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Saturday, November 14th, 2015
2:14 pm - Paris Attacks
Urban and I are praying for Paris and Uncle Stanley-Bob is on his way there. But has anyone seen Millicent lately?

current mood: confused

(1 humper | fuck my leg?)

Sunday, March 13th, 2011
8:42 pm - Die Hard: With a Vengeance
All I do nowadays is watch "Die Hard: With a Vengeance" on my iPod.

I'm getting old, I guess.

current mood: bitchy

(4 humpers | fuck my leg?)

Thursday, January 20th, 2011
8:31 pm - Please help me! HELP!
I'd like to turn my memoirs into a movie. Can anyone help with that?

current mood: artistic

(8 humpers | fuck my leg?)

Sunday, September 12th, 2010
3:31 am - The Second Worst September 11th -- An unhappy birthday to me
This was the second worst 9/11 in history. It was only surpassed by the day I went down on Infamy [1] who was totally lying about the $5 he was going to give me. I learned my lesson, more or less, after that.

I learned 2 more lessons today.  First, I learned what Queens is.  Second, I learned what queens are.

Queens is that place across the East River. I never ventured there because Uncle Stanley-Bob keeps the river so putrid that I didn't bother.  I looked it up on wikipedia today and it looks nice, so that was one lesson learned.

Queens fall into two types.  One type tells you what to do because of divine right.  The other type tells you what to do because they are bitchy men.  It is to the second type of queen that I owe my distress.

I had just helped Agnes make and walk in her burger shoes when we went our separate ways.  That's when I found a flock of queens who wouldn't stop pecking at each other.  "Perfect!" I cried.  I love flocks and I LURVE pecking, so I joined in merrily.  But these fellows wouldn't have it.  They took one look at my cunt and my cuntal area and cried "foul" or "fowl." I could not distinguish the homophones, but there was no mistaking what happened next: they marched off. I was alone again.  Some birthday!

___
[1] Infamy is a complete tool. If it weren't for typos, no one would ever go down on him at all. He changed his name to Infamy for that very reason. He used to go by Willie, but everyone made fun of him back then.

current mood: nostalgic

(1 humper | fuck my leg?)

Monday, May 3rd, 2010
10:45 pm - Well, I never!
HMPF!

current mood: cold

(fuck my leg?)

Friday, April 30th, 2010
2:54 pm - I thought that I could fuck an oil rig to get a quick lubing.
I was clumsy and I was wrong. I am sorry.  And to my Uncle Stanley-Bob, who probably should stay out of the Gulf of Mexico for a while, I am SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO sorry, Uncle.

Here's some investment advice from Flotsam Gregory: Go long barrels of oil and short barrels of fishes.

current mood: full

(1 humper | fuck my leg?)

Wednesday, March 24th, 2010
10:24 pm - NYU
NYU hired Halliburton to move Governor's Island into my bunghole without even asking me first!

The thing is, I probably would have said yes, had they an iota of decency and behaved considerately to this bird. As it is, I will be straining to shit that thing out until it flies with full force back to the stinking ocean from whence it came!

current mood: awake

(3 humpers | fuck my leg?)

Thursday, March 26th, 2009
9:18 pm - In the Hole
I am in the hole. I am not sure what to do, but at least I know that I'm in the hole. I took out a cunt equity loan, and I invested it with my Uncle Stanley-Bob. He leveraged my cunt at least 3 or 4 times, then took it offshore. There may have been some swaps, I don't know what the hell was going on. But now I owe around 800 trillion barrels of fish.

"In the hole" used to be such a beautiful and lilting phrase. "At last, Dick Cheney is in the hole!" I yelped in 2002. Or "my foreface is booked until 1:15, but I could take you in the hole in 5 minutes. Give me time to bleachen up."

Now "in the hole" has a stigma attached. It's not about "in," anymore, nor about "the," neither about "holes." It's about being poor. And I've been stimatized, poor, scandalized, and a boor. But of everything I've been, if I had to pick what I would be right now, it would be the most beautiful ratite, if not avian, in the world, with brilliant ideas that important people listen to, several hundred thousand barrels of fish in my checking account, a pink cashmere sweater with the boobs cut out, and a plate with 8 or more pieces of toast on it. That's what I'd be right now.

Yet I'm in the hole.

Please let me know if you can give me any money. I'd love to have it.

(6 humpers | fuck my leg?)

