Hey!

So, You know those cool quizzes where you put your iPod on shuffle and see what Wacky answers you get? Well heres one of those! I hope you enjoy!

Credit to this Quiz thing

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1. If someone says “Is this ok?” you say?

New Classic [What?]

2 . What would best describe your personality?

Falling Down [Oh God]

3. What do you like in a guy/girl?

Paparazzi [That's not creepy]

4. How do you feel today?

He could be the One [Id like to change the 'He' to 'She' in this case.]

5. What is your life’s purpose?

Think [Haha, wow.]

6. What is your motto?

I Got U [Makes Sense, I Guess]

7. What do your friends think of you?

Untouched [Yeah Baby]

8. What do you think of your parents?

Eye of the Tiger [Makes no sense...]

9. What do you think about very often?

Before He Cheats [Again, lets change 'He' to 'She']

10. What do you think of your bestfriend?

How to Save a Life [Yes, because thats totally what i think. -_-]

11. What do you think of the person you like?

U & Ur Hand [Haha omg!]

12. What is your life story?

Dirty Little Secret [HAHAH YES!]

13. What do you want to be when you grow up?

High School Never Ends! [WOW, I hope this doesnt mean Im going to be in Highschool my whole life]

14. What do you think when you see the person you like?

Fallin’ for You [Thats better]

15. What do your parents think of you?

Just Dance [Maybe]

16. What will you dance to at your wedding?

Peanut Butter Jelly Time [That would totally be what I would dance to! ]

17. What will they play at your funeral?

The Climb [Awe, perfect funeral song (:]

18. What is your favorite hobby/interest?

Stop the World [I wish!]

19. What is your biggest fear?

Who Will I Be [Not exactly an issue for me, I guess.]

20. What is your biggest secret?

Fire Burning [I REALLY hope that doesnt mean Hell.]

21. What song will be the title when you repost this?

Leavin’ [I am Leavein' this quiz. Goodbye]

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ALSO ALSO ALSO—— VOTE FOR ME IN THE BOOTY AWARDS! CLICK HERE AND VOTE FOR CHAD FROM DARNSTRAIGHT AS THE BEST BLOGGER PLEASE!

~Chad

One of my roommates was catching the rest of us up after our Thanksgiving apart, and she told us something kinda disturbing and unexpected.  Apparently, her uncle was asked by one of his friends to be the best man in his wedding.  To a mail order bride.

Like, for real this guy is going to China soon to pick up the wife he bought.

This has a Law & Oder: SVU episode written all over it.

I just didn’t think this really happened!  I mean, I know in history it did, even in America from one coast to another (for example, see the movie or read the book “Sara, Plain and Tall”).  But now?  How is that not outlawed for being flat out creepy?

And apparently this guy was married before and has a son in college, but how do you tell this type of thing to your family?  I can just see him at Thanksgiving dinner, “Oh son, by the way, after I drop you back off at school, I’m heading to China to pick up your new mommy.  Pass the yams, please?”

I can’t even quite wrap my mind around it.  None of us could.  So we Googled “mail order bride” and a legit website seemed to come up where you could actually pick what country you wanted your wife to come from.  But it’s so creepy!!!

The National Reporter
Construction workers who are renovating an old house in Boston Mass. got a creepy surprize when they started cutting into the structures 100-year-old foundation last week.
The second they turned on the masonry cutter, an abnormally large funnel-web spider darted out of its silky hiding place and scared the living daylights out of them.
“We saw the big web with the funnel hole in it and we  laughed about how it looked like a giant spider web.” Foreman Jim Barnes told us. ” We didn’t really think it was a spider web, we thought that maybe it was some old cotton fiber that got tangled up in the doorway somehow.”

