Sanity is is something to be lost.

New Post! Click to Read! “I am looking for men to come to my apartment and growl at me… There will be mini-quiche afterwards”

Chef Slenderfoot’s Prix Fix…to start: mulled yellow-snow titrations w/ notes of bark & non-dairy creamer, followed by a jammy newCarSmell-aftertaste. Pair with ground bison back-fat & stinkbean shavings on aged water crackers. Clear pallette w/ a Deer-spit ice adorned w/ julienne plastic-office-fern.

For the meal: serve turine o mummified albatross, garnish w/ sprig o cilantro.

For dessert: light and airy silt parfait, dusted with sea salt, dab of caper-mollusk jelly. After dinner aperitif: your choice of a pureed-earwax bellini, or a tawny glass of liquid pork.
Gimme More →

He’s just so, aw shucks, scrappy!

Originaly posted on Deb Webster Blog [dot] com

Hi, my name is Millie Miller, I am 14 years old and the wealthiest girl in all the greater Swedshon region and most of Pittjun County.* Jeez, you’re thinking, Millie Miller looks really wealthy, I’d like to look really wealthy like Millie Miller. Now slowdown Sally. Before we can help you look really wealthy, we must establish how wealthy you actually are (your wealth quotient, if you will). YOU ARE NOT WEALTHY IF… 1. Your garage fits only two cars. 2. You refer to your maid as The Cleaning Lady, and she gets to go home at night. 3. Stir-fry for supper. 4. Pepsi. 5. Your mom has always had the same face. 6. You are poor. Stop crying. You look so middle class when you cry. Dry your eyes girlfriend, because you can still look rather wealthy. I resolve to show you how because a) noblesse oblige, and b) my youth group leader Kirk says i need to do community service, so this is my community service. Get over it, Kirk. LOOK WEALTHY IN 5 EASY STEPS

1. Crab Fork

Eat everything with a tiny sterling silver crab fork. If you can only afford silver-plated, keep that information to yourself. Carry it with you at all times. I nestle mine in a golden velveteen pouch. Also, if you can’t eat something with a crab fork, it’s probably not very expensive (soup) and therefore eating it will not make you look any wealthier. A crab fork tells the world, I eat succulent shellfish so often that look, I HAVE to carry the special fork with me. In a land-locked state like Indiana, the crab fork communicates that you can pay well-over the market price for blue crab or rock lobster all day, every day. Do it.

2. Fur and/or Hides

Always don at least one item scraped from the back of a small to medium sized mammal or large bird (ostrich). This is okay because you did not kill it, your dad’s visa did. If that girl with the earth-day shirt hassles you, tell her you’ll wear her if she doesn’t shut her maw (although you never would because her hair is greasy and she smells like wax). Most expensive furs: Sable, Mink, Ermine, Lynx. Budget furs: Fox, Chinchilla, Rabbit. Do-it-yourself furs: possum, badger, beaver, raccoon. In Swedshon, we have an abundant supply of such critters. My friend Donna scored herself a coonskin coat by throwing a bear trap and some macaroni in her trash can. She lives in East Swedshon (gross) so it wasn’t hard to find someone with a fridge in the front yard who could skin the little devils. From 200 yards, the coat makes her look mildly wealthy.

3. Camera Pen

I have a high-definition, platinum Takaiyakutso Camera Pen with an emerald encrusted grip (i look thinner in green). My camera pen has a two-prong purpose: 1) I can record hiqh-quality video of my friends doing dorky stuff that i frequently find useful when persuading Jennifer to share her chips, 2) anything impossibly small that should be big is expensive looking. If you cannot afford the camera pen, you can fake it by spray-painting a Bic a metallic hue, rolling it in glitter, and gluing a glass button to the end. If some jerkface calls you out and insists upon viewing the footage, tell him to buy a clue for 200, Alex — it wirelessly downloads to the chapstick-sized computer inside your personal safe due to obvious security concerns.

4. “C’est tres _!”

I don’t speak french, and neither do you. My mom claims she does, but she also claims to turn 30 every year. I refuse to let my Spanish-biased school district restrict my language bank, and so should you. French is timelessly classy and hence wealthy by logical inference. Once every hour, whether noshing at the cafeteria table or chucking a bowling ball down the alley, exclaim “C’est tres cool/dorky/rad/expensive!” Simple. C’est (say•est) + tres (tray) + context appropriate english adjective. You not only look wealthy, you sound wealthy.

5. Hitting

Hit someone. Or kick. Whatever. Assaulting someone says I can smack you because my dad has a lawyer on retainer. So wealthy. I make slapping some scrub with the back of my hand a thrice-daily routine. In two years, i will trade in my paw as the weapon of choice for a bright shiny moving vehicle (only just a love pat from my gold-plated grill, I am not in to manslaughter). Important note: be sure that whoever you hit is financially inferior in case of a civil suit, as such nuisances can drag out indefinitely and turn into a test of not so much wills, but rather resources. Beating on someone from East Swedshon (also known as “Dog Patch”) is a safe bet. There you have it. With my 5 easy steps, you have no excuse not to look even the slightest bit wealthy. Wipe off the poor and hop to it.

$$$ -Millie Miller *There is one girl in Pittjun County, Tegan Flesher of Kupfer Creek (south of Swedshon), who is slightly wealthier. However, she is home-schooled and has a an underbite.

