beefday

Satan refuses my advances. Jerry Lewis thinks I'm just too dumb. Gary Busey called me "sexy... but wacky" just the other day. But you, faithful chinesetastian, must just think I'm super.

...

hello?

...

mommy?

...

goaty lover?

...

Batman?

the end of the innocence

"The sheep didn't give me pubic lice! I gave them to the sheep!" Wayne was a damnable screamer. That much curiosity could get a man into gallons of trouble. Blessed be the sinful, though, for they are the least likely to have their undercarriages scrubbed by bullish nursemaids.

"Screech is on TV! Let me celebrate with sex!" Julia was not alone in the room, but she didn't care if Wayne heard about her confusing adoration for all things Dustin Diamond. If she wanted to celebrate with sex, he would oblige, or at least find some hobo in need of a quarter.

"Julian Lennon is not only brilliant, but divine," burped the lonely Pope, losing his way with God and the Church. He had just finished spackling his laundry room when he heard the precluding conversation. It made him winsome for his dollies and his winter hideaway replete with Julian Lennon merch. He wandered mentally (and physically... into the street) and realized that the Holy Mother would not cradle him in the lullabies of warmth and juicefulness, but would sully his nappy with guilt.

Smack was the sound of the strike of the auto on the Pope. Wayne and Julia felt sad, in the distance, and could not explain why. They embraced. A nation mourned. The lice held an icebreaker and became amicably acquainted. Spiro Agnew wondered if he might care less.

how i rank lust

Top 5 Sexiest Celebrities

5. Don Rickles
4. Brett Butler
3. Manny Ramirez
2. Kevin Eubanks
1. Connie Chung

the Third Rick

No one in this jazz club seems to care that I'm not wearing pants. Or that I'm straddling a foamy-scalped moose. Or that my mouth is full of eel meat. Or that my left ear is bleeding. No one seems to notice that my genitals are scented with fruit extracts. Or that my booties prominently feature Nickelodeon's Rugrats. Or that my top half is clad in a shiny tuxedo. No one bats an eyelash at me, Adolf Hitler, having my evening constitutional in this stupid jazz club.

Q & A Joky Suckness

Q. How many babies does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

A. Why? How many babies are you offering me?

Q. Did you hear about the old lady who went to the day spa?

A. Yes. It was super.

Q. What do you get when you cross a moo cow with a shirt button?

A. A stab wound.

Q. Did you hear the one about the Jew, the Muslim and the Christian in the bar?

A. Oh yes. I still can't believe they had sex in the ladies' room.

Q. How about that Ben Affleck. Did you hear about his new awesome beard?

A. Too bad it looks like a prepubescent goat scrotum.

absolutely sane

If you were to carefully coat the whole of your pants in some of the less dainty urine pastes offered by those fly-by-night grocers, you would find that the second coming of Gary Cole would be slightly less exciting than, say, a pickle up your bottom. This is because the plumper sluts furnishing aforementioned tinkle have it within themselves to guzzle the nectar from the blooms of the stinkweed, filthing up the urea and rendering it wretched, greenish and horrendously generic. Piddle, especially in it's paste form, must be well-liked by a wide variety of gentlemen. If it is not, God bless the user. In application, it is recommended that you carefully doctor the colloid, frenzily whipping it into a soft foam, before applying it to your denims and linens. Raymond Burr, may he rest in peace, often expressed a thin desire to liken his tinkle paste to the pleasanter Wellington crusts that you might find in upscale New York cafes. I couldn't agree less. Heeding such a metaphor would certainly cause vast and catholic digestive disagreement, encouraging all parties involved to vomit. I find that the paste should most resemble a soft beard, something like Kris Kringle's, both in color and texture, but doubtlessly more nasally-pleasing. I dare you to find evidence to the contrary. Evidence of sin, that is. In summary, nobody but Jesus cares about your sad tantrum, so arise from your corner, slap on a smile and get to gettin'. Pants don't pissbutter themselves.

bordering on bloggy

Although "Snakes on a Plane" seems to have been so superhyped that, in their excitement, everyone forgot to actually go see the movie, I still think the campy concept is worth the following two-minute parody-type entry.

Yes, SNAKES ON A PLANE! How mildly crafty! Make a B Movie, but try to make a B Movie! This will definitely work. People love Samuel L. Jackson. We're jerks.

If I, Blossom Snakesworthy, were a jerk-type producer, my movie would be called Goats on a Blimp, and it would star Ron Perlman and Doug E. Fresh and it would suck so bad that everyone would download the trailer. And, then... get this... then, when it finally came to theaters... then... well, it would be a different film that would teach the audience about math and Jesus and how to use a Singer and the polite way to piss on hookers and the secret to Cremora and how to get rich quick and how to copy an already existing concept, only with a lot more money, and sucker the sheeplike populace into thinking it was cool and worth nine dollars and fifty cents.

