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For Emma, Forever Ago
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ghastly mess
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dark side points
123 i love you READ NOW
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married to the sea
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Jeremy Broomfield

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in Humor 3-space

Tuesday, August 16, 2005
The peeps at Go Fug Yourself pointed it out first, but this Black Eyed Pea named Fergie is slowly turning into a ugly man. I caught glimpses of some BEP videos on MTV or VH1 and I swear, she is now the prettiest man in the group. Nah, I know she's a chick; she used to be on Kids, Incorporated and back then, at least, she was named stacy, and despite some notable exceptions, that's a girl's name (and that picture was a little androgyne, wouldn't you say? Maybe. So what's your point? I don't know, shut up!). Also, if you do a Google image search, you should see proof that she's got boobies. Which doesn't mean anything, I know.
      Hey, do you guys prefer the term "shemale" or "he/she"? I like the latter because I think I heard Samson on Carnivàle use it to refer to one of those freakshow acts where a guy grooms the left half of his body to look vaguely female (long hair, shaved legs, falsies) while growing a beard and wearing men's clothes on the right side, but I also like "he/she" because if you say it right ("hey you heeshy bastard!") it sounds like an anti-Semitic slur that's fallen out of favor. That's weird, maybe. But not as weird as some of the shit you'll find while searching Google for picture of a freakshow he/she: This is just a disturbing image. Don't click it if you don't like dirty furry sex art. Yuck.
     It's always been my stated policy not to blog about the weather, mostly because it's lazy. I fight the urge to do it every dead of summer and cold hard core of winter; it's so very hard to think of anything else when your entire body is filmed with filthy New York City Subway Sweat or when your nuts have just become furry blue ice nodules. But I must blog about something else, or become simply awful. So I'll blog about the symptoms or results of the season instead. Like how the summer emboldens waterbugs to emerge from their damp hiding places. See, they hide where it's wet and muggy, so when your entire apartment is as damp as your mom's underpants at a Beatles concert back in 1964, the roaches can't tell the difference and they wander stupidly into my space GO AWAY BUGS. I know you guys like epic tales of battles against giant cockroaches, and happily or sadly, I've got another one.
      Midnight last night, I'm again at my Mom's house. Mom and I are frying up some chicken thighs for me to eat cold while I'm cat-sitting this week. I like cold chicken, so we make like sixteen delicious thighs. She's teaching me her technique so I can prepare my own in the future. Yummers. Mom spices hers with garlic powder, thyme, salt and pepper -- the secret recipe, I never would have guessed, especially the OH MY FUCKING GOD IS THAT A BUG LOOK LOOK LOOK STEP ON IT KILL IT KILLIT KILLIT! (that's me, in a high-pitched whisper tuned to convey extreme panic without waking my slumbering stepfather). Mom looks down at the floor, but in the wrong place, and she goes "where?" even as this Volkswagen-sized arthropod cools its jets and twiddles its antennae not three feet from her person.
      I dunno what it is, but other people seem to have a hard time seeing bugs. Me on the other hand? If there is a bug within twenty foot of me, I see it, unless it's, like, exactly on my six. I can visually sweep a floorspace for foreign brown ellipses in less than a second. But Mom is staring a foot to the left of the monster and she can't see it. I point and squeal IT'S RIGHT THERE AAARRGRGGGGLARGLE! and she finally gets her radar tuned. KILLLLLL ITTTTT!!!! I'm hissing, and she heroically stomps at it, but I can sense her trepidation. (Later she admits that, clad as she was in sandals, she was a little afraid that it would crawl onto her tootsies, which I can attest is an awful experience.)
      The bug runs away, totally missed, totally unscathed. I see where it went and I keep it in view. It is my experience that, when relying on someone else to murder a bug for me, if I don't do this, the putative exterminator will say shit like "he's gone" or "I don't know where he went" as if this were an acceptable outcome of the situation, as if we could all just go on living with that thing still pitterpattering around the domicile, alive and clicking. Argh! So I keep an eye on it while she roots around under the kitchen sink. "What are you doing?" I say, "Kill it!"
      "I'm getting the bug spray" she says.
      "That shit doesn't work!"
      "Sure it does," she insists. "No! You have to stomp it!"
      "It works, you'll see. Where'd he go?" I point to his current little hidey place. She gives a blast and then goes "Eeep!" as it changes directions and runs behind her. By now I've teleported a good ten feet away, but this thing is so big that there's no danger I'll lose track of it. And indeed, there it is.
      "OH MY GOD THERE! ON THE FRIDGE!" I practically weep. It's scaling the handle of the refrigerator, crossing the horizontal gap to the freezer's handle. It's less than two feet from my chicken, sizzling on the stove. I notice something that I noticed the other week when I zapped the bug with a handful of soap: after a zap from the Raid, its wings are poking out from under its wing covers, which gives my mom the same fantods it gave me: is this fucker gonna start flying around? She sprays the bug again, enveloping him in a cloud that would kill a human baby. The bug falters a little, as if to say "My word. Something smells funny in here."
     But then! He falls to the floor! Mom's into the hunt now, not taking her eyes off him as she whispers at me (so he won't hear her plan) "I need something! Um! To hit him! Paper! Newspaper! Magazine!" I grab an issue of People (she has a subscription. Why? Even she doesn't know. She hates it.) off the butcher block and roll it into a bug bludgeon, which I hand off to her like a relay baton. She advances on his position. And what now? He's crawling up the other side of the fridge. What is this shit? Some kind of atavistic instinct, climb a tree to escape a predator? Isn't that more likely primate behavior? Why is a bug displaying vertebrate instincts? Ah forget it. I'd rather not know. WHAP! She wings him, or the wind of her swat blows him back to the floor. He zooms under the freestanding cabinet we use as a pantry. I grab the Raid from the counter and lay down a line of poison to keep him from escaping on the eastern side of the cabinet.
      "Damn, he's fast," Mom says with amazement and... admiration? Come on, Ma, keep your head in the game! Do not admire the enemy! There's a tense twenty seconds where we don't see the fucker. He's hiding, playing dead, or dying. I get the lantern-battery flashlight and from a safe distance illuminate the dusty underspace. He's there, twitching in throes of some kind. Or else he's dancing, mocking our useless weapons and pitiful attempts at predation.
      But a direct zap from the spray can flushes him out, and Mom swoops in with a vengeance. What follows is vicious, vulgar, and frightening. I can't see the bug because she's blocking my view with her body, but Mom just hammers at the floor with that rolled-up People, again and again going WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! until it reminds me of nothing so much as that scene in Fight Club where Brad Pitt pulps Jared Leto's pretty face into a permanently mangled mass of brutalized flesh. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! And I'm like "Ease down, Mom, ease down" Like Michael Biehn in Aliens after Ripley runs out of ammo but keeps firing her gun, clickity clickity click.
      It's over. Some celebrity's face (Tom Cruise? Matthew Perry?) is ruined. Maybe my chicken is, too, either overcooked or doused in bug poison. But the bug is done for sure, smeared into a million brown pieces on my mom's kitchen floor. Dead again. Donors: 2, Bugs: 0.


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"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!"
"from whence"
"...the exception that proves the rule"
any use of the question "spit or swallow?"
the phrase "drop trou"
fake-o reviewer verbs:
"penned" for wrote
"helmed" for directed
"lensed" for whatever
the euphemism
"passed away"
pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!"
(see also: "grassy-ass!")


trying children "as adults"
misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT.
tattoos in the Courier font
any use of Comic Sans