Today I have decided to pay homage to the late, great Gene Roddenberry on what would have been his 93rd birthday by conducting an interview I believe he might have enjoyed. Now I ask you, what better way to pay tribute to one of the greatest contributors to the SciFi genre than to have a face-off of Starship Captains? Ladies and gentlemen I give you…
JAMES T. KIRK VS JEAN-LUC PICARD
Q: Which species makes a better First Officer, Human or Vulcan?
KIRK: A Vulcan makes the better officer because they use logic rather than emotion to guide their decisions.
PICARD: Generally speaking, Kirk’s right. On the other hand, I cannot speak highly enough of my very human first officer. Once he finally was able to remove that giant stick from his ass and relax a little bit, he turned out all right.
Q: What is the most important quality a Starship Captain must have?
KIRK: The most important quality a starship captain must have is the ability to love females of any species.
PICARD: Diplomacy, which basically is the art of telling someone to suck your cock with such tact and charm that they actually apply lipstick first regardless of gender or race, they sell tickets beforehand, and thank you when it’s over.
Q: The better date: Green Orion Slave woman, or hot human?
KIRK: Green Orion Slave women are the best! Man, there is nothing those girls will not do! Did you know that Green Orion Women have two vaginas? Little known fact!
PICARD: So, you fail twice? By the way, they have an ointment for that rash you’ve been complaining about. As for who makes the better date….have you *BEEN* to Risa? Jamaharon to the Bone, yo.
Q: The worst thing about dealing with Starfleet Command is ___ ?
KIRK: Starfleet Command are a bunch of pussies. If they let us annihilate the Klingons like we wanted to, the Romulans would think twice before attacking us again.
PICARD: I don’t know that I’d have phrased it quite that way, but I’m forced to agree with the good captain. Oh, fuck it: Starfleet Command is run by a bunch of spineless twat-waffles who can’t find their balls with both hands and a tricorder.
Q: Which is the better ride: The classic NCC-1701 or the NCC-1701D?
KIRK: The NCC-1701 of course! The 1701D is for pansies! Scotty would never be caught dead in the engine room of that bomb!
PICARD: The Constitution-class starships are beautiful vessels from a bygone era that I for one believe to be full of adventure, wonder, and excitement. To have been alive in those days, exploring the vast, unknown frontier? I envy those like James Kirk and the ships they commanded. That said, have you *seen* my fucking ship? It’s got phasers and photon torpedoes out the ass! It comes apart so it can kick your ass *twice* as much. And it’s huge! Don’t believe your girlfriend, Kirk, even if she is Orion: Size does matter.
Q: Marooned on a deserted planet, the three things I have to have are?
KIRK: A Green Orion Slave woman, Yeoman Janice Rand, and Cloud Dweller Droxine. Need I say more?
PICARD: A whole planet to myself? Wonderful! I’m overdue for a good vacation. I’ll take my Collected Shakespeare book, my tea, and my flute. On second thought…I’d like to meet this Droxine. And change my book selection to the Kama Sutra.
Q: I’d rather take on in a bar fight: a Cardassian or a Romulan?
KIRK: As easy as it is to beat the crap out of a Cardassian, I would much rather fight a Romulan. Romulans put up a much better fight. Can’t trust those Cardassians, they fight dirty as hell.
PICARD: He’s right about the Cardassians. Sneaky bastards, every single one of them. Romulans can fight well enough, but they’re always so worried about mussing their hair. Now, if you want a real fight, try taking on a Nausicaan. I’ve never lived that one down. And don’t even get me started on the Borg. *THOSE* guys were assholes.
Q: Which is more technically challenging, slingshotting a starship backward in time or dislocating it to an alternate universe?
KIRK: Neither actually. You want technically challenging? Try listening to Spock and Bones for five consecutive years, now that is a challenge!
PICARD: I must side with my esteemed colleague on this matter. Time travel or having your ship flung to the far side of the universe is nothing compared to having to deal with a snotty teenager who thinks he knows everything, and whom you can’t toss out the nearest airlock because you’re trying to get in his mother’s pants. Awkward.
Q: Which is more irritating, tribbles or Ferengi?
KIRK: The Ferengi are okay, they remind me of my Uncle Wilbur. Tribbles can really annoy you, and they multipy faster than Romulian rabbits. God I hate those furry little creatures! Do you know that they ate five years worth of grain? Try exploring the universe without your daily fiber! I was constipated for three years. Damn Tribbles!
PICARD: Can I reuse my snotty teenager answer here?
Q: You’re approached by Q, who is feeling generous and unmalicious – what gift of ability do you ask him for?
KIRK: Ah Q. I heard John Luc complain of the guy. A gift? well for John Luc, he can give him the Shatner 2000, the most futuristic hairpiece in the universe. Oh, and ability. I was sidetracked with the Green Orion Slave woman…she was a barrel of fun. I guess if I met this Q guy I would ask for the ability to give those Green Orion Slave women an orgasm. Did I mention that they had two vaginas? Try giving one of those women an orgasm. They don’t need one orgasm, they need two, one for each vagina.
PICARD: I require no hairpiece, young man. I’m quite comfortable with my appearance. Besides, chicks dig the smoothness. As for a gift, if I was forced to limit myself to just one thing, it would be the ability to go back and correct certain mistakes I’ve made during the course of my life. Barring that, I’d settle for just being able to go back and hide the evidence and bury the goddamned bodies. Oh, and I’d ask Q to give Kirk that ointment for his rash, which seems to be flaring up just now.
By the way, Kirk…get with me after the show. I can teach you what you need to know about those Orion women. Two words: “Vulcan Shocker.”
CLICK ON ALL THE PICS OF THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE FOR AN ADDED BONUS FEATURE
I hate myself right now.
Not a desperate, self-loathing kind of hate- it’s more of an “ironic trombone” kind.
You see, I decided to trade my uber time-suck of a management job for something part-time in order to free myself up to write and blog and spout my personal irreverent form of rhetoric. This idea sounded good at the time, until I realized that it had been nearly fifteen years since my last job hunt and that I had technically already quit my job (my former boss said so. I asked him).
Now what I am left with is plenty of time not to write, but to search for my awesome new job that will not be an uber time-suck in disguise. So after a whole lot of hits and misses and a sketchy offer of a career in foot porn (my feet are adorable) this happened:
I discovered the Start-up Industry.
People, I love me some start-ups. I love everything about them. Anytime an individual applies passion, sacrifice and labor to their dream…baby, sign me up. I love the whole culture that surrounds start-ups; the energy, the enthusiasm, all that potential the creator just knows is there and the courage he or she musters simply to say, “I believe in myself and my ideas enough to try. I am worthy of the chance you take on me.” It’s the American dream at it’s finest. So why do I hate myself?
Because they aren’t my start-ups. They aren’t my dreams. Because I lack the courage to try.
I realized I made excuses for why I didn’t finish my second novel or didn’t make time to blog like I wanted or market my work as is always necessary. Yes, I had a demanding job and family, but more to the point, I lacked the courage to invest in myself. Instead I invested my time, passion, and energy elsewhere. The hardest part to admit is that I am no better off because of it. The proof of that thought is in my resume. Composing it felt like writing my own obituary; highlighting the accomplishments of a life gone by, extolling the virtues of someone who no longer existed. By the time I was finished I was wrecked.
But as is typical of me, I became sick of the sound of whining in my head and decided to adopt an entrepreneurial (thank you, spell check) spirit of my own. I decided not to look at my resume as an obituary, but as a high school graduation speech instead; a summary of what I’ve accomplished as well as what I am capable of accomplishing in the future, should someone decide to take a chance on me. I decided to invest my time equally in the job market as well as the publishing world. I realize the two won’t always be in balance, and I will have to sacrifice a bit here and there to make it all work, but I think it is finally time for me to take a chance on myself.
And if it doesn’t work out, I still have my feet.
I am officially traumatized.
I promised myself when I started this blog that I would never post pictures of myself, simply because I absolutely LOVE the fact that most people wonder if I am really a dude. The problem is that now even I am not so sure, because something has happened that has shaken me to my core.
People, I have found my twin.
It all started innocently enough this morning, with me at my computer putting the stories together for F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES. I had a tab open with YouTube as I always do, listening to music in the background. My Glee-obsessed daughter suggested I listen to a channel that featured songs the show had covered. One of the featured bands was Journey. Sounds innocent enough, right?
