Chinese Tasties - The Forgotten Snack

fun you to heck

2011-07-18T14:58:00.001-05:00

i would have preferred to hand-eat Daisy sour cream, but i didn't. now i am a carnival mirror and twice as fat. buhbye.

not trolls

2011-07-01T12:02:00.002-05:00

I am very tired of goblins. This is a list of five ways I cope with them:

5. Distract them from their murderous ways by sharing in activities such as juicing carrots and cabbages with my Jack Lalanne PowerJuicer, or shuffleboard.
4. Providing lobster bibs to lessen the drool leakage on the hardwood flooring.
3. Giant hamster wheels.
2. Allowing them to watch Jersey Shore whenever it's on to give them the feel of home.
1. Sex.

if we ate all our friends we'd have less friends because we'd be fat

2011-06-29T10:06:00.002-05:00

"Stuff that pig full of cheese and baste it!" they all shouted. But Limmon Stubbs III was my friend and, though he snorted through most nights and had the nauseating scent of scabs, I would not make him the party meal.

Still, their harassment continued inclusive of shovel wielding and hatemongery the likes of which I hadn't seen since my third birthday when I spilled the salad dressing on Aunt Jill's special tunic. Limmon backed into the corner, wheezing, eyes wide as truck stop hookers. I snatched him up and cuddled him as we fell into a heap of fetal-positioned sadsters.

It was then that the miracle happened. The throng encroached like jackrabbits to a bake sale, murderously belching vile invective, armed to the teeth with shredders and the like. My pig and I we huddled and had some gum together and thought about rainbows and the smooth sounds of Enigma. It seemed to be the end when... when...

No, it was the end. He's with Jesus now and I'm full.

crude

2011-06-28T08:22:00.000-05:00

your mom's sandwich made me bloated. and THAT'S why i'm crying.

aww shucks

2011-06-27T09:36:00.002-05:00

i am minding my business listening to Total Eclipse of the Heart on my Zune when this lady comes up to me and starts talking. i am a little bothered because i have to pause right at the bridge - the best part - to hear her. she says, "hey, you have nice pants on." aww shucks. what a cute leader dog she has.

i explain to her that i am almost nude, wearing only a tophat and hand towel, but that she is very kind. i also state in no uncertain terms that i wish to do her almost no harm today. she giggles. her dog giggles. i giggle. i inquire whether she'd like to sit with me on this lovely bench in this lovely park on this lovely day and use one of my earbuds to listen to the end of this enormously popular Bonnie Tyler song. she says no.

aww shucks.

how i got covered in bees

2011-06-27T08:56:00.003-05:00

so there was this plum just sitting there on grandma as she slept in the chair, ripe in her claws and only partially eaten. i was sad that day due to Maury paternity tests, and my belly growled from said sadness. all of the creamed ice had been consumed by jerks, and the marmalade was rusted shut. there was a honey bear in the sideboard, but honey made me sad because my beagle's name was Honey and she was a total brat. and, besides, she was dead. being resourceful from years of service to the warden, which did not include kissing, i devised a plan to abscond with the plum, which was my yen. and i involved no killing - my other yen. i grabbed aforementioned honey bear and, with a mammoth grip, squeezed its contents onto grandma, thinking i could then snatch her fruit booty.

"Shanks!" i squealed inexplicably as the honey bath awakened her. the rest of the story was unplanned. grandma hopped up and headbutted me viciously, smashing the nearest lamp about my head and shoulders and tackling me with the force of three warthogs, covering me in honey and knocking me through the open window.

dazed, i burped a little and then heard the buzzing.

a canary is pecking at my eye.

friends

2009-02-10T14:34:00.003-05:00

I have taken on a smallish potato as my confidante, with only slim hopes for something more. The god-given physique indicates my potato is female. This is how I've adorned her:

1. a woollen cap, because, campers, it's cold outside
2. a well-placed button
3. miniature screwdriver appendages
4. arrows pointing to "pleasure zones"
5. carrots

2009-02-06T14:36:00.002-05:00

Hand me the snips, provided they are flavoured with rich cheese, for this very night a most outrageous passion fruits up in me like some salamander. He's Just Not That Into You. I dreamt like thirty times that Greg Behrendt deflowered me. He didn't. It happened to be a rowdy goat at an otherwise pleasant petting zoo. The goat had similar hair, but less posing. Still, it was too... oh... cardiovascular. But this movie looks fun. Fun *!fun!* Ben Affleck once called me on my mobile and asked if I was wearing the bra he mailed me. I lied and said no. These are good snips.

2009-02-05T13:47:00.002-05:00

"Totally jammin!" replied the young (well, young-ish) lemon, Snim Harkins, when given the opportunity to be a superdancer. You see, there are some types of dancers, but superdancer is a great type.

And this opportunity came by chance. He was willy-fishin' near the seaport with his darling Pete, a helpless but lovely Chekhov scholar, when the seabeast rolled up flashin' bank. The seabeast, who was nameless, removed a stunningly bejewelled pen from his pant and proffered a scholarship and contract to Snim for a dance role par excellance.

These were lies. Later, a miffed stud named Shapes straight willed himself into renown when he popped Snim in the lip with a spider, fudged the contract and split. Pete saw it. It was sick. The seabeast had no chance to man up.

Snim, still totally jammin, gave no damns.

