Saturday, March 24, 2007

blogger sucks ass

Blogger sucks ass so bad i' moved my blog to wordpress.

here is the new link:

love you bitches

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Desperate-Attempt-To-Make-Him–Love-Me… and some beef.

Today, March 14th, witless men across America challenge women to the onset of a new novelty holiday. They call this Steak and Blow Job Day. As of 2002 the holiday creator Tom Birdsey and his supporters have proposed that women use this one day of the year to make their men a steak… and then blow them.

According to the online proposal SBJ Day is offered in response to Valentine’s Day. These men are looking for the “male equivalent” of a holiday to garner praise from the opposite sex. So the why the fuck are they using Valentines Day as their blue print?

You know Valentines Day?—
That most joyful holiday, invented for women by women who are desperate to elicit romance from the men in their lives? Valentines Day is the ONE blessed day of the year where men expel every last dime from their bank accounts into Kay Jewelers credit. They ravage Duane Reades for that perfect card and maybe a plush duck that carries a heart reading “I’m Quacker’s about you!” After an expensive meal that satiates our oral fixations, we women are swept off our bunions to some magical sex cloud made of cotton candy, scented of orgasmic joy… and they lay us down and pound us till we’re cross eyed. You know-- the yearly celebration that every woman in America dreams about, next to her once in a lifetime and totally perfect wedding day...

[rolls eyes and mumbles] motherfucker, I will fucking cut you I swear to sweet Jesus....

But back in reality dear boys, most women in this country, including myself, equate Valentines to any other tedious anniversary, like making a GYN appointment for an annual pap-smear. If men feel that Valentines Day is nothing to celebrate- then guess what fuckers? The feeling is mutual. Moreover, the feeling is sometimes numb, lifeless redundant and in this bitch’s personal experience… cah- rreeepy!

Valentines Day is simply a commercial holiday that allows men the opportunity to ram cheap chocolate down the throats of their never-get-any woeful girlfriends and wives long enough for them to shut the fuck up. The men who go out of their way to please us on this holiday are more often met with some sort of sexual gratification, because quite frankly- they’ve manipulated us into feeling guilty. “Oh you spent $5.50 on a card with a picture of guy you think is hotter than you!?… oh ha ha! No!... Oh! And the inside reads ‘I’ll work on it!’… Love… you!... ‘My. Cuddle. Bear! Oh sweetie!” [thought bubble] When did I ever call him Cuddle bear? That’s a gayest fuckin’ nickname… [/thought bubble] “Oh No!... You’re the handsomest!”

Let’s all be perfectly clear about something. I’m a woman- and it’s not like I ever insisted on having to jump through the motherfuckin’ V-Day hoop every year, either. So please don’t blame this sort of bullshit on women you mentally challenged mongoloids. This "it belongs to a demographic" logic is why Eve Ensler and legions of misinformed wannabe Feminists (aka insecure college girls) decided to equate V-Day with National Let’s-Yell- CUNT- So-Loud-Our-Ex-Boyfriends- Hear-It! Menstrual Theater Day. Yeah, that’s right you SBJ fuckers- the Vagina Monologues are YOUR FAULT!!!!!

Not to mention the years where Valentines Day roles around and I’m not attached to a dude… these are the fucking worst. Not because I’m lonely or an antagonist member of the SAD crew. Being single on Valentines Day somehow opens a gateway for every goblinesque sociopath with a penis I’ve ever encountered to flood back into my life over the duration of the insipid week which surrounds it. Thank you St. Valentine! You were persecuted for your faith and executed by Claudius II for secretly marrying Roman soldiers who denied the terms of their military contracts. And today, men thinks its okay to send notes of “secret admiration” to me, their unrequited love, in the wake of the scariest age of tele-communication and big-brother-is-watching paranoia. Because nothing says “I love you” like cryptic notes on the internet.

Fuck. You.

More specifically, to the propenants of Steak and Blow Job Day I give you this...

Though I love most guys, and wouldn't dare trip the life feminazi and shit pussy blood all over this glorious invented holiday- I want fuckin’ reparations.

From one of the poorly constructed Steak and Blow Job Day websites:

"(1)Every Valentines day you rack your brains for that one special, unique gift that will show your wife or girlfriend that you really do care for them more than any other. (2) Now ladies, I'll let you in on a little secret; guys really don't enjoy this that much. (3)Sure seeing that smile on your face when we get it right is priceless, but that smile is the result of weeks of blood, sweat and consideration. (4) Another secret; guys feel left out. That's right, there's no special holiday for the ladies to show their appreciation for the men in their life. (5) Men as a whole are either too proud or too embarrassed to admit it. "

Crockity crock fat fucker crock.

(1) You know what I got for Valentines Day? Weird messages from estranged ex boyfriends touring Australia, a PBR buy-back, and one bald crazy who humped my leg in front of a mindlessly deranged she-wench bartender. I'm so glad that men, as a collective force in nature of my womanhood- made this effort to deliver this day to me. Seriously

(2) You men don't enjoy fake holidays? Well hey fella... c'mere... back behind this magical curtain of Lady Oz... shhh... closer- it's a secret... NEITHER DO WE YOU FUCKING JAGWEEDS!

