Some information has come to light concerning one Pinche Cabrona, former BfN contributor and translator. There are conflicting reports, so the following is a list of what our trusted sources have so honorably reported.
1) Pinche lost all of her fingers in a catastrophic protein shake accident. She has in fact been working on a post, but must type with her nose, so it is very slow-going, especially because of her famous weak capillaries. She can't read the letters on the keys for all the red, but still she trudges every day from memorization of the home row. Despite her determination, the ETA for the article is 2012.
2) She has given up all technology and spends her days writing stories in the sands of a faroff beach, only eating sand between leaves which she cleverly calls a sandwich.
3) Pinche was actually the pen name for Lance Bass, and now that he's gay he doesn't feel the need to post anymore. Elitist!
Any additional information should be posted below. If you see Pinche Cabrona, do not approach or confront her, as she has teeth like staple removers and nails like the hard plastic packaging electronics come in that get really sharp when you try to open them. They're a real hazard.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Mucking About with...Headlines
This is something I made up. Me. I did it. Don't steal it. It works like this: I look at a headline and try to guess what the story is actually about. I created this. Again, don't steal it.
Obese people may collapse more in heat
As the whiskey in our collective thermometers rises with the summer months, there is an oft overlooked danger on the streets.
"Heatstroke is a real menace," said Dr. Menelaus Menses. "People are passing out every day: the young, the old, the infirm, and especially the obese. This last group is the one we should worry most about."
In an average non-summer month, an obese person will collapse 3 times. During the summer, that number quadruples to 36.
"It's a danger. These 'tugboats,' as they like to be known, are collapsing all over the place. Every 5 seconds, an obese person collapses. Our hospitals are filling up." Dr. Menses also wanted to set straight some rumors concerning the 'tugboat' appellation: "These people do not float, and only a small minority finds them fit for a tug."
The obese's extra weight is, "like wearing three snowsuits while sitting in a microwave," Dr. Menses told us. "Together, with the other problems the obese face, such as hypertension, diabetes, and the increasing difficulty in procuring children to eat, I'm surprised anyone is fat anymore."
An obese is defined as a man or woman(no trannies) who weighs at least 636 lbs. Like all of us, they play sports and are allergic to cat hair, but unlike us, their sweat shoots out of their pores like a clicking sprinkler, and they fall down really hard. Dr. Menses told us, "The bigger they are, the farther[sic] they fall." These fallings are crippling the non-obese at a rapid pace.
"Yesterday, I treated seven normal people who had been injured by this increase in obese collapses," Dr. Menses told us while visibly erect. "I lost two of them. This is getting out of hand."
36.4% of tugboat falls hurts a non-tugboat. Ways to prevent injury include: drinking fluids, wearing sneakers with fresh treads or those sneakers with wheels in the heels that kids are zipping around the mall with crazy bastards, not bathing in bacon grease, and staying out of the shade, as what you think is a tree may be an obese person with eczema.
Ways to prevent obesity include: not eating.
Obese people may collapse more in heat
As the whiskey in our collective thermometers rises with the summer months, there is an oft overlooked danger on the streets.
"Heatstroke is a real menace," said Dr. Menelaus Menses. "People are passing out every day: the young, the old, the infirm, and especially the obese. This last group is the one we should worry most about."
In an average non-summer month, an obese person will collapse 3 times. During the summer, that number quadruples to 36.
"It's a danger. These 'tugboats,' as they like to be known, are collapsing all over the place. Every 5 seconds, an obese person collapses. Our hospitals are filling up." Dr. Menses also wanted to set straight some rumors concerning the 'tugboat' appellation: "These people do not float, and only a small minority finds them fit for a tug."
The obese's extra weight is, "like wearing three snowsuits while sitting in a microwave," Dr. Menses told us. "Together, with the other problems the obese face, such as hypertension, diabetes, and the increasing difficulty in procuring children to eat, I'm surprised anyone is fat anymore."
An obese is defined as a man or woman(no trannies) who weighs at least 636 lbs. Like all of us, they play sports and are allergic to cat hair, but unlike us, their sweat shoots out of their pores like a clicking sprinkler, and they fall down really hard. Dr. Menses told us, "The bigger they are, the farther[sic] they fall." These fallings are crippling the non-obese at a rapid pace.
"Yesterday, I treated seven normal people who had been injured by this increase in obese collapses," Dr. Menses told us while visibly erect. "I lost two of them. This is getting out of hand."