Dolphins on a Rickshaw
Grimaces on a Steamboat
Bulfinches on a Studebaker
Producers on an Ego-Trip

Blossom on a Soapbox.

need to raise some cash for unnecessary surgery

Things I Wouldn't Do For A Dollar:

1. Dip my whole ass in velvety margarine.
2. Carve my bones into Precious Moments figurines.
3. Drop a hundred baby otters down an elevator shaft.
4. Cuddle with LL Cool J.
5. Dampen my lover with soils and bloods.
6. Dress as Margaret Thatcher for a sex fest.
7. Guzzle alien reproductive fluids.
8. Hang curtains.
9. Piggyback on some hairy fat jerk's squishy shoulders.
10. Levitate.

Things I Might Do For A Dollar:

1. Tongue a penguin.
2. Fashion a turban out of Rosie O'Donnell's long-johns.
3. Saddle an unsuspecting granny.
4. Torture a sinister elf.
5. Carbon date Dick Clark.
6. Date Dick Clark.
7. Step down as princess of Awesomeland.
8. Permanently dye my nipples in the more fashionable colors of the day.
9. Pube braiding.
10. Replace the milk in my own mother's fridge with nacho grease.

Things I Would Definitely Do For A Dollar:

1. Dress in exclusively lacy mangarments.
2. Rub fudge into my eyes and skin.
3. Punt a mutant.
4. Sever the vocal chords of Danny Bonaduce.
5. Find Waldo and/or Carmen Sandiego... and garrote them with a tow rope.
6. Piss vigorously.
7. Eat all of Michael Moore's Entenmann's.
8. Burp some random ladies' filthy babies without using one of them nappy towels.
9. Dump the stupid queen in a mud puddle.
10. Imagine, if you can, Blossom Snakesworthy, a box of lubricated rubber gloves and a mule. I would paint that.

it's kinda hard out here for a...

satan demands your nachos. satan demands some syrup. satan demands the check. satan tips like a bitch. i hate working the late at denny's.

but at least i'm not a whore, Sheila.

Tips on Dealing with the Terrorists

1. Try to fit in. A little ululating goes a long way.
2. Ask your aunt or granny to knit you a colorful shoulder strap for your AK-47. You'll not only make the terrorists proud of you, but you'll be more comfortable as well.
3. If you see a bomb underneath the seat of a plane or subway car, don't try to detonate it. Your rush to impress may really throw off their maximum kill timing.
4. Ask suspected terrorists for autographs. It will be flattering for them and an enriching new hobby for you.
5. If you must travel, leave the carry-on baggage at home. Instead bring all that personal baggage and share it with your fellow travellers. Suicides, after all, are not victims of terror.
6. Try to predict not only the main terrorist plots, but the underlying subplots. Following the more subtle strings will make the act more interesting and, who knows, you may just learn a little something about yourself in the process.
7. Know what they know. Research in depth the specifics of fringe religious groups, advanced bomb building techniques and government corruption. After all, knowledge is power and knowing is half the battle.
8. Change your identity. If they randomly pick victims out of a phonebook and land on your name, they won't know where to find you because you'll be a ghost.
9. Purchase a giant spotlight and a cut-out of a bat. Superheroes are not just for mayors any more.
10. Call yourself an atheist, but pray to every freakin' god you can think of. Somebody's gotta be right, and wouldn't you rather be on their side?

inching upward

from the depths of my secret cave in bangladesh, i have been utilising my vast resources of human eyes to check on some of the other "blogs" on planet internet. it would seem that a "blog" often has some "viewpoint" or social "commentary" replete with quotation marks and occasional whimpering. although the Tasties is not really a "blog", but more of a "b-log", as in an old-fashioned dessert log handmade with the finest assortment bumblebees and honeys, i will take the next few entries to "connect" to the political and social spheres, careful not to wander too far, lest the blossom be declared derivative and/or insipid. this waltz with relevancy could start in as soon as 4 minutes, could last as long as 2.3 weeks and could alarm up to 2, or 100%, of my precious "bloggies" (yes, i am making up terms to sound totally radical). and you know it's serious when i refuse to whipe the lobster juice from my beak while i type. you know i mean business when i ignore my burning pet Matilda the Muledeer in order to finish off this gibe at some random useless senator....

damn. i really gotta vacuum.

the interlocution of the Genii

Judith inquires, "Why does penis smell of taco meat?"

Gare replies, "I am sexier than the pope."

Lemola screeches, "Fuzz is entirely sumptuous. Spread the butter on my moppish wig!"

Ponzo guffaws, "Plump is the new Jewish. Let's sell it to the Bravo network."

Clemons wheezes, "Pustules? God bless it! I've lanced them all!"

Barroo hollers, "Paste is a dainty manner of gutting a sheep as decoration. Let's diaper the whole world!"

