Tag Archives: Steele

Misery, we have company!

Hey! Some of you may have been wondering where our darling Lambchop is hiding these days. The answer is simple: Steele has returned from his fourth trip sailing around the Cape of Good Hope, and now they are off to Algiers for a very long weekend. She’ll return, languid, completely drenched in henna, and tease me with exotic tales of eating honeyed goat hearts. Le sigh. I’m having cold coffee. Not iced, just cold.

In other news, the second day of Yard Sale was even more terrifying than the first. My display of old goth jewelry was stolen by Irish Travellers! Oh yes. They cagily stuffed half-burnt votive candles and napkin rings into their pockets as their moon-faced children did a distracting stiff-legged jig. Then they hung around, asking people if they wanted their windows washed. We finally got rid of them between pulling out the hose and mentioning several times that the next door neighbor is a cop.

We have a new view from our bizarre hovel, as all the trees were cut down along the river. We can see all the way to the Lawrence Mills and the ball park, and sunsets are now quite the event. The other day, Mr. H yelled “Look, there’s some assholes in kayaks!”

“Won’t they get hurt when they hit that big rock ledge?”

“That’s what I’m hoping, get outside!”

In the end, they took on a lot of water, but managed to limp downstream. Man, do I know that feeling.


Bachelor Number One

Vomitola is very pleased to present you with Steele, today’s contestant for Win A Date with Lambchop.

He is tall, golden, and silken haired. His favorite things about Lambchop include “her dark-chocolate eyes, her brazen wit, her chicken pot pie, her impish smile, and her butt”. His own self-described good qualities include “a perfect physique…kindness to animals…strength and calm…incredibly rich”. He votes Andy Gibb. Steele is perfect, with taut abs, a firm handshake, and a yacht. However, he is disqualified by virtue of being Lambchop’s former beaux.

And so the search continues!

Journey to the New World

I wish I could get Irish Backs of Steele to transport my meager belongings across the Atlantic for a few coppers! A solid week of sifting through my possessions and staring balefully at the mounting collection of boxes has caused me to convert the half of it to garbage bags. Who needs Stuff anyway?

Me, that’s who! Me! Me!

Don’t worry, lads and lasses of the Colonies, I will not be disposing of anything particularly fetching. I will be living under that bridge in the Common. And as Mother always admonished Father, “Just because you are a Bum, is no excuse to dress like That!” Surely I won’t be a public nuisance for long. One of you fine folk are bound to fill my biscuit barrel with cash, in return for me doing mostly nothing. My resume is lined with fascinating and useless items! I am trained in falafel making and creative napkin folds. I am also a skilled liar. Opportunities abound!

Lambchop and Licketysplit used to rule the Boston airwaves, lollipops in hand. Lickety, while I search for my passport and try to match up my socks, do be a dear and find something else for us to rule. Or at least someone to lord it over.


The creaky yoke of living


Licketysplit here, still plodding along without Lambchop. It is so lonely in the solarium without you, boddyyy! I am reduced to trying to teach this pleasing red rubber ball to play Baccarat with me. Steele did send a digital momento of their vacation so far, but it was a bit indecent. Well, if you consider the statue of David indecent. But for God and country and Ashcroft, I shall not display it. We do not traffic in the base emotions of the flesh.

Melvin has been champing at the bit for more column space, so we finally gave him our blessing (not that Melvin needs it), and he can now be found at a more suitable home. Do drop in on his new LiveJournal. Pace around, make yourself at home. He will summon his manservant, and you will share a fiery digestive.

In other strange developments, people have started asking Melvin for advice! Kitty Winn is livid. She threw a princess telephone at my head when I told her the news, and tried to stab me with the matching engraved dialer. Melvin does not deign to solve anyone’s problems. He has advised that in general he feels humankind is a wretched burden. Did you really think a well-heeled nihilist beagle would be of much service in matters of the heart? Cease and desist, Kitty Winn is the only one around here who is cut out for meddling. Seriously, she is threatening to quaff an entire bottle of nail polish remover if she doesn’t get some suitable letters soon.

