Saturday, August 2, 2008
Well, my oh my, guess what I found?
This! What the Hell is this?!
Somebody cut some of my stories (which doesn't bother me, it is the internet after all, but leave a comment about how brilliant I am first, you ungrateful bastards) then pasted them on... I don't even know what this site is about. Its not even a spanking site. Its like a, I don't know, organic food elitist wine sipping "Let them eat cake" snob site, and I hate that crap. I'm a simple man. A Red State American. A man of the people. A common man with common tastes and uncommon talents.
The thief didn't even give me credit. A little "Hey, Pallidbust wrote this, here's a link to his site" would have been nice. No, no... nice isn't the word. REQUIRED, NECESSARY, DECENT, LEGAL all seem like better words to me than nice. Well, Pallidbust is written into one of them... but no link.
Ahhhh heck with it. I should have expected stuff like this. It's not like it's like costing me money or anything, but damn it, it's rude. I feel violated.
Why is someone posting my spanking stories on a food and wine site? My brain hurts just thinking about it. And what wine goes best with a spanking? Red or white? Or does it depend on the instrument?
Enemies Foreign and Domestic
Kennedy stood in the middle of her living room. From the vantage she could see her kitchen, dining room, garden through the sliding glass doors, and the hallway to the rest of her fresh, one story home. She padded barefoot on white carpet through the hallway to find her husband sitting Indian style reading a manual on fixing their washing machine which lay open and gutted beside him. She eased herself down on Rick’s lap and nibbled his ear.
She was cursed for a minx, spanked, and sent off to tend her garden.
She returned to her living room pulling her jeans over a stinging bottom. Kennedy normally enjoyed her rear end. It was full and womanly, Stairmaster honed, and a source of power and pleasure. It had even taken part in a three year operation to fool a truly awesome man into falling in love with her to the victorious proposal of marriage. Many agents played a role, but the butt played its part in the man-nabbing.
Sadly, in times of discipline, a full, womanly bottom only meant more flesh to redden. More bottom meant more neurons. More neurons meant more pain.
On the floor, her aching butt in the air, she put her socks and shoes on, and, rubbing her wounds, obeyed her husband like she told “the preacher” she would.
Spring was new so few weeds yet, making it an enjoyable way to spend a Friday morning. It would have been more enjoyable to grind her husband into the hallway floor with a white bottom, but life is rarely perfect. Kennedy would know, as the ink hadn’t yet dried on her diploma for a Master’s in Philosophy.
Pleasantly warm climate except for the seat of her pants, the roses were red and the violets were blue. They smelled pretty good, too. Across the property line Jessica bathed her bikini clad body with sun and her liver with wine at , which Kennedy judged unwise, as Jessica was an Irish redhead, evolution rendering her utterly defenseless against the ravaging Sun God we mortals know by the name Ra.
‘Try to law talk your way out of a sunburn, lawyer.’ She muttered.
By 11 a.m. Kennedy had mended four broken stems, laid waste to an ant hill, cleansed the field of weeds, buried a half dozen smashed egg shells like in that movie she saw, tilled the soil, and collected several vases of roses whose time had come. Ra must be appeased with youth cut short! Jessica got sunburned and staggered away from her pool to the shade of her home for an undeserved nap.
Dirty, Kennedy decorated her home with flowers; hit the showers; noting, with satisfaction, the clothes washer fixed and operating due to the diligence of her slave male; buttoned herself up in one of Rick’s white business shirts she was supposed to iron but didn’t so it would still smelled like him; and entered her kitchen to prepare lunch.
Rick grabbed her from behind and nibbled her ear, which was unfair because he could do that without fear of a fanny fanning. However, she said nothing because Rick didn’t like the word “unfair”, and often vented his despise on her flank. If Professor Susan Willingham knew the extent to which Kennedy would sell out for the love of a male slave, The Teach never would have awarded the girl an A+ in Women’s Studies. No greater traitor to womankind was Kennedy.
Ah screw ‘em.
Still, he had to be punished for punishing her, so Kennedy pretended to ignore him by leafing through the Yellow Pages.
‘Whatcha doing?’ He liked to ask obvious questions.
‘Preparing lunch. What do you think? Domino’s Pizza or should we support local mom and pop business? The Inzio’s are pretty good.’
