Born in 1870, Grandpa Josiah lived his life defined by the gentle way he brushed hair.

It began with his own dog, Polly. When his mother wasn’t looking (which meant she was passed out in her clawfoot gin bath), Josiah would swipe her silver hair brush and go to town. Other dogs, noticing Polly’s shiny coat, which was no small feat considering they lived in an area carpeted with perpetual moist and soggy sod, found themselves lining up on Josiah’s porch, panting for a good pamper.

Soon, little girls-in-waiting serpentined down the dirt drive, awaiting their turn for their locks to be loved. Josiah was glad to accommodate human follicles too, provided he could have a moment to clean the brush of fleas and dander. He’d even brush the pilous heads of newborn babies with a hand so gentle and methodical it quickly lulled them to sleep.

It was no surprise when Josiah dropped out of school to open his own barber shop. He had a morning tradition of slurping down his hot Ovaltine and running his hand over his array of brushes and combs, which he accumulated through years of attending horse shows.

But eventually, brushing hair wasn’t enough for Josiah. He began to ache to see the pate that lie beneath the mounds of curls, the straight shocks, the combed-over cilium. It started with an accidental jerk of his hand while he trimmed Farmer Johan’s frizzed fringe, enough to drag the razor flush against the scalp and leave an oval of exposed pink flesh. He leaned down close and admired the minute follicles.

The follicles, where it all began.

After that, he yearned to see more, where the hair growth began, where the base of each strand incubated in the bloody, gooey underside of the scalp.

He throbbed for this harder than he had for Betsy Blowhard when she reached a C-cup in the seventh grade.

Josiah was smart about it after he tried to scalp Mrs.

Meatcurtain in broad daylight and she screamed to high heaven, he began stealing patients from a nearby hospital who were in the throes of tuberculosis. In the back of his barber shop, he’d sever their scalps clean off their skull, finger the follicles, and then shoot a gratifying load in the basin he used for shampooing.

When he died, he left his entire fortune to the makers of Rogaine.

All the months of finger-nail gnawing and heart-clutching paid off last when the Penguins won the fucking Stanley Cup, motherfuckers. No one thought they would do it, everyone hated on Crosby, blah blah blah. That was the  most vindicating sporting event I’ve ever witnessed and I sent Chooch into a fit of hysterical crying with my screaming. Sorry Chooch. And Alisha. And my neighbors whom I’m not sure even give a shit about hockey.

Thank god  for Alisha who consistently babysat me during the games and fielded my manic texts when she was unable to be here with me.  And thanks to Bill & Jessi for pulling for the Pens even while being in enemy territory. It was fun having you guys to cheer with!

Now I have a few months to grow back my nails and re-learning how to breathe. But I’m sure by the end of next week, I’ll be whining, “I miss hockey!”

Missing the Craig Owens show last night in order to watch those guys hoist the Cup was the best decision I’ve made since, well — April.

[Photos taken from espn.com. Plz don’t be suing.]

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day, brought to you by Tart-Tits. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 16:06 When my friend Charlie texted me to say he saw a midget standing up in a Cadillac & driving it, I was overcome w/ jealousy that I missed it. #
• 19:15 Told Chooch he was created by pouring puke into a mold of a small boy, then baking it in the devil’s kiln. He seems convinced. #
• 20:41 @cantcme99 bitch, you got an ice cream machine? #
• 20:55 @cantcme99 Bitch you better get one. I have a recipe for lavender ice cream and some bitch needs to make that shit for me. Ho. #
• 21:02 @cantcme99 Target has one in a beautiful raspberry hue that I must have, lest I pull a glock on a bitch. #
• 21:05 “Dinner ain’t over til mama serves ice cream, bitch.” Obviously my catchphrase if I was in dessert porn. #
• 22:27 My tired son is murmuring “No ketchup, no mustard? OK.” over & over, with a chorus of tired/crazed humming. #
  

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• 11:19 I can’t watch Gilmore Girls without thinking of Henry, because Luke reminds me so much of him. Gotta be the blue collar. #
• 11:51 @saucalisha and how he scored the prettiest girl in town, oh ho ho ho! #
• 12:30 twitpic.com/6za5k – I wouldn’t mind my aunt’s impromptu food drops if she brought ME an ice cream cone too #
• 16:02 Red onions festering in a garbage can on a humid day smell about as precious as you’d think. #
• 18:00 It’s hard to enjoy a TV show when you abhor the main character but somehow I was able to block out Sara Rue enough to <3 Less Than Perfect. #
• 19:51 Almost time to start jump roping aggressively, weeeee!#
• 19:54 http://twitpic.com/70cs5 – I’d have made that borscht shit too if I wasn’t a kitchen retard. #
• 20:45 I read something where Zetterberg was likened to Jake Gyllenhaal, but I still maintain my Jared Leto comparison. #redwingsdyetheirbeards #
• 21:08 At least they won’t get another shut out! #redwingsdyetheirpubes #
• 22:39 PUT THAT CUP BACK. #
• 23:47 Henry would appreciate if I left his name out of “pervy” blog posts plz. #
  

