Mr. J is getting over his surgery that wasn't curing the mono that he doesn't have.

To anyone following the saga of Mr. J and his cyst under the tongue named Karl, I just want to let you know that he's doing fine. Surgery was performed without too many surprises, the surgeon was shocked to find the infamous Listerfiend mouth troll back there, but dealt with the issue accordingly. He's just begun to eat solid food, and talks with the same speech impediment as Ozzy Osbourne, so he's happy with his new found level of cool. He's refusing to take his vicodin, and as you know I hate to see good medication go to waste, so I'm taking it. Happy New Year everybody!

I promised Mr. J I wouldn't take any pictures of him while he was recovering.... I lied.

We found them on sale at the Castle.

I have always firmly believed that Christmas is a hell lot more fun when you're a kid. Or when you have a kid/kids. The look on their faces when they see the presents on Christmas morning, while opening their presents, playing with new toys, it's cute, it's sweet, it's wonderful, it's what baby Jebus would want. (Jesus would be damn pissed, but his twin Jebus says it's kosher.) However, if you don't have any kids, and you can't find any worth stealing, there is a way to bring that Christmas magic back into your holiday. 

Put a dildo in in every one's stocking. Let 'em know Santa's really happy they've been good all year round. The joy your friends and family will have playing with new toys will be talked about for years to come.

Monkey Lord even drew a face on his! 

And don't forget the lube/vagisil either.

Mr. J still doesn't have mono.

Two weeks ago, Mr. J found out that he was going to need surgery to remove the cyst under his tongue, Karl. The doctor thought he'd removed it all in the office, but sadly was wrong. Surgery was schedule, and lucky for us we got to start our outpatient surgery tradition in style. I met up with Mr. J in the VIP recovery room, where feasted on ice water and graham crackers. (The regular recovery room only has room temperature water and saltines. Suckers!) His lips were swollen, giving him a Jolie inspired "pout". And his tongue was numb, huge and made him talk like Sylvester Stallone. 

If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, here are some fantastic tongue twisters you can ask them to say when they are waking up from surgery.

Unique New York

She sells sea shells by the sea shore.
The shells she sells are surely seashells.
So if she sells shells on the seashore,
I'm sure she sells seashore shells.

Six slippery snails, slid slowly seaward.

Shredded Swiss chesse

Dinner with my parents

Over dinner, Mr J's icyhot story was shared. Not to be shown up, Nameless Dad had a story of his own to share. 

Once, having sex with Opera Mom, he reached to the dresser for some lube to "add sensual sensation". Instead, he grabbed Vagisil, a vagina itch reliever, that relieves by numbing the skin it comes in contact with. Thus was born the best blue balls story ever told in the history of my family.

Of course, it's the only blue balls story my father has ever told us, as most stories of him porking my mom tend to send Radio Active Slog into epileptic fits, but this one was too funny not to share.

Family Shopping

This is a cardboard cutout displayed in a popular store here in town.

There's really nothing I can say to prepare you for this...

Captions I considered using: "Viagra, it's a privilege, not a right."
"Indiana Jones and the Crystal Boner"

"Indiana Jones posing with his favorite sidekick, Short Round."

Oh, and for those who care... my wombmate, Radio Active Slog, is back from boot camp! YaY!

CUT IT OUT!

I have issues. It's no secret. But I have two issues in specific that I can no longer keep secret. They have been festering in my mind and I have to speak out!

1. If you're listening to your iPod, and you have the volume turned up so loud that you can't hear me, your co-worker, making fun of you because you keep rapping along with the music. It's too loud. I don't want to hear you mangle the lyrics of "pop/pop/pop goes my niiiine..." when I'm trying to listen to my audio copy of "Haunted" by Chuck Palahnuik.

and

2. It took me a very long time to warm up to Dave Matthews Band. I had already pledged my allegiance to REM, and I didn't want them to think I was cheating so early in our relationship. But then, I saw them live, and I found room in my heart to love them both. But then... Dave Matthews put out a solo album. Dave Matthews names a band after himself, and then puts out a solo album. This has to be a sign of narcissism. I know, he put out that album years ago, but every time I see that American Express credit card commercial, I whip out my Hootie and the Blowfish cassette and Let Her Cry.

Thank you, I'm done.

This is why I'm Jewish.

Friday Mr. J and I finally put up our Christmas tree. The tree has been a debate around Casa De Rising Sun since Halloween. I am a grumpy scrooge, who's idea of a Christmas tree is a scribbled drawing of a tree taped to the wall. But Mr. J is much more traditional, and wants a green plastic tree, with lights, garland and decorations hanging from the branches. We reached the agreement that I have made with everyone I've ever lived with. You buy the tree, put the tree together, decorate the tree yourself, so that I will never even have to touch the damned thing, and I will allow you to have a tree.

Mr. J bought the tree, but was on so much Vicodin, he was too nauseous to do anything else. So I put the tree together, fluffed out the branches (that does not make me a "fluffer", by the way), put lights on it, and decorated it. Lucky for him we don't have a lot of decorations. Next year, we're just taping a picture of a tree to the wall.

