Showing posts with label Beth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Beth. Show all posts

Good Morning, I'm Back

By Beth 

I’m back, lovers and fiends, so GOOD MORNING! You may wonder where I’ve been, but a magician never reveals his secrets and nor will I. Let’s just be thankful for our time together now and move on with our morning of respective OCD routines.



Happy Birthday Prince! I never really gave a shit about you, but today seemed like a good day to start. I tried, I really did via ten minutes on youtube, but your considerable age (52, who knew?) and lack of relevant music for the last decade has made me realize I am simply not willing to risk an illegal download for you. And what’s love without the thrill of a little torrent action? I will forever appreciate your freaky funk and androgynous sexuality prior to 1995, but this aural affair ends there.


Today’s Prophylactic



Jimmie Hatz: The Official Condom of the Hip Hop Kulture.

Even badass ballers need to put on a glove before they make love, and I guess regular old rubbers just ain’t cool enough. The black latex “Great Dane” will give you the confidence no Trojan ever could. It’s rough out there on the streets these days, and grandpa’s rubbers never turned anyone on, so stock up on these bad boys at the Peoria County Health Department or from progressive pimps nationwide. Hollaaaa!


Today's Internet Creativity

By now all you indie hipster wipes have become acquainted with the adorable collection of creativity on Etsy.com. I much prefer her ugly step-sister Regretsy.com, which compiles the best of the worst of people’s pathetic attempts to glue things together in the name of Art and sell them for amazingly bold prices.

A few of my favorites:

Dead baby unicorn


Roadkill cum Frankenstein


Macramé exposed



Let’s all take a moment to rock out to one of my healthier obsessions.




Today’s Hindsight

We all depend on OYIT for outrageous predictions to base our daily decisions on, but I prefer the safety and accuracy of hindsight. Let’s take a look at this week in my life 2004: Like any college student worth her tuition and textbooks, I rolled into summer neck deep in a hole of sex, drugs and rock n roll. I chose to party all night and spend my days at home fornicating with a new boyfriend instead of showing up for my shiny new internship at the Red Cross. I managed to stumble into the office (late) twice in two and a half weeks before my strangely sympathetic boss went on vacation and her scaly assistant fired me. Well deserved, so I shrugged off my shame, lied to my advisor and my parents, and continued down my deviant path. Many moons have passed, and I now have to deal with those dedicated Red Cross employees through my professional setting. To add to the general awkwardness that is my life, I must have told some horrible, detailed lie as one of my excuses, because from time to time they delicately inquire about my “condition.” Lessons to be learned: internships matter and love doesn’t last. Please give blood today to atone for my sins.

Dear Baby (From Alfie)

By Beth



Dear Baby,

This is your daddy Alfie. I’m writing to you to tell you I love you and because there is a lot going on right now and the grownups are busy sodding off. I am your daddy but I’m 13 and your mummy is 15. We are going to take lots of good care of you anyways.


Everyone is mad that we had sex and had you, but I don’t understand why, probably because I am a kid. They say I look 8 but I’m way bigger than that and yesterday my voice cracked so I’m pretty much a man. Chantelle said sex would be fun and it hurt a wee bit but then I must be good to knock her up on the first time. Your gramps is really good at shagging, he has 9 kids. This is a picture of him.



At home he looks like that but without the pants. Daddy said he would get me a bunch of money for pictures of me and you, but now mummy is mad at him for whoring me out. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know how much nappies cost either but today I wiped your bum and fed you. It was fun but you cried anyway. I like to play football and Playstation and sometimes I will let you play too. And bikes, we can ride bikes together. Your mummy is big and soft and she is nice to me usually and sends the best sext messages in the whole school. I would like you to love me, baby and I think I will be a good dad. I will be a good pilot too just like Sully Sullivan but first I will drop out of school and work in a cardboard factory so I can buy you toys. I’m saving up my pocket money now to buy you a buggy. It might take a while, but you don’t seem to mind yet. Your mummy is taking church classes so she can learn some morals. When I am 16 we can rent a flat and all move in together. Two proper ladies came yesterday and asked a lot of questions and then they said they wouldn’t take you away yet so I guess that means I passed the daddy test. I don’t know much about anything but I will teach you when I learn stuff, like how to kill a bear. My mum is yelling for me to finish my chores so I will stop writing now. But remember that I love you forever and I will share my candy too.


Hugs and kisses,

Daddy Alfie

The Decider

By Beth



Nadya Suleman has a Calvin Kline-like obsession with babies, probably stemming from some fucked up childhood trauma involving inattentive parents and an overly attentive Uncle Iqbal. This obsession has led her to collect kids like Kewpie dolls. Already a single mother of six, this unemployed waste of space recently gave birth to octuplets: that’s eight tiny, sickly, screaming creatures, all of whom now depend on legions of doctors and taxpayers for survival. Did I mention how tiny they are, like ittybitty pooping angels because her dumb oven only half-baked her precious buns.



So far, Nadya remains mum on how these eight babies came to be in her wombat sized womb. Doctors have yet to claim responsibility or rule out alien insemination. Amazingly, no man’s penis is at fault for this fetus fiasco. Too many f’s you say? Not fucking enuff.

Nadya was unable to conceive naturally because her fallopian tubes are blocked by something God placed there specifically to ensure she would not reproduce. Yet scientific advancements in lasers and batteries make it possible for people like her to freeze embryos and conceive through in vitro fertilization. While I do feel (disdain) for gays and couples who are unable to conceive naturally, I am entirely disgusted with the narcissism that drives the current market for sperm donors, in vitro fertilization, fertility drugs, intracytoplasmic sperm injection, and all sorts of other procedures that sound as fun as space sex with a scalpel. Let’s face it, your gene pool is not indispensable to the continuation of the human race; if you can’t conceive with a turkey baster or a good old fashioned fuck, get over yourself and adopt an unwanted child. I hug street urchins every day and then have to send them back to their miserable, loveless lives, while Nadya and her army sit around expecting Pampers and TLC to validate their freakness.

So as we wait for the mystery of mommy dearest’s motives to unfold, we are forced to listen to reporters and “experts” of all sorts whine about the ethics concerning the number of embryos squirted and Nadya’s refusal to use selective reduction (the sexiest sounding abortion in existence). Many eighth graders agree, this woman should never have been allowed so many babies without the proper means to care for them, but then that stirs up a whole mess of ethics regarding who gets to decide who can or cannot have babies. Ethics shmethics, from now on I’ll decide, based on a complex system of logarithms, clicks, and raging hormones: NO MORE BABIES FOR NADYA.