressed my little remote control and her voice vibrated. Now she’s too scared to talk.

I am the voice of the next revolution! Did I just here you say that you don’t think any of my problems are worthy of mention? Well, listen here toodley wigs. The man will bring you down too. He wants to bring everyone down, even the pretty ones. McDonald’s whispers in Cindy Crawford’s ear, “Eat me you little beauty pumpkin hyacinth sugar baby Swedish fish.” Totally transfixed, Cindy forgets to pick up her children from school and she is drawn to McDonalds as birds are drawn towards the magnetic fields of the poles. A lonely little fry in the corner yells, ‘There’s no better way to go than to go through Cindy Crawford’s mouth and intestines and excrement!’ Cindy gobbled up her happy meal like a crocodile devours a freshly hunted wildebeest both with grace and pride.

I have devised a plan for the plebeians among you to join forces with the revolution. Here are a few things to consider. You can burp all the time. Poop your pants during your Naturalization ceremony. Burn the dictionary. Eat your best friend’s mom. Chew Tylenol. Don’t drink your juice; pour it on your head. And I’ll tell you what I’m going to do tomorrow morning. I’m going to stand on the top of the Empire State Building and scream at the top of my lungs, “IN ALL THAT IS SHINGLE STYLE, I RENOUNCE THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION! FUCK DA PO-LICE! LONG LIVE ALICE WATERS!!”


ha.

Welcome Home Dionysus!! <./Surrealist Manifesto part deux

I am summoning Surrealists! Calling all squares! Welcoming Republicans! Octopi too! Call to all silly geese. A manifesto of magnanimous proportions is beheld in the following lines. This lunacy honors our most bespeckled and bejeweled and bewonderous and beglorious Dionysus. He has come for a drink and of course he expects a welcome warm as a molten lava chocolate cake.

This poem for him.

Call to Arms and Armaments! Call to Breton, you smithering loon! Don’t be a hermit and keep your voice to the innards of you trombone. Don’t keep her in. Let the beast off her chain and into the rain. Peltoniemi Hintrik’s Funeral is marching and she would most definitely like to snake her way to the front and light a spark.

To Aragon I am calling your arms. Obviously they need to come out of the grave, but you will understand because this call includes your souls and loins. Let it all hang loose, loose as a spaghetti goose dress come undone. Let your teeth bear fruit and let your heart go toot. A poot a toot a poot a pit a pat a pit er pat. On this summer eve I assure you my loyal Dionysus is on his way. He is waltzing and stumbling in my direction as we speak, staff in one hand, grapes and kiwi seeds in the other.

“Oh Dionysus, you are sooo sweet. You want to give me your grapes. Oh no I couldn’t. No. I mean it I couldn’t. Not your kiwi seeds, those are a delicacy for Gods. Oh no. I simply couldn’t. Fine I’ll eat your grapes. They do look crisp. You share real good. You must have passed pre-school. Did they even have preschool on Mount Olympus? Is that where you're from, I can't remember. Plato probably went to pre-school. The old squirrel. He prolly got straight A’s too. But I’ll tell you this Plato if you can hear me, tragedy is of utmost import indeed. Poetry and painting are more beautiful than all of God’s forms of a bed, more beautiful than the carpenter’s bed, more beautiful than my Uncle’s Turquoise’s bed. I assure you this Plato. My poetry of beds is no imitation. It is full of true pistachios made by the highest creator. To you Plato I say this. Your name is weird and your face is weird and your words are full of swine doo.”

Oh Andre Breton, we need to have a toast. It’s not often that you grace us with your presence. Hera knocked over her glass, Athena let out a quiet little fart, and I rose my crystalline goblet, “To Dionysus. You are here, you swillering twindle dog. To our frenzy. To our sauce, to the dervish and our forgetting. To our wonderous dispossession and repossession and to the fool. Most of all to the fool! Don’t let love make a fool of your heart let your heart make eggplant parmagianna and love will be muy jealous. I raise my glass for love, I raise it for air, but most of all for that old Baudelaire. Chink cha dink!”

I feel the presence of Luis Bunuel in my aura and he is whispering sensuous sweet nothings to me, (Dear Reader, Please read aloud in a groaning whisper, if you are at work whisper really low. He really said this so you are invoking his spirit) “See anew, think anew, mock and scandalize your way through the trembling cardboard facades… spring from false, every day “reality” to the super-reality where the impossible opposites—dream and vigil, art and life, politics and morality, good and evil, saint and demon, man and woman—are once more, as in the origins of being, united, one. ” Oh Luis, you silly moose face.

Assume there are 2: “Friend you are misguided”
Assume there is 1: “The Music is Ours!”
Assume there are 2: “Have a heart green with envy”
Assume there is 1: “The dance of the dervish is ours!”
Assume there are 2: “Woke up on the wrong side of the earth,”
Assume there is 1: “The Queen dines with the Jackal and the toad plays the lute.

