damndamndamnhellhell.com

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Internet, give me hugz. I just dropped sashimi in my shoe. Why was I having sashimi for breakfast? Why the hell not. This eating thing is nothing but trouble, might as well make it interesting. I am never going to become obese at this rate.

My doctor gave me a lecture on high cholesterol, and he said that I am not allowed to eat bacon, sausage, duck, goose, shellfish, baloney, hot dogs, or olive loaf. I was not aware that olive loaf was a diet staple for anyone. We learn something every day, I suppose. I don’t eat any of those other things either, except a nice duck breast in a wine reduction maybe once a year, so who the hell knows. He got this faraway look in his eyes and mumbled about how he missed roasting an entire duck on his BBQ spit. Project much, tubby?

Maybe it’s possible that apathy turns into cholesterol. I should have asked, but I was too busy yawning. Then I told him my theory on how problems are for losers, and clearly I have no problems. I said “Do you see these? These are visible hip bones! These are abs! You must have someone else’s results.” Then he showed me my actual numbers, and apparently that damn whore will do anything to charge my insurance for an office visit. Whore! Damn hell. Hell.

peoplewhoamitoargue.com

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Well, today marks some damn hell day in the countdown to Chrismakwanzukkah. We at Vomitola feel it is appropriate to present some holiday memories, and maybe some Top Ten lists as the filthy pagans do like to read those. My sister the moose already started unveiling dirty laundry, so why can’t I?

Let’s see, back when we were just tots, my parents would pile the presents (likely to include collections of Garfield comic strips) on the couch, with a note saying “From ‘Santa.'” That’s right, there was no Santa Claus. We didn’t go in for that. I really don’t remember much else, until a few years later. Then we had a house with a mirrored fireplace, and some poinsettias would go in there. We had this crap-ass navity scene where you mixed up the plaster yourself and molded it and then painted it. Parts of the figures broke off when we tried to punch them out of the mold, so that was one afflicted-looking heavenly host. I don’t know why we even had this since we didn’t go to church. Anyway, that would go on a TV tray in the fireplace with the poinsettias. I have some pictures of that after my sister and I knocked all the figurines over and drew a mushroom cloud on a piece of notebook paper and hung it behind the manger. My favorite figure was the camel.

Then I don’t remember a damn thing for another ten years. Wait, one year I think we had to go decorate a nursing home with tinsel. Lambchop came back to Virginia with me one year during college, and we amused ourselves by seeing the Beavis & Butthead movie. We got Chinese food on Christmas day with my family and some other stragglers, and later my cat had explosive diarrhea on poor Lambie. Oh, at the Chinese place, a giant roach crawled out of the center of the lazy susan that bore the pu-pu platter. We dispatched him with terriyaki skewers and roasted him in the little flame. My dad got a free Heineken from the unmoved owner. My mom also made a chocolate fondue, which consisted of melting a can of Betty Crocker frosting over some sterno. It was uncomfortable to say the least.

A few years ago, Mr. H and I went to Virginia, and my mom had made little construction paper stockings and scotch taped them above the mirrored fireplace. Inside there was cash!

Last year Lambchop came over, and we made a turkey at my house. Then we went to the movies and got nachos and beer.

This year, who the hell knows! Lambchop and I have the heebie jeebies. I am shaking like a leaf. I hope we get to watch some porn.

And I promised you maggots a Top Ten list, so here goes:

Vomitola’s Top Ten Numbers of 2004

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

Yeah, the order just worked out that way.

peoplewhatistheirdamnproblem.com

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Oh, what’s with all the existentialism? I have got it so bad. It comes and goes, but this year it started in July. I tried to cure myself via routes including drinking, listening to music really loud (esp. the Arcade Fire album), rolling on the floor, and not showering. Then I remembered I had this video game wherein these cavemen kill other cavemen, and that was so good for a while. But eventually I gave in and went to an existential therapist. I told him about the French-talking dog, and the baby that eats everything, and the torture, and the apostrophe problems. He said “we are all complicit, and we are so fucked.” And I got a prescription for nihilism, and found out I have slightly elevated cholesterol, despite not eating anything.

