Non-nictitating Pork Sandwich

“You’re making fun of me because I’m deformed?”

“You’re trying to wink at me but your nictitating muscles aren’t functioning properly.”

“You’re a hateful person.”

“You smell of man funk covered over in cheap cologne.  But, not to worry, when you get that facial thing healed you’ll be restored to your former state of average handsomeness, and all the half-ass bitches will continue falling all over you — unless you keel over from eating too many hamburgers first.”

“You’re not a very nice person.  Not the person I used to think you were.”

“And who did you think that I was?  Someone who’d follow you to Best Western for a five minute fuck?  Frankly I think that’s all you’re worth — if that.  I think you’re a pork sandwich.”

“You stupid bitch!  Sam says you’re an alcoholic!  I can see that now — you MUST be drinking!”

“Darling I haven’t had a drink in years.  I swear you boys are such gossips.  What else did he tell you about me?”

“Do you REALLY want to know?”

“Oh brother!  I thought it was well known that I would have him wreck me anywhere, anytime, any place with any implement.  What?!”

“You really stink!”

“And you really can’t nictitate.”

Red Leather Wedge Shoes

My train ride wasn’t so hellish today.  There was a mummy with her baby on there.  It was screeching.  It looked like a monkey – oh it was so, cute!  I looked at it and smiled.  Its mummy fed it crackers.  I was calm and giving out good vibrations because of it.  I don’t enjoy the trains they usually have on the A line because the doors at either end are locked.  They make me feel like I’m in a coffin.  The train I was on today was an old one.  These trains have doors that open on either end so you can walk through them to the next car, or take a piss between them.  Years ago on my way back from The Bottom Line with my boyfriend and another couple, I had to pee.  We were drunk.  On one of these trains, we all went between the cars, so that they could guard me so I could pee unseen.  It was winter and freezing cold between the cars.  They sang while I pissed, “Don’t freeze your booty hole!”  Good times…good times…

So it was nice, having to do this difficult errand and being given a big old silver train to ride.  I listened to the baby screeching and looked at different passengers.  The man across from me had a horrible patch of psoriasis on his arm, but I said, hey, I have a rash on my arm too, from food allergies, I’m guessing.  I must take care of it soon. There was a nice-looking woman wearing a short skirt and some old scraped up red leather wedge shoes.  The shoes were cool looking, high.  The wedge part was red leather as well and the toe part was like a pump shoe.  The rest of the woman’s clothes weren’t beaten up, only the shoes were.  She allowed me to look at her – she didn’t look back defensively, or give off a ‘why is this bitch looking at me vibration.’  So I looked at the monkey baby, the man with the rash and the lady with the red shoes between thinking about my mission.  When the train pulled into 59^th Street, the man sitting next to the woman in the red shoes told her that he liked her shoes too!  It was good to see that somebody else ‘got’ that kind of a look.

A Review of My Book By a Very Respectable Reviewer

My Mommy:

Some of your insights are really brilliant.  Genius I think.  You write better than Doestoevsky!  The way you capture a character, the depth of it requires rare talent. Very, very good Sandee!  That’s my wittle Sandee boo boo!  Who’s a good girl?  Who’s a litowawee genius?  That’s wight, YOU are!  That’s a baby girl!  YES!  Woo woo woo!

The Picture of My Behind

The picture of my behind that my sister took when I visited looked just fine.

Here she is with her husband:

I wanted her to take one so that I could see how fat it was after eating different kinds of cake.  I said maybe I’d post a picture of it.  But since my butt looked fine I ate more cake.  I only wanted to post it if it was huge, to shame myself, in front of everybody.  So now I don’t have to show it to you.

But the real reason I won’t show it to you is because my hair was stone busted!  I wear an afro these days and I give afros a bad name in that butt picture.   I don’t want the people who read this who want afros to think that they all come out like that.

Here’s a better picture with one of my fake sons and me during the visit where you can’t see how busted my hair was:

Wait a cotton pickin’ minute!  How’d that get in there?!

[Deleted the picture of Steve Harvey dressed as woman holding ‘Steve Harvey’ baby with mustache — didn’t want to get sued.  Too bad you didn’t catch it earlier.  It was hilarious.]

Here it is now — this is me and both of my fake sons:

There wasn’t any cake there but there were cookies, Cheetos, popcorn, Fritos and ice cream.  I ate them because my sister’s husband bought them special for my visit.  I ate them instead of dinner.  I don’t like food anyway.  Food’s a burden.   I had fun there.

