Tanya O'Debra

...for poo the bell tolls...

2007-03-31T15:59:00.001-04:00

12/13/06 6:38pm
Skinny and pathetic. Why do I even bother?

12/14/06 10:15am
My period comes but once a month, and it invariably leaves behind a shining example of the effects of menstruation on the bowels. Shocking. Not just the size, which in and of itself was incredible, but the speed with which this brown leviathan shot out of my body. Curled at the bottom, it stuck out of the water by two inches. Noteworthy indeed.

1/8/07 1:16pm
Very sharp. Like Oscar Wilde.

1/31/07 8:51am
Shaped like a lightning rod. The Gods have spoken.

3/16/07
Wily. Possible commitment issues. A painful experience.

...poonut butter and jelly...

2007-03-16T16:35:00.000-04:00

11/30/06 7:16pm
One tiny pebble follwed by one large, smooth, robust stone. Oblong and almost cylindrical except for what looked like a rose on top.

12/2/06 11:02am
Forceful, aggressive and slightly bloody. Like an abusive husband, it wouldn't take "no" for an answer.

12/3/06 5:07pm
Soft, dark and fragrant. Limp and melancholy. Reminiscent of Katie Holmes.

12/9/06 afternoon?
Upon waking up, I knew that today would be the day, and I heard a loud, brown thump at my backdoor. With the toilet broken at home, I was thrilled to have some alone time in the office upstairs at work. Masterful. Some of my best work to date. A fine specimen.

...war and poos...

2006-11-29T19:13:00.000-05:00

I've decided to keep a loose record of my bowel movements. I highly recommend this as an activity. It gives me more pleasure than it really ought to. Like, I said, it's fairly loose. Sometimes I forget to make entries. Here's what I have so far. Enjoy!

11/5/06 3:53pm
Three round droppings in quick succession. Diane was here.

11/8/06 5:28pm
One large plop, swift and heavy.

11/9/06 12:35am
Seven tiny nuggets make seven separate splashes. To much effort for such a small return.

11/10/06 6:56pm
After holding back for several hours, a premenstrual bohemoth forged its way into the world, the very point of its head peeking above the water's surface. Gratifying. A huge relief.

11/14/06 1:02pm
Dark, dry and brittle. Perhaps I should drink more water.

11/16/06 3:59pm
Small, two pieces, bland. A let down after being held in for a few hours.

11/17/06 3:29pm
A mass exodus one hour after eating Indian food. Memorable and horrifying.

11/29/06 6:47
Nothing special, really. Medium in every way.

Seriously, I can't stop laughing. If you want to make yourself feel better about life, you should keep a poo journal.

...a doggie purse to die for...

2006-09-18T17:45:00.000-04:00

As I was walking down Thompson St. one fine afternoon, something stopped me dead in my tracks. It was an accessory I had never seen before. Perhaps I am not as informed about the latest trend in purses as I should be. Be that as it may, I don't think anything could have prepared me for the sight of a taxidermied dog hanging from a gold chain shoulder-strap. That's right. A dead dog pocketbook.

The dog was probably white at some point in time, but not any more. Now the poor ambigous poodle mix had yellowed from age, dirt and possibly mange. It's four legs were sticking out in opposite directions, as if the dog had just taken flight. The gold chain was attached at the base of the dog's neck and again at the butt right before the tail. Truly frightening.

I wish I could give a good description of the owner of this horror show of a purse, but I was too pre-occupied with the dog. That and the decision of whether or not to follow her. She was probably in her forties with an ear-length brown bob with feathered bangs, and she was definitely wearing coolats. Beyond that, I really don't know what the hell else she had going on. Unfortunately, I decided not to follow her. But guess where she was going. The pet store.

...sports bra...

2006-08-24T19:09:00.000-04:00

So, I went to buy a sports bra. No big whoop, right? I just wanted something plain and simple. I asked the sales girl where they might keep such things as sports bras, and she invited me to follow her into the dressing room.

"So, where are the sprorts bras?", I asked.
"Oh, I'll get some for you. What size are you?"
"34 C."
"Let me see."

I slowly unhitched my bra and dragged it out of my shirt through the sleeves. I waited expectantly for some measuring tape to appear, but the wait was in vain. Apparently, they have their own way of measuring at this bra store.

"No, I need to see your boobs."
"What?"
"Just flash me."

I didn't know what else to do. I flashed her. At that moment I decided never to purchase anything from this establishment ever. But it was too late. I had already shown them to her.

The sales girl sauntered out of the dressing room and returned with bras that could only be described as not sports bras. They were huge, weird grandma bras. I tried them on out of obligation as quickly as I could, discarding them immediately afterwards.

When I immerged from the dressing room, I thanked the woman. I have no idea why. I certainly did not enjoy giving her a peep show, and she obviously didn't know what a sports bra was. Then she told me to have a nice day.

I walked across the street to a dance clothing store that I hadn't noticed before. The salesman looked at me from over the counter.

"May I help you?"
"No!", I defensively snapped.

I think one peep show per day is plenty.

...more than this...

2006-06-07T23:14:00.000-04:00

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have good news. Good news. I have good news. There is more than this. There is more than just this. There is more than this."

His teenaged voice wavered as he stood clutching a bible with his thumb jammed between the pages. His eyes bounced around the subway car, eventually landing on the floor where they rolled around aimlessly.

"We have a reason to hope. We have a reason to hope. We have a reason to hope."

The teenaged heart stitched awkwardly to an oversized red sleeve did not help the boy hidden under the shirt to sound convinced. His pants drooped under the weight of his sermon. After a few staccato breaths, the young preacher moistened his lips.

"There is a struggle going on inside of us, and that struggle is sin. Jesus Christ is the only man who can help us. He is God's son in human flesh. He came to help humanity. I have a cup of sin, and I want you to take it away from me."

What sins did this boy have? What sins had he imagined? What had caused this young man to try and take the high road from a downtown A train? Desparation radiated from this child of God. For some reason or another, this boy had given up on the here and now in exchange for a salvation that may never come. From 59th Street all the way down to West 4th, he pleaded with strangers to take his cup of sin away from him. He begged us for a shred of purity. Nobody budged.

"There is more than this..."

...being a Small Woman...

2006-04-07T00:09:00.000-04:00

... is wicked annoying. I went to a bar tonight, and I had to make a phone call to my boyfriend. As I was leaving the bar, I asked a man to excuse me so that I might pass. Instead, he decided to take a half a step to his left without picking up his bag, leaving me roughly four inches of room. He said, "Can you make it?" I said, "No, I'm not that skinny." He said, "Yes, you are." And that's when he dragged me by the arm through the four inch passage way. Yes, he actually grabbed my arm and yanked me forward. I wanted to punch him, but instead I said in the bitchiest tone I could muster, "Thanks for all your help." Then the asshole had the nerve to hit on me on my way back into the bar.

Should I just start hitting people?

2006-03-17T11:14:00.001-05:00

...blood bath...

2006-03-13T16:48:00.000-05:00

The Medical Profession is a Joke Without a Punchline

I think I had a miscarriage this month, but I guess I’ll never know for sure.

My period lasted ten days. The first four days I barely spotted. The fifth day I was doubled over in pain. The sixth day was where the magic happened. As I got on the train to go home after work, I felt an uncomfortable squelch in my panties. “Uh-oh”, I thought. As the ride progressed, I could feel the wetness spreading. By the time I got off the train, I was soaked down to the tops of my inner thighs. Praying that I hadn’t soaked through my coat, I hobbled home with my legs apart in a lame effort to keep the damage to my pants at a minimum.

Squelch, squelch, squelch. I felt a new squirt with each step that I climbed toward my fourth floor walk up apartment. Tearing off my coat, I made a beeline for the bathroom. I peeled off my pants and took a cursory glance at the huge dark red bloodstain in the crotch before tossing them in the sink to soak, repeating the process with my panties. My fingers raced between my bloody thighs to pull the saturated cotton leash that connected to my unruly sanitary device. Plop! A chunky blood clot plummeted from the window of my six-story period and slapped the floor. I scooped up the uterine suicide with a toilet paper gurney and surrendered it to a watery grave. I sat for a while longer and mopped up the sanguine swamp that was my vagina. Just like the nun from Madeline, I thought, “Something is not right”.

