Giraffe did something stupid back in ’87. This something was so stupid that the stupidity of it all landed him in the back of a paddy wagon, with a gang of hobos picked up for thieving milk from tipped cows. Giraffe’s corneas were searing from the teargas. Giraffe done deserved that though, seein’ he done something so stupid in the first place.

In time, that Giraffe found himself apart of a chain gang, digging ditches along a deserted stretch of highway. Some folk say the ditches had
something to do with irrigation, but my pop always told us he was certain the warden was lookin’ for somethin’. Bones, teeth, some kind of people
remnant.

Giraffe told pop he always imagined that if he were on a chain gang, he’d be equipped with one of those litter spears. Not a rusted shovel. He also didn’t imagine that he would really be chained to the other prisoners, and darn if that didn’t make for some awkward moments. Like when Jimmy Sardine would whip out his manhood and start wackin’ the everlovin’ shit out of that fucker.

The way pop tells it, Giraffe thought that he might have just enough slack in his share of chain to reach the relaxin’ floral chair that the warden lugged out that day from his office, where he sat on his pimply ass, shouting out racial epithets to the various hues of the incarcerated. But after tearin’ up three beef and bean burritos doused with a heavy blanket of Tabasco sauce, the warden found himself scampering off to pinch a runny loaf behind an abandoned bait shop a quarter mile away. Pop says Giraffe waited until the warden was nothing more than a red blob on the horizon before shuffling over to the chair. He just reached it.

But Giraffe, he ain’t careful enough. That warden came back, soiled gutchies and all, and caught him goldbricking in that pretty floral armchair, and suddenly, Giraffe wasn’t so much digging them ditches as he was decomposing in one.

Giraffe was on the verge of defenestration. He was five months overdue on his account at the adult video shack, the landlord of his apartment (in the not-so-prime location above an auto body garage) had just nailed an eviction notice to his broken front door, and the Donut Den had retired his favorite peanut butter and grilled cheese-filled breakfast pastry.

On a balmy May afternoon, Giraffe chugged a hearty intake of moonshine before flinging himself out of his second story tenement. He landed in a supine position right next to Monkey, who was waiting patiently for a routine tune up on her Chevelle, which was being half-assedly worked upon on the other side of the garage doors.

Giraffe could not deny Monkey’s charm as she reached behind her to pat his head. “I too have survived a botched defenestration,” Monkey confessed.

Three weeks later, on their seventh date, Monkey served Giraffe with a basket stuffed with piping hot flaky pastry.

“They’re filled with peanut butter and grilled cheese. I know it sounds weird, but—”

And that is the story of how Giraffe and Monkey embarked on a beautiful journey of cross-breeding.

(11×14 with border.)

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 16:31 There’s a postal worker who needs fired. I’m making it my crusade. Henry said good luck; once I have my pins made I won’t NEED luck. #
• 16:34 Walking down the street, I flashed on a vision of getting shot in a driveby. Yes, that’s my bright future talkung again! #
• 17:16 I know, Random Dildo in Brookline, its appalling that I would pick up a piece of trash & toss it in the garbage can. Who DOES that, right??? #
• 17:16 But fear not: tonight I will take a dump in your driveway to balance it all out. #
• 19:37 I am on the verge of regurgitating the oddly curious dinner henry made me. #
• 20:32 Its amazing I’ve gotten this far in life, and no Darwin Award. #
• 21:13 Chooch has befriended a scene kid at Dennys. #
• 10:12 Typical morning convo: Hey Chooch, remember last night when we went to ______ and u were being a clumpy skidmark? #
• 11:05 I dusted off Lastfm after FOUR YRS of non-use (srsly, the last time I used it, it was still called Audio Scrobbler). Add me: vagynafondue! #
• 11:51 please put me out of my misery. #
• 12:14 in addition to learning social skills, it appears i need to also learn how to walk. #
• 12:53 I’m a member of that dying breed of ppl who refuse to talk on cell phones in stores. But I will text a fucker anywhere. #
• 14:40 Hello, Gary Gilmore Christmas card. Where have YOU been? tinyurl.com/5ddelh #
• 22:15 I love the look on a man’s face when he realizes I know some shit about music. #
• 10:43 all i want to do today is sit in my pjs and make mix cds. maybe send out my butler for some champagne and truffles. #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter Now you can rest easy, knowing my inner most thoughts and movements.

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Newest addition to serial killer card line: Gary Gilmore

Inside says: “…to have my fucking eyes back.”

Cards are $5 and are also available in 5 and 10 card sets at discounted prices, mainly because I’m a pricing fool.

