Top 5 Reasons I’m not a lesbian

After I finally kicked my meth habit and divorced that ratfuck, Tan Peluski, a lot of ladies have been coming on to me in the check out line at the cigarette outlet store. Don’t get me wrong, I love tuna as much as the next bitch, but I’m not prepared to go chick’n of the sea for good, if you know what I’m sayin’. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. Every time I’ve let a liquored up sailor poke me in the nether regions with a half-wood, I’ve pondered what it would be like to dine on nothing but fuzzy pink tacos for the rest of my life. I could do it. I really could. Only these five factors are in between me and life of fisting happily ever after.

  1. Intelligence, or actually, the lack of it. I like to fuck stupid people. Let’s just say, I sure as hell don’t want to fuck somebody smarter than me. What’s the fun in that? Stupid people are more easily manipulated and misled. I like that in a person. Now, I hate to stereotype, but let’s be honest, if you’re goal is to nail something stupid and gullible, you want something with a dick.
  2. Looks. I like to fuck somebody uglier than myself. Now, again, I’ve seen some dykes out there that would give my grandpa a run for his money in a Wilford Brimley look-alike contest, so you know, just cause you have a dick doesn’t mean you’ve seen the fat end of the ugly stick. But it helps. Between the back hair, the nose hair, the ear hair and the fact that grooming yourself makes you appear gay, the odds are stacked against dudes in the looks department. Ladies are all, “does my butt look big in these jeans?” And guys are like, “I switched to suspenders so my gut could hang free.” Ladies wear makeup, perfume, heels and all manner of frocks while men just prefer to stay ugly, stinky and plain. For a woman as haggard and used up as myself, this is a definite perk. Next to most of the troglodytes I date, I shine like the Hope Diamond under track lights. Sparkly.
  3. Needs. Women have them in abundance. They need love, humor and understanding. They need romance and long walks on the beach. They need communication. They need affirmation. They need shopping trips and back rubs. Well I ain’t got time for all that shit. A man’s got one need and as long as I take care of it with one of my many orifices (or my hand if I’ve feeling fucking lazy or got a genital wart flare up), he’s fucking happy as shit. Men are the hamburger helper of relationships, you just add what you already had laying around.
  4. Dicks vs. clits. Let’s say you got one of them fancy new video games and you have your choice of controller. Would you want the one that fit perfectly in your hand, or would you want the one the size of a grain of rice? Yeah. Me too.
  5. Vaginas. Now again, don’t get me wrong here. Approximately 28 days out of every month, a vagina is a lovely soft, frilly little flower. But the other 3-5 days? A total fucking horror show. I know because I have one. It’s not just the blood people, but the blood in and of itself is enough to give a person pause. I mean really? If a man bled out of his dick every month I would have to think long and hard before I put it near my face, let alone in my mouth. But damn, it’s all the other crazy stuff that comes out of there. Chunky stuff. Gooey stuff. At least when you swallow a dude’s load you can position it at the back of the throat, but with a lady you’re just wallowing in it for God knows how long (see #3 and #4). No thank you, ma’am.

So, sorry lady with the amazing gray mullet from the cigarette outlet, but Marian Adcock is going to stick to cock and balls from here on out because she prefers to date stupid, ugly simpletons who tend to keep their blood inside the body.

Stop Crapping on Me: Toilet Violations

The people, and entities which compromise PCA, the supposed non-profit linked to numerous sex scandals and video-tape-hijacking, have been drizzling hot steamy shit down my porcelain mouth for long enough. I’m not willing to sit through even one more second of the barrel-waisted tyrants of Portland City Art squatting down over me popping shit flavored candy corn and telling me that it’s better for my teeth that way (cause I won’t want to eat the candy if it tastes like shit).

Knuckle-fucks.

That’s what they are. Hairy knuckle-fucks. Never had to support such sheer weight from creamy, sweaty man-thighs before, and if you turn your back for one secone, guess what? Let’s just say that your plumbing gets a case of “illegal entry”. Shot out to Crispy Butt for having sweaty enough boobs to make the whole thing go down with plenty of lube. Double shot out to Jonny G-G-Time Je-Yell-Ell-oh (jon graeter) for having a tiny penis thing that doesn’t hurt much when it goes in. Fluffy. Still…

STOP PUTTING THINGS INSIDE ME!

Seriously, people, when nobody is not around, these guys are inside me, constantly, touching each other, touching me on the inside. No gloves. Filthy, putrid. Thank god my bowl is painted white so you don’t see the jizz so much.