For hours, I lay on the couch as maxi-pads gulped down the contents of my womb. I called my mom, and she said I should go to the emergency room. I told her I would call the doctor in the morning, because New York City hospitals have a different definition of emergency, especially when you don’t have insurance. The next morning I explained my situation my doctor’s phone receptionist, who told me to come in right away. Thinking that there would be some sort of solution or even a diagnosis, I hopped on an uptown train.

The nurse asked me to wait on the table sans pants for an internal exam. When the doctor arrived, she seemed surprised that I was even there in the first place.

“Now, why did you come in?”, she asked.

“I’m experiencing extreme bleeding and when I called today, the woman told me I should come in right away.”

“So, you’re worried because of the amount of bleeding?”

“Yes.”

“There’s really nothing we can do for you right now, but I’ll take a look anyway.”

My old friend, the speculum, rammed itself into my vagina.

“It’s too bloody to see anything”, she said.

The nurse handed her a long cotton swap, which my doctor jabbed into my cervix.

“You’re cervix is open, but that’s normal during your period.”

I squirmed in pain.

“Oh, does this hurt?”

She must not have been satisfied that she had caused me enough pain, because she continued to poke around, and when she extracted the swab, it’s face was beet red. She checked my ovaries, and when I grunted and doubled over in agony, she claimed it was normal.

“Come back in two weeks”, she said. “If it was a miscarriage I’ll need to make sure it’s all out of your uterus.”

Two weeks later, I returned expecting another exam. I imagined that one would have to look into a uterus to determine whether or not it had been completely flushed of a possible pregnancy. Apparently a few innocuous questions work just as well.

“Has the bleeding stopped?”

“Yes. After ten days, it stopped.”

“So, you bled everything out, then?”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“The big blood clot that you saw. Was is a blood clot, or was it skin colored?”

“I don’t know. It was covered in blood.”

“Okay, well, I guess I just wanted to make sure you weren’t still bleeding. Keep an eye on it next month. Just take some Advil if you think you’re bleeding too much or if you’re in pain.”

Oh, really? Take a painkiller for pain? You mean, like I always do? So basically, I did not have to come in today. In fact, I didn’t really have to go in two weeks ago either. The cervix poking was really fun, but I have my own cotton swabs at home.

Ladies, if you think you may be having a miscarriage, don’t bother going to the doctor unless you are pooping out a dead baby. It’s not worth it.

...gothicmatch.com...

2006-03-08T18:46:00.000-05:00

Diane and I have discovered gothicmatch.com, and we created profiles for Christ's Abortion. If you want to look at mine, I'm bloodsugar666. We just did his last night, and look what I found in my inbox this morning. Satan bless the goths.

Only to those who dare decrypt strange signs does death lay bare its
secret language. How few, then, are those who savor the swells of
night-heat that threaten to burst the ripening darkness, or who taste the rare
emanations of distended atmospheres. Fewer still are those who fathom
the grandeur of vast plains bruised beneath the wind, or who feel dreams
drain like life's blood into blackest sleep. Do any who survive sense
the enigma of the dawn floating like Charon's ferry over a deadened
Earth? And is it true that fewest of all can see in pale, waning crescents
the jaw of the wolf that consumes chaos itself?

I enjoyed your intriguing profile very much. I share your taste for the
Satanic, and am itch black inside in all respects, including my sense
of romanticism. Anyway, take a look at my profile, if you like, but
please read it carefully before replying; that's why I've included the link
to it. If anything you see there resonates with you, as well, then feel
free to contact me, but only if you are open-minded, especially about
such matters as age and possibilities beyond mere friendship in my case
(I'm not looking for "just friends").

So, if you're interested, then you may reach me by e-mail (you should
be able to do so simply by responding to this e-mail) or via instant
messenger, which I prefer over e-mail, at the any of the following:

.. *****
Yahoo: *****
MSN: ******

(Please identify yourself first if instant messaging). Then, let the
dance (macabre) begin. I look forward to hearing from you.

-K.

"[T]he night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,
I learn'd the language of another world"

2006-03-06T16:27:00.001-05:00

...give me my baby back...

2006-02-28T12:48:00.000-05:00

I just saw "Me and You and Everyone We Know". My favorite part was when the cutest little boy I've ever seen was telling his older brother what to type for cybersex. He said, "I'll poo into your asshole and you'll poo it back into my asshole, and we'll poo back and forth forever with the same poo." I felt an overwhelming sense of love for that little six year old boy and I yelled to the screen, "That's my baby!" My baby illustrated his point like this:

))<>((

You'll notice that those are two butts pooing back and forth forever. Now I have to live the rest of my life knowing that my real baby is in a movie and I'll never be able to get him out of the movie and into my arms. It made me really sad. I miss my baby.

2006-02-11T14:27:00.001-05:00

2006-02-09T18:23:00.001-05:00

...sexercise...

2006-02-08T21:30:00.000-05:00

Here are the links to my articles:

Get Pitied

Stuff You Need

Unfortunately, the editing in the first one made the first paragraph practically unreadable. Oh, well.

...the world is steve's ashtray...

2006-02-07T03:43:00.000-05:00

Karma Is Real

One time, I went out to eat with my boyfriend, Steve. As we were leaving the restaurant, I noticed that Steve had stolen an ashtray. I asked him to put it back. He refused.

As we walked back to the car, I explained karma to him. I told him that everything you do comes back to you threefold, and something three times as bad as stealing an ashtray would soon plague him. It may not happen immediately, but it would definitely happen.

Lucky for me, karma had been listening. When we got to the car the battery was dead because Steve had left the lights on. I laughed and shook my head.

“I told you so. You better take that ashtray back.”

Steve argued for a while. We sat with the hazards on. Finally, Steve agreed to take the ashtray back. Just as he resolved to right his wrong, a car pulled up beside us.

“Need a jump?”

Steve looked at me in shock.

“See?”

The woman playing the role of karma gave us a jump. We thanked her, and Steve and I drove around the corner to return the ashtray. The next day I bought Steve a new ashtray to prove that karma works both ways.

If you ever want to freak me out, play the song “Karma Police”. Don’t, actually. I might jump out a window.

“This is what you get when you mess with us…”

...crystal butthole...

2006-01-31T12:49:00.000-05:00

Teenage Witchcraft

I guess I could blame my whole witchcraft phase on my unnatural love of the movie The Craft. Let’s face it. I’m sure that’s what started the whole thing. I’d seen that movie more times than any teenager ought to. And so had all my friends, which was how I got to form a coven so easily. Okay, who doesn’t want magic powers? Yeah, that’s what I thought. I have always wanted magic powers and I still do. As a little girl, I dreamed that I would discover that I was a white witch whose powers would arrive on one birthday or another. As I grew older, that fantasy faded. Until The Craft came into my life.

The Craft made everything seem so full of possibilities. There was Robin Tunney, fresh from Empire Records, a movie my sister Jillian took a little too seriously. You could tell by her newly shaven head. I’m glad I waited to emulate The Craft Robin Tunney, because at least she had a thick head of long hair, even if it was extensions. The Craft told the story of four beautiful high school students who took their lives into their own hands using witchcraft. This sounded like a fine plan to me.

As soon as the idea of having magic powers came back into my head, I did everything in my capabilities to make these powers a reality. I bought every book on witchcraft I could get my hands on and then I began worshipping the goddess like a filthy dirt-loving hippie. I wore pentacles around my neck, burned incense and read tarot cards. I carried bags of rocks everywhere I went, worshipped full moons and meditated. I did everything I possibly could to attain the magical powers that were my birthright. Okay, I still do some of these things. Fuck you. Just because I can’t move things with my mind does not mean that I’m not a little psychic. A little. At least give me that.

My first coven consisted of myself and three other desperate teens in search of one shred of purity in this world. We would drive to Lincoln Hancock Elementary School very late at night to conduct outdoor ceremonies. I liked the trees that surrounded the playground in the back, and I was pretty sure no one would bother us there. We would “call the corners” and “invoke the spirit”, which basically meant that we acknowledged the existence of nature. Watch The Craft and you’ll see exactly what we did. Then we would meditate and basically pray for things. We were white witches, so we cast only good spells. Spells were cast by lighting various candles and meditating, much like church. We once cast a spell for my best friend’s mom to survive cancer. She was supposed to die in a few weeks. After our spell, she lived another year. Maybe there is something to prayer after all.

