Supervillians Unite!

I’m afraid I am officially a Penis Destroyer. As terrifying as this moniker sounds, it’s true. I am like a wild, torrential force of nature that cannot be restrained. I slam them in doors, snap them in twain during overzealous adventures as a cowgirl, and pinch them ferociously in order to wake the unsuspecting bearer of the battered member.

Seriously. I was recently attempting to seduce my diabolical mastermind, Dr. Octagon, and in the process, found it necessary to remove a cat from the boudoir (a constant activity in my spinster house.) Due to my total lack of depth perception, I inadvertently closed the French door right on his total wang. It didn’t actually get caught in between the doors only because Herr Doctor is a ninja, but it was terrifyingly close.

The next meat mishap was when I was wildly bucking in the saddle one day and completely BROKE HIS WINKY. I came down hard and like, heard it. His eyes rolled up in his head and all the veins popped out of his face. Initially, I thought I had just rocked his mind, but when began whimpering and throwing holy water on me and reciting, “The power of God compels you,” I figured out that I had just solidly demolished his dong.

Then, I was trying to wake him up with some morning nookie and seductively reached over to get the job started. I worked on this for about 3 solid minutes before I finally got a reaction. It went a little something like this, “Ow! Did you just pinch me?” Jesus. Evidently, the only thing I had aroused was the stunning pain of a fingernail fauxpas.

I have decided in light of these events that I am officially a supervillain. I need a cape, spandex, and minions…the whole schmeal. And though I am evil for smashing the schlong, it is never my intention to mutilate. It’s only with unbridled zeal that I have become Dr. Octagon’s nemesis. I only hope that I do not thwart him so much as to lose privileges…

Twiggy Ramires Hearts Me

So I’m furious. FURIOUS! I am positively devastated because Reznor has gone and gotten himself engaged. ENGAGED! To a stupid, gorgeous, hot, French chick! *Sigh.* And you know my unwavering rule about not freaking on other people’s men. I know, I know. He’s probably been someone’s man off and on throughout the years, but I never had any confirmation. I always just assumed that he would forever remain my backup plan and wait in the wings for me to decide that we should totally get married in black drapey robes and have truckloads of adorable, angsty, goth children, BUT NO! He had to go get all antsy, that fucking fuckity fuck fuck French fry fuckwad!

Ahem. So basically, I’m hosed now. Backup plan officially ABORTED, bitches! But at least I didn’t know it during the last show (though in retrospect, damn him for leading me on and letting me travel four fricking times to see his stupid married ass.) We had the Best Seats Ever last time in Kansas City and I enjoyed every sweaty minute of it. I could have literally thrown all of the total TP that was stuffed into my bra and hit him right in the nostril. Bastard. And you know what? He totally didn’t even look at me. Bastard. But you know who did? Mr. Jeordie White. Bastard?!

Jeordie White, a.k.a. Twiggy Ramirez, is not a pretty man. Nay, sir, in fact, at best, he looks somewhat ill and/or possibly deadish. Still, somehow, some way, I maintain that he can be kind of attractive. This is likely only due to the fact that he was standing mere feet from El Rezbitch and making sweet, sweet love to his bass, but still. I'll admit that I checked him out. And the check was returned, my babies! Mr. Whiterez drooled over me like Britney juicing herself up for pork rinds. God, I’m SO hot. Anywho, he kept lurking stage right and lustfully watching me boogie to songs that are now DEAD TO ME.

Ahem. Not I’m not saying that I am now crushing on Señor Ramite, but honestly, Rezwhore just doesn’t do it for me like used to. There’s something about him pissing all over my fantasy that makes me just not think he’s a cute as I did. I mean, let's all be honest here. He’s short! Once, I would have fervently defended his tinyness and insisted that he was just pocket-sized for easy transportable pleasure! But now, the thrill is gone, baby. The thrill is gone.