Tag Archives: pete burns


Let us never forget…that Americans are resilient, quickly regaining a complete lack of shame in only ten short years.  Thank you, Operation Enduring Zuckerberg.

I think that calls for a palate cleanser:

No? Too angry?

How about…

Now THAT’s better. America, I am looking for a brand new lover.

In not totally unrelated news, last night at around 11 o’clock, Mr. H. got a text. He read it and said “Oh, hey, happy crapiversary!” And I’ll be darned, the little dickens was right, it was our wedding anniversary. Which we both thoroughly forgot. I don’t know what we’d do without texts from other people to remind us. Oh well, eight years. I guess we had a good run! That’s like a whole model’s career in dog years.

Publisher’s Note

We have dropped the ball, all the way from heaven. Did you know balls turn to solid ice when they enter the atmosphere? Ours crashed through the rumpus room of a nice family in Petoskey, Michigan. No one was killed, strictly speaking. I suppose it doesn’t matter what happens to the people of Petoskey, since they are stuck on Earth while we are in heaven.

But heaven really is not all that it’s cracked up to be. We thought it would involve lying around, getting mud wraps, maybe a lute lesson here and there. Nooooo. There is a natural foods co-op, and everyone is required to take a shift. I can’t tell you how sick I am of organic parsnips. I’m sure it builds character, but mine was already in quite a state, so why rock the boat?

Anyway, we had hoped to tune into Earth and see how some our favorite people are doing. Morrissey was going to write a post constructed only of Morrissey song titles and lyrics. But things came up, and as you can see from the above images, he is in a bit of a pissing match with Pete Burns. He has forgiven Jesus (for now), and he tells us about his chances of getting into heaven with uncharacteristic optimism:

T*ts or GTFO

In no particular order, I blame the Mayans, HAARP and the New World Order, Punxsutawney Phil, and Charlie Sheen for all this snow flying around. We’re getting into that treacherous Laura Ingalls Wilder territory, where the snow prevents the opening of doors, and we have to eat the horses. Or something. That all happened in those books, right? We make our own bullets, fight bears, and bide our time while not being selfish little girls.

As winter advances, I grow restive. No longer content to wallow in a puddle of my own adipose tissue, I marshal my last shreds of life force and prepare for spring. If I have to bite your head off while snowbound during the “Groundhog Day Massacre,” which has already started today, making it only fitting that we will repeat the whole process again tomorrow, so be it. My jaw will be limber and my teeth sharpened and all the more ready to tear into groundhog flesh.

I blew my annual chance for rage-free days by going to Florida when it was too cold and overwhelmed by washed up man-o-wars. We caught the last non-cancelled flight home just in time for more snow. All I have to show for that trip is a sunburnt part line. I also have a new prescription for a drug that may give me a fatal rash. Since I have made it my life’s work to try as many drugs as possible, I am trying to take that last bit in stride and instead hope it cures my fantasies of strangling passersby. Oh, not you. Maybe YOU.

Right now I am snowed in at home with Mr. H and the child, and we have to shout to hear each other because it turns out adding an industrial blower to your home makes it difficult to hear. The pipes decided to burst yesterday, and the ceiling rained iced tea and possibly blood. I choose to believe that the events of this entire winter to date are an analogue to that story about the wise man who tells the family to add a goat to their overcrowded hovel to induce harmony. When you remove the goat, or in my case, the snow and the industrial blower and the urge the strangle, my life will fall into balance for 36 minutes.

Living in the ice age

Who wore it better?

Of course Pete Burns wore it better. If you didn’t know the answer, you have no business reading this site.  Get off our lawn. This is America, where we settle things with incoherent YouTube channels and extended ammo clips. Just to be clear, since we are on a national stage, Vomitola’s position has always been Make Love (with a suitably attractive person), Not War. This position is also known as “ankles aloft.”

I am on a rather trying regimen of regular exercise, no alcohol, and plenty of sleep, and while it does a body good, it still offers ample opportunity for mischief. There I was at the gym, trying to unfreeze my brain, when on comes “Atrocity Exhibition” on the iPod. Meanwhile, cable news flah flahs in the background (some other humanoid thought it was a good idea to attend the gym at the same time as me), and I wonder how relieved the cable news caption writers were that both Tucson and Tragedy start with a T. What if another city were involved? Would they have had to run with Slaughter in the Southwest? It’s no Horror in the Heartland.

