At Last I Welcome Kara Borden into the Jail Bait Hall Of Fame

This whole Jail Bait thing was just my idea for drawing traffic to my website. As much as I hate to admit it I need you. Not that your attention doesn't cause me some cognitive dissonance. OK it doesn't even cause dissonance, I just like using big words you don't understand.

For a reason I can't quite fathom people in Turkey love to search for Polish Porn. I had no idea that Polish Porn was even a real category. But it is. Trust me. My stats don't lie.

None of that has anything to do with Kara Borden. And if you don't know who Kara Borden is then you should. Kara is a 14 year old girl who convinced her 18 year old boyfriend to shoot her parents. After he shot her parents in front of her she ran off with him.

Kara Borden Teen Seductress and Femme Fatale

Now guess if she did any jail time over this. Nope. Because the authorities think Kara is a victim. Check out my good friends over at The Daily Pitchfork for their amazing coverage of Kara. Pitchfork's original reporting brought Kara to my attention. The Crime Library has tons of news from newspapers sources.

I'm not sure why it took so long for Kara to make it in the Hall Of Fame, but sometimes even the greats get treated this way. How long did it take for Scorsese to get an Oscar?

David Ludwig went to jail just because Kara got her way.

I can't answer your obvious question why a teen seductress who entices her boyfriend to kill her parents, and then runs off with him after he murders her parents, in cold blood right in front of her, gets away with, serves no jail time, and then writes about the hardships she has to endure on her Xanga page while her former lover faces the death penalty took so long for to get inducted to the Hall of Fame. I can only guess it's because the story feels made up. But the facts are both sad and true. And this chick is at least twenty times more guilty than my personal hero Scott Peterson.

Beware of the Jail Bait.

Hugs and Cuddles.

Romius T.

P.S. If you are really disgusting you can visit Kara's MySpace page that includes text messages she had with the real victim-her boyfriend.

Lindy Slinger is my HERO

I bought 2 large Pizza Hut pepperoni lover's pizzas to go with watching the NFL draft today. Anytime I get hungry I place two slices in the toaster oven until the cheese melts. I am now sick of pizza. Pizza Hut seems to not know that tomato sauce is a key ingredient to pizza.

MY review of PIZZA HUT.

The pizza is dry and the cheese tastes like styrofoam. All I really want is Indian food or a baloney sandwich.

I got up at 9 am. In the morning. To watch the NFL draft. I have a friend who likes watching the draft. He likes to watch it with me.

Just a quick non-football note about the draft. Notre Dame Quaterback Brady Quinn's girlfriend Lindy Slinger might be hotter than Ashlee Simpson and Christina Aguilera combined. I hear she plays soccer or something which makes me think she's got a lot of stamina. I am not sure why stamina is something that would attract me to her. As I have no more than 3 seconds of stamina myself. Sometimes I get winded from typing to fast.

Ashlee Simpson (above) a well known skank bag

During today's NFL Draft the camera crew from ESPN kept showing close-ups of Lindy. They couldn't get enough of the girl who had hitched her ride to a falling star. Would she walk out? Would she cry? And what about Lindy?

All I know is that Lindy and her boyfriend have been going out for 5 years and rented a cabin in Mexico for Spring Break. So you know she totally does it with him.

Go Redhawks!!!!

My Bathos site has a video of Lindy and Quinn & And I have posted another blog entry about Lindy at The Needs of the Few.

Kirsten Dunst has small boobs

Kirsten Dunst has small boobs

that don't move around
They stay put.

Stuck in the middle of her chest
they are
pissed
off
at the big titted
chests

Because they will always be
small
inconsequential,
mediocre
like me.

I hope kirsten doesn't stumble on this blog
or read the mean things others say about her.
Or get depressed
when she stops to think
about her small tits.

I love big tits
but I like small tits too.

But I am sure
I wouldn't like being stuck
in the middle

like small tits

on a girl
who wants to be pretty.

I don't need to be the happy of a girls with big tits
I want to be small tit happy
like you Kirsten

so I can bend over

by the side of the pool
and pick up the paper
without much cleavage showing

but I won't read the nasty things

they say in the paper

just the good news

because I am a chickenshit coward

like my father before me

just like luke skywalker says

or bukowski did

in a documentary today

go back to sleep kirsten

where you can dream away your small tits

and where you don't have to apologize

for dreaming away

in your dreams it's ok to have insecurities

about small tits

about small boobs

it's ok you bent over

it's ok if I see them

'cuz I won't say anything mean

or write
anything nasty

I'll just write you love poems

and rub lotion on your back

because you freckle easy

and my lips will get cold

from all the wine we drink

swallowing our youth
like bitter
lawn darts

Part III Of the Trip to Find Billy Jack.

Frankly folks this happened so long ago I can barely remember anything that happened. A friend offered this bit of advice. "Just write we met a bunch of old chicks and they wanted to get busy with us. At least then it's over."

I will include an excerpt from a post that explains the Cougar phenomenon:

What is a Cougar and why are they dangerous?

Definition: An older woman trying way too hard to look young. Usually heavy makeup and way too tan, sometimes orange. Generally has leathery, smoking damaged skin, short skirt, and may have obvious breast implants. See any big city bar scene.

Part III. We are Attacked by Four Wild Cougars in Jerome, Arizona.

My friends want to sit at a table far away from the door and pool table. But I object. “I want to sit on the bench.” I tell them the bench is the only seating located next to other people in the bar.

We spot cougars...

The table located next to us has 4 very drunk women seated at it. The band we hoped to see had just stopped playing. I got asked if I liked to dance by the drunkest of the four women, Nurse Betty.

“No.” I replied.

“Darn. We were hoping for some action.”

I took a sip of my beer and rolled my eyes at her.

“What... you mean we aren’t enough action for you?”

I glanced over at her friends and waived my hands toward them. She took my bait and all 4 of the cougars joined us. And in one voice assured us that were that we were "all the action they could need."

I wore a baseball cap. So did Card Shark. Drunk Nurse Betty wanted to look under Shark’s hat, but he told her he was bald. That didn’t bother any of the cougars. They claimed to like bald men. "Pat" put an end to any refusal we could offer by claiming to love combovers. Pat thought combovers were sexy.

Nothing could dissuade these women from looking under are hats. Shark finally freed his tussles from under his cap. The girls took turns running their fingers through his long hair.

Next they turned all that post-menopausal attention towards me. They wanted to see what was under my hat too. I was not dressed for sex play. I had on jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and a baseball cap. “I’m balding.” I told them. “You aren’t going to want to see what’s under my hat.”