After I graduated from high school, my coven sort of broke up. I became a solitary witch for a while, which meant that I would practice witchcraft in my bedroom and hope that my mom wouldn’t catch me. Then I discovered witches amongst the Rocky Horror Picture Show cast, with whom I was now consorting. They invited me to a few pagan feasts and I gladly attended. It was then that I began to feel the creepy undertones of the pagan life.

There are a few holidays, or Sabbats as the witches like to call them, that involve sex. I thought that I would someday participate in these ceremonies, but only with someone I loved. Apparently many pagans don’t feel obligated to uphold the spirit of these Sabbats, but rather exploit them for sexual reasons. I sadly disengaged from the new group of pagans and returned to the life of a solitary witch.

In college I gathered a few girls together and we had some very informal ceremonies. I blessed every new dorm we inhabited and I celebrated the moon. We were college women and we were goddesses. It seemed cool at the time.

And then, totally out of nowhere, I just started thinking that it was dumb. Maybe that’s when I officially became a grown-up. I still really want magic powers, though.

..weirdo...

2006-01-29T20:41:00.000-05:00

Tommy Nutsack

You meet some interesting people at open mics. I met drunks, dope addicts, gamblers and crooks. I met a guy who drank a martini made of piss. I met a lady who ate bleach, tampons and kitty litter. I met a sex therapist, a handful of dominatrixes, a couple of half assed trannies, and a stripper with a 12 inch cock. I met an elf, a black albino and a midget. I thought I’d met just about every crazy person in New York until Tommy Nutsack came into my life. Tommy Nutsack is a large middle-aged nudist, which in itself is not that crazy. Until you get a look at his nutsack.

I went to Faceboy’s open mic on a regular Sunday night at Collective Unconscious back when it was on Ludlow St. As I began the walk across the room to the sign up can, something stopped me dead in my tracks. I immediately turned away.

“Oh my God.”
“I know. I’m doing everything in my power not to look”, said Jeff Mac.

Jeff Mac is someone to whom I can turn during particularly painful open mic moments. He understands.

“Is there something very, very wrong happening?”
“Yes. Yes, there is”, Jeff Mac confirmed.

When I finally mustered up the courage, I peered over at a man who I would soon come to know as Tommy Nutsack. He loomed in the corner near the sign up can. And so did his giant balls.

“Okay, so I see the balls. Obviously. But I don’t see a penis”, I whispered to Jeff Mac.
“I don’t know. I’m very, very afraid”, he confided.

With eyes to the ground I hustled over to the sign up can, put my name in and hurried back to Jeff Mac. He promptly put a note into my hand. It read:

Dear Tanya,
How are you? I am fine. That man is scaring the holy hell out of me.
Sincerely,
Jeff Mac

We continued to pass notes back and forth until Tommy Nutsack finally had his turn on stage. Everyone in the room sat at attention as if we were all in the military. This was the moment we had all been waiting for. With Tommy Nutsack under a spotlight, we all felt free to examine what had been the proverbial elephant in the room. Fuck that. It was the physical elephant in the room. That nutsack was the biggest nutsack that any of us had ever seen, and we’ve seen a lot of nutsacks. It roughly the size of a small planet. The sheer girth of those monstrously oversized balls was not the only problem, because it didn’t look like balls, per se. It looked his testicles had congealed into one single mutant testicle instead of two, and the tender ball-skin was stretched tighter than Joan Crawford’s face. This one terrifying ball was big enough to feed a large impoverished cannibal nation, but I don’t think you get even the bravest of cannibals near that unseemly hump. And the worst part about his already horrifying genitalia was the apparent lack of a penis. How could a man be in the possession of such a giant ball sack and not have a penis?

Just then, with his fingers, Tommy Nutsack pressed the sides of his ball sack, and sure enough a tiny penis emerged from its testicular nest like a dumpster rat in search of food. He thrust his hips forward and gently tapped his little penis on the mic stand that perched in front of him. The audience gasped and recoiled in horror. Tommy Nutsack released the pressure from his testes and his tiny penis slunk back into its cocoon.

Tommy stood in silence for a moment. As he stood sweating and breathing heavily, I noticed that he was covered in painted peace symbols that had mostly warn off. When he finally spoke, it was to tell the brief and uncomfortable tale of his nude day. Apparently, Tommy Nutsack tried to appear in as many places as would allow him to be naked, and I believe that he though the crude paintings all over his body would make it look less creepy and more artistic. But none of us had any interest in this. We all wanted to know one thing and one thing only. How did his nutsack get so big?

Finally, Tommy Nutsack ran out of things to say and decided to take questions from the audience. Dozens of hands shot up, but it was Master Lee who got the first words. Master Lee is a Buddhist poker player who wears a Chinese robe and two huge plastic diamond pinky rings.

“Dude, what’s up with your balls?”

The rest of us held our breath, all silently thanking Master Lee through telepathy for asking the question we’ve all been dying to have answered. We had a right to know.

And Tommy Nutsack just stood there like a big naked mute. He refused tell us what’s wrong with his balls. We were left to our guesses. Elephantitis of the balls was suggested. Big Mike, a horny nurse with a penchant for Polaroids, guessed a heart problem had caused the swelling. But no one knew for sure. And to this day, we still don’t know.

Tommy Nutsack came around for a while and terrorized various girls until Faceboy made him keep his clothes on while he was in the audience. He did his nude eight minutes at Faceboy’s and his nude six minutes at the Antislam. Reverend Jen honored him with the “Best Nutsack” award at the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant. And then he stopped coming around all together. None of us have seen him in months. Rumor has it that he’s getting an operation on that huge and mystifying nutsack. I wonder what his nickname will become if that’s true.

...piss sisters...

2006-01-26T16:17:00.000-05:00

Piss Sisters

The summer after I broke up with Adam was really wild. After two and a half years of being in such an oppressive relationship, I was ready to party. That’s when I discovered Wild Turkey.

I remember my first shot of Wild Turkey. Jodie and I were at Ann’s show at Don’t Tell Mama’s. We couldn’t even feign an interest in the other performers, so we spent a good amount of time at the bar. The turkey caught our eye. It looked so sexy in the glass, brown, thick and hypnotic as it swayed and swirled. I was in love. Wild Turkey isn’t like a cosmopolitan or whatever martini is in fashion. They are the sluts of drinking. They’re sweet and easy and cold. Wild Turkey plays hard to get. It’s rough and it’s warm and it makes you think twice before you bring it to your lips.

The summer of Wild Turkey was a hot one. It was a summer of sex on rooftops in the pouring rain. It was a summer of music and paint and theatre. It was a summer of peeing my pants in public.

One night after the Freestyle Family’s Open Mic Night, Jodie, Ann, Travis and I all took our familiar drunken journey from the Underground Lounge to Jodie’s apartment where we all frequently spent the night. Taking the caps off fire hydrants is a very popular thing to do in Harlem during the summer, because most people do not have air conditioning. We were pleased to see that one of the neighbors had done this to the hydrant across the street from Jodie’s, because it was hot as shit that night. Since we were all drunk and feeling spontaneous, we decided to play in the water that sprayed all over the street. There was dancing and leaping and laughing. Nobody suspected that there would also be peeing.

We played for a long time in that hydrant and we were drunk, so naturally our bladders began to pressure us to end our fun. We were not ready to do that. Jodie lived on the fifth floor and both of us had to go really bad. A cartoon light bulb flashed over our heads. We could just pee right here.

“Do you want to?”, Jodie asked with an impish grin.
“We could just make sure that we rinse off really good”
“Let’s hold hands.”

We clasped hands and looked around. We were the only two in the water. Everyone else was sitting on the stoop. We roared with laughter.

“Let’s do it!”, I cried.

I took a deep breath and relaxed as the warm fluid ran down my legs.

“I’m peeing right now”, Jodie quietly announced.
“Me, too!”

We laughed and we peed.

“We can never tell a soul that we did this”, Jodie said.

I solemnly agreed. We swore to take this to the grave. Jodie's boyfriend, Greg, heard all the laughter and wanted to join in on the fun. Little did he know that while he was innocently jumping and splashing, we were rinsing the pee off our clothes. After “playing” in the water for a really long time, we finally went up to the apartment. Before going to sleep we renewed our vows of silence. Our secret pee pact brought us even closer together than blood sisters. We were piss sisters.