So I kept flipping through my iPod looking for something peppier, but it seems I was destined for an extended Joy Division-Leonard Cohen jam, punctuated with zingy captions crawling by on TV. And they say exercise is good for depression? I’m going to go weep in the shower.

Healthy Competition

Dear Steve Strange,

I have recently lost weight due to some heartbreak, but it really seems to be staying off. When the numbers on the scale started to drop, I anticipated all sorts of happiness. But all I got is that my clothes fit me rather unflatteringly. I am afraid to buy new things for a svelte new me, afraid this is just setting myself up for failure. Where is all the joy I was promised if I would Just. Be. Thin.

Sad in a Sack

Well, helloooo there, Sack, I know you were expecting Steve, but I really think he could use a break, don’t you? The man is looking positively haggard. The bags under his eyes remind me of Canal St. Vuittons. No, Coach. I believe this is where the guttersnipes of today say “Snaps.” Or some other spot of nonsense.

Let’s talk about me, since I am already before you, commanding attention, shirtless, taut and iconic. I like to change my look quite a bit, and I will be the first tell you the answer to “when?” is never! Nothing will ever be good enough, so you might as well enjoy your journey. That’s the point of this little teacup ride, right? Have you considered plastic surgery? You get painkillers with that. The room does spin a bit faster post-op.

So what does it really matter: eat up, or not; actually, I never eat. Eating demeans us all. In these times where even I have had to cut back on my sartorial allowance (I have dispensed with shirts in order to remain abreast of trends in fur), you might consider tailoring, and be sure to advise the tailor that you predictably plan to become fat again at some point so he can leave a seam allowance.

Now cheer up, and put down that sandwich!

So let’s loosen up with a playful tease

We briefly interrupt the dispatches from 2013 to ask a burning question: if you’re reading this, do you have a blog or creative site to which we should be linking? We are always open to finding great new things at which to goggle. When I migrated the old site out of Blogger, it predictably ate the old blogroll, since that was hand coded. Back in the day and all. I had to whittle each update in wood.

But just today, for example, I remembered that we used to link to Awful Plastic Surgery, and when I checked, they happened to have a Pete Burns post at the top of the heap! I know a sign when I see one (I saw the sign–check).

So if I strip for you, will you strip for me? Lay your content at the altar of Vomitola, and we may get to hang some spiffy new links around our Makeshift Chamber of Horrors! Surely they will be an improvement over all that…offal we’ve got going.

You are a special star/never marry an icon

Pete Burns

Bonjour, my star babies, I sensed through the ethereal veil that my presence was desperately needed (my call waiting beeped). Yes, you have problems. Your cheekbones are practically nonexistent. Your hair is but a sad opossum sitting on your head. You would have no idea how to apply eyebrow crystals if I left you alone in a Swarovski-studded room full of tweezers and glue and absinthe. Your garments are not made of anything endangered, although your ermine socks are nice on cold mornings, I allow.

I know, it’s all bloody tragic. But take it like a man, tee hee, if you dare! We do not traffic in complaints here. We take action. Lots and lots and lots of action. I don’t want to see you snuffling around, plying Steve Strange with questions in a transparent bid for attention. That’s a cheap thrill, a tiny pellet of cocaine wiggling down the chute because you yanked the lever, then, didn’t you? Did you get a shock, or does wire mother (Steeeeeee-eeeeve) love you today?

You forget that life is a glorious mystery, you sodding twits! Black, white, man, woman, animal, vegetable? Why does it matter? If I can get up and have at the day, so can you!  I have just put out a new single! No lying about all soppy, drowning in a tub of your own tears, waiting for attention to come to you. You shan’t be rescued by a strapping merman. Or even a fireman for that matter. You will have to drive yourself to the ER after your own suicide attempt, and the trauma team will sigh and avert their gaze because your eye makeup is smeared and your patch is flipped round.

So here is the Answer, babies: bootstraps! Preferably from boots with 2-cubit platforms. Come on, they are so shiny and sleek, and they make you look at least a stone lighter. If you wish, you could pull yourself up by someone else’s bootstraps, but you don’t know anyone fabulous enough, to be honest. And that person might consider it sexual harassment, which is sometimes but not always undesirable. You can do this, babies. Tug! Tug!