On a Steel Horse I Ride...

Happy Birthdaaaaaaay to me! Oh, kids! What a time we had! Sorry there’s not more pictures, but as we were partying at a titty bar, we couldn’t exactly bring our cameras in. We went to The Show, which I highly recommend, and I got several VIP dances from a dancer named Burgundy, who I MOST highly recommend. Swear to God, people...she gives the meanest lap dance in the Northern Hemisphere! I got the *brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr* straight into the crizotch. Fabulous! And some rich guy offered me $50 to give her a lap dance, so I’m like, do I have to take my top off? Fortunately for my hugely padded bra and the poor stripper, I did not have to remove my clothing, so I went for it under the stipulation that he’d give her the money ‘cause, you know, I'm big pimpin' and all bling bling and shit.

We shut the night down at The Polka Dot, where I was so hammered that LL was literally holding me up. Some of it’s a bit hazy, but I do remember shrieking out “Dead or Alive” at full volume and let me tell you, I am one loud bitch. Then I had some hideously vulgar conversation (per usual) about vaginal orgasms. Not sure I won that argument, but I tried damn it.

Then Saturday, we went to J-Lou’s birthday celebration with had a 70’s theme and kick ass karaoke. God, I love karaoke! I sang “Let’s Stay Together,” which is my new official favorite karaoke tune, and apparently, I won the contest, which I didn’t even know there was one, but hey! They told me on my way out and I was so stoked! So hooray for me ‘cause I’m clearly a total rock star and you all want to have hot sex with me.

J-Lou and company proceeded onto the local lesbian bar, but we’d had our gay-fix from the night before with the *brrrrrrrrrrrrrs* and our darling Vicki was awesomely drunk, so we cruised out, much to my Inner Lesbian’s dismay. I like to call her Tina. And she’s actually a drag queen. And she talks really low and wears lots of lip liner. Tiiiina. (And she loves ham.)

ANIMAAAAAAL!

Well, If We Can't Get Danny Carey...

Woo woo woo! I know it’s been entirely too long since I’ve graced the world with a Chronicle, but I’ve been keeping myself quite occupied by being wretchedly fabulous. You know, lounging around all day whilst being fed Kristin’s Better-Than-Sex-Cake by gorgeous, oiled up, loincloth clad men. Uuuh. It is SO hard to be this effing money all the time! *Gratuitously flips hair*

Oh ok, shut up. We all know I’ve really been festering in my own lameness and have just not done anything Chronicle worthy lately. Boo friggity hoo, I know. The truth is that I’ve lost my mojo, baby. I haven’t had a date or even a love interest in the last couple of months. How bleak is that? Ordinarily, I have some backburner romance brewing where I am hot for some closeted gay guy (for what other explanation is there if a man does not truly love me?) who just doesn’t dig my chili, but these days, I’ve been too busy to give a flying fuck through a rolling Krispy Kreme.

One of my current projects is to find a drummer for my wicked ass rock band, AVIA. We’ve been recording for the last few months with Veda’s rock god drummer, and while we love him truly and want to pinch his widdle cheeks like so much nipples, our darling Drew's head would have very likely popped like a cherry if he would have had to balance school, work, and even attempt to have any sort of life, so despite how bitchin' our recordings sound, we still need a permanent drummer with which to rock the hizouse.

One would assume that the process of finding a drummer would be a fairly straightforward, wouldn't one? For instance, a band would put out an advertisement and a drummer would see it, listen to the material, decide that they are capable of playing with said material, and then send a somewhat clever response to the aforementioned ad. Then, a band would proceed to audition the applicant and subsequently secure a drummer. Right? Right?!

Wrong. We’ve gotten plenty of responses, but instead of coherent, semi-professional applications, we often get messages that go a little something like this:

“would u mind telling me more about the band. would u pleez tell me ur age and tell me the names and ages of the other members pleez? and i was wondering what king of music u guys play. and just so u know i am very young(but a very very good drummer)so if u dont want a young female drummer i would suggest looking elsewhere. thanx a lot.”

And:

“kay. thats kool. but i don't think u'd want me in ur band i am probably too young for you guys. i am really good but i just don' think u'd want sum1 as young as me i will tell u this much, i am still in school. but i dunno wat i'd do bout that is y'all travel in stuff. well write back soon.”

Upon receiving these e-mails, my head did a full 360 degree rotation. I am sure that this girl is indeed very young, but the only excuse for this kind of illiteracy is either A.) severe brain damage, or B.) the author is a 1st grader. Please people, if you are trying to make a good impression, use the flippin' spell check. And grammar check. And while you’re at it, pay attention in class. It’s honestly not that difficult. Especially when English is your first language. Seriously. I'm confidant that she’s a good musician, but no matter how rock and roll this chick is, my degree in English does not permit me to associate with people who have such poor grammar, spelling, semantics, and syntax. It gives me the full on wig to even think about it. *Shudders*

Last week, we actually were brave enough to audition one of these scary candidates. He seemed like a nice enough human being, that is, until he dropped four racist comments in the first ten minutes of conversation, then proceeded to explicitly reference his former drug addiction on twelve seperate occassions. Then, he began to play, and oh my GOD, it just got worse. I couldn’t even bring myself to come out of Joe’s room where I was hiding out with Staci when the jamming commenced. The son of a bitch seriously needed a metronome. No exaggeration here. It was honestly like being ass raped with a Garden Weasel. Or by Rosie O'Donnel. Whatever. The point is that it was heinous.

