Wences toils as filthy guttersnipes look on.

That unelected relic of imperialism and Michelle Obama hugee, the Queen of England*, probably didn’t get a shock today as a couple in their 30’s were caught inflagranté defucko on the lawn at Windsor Castle, one of the many residences she lives in now and again, rent-free with servants and solid-gold coaches and shit (mostly horse and corgi shit, actually).

The old bag wasn’t in residence, but that’s not important, because actual humans were fucking on her grass, which I’m guessing was pretty sweet as it would have been weed-free and nice and flat and warm and maybe bouncy, because a Queen’s lawn is prime fucking material, you know? Yes you do.

Anyway, it seems that they never completed the dreadful act of teh sex, as those sexus-interrupters – the police – came and put at stop to it after a while.

No word about anyone seeing tits or cock or bush or anything like that, although there seems to have been a heavy Japanese tourist presence (as there always is) so maybe some footage will creep onto PornoTube later. I’ll keep checking in the meantime and will keep you updated.

*I know she’s not actually the “Queen of England” – she’s technically the Queen of The United Kingdom and Northern Ireland, but she can fuck right off if she thinks she’s my Queen. And that goes for the rest of the inbred fuckers too. And their stupid little dogs.

Full story here from The Guardian.

Sexy image from daringpublicsex.com

In Thomas Mann’s 1912 novella “Death in Venice,” Gustav Aschenbach is portrayed as a middle-aged, celebrated, and sanctimonious author of morally uplifting novels and historical treatises. The problematic role of the artist in society was a recurring theme for Mann, and stalwart, stodgy Aschenbach is tormented by the conflicting appeals of Apollo and Dionysus. Early on he thunders against the horrors of moral relativism and laxity:

How else could [Aschenbach’s] famous short story “A True Wretch” be understood except as an outburst of contempt against the vulgar pseudo-psychology of his age, embodied in that ridiculous weakling… who, inspired by moral velleity, weakness, and turpitude, attempts to glorify his own pathetic existence by driving his wife into the arms of a fresh-faced boy…?
(Thomas Mann, “Death in Venice,” in Death in Venice and Other Stories, trans. Jefferson S. Chase, Signet Classics, 1999, p. 150.)

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, Velleity is the “fact or quality of merely willing, wishing, or desiring, without any effort or advance towards action or realization.” It’s wanting something, but not enough to expend any significant effort towards getting it. (I know that Mann actually wrote some 17-syallable German word that might just as easily be translated differently, but work with me here, OK?)

4:30 pm: Super’s in a bad way today.  Said if I was late again I’d be written up.  I explained the car trouble, but she said it wouldn’t fly, not again, even with the car still smoking in the parking lot.  Better start saving where I can.  I’m going to start keeping the loose change I find in the halls instead of dropping it off in the tip jars in the cafeteria

5:50 pm: Students have all cleared out, just about.  A few stragglers and studiers here and there.  The chairs in the main hallway don’t seem so out of place today, and it’s going quickly.  Spring is just around the corner.  I can tell because the tops are getting shorter and tan lines are showing.

And with that last cigarette, still smoldering in the ash tray between us on the bedsheet, we renew our bond, a bond so strong the vegitation creeping up around the edges of the walls and furniture couldn’t break it, try as it might, try as it might, and as the smoke slinks upwards toward the open sky above us, we seccumb to our passion one last time, and this time without the jelly.

If there were just one word to describe the action of rubbing ones palms together in excitement while grinning ecstatically, I would put that word here.

Two weeks from tonight is Movie Night, and the film we will be viewing and discussing via Chatzy, if you all recall, is Alain Resnais’ Hiroshima Mon Amour.

I’ve also discovered that the link I posted to stream this movie doesn’t work in the United States.  So check your local library or video store or push it to the top of your Netflix queue, whatever you’ve got to do to see this film.  Or just show up to the film discussion drunk and pretend you watched it.  I doubt anyone would know the difference.

That date again is Monday, May 11th @ 9:30PM EST.  Happy viewing!

Good morning all!  Hope the hangover finds you well.  Hope these awards find you better.

Sorry I didn’t post about this post, giving you all some notice, perhaps allowing some time to drop some more wit-bombs and wordsmoker double and triple entendres.

I love that word.  Entendre. 

Oh, how I long for a simpler day.  A day in which one can drive, or steer the cart, rather, down the empty cobblestone avenues, taking your sweet, sweet ass time staring at the clouds and daydreaming about one day maybe being chosen by the Jonas Brothers to play bass in the backup band.

A better time indeed.

Instead, I get cut off by a middle-aged fatty making damn sure all around her know exactly how she feels

I’ve started working at my job.  I don’t know how long I’ll keep it, but it might just be the kind of thing I should hang on to.  The job is working for a non-profit organization that manages a bunch of group homes for adults with developmental disabilities here in Oregon.  My shifts are 36 hours long, 16 of which I do whilst asleep.  Because of the way the shifts are set up, I’m allowed lots of time during the week to work on writing and making music with my roommates and other things that are more important to me than work.

I work one-on-one with a man with schizoaffective disorder and PTSD from several traumatic experiences, including two abusive care situations.  He’s really quite easy to work with as long as you are familiar with his scripts.  When he says a certain phrase, you must say a certain phrase back to him or else he fixates on it until it causes him great anxiety.  For example, when he farts, he’ll say “What crawled up and died?” and if you don’t say “I wouldn’t know,” prepare for hell.

During a few random Monday nights, I have sat in my bed and watched a man in a Mexican wrestling mask and a cape perform with some ridiculously hot and sluttily dressed ladies while a tired old actor watched him and ran commentary. No, no, this is just a TV show – you are confusing that with my Thursday night strip Monopoly game, naughty Wordsmokies.

“Grandpa?” she calls from the back seat.

“Yes, sweetheart?” his words barely audible over the roar of the engine.

She leans forward, as if to tell a secret.  “Is this the Apocalypse?”

As we are all aware of, gay communist cyclist President Barack Obama authorised the release of four legal memos used by the Bush “Administration” to design its torture program “Codename Rainbow Kitten“.

The existence of the program has come as a shock to no-one, but what is shocking is the dispassionate legal tone of the documents. They contain the professional opinions of Office Of Legal Council attorneys Jay Bybee and Steven Bradbury as they discuss each method in often sadistic detail.

The entire memos are available on the ACLU website, but if you are squeamish and can’t bring yourself to read them, I’ve chosen eight of the most disturbing ones to give you a glimpse of what is able to be done in the name of America in the so-called “War On Terror”.

1. The best yogurt in the world is Yoplait Custard Style Vanilla, no question. *This post brought to you by General Mills*

2. I spend a lot of time in church for a Buddhist.

3. I think that limes are superior to lemons is just about every way imaginable and don’t understand why lemon just doesn’t throw in the towel already. For fuck sake, people– limes! We can do this.

When I am an old woman I shall wear a Snuggie
with a home arrest anklet which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on knives and small explosives
And bail money and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit on the pavement when I’m high
And gobble up samples of Klonopin and set small fires
And run my cane along children’s faces
And serve time for the parole violations of my youth
I shall go out with my monitoring device in the rain
And snatch money from my neighbors’ homes
And learn to Tweet