The tree, in all it's glory.

Ornament #1: The traditional condom moose.

Ornament#2: The tradional naked-guy-holding-a-camera penguin.

Birthday Issues

It was my 18th birthday, RadioActiveSlog's (my twin brother), 18th birthday too. My father, Nameless Dad, had to work, so we all trucked down to his office for cake and presents on his lunch break. The whole family crammed into a tiny office, and my mom, OperaMom, brings in the cake. Carrot cake. I've always hated carrot cake. And being the pubescent girl I was, I pointed it out. "OperaMom... you made us carrot cake? I hate carrot cake. I've always hated carrot cake. It's a muffin masquerading as a cake, and I refuse to acknowledge it." She told me in her own sweet way to "shut the hell up, I was lucky to be even getting cake." But I couldn't help but notice the slight panic in her eyes and the sweat beginning to glisten off her brow.

Once the rest of family had gorged themselves on cake, it was present time. Who doesn't love presents? Monkey Lord, my little brother, had brought in a big huge bag of presents. He started pulling out the shiny packages wrapped in green, RadioActiveSlog's favorite color. OperaMom's color drained from her face, but I still remained oblivious. My family must have had a lot of green wrapping paper, and didn't want it to waste. That must be why all the presents were wrapped in green.

Monkey Lord put all of the green boxes in front of RadioActiveSlog.

OperaMom started stuttering, "J-Jane, you s-s-ssssee, money's real tight this year, and, and, we decided to split buying you two things between paychecks. You'll get-get yours next w-w-week." From the fear in her voice you'd think I was Katie Kaboom(see video below).

That year RadioActiveSlog was gifted with many beautiful and expensive gifts. I got a plastic tiara from Claire's. Though OperaMom still denies it to this day, I think all the evidence is there to prove that, my parents forgot my birthday yet remembered my twin brother's.

Too tired to write the post today

You may think you have a "bad birthday" story. You don't. I have a "bad birthday" story. I will share it in my next story, but as a sneak peak...

My mom forgot my birthday... but remembered my twin brother's. And yes, we are born on the same day.

I'm gonna be one rich nerd.

I am uncool. I'm a geek and a nerd. Even with that being cool nowadays, I'm still uncool. For a split second, I thought I was cool. But that was the week when everything cool became uncool and everything uncool became cool. Instantly I became uncool. Again. I'm okay with that, I've come to terms with it. But because I like to know what the cool people on the radio are talking about when they talk about the rich, famous and cool people gossip, I try to keep myself up to date with all the fads and media frenzies.

Last month that meant knowing all the Sarah Palin jokes and rumors.

This month it means being obsessed with Twilight, and the proceeding books.

I've read the first book, and complained that it was way too much like high school. I like you! But we can't be together. I love you! But it can't work out, what would people say? I can't live without you! But I want to eat you. Just like every other nauseating high school romance. (By the way, I feel that way about Romeo and Juliet too.)

Because I am trend slut, I read the second book. It was just like the first book, but with Werewolves. Werewolves are always an improvement.

With hope of more werewolfiness, I read the third book. Werewolves! Vampires! FIGHTING! Finally, this getting good. But wait... what is this marriage crap?

And now, because I've devoted so much time into the other three books, I'm reading the fourth book. Romeo and Juliet have gotten married, and Juliet has found herself knocked up.

I have a great idea for a best selling "young adult" novel. Find a Sailor Moon fan fiction, that's written by a 14 year-old girl. The age is very important, because she has to be at the age where she's getting nervous that she hasn't been kissed yet. (After all, her idol Sailor Moon, had already found her soul mate/Prince of the Earth by the time she was 14!) Change all of the names in the story. You won't have to worry about removing all the Sailor Moon-action parts, because no such parts exist in stories written by lonely 14 year-old girls. Change the title.

That's it.

Best seller, guaranteed.

Vegans aren't allowed in Baconia.

Austrians are from Austria.

Indians are from India.

Baconians are from Baconia.

For years, possibly an entire decade, my twin brother, RadioActiveSlog had a problem with Canada. It wasn't the cheap medication, or the lower drinking age, those are awesome. He just couldn't get over the fact that people from Canada are referred to as Canadians. Shouldn't the country be named Canadia? Or the people be Canadans? That was his augment.

No punch line to this punch. Just a bitter, unsatisfied taste in your mouth. Sorry, I'll try better next time.

Letters to a Marine - 6

While my twin brother is away at Marine boot camp, I'll be writing him weekly letters. Because I share everything with you, I'll also post them on my blog. Enjoy!

This weeks letter was written inside the birthday card I sent him.

Happy Birthday Twinkie!

Can you believe it was just 23 years and eight months ago that we were just sperm floating and swimming around a testicle? And just 23 years ago we were sea monkeys in our mother's stomach?

Look at how much we've grown!

Love and Miss you,
Suicidal Jane

I love Fridays.

Even though gas has drastically gone down in price ($1.89 a gallon here), my job offers it's employees the opportunity to work four - ten hour, days, instead of the usual five - eight hour, days. It lets us save money on gas, driving to and from the office adds up. Which means I get a three day weekend, every weekend. Pretty sweet, I know. The only drawback is, when I come back on Monday, my inbox is beyond overflowing.