The spider is quickly alerted by sounds and vibrations

The National Reporter – Was it there when you started the renovation project?
“No,. that’s what’s so weird about it. We excavated all the ground out in front of the basement and cut a new doorway in the foundation. When we came back the next day, there it was.”
The National Reporter – Was the spider already living in the basement?
“I have no idea.  All I know is the damn thing won’t let us work.  The second anyone makes any kind of sound or vibration, that freaking spider pops out of its hole ready to bite anyone near it.”
The National Reporter – Have you called animal control?
“We sure did.” he said. “They sent out a young girl who had just started working for animal control the day before.  She had one of those noose things on a stick that they used to snare dogs with.  She walked into the backyard and asked us what kind of animal was giving us problems.  She was very professional about it.”
The National Reporter – Did you tell her it was a giant spider?
“Nah,..I just banged the wall will a shovel to get it to pop out of its hole. You should have seen that poor girl run!”
The National Reporter – So animal control was no help?
“Nope.  She came back an hour later with her supervisor to see for himself. I guess hHe didn’t believe her when she told him it was a giant spider.”
The National Reporter – What did he say when he saw it?
“He jumped back nearly ten feet when it popped out of its hole the way it does.  After he examined it for a few minutes he told us to call someone who knew about spiders, maybe the local university.”
The National Reporter - Did they send anyone out?
“Not yet, I don’t think they believed us when we told them how big it was.  So for now we have to work around the damned thing and hope no one gets bitten by it.”
The National Reporter – Why don’t you just bash it with a shovel?
“Do you have any idea how messy and disgusting that would be?  Oh yuck,..just thinking about it is making me sick. Besides, none of my men want to get that close to it. The spiders fangs have to be huge.  One bite from them and it’s all over, don’t even worry about the venom.”

Marty the spider, as it has become known, is still guarding his web and keeping Jim Barnes and his crew at bay.
Anyone who is interested in seeing the creature should call Barnes construction company in Boston Mass. to get the address.
While the public is welcome to view the spider, Barnes construction company and the home owner request  the visiting public  to show respect to  the neighbors and are urged not to antagonise the spider.
“We don’t know how dangerous the thing is, so please don’t piss it off.”  Jim Barnes said.

There is a site, it’s called, www.Okcupid.com that has lots of fun tests (not as fun as the ones on Blogthings though!) but it is also a dating/social networking site. It’s very creepy. I’ve been getting messages from guys that are 25+ on there that are very straight forward and they’re like, “Before we hang out, I wanna know…”. And I’m thinking, “Who said anything about hanging out? Who said anything about me even LOOKING for someone? Especially someone 12 years older than me?”

It’s weird. I mean, yeah, blame me for signing up. But I thought it was only about quizzes. When I realized it wasn’t like that, I wasn’t too freaked out cause tickle.com was also a dating site that had quizzes and I never got a creepy message like that. I don’t know…strange, isn’t it?

And it’s almost as if they don’t even read on the little details thing below my face that I am 18. It says 18/F/single. Yes, it means legal, but it also means…ugh. I don’t know what it means. I see why I’m getting messages now. Well, I still blame them – most 18 year old girls don’t feel comfortable about dating a 28 year old guy. Geez. I should change my status for “not looking, never will look, shut up.”

Sigh…but I humor them. I answer their stupid questions, like, “Do you like to ride beach cruisers?” Sometimes I realize that’s why those people are on dating sites. They’re looking for all the wrong things. Doesn’t it matter more if they’re loyal, intelligent, attentive? They ask insignificant things. And if you answer one question wrong (God forbid!!) – BAM! – they stop replying to your messages. Funny world. It doesn’t require you to put much effort in the person you want as your one and only companion. Except, most of those guys probably are for polygamy, so, never mind.

Today’s freakshow obscure forgotten horror film is ‘The Baby’.

Made in 1973, It’s camper than 7 pink tents but still creepy as all hell.

From the back of the DVD:

“Ann Gentry is a social worker that has dealt with some of the toughest,
Most bizarre cases.
She thought she’d seen it all…Until Now.
Arriving at the house of her new client,
She makes a shocking discovery:
A full-grown man dressed and treated as if he were still an infant!
In fact, The entire dysfunctional family seems demented -
And Ann becomes determined to save ‘The Baby’.

On the front of the DVD it reads:
‘Horror is his formula’.

Hahaha!

That, and the campness aside,
It’s actually a very good film with a nothing short of shocking ending that I guarantee you will not see coming.

I caught this film for the first time in the 80’s when I happened to turn the TV on after midnight.

Too young.
I remember standing in front of the TV freaking out as I watched this scene:

Seems to only be available from the U. S. of A. for the time being but it’s worth tracking down.

The IMDB Page is HERE.

I get sexually assaulted by strangers a lot. I attract crazy people. It’s sad. This guy greets me while I’m waiting to cross the street, “Como Estas?” I answer, “Bien, gracias, y tu?” He says, “Bien.” Then grabs my hand and kisses it. I pull it away, but he grabs it again and starts to kiss it again, and then starts making weird sexual noises. I pull my hand away and start running away which is when I get hit by a car. (Full story here)

I was at the DMV waiting to get my car registered. I ask the guy in front of me if I can borrow his pen to fill out some paperwork, which I then use and promptly return. The line eventually moves and as I’m finishing up at the counter I notice the pen guy waiting by the door. As I walk towards the door to leave, he approaches me and hands me his card, which reads “(Name), Massage Artist.” And then, completely straight-faced and in a trying-really-hard-to-sound-sexy voice he says, “Call me if you want to get coffee.” Pause. “Or a massage.”