I am not sure nihilism is the right course of treatment. I am starting to think staying safely above the treeline is the answer. See, I went out in public, to the store, and it was such a trial. First at the Target, and people were so squat and vile. Misshapen like very trolls you might find under a river bridge. Then I had to go to the grocery store on another day, and I like to push the cart around, but damn, the products are arranged just so, and all the colors pop out, and I hate the other people. They are so ugly! IN MY WAY! And don’t they realize there is food all around them, and that is what their problem is? I am not about to tell them though, they are on their own. I have done my share of public service, back when I was a Starbucks worker giving all the fat people skim lattes instead of the half-and-half or whatever it is they ordered. Anyway, so I say “debit exact” nice as you please and I get out of there. I like to punch my PIN in with two fingers, like I am really typing.

That is about it, except last night Mr. H did the funniest damn old thing. His mother has this habbit of bending at the waist and sticking her butt out when she is looking for something in the bottom shelves in her kitchen, so he hunkered down and made a rump and yelled “WHERE IS MY FRANKENBERRY?” while appearing to reach for something, and I almost died. I made him do it again, with Cookie Crisp. We went through so many different cereals.

Finally, go nominate us in the Most Inspirational Blog category. Or Best Weight Loss, we aren’t picky.

There is a place in Hell Reserved for Me and My Friends

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I am still working on this ridiculous film shoot. I did my own hair, makeup, and costume for this scene, which means you should be frightened if I approach you with a lip brush. If I can give anyone any piece of advice, don’t sign onto an indie production unless the director has a short attention span. I have not been allowed to get a haircut since June. Oh well, this isn’t be the first time I got involved in some frivolous undertaking in the quest to Be Like Parker Posey. Normally, this screed would now conclude with a picture of Ms. Posey from Blade Trinity. SO GOOD. But the nation’s nerdballs have not kept up! I have not found any pictures of her, so you will just have to see the movie. Who else could look so sulky in fangs and a pompadour?

-xo

igotnothing.com

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Recent events:

* attended most lackluster holiday parade ever. Floats included an ambulance, a snow plow, a city bus with the sign set to “happy holidays,” and a Toyota Tercel that apparently made a wrong turn into the parade route.

* could not look away from Nick & Jessica holiday special. SO GOOD. Jessica emoted like a well-meaning special education teacher, and it was truly mesmerizing to watch her lick a pole.

* saw Pixies. Damn, damn, damn.

* was vomited on.

* am only 357,000 extra calories from being morbidly obese!

* did not die of cancer, although a friend’s husband did. same friend’s parents were sucked out of a plane a few years ago. la la la, i have no problems. shut up shut up shut up.

Cop Rock

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Everyone knows that the best place to find out about drugs is from the police. They sponsor films, comic books, and websites all about our favorite things, bringing us the jolly candy-like buttons in all of their yummy shapes and colors. Why, I got this tasty photo from a police info site. Thanks, coppers!

Just thought I would share that before I retreat back into my haze. If no one hears from me by tuesday morning, please slide a hotdog under my door. And don’t forgot the goddamned relish. You know I love relish! Oh how you toy with me.

-xo

Which Morgan are You? How to Tell if you are a Loser at Love

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It has recently come to our attention that some of our very own readers are Ugly People. After we choked down a Xanax, we came to realize that we should be trying to help the little creatures of nature. If you lack wit and other social graces such as lots of cash, you need Us! How can you tell if you are in such a pitiable condition? Well, we have designed this handy QUIZ!

