Shoot this up your Intertubes. Look smart.

What the Funk and Wagnalls is up with all these memes being posted on Facebook? More importantly, what the FUCK is the point of a meme?? My mom, my friends, and I all know what I do, which is of course spend my days downloading prog porn (I just received my Director's Cut BluRay "Slutty Larks Tongues in Asspic") and napping in my bed of Peanut Chews wrappers. There is only 1 picture for all that and it ain't pretty.

I think it would be more valuable to post something that truly informs and educates the astute Facebookers of the world, such as they are -- thought-provoking and insightful findings of evidence-based research with meaningful outcomes and statistical significance. Not this memememe horseshit. Fortunately, I have decided to do this for you, so you can stop crying now.

Below is the result of 5 seconds of intensive research and 5 hours of trying to figure out how to make a chart in PowerPoint, and is the a first in a series of data reports that you can to share up your Intertubes. You're welcome.

n=everyone on Facebook

My C Dropped

The following is a true story.

Maybe.

The other night, God was either pissing down or crying down rain all over the city of Philadelphia, most likely due to seeing all of the Joe Paterno tributes flooding his Facebook newsfeed.

In a strange coincidence, I live in said Philadelphia which--in another strange coincidence--is one of the oldest cities in America, and I happen to live inside one of the oldest buildings in this city. It was built during the days we were being sodomized (or was it colonized? I always get those 2 words mixed up!) by the British Empire, so all buildings were made out of pheasant bones and trifle.

Pheasant bones are strong, but they don't last forever, so the weakened condition of my shelter combined with the torrent of God piss pouring out of the sky made my bedroom ceiling weep like someone being colonized with a Toad-in-the-Hole.

In fact, piss damage has been increasing in my ceiling since I've moved in and this was the wiz that finally incinerated it. I was devastated, and since I am a woman who lives alone and happened to have ovulated approximately 48 seconds before this leak occurred, I too wept along with my ceiling into the arms of one of my Pillow Pets. I am just one woman against a giant flood of oppressive cloud wee-wee juice from above -- what could I do???

But like the Sodomists of early America, I knew I had to fight back using the resources I had. I had no maize and tobacco crops to shove into the ceiling's gaping crevice, but I did have this:

The wings of Freedom!

My defensive move worked, and I was so proud of myself I celebrated with sweatpants, "Dirty Dancing" and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey. But alas, like at the Battle of Brandywine, when the Hobbits of Britain defeated our Amish Sprites, this was a very heavy flow of abuse and not even the wings of Stayfree® could free me from this raging storm.

So I did what any solider woman living alone in America would do in such a situation -- I put an empty Chinese food takeout container underneath the leak, stuck a tampon in each ear to drown out the drip noise, and went to bed.

I am happy to report that the sky has dried up and I can now go back to using tampons to plug-up mouse holes in the baseboards.

I hope it doesn't rain again for awhile, but if it does I will be ready.

Like some bell says, we must always "proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the single-living inhabitants of shoddy housing thereof."

Going Dutch With Myself

In 2 weeks I will be starting a new job; a HUGE change after being employed at another company, who for 9 years, were kind enough to keep me despite my contributions to the shared company iTunes folder and abuse of "company-all" e-mail privileges.

9 years is a long time and I'm pretty nervous about leaving the comforts of an office I've been settling down in (read: converting a file cabinet into a shoe closet) for so long. And on top of the usual and customary "will I be good at my new job/will my new co-workers like me/will I be the one known as the-asshole-who-burned-the-popcorn-in-the-microwave?" first-day-fretting, my first day is in Belgium. The one in Europe.

I will be spending my first day + another 6 weeks in Belgium learning my new company's ways while fooling them into thinking I'm not a toolbox and have NOTHING to do with the Harold and Kumar movies. A lot of people who I've told about this are very happy for me because they are hoping I will return to America with diamonds that taste like waffles for them, but I have been very quick to remind them I am not there to shop and galavant around the country -- I am there to work. And insult the locals with my poor attempts at Dutch street slang.

Even though I will be there working, I am still looking forward to the new experience and hopefully having some time to play tourist. The only thing I am NOT looking forward to is running into fucking Gargamel and his skank Azrael. They better not even THINK about trying to turn me into gold, I am tragically pale enough already.

Der Creepster

And I will FREAK OUT if I see just ONE of those blue jackwagon Smurfs crawling through my bathtub drain, leaving their blueberry-scented droppings all over the place, and boring me with their incessant small-talk.

What a cunt

But luckily I'll be distracted by getting lost everywhere I go, being paranoid that everyone is making fun of me behind my back in Dutch, and maintaining my daily Chimay intake.

Regardless of what happens, I will be sure to keep you posted, or most likely, just warn you to as when I'm coming back.

Finally Giving You Something Good to Read

I am interrupting your regularly scheduled blog o' shite to cleanse your palettes with some real good shite. 


As some of you may know because you posses the awesome power of telepathy, I am a mega-huge-crazy fan of the author Flannery O'Connor. She was an American novelist, short-storist, and essayist. And her work has been the single greatest influence on my writing to date. In fact, I can't think of anything I haven't written in the past 15+ years--including every post in this hot horse piss site--that has not been touched by her. 


She lived on a farm in Milledgeville, Georgia her whole life which ended at the age of 39 from complications from lupus. (Which is truly a fucking bastard jackwagon disease!) Today is the anniversary of her death, so tonight I'm raising a glass of wine and giving thanks to my beloved muse while I fall in love with a few of her stories all over again. And I thought if you find anything I barf up here even mildly entertaining, perhaps you might like to get acquainted with her awesomeness. 