(Bal’s note: despite the title, this is not some trite motivational crap. This is first-rate mindfuckery)

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Ten Things to be Grateful For

by John Shirley

In this fickle world…

In this coy and cloying world…

In this the best – can it be true? – of all possible worlds…

One must butter one’s bread on the sunny side of the street. One must keep a stiff lower grip. One must…

One must remember: there are things to be thankful for. We have so much to be grateful, to be thankful for.

Here are ten things to be thankful for.

1.
Be thankful you are not strolling through a park on a pretty spring day, minding your own mind, and thinking about whether or not to call the corporate head-hunter back, when you find that you have to pee, you have to pee badly and there’s nowhere to go within a quarter mile, and it’s a big park, a bushy park, and you’ve taken that liberty in the park’s bushes before, and you sort of enjoy the occasional outdoors pee, so you step off the path and pee off an embankment, through some ferns, watching them bob with the impact of the stream, and you finish and turn and see two men standing there blocking your way and they tell you that you’ve just peed on their home, their mattresses, because there’s a homeless encampment under the embankment, and you complain of entrapment but it’s not applicable and it’s no good and you try to feint to the left and dart to the right but they are used to people trying to dodge past, they’re not your average homeless joes, they’re predacious street people, and one of them grabs you and so does his smell, the smell of a whole cattle-car of people in one man, and you can see the lice squirm in his beard an inch from your face as he bear-hugs you, and you can look into his eyes, one of them skyblue and the other the color of spat phlegm; and the second guy who’s lean and blue with tattoos from the waist up, he kicks you at the base of the spine again and again as you try to scream but the bear-hugger stuffs his beard in your mouth and with a strangely high-pitched giggle, says he always does that, as you struggle amazed not at his strength but at your own feebleness, and then the telling crack with another practiced workboot kick, the meaningful crack of your spine and the pain that in your mind is like a picture of jagged radiating three-dimensional arrows made of rusty iron, pain with weight, and the bearded one falls on you as you fall back and there’s more cracking and crackling as you hit the hard ground of the ravine’s lip and your head is hanging over the edge of the embankment, and the other guy grabs onto your neck and jumps off into the ravine, and that feeling is like a spin-painting with only the colors black and green, and the vertebrae come apart, and he swings from your head and neck as the other guy, drooling with laughter, holds on and the vertebrae pull farther apart and you remember when you were in kindergarten you drew a picture of a bear jumping over a fence only no one could make out what you’d drawn, and now other tramps come laughing, hooting, to swing on your head and neck as the vertebrae part completely and when they get bored they kick your body like a bean bag amazed that you’re still alive, but you’re not alive for long. That could happen to you. Be grateful that isn’t happening to you. It could be. It’s not. Be thankful.

2.
Be grateful that you’re not a child in Thailand who’s sold by his parents to a Bangkok child-brothel, and you’re amazed that your mother kissed you goodbye as if you were going to visit a relative, as if you would see her again, and you thought that they would take the money from the man and then tell you to run away with them but they didn’t even look back as you are led weeping, the weeping bone-dry, up the creaking wooden stairs in the narrow alley in back of the building, a squeezed building that would fall over but for the buildings on either side, and then they beat you the first time just to introduce you to beatings and to initiate you into the magnitude of your subservience but really it’s a half-hearted beating compared to the second time when you refused to let the fat American fuck you in the ass while his friend, a tall skinny man who coos at you in an undertone as if convincing himself he’s being tender, shoves his stubby thick member in your mouth and makes circular motions with his hips and, though you stomached that, when you felt the penetration from behind, you wrenched free and ran to hide under the bed and wouldn’t come out till Kimaritchul, squat and strong, flipped the bed to one side and began – with a strangely anomalous look of patience in his eyes, like a horsetrainer – kicking you in the soft parts, very expertly, so as not to break anything but so as to introduce deep, deep bruises that hurt with your every movement all night long, each stab of pain speaking with Kimaritchul’s unspoken voice, as you let the two men do what they wanted with you, after the skinny one made noises as if he disapproved of what the guard had done to you, and then goes on to fuck you till you choke and lose consciousness, but unfortunately you don’t die, not till two years later when your kidney ruptures and they throw you in the canal. That’s something to be grateful for: that’s not happening to you.