1. During the day, it is really fun for me to…

a) plan my outfit for the evening

b) trade barbs with a colleague

c) watch the neighbors fucking

2. People usually describe me as…

a) “a caution!”

b) “a warm and funny person”

c) “really awesome once you get to know me”

3. My sartorial sense is best described as:

a) Ever changing to fit a myriad of moods, with Style!

b) Interesting, but tasteful.

c) Lots of pockets and zippers. Everywhere.

4. When I go out on a date, I usually

a) Get Loaded and Lucky!

b) Enjoy flirting and figuring out a new character

c) …am not sure if I am on a date because we didn?t look at each other much and their cousin was also there.

5. What do you consider the food of love?

a) Poetry

b) Sultry dinners

c) Nervousness

6. When I desire companionship, but have no lover, I…

a) feel rewarded by the intensity such feelings contribute to my art.

b) reach out to my dearest friend, who gives me advice and makes laugh at myself

c) cuddle with my Weimeraner. Such a wuv, such a wuv, YOU love me, yes you do!

7. The bedroom is an intimate space that is very important to me. Mine evokes…

a) a high class brothel.

b) a cozy lounge.

c) Romper Room

8. When I want someone to take notice of me, I…

a) try to make them laugh

b) dress in a sexy manner and make frequent eye contact.

c) kick them!

9. I have passionate feelings about…

a) the writings of Gaultier and Baudelaire- didn’t they put beauty and uncertainty in the same frightening and voluptuous context? Let’s dance!

b) politics! From John Locke to John Kerry, I am fascinated by political philosophy, and the rights of man. Care to have coffee?

c) Pointless Debate. I never met a red herring I didn’t like. Was Stalin gay? How would he feel about Bono?

10. I think it’s sexy when…

a) I can spend the whole day in bed with someone.

b) We move well together on the dance floor

c) Someone remembers my name.

Mostly A

You are Morgan Fairchild. Sexy, unabashed, and a little scary. You are never without a full dance card.

Mostly B

You are Morgan Freeman Intelligent, compassionate, and subtle. You are a slow burn, but you always get your man.

Mostly C

You are an Albino Squirrel. Please submit your photo and we will try to match you with others of your bent. We believe in awful people being awful together!

-xo

One, Two, Three o’clock, Four o’clock Rock

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This picture was taken, not so much in the Halls of Medicine, as in the Bowels. But don’t worry kids, not only did I *not* bleed out, but they even threw some medication my way. I am sure I will be feeling better soon. If only i could say the same for the heat in my room. If only I could say there were some. i would remove my mittens and finish this painting.

Just as vitriol and self-pity reaches its shimmery apex, I receive a letter from my estranged father. His ticker has been pretty bum for years now, and I guess it’s outta gas, Game Over. So he is on the short list for a transplant. Which led me to wonder if they still transplant monkey hearts. Anyway, I wrote back to wish him luck. After all, a Morgan never dies. We have the aggravating tendency to prevail, if only to piss off other people. So my dad says “It’s really a simple matter to me. Either I survive or I don’t.” Say what we will about us Morgans, we are true Philosophers.

-xo

Mega-low mania

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That’s a baby, gumming a laser dot off the carpet. Babies are so stupid! You can’t eat a laser.

I miss eating, period. It was rad while it lasted. The tubs of tapioca pudding, the beef wellington, and above all, the ham. Lambchop and I have declared a fatwa on food. We are a sorry pair, stabbing half-heartedly at broth when we lunch together. But we look great! We are so lucky to be afflicted with wasting diseases. Some people pay for tapeworms, but not us. It merely took some vagaries of the digestive tract and a whopping dose of serotonin, between the two of us. America, wait for our book.

It’s strange that we do everything together. People look at us funny when we use the same machine at the gym at the same time. And sometimes I do get tired of her sitting on top of me at the dentist, and I wish she didn’t need a night light. It’s all worth it, though. My bodddyyy and me! Maybe someday we will be surgically separated, but so far, so good. Don’t tell Lambchop, but for Christmas I am knitting us a muff.