36.4% of tugboat falls hurts a non-tugboat. Ways to prevent injury include: drinking fluids, wearing sneakers with fresh treads or those sneakers with wheels in the heels that kids are zipping around the mall with crazy bastards, not bathing in bacon grease, and staying out of the shade, as what you think is a tree may be an obese person with eczema.
Ways to prevent obesity include: not eating.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Dear Stalin,
I'm officially fed up with people. I came across an article a while ago and I feel that things are really getting out of hand. This article is talking about a lawsuit that has been filed against MySpace.com. Supposedly a 14 year old girl developed an online relationship with a 19-year old man. Understand this, she voluntarily gave out her name, address, phone number, and most likely several other personal tidbits like the fact that the only blood that she has ever seen come from between her legs was from chafing she received on her big wheel; did I mention yet that she’s 14? So this 19 year old guy picks her up after school to take her on a date; oh yeah she’s 14 so that puts her in 8th maybe 9th grade. They went to dinner (I’m guessing Chuck E. Cheese) and a movie (once again I’m guessing Monster House) and afterwards he drove to a parking lot and raped her in the back seat of his car. At that point, it is unconfirmed but I believe that she pulled out her Harry Potter wand and attempted to cast a spell to prohibit this personal intrusion from continuing. However, being 14 and not realizing that magic isn’t real yet her world and self-esteem came crashing down in a 19 year olds 30 seconds of pleasure, only to ruin every relationship that she attempts to have for the rest of her life, not to mention her contribution of cock-blocks.
Now, the girl and her mother have filed a lawsuit against MySpace.com for no less then $30 Million, arguing that MySpace does not protect kids. Please understand that I do not condone sexual assaults in any way, and that this guy was no where even close to being in the right (14 is too young to rape, set your sights higher), but there has to be a line people. This girl is suing a third party for an unnecessary amount of money because of her mother’s poor parenting skills and her poor life choices. This whole thing makes less sense than the belief that Lance Bass is the only gay N*Sync member.
There you go…I’ve contributed and I’m angry….now please excuse me I’m late for my Bratz chat room appointment…the discussions really pick up during the summer.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Call me Stalin or one of the Olson Twins, because...
...there will be a purge.
This is a notice.
One week from today, any so-called "contributor" who hasn't posted will have his/her membership revoked and will have an embarassing post about him/her published.
This is a notice.
This is a notice.
One week from today, any so-called "contributor" who hasn't posted will have his/her membership revoked and will have an embarassing post about him/her published.
This is a notice.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
My Biopic
It starts with a wail
and a tear.
The action rises
as my dad marks
the top of my skull
on the wooden post
next to the stairwell.
He uses a pencil
and my hair crunches
as he draws the line.
The lines stop climbing:
Crisis! Something else
is rising constantly,
an action unspoken
like a prayer.
There is a girl
and another, the first
a tattoo, the other
a piercing.
Sometimes there is rain
which pats my head
like a withered aunt's hand.
The denoument is filled
with cigarettes.
The resolution
is a long nap
on dirty bedsheets,
stained with my seed
and covered in
bits of my skin.
and a tear.
The action rises
as my dad marks
the top of my skull
on the wooden post
next to the stairwell.
He uses a pencil
and my hair crunches
as he draws the line.
The lines stop climbing:
Crisis! Something else
is rising constantly,
an action unspoken
like a prayer.
There is a girl
and another, the first
a tattoo, the other
a piercing.
Sometimes there is rain
which pats my head
like a withered aunt's hand.
The denoument is filled
with cigarettes.
The resolution
is a long nap
on dirty bedsheets,
stained with my seed
and covered in
bits of my skin.
Friday, July 07, 2006
This poem is like giving your starving child a bag of popcorn
This is wasted breath,
Old Gerald thinks
as his legs carry him
slowly up the grassy hill
he hasn't seen since thirteen,
when he'd croon Rosemary Clooney
and roll and tumble,
let gravity do its job.
Today there's not a breath
left to sing.
Even his dog is panting.
He's come here to see.
He's come here to laugh.
He's come here to be buried.
He's huffing, halfway up,
legs burning like coals,
cane useless. It's dry and cool.
No fear of mud-sliding
back down, or slipping
and rolling like
Sisyphus's boulder.
Though he could tip back
like a diseased older tree.
Or maybe his legs will just stop,
suspend him forever halfway
up a childhood hill. Modern art,
not like dripping paint
or boxes full of nothing, but
"Gerald", flesh and bone and substance
with frozen legs and a dead dog.