Disgruntled Toilet

Crouching Cougar, Hidden Agendas

You, know I am just sick to death of all the pigs driving around and giving god-fearing, tax paying, Republican voting, cousin-loving Christian Americans like myself speeding tickets. This is America people. This is where morally self-righteous white people have chosen for their Capitalist Holy Land. That is all.

I Wear My Sunglasses All the Fuckin’ Time $1,000,000,000,000 Bankroll Sucka!

I wear my sunglasses whenever the fuck I want, know why? Cause I’m a big deal. There might be an avalanche at any second, and my eyes will not be blinded because of that. If something happened to my eyes, since I’m a big deal, there would be a big problem. I wouldn’t be able to see talent anymore. My eyes are experts at detecting talent and genius, and that’s why I’m a big time producer. You’ve seen my shows on TV, trust me. If you have a pulse. No pun intended.

Speaking of pulse, my finger is on it. I am between shoots, and I owe Art Jeanyus several million dollars for his spot-on advice about stocks. That amount is nothing to me, but he said I could write a column for his publication to cover the debt. Several million dollars for a few minutes of my time? My thoughts are that important. My eyes are that good.

For my column, I will, while wearing sunglasses, type in “Portland artist” into Bing (because I am a Microsoft stockholder, aka, big time) and let you know the results. I don’t expect to see much, I mean, what is Portland? A city or a small town? Is it on a map, could you show me? Wow. Thank you Bing. There is totally a map.

  1. Tom Repasky (portlandoregonartist.com)
    Good luck with the job search, Tom. Really, and I mean the best of luck.
  2. Anne John (annejohn.com)
    Bird painting meets penis painting, and done very skillfully. Hey, Anne, obviously you could use a little more penis with your bird, if you know what I mean, and I wish I could help with that but unfortunately I am married to my career.
  3. Jenna Schneider (jennamakeupartist.com)
    She’s a make-up artist. In other words, I have probably banged her, and if she had any talent, I would remember her, which I don’t.
  4. Jessica Belknap (jessicabelknap.com)
    Another make-up artist, you can see why I’ve banged so many. The competition is heavy, being a producer… You get what I’m saying. Jessica, sorry don’t remember you either. Which direction is Portland, anyways? I had no idea it was so heavy with make-up artists. Man, I could be getting laid right now in Portland, what’s the ratio of TV producer to make-up artist in Portland anyways?
  5. Laura Russo Gallery (laurarusso.com)
    I wanna sex you up, tick tock, ya don’t stop. This is a gallery, not an artist. Foiled again.

So far the first five people I can find on Bing under “portland artist”, contain two artists, two make-up artists (aka skeeze), and a gallery. Hmm.

Anne John is the winner on all counts. Whatever the Laura Russo Gallery is displaying on my screen right now, well, it’s making me want to go down there just to spit on the damn thing. Horrible. Who the hell is Jack Portland? Is that like your version of Hollywood Hogan? The Ultimate Warrior paints with knives, by the way. That’s your last hint, my show, it stars a wrestler. You’ve totally seen it. I’ll tell you next time.

Tan Peluski is a Rat Bastard

rat-bastard-thumb

There’s been a lot of talk lately about what a rat bastard my ex-husband, Tan Peluski, is. Well, I’m here to tell you that you don’t know the half of it.

Tan Peluski is the type of guy who wouldn’t think twice about fingering your grandma when nobody’s looking. He’s the kind of asshole that takes you to Sizzler for steaks and when the food comes he plucks one of his own pubes, drops it into the mashed potatoes and then refuses to pay. We all know that his jokes aren’t funny, that his breath smells like canned cat food and he’s such an outrageous alcoholic that he practically pisses 151. I say practically because I’ve tasted it, and it does not taste the same. It will, however, get you wicked fucked up.

You might ask yourself how a piece of work like Tan managed to get married once, let alone seventeen times. As wife number five, I can tell you that whiskey and vodka are two of the biggest contributing factors. Might have been the Vicodin too. Not to mention Tan has really amazing testicles.

Fantastic. Testicles.

And I don’t mean he’s brave or courageous. I mean he has some very attractive testicles. Perfectly sized, balanced and fuzzy; like two sweet little nectarines in a velvet pouch. The kind you want to rub your cheek up against.

But don’t get me wrong. His cock is worthless. About as worthless as porpoise on Quaaludes. Come to think of it, it looks a lot like a porpoise on Quaaludes. A blind, porpoise on Quaaludes ramming up against your inner thigh until it just sort of rolls over and gives up.