However, I have come up with a solution. I've hired a temp to do my work for me, each Friday. Her name is Terry the Temp/Pirate.

Melissa Joan Hart - on DRUGS!

Back in the late 90's, I remember watching Sabrina, the Teenaged Witch reruns on TV with my mom. I'm not sure if you're familiar with the show, but the concept was Sabrina, played Melissa Joan Hart, is a teenager as well as a witch. Comedy ensues. It wasn't a particularly well written series, but one episode has always struck a chord with me.

Season 2, Episode 15: Finger Lickin' Flu

Not only is the title a little gross, but it just about drove my dear sweet mother insane. Sabrina gets a witchy version of the flu. Near the beginning of the episode, Mrs. Quick, her teacher, notices that Sabrina looks ill, and offers to give her some medicine from the large medicine box Mrs. Quick keeps in her desk drawer. (Mrs. Quick is a bit of a hypochondriac.)

Just retelling this scene and my mother starts to foam at the mouth. As a woman who pulled her children from public school, in order to school them at home, because of absurd rules, she can't wait to rant about how all public schools in the USA insist that all medication be distributed by the school nurse. No student or teacher should have any medication in their desk, locker or person. A student who is caught with so much as a cough drop can be suspended.

She'll scream, she'll cry, she'll claw at your eyeballs with her finger nails.

This is about the time, I like to say... "Mom. Melissa Joan Hart is 26 years old. Playing a 16 year old girl, who is a witch. And you're upset that a history teacher is passing out aspirin. Re-evaluate your priorities."

Like quit worrying about paying for Monkey Lord's root canal and get your Internet back up! How else will you read this post?

Walmart - shop here you sinners.

This is Walmart's new logo. But what is that symbol at the end? What happened to the smiley face? It looks like birth control.
Walmart wants you to have premartial sex.

Mr J doesn't have mono.

Last week, Mr. J grew a cyst under his tongue. It was diagnosed as mono.

Okay, I'm the one who diagnosed him. Sure I'm not a doctor, but I watch actors play doctors on TV. Shouldn't that qualify me?


Mr. J said it was a tumor, and that he'd named it Karl. (Which is the name of one my ex-boyfriends. All too fitting.)


Yesterday, we went to the doctor to find out what it was, and how to get rid of it. Turns out it was just a clogged saliva duct, full of food and dead skin cells. Pretty gross right? It gets grosser. I have a picture.

They cut it open and hopefully removed all of the stuff clogging the duct. And an hour later we were enjoying sushi. (Well, I was enjoying sushi, Mr. J was enjoying sushi and vicodin.) But honestly, does thinking about raw fish make that picture any less gross?

I don't think so either.

Letters to a Marine - 5

While my twin brother is away at Marine boot camp, I'll be writing him weekly letters. Because I share everything with you, I'll also post them on my blog. Enjoy!

Wombie!

Thank you for the birthday card, it was very sweet. It’s currently on display at my cubicle, at work. Which is just as prestigious and the Smithsonian, if not more.

In case you’ve been wondering, I am proud to announce that I do NOT have cancer. You may not have known that this was a concern of mine, but ask your bunk mate. He knew about it. I’d given up getting a letter from you, so started writing to him instead. (By the way, he has lovely penmanship.) But now that you’ve finally validated my existence, I’ll let you do the honor of informing Recruit Joe B. Franklin.

Aside from the whole not having cancer thing, life in the Duke City is dull. I’ve been trying to turn my life in a medical drama, with me as the diagnostic genius. This week’s episode Mr. J thinks he has a tumor under his tongue, but it turns out to be mono. Not quite as thrilling as House, but I’m on a budget.

So what was it like there when Obama got elected? You did know about that, right? You’re not that isolated from the outside world, are you? Are parts of this letter going to be edited with black censor marker?

Did you lie about joining the Marines? Are you actually in prison?
I’ll see you when you get out of the pokey.

Love and Miss you,

Suicidal Jane

Only cowards are anonymous.

Conversations from Casa de Rising Sun.

Suicidal Jane: "Do these pants make my butt look big?"

Mr. J: "No, why?"

Suicidal Jane: "How about this shirt, does it make me look pregnant?"

Mr. J: "No, why?"

Suicidal Jane: "Does my blog make me look fat?"

And he can't say anything. Because I got left a comment telling me that yes, my blog makes me look fat.

But you know what Anonymous commenter. I like my size. It gives me these!!!!

Bruce Campbell signed my boobs!

Not Another Bond Movie!

Quantum of Solace is the new James Bond movie coming out later this month.

Which has got me thinking.

In every Bond movie, there are two obligatory Bond babes. One of these girls is a villain, and the other works the light side of the force. Wait... wrong movie. The bad Bond girl sleeps with James Bond almost immediately upon meeting him. She can't seem to pull down her panties fast enough. (She'd save time if she went commando.) And as a consequence to her sluttiness, she will die in the next few minutes in the movie. But the good Bond girl is saving herself until the end of the movie, so the credits can scroll up her spine.

