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Thursday, July 17th, 2008
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8:08 pm - I've been very busy. I've been very busty.
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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
current music: Time, Love, and Netherness--Michael Moltin'
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(1 humper | fuck my leg?)
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| Monday, February 4th, 2008
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7:58 pm - Candidate Endorsement
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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
current music: Forceps - Pinch
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(2 humpers | fuck my leg?)
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| Saturday, October 20th, 2007
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12:48 am - A car
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Last night, I purchased a Subaru. It's blue and it runs pretty well. I'm enjoying it.
current mood: angry
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(12 humpers | fuck my leg?)
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| Saturday, March 17th, 2007
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10:57 am - I'm in debtors' prison
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"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.
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(1 humper | fuck my leg?)
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| Thursday, December 28th, 2006
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1:52 pm - Well, I'll be
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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.
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
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(4 humpers | fuck my leg?)
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| Sunday, December 24th, 2006
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12:51 am - What happened to me.
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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
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(5 humpers | fuck my leg?)
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| Saturday, September 9th, 2006
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2:12 pm - a collage
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| Friday, September 8th, 2006
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9:05 pm - Bosom Pal
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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
current music: Don Henley - Boys of Summer
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(4 humpers | fuck my leg?)
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| Tuesday, May 23rd, 2006
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11:12 pm - I'm getting married
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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 ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) 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!
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(4 humpers | fuck my leg?)
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| Thursday, May 11th, 2006
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7:35 am - I'm Plagued by an Ecosystem Gone Bad
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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
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(fuck my leg?)
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| Thursday, May 4th, 2006
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10:17 am - My, my.
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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.
</font>
current mood:  apathetic
current music: Whipping; bombs.
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(fuck my leg?)
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| Tuesday, January 31st, 2006
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9:19 pm - Oh, no no. No!
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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!
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(11 humpers | fuck my leg?)
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| Thursday, January 26th, 2006
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10:04 pm - mostly true
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8:25 pm - A New Hobby
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I don't have a new hobby--I'm too darn slippery for that right now. My Uncle Stanley-Bob and Flotsam Gregory have a new hobby. Well, it's new to my uncle and it's old to FG. The hobby is pederasty. My uncle said that even though he really and truly adores little girls with bows, he thinks he should spend more time around adolescent boys to teach them how to be men. Flotsam Gregory had gotten away from pederasty for a while, though he still keeps in touch with one of his old pals, Sean. He's a little disappointed in how Sean turned out (a bit of a fop), so he and my uncle headed out to Stuyvesant High School to find some good guys.
I think this is probably immoral. Urban thinks it's definitely immoral and he is yelling about it. Promethio Bopperdash has the opposite take becaues he had a very positive relationship with his pederast (goddly).
current mood:  chipper
current music: Urban is denouncing
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(1 humper | fuck my leg?)
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| Wednesday, January 25th, 2006
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8:24 pm - Slippery When Wet
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I am soooooo slippery, uncle, and it's not because I fucked the Exxon-Valdez this time either. It's much simpler than that. I signed up to test Stoler & Stoler Slathering's new products. Stoler & Stoler Slathering is new itself. It's the division of Stoler & Stoler Ubiquity dedicated to spreading things thickly. Right now I am slathered in butter, cream cheese, onions, and horseradish. S&SS is watching me to see how I react. I am reacting well! I can smoop-waddle 15% faster than I could before. I am also happier.
By the way, I heard a rumor that Millicent changed her name to some famous actress's name. I don't know which one though because I don't know any famous actresses except Cher and she's not Cher.
current mood:  slathered up
current music: whoosh! that is how I sound when I slip through the air
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(fuck my leg?)
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| Sunday, January 15th, 2006
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7:03 pm - Tramping Around
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I felt scurrying in my cunt; I felt steps. I felt movement in my cunt; I felt small explosions. I thought about going to the doctor, but my employer changed my insurance provider and I'm confused. I asked Sister Todd to stick his head up there and take a gander. Sister Todd is a literalist and he did stick his head in my cunt and he pulled out a male goose. Still the scurrying, steps, movement, and explosions occurred.
To be continued.....
Ok, I'm back. The phone was ringing. Gigi's family asked me where she was. I said "I don't give a shit." Back to my story. I'll cut to the end.
I had lemmings in my cunt. I found out when some rodents with green hair popped out of my netherboob, built a bridge down to my cunt, and dug through the 18th-century restoration of my hymen, which resulted in a stream of those lemmings marching out and down my legs and into the Hudson River.
current mood: cold
current music: precious silence. I put my family on mute.
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(2 humpers | fuck my leg?)