3.
Be grateful that you’re not recovering from your third diabetes amputation, leaving you one limb, your left arm, while the nurses, especially the one with the harelip and the dyed-blond with the long neck and slumped shoulders, give you filing looks, they’re mentally filing you as human detritus that hasn’t been picked up yet, filing you under hopeless and meaningless and simply a bothersome fulfillment of duty, that duty dwindling, on no one’s instructions, day by day, the sponge-baths going from once a day to once every two days to once a week, the turning for bedsores following precisely the same declension, as if by clinical planning, the kindly remarks and encouragements and inquiries falling off to almost none, the eye contact vanishing entirely, the visits from the doctor also down to once a week, then once every ten days, the food which, after all, you can feed to yourself if they’d bring it, since you have one limb, even if you can’t reach every part of yourself for a sponging without falling off the bed: the food coming only twice a day now and if you start whining about anything it comes only once; the television left on a channel that has gone off the air for good and then they say the TV is broken when it’s not, and the talk about the lack of available beds, oh if only one would open up, within your hearing, their skill at indirectly conveying a sense of some imagined personal injury, their indifference to your tale of the night orderly who comes in and holds down your remaining arm and slaps you with a look of slack-mouthed concentration, four or five times before hearing footsteps and hurrying away, the nurse outraged when you try to tell the doctor she’s forgot your insulin, the coma creeping up on you just as you smell the decay growing in your remaining limb… Something to be thankful for: that isn’t happening to you.

4.
Thank your particular deities that you are not completely convinced, utterly convinced, granite-pillar and steel-brace convinced, that there is a large parasite growing in your intestines, a parasite that is a mutated variant on a tapeworm, but stubbier and thicker and intelligent, a wormish thing with jawparts like human fingers only translucent, rubbery, capable of grasping, and it’s pushed its grip through the tissues of your intestines to grab some inner organ, sometimes your liver, sometimes your spleen, lately you suspect it’s moved to squeezing your bladder shut because you can’t urinate, and your ankles are swelling and somehow this pleases it, and you can even hear it at times, as it can take words from your mind and give them back to you, to persuade you not to fight it, that’s one of its survival adaptations, to whisper there are many parasites within all people, as everyone knows, flora the doctors call them, micro-organisms, and there are mites living in your eyebrows, and they eat dead skin and the fellows in your intestines help release trapped electrolytes from food and think of me as just another step, another kind of benign parasite, for if you relax and let me move freely I’ll love you, I’ll push in and out of you, and I’ll reach out of your ass to caress your genitals, but only if you’re quite still and trusting, you must surrender completely, and you must not scream when you see me. It whispers such things to you, but you’re contemptuous of its sluggish efforts at persuasion, it is a thing of lower orders and cannot persuade like a TV commercial can, or not as well as some commercials anyway, perhaps, and it cannot be trusted, and as the doctors are in denial, out of sheer ineffable horror, refusing to acknowledge the presence of the thing, you must, of course, cut yourself open with what over-the-counter topical anesthetic you can manage, and fight your own arm which tries not to cut any further as you penetrate to the layer of membrane over the intestines, but which you, in the unshakeable determination of your absolute will, overcome, triumphing as, laying in the bathtub naked and trying to staunch the blood with towels with your free hand, you cut with shaking fingers a long jagged rent in the large intestine, for a full fourteen inches, and lay the intestine open, and find the parasite within…is gone, is somehow gone, and as you bleed to death you think you hear it whispering from the drain. Be grateful that isn’t you. Be thankful.

5.
Be thankful, too, that you’re not trapped in the rubble after the terrorist bomb has reduced the building to a shuddering clinker of ragged stone, two days now, and the sounds of rescuers are very, very, very distant, eloquently distant, and you’re in a chamber that was not made for habitation, under many tons of rock, with your arms and legs angled – unbroken! – in odd Jerry Lewis postures, like a dancing Keith Haring drawing, only you’re losing sensation in your legs because circulation is cut off by a stone that presses just hard enough, but your arms are aching with sensation, and, when you move, the rocks above nudge a little closer, a little lower, and small scavenging beetles begin to appear, you can hear their rattling legs on the stones, feel them brush past your mouth, your ears, and you can’t feel them begin on your legs, there’s no circulation there, but there’s a sense of something flowing out of you down there, a coldness that seeps up from your calves to your knees, to your thighs, as you hear the child suddenly wake up and begin screaming for its mother, and you open your mouth to try to speak words of comfort but something chitinous climbs into your mouth and chokes you and… Be grateful, thankful, that isn’t you.