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• 10:29 I made a new banner for my photo shop on Etsy. Yay or nay? http://bit.ly/54MeC #
• 13:09 This makes my veins seize up, but I love it: The Used’s New Album Artwork http://bit.ly/7DrJF #
• 14:05 Sorry @craigeryowens. I love you, but I’ve officially forfeited my ticket to yr show Friday in favor of the Penguins. #
• 14:11 I’ve been tossing a toy out the window when Chooch is bad. My front yard now looks like it could grace the July cover of White Trash Fancy. #
• 18:00 I answer all of Chooch’s questions with: “Because you won’t pee on the potty.” I got that from the Immature Mom Handbook. #
• 18:02 Chooch: “I said hi to [neighbor] Ruth but she didn’t hear me, why?” Immature Mom: “B/c you won’t pee on the potty.” Chooch: “Shut up b … #
• 19:05 Packing my bags, dyeing my hair black, starting over in Santa Fe with a new name. #
• 22:20 Putting out fires with my menstruating vagina. #crapsuperpowers #
• 22:40 Hearing God at all times, but he has Fran Drescher’s voice & a penchant for singing that shit Titanic shit. #crapsuperpowers. #
• 23:08 Me + stubborn Chooch + potty training – patience = BAD SITCOM. #
  

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• 17:16 I wish there was a 24-7 Battle of the Network Stars channel so I could put my Robert Conrad lust to good use. #
• 17:43 Was so close to ordering a Father’s Day gift for Henry b4 remembering @ THE LAST MINUTE that he got me NOTHING for Mother’s Day. So SUCKIT. #
• 21:55 True Story: Once, I had a dream that Dakota Fanning was Henry’s daughter & he LOVED HER MORE THAN ME. I’ve hated that bitchtit ever since. #
• 23:04 @Citizen_Lazlo no, that makes women like me happy! #
• 01:14 Whenever I fear possible tweets might be taken the wrong way, I send ’em over to Janna instead. She’s lonely so she appreciates it. #
• 10:58 Here’s how Henry helps with pottytraining = “Do you want to use the potty, Chooch?” “NO!@!!!” “Ok.” Bravo. #

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You would have thought the Sweeneys owned the village of Ballgag, what with how they shamelessly bullied their way throughout the streets.

Whenever Papa Sweeney didn’t get his way, he’d defecate on the doorstep of the orphanage, the church, the corner pub. He’d run down the street with his scythe, and then later that night heads would quite literally roll in his private basement bowling alley.

Mama Sweeney acted out in different ways, seducing the husbands of the PTA moms who didn’t put her pies on gilded dessert stands at the bake sales.

She birthed love-children out in the fields then brought them home as slaves.

Little Alan and Alana were no better, biting kids on the playground and sticking straws in the eyes of the classroom pets.

Knowing this, you might be able to understand why no one in Ballgag alerted the Sweeneys to the fact that they built their new home atop a sewage dump, and why, two months later, no one lent a hand as the Sweeneys sailed away down shit creek in their douche canoe.

5″x5″ on wood.

You know how when your neighbor is chasing you around with that fifteen-inch barbed dildo and electrical nipple clamps, your heart swells up with such a rush of adrenaline that you feel like you might die right then and there in a pantsful of terror-based soft-serve shit? That’s how I felt the day when I was fourteen and being hunted by a cannibalistic rabbit.

I was ambivalent when my brother Ryan won the fight against our parents, the one where every seven-year-old begs, pleads, promises, swears that they’re responsible enough, that they’ll feed it, that they’ll scrape the shit off the floor and pet it and hold it and love it forever and forever, until my parents cried uncle and allowed him to bring home a rabbit. He chose a standard black and white cow-spotted one and after quickly conferring with me, the all-knowing Big Sister and thinker of The Best Names EVER, the final choice for the new pet’s name was Rudy, after one of the kids from Monster Squad, a Kelly Family classic.

Rudy was a motherfucker. We kept him in a large cage in the garage, where he would gnaw at the flesh upon our fingers every chance he got. Feeding him was a nightmare, and I began to fear it more than church. My mom, trying to shove a carrot in between the grid of his cage, was left with a shaving of thumb skin dangling in the air, exposing the bright pink under layer of her hand. And that was only a sampling of the damage Rudy could cause.

That summer, my dad bought a hutch for him; we thought perhaps being one with nature would soften his temper, maybe the birds could do some social-workin’ on his dingleberried ass. But evidently, the great outdoors amplified his testosterone level and Rudy just kept growing more violent and more bloodthirsty.