I actually have a Kitty Winn-worthy problem, but I am not quite ready to share. The tightness in my chest is too great, the problem too monumental. Today I took to the couch and watched obscenely fit people trot by in the marathon. That just made me feel out of shape. So I took a nap. This problem is not existential in nature, I don’t really get those anymore since I sprayed the Angst-B-Gone around the mailbox and front walk.  The only thing that gave me cheer all day was reading my sister’s account of the Cadbury Mini Horse Attack. Really, you should read it. There is dismemberment.


Viewer outrage


Oh readers, what a discombobulating day. Our Lambchop is off touring through Bavaria with Steele for the Easter holidays. She doesn’t know this, but Steele took me into strict confidence and mentioned they will be visiting a few realtors to shop for a castle! He is eager to find one with a suitable balcony for Lambchop to let down her tresses, the rosy gloaming delicately highlighting her cheekbones.

In other news, I am stuck in Boston for the duration of Jesus’ rising, making a valiant go at starting my morning the way normal people do: watching the Today show and drinking a medium regular from Dunkin’ Donuts. But I was ASSAULTED, yes ASSAULTED, by a Lamisil ad that features a maniacal newt-like critter wreaking havoc with an unsuspecting toe. You think that flip-top head in the toothbrush commercial of recent years was bad? Try the trap-door toenail! Dear God. Foot care is near and dear to my own heart, but this, this is crossing the line of propriety!

See my letter to Lamisil, sent via their website. If you have seen this ad and are similarly concerned, do not be shy: let them know!


Dear Lamisil:

Just saw the Lamisil TV ad with the gremlin character flipping up the cartoon toenail and running under it to munch on the nail bed and otherwise root around like a pig under a blanket. I almost spat out my coffee. That is absolutely disgusting! I found myself clutching my own toes, howling in distress, til the end of the ad. I never want to see that ad again. While I’m sure nail fungus is painful and your product no doubt effective, why do I, a fungus-free individual, need to see this graphic imagery during my breakfast?

Please stop running this ad!

-yours, Lickety


Now I’m off to shiver in a darkened room.




… is so slow to arrive in Berlin. I refuse to leave the house until i can exhale sharply without producing a puff of steam. So what is there to do but stay home get drunk and write lists like this one:

Things I Should be Doing- making a chicken and pepper wrap with melted cheese, watching some liposuction on the surgery channel, calling up random strangers and singing them a couple bars of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, working out pent up hostility by smashing coffee cups on my balcony (it keeps my collection fresh at any rate), and returning to that scrummy dream i had this morning (SEXSEXSEX).

Well, before I could rot in my own filth, Steele decided I needed a good spring airing. As if a look at his tanned smooth calves isn’t refreshing enough! So he got us two tickets to a Yankee game. We spent the afternoon in Manhattan, eating pizza in the Village and handing out Bruschettas to homeless people. You should have seen them press their scabby fingers to their eyes when he flashed his blinding grin! Then we made our way over to the stadium. Steele was engrossed in the game- I was eyeballing the hot dog boy while the infielders plucked at their gonads and the afternoon went lazily by. The Yankees won of course, to some other team that did not have those charming pinstriped uniforms.

lamby and Steele at the ballgame


Run roughshod over me


I just called someone an “imperious whelp.” That was satisfying. I’m getting a lot of mileage out of that one lately. And I just may have procured a new love seat for my office. You know, for office love. If I have actual furniture, I may have to finally decorate beyond pasting up the ready.gov print-outs. Some flounces over the window, perhaps a bear skin rug… a cone of silence!

While checking out the recent search strings for Vomitola, I discovered the following alarming morsels: gumjobs, bronze buttocks, anal leakage iced tea, and perhaps most disturbing of all: “bridesmaid shoes in color teal.” Sweet frosted globes of the virgin! The gumjobs are perfectly understandable. That’s a Lambchop term if there ever were one. I’d better sneak in a manchowder mention while I’m at it. Bronze buttocks, well, we can’t help you there, unless you were looking for a peek at Steele’s hindquarters. I can’t personally attest, but I’m sure Steele’s rump has a sheen like a new penny. Anal leakage iced tea? Dear reader, if you find out which brand causes anal leakage, do alert me.

