Somewhere between Bell's Palsy and death
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
“Bad Titty!” and cock rings
Because THAT won't attract the spammer dicks or anything.

So yeah, pretty provocative title, right!?! Well, tonight was cheap beer night at the Amarillo Roadkill, a Monday-evening tradition the Wad and I are trying to establish with some sort of regularity, and while I've been sworn to secrecy as to the nature of our conversations amid the sanctuary of the Roadkill and authorized to use the above in title only, it's NOT -- I repeat, NOT -- what it looks like. (I mean, for the love of God, people. It's the Wad, fer chrissake.) Rather, think of it as an inside joke that wouldn't be funny to anyone unless you were there at the time. It's a shame, however, that I've been sworn to secrecy, because tonight, the Wad reminded me of why it is I wish he were my real baby brother. Again, I know I'm not being specific, but trust me when I say that he amazed me with his insight, especially when it comes to the SoW. (For those of you not familiar with the Wad lexicon, that would be "Spawn of Wad.")

Anyway, so the latest in Chez Broad other than my fer-real crackhead cousin showing up on my doorstep last week? Notta lotta, but I suppose that's a good one to share, right? Yeah, I get home from a drive, and I'm walking out of the can half-nekkid when my buzzer goes off. I ask who it is, and she announces herself, and I'm like, "Who!?!" because it's like, why the hell would she be at MY crib. So I peek out the front window and sure enough, there she was, looking healthier than the last time I saw her, but still, my crackhead cousin was on my doorstep -- how does one handle that!?! If you're me, you let her up for a couple hours, allow her to fix a couple Jim Beams and Pepsi and hope that the time she spent in jail actually sunk into her head like she swears it has (not to mention check the ring thingy in your can that holds all your precious jewelry to make sure she hasn't horked anything). Of course, if your other cousin is correct, all the stuff the crackhead says about jail fundamentally changing her is a load of crap and she was probably sucking the glass dick in the can during the three or four times she went in there, but you know, you keep hoping she would at least have the sense to not bring that crap into your crib. Besides, it's not like I can prove that she was or wasn't because allegedly, crack doesn't smell.

But what really scares me even moreso than the fact that she may have brought wack crack into the crib is her mad lying skillz; like the Boy Wonder, she's one of those that concocts the exact blend of truth and bullshit to get away with just about anything, except she's MUCH better at it than he is. That's what scares me the most. Good thing I used my head and, save for the family stuff that I thought her dad, my cool uncle, should know, I kept my yap shut about the personal stuff.
Posted by Broad2:35 AM
It is the job of a good person to be honest. To be self-aware. To deliberately explore the fault lines of your character and try desperately to not inflict suffering in this strange, ghost-ridden world of worked and fabricated objects. Sometimes the jobs of writer and good person coincide. But more often they don’t. There are way more writers in the world than there are good people.

100 things
Info meme #1
Typelogic says I'm an INFP.
Check my weekly astrological groove here.

Give it to me, baby.

Pssst ... My birthday's Feb. 3, and I want this, and this, and this ...

The Make-Believe Oral Cancer Foundation (M-BOCF) is now accepting donations on my behalf. Won't you please help those of us who jump to hideous conclusions regarding our oral health and help me get a root canal or two!??:

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Broad said: Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on… ...[go].

Caterina said: ARGH!!! Not to deny you your goddess-given right of reflections and wishing what might-have-beens, but this guy was straight up… ...[go].

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This explains that large bit of type at the top.

Tagline by Ben F'in Mollin, talking about those times you wake up still drunk from the night before.


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