But when cougars see their prey they get aggressive. They are like 14-year-old boys. All pent up sex energy. But unlike a sexually immature boy, an older woman feels entitled to satisfy her urge. Now that nature had released them from child-bearing, they molested us with abandon. They relished in the child's play of desire.

“We want to see what’s under your hat.” They repeat. I relent. I give them a peek. They see for themselves the receding hairline. Maybe it reminds them of getting old, because they quickly turn their attention away from it.

But they don't want me to feel bad. They start in on me. Telling me how they each like hats on men. They encourage me to keep it on. With my hat and casual clothes I could be mistaken for someone 25 years their junior. I think they like that part of me best of all.

We drive to Clarksdale because Clarksdale has a band. Married Guy sits up front with Card Shark and two of the Cougars. Joe and I make the trip in the back of the pickup bed along with the other two Cougars.

It's cold and windy. And we all anticipate getting frozen on the trip. Joe does something that astounds me. He snuggles up with the only half way cute cougar. Probably in her 40's, she doesn't wear tapered acid washed jeans. She still colors her hair. And she is decently in shape. Her face gives away her age, but at least the giveaway says "Milfy" not "Gilfy."

I am left to fend with the most obnoxiously drunk older woman I have ever seen. She had little or no self-awareness of her drunken state. The following conversation is not verbatim.

Drunken Nurse: "Do you want to snuggle, why don't you want to snuggle with me? Are you gay? Do you like women?"

It is precisely because I like women that I am not turned on by you.

I am annoyed at myself for allowing this turn of events. I know I can give no encouragement to Drunk Betty. I know any encouragement I give to Nurse Betty will become hands tugging away at my limp manhood. I don't want that. I am still hopeful that Milfy will give me a try.

But my my hope for a turn with Milfy dies as I watch Joe snuggle. I underestimated my competition in GI Joe. I assumed he would be lackadaisical. I was not prepared to deal with his assertiveness. I should have been angry about the way things had turned out, but instead I felt only a begrudging respect. The old man had a few tricks up his sleeve still.

I stayed warm in the back of the pickup because I borrowed a jacket from inside the truck. I stay warm with out the any of the human contact that Nurse Betty so desired. She complained the entire drive about how cold she was even after I allowed her some side-to-side touching. I know women are always cold, and it was 30 degrees with 60 mph winds, but I had already offered her my jacket. I was not about to offer my loins.

The Cougars who sat up front in the cabin were hungry. They asked if we carried any food or snacks in the truck. Card Shark kept a wary eye on his third cookie and did not share it. Even when asked directly, he refused.

***
A side note to women everywhere. When you first meet a man. And you ask him for a favor. If he turns you down. Assume he finds you ugly. ***

Clarksdale, Arizona.*
Home of the 10/12 Lounge and the One Class Act Blues Band.

A truly terrific band. Like most blues fans I am white. And like many whites I trace my love of the blues back to Bill Cosby. The appearance of legendary bluesman B.B. King on the Cosby show when I was in the 9th grade changed my musical tastes forever.

The lead guitarist and singer walked around the room as he played. Much like another Arizona bluesman, Carvin Jones. The band was elated to see a group such as ours enter the bar. We shouted along with the band. We cheered and applauded their efforts. It felt like destiny. The band played inspired.

Most Cougars love to dance. And these cougars were no exception to the rule. I danced with all 4 cougars. One cougar gave me the "fuck you eyes." I cannot express to you how disturbing it is to have a women 10 years older than your mother look you up and down like a piece of meat. She was ravenous in her sexual hunger. She did not mind showing me her desire. She showered it upon all three of my companions.

Her eyes said "I will fuck you tonight." Her mood was was confident and secure. She seemed to be saying that, "I know I am not what I used to be. But I am willing. And men enjoy that. Moreover; I am ready to abandon myself to the instinctual."

I will not play with that kind of fire.

But I danced for the first time in several years. I remembered what it was like to have the attention of a woman. I recalled why I missed that attention. A woman makes a man behave and feel differently. I felt more alive though I was dancing with death. I grew in confidence. I thought I could be valuable. If not to the world like any man of substance desires, then to a woman, and if not to these women, then to some women somewhere.

I saw my friends sharing that same feeling. They would not be dismayed by life completely either.

We drove the cougars home. Back to their hotel room in Jerome. They were sorry to see us go. But Married Guy needed to get home. They understood. G.I. Joe needed to feed his dogs. Dogs that love to lick me. Now I would not get laid because of Trixie the Dog.

I could have stayed. They wanted to cuddle. I am not sure I can satisfy 4 hungry cougars. I am not sure there is enough meat to feed such a hungry group.

But I think I would have liked to have stayed.

* The actual name of the city is Clarkdale, but the sound "Clarkdale" in my head disturbed the story for me.

My Mom used to get mad at me whenever I got pnemonia for using all the guest tissues

I know I am supposed to feel guilty that I haven't posted in awhile, but I don't. I am sick. I've got a runny nose, and sore throat. I cough up lemony colored snot. I am breathing underwater. And every time I swallow I get the distinct impression of diet flavored ginger ale.

I can stop drinking diet ginger ale but I can't control anything else.

***

Why do I suddenly feel bad for Don Imus? I have a friend who hates Don and I can't say I like him, but I often listened to him on MSNBC at 4 in the morning when there was nothing else on. A writer from Slate fleshed out why I think some found him compelling...

"As an enemy of pseudo-speaking, of the scripted and the canned, Imus made his career, among other things, by being a racially ambiguous figure. From his speech patterns, which borrow liberally from the great American religion whose deacons include Billy Sunday and Wolfman Jack and Howlin' Wolf, to his love of white blues, he played the cracker who has more in common with the Negro across the tracks than with the Man.

As the media critic Susan Douglas has put it in a particularly astute essay on talk radio, "For many of his listeners, Imus turns the tables on money, power, and entitlement"; his show is a place "where polite people in prestigious and influential jobs have to 'suck up' as Imus puts it, to a man who breaks all the rules of bourgeois, upper-middle-class decorum." Here, of course, is how he slipped into troubled waters.

To understand his comment, that the Rutgers women's basketball team were "nappy-headed hos," you have to see it in its many dimensions. The comment was witless and dehumanizing, an insult not only to these players but to African-Americans, women, women athletes, and any permutation of the above. But it was not said principally to that effect. It was said on the (false) premise that being "politically correct" is still a cornerstone of "bourgeois, upper-middle-class decorum," and is still a dominant mind-set in the culture at large. Imus was exploiting a cynical confusion, a common one on the AM dial. In talk radio, the P.C. bogey is kept on life support, the better to allow the heaping of abuse on the marginal and disenfranchised to pass itself off as speaking truth to power.

just in case you haven't noticed

Posting has become sporadic. It will remain so for the foreseeable future.