So my question is... Who was better in bed? Was Bond just sleeping with the good Bond girl, because she was the only girl around?

Please vote on the sidebar.

Whatever happened to the original Tetris pieces?

The American Nightmare

This morning, I awoke to a pussy in my face.

No, a hot lesbian did not break into my apartment and try to molest me.

Also, an ugly lesbian did not break into my apartment and try to molest me.

My cat, Vixen, slept on my head last night. Not only did this give me the worst stiff neck this morning, and aggravate my allergies to the extreme, but it gave me the strangest dream. I dreamt that she had hacked into my myspace account and was sending everyone on my friends list pro-McCain e-mails.

I can't believe I let a Republican sit on my face. I feel so used....

When does the cramping go away?

You may have been wondering, where the heck is Jane?* And instead of answering your question in a straightforward manner, I'm going to give you a little PSA.

Ladies, every 12 months, you need to get a pap smear. Sure it's embarrassing, and uncomfortable. You never know if you should shave your legs and ask them to buy you a drink first.** But you know what's worse? Having a doctor rip out a chunk of your cervix, so they can biopsy it to see if you have cervical cancer or not. Get the test done.***



* I imagine you'd use "heck" instead of "fuck". Since kid-friendly swear words are cooler than actual swear words nowadays.

** I usually show up at the doctor's office drunk. Saves time.

*** If you're still wondering whether to shave or not. Just wear some super cute knee high socks. That way you're still looking cute, and your feet won't get cold on the stirrups.

Letters to a Marine - 4

While my twin brother is away at Marine boot camp, I'll be writing him weekly letters. Because I share everything with you, I'll also post them on my blog. Enjoy!


Uterus-buddy!

This week I have spent all my spare time preparing for the upcoming holidays. I’m ready for the candy-grubbing goblins, disguised as trick-or-treaters (an aluminum baseball bat should do the trick). But Sandy Claws and his sidekick Tom the Man-Eating Turkey, not so much. The hardware store is out of barbed wire, and my apartment complex doesn’t approve of land mine or other such boobie traps. (Heh-heh, I wrote “boobie”.) How am I suppose to protect myself from such villainous characters? I’ve plastered glue rat traps along my roof, in the hopes that it will slow them down long enough for me to run for my life. But since it won’t buy me too long, the cats are on their own.

In the letter you wrote Opera Mom, you asked for pictures. Sorry I didn’t include one in my last letter, it takes a while for word to get through the grape vine. You do know I haven’t lived in that house for years, right? Where’s the my letter from you?

Love and miss you tons,

Suicidal Jane

Letters to a Marine - 3 /Do you know where your pants are? part two

While my twin brother is away at Marine boot camp, I'll be writing him weekly letters. Because I share everything with you, I'll also post them on my blog. Enjoy!


Dear Womb mate,

These past two weekends, have been New Mexico's Annual Balloon Fiesta. And last Friday, Nameless Dad offered to give me his free passes to go. It was pretty cool of him, he even offered to drop them off at my apartment, sliding them under the door so as not to disturb my evening. What he thought he would be disturbing, I'm not sure. The thought was nice, but my door has a rubber seal around it. The seal is suppose to prevent cold air blowing in, and incidentally also keeps people from sliding Balloon Fiesta passes underneath it. So when Nameless Dad told me of his plan to give me passes ninja-like, I had to burst his bubble and just ask him to knock. I asked him when he was going to drop them off, to make sure someone was home and awake. Plans were made. At 10:30pm, I would home and asleep but Mr. J would be home, and awake when Nameless Dad came by to drop off the passes.

I told Mr. J about the plans, he had no problems with it, but did have one question. Would he have to be wearing pants? It had been a long week, and wearing pants was not a part of his evening plans. (I don't know what his evening plans were, I've learned not to ask these kinds of questions.) I assured him that no, he did not have to be wearing pants, but that my father would appreciate it if the cats were wearing pants. Appreciated, but not necessary either.

10:00 pm, I was awoken, by Mr. J searching his dresser for clean pants. After all the joking, he didn't want to take it too far, and wasn't just going to wear pants, but was going to make sure they were clean pants.

10:35 pm, awoken again, Mr. J curled in the fetus position on the floor. For when he answered the door for my father, Nameless Dad stood all in black. Black shirt, black shoes, black socks, black boxers, no pants.

A tribute to you. 'Hope they let you have pants less time at boot camp, or is that a bad idea?

Love and miss you,
Suicidal Jane

It's nine o'clock, do you know where your pants are?

My twin brother, Radio Active Slog, doesn't like wearing pants. It's not that he prefers to wear shorts, skirts, kilts, he just doesn't like to wear anything below the waist. I think this is disgusting. Once he started puberty, it wasn't too difficult to convince him to at least wear boxers when wondering around the family house Saturday morning. After a long week of school, the last thing I need to see when eating cereal and watching cartoons is how many pubes Radio Active Slog has managed to accumulate. His love of being sans pants, became such a huge part of his life, that for years he would answer his phone, "Hello, I'm not wearing any pants."

