Tag Archives: happy birthday

Nothing’s gonna touch you in these golden years

First David Bowie takes our livestock, and now our entitlement programs? Bless him. If he can give the gift of swagger to the world and all its little Timberlakes and Biebers, he is allowed a measly check on the first of the month. I hope he is enjoying a lovely party with lots of “Sexty-five” balloons.

I have had a taxing week, which caused me to completely fail to post every day. How does that work? For some reason, I am now a professional meeting attendee. This would be fine, except I have no time to actually DO work. I just talk about doing work, then tell other people to do the work. Then I listen to wrathful music on my commute home, bolt some food if there is any prepared already, throw as many substances in my body as I can, and then it’s off to dream land, or more likely staring into the dark replaying irrelevant interactions. Like, yeah, I should have told that person to fuck herself, but live and learn. There’s always next time.

Then yesterday was an exhausting maelstrom of salon appointments and trips to Barneys, because who can get everything done in a single go-round? I think I also got Starbucks. And there was a real touch and go moment when I thought I had lost my sunnies, but they were already on! Haha!

Today I had a meltdown at the prospect of trying on bathing suits. Why is life so cruel? I die.

And tomorrow? I will attend work in a physical sense, but likely not a mental one. It will be like the opposite of astral projection.

I will dye the child’s hair raspberry red, as per her request. I will tear into a Zappos order and start a shame spiral and vow to live in nothing but caftans for the rest of my days. I still need to ruthlessly analyze my successes and failures of 2011. I give 10 points to House of Vomitola because I remained alive. But I must subtract 5 because of that whole Ryan Gosling thing. Another 5 for inconsistent skin care regimens. Another 5 down for recovering from anorexia. Oh, I can’t win for losing.


No comment

Mr. H turned 33 the other night, and as we were in the car returning from dinner, he asked what I’d gotten for his birthday. This was kind of a joke, because I suck at arranging birthday festivities for him. One year I gave him a free kitten. Another year, I broke up with him just to avoid his birthday. This year, I am still the laziest person on the planet, and we’re perpetually hungover from celebrating our week-long anniversary, so I said “I arranged a bukkake. The new neighbors will be dropping by later.” They happen to be senior citizens. That really stirs the pot.

He said “What’s bukkake, anyway?” After I finished choking and sputtering and howling, I ascertained that he really did not know. So after more kicking and twitching and inability to breathe, I told him.*

“Well!” he said.

So that was his 33rd birthday present. The gift of Knowledge. Inspired by this recent Achewood installment, I started rattling off other vile juvenile terms, and found he was also remiss in his understanding of the terms “donkey punch,” “Cleaveland steamer,” and “the shocker.” He did know about the Dirty Sanchez and the blumpkin, though. I guess the variance is the product of the local public school system. I went to private school, and that’s how I knew all that stuff.

*A fantastic bukkake resource: The Archive of Inadvertent Bukkake.

The hours

Tonight we celebrate a birthday!

So far I have managed to buy myself presents instead of buying them for the birthday boy. I just don’t think he would enjoy a polka dotted umbrella as much as Lambchop and I do. I did get an extra bottle of wodka for the making of many rounds of the Kitty Dukakis. Perhaps we should just fill the bathtub?

In other news, my sister is staying with me until some shadowy future point. Yesterday we went shopping, and today I made her go to the grocery store. I was seized with a craving for Chewy Chips Ahoy!, and this reminded us of all the horrible crap my mother used to let us eat for breakfast. We could have anything, as long as we “had it with milk.” I guess milk redeems even Little Debbie snacks or Entenmann’s cupcakes. This is a far cry from early childhood, where we suffered through home-grown vegetable stews and TVP (textured vegetable protein) and weren’t allowed store-bought cereals. A breakdown obviously took place by the time we started having fast food roast beef sandwiches every night. Five for one dollar! From Hardee’s.

In still more loosely connected news, I joined a gym. It has a pool, so the thought of being seen in a swimming costume will ensure that I either go all the time, or never go at all.


Anniversary in the Vomitorium

Vomitola is celebrating its Very First Birthday! As we look back upon a whole year of gay porn star country singers, spectacular outfits, visits to the pope, and anal leakage, one has to marvel at the variety and depth of our experiences. Or one could content themselves with marveling at our sleek hairdos.

But it hasn’t all been one grand binge ‘n’ purge! Vomitola has had its troubles, too. The deadlines, the screaming fights over which Queer Eye is our favorite, the endless offers of sex. Why, Kitty Winn is still in Rehab!

Running the show here is an intense drama. We wish to thank all of you who like to read about our triumphant shopping trips and our tumbles down flights of stairs. We do it all for you.

-xo with sugar on top


Today is the first day of the rest of my life. So glad i began it by waking up in my clothes, laying in a drooling heap atop my presents. And such lovely presents they were! Thank you all for being my friends and coming out and clinking my glass. And giving me stuff.

And thanks, Licketysplit, for being the best pal ever.

Tonight I am going to road test my birthday present to myself- a gym membership. Yikes. In just a few hours I will be having my body fat circled with a felt tip pen by some horribly buff person. I know what you are all thinking: “fitness is not our lambchop, knocking back gin and eating popcorn while watching 20 minute workourt on tv is our lambchop!” Hrmm, I really can’t argue with that. But I did get impossibly adorable Betty Boop themed workout clothes- they even had polka- dotted sweatbands!


Huzzah, huzzah!

Unfurl the gossamer banners, and don your t-shirt featuring dogs having a tea party! Pipe lurid pink icing flowers on a solid slab of marzipan, and flood the streets with confetti, for it is Lambchop’s birthday! And not just any birthday, oh no. It is a special number, but I shall leave that for her to reveal in her own good time.

To celebrate, I have quite the surprise. I let us get pregnant a few weeks ago when she was passed out! No, kidding, kidding. But I did pick up a few gaudy do-dads, and when I purchased one of them the sales-slattern said “Oh, your daughter is going to love this!” What is more alarming: our truly infantile taste, or that this shrew thought I looked old enough to have a six-year-old?

Now I give you photographic proof that we are two heads sharing one body. This was taken in Barcelona a few years ago, atop a bus. Luckily we never forget which one of us is on the right in photos (Lambchop!).

Now what more can I say about my splendid pal? Hmm… no matter what I come up with, I am sure that ABBA has said it better at some point.

There was something in the air that night

The stars were bright, Fernando

They were shining there for you and me

For liberty, Fernando

Though I never thought that we could lose

There’s no regret

If I had to do the same again

I would, my friend, Fernando

Yes, if I had to do the same again

I would, my friend, Fernando…