Yeah, but I didn’t come here to humiliate Tan. Well, not entirely. I also wanted to write about the other side of Tan, one that rarely gets talked about. I’m talking about the Tan Peluski who takes time out of his busy schedule of drinking and insulting strangers to dress up every Christmas like Santa Claus and visit trailer parks across Portland. You might have heard of the Trailer Park Santas? Yeah, he’s started that program. They’re a registered non-profit organization and to be honest with you when I heard that he started a charity my first thought was, tax scam. But I’ll be damned if that old crusty piece of dried up puke doesn’t actually go out and spend time with those lousy rugrats. I know because I’ve seen him do it.

Ok, he does smell like an old moldy shoe, but it’s not like those snot-nose little bastards know the difference. Most of them are strung out on Ramen noodles and second hand smoke anyway.

So my ex-husband, the impotent, alcoholic, foul-mouthed, racist, ugly piece of shit that he is, dons a festive rented Santa suit and invites little kids and attractive teenage girls to sit on his lap and experience the beautiful fucking magic of asking Santa Claus for a gift. And you know, it’s just pathetic and heartbreaking to hear the things they ask for. Sticks of gum. Shoe polish. Crack cocaine. It’s just sad.

Of course, that’s the thing that makes Tan special. Tan understands disappointment. He understands rock bottom, and the thing that I respect about him is he doesn’t lie to those kids. He doesn’t tell them that they’ll actually get their presents and he sure doesn’t tell them that they’re bad.

Except the ones that want crack and weapons, but the rest of them, they’re good kids.

So Tan tells the good ones that Santa can’t bring them presents because they’re little trailer houses don’t have chimneys. Isn’t that sweet?

All-Time Favorite Foods

Dudes, I am seriously huge. Check out them titties. You know you like them. Glowing orbs of hot man flabber. Don’t stand too close, unless you want to have an orgasm. Shit, crowds of people part like the Red Sea when I pass. I am a fucking stallion when it comes to eating stuff. Shit, a Big Gulp is like a Baby Splash for me. My urine tastes like Cheetos. Speaking of eating, here’s my picks for the best food products of 2009 (in no particular order).

  • Jelly Donuts
  • Cheetos
  • Cocoa Krispies
  • Mike Fields
  • Raw Sewage
  • Disco Balls
  • Coke Zero
  • Diet ANYTHING
  • Monday Night Football
  • Shooting Missiles at the Moon
  • Fake Toenails
  • Charlie Alan Kraft’s Bowl Stains
  • Peanut Butter and Jelly (hold the sandwich)
  • Farts
  • Bean Pies
  • Dr. Pepper (after it shoots out your nose)
  • Famous Amos’ Chocolate Chip Cookies
  • Fuckin’ French Fries
  • Two Dollar Bills
  • That Last X-Men Movie
  • Ben Pink, and the Hobble Horse He Rode In On
  • The Month of October
  • Salami
  • Jews
  • Bleeding Wounds
  • Wiener Dogs

The absolute best thing in the world to eat, though??? (drumroll)

  • DOHHHHHHH – REEEEEEE – TOHHHHHHHHHHHHS !!!!!!!!

Portland Artists = Joke

I have heard a lot of negative things about this site and have read many of the articles.  I can definitely see how people can be offended by the content of this website, but people, you have to see, that is the whole purpose of this site, to piss people off.  But why does it piss people off, because it speaks the truth most of the time.  It mocks the art scene in Portland, and hey, artists in general, and rightfully so.  Artists are so full of themselves, when in fact they are nobodies.  They put themselves on this high horse thinking they are changing something, when in fact they are not. They make pretty pictures that a 3 year old can draw…hell I’ve seen 3 year olds produce better art than some of these artists here in Portland.

You meet these so-called artists around town, at Last Thursday, and ask them to help come and become involved in the community.  They seemed thrilled, and estatic.  However, when the time comes, they are too good and too busy to give you the time of day.  In reality, who are they?  Nobody.  Nobody besides this small art clique in Portland knows who they are, but because of that miniscule amount of fame they feel they receive from their peers, they think they are god to the art scene. 

