Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Guest post: I watched gay pornography.

Usually, there's some sort of preceding fan fare over the meat of these entries. I don't have time for that. See, I have a confession:

I watched gay pornography.

Now, this would be perfectly fine were I a homosexual, but I ain't. So, like the videos did to me, I will now detail perfectly my experience, I'll also explain why you shouldn't put things up your ass.
But, there should be some sort of prologue to this, I suppose. You see, I wait tables (for free, aren't I fantastic? I will also strip for food). I come from a little town in <country> near <provincial capital> where the population is mostly British, and mostly gay. This is obviously a powder keg of glitter, bitchiness, and soiled condoms, but that's beside the point (also, they think my brother has nice nipples...yeah). I was 'working' one night with my legs chained to the glass washer behind the bar as I sang convict songs such as 'like a virgin' by Madonna...or maybe that's just gay, I have no idea anymore. A frail old gentleman entered one night with a considerably younger man at his side. To me, he entrusted a bag to keep safe as I showed him to his seat...little did I know that what I would find in this bag would change my fucking life forever. So, being adorably conniving, I surreptitiously opened the bag.

There were four cases. Two were uncovered DVD jewel cases. I feared they may contain illegal material.

The customer left, forgetting his bag to ostensibly go and have his colon budded by his younger partner's phallus (try and clean your ears with a q-tip now, you'll get the metaphor). So, I took these cases home in their little Hawaiian Tropic bag. After some time tried to persuade The Ronas to watch it with me-- She is lucky I got bored of waiting. I also feel it prudent to point out no Hawaiians were harmed in the production of those movies.-- I picked out one of the unmarked cases which had a little paper note inside marked "Bareback". Being familiar with the homosexual vernacular, I was aware this meant something like "Man puts his unwrapped penis in another man's rectum and starts making a reciprocating motion...without lucubration." 

It was like every gory war movie mixed in with a little bit of horror. This was some very underground stuff, with men doing very painful looking things to one another. One scene I remember quite fondly was when it was all over, the receiver started clenching his cheeks and suddenly a copious amount of semen started falling liberally out of his anus. Mouth still hanging open, I turned off the DVD and started smoking. It was at this point I realized that, despite The Ronas' insistence, I was not gay. In fact, this movie only strengthened my love for women in long as they prepare fine meals, press my shirts and tell me where the hookers are when I need 'this thing' sucked.
Anyway, what we can learn from this story is that holy fucking shit; you do not put things up your ass. Holy good mother of God they look all stretchy, and I hear some of them lose sphincter control and shit themselves.

Oh, I'm also looking for a Green Card. If anyone's interested, hit me up at do dishes!

Monday, May 16, 2011


Or a post about them.

So every now and again I get too busy to do you lovely people a weekly update. That's where my friends come in. See, they're just as weird as I am so I figure you might get a kick out of them once in a while. This being said, let me introduce you all to a dear friend of mine. Quin.

He likes to write and works for free. Which makes him the perfect guest poster. Really.


The condemned man watched with uncomprehending vision as I looked up the best way to kill him. Unable to talk, likely struggling to even breathe, he flailed helplessly next to me while I sorted out the execution methods. Boiling, I had thought when I first took on the task, would be best. No, wrong.  No impersonal death, this. They said I had to do it by hand.  Stab him, or peel his body apart while he was stunned.

 For a three dollar blue crab this was starting to seem like a whole lot of horrifying fucking work.

 I've been eating ramen and cheap chicken soup day in and out, so when I saw this little crab, cheap, I leapt on it. Crab? Fuck yeah! And I can just boil him!  So I go to the internet to find out a good way to spice the water to cleanly kill the little guy. I say cleanly, I mean for me, I mean he's going to be boiled alive.  But he's a crab. Fuck him, he's a hockey puck with delusions of grandeur.

 So I set him down on the carpet to enjoy his last time in the exercise yard.  He watched me look up his demise and I think ate my carpet.

 "Okay, so it says here I take water and put ice... in it. Which is supposed to stun you." So far so good, maybe its like hypnotizing a lobster, so its more humane, "And then what I do is, while you're stunned and can't claw me, I... they want me to pull your shell off." His fucking shell. While he's alive. I can't do that! The fuck?! What the fuck is this, cooking for maniacs? Jesus.

 He looked at me. I looked at him. I decided it was time to fill the tub. Yeah, the tub! He'll be my housecrab! That's normal, right? To wuss out of killing a meal and making it into a pet? I could feed him scraps, and take him for walks on a leash. I was brought up in the suburbs of Chicago by a Jewish mother. The closest I ever got to even remotely hurting my own food was making fun of the presentation of a lasagna.  I don't hunt, I agonize how to have someone else cook it.