Call it fate or irony or twisted divine intervention, but for some reason I decided to pull up the background tab just as a video loaded on the cue; a video that will haunt me for the rest of my days. I stared in horror at what I thought was my reflection, the truth slowly dawning on me one terrifying, note-filled moment at a time. For you see ladies and gentlemen, I look incredibly, unbelievably, motherfuckingungodly similar to Steve Perry. Give him big boobs and a small nose and it’s me, in all of my sad, stuck-in-the-80’s glory. I even have that same top, I shit you not.
So for those of you who may have wondered what I look like, look no further. I look like Steve Perry. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to cash some cleverly forged royalty checks, right after I show this to HR Nightmare and do some REAL damage.
I am taking a rare free moment to honor the birthday of a truly great man and even greater Canadian;
Justin Beiber Archon’s Den!
As a resident of the Canadian Riviera (better known as “New England”) I live in awe of a country that possesses badass versions of all the things we admire ourselves for- moose, maple syrup, hockey, beer, WINTER.
We, as New Englanders, have developed a kind of a hero worship for Canadians because of it- sort of like the kid who thinks he’s good at baseball, but knows for a fact his big brother IS.
This is how I feel about my friend, Archon. He’s every bit the wordsmith and tale-teller I humbly attempt to be- not to mention that he has a heart the size of Canada itself.
Besides, anyone from the same country that gave us SCtv and RUSH isn’t going to be a hoser, eh?
For those of you who have yet to experience this curmudgeonly cunning linguist, click on the Archon-ic moose below for a sampling of one of the cleverest minds the Great White North has to offer. Until then…
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ARCHON!
Every so often there comes a moment when we see ourselves through another person’s eyes. Determining whether that’s good or bad depends entirely on what we see. Most of my epiphanies are delivered in the form of my sister telling me my ass looks fat in my jeans, whether I ask for her opinion or not.
Commentary on my fat ass or bad breath I can handle, but what I wasn’t prepared for was the reality of personal feedback in the form of reviews for my novella, Reapers With Issues.
Before I begin I’d like to state that every reader who reviewed my work negatively did not condemn me personally for what I’d written, despite not particularly enjoying the book. I’ve read reviews of other books where the reviewer took the author to task, and I am happy to say I’ve been blessed with a classy group of readers who didn’t feel the need to blast me.
I guess what confounds me most is that I expected there to be more blow back for subject matter. Portraying Jesus as a closet homosexual and writing a scene where Genghis Khan violates a shi-tzu wasn’t going to win me an audience with the Pope, and I knew that going in. I also prepared myself for a critique of the quality of the writing itself, which as it turns out I didn’t receive much of. What I did get was essentially the same question, asked in so many words, of what kind of person could conceive of the Reapers idea at all. Again, good or bad depends entirely on what we see.
[enter the dreaded introspection process]
The first thing I did was try to answer the question of what kind of person I am. Despite an obscene amount of navel-gazing I am no closer to that answer now than I was when I began. My motivation to write Reapers With Issues was just as strong and the subject matter just as easy to conceptualize as Gods of Asphalt’s was, so identifying a specific default in thinking didn’t pan out. The truth is that I’ve got a hundred different stories buzzing around in my head; everything from harmless children’s stories to British comedies to even more Reapers sequels (oddly there’s nothing milling around in there that remotely smacks of Erotica, but that’s a post for another day after an hour on a couch).
So after an even more shameless bought of self-contemplation I began to ask myself a different question, “Why do any of us write what we write?”
Do we choose our genre or subject matter because of who we are, or because of what we make of the world around us? I imagine it’s no coincidence that Reapers With Issues was written during the darkest hours of a friend’s battle with cancer, or that Gods of Asphalt was written while stuck in bed, listening to my two teenaged sons bicker amongst themselves and argue with their father.
It is also not lost on me that I wrote Reapers With Issues from a third-person point-of-view, allowing me to observe at a distance the story of a Reaper whose best efforts to gather souls are thwarted by a Savior, or that the overall theme of Gods of Asphalt is how brothers cope when their mother isn’t around.
I suppose in the end what we choose to write comes from the harmony of both who we are and what we see. I’ve learned that whether my writing is received as harmony or dischord depends entirely on who’s doing the reading, and no amount of alteration of my “music” will accommodate everyone.
For the record, I’m fine with that. I am a Jazz fan, after all.
It’s time once again to celebrate our favorite Brit’s birthday, Megan from VeryNormal!
I’ll admit to having a heck of a time trying to figure out how to top last year’s send off, but this year I think I’ve got it covered. When I imagined what I’d likely be doing if I were in England right now, the answer became instantly clear. Why I’d be drinking, of course. So this year I’ve decided to create a drink specifically for our Megan, and name it accordingly. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you:
The Induced American
Named because you will likely be driving on the wrong side of the road after you knock one of these babies back. Here’s the recipe:
Ingredients (sorry they aren’t metric)
1 very thin sliver habanero pepper (because she is so spicy!)
2 slices fresh ginger root (because I like her with red hair best)
1 1/2 fluid ounces gin (because gin is British)
3/4 fluid ounce lime juice (because…well, because I like lime juice)
1/2 fluid ounce simple syrup (because she is so sweet!)
1 cup ice cubes (just because)
Muddle habanero pepper slice and 2 slices fresh ginger together in a cocktail shaker until pulverized, about 20 seconds. Add gin, lime juice, simple syrup, and ice. Cover and shake until well chilled. Strain with a fine mesh strainer into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a thin slice of ginger on a toothpick. Drink a toast to Megan and the Queen!
Happy Birthday, Megan! Have a drink for me!
TO WISH MEGAN A HAPPY BIRTHDAY VISIT:
FOR THE FULL COCKTAIL LIST VISIT:
There is no easy way to deliver the sad news that our young friend, Libby, has lost her brave battle with cancer. On the evening of Sunday, March 17, Libby spent her last few hours mercifully free of pain, surrounded by the friends and family whom she so dearly loved.
I will admit to struggling for some time with the crafting of this post, wanting my words to do Libby’s life justice. I was desperate to seek out and find the good within the tragedy, to find meaning in the joyous birth, brief life, cruel illness and untimely death of this beautiful young girl. Twenty-four hours later and the words still struggle to come.
My first attempt at a post was meant to be a memorial to Libby’s life and her legacy of positivity despite adversity. Luckily for me I was blessed to know Libby personally, and as anyone who knew her well will tell you her positivity wasn’t hard to find. Both spirited and stubborn, quick-witted and compassionate, Libby’s energy and light drew in everyone around her.
Yet despite being a direct recipient of her love and energy, my words failed me. There just weren’t adjectives enough to describe all that Libby was in life. Every turn of phrase was deemed woefully inadequate. Naturally, I started over.
My next pass at a draft focused on the struggle to seek out the positive in loss, even a loss as tragic as the death of a child. I crafted nearly a page of generic comfort words, each sentence painting a picture that paled in comparison to the miracle that was Libby. Needless to say that draft never saw the light of day either.
I had all but given up when I decided to take a break and update Libby’s Wrists Around The World page, hoping to regroup and get a handle on just what it was I wanted to say. As I read down the list of names on her FRIENDS OF LIBSTRONG page and saw pictures in her GALLERY of wrists of people from all over the world, it hit me-
You. Me. All of us. WE are her legacy.
Strangers who with a click of a mouse became family. Writers who donated their work for her benefit. Readers who bought books for her cause. New friends the world over who donned wristbands and thought enough of a child thousands of miles away to carry her with them, to memorialize her struggle in a snapshot. It became clear to me in that one, glorious moment that the very best way to honor Libby and her life would be to live our lives well, to continue to give of ourselves freely, selflessly, and to demonstrate daily the good that resides in us all.
Libby’s bravery brought out the best in all of us. What better way is there to honor her than to do our very best everyday? As long as we are brave enough to answer that question, Libby’s life will have meaning. Libby, within us all, will live on.
Hello Everyone, it’s me, Hellis, live and in person. Well, in spirit. I’ve been away from our little corner of this virtual Utopia we call Blogworld because I’ve been spending time with the new love of my life. Yes, people I am in love, and have decided to use Edward Hotspur’s ROMANTIC MONDAY post as an opportunity to introduce him to my world.
The latest object of my affection is a man like no other; he is fun-loving, free-spirited and young at heart. His childlike innocence attracted me immediately and before I knew it I was hooked. Today I’d like to introduce you to the man who captured my heart and is sure to steal yours. Without further ado I give you…Randy Pan.
Now, before some of you start sending emails to a certain tall, SciFi-loving Cowboy let me explain. Randy isn’t your ordinary, everyday Pan-fan. He’s living his dream everyday in a way that shames me as a writer. It took me a year to work up the testicular fortitude to query agents with my GOA novel while this guy was laying it all out there for the world to see. There was no fear of judgment or harassment on his part. He exposed his life and his soul in an act of bravery that humbles me. And while I will admit that it is taking every bit of self-control to not mock the living shit out of this guy; I have decided a better use of my time would be to honor him here.
