Wales of Toe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

from my private diary

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

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.