‘Female, that refrigerator is stocked. It’s too full. We should use our food before it rots. Cook something. We’ll cook together. You know: bond and crap.’ The nibbling grew a little sharper as his voice grew a little deeper and southern.
‘Why?’ Every hair on her neck felt his breath. It interfered with thinking, as it was calculated to. Kennedy was in danger of unlearning literacy.
‘All the dishes and pots are dirty.’
Rick stopped nibbling. Kennedy, free from the intoxication, ignored this and got back to cooking. She decided to support local business, and reached for the wall phone. Very gently, like the sensitive slave lover with arms the size of tree branches he was, Rick seized her hand, forcing her to put the phone back on its cradle, then turned her around so he could loom down on her by two feet of extra bone length, a craven yet effective method of argument, she thought. Rick had a natural Will to Power. It made Kennedy cling to her mere Will to Life.
‘I thought you said you finished all your chores.’ It was not a question.
Rick’s eyes were brown but somehow not soft. ‘Wouldn’t cleaning dishes be a chore?’ He, with surgeon’s precision, moved some rogue strands of blond hair out of his little wife’s eyes. Now she could not hide, thus she had to attack.
‘I meant I finished all exigent chores. Give me my hand back so I can provide my husband with a fine Italian meal.’ He looked down on her, an infinitely patient smile on his face, and serious brown eyes. He did not release her hand.
‘Jennifer Felicity nee Kruger Thompson, do you want to work or be a house frau?’
‘I told you when I graduated,’ she said, poking him in his chest just above her eye level. ‘I’m a house fraulein. Frau makes me sound dumpy. Come on! I’ll do the dishes tomorrow. Dishes are not exigent like a fire. Or shoe sale.’
‘Tell that to the roaches.’ Kennedy shivered. ‘Hey, we’re not far from swampland. Roaches will come and they will breed and lay eggs in every crevice and—‘
‘Stop!’ She hugged her husband for strength.
‘Come on.’ Rick put his arm on Kennedy’s lower back to lead her to what she assumed would be make-up sex. His hand through his shirt she wore on her lower back had the effect of a mommy cat biting and lifting the back of her kitten’s neck—paralysis. Kennedy’s mind still worked, and knowing her ability to impose her will on the world was checked and mated, she so resigned herself to pleasure that would make the hedonists of yore lime green with envy, the lowest of all emotions, the unmoved mover of all “evil”, though Kennedy preferred the word “un-actualized obsessive thought patterns” over "evil" as it had fewer connotations for the tenured popinjays to carp on and cavil.
Oh Pleasure!, my husband tosses me to you.
Instead, he stopped short in the living room, moved the armless antique chair she grew less and less fond of, and removed his belt.
‘Hey! I already got a spanking today. You can’t just—‘
‘Spankings are not vitamins, sweat heart. They’re taken as needed.’ He sat down, doubled over his leather weapon of sting, and waited. She met his eyes at level with a casual face to hide the excitement – that belt stung like Death onto Dying, her reserves of power to appeal and hide behind an Active Intellect had been wasted on growing inedible plants, and her bottom was already injured to boot. Her blood pressure warred against her mind. Her center did not hold.
Attack sentiment, the untermenschs’ weakness, the tale to wag the dog, the opium of the masses. ‘Well—‘ she mewled. ‘You know, eating pizza with our hands from the box, no plates, would be nostalgia for my college days. Wouldn’t that be fun?’
‘Your college days ended two weeks ago. You’re twenty-five. That’s not nostalgia. That’s immaturity. A few years from now we’ll be nostalgic and eat pizza without plates and drink wine from a box out of paper cups. Agreed?’ Kennedy had no answer. ‘Come on. Over my knee and get your spanking like a good girl.’ Grrr… he could make it a little more melodramatic to sooth her ego. Suffering a whipping, for example, is about one whole universe more dignified than taking a spanking.