So here’s to you, Randy Pan. May your tights not chafe, may your loafers be light, and may every jock who beat you down in high school scratch himself to death because of a raging, unchecked venereal disease.
Yes, you are correct, it is my birthday. I know this to be true because I follow Edward Hotspur’s blog and El Guapo’s blog and Ginger’s blog and Sandy’s blog (as well as kind email wishes from Trask Avenue, LeClown, and many a sweet comment from my good friends John E. and PMAO). All better blogs than mine, because quite honestly I completely forgot it was my birthday until I read them. Wait…more to the truth I forgot again that it was my birthday since my kick-arse British friend Megan wished me a Happy Birthday the night before (suck it, HR and Elias. She beat you to it).
It’s been through these good people that I’ve made even more friends today, and perhaps have even sold a book or two. That being said, I am not sure mere words can describe what all your birthday wishes mean to me. Without knowing me personally, you may not understand what a Dickensian upbringing I had, and how kind words and well wishes I never received as a child mean the world to me now. You have all become my family, and I am grateful for each and every one of you. Thank you for sharing my day.
For those of you who may not know, there is a project underway called BLOGGERS FOR MOVEMBER that is geared to benefit Men’s health issues, both physical and mental. Spearheaded by LeClown, he has graciously offered his Black Box Warnings blog as a forum to bloggers who wish to share their struggles and successes. Today I have written a post that for me and my family has been a long time coming. I encourage everyone to stop by both Black Box Warnings and A Clown On Fire to support a worthy cause.
Thank you to all the men and women in uniform out there who protect, among many things, my First Amendment right to run my mouth. Your service to our country is greatly appreciated.
HAPPY VETERANS DAY!!!!
FOR A DAY OF PATRIOT THEMED POSTS VISIT SLICETHELIFE
My son Junior considers himself a burgeoning Political Science expert (read: Insufferable teenage know-it-all), so when I came across this brand new Editorial Policy on the contact page of the Krill Press website I immediately asked him for his opinion:
My take on this policy is that it borders on, if not downright defies, the First Amendment right to free speech. Junior, however, disagrees.
He states that as long as Krill Press is a for-profit enterprise that doesn’t receive monies from the government they can choose to publish or not publish anything or anyone they want to, and that the First Amendment protects their ability to do so. I didn’t see how that was plausible, so he took the time to look up and then cite the following:
The First Amendment does NOT protect the right to make or distribute obscene material. – Roth v. United States, 354 U.S. 476 (1957).
Junior believes this is the piece of our Constitution that justifies Krill Press’ editorial policy. He states that if Krill Press believes liberal content to be obscene, then they have the right to deny its publication.
He and I went round for round with this one, and in the end we agreed to disagree. His last statement to me was, “Just because you don’t like it, doesn’t make it wrong. There are some things that can’t be done and some things that shouldn’t.” Nothing like having your own words hurled back at you by your fifteen year-old kid.
At the end of it all I suppose I see his point, but there is something very distasteful in what I am reading above and I can’t put my finger on it. If anyone out there has any ideas, I’d love to hear them.
For the whole sordid story visit Krill Press. By the way, the misspelled words above were taken from the site exactly as is. I left them to prove a point.
The date was October 25, 1993. At the time I was watching television, indulging in fistful after fistful of candy corn (yes, I actually like those). I was nearly three months into my first pregnancy so the reality of dressing my swollen belly up for Halloween and partying the night away was out of the question. Well, it was for me anyway.
Enter Mikhail Vlakfeld, my future ex-husband, heading toward the door dressed as- you guessed it, a Vampire. With all the wisdom of an eighteen year old only four months into marriage, he opted to leave me home to go party with his friends.
Relegated to a night of sulking over my Uterine Bastille, I began flipping through channels until I stumbled upon a Vincent Price movie marathon. It was in that moment that I uttered the phrase that would come to haunt me for the next nineteen years:
“My God, isn’t that guy dead yet?”
Seems like a harmless enough phrase, right? Jump to the next morning and me opening the front door to find my future ex-husband passed out face down on the front step, drooling onto a newspaper with a headline that read:
Vincent Price- dead at 82 years old.
That’s right. Apparently at the exact moment I uttered the above phrase, the great Vincent Price keeled over dead. You better believe my family never lets me forget this happened. I wish they would because let me tell you, Vincent Price is NOT the guy you want to kill with the power of an ill-spoken phrase. I expect the afterlife will not be a pleasant place for me.
Now that I’ve got your attention I’d like to make you aware of an ongoing project I’ve been spearheading that I am hoping you’ll want to be a part of. It’s a project to benefit a cause that’s close to my heart called LIBSTRONG, a community of friends who have gathered together in support of Libby, a dear young friend who is battling cancer.
We’ve put together a surprise project called WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD not only to raise money but to raise her spirits as she battles her illness. Keep reading to find out what it’s all about and to learn how you too can be involved:
From the WATW site:
Our latest endeavor is called WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD- a fun global project designed for people everywhere to show their support for Libby and her battle against cancer. Bloggers and non-bloggers alike are invited to purchase her LIBSTRONG wristbands and then snap pictures of their wrists against an iconic landmark of their city, state or hometown. Once the photo is taken it is emailed to us and then posted to our GALLERY.
The message behind our project is to show the world how Libby’s strength and determination touch more than just those around her. Her positivity reaches around the world!
When sending a picture please include information noting where the picture was taken. We would be happy to post your name or a link to your blog, although that is not necessary and we will respect all wishes for anonymity. We are requesting snapshots be of wrists wearing wristbands only, so even the most camera shy supporter feels comfortable enough to be involved.
LIBSTRONG wristbands are available for sale individually or in package deals combined with items donated from various blog supporters. Visit our MAKE A DIFFERENCE page for information on how to purchase the package that’s right for you!
To be a part of WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD send your snapshot to:
I am asking my fellow bloggers everywhere to purchase at least one wristband not only to raise some much needed money for Libby’s cause, but to show her your support from your very own hometown. Package prices include shipping within the United States only. Since I would like the wristbands to actually go around the world, I would be willing to donate both of my ebooks for free to anyone outside of the United States who purchases even just one LIBSTRONG wristband to offset the cost of shipping which would be the responsibility of the purchaser.
As of the writing of this post, Libby doesn’t know about this project. We’d like to get as many pics around the world as possible and then reveal her site as a gift.
As for my part in the WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD project I’ve decided to donate both my REAPERS WITH ISSUES and THE GODS OF ASPHALT ebooks and paperbacks to be included in wristband package deals. I am also including the blog compilation project F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES for donation once it is completed. Each contributing author’s name of that work will receive an honorary mention on the FRIENDS OF LIBSTRONG page with links to their blogs.
Additionally, if you are an author you can contribute by donating your own books for package deals to be included on their site. For ebooks simply donate a free coupon for your book that others may purchase to raise money for our cause. For information on paperback donations, please contact firstname.lastname@example.org for more details.
Thank you everyone for taking the time to stop by Wrists Around The World!
People, I am disillusioned. No, I am more than that- I am traumatized. Because my innocent little British Sweetie Pie just wrote the raunchiest retelling of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves that I’ve ever read. Hang on to your caps chaps, because I bring you Snow White and the Seven Strippers??
“I am leaving tonight!” thought Snow as she packed her bags cautiously. All her step mother cared about was her father’s money and she got it when he passed away. Snow knew the woman was jealous but banning her from going to university, this was a whole new low! Any boy Snow brought home her step mother convinced her they didn’t like her and Snow had never had a proper relationship. Leaving was the only way she could live her life how she wanted.
As Snow stormed past the beautiful ruby Red Mercedes Mclaren SLR her father had bought her for her seventeenth birthday, she backtracked for a moment. It was hard to leave when you had everything but she couldn’t stay for luxuries. Snow tapped the car and forced herself to leave. Marching down the street Snow bumped into a street advertiser who offered her a leaflet. It read ‘New VIP Bar Opening Tonight, All Drinks £1” she thought for a moment. Her step-mother had never let her go clubbing. Snow was going to do it; she was going to get smashed!!
Snow walked up to the new bar and walked through the doors; she stormed straight to the bar and asked the bartender for a double vodka and cola because that is what her step-mother ordered when she wanted to get drunk. She took the drink and gulped it down in one. She smiled; she had never felt this free before.