One fateful day, Rudy squeezed his way out of the hutch when I was attempting, nervously. to toss some slop into his bowl. I was almost relieved, figuring instinct would send him hopping for the woods at the edge of our yard. Instead, he set his beady evil eyes hungrily on my legs. His nose twitched devilishly. For one frozen moment, we stood in tense stances: Rudy, hunched over awaiting to pounce; me, half-twisted at my waist, anticipating the start of a chase. Almost as if a gunshot fired, Rudy and I unfroze at the same time and I began sprinting wildly and blindly through the backyard, Rudy hot on my heels. I wasn’t sure if my appendages were going to be used as a humping post or a dinner buffet, but neither sounded very savory to me. I screamed in vain for someone, anyone to come to my aid. Preferably the Crocodile Hunter.

Bring a shotgun! I don’t care!

My dad was in the garage, engaging in a leisurely afternoon phone conversation, when I whizzed past him, followed closely by a black and white streak of unbridled fury.

Hysterically, I screeched, “Daddy help me! Before he kills me! Daddy help!”

An outsider might have mistaken my screams for over-dramatics. But my dad was no stranger to the extent of injury we feared Rudy could cause, and so he abandoned the telephone in favor of a broom, then quickly joined the frantic chain of hunter and the hunted.  My dad gained on him and began swatting with frenzied heroics, but it was all for naught: Rudy was too quick and agile for me, his paws powered by the wrath of Hell, and soon had me tackled to the freshly mowed grass.

Rudy’s sharp bucked teeth pierced through the flesh on my ankle. I swung and kicked my leg around, like I was the bull at the rodeo, but his fanged clench abated. My dad finally unlatched him with one hard smack of the broom. I’m against animal cruelty, but Rudy earned no tears from me that day.

Later that summer, even though I vowed to never speak to Rudy again, I didn’t think twice about coming to his aid when our dog, Dazee, chased him into the neighbor’s yard before grabbing his neck with her gnashing jaws. When I reached the scene, Rudy lay unmoving under a pine tree. Luckily, I was in the middle of summer health class, so I grabbed my notes and embarked in a relentless series of CPR attempts.

Sadly, Rudy was a goner. I think of him every time I look at the scar on my ankle.

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day, brought to you by Tart-Tits. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 15:43 June, you have barely begun and already I want to hump you. #
• 01:47 Henry whored me out. #
• 10:13 Thinking negatively has worked quite well for me thus far. Especially when I was hoping I didn’t have AIDs. #
• 13:14 Since it’s Henry’s birthday, I think he should buy me a new coffee mug at the Arts Festival. #
• 13:38 Henry tripped over a sandbag & I laughed riotously to which Alisha replied, “Really? Because you did the same thing like 3x already.” #
• 13:45 My street team, we are bumbling retards. “You do it! No you do it!” #
• 14:15 Just learned that Alisha and I would not fare well on the same relay team. #
• 14:41 twitpic.com/6rffv – Downtown Pittsburgh is severely lacking in metal surfaces. #
• 15:41 Alisha, with me under her (mean) wing: If you’re going to walk downtown, you’re going to do it right. #
• 16:31 Zany Circus guy just asked if it’s anyone’s birthday & Henry gave me a serious Don’t You Dare glare. #
• 16:42 twitpic.com/6rst8 – She’s filling in for me; had a slight case of appendicitus today. #
• 18:02 Listening to Your Best Friend after a dayful of laffs @ Arts Festival, closest I’ve felt to my beloved Summer of ’98. A+, would relive. #
• 18:04 Me, as we’re sitting here zoning out: “It’s like Quiet Time.” Alisha: “Except you ruined it by talking.” She totally missed my voice though #
• 19:00 twitpic.com/6s80h – Henry’s feeling frisky on his birthday, tackles his son. #
• 21:58 It’s like the Penguins are playing with a bunch of tempermental Erins out there. #
• 22:03 Alisha’s trying to get Henry to talk about what D-Day was like. #
• 22:07 I want to see my sinister cat Marcy out there on a line with Satan, coat the puck with some goat blood and get a few dozen goals. #
• 22:41 It’s sad when talent is overshadowed by temper. #
• 22:49 Brightside: Hossa didn’t score? Srsly, Wings deserved that win. Pens were playing like a bunch of kids w/ broken bottles in an alley. What? #
• 22:52 I don’t know why I’m laughing right now & not crying? Probably because it’s hard not to chuckle at a good folly. And I have sun poisoning. #
• 23:11 But I’ll tell you what DOES make me cry: the lack of Boggle enthusiasm in my hizzy right now. Whatever. I’d win anyway. #
  

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• 02:43 It seems w/ Henry’s new age comes brand new tv-watching heavy breathing. Time for some belated birthday arsenic, I say. Or a clothes pin. #
• 14:06 Chooch just helped himself at PetCo’s pet bar, and liked it too. #
• 16:37 Luring Alisha over to the iCarly side of life. She was hooked halfway through one episode, though she tried to be covert with her smiling. #
• 19:25 Quintessential old ppl sat behind us at dinner. Topics included: those young ppl, arthritis, “hold on, I have to take my pills.” #
• 19:27 And Henry came to their defense, stating that only one was old. “The other was only about 50.” Wait, I thought—-? O.o #
• 22:46 I have resorted to enlisting ChaCha to help me remember the name of my favorite 70s (80s?) French porn with the stuffed animal vignette. #
• 23:37 Came across an old lj comment where i declared my rap name as “Prof. Lil’ Vaggie. B/C I be makin’ yo head spin w/ my philosophical jargon.” #
  