“It’s against the law! I’m calling the police!”

“Mona! C’mon, get outta here like this!”

“I’m working dammit — can’t you see.”

“You can’t sit at your desk wearing that tiara, butt naked.”

“Why? I do good work and I come in on time, you fucker.”

“It’s against the law! I’m calling the police!”

“Ahahahahaha! You fuckers always get your panties in a bunch. I’m a goddamned good worker who produces good work — I don’t fight coworkers and I always recycle.”

“You think this is a nudist colony?”

“No, do you? You think it’s prison — you think it’s a tribunal — you think it’s a dictatorship — you think it’s your own planet.  Kiss my naked ass you sap-sucking son of a bitch!”

“Oh yeah?”

“You won’t do it because it ain’t in the protocol. That’s the one thing I hate about you, Fred!”

“Mona, for chrissakes people are coming, please put some clothes on!”

“Mo-naah, for chrissakes people are coming, please put some clothes on. Wah wah, waaahhh! I want my momma — I want my bobo — I want my caca — I want my pee pee — I want my doo doo!”

“You sicken me!”

A stinky ‘ol ghost from Holland

 

I thought that calling my book ‘Why Did You Try to Fuck Somebody You Hate?  And Other Mean-Spirited Tales, told by a Sword-Chinned Bitch’ was Monty Pythonesque!  But apparently, some people feel like they’re being attacked when they look at the title.  “Ohhh, the world’s harsh as it is, why would I want to read that?  Wah, wah!” This is what pussies say.  The caption says, “For those unafraid to look,” and everybodyknows  pussies are afraid to look.  Other people think that the title is crass and vulgar.  My word! 

So I changed the gd title.  Well, actually only on my Goodreads ad and on my blog site.  The Amazon site will take 48 hours to change over to the ‘family friendly’ title, so you can wait until then to look if you’re too a-scared.  The stories aren’t really mean-spirited any way – skeevy, alcohol-drenched, and a bit macabre perhaps.  Just imagine Charles Bukowski as a black woman – no, no — Edgar Allan Poe as a black woman – no wait — Fyodor Doestoevsky as a black woman… okay, this is probably why people think it’s weird.  Oh, oh — and there’s cake in it, and an implied ménage trois, and cigarettes, and a stinky ‘ol ghost from Holland!  One of the stories, “Night Terrors” has been published in Calliope!  So take that up your crass and vulgar!

My book represents the highest caliber of literature – oh yes indeed it does.  I mention myself in the same vein as Bukowski.  But how do I classify my book really?  I don’t.  To do so would be confining it to a box.  My shit can’t be labeled.  And at the same time I say that it’s ‘literature’ generally, which classifies it in a sense but I’m not ridiculous about the whole thing, after all, we do need some words that we agree upon to represent something so that we can communicate — sillies!

I’ll tell you what other people said about my book later, but in the meantime, if you haven’t already done so, please click the book link on the sidebar to look at the lovely review of WDYTTFSYHAOMSTTBASCB, then go to the bank, take out .99, and buy a copy on Kindle.  I’m planning on getting hard copies at some point as well, so don’t fret non-Kindle users.  My sister suggests also that you send the .99 directly to me and I’ll forward you the Microsoft Word file by email!  No, please don’t do that.

This is my very first blog post! Aside from my facebook friends, I don’t think anyone else really saw it… It’s a great idea, I think.  It’s where I got the idea for the name of my blog.

1800ukillme

 

Once this has been totally legalized, these would be a great idea.  The mobiles could be painted in bright designs, to take the stigma out of euthanasia – inside the mobile could be a party atmosphere.  We could have some with pictures of beautiful women and men surrounded by clouds, hands out, beckoning, calling those thinking of suicide to ‘come, come’, ‘you can do it.  I did!’  The truck could have a theme too, like an ice cream truck.  It’d be rolling down the street playing Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’.   The slogan would be ‘Come, let’s just put you out of all of that ‘ol misery.’

You see my biggest fear is that I’d shoot myself in the head, miss the important artery and wind up being a vegetable.  Or I’d hang myself, the rope breaks right where my brain’s been starved to the point of…

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What kinds of checks do you fancy?

 

Why would I want to order checks with flowers, balloons or pink pussy cats on them? These checks are going to people who harass me for money every month!  Some of them hike up their interest rates when they feel like it, and as we speak they’re trying to figure out new ways to screw me.

“Well, would you like your name and address printed on your checks Ma’am?”