Part II. The trip to Prescott. Part III is next.

The trail we took out of Arcosanti reminded me of the Old West. A dirt road. Navigating the bumpy, windy road on bad shocks meant we never took speeds better than 15 mph.

I was dehydrated so the jostling and sliding over the road delivered no undue pressure to my bladder. It took 20 minutes to drive the 3 miles back to the freeway.

Back on the highway we maneuvered the car towards Prescott. The road to Prescott is no longer a desert scenic highway. Instead the area is dotted with Indian food restaurants, condominiums and hotels that get sculpted into the hillsides.

We passed many of those markers of progress on our way to Prescott. Only one of those symbols, a local Walmart, had the decency to be built in a valley low spot. Conspicuously hidden, it suggested to us the cost of urbanization. Walmart understood the resentment that locals would harbor for a corporation who chose to destroy this landscape. Walmart chose to hide.

Prescott is hilly.

You have to walk up and down hills to get anywhere. Though I was out of shape, I enjoyed the strangeness of my environment. The Valley is completely flat. I never think about the side walks in Phoenix. In Prescott I walk up a hill and my attention gets directed to the ground.

The Peace Fair in the center of the town had hippies dancing to a very bad band. Three members of the band played the bongo drums. None of the band members wore shoes. Each had dirty black feet. A hippie girl with no bra danced by herself. Her arms were outstretched and her feet pointed in two different directions.

Card Shark watched the girl dance. He wanted to join her. He thought dancing with her with was his best opportunity to "hit" on her. This offended the Married Guy. Married Guy lived on a commune as child. His parents were former hippies who now voted for Clinton. Married Guy wanted to defend the hippies against Shark's advances, because he knew Shark's opinion of hippies.

The hippies gave away free food. I tried a metal container labeled Tea, but found only hot water inside it. The hippies also made homemade jam and bagels which they stacked down a long buffet table.

Most of the people at the festival gathered around the buffet table. Few of the festival goers were interested in any other stands. Those stands were covered in literature about peace, Darfur, and the War in Iraq.

The only exception to the general lack of interest in booths that contained no food was a "free bicycle repair" stand. Hippies from all over Northern Arizona patched their tubes and tires there. I wondered how so many hippies could pedal to Prescott on bald tires and ungreased axles.

We finally left the fair when I got tired of searching for something decent to eat from the hippies free food buffet. We made out way over to the ice cream shop featured in the Billy Jack movies.

In the movie the children of a local American Indian community and a group kids from a progressive hippy school are denied service at the ice cream shop. In one scene flour is poured over some of the children and the owner refuses to sell them ice cream cones. Eventually Billy Jack steps in to defend the kids. He fights a whole gang full of the local bad guys using his karate techniques.

I was a bit worried that my friends and I wouldn't be sold ice cream or cheeseburgers either. But the staff at the shop was very friendly. They were eager to tell anecdotes of the real "Billy Jack" visits. And they cooked up burgers and fries for us all.

We were surprised that the shop contained no actual memorabilia from the movie and that the owner of the ice cream shop instead chose the decor of a 1950's diner.

We set sight next on Jerome, Arizona. The adventure climaxes there. Part III is meeting 4 cougars. Your patience may be rewarded when I finally recount our story from Jerome. If you have come this far, I hope that Part III does not disappoint.

Here is the long overdue post about my Billy Jack choose-your-own-adventure story. The Trip. Part 1

You may not realize this. But this blog post is way overdue. You had probably forgotten about it, or you paid it no mind the first time I mentioned it.

But either way the post is overdue. Out there someone is waiting for it. They are disappointed that it has taken so long for me to write it down for them. Perhaps they are very angry about it. And they have decided to "never forgive me for how long it has taken."

"That is," they say "unless the post is really great." If the post can capture the spirit of that night. If it does not intrude too much into their memories. Destroying the affection they still feel for that night. That instead it simply reminds them of a funny anecdote, or it allows them to repaint their imaginations again with my reminders and descriptions.

"I should not fuck this up." They have told me. This night will go down in history. But maybe it is better if that history remains told by memory only. Orally. Recanted in smoky bars or over games of poker. Each time its truth being twisted an tugged at from different positions. Followed by loud angry disavowals.

That's probably best. And the way it should be recalled. By the particulars themselves. One at a time. To throngs of admiring friends, who hang on every word. Who bellow out laughter at every inside joke and every nuance of character betrayed by action.

But that is not how this story will be told. Instead I will tell this story. As I remember it. It is a story of 4 men who decide to make trip to Prescott, Arizona in hopes of meeting Billy Jack.

You really should read my posts about Billy Jack in order to understand why we needed to meet him.

I should tell you a little about the men who went with me on this trip.

G.I. Joe- drives tanks for a living. Well actually he used to drive tanks for a living. Though I am not too sure that one ever really stops driving tanks.

The Married Lawyer Guy- He is the only married guy I know. He is also the only person I know who gets visibly angry when people ask me to correct their grammar or spelling for them.

Card Shark- He thought there were lots of little reasons we should go to Jerome and Prescott. Billy Jack was one of those reasons. When asked if he thought that was a "good reason?" he replied that it was only a "little reason" and he never said "it was a good reason."

Romius T.-known throughout the blogger land as one cool kat, man.

Maybe I should get back to the action. Move the plot on and such. It's what good writers do after all. They would not languish here. In the set up for so long. Where is the fun in that? After all this story is long. And there are lots of things to get through. Many of them will be funny. But not to you. Because you were not there. And those funny things may not lend themselves to the kind of description I am good at.

But here goes.

After meeting up together the four of us all pile into Card Shark's full- sized-cab truck. Some of us were excited. Card Shark had his ipod with him, and took strangest perverse pleasure in finding his craziest music to play for us.

I forgot my ipod, so I could not break up the stream of bad music. Instead I described a particularly funny podcast called Distorted View to my friends. I mentioned how the show often played audio clips of gay fisting noises.

"You mean the actual sound of gay fisting?" Asked the married guy, who tried as best he could to imitate the sound of gay anal fisting. That is, the actual insertion noises that one would hear with fist sliding into ass. The "hmmmpftt hhmmppt" sound effect.

"No, no." I corrected. "Just the yelling the dude would make." I paused and then tried to imitate the grunts and groans of gay men who are being anally fisted.

While we all agreed that none of us were into into anal fisting, per se, we thought it too bad I didn't take my ipod with the anal fisting show with me.

After our discussions about music and podcasts our attention turned to food. I wanted to eat at an A&W. I was on a road trip without Funions, so naturally my mood was apprehensive. I pushed the A&W idea, suggesting to my friend Joe that A&W was a great place for road trip food.