Willies were to be fished. Pete loved him right.

reviving the lost... with ceremony

2008-01-30T10:54:00.000-05:00

This bowl of sandwich cake is leaving me longing. Delights need to have format, maybe. Encountering sadder poets furnished in stoles and khaki, their fingers drenched in mouth-type spittle, kicking kittens for kicks - these are not suitable advisors to meals. There I am, plum-eyed, bush-bearded, wistfully enchanted by their doughy concoctions. Featuring mealy wheats in textures resembling mulch, plopped in thin milk butter, the scent is of the elderly with accents of wet wool. "Gimme!" I squelch, busting my blouse buttons in retching slut-heaves. "I Need!" I mew, a rabid ocelot at the kill. But my gorgings only soil my whiskers and clog my delicate teeth spacings. They do not fill the hole. They do not fill the spaces left in me by my beloved Latrina, choked/drowned 2 days ago this week in a field of picnickers' babies' blown bubbles. I miss her robot limb, her ragged capes and draperies... I miss her plumpness, her juggling and her photos of rabbit vaginas. "All the poet gruel on earth won't bring her back," they are telling me. Still, I must try.

lonelessness

2007-04-21T17:52:00.000-05:00

At last count, seventy-three gremlins are living in my knapsack. This is disheartening for two reasons. One being that gremlins can be both mysterious and mischievous. They can bring down aeroplanes undetected and have been known to throw horrendous surprise parties for the elderly, often involving hookers and heart attacks, not necessarily in that order. However, it is the other reason which is most irksome to my immediate environment. Namely, my knapsack contains my my precious of all world possessions, my raison d'etre, if you will.... You see, deep in the hollow darkness of my rucksack, certain, by now, to be fondled and cuddled in most unholy ways, is my lovely, flaxen-haired dolly, Bernice de La Fontaine.

tony dungy doesn't want to be your role model

2007-04-16T19:35:00.000-05:00

hot buttery biscuits dipped in meat grease
tiny thieving nymphs draped in tartan
busty German horselords half-punching honchos
soiled freshman manacles bibbly-barbing spronk
klumb chemiskin fleshing snipped schmangs
borphered bartlers kippering steed chuck roasts

i am sad.

grumpfulness

2007-04-14T16:25:00.000-05:00

You may think you're alone, but your neighbor can see you through the darkness as you scream the wrong answers at the contestants on Family Feud. They know better - even better than you - that what you are really angry about is the lack of genitalia on your Ken doll. But, go ahead, don't let it stop you, for somewhere in the top six answers to the question "What item do you most often forget when you leave the house?" there is certain to be the popular choice, "Man Wig."

this is how ladies talk

2007-04-13T17:14:00.000-05:00

"Chinos are supposed to have a crease, right? As in, they don't look silly with one?"
"...my mom told me that my grandma used a diaphram as bc...she now has 7 kids..."
"Best way to hardboil an egg?"
"Now I have 'Tyrone' by Erikah Badu going through my head."
"Sorry."
"I sometimes wonder what was taught in some peoples basic sex ed classes..."
"...filling the tub with hot water and bleach to clean it. how much bleach should i use?"

Top 5 People That Fathered Anna Nicole's Child In My Dreamworld

2007-04-12T19:02:00.000-05:00

5. A Dirty Siberian Yeti
4. Alexis Arquette
3. Batman
2. Josh Groban
1. God

moderate this, Jim

2007-04-11T18:47:00.000-05:00

Allan! When you squeeze me, my belly fills with lust! I could suckle on the chum nipple of the roiling sea and the kibble of so much glumpow chinese juicefoods! Bust in it all on the whish twitch baboon splooge, plum punch dripping off tard lips, gabby! Childbirth is not a far cry from douche.

I love TASTIEness.

sadish hollywood waitrish

2006-11-10T21:57:00.000-05:00

As if giving the old cobbler a tug behind the sheep pen could get any worse, some tubsy jogger found it super important to huff on by waving his lips and meatpaws like we were ol' buddies. Piss on it, Chap. In the world of turbo tugs, I'm not only the mayor, but the batman. The cobbler threw me a wad of singles and a rustily wrought shoe part, kicked my knees deftly, and hurdled off, smoking. Jobs are so royally ill. But I really really need a shinier dance pole. Besides, the young one is dangerously low on nappies. I'll kill that smug jogging chump. Life blows.

slowetry pam

2006-10-23T20:22:00.000-05:00

dude boobs
mute poon
whose goose is smooth?
mud bum
fudge grump
lift tuna to your skull
half meat
whole sheep
beet shemales fast asleep
chub scum
totally jim
pete called my nipple "wife"

encouragement and hope

2006-10-10T08:27:00.000-05:00

There was the wheezing and grumbling - often the case - as the babies were gently eaten and the yachts newly and fantastically twain, but the distant lullaby of "Enchant me seabeast! I want to feel your dreams!" carried Kyle through the churning nights of oceanic destruction.

Even the prehistoric sea-serpent's most vicious workload can be beautifully tempered under the spell of an imaginary mermaid - especially with a tune on the lips and dreams in the heart. Doooo-dee-da-da!

still sick, but getting sicker

2006-09-29T19:53:00.000-05:00

I specifically told Roger to tickle my tiny hamster. Instead he battered it in beer and masticated it. That hamster often modelled the small garments I knitted for him. He modelled them near the fireplace in front of which my youthful holidays were spent giggled and tearing the wrappings off of satanic talismans purchased for me by the elderly nun mothers of the underground convent 'neath the next town over, Loubegaville. Inside of the depths and shapes of my solid eyes, a gurgling sea of tears welled like the froth of a rabid whipped cream enjoyer. Sadly, damnit, wrathfully I cut Roger. I willed myself to bust his face. I hit him left and fro with bricks and collard. Roger barely enjoyed his rodent meat that day, I can tell you.

a calm suggestion

2006-09-08T19:18:00.000-05:00

I totally dare you to go up to some lady - maybe a granny, maybe some punk's auntie, maybe some leathery nun - and straight jack her in the shin with a sledge. You would sooo go to jail!