Then we told John Bowman what we had done the very next day. Soon after that we told anyone who would listen. It was too juicy not to spill.

When I think about that summer, I remember how hard it was to adjust to my break up with Adam. All of my plans for my life were totally out the window. And when things like that happen, I guess it’s good to just let go of everything for a little while. Even bladder control.

...butthole...

2006-01-21T11:58:00.000-05:00

My best friend, Diane O'Debra, has an amazing effect on me. Every Sunday for the past couple of years, she and I meet to rehearse, and every single Sunday, both of us have to take a shit at about 2:30. We now call it poo:30. Lately the two of us have gotten so close to each other that it doesn't have to be a Sunday for our special time to happen. It basically happens every time she comes over my house. I guess we just feel exceptionally comfortable around one another.

Our reciprocal bowel stimulation really makes our relationship unique and tender. I won't shit at just anyone's house, and I certainly won't shit if you are at my house unless your name is Diane or Noel. Diane is the exact same way, though I once witnessed her during an emergency poo:30 at someone else's house. She nearly died of embarrassment. It was probably my fault. She never would have shit at that guy's house if I didn't make her feel so relaxed.

I'm very grateful for Diane, because I am usually very constipated. She's like a human laxative. I wish we could spent more time together.

Diane will arrive at my house in about fifteen minutes and my bowels must have sensed her, because I just made a brown slam dunk. I guess we're at the point that just the thought of Diane will loosen up my anus completely. Now that's friendship.

2006-01-05T18:01:00.001-05:00

2006-01-03T13:26:00.001-05:00

...dump...

2005-12-22T12:42:00.000-05:00

Yay! Guess what! I sent a query to Jane Magazine about the piece below, and they asked me to send it to them! This is the first time a query of mine has not been rejected! The world does want to hear about my vagina! Cross your fingers!

...i'm not horny...

2005-11-29T03:17:00.000-05:00

Please, Dr Gynecologist, Please Don’t Think I’m Horny

“You know how they use lube to loosen things up down there? Well, I'm always afraid that my doctor thinks I'm getting horny."

Diane O'Debra pretty much summed up exactly how I was feeling today during my pap smear. Or as I like to call it, my pussy scrape.

Literally, I am sitting on the table, with my butt scootched up as far is it will go, and my little footsies in the stirrups thinking, “Dear God, I hope my doctor doesn’t think I’m horny because she’s about to stick something in my pussy”.

The minute you even think for one second about being horny, you have made a huge mistake. It goes a little something like this.

“Gee, I sure hope my doctor doesn’t think I’m horny. Oh, my God. Am I horny?”

You see what happened there? I’m going to play that back for you.

“Well, my legs are spread eagle, my vagina is flapping in the wind just waiting to be penetrated and forced wide open. I just hope to God my doctor doesn’t think I’m horny! (Echo) Horny, horny, horny… Oh, crap.

Isn’t it fun trying to convince yourself that you’re not horny? And it totally works, too, right? No, it doesn’t. Awesome.

And the biggest problem is the fact that you can’t really see what’s going on down there. Your knees are up and there’s a paper thingy on your lap. When I say I don’t know what’s going on, I mean, specifically, did she use lube? I know she’s supposed to use lube, and the answer is probably yes. But what if she took one look at my vagina and said, “Hmm, that pussy is slippery enough”, and just knocked that speculum right in there with absolutely no problem? What could be more embarrassing? I might as well fart in her right face. I didn’t fart in her face.

Then I wonder if my doctor knows I think she thinks I’m horny. Or what if she thinks I think she’s getting horny. Just something to think about.

But as soon as she starts scraping at my cervix like it’s a scratch ticket, I know for certain am certain that I am not horny. Your honor, not horny.

And what about this, Dr Vagina-Looker? Why so chatty while you’re shoving things in my pussy? A few minutes ago, you checked my heart, lungs, ears, eyes and nothing. Not a word. Then as soon as my stuff’s all out, suddenly you’ve been blessed with the gift of gab, like you just kissed the Blarney Stone right now.

Ladies, how do we feel about having sex before a pap smear? Bad, right? You can thank me for proving you absolutely correct. Please don’t do it!

The night before my appointment, I settled in for an evening of romance, forgetting that someone would be staring long and hard at my vagina the next day. So not only do I have to pray that doctor doesn’t think I’m horny, I now have to beg Jesus to keep her from noticing any evidence that I did it last night.

“Your vagina looks irritated. Any problems?”

“No.”

“Have you been scratching it or something?”

That is exactly the kind of sentence that I never wanted to hear in my whole life. My friend Ann went to the giner doctor and she told Ann that her discharge is gorgeous. I go, and it’s, “Have you been scratching it?”

“Are you sure it hasn’t been bothering you?”

“Yup.”

“”Huh. Well, you can always get some cream if it acts up.”

Cream!!!

“Okay.”

And then she started finger banging me. It’s part of the internal exam. You doctor is required to finger bang you really hard to “check” things. Apparently mashing your ovaries so hard that you double over in pain is the only way to be sure that those suckers are a-okay. Whatever. Definitely not horny during that. It hurts. And she had to tell me to relax.

After it’s all over, your doctor will leave you to wipe the goo off your puss. Mine gave me a few options as to how I could accomplish that. Paper towels, tissue, cotton. Maybe she thought my vagina was extra dirty or something. “Have you been scratching it” echoed through my mind. Gross, gross, gross. I am filled with shame. And excess lube.

...naughty baby...

2005-10-20T17:46:00.000-04:00

I would like to discuss racial humor. When I say the word "nigger" in a joke, I am not making a comment about the black community. I am making a comment about the shocking absurdity of the person who is saying the word "nigger".

That being said, I came up with the most horrible word ever. I was thinking about the movie "Napolean Dynamite", and I was appreciating the liger, which is a lion mixed with a tiger. I really like combinations, so I came up with my own. "Ligger". It's a lesbian nigger. While I am filled with complete shame for ever having thought of something like that, I am at the same time filled with indescribable joy.

I can't help it.

...don't look at me like that...

2005-09-29T23:23:00.000-04:00

Dear Readers,

You may be wondering about the sudden influx of poetry. I apologize. But I won't stop. Shappy wants some funny over at the slam at the Bowery Poetry Club, so I'm doing my best.

GREAT Passions today. Allister is goig to marry Theresa. So good. The reason I know about Passions on a Thursday is because my new job let me go after a week and a half. Yes, I quit a job to be join them, and yes, they are aware of that. Stupid cocksuckers. I LOVE being unemployed.

A Serious Slam Poem by Tanya O'Debra

Daddy!
Daddy, don't you touch me there!
Please, don't you touch me there, Daddy!
Please stop pounding your long, hard cock
Into my tiny litttle pussy, Daddy!
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!

Is that what you want me to say?
Is that what your filthy slam sponge ears want to hear,
You sick, tragedy-loving motherfuckers?

Well, fuck you

You're going to have to jerk off to someone else's childhood tonight
I am a strong black woman
And I am sorry if my life is not spoken word pornography

Why do you go insane for incest?
Why must you revel in rape?

How many points would you give me if I had been molested?

A lot?
Then that's different
Cause if it's a lot, I'll go do it
Right now
I will go get fucked by some creepy old dude
Just for poetry
I will let somebody's crusty grandfather pork my pussy
For points
Go find the oldest, smelliest, most pissed on homeless person
And I'll let him bang my beef curtains
For you
I will get slammed for slam

I am an artist
And I will not let a little thing
Like never getting child molested
Stand in my way

...i was Raped by a Racist Bunsen Burner in the Early 90’s and Now I have an Eating Disorder...

2005-09-07T22:49:00.000-04:00

It all started out so innocently
Me and my Bunsen Burner
In the lab, so care free
Me and my Bunsen Burner

First he was talking so sweet
Telling me to meet him after school
Slipping notes into my locker
Telling my friends he thinks I’m cute

He blinded me with science!

I did meet him after school finally
He locked the doors behind me

He said
“Bitch, you’re a nigger!”
“You’re a nigger bitch!”
“You’re a bitch nigger!”