6.
Be thankful for what you have; be grateful: You might be a child of ten and you might be that child in a leather bag, tied shut, hardly any room, a bag with holes punched in it, listening to the two men talk about police pursuit, feeling the van lurch left and right as they turn corners, hearing one of them say, with the joy of a lottery winner, ain’t nobody coming after us, was nobody there to see the license number, no pursuit, Joe, we’re home free…as you hear that the implications come alive in you and make you claw at the bag and try to scream through the tape over your mouth and one of them slams you through the leather with that two by four you saw just before they pushed you in and it knocks all the breath out of you and as you’re getting breath back, each breath stabbing now, he says something about you better hold still in there, you better be glad you’re in that bag there and not out here with me you little peter-pusher, and the other one says don’t scare him no more’n you have to, I don’t want to have to gag him after we take him out, I want his mouth free after I take that tape off. But they’re taking some kind of drug, you can’t tell what, you hear them say crystal, and after they make those snorting sounds you can tell from their voices they’re losing what control of themselves they have and you feel an icicle become part of your back and realize it’s that sharpened screwdriver the red-headed man had, he’s sticking it through the bag at random here and here and there, into you, just a half inch in here, and an inch there and it scrapes off your shoulderblade and he’s laughing and his friend says wait, wait till we get to the woods, and when they do, when they take you out of the bag their faces hurt more than the tools and soon you beg them please, please kill me, but you don’t quite die before they shovel the dirt over your eyes. But then you do. Be glad that’s not you, be grateful, be thankful. We have much to be thankful for.

7.
Be thankful you’re not running on legs that are losing their bones; that’s how it feels, as you run, as if the bones in your legs are melting, you’re sinking as you run into the street, because you’ve been running this way for two miles and you’re fat and you’re not a kid anymore as the truck chases you across the open desert, under a sun that never takes a breath, never relents, the pickup just ten feet behind, driving you ahead of it, with a man and a woman and three children in it, the children laughing loudest of all, as you fall in the cacti, naked in the cacti, and get up and run on, and on, stumbling and running, your feet ribbons of flesh, your heart almost louder than their voices and the gunning engine and they are calling you Mexi-nigger, Mexi-nigger you’d better get up but your bones have dissolved completely now and you can’t get up and Dad lets the kids, even the girl, practice with the .22 on you, they shoot you in the hips and buttocks and you don’t feel it much because of the exhaustion and the fear till one of the slugs hits your pelvis and splinters it and then there’s nothing in all the universe but those splinters chewing out of your hip, nothing, anyway, till they lock the chains to your ankles and begin to drag you behind the truck, talking about how those ol’ boys in Texas going to be startin’ a fad, here, now son I want you to see what a fat Mexi-nigger’s guts look like, whoa look at that and his shit too-

Consider: that’s not you. It could be you. It’s not. Be thankful.

8.
Yes be thankful, you’d better be absolutely grateful that you’re not in the bus when it goes off the bridge and fills with water and your little girl, eight years old, beside you, is looking at you with amazement because somehow you’ve made this happen and you’ll never have time to explain that, despite pretending all her life that you could prevent things like this from happening, in fact, my little love, I was lying, all this time, something like this could happen anytime and only some perverse and unmappable grace prevents it from happening more, it’s amazing when we’re barreling along by the millions at sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour on our steaming, tarry freeways that it doesn’t happen more, it’s amazing that cancer and plane-crashes and murder and war don’t happen even more than they do, given that people are just mandrills with clothes on, my little sweet, so you should not be surprised, and I’m sorry I didn’t prepare you for this; all this passing through your head in a split second as you see that look in her face right before the bus hits the estuary, slams the both of you off the ceiling of the bus with bone-cracking force, and since your left shoulder shatters you have only your right arm to try to get her through the one open window within reach as water fills the bus, but there’s a ferret-faced man, the one who said he was a lawyer, who’s pushing your daughter out of the way so he can swim through, who’s kicking you in the face to keep you from jerking him back from the window to let her through, and both of you are fighting underwater and beyond him you glimpse more than a dozen pallid faces with bubbles surging up from their mouths as they flap their arms and you claw at him to try to get him out of the way so you can get her through that window but she is clawing at you in desperation, clawing at your eyes, your own child without knowing gouges out one of your eyes in terror, and then the darkness closes down on you both and it has nothing reassuring, nothing restful in it at all, but just a shattering emptiness and… Count your blessings, because that could be you: be grateful that isn’t you…