I am a full of nothing.
Look at the grass, Gerald.
It's sloping less and less.
Look! This is called the summit.
We'll call what's behind you
the climb. It's why you're breathing
like a criminal. Do you remember?
Were you a child here?
Where would you like your hole to be?
Gerald falls.
He's lying now, arms drawn out wide
and heavy like urns,
but his fingers sometimes twitch.
His lungs are filling slower now,
but still to bursting.
His ribs are a dam. His eyes
blink and squint
at the villainous sun. He thinks,
with every twitch, every breath,
There's still life in me yet.
Old Gerald thinks
as his legs carry him
slowly up the grassy hill
he hasn't seen since thirteen,
when he'd croon Rosemary Clooney
and roll and tumble,
let gravity do its job.
Today there's not a breath
left to sing.
Even his dog is panting.
He's come here to see.
He's come here to laugh.
He's come here to be buried.
He's huffing, halfway up,
legs burning like coals,
cane useless. It's dry and cool.
No fear of mud-sliding
back down, or slipping
and rolling like
Sisyphus's boulder.
Though he could tip back
like a diseased older tree.
Or maybe his legs will just stop,
suspend him forever halfway
up a childhood hill. Modern art,
not like dripping paint
or boxes full of nothing, but
"Gerald", flesh and bone and substance
with frozen legs and a dead dog.
I am a full of nothing.
Look at the grass, Gerald.
It's sloping less and less.
Look! This is called the summit.
We'll call what's behind you
the climb. It's why you're breathing
like a criminal. Do you remember?
Were you a child here?
Where would you like your hole to be?
Gerald falls.
He's lying now, arms drawn out wide
and heavy like urns,
but his fingers sometimes twitch.
His lungs are filling slower now,
but still to bursting.
His ribs are a dam. His eyes
blink and squint
at the villainous sun. He thinks,
with every twitch, every breath,
There's still life in me yet.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
When the sun sets
When the sun sets,
The man nextdoor grabs his hat
And a cane. I hear his door
Whisper shut.
He walks the lawn
With tepid footsteps,
Gestures with a cupped hand
At my face in the window.
His daughter has eaglebreasts.
I dream that once
My head might rest
In her nesty flesh.
When her light fades out
And her silhouette is absorbed,
My dreams
Are all dimples and folds
And pure pure white.
When I dream
She's always in my sight.
When the sun shows up again,
A wooden tap roosters
Me awake. There is no wave
From his tired hands; his eyes
Lie on skin pillows
And don't see me
Blink through the blinds.
I know he'd call
My dreams unkind,
But that's because
A daughter differs
From a shadow,
From a distant image
Small enough to carry
In my pocket.
If I knew his name
I'd say 'I'm sorry.'
The man nextdoor grabs his hat
And a cane. I hear his door
Whisper shut.
He walks the lawn
With tepid footsteps,
Gestures with a cupped hand
At my face in the window.
His daughter has eaglebreasts.
I dream that once
My head might rest
In her nesty flesh.
When her light fades out
And her silhouette is absorbed,
My dreams
Are all dimples and folds
And pure pure white.
When I dream
She's always in my sight.
When the sun shows up again,
A wooden tap roosters
Me awake. There is no wave
From his tired hands; his eyes
Lie on skin pillows
And don't see me
Blink through the blinds.
I know he'd call
My dreams unkind,
But that's because
A daughter differs
From a shadow,
From a distant image
Small enough to carry
In my pocket.
If I knew his name
I'd say 'I'm sorry.'
Sunday, June 04, 2006
County Park
I drowned you in this pond.
I breathed the air that hit the surface,
The bubbles of your lungs and lips.
Your arms did not struggle, while mine
Were wrapped by sludgy weeds
And abandoned lily pads. It's a shame
That no one saw me.
On the reedy shore, my shoes
Were slicked with goose shit.
I saw a man catch a fish,
His orange bobber floating above your body,
And he cast again, lusty and impatient.
He caught another. Another flowing
Flick of the wrist, and a third fish
Flew up with his hook. Their breath
Stunk of your tears. How nutritious your sorrow,
When fish will risk an iron barb
To eat their fill.
Soon, the rod was halted.
There was no sport in it. The pond
Became speckled with scaly bellies, and the frogs
Jumped from fish to fish. Your tears
A new lake created, with an ocean's
Salinity. On the bank, I cupped
A hand and fed my mouth, but my throat
Choked on the thickness, and my lips
Were painted a salty red. I had to leave.