In “A Season in Hell”, Rimbaud said everybody’s a nigger
And maybe my Bunsen Burner was trying to be existential
So I called him a nigger, too

He punched me in the face

I got dizzy and confused
And the smell of gas was strong
Not because of the Bunsen Burner,
But because I ate onions at lunch

He punched me in the face again

“Bitch, I’m going to sew that asshole shut!”

He chased me around the room until he finally caught me
He held me down and tore off my clothes
And instead of sewing my asshole shut like he had promised,
He shaved off my pubic hair

Then he drew it back on with an eyebrow pencil

And then he raped me

I now spend my days near the toilet
Vomiting out all my food
And eating it up again and then vomiting
It’s a side effect of my low self esteem

I think I’m going to try and catch tricophagia
You know, that disease where people pull out their hair
And eat it

...don't touch me...

2005-08-24T21:14:00.000-04:00

I'm vulnerable.

What is it about birthdays that make people want to see you take shots? It's like they want to punish you for getting older. They really want you to feel the weight of that year you've acquired the next morning.

I've been slacking off on my Passions updates. It's becoming a bit of a chore. Plus I actually have other things to do.

But I will tell you that Tabitha cooked up one heck of an earthquake for Harmony! And if that's not enough, she added a giant tsunami right on top! What a week! Here is a direct quote from Katherine Crane.

"What are the odds that of all the coffins that were dislodged during the tsunami that my sister's coffin would be the one to float into the living room?"

Amen.

2005-08-22T11:11:00.001-04:00

...killers...

2005-08-05T07:35:00.001-04:00

...fuck you, bitch...

2005-08-05T07:30:00.000-04:00

I wrote this a while ago, and it's just been wasting space.

Tanya O’Debra: Age Eight
By, Tanya O’Debra 2004

I remember what could possibly be the first time I realized that people were not to be trusted. It was in the third grade. Kelly Aufiero was the dealer in this poker game, and she was counting cards when I wasn’t even ready for anything more complex than pick up sticks. I thought Kelly Aufiero was just about the coolest person ever. I wanted her to be my best friend so badly, but her best friend was Julie McDonald, who was also terminally cool in my mind. My imagination ran wild when I considered what it must be like to be best friends with people who had names like Julie and Kelly. And they were in the same class and everything. You see, my best friends, Lorianne Frasier and Amy DiFederico, weren’t in my class, so I was very covetous of the relationships that best friends who were in the same class had.

Anyway, Kelly Aufiero and I were in the same reading group, and Julie McDonald was at a lower reading level, so Kelly and I sat next to each other. Kelly and I were really good readers, so we would often finish before the other kids in our group, which gave us plenty of time to discuss Kelly’s problem. You see, Kelly Aufiero was in grave danger. Her dolls came alive at night and tried to kill her. And Kelly Aufiero had some crafty dolls, because they would only do this if she were the only one in the room. She tried countless times to tell her parents and her sister about her nocturnal peril, but they wouldn’t believe her, because the dolls were perfectly inanimate when they were around.

Now don’t think Kelly didn’t try to take matters into her own hands, because she did. She tried sleeping with a knife under her mattress, but like I said before, those dolls were crafty. They got the knife away from her, and just as they were about to stab her, her mother walked in. Those evil and evasive dolls fell to the ground in absolute stillness, and the knife clattered to the floor. So my dear friend, Kelly, was grounded for a week when her mother thought she caught her playing with knives.

Throw the dolls away, you say? That’s what I said, too. But Kelly Aufiero’s mother would have none of it. Because according to Kelly’s mother, the dolls were not, in fact, a threat to Kelly’s life. The dolls were not real, she should be old enough to know this, and after all, dolls cost money. And on top of not being able to throw the dolls away, any time Kelly got a new doll for her birthday or Christmas, there was a new terror in store. This army of bloodthirsty maniacs would immediately train the new doll so that she, too, would be a killing machine. One more plastic femme fatale added to the masses of disgruntled toys trying to snuff out that flame of Kelly Aufiero’s precious mortality.

Hide the dolls, you say? Fools! These were not your ordinary, run of the mill killer dolls. These dolls were killer geniuses. So, when Kelly locked her dolls in the closet, they found their way out. When she barricaded her closet with her chest of drawers, they found their way out. When she put the dolls into the chest of drawers, they found their way out. When she put the dolls into the chest of drawers, locked the drawers, put the chest of drawers into the closet, locked the closet, and barricaded the closet with chairs, those nasty little killer Houdinis found their way out. But fortunately for Kelly, they always made such a clamor that, just in the nick of time, someone would always peek into Kelly’s room to see what all the commotion was about. And then Kelly would get in trouble for making such a racket and such an enormous mess. It was a vicious cycle. Kelly Aufiero was in quite a pickle indeed.

And the scary thing was that no grown up could possibly grasp the unique danger of Kelly’s situation, no matter how she pleaded her case. There were none that believed her. None, that is, but me. I believed her. I believed her with all my heart. There she was, poor Kelly Aufiero, persecuted, hanging on by a thread, and quite alone in her suffering. I was frightened for her. What if those dastardly devilish dolls succeeded in taking my dear friend’s life? What was I to do? What indeed?

And then it happened. One day, during reading, as Kelly was describing her latest scrape with death, she slipped. Just as Kelly reached the climax of her story, her lips twitched. Kelly was suppressing a smile. It was quick, yet unmistakable. And in that brief moment, a myriad of exchanges flashed between us. In her face I saw the pleasure of her prank, the hope that she wasn’t going to be caught, the knowledge of having been caught, and I think a little guilt, but it could be that I was being kind. In my face she must have seen confusion, shame, loss, mistrust, and finally resignation. It was so complicated, but so fast. And in that tiny little scrap of time, I knew. I knew right then that everything she had ever told me was a lie. Kelly’s dolls were not trying to kill her. In fact, they didn’t even come alive. For all I knew, she didn’t have dolls at all. I was beginning to question if she even had a mother. Kelly Aufiero lied to me. She had been lying for months. I was devastated.

But life plows on, even through humiliation such as this, and I hid my devastation under a blanket of nonchalance. I pretended that it didn’t bother me that I had been duped. After all, I had my eight-year old pride. I wish I could say that I was at the same time relieved that she was safe, but that never crossed my mind. All I could think about was the fact that she had betrayed me, and how much that betrayal hurt. When I found out that my mother had been lying about Santa Claus, though that didn’t come until next year, I wasn’t so much hurt as disappointed. I could understand why she would want me to believe in Santa Claus. She was lying out of love. And besides, you can’t get the truth out of a grown up anyway. But Kelly Aufiero was my peer. I couldn’t understand why she would lie to me. She was supposed to be on my side. It didn’t take me long to figure out what her motive could be, and the answer was more than I could bear. Kelly Aufiero told me those things just so that she could laugh at me. Maybe she and Julie McDonald were laughing at me together. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything anymore.

After that day, I didn’t try so hard to sit next to Kelly Aufiero during reading. I didn’t join Kelly and Julie McDonald during recess. We grew further and further apart. The funny thing is, I still don’t understand why she did it. Why did Kelly Aufiero tell me that her dolls came alive at night and tried to kill her? Why did my sister stage a fake haunting in our bedroom? Why did Amy DiFederico immediately blab all my secrets to anyone who would listen? Why did Johnny Tormey kiss my cousin instead of me? Why? I can ask why until my tongue falls off, but I will probably never know the answer. Maybe there is no reason. But that day with Kelly was the day that I knew that I would be uncomfortable for the rest of my life. Because people are not to be trusted.

...no...

2005-07-25T19:18:00.000-04:00

That's how I feel right now. No, I don't feel like telling you what happened on Passions today. And not just because they're showing the earthquake tomorrow and not today. Mainly because I feel like you are lazy. Yeah, reader, I think you're lazy. Let's pretend someone reads this. Which, in reality, no one does. But for argument's sake, let's just say someone does. Whoever takes the time to read my blog, and can't take the time to watch Passions for herself/himself is plain old lazy. I'm tired of doing all the work here. So I'm not going to tell you about how wacky Endora and Tabitha were today. I'm not going to tell you who almost drowned and who resued that person and how they have a budding relationship now. I'm not going to tell you whether or not Jessica turned her first trick today. I'm not going to tell you if the Vegas thugs caught up with Noah and Fancy. And I'm also not going to tell you whether or not Theresa slept with Allister Crane. Sorry.