Why am I telling you this? Because this is pertinent information, that you will need to know when you read my next post, tomorrow.

To be continued...

Smiley-faced terrorists

This is actually a post from a blog years ago, head cold has made me uncreative. So here you go.


I am against Walmart and biological warfare.

Be patient, I'm going somewhere with this.

A few days ago, I was shopping at Target (remember, Walmart = bad.). And I was waiting in line, when the vent above me started pumping out something that wasn't clean, healthy air. Within seconds, everyone, including myself, was coughing, hacking, rubbing their eyes and complaining that it felt like shards of glass were cutting their throats. People quickly fled the scene, leaving behind their items... unpurchased... and running to...

That's right. Walmart. Sources tell me that associates from Walmart were seen on the roof of Target, dumping, what appeared to be asbestos, into the ventilation system. If I ever see a blue vest boarding an airplane, I'm moving to Canada.

Walmart Update: I tried to post this several days ago, but each time, my computer would freeze and kick me offline, leaving this unposted. It's as if something, or some-MART had hacked into my computer and was preventing me from posting this. Luckily, I'm not on my computer..... oh no.... what's that sound? .... OH MY GOD! THE DOOR!!! IT'S TOO LATE FOR ME, SAVE YOURSELF!

Letters to a Marine - 2

While my twin brother is away at Marine boot camp, I'll be writing him weekly letters. Because I share everything with you, I'll also post them on my blog. Enjoy!


Twin-kie!

I figure that part of the boot camp experience is isolating you from the outside world. Which means you're missing some fantastic pop culture events. Milestones we'll be in awe of for years. Or at least a few weeks. And since I feel it's unfair for you to miss it, allow me to fill you in.

Miley Cyrus, the famous tween actress you plays Hannah Montana on the Disney Channel show of the same name (also, she's the daughter of singer/song writer Billy Ray Cyrus, who sang/wrote "Achy Break-y Heart") has been trying to make her ex-boyfriend Nick Jonas (of the famous tween pop band "The Jonas Brothers") jealous, by sending naked pictures of herself to Senator, and president hopeful, Barrack Obama. Nick, to prove that he's not jealous, has begun his own campaign for the presidency. Fortunately, Nick's strongest followers aren't old enough to vote.

Senator Obama's wife, Michelle, has released a statement that she and her husband are closer than ever, and that her husband and Miley are just friends.

Paula Abdul also released a statement that she and Senator Obama are just friends, but no one was there to receive it, as no one cares about Paula and her drunken ravings.

I think that's about all you've missed this week. All of it 100% awesomely true.

Love and miss you,
Suicidal Jane

Don Tolman can cure cancer with Apricot Seeds!

Because I haven't said it enough this year.... Don Tolman is an idiot. He wants me to believe that cancer is a myth, a disease created by the pharmaceutical companies, and the charities "profiting" from cancer research?



For the record Mr. Tolman, I have never heard anyone claiming to have "cure" for cancer, except for you. Everyone else has new treatments. Treatments are not a cure, they ease some of the symptoms of cancer and maybe prolong cancer victim's life span. The treatments are not a guarantee, they contain risks. No doctor will claim otherwise.

Don Tolman says he has a cure. Which he will be glad to sell to you. Because, after all, why should the cancer charities get all the money?

Guilty Pleasure

Every Wednesday, at least every Wednesday with new episodes, I hole up in my bedroom, with the tiny TV on the dresser and watch America's Next Top Model. It's not very well written, because it's a cheesy reality show. And the host often talks in a weird accent, because after 11 seasons she's bored. Yet every Wednesday, I watch.

I love this weekly ritual. For an hour I get to look at pretty girls binge eat, cry, curse and throw things at each other. But recently, something has been sneaking into my ritual. Not just something but someone.

The local religious channel's audio has been bleeding into my catty girl bitch fest.

America's Next Top Model? Jesus.

*By reading this, you consent to spending eternity in hell in the afterlife. Have a nice day!

Letters to a Marine - 1

While my twin brother is away at Marine boot camp, I'll be writing him weekly letters. Because I share everything with you, I'll also post them on my blog. Enjoy!

Radio Active Slog,

Life without you here has really sucked.

Your cat, Bucky, has lost thirty pounds at least. Quite the accomplishment as she only weighed twenty-one pounds before. She’s so light now, that she floats! She’s torturing the dogs, running along he ceiling where they can’t follow her.

Nameless Dad and your ex-girfriend, Grace, have really bonded while you’ve been gone. Grace has been mourning the death of the unborn children you were going to have together. And Nameless Dad has really been helping her get through it all. They even wear matching veils, made of black lace, to hide their tears of grief.

Speaking of unborn children, Opera Mom got herself knocked up again. It might be Nameless Dad’s, but we’re waiting until June to see what the baby looks like. Opera Mom’s hoping for a girl, Nameless Dad’s hoping for a boy and our brother, Monkey Lord, wants to know if he can eat it. Once you eat fetus, nothing else satisfies the craving.