Eat it, lady!

Gnarly.

ponders

2006-09-07T21:59:00.000-05:00

Does the constant inhalation of human skin cells in the air make me a cannibal? What if I were to use a bong?

forsooth!

2006-09-06T20:26:00.000-05:00

Simon pokes me in my peepee! Where is superman? He swore up and down on his dopehead gramma's grave just last night after a graceless milking of our pet horse and joyless sex that, no matter what, he would be here to save me from the peepee poker, Simon BungHaplets. If Satan were available in gravy form, I'd ladle generous heapings upon superman's fugly mug. Darn head porpoise! And now my peepee needs bandaging and cold compresses and soft attentive wallaby caresses.

beefday

2006-08-31T18:32:00.000-05:00

Satan refuses my advances. Jerry Lewis thinks I'm just too dumb. Gary Busey called me "sexy... but wacky" just the other day. But you, faithful chinesetastian, must just think I'm super.

...

hello?

...

mommy?

...

goaty lover?

...

Batman?

the end of the innocence

2006-08-25T20:34:00.000-05:00

"The sheep didn't give me pubic lice! I gave them to the sheep!" Wayne was a damnable screamer. That much curiosity could get a man into gallons of trouble. Blessed be the sinful, though, for they are the least likely to have their undercarriages scrubbed by bullish nursemaids.

"Screech is on TV! Let me celebrate with sex!" Julia was not alone in the room, but she didn't care if Wayne heard about her confusing adoration for all things Dustin Diamond. If she wanted to celebrate with sex, he would oblige, or at least find some hobo in need of a quarter.

"Julian Lennon is not only brilliant, but divine," burped the lonely Pope, losing his way with God and the Church. He had just finished spackling his laundry room when he heard the precluding conversation. It made him winsome for his dollies and his winter hideaway replete with Julian Lennon merch. He wandered mentally (and physically... into the street) and realized that the Holy Mother would not cradle him in the lullabies of warmth and juicefulness, but would sully his nappy with guilt.

Smack was the sound of the strike of the auto on the Pope. Wayne and Julia felt sad, in the distance, and could not explain why. They embraced. A nation mourned. The lice held an icebreaker and became amicably acquainted. Spiro Agnew wondered if he might care less.

how i rank lust

2006-08-24T21:24:00.000-05:00

Top 5 Sexiest Celebrities

5. Don Rickles
4. Brett Butler
3. Manny Ramirez
2. Kevin Eubanks
1. Connie Chung

the Third Rick

2006-08-24T18:57:00.000-05:00

No one in this jazz club seems to care that I'm not wearing pants. Or that I'm straddling a foamy-scalped moose. Or that my mouth is full of eel meat. Or that my left ear is bleeding. No one seems to notice that my genitals are scented with fruit extracts. Or that my booties prominently feature Nickelodeon's Rugrats. Or that my top half is clad in a shiny tuxedo. No one bats an eyelash at me, Adolf Hitler, having my evening constitutional in this stupid jazz club.

Q & A Joky Suckness

2006-08-23T15:40:00.000-05:00

Q. How many babies does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

A. Why? How many babies are you offering me?

Q. Did you hear about the old lady who went to the day spa?

A. Yes. It was super.

Q. What do you get when you cross a moo cow with a shirt button?

A. A stab wound.

Q. Did you hear the one about the Jew, the Muslim and the Christian in the bar?

A. Oh yes. I still can't believe they had sex in the ladies' room.

Q. How about that Ben Affleck. Did you hear about his new awesome beard?

A. Too bad it looks like a prepubescent goat scrotum.

absolutely sane

2006-08-23T15:10:00.000-05:00

If you were to carefully coat the whole of your pants in some of the less dainty urine pastes offered by those fly-by-night grocers, you would find that the second coming of Gary Cole would be slightly less exciting than, say, a pickle up your bottom. This is because the plumper sluts furnishing aforementioned tinkle have it within themselves to guzzle the nectar from the blooms of the stinkweed, filthing up the urea and rendering it wretched, greenish and horrendously generic. Piddle, especially in it's paste form, must be well-liked by a wide variety of gentlemen. If it is not, God bless the user. In application, it is recommended that you carefully doctor the colloid, frenzily whipping it into a soft foam, before applying it to your denims and linens. Raymond Burr, may he rest in peace, often expressed a thin desire to liken his tinkle paste to the pleasanter Wellington crusts that you might find in upscale New York cafes. I couldn't agree less. Heeding such a metaphor would certainly cause vast and catholic digestive disagreement, encouraging all parties involved to vomit. I find that the paste should most resemble a soft beard, something like Kris Kringle's, both in color and texture, but doubtlessly more nasally-pleasing. I dare you to find evidence to the contrary. Evidence of sin, that is. In summary, nobody but Jesus cares about your sad tantrum, so arise from your corner, slap on a smile and get to gettin'. Pants don't pissbutter themselves.

bordering on bloggy

2006-08-21T20:23:00.000-05:00

Although "Snakes on a Plane" seems to have been so superhyped that, in their excitement, everyone forgot to actually go see the movie, I still think the campy concept is worth the following two-minute parody-type entry.

