All posts by Licketysplit

The Difference in Good and Bad










Pictured: at left, moi. At right, Lambchop.

Oh, I kid, I kid! But this reminds me, someone is having a birthday soon. What to get her this year, besides my customary boudoir photo set? I wonder if she needs any new housewares for her chamber of horrors? The one month anniversary is the corkscrew anniversary. I think we can officially say the horrors are no longer makeshift.

If Lindsay Lohan were my friend, I would be the pal who knows what she really could use: a jug of baby urine, for surprise drug tests. We would probably eat prescription drugs like Skittles and get in a slap fight. Come to think of it, this is actually similar to many of my most prized relationships. Call me, girl. I am also good at credible court testimony and impromptu eulogies.

I am noticing a very real national epidemic: people have no idea that they do not know everything. The Dunning-Kruger effect has swept the population, leading to pitiful displays of assumed prowess and total lack of awareness of failure. This issue directly relates to the complete inability to distinguish good from bad. Some people are so quality blind that even when presented with a dire test case, like our Lohan diptych, they still may not be able to discern which Lindsay is the complete trainwreck. You could always argue both of them, as one harbors deep-seated intentions to become a trainwreck. Pre-crime.

How can you avoid falling on your face in public? Well, you probably can’t. That’s the good news. You just have to accept that in all certainty, you will fail, and you should accept the counsel of your betters, if you can even tell who those are. Knowing you may fail is liberating. Assuming you will not and then not recognizing when you have actually must be pretty peachy too, judging from the affable countenances of many I encounter on the regular. If you are not horrified most of the time, you’re probably doing it wrong.

Happy Friday! No, it’s Fuck You Friday!

The Personal Pan Pizza is Political

I’m just kicking it, my little nacho baskets. This poor draft has been sitting on the steam table all day, seasoned only with a title and this image of American womanhood. Just know that you can peel that skin right off the top of the post, and it’s still perfectly good! We were talking about politics.  To recap, recent developments were the fault of the sluts and the dark skinned folk and the Spanglish. Ancient story. This is what happened in the Garden of Eden, right? So we got a hurricane and a Socialist presidential election and a Bieber breakup, and won’t anyone be civil anymore? I know you’re disappointed, but please continue to remember your eyebrow maintenance obligations. I’m looking at you, Oklahoma. In actual news, more enemies have been vanquished. I wish it, and it is so. I am a lucky lady, in spite of being a slut. Or is that what gives me my powers? We will never know, until we perform a controlled experiment. Is it too soon to have pretzels for dinner?

The November Man

This just in! VNN (Vomitola News Network) calls the election for Barry O’Bama. Paddy Power  always believed! And if it floats in South Park, it must be true. They’re in a swing state, after all.

O’Bama was buoyed by a last minute revelation wherein he held a fireside chat and came out to America as Irish. America was so glad he did not say Kenya that they cancelled the election halfway through the day. If you’re already the President, just stay in line!

All the signs were there.

You see, money is green, and so are aliens and leprechauns. In other news, Massachusetts is fine with medical marijuana now, and I happen to have a hideous case of terminal anxiety. Stupid Massachusetts then failed to allow me to kill myself via Question 2, so the only option left is more green.

Money, that is. I am reclining on a tuffet of money, enrobed in a dressing gown of stitched together money. The gown was sewn especially for me by clumps of money that I animated by magic, Fantasia style.

I have my money specially printed. It is made from silk extruded by worms of the finest pedigree. I have Lambchop’s picture on one side, and mine on the other. Thank goodness the poors have not yet rioted and upset my extraordinarily polite silk worms or my other horticultural projects.

What were we talking about again?

What’s It Like in Ohio

Get Out the Vomitola: 2012

It begins, chitterlumpkins! People are posting their “I Voted” stickers on Facebook. The Obama voters all used artfully framed Instagram shots, styled and filtered to appear fresh and glistening in the morning light. The Romney voters served up shaky Android shots of crumpled stickers not even removed from the backing, clutched with sausage fingers.  I guess this is only fair considering there is no filter called “Apocalypse.” Kelvin might have worked.

Also, dear Facebook pundits, just shut down the “I’m for the squelching of people’s personal rights in the name of fiscal conservatism” thing.  Know who else was a fiscal conservative? Bill Fucking Clinton. Go on, check the Wikipedia. I seem to recall getting some government hand outs that allowed actual trailer trash, me, Licketysplit, to go to college.