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• 00:05 Reflecting over the weekend’s tweets, I’ve learned to stop tweeting while walking. Walk-tweeting. Tweet-walking, Whatever, just don’t do it. #
• 10:14 My apparent consolation for having a shitty mom is being inundated w/ food from her sister. I’m not entirely comfortable with this. #
• 12:19 I think it’s less of a desire to help out her family, more of a chronic infatuation w/ browsing cereal to soft hits from the 80s. #
• 12:39 Henry’s home, inspecting all the meat-laden products my aunt Sharon delivered, and asked “Does she not like you?” Um, duh. #

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AND NOW: A PLEA

Henry was just mentioning how he should be so thrilled that he has a girlfriend he can watch porn with, but instead he winds up annoyed and frustrated because my criteria is so specific. It has to be from the 70s. It has to be weird. It has to have some taboo elements to it (like Nightdreams, which is one of my all time faves. Hello, Satan and GOD are in it, and a Jack-in-the-Box. what’s not to love about that??). There are times when he’ll pop in a DVD and immediately I’m all “aw hell no, that girl’s voice is ruining it for me and I don’t like that she has a bruised thigh” or “I can tell immediately that I won’t like this one because that dude looks like you” or “I can tell by the music that this isn’t going to be scary enough, and right now in this moment I am desiring something scary” so then it’s back to the drawing board for him.

After he was complaining about it last night, he goes, “What do you like?? I will never understand your standards!” and I was like, “Hey remember that French porn you rented last summer? That was my favorite one ever, I think. Well, amaybe Clown Porn wins that title, but still — close second.”

Yes, last summer Henry rented this French porno from a small video shop nearby (sending Henry out to rent porn is way more rewarding to me than to see him cowardly downloading it). It was from the 70s and I enthused about it for weeks. Now I desperately would like to have it again. Except that I can’t remember what it was called, what year it was from specifically, and anyone who was in it.

OK seriously, if there are any porn afficionados out there, now’s the time to dip into your vault of XXX knowledge. Here is a small list of information, the best I can offer:

1. It was French and sub-titled, from some part of the 70s.
2. The plot had something to do with a reporter whose boss sent him out to interview several women about sex.
3. The main guy looked to be in his late thirties and I think he was balding and not very attractive, but of course all these women were like, “Oh plz mister, let us give you just one quick blow job” and then he would sigh exasperatedly and mumble, “Oh alright.”
4. He had a girlfriend/wife, but they were on the verge of breaking up
5. One of the women he interviewed was a romance novel writer or something, and she got all her ideas from her dreams. In one of her dreams, she was in a kitchen and goes, “Give me your juicy carrot” and I remember groaning because that’s like something Janna would name a weener, but really this broad was actually fucking a juicy carrot.
6. Another girl he interviewed had orgies with her stuffed animal collection.

PLEASE HELP ME LOCATE THIS CLASSY ADULT FILM.

I’m also forever on the prowl for Revolutionary War porn, so if anyone has any leads on that too, plz help this girlie-face out. And tell me to never refer to myself as ‘girlie-face’ ever again.

Earlier today, Alisha began whining about how she wanted Chinese food so badly that she had legitimate pangs of  soy sauce-lust shooting through her veins. Tired of listening to it any longer, Henry took us all to Silver Palace to eat amongst the elderly. I mean, there were so many old people there that Henry might actually have been considered young.

Seated right behind us were two archetypical old man. I know this because in the twenty-minute duration we breathed the same MSG-laden air, they referenced young people, arthritis, and “I’ll be right out, I have to take my pills.” They were so perfectly old that if we had gotten there a few minutes earlier, we might have been privy to some D-Day memories, and I can assure you with confidence that there is a handicapped tag dangling off the rear view mirror of the Lincoln in which they likely rolled up. The man furthest from me spoke in bombastic tones, making me shrink down a little in the booth. Once you pass 50, you’re awarded a license to speak loudly in public. I think you can get them at AAA and Bob Evans.

I couldn’t hear the man who shared the same back to the booth as me, but I imagine he must have danced into a liver spot diatribe at least once. Alisha swears she heard one ask the other if they felt like they could be in danger and proceeded to obsess over that for the next ten minutes.

The one closest to us blew his nose. It was crinkly and wet. Very wet. It seemed to reverberate all around us, hanging above our white-clothed table like a cloud saturated with nasal juice, reminding us of its crudeness. At that moment, I became very glad that my Color Wheel was served with a viscous white sauce, so as I ate, I could visualize what that old man shot into his hanky.