Now, the bridesmaid shoes in color teal…those are a real atrocity. I am getting mawied in a few months now. I may have mentioned “wedding” at some point. Certainly I’ve mentioned shoes. But I can’t help you in your misguided pursuit. I wouldn’t tell you where to find those even if I did know! My one or two pals who will stand next to me have been instructed to “wear whatever the hell you want.” I’m not saying it won’t be a posh affair, but I trust in their impeccable taste and have no need to make them wear taffeta ruffles in the color of Circus Peanuts. I don’t need a photo of myself surrounded by grown ladies decked out like Easter Peeps. Matching is way overrated anyway. If my own socks do not match, how can I insist anyone else make such a concession?

Anyway, assembling the trappings of a garden-variety wedding isn’t really that bad. It isn’t that good either. I am not into weddings. In fact I pretty much loathe weddings. I never sat around dreaming of mine when I was a wee be-ribboned tot. But unfortunately the person I am legally and fiscally allying myself with did. Dream of his perfect girlish fantasy wedding. 😛 If I had it to do over again, I would stomp my feet and howl until I found myself boarding a flight to Vegas. But as soon as I start drinking, I am sure to enjoy myself. Most of the niggling details are out of the way, or left up to Mr. H. And registering is FUN, man. I only wish it were not limited to housewares. If I could register for a home submarine kit, or his n’ hers pith helmets, we might be on to something. Or sidearms, those could come in pretty handy these days. I thought a nice concept for the invitation might involve letters pasted together ransom note-style to say “SEND CASH. UNMARKED BILLS.”


Obla di Indeedy


The video of captured american soldiers was impossible to escape on television here in Europa. But tears and hours of shaking my fist at the screen, enraged at the folly of humanity, was not doing any good. My usual civic philosophy is that you cannot change people, make them less apt to failure and unmerciful behavior. That the most you can do is arrange the world to make the best of our given nature. In this case, we have the opposite- everything is giving way to hunger for dominance, fanaticism, and brutality.

To combat such lowly thoughts, Steele shanghaied me from my television and my overflowing ashtray and took me for a ride on his BMW motorcycle. Its a high powered touring bike that he got for desert racing in Dakar. Vroom vroom! We would have kept going all the way to France, but I was getting a bit of a chill, and we had an oscar party to go to! Sunday night found us in the Hollywood hills toasting with Harvey Weinstein and chuckling amongst ourselves over Nicole Kidman’s oratory skills, which go something like “the world situation is ummm crazy. and umm, uhh, I believe that people are getting hurt in other countries, for example”.

Lunch is served, America, and it’s a giant shit sandwich. But darned if Steele didn’t look marvelous in his oscar night suit.


He’s got the whole world in his hands

It hasn’t been all cocktails and soda crackers for yours truly. The fate of the world has been laying heavily on my mind. Just yesterday I was in a French restaurant having medallions of monkfish and a salmon carpaccio drizzled in this wonderful creamy mustard, and i was thinking “damn those french, pass me another slice of that lovely lovely bread”.

I am afraid that I side with Michael Moore, on being a great fan of the french, if not Chirac. And “freedom fries” is a concept that makes me shudder. Our president is the only person buffoon enough to think that changing the name of that particular snack is a slight against the french. Freedom fries must have something to do with every american’s right to get fat while our government dupes us out of our own rights and brings down its imperialist fist wherever it chooses.

The pope has branded this war a Sin. I am no Catholic, but I agree. And so Steele and I went to Rome to ask the Pope personally if maybe it would be possible to dust off the Rack for Mr. Bush. Or perhaps at least some thumb screws.

pleading our case with the pope


These are a few of my favorite things


Steele’s favorite hobby might be bouncing the pectoral muscles of his well-oiled torso, but he is a man of culture, too. The other day we went to see the Malevich show at the Guggenheim. Which day? Wednesday, the free day!


I was trying on dresses at the Chinese shop down the street. He does not have a changing room, but he set a wooden screen in the middle of the shop for me. I happened to be wearing stockings and garters as I slung my dress over the top like a james bond villainess. People were swanning in and out, to buy tea or ask for change for the tram. I have a feeling I should have gotten paid for this.

I am feeling underrated, underappreciated. Except by the panhandling punks in front of my door. They trail their sticky pink-eye up and down my body as they holler for change and snigger for me to take them with me. I tell ’em to fuck off and sing the happiness song to myself:

“Whenever I start to mope and pout

And there’s nothing left in my soul,

I check the toilet paper and if we’re out

I buy another roll!”

oh! Here is something else that really makes my day. Flopsy mopsy and some hardcore midgets! Rockin’!