"Think of it. Shakes. Hot dogs. All prepared by beastly women with cigarettes in their mouths who fail to wear gloves, or to cover up their moles and age spots."

Joe dismisses the idea. He has a much better idea. He wants to eat at the the ice cream shop from the movie Billy Jack. When Joe talks he leans forward in sharp bursts like an autistic boy would. Out of breath and in between bows he speaks with short, terse sentences.

But I wondered if the shop had any food other than ice cream.

"Sure it does. Hamburgers."

That settles it for me and I throw my weight behind the decision to eat at Billy Jack's ice cream shoppe.

Now that we had on plan for food we decided to visit that land of Hippie chicks and Urbanity called Arcosanti.

There is surprisingly little to see there. Arcosanti is a village commune designed by hippies. I think the hippies have been building this "town" for 50 years. If hippies can't build a place to live in fifty years it's no wonder it has taken them so long to make due on their promise of building a new society.

Maybe the 60's movements have not failed failed. Hippies are just sorta disorganized and lazy. It's just going to take them a while to get around to everything.

At least Hippies make good cookies. Card shark bought three cookies from a lady behind a counter at the cafe. After buying three cookies he warned us that if we wanted a cookie for ourselves we would have to buy one because he was planning on eating all three by himself.

We all got in line to buy cookies. I think Card Shark felt guilty about eating three whole cookies, because as each one of us got to the counter he offered to buy our cookies for us. But we all refused his offer. We wanted to buy our own cookies to make sure he would feel the full intensity of his shame. The buying and eating three whole cookies just for himself. People in Kenya never get that lucky.

We sat down in the picnic area next to the cafe to eat our cookies. Married guy found a chess set. Their are chess sets everywhere in Arcosanti. Hippies love chess even though I think chess requires a certain kind of logic they rarely posses.

I am not very good at chess. Married guy convinced me to play a game with him. He also got me to believe I was in checkmate when I wasn't.

We kept playing after the Card Shark helped me find a way out of married Guy's mate. I then missed a 2 move checkmate myself, which meant Married Guy luckily escaped from becoming the first person to ever lose a chess match to me.

On our way out of Arcosanti we met a few hippy chicks. I mentioned to Card Shark as they walked past by, "That I liked hippy girls, but I wished they shaved more." I am not sure the hippy girls stopped long enough to hear me talking to them. Because they gave no reply. I guess hippy girls have a lot more things to do than you think.

We are now on our way to Prescott.

G. I. Joe lived in Prescott as a boy. He said that his physics teacher taught him that the Earth was flat. Which when you think about it seems like a reasonable belief. Otherwise we'd all be sliding off the globe like a miniature plastic army men trying to conquer Nigeria.

Stay Tuned For Part II. A Trip to Prescott. And Part III. We are Attacked by Four Wild Cougars in Jerome, Arizona.

Katie has the Menses

My favorite Jew Girl has the Menses again. I think she gets them more than once a month. I am going to start keeping track of them again. Just like I was one of her girlfriends in the Sorority and we were all tyring to synchronize our cycles together.

I don't know why chicks do that. But it's one of the things I like about 'em.

How a Win/Win situation turns into a crime

Start by writing stuff down. Which is exactly the kind of thing you want to do if you are thinking about committing a crime.

Write down the crime and then sign your name. Otherwise the cops might actually have to do a little investigating.

Michigan Man Sentenced to Jail After Sex Pact With Girlfriend, 15-Year-Old Daughter:

MUSKEGON, Mich. — A 37-year-old man who was accused of having sex with his girlfriend's underage daughter under an alleged written contract with the girl and her mother was sentenced to several prison terms.

Michael Fitzgibbon was sentenced Friday to up to 15 years for each of four counts of third-degree criminal sexual conduct after prosecutors said he, his girlfriend and her daughter signed a contract allowing the teen to be his sex partner for two months.

The case arose after the woman, afraid of losing her boyfriend while recuperating from surgery, allegedly arranged for the three to sign a contract in June, The Muskegon Chronicle reported Saturday. In exchange for the sex, the 15-year-old testified she was to be paid and receive privileges, such as piercings, hair dyeing and permission to stay overnight with her own boyfriend.

In a letter read by assistant Prosecutor Dale J. Hilson, the alleged victim wrote that since the incidents last summer, she has tried to commit suicide, was treated at a Grand Rapids psychiatric facility and is now undergoing therapy.

My other Job is Blogging over at The Need Of the Few

I don't like to get into philosophical arguments about Carl Jung with guys who drive tanks for a living.

For one if they lose those arguments they could just get in their tanks and run you over. And I have a feeling that G.I. Joe would have no problem doing that.

That's why I won't tell him, but you my loyal 3 readers about this guest post I blogged over at The Needs of the Few.

The post is entitled:

Medusan-in-a-box: A requiem for Larry Bud Melvin, AKA The God-Man Calvert DeForest.

Or you could try visiting Bathos for my latest short story about a guy who think too much about toothpaste.

Very soon I will have to blog about the road trip to Sedona and Jerome where I encountered 4 cougars on the hunt for young prey. It was as they say "majestic."

I hope you enjoy.

Hugs and Cuddles.

Rt.

If you've come here to read about the Midget who enjoys jail bait, read on.

People send me lots of e-mail. And its not all just about midgets who love the Jail Bait. Though most of time it is.

According to AzCental.com

An actor who has had several minor film and television roles was in a Maricopa County jail Thursday on suspicion of sexually abusing a 15-year-old girl.

Jonathan Simanton, 36, of California was staying with family when police say he fondled his nephews' teenage baby-sitter in Scottsdale.

Simanton, known for his 3-foot-6-inch height, has acted as an elf in Surviving Christmas, an Oompa Loompa in Epic Movie and a small part in Turbo: A Power Rangers Movie.

Police reports offer the following narrative of what investigators believe happened Tuesday based on an interview with the victim:

Simanton was staying at the apartment while the victim was baby-sitting his three nephews. The two spoke throughout the evening and the victim told Simanton she was 15 years old. Simanton said he would date the victim if he were 20 years younger.

Simanton called the victim into a bedroom where he was lying down on a bed. She sat on the floor next to him. He then proceeded to fondle and kiss the girl without her permission.

The victim told Simanton she had to go to the bathroom and left the apartment to report the incident. Simanton admitted to touching the victim inappropriately, and there were indications he was under the influence at the time of the incident. He is being held on a $4,500 bond."

Now Just how a 3 foot 6 inch guy can get accused of molesting a 15 year old is beyond me. Way beyond me. It seems to me that if your the same size as the person you are "fondling" then it's OK.

