Hello everyone, here are my answers to the WordPress challenge from That Fred Guy, yeah, THAT GUY:
What makes me unique and how does my blog showcase that?
Oh no no no no no — I’m not unique! I have some, unique interests, yes? I’m a black girl who likes death metal– no, no – I’m a middle-aged black girl who likes death metal. While a lot of the old dm bands are middle-aged, the audience is generally made up of young white males but I don’t give a crap about that. They’re nice chaps who think of me as Auntie Sword-Chinned Bitch \m/. Okay, so I also want to have a society based on the barter system – that might be unique. Okay?
What drives me to blog?
What drives me to blog is my book. Do you like my writing? Well then, you’ll like my book. Do you like ass? Do you like cake? Well then you’ll love my book! I hope you like my blog enough where you’d at least consider going to the bank and taking out .99 cents to buy my book. But while blogging to promote my ass cake book, I’ve become cyber pen pals with Fred, SSG and a bunch of other nice folks from around the world – I never anticipated that. So, nevermind about the book – no, no, no don’t forget about my book.
What irks me about blogging?
It cuts into my cake-eating activity.
How does blogging aid me in standing out from the crowd?
I can say that I communicate with people from around the world on a daily basis. I can lie and say that I know them all personally, that I’m special in that regard and have international secrets…
I’m not naïve. But why is my ‘Have some of my ass cake’ post popular? It doesn’t have actual ass in it just pictures of nice cakes. There isn’t any porno. One of the popular tags that people follow leading them to my blog is ‘ass’. I had no idea ass was popular – I thought it was tits people preferred – well maybe I should try a tits post and see how many folks hit that up. And it won’t be about actual titties, it’ll be about the suckling teats of a rhinoceros. I’m trying to imagine what people think a post called ‘Have some of my ass cake’ is about. Do they think the ‘cake’ part means I’m saying that my ass is sweet? Maybe they think it’s sex talk: ‘Comere baby, gimme some of that ass cake lovin’. Yeah, you know what I’m here for? Some of that big ‘ol ass cake, bitch — yer!”
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.
I must cut back on cake. Maybe I’ll start eating Cumberland Sausages like Dotty Head Banger. The jeans that I buy that flatter an old woman’s shape can only work but so much to do the trick…
A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I would be visiting my lovely sister and her family in MA tomorrow. They are not Luddites like me. They have a nice modern camera. I want them to take pictures of me so that I can see truthfully how big my ass is.
There’s a strange mechanism in the brain that clicks in when you’re at home. The mechanism is for survival. It controls the image in your mirror at home, displaying you in a way that’s not so fat, so that you feel more confident when you go outside. But in the bathroom at work, you look in the full length mirror and say, “What the hell is this shit?!”
I was going to write about having sex with Clark Gable for the 4th time but instead I chose cake. Besides, my interludes with Clark Gable may start to read like a Twilight Zone episode. A lonely lady conjures the spirit of CG. He tells her how brilliant she is and he whispers in her ear, ‘I understand you lover’, then he tells her to ‘Come sit, sit right here my dear. YES that’s it, that’s it! Right…ah yes there.’
I tried to get a piece of cake at the Hebrew Home for the Aged at Riverdale when I visited grandma at lunchtime. They rolled it out on a cart and I ran to it like a jack rabbit in the woods. “Oooo ooo-ooo can I have a piece?” It looked so good, like they bought it from a classy bakery. It didn’t look like supermarket sheet cake – which are absolutely fine with me as well. It had thick white frosting with pink piping around the edges and a fruity red filling – I’m starting to breath heavily.
They wouldn’t give me a piece. “It fah de residents,” the lady said before handing out pieces to the old people. My g’ma got a piece. I thought about just snatching it from her before she said, “You want mine?” She had dug into it and heaved a piece into her mouth. She’d already messed around with it and when she talks sometimes particles fly out of her mouth back onto her plate – “Uh, no thanks,” I said.
Her table mates, “Matthew” and “Methuselah” had cake. Matthew said he’d give me his – the sweetie! He was more concerned about spaghetti. “They make it here honey,” he says. Matthew peppers every other sentence to you with “honey.” “The cook over there, he’s Italian, honey. I spoke to him the other day, he said they’d give it to us on Wednesday.” Methuselah had fallen earlier in the day poor thing. We talked about that. He said that the lump on his head didn’t hurt and wondered if there was a part of the head where you didn’t feel as much pain. I said I didn’t know. Methuselah was thinking about writing a book about the lump on his head to make people feel sorry for him. My g’ma said they get cake for all of the residents with birthdays during the same month. “Oh that’s right. Isn’t it my birthday today?” She said suddenly. “It’s May 8th grandma, your birthday’s February 7th,” I said. “Oh yes, that’s right,” she said laughing. I left there without getting cake. But I’ll be there at lunchtime at the beginning of next month when maybe they have another nice cake.
Using some kind of a special cake-cutting method where she carved out a circle in the center of the cake, Doody Lady then sliced neat little squared-off pieces from this perfectly round cake. Damn she was talented! I always wondered how people did that. In awe I watched her cut the entire cake this way. She commanded that space, standing, expert, with her long pony tail swinging ever so slightly above the crack of her ass. Jason staggered over with a drink in his hand to help give out the neat pieces of cake that Doody Lady had placed on small, thin paper plates at the end of the bar counter by the kitchen. After licking his fingers of stray icing, he handed me a piece, an end piece with more frosting on it than cake.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm! You don’t know boy! I love’s me some frosting,” I told him.
“Bon appétit,” he said, and I stubbed out my cigarette and anticipated the cake.
I had given Doody Lady that name anyway and wasn’t I twisted? Don’t we all move our bowels? I grabbed the cake and relished it, suppressing my urge to get up and hump at the air in a feigned fucking of the cake, or to moan and to close my eyes rapturously behind each forkful of thick, white frosting. I took the rest of my cake to sit with Dmitri and George in the booth. I pat the seat for George to sit on the same side with Dmitri and me so that I was between them. We ate our cake without speaking. We closed our eyes and nodded at each other between forkfuls. We moaned between mouthfuls, breathed in deeply and exhaled, then licked our forks clean of frosting.
THANKS FOR READING — NOW APROPOS OF NOTHING I’M SHARING THE SONG I LISTENED TO WHILE POSTING (I SAID I’D BE POSTING MORE VIDEOS) — THIS SONG HAS ONE OF THE BEST LINES EVER — “I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU, I JUST WANT TO KILL YOU!”
Dawn of the millennium, 1999: my nervous breakdown manifests itself as clinical anger. I smear on war paint and get on the A train. Beware the person who opens a newspaper too wide into my space, who sits next to me and bangs me with their elbow while searching for gum, who rests a bag on a seat while the train is crowded…
Flowing with the stream I’m a fucking human lemming on 42nd Street. GOD FORBID I walk west while everyone walks east — these gray-suited motherfuckers would knock me down!
I get to the corporate hell-hole without a bruise, without running into co-workers on the way demanding exhausting talk. I don’t like a lot of the people here. Most are aggressive, game-playing, conniving, shit-eating grinners – back-stabbing, pus-filled goons. They keep the system going in circles with great numbers of casualties all over the world. Consciousness doesn’t negate my complicity, as I purchase the shoes made in Chinese factories, consume the items that require the going elsewhere and sucking out resources and labor for this never-ending demand of we who seek great distraction for the cost of a gaping hole filled with Zoloft. Ahhhh, but what soothes a mind heavy with routine and knowledge? A call from Martin Lemmon’s secretary Gabby on the 57th floor – “Sandee, let everyone know there’s cake left over from the meeting in conference room B.”