Monkey Lord, as you know, is still going to school. His new job at Fantasy World is paying for everything, thanks to their tuition reimbursement program. I checked out his routine. I never knew he was so flexible. The cock ring was a little over the top, but to each their own.

Me, I’m still livin’ the dream. Inventing new and interesting ways to shave geese. It’s a niche market, but I have a really good feeling about method #208. I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but method #208 involves cheese and croutons.

I hope you’re having at least a little bit of fun, and enjoying the breeze on your scalp.

Love ya!

Suicidal Jane

Why Vixen's not allowed in the kitchen anymore.

Vixen ate one of the cookies.

Why I'm not allowed in the kitchen anymore.

I made Mr. J some biscuits this morning for breakfast.



He asked why they were blue. I told them they'd just been told their wives had died in a horrible plane crash, while on their way to sleep with Tom Jones because their biscuits husbands had never been able to satisfy their needs as women biscuits.

Mr. J asked, "no seriously, why are they blue?" I told him I thought the milk may have been bad. He responded "No duh!" and refuses to eat them. I don't know why, blue's his favorite color.


Relax, I just added blue food coloring.


I don't know why these cookies are blue though... I didn't add blue food coloring to them...

Pieces of Suicide

But.. but... everyone else has multiple blogs, why can't I?

Alright, it's not really another blog. It's not even a project that I'm currently working on. What is is, is a collection of short (some REALLY short) stories that I wrote. None of these are even remotely new, and they were stored on another website, but now they're here. YaY!!!

http://piecesofsuicide.blogspot.com/

Discrimination againts witches

Today, I was listening to my copy of Disney's "The Little Mermaid" soundtrack... thinking of my post of how spoiled she is.

(If you haven't read it, read it before you read this. It's okay. I'll wait.)




(Read it? Good, I'll continue.) More proof of Ariel's princessdom... When the evil witch, Ursula, is offering to turn the mermaid into a human, Ursula brings up the subject of payment. Not unreasonable, nothing's free - not even under the sea. But Ariel interrupts, that she doesn't have anything to offer.

What about those twenty thing-a-mabobs? Would she really miss a few who-its or whats-its? She's got plenty of gadgets and gizmos. She didn't even try to offer those up as payment. Perhaps if she had, the witch would have let her keep her voice and the whole messy storm fight could have been prevented.

It's called haggling your highness. Something the mermaid peasants are very familiar with.

Suspension of Disbelief - Anatomy Edition

This weekend I spent several hours starring at my computer, reading a friend of mine's novel. It's not finished yet, I'm one of her beta-readers and I'm very much looking forward to reading the rest of it. Her novel is an "adult" story. Erotic, sensual and a little smutty. (When it's done, it'll be published, you can get your own copy, and you'll love it. Lock yourself in the bathroom alone for two hours type - love it.)

I've also been reading a book, not on the computer, this one I actually had to pay for. A werewolf romance novel. It's cute, a little funny and half way through the book, I thought it was on it's way to becoming steamy. Boy werewolf and girl werewolf were naked (in human form, animal sex is not my thing). Boy werewolf inserted his "male length" into... her womb. That's about where I lost it. I could handle them being werewolves. I could believe that a rich hot shot man was interested in a plump orphan from the hood. But his trouser snake is so huge, he's hitting her uterus.... and why is she not screaming in pain? Something that huge has got to hurt. And how'd he get past the cervix anyway? See the diagram below... I just don't see this happening, and even if it did, I don't see her enjoying it... let alone "arching her back in ecstasy."

My friend's book, does not have any of these anatomy issues. Promise.

Pirates of Cardinal Isle

Naked Pirates!

Tomorrow! It's Tomorrow! International Talk Like A Pirate Day!

Not only am I completely prepared, but even my cats are.

Just look at Eve.


And Vixen...


Wait... where's Vixen? Somewhere there is a naked pirate....


Naked Pirate!!!!

'Member? You 'member.

100 posts! Who saw that coming?

Remember when I called the little mermaid spoiled? When I blew the lid off the "flavored water" scam?

Barbie's break-up? Her sex tape? Ken's new girlfriend?

My experiments with an underwater camera? The day Monkey Lord got a girlfriend?

The day Don Tolman and I started fighting? My most offensive post ever? The gift that keeps on giving?

Remember the post that I did with all the links to my past posts?

Good times, y'all. Good times.

Here's to another 100 posts.

Attack of the tiny tiny clones.

I think Calvin was on the right track.

I'm talking "Calvin and Hobbes" not Calvinism.

As a large part of my generation might remember, Calvin built a cloning machine. You walked into it and two of you walked out. A brilliant idea, but I don't think he thought big enough. There needs to be options, to better market the idea.

Like options to make your clone smaller and larger than yourself. After the "Austin Powers Trilogy" everyone wants a "Mini-Me", and wouldn't it be nice to have a 9-foot tall you beat up anyone who bothers you? I want options that can alter my clone's DNA to change her hair color, to easily tell us apart. I want to be able to clone my cats in plushie form. So I can cuddle with them, when they're not in the mood. And when is a cat ever in the mood?