Thursday, July 17th, 2008
8:08 pm - I've been very busy. I've been very busty.
First thing's first because it has to be, or else it's not the first thing anymore--I'm now a drug lord. It may be more accurate, Aunt, to say that I'm a drug hoard. It may be even more accurate, Achtung, to say that I'm a drug whore.

I'll elaborate.

Several ersatzgentleman approached me six months ago and inquired after the wide, open fields in my cunt. The wide, open fields in my cunt have been used for: flying kites, finding lights, guiding flights, building snowmen, acting Roman, burying Paul Loehman[1], ant farming, corn farming, soybean farming, rose farming, petunia farming, man farming[2], mice farming, muscle farming[3], marriage farming, sunbathing, ankle-wading, Christ-craving, rock festivals, roll festivals, and pig roasts. I explained this, very patiently, and the gentlemen nodded and conferred amongst themselves. I was annoyed by this, because it was rude and because I was late for parent-teacher night at NYU, where Millicent has matriculated to double-major in Organizational Behavior and Film. (Before you think that she must be very smart to go to college at such a young age, I'll let you know that her GPA is 0.0002. Urban is up at Columbia, majoring in Women's Studies, and his GPA is pi).

"What is it that you want, wiseacres?" I asked.

"We were wondering if you would be interested in a small but lucrative farming project."

"I'm all ears," I said. Then I laughed. "We both know that's a lie. Heck, I'm all cunt!"

"Fortunate for us, yes, Ma'am, you are."

I was insulted that they agreed about the size of my cunt. A gentleman is always supposed to insist to his very death that a lady's netherregions are tiny, delicate, pink, petite, pretty, and punctual. These were not gentleman at all, I realized! I'd been fooled by the fedoras and ascots.

"You're not gentleman after all, are you?" I said, warily. "Ersatzgentlemen? Am I right?"

"Aye, you are, shithead," they said in unison. They ripped off their ascots and tossed aside their fedoras. "Bitch sees right through us. Smart birdie."

"Flattery only gets you fucked," I flirted dangerously. "Remember 9-11?"

They looked uncomfortable. "Listen, we'll just give it to you straight, feathers. We're ersatzgentleman, all right, and you know what that means. We're up to no good. We're--I hate to say it, but here it is--drug lords. And we're looking for a nice, clean, open field to plant some coca. Get our drift? Smell our pits? Eh?"

I got it. "Interesting," I said. "What's in it for me?"

They beamed. "Glad that you asked. Lots. You're putting two birdies through college right now, right?"

I nodded.

"And you've got an uncle who is seven dollars in debt and who is on the lam from nine nations?"

I nodded, more ruefully this time. "It's not that I can't help him pay off that seven dollars. It's the principle."

"We get it. A lady of principle. So okay, here's our offer. Ready?"

"YES," I emphasized.

"One trillion dollars. A summer home in Alabama. A spring home in Utah. A fall home in Montana. A winter home in Nunavut. A mansion in Bucharest. A mansion in Budapest. A manson in Paris. A mansion on Mars. A hovel in Singapore. A shack in Shanghai. An apartment in Ethiopia. An arrangement with Eritrea--for your uncle, as we understand he raped the entire population. A Rolls Royce. Ownership of the person: Carol Oates, Joyce. A class to better your voice. A Mercedes Benz. A truck full of hens. A desk full of pens. A camera with a diamond-encrusted lens. A tree rife with wrens. A Barbie and six Kens. A shirt. An unlimited Metrocard. The Vice-Presidency of the United States of America. The Vice-Presidency of Bolivia. The bones of Simon Bolivar. A den of hookers. A sandwich."

"Hmmm..." I said. "All of that is very enticing. What is on the sandwich?"

They rolled their eyes as though to say "unbelievable, this bird." It's true, I am. I didn't care what was on the sandwich. I just like to yank chains when they dangle. "Swiss cheese and celery, with tuna," one of them said.

"And a tomato and mustard," added the other. "On foccacia."

"That sounds delicious," I mused. "Offer accepted."

We shook hands. Well, I shook hands. They shook wings.

So that is how I got a field full of coca planted in my cunt. Now, every morning I wake up and sing this song:

I HAVE CO-CA-YEEEEEENA
IN MY VAGE-A-HEEEENA
CO-CA-YEEEEENA! IN MY VAGE-A-HEEEENA!
COKE IN THE VADGE AND A COKE IN THE VADGE
MADONNA IS MADGE, MADONNA IS MADGE


I sing it about four times, very loudly. I think this is why both Millicent and Urban have moved into dorms. I'm very lonely, but very wealthy, and also, I've been playing lots of Wii. I grew ten thousand more netherboobs and I'm slowly upgrading them to netherteats. It's a process, as you all know by now. Otherwise, I'm doing pretty well.