A friend from University was sitting across the bar, Snow couldn’t remember her name but she ordered another drink, downed it and walked over to her friend “WANT TO DANCE,” she shouted but the girl couldn’t hear her, then Snow remembered her name was Zoe, Snow walked closer to her and said “Zoe, do you wanna dance?” Zoe smiled and said “Yes actually, I have been stood up and could do with a friend,” Snow led her to the dance floor and they started dancing. They were shortly joined by a very good looking man who passed them a leaflet “I would love you girls to join us later,” he said before winking and walked over to another crowd of girls. The man had jet black hair and beautiful blue eyes; he had stubble on his face and walked around the club with a cheeky smile. The leaflet said “TIME OF YOUR LIFE, a club with a difference,” Zoe looked at Snow and pointed at the opening times “It doesn’t open till eleven,” Snow looked at her diamond incrusted watch and it was only nine but she was determined to have a good time “Let’s get plenty to drink before then,” she said pulling Zoe back towards the bar. At 11:30, Snow and Zoe stumbled to ‘time of your life’. Snow looked at the man at the booth at the door and said “How much do you want?” the man laughed and said “The shows has already started but if you still wanna go in its £15 each,” Snow passed the man £100 and said “Keep the change,” Zoe giggle as they walked into the club barely holding each other up. They were both shocked when they walked into a revamped theatre; they took a seat at the back near the bar and waited for the next part of the show to start.
A tall, gorgeous lady walked onto the stage and said “I hope you ladies enjoyed the first act but now onto the second, you all know this guy, give it up for Friendly!!” The women around them screamed in anticipation. A woman next to Snow had a huge stack of five pound notes on the table in front of her so Snow presumed she knew what was going on. Suddenly a beautiful man’s voice sang “You know I know how, to make them stop and share as I zone out,” he slowly danced onto the stage in a suit and took his jacket off “The club can’t even handle me right now,” as he stopped singing the women went wild. Snow had never seen anything like this but she was captured by what she was seeing.
“Watch you, watching me I go all out,” he sang as he sat on the edge of the stage and the women closest to him stroked his muscly chest and abs. “The club can’t even handle me right now,” he finished singing and the music started. He started dancing but really dancing, he was amazing. His shagging blond hair was dancing with him and his muscle rippled as he delivered every move with passion and precision. He slid across the stage and jumped onto a girls lap, he was dancing on her and she was gridding on him. He jumped onto the table and ripped his pants off. Snows jaw dropped as he used his hat to cover his dignity. As he left the stage the women came back on and said “Did everyone enjoy that?” Snow was too shocked too scream and she needed another drink. As she sat back in her seat, the most beautiful man she had ever seen stepped onto the stage in a camouflage trousers and a white vest top. The white vest top didn’t leave much to the imagination as all of his muscles protruded through the material. He man danced down the ales of the theatre, pulling girls to their feet and dancing with them. Snow bit her lip as he dance towards her, he was her perfection. He had dark hair and dark eyes. As he danced back towards the stage, women sighed and pleaded for him to dance with them.
Seven acts and nine shot later, Snow was on cloud nine. As the club emptied Snow found a nice comfortable bit of concrete and fell asleep.
“We should really wake her up,” said Flirty as he stared at the beautiful girl asleep on the road. Frisky nodded at him and kicked her. Flirty shot him an angry look but Frisky simply shrugged back. The girl looked around and realised she was asleep on the road outside a strip club. Her hair was stuck up in the air and her clothes were on backwards (Meaning at some point last night she must have taken them off). Flirty looked her up and down, he didn’t know what to say. “Are you alright?” Frisky said as the girl squinted at them both. She looked at him but the only thing she could remember from the night before was running away from home. She was confused but asked “Do you have a place for me to stay?” Flirty and Frisky were taken back, Frisky shook his head “Erm no, no girls allowed,” but Flirty had a different idea. “How long do you want to stay?” Flirty said before Frisky could stop him. The girl fluttered her eyelashes and said “Only till I can find myself a place,” Flirty smiled and added “What is your name?” the girl blushed “Snow White,” she whispered in embarrassment, Flirty smiled “I am Flirty and this is Frisky,” The girl looked at the both before nodding. Frisky pointed down the street and said “Come on then.”
Snow slowly realised she was going home with too strapping young men. She started staring at them and taking in their feathers. Flirty was tall, dark and handsome but Frisky had long brown hair and rough stubble on his face. When they arrived at the block of flats, Snow asked “Which one is yours?” the men turned around and smiled, Frisky answered “All of them, all seven flats,”
“For all seven men,” Flirty added with a big grin on his face. Snow suddenly felt warn inside, seven absolutely gorgeous men in one building, she was glad she ran away from home.
Snow placed the one bag she had with her on the table and sat on the sofa. The flats looked awful from the outside, dull and run down but on the inside they were luxurious. Snow wondered why the men lived here and how they got the money for such expensive things but she didn’t want to be rude and ask. Flirty walked in the room with another man with Blond hair and striking green eyes, he was very muscly and very attractive. He walked over to Snow and said “I am Friendly, please to meet you,” Snow just nodded but she had a feeling she had seen him before. He blushed and sat on the other sofa, Flirty looked at Snow and said “You will have to come to work with us, Fancy doesn’t want you here alone but I think I have a job you can do,” He winked which also seemed familiar to Snow. Flirty got his car keys and encourage the others to show Snow to the car. Snow was in the car with Flirty, Frisky and Friendly but she was told that Funny, Fancy, Funky and Fizzy were in the other car.
When they reached the place they had called work, Snow noticed it was a dance studio. They walked into a huge studio and Snow sighed at her reflection straight away. Her usually neat hair was all over the pace, she combed it with her fingers back into a Black bob it usually was and felt instantly better. As soon as Friendly started dancing, Snows memories from the night before came flooding back “OMG YOU’RE MALE STRIPPERS!” she screamed as the seven men stared at her. The men just laughed “I am guessing you can now remember last night then,” Funny said as he finished laughing “No,” Snow answered and she was mortified. Flirty looked at her and said “You stayed after the show and was drinking with us, you were telling us what you would do to us behind closed doors, and you were being pretty…”
“Erotic,” added Frisky as Flirty struggle to finish his sentence. Snow was shocked; she was not usually like this at all. Flirty looked at her “Our front lady quit last night, I though you could fill in for her,” he whispered as reality suddenly dawned over Snow and she turned to leave. Fancy, one of the wiser of the young men then stepped up and said “Look Snow, you came here looking for something else, you ran away from home and you have nothing to go back too, it’s do or die for you so why don’t you just give it a shot?” Fancy’s word rung in Snows ears. Snow had gone from being a pampered princess to being a widow’s slave, a life which she only ran away from last night and was willing to go back already. She needed to prove to herself that she didn’t need that life, that she could earn money for herself, she turned around and nodded at fancy
“Yes, you’re right,” she said and the men smiled “Welcome to the team,” Fancy stated before handing her over to Funky who was going to teach her the ropes. Funky had short curly ginger hair and lovely blue eyes, he seemed to be shy compared to the other but the man could dance, all the men could dance!
The first thing Funky did was pull out a costume, it was a sexy ringmistress costume and it was lovely. The jacket was blue, the waistcoat was yellow, and it had a white shirt, it also came with black skin tight shorts. When snow tried it on and she felt absolutely amazing. Flirty wolf whistled from the back of the studio as Snow studied herself in the mirror. Funky then went through how the night flows. Funky sat down next to Snow as she watched the men rehears “We open Thursday, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, 11:00 till 2 but the show is only 11:15 till 12:45, Ten minutes per set, opening, all seven of our acts and a closing set, go it,” Funky said and Snow nodded, Funky watched as Snow seemed mesmerised by the dancing the men were doing. He looked at her and said “Can you dance Snow?” she shook her head and said “My dad took me out of dance classes when I was younger and pushed me into maths,”
“Did you still want to dance?” Snow turned to look at Funky but didn’t reply. Funky dropped it and continued teaching Snow “So your job is to introduce us and keep the crowd pumped so they give us more tips,” she nodded and Funky went to join the others rehearsing.
Flirty ran over to Snow, pulled her up and said “We are finished now and better go get ready for tonight,” Flirty pulled her really close and Snow could fell his muscles on her body, she didn’t want to admit how aroused Flirty made her feel but he was perfect. Flirty turned and walk away as if he knew she would follow, as if he knew he had her screaming for him on the inside.