“Shit naaww!  Why do I want to make it easy for these motherfuckers to find me?  Let ‘em look me up in the goddamned filing cabinet – make ‘em work!  Listen, print me up these checks, black with skulls and crossbones on them, and in the area where my name and address is supposed to go, put Die Motherfucker Diiiieee-yah!”

The Sloan Kettering T**ty Smashing Machine and Other Tragedies

I am mean?  No, I am not mean.  But there is no way that I would have been able to tolerate what I witnessed behind the front desk at the Sloan Kettering Breast Center as I waited for my breast screening.  In the past as an office worker sentenced to sit next to some of the most hideously unprofessional people I have ever had the displeasure of working with, I have had the task of asking them to please keep their voices down when talking incessantly to coworkers instead of working, and to please turn down hideous pop music blaring from their cheap radios.

A worker behind the desk at Sloan Kettering had some holy roller preacher blaring on her computer.  Yasah, Jaysus-sah – praise Gawd!  Because ya see Jaysus loves ya, yasah!  Unbefucking-lievable!  This should never be tolerated in a place of business.  Another woman sits at her chair behind the desk and starts singing – OVER the other woman’s holy roller station!  And she’s singing a gospel song!  I’m thinking how rude this all is, and at the same time she’s singing music which would imply that she would be respectful to her fellow God-fearing man.  So she then turns on her computer, which is less than two feet away from the other woman with her holler roller station still on.  Her computer comes on, and ta-dahhhh, she plays gospel music on hers!  So we’ve got competing gospel stations on and one bitch singing!  And this is a place of business.

But, they seemed all kumbayah about it as the two competing gospel women began a conversation.  The one who was singing turned around, and I saw that she wore the tightest pants on one of the cottage cheesiest of behinds.  I could see the holes of her butt through her pants.  She says to her competing holy roller friend, “I thought these pants would be too tight.  But I lost a lot of weight.”  Her friend smiles beatifically and says, “Oh so they fit now.  That’s good.”  They weren’t religious rivals after all, but supportive friends and coworkers.  Who knew?

There was a third woman behind the desk who seemed oblivious to it all as she sailed through her work without a twitch, except for a questionable glance in my direction, which might have been interpreted as “Help me…”  She was a saint I tell ya!  I don’t think I could’ve dealt with that shit.

What I did have to deal with was having my already nearly non-existing breasts smashed to pieces in that God-forsaken machine!   The wig-wearing technician was a sadist!!  “I have to make this a liii-tle tighter,” she says, turning the knob further around.  “Seriously,” I tell her, “I never had this thing turned up so tight before.”  I left out of there screaming, I swear, “My titties hurt!”  I think I scared her.  Maybe she didn’t want to get fired.  In the dressing room, when I couldn’t find my glasses she ran over to help me look for them trying to be all nice and everything.

Lastly, the show on the TV in the second waiting room, the one away from the front where all the women wear robes, was a breast cancer awareness program.  I realized that one of the actors in the film was an ex friend of mine!  Ahaha!!  Could this day not be any more interesting?  She played a sympathetic family member.  (What a joke!)  I thought, well at least the bitch is getting some work.

I like it.

Coke or Pepsi?

Coke.

Charmin or Scott?

Scott.

Beatles or Stones?

Beatles.

But…

Mick Jagger is intriguing, especially that mystique and sexual ambiguity that he had in the sixties and seventies…  But I was never a big fan of the music that he made with the Rolling Stones.  I loved the pretty pictures of him with those big lips, however. Satisfaction fascinated me as a child, the opening with that wicked twang, and there was a dark wildness to it. And later I liked “Little T&A,” especially the tits and ass    part – I couldn’t get over that they played that on the radio.

Mick Jagger no matter what I or anyone else thinks has influenced legions.  And his influence showed when he performed with the Foo Fighters on SNL last Saturday. They performed It’s Only Rock ‘n Roll.  You could see that the Foo Fighters were entranced.  David Grohl was all sweaty and thrashing.  Mick Jagger danced on stage with rhythmic fluidity, but completely out of bounds.  His voice reached down and touched you in your gut and commanded you.  It’s a cliché, but he was a wolf.  My eyes were wide open, watching.  I screamed the lyrics with them because I had to.  (I imagine the show of jumping up and down and screaming I would have put on if I were there.)  Their performance had the power of a southern Baptist revival. Mick Jagger as old as he is had the sexual energy of an ancient oracle, the kind of energy that isn’t common and I could feel it through the television.