Yes, SNAKES ON A PLANE! How mildly crafty! Make a B Movie, but try to make a B Movie! This will definitely work. People love Samuel L. Jackson. We're jerks.

If I, Blossom Snakesworthy, were a jerk-type producer, my movie would be called Goats on a Blimp, and it would star Ron Perlman and Doug E. Fresh and it would suck so bad that everyone would download the trailer. And, then... get this... then, when it finally came to theaters... then... well, it would be a different film that would teach the audience about math and Jesus and how to use a Singer and the polite way to piss on hookers and the secret to Cremora and how to get rich quick and how to copy an already existing concept, only with a lot more money, and sucker the sheeplike populace into thinking it was cool and worth nine dollars and fifty cents.

Dolphins on a Rickshaw
Grimaces on a Steamboat
Bulfinches on a Studebaker
Producers on an Ego-Trip

Blossom on a Soapbox.

need to raise some cash for unnecessary surgery

2006-08-20T21:26:00.000-05:00

Things I Wouldn't Do For A Dollar:

1. Dip my whole ass in velvety margarine.
2. Carve my bones into Precious Moments figurines.
3. Drop a hundred baby otters down an elevator shaft.
4. Cuddle with LL Cool J.
5. Dampen my lover with soils and bloods.
6. Dress as Margaret Thatcher for a sex fest.
7. Guzzle alien reproductive fluids.
8. Hang curtains.
9. Piggyback on some hairy fat jerk's squishy shoulders.
10. Levitate.

Things I Might Do For A Dollar:

1. Tongue a penguin.
2. Fashion a turban out of Rosie O'Donnell's long-johns.
3. Saddle an unsuspecting granny.
4. Torture a sinister elf.
5. Carbon date Dick Clark.
6. Date Dick Clark.
7. Step down as princess of Awesomeland.
8. Permanently dye my nipples in the more fashionable colors of the day.
9. Pube braiding.
10. Replace the milk in my own mother's fridge with nacho grease.

Things I Would Definitely Do For A Dollar:

1. Dress in exclusively lacy mangarments.
2. Rub fudge into my eyes and skin.
3. Punt a mutant.
4. Sever the vocal chords of Danny Bonaduce.
5. Find Waldo and/or Carmen Sandiego... and garrote them with a tow rope.
6. Piss vigorously.
7. Eat all of Michael Moore's Entenmann's.
8. Burp some random ladies' filthy babies without using one of them nappy towels.
9. Dump the stupid queen in a mud puddle.
10. Imagine, if you can, Blossom Snakesworthy, a box of lubricated rubber gloves and a mule. I would paint that.

it's kinda hard out here for a...

2006-08-19T22:11:00.000-05:00

satan demands your nachos. satan demands some syrup. satan demands the check. satan tips like a bitch. i hate working the late at denny's.

but at least i'm not a whore, Sheila.

Tips on Dealing with the Terrorists

2006-08-19T07:43:00.000-05:00

1. Try to fit in. A little ululating goes a long way.
2. Ask your aunt or granny to knit you a colorful shoulder strap for your AK-47. You'll not only make the terrorists proud of you, but you'll be more comfortable as well.
3. If you see a bomb underneath the seat of a plane or subway car, don't try to detonate it. Your rush to impress may really throw off their maximum kill timing.
4. Ask suspected terrorists for autographs. It will be flattering for them and an enriching new hobby for you.
5. If you must travel, leave the carry-on baggage at home. Instead bring all that personal baggage and share it with your fellow travellers. Suicides, after all, are not victims of terror.
6. Try to predict not only the main terrorist plots, but the underlying subplots. Following the more subtle strings will make the act more interesting and, who knows, you may just learn a little something about yourself in the process.
7. Know what they know. Research in depth the specifics of fringe religious groups, advanced bomb building techniques and government corruption. After all, knowledge is power and knowing is half the battle.
8. Change your identity. If they randomly pick victims out of a phonebook and land on your name, they won't know where to find you because you'll be a ghost.
9. Purchase a giant spotlight and a cut-out of a bat. Superheroes are not just for mayors any more.
10. Call yourself an atheist, but pray to every freakin' god you can think of. Somebody's gotta be right, and wouldn't you rather be on their side?

inching upward

2006-08-19T07:21:00.000-05:00

from the depths of my secret cave in bangladesh, i have been utilising my vast resources of human eyes to check on some of the other "blogs" on planet internet. it would seem that a "blog" often has some "viewpoint" or social "commentary" replete with quotation marks and occasional whimpering. although the Tasties is not really a "blog", but more of a "b-log", as in an old-fashioned dessert log handmade with the finest assortment bumblebees and honeys, i will take the next few entries to "connect" to the political and social spheres, careful not to wander too far, lest the blossom be declared derivative and/or insipid. this waltz with relevancy could start in as soon as 4 minutes, could last as long as 2.3 weeks and could alarm up to 2, or 100%, of my precious "bloggies" (yes, i am making up terms to sound totally radical). and you know it's serious when i refuse to whipe the lobster juice from my beak while i type. you know i mean business when i ignore my burning pet Matilda the Muledeer in order to finish off this gibe at some random useless senator....

damn. i really gotta vacuum.

the interlocution of the Genii

2006-08-14T22:07:00.000-05:00

Judith inquires, "Why does penis smell of taco meat?"