Friendly walked out to the car with Snow and she wanted to know more about the man who had fascinated her so much the night before. “You are an amazing dancer,” She said trying to start up a conversation with him “Thank you,” He said before blushing. Snow was amazed by his modesty; she didn’t think he knew how good he was. “As dancers go, I think you are one of the best I have ever seen,” Friendly shook his head “The women don’t come to see me dance, they come to watch me take my clothes off and then they push for me to take them home to fulfil their fantasies,” Friendly said while getting in the car. This filled Snows head with more questions “Do any off you have girlfriends?” the three men in the car shook their heads “Who you want to share your boyfriend with hundreds of other women?” said Frisky with a smiled on his face. Flirty shook his head “Frisky likes to take his fans home and give them what they want, Friendly and I stopped doing that a long time ago,”
“Why did you stop?” Snow asked.
“Because women come home with us, get everything they want, a night of passion and pleasure then in the morning they go back to reality, a family, a husband and a perfect life, they just use us to live on the edge for one night,” Friendly said with heavy heart. “They want more, I give them more, its how I want to live and it keeps me full,” Frisky said, he said those words in a like he was a hunter and women with dull and repetitive sex lives were the pray, he finished his sentence with “I aim to please,” and chuckled all the way back to the flats. The men spent the rest of the afternoon getting costumes ready and packing the car but Flirty took time out too come see Snow who was having a nap ready to stay up most of the night.
Flirty gently knocked on the door and walked into the room topless. His muscles rippled as he moved and this made something inside of Snow sing. Flirty sat on the bed next to Snow and she sat up straight so she was fact to face with him, his gorgeous brown eyes gazed into hers as he said “We are setting off soon, I thought you might want to get ready,” Snow smiled at him but what she really wanted to do was just jump on him. Snow was very caged at home, she had only ever kissed a boy when she was younger and she hadn’t really thought about it since but these men turned her on, they really set her going and she had to think twice about kiss Flirty. Flirty react over Snow to open a draw on the night table. He pulled put a wallet and slowly brushed his hand against Snows legs as he put the wallet in his pocket, if she was going to do it, she was going to have to do it now. Snow lent in really close to Flirty’s lips and bit hers, to do it or not but Flirty took things into his own hands and kissed her. She was shocked at first but as he licked her lips with his tongue she started to relax. Wearing only one of Flirty’s old shirts Snow was already half naked and Flirty took advantage of that rubbing his hands all over her body, teasing and pleasing her until she wanted to beg for him to do it, to just fuck her but he had other ideas. He slowly got up and started walking away “What are you doing?” said Snow disappointing and pining for more “If I just gave it to you, the excitement is lost; I have to keep up the tempo,” he whispered before walking out.
Snow got dress into jeans and a t-shirt ready for the car ride to the Club, when she walked out onto the street she realised an ex-boyfriend shouting her. She walked up to him and asked “What are you doing here?”
“Your step mother wants you to come home,” He replied as he opened the car door. Snow shook her head and walked away “You don’t belong here Snow,” the Ex shouted “You are from a land of millionaires and socialites, this is a few pounds and drop outs,”
“Everyone can change,” Snow shouted back as the Ex got in the car and slammed his door.
Snow washed her face in the toilets before the show; she was really nervous and didn’t want to go out onto the stage. She saw a shadow behind her and she turned around. It was only Flirty, he picked her up and pinned her against the wall, Snow could feel something hard pressing against her legs and it was making her excited. Flirty kissed her and Snow kissed him back, slipping her tongue in and out of his month gently. Flirty was struggling to contain himself and pressed her harder against the wall. He placed his hand on her thigh and slowly stroked her up to the top of her legs, just before he used his fingers to stroke her insides Flirty backed off. He placed her back on the floor and gently kissed her on the forehead “See you after the show Snow,” he said before giving her a cheeky smile and leaving her desperate for him.
Snow leapt onto the stage and shouted to the rowdy audience “Are you ready ladies?” they screams as they knew what was coming. Snow was dazed by all the women, there were hundred and they were all waning one things, these seven men to take their clothes off for them. As the seven men ran onto the stage in their cowboy uniforms, the women screamed even louder and threw money onto the stage. Women stood up from out their seats just to get a touch of the men or an acknowledging wink. All the women wanted to be danced with as the men picked women out the crowd. This was what they paid for. All night the women were throwing money at the seven men and all night Snow had her eyes on her prize, she wanted Flirty and she wanted him bad.
When they finally got back to the flats, some of the men had invited women to come back with them and hurried into their bedrooms. Friend said goodnight and walked into his room alone. Once Flirty and Snow were alone he picked her up and walked into the bedroom with her in his arms. When he got to the bedroom he threw her down on the bed and took his shirt off, his beautiful body was something he used to turn ladies on and it worked at charm with Snow. She lay back on the bed and waited for him to crawl on top of her. He hovered over her and pulled her top off, and then he kissed all the way up to her lips before rest his body on top of hers. Snow smiled with delight as he kissed and nibbled on her neck and pushed his hips against hers. He pressed the hard bulge in his pants against her jeans which she just wanted to rip off. Somehow Flirty seemed to know what Snow wanted and he pulled down her jeans in hast while she unbuckled his belt and threw it to the ground allowing for his jeans to just slide off. At this point Snow was ready to beg for it, which gave her an Idea. She stood him up and got on her knees, now this she had never done before but she was ready to give it a try, she downed his boxers and exposed the only part of Flirty that the women at the club didn’t see. She took it in her hand and slowly paced it into her mouth. When she looked up, Flirty had the biggest grin on his face. This was what made men happy. The fact that snow was completely naked and giving a man a blow job that she had only met two days ago didn’t embarrass her, it excited her! She could defiantly get used to this new life. As Flirty started to find it hard to hold onto his load he pulled her up and kissed her quickly, he pushed her onto the bed and stroked her with his fingers. She didn’t know what to do, she wanted to scream and just before she did Flirty filled her mouth with his tongue and gave her something to concentrate on other than the pleasure she was feeling. As she felt the pleasure growing inside her Flirty placed himself inside her, just a little bit at first, he trusted slowly and gently but when he felt Snows muscles relax he got faster and harder. Snow felt the pleasure bubble over inside and she let out a little whimper. Flirty smiled before dropping onto the bed next to her. Snow rolled over and hugged him, they fell to sleep and Snow was happy for once.
The next morning Snow woke up but the men were gone. Flirty had left her a note on his mirror “Make yourself at home, we will be back after rehearsal” Snow sat in the living area and turned on the TV. Suddenly there was a buzz from the door. Snow walked up to the intercom and asked who it was “Snow it’s me, we need to talk,” The sound of her step-mothers voice tore through Snow like a hurricane but she knew she had to let her in, so she did.
Snows step mother sat across from her and said “I will make us some coffee,” Snow just let her do it because she knew she wasn’t going to go home with her. Snow took a sip from the drink her step mother had given her and immediately felt funny, before she knew it Snow blacked out.
When the men got home they found the door open and they ran inside. They found Snow on the floor and instantly took her to the hospital. The doctor told the Seven Strippers that Snow White had been drugged and she might never wake up. The other men left Flirty to watch over her while they piece together what had happened at the flats. While Snow was unconscious, the seven men pieced together what had happened and her step-mother was arrested. After 3 months the doctors discussed how unethical it was too keep Snow White on life support and decided to turn it off. Flirty walked in the room and said goodbye to Snow. “I hope you can hear me Snow because I want you to wake up, I was to talk to you again, I want to watch you dance and I want to make your life better, please just wake up,” Flirty kissed her on the lips and walked to excite the room. Unexpectedly with a cough, Snow uttered the words “I am awake,” Flirty spun around filled with joy. The doctors ran into the room followed by the other six strippers. The doctors looked at each other “This has never happened before,” they mumbled between themselves.
When Snow was finally allowed home, she couldn’t feel anymore content with going home with the seven strippers.
Snow and Flirty lived happily for around two weeks before a new act joined the group called Prince Charming and Snow fell madly in love with him. It turns out that Prince Charming was happy to share and Snow got the best of both worlds.
She was a very happy girl!!
At first you’re thinking of writing a novel and you’re all…
But then you have an idea!
And you go…
But then you hit page 50 and you’re all….
And then you hit page 75 and you’re all…
But you power through!!
And then you’re finished!!! You have finished a novel!!
Only then find out you have to start querying agents.
So you write your query letter…
You obsess over it…
And then you send it out to agents and you’re all…
Then a couple of days go by and you’re all…
But then you hear from your first agent!! And you’re all…
And it’s a rejection. But it’s just your first one so you’re all…
Then you get a few more and it’s more like…
But then! An agent calls! And they love your work! They want to represent you! And inside you’re like…
But you don’t want your agent to think you’re crazy so instead you’re like…
And you love your agent! When you say “yes” you want to…
But instead you go…
And then it’s time to submit to publishers. You are back on submission, and you’re like…
Then the editors start saying….
