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.

Rock Out With My Cock Out

Playing shows is so radical. It really is kind of a mind fuck because by day, I am Corporate Barbie…perky in my biznazz casual and attending meetings. Then I go home and fester with my spinster-lady cats and watch Boston Legal and lust after Spader. I am decidedly not a cool person. At all.

Bu then, I get on stage with my kick ass rock band and suddenly, for like 45 minutes, I am the cool kid, which is unprecedented! Case in point: once, I stepped off the stage and this beautiful brunette shoved me up against a wall and said, “I’m completely in love with you.” I was like YES! Even chicks dig me! Ah, but bright and early the next day, I was Boring Cubicle Troll Girl once again.

However, that was when we played a halfway good venue. Lately, we’ve been rocking the ‘burbs, which is about as productive as rocking the morgue. Last week, we played The Grossest Venue Ever, complete with Creepy Underage Boys and Heinous Lighting. It was so upsetting. Not only was the floor suspiciously sticky and the drinks outrageously priced, but fourteen whole people showed up. Fourteen! Well, and two freaky half people came as well…whatever. It was hot. So hot, I nearly barfed on myself.

So I have demanded that we play better venues. Ok, well not so much demanded but suggested. Like so maybe the kick ass rock band members will think it was their idea to not play toilet seat bars anymore because damn it, if I only get to be halfway cool for one hour a month, I want to be really effing cool for that hour! Bitches!

80's Movie Date

So last night, I went on an 80’s Movie “Date.” If you are unfamiliar with these kinds of dates, it’s when a person takes you out not because they dig your chili, but because they are about to lose a bet a la the 80’s teen movies where the popular guy takes the totally uncool, but strangely attractive school nerd girl to prom because he’ll lose his T-top Camaro car-bra to Tad The Jock if she actually looks hot at the dance. Er sumting.

Anyway, the cat I went out with has a running deal with his roomie that they both have to take out a different girl every month. She can not be from their normal circle of people, nor can she be the type of girl they usually meet, e.g. no lawyers or law students. It would appear that November was a particularly dry month for both of them, being as he freaked out and scraped the bottom of the barrel to find my darling little charming self grinning up from the depths on the very last day of the month.

Now, these outings can range from strictly platonic to genuine love interest. My 80’s Movie Date was of the former kind, thank God. I’m also pretty sure that if I had actually been interested and went out only to discover that I was being wined on a wager, it would have turned non-romantic faster than the time that carnie with the third world dentistry leaned across the table from me and said, “Do you believe in destiny? We’re so natural together!” Luckily, we were already pals, and I also had a heads up from a very amused third party who not only helped him with his bet, but hooked mama up with a free dinner.

And you know what? It was actually really fun! We boozed and laughed and spent a large portion of the date discussing my apparent baggage and the potential pitfalls that it may cause in the future. I mean, I kinda thought telling guys that I will set their entire family on fire, then skin them alive if they ever even entertained the thought of cheating on me wasn’t a big deal, but apparently, it is. Whoops! So I guess I have some stuff to work on, but don’t we all, really? Heh. Heh heh. Ahem.

In short, I highly recommend the 80’s Movie Date. They are super fun and even insightful. So next time your buddy says, hey, my friend has this bet…totally go. Even if it’s just with a friend.