Now I happen know for a fact that there are intelligent, talented drummers out there. I’ve met many that I genuinely respected for not only for their musical skills, but because they were kick ass people. That being said, where the hell did they all go? Did some portal to Hell open up and suck all the good drummers into a swirling vortex? God, how scary! We should save them! Like Buffy or something. Quick, someone get a crystal, some incense, and some phat rhymes. We need percussion here!!!

I Just KNEW He Had a Tiny Penis!

I'd Rather Masturbate in Front of My Grandparents Than Go There

The real question is why in the bloody fuck would you film such a teeny peeny in action? Does Fred really not know that his little tighty-whiteys “sidekick” is shamefully lacking in girth? And that his happy/terrifying doom trail is like, in desperate need of a machete and even further proof that he is indeed the missing link between man and feces eating ape? DOUBLE GROSS!

I am fighting the urge to projectile vomit whilst simultaneously feeling weirdly satisfied in knowing that my suspicions were correct in assuming that a fat, balding, bitchy, lyric pirating douche bag must clearly possess a flaccid and thumb-like penis.

Because he is such a whiny, balding, doughboy bitch and felt it necessary to spank the folks that published his "sex" video online, you can no longer access the link to the footage. Not that any of you really wanted to se iddy bitty Freddy in action anyway. *Shudders.*

So really, the good news is that when he told Trent Reznor to suck his dick...Fred really wasn't weilding such a bold threat, now was he? Somebody, please, get Rez an electron microscope and a pair of lubed needle nose pliers…There's gonna be drama tonight!!!

That Ass I Gotta Grab, Yo' Shit I Gotta Stab, Shawty ... Yeahya! *

In the last Chronicle, I mentioned that I turned down a very provocative shack attack invite from the hottest guy I’ve seen in exactly eight years. And while I remain somewhat conflicted about this decision as I think I may love him a little, I still shut him down on account of my extremely bleak track record for successful indiscriminate hookups.

In my experience, The Random Hookup usually seems like a great idea because both parties are giddily drunk, but upon commencement, the hookups tend to take a laughable, eye rolling, oh-my-God-I’m-gonna-have-to-sit-on-a-hemmerhoid-doughnut-for-the-next-week turn for the worst.

After hearing the weakest imaginable attempts at dirty talk, receiving (without my permission) the most repulsive jewelry a girl can get, being walloped to a pulp by Thumper the Jack Hammer Bunny, and getting totally blown off immediately afterwards by each and every one of these D-bags (not that I would have ever gone back for seconds after the rancid first helping,) I am thoroughly done. Done, I say! Done!

Besides, the girl never has any real fun, and by fun, I do mean orgasms. Women are universally harder to get off than men. It takes time and effort to study the terrain, navigate the landscape, and comprehend the various conditions in order to seal the deal for a girl. During a spontaneous sexual encounter, the guy hasn’t been given any opportunities (or any real incentive) to figure out how to grease the engine, so to speak.

Thus, people bust out all their “best” moves to impress us. Back in the day, the partners with whom they cultivated such techniques were likely way into the weirdness. Unfortunately for us, we are don't have the luxury of being gradually introduced to their funktastic kink, and are thrown head first (sometimes literally) into a freak parade without any warning.

But instead of shrieking with laughter and rolling away from them like we had burst into flames, stopped, then dropped, we often times end up just squeezing our eyes shut and simply finishing what we’ve started.

I can’t really say why we permit exotic sexual behavior from strangers, but I know I’ve done it. Presumably, we’re having a lukewarm frolic in the sack so we’ll agree to do crazy shit we’d never normally consent to just to get it over with already. Not to mention that most of us are nice people and wouldn’t want our shacker to be embarrassed about his or her wacked out version of The Naughty, or worse…have them think that we’re the weird ones for not being into their spazoid nookie skills.

Most of us care a little bit about what other people think of us…even the ones we don’t know. It’s almost superficially worse with randomers because our loved ones already know we’re tools, but they dig us anyway. I guess what it really boils down to is this: nobody wants anyone to think they’re a bad lay. Under any circumstances. I mean, come on…are you kidding me? Meow!

But I’m over it. I wish I could have come to this conclusion post Trent Jr., but hey. All I know is that I’ve had entirely too many booty calls gone wrong to want to fuck with it (no pun intended) anymore. But mark my words, babies...if for some reason I should ever drunkenly decide to hook up with a random again, I plan to totally pull the same shit on them that they’ve done to me, i.e. ask for hella inappropriate things from a person I just met. I’m going to kick back, relax, and refuse to let them come up for a breather....then I’ll never call them again.

*Clearly, 'Lil John is one of those one night stands...