These are the lies of the Book of Mermen.

updating you on blossom and bosom

i am very busy inventing things. this is what i am inventing:

flavored babies
meat soda
boob hats


so, you see, i have had little time to encourage my puppies or burrow deeply into the mushy soil of my yard. but, alas, prithee i may find the moments, there is much to tell. and tell i must.

for now, though, it's off to the patent bureau in my moon socks and bubble smock. i think i'll take the yacht.

i need fire ladders to get out of this rut

"It's like music to my butt," she said calmly as Ronaldo continued his euphonic moaning and kitten-wrestling. It was their first damn date and bliss was everywhere, creamed on the walls like blood and paint and suds. Sheila always felt this good, what with the vials of crack emptied hourly into her structure via smoke and gnawing, but it was the first time she had felt it with a Latin man. And she had never imagined that it would involve kittens.

Sure the kittens were dead, rotten, filthy and less dainty than a blind old man attempting to remove a training bra from his meatless, teatless body. Dam, tho, it was a crazy sensual pleasure to live out the dream of so many ratpeople cursed to a lonely sewer existence. She thought once... twice... and decided, "No! I will not stab! Life is precious and I will not take the life of this Latin moan-machine."

He had other ideas.

gather round, kids! Raffi wants you to FEEL

"Delmon Curtis! I find your tackling techniques to be grotesque! And your recipe for nutty-butter mud fudge is not only illegible, but disingenuous!"

Gramma Curtis had the sass of a winged wood thrush, and twice the beak. Squat and draped in violet ill-laundered cortinas with a verminous decolletage that would give the unholiest manslut a schoolgirl's blush, she was constantly riddling young Delmon with the sickest of invectives. You see, she was from a different time. A time of suffering, poorly wrought haberdasheries and nothing-if-not-despicable dance club romance circuits. And, lo, she had married a man half-goblin with a penchant for diddling the barn's lowliest creatures.

It had hardened Gramma, nee Bigglesly Chesterton Monksword, leaving her in a state of terrible rudeness. Widowed and hairless, save for the thicket of shock white at her scruff, her piss-and-vinegar tone was shockingly on par with her constant punching and stabbing freestyle assaults. Life handed her lemons and she made grumpy-ade.

Delmon, on the flipside, was portly, jocular and filled with a simple glee oft-reserved only for the fluffiest of retards. His passion was cuddling fawns. His employment: french-braiding the manes of the village's rowdy musk oxen. Simply, Delmon was the envy of everyone who has ever been mercilessly bludgeoned with blunt pipes and those who have found the misfortune of burning.

Usually, he took the berating in a gentle manner, calmly stroking his pet lemon, Muttsy, or, on occasion, grooming his sock fur with a nearby twig. Today, there would be no soft response. Today would be different. His recipe was divine and he knew it, for all the carp in the sea munched tenaciously upon it straight from the oven. [!!!]

A fresh roasting fire bubbled inside him as his face grew dim and guts irascible. Reaching past the ambient twig supplies, he fisted a wad of cowgrass and flung it with a grunting heave at Gramma. It maimed her, tearing her billows in twain, and she waddled off howling like a moondog. It was hilarious.

so much drama in the IBC Cream Soda

Tanya explains that the tiny things, the enlightened lady lovelies, graciously reside in the latter colon of the prairie gentlemen. Especially, she continues, when the venomous suds of filth soda bubble rudely in the noontime. Pissy, she bothers me for a silkier spoon, preferably laden with pewter and moist cake. It is her pleasantries, not her pleasantness, that allow me to power justice and whimsy, retching the luscious ladle from the latina maidservant, all penguiny and reddening shyly upon my grope. Thus, there we were, readying our minds for the solace of history, the minty guzzle of epochs curdling downward into the shapes of our mindrealms. God bless it, we were learning from one another. We were dating.

just an update on my Xciting lyf

dude, i was just totally jamming to my alterego, the Ocean (that's Billy, not Elijah), when this cream-blazered, IRA-investing, hair-product-using douchebag rolls up to me in his Fiero and smugly gestures me out of his lawnchair. yeah, like i was taking that. geared up, i punched the stop on my tapedeck, double-knotted my BKs (damn straight orange laces!) and jumped to my feet. saying "hey" and "yo yo", i sauntered up to Derek CEO and straight jacked him up in his grill. no... i really did... NO! i do not mean that i jacked him off at the Grille... i would never! whatever. i did not. the Grille's not even my style establishment! okay. fine. but a blossom's gotta get that sweet sweet crack... mmm... mancrack.

terrible two-second joke time

Did you hear about Mel Gibson's new chain of fast food restaurants? He's calling it Burger-Belsen's. That's right, sugartits...

maxims and depth a la emerson a la zing

the best thing about bananas is enough for me.

speak with words made of silver, but ideas made of wisdom.

a well-groomed head is the first on the block.

the only two certainties are bills and denial.

you are best to use what you have, not what you've given.

ignorance is a mist, not a shroud.

a half-eaten walnut is still delicious.

blessed be the man who rifles gently through the panties.

experience is best gained through pensive dispositions.

visualize your desires as they are suppressed.

the clever man utilizes all of his gifts, but only half of his tea leaves.

look to the porpoise for it is generally fatter than you.

life is what you do to it.

in order to enchant, one must first grow flaxen hair.

all that is left to do is either done already or bang homos.