Plus I am pretty sure you are allowed to fondle the breasts of a 15 year old in Arizona. Or all that time I spent working at the Law Library was for nothing.

I am not a lawyer, but I did play a ghetto lawyer at work for 4 years.

Arizona Revised Statute 13-1410. Molestation of child; classification

A.) A person commits molestation of a child by intentionally or knowingly engaging in or causing a person to engage in sexual contact, except sexual contact with the female breast, with a child under fifteen years of age.

I gather from the law that it is perfectly fine to sexually manipulate the breast of any female aged 15 and above.

It's not like the guy was trying to post pics of a girl who's father is "a national candidate for president" on the Internet. I mean that would be wrong. But only really wrong if you "come out" as a ChoMo and call the 5 and 8 year old "hot."

When you read stuff like this epiphenomenalism doesn't sound so crazy

I was under the impression that epiphenomenalism was about as sound a scientific theory as judging one's character by the lumps on your head.

I think I am wrong. Well actually I am a little relieved. Secretly I have always been a bit of an "Epi" fan.

An article from The BPS research Digest details how "psychologists in Italy have reported the real-life case of AD, a 65-year-old whose identity appears dependent on the environment he is in.

He started behaving this way after cardiac arrest caused damage to the fronto-temporal region of his brain.When with doctors, AD assumes the role of a doctor; when with psychologists he says he is a psychologist; at the solicitors he claims to be a solicitor. AD doesn't just make these claims, he actually plays the roles and provides plausible stories for how he came to be in these roles."

I guess the point I am making here is that you are about as conscious as Ashlee Simpson, only she's cuter.

I have no Lucky Charms. I didn't even get Corn Beef and Cabbage this year. A way too late post on St. Patty's Day.

I was depressed on St. Patty's Day. First, I saw no Leprechauns. And if you don't know how much I love leprechauns then maybe you don't pay much attention to anything you read here. Which is OK. As I don't really pay any attention to you.

The day did start off pretty well. Around 7 in the morning I took a civil service exam at the post office. That way when I get older I can really go postal on your ass. That deserves another post sometime.

Card Shark and I were still awake at 10 am. So he decided to stop off at a local titty bar. At 10 am the bar wasn't even open yet and somehow we convinced the doorman to let us in.

I think the bartender was a little pissed about us getting in so early, as she didn't have any clothes on yet, just a G-string and bra. Which is great. Because the best part of going to a strip club is seeing someone naked or near naked that never intended for you to see them naked.

Later that day I told a friend while watching that shit hole of a movie Strip Club that, "At some point in a stripper's career she dies a little on the inside. That's the day she stops getting nervous or embarrassed about going on stage."

I told my friend that I wished I could just pay to see the look in their eyes as their dreams or dignity died out. That's way better that a lap dance any day of the week. And the only reason my friend really goes to strip clubs in the first place. I guess the point I am making here is that my friend is a misogynist and everything I say is just a joke.

The other point I want to make is the quality of strippers at 10am is shit. My stripper had enough scar tissue on her stomach to start a war with. My friend "fell in love" but the girl would normally be considered the "fat ugly stripper" at most strip clubs. The longer we waited the more we saw fat chicks walk in and get naked. Suddenly my real life had intruded on the fantasy that is supposed to be going to a strip club.

In real life even I can get a middle aged fat girl, who's children have left her scarred and busted, naked without giving her money. I just go on E-harmony.com for that. So we decided to leave. As we left the bar we saw the doorman "making out" with one of the strippers.

This stripper wasn't hot. Just to give you way's of comparison, I've always dated hotter chicks. But here this girl was making out with some 50 year old 400 pound sweaty guy. I mean heavy petting at 10 am and the guy is drenched, no covered in sweat. She's holding on to him like she can't get enough of this guy.

"This guys gets more pussy than me?" My tone is incredulous. And my friend has to listen to me rant for about 16 minutes on the drive home. I am so upset about all this I decide to get myself a fat chick. And whenever I want a fat chick I go Karoke or dancing.

Eventually we made our way out that night to Graham's Central Station. Gram's has 4 0r 6 different clubs all under one roof. Mostly a bunch of cowboys, hoodrats and minorities show up to this place. You know just the type of people that a middle aged post modernist (but non-hipster) white guy can score with.

I take that back. I can't score at all. I saw myself in a Walmart mirror the other day. Walmart mirror's are not designed to make you look skinnier and they are placed out in the frigid bare industrial lighting. Lighting that makes you take stock of yourself. And forces you to surrender your vanity to the inevitable ravages of time.

I was told yesterday that I seemed positive. Despite all the shit "going down." That "my blog seems positive." I think I need to nip that in the bud.

15 Year Old Victoria Wants a Baby and is This Week in Jail Bait

Today I tried riding a bike to WhataBurger. I've been craving some meat and buns. I tried to bike it 2 miles, but ended up getting turned around and ended up on the freeway. It turns out that you can't ride your bike on the expressway. Who knew?

I guess the point is here that while I can't even plan a bike ride to a fast food restaurant, 15 year old Victoria is setting up her sexual escapades with several dudes and getting on TV. She's gotta be getting close to fulfilling her dreams.

You've got to admire someone that young who has her life planned out. I have a hard time wearing pants or a shirt when I write this blog. Plus any chick that has already slept around more than 300 times has to have something going for her.

UPDATE:

You can see new pics and videos of Victoria and her baby here!

I accidently erased this post. I hope you read it already. If not pretend it was funny.

I some how erased this entire post. All I have left is Card Sharks' Post Script. We should all beg Card Shark to become a regular contributing member of this blog.

A postscript: You should point out that the very next night, your friend ended up flaking on both the Suns game and going to Graham's. This despite the fact that the prospect of going to Graham's somehow cheered him up immediately the night before.

My guess is that he chose to stay inside his room and attract females by staring at a random point on his wall. That way he could again claim that he "scored" without the need for any confirmation. Actually, I think he ended up going to another bar with another friend that we have nicknamed the "douche," where I'm sure he employed his wall-staring tactics.

Note however, that with the Douche present as a witness, we haven't heard any claims of him "hooking up" using his method. The funniest thing is that he called later in the night to apologize for flaking, claiming that he was sorry and stating that he was "like Agent Zero and that anything he does is positive." Whatever the hell that means.

Stop reading this blog. Or I am only going to resort to reviewing all the boring clubs and bars I go to in Tempe for you.

Anytime I get a spike in readership I slow down in my posting. I don't like having to live up to all your expectations. I've said it before. But I feel the need to keep saying it over and over again.