‘Yes, sir.’ More unpleasantness. She could get a job, she knew. She even rejected offers, and not just from the local collage -- but damn it, she didn’t want a job. She liked to read in her pajamas at . She liked napping after sending her husband-slave off to gather resources for her suburban castle. She liked being worshiped for herself, not her status. But the fuckers at the bank had to complicate things. Stupid materialists…
Thus, her husband was her lord and master in the transient brutish world by Marxist economic reality and student loans. At least it was contract theory and not by divine right. Rawls and Locke were cold comfort against Hobbes, but there were none better. She bent over his knee, lifted his shirt she wore to bare her twenty-five year old ass (already red and sore), and grasped the chair’s legs with both hands with her tightest clasp. She set her face. ‘Ready for my re-education, sir.’
Play it cool, girl, that’s how you’ll get through this. Be cool, calm, and collected.
SWISH/ZING SWISH/ZING SWISH/ZING
Two months before the current leathering, Kennedy found herself in a similar position, facing the same belt with the same butt. She lost that fight too. The memory was fuzzy, but it had something to do with her duel responsibility of turning her thesis in on time and playing XBox. She tried to explain to her recently married lord and master that spankings, even disciplinary ones, should merely be symbolic (i.e., an act of submission and mea culpa and “all that noise”). Humiliation and token pain were all that was needed to admit her inferior position in the household’s decision making process. Thus, light smacking was all that was needed to complete the ritual of spousal correction.
Rick, an engineer, rejected the smart talk nonsense. If Rick were an architect, Kennedy mused while popping and seizing during her punishment, she’d enjoy the ancient art of sitting more.
Kennedy didn’t like to make noise during her punishments, but this particular utilization of a husband’s pants lifter forced the young wife to make a real effort to keep quite. She bit her lip and grimaced and bounced her soft back-end and curled her fingers -- but she didn’t make a sound. She didn’t want the big oaf, patient and loving and giving as he was, to have the satisfaction. And of course he would enjoy her squeals. He was a male, and a male, by nature, enjoys the triumph of domination. He didn’t get drunk and beat her. Kennedy would have killed him long ago if he were that sort. He only spanked her for avoidable cause, and though he was thorough with the scorching of her bottom meat, he never approached within a million miles anything anyone with any sense would call a beating – he was a good man, not merely a male. And a good man slave at that, but that didn’t mean she had to give him pleasure equal to her suffering.
The spankings stung like the very dickens, and should therefore not be reinforced by positive feedback (yelling, begging, and mewling) in accords of the laws of behaviorism.
Normally she simply kept her eyes straight and accepted the pain, but this time, after lick twenty, with no end in sight, she went with the Buddhists and concentrated on her breathing and the nothingness of bliss and wringing her toes while her body bounced and her teeth clinched to a grand total of thirty-nine zingers. Forty save one. She thought it a bit Biblical, but spare the rod…
Five seconds went by without a zap of pain. Breathing hard, she took in reality and realized that her right hand had grabbed Rick’s ankle. She looked at her hand in amazement, and sniffed. Why should she seek support from her punisher? She made a mental note to write that question down later.
Kennedy stood up and rubbed herself, across her back the back of her husband’s shirt rising and falling (like Chinese yin/yang theory of empire) with the petulant act of self-amelioration. She rubbed deep. There was no point hiding it. Rick, still sitting, looped his belt for it’s secondary duty of keeping his pants up. Kennedy looked down at her feet and focused her mind on her blazing rump, making faces of annoyance as her fingers attempted to heal her wounds—but Kennedy was no Hollywood Scientologist, so her cheeks continued to sting.
She wasn’t mad. She knew she should be, but at the same time, she knew she shouldn’t. It was a practical reality that somebody had to be in charge. This was not a nation of free peoples: it was a home that needed harmony. Thus, someone needed to be corrected and accept punishment with grace; as a loving act. Otherwise there would be civil war, and nobody wins a civil war.
But one sacred and unspankable right was the freedom of speech. Kennedy knew Rick would die before spanking her for speaking her mind. He would not live in such a world.
‘I admit I should have washed the dishes and that I was childish in my defense, and I deserved a spanking, but that was a bit rough.’
‘I’ve given you harder. Much hard. And I noticed you didn’t make a sound.’ Rick said as he stood up and hugged her. Ha! She knew stoicism would eat at him.
‘I shouldn’t be punished more because I’m tough as nails.’ Tough words aside, she buried herself into her man. ‘That belt hurts.’