If I could tweak my clone's personality, that'd be great too. I'd make them ultra submissive, so I could be as damn bossy as I please. Plus, there would need to be a portable model. For the Mad Scientist on the go. Different sizes available. The cloning bazooka with all the features of the cloning machine, the cloning 9mm with just the basic cloning and size alteration.

I think that as a default feature the clones shouldn't have stomachs. There's enough people starving to death as it is. Instead, to extend the life of your clones, you can buy energy pills or injections. Pills need to be taken twice daily and injections once weekly. Of course the injections would be more expensive. But this way the cloning company would continue to make profit after the machine is sold.

It's brilliant! I should go into marketing.... now all I need is someone to build it. Anyone have a degree in advanced genetics?

Obsessed maybe?

Did anyone notice that I followed my post about the song "The Final Countdown" with a post that included a countdown?

It's coming!

Talk Like A Pirate Day is September 19th. Less than two weeks away!

According to the official website, it's no longer just an American holiday. It's gone international! Thank you internet.

Just think, if everyone in the world participated, we'd have a day of world wide communication and understand. A day - of world peace. Nothing is more pirate-like, than world peace.

You've just been Europe'd, because I love you.

I came up with a new game. Mr J and I have been beta-testing it, and after a month of successful tests, I am ready to to release it out into the public.

Ashton Kutcher "punks" people.

I "Europe" people. I don't mean that I send people to the continent, I am not that rich nor that generous. At completely unexpected, and frequently inappropriate, moments I find a subtle way to get the Europe's rock anthem "The Final Countdown" stuck in some one's head. Sometimes I'll text it, or whisper it in some one's ear. I've left it on peoples myspace pages, or stuck a CD in the car stereo the night before a long trip, where it's the only song. I'm not above teaching a parrot to sing it, or hiring a singing telegram. (Unfortunately, I haven't the funds to do it... yet.)

I even got the Symphonic orchestra of Liepaja and Melo-M to preform it for all of you. (I have that kind of power!!!) To introduce the awesomeness of this game. So please, spread the joy, and bask in the misery of your loved ones, after they can't get away from it for a solid month.

McAfee = McALeak

Last night, the computer here at Casa de Rising Sol crashed. It didn't just crash, it rolled itself in a puddle of gasoline and lit a match. Five hours with the Geek Squad tech support, and several system clean ups later, the fire was put up, and the computer is working again. (Bless you Geek Squad!) Somehow our computer had been infected with over 6 trojan viruses andwith over 200 infected files.

We* discovered this when a nasty pop-up for "AntiSpyware 2008 XP" wouldn't go away. This horrible program was one of the viruses. It pops up several windows telling you that you have spyware on your computer and no matter what button you press in those windows it redirects you to a website trying to sell you an "anti-spyware" program. This program is an even worse virus than the first one, and what's even more horrible, is that if you fall for it, you've just paid for total computer failure.

I didn't fall for that. But I did fall for something else. When Mr J and I first noticed AntiSpyware 2008 XP on the computer, we immediately searched it on Google. Once we knew what we were dealing with, we found a trusted spyware & trojan scan to fix our problem. To be sure that it was a trusted scan, and not just another virus, we went straight to the Microsoft website for advice. Downloaded the suggested fix and figured we'd be fine.......

It didn't work. So we gave in and called Best Buy's Geek Squad tech support for help. Not only did the Microsoft recommended spyware remover do nothing, but it also contained one of the trojans we had to remove. What the hell Microsoft?!

And why didn't McAfee catch this? Because despite how popular it is, and how recommended it is, it's actually mediocre. If you want real protection, try Webroot.

Hopefully some of this story will be useful for you, if so, please feel free to send me money to show your appreciation as fixing our computer cost us about $300 US/dollars. If this story wasn't, and/or you don't want to send me money, I promise I'll resume blogging about my regular insanity later this week.

*By the way, everytime I used the word "we", what I really meant was Mr J was doing it, while I hid out in the bedroom watching America's Next Top Model.

**I also am not entirely convinced that my arch nemesis Don Tolman is not behind this.

Bridget the Spider's First Strike

Last week, a spider threatened the life of me and my family. Because I'm gutless, I fled the state and took sanctuary in Colorado. I hired an exterminator to spray my apartment for bugs. But it wasn't enough. The spider was a step ahead of me. She didn't come herself. Oh no, she hired a hit man to do her dirty work. A hit man that wouldn't be affected by bug spray. Bridget the Spider sent... a shark.

These images were captured by my security cameras. The bitch got my cats. She didn't even spare the mouse that lives under the fridge. Why? God, why?!

Limbo?