I know you think I am a hypocrite. Because all I ever do is tell you I want to get famous and rich. And anytime I get close I self sabotage. But I could stay up late with you every night and get drunk and talk to you about the philosophical implications of approach/avoidance disorder till your sick and puke your guts out. But I am pretty sure that'll just be the tequila talking.

Last night I went out on the town again. Which is funny coincidence, because lately I've been watching a lot of the movie The Last Days of Disco.

In the movie one of the characters is given a fancy overcoat to throw over his hideous middle aged clothing in order to get past the bouncer. My friends and I had a similar experience at Club Zuma. We are way to old to be trying to get into this bar.

My friend got really pissed at the doorman for letting in a bunch of VIP's and hot chicks before letting in a couple of 30 year old scrubs. I tried telling my friend that it was OK. That this sort of thing always happened. And if was any kind of consolation, The Last Days of Disco pretty much ruined Whit Stillman's career as a director.

But my friend was basically inconsolable. He just kept staring at the doorman with these crazy psychotic eyes. The kinda eyes you all assume I have. But you're wrong. In actuality I am really quite placid and laid back.

We eventually got in to the bar though. One of my friends enjoys "grabbin ass" and I am pretty sure he did his fair share of ass grabbin. Which is ironic. Because one girl who walked up to us near closing time thanked us for "giving her support" in dealing with a belligerent ass grabbing drunk.

Funny thing is while she thought I was telling him that he didn't need to be harassing her, I was really telling him to instigate some trouble with her. I guess the point is here that you can't even trust the dopey middle aged guys at a bar who look like they are trying to prevent the perverts from touching you.

Cheers.

Romius T.

Top 10 Reasons why my addictions to Digg/Myspace/Blogger are killing me.

Face it. A lot of you are just like me. Addicted to the Internet. I know I should quit surfing the net so much. But I am pretty sure I should also workout more, eat less fast food, and get a job. But I can't. And I'd like to blame social sites like Myspace and Digg and Blogger. Why is the Internet trying to kill me? I'll tell you.

Top 10 Reasons why my addictions to Digg/Myspace/Blogger are killing me.

1. Other than blogs, I don't read anymore.

At least not books anymore. I used to read one non-fiction and one fiction book a week on average. Ever since I got addicted to the Internet I've stopped immersing myself in the world of books.

Instead I just browse your blog and leave witty comments hoping you will link me in your blogroll. It's the second fastest way to getting famous in the 21st century. Assuming you don't have a sex tape or a gun.

2. My attention span is shorter than Dick Cheney's penis.

I can't read anything for more than a minute. And I can't stand thinking in more than 30 second sound bites. Techno wieners call it blurbing. I must have at least 400 websites favorited to my computer. If I get bored for a second on any site, I simply move on to the next one. By now most of you have already done that too. Because this list is boring.

3. I might be going blind by staring at my computer screen.

If I am not going blind, then the radiation that my Commodore 64 is leaking out at me is probably keeping my sperm count low. But I am pretty sure staring at the computer screen all day is bad for your eyes. Of course I was able to discover this fact only due to Internet surfing. Ironic, no?

4. My sleeping pattern had been destroyed.

I can't remember the lat time I went to bed at a normal time. The pale blue glow from my video screen fucks with my circadian rhythms. I spend countless hours away from the computer, dreaming of getting to the computer.

5. MySpace can't get me laid. I haven't gotten laid in 2 years.

Yahoo chat rooms have been taken over by chat robots. There was a time when I got laid almost every weekend by simplifying logging into my local chat room and typing, "Who's horny? Lol."

So all the Yahoo chatters have gone MySpacing. If you fuck me on MySpace then the whole world knows you went donkey fucking.

6. Digg has made me a conspiracy theorist.

Read enough news stories about Google listening in on you through your computer and you will too. P.S. Turn off your Video Camera.

7. Blogger had made me think I am a writer.

A writer with goals who can accomplish something. Like get famous. Or make money. Writing in this blog has about as much chance as making me famous as reading the SECRET will. None.

The last time I had any ambition I was back in the 8th grade, but until blogger at least I understood this. Blogging makes me think my day dream of becoming famous and rich by doing nothing other than being myself has a chance to become true. Blogger is a liar.

8. My happiness is directly correlated to my blog's stats.

When Blogstats tells me 500 people have visited by site I am euphoric. But that has happened only once. Since then checking my BlogStats has only been a daily reminder of my failure in life.

9. I got fired for blogging once.

But I didnt get popular like Dooce. Or famous like an airline stewardess. Maybe it's because I don't have great legs. Or maybe it's because I am an Atheist who doesn't believe in Karma. Either way all blogging has ever done for me is make me poorer than a Kenyan.

10. I couldn't think of 10 things.

So Digg me. Get me famous. I have 10 loyal readers and one of you has a profile on digg. You know what to do.

Dr. Stephanie is on hiatus. That just means there is even more pressure for me to blog everyday. And I don't deal well with pressure.

All this pressure has caused my sleeping pattern to crumble way off. And I don't just mean "way" off. I mean "way off!" I can't seem to stay asleep. I am up for 2 hours fall asleep for 4 hours wake up for 6 sleep for 13 hours. Nothing makes sense. I haven't seen the sun in three days?

Do you know if it's still out there? I hope so. Otherwise it could get pretty cold out there.

In other news I have a headache. It's either from too much sleep or not enough sleep. Since I am not sure how much sleep I am actually getting. I can't be too sure what the reason for the headache is.

But I can tell you that my brain feels like it has been moth balled. And my acid reflux is acting up. My throat is on fire. Which will probably give me throat cancer. I don't think there is a cure yet for throat cancer. I hope somebody is searching for the cure. They'll probably find it just after I die. And no one will notice the irony.

But death is preferable to watching movies with my roommate. He forced me to watch Billy Jack. Billy Jack combines the 70's hippies movement, karate, Clint Eastwood violence, and street theater. Lots of street theater.

BILLY JACK IS JUST A GUY WHO PROTECTS

CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS

By forcing them into hours of street theater performances. That's not my idea of protection, but then again I hate hippies. It's called deodorant. Look into it. If the French hate it so much it has to be good.

Go read Bathos for more of my take on the Billy Jack movies and the Billy Jack the man.

How's that novel working out for ya?

Polish porn is a poor substitute

Much like El Monterey Frozen Chimichangas are a poor substitute for real Mexican food. You hear a lot of horror stories about Polish pornographers. Like the guys have their faces blotted out for a reason.

You can hear the reason in the background of the video I just watched. Children are screaming and playing. Older sisters knocking on the door. Moms that accidentally walk in. Oops! Somebody grab him a towel and pretend your just giving a massage. I guess in Poland nobody asks a young woman why she is giving an old naked man a massage. In Poland there are some questions you just can't ask.