(3) That smile on our faces are of utter pity because we know how expensive greeting cards and Russel Stovers candies are now-a-days, and most of us are left to date the incompetent, insane and broke who can barely afford such novelty expressions of love and respect. And don't ever mention the phrase "weeks of blood" in your argument benefiting the privileges of women over men. When you piss blood, then you can cry.

(4) If you feel so left out... why don’t' you join a club or organization where you can brouhaha with the rest of the boys- like the Army? or US. Navy? They have a holiday called "Fleet Week" and I, a motherfuckin' lady, help them celebrate it every year down at South Street. Risk your ass for this country and I'll appreciate you. Bitch and moan about lazy hummers- and I cock punch you. capiche?

(5) Drunken limp dick? So you admit this is all your fault then?

And in summation, I have one final question for the men who wish for women like myself to acknowledge this day....

Where's MY motherfuckin' steak?

Monday, March 12, 2007

Fuckin' Dog.

So this is what a pure-bred Yorkshire Terrier looks like when he's wet.

He looks like a little Gremlin birthed from the love canal of Satan himself.

Does it make him any less adorable? Oh fuck no...

Once again, you can see what this little fucker has done to me- it's worse what's happened to Erica. We are two fairly competent, grown women who now resort to the ass-puckering babble of Special Education instructors.

I did promise myself I wouldn't post about pupster again.

But I told myself to 'suck it' when I saw this pic.

I'm hopeless.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007


Obviously, I've become a little obsessed with this motherfucker. I've been in and out of the city, staying at Erica's trying to help out with the development of this tiny child she's adopted.

So far Bundar seems to be progressing as well as any puppy would. He's starting to show signs of his personality and if he's cops an attitude it's certainly borrowed from his Mum or myself. In other words, Bundar has the budding disposition of a snarky fuckin' theater hag.

Any creature who was left in the care of we bitches would surely mutate into some state of abnormality. Imagine being raised amongst a clan of eccentric lady homo-philes. Now I understand how Wilhem DeKooning turned out as he did.

Is this cruel?

Honestly, I don't fuckin' care.

Furthermore, I'll argue that the little fucker likes it. I think he enjoys dressing up in doggy dolly clothes. He's such a little ponce. When relinquinshed from his pen, he struts around like goddamed 'Juno and the Paycock'. When in drag, he'd trade in his looks for treats, quicker than a SAG extra hands in a time card. He works for his food... and I mean he motherufckin' works it!

And let me not forget to mention Bundar's amazing sense of humor.

Goddamned slapstick afficianado.

As part of his housebreaking, everytime Bundar lays one out on a 'wee pad' (which we bitches affectionately refer to as 'Granny Panties') we all have to applaud and praise him for getting his shit on the fold out diaper. We're fucking grown women and we practically lay roses at his feet everytime this hairy little mongrel takes a dump. (I feel this method of training is similar to the working relationship between Martin Scorcese and Leonardo DiCaprio- but that's neither here nor there.)

Anyway, on one occassion, Kavi and I were left to watch Bundar while he rummaged about. He made his way down the end of the hall in Erica's foyer to the wee pad and crapped a hefty one square in the center of the pad. Exhaultations abound, we clapped as though Pavarotti befell his final curtain call and galumped off with silent bravado. Bundar, trotted back down the hallway to receive the love from us he so well deserved. Before he reached us though, he turned halfway and ran back to the crap square.

Ah-Ha! It's a motherfuckin' encore! Terrif! I thought...

But lo and behold, Bundar returned to his own crap pile and began to sniff it. Then he gently tried to take it in his mouth. (*I hope people who blog search for gay porn end up here because of that last sentence*). Kavi and I immediately began to shreik in fear- a peircing chorus of reverberated "No's!" rung out like the mournful Halals of Afgahni women. Contrary to what most would assume, I don't think Bundar was trying to eat his own crap. He was very proud of this most magnanimous accomplishment, and I think he was actually trying to fetch his own shit and dump it on us. (Just like some of my favorite theater hags tend to do).

Bundar managed to take his crap in his mouth and with projectile forced Fah-LUNG that shit at Kavi. Kavi was actually the first to drop association to Bundar's name which means 'monkey' in hindi. How approproate that we bitches are collectively trying to help our friend raise a furry little shit slinger.

Given we're all sort of Jane Goodalls at heart I think he'll turn out okay.

Holy shit I love him.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Here are some pics i did for this stupid thing.. i'll update this later...

Monday, February 19, 2007



Oh Man. It's officially happening. Everything I promised myself I wouldn't do I'm about to do... on... *gulp*... my blog.

I'm becoming everything I hate.

I'm becoming one "those" bloggers.

Oh Man.

In close to twelve hours, my friend is going to the airport with her Mom to pick up a newborn. He's only six inches long, four inches high and covered in motherfuckin' fur....

And I have a good idea who this baby's daddy Rrrrally is...


Oh, Damn straight...

Chewbacca's gone and had sex with a little cat.

Oh Chewie... How could you?!!!