 So there I was and there he was.  I had, at this point, stopped IMing friends freaking out over having to kill the crab (I left that out to look like less of a pussy). "EMBER! TAMAR! I CAN"T DO THIS!" etc.

So I carried him into the kitchen, cleared a spot out, and took a deep breath. There. We. were.

I'm poor. He's expensive.

I'm hungry. He's delicious.

I've been eating ramen all week.  He's a good source of protein.

Fuck it, lets do this.

Time to do the deed. Time to kill the crab. Kill the brain they said. Ice water (No ice. Goddamnit.) So fill a pot with cold water, dump him in, and kill him.  Me and him. Mano a mano. The great Jewish hunter rides again!

My weapon: A heavy chisel bladed survival knife. I had at this point called a friend of the female persuasion who had begun laughing at me and my timidness; Now was my time to impress the weak female with my battle prowess. She would see that I was the hunter. The provider.  I wanted this nice and easy so I put the tip of the blade against the top of his shell. One good hit, he'd be dead, no pain and AH GOD HE'S FLAILING I'M SORRY MR CRAB STOP KICKING I'M SORRY SHIT SHIT HIT HIM AGAIN GOD DAMN HE'S PADDLING WHAT DID I DO I'M A MONSTER POOR MR CRAB!

 When I came to, I realized I had left the knife in, was across the room with eyes like dinner plates, and he was flailing. Turns out that it was just spasms.  Mr Crab was no longer with us. He was in fact, an ex-crab. All I saw, however, was the knife was fully in and he was still moving. I became rapidly convinced I had only angered him so hit it again. And again. At this point I had realized I didn't have an ordinary crab. This was the omega crab. The avenging crab. If I did not kill it, it would slay me and feast upon my flesh, so I did the most manly thing I did.

I stuck him in the fucking freezer and hid for five minutes.

Oh fuck you, the crab survived a combat knife. You’d be scared too. Don't you judge me, goddamnit, he was huge and angry and now had a knife.

Finally, mercifully, the moving stopped. I peeked into the freezer, and the beast was dead. And so, like a triumphant warrior, Tamar's laughter in the back, I put him into the boiling pot. No, I wasn't crying.

I did feel bad though, poor little guy. I mean I took a knife and took his life, I killed him and he never di...

Goddamn. This is good crabmeat.

Moral of the Story: Murder is okay if they're tasty.

Saturday, May 7, 2011


I didn't make this, but it explains so much of everything right now.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Five Guys Beat Me Up

Well, not five guys, per say. More, that’s the location. It seems that I can’t even get a burger without having a crisis. Or, maybe the customer base is just insane. Whichever, really. The point is I have no idea how trying to get a hamburger turned into a fight.  Well, I lied. I know how it turned into  a fight and it deals with the three most evil words any woman can hear.

Low carb diet.

Now, for those of you who assume I’m just being dramatic you’ve probably never been through the horror that comes with Atkins. It’s a Hell. It’s unfair, and I’ve seen women threaten to hold up Frito’s trucks if they’re not able to get that almighty fix.  The turn into horrible creatures that look like this:

This woman is obviously crazy.

Which is why the attack should have come as any surprise. I mean, look at that thing. It’s obviously on edge.

Really, my assault was undeserved. Or I’d like to think so. I was innocent, standing there content to wait in line for my wonderful burger.

And then through the doors came a female of very large waist. Perhaps she’d been a stripper in another life. All I know is she was a plus sized woman crammed into spandex that was at least three sizes too small. And she was hungry.

She took place in line behind me, puffing and sighing, and that was that until her friend burst through the doors. Now, I didn’t know it was her friend at the time, but it became rapidly clear when she stood in the door way and screamed for her friend not to get the burger, that they were doing Atkins together.

Once her warning had been trumpeted, the second female-- who looked surprisingly normal for her company—charged toward her friend where they began to bicker. And I mean, yell loud enough that even the slightly Asian people were beginning to go round eyed (Was that racist?). The stripper shoved her friend, her friend shoved back, and then, horror of all horrors... The stripper slammed into me. 
So I did what any logical woman would do. I asked them nicely to stop. They didn't seem to like that much.
Guess who the stripper is.

Then, I was pulled into the yelling and screaming. Suddenly arms were waving and we were all locked in low carb madness.  It was horrible. It was frightening. It was the byproduct of women handing by the end of their rope. And eventually, I ended up punched in the face.

Of course, the squabble ended with all of us being ushered out of the restaurant with some very angry burger worker faces. And other than my black eye I was pretty much okay.

See? Fine. That's a blackeye, by the way. Yes. I got one.

But the point of this story remains the same. Diets are bullshit.

Ronas out.

Ps. I’m not a zombie.