Plus I am pretty sure that the women in Polish porn films are all victims of the White Sex Slave Trade. Which is why I guess they don't even pretend to enjoy themselves. The sexuality exuded by polish sex trade victims is completely artificial.

Here is a not safe for work viewing- link to porn. I feel a bit awkward showing you this link. Like somehow we've watched porn together. And grown men should never watch porn together. Any "group" viewing of porn other than group pron viewing by middle school friends is creepy. Stephen King not withstanding, I am pretty sure most of us until now never took part in a circle jerk.

Can the Russian at my Jack-in-the-Box please stop coughing on me?

I haven't had a lot of time to blog recently. I've been spending most of my days surrounded by poker players in smoke filled casinos. Poker keeps me up to an ungodly time in the morning. I go to bed at noon and wake up at 6 pm. But before I go to bed I usually have breakfast at Harlow's by ASU. I love the girl in black leggings who brings me my eggs. She has the best ass in town.

I was reading the newspaper today at breakfast. When I discovered some guy who lives in the area has TB. Bad TB. So bad health officials won't let him leave the hospital.

"He is not allowed a TV, a radio, a cellphone, a shower or visitors. A video camera catches his every move. His floormates are criminals, including a suspect in the killing of a police officer."

Normally hearing news like that would upset me. But the guy in isolation for a deadly drug resistant disease lives nearby. He refused medication and went outside without his mask. His excuse?

"In Moscow," he said, "when I went to clinics, even the doctors did not wear masks."

Russians are dirty people who's rate of infection for TB is 15 times that of the United States. That's no excuse for me not caring about this guy, but it is a fact. The Russian has also stated that he is depressed to the point of crying.

"They're making a criminal out of me," he added. "I've been crying almost every day. . . . I'm all alone. No showers. No sunlight. It's the silence that's pushing down on me. . . . It's the worst you can get, even if you murdered somebody."

So I guess his life now was a lot like it was back in Russia. "There is certainly a high likelihood that the patient has developed additional drug resistant (sic) that may make cure impossible," the assessment said. "If this is the case, the patient must be detained in isolation until death or patient's own immune system contains it (50% chance of either possibility)."

And his prospects for a life here in America seem about as good as they do for the average Russian. A 50% chance of imprisonment or death. I am not sure what this guy can complain about. He sure can't be homesick.

Would you worship God if he looked like this?

Me either. But faith in god is not getting me anywhere, and I bet if you clicked on the link and saw the real face of god your faith ain't no good either. I lost money playing poker tonight. I think it might be because I suck at it.

It leaves me really depressed. Because I think I might have to resign myself to working for minimum wage. Frankly, even then any boss would be over paying me.

I wanted to write a long post on resignation. But I was in too dark a place to write for the Internet. Stuff about how brave you need to be in order to buy a gun and shoot yourself. We all know I am way to chicken for that kind of thing. I hate pain too much.

Plus I have all that R/C Cola and masturbation to look forward to.

My favorite movies always have a way of coming true.

Planet of the Apes. The original not the crap remake, maybe coming true. It seems some Chimps are arming themselves with spears. That's not good. As anyone who has seen Battle for the Planet of the Apes knows what happens to the humans.

Enjoy what time we have left.

He leans in close to me. It's loud and he thinks he has to get this close to me so I can hear him. But he is just drunk close.

"We should go pick up our friend Houseman.*"

"I just need to warn you. If we do pick Houseman up he will be wearing a bathrobe. We will have to interrupt his all night video game session and his dogs will lick at you. Constantly."

I can say with pride that the description I gave to my friend about Houseman was 100% accurate. I was only too happy to see the dogs lick somebody besides me.Let it be known that I hate dogs and I hate dogs that lick even more.

"Ass smell there is nothing better than ass smell is there?"

My friend did not seem to mind the dogs as much as I do. Maybe he enjoys cold noses near his rear. I will speak no more of this.

Then we are off to visit a club. Heavy Metal will be played loud. And the lead singer will be wearing a tight leather shirt. It will make some of my friends uncomfortable how tight that leather shirt is. I will pretend that their comments are not homophobic. Mostly because I am sure that my friend is just gay for heavy metal singers.

"They often have long hair and sing in high voices. So it can get confusing."

"You're right. Maybe they shouldn't wear such tight tops." But it is also never a good thing to drink so much after major surgery either.

"I was just wondering, if you guys wanted you could drop me off at home so I could just shit on the bathroom rug. Like normally. Unless you guys want to hang out with all the hot strippers I know."

The music is near deafening and he is in close to me. He thinks he needs to get this close so I can hear him. But he's not just close, he's drunk close. When he speaks, he leaves saliva on my chin and cheek. I react and turn my head in time, so all of the spray is on parts that I can live with.

"I need to start working out. So I don't have to spend so much money on them (the strippers)."

It's the best reason I can come up with to workout.

*No real name is ever used here at The Self Help Center.

35 years ago Susan Polk was Jail Bait this Week

At the age of 14 Susan Polk was in psychotherapy treatment. I am not sure why she was there. I am sure it had nothing to do with her psychic abilities to predict 9/11. Psychic abilities aren't illegal that I know of.

Stabbing your husband probably is. Even if you met him at the age of 14. And even if he was the guy giving you treatment for your crazy problems.

Here's a bit of advice:

If you are going to marry your 14 year old patient make sure you cure her ass of her delusions. Otherwise she just might stab you to death.

Here's another bit of advice:

If your wife can predict future events like 9/11 the government may send radio waves into her head telling her to kill you and set her up for life in prison.

"Susan Polk received the maximum sentence after acting as her own lawyer in a trial permeated with theatrics, including discussion of her psychic powers and cross-examination of her own sons. An attorney representing her Friday said she planned to appeal."

Susan Polk you are here by inducted into the Jail Bait Hall of Fame. Sorry it had to be 35 years too late.

Tyra Banks enemy of promiscuous women everywhere

"We don't carry an inseam of 30 inches at the waist size you request sir."

I see. Fat people aren't allowed to have nice jeans? Why is it that I can't find jeans in my size? I had one pair of jeans that fit nicely and I wore them everyday. I literally wore them out. Now the not quite even trying to deny it gay salesman at American Eagle is trying to let me down easy.

"Of course you could order it here and it would be shipped directly to your house."

But I was looking for a pair to wear today. So that will not do. I guess the JC Penney Outlet will just have to be visited once or twice a week until they get in a shipment of Arizona Brand Jeans (Boot Cut Style.)

50 bonus points to the person who can guess my waist size correctly. One guess per person. The rulings of the judges are final.