How are you?

____________________



[1]Paul Loehman, 1634-1690 was a founding father and village elder of the first settlement in my cunt
[2] That's a nice way to say "raising boys for careers in prostitution."
[3] Same as footnote 2, but beefier.


current mood: angry

(3 humpers | fuck my leg?)

Monday, February 4th, 2008
7:58 pm - Candidate Endorsement
I have decided to endorse a candidate for Vice President. This bird knows well that it is customary to endorse a candidate for President, but by jiminy, if I just don't care! An avian's concerns are plentiful and manifold, as well as mani-ful* and plenti-fold**, and everyone knows that the Vice President's office doubles as the Office of Feathered Affairs.

Therefore, for Vice President of the United States of America, I endorse Dick Cheney.

Why? I am lucky enough to enjoy an epistolatory e-relationship with Mr. Cheney (that means we email. A lot), and if that gentleman were to get a new email address to replace the memorable and classy "vice.president@whitehouse.gov," why, I'd have to change every entry in every address book in every email account that I have. I have thirty six thousand and fourteen email accounts and I use them all primarily to email Mr. Cheney! We are close!

So please vote for Mr. Cheney for Vice President. You can vote for anyone for President. I don't mind.

*full of manicures. A bird's feather-tips tell a lot.
**folded many times. This is code for "complicated."

current mood: blah

(2 humpers | fuck my leg?)

Saturday, October 20th, 2007
12:48 am - A car
Last night, I purchased a Subaru. It's blue and it runs pretty well. I'm enjoying it.

current mood: angry

(10 humpers | fuck my leg?)

Saturday, March 17th, 2007
10:57 am - I'm in debtors' prison
"You can't get blood from a turnip" is one of the worst defenses ever employed by Stoler & Stoler Attorneys-at-Law to stave off a stint in debtors' prison. A better one would have been "This bird doesn't owe."

This story is dumb, so I'll keep it short. I was writing a check and instead of a decimal point, I wrote an exponent. Then my bank account was overdrawn by over a million barrels of fish. HSBC was so mad. Banana Republic was so happy.

(1 humper | fuck my leg?)

Thursday, December 28th, 2006
1:52 pm - Well, I'll be
On the twelfth day of Christmas, smellslikecher sent to me...
Twelve ratites spoon-throttling
Eleven rubbers sushi-lying
Ten bungholes a-building-fucking
Nine amphibians babysitting
Eight sluts a-peas-making
Seven bees a-smoop-punting
Six netherregions episcopalian-farting
Five bi-i-i-ikini waxes
Four supernumerary teats
Three compound verbs
Two middle schools
...and a lurve in an alchemy.
Get your own Twelve Days:


I'm not captive anymore. I learned that if I concentrated hard enough, I could pee MOTORAZRS instead of iPods. So I did.

current mood: aggravated

(4 humpers | fuck my leg?)

Sunday, December 24th, 2006
12:51 am - What happened to me.
Hello. If you are the sort of person who is kind, you may have wondered "whatever has happened to Susan? She sure hasn't posted in her LiveJournal for a long time." If you have wondered that, this post will make you wonder it no longer[1], for I have quite an explanation.

If you are the sort of person who lives in New York City, or the sort of person who follows Apple Computers, Inc., you may be acquainted with a a certain building that has caused me some serious trouble. It is the Fifth Avenue Apple Store, and it looks like this:



As you can see, it is my type. It is perfectly square, just like my cunt. That means I can fuck it from every direction--most buildings that are square are also tall, so I can only fuck them from the top. This sad scenario is not the case with the Fifth Avenue Apple Store. I can fuck it from the top. I can fuck it from the side. I can fuck it from the side2. I can fuck it from the side3. I can fuck it from the side4. I can fuck it from the bottom, because beneath the store lies the basement, where people work and purchase all day and all night. And because it is clear[2], I can also do something that very few folks know about: I can fuck it inside out.[3]. And that feels the greatest.

So, after some brief flirtation, I fucked the Fifth Avenue Apple Store. I made sure to use a rubber, because we all know what happens when I neglect to use one. I fucked it from the top. I fucked it from the side. I fucked it from the side2. I fucked it from the side3. I fucked it from the side4. I fucked it from the very bottom of its own bowels. I fucked it inside out. And then I started all over again. But before I could finish another cycle of joy, Steve Jobs showed up, and he was frowning.[4]

"Susan," he bellowed. "What in the name of the Lisa do you think you are doing?"