Gare replies, "I am sexier than the pope."

Lemola screeches, "Fuzz is entirely sumptuous. Spread the butter on my moppish wig!"

Ponzo guffaws, "Plump is the new Jewish. Let's sell it to the Bravo network."

Clemons wheezes, "Pustules? God bless it! I've lanced them all!"

Barroo hollers, "Paste is a dainty manner of gutting a sheep as decoration. Let's diaper the whole world!"

These are the lies of the Book of Mermen.

updating you on blossom and bosom

2006-08-13T16:21:00.000-05:00

i am very busy inventing things. this is what i am inventing:

flavored babies
meat soda
boob hats

so, you see, i have had little time to encourage my puppies or burrow deeply into the mushy soil of my yard. but, alas, prithee i may find the moments, there is much to tell. and tell i must.

for now, though, it's off to the patent bureau in my moon socks and bubble smock. i think i'll take the yacht.

i need fire ladders to get out of this rut

2006-08-12T11:03:00.000-05:00

"It's like music to my butt," she said calmly as Ronaldo continued his euphonic moaning and kitten-wrestling. It was their first damn date and bliss was everywhere, creamed on the walls like blood and paint and suds. Sheila always felt this good, what with the vials of crack emptied hourly into her structure via smoke and gnawing, but it was the first time she had felt it with a Latin man. And she had never imagined that it would involve kittens.

Sure the kittens were dead, rotten, filthy and less dainty than a blind old man attempting to remove a training bra from his meatless, teatless body. Dam, tho, it was a crazy sensual pleasure to live out the dream of so many ratpeople cursed to a lonely sewer existence. She thought once... twice... and decided, "No! I will not stab! Life is precious and I will not take the life of this Latin moan-machine."

He had other ideas.

gather round, kids! Raffi wants you to FEEL

2006-08-04T06:56:00.000-05:00

"Delmon Curtis! I find your tackling techniques to be grotesque! And your recipe for nutty-butter mud fudge is not only illegible, but disingenuous!"

Gramma Curtis had the sass of a winged wood thrush, and twice the beak. Squat and draped in violet ill-laundered cortinas with a verminous decolletage that would give the unholiest manslut a schoolgirl's blush, she was constantly riddling young Delmon with the sickest of invectives. You see, she was from a different time. A time of suffering, poorly wrought haberdasheries and nothing-if-not-despicable dance club romance circuits. And, lo, she had married a man half-goblin with a penchant for diddling the barn's lowliest creatures.

It had hardened Gramma, nee Bigglesly Chesterton Monksword, leaving her in a state of terrible rudeness. Widowed and hairless, save for the thicket of shock white at her scruff, her piss-and-vinegar tone was shockingly on par with her constant punching and stabbing freestyle assaults. Life handed her lemons and she made grumpy-ade.

Delmon, on the flipside, was portly, jocular and filled with a simple glee oft-reserved only for the fluffiest of retards. His passion was cuddling fawns. His employment: french-braiding the manes of the village's rowdy musk oxen. Simply, Delmon was the envy of everyone who has ever been mercilessly bludgeoned with blunt pipes and those who have found the misfortune of burning.

Usually, he took the berating in a gentle manner, calmly stroking his pet lemon, Muttsy, or, on occasion, grooming his sock fur with a nearby twig. Today, there would be no soft response. Today would be different. His recipe was divine and he knew it, for all the carp in the sea munched tenaciously upon it straight from the oven. [!!!]

A fresh roasting fire bubbled inside him as his face grew dim and guts irascible. Reaching past the ambient twig supplies, he fisted a wad of cowgrass and flung it with a grunting heave at Gramma. It maimed her, tearing her billows in twain, and she waddled off howling like a moondog. It was hilarious.

so much drama in the IBC Cream Soda

2006-08-03T21:14:00.000-05:00

Tanya explains that the tiny things, the enlightened lady lovelies, graciously reside in the latter colon of the prairie gentlemen. Especially, she continues, when the venomous suds of filth soda bubble rudely in the noontime. Pissy, she bothers me for a silkier spoon, preferably laden with pewter and moist cake. It is her pleasantries, not her pleasantness, that allow me to power justice and whimsy, retching the luscious ladle from the latina maidservant, all penguiny and reddening shyly upon my grope. Thus, there we were, readying our minds for the solace of history, the minty guzzle of epochs curdling downward into the shapes of our mindrealms. God bless it, we were learning from one another. We were dating.

just an update on my Xciting lyf

2006-08-02T20:03:00.000-05:00

dude, i was just totally jamming to my alterego, the Ocean (that's Billy, not Elijah), when this cream-blazered, IRA-investing, hair-product-using douchebag rolls up to me in his Fiero and smugly gestures me out of his lawnchair. yeah, like i was taking that. geared up, i punched the stop on my tapedeck, double-knotted my BKs (damn straight orange laces!) and jumped to my feet. saying "hey" and "yo yo", i sauntered up to Derek CEO and straight jacked him up in his grill. no... i really did... NO! i do not mean that i jacked him off at the Grille... i would never! whatever. i did not. the Grille's not even my style establishment! okay. fine. but a blossom's gotta get that sweet sweet crack... mmm... mancrack.

terrible two-second joke time

2006-08-02T12:36:00.000-05:00

Did you hear about Mel Gibson's new chain of fast food restaurants? He's calling it Burger-Belsen's. That's right, sugartits...

maxims and depth a la emerson a la zing

2006-08-01T22:02:00.000-05:00

the best thing about bananas is enough for me.

speak with words made of silver, but ideas made of wisdom.

a well-groomed head is the first on the block.

the only two certainties are bills and denial.

you are best to use what you have, not what you've given.

ignorance is a mist, not a shroud.

a half-eaten walnut is still delicious.

blessed be the man who rifles gently through the panties.

experience is best gained through pensive dispositions.

visualize your desires as they are suppressed.

the clever man utilizes all of his gifts, but only half of his tea leaves.

look to the porpoise for it is generally fatter than you.

life is what you do to it.

in order to enchant, one must first grow flaxen hair.

all that is left to do is either done already or bang homos.