It is sickening to see how pretentious and fake people are.  I went to art school, got a BFA at a prestgious art school, but what does it matter?  It doesn’t.  What lives am I changing by making art?  None.  The art scene has been long about money and who you know, that is why I don’t make art to show in galleries and mark them up $500 for a small 4″x6″ painting that a preschooler can do in 3 minutes.  It’s ridiculous.  Then when given an opportunity to actually make money and make a change to the community, they turn it down or ignore it if it doesn’t benefit their social status.  Portland art scene is a joke.  I feel embarrassed that these so-called artists are supposed role models for today’s youth.  It’s okay to be a “working artist” and live off of food stamps and some shitty apartment shared with 5 other people.  What a great life and example we are setting for our youth.  It’s no wonder why Portland is one of the fastet growing cities for young people and we have the highest unemployment rate.  Have fun and get a free ride while you make shitty art.  Man, I love Portland.

Stop Clogging Me, Charlie Alan Kraft

guy who looks kind of like Charlie if he hadn't tatoooed his face

So here I was, minding my own business the other day, when this fat piece of shit Charlie Alan Kraft starts waddling towards me backwards with his pants around his cankles. I fuckin’ started losing it, man, cause see, I live in his apartment, and in the land of Kraft two things are accepted as fact. Chicks are all lesbians, and when Charlie takes a shit it’s like somebody just turned on a leaf blower full of wet barkdust and assorted beans.

So he hovers for a minute, appropriately sings a few bars of “Highway to Hell”, and with the force of a Sunday Sizzler congregation he plants his cheeks and introduces my bowl to a violent tornado of poorly digested beef jerky, some type of tomato looking shit, three or four broken crayons, and a condom filled with shaving cream. Oh, and as always, the dead, blood-stained grass.

You know the saying “don’t shit where you eat”? Well with Charlie it’s more like “don’t shit WHILE you eat.” Why not try shoving a tube up your ass, and hooking the other end up to your mouth? Hell, corn dogs were just classified as NEARLY EXTINCT because of this piece of shit. Just because you can see something doesn’t mean you need to eat it. A table full of food is not a sign from the heavens that you should cram it all down your throat. There’s this thing that most people have called a stomach, and the idea is to fill it with stuff that’s good for you and then wait a while so your body can use it. Then you poop out a little bit of leftovers. But no, this fucking moron just shovels it in. I mean that literally, THE MAN CARRIES A SHOVEL. Only corn is supposed to come out the same, but with this deuchebag EVERYTHING comes out the same. His body doesn’t even bother to digest, cause it knows there’s more on the way in a second!

Hey, cow man, do me a favor. STOP EATING SO GOD DAMN MUCH! Better yet, next time you decide to sit on me, crying about how your life is such a miserable failure between squirts, BRING A RAZOR BLADE. Not for shaving your ugly mug, I mean, what difference would that make for a guy that couldn’t score in the coma wing? Cut your fuckin’ wrists already, shit, I would do it for you but I was manufactured without any type of shit to manipulate the blade with. UP THE STREET, UP THE STREET. Fuck, bring a shotgun for Christ sake, put it in your mouth, and get one of your friends to pull the trigger. I mean, ANY OF THEM WILL GLADLY DO IT FOR YOU.

I’m so fucking tired of your shit. It’s just wave after wave after wave. Like imagine you’re playing Space Invaders, but instead of aliens it’s a bunch of random objects covered in shit. And instead of being a little spaceship with lasers to shoot the turds, all you have is a big open mouth the size of the screen for them to fall into. Dear God, what did I do to deserve this? Who the fuck is laughing? It’s not funny, you prick, it’s fucking disgusting! Oh, wait, am I not talking on your level? How about this? MOO MOO MOO MOOOOOVE SOMEWHERE ELSE!

Please someone help me. Please, I’m begging you. I can’t take it anymore. He spent all day drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, and anyone that has been around him for more than 20 minutes can tell you what that means. DIARRHEA. Let’s just say that if I ever had the opportunity to take a vacation, the first thing I would NOT go see is Niagra Falls. I get that shit every damn day with this cocksucker. Please, I’ll send you a google map, you can come over while he’s hanging out at the hot dog cart. Make sure you bring a big ass mallet or sledgehammer. I’m on the second floor (what he calls “the place that’s harder to get to”) and I’m kind of a white colored bowl thing that looks like someone was baking brownies in it. Just bring the sledgehammer in and go to fucking town on me. Don’t hold back, just obliterate my ass. I can’t take it anymore. Please, spare me. I’m begging you! Don’t leave me hanging! Shit, I think I hear him coming, NOOOOOOO, HURRRRYYYYY!!!!!!!!!