And your inbox starts looking like…
But then your phone says your agent is calling. And you want to be like…
But instead it’s more like…
And it’s an offer! You have an offer! And you feel like…
And then you go celebrate with your friends and they’re all…
And on the car ride home you’re still like…
But it’s time for revisions. And you pretend you know what you’re doing…
And it’s back to…
But then you’re done! You’re really really done! Only your book doesn’t come out for another year. And so you’re like…
You get your cover and you’re all…
But then publication day approaches! And your reviews start coming out and it kind of feels like…
But some of them are good! And you’re like…
And then your book is out there! People are reading your book!
And it feels pretty good!
And there’s only one thing to do. Start the whole thing over again.
Somebody pinch me because I must be dreaming. It seems our very first F*CKED UP FAIRY TALE has come in! Thanks to my ever trashy but always wise blogmate Kevin Jorenby of TRAILERTRASHDELUXE fame, we are treated to a fairy tale every bit as f*cked up as promised. Ladies and gentlemen, please to enjoy…KRISTERELLA!
Kristerella awoke and stretched to the pleasant sounds of birds singing a happy tune. Her head was thick from last night’s debauchery, but still she felt okay all in all. She laid her head back down and soon was dreaming about her “main squeeze”, R-Patsy; he was just about to enter her when: “Cock-a-doodle-doo!!” went the damn rooster.
“Ohhh, that cock”, she lamented, “always waking me up when I get to the good part.” Then she remembered a little of last night’s “after-party” with R-Patsy. “Ohhhh, that cock”, she purred this time. A little smile broke across her face at the recollection. “Ouch”, she said, as her facial muscles, unaccustomed to smiling, or any emotion at all for that matter, entered unfamiliar territory. She’d had small parts in the village plays, but never showed emotion in any of them. Her vaguely good looks, and the fact that everyone felt bad about her orphaned status, were all that kept getting her roles. Oh, there were some nasty rumors going around that she was overly friendly to the play director, and R-Patsy’s feelings were hurt by this, but Kristerella assured him, and anyone else who asked, that nothing much really happened and she still loved R-Patsy.
The thought of smiling made her sit bolt upright in her shabby straw bed. She hid her face in her hands as she recalled more embarrassing details of last night. She dimly recalled laughing at one of the jokes that one of her “backup squeezes” had told (was it Mandingo? or Bubba? she couldn’t remember; one was black and one was white, but all she knew and cared about was that they were both sure-handed coachmen and sure good lovers, and they always had weed).
“Please tell me I didn’t show emotion,” she sighed into her hands, “I just can not show emotion.” Her father had taught her that showing emotion was for common folk, just as he had shown her how to pick the best pot, just before he was murdered by a rival drug gang. She hadn’t kept up the family business, but she kept some of her dad’s connections, and either “traded favors” for enough weed to get her by, or scrounged together enough allowance from taking care of her mean-ass stepmother and ugly-ass stepsisters, to buy enough to keep her happy. She loved sitting on the front porch when she thought no one was watching and getting high. She also got a little income from a deal she had worked out with the mice, fencing things they stole from the ugly stepsisters.
God, but those were some ugly women. Her stepmother had probably been sort of striking in her younger days, but her features were a little too sharp to be considered beautiful or even pretty. The relentless aging process, as well as her unbridled greed, had taken away any pleasantness about her features, giving her a permanent, ugly scowl. That is, except for when she felt like she was “putting one over” on someone, then she got this hideous satisfied smug look on her face, like one would get if they thought they’d denied someone their favorite shoes or something. As for the stepsisters, they were a new and improved kind of ugly. Kristerella, for the life of her, couldn’t figure out why God decided to strap a pair of vaginas on as homely and dumpy a couple of bodies as were ever formed. Their mom was bad enough, but their dad must have made Sasquatch look like the royal Prince.
Oh, the Prince. She would love to get a piece of that. If R-Patsy only knew how she felt about the Prince, he’d really whine like a little baby. It wasn’t just the money, the position, the way he could dance and sing; it was, more than anything else, the way he played the lute. He did a lute solo during his song “When Dodo Birds Cry”, that sent her through the roof.
“Speaking of birds”, she thought to herself. She took a couple quick hits off her pipe, threw the covers off her nude body, moved down and put her legs up on the footboard of her bed, and clapped twice. Seemingly from everywhere, mice and birds appeared. The birds first grabbed a sponge out of the wash-basin, dipped it in a huge bowl of honey, and flew in tandem over her body, squeezing out the honey-filled sponge all over her. The mice spread the honey around on her and nibbled playfully at her neck, her nipples, and the entrance to her own honeypot. Once the birds were done with the honey, they lined up in the rafters of her little garret. At a whistled cue from the lead bird, they took off and lined up in an attack formation, diving down from the rafters and swooping in and out of her gaping gash, fluttering their wings at the entrance, like she had taught them to. After a few minutes of this, she clapped her hands again, the birds and mice all backed off, and she shoved the giant heel of a glass slipper inside herself, crying out, “Oh my Puhrincccce!!!!” as she shuddered mightily in ecstasy.
Completely satisfied, Kristerella giggled a little stoned giggle, thinking to herself: “If R-Pats only knew who I really wanted.” Then a horrible thought occurred to her–“Oh my God, he better have pulled out last night. I don’t want to pop out a kid with that big fucking ugly forehead like R-Patsy has. I mean, his eyes and his body drive me crazy, but that forehead is Uggggg-leee.” “And the little bastard’s head would probably tear me in two coming out, if he has that same freaky forehead. And where is he anyway?”
She got up and went to the window. “Oh, now I get it”, she exclaimed. There was a long, bright yellow rope hanging all the way down to the top part of the lower floor of the decaying manor house, the house that her pops had lovingly built up and Old Wartface herself had hatefully let go to rot while she spoiled the Ugly Twins with the last of her dad’s money, drug money that was rightfully Kristerella’s. The rope was actually braided together out of human hair, from her longtime rival for R-Patsy’s affections, her slut of a distant cousin, the bitch that Kristerella liked to lovingly call “Ra-Cunt-Zel”, an even bigger pothead than Kristerella, who sold half of her hair years ago to Kristerella’s dad to pay for a couple pounds of weed. The shit was so straw-like already from too much blonde hair dye, that it made a very sturdy rope. Kristerella had to hand it to R-Patsy–he only needed to use the rope for the steepest part at the top of the house, the last section going up to Kristerella’s room, and the lower part he scaled like he was some sort of vampire or something.
After the birds and the mice helped her dress, Kristerella made her way down the long stairway toward the second-floor bedrooms of the Uglies. On the way down, she spied a disgustingly obese mouse which she promptly named Gus, since she was a big “Lonesome Do-do bird” fan. She put some undersized clothes on him so that everyone could ridicule his obesity even more. She made Jean-Luc, the lead thief in her gang of mice-thieves, explain to Gus that if he wanted to keep on salting away the table scraps he’d have to pull his considerable weight as a thief.
She cracked open the door to her evil Stepmother’s room, the smell of the old lady’s gas nearly knocking her down in the process. She whispered for the nasty cat, Aguilera, to follow her down to the kitchen for breakfast. When they reached the kitchen, Kristerella started a fire in the woodstove while Aguilera farted, stretched, screeched some awful high noises, waved her paws oddly up and down as she screeched, then plopped down on the rug and promptly fell asleep. The horse and the dog, two of the dumbest creatures Kristerella had ever met, but who magically seemed to communicate, with short neighs and barks, complicated messages to each other whenever the birds told them someone in the house needed rescuing, were sleeping in the morning sun. The mice all came out and stole most of the corn from the chickens in the yard, pooled their strength and stole a broom off the wall, and bashed Aguilera over the head with it, just for fun.
The mean stepmom and the ugly stepsisters all finally woke up and rang their bells for breakfast. Kristerella made them wait while she smoked a couple joints, blowing pot smoke into the nostrils of the unconscious Aguilera. After a while, she tired of this and took the now-lukewarm porridge and tea up to the bitches, the now-groggily awake Aguilera close behind. Aguilera spied Gus hiding under a teacup, grabbed him and threw him at the ugliest sister, who shrieked at her mother. The evil stepmother then gave Kristerella 3 days worth of work to do before lunch, as punishment. Kristerella didn’t care; she had plenty of weed, and the stepmother would be too busy trying to make ladies out of her clumsy, ugly daughters to bother checking on Kristerella’s work. She still found time to beat Aguilera with her mop bucket, though.
As she was busy cleaning, Kristerella heard a knock on the door. It was a representative from the royal palace, inviting all the women from the household to a ball in honor of the Prince that night. The King was worried that the Prince was a little “light in the loafers”, since all he wanted to do was ride horses, play the lute, and dress in frilly purple sportcoats, so he made the Duke organize a dance so that the Prince could find a mate.