‘Tough guy, you decide if you’re spanked, and you decide how hard. A brat spanks a brat.’ Oh the philosopher was he! ‘Now go do the dishes. I have errands to run. We’ll eat a late lunch. Then we’ll enjoy the day together. We’ll hold off your third spanking till bedtime.’
‘Five minutes with my hand for the five shirts you didn’t iron.’
‘Oh damn it!’
Finger in the face. ‘My girl doesn’t curse.’
‘No, sir. Your girl doesn’t curse.’ Cursing wasn’t really speech, as it was just barking out emotion without thought or reason, but damn it, Kennedy thought: I like cursing.
Kennedy, bearer of all of mankind’s wisdom, wore only an apron as she washed the dishes. The air was cool on her back, backside, and legs, which is just what she needed. Also she felt like shocking her husband when he got home.
‘So we both got tanned today.’
‘Ai! Jesus, Jessica! I’m too young to have an heart attack!’
‘But not too old for a spanking it would seem.’ Jessica, in her red two piece bathing suit, closed the sliding door and took a seat at the island desk in the kitchen. She eased herself down on the stool like she’d gotten the lecture by leather Kennedy got. Kennedy could still feel the stripes across her bottom without the use of her hands. She took some satisfaction that the sun god Ra spanked Jessica as well, in His own way, and over the entirety of Jessica’s body.
However, Kennedy doubted the giant fusion reaction was as thorough as Rick.
‘That is none of your…’
‘Please! I saw the whole thing. The first rule of kinky fun is to close the drapes, you sexpot. Say, he really worked you over. Look at that sizzling rump roast!’
‘It wasn’t kinky fun. He disciplined his wife, that’s all. Someday, when you marry, you’ll understand---‘
Jessica was only three years older than Kennedy. They shared that special relationship that few knew. On the one hand, they didn’t like each other and openly professed it. On the other hand, they were the same generation and raised in sophisticated Blue States finding themselves freshly planted in an alien, small southern town; and they were neighbors, so they didn’t have much choice but be completely open with each other. Kennedy had never intended to divulge her humiliating matrimonial regime, but she shrugged the disclosure off. Time moved forward, and no truth, no matter how great and embarrassing, made public, can harm a soul as much as a the smallest lie. Kennedy made a note in her mind to write that down later. And improve the wording.
Besides, it’s better to get spanked raw by a Rick than to not have a Rick, so Kennedy considered herself ahead and Jessica behind, even if Kennedy’s behind throbbed. Hell, she thought. What good is having a woman’s body if it didn’t throb? Her mind worked on a treaties…
‘Anyway, what’s with you? You’re fidgeting like I would if I sat down, which I admit I wont be doing for a couple of days, so don’t joke about it.’
‘Sunburn. I’m not here for your charming discourse. I’m not even here to make fun of you for getting spanked like a bad little girl fifty years ago, though I am enjoying it. Look at those cute red cheeks!’
‘Stop it, or I’ll poison one of your trees.’
‘Ohhhh… I’d just have to tell your daddy, oops I mean husband, and he’d take you in hand and… hey, do you think he’d let me watch? You know, watch you get the tanning you deserve? In the same room, not through your windows like I normally do while drinking a martini. After all, it’s my tree you killed. Well, half of the tree belongs to the bank. That’d be fun: the whole committee of old male bankers watching you get spanked for a devaluation of immovable property. Rick will stop and they’ll check their actuaries and say, “Hmmm… thirty-two minutes and twelve seconds corner time should even the account.”’
Kennedy washed dishes and spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Presumably you are here for a reason…’ “You goddamn bloodsucking lawyer” she left that last out as implied. ‘I know you envy my ass. Yours is tight, sure, but we’re living in a J Lo era, so your little
‘Please. I walk into a bar, point the guy of my whimsy, and that’s it.’ Kennedy would have mocked her boasting, but, sadly, she had seen Jessica do that very thing a month ago when Rick forced her to have a Girls Night Out with the neighborhood women. Rick had a political bent. ‘Like I said, we both got tanned today. There’s a scorched spot on my back I can’t reach. Be a dear?’ Jessica held up a can of cream. Probably made from the eyes of baby seals or Carebears.
Kennedy removed her plastic gloves with a flop of water, kept her back to her foe, folded her arms, and glared out the window over her sink.