I have other things to do, reader. For instance, I am working on a screenplay. Bet you didn't know that, did you? No, because you don't really care about me. If you really cared about me, you would have watched Passions.

Anyway, here is a scene from my new screenplay, Me-Me-Media.

EXT – CHURCH STAIRS - NIGHT
GUADALUPE MORENO, a thirty-something year old Hispanic reporter, creeps up the church steps to the front door of the church carrying an infant car seat wearing winter gloves. She places baby carrier in front of the door and creeps down the stairs. She removes the gloves and puts them in her purse, then puts on a different pair of gloves. GUADALUPE walks to the clothing donation deposit box throws in the gloves that she used to carry the baby carrier. She hides behind a bush to wait for someone to discover the baby.

GUADALUPE MORENO
Come on, come on, come on.

Hours pass. It is now past dawn. GUADALUPE has fallen asleep, but is awakened by sirens. WENDY SMOUHA, a tough talking woman from the neighborhood and a POLICE OFFICER are discussing WENDY’S discovery.

WENDY SMOUHA
I just saw a car seat here by the church, so I came over to see.

POLICE OFFICER
Thank you, ma’am.

POLICE OFFICER climbs church stairs and removes the blanket that is covering the baby carrier and finds the baby, who is now dead.

INT – NEWS STATION – DAY
VOICEOVER speaks to onscreen caption which reads1-800-NOCRIME .

VOICEOVER
If you see a crime, make sure someone does the time. Call 1-800-NOCRIME.

INT – NEWS STATION – DAY
KATY WONG, an Asian news anchor is handed a memo while on the air.

KATY WONG
Oh. I’ve just received word on a breaking news story over at Our Lady of Good Conscience. Another infant has been abandoned at the church steps last night and with temperatures reaching below freezing, it’s yet another infant dead before dawn. We’ve got Guadalupe Moreno at the scene of the crime. Guadalupe, tell us what’s happing now.

EXT – CHURCH – DAY
GUADALUPE MORENO stands in front of Our Lady of Good Conscience with Wendy Smouha. They are on the air.

GUADALUPE
That’s right, Katy. I am standing here live at Our Lady of Good Conscience where yet another infant has been abandoned, and the mood here is devastating. With me now is Wendy Smouha, a neighborhood woman who wisely called the police when she noticed the abandoned baby carrier outside on the church steps. Wendy, how did you discover the tiny victim?

WENDY
Well, I was just getting my coffee when I saw the car seat over there on the stairs. It’s freezing out, so I thought I’d take a look just in case anyone was dumb enough to leave their kid out in the cold. Sure enough, some idiot abandoned their kid. The baby was all blue and purple when I got there. It’s disgusting. Friggin’ people are so disgusting. I hope they find the scumbags who did this. Poor little thing. It’s absolutely disgusting.

GUADALUPE
Thank you, Wendy. That’s another infant dead due to the harsh cold of winter and the even harsher cold of abandonment. I’m Guadalupe Moreno with WCON News. Back to you, Katy.

INT - NEWS STATION – DAY
ROCK OCEANWATER, KATY WONG’S co-anchor is now in the TV frame. ROCK is a very perky, white, thirty something year old man with gelled spiky hair. They are joined by the weatherman, BOB, who is a stout black forty something year old man.

KATY
You heard it here first. Another infant left for dead at Our Lady of Good Conscience. Abandon-gate. Sad.

ROCK OCEANWATER
Sad indeed. Speaking of sad, this weather is downright depressing!

KATY
It sure is, Rock! Jeez, Bob, can you give us any relief from this deadly cold?

BOB
Yikes! Don’t give me the cold shoulder! I don’t make the weather! I just report it!

KATY, ROCK, AND BOB all laugh.

EXT – CHURCH – DAY
GUADALUPE waits while PAUL, the camera man, breaks down the equipment to load it into the news van.

GUADALUPE
Fucking bitch didn’t even thank me. Let’s get out of here. Jesus Christ, Paul, before I get fucking frostbite.

INT – NEWS STATION - DAY
BOB, KATY AND ROCK are laughing.

KATY
(Sighs as her laughter winds down.) Thanks again, Bob. I’m Katy Wong.

ROCK
And I’m Rock Oceanwater. This has been another smart start to your day with WCON Morning News.

KATY
See you next time.

Broadcast ends. THE INTERN, a mousy looking young twenty-something, enters with a memo.

THE INTERN
Phil wants to see everyone in the boardroom at noon.

THE INTERN exits. ROCK, KATY, and BOB walk away from the news set.

KATY
If I have to report one more abandoned baby story, I am going to vomit.

ROCK
Well, get that finger poised, because there has been fuck all going on lately. We’re lucky that kid croaked, otherwise we would have had nothing but the weather and the war. You know what I mean?

KATY
I just hope they can dig up something better than another post-birth abortion for tomorrow. Though my bet’s on some sort of ridiculous human interest story about puppies and the elderly.

ROCK
Yeah, with any luck, maybe some nursing home escapee will leave a puppy to freeze on the church steps. At least that would be a little variety. See you at the meeting.

...my pussy looks like raw hamburger...

2005-07-18T17:44:00.000-04:00

In my dreams!

So, wow. Passions is back! Finally, Tabitha and Endora graced the TV screen this week, acompanied by none other than Edna Wallace! Apparently Edna is guarded by angels, so she's blackmailing Tabitha and Endora, because she knows they are witches. She's forced them to give her a whole new look, restore her hearing, and erradicate her incontinence. Plus she made them rustle up two shirtless hunks to be her new boy toys! You go, girl!

Beth Wallace is on a private jet to Canada with Sheridan and Luis' son, Marty. Sheridan has vowed never to forgive Luis for not believing that she was Marty's real mother. Luis has promised to roam the earth until he gets Marty back so that he, Sheridan and Marty can all be a family again. Sheridan says that she'll never take Luis back, because he's clearly still in love with Beth. Beth gave them a taunting phone call today, wherein she claimed that she would also get Luis back, too. So many people wanting each other back.

Jessica Bennet was out hooking for her new boyfriend/pimp, Spike. Her father, Sam Bennet, accompanied by Ethan and Noah, found her walking the streets with a new "John". They whisked Jessica away and promised to take her home and then take her on vacation. Then Spike showed up and they got into a huge brawl that the police had to break up. Jessica claimed that her father and brothers attacked her, so they got arrested. Jessica seemed to be having her doubts about having her father and brothers arrested and she expressed them to Spike, who then told her that she would feel better after licking a two inch rectangle of paper with two giant yellow happy faces on it that we can only assume was LSD. Spike and Jessica went to the police station and Jessica insisted that she wanted to press charges against her father and brothers, which must have been a side affect of her acid trip. It sure was a bitter pill to swallow for Sam, who is the former Chief of Police!

I cannot express how happy I was to see Tabitha and her sweet daughter Endora today. They light up my life. Thank you Passions. Thank you for not letting me down this week. You're the only thing I've got left.

Help me.

...i don't have super aids...

2005-07-11T20:00:00.000-04:00

And neither does anyone else, because super aids is not real.

Passions was sort of a let down this week. There was speed boat chase between Luis, Sheridan and Beth. Beth got away, though. Sam Bennet lost his job as Chief of Police. Besides that nothing else happened. Still no Tabitha or Endora to speak of. Allister is still trying to seduce Theresa. Very uneventful. Not even a good Fancy Crane quote to share. Maybe next week will be more exciting.

Thanks a lot, Passions. You ruined the only thing that I have to look forward to. What will I talk about at my stupid receptionist job tomorrow?

I hate myself.

...if only we could turn back time. then there'd be no grandchild born of incest...

2005-07-04T15:00:00.000-04:00

I can't count the number of times I've though this to myself.

Dr Eve Russell is living in a dream world. She will never be able to take back not telling her daughter, Whitney, not to marry her half brother, Chad. And that poor grandchild born of incest, Miles, will continue to pay the price of Eve's negligence. Miles has been very fussy latey and won't drink formula. Fortunately for him, after roughly three months without breast feeding, Whitney is still able to produce milk, and nursed Miles so that he would not starve to death.

