I Just Laughed So Hard I Think I Peed on Myself

Since it is the season for giving, I'm going to share with you the funniest goddamn website I've seen in I don't know how long.

Knowing my ignorant self, this site is probably well-known to everyone in the world but me, but in case any of you are as ill-informed as I am, do yourselves a favor and check it out. I honestly cannot remember the last time I laughed this hard.

Anyway, here's the story: A male writer who lives/lived in New York posed online as a fourteen year-old girl named Amber and proceeded to royally screw with the pervy assclowns who contacted "her." Suffice it to say that hilarity ensues.

If you're offended by sexytalk and salty language, you'll probably want to steer clear of the site. Come to think of it, you'll probably want to steer clear of this site too. But since I am unfettered by the constraints of polite society I find the whole thing hysterically funny and thoroughly enjoyable.

It is my sincere hope that the repugnant shitheels who did their best to e-seduce little Amber someday get what they so richly deserve. In the meantime I'll content myself with these stories and hope that if I laugh so hard that I pee on myself again I'll at least have the decency to do so in the privacy of my own home.

The whole site is awesome, but if you only read one, let it be this one.

This Is My Legacy, and It Rocks

I celebrated a birthday last week, and as a result I received a number of gifts that kicked total ass. Mother Sparkles gave me some lovely things, and The Mister totally outdid himself, providing with me with assorted dandies that brought me much joy, including a rocking knife that was so sharp I almost needed stitches after my knuckle came in contact with the blade when getting it out of the package it came in. The bleeding stopped about an hour ago.

E and her husband sent me a card that made me spew grape soda out of my nose, and I was reminded yet again why I love those fools despite the fact they drive a minivan:Some other friends of mine got me some coasters. They found them in a shop somewhere on the Atlantic Coast when they were on vacation, and I am far too old to remember where exactly it was that they went last summer, so that's as specific as I can be.

At any rate, as soon as they saw this some sparks erupted over their heads and they bought them for me because "they screamed Kristina like nothing ever has before."

Click to enlarge

I've never been so proud. My work here is done, people.

There's a Right Time to Bust a Move

Dear Raccoon That Lives in Our Attic,

For about a year now I've looked the other way and let you happily reside in the upper story of our house. After all, I'd rather eat paste than go up in the attic anyway since the only way to get there is to climb a handmade "ladder" precariously nailed to the wall next to the stairway leading to the basement. To the eight year-old who made that contraption sometime in the 1930's: I salute you. It's still there, leading to a ragged hole in the ceiling and begging to be climbed so it can disintegrate into dust as soon as some poor and soon-to-be-injured bastard is foolish enough to step on to it.

When you first moved in and I heard faint scratching noises coming from somewhere in the house when I was the only one home, I tried hard not to totally lose my shit. Had my home been infiltrated by some malevolent otherworldy presence? Was I was being tormented by a demon from hell as payback for all the bad things I had said about Dick Cheney? I coped in the most sensible, well-planned manner I could: I adopted the ostrich approach, turning off all the lights, sitting on the sofa, and covering myself with a blanket. I realize of course that no being -- supernatural or otherwise -- would have been fooled by this maneuver, because everyone knows that the first thing they teach you in demon school is to look for a giant blanket-covered whimpering lump.

When you came up on the deck one night, sat at my feet, and looked at me all, "You gonna help a brother out and make me a sandwich?" I did my best to remain calm, even though I was certain you were a rabid beast hell-bent on my total and very messy destruction. I went inside, left you to your raccoony devices, and watched you scramble up to the roof so you could go home, fix yourself a cocktail, stretch out on your Barcalounger, and check out the latest episode of Montel. I'm a lover, not a fighter.

It's when you start hopping around at 4am practicing your favorite Backstreet Boys dance moves that I have to put my foot down. Do that shit after dinner like I do. When I get woken up prematurely because you're feeling punchy and in the mood to scamper you're taking your life in your paws. Mama isn't a very nice person in the morning, and no matter what kind of sweet raccoon-fu moves you can lay down, when you hear some skeezer with a terrible case of bedhead pound the wall and yell words that start with "f" and end with "ucker," you should stop the dancing and lay low for a while. If you don't, you'll be practicing your hitch kicks with the squirrels in the backyard. And those bitches have no rhythm at all.