Kristerella took the note up to the so-called “music room”, where the step-mother was assaulting the piano in accompaniment to the Ugly Twins doing their best to out-screech Aguilera. “At least Aguilera’s screeching is usually in tune”, sighed Kristerella as she opened the door. She interrupted the Uglies in what appeared to be some sort of sisterly foreplay. Kristerella would’ve steamed open the letter, but the King’s official seal was on it, and she dared not break that. Besides, when she had snuck out earlier for a midmorning puff, she ran into Bubba, who’d told her about the royal ball. He’d heard it from the widow lady down the lane, the one who lived in a shoe (which she called “The Shaq” for some reason) and who traded Bubba killer blowjobs for his killer “chronic”, so that she could keep her sanity while raising 23 of the laziest kids on the planet (except for the ugly stepsisters, that is). The old woman was sending all 9 of her daughters that were over the age of 11 to the ball, along with one of her sons, Percy, who liked to design and sew all his sister’s clothes (“if you know what I mean”, she’d say), “just in case”, since, like everyone else, she’d heard the rumors about the Prince. It was really assumed that Percy would go anyway, even though the ball was for young ladies and their adult chaperones, because he had designed most of the gowns in the kingdom, and treated all the dances as if they were his own personal fashion show. His mother was pretty redneck about Percy, but she had to admit that he had the only ambition in the whole bunch, and his dress designs brought in much-needed income. Percy’s “gaydar” didn’t really go off around the Prince, but he, like Kristerella, had many fantasies about the Prince and held out hopes that perhaps one day he could convince the Prince to “bat for the other side”. Besides, he had a purple paisley sportcoat that he knew the Prince would like.
Kristerella quietly stood while her mean stepmother read aloud the note about that night’s upcoming ball. The ugly stepsisters snorted and farted gracelessly with homely excitement as their mother tried to calm them down, fully realizing that it would take the whole 10 hours to try to scrape off the outer layer of ugly and make them marginally presentable. Still, even a bitchy mother can dream.
“What are you looking at, ‘Second-hand Rose'”?, sneered the ugliest sister, setting both of them into gales of clumsy, snotting, spitting, choking laughter. Kristerella did get their hand-me-downs, and got some cash too, from the clothes and jewelry (that the stepsisters forgot they had, or didn’t like but thought they were in too good a shape to give to the hated Kristerella) stolen by Jean-Luc and his gang of mice-thieves, right out of their closets.
“Surely I can go to the ball too,” cried Kristerella. She was bound and determined to get the Prince out of his paisley knickers for real, not just in fantasy. Her mean stepmother agreed that, if Kristerella remodelled the entire west wing of the manor, and resodded 5 acres of lawn, she could go to the ball also.
Kristerella quickly went to the stables and serviced both Bubba and Mandingo in exchange for a buzz and their help with the extra work. She then beat the birds and mice mercilessly, forcing them to resew her late mother’s frumpy old gown and to steal some jewelry and accessories from the ugly stepsisters to complete her outfit. Her plan worked beautifully until she made the mistake of modelling her outfit in front of her evil stepmother and her ugly stepsisters. It just so happened that the sheriff, who once upon a time had a little affair with Kristerella’s evil stepmother during her first marriage, chose that moment to stop by and bring some zucchini. The evil stepmother, even as she was making eyes at the sheriff, spied some parts of Kristerella’s outfit that looked familiar. She pointed them out to the dimwitted stepsisters, who slooooowly realized that the items had been stolen from them. They demanded the sheriff immediately arrest Kristerella for receiving stolen goods; he hauled her off to jail.
As luck would have it, another distant relative of Kristerella’s, Magda, was in jail doing time for insider stock trading. Magda could do magical things in the home; people used to say she could “make a tea party out of a horse turd.” In return for Bubba throwing some weed to her through the jail’s outside window, Magda took some old rags that happened to be lying around in the jail cell and sewed them into a fine gown that would’ve made Percy proud. Before she had gone off with the sheriff, Kristerella had managed to whisper to Mandingo, who was standing nearby, that she would be ever-so-grateful if he’d bring her glass slippers to the jail so that she’d have something to do that night. Mandingo rolled his eyes at her nymphomania, but complied anyway. The slippers, and some spangles and jewelry taken off a nearby passed-out “lady of the evening” in the same cell (who’d made the mistake of being so drunk that she propositioned the parson in front of his wife) completed the outfit. Mandingo and Bubba, being close friends of all the “shoe” family, convinced a couple of the oldest daughters to stop by the jail and model their gowns for the sheriff. Mandingo then stole the cell keys while the sheriff was thus distracted, freeing Kristerella. Meanwhile Bubba laced the sheriff’s pipe tobacco with some powerful weed. The sheriff, unaccustomed to the stuff, lit up a bowl, took a few puffs, and slept for 24 hours. The “shoe” girls, being used to doing each other’s hair and makeup, slightly altered Kristerella’s hair and makeup, knowing that would be enough to fool the dimwitted stepsisters at the ball; they had to rely on the dim lighting at the ball to help fool the evil stepmother.
The ball went as you would imagine; the Prince shuddered at the raw ugliness of Kristerella’s stepsisters, which caused Kristerella to wonder how the Prince would look shuddering in ecstasy with her, and the Prince took one look at Kristerella and fell in love. R-Patsy (who unbeknownst to everyone was way older than he looked) had suffered a heart attack while climbing down from his 3-hour performance with Kristerella the night before, and fallen to his death, hidden in the ivy until found several days later by the dog, and was a nonfactor in the rest of this tale. The Prince and Kristerella danced for hours, then slipped outside for a quickie on the footbridge in the moonlight. They pledged their undying love for each other and Kristerella showed the Prince how to pleasure her with the heels of her glass slippers, which she’d had custom-made to resemble a sizeable dildo. After awhile they decided they should go back in, as it was getting late. At precisely midnight, one of the servants, who had been playing catch with his friend with garden produce, accidentally beaned the evil stepmother in the head with a pumpkin. As the stepmother shook her head to clear it, her evil ugly eyes lit on the Prince’s new flame, who she suddenly realized was her servant girl, her late husband’s daughter Kristerella. She cried out “Thief, thief! Get her–she must have escaped from the jail.” Kristerella ran off, breaking a jagged piece off one of her dildo-heels in the process, which the Duke promptly picked up.
The next day, the King sent the Duke to match up the broken piece of dildo with the rest of the heel of the slipper. Only the King, the Prince, the Duke and, of course, Kristerella knew that the pieces were part of the slipper, not just some random dildo. The Duke travelled the kingdom with the broken piece, claiming to have found it at the ball, and that the Prince really wanted to meet the woman who had the most similar dildo to it. The Duke had to inspect dildoes of all sizes and shapes. When he got to the house of Kristerella and her stepfamily, he found that the stepsisters had dildoes as ugly as their owners. Meanwhile, the evil stepmother had found Kristerella hiding in the wardrobe in her room, locked her in, and hid the key in her pocket. Gus and Jean-Luc managed to steal it, but Gus had a heart attack and died on the way up to bring it to Kristerella.
Aguilera, who found that she now loved pot almost as much as Kristerella did, was high as a kite, singing and moving her paws oddly up and down on the stairs up to Kristerella’s room. She thought Jean-Luc was a toy, so she started to toss him and the key up in the air. The birds saw this, quickly realized what was going on, and somehow magically passed this information on to the horse, who with one loud whinny, magically passed the entire story written down here to the dog, who dashed into the manor, up the stairs, scared away Aguilera, grabbed Jean-Luc and the key in his jaws (instantly breaking Jean-Luc’s back and killing him) and delivered a slobbery key and a dead mouse under Kristerella’s door. She ran downstairs to show the Duke her broken slipper, but of course the evil stepmother tripped her, causing the slipper to fall to the floor and break into a thousand little pieces. Kristerella wiped the smug smirk off the evil stepmother’s face by producing the other slipper, identical dildo-heel and all, to the Duke.
Kristerella and the Prince lived happily ever after, until he moved her to a place later called Minneapolis, where he did nothing but write songs for his lute, and became so in love with himself that she dumped him. The stepsisters and stepmother became so lazy and despondent that they laid in bed all day, until an earthquake happened one day, further breaking down the decaying manor, and stirring up so much mouse piss and so many mouse droppings (from the vermin that Kristerella had used as partners in crime over the years), that they all contracted hantavirus and soon died horrible deaths. Bubba and Mandingo set up a pot-growing operation with “Mama Shoe” and married a couple of the daughters. Percy moved to Paris and became a huge success. Kristerella was last seen muttering to herself and walking through the American wilderness, for some reason heading towards the Pacific Northwest, still showing no emotion whatsoever.