Original comments

Yaya I can monitor sound again properly!

green pee…

Originaly posted on Deb Webster Blog [dot] com

Last week, I was sporting my extremely expensive floor-length Chinchilla vest while sitting with Jennifer and Donna in the cafeteria. I was casually chomping on my watercress sandwich when Vanessa “Earth Day” Robles strode up with her posse of bio-bangers and said, “It’s like you’re wearing the souls of 20 murdered animals,” and I was like, “It’s probably more like 50.” Then she stormed off with her dirty hair and cargo shorts. Gimme More →

annoy’n indie film w/ teriible titling & WTF happened 2 Jeff Fahey

¡Ay, Que lastima! My 8th Grade Spanish students have been trying the upper limits of my patience, particularly one rather taxing teenager–Deb Webster (she has been acting utterly disturbed as of late, emotional problems perhaps?). It’s days like these that I yearn to revisit a simpler time, a time ten years ago when I made my pilgrimage from the suburbs of Indiana to the dusty caminos of Laredo, Texas* (see note at end). In Laredo, I spent my daylight hours laying bricks for the new post office, watching my face transform from milky pudding to tanned leather, as if held under the sun’s spell–a blend of blazing kisses and some strange old alchemy. When noon reared her caliente cabeza high in the sky, I sat on the curb with mi hombres in arms, noshing on corn tortilla & fresh papaya with lime, listening as the sidewalk sang to the distant beat of a silent mariachi band. At 5pm the foreman’s whistle blew and we’d exhale in unison, our muscles relaxing and brows unfurowing in tandem with the shrill cry of our daily savior. I’d gather up the hose and rinse away the thin patina of powdery clay coating my arms, a ruddy film which I imagined was Laredo’s way of sheathing me with second skin–protection from the brutal rays of el sol. Down to the local cantina, Rick’s, I scampered–damp with honest living, giddy with reprieve. Once firmly entrenched on my favorite bar stool (near the end, closest to the Lady PacMan game in case i felt so inclined), I’d alternate between sips of cool cerveza and warm Cuervo, the froth mingling with the tequila’s bite, tingling down the length of my entreating gullet. Upon becoming sufficiently borracho-ed, I would mosey on over to the juke and proceed to play LaBamba on repeat. Eventually, Rick would unplug the juke or one of the locals would threaten to ’set my head straight.’ It was at this point i would decide to make my exit. I’d allow my tongue to covetously rounded the rim of my foggy shot glass one last time, then I’d settle the tab and take to the dusky streets. I’d grab a greasey taco rife with indiscernible yet delectable meat. “What’s up El Flaco Rubio?,” Ed the taco-vendor would say. “Nada mucho, Ed,” I’d respond. “Say, what’s your real name, El Flaco Rubio? Why you only let us call you El Flaco Rubio?” “I’m building a mystery, Ed.” “You okay in the head, El Flaco Rubio?” “I will be, Ed.” And with an eyeroll and a chuckle from the friendly cocinero, I would turn and amble on through the twilight, mouth full of succulent habañero and carne. While using my sleave to wipe the errant juices from my chin, I’d enter the warm-orange glow of my humble abode, welcomed by the tender sight of my dainty lover splayed out on our mattress, smoking and reading last week’s issue of TV Guide. “Where’s my Scotch, you SOB?” she’d call. I’d hand the scotch to mi querida Abigail. Abigail Charles was the name of this gentle flor who I was lucky to call my own, to devour and be devoured by, if only for a brief time. “And my lottery tickets. You shouldn’t have even come home if you forgot those, a*shole,” she uttered as she took a long drag of her Virginia Slim. Her voice was like velvet, velvet that had been put through a thresher and ripped to pieces, but still velvet nonetheless. I gingerly placed the tickets in her pink palm, folding those delicate fingers around her new spoils, accidentally knocking off an acrylic nail. “God*mmit, frigg’n retard,” she purred. “These are my expensive press-ons, sh*t on fire.” No longer able to resist the promise of the bounty laying beneath her sensually tattered bathrobe, I eased on to our rumpled love nest, slowly nestling into her haunches, which were warm like oven-fresh pancitos. I rested my head, now throbbing from mucho libation and dehydration, on her terry-swaddled breast, to the left of a stain that i suspected to be related to the empty carton of boxed red wine on the nightstand. “Move your head, I can’t see my shows.” She then put her cigarrete out on my pantleg, and I feel asleep despite the moderate stinging sensation, lulled by the opening credits of The Dukes of Hazzard. Oh Abigail, hermosa Abigail. Ocasionaly I wonder what became of my mariposa. Have the years been cruel to her? I pray they have been kind. After a while, every fiber of my being ached to return to Swedshon Indiana and commence my Teaching-dream. I knew it was time to leave. I told her of my plans, offered her sanctuary in my arms, suggested we alight together to the midwest. With a heavy heart, she declined. “Naw, I’ll probably just shack up with Rick.” “You mean, Rick from Rick’s?” I asked. “Yeah. I heard he’s hung like a horse.” I could tell she was devastated. It pained me to leave her behind in such a bad way. But in the end, all I can say is that I’m just a soul whose intentions are good, oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood (I think that’s from a song, no?). I must get back to grading papers. I have only 20 minutes before my next class and would like to fit in some time to snack on some platanos and sip mango juice. * I had my sights set on South America but, alas, ran out of dinero just before the Mexican border, although I tell people Laredo is located in South America because it makes me seem more legit as a self-professed, bonafide coniesseur of all things Hispanico.