Like most people, the adults at our table (and yes, I am including myself in that) sort of hung our heads and closed our eyes. Alisha shuddered a little. Henry, well, I don’t know what Henry did because I was too busy anxiously awaiting Alisha to spooge stomach acid in cupped hands, because she is very critically snot-phobic. As in, earlier when Chooch’s sneeze left him with rivers of gelled waste trickling across his top lip like a babbling brook rushing over a felled log, Alisha had to bury her head in the crook of her arm. Like, one time I mentioned that I’m addicted to coughing up phlegm when I’m sick, and she did the dry heaving dance. I continued to tell her that I love how it crackles in my chest. I love how, if I breathe very forcefully and exhale past average limitations to the point where I’m nearly passing out, I can call up a tiny wheeze. Bronchitis? Love having it. I could play with chest congestion all the livelong day. I told her all of this and I think she seriously considered ending our friendship.

As I was saying….

None of us vocalized our disgust for that man’s clear lack of table etiquette, but Chooch doesn’t yet have the ability to not call a bitch out. So, very loudly, he shouts, “WHAT WAS THAT?” Because I mean, this man expelled his mucous so forcefully that he quite possibly blew out some bones, a treasure map, and the cure for cancer as well, all buoying about in a sea of nasal sick.

Chooch had abandoned the straw skyscraper he was erecting in his glass of watered ginger ale at this point (he doesn’t like the fizziness of the carbonation, although he pronounces it bizzy, as in “I can’t like that bizzy!”). He repeated his question, standing up slightly in the booth, eyes wide and darting around the restaurant. Collectively, we tried to assure him that it was nothing, but you know — that’s not an acceptable answer for a kid. Putting a hand behind his ear, he argued, “No, I heard sumpin’.”

And Chooch, he speaks in old men volumes. He doesn’t yet grasp the concept of table volume, so it became very public commentary to follow the very public nose-blowing.

It was one of those moments where I remembered how awesome it is to have a three-year-old. 

After they left, I exhaled and said, “My god, they were like old people stereotypes!” and Henry goes, “Only one was old.

“

I never did get a chance to see the nose-honker, so I asked, “Oh, the other guy was young? I didn’t imagine that he was.”

“He was probably only fifty,” Henry added matter-of-factly with a shrug.

And the incredulous look on my face asked Alisha, “Since when is fifty not old??”

Since, I guess, when Henry is only six years shy of it.

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day, brought to you by Tart-Tits. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 13:28 My house was so much cleaner WHEN I LIVED ALONE. I’m moving Chooch and Henry out to the garage. #
• 13:43 Chooch watched the New Moon trailer 56578x but is frustrated that Jacob is not a polar bear. #
• 20:15 My 3yo recognizing & excitedly yelling SPENCER! at the TV while watching “I’m a Celebrity…” makes me choke on parental failure. #
• 20:50 Chooch: “I’mma go to the store with daddy, buy you a Sidney Crosby cookie. And I’ll have Malkin one.” <3 that damn kid. #
  

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• 09:18 Chooch is sleeping with a Cure flask next to him & I swear it’s not what it seems. #
• 14:05 I wish I had a Brody Jenner in my life to go to for advice, like which sunglasses to wear on a day I want to look particularly douchey. #
• 14:14 Come to my house & bat balloons with a flyswatter. It’s like a game you’d play at a trailer park bbq but with a real balloon, not a condom #
• 14:26 Me, about hockey: “This is exactly how I used to feel when I’d watch Andre Agassi play, too.” Henry: “Gay?” #
• 19:56 Alisha’s at my hizzy, haaaaay! #
• 22:05 Maybe Lemieux should suit up. #
• 22:34 !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! #letsgopens wtfomgijustpeed #
• 22:35 I managed to hurt my wrist by punching the air. #
  

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• 17:13 Tonight we feast on burnt spaghetti. #
• 19:53 Chooch just delved into MY branch of culinary arts by baking a plastic lid. #
• 22:06 I could listen to Chooch say “god dammit Marvin” all the livelong day. #
  

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• 16:35 How many fingernails will tonight’s game strip from me – I only have 4 left. #
• 16:49 Only way to get Chooch to eat Spaghetti-Os was by telling him the meatballs were made from vampire flesh. #
• 20:27 I feel like I need to take a vaca after this hockey bullshit. And also get my heart checked. #
• 20:30 Pedestrians outside my house think I’m dubbing an aggro porno. #
• 21:41 HELLO THESE ARE THE PENGUINS WE KNOW & LOVE! #
• 22:57 I think the Red Wings are a great, skilled team. But after awhile they looked like a bunch of Henrys out there: old & beat. #
  

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• 12:22 Would like to know why my son keeps saying there are dead people in his diaper, & why that isn’t tempting him to use the FUCKING POTTY. #
• 12:27 The scene in Monster Squad where Frank sees a mask of himself and asks “Sc-scary?” KILLS ME every time. Probably because I can relate. #
• 12:49 Remember when I went thru that phase where I could only get off by thinking of dead people? Maybe those same ones are in Chooch’s diaper. #

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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.