Things were not so sunny in the Crane mansion. Beth somehow got away! I'm not sure how though, because I can only watch on Mondays. Sheridan is so upset that she is ready to leave Luis because he did not believe that Marty was her son and not Beth's. Now they'll probably never see their son again. That's not really true. We'll probably see him again sooner than you would think, even though Beth is aided by Allister Crane. Allister was up to his usual tricks; lying, cheating and seducing innocent women. Even though I expect this kind of behavior from him, I was shocked when Allister kissed Theresa! Theresa was in a blind rage about how Gwen stole her baby and raved about how she would stop at nothing to get Jane back. After her mother, Pilar, walked away, Allister took his chance and swooped in like the vulture that he is. He offered to help Theresa get Jane back, but she refused. For now, that is!

It looks like Allister is going to spill the beans any day now about how Sheridan murdered her Aunt Rachel when she was seven. Katherine is doing her best to protect Sheridan, but nothing is certain when you are at the mercy of Allister Crane.

The Las Vegas thugs must have caught up to Noah Bennet and Fancy Crane, because Fancy was trapped in the bottom of a boat struggling amongst a pile of tuna. Luckily Noah was able to rescue her with mouth to mouth recuscitation. Then he kissed her!

Noah - "You are Fancy Crane."

Fancy - "And you are Noah Bennet."

Noah - "Well you sure don't look so Fancy now. In fact, you stink."

Fancy - (slaps Noah across the face) "I'd rather smell like fish than be kissed by you."

Sadly, there was no appearence by my favorite character, Tabitha. Where has she been? And where has her evil baby, Endora, been? I want more spell casting! I also don't know what happened to the pants-peeing Edna Wallace. Hopefully I will be filled in by a monologue driven soley by exposition.

More to come next week!

...you are full of it. and i'm not talking about botox...

2005-06-27T15:47:00.000-04:00

I would hold the hand of the one who could lead me places
And kiss the lips of the one who could sing so sweet.
And I would fly on the wings of the bird
I knew, it would take me highest.

Breathe in, breathe out.
You keep me alive.
You are the fire burning inside of me.
You are my passion for life.

Passions

Best theme song ever. And yes, the title of this post is yet another delicious quote from the greatest soap opera living or dead, Passions. Those words were spoken by Teresa Lopez-Fitzgerald, sister of Luis Lopez-Fitzgerald, who we all remember is struggling to get his son back from the evil grips of his murderous ex-girlfriend, Beth Wallace, who is aided by Harmony's richest citizen and recognized town villain, Allister Crane. But we'll talk about Luis' stuggle later.

Once, long ago, Teresa Lopez-Fitzgerald was on top of the world. She had a loving family and a devoted fiance, Ethan Crane, son of Julien Crane. But good things never last long in Harmony. You see, long ago, Julien Crane was not the benevolent millionaire that he is now. He was bitter and evil, just like his father, Allister. And just like his father, if he saw budding happiness, he had to squash it before it could fully bloom. That is why Julien got Teresa so drunk that she didn't kow what was happening so that she would mistake Julien for her fiance, Ethan, and marry Julien instead! On their wedding night, Julien took Teresa's cherished virginity, and they conceived a child. Teresa was desperate with rage when she discovered what she had done, and she filed for an annullment, which was granted to her. But Ethan was so furious that Teresa had married his father that he could not take Teresa back, and he began to date Gwen Hotchkiss, daughter of the scheming gold digger, Rebecca Hotchkiss, who was soon to become Julien's new wife. Though Ethan still loved Teresa, he was too disgusted with the idea of Teresa sleeping with his father. But was Ethan really Julien's son? Of course not! Ivy Winthrope, Ethan's mother and Julien's ex-wife has been in love with Officer Sam Bennet for decades. And the embarrassing secret of Ivy and Sam's affair and love child had been well kept for just as long. Fortunately for Teresa, secrets in Harmony have roughly a thirty year time limit before they are exposed. And those thirty years were now up. Even though Teresa had discovered Ivy and Sam's secret, she had planned to remain tight lipped as not to ruin Ethan's life by robbing him of the Crane fortune. But with a scheming mother comes a scheming daughter, and Gwen and Rebecca found the information on Teresa's computer and emailed it to the tabloids, blaming the leak onTeresa and sealing Gwen's fate as Ethan's bride.

Rebecca Hotchkiss will stop at nothing to ensure that poor Teresa's life is a living hell. Why should she? She's worked so hard to secure hers and her daughter's places as the wives of two of the wealthiest men in Harmony. And now that her little Gwenny was pregnant with Ethan's child, that future seemed more secure than ever.

Okay really long story short, Gwen lost the baby, so they decided to let Teresa carry their embrio, but Teresa donned a blond wig to fool Ethan into thinking that he was sleeping with Gwen. Gwen's baby didn't take, but Teresa's did, and when Gwen found out that she was not the baby's mother, she stabbed Teresa in the back with a scalpel, leaving her paralyzed for several weeks. Gwen spent a couple days in jail where she went crazy, and then she escaped and kidnapped Jane and took her to the Allister's secret lair on a secret island. Ethan and Teresa rescued baby Jane, but then Ethan and Gwen got back together and got custody of Jane, plus they already had custody of little Ethan because Rebecca and Julien turned him over to their care. Basically, Gwen tried to murder Teresa, and instead of getting punished in any way, she got everything that she wanted. Because attempted murder is not really a crime in Harmony.

Now that we are up to speed on that story line, here is what happened on today's episode. Rebecca told Teresa to "Go back to Guacamoleville!" Then Teresa threatened to kill her in order to get her baby back. Then Rebecca threw herself down the stairs to frame Teresa!

Back to Luis and Sheridan. Beth and little Marty are so close to escaping, but everyone is on to them, so Allister has decoy Beths and Martys running around the Crane property to fool everyone who is hunting for Beth. Allister hid the real Beth and Marty behind a trick wall. Just as Beth and Marty were about to make their real escape, Sheridan found them and threatened to kill Beth. Sheridan is no stranger to murder. In fact, that angelic blond sweetie killed her Aunt Rachel when she was only seven years old! But she doesn't know about it. Yet. Don't worry, Allister's been hiding Rachel's body in the moseleum under the gazebo for all these years. It looks like Sheridan's thirty years of secrecy are just about over!

Here is this week's quote from Fancy Crane, the Paris Hilton of Harmony:
"You are just like other poor people. You hate rich people because they aren't poor like you."

Stay tuned for more next week!

...we've got to find out what whitney meant by that incest comment...

2005-06-20T15:02:00.000-04:00

Indeed we must.

The title of this post is a quote from my favorite show, Passions. It refers to a young girl, Whitney, who accidentally married her half brother, Chad, and conceived an incest baby named Miles. Miles was born four months premature, and Whitney's new boyfriend, Fox Crane, believes Miles is his own son. Fox, who is the grandson of evil billionaire Allister Crane, was shocked to find out that Whitney used the power of attourney that he granted her to sign papers allowing Whitney to give up the baby that he believed to be his own for adoption. You see, nobody except Whitney's mother, Dr Eve Russell knows that the baby's real father is none other than Whitney's half brother, Chad.

You may be asking yourself, why would Whitney tell her mother that she was having an incest baby? Why not just let her think, like everyone else, that the baby was Fox's? Wouldn't that make for an easier kept secret? Maybe you should ask yourself why Eve would let her daughter marry someone who she suspected to be her own son in the first place. I guess things like incest don't look so ugly from the Crane Mansion, where Eve now lives with evil turned good millionaire, Julien Crane, son of evil billionaire Allister Çrane.

What makes Allister Crane so evil? You mean besides his various attempted murders, numerous kidnappings, excessive and reckless brandy drinking and cigar smoking, car bombing, ominous cackling, and repeated proclaimations about how much he loves being evil? Well, for example, today he was spotted hiding his half daughter, Beth Wallace, and the child she kidnapped, Marty, behind the walls of the fourth hidden vault that I have seen on the show Passions.