Wales of Toe

2006-07-19T16:57:00.000-05:00

Lawrence Cuddlekins has two weiners. His doctor says he's a special little guy, but he's starting to think otherwise. Especially when the current ladies in his life enclose them in gluten-free buns. It really is a mustard thing. LC despises it and cries when he is dipped. Maybe, next time, his grocer will supply him with something more burgery.

Dottie Feefoddles has been damned. Her welts and growths continue to throb and redden, even though the strongest discipline of itch resistance is practiced (her Tai Chi). Unguents, ointments and salves only crust over leaving little relief and filthy bedclothes. Dr. Grondis Peng prescribes nothing but the passing of torturous time. He holds his tongue, but he really wonders how... why.... Dottie, slathering creamy cool yogurt upon herself, thinks maybe there is a better idea than her newly patented vibrator powered exclusively by lively wasps.

horrible things to say to three-year-olds

2006-07-19T09:04:00.000-05:00

I'll bite your eyes off.
You made Santa cry.
You made Santa vomit all that blood.
Mommy's getting the hammer.
Balogna is made from puppies.
Big boys and girls scrub floors.
Pet the furry little bees.
Starving children in Africa would love to eat you.
Dirtying the potty is a sin.
Strangers have free candy in their Econolines.
Daddy needs cigarettes. Hold down the fort.
Don't worry, you'll be safer sleeping in the drawer.
This will hurt you more than it'll hurt me.

lots about nothing

2006-07-18T20:05:00.000-05:00

I am seriously more excited about post 15 than, say, post 9. And it's not because post 15 will have adventure, lavish costumery, a soundtrack by the Finn brothers and loads of sex. It's not because post 15 is as deep as a Maya Angelou verse, as ribald as a Greenwich Village drag parade and as introspective as an unplugged Kravitz set. In no way is the reason for my love of post 15 that it is being sponsored by Meow Mix. Post 15 is just retardly fantastic. Post 15 makes the ladies swoon and the manhearts palpitate lustily. Post 15 just received a guaranteed contract of $90 million for five years. Bow to post 15. Worship at the altar of post 15. Sacrifice your lambs and virgins. Exalt and rejoice. It may save your soul from a righteous, vengeful smiting.

Just what the hell is going on here?

Post 15? What? Well, envision this:

Post 15 has a perm, lush brown skin and is draped in a velvety shroud of matted kitten whiskers. Furthermore, it is leathery, languid and possesses unrivaled muscle tone. It would never, ever have sex on the first date, or eat anything but salad with a salad fork. Post 15 will not dance to anything but a waltz nor will it emit flatulence in public places. It would never engage in an open-mouthed kiss or stare too long at a cripple. Post 15 knows where it is going when it dies and asks, "Do you?"

I think I hate post 15.

just an ordinary Snakesworthy

2006-07-18T17:10:00.000-05:00

A few facts you may wish to know about your bloggist, Blossom:

Gary Glitter paid me $46.82 for a photo of my shoes.
Every Thursday at 9:18 PM the lyrics to Skid Row's "I Remember You" runs through my mind... backwards.
I've been kicked by three toddlers.
Instead of deodorant, I use Toblerone.
My favorite hat is the derby.
I grew up just outside of Peoria, but I always say Chicago.
Floutists make me scream with joy.
I have a deep, abiding fear of sudoku and Mothra, but the Japanese are generally all right with me.
Religion: Zoroastrianism with a hint of Southern Methodist.
Denzel Washington is my godfather when I dream.
I'd kill a pen full of puppies to attend a Kenny Chesney concert and/or wedding ceremony.
My favorite historical figure is Daryl Strawberry.
All of my chewing gum is pre-chewed by nuns.

re-jogs

2006-07-18T12:16:00.000-05:00

Because I'm about as creative as a hat full of socks (and because I've received such positive reviews from Ain't It Cool News), I thought I would bring back an old favorite with a new twist.

Piccup Lighnz fer Gurls

Are these Bugle Boy jeans I'm wearing?

I swear I'm not a real hobbit.

Burp my baby for a minute, I gotta go get my diaper bag.

They may not be real, but they're inflatable.

My left areola has baseball stitching.

You're so wonderful, you make me think of Jesus.

I'll be the one to handwash your manly underthings.

My provocative dancing is symbolic. My yogi taught me that.

My ex told me that I was an excellent cuddler.

All of my cats would just love you!

You see my friend over there? Well she thinks you look like gay, but I'm not buying it.

You can touch but you can't look.

I make great low-fat lasagna.

I feel like 5th base is more like 1st.

Would you like to buy me a drink? Of blood?

Tell me something interesting about you. My friends and I are running out of things to laugh at.