“Dionysus you show me my madness, my amour fou. I am crazy person, crazy like taco. Crazy like a rhubarb pie or an ornamental yo-yo, crazy like orange lady with one blue tooth, crazy like the Lacrymosa, looney like lumberjack pie. So perhaps all I can really do is revel in this agonizing cauldron of impervious mist and drink myself to oblivion.”

2 years later…

Dionysus, Plato, Andre Breton, Louis Aragon, Luis Bunuel and myself all sit before a pink fire and hold hands sitting in a circle. After a quick game of duck-duck-goose I silence the gaggle and invoke the spirit of nothing and utter these auspicious words, “Before conception and after life, it is silent. The moment before we are brought into the light, the moment after we are cast into darkness. In we go, off we go. A painted weather beaten crone sits in front of the pearly gates and her stare pierces us with the confident recognition of illusion. She sits there as she holds wisdom deep in her eyes. She creates us from the end and the beginning, she creates us in pairs for the ark, she creates us underwater in the deep ocean dark. In her we are silence as her. And we submit to her whims. She whispers “Silencio” and fades into the dark vortex of extended nothingness [with a sound that goes wwhhhhissskkk].

Go there.

How I Tricked Homeland Security

…Continued

Ye might think me paranoid, but homeland security was tapping my phone. I’m 13% sure of it. I have been known to embellish the “truth” for the sake of anarchy, but I assure you that this story is 243% accurate to life according to property dualists. I was strolling down Divisadero St. in my beloved fog pit of hell San Francisco when I decided to make a call on my shell phone (back story – my friend Zach was telling me about this mermaid movie he watched where mermaids call their mobiles “shell” phones, clever ey?) This telephone call was completely mundane. It went something like this:

Ashley: Hey Adrienne what’s up?
Adrienne: Oh nothing much, just walking home from work, what are you up to?
Ashley: Oh nothing much, just washed a spoon. How was work?
Adrienne: It was work, how was your day?
Ashley: Another day, another dollar. Hey, do you mind if I borrow a carrot, I am making soup?
Adrienne: Only if you promise to regurgitate it later and give it back. ← funny embellishment
Ashley: Ha! You sure are silly. ← fake response to funny embellishment
(Conversation gets slightly more intriguing at this point)
Adrienne: I have a scary bedtime story to tell you when I get home
Ashley: Oh do you? Well I’ll see [first suspicious click] you when [click] you [click] get home
Adrienne: Wait, wait. Don’t hang up! [click] I am going to speak in pig latin now. It’s-ey omeland-hey ecurity-say.
Ashley: What in crystalline hell [click] are you talking [click] abo[click]ut?
Adrienne: op-stay, id-dey you-ey ear-hey at-they?
Ashley: Yeah, I just heard that what the f? Speak English, I can’t understand pig latin.
Adrienne: (Whisper) I feel some “scotch tape” on my phone.
Ashley: OMG, what do we do?
Adrienne: Jive with me. Capisci?
Ashley: Capisco
Adrienne: So you know that huge bomb we were going to explode in Lady Liberty’s hand? I don’t think that’s going to work, the feds are on to something, I can feel it in my loins.
Ashley: What do we do now?
Adrienne: Plan “What did your mother cook you for dinner.” That gives us 4 days to buy some “groceries.” Don’t forget to buy “tampons and turkey”, catch my drift? When you get home put the “groceries” in the “microwave.”
Ashley: Copy. If we can make 300 million [click] pieces of toast [CLICK], at least the British will have something to put their jam on.
Adrienne: Well now that I’ve had a hearty meal of spare ribs and mojito mix, I am all geared up for a 4 day “toaster” making extravaganza [click] I’ll stop and get some “banana jolly ranchers” on the way home if you know what I mean. If you don’t know what I am mean, I will stop by Nevada and get some enriched uranium and take a nuclear physicist hostage.
Ashley: This isn’t code. I am making grilled tofu with amino acids and sesame seeds for dinner, you want some?
Adrienne: Gag me with a spork (I LOVE YOU WALL-E!!!!!) fine, I’ll have a bite or two. Toodles!
Ashley: Poodles!

If my point was not clear for the simpletons among you, I was trying to get the FBI to break down my door the next day only to find some Joan Didion books, some parmesan cheese, some cute little biscuit in her skivvies, and a cat named M’Agua Dulce Kittypants. That shell phone conversation is how I stuck it to the supreme man. I hope G-Dub himself heard that and had his best code breaking team of middle schoolers cracking the pig latin and grocery talk and then did the following three things 1) eat grilled tofu with amino acids and sesame seeds, 2) look up OMG in the urban dictionary, 3) send the troops to wake me up in my green silken nightie and my flamingo socks.

BOO-YA G-Dub! Major Psyche (Sike) Petreassismyface at your service. Over and out.


If you want to know if the feds came, give me a good reason to tell you, in the form of a comment. Thank you.