While I was on vacation, an outbreak of salmonella spread across the southern part of the state I reside in (New Mexico), a woman was denied entry into a store because of her service cat (where can I get one of those?), a local Walmart almost blew up but then didn't, Senator Obama picked a VP running mate (I thought Governor Richardson would have been a better choice, but what do I know?), a hydrogen car went on a cross-country road trip, our local scientists planned to blow stuff up (not Walmart), the Olympics ended (no link, you'll just have to take my word for it), and many, many other things happened. I have a lot to catch up on, please bear with me.
~~~~~~~~
Mr J and I drove up to Colorado, as our destination was only six hours away from our home in Albuquerque. Actually he drove, I just drifted in and out sleep the whole time. And on our journey, and interesting question was pondered. When driving out of one state and in to another state there are signs. One sign reading "You are now leaving ". and another sign reading "You are now entering ." These signs are about a mile apart. So when you are in that "middle mile", where are you? And another question... can my mom smoke pot there legally?

I'm not dead yet.

Tomorrow I come home from Colorado, to see if my apartment is still in one piece or if Bridget the Spider has won. Hopefully I'll update, but it's a long car ride, so no promises. But I miss y'all! And I promise I will answer everyone's e-mails as soon as I can. (After all, I don't want to give you all half-assed responses.)

Response to an open letter

I got a response from my spider acquaintance. This letter was written in a spider web. (I tried to take a picture of it, but the flash made it unreadable.)

Dear Jane,

Everyday you destroy my home worse than Hurricane Katrina. Of course I don't want to be your friend. I know where you live, I know where you sleep. This I promise you, I will get even.

Vengeful Spider,
~Bridget

So the spider's name is Bridget, and she's pissed... I think it's time for me to go away on vacation. Off to Colorado I go! See ya in a few days when the exterminator has gassed my apartment.

Love your pets, love your plushies.

Yesterday Mr. J blogged about the time he cheated on me with a care bear. I didn't know we had reached the stage in healing our relationship where we could talk about it, much less blog about it. But he feels we have so while he talks about his new fetish for all things fluffy here, I'd like to shed some light on sensitive topic.

Stuffed animal abuse. We've all heard about it. But have we done anything about it? It can be as innocent as a child throwing her beloved stuffed pony onto the bed in a hurried motion to clean her room before her parents get out the wooden spoon. Or an older sibling allows the family dog to rip off a stuffed bunny's ear. But it get worse than that. As these abusers become older, and more callus, they decide that they no longer need or want their stuffed animals. And so sell them into slavery at garage sales, as if these animals are possessions instead of family members. Or they are donated to toy drive for someone else to love, like a junkie mother leaving her babies in the woods not caring if they starve to death or get eaten by bears.

These are all forms of stuffed animal abuse. And if you see it, please speak up! These sweet stuffed creatures can't speak for themselves. If you see a plushie being smacked around, report it to the proper authorities. (Unless it's a consensual session of S&M plushie activities. Like the one shown above. Don't forget your safety word!)

How awesome is it that I didn't have to take that picture, but found it on Google!

So tell me, what would think if I made a new banner for my blog? Got rid of my Jack Skellington head sculpture, and updated it with something that looks a lot like this picture to the left.

Not my left, your left.

It's still in a very early stage, but let me know what you think!

Breaking the rules and writing about work.

The work week is nearing a close. (Happy Friday Eve!) And you may be wondering what I have been doing all week in my cubicle, when not pretending to work. Decorating my cubicle buddy's side of the cubicle while he's on vacation!

I didn't post-it note his chair. After all, I don't want to be mean!


And a shot of me, to prove that I didn't just steal these from some other website.

Mark the Mozzarella Stick Man

More, probably better, posts are coming. About what I did during Discovery Channel's Shark week, how it changed the lives of those living in Casa de Rising Sun, and maybe an ode to my hair cut. But for now, you're just going to have to settle with Mark. The Mozzarella Stick Man.

This is Mark. He's a cheese stick.


Mark is a fun guy. See him dance?


But Mark is very clumsy.


I miss Mark.


Mark's grieving widow and three children.

The weekend that the internet forgot.

Last week I did the unthinkable. I went 6 days without logging on the internet. It wasn't willingly either, but it had to be done. I had to survive 6 days without checking my e-mail, my bank account, or even my comments on myspace.

I got bored, I got goofy, I even began crafting projects out of my cat's shedding fur... but I think my favorite accomplishment of the almost week was this.

I'm glad to have the computer back, I missed you all.

An Open Letter to the Spider Outside My Apartment

Spidey,

Every day we have the same routine. I leave for work while you hide in the bushes. I work diligently in my cubicle, and you weave an elaborate web to catch food. No one notices all the work I get done, and your silk is so thin that it can't been seen with the naked eye. We have a lot in common. We should be friends.

So why then, do you insist on building your web on the front steps every day? I unknowingly walk through it, and get it tangled on my web... bringing you with me. You crawl up my leg, I scream like Jamie Lee Curtis' in her early movies. This is not how friends treat each other.

Can we start our relationship over?

Your hopeful friend,
Suicidal Jane

The Gift That Keeps On Giving.

A beautiful gift left in our care.

It wasn't addressed to Mr. J, but the box was so pretty!


He had to look inside.

The anticipation!


It's a strange box, opens very weird.


Looking inside....


It's something yellow. Is that an eye?


Definitely an has eye... two eyes actually.


Is it a sun?


Is it an egg?


A Herpes Virus?!!


Yup, it's a herpes virus.


Mr. J re-wrapped it, and gave it to the man who was suppose to get it. (He wishes to remain unnamed.)

Get your own! http://www.giantmicrobes.com/