Why would Beth kidnap Marty? Well, she can't go to jail! And not only because nobody actually serves time for the crimes they commit in Harmony, the town where Passions takes place. Beth kidnapped Sheridan Crane, Allister's other daughter, because Sheridan was engaged to the man Beth insists is her true love, Luis Lopez-Fitzgerald. Sheridan was pregnant at the time, and Beth hid her in what was the first hidden vault I had seen on the show Passions, which was a deep hole in her basement. Beth kept Sheridan down in that hole for the entirety of her pregnancy, while at the same time faking her own pregnancy. Luis, who truly loves Sheridan, never stopped searching for her, but was not about to walk out on the baby that Beth was pretending to carry. Beth and her incontinent mother, Edna, along with Edna's nursemaid and best friend, a monkey named Precious, all distorted their voices and dressed as clowns whenever they had to tend to their hostage, Sheridan. Beth's plan was to let Sheridan live long enough to give birth to Luis' baby and then kill her so that she and Luis could live happily ever after without that pesky blonde in the way. Beth succeeded in kidnapping the baby and Sheridan escaped with her life, and her three kidnappers, Beth, Edna and Precious escaped with their anonymity. So far.

Precious, on the other hand, had her own ideas. Precious, too, was in love with Luis. She was often found daydreaming about activities such as ice skating and eating cotton candy with the object of her passion, Luis. Precious spent many an afternoon cooking up ways to get Beth out of the way and Luis into her arms. Monkey see, monkey do, Beth. Monkey see monkey do.

(Just a little side note about the saying, "Monkey see, monkey do". A bystander at the courthouse in the Bronx had these words to say as my closest friends and I exited the building. "Monkey see, monkey do." It was clear that we all had just witnessed the marriage of two dear friends. Never has a more appropriate sentiment been uttered. Some people just have a gift when it comes to speechmaking on special occasions. Perhaps he knows the great poetess who penned "I can deep throat a twelve inch cock. Can you?'', on the bathroom wall of that same Bronx courthouse.)

As you can plainly see, the back story for Passions is vast in its breadth and depth, and I have only scratched the surface. It will take weeks for me to get you up to speed on all the inner workings of Harmony. Right now I would like to share a few choice quotes from todays episode.

1. Spike - "What will you have to drink?"

Fancy Crane - "Champagne. If it's cold, French, and expensive."

2. Noah - "Nobody burns my little sister and gets away with it." (Sets rape bed on fire.)

3. Sheridan - Beth is Allister's daughter.

Julien - Allister and Edna Wallace? That smelly old crone?

Unfortunately, I only have one week day off of work, so I can only watch Passions every Monday. I will give weekly updates on Passions, and I will also continue to fill in the back story to the greatest television show ever made.

I will leave you with this: Juliet Mills, who plays Harmony's meddlesome witch, has garnered the first Emmy nomination for Outstanding Actress in a Leading Role that Passions has ever seen. Cross your fingers! Apparently, Passion has won three Daytime Emmys and was nominated for 20 others! All this within 6 seasons! Way to go, Passions!

...i'm a little bloody rape baby...

2005-06-17T23:06:00.000-04:00

Well, in some circles, anyway.

Dog Names
- Alan
- Susan
- Sharon (only if it's a German Shepard)
- Matthew
- Lisa (this is a great one)
- Cathy (especially if you're dog's really annoying)
- Danielle (I refuse to justify this one.)
- Pat
- Megan (only if it's a real cunt)(notice I didn't say
bitch)(that would have been lame)
- Galen
- Nose (I bet you didn't see that one coming.)
- Pizza

...i made out with my cousin...

2005-05-17T18:42:00.000-04:00

Not really. But I do have a copy of her book report.

"My Book Report on 'Charlotte's Web'" by Jaimie Kuss

"Charlotte's Web, by E. B. White, is the story of a pig with a dream. This pig was Wilbur. Wilbur's dream was not to be a movie star with a boyfriend and a ten speed bike and make-up. Wilbur's dream was to live out his whole life on a farm with no one to call him a retard or a lesbo.

Wilbur was born a runt, which means he was too small and everyone hated him. I know how he felt, because I was born too small, and they had to put me in an incubator. My dad says that it's because I should have never even been born. The farmer, Mr Arable, wanted to chop off Wilbur's head with an axe. My dad says that he wishes he did that to me, because then we wouldn't be in this mess. But before Mr Arable could chop poor baby Wilbur's head off, his daughter, Fern, rescued Wilbur and nursed him with a baby bottle. Mr Arable said Wilbur is a spring pig. My dad says that I am just a regular pig and he wishes he could sell me to my uncle, just like Mr Arable sold Wilbur to Fern's uncle, Mr Zuckerman.

When Wilbur got to Mr Zuckerman's farm, he was very lonely without Fern. The talking goose in the next pen told him to run away. So, Wilbur snuck out of his pen through the loose board. But everyone noticed right away, and they all went and found him. When I ran away, nobody noticed until I came back three days later when I was tired of living in Sharon's shed.

As time passed, Wilbur got lonlier and lonlier. None of the talking animals would play with him. Not even Templeton, the rat. He probably just talked to his Barbies all day. Then Wilbur started hearing voices. Everyone thought he was crazy, but nobody made him stand in the closet for five hours until he peed his pants. Instead, a beautiful spider named Charlotte befriended him Charlotte forced Wilbur to watch her kill a fly and drink its blood. Then the talking goose had a baby.

Then the talking sheep told Wilbur that the farmers were going to kill him at Christmas. My dads says that he's going to try to sell me to those farmers. Charlotte decided to save Wilbur's life by writing words in her spider web. Everyone thought it was a miracle when Charlotte wrote the words "Some Pig", "Terrific", and "Radiant" in her web, so they brought Wilbur to the State Fair. Charlotte wrote the word "Humble" in her web at the Fair, and Wilbur won $25. My dad says that the only prize I could ever win would be a blue ribbon at the Ugliest Person Alive Contest.

Charlotte layed a bunch of eggs and died alone at the Fair. Wilbur took her eggs home after he left Charlotte to die. When all the eggs hatched, almost all the baby spiders ran away, except for three - Joy, Aranea and Nellie. They probably were retards. They couldn't even write in their webs.

Mr Zuckerman never killed Wilbur. My dad says it's because he's a pussy.

THE END

...i wasn't child molested...

2005-04-18T10:38:00.000-04:00

Are you surprised?

If I were still a teen and my boyfriend was not into using condoms, this is what I would say to him if we were in an after-school special.

"Relationships at 4PM in your Mom's Livingroom"

Baby. Baby. B- No- Baby! Look at me. Look at me. Baby, look at me. Baby, it's me. It's me. Not someone else. It's me! Baby? Baby? Okay. Now we're getting somewhere. I've got something very important to say. No, baby, I'm over here. Okay? Okay, so we've been having sexual intercourse for six months now, and it has come to my attention that we have not been practising "safe sex". We have got to start using condoms. Yeah, that's right. Condoms. No balloons, no party. Listen, sailor, you're gonna have to wear a life jacket if you're going to board this ship. No more riding bareback for you, cowboy. If you don't want that book to get dusty, you'd better get a dust jacket. No one eats a hot dog without a bun in this backyard. If you want to knock boots, you'd better keep them on your feet. If you want the snake to find the hole, you'd better trim the hedges. Anyway, they're called condoms. Use them. Oh, yeah. And about that other thing we've been talking about. I looked it up in the bible, and it said that anal sex is for queers, and God hates faggots. Amen.

...i might start cutting myself soon...

2005-04-11T13:07:00.000-04:00

Really. I might.

I have always been a tender and unique soul. I'm crying tears of blood from my vagina right now. To prove that my mind has never known comfort, I will post a poem that I wrote in 1995. I was a mere 15 years of age, yet still I was acquainted with the pain that life can bring.

Little Bo Peep

I lost my blanket last year.
Now, I'm very cold.
It never dawned on me to fear
what I thought was permanent.
I tied to find it again,
but what do you kow,
it now belongs to two and ten.
Maybe I'll find it in the spring.
But what if it's too late?
What if nothing has a familiar ring?
Make a new blanket, some have said.
They obviously don't know
that I'd rather be shot in the head.
I've lost my blanket, it bears my name.
Without my precious blanket,
I'll never be the same.

...an introduction to me and my sexuality...

2005-04-10T18:06:00.000-04:00

I am a very sensitive and tender artist. There are layers to my lonliness that no other living being could ever fathom. My consciousness swims in a deep, deep realm of darkness and decay. My heart is a pool of sorrow. You're hurting my feeling right now.

Today I painted a likeness of Jesus with my menstrual blood. I'll probably never show it to anyone, because some things are just for me.

I know what happens when people die.