9.
Be grateful, thank your ancestors, thank your stars, that you’re not being strapped down in the metal chair, that you’re not seeing those two distinct sharp-edged expressions, either one or the other, on the faces of the people watching through the glass, either studied indifference or a fascination that’s less than pornographic but not so very much less, and there are people murmuring to you just as if they care that you’re about to be choked to death with chemicals, but they don’t, not really, they don’t actually care and they won’t think about it after tomorrow or the next day, and the fact, the unblemished, untarnished certainty that you and only you have, that you’re innocent, you really are innocent, not “they all say they’re innocent,” but authentically innocent, and that not only will it be believed that you raped and strangled two women whom you never saw or heard of till you were arrested for supposedly doing it, after someone stole your car and used it in the crime, someone who looks a little like you; not only will it be believed by the public, by history, that you were a murderer, but your wife, your children, your father and mother will believe that you are guilty, even though they made cardboard protestations to the contrary, ultimately they will believe it, and so the children will blame you for abandoning them, and no one will ever be truly sorry, except maybe the children, who will also hate you, no one will be sorry that you are now hearing the sound of the chamber door clicking shut, the last time you will hear a door shut, that you are hearing the sound of the cyanide capsules hitting the bucket to release the poison into the air; no one will really, not really care that you have only one last clean breath in your lungs as you shake and choke and shake and die knowing you are innocent and being killed for nothing. Be grateful, show some gratitude: that could have been you. And it’s not.

10.
Be thankful, breathe a sigh of relief and nod your head in humble gratitude that you’re not a neurotic fan of perverse dark literature, horror or crime or dark fantasy, a reader, at least today, of the obsessively-etched stimuli that is one of your few releases from the smothering sense of is-this-all-there-is in your life, that you’re not that sort of person, reliant on occasional corrosive chemicals or puerile graphic images for relief from the inarticulate and undefined and never acknowledged knowledge that you are being hunted, something just out of the circle of your perceptions is hunting you: a fear; a fear of your own meaninglessness, your own irrelevance, your trappedness in a dead-end, soulless, monkey-masturbatory, mazelike civilization that you mock like a bad videogame even as you sock in another quarter, as your brain turns slowly, slowly inside your skull, scanning for an exit in an exitless world, as you lurch onto the next half-satisfying stimulus like the dying cocaine rat that pushes the lever; as you realize that your understanding of the unknown sculpture is really only the chisel-scrapings at the foot of the sculpture, and you never have seen the sculpture, and that you’re really truly trapped in a culture that, despite your arch commentary, your well-honed irony, your media-fed sardonicism, has conditioned and programmed you just as thoroughly as any shopping-channel-fixated Tennessee housewife; that despite your creative conceits you’re probably going to degrade yourself for the opportunity to die in an upscale old-people’s home instead of an SRO hotel, probably of a painful and under-medicated cancer, after your youth is burned up in media dreams and gossip that has a life of its own and relationships that jar and sputter and circle blindly like bumper cars, and the loneliness of the long distance consumer, a hollow life in a hollow society of equally hollow people-

Be glad and grateful that’s not…that it’s not…not…

Oh. I see.

Oh, I…

I wasn’t thinking. Ah. It is? Well…I…

Sorry.

Well anyway. There are, you know, other things…to be thankful for.

(originally published at Gothic.net in 1998)

♦ juin parc. says:
*i had to content myself with this spider in my room
Peter – says:
*lol awww
*name it
♦ juin parc. says:
*NO
*not when it’s already dead
*i made my little brother kill it
*it was such a mission
Peter – says:
*LOL
♦ juin parc. says:
*yesterday, i’ve been eyeing it ALL day
Peter – says:
*are you serious … you’re scared of a spider ?
♦ juin parc. says:
*’cause it was on the very top left corner above my desk
*and i was studying
*(YEAH, SO, WANNA DIE)
*anyways
*and it didn’t budge
*it just… stayed there in that wee little corner
*so we both tried to ignore each other
*and then when i turned off the lights, i KNEW the little ass would creep around
*and it DID
*it traveled from one end of my room to the OTHER
Peter – says:
*LOL
♦ juin parc. says:
*WITHOUT me knowing
*it was soooo creepy
*when i woke up, i saw it was at the OTHER corner
Peter – says:
*hahaha you’re so cute sometimes, i almost forget you’re a girl til times like these hahaha
♦ juin parc. says:
*and it’s the corner above my rack of clothes
*HMMPH. SHH.
*so yeah, and then i was scared it’d fall onto my clothes
*so i called my little brother over who looks like he’s 8
*and he (daniel) goes: “WHAT”
*me: “hey, you’re getting bigger now.. i think you can reach that corner”
*and he goes: “… is it a spider”
*so he helped me move my clothes rack and he took a chair, and like the tiny superboy he is, he took a wooden stick and hit it against the corner
*the damn spider fell, i shrieked, i grabbed my fly swatter, moved my brother to the side and annihilated it.
*then i made my little brother pick up the spider with tissue.
*and that was the end of that creeper.
Peter – says:
*LOL
*hahahhahaaha
*HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
*<3
*oh my god i’m laughing so hard
*you’re too fuckin cute hahahahahahahahahahaha

—–

And that concludes my anecdote. I HATE bugs. I’m actually bugophobic, not even exaggerating.

