Tag Archives: lipsmackers

The hopeless romantic

Friday night’s Boston Common “theater in the park” production of The Furtive Masturbator brought new meaning to the term “ham fisted.” The audience barely noticed as the protagonist, played by a previously unknown Latin actor, entered from stage right. The audience went so far as to continue conversation loudly even after the performance began, but this is understandable owing to the abysmal lighting conditions which failed to illuminate the action.

The acting was clumsy at best, the actor beset by a lumbering physicality that somehow managed to remain wooden. The costuming can only be described as bland and unappealing, shades of beige doing little to flatter the complexion. The audience failed to engage with the subject matter in the least, prefering to natter away incessantly. The actor responded with increasingly breathy vocalizations which demonstrated his total lack of skill in projection, becoming plaintive and insistent.

Finally, completely frustrated by the audience’s utter disregard for his craft, the actor left his position and stormed off into the wings. Audience members examined their fingernails and applied more lip gloss.


That’s right folks, when Lambchop and I clear a room, we really clear a room. First we dispatched tourists trying to read the giant monument where we were perched with a snarling “what are you looking at?” Then it turned out that even a needy pervert is no match for our withering self-involvement. Of course we do owe a debt to Stephin Merritt for writing the lyrics that Lambchop loudly recited to ruin our intrepid friend’s special moment.

On the way home, a woman projectile vomited on the train. Attempted auto-bukkake and actual vomitola all in one night? The universe arranges itself expressly for my amusement!


Revenge is a dish best served hot, hot, hot

Well, it’s Day 5 of the book deal! So far, so good. After Lambchop’s brief but eventful hospitalization, we filled her narcotics prescription and shopped for Lip Smackers. I purchased Martian Mallow and Gum Job Galaxy, er, Gum Ball Galaxy. I let my sister the moose choose one, and she opted to coat her pie hole with marshmallow flavor. I also purchased another note pad featuring a horse on the cover. After some bubble tea, we determined that Lambchop is on her way to health once again.

I am feeling a bit confessional, which will make for a lovely Chapter 3. In my time, I have done some terrible, meddlesome things. Just last week, I convinced a dieting acquaintance to eat an ice cream bar, citing the need for “you time.” I also told this individual to consider keeping “emergency chocolate” in his or her desk. Why? I don’t know! If someone asks me if he should do something patently destructive and contrary to previously disclosed goals, I am probably going to give permission out of sheer perversity. In other words, don’t come whining to me.

When I worked at Starbucks, I would frequently prepare drinks for substantially overweight people using skim milk whether they asked for it or not. I would only dispense low-fat cream cheese. Another time a woman insisted on sending her drink back for more whipped cream, and I pointed out that her Maple-Oatmeal Scone already contained over 700 calories, and that she had even requested butter packets to go with it, so maybe we should just check ourselves? This might qualify as public service, but it probably violates some civil rights statute somewhere.

I’m not even going to mention all the times I’ve tried to kill annoying roommates. That could be a chapter in itself. Let’s just say one should never leave their toothbrush out if I am around. If I have taken a dislike to you, it is a short trip to brushing your teeth with toilet water and having all your food removed from the fridge as soon as you leave, only to be replaced shortly before your return.

Finally, last week I attended a concert with Lambchop, and we were bothered by a beer-selling slattern jawing away during quiet moments in the performance. She wandered off to give her David Spade lookalike manager a chance to look at her lower back tattoos, and I ticked off a bunch of extra marks on her scratch pad where she kept track of what she’d sold. Later, she came up short on the till and no doubt had to go to the back office with David Spade.

Also, I lie on the internet.

I am going to be run over by a bus any minute now.


Hospital Johnny

In a grim display of foreshadowing, I watched the grade B Zombie Nightmare last night. This morning found me arising at an unholy hour to go to the radiologist. I found myself sitting in a little Kabine with a bench and a mirror and a Barium shake. I lay on a table that tilted me like a bottle of pop to shake my contents. The cute technician took photos of my small intestine. He let me keep the plastic barium shake bottles with the built in crazy straw. They have pictures of Tracts on them. I wiped the chalk from my mouth and put on lipgloss. I think the pale blue hospital johnny suits me.

I want to go blonde and learn to play the harp.

I want to do portraits of all my friends ( I am working on a smashing one!)

I have learned something valuable- on the train, people tend to give a person room when they are drinking out of a bottle with a picture of a Tract on it.

A narsty bank teller refused to give me money on false pretenses, and the replacement card still has not arrived, leaving me stone broke at lunchtime after having to fast before my appt.

This evening I came home to be washed in bill collection threats- they toppled menacingly from my tray over my head, like a bucket of pig’s blood on prom night.

The last thing I consumed before my pre-radiology fast was a flute of champagne.


Come away with me… to Erotic Ireland

Pointless search terms clip show, past month or so:

bea arthur


john currin

kitty winn

a magzine about littering


brazillian flip-flop

conway savage



dior ipod cover

green tea anal leakage

guatemalan ponchos

hello my honey hello my baby

how to get lizzie mcguire hairstyles

how to papasan chair problem cushion slip

carson kressley horse

marabou christmas tree

pink marabou tree

nine layer dip recipe

snake and jake’s

pop you in the pooper

3 dots on knuckle tattoo

fair spanish ladies

a list of all the lipsmackers

boston cat lady heidi erickson

amex centurion card picture

If there is a rumor about Carson Kressley and a horse, please send me detailed mail. I am all a-twitter, does it mean Catherine the Great style cavorting, or a heroin problem? Although I doubt Carson would do anything so bad for the complexion. If you find out how to do your hair just like Lizzie McGuire, let me know that as well. If your papasan is slipping all over the place, try not having sex in it. And remember, we are tops in anal leakage.


Vomitola and your morning coffee

Make that Diet Coke. Ho hum. It’s afternoon already isn’t it. According to a dramatic shadowy figure not unlike the Phantom Gourmet, Vomitola is better than the New York Times. That’s not tooooo hard to do. That consarned Liberal Media! I am halfway through Lies and the Lying Liars…, and I have to keep putting it down because I become enraged at the fact-twisting that Mr. Franken uncovers. And he’s armed only with a modicum of common sense and a team of Harvard grad students! Just think what the Vomitola staff could accomplish, given an unlimited supply of Dr. Pepper-flavored LipSmackers.

But I have to really put the book down for a few weeks, as I packed it somewhere especially mysterious. The big day is tomorrow. We even returned the cable box and modem, although we forgot the remote. It’s worth $16.50 to not go back to the horrifying Ministry of Cable.

And to add insult to injury, we’re not even moving into our yuppie loft. That’s not ready for another 2 weeks or so. So our grubby possessions go into storage, and we end up at Casa de la Carpeted Kitchen, a.k.a. Mr. H’s ancestral home. I will take lots of pictures. People really live this way! And shop this way. I just don’t see how a carpeted supermarket would fare much better than a kitchen.