Your big strong arms almost completely distract me from your feeble bird legs.

I love a man who's not afraid to tuck in his sweatshirts.

My flowers have all been plucked, but feel free to take a tug at the weeds.

I don't dress this way because I'm a slut; I'm just desperate and codependent.

You look like a man with a yellow sports car.

It's such a lucky coincidence to meet you here! I'm almost never here on Tuesday nights after 11:30.

Sweet! I didn't know it was country music karaoke night!

Does that bulge in your pants mean you're happy to see me, or are you just herniating?

I'd do anything for schnapps.

the power of positive thinking

2006-07-17T11:39:00.000-05:00

Swaddled in torn-up porn, nestled in the sewer crevice frozen and dirtied by a painful January, baby Biljo could barely squeal, much less peddle his tiny flags and ape-shaped confectionaries. It was hard work, even for a one-year-old, even for a one-year-old tenaciously mothered by vicious wolverines, even for a one-year-old raised to handle life's curveballs. Poverty had struck down Biljo and poachers carried off the pelts of his family, leaving him to dabble in such unscrupulous endeavors.

Biljo did not know he was a man, peering down at his clawless digits. But he sure as hell could act like one. Eight degrees and a sidewalk full of ungrateful businessladies was all he needed. He leapt to his feet, shook off the snow and fingered away the coke from his nostrils. Today was his day.

Biljo would sell eleventy bazillion miniaturized flags that day. No small feat. Not even death could steal his thunder. Nosireebob.

Dream the impossible.

dickshunhairy

2006-07-16T19:02:00.000-05:00

scroylent - adj. having all the characteristics of a scrotum, but only half the softness
pudgems - n. - small, rabid midget babies
cuddlesly - adv. - without intent, having a moose straddle you non-sexually
sporglin - n. - the scruff of a shetland pony drenched in apple butter
floot - v. - softly emanating bottom sounds while under a spell of wistfully pining for Christine Lahti

fursh - n. - the pleasurelessness of shoveling human ash
ponzily - adv. - scrimping on soft drink during a grade school dance pour-off
ploddles - n. - the mixture of blood and rainwater left in the street after a rowdy parade

the nood fetwork

2006-07-15T19:31:00.000-05:00

you see now my ritual. if not a soft prayer from my pillow, then a gentle haiku... all in worshipful adoration of mythical animalia, saltly drifts of just mercy unfettering my digi-pen and digi-digits and ALAS! the deluge of love.

but that's not what brings me here, not in any literal sense. my real topic today is - you may have already guessed it if you've been paying any attention to the radio news - lemonade!

my recipe:

you need:
1 lb lemons
1 gallon water
1 cup sugar

mix vigorously with ice in a blender. now you have delicious lemonade for pickling those frozen yak fetuses.

my haiku

2006-07-15T19:29:00.000-05:00

enchanting musk ox,
cover me in your seed now,
give me sexy words

from my private diary

2006-07-07T20:00:00.000-05:00

Lonely sadness. My blood is tainted with frost and broken glass. My soul is shattered. I am a dancer, radiant as the spring's first blossom. I am a starlet in a miracle moment eternal, blessed with life and memories. I don't know why I kill.

Special Times

2006-07-02T12:09:00.000-05:00

If I see one more eharmony ad, I'm seriously going to pluck my eyes out with a seafood fork. And ears, those will go too. It's that sucknut's mutant voice that really kills me. Besides, the whole idea of compatibility profiles leading to "meaningful" relationships is nonsense. Single people should stay the hell off the internet and spend their time in greasy lounges, dressed in various velvets and leisure polyester, guzzling the latest absurdly colored malt beverage that used to be a cocktail, groping around in the dark for slut numbers scribbled in lipstick. And... AND... they should use one or all of the following pick-up lines, which I have invented and typed below, forcing me to create this explanatory paragraph, which is now mercifully ending.

PIkkUPP LYNZ

Your mane is soft and licy.
Care for a beverage? Because my fluids need adoption.
Is that a boner in your pants, or are you still a lady?
If heaven lost an angel, you must've been the kidnapper.
Be still my heart and defibrillate me, Mr. 911 operator.
Did you just drop this quarter? If I only had another one we could slip out in the back alley and transact.
Your breasts are cleverly placed in your midsection.
I would pen your a sonnet for a single gentle touch of your hand, assuming it was still warm.
I'd delete all the teenage boys from my myspace friends list for you.
Touch my passion hole.

Simply put: Symbiotic

2006-06-30T21:02:00.000-05:00

"Totally butt!" she whistled into her grandma's hairy belly. Not even remotely lemony, it felt of moon and cleverly devised Toblerone packaging. Just at that sullen moment, an infinitely menstruating kitten waltzed in, spouting off about meatbows and Devonshire and rippling man limbs.

"Where is Jose Maria Olazabal? And of his flavor, what then?" piddled the grandma, for total butt was a mnemonic for Thomas, Orally Tease Alan Lolly's Luscious Yak Before Unembellished Tanya Tries, the special foreign golfer's finest witticism.

Of course no one could have foreseen what was certainly happening elsewhere at the very moment preceding. Chirping, leftist spouting, custardy colloids and your daddy's pension... it was a wild minute. The kitten began to spank the baby. The baby began to chip at grandma's jaw with a chisel. The chisel began to hurriedly sort through his collection of horse porn.

