Sunday, October 24
"IT SMELLS BAD AS HELL! SHIT!" is what my mom screamed when she stepped into my folks' bedroom while my dad was getting ready to go to work. He passed a gigantic gastic. It hurt my ears, that rat-like voice of hers. I was reading about burnt shlongs in the living room, lying on the hot red leather couch. At first I wanted to go see what the problem was, then I found out that my poppy's bum exploded, I decided against it.

That man should go see a gastroentomologist. Or a steam roller for that matter. He should get the foul air in his intestines get squeezed out [permanently], for the whole world's sake. I almost feel sorry for my mom, for no one wants to lose half of their brain cells, which is probably 10 times more than what a whiff of cannabis will do to you. Or save that nuclear energy for future use. Hey Homer, you're out of work for now.

One thing that puzzles me, is why my mom has a high bitchy voice, while mine is a drunk-ass stoner low-as-an-oboe kind of shit thing. Even as a child she complained to me to try to speak in a more feminine tone. From past years we have all learned that deep voices were sexy. For example, porn stars, that MTV VJ, and Chef. Mine is the Ben Stein/Jabba the Hut kind of deep. I can woo you like a horny fat cat to a yarn ball. MREEEOW!

HAHAHA look what I read:

Then they burnt him - I hate to say this, Mrs. Telly - but they burnt the end, the end of his thing. His tool - his thing that made him a man. They burnt the end of it off.


I am very immature, and get a kick out of the dumbest things that shouldn't really be funny at all. There's so many references to male anatomy in this book about the Revolutionary War, it makes me question about the author. What the hell is wrong with the guy? It's less than 50 pages into the novel, and 3 or more sexual references already have been made.

Slash and Matt Sorum were on for like two minutes on VH1 this morning. It was heaven.

Yesterday I used a toaster for the first time in my entire life. I love that thing to the bottom of my heart, we have bonded chemically. Chemically like the chemical reaction it causes my waffles. The waffles burn, hence a chemical reaction.

I don't miss the toaster oven at all, for it is dirty and filthy, like a fat husband who wears pit-stained wife beaters that sit on the brown (he made it brown) armchair with the foot rest holding a bottle of Budweiser in his hand, watching Backyard Sluts 19 on Hotnet.

I use too many similes, it's about time I learn to utilize the art of metaphor, and the well-known and well-praised, art of Getting a Life.


Christina N. @ 2:55 PM