BackNe

Overnight, my city has morphed into San Francisco. I know this because while minding my own bidness in the gym locker room, this squatty girl with terrible backne and pasty reptilian skin sauntered past me, gave me a smoldering look, and ripped her towel off as she walked over to the scale. She proceeded to stretch, arch, and weigh herself for a full two minutes, all whilst casually glancing my way to see if I was watching. And of course, I totally was staring. In open-mouthed horror! I couldn’t look away! It’s like when you’re driving and you see road kill and you like, can't stop yourself from turning to get a better look at the guts and matted fluff and you go, “ewwwawesome!”

This is not the first time the girl, to whom I so affectionately refer as BackNe, has done something of the like. The first time she suggestively yanked off her towel was on a jaunt to the showers. It was more subtle that time, with a sly glance over a pock-marked shoulder, so I shared it with my buddy Zhan with much less enthusiasm than the second Event.

Zhan, however, thinks that I should respond to her advances in the form of waiting until she's in a shower stall, and RIPPING the curtain open to slinkily say, "I'm sorry, I didn't know this one was taken." I told him that I would get sucked in by a pus filled vacuole only to never be seen again, but he still dreams…especially of me seeing what her grooming habits are and reporting them to him. We think that as she has backne, she might have cuntne as well. God, I hope to never have the misfortune of knowing.

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!