Mayhem, yes, so much so that not a single one of them noticed Jose tonguing Ms. Yak, such a visual stimuli for all the attendants of the petting zoo.

a poem written by a slut

2006-06-28T12:10:00.000-05:00

there once was a bee named jenna
who peed freely upon her antenna
when the tv went blank
and started its stank
she debauched the elderly repairman with a hook

health and wellness

2006-06-28T11:12:00.000-05:00

I have been noticing recently that the internet news blips routinely offer suggestions for healthy living (e.g. coffee is good for you, cut down on yogurt, coffee is bad for you). I have really learned a lot. Here, I will share my wisdom with the zero of you who care.

Tips for Healthy Living

1. Gorging on rooster meat will not only cleanse your colon, but will fill you with sexual vigor.
2. Bending forward increases overall blood flow while offering that rare chance to inspect your trousers for signs of your victim's blood spatter.
3. Fighting visigoths not only improves muscle tone and accelerates skin regeneration, it promotes a feeling of oneness with Rome.
4. Babies have excellent immune systems, speedy growth rates and soft skin. Eat more babies.
5. Many animals are covered with thick fur, providing natural warmth and defense. Lather yourself generously with products sold via special tv offers as a form of mimicry.
6. Tennis and golf may provide some cardiovascular exercise, but for the proper workout, engage in activities such as cage-fighting, plowing and chemical warfare.
7. Smoking crack does not have to be hard work. Make it more exciting by listening to the radio or by utilizing the buddy system.
8. The getaway car is lazy man's burglary. Hoof it and feel the calories burn off.
9. Mud baths, skin peels and unguents may improve the overall look and feel of your skin, but there is nothing like nitric acid to remove those unsightly moles and blemishes.
10. A glass of red wine with dinner has been shown to help the heart function better. Just think what 30 glasses would do.
11. Fudge, fudge and more fudge.

Vision: A Play in One Act

2006-06-27T17:54:00.000-05:00

"Hey, tons of fun," he squealed at Belinda, unwrapping a tiny treat.

Belinda just sat on her uncle's lap and began to gently puke and wheeze like some kind of trashy ER nurse. It was her way, and it was sullen, honest. The treat was luscious. Marshmallow coated pickle, drizzled in warm mink fur. Belinda wanted it badly, but knew her uncle only too well.

"You smell of raisins and sadness," he burbled as the thin wafers penetrated his meat-brown lips. "I need you to find the secret things which I have lost along the way."

Belinda hopped up onto her hooves and scurried off to seek the Ray-Bans and dill powder ostensibly stowed away in the cupboards and oat bins of the yard. It was also her way to smoke cigarettes. She commenced thence.

How tan her limbs were and twice as long. Sliding her pudge into the crevice of the oat stores, she fumbled in the soft mud until its soft rind found her digits. Plumply, she wrenched the lonely sausage from its resting place and tossed it toward the sunlight. It was the cleanest, meatiest haggis. And just like that, it was guzzled.

Pumping fists and chattering, she returned to her horsefaced uncle and exclaimed, "Doth meat finds me well-pleased, sir!"

Nothing.

And again, "Yonder meat is indeed pleasurable to my palate, good sir!"

Still nothing.

Louder, "Meat finds me well, liege!"

Gently she lifted her uncle's sticky palms, yearning for a response.

None would come. He was deaf now.

2006-06-27T14:42:00.001-05:00

On the subject of beef versus chicken teriyaki, I have very little to say.

However, on the subject of dropping business cards into impenetrable plastic boxes slathered with teasing ideas of free Chinese lunches for multiple diners, I do have these sentences:

1. If you do this, and you most likely will not, you will win.
2. What you will win, however, will be a phone call from some meaty-thumbed chump offering your tasty luncheon after a "brief" preamble in which you and your fellow diners will be exposed to the vast wonders of investing, mortgage rates, foreign mountain properties, hair growth products, llama farming, rabid ape handling, save the lemming funds and myriad other costly endeavors.
3. After your investment of eleventy thousand dollars, you will then be allowed to order and eat from the Special Combo section (#77 is divine), blessed by the presence of the aforementioned chump, who win then pay the bill and kick you all in the scrota or corresponding female areas.

I would thusly advise you never to drop your card anywhere. As the old adage goes, "There's no such thing as a special magic kitten that grants wishes with it's curiously textured tongue."

(so that my theme is not compromised, i have made this chinese-tasty-relevant post, though in fact it is impossible to find chinese tasties anywhere, especially at chinese restaurants, horse stables and tinkly kiddie pools)

men (subclass: men)

2006-06-27T14:24:00.000-05:00

At last count, upwards of zero people asked for this blog.

I just wanted to make that absolutely clear, you know, before I hightail it into idiocy.

Also, zero people asked me to invest in family-owned thematic toilet boutiques, but it certainly hasn't stopped me from hoping.

How do you tell when a dude is a "man's man"? I have been tossing that little riddle around in my human head for nearly 4 minutes and have come to the bubbling realization that I will probably never know. It's encouraging to discover limitations.

A tall man once explained to me that a man's man, a Man's Man, is a man that has a shapely torso but has heretofore been unconcerned with making it so. Another gent, an eavesdropper no doubt, chimed in with this cryptic phrase, which I will quote here:

"Men's men have holes where there were once windows, taxidermied heads where there were once opossums and emptiness where there were once doughnuts."

If there is a better answer it most likely involves strumpets or cigarillos or motorcycles, but feebleness of mind precludes any further drool-laden keystrokes on this matter.