‘No. I refuse. A line must be drawn.’
‘Pretty please?’ The lawyer batted her eyes, but Kennedy refused to see those eyes like a sap jury was forced to. ‘OK! What do you want?’
‘I want you to have sympathy for my recent bout with my husband’s belt. And I want it to be good.’
Jessica sighed. She stood up, shook herself loose, and breathed in and out heavy. Then exploded.
‘Oh, poor baby!’ Jessica rushed like Kennedy was her only child that just fell off a bike. She fell to her knees and inspected the boo-boo. ‘Let me see. Ohhhhhh… men are such brutes! We’re you terribly naughty?’
‘Yes. Well, not terribly naughty. Sufficiently naughty.’
‘Perhaps you did need a little tap on the rear; I suppose we farer sex all do from time to time. But this is cruel and unusual!’ Jessica padded Kennedy’s roasted rump as if to heal it like a scientologist—but she wasn’t an
‘I was thinking the same thing.’ Kennedy looked over her shoulder at Jessica, on her knees, gleefully making a fool of herself, going on and on. Kennedy didn’t like her, but damn it, you have to respect a good actress. Besides, Jessica was funny, and funny goes a long way. ‘Since you seem to like living in the medieval ages, perhaps we should call a midwife? Or snake charmer?’
‘Stop, stop. Stop before I like you. Turn around.’
Triumphant, Jessica bounced to her feet and bent over the kitchen island. The redhead’s lithe body was, indeed, red. She was covered in cream except for that damned spot on the back your own hands can’t reach, necessitating the hands of another. That spot is likely the strongest agent keeping society together.
Life without society—solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, short, and annoying because that spot on the center of the human back above and below the reach of our hands itches.
Kennedy got the cream and got to work while Jessica twaddled on. ‘Must be nice, only getting burned where you can reach. What cold cream do you use after you compliantly bend over as I do now but for you--Hey,’ an happy idea flew into the vixen’s head. She tapped the structure she leaned over. ‘Rick ever bend you over this… what is this thing I’m over called?’
‘It’s a kitchen island. It separates the kitchen from the living room without interrupting the flow as a wall does; and yes, I’ve been spanked over it. Laugh it up.’
‘You must like getting spanked, it’s all you can think about. I was asking if Rick ever, you know, took you over it.’
I’ll get you, sophist lawyer, and your little rhetorical tricks, too!
‘That,’ Jessica screeched as Kennedy accidentally rubbed a burn too hard. Jessica bit her lip, cutting off the screech, and tensed, but kept her submissive position. ‘Is none of your business. And yes, five times. And counting. Hey, you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?’
‘What, that you make love in the kitchen? I think all couples do eventually.’
‘No! No. About, you know, how Rick, you know, is traditional.’
‘You mean that spanking Rick bares your spanking bottom for good spankings whenever you need a sound spanking? Spankspankspank. Bah. Who would I tell? You don't have any friends. Hey, thanks for the rub. You’d better get back to those dishes or poppa will take you to the woodshed again. And please, by all means, keep the drapes open. Watching your glutes bounce up and down is better than satellite TV. And free.’
‘Grrrrrrrr…..’ Kennedy reveled in negative thoughts for a few moments; however, negative thoughts were the cobbles used to construct the path to the Dark Side. Kennedy thought about how, should she ever get sun burned on the back, she need only snap her fingers, and her husband would rub her down and tell her how brilliant in mind and body she was while he did it. Jessica, the fool, had to beg her neighbor.
Kennedy was, though sore-of-behind, ahead.
Dishes done, Kennedy ironed her brutish husbands shirts in their bedroom. They smelled like him, so they offered a good distraction from her still searing backside and wounded pride. She did, every few minutes, give her cheeks a rub. ‘I understand, you’re hurt. Stop burning already!’ But they continued to burn. ‘You’re being excessive! I’ll behave, body, I’ll behave next time! Or run.’
She even ironed her man’s shirt that she dutifully lifted to accept her man’s butt-bruising brand of justice. So she disrobed and put on a purple g-string and one of her husband’s purple and gold college football T-shirts that ran halfway down her thigh. If she were big, just once, she’d spank him. Not out of revenge, not even to stop her spankings. The spankings worked. She’d rather get it over with than be lectured for hours, which is how the lovable Rick abused his wife before he acted like a big tough man and launched her over his knee for a good old fashion conflict resolution. Spankings hurt ass, but lectures suck ass, and sucking is ten times worse.