From this vantage above the tree line, Lambchop and I took enough drugs to disqualify us from ever being presidents. But you have no idea how much valuable financial planning we got done while coming down from those drugs, and this has led us to all the great success we enjoy today as latter day more attractive Buffetts. Much of the wealth of our later years has stemmed from the success of our killer app, the RAPEOMETER!

To this end, as Empire Vomitola, we are accorded a vote as a corporation, plus we each get an individual vote. The ultimate luxury these days is being so filthy rich it doesn’t matter who wins, and so we stepped into the booth this morning and voted our true conscience: Hello Kitty and Kucinich write ins! Yeah, take that, you striving almost upper middle class Republicans concerned enough about a few hundred extra bucks in taxes to trample the rights of all. We, Empire Vomitola, voted for a cartoon cat. We are so incredible that we are exempt from these little tiny issues that trouble you.

Eh, whatever. Ohio, as usual, it’s all up to you. I’ll be in my Mercury retrograde shelter in my nest of shredded money. Please poors, don’t pick today to figure out you can band together!

A better idea for today: vote, then stay home under the couch and listen to Love’s Secret Domain on repeat.

I Have a Special Plan for This World

Get Out the Vomitola: 2012

Natural disasters have been blighting the world for eons, but like wearing babies in slings and mustache grooming, this means nothing until white people in Brooklyn happen to experience these things. It is surprising that the hurricane did not exclusively target Williamsburg. Why inconvenience the reasonable and wealthy folk of Manhattan? But these things are not for us to know. Suffering is no joke, which is unfortunate since there is so much to go around. Funny suffering would really lighten things up.

Just as nature is always sneakily waiting to beleaguer us, this great nation insists on rolling out a national election every so often. Lambchop and I very recently realized that the time is once again nigh. Perhaps it was the roiling seas and blackened skies that alerted us.

Actually, it was Morrissey, who informed us that he does not care one whit about our election. We took him at his word after he turned his back on us and threw himself down the stage. We were sure he really, really meant it after he showed us ten minutes of de-beaking videos.

So we retreated to our prayer grotto (the hotel where Morrissey was staying) and took quick inventory of our views. Turns out we are predominantly bored. Huh. Would Romney be more favorable to Attractive-Americans? That could be a thing, as we are endlessly persecuted. But Obama is in favor of gay marriage, and there is nothing we love more than a wedding! Ugh. What to do?

We were despondent until we got a call from Romney headquarters. It seems Mitt took notice of our normal deft handling of the man on the street (stepping over him!), and he thought we might be the ones to put the ol’ Zazz in the P.

We decided on an 11th hour pivot. Mitt needs to pretend to be a real human who knows how much things cost at a dollar store. He needs to get in touch with America’s farmers and the other darlings of the Republican party, America’s hard-working legitimate rapists. Thus we suggested a new campaign anthem. Please enjoy “Fields of Rape!”

We’re Too Sexy and We Know It

Heyyyyyyy! All you sexy ladies out there throw your hands up!

Great. Thanks for being so cooperative. Now that I’ve gotten your attention by chaining those hands to a pipe in my makeshift chamber of horrors, let’s chat! I can’t believe you left the house looking that good. It’s working for you, girl.

We at Vomitola are very pleased that the level of national discourse on sexiness has finally been raised from dealing with mere garden variety birth control hoarding sluttiness. We all know the real issue at hand: a lady’s inherent rapeability. And then if someone achieves rape, was it a legitimate rape or just a shoddy pretender to rape? People need definitions! We are adrift in a sea of splayed legs and “was that a choke hold or was he just happy to see you?” Who can make sense anymore?

In this time of confusion, we want to help, you, the addled but sexy women of America, better plan your nights out. What am I going to wear if I want to be raped/unraped? If I select “raped,” am I looking to go legit or fly under the radar?

Ta-da! We are introducing a new free app, the RAPEOMETER! Simply upload a photo of your planned outfit for a night on the town, and we’ll rate you on a scale of Illegitimate Rape to Meh to Legitimate Rape. Is that top just grope-worthy or is it total rape bait? We know you want to know so you can adjust your secretions accordingly!

Once you select your desired rape threshold, if your outfit doesn’t measure up, we’ll provide an inspirational custom playlist and cocktail suggester to help you meet your goal.