North Pole – The North Pole District Attorney announced today that his office would continue to pursue the prosecution of Santa Claus in spite of a new setback to Claus as his attorney, Jose Baez, removed himself from the growing Claus case after a successful appeal in the Pole Court.
Santa Claus, arraigned on a host of charges ranging from workplace safety violations and fraud, to prostitution and drug possession, now faces an uncertain future with a court-appointed advocate.
“I know this appears to be an abandonment of a major and beloved public figure, but I cannot in good conscience continue to represent Mr. Claus,” Baez said in a prepared press release yesterday.
When asked for a response, the DA merely said to reporters, “Mr. Baez’ statement says it all.”
Recent developments, however, have also added to the workload of the NPDA and his staff. In a heated court exchange last week, the DA was arguing for an injunction against Gloria Allred, the surprise attorney for Mrs. Claus in the concurrent and bitter divorce proceedings associated with this case. The DA requested the injunction due to the administrative burden Ms. Allred is apparently creating for the entire staff.
An unnamed source close to the DA, on the condition of anonymity, provided voice recordings, allegedly of the DA, stating, “If that bitch cries on the courthouse steps one more time, I’m going to personally rip out her uterus with salad tongs.”
In response, a representative for Ms. Allred stated that she would not stoop to the levels implied by that leak, but was very hurt by the implication that she even had reproductive organs.
Sources in the local legal community speculated that the DA is in fact overwhelmed with media requests and related issues.
“We just don’t get this kind of circus up here,” said one lawyer when asked about the issue, who went on to point out that the prior week was the break point for the DA’s Staff, which featured daily press conferences by Allred, as well as an appearance by Reverend Al Sharpton, who stood with Santa Claus after a prayer for justice.
“This is yet another example of the Establishment using its power in racist ways,” Sharpton said. “Santa Claus is a victim of racism, and we stand with him in his time of need. He is a brother, no matter white he is.”
The Sharpton rally soon turned violent, elevating this sleepy town to global attention, and the North Pole is now the growing focus of an Occupy rally, adding to the confusion here.
In light of all this publicity, one judge on the North Pole Circuit did say for the record, “The sooner this mess is over with, the better.”
FOLLOW THE DEBACLE:
I got this idea from fellow rockin’ chick Darlene at THE DAILY WOMAN. Make sure you check out her post which is witty and insightful as opposed to mine which is…well, you’ll see.
You know how you are absolutely certain that you are going to take off to New York and become a dancer/artist/photographer after high school? Or how you are NEVER going to get married or have children, ever? Well here’s some advice I’d like to give you from the future to make your impending reality bearable.
1. Get off your high horse and date a nerd. Trust me on this.
2. Start studying for the S.A.T.s NOW.
3. Yeah, don’t get attached to all the awesome. Or to your ass, because in twenty years it is going to expand into epic proportions.
4. Your English Lit teacher is NOT correct. What you write will not forever be considered, “the sub-moronic ramblings of a semi-functioning illiterate.”
5. Teenaged boys lie. Even the nice ones.
6. Don’t listen to your father.
7. No, your hair does NOT look cool like that.
8. George Michael is gay. Don’t waste your time.
9. What makes you popular at fifteen doesn’t mean shit when you’re forty. Grow a personality now.
10. DO NOT MARRY THE HOT ROMANIAN GUY BECAUSE HE LOOKS LIKE ONE OF THE LOST BOYS!!!!!
For more “Dear Me” letters visit CHATTING AT THE SKY.
I had planned to run a silly interview in support of my book REAPERS WITH ISSUES today that featured God and Jesus, but have since changed my mind. Because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find a way to write the interview that didn’t come off as offensive. This bothered me more than I had expected it to. For what it’s worth, here’s why.
I was raised in a strict Roman Catholic household that adhered to every dogmatic practice you’ve likely heard of. Naturally that formed some of the rebellious attitude I have adopted in my adult life. Despite all that oppression I did take away some of the good, namely the teachings of Jesus Christ.
Now, before you get all concerned that I am going to show up on your doorstep in a toga, let me explain. Throughout my childhood I was taught that Jesus was delivered to Earth by God because he felt mankind was drifting both morally and spiritually. I was taught that Jesus wanted everyone to love each other, to help each other and to practice tolerance. As I became an adult, I discovered that the name of God, and specifically Jesus, was used as a weapon of moral judgment by some against others. To me, this flies in the face of everything I was taught that Jesus stood for.
When I decided to write REAPERS I knew that I would have to face the obstacle of characterizing Jesus. I did some research and a lot of reading and came to the conclusion through what I’d found that Jesus was either portrayed as completely sinless or terribly flawed. Neither one of those polarized examples fit my image of Christ, so instead I went with “grown home-schooler.” I chose this defining character trait for Jesus because he sees only the good in others, and believes all humans are as capable of love and forgiveness as he is. He soon discovers in my book that he is very, very wrong.
The reason I’ve elected to revamp this post is because my dear friend and blogger (who shall remain anonymous until he gives me permission to update this post with his name) passed along some eloquent words on the topic of Gay Military marriage that I felt compelled to share. I believe his thoughts sum up why I was reluctant to post my tongue-in-cheek interview with the son of God. I am confident, however, that readers will be as moved by his words as I was.
“I’ve found that rational, sound thinking individuals aren’t threatened by gay marriage or gays in the military. It is people raised on fear and hatred and ashamed of themselves that have the most problem with any other person’s pride, confidence or overt contentment. I wonder how many people realize that the most decorated soldier of the Vietnam War was a gay man.
Being gay and being a good soldier, citizen, or person aren’t mutually exclusive, though the hate mongers make a point of grouping all gays in the same ranks as criminals, pedophiles, and the lower immoral elements of our society. That old saying that “no man is free until all men are free” isn’t just about slavery. The USA consistently touts its greatness and how we who live here are free. This society is no more free and egalitarian then those who actively subjugate their people and it is just as likely to force individuals to perform in ways that are detrimental to themselves as well as their fellow countrymen and women. If the Christian God is so busy protecting the people of America over any others on this planet, why is it our current situation as a country is so fucked up? Allowing same sex couples to have happiness is such a trivial issue it boggles the minds of sane people at how the issue has captured the minds and sick thinking of so many simpletons.
Just as Nazis found scapegoats among Jews, gypsies, intellectuals, and gays our country is now plagued with right wing extremists who strive to thrive by applying ugly pressures to those who are willing to question their radically bigoted agenda. An insidious virus has brainwashed a sizable amount of the American population to accept violence and bigotry as normal and believe that love is to be denied to any but the supposedly chosen.”
TODAY IS THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF MY BLOG! TO COMMEMORATE THIS AUSPICIOUS OCCASION I HAVE DECIDED TO RERUN MY VERY FIRST BLOG POST.
PLEASE TO ENJOY…
So yeah, I wrote a book.
I must have been high when I wrote it because there’s no other explanation I can give for my 120,000 word upper YA novel where the only noun I used more than “boner” was “blood.” It goes without saying that I’m self-published. I didn’t even try to submit it traditionally. Can you just imagine the poor agent who gets my query letter?
“My novel, THE GODS OF ASPHALT is complete at 120,000 words and is the first in a series of five books that for some reason I’ve decided to write out-of-order. Each one is told from the point of view of a teenage male protagonist who has exactly zero supernatural powers (unless you consider perpetual erections a superpower). Oh, and it also has Spanish subtitles.”
On the good side, if you’re like me and are just a little too into music, motorcycles and all around badassery this is the book for you. If you’re not, I’m sure Jodi Picoult’s got a blog somewhere. You can find the opening to chapter one at the top of the page under the tab GOA REVIEWS and you can find my book on line at:
- DON’T FEAR THE REAPER
- CREEPING DEATH
- WAR PIGS
- DEVIL’S SWING
- JESUS IS JUST ALRIGHT
- FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS
- SWEET LEAF
- GENGHIS KHAN
Anyone who wants to take a shot at what this book is about can leave their guess in the comments. The blogger who guesses closest wins a free ebook copy, whether they want it or not. The book will be unveiled in a blog post on August 25th, and released September 1st.
You know you are suffering from writer’s block when you opt to spend twenty minutes sending and resending the same email to yourself over and over just to see how fucked up you can get the email ads to appear on your screen. I forced myself to stop at ten replies. So if my Super Secret Project sucks, you all know that I have Gmail to blame. Too damn distracting.
I promise you, this is an actual clue!