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| Saturday, December 24th, 2005
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2:13 pm - Stank patois!
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I sent my infinitely trusted manservant, Flotsam Gregory, to the shops this morning to purchse Christmas gifts for everyone I know. I had no idea what to buy for anyone, but Flotsam Gregory is perfect and would know just what to do. However, I'd forgotten one thing. antonin_scalia, that mischevious little louse, often expresses the mirth and glee of celebrations by hacking those who least expect it. Flotsam Gregory bought each person on my list a bucket of tripe. Scalia hacked him and made him do it. I don't know how I am going to explain this to Agnes. She, more than anyone else, truly hates tripe.
current mood: amused
current music: O Holy Knight - Paul McCartney
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(1 humper | fuck my leg?)
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| Wednesday, December 21st, 2005
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12:53 am - Stricken!
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What a day it has been for this bird! Due to the transit strike, the monorail system in my cunt has been making shuttle trips back and forth between Central Cunt Terminal (near my G-spot, which was paved six months ago to counteract its natural sponginess) and Penn Station. You must realize that in order to do this, the transit workers in my cunt had to build twelve miles of monorail track to Penn Station from my cunt. My cunt is usually located in my Broncks bungalow, but since I move around often, the track had to be made of a flexible and stretchable material. They ended up using lycra.
The transit workers in my cunt are real troopers![1] The cuntizens all had splendidly easy commutes, thanks to the trustworthiness of the monorail system.
However, you must realize that all those extra monorail trips used up quite a bit of electricity. My cuntizens can scarcely afford to use that much[2], so they came up with a plan to make more money. What plan, you ask? The futures market! And what futures, you ask?
MY PEE!
[1] Know why? Because they are all slaves. The slave traders in my cunt kidnapped them from their incubators at St. Vincent's when they were young.
[2] They buy their electricity from Con Edison, just like you do. There are seventeen electrical outlets in my cunt. They use them with dexterity, genius, and thrift. The monorail uses ten plugs.
current mood: angry
current music: I still have Jews protesting my uncle in front of my house.
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(1 humper | fuck my leg?)
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| Sunday, December 18th, 2005
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3:40 am - Oh, no no.
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My Uncle Stanley-Bob has really done it this time. I woke up this morning to find Jews protesting in front of my Broncks bungalow. I opened my door. "Hello!" I called. "Why is this happening?"
"WHY IS IT HAPPENING??" they all screamed in unison. "WHY? We will tell you why!"
I found it charming that they were screaming in unison. Clearly, they had practiced. I was impressed.
"Okay, tell me why. This picketing sucks, Sirs."
"YOUR UNCLE SUCKS, BIRD." And they handed me the New York Post. On the cover was a picture of my Uncle. The headline read "EAST RIVER OCTOPUS DENIES HOLOCAUST; LOVES LITTLE GIRLS WITH BOWS."
"Fiddlesticks and fudge muffins!" I cursed.[1] "Let me put a call into that rake and fix this fuck-up[2]!"
I got my uncle on the horn. "STANLEY-ROBERT." I said. "WHY are you in the New York Post denying the Holocaust?"
He giggled.
"UNCLE."
He giggled again. "It's just a publicity stunt, Sue. I want attention! I crave it so! I'm a dashing, dashing diva!"
"No, uncle, you're a holocaust denier."
He sighed. "Whatever. I don't give a shit." He hung up, that moody bastard.
I faced the protestors again. "Sorry. He won't relent."
They booed me. I had no choice but to go back in my house and drink my breakfast beer. It was rhubarb-flavored, with hints of lemongrass, lead, and pee.
[1] I can have a dirtier mouth than that, of course, but I try to remain pious in front of protestors.
[2] Sometimes I slip.
current mood: bouncy
current music: The protestors are screaming still. They are so mad.
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(fuck my leg?)
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| Sunday, November 13th, 2005
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9:24 pm - My Bunghole is a Quagmire
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It's official: my bunghole is a quagmire. The Cunt Council passed a resolution today declaring so. Recently (and not so recently... "eternally" perhaps) my cunt invaded my bunghole on a quest for empire. My cunt sought to eventually control my whole body. Unfortunately, it got bogged down in the raunchy nethercompost heap in my hinder and has been tied up for a while. In fact, my cunt has been expending a lot of its resources just maintaining the wall betwixt my cuntal and rectal passages.
This isn't the first time my bunghole has been condemned. The former NYU dorm NYU @ the Bunghole was condemned by the Health Department for obvious reasons.
This is what happens when you lose your health insurance.
current mood: jubilant
current music: Barry Manilow - Paradise City
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(2 humpers | fuck my leg?)
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