Fuck a snowman, send some slasher greetings.

Mildred loved her son. He was born on her favorite day – Devil’s Night. He had sexy onyx eyes like the man at the bar she slept with the night of conception. He reeked of a piquant bouquet of stagnant water and antiseptic soap, with some hidden notes of anchovy.

Mildred named him Angelo. They ate grilled cheese & peanut butter sandwiches together in front of the TV. They raked each other over hot coals. They made up curse words to mutter behind their shared missalette during Sunday sermon.

When Angelo was just seven years old, Mildred received a very curious telegram. In this telegram, she was alerted of an opportunity to come into a very handsome sum of money. If only she would just relinquish custody of Angelo into the hands of the barren Duchess. Mildren considered this for a very long fifteen seconds.

Two weeks later, the Duchess’s security team arrived at Mildred’s door to claim Angelo. With a small satchel in his hand, Angelo looked up his mother with those two smoldering eyes of ink and growled, “You will pay for this, Mother.”

Mildred wrapped an arm around his side, quite loosely, before pushing him into the cage that was held open by two robust stuffed suits.

In the end, it wasn’t so much the money, but the promise of a lifetime of free stinky feta that swayed Mildred.
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5.5″x5.5″ thick canvas, ready to hang.

My internal angel and devil are constantly locking horns with wings inside my head, but this month the angel has prevailed. To reward her, I’m donating 20% of all my Etsy sales this month to Breast Friends, starting today.

It only takes someone a few seconds of being in my house for the first time to realize, “Hey, she must like the Cure. Like, REALLY like the Cure.” There is honestly at least one picture of Robert Smith on every wall downstairs.

Although Robert still rules over most of my heart — and walls — there have been some new men who have managed to plunge their flags into unclaimed acreage.

 So, a few weeks ago, I asked my e-friend Francesco of DiPoe to whip me up a custom portrait of Craig Owens from Chiodos.

When he showed me the mockup, I splooged a little. I ran around in a little circle, squealing a little. I tugged on Henry’s arm a little. But it didn’t prepare me for yesterday, when the actual painting arrived, safely packaged, on my front porch. I opened it with trembling hands (which was scary since I’m not very skilled with a box cutter when my hands are STEADY) and proceeded to pant and scream and repeat, “OMFG” until Henry was all, “OK, I get it. I got it. You like it. Yay.”

Craig is already at home on my wall, and I think Robert is a little swoll, but come on – a girl’s gotta have her flings.

A few weeks ago, I came across this awesome beetle ring from 19Moons on Etsy. I’m a connoisseur of big, gaudy rings and HAD.TO.HAVE.IT, so I started hounding Christina to buy it for me.

Imagine my surprise when it appeared between my doors the same day Christina finally ordered it. At first I thought Christina was so afraid my wrath would incinerate several boroughs that she paid an extra grand to have it shipped via rocket; but then I realized that the seller, Niffer, lives only a few streets down from me and hand-delivered it. I thought that was so nice, and aside from the ring being even more gorgeous in real life, the packaging was so great, too.

After exchanging a few convos on Etsy, we met up last night for some greasy diner food and a slice of blueberry pie sandwiched between the strangest, tasteless, compressed crust I’ve ever come across that wasn’t processed in a snack food factory and packaged in cellophane. The filling was nice, though.

Niffer was really cool and on top of having amazing talent for creating unique jewelry (I’m seriously complimented at least twice every time I wear my beetle ring out), she has really great taste in movies. I hope she didn’t think I was lame and that she’ll go to a haunted house with me next month.

Check out her shop, for real. Her pieces are so much fun, sturdy, and amazingly detailed.

Remember in June, when I failed to buy you a birthday gift? And then later that month when I didn’t even get a Father’s Day card for Chooch to sign? WELL, HERE IS HOW I’M MAKING IT UP TO YOU.

I am going to buy myself this delightful apron. Which means I will be doing more of that cooking activity to give myself a reason to wear it. Whip up some jello salad, trays of deviled eggs, Baked Alaska. Probably I will just wear it while watching TV. Maybe I’ll stand up a few times and do some twirly spins. Some curtsies. Jump rope. Maybe I’ll wear some high heels and bright red lipstick, walk up and down the street and get PAID ya’ll.

Henry, you’re probably asking yourself “How is that a gift for ME?”  Because YOU get to wear it too!

Perdoozy sells these on Etsy, and she takes custom orders too. If I don’t wind up going with this one, plan on me being aproned in custom weener fabric.

Now I have to get a cookbook thingie.