I remember the last time a huge housefly was zooming in my room, I couldn’t find my trusty fly swatter, so while it was buzzing around in the air – I threw my dictionary at it. Yup. It was a hardcover with 1500 pages and that fly didn’t stand a chance with my fatal aim. I pwned the shiet out of him.

i want to show this to all the conservatives whining about the sexism against sarah palin. to hear stuff like that from wealthy white men who’ve never used the word “sexism” before last week’s Newsweek cover is really ridiculous. (i agree it was sexist, but i believe the editors fell back on sexism in their effort to avoid putting her on the cover in a manner that looked as if they were taking her seriously; using a photo of her in a sexist manner is easier than trying to find a photo that shows how ridiculous her ideology is.) but it’s funny that these conservative men are crying foul for that, then turning around and calling palin a “chick” and saying she should go shoot a bear and make some stew cuz they’re hungry. ugh. (literally, Beck did. check the video.)

WHY wasn’t I previously aware of the beautiful artwork of Madame Talbot’s Victorian Lowbrow? You are possibly aware by now that I am somewhat obsessed with most things Victorian – particularly the darker, seamier side of the period, and all of their fabulous posters fit the (forgive the pun) bill!

Laudanum Poison Poster by Victorian Lowbrow, $14.95

Mutter Museum Poster by Victorian Lowbrow, $14.95

This particular piece (below) reminds me of the type of illustrations found in the somewhat disturbing books of stories I so loved as a child. In fact, all of Toxic Ink’s prints look like they have been plucked from a vintage Annual and are just waiting for their stories to be told.

Temptation Art Print by Toxic Ink, $20

Startled Art Print by Toxic Ink, $20

Sarah Blank’s artwork is just heart-breakingly beautiful but still with that unsettling, creepy undertone I crave. I would love to look like the subjects in her paintings: all come-hither eyes, glacial composure and bee-stung lips. The descriptions she gives some pieces just add to their mysterious allure…

Seafaring Heart Print by Sarah Blank, $17.50

The Bumblebee Sisters Buy a Bird Print by Sarah Blank, $17.50

There’s a faintly sinister feel to some of Andrea Kett’s burlesque, vintage fashion-illustration like artwork, but with a wry humour, too. I love the Fifties-esque feel to the first print below (and would totally love a dinner party with a dressed crab who was actually dressed in a tuxedo! This is likely why we don’t have more dinner parties…) Great leer from bunny-ears chap!

The second print has a definite Marie Antoinette costume feel to it – just divine. I really like the cruel twists to each picture that prevent them from seeming overly twee (the arrow through the fox draped around her shoulders, the fact she’s simultaneously smirking and smoking)…

Dressed Crab (6x8 inch) Print by Andrea Kett, $10

Arctic Fox Print by Andrea Kett, $28

These intriguing pictures by Swan Bones are very reminiscent of those blood-chilling little books of old fairy stories you are sometimes lucky enough to come across in antique bookshops.

Three Seekers Print by Swan Bones, $29

A Single Light Print by Swan Bones, $19

I want to gather together as many such prints & artwork as I can find, place them in mismatching, eccentric looking vintage frames and group them haphazardly together on the same wall.

Creepy? Possibly. But incredibly pleasing. Exactly the kind of style I like best.

Until later, kittens.

Miss Nightingale

x

first, we all wake up to hear the alleged news about panasonic and certain technics tables getting discontinued. heartbreaking even for me, so i cannot imagine how others even more passionate about the act of spinning vinyl and turntablism are feeling.

then, i realize i’m too sick to hit up the 12th planet/jason burns party up in cleveland tonight. double the sadness, i wasn’t able to spend time with some good friends in that area either. whammy whammy.

credit: natalie dee

so, what to do instead? scour youtube for a bunch of old do or die, twista, bone thugs n harmony and tq videos. and write this. and retweet stuff that 12th planet is saying like “cleveland is goin off.. whoa.. totally not expected.. I mean no offense.. but really.. YES!“ …so typical. everyone’s always hatin on ohio.