[Penguins sidenote: I figured, I’ve referenced Brooks Orpik in two stories so far, why not give him a shoutout in the actual painting this time. Fleury’s in there, too, haaay.]

Blake snagged himself a good girlfriend, and I got to take pictures of them. Unfortunately, my dominant eye was on his death bed (he’s since recovered, no need to send floral arrangements) and most of you know that it’s amazing I have any vision left at all what with all of my optic maladies, so I’m happy that any of these turned out at all.

Look at that form! I see gold medals in her future.

I feel like now they need to have a band. And that I need her shoes.

This was either before or after I fell into a gopher hole. Then I had to use the strength of my left eye to help me to safety.

HENRY WHY CAN’T YOU LOVE ME LIKE THAT??

[Rest of the set thissaway]

Thank god I follow Craig Owens on Twitter, else I might not have known about the handful of pre-Warped dates they decided to schedule in several very lucky cities (and that he can still remember what his first girlfriend smells like, wtf Craig). I was prepared to be let down when I checked the dates, and I wasn’t surprised at all to see that Pittsburgh wasn’t getting any love. However, Columbus was on the list and it happened to fall on a Friday so tickets were snatched up on the ASAP. Originally, Alisha was going to accompany me, but due to a very sad family matter that had her flying back home to Arkansas last week, Henry became her fill-in.

And he was thrilled. THRILLED. And on a road trip with me clocking in at 6 hours round-trip, who wouldn’t be? (Don’t answer that.)

The drive started out rocky, last minute snafus had us leaving the house thirty minutes later than I would have liked. And then Henry bought shitty pretzels to snack on and everyone knows (or should) that pretzels rate a negative one on my road trip snackability chart. But at least I got to whine the entire time about how starved I was, which is at the top of Henry’s pet peeve list and always makes him snap, “You’re not STARVED! You might be HUNGRY, but you’re not STARVING. Let me put you in the desert for a week with no food and then you will know what it’s like to be starving.” To which I always remind him that, like every other spoiled teenage girl looking for a reason to suffer, I was anorexic for AT LEAST two weeks when I was 14 so I know plenty well what it feels like to starve.

Then Henry talked about stuff that I don’t care about, like his work and his days in the SERVICE, but I distracted myself with a highway mix consisting of Frank Turner, A Camp, Sights and Sounds, and This City Needs Guns. (And, not gonna lie, some old school Taking Back Sunday.)

We stopped in some rustic Ohio lake town a few miles outside of Columbus, in search of something more filling than pretzels. We settled on Subway, and I left Henry alone  to describe to the sandwich artist what I wanted while I tried to make it in and out of the bathroom unscathed. I was almost successful, except that my ring got snagged on my underwear and somehow that resulted in me performing the most retarded, uncoordinated, grand scale version of a Cats Cradle and I broke a slight sweat across my brow and wondered how noticeable it would be if I exited the bathroom with a swath of pink-hearted cotton dangling from my thumb like a pennant someone might wave after date raping a cheerleader.

You can stop holding your breath now because after I realized it would be more sensible to remove my ring and not my underwear, my confidence returned and I thought to myself, “I am not going to be bested by a fucking  steampunk beetle ring” and the next thing I knew, I had come out on the other side of the untangling process with little more than a bent leg on my beetle and somehow my lipstick was smeared. Unfortunately, the rush I experienced from winning that battle was negated when I realized that the sub Henry designed for me was little more than a mayo sandwich.

In Columbus, we were immediately met with traffic coming off the highway. I was OK with this because in our neighboring lane could be found a gang of aging bikers trying so hard to look tough when I just knew deep down they were aching to slip into a comfy pair of deck shoes. Each bike was radiating a different country song and it was just one of those things that provoked my inner giddiness and I completely lost control. I was laughing so hard that I was doubled over in my seat, tears streaming down my face, Henry ordering me to “knock it off.”

“They’re probably going to a country music concert, I bet that’s why there’s so much traffic,” Henry postulated because he knows everything. I asked him what he was using as evidence and he pointed up ahead. “There’s a woman holding a sign for tickets and she looks like a country music fan.”

It turned out to be a homeless woman, holding a sign for food. And besides, all the homeless people I’ve ever known have been into bluegrass and Appalachian murder ballads.

Meanwhile, we had made it onto another street and were still flanked by the bikers. “Oh please, can I say something to them?” I wheezed through peals of laughter. People in surrounding cars were starting to stare, and that only made me laugh harder and Henry grimace deeper.

“Say something like what?” Henry snapped. “They’re not even doing anything.” Here is where he began rubbing his temples.

“But they think they’re so hardcore, look at them! They’re so funny!” And here is where I began trying not to piss my pants. “How is this not funny to you?” At this point, I could barely speak, the hilarity was choking me, no lie. I wanted one of them so badly to crank the Seals and Croft.