I'm afraid I can't go back.
I breathed the air that hit the surface,
The bubbles of your lungs and lips.
Your arms did not struggle, while mine
Were wrapped by sludgy weeds
And abandoned lily pads. It's a shame
That no one saw me.
On the reedy shore, my shoes
Were slicked with goose shit.
I saw a man catch a fish,
His orange bobber floating above your body,
And he cast again, lusty and impatient.
He caught another. Another flowing
Flick of the wrist, and a third fish
Flew up with his hook. Their breath
Stunk of your tears. How nutritious your sorrow,
When fish will risk an iron barb
To eat their fill.
Soon, the rod was halted.
There was no sport in it. The pond
Became speckled with scaly bellies, and the frogs
Jumped from fish to fish. Your tears
A new lake created, with an ocean's
Salinity. On the bank, I cupped
A hand and fed my mouth, but my throat
Choked on the thickness, and my lips
Were painted a salty red. I had to leave.
I'm afraid I can't go back.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Conveyance
Hmmmm...How to explain. This is gonna be hard. It's like, like...God, this is tough. The words, they just don't mean what I want them to mean. Like, let's say there's a dolphin, who really really likes graham crackers...no, wait. I mean, let's take your mom. Just an example, no insult intended. Well, it's kinda like your mom, with all her sundresses and sunglasses and sunroofs and shit. Almost like that, I guess. More like a skylight that some bluejay has shat on.
Still, you're not getting it, and that's not your fault, because I'm not getting it right. Let's say a train is going in two directions at once, like North-East, but the wind is only going up. It's like that, moreso than your mom. But then again, have you ever gotten a ticket for not turning on your headlights, even though it's clearly still dusk, and there is still light, and you can see the pollution turn red on the horizon? And then, you remember the spare pack of Sunny Doodles in your glove compartment. That's the feeling.
OK, enough of this nonsense. I have it, conveyed to perfection: You are playing four-square with the man who will be your husband. His mom whistles, a command, but he stays a silent moment longer, to peg you in the head with that beautiful, red, rubber ball. Your teeth clack and you bite your tongue, and when you get home, your mom thinks you stole her favorite lipstick. The tuna tastes like pennies that night, and you never fall asleep again, until you touch down on your wedding bed.
You still don't get it, do you?
That's what I thought.
Still, you're not getting it, and that's not your fault, because I'm not getting it right. Let's say a train is going in two directions at once, like North-East, but the wind is only going up. It's like that, moreso than your mom. But then again, have you ever gotten a ticket for not turning on your headlights, even though it's clearly still dusk, and there is still light, and you can see the pollution turn red on the horizon? And then, you remember the spare pack of Sunny Doodles in your glove compartment. That's the feeling.
OK, enough of this nonsense. I have it, conveyed to perfection: You are playing four-square with the man who will be your husband. His mom whistles, a command, but he stays a silent moment longer, to peg you in the head with that beautiful, red, rubber ball. Your teeth clack and you bite your tongue, and when you get home, your mom thinks you stole her favorite lipstick. The tuna tastes like pennies that night, and you never fall asleep again, until you touch down on your wedding bed.
You still don't get it, do you?
That's what I thought.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Choose your own adventure
Yes, I was quite fascinated by Vanderbilt's idea. I willgive you a watered down, less well written, unoriginal account of Vanderibilt's already borrowed theme.* Read at you own risk.**
*There actually may be references paralleling the 'real' choose your own adventure
** I don't feel the need to preface the story, or construct any kind of plot. This is because I don't know what the word means.
You find yourself in the a strange city. Some people speak English, and some other language. It could be El Paso, Prague, or Manila. You are ignorant to culture or racial markers.
Do you find the nearest pornographer and converse with him, try to find a newspaper Marty Mcfly style, or try to figure it out yourself, even though you know absolutely nothing.
You happen to be a stubborn chap searching for adventure. You wander the mews, avenues, boulevards, and the like. Your legs are tired, but your loins are not. A woman dressed in a business suit smiles at you. She has a crooked tooth, but you like those kind of flaws.
Do you ask her, "how much to take me around the world Magellan style?", ignore your primal instincts and eat some kind of sandwich, do what you usually do, and buy a loaf of Italian bread and a tub of margerine
See normally you would take the last choice, however, you are in a strange city, no one knows you. You proposition this not so young lady. She looks at you puzzled, like you got mustard on your sweater vest.