In a side note a read a story about how young women are not getting raped now as much as they were in the past. The story suggest that young people are not as brazen or open sexually to their impulses as generational critics point out.

I will only ask a question. So don't get offended. Do you use force if you are given what you want freely? On the other hand if Tyra Banks keeps doing all her shows on Promiscuity and how to stop it we will only see a rash of new rape cases. Thanks Tyra.

That's hardly the only reason Tyra is a bad influence on girls. When she asked a 14 year old on her show today what she learned from today's episode the girl responded "I learned not to sleep around because guys don't like that."

Empowerment indeed young lady.

P.S. some men will like that.

Hugs and Cuddles,

Romius T.

Yesterday's Holiday is Named Fat Tuesday for a Reason

I am not sure what it is about Generation Y. All you fucking MySpacer's out there just love to expose yourself.

Back in the day exposing yourself was dirty. It made you a cheap slut. Even if you were "just playing office with your stepbrothers."

I'm not sure what part of office includes you getting finger banged by a semi related family member, but who am I to complain? I haven't fingered banged a girl since my step-sister, so I really wished I had remained in contact with her after my father left her Mom.

Sorry, I digressed. I digressed into sexually inappropriate memories of my former stepsister. But if your step-sister was as hot as my step-sister then you would too. Especially if you finger fucked her on more than one occasion.

I bring up how my step-sister used to molest me for a good reason. When you read about step-brother/sister fucking you generally get a bit sick to your stomach. You should, because it's dirty. And it was the dirty that was so exciting. At least for my step-sister.

If it wasn't for how disgusting my stepsister thought I was and how dirty it might be to have her step-brother finger bang in the back of her Mom's pickup bed on the way home from our Aunt Jean's house, I would have never been introduced to the velvety pleasures of the female genitalia until I was at least 20 years old.

Early sexual exposure is nothing new to this new generation. that's because for for them sex is not dirty. But public. Everything, including sex, has to be displayed and shared on You-Tube. For them somehow nothing is real unless someone else is watching it on a computer screen or TV. Because TV and computing and text messaging is the only way these kids know how to relate to the world.

I didn't want to expose myself today, I just wanted to hang out and party on Fat Tuesday because I support the Katrina victims. And because I like getting drunk in public. Not because I have some kind of sick voyeur fetish. Instead I payed a 10 dollar cover to stand in line. The celebration at Fat Tuesday's on Mill Avenue consisted of paying a cover and then waiting in line for an hour and a half to get inside the actual club for overpriced frozen girly drinks.

I've never felt comfortable in lines or around groups of people. There is something unnatural and bothersome to me in the gatherings of people. So many of them. Happy. My EX used to get pissed at me, because I would embarrass her in line at Safeway. But I only acted inappropriately in line in order to make all the other people in line feel as uncomfortable as I felt around them. And I think it works.

So while my friends and I were content to simply drink a beer and complain to each other about the slow moving line so many of the Y'ers were not. Instead they got their nasty on. That's Generation Y. Always positive. Gen Y has zero attention span and no desire to see the dark lining of any cloud. A few bored fat girls danced for us while we waited in line. And by dancing I mean mimicking things paid hookers are often too timid to try.

I think these girls fail to understand that the thrill men find from watching women lick each other or fake anally penetrate each other is the the thrill of dirty behavior. But wen you copy that "dirty" behavior so self-consciously it completely ruins it for the true pervert. You can't "own" degrading behavior. It ceases to be degrading at that point.

But the only thing that really makes dirty dancing unwatchable is fat chicks. Fat chicks have completely taken over the promiscuous displays of their generation. I realize most Americans are fat, but I thought we all were superficial enough to agree that only attractive people should be allowed to flaunt their stuff in public.

Last night at Fat Tuesday violated that agreement, and thereby lived up to it's name. Fat Tuesday with its massive veined breasts exposed. Fat chicks grinding away and hopping. Red lined bellies from too tight pants exposed by too short tops. Tops that wanted to be lifted at any excuse. Tempe is not New Orleans. Nobody should expect that the cheap beads they give out to everyone at the entrance of a corporate sponsored sex-o-rama would be able to entice any of our Tempe girls to uncover.

But I was wrong about that. I was totally wrong. Also wrong about things like how fat chicks are actually human beings. Mental Agents with desires. I had always assumed like most psychopaths that people so different from me have no human agency. They may jump like frogs when shocked with electricity, but not from an inner volition. To me fat humans had always seemed merely responsive to stimuli. See Big Mac. Insert Big Mac.

It's now all so disconcerting.

I just spent the entire night devoting myself to watching movies about Truman Capote's In Cold Blood

It was raining today so I thought about Perry and the gallows.
I know way too much about Truman Capote movies now. I've seen at least three In Cold Blood movies over the last 2 years. And I watched 2 of them tonight.

Sometimes I think about sending all three of my readers to the gallows. Because I am sure that some of your aren't reading my other terrific blog Bathos for the Misanthropic. Or maybe you read Bathos, but never read Selp Help. Either way you are screwing with me. And people who screw with me get the BIG YELLOW BIRD.

And I am not talking about Duckies.

Now understand if you are not familiar with The Show with Ze Frank, In Cold Blood, or Truman Capote then you will not get any of these inside jokes. But if you are a long time reader you should make an effort to discover these things on your own. Otherwise I have to do everything for you, just like your Mom did.

Because of my fascination tonight over Truman Capote I think some people are beginning to worry that I am a faggot. They say I seem to know a lot of things about fags and they wonder. Like "How do you know that Bear is a gay term?"

"Because I watch Sex in the City, that's how."

For some reason this fact never seems to dissuade people. They only mumble things like "I am pretty sure that show was for chicks."

But I've gotten lots of hand jobs from my step-sister and I have fucked more fat chicks more times than most guys have masturbated to pics of Britney Spears bald head. So now who's gay?

This post is dedicated to In Cold Blood. Which gets the Official Seal of Approval from me. Romius T.

I feel happy today even though last night I spotted 3 people with missing ear parts

And I am not going to let you guys get me down. Today I had pork tacos and rode my bike. The waitress from the restaurant looked at me with a sense of earnestness and ordered me to have a great day.

She wanted to make sure she connected with me, since when she asked "Do you need change?" I said "yes."

But on the ride home I did have a great time. I took a meandering path home and listened to Kelly Clarkson's Because of You. The wind was in my hair. And I thought, "Hey, at least you have more hair than Britney Spears for the wind to speed through."

Now this might not be a good place for a segue but I thought it odd that last night so many people with ears bitten off were out. Was it some kind of National Go out and Play Poker and Forget that You Have Had Your Ear Bitten Night? Because if so I would have totally been behind such an event. I could march for that kind of cause.