Chewie, you have A FAMILY!

YOU HAVE A SON! wuh 'bout Lil' Lumpy?...



You don't beleive me?


Look at this little fucker...

Look at how goddamned cute he is...

Look at those little eyes...

Look at that little mouth...

And lookie...

At his little...



The legacy LIVES ON!

Holy Shit...

More to come.

Saturday, February 03, 2007

Drunken Alter Egos...

So last night I attended a very funny function- a Karoake party as hosted by my best friend in honor of her upcoming birthday. Needless to say, I used our friendship of over two decades as a lame excuse to make an unadulterated and complete fucking ass of myself.

I awoke with a sinking feeling today, and it wasn't just the yeast settling in my eroded stomach. I had to wake up early this morning in order to catch a train. I went to my cousin's bridal shower in Queens. Absolute fucking torture. Not that I mind seeing my family or going to these sort of events, it's just... I wish I wasn't still drunk when I arrived.

As I watched my cousin open one registered piece of kitchenware after another to the soothing sound of fifty something housewives cooing her on... the post mortem drunkards withdrawl kicked in and I suddenly got really depressed. I think I purged every ounce of confidence I had in my being into my "performance" at Erica's karaoke party. I left my dignity in the bottom of a beer pitcher I didn't even help pay for. And today I had nothing left- no spare change worth of self-esteem to compensate for flashbacks of all the stupid shit I had said and done in the duration of a melody shitstorm.

I try to justify that my behavior was based on all that I had to drink... about a fish tanks worth of beer swill, chased with a few whiskeys. I actually convinced myself that every single person at that party must have had at least one moment where they seriously thought to themselves "Hey... is that Rosie girl mildly retarded?.. Poor thing."

No, really. And I can back it up.

You see, I really beleive that in real life, my "sober life" I'm actually quite quiet and shy and sweet and altogether well mannered. And there's an obvious drink-for-courage factor that comes into play if I'm going to sing in front of strangers. So with that, my excessive drinking inevitably opens a channel for my alter ego to appear- heightened and repulsive. I call her "McCunty". (We'll revist her later).

Depression really set in when I started comparing my drunken alter ego to that of my friends- most notably, the people who were at Erica's party, they being my first point of reference.

First let's look at the Birthday girl. I love Erica's drunken alter ego. When Erica drinks she becomes like an adoarble daytime version of Liza Minelli. She's charming, witty, really just the the life of the party as the following video depicts.

Towards the end of the evening, Erica sort of devolves into a rampant little monster. Compare the following videos and see if can figure out which one is Erica. Even after twenty some odd years of friendship its hard for me to tell the difference.

Then there's Bobster (Erica's main man). Bobster usually gets old with his drink. His drunken alter ego is comparable to the great Peter O'Toole; saucey articulation, just as charming, ever the gentleman, and of course very very British. For the sake of this blog though, and in my poor attempt at illuminating details of last nights karaoke party... I'm going to nominate Bobster's character as a sort of Dean Martin during his Rat Pack years. When in the company of good friends he can be especially suave and quite the funny man. Enjoy.

It's occured to me it'd take me too long to examine/compare every person at the party and I certainly don't want to leave people out. Most everyone else was really in top form performance-wise and behaved with decent manners. I however, was a total fucking choad. If you'd like to see my pictures of these characters from last night you can view them on my Facebook page. (I have this album set as private, so you'll need to register as my friend- but its well worth it).

Finally we've come back to this evil McCunty character I've mentioned. When I drink as much as I did last night (especially when karaoke's involved) I become this weird, crazy sort of domineering shrew. It's beyond embarassing when I realize she's showed up. My drunken slur sometimes takes on an accent or 'brogue' I don't normally have. People like to assume I'm Irish, maybe Canadian and sometimes I'll even hail from the Bronx. But regarding last night I'm going to pretend that I was as Italian as Maya Rudolph's Donatella Versace. Here's a quick snid-bit which shows how much fun it is to party with Miss McCunty.

At the very very trail of the evening Erica and I seem to transcend each other. Liza! and McCunty trade places and Hell no doubt breaks loose. Erica is far less intimidating than I am, so when she takes over it's usually laughable. In the following video, you can imagine what Erica sees as she prepares to fall into the arms of Morpheous or rather, lies down on the bathroom floor. (Bobster, myself or any other innocent by stander in her company would be played by one of the cats).

We're I not to wrap this post up by mentioning how insanely fucking fun this party was would be extremely inconsiderate. Despite the matter of offending or just annoying some people (which I may or may not have done- I haven't pieced it all together yet) I think it was one of the best nights out I've had in a long time. The only record I have of Erica's party is a few snapshots and some distorted footage from my digital camera. Although, nothing will ever make me forget when Erica took down the house during our duet over "Cabaret!". She was a real show stopper. Liza indeed!

I'll offer readers one last comparison to summarize it all. Here I take what positive memories I have of last night and pit them against reality. Even with this video evidence I still can't completely gage the truth.

I prefer to think it's just a matter of time after all...

Happy Birthday Erica. I love you. You are the fucking best.

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