Do you, repeat the question, run away, push her down and run away
Well C'mon, you don't want her following you. She doesn't fall down because you are a weakling. You kick the prospective presser of charges in the shins, and take four lefts. Shit! You are back where you started. The women is waiting, quite astutely, for an explanation. You happen to be smooth*, so you approach her casusally to work it out.
*You are not, nor will you ever be
Do you profusely apologize, and make up an excuse, Give her a clothesline (from hell) , Make sweet, sweet, love, to a sweet, sweet, sausage
Uh oh. No good choices there. You unlogically refrain from violence and sexual acts. She's waiting for an explanation. You start stroking the piece to insinuate what you want. It's pretty surreal, even for you. The snaggle tooth whore pretends to walk away. You almost fall for it. She says, "80, that's how much it costs" You stroke your chin and say sure. Uh Oh! You don't have any money. Maybe you can pay her in orgasms, 80 of them.
Do you play it cool, and act like you are the real McCoy, Pplitely tell her you are not interested, eat an ice cream sandwich
You are partial to ice cream sandwiches, but your piece is on fire. You need to put it out. Your doctor told you that you are allergic to blue balls. It could kill you. You make the logical choice and follow her. She walks quite confidently towards an unknown destination. You pass, an 'adult' kiosk. Aha! It's not even a choice, you follow your unlikely hostess. After about an hour and a half you are walking on the side of a service road in a post industrial paradise.
Do you, see if the kiosk is still open, force the issue, keep walking
You felt some audacity, but you lost it. You keep on walking. You get to a cliff. She's got Leonardo wings, you got nothing. She jumps off and falls to her death.
Do you, follow suit, find a safer way down and collect the dead body, or walk back to where you started and utilize the Marty McFly method.
TURN TO P. 48 for your fate!
*There actually may be references paralleling the 'real' choose your own adventure
** I don't feel the need to preface the story, or construct any kind of plot. This is because I don't know what the word means.
You find yourself in the a strange city. Some people speak English, and some other language. It could be El Paso, Prague, or Manila. You are ignorant to culture or racial markers.
Do you find the nearest pornographer and converse with him, try to find a newspaper Marty Mcfly style, or try to figure it out yourself, even though you know absolutely nothing.
You happen to be a stubborn chap searching for adventure. You wander the mews, avenues, boulevards, and the like. Your legs are tired, but your loins are not. A woman dressed in a business suit smiles at you. She has a crooked tooth, but you like those kind of flaws.
Do you ask her, "how much to take me around the world Magellan style?", ignore your primal instincts and eat some kind of sandwich, do what you usually do, and buy a loaf of Italian bread and a tub of margerine
See normally you would take the last choice, however, you are in a strange city, no one knows you. You proposition this not so young lady. She looks at you puzzled, like you got mustard on your sweater vest.
Do you, repeat the question, run away, push her down and run away
Well C'mon, you don't want her following you. She doesn't fall down because you are a weakling. You kick the prospective presser of charges in the shins, and take four lefts. Shit! You are back where you started. The women is waiting, quite astutely, for an explanation. You happen to be smooth*, so you approach her casusally to work it out.
*You are not, nor will you ever be
Do you profusely apologize, and make up an excuse, Give her a clothesline (from hell) , Make sweet, sweet, love, to a sweet, sweet, sausage
Uh oh. No good choices there. You unlogically refrain from violence and sexual acts. She's waiting for an explanation. You start stroking the piece to insinuate what you want. It's pretty surreal, even for you. The snaggle tooth whore pretends to walk away. You almost fall for it. She says, "80, that's how much it costs" You stroke your chin and say sure. Uh Oh! You don't have any money. Maybe you can pay her in orgasms, 80 of them.
Do you play it cool, and act like you are the real McCoy, Pplitely tell her you are not interested, eat an ice cream sandwich
You are partial to ice cream sandwiches, but your piece is on fire. You need to put it out. Your doctor told you that you are allergic to blue balls. It could kill you. You make the logical choice and follow her. She walks quite confidently towards an unknown destination. You pass, an 'adult' kiosk. Aha! It's not even a choice, you follow your unlikely hostess. After about an hour and a half you are walking on the side of a service road in a post industrial paradise.
Do you, see if the kiosk is still open, force the issue, keep walking
You felt some audacity, but you lost it. You keep on walking. You get to a cliff. She's got Leonardo wings, you got nothing. She jumps off and falls to her death.
Do you, follow suit, find a safer way down and collect the dead body, or walk back to where you started and utilize the Marty McFly method.
TURN TO P. 48 for your fate!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