“It’s apparently only funny to you younger generation assholes,” Henry muttered. Then he made a left hand turn from the center lane and pissed off a bunch of people, which only doubled my hysteria. And then when he went to pay the attendant of a parking lot, the attendant said he didn’t have change so Henry had to dig through his pockets for quarters and I’ll tell you, at this point I thought I was going to have to be hospitalized for laughter-induced rib-cracking. Ooooh boy, Henry was so pissed off at me, too.

We ended up walking toward the venue in the middle of a family. “Let’s pretend like we’re with these people,” I whispered loudly, “so it looks like we belong here.”

“Uh, I’m actually pretending like I’m not with YOU,” Henry answered, right before he tried to trick me into going the opposite direction. And in our adopted family was a group of little boys who were talking excitedly, and at one point I heard the words “Stanley Cup” and “Penguins.” Waiting to cross the street, I blatantly eavesdropped, which made Henry uncomfortable. When there was a pause in their conversation, I blurted out, “The Penguins are going to win.” It came out real snotty, too, I have no idea why. And in unison, they all started praising the Penguins too and Henry grabbed me by the elbow and scolded me for talking to small children. “That’s creepy!” he whispered.

“I’m talking to them about hockey, not trying to flash a tit,” I argued. Fucking hockey, man. Even when I’m about to see one of my favorite bands it’s on the forefront of my dumb mind.

The show was at the Basement, which is probably one of the smallest venues I’ve ever been to. This is what Chiodos had promised too — they wanted it as intimate as possible and that’s exactly what they got. It was a sold out show, so I was glad I bought tickets the day it was announced.

We sat at the bar and I immediately hated every person there. This was enhanced the more I drank until I was eventually shaking and Henry had to babysit me only because he’s too much of a pussy to throw a blow after I provoke dudes. (I almost always target jock-y bro-types when I drink.)  On this particular occasion, there were two assholes who had feet upon free of empty floor but chose to stand flush against the back of my bar stool. Just what I wanted, generic frat boy ornaments on my back. But it only got worse once they opened their mouths and never shut up. The smaller of the two had this horrible high-pitched voice that could have given him a great future at Hanna-Barbera and he was relentlessly trash-talking Pittsburgh and I was doing that thing that sometimes you see crazy people do in sanitariums where they laugh hysterically and maniacally but their eyes are screaming, “Look at me now you motherfucker, oh ho ho ho I’m so fucking pissed that I can’t stop laughing at how rewarding it’s going to be when I impale you with a fistful of broken glass and rip your voice box out through the shredded flesh wound” and several times I swiveled in my chair and we made eye contact and Henry was murmuring, “Fucking stop, let it go” because he was only in the Air Force so his fighting skills consist of the shove-and-run method.

And then the other bro was a veritable fount of music knowledge and I laughed disgustedly as he stood behind me, raping facts up the ass with a Nickleback poster. He said that Isles and Glaciers were made up of members of MxPx and some other guys too and I looked at Henry with my mouth agape and loudly asked, “Is he fucking retarded?” and I know that 99% of the people reading this are like, “OK who cares” BUT I DO. I was raging so hard, my heart thumping so angrily,  that it’s times like that when I begin to wonder if someone’s been slipping me unbeknownst steroid shakes.

This is why I try to abstain from drinking at shows.

The opening band, Miss May I, started around that time and those assholes found somewhere else to stand which is probably a good thing because they didn’t look like they were opposed to punching a girl in the face. (Which is surprising that this hasn’t happened yet.)

So Miss May I were boisterous and guttural, which is just what I needed right then. I liked them a lot a lot a lot and that’s only partially related to the fact that Henry hated them.

After them was my new favorite band, Your Best Friend. I knew their music beforehand and was very excited to see them live. They didn’t disappoint one bit. Even with a slightly slurred and sluggish attention span, I was captivated through the entire set. The next day, I immediately ordered their CD. Midwestern emo will always get Valentines from my heart.

I was also excited to see the Silent Years, who played next, because I have liked what I’ve heard from them in the past (this song, specifically). Unfortunately, like a lot of indie music  in general lately, they sounded good but just didn’t hold my attention. (I go through phases.) That could also have something to do with the fact that Craig was sitting five seats away from me at the bar.

My favorite member of Chiodos, drummer Derrick Frost, recently left the band, so it was somewhat sad not seeing him that night. Every other member walked past me at some point throughout the night and I would softly say, “Aw, yay.”

Eschewing the large stage and fancy lights did little to reduce the fullness of their sound; they were giants up there on that tiny stage and when they played “The Words ‘Best Friend’ Become Redefined” my tattoo didn’t ignite with blue flames and regenerate the dead parts of my heart like I had hoped, but it sure felt good to trace it and have a very important decision reaffirmed.