Coming soon for iOS, Android, and Windows Phone (Although, spoiler, the default result for Windows Phone is “Not Sexy Enough to Rape Legitimately” UNLESS you have the pink Lumia).

So watch out and help others watch your asses, ladies! You’re not gonna rape yourself, after all. This has been a Vomitola Service Announcement.

If a ten-ton truck kills the both of us

Heyyyyyyyyy. How’s it been going?

Yeah? Me too!

I cradle my face in my hands (pictured, below). I sip my drink and moan softly.

Then I get up at 5 a.m., and I go to a gym. They play The Smiths and Depeche Mode with some regularity, so it must be a gym for senior citizens. I walked in for a tour a few months ago, and “There Is a Light That Will Never Go Out” came on. I became resigned and handed over my credit card. I was asked about my “goals,” and I replied that they were more existential in nature, but not seeing any ugly people while at the gym would be a good start. They assured me that this would be the case. I was heartened when they told me they only make promotional t-shirts in XS and XXS. Then they told me I was skinny fat and yelled at me.

While I have been attentively strengthening my hip flexors and drinking vodka at noon for actual work-related purposes, Lambchop has fled the country. She has a show called Red Room opening in Dusseldorf. I wish I could have gone, as I am always so proud of my Lambchop. She won’t let me come to the gynecologist with her anymore because I won’t stop cheering. Heaven knows how I might embarrass her in a town like Dusseldorf!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to drink a bottle of wine and prepare for Sunday anxiety.

Now the party’s over

This week has been rather trying here at Vomitola. The weather has been damp, and this always has consequences for hairstyles, even for the naturally attractive. Humidity is a grave equalizer. Saturn or Venus or something is in retrograde in my 6th or 7th moon or house, and apparently this causes all sorts of cock-upery. I read it somewhere, so it must be true.

I find myself dragging around the manor, dressing gown tails trailing, pondering the sad state of things. Yesterday we failed to acknowledge both Morrissey’s birthday and World Goth Day. Is there any way to recover from this, or should we just call it a year? Let’s put on our Morrissey off-the-shoulder t-shirts and repair to our cryo chamber so we can emerge sluggish and blinking in a few months’ time. Do over!

If only this were possible on multiple counts in life.

At the very least, we can console ourselves that we made the last page (typical) of Flavorwire’s Pictures of Morrissey Looking Happy roundup. This image is part of a series we like to call “Stuff on My Morrissey.” We are still taking submissions, halfheartedly. Thanks. I think.


Phone me, the lonely

Just kidding, no one actually makes phone calls. All my most special people text!

I am a resource. A beacon when times are tough for the toughest. For we at Vomitola know all too well that being extraordinary is a painful and isolating condition. How many times have you thought to yourself “Wow, today sucks. Only sudden and immense wealth could fix this one.” You’re wrong. Although honestly, it won’t hurt anything.

But as a complete hypocrite, I am crossing my fingers that the private shares of Facebook that I’ve had kicking around forever will squintuple-oon in value in one day, and then I will then retire us and devote my time to making live webcasts with Lambchop. We are thinking of tentatively titling our show “The Choke,” after the errant taco that started it all.

Stay tuned, it’s going to get weird. Especially for the special.


Vomitola in Real Life

Pictured above: Licketysplit walks on water.

The other day, I was saying to Lambchop “I wonder if people realize just how close our lives are to the drivel we write here?” It’s America’s best-kept secret and shame. WE really live this way! We really mutter about lost gum and shake our fists when they run out of chai at the coffee bar. We have situations and hijinks.

This morning, I have already been beset by my lawyer, money manager, and a plastic surgeon. That last bastard would not let me take an arm’s length photo as he carved 3 unattractive millimeters off my face, nor would he let me take home suturing material “just cuz.” He also would not give me breast implants on the spot. Not that I need them. He was very reassuring that once those 3 millimeters are run through pathology (that means “the study of ugliness,” I believe), I will be perfect. What a relief! He could have told me that before the botox and laser peel, I suppose. Everyone’s got to make a buck.

I have somehow secured an advancement in my career (the odd thing I do when not writing Vomitola), and I am expected to write the public announcement of my own good fortune. Do you think it’s enough to mention that I haven’t killed and eaten anyone in 6 whole months? I am so used to luxuriating in my own bubble of excellence that it seems almost rude to analyze all the ways in which I am excellent. What do I say about the me who has everything?

I have punted this task to Lambchop, who advises a complete lack of humility.