"Steve Jobs, I am fucking the Fifth Avenue Apple Store!" I shouted with glee. I was fucking side3 at this point. My legs were twitching with insolence and orgasms.

"Susan!" he thundered. "Who in the name of the Quadra605, the Performa636CD, the Apple II, tor the Powermac G4 gave you permission to fuck my glass enclosure?!"

"No one, Steve Jobs!" I squealed. "This building is loving me of its own volition!"

"That building is a slave, bird!" He shook his fist at me. "I own it!"

"Slavery is unconstitutional, Shit-for-operating-system-in-the-early-90s!" I crowed. "I should know! I had to free Tiglat-Pileser Johnson McGrath Harp-Beetle[5] and it broke my birdish little heart!"

"Ostrich, I warn you: unmount the building, or you will be sorry."

I did not unmount the building, because I felt it climaxing, and I am a sensitive lover and I hate the idea of leaving someone unsatisfied.

I felt a dart puncture my muscular, feathered thigh, and the next thing I knew, I was in a dungeon, handcuffed to a wall. My captors wore paper bags over their heads and Apple tshirts.

And they were feeding me Sony Walkmen.

And I realized that it had finally happened. Apple learned the darkest secret of my metabolism. I learned it once, long ago, when I accidentally ate Millicent's Sony Walkman in a moment of rage, when she wouldn't stop playing "Start Me Up" by the Rolling Stones so loudly that it made Urban cry. I ate the Walkman, and six days later, I peed the most interesting object. It was small and rectangular and had a wheel and a screen and little earphones. This was before I was as technologically astute as I am now, mind you, so I shrugged and threw it away.

It was, of course, an iPod.

And now, I was peeing them by the gallon.

They fed me discmen, and I peed iPods nano. They fed me cassette tapes, and I peed pop-music mp3s. They fed me CDs, and hour-long NPR podcasts seeped slowly from my ureter. I cried. And when I cried, what did I cry? Those cute little armbands.

This, my friends, is where I've been for a very long time.

I suspect that the Fifth Avenue Apple Store was built as a trap for me. I can't imagine it any other way.

This is a serious thing, throngs-of-admirers.

I just managed to post this update by pecking with my beak. You ask, "Susan, how did you get a computer?" Well, while one of my captors was asleep just to my left, I ate his cellphone, and that made me shit a powerbook.

It's a nice one, but not the newest kind.


[1] and no shorter, either. sorry.*
[2] clear! just like my favorite shirt from J. Crew.
[3] "but susan," you ask. "how does the fact that something is clear mean that you can fuck it inside out?" aha. what i have for you is some math.

a fucking experience = feeling (hearing + tasting + smelling) / seeing

now, international law states that when something is clear, it is negative seeing. hence -seeing.

dividing by a negative number makes me woozy, so the whole experience is inside out. i hope this helps.


[4] at the time, i thought "it's actually probably good that he showed up now." i was starting to get sore, and i did need to get home to feed millicent and urban, who were under the irresponsible care of my uncle stanley-bob. you know what they did last time i left them with him, when i gently partially-fucked the cloisters? they painted their feet with mercury and ate soap!

[5] this is a lie. i did not have to free my slave. the new york times could not run a headline saying "broncks ostrich found guilty of violating the thirteenth amendment," so i get to keep him.

*do you like how i capitalize in the main text of my post but refuse to do so in my footnotes? it is a new idea i thought of while trapped where i am trapped.


current mood: bouncy

(5 humpers | fuck my leg?)

Saturday, September 9th, 2006
2:12 pm - a collage
My Interests Collage!Collapse )
Create your own! Originally Written By ga_woo, Hosted and ReWritten by darkman424

(1 humper | fuck my leg?)

Friday, September 8th, 2006
9:05 pm - Bosom Pal
I bet you were wondering where I was. I'll tell you where I wasn't, first. I wasn't down south, up north, out west, or in an easterly direction either. I was right here. I've just been busy because I have a bosom pal. She share anecdotes, but we don't swap spit, so keep your thoughts clean. She doesn't have boobs or teats like me. She has bosoms. That's why she's my bosom pal. I like that. It sounds classy.