oh yeah, and catch up on glee. which reminds me…

does anyone else watch glee?

but in all (non)seriousness, bad things come in threes, right? my home-away-from-home san francisco was to host the man/boy himself joker at 103 harriet and because of stuff out of anyone’s control he got stuck in canada(cue something from southpark) and won’t be making it to the city. (twitter is hoppin right now. word of a possible helicopter… word of a possible free show monday night… the kid just HAS to show up in sf at some point… it’d be so sad otherwise, and i’m not even out there right now!)

i also heard through the twitter grapevine that plastician’s mc for the evening was calling him “petition.” lollll.  probably just a little tipsy, yeah? let’s hope so, cuz i’d like to think that plastician is pretty much a household name. big up the man for crying out loud, he definitely deserves it!

all twisted up~!

on that note, i’m going to stop myself from venting any further. so much weirdness… i can barely wrap my head around any of it.

<3

moss on trees, originally uploaded by Carpe Feline.

dark, damp forests overgrown with moss and lichen. they feel haunted and ancient. the miller ruins near my hometown.

Girlfriend Fail

Picture by: dunno source Submitted by: Jerm via Fail Uploader

Click to enlarge:

“It’s okay. He’s just admiring the shape of your skull.” One of my favorite lines from this movie.

Victorian houses have always been a fixation of mine.  They have a confusion of tiny rooms and hallways, as though they were designed to be haunted.  The moldings, cornices, and other lush architectural details lend themselves perfectly to decadence and decrepitude.  I frequently dream of being lost inside vast, complicated Victorian mansions in various states of disrepair.

I recently saw these amazing series of paintings by Matthew Killick at Viktor Wynd’s gallery of The Last Tuesday Society. Now if you knew anything about me you’d know first hand that I’m crazy about all things underwater, creepy and eerie, though it doesn’t have to be in that exact order. These hyper-detailed paintings are reminiscent of those early days of science where I’d look at a slice of onion or a drop of blood under a microscope for the very first time. Matthew Killick’s love of deep sea diving is probably the impetus for this series, he speaks about it in more detail in an interview.

“Painting and diving are similar activities for me. Both rely on intense concentration and focus, and there is a sense of exploration in both that excites me. When I dive in low visibility conditions, I have a very intimate connection to the things I see. My work gravitated to that type of imagery in a natural way. I didn’t decide to make works that were based on my underwater experiences, it just happened on its own. Since I was young, I had heart palpatations, and during my teen years I learnt how to control them. I put this to use now that I dive, by slowing my heart rate down. This helps conserve air, but also puts me into a focused and meditative state. It is very similar to the state of mind I experience when painting.”

For your added enjoyment, here are some songs you might want to listen to while appreciating Matthew Killick’s creations.

MP3s (click on link to preview, right click save as to download)

1. Real Estate – Beach Comber

2. Slowdive – Here She Comes

3. Slowdive – Machine Gun

4. Tonsstartsbandht – Black Country

5. Ganglians – Blood on Sand

6. Ty Segall – It #1

7. Matias Aguayo – Rollerskate

Also published at UNKITSCH

by sylvia

It’s quiet here.  Which I’m grateful for.  Thanksgiving Eve, and I’m just waiting for all the work bombs to drop before I can actually leave the office and get ready for some gluttony over Thanksgiving.

So while I’m riding out this work day, I thought I would share with you some links for your enjoyment (maybe) in case you are in a situation similar to mine (which is bored and/or at work and/or not feeling like doing any actual work):

Travolta & Williams’ Greatest Misses - a photogallery from Television Without Pity highlighted two of my least favorite stars – John Travolta and Robin Williams – and the terrible movies they have made

List of the Day Glamour Shots - who doesn’t love a Glamour Shot?  And BTW, that may or may not be me in that first picture

Rules for Attending Your Child’s Sporting Events – now I don’t have any kids, but I’ve bookmarked this site so I know how to raise ‘em, and to tell other people with children what they are doing wrong

A Fish With Humanoid Teeth - scary and gross.  I warned you.

A Mr. Rogers Quiz - I got an 80%, bitches.  Maybe it’s because I have my own neighborly connection to Mr. Rogers and drank a Coke at his house once….

Cookie Warming Fail - mmm….cookies….mmmm….Owen….

My Favorite LOLCAT

Mugshot Roundup from The Smoking Gun – always a great reminder to stay the hell out of trouble this weekend

The Secrets of The Sparkle - yes, we’ve linked to this Twilight thingie before, but it’s such a great time waster!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!!

creepy