They were amazing as usual, and while I had mega sad-face when it was over, I was not sad to leave the Basement and the stench of 200 sweaty scene kids behind me. I feel lucky that I got to see them, and that I have a (somewhat) nice boyfriend who went with me. I was sad to not have Alisha there, but it was still nice to get to spend some quality time with the old man. Especially on the three hour drive home, when he was fighting to stay awake and I was too drunk to relieve him at the wheel, so I blasted some Dillinger Escape Plan.  Smarties!

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day, brought to you by Tart-Tits. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 12:42 It might not be there yet, but by the time Chooch is done with it, Pittsburgh just might be the murder capital of the world. #
• 13:36 BRB my son’s mopping the kitchen floor. #
• 14:16 I’m the one who always has paint on her hands. #
• 15:33 We might eventually make it to Columbus. I hope. If I ditch Henry & hitch with a bigrig. #
• 16:14 Henry’s talking abt pillow prices & subsequent quality. Hope he knows I quit listening after I realized that it had nothing to do w/ sex. #
• 16:36 At first I thought “Arthritis?” But now I’m sure it’s a gang of Satantic fire ants fucking on my tendon. It would be rude to stop them. #
• 16:45 Or it could be a jumprope injury, whatevelyn. #
• 17:18 Henry, it’s hard to talk about my crush when you keep rolling your eyes. #
• 17:50 I hope one day @Chiodos will know how much I love them. #
• 18:27 “Because I got tangled in my underwear in a Subway restroom” would be a lame reason to miss a show. #
• 18:48 twitpic.com/67rb7 – Stuck in traffic being serenaded by a country-music blasting biker gang. #
• 18:51 I can’t stop laughing about these lame bikers & henry is so confused. “I guess its only funny to you younger generation assholes.” #
• 19:06 Henry just scolded me for telling a bunch of little kids that the Penguins are going to win. #
• 19:32 There’s something about the tone of the dude’s voice behind me that’s lacerating my patience. #
• 20:02 God, give me one Strongbow & I’m ready to start throwing blows. The gutteral bellows from the stage are like extra steroids in my rage sundae … #
• 21:27 There is a sea of scene coifs here, Henry. Pick one, we’ll make it work. #  
• 21:58 Trying to talk Henry into saying he’s Papa Owens to get backstage. He smirked, which means no. I’m drunk. Give me a face to punch, bye. #
• 23:20 How many more times do I have to be in the same room as him, within reaching distance, before I actually talk to him. (Don’t answer that.) #
  

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• 00:23 I should not be replying to anyone when I’m drunk, but Henry is boring me on the drive home so here I am, amok on Twitter. #
• 01:15 @coupesetique his dome was unadorned tonight, but he still wore his standard annoyed scowl! #
• 01:19 At dinner tonight w/ Janna & her parents, Chooch informed them that he wants to set Christina on fire. He holds grudges as tight as I do. #
• 01:46 It’s dark&foggy & Henry’s driving is erratic. I’m half-expecting a Pee Wee’s Big Adventure-esque cliff-roll. #
• 11:46 Chiodos hangover, regret from not punching Hanna-Barbera voice, eyelid paralysis. #
• 12:27 Gee, thank god my aunt just reminded me that the Penguins play tonight because I totally had NOT been thinking about that CONSTANTLY.
• 16:08 My sensitive eyes are forcing me to wear my sunglasses inside. My inner scenester prat is being unleashed. #
• 16:19 if I was one of those crop dusting pilots, I’d fly around pelting people with dead things. #
• 16:34 Dead things amd scratch offs. “I just got hit with a rotted scrotum, but at least I won a free ticket.” #
• 16:36 “amd” is how we half-blind people who wear sunglasses indoors spell “and.” Learn it. Use it. Disinfect it. #
• 17:12 @BreakingNews This should not be breaking news. #
• 20:03 I have no other words but OMGOMGOMGOMG. #letsgopens #
• 22:20 I have so many asshole-y tweets making my fingers itch, but I’m too afraid of jinxing my Penguins. #letsgopens #
  

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• 00:08 It doesn’t get any better than Zetterberg? Really? #
• 12:05 I can’t believe fucking Nadal lost. #
• 12:10 Chooch dictates how long Henry and I are allowed to hug, then much to Henry’s relief it’s all “OK that’s enough, you’re done now.” #
• 13:05 I miss Alisha. #
• 16:44 twitpic.com/6cwrh – At Denny’s, talking about slicing eyeballs. #
• 16:46 England Dan & John Ford Coley: providing soundtrack excellence for avocado burrito mastication @ Denny’s. #
• 17:03 Where’s @saucalisha and her survival pack when we need her. #
• 17:45 Blake’s girlfriend gets the highest seal of approval from me. She’s so cool & un-bitchy! #
• 20:13 Chris Osgood needs suckerpunched in his smug face. #
• 20:19 You can’t spell Asshole without the Hossa. #  (I wish I could claim that as my own.)
• 22:43 I fucking love you, Malkin!!!!! #
• 22:44 I hope little Jared Leto, I mean Zettercunt, didn’t suffer any facial blemishes. #
• 23:51 I love Henry. THERE I SAID IT. #

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