The story that got me hooked, and is probably her most famous story is A Good Man Is Hard to Find, which you can read here: http://pegasus.cc.ucf.edu/~surette/goodman.html 


And if you like stories with wooden legs and barnyard seduction, you may enjoy Good Country People: 
http://faculty.weber.edu/Jyoung/English%206710/Good%20Country%20People.pdf  
or you can watch this guy with the BEST STASHBEARD EVER give a commentary on the story: 





I'll return you to your usual bog slop soon enough...now is the time to honor the great writer who has inspired me to give you literary vertigo. 


"Only if we are secure in our beliefs can we see the comical side of the universe" --Flannery O'Connor

Workin' It

The other day when I looked into a mirror to see if my hair was on straight, I noticed that I looked like a baked potato that swallowed a potato sack containing Jabba the Hut. This, coupled with the realization that my pants were being eaten alive by my own ballooning thorax, was disheartening to say the least.

No more monkey lizards for dessert!

So before my ass started swallowing more than my braies, I decided it was time get in shape. Other than round. Or beached whale.

I signed up for a membership at a gym around the corner from my apartment, and I've even managed to actually show up and workout. When I'm not working out my upper body by throwing 50lb dumbbells at the skinny chicks taking naps on treadmills, I like to take aerobical classes designed for a total body thrashing. The Latin Dance Bear Wrestling class is good, and the Plutonium Pipe Strapped to Your Back Pilates really engages my core. Mostly to vomit itself all over my leotard.

But my FAVORITE class is Inappropriate Talent Show Dancing with Philadelphia's own John Oates. Check us out!

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

But exercise is not enough -- I also have to stop eating foods that taste really good. I've tried all the usual diets -- stapling my mouth shut, swallowing a tapeworm before each meal, Slim Fast, eating only goat's blood cabbage soup for 8 weeks....the list of failed attempts to outsmart my fat cells is more massive than my sequoia thunder thighs. So I've decided to create my own diet to try. Feel free to fail on this one too:

• Breakfast: Black coffee while browsing the current issue of Cosmopolitan magazine.
• Lunch: Small salad (no dressing) using the pair of jeans you've been holding onto for over 5 years that you hope you will fit into again as a placemat.
• Dinner: Your own tears.  

So hopefully the next time I look in the mirror it won't mind looking back! Even if it's sweaty, hungry, and ready to disembowel a grown man for an ice cream cone version of me.

Hold Please.

I know many of you have started to panic because I haven't posted anything in awhile, and I also know that is a lie. But I have been quiet lately, as I've become absorbed in another writing project which requires all 6 pairs of hands on my typewriter that looks like a laptop. Anyway, I hate to leave you hangin' more than you do, so here's a blog I just regurgitated from the bowels of my crusty archives. It's one of my worst ever. ENJOY!

----------------------------------------------

Dear Friends,

There are only 5 things I fear:

1. Snakes
2. Nutcracker dolls
3. Axe murderers
4. Developing a peanut allergy
5. Dying from a rare diabolical disease that is disguised as a cold

I am currently living in the midst of fear number 5. Now as some of you may already know, I am a bit of a hypochondriac, or as my dad started calling me in 1988 when I organized my own funeral after I drank some expired milk, his "little fruitcake." So when I get sick, I become obsessed with finding out what is going to kill me this time and wondering who will come visit my grave. This year so far I've had endometriosis, melanoma, tapeworm, deep vein thrombosis, and dry mouth.

But last week I developed another life-threatening illness that has this fruity nut girl quite confounded. It started out as a fever and sore throat (spinal meningitis), then my joints were sore (lupus), then my head was clogged and nose was stuffy (infected with vicious migrant ants from Arizona), then I had fluid in my lungs and chest pain (pulmonary fibrosis), and now I'm in the coughing/sinus headache/upset stomach/Roy Orbison syndrome/fatigue phase (hibernation sickness)--only I have no princess and wookie to nurse me back to health. I'm left with green tea, pseudophedrine, prescription ibuprofen, and whining.

So what's going to be on my death certificate? My mom says I have bronchitis. My co-worker says lyme disease. My sister says it's just a cold. My brother says I should stop shooting snot rockets at him. WebMD tells me I have chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and that Roy Orbison may have impregnated me with a globule containing 5 generations of vicious migrant ants from Arizona. Damnit, Orbison, this is NOT how I want to go! Well I guess I'll see him and the rest of his Arizona ants in hell soon enough.

It was nice knowing you all. Please be sure to try the hummus platter at my funeral reception--I'm having it special ordered.

Take care now,

The Late Lady Stabson

Finally, a way to cover my feet AND remember my name!

Today is the first day of wearing the coolest fucking shoes EVER. Cool as fuck cos I designed them myself (obviously) and stole the idea to do so from someone MUCH cooler than me (obviously). His name is Jim and he plays guitar in Tinyfish who are totally HOT. But anyway, look at me awesome ogre feets!! 

Sorry if you happen to glance at my leperous ankles; I think the blade on

the potato peeler I use to shave my legs is getting dull.




















I'm still trying to figure out how to do the laces the double-tongue action going on here, and this is what I came up with after lovingly throwing the shoes across the room about 5 times.

I love, Love, LOVE them, but they are definitely not as cool as my "Box of Glass" designer shoes by Christian Renoir:



Go here to make your own Lady Stabson shoes in your very own size and name! http://www.converse.com/#/landing/create