Unrelatedly birthday's coming up. Here's a list of what I want:
-ether
-a new computer
-a razor-back bra, but Victoria's Secret doesn't carry my size
-a breast iron
-a good time

current mood: cold

(5 humpers | fuck my leg?)

Tuesday, May 23rd, 2006
11:12 pm - I'm getting married
This time it is NOT to Noam Chomsky. This time, I am getting married to Rick Santorum. You may wonder why I am marrying a known Republican and an ass to boot. Well--to put it delicately, the man is weird in the sack. And by "sack" I mean my cunt. When I shove him in there, he wriggles like mad, entertains the cuntizens, and causes me to have orgasms. What better way to make this happen forevermore than to accept his marriage proposal?[1]

The wedding is going to happen six times. This is because I like parties. Agnes is my maid of honor, my maid of honor, my maid of honor, my maid of honor, my maid of honor, and my maid of honor. She will wear: purple, clear, a barrel, a viaduct, pink lace, and one long pubic hair wrapped around her body in the shape of a burka. Sister Todd is the best man, the worst man, the most mediocre man, the ring bearer, the bear ringer,[2] and the minister. Everyone else is a guest. Six times.

The first instance of this wedding is tomorrow night at 6pm. It takes place at jhobartb's improv show. Improv matrimony, singlebirds! This bird's getting a Santorum suckdick!


[1]*Okay, he didn't really propose. I said "Ricky, if you don't marry me, I'm going to go to the press about how you wriggle around in my big avian cunt and cause me to have pleasures." He said "Okay, bird, when's the wedding?" I said "Soon."

[2] We are getting married in a church that has bears instead of bells! Ding, ring, and dong!

(4 humpers | fuck my leg?)

Thursday, May 11th, 2006
7:35 am - I'm Plagued by an Ecosystem Gone Bad
I had a new ecosystem installed in my cunt when I was in the Middle East. I bought an antique Egyptian one from a dervish for a single barrel of fish, which he released into his oasis. Weirdo.

Shortly thereafter, bugs started to crawl out of my cunt. I sent a carrier pigeon to the Cunt Council to ask what was the matter. "The weather sucks in here, Hecate! It won't stop locusting." Oops.

It did stop locusting though. It started to toad. And then the river turned to blood, I bought a tampon, and that was that.

On a different note, I hope Millicent and Urban read this article about toast!
Simply by holding some bread near a flame, you get a crunchy, golden-brown treat as the sugars in the bread caramelize under the heat. What hot meal is easier?

If you're in a breakfast mood, butter and honey, or homemade jam, or cinnamon and sugar make a down-home treat perfect for Mother's Day.
That's right! I want toast for Mother's Day! If not toast, then I want gifts, money, and a new luxury vehicle--one with a broken ass-grill.

current mood: bouncy

(fuck my leg?)

Thursday, May 4th, 2006
10:17 am - My, my.
I haven't updated for awhile, and I'll tell you why: I've joined the army! And I've been in Iraq!

You ask: Susan, why did you join the army? I certainly didn't do it by choice. I had an argument with Donald Rumsfeld because he stepped on Urban's wing at a Squonk Opera concert, and in the heat of anger, I called him a toastbutt. The next thing I knew, I was in shackles, in fatigues, and in Iraq.

Fortunately, the night prior to the incident, I had purchased a brand new feminine bouquet. This one didn't come with a certified pre-owned Lexus, which disappointed me, but it did smell like juniper leaves, it was insured for life, it came with a six-month membership to Crunch Fitness[1], it came with a new pink MotoRazr[2], and most importantly, it came with a full suit of invisible body armor. That's why this bird is still alive!

Many Iraqis are still alive too. They're not Iraqis anymore, though. They've taken shelter you-can-guess-where and are now naturalized cuntizens.

I hope to be back in the Broncks within the month. I've been sassing my sergeant and the food really sucks! Plus, Millicent and Urban are staying with Uncle Stanley-Bob, and I worry. I worry a great deal.

[1] I know. I don't use gyms to exercise. I go to furniture stores and do wingbops. However, I like to sit in the locker room and peck at any boners I spy.
[2]
I destroyed it and sold it for its parts at the minijunkyard.
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current mood: apathetic

(fuck my leg?)

Tuesday, January 31st, 2006
9:19 pm - Oh, no no. No!
I just caught my children watching the State of the Union address. Well, I promptly shut it off and put on "Anal Supremacy 2" instead. I'd rather my children watch penises penetrate bungholes than listen to those thinlipped lies!

(10 humpers | fuck my leg?)

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