Not to mention guilt. It’s hard to feel guilty after a spanking.
But if she could spank him (just once!) maybe he’d know it really only took four or five licks to get the point across. Hell, even Jessica pretended to know that. Of course, then how would she know she was tough as nails? She might grow soft. Complacent. Un-actualized, content to ignore the lack of evidence of limits to her being. Stay in the cave with shadow puppets. Dull of mind, like a cow or Kafkaesque bureaucrat. ‘Hmmm… this is tricky.’
‘JFK! I’m home. Attend me!’
She squinted her eyes, glaring down the hallway to the living room. She could give him the cold shoulder, but then he could give her a the warm bottom. The brilliant thing about this kind of relationship is that it forces emotional engagement. She absolutely had to go in that kitchen, but she absolutely wanted to make him suffer. A little. Enough.
Damn it: a dilemma.
Kennedy had been a content 18th century wife, happily washing dishes with a throbbing behind until Jessica piqued her ire. Kennedy was fluent in French and German. Had read Kant and Heidegger and Descartes in their own language (except for Latin). She was strong of body, smart, and accomplished, yet she couldn’t think of a better way to keep tranquility in her home but bend over her huge husband’s knee and bite her lip for an embarrassing (and bare-ass-ing) spanking. It was so simple and time tested. The modern magazines were insipid. Women get spanked, men spank, and that’s how we all live together. It worked the other way around, of course, but Kennedy couldn’t be the boss in this world. The real world was vicious and constant, requiring a focus and resolve that Kennedy didn’t want or even understand. Rick did. He was a fortified tower in the face of the enemy, born by woman, and better than any wall constructed by men. Kennedy thought, again, that she needed Rick to reign.
But now Jessica knew! And Kennedy felt stupid!
But oh was a spanking a good way to get her husband in the mood. It didn’t do much for her sadly, but at least it got some of the clothes off.
But it was so freaking humiliating! And Jessica knew! This is insane! How can no world view make me happy, and yet I am?
‘Feminism wasn’t about men and women. It was about women and women, and women lost.’ Kennedy said it as a revelation, to herself, but would have to think it over before knowing what it meant. She needed to write that down, when she got a chance. ‘Wait… didn’t I need to write something else down? It had something to do with…. shit.’
Still, her husband had to be dealt with. It was a time for war.
‘I’m ironing. If I don’t finish ironing, I’ll get flogged to death by this tyrant troll king that thinks violence is a perfectly healthy form of expression. And Nietzschean ubermensch that he is, he obeys only his will, pronounced “vill”, taking vhatever he vants with no morality, no reason; just vill to power. I’m his slave, hamstrung by my own Enlightenment based ethics. I am
‘Female! Stop quoting A Clockwork Orange! The tyrant troll king beckons, and you shall heed!’ Rick used his highfalutin voice when he wanted to make her laugh. Tricky bastard. Wasn’t working this time. Nope, she told herself as she turned the iron off and padded to the kitchen. I will, she thought, do whatever he told me, and be passive-aggressive as a designated driver.
Kennedy got her mind right: No laughing. No smiling. Just obedience to my slave-boy lover. Mindless, selfless foot kissing with no backbone at all.
It will kill him.
She would have said ‘Yes, me Lord’ but she was being passive- aggressive, so she just said “I'm on my way.” She padded to the living room. ‘Oh.’ That armless chair again. She’d hoped that her dear husband would forget about the cruel third spanking for forgetting to iron his shirts, or at the very least give her hinie some time to heal. ‘Yes, Rick? Do you want something?’
She stood by the chair, for some reason next to the kitchen island instead of the middle of the room where he usually spanked her, pulled up her husband’s “GEAUX TIGERS!!” shirt, and awaited her fate. The belt? His hand? The brush? Something new and weird for his amusement, like knotted TV cables? He had said a five minute hand spanking, but she didn’t hold him to it. She put her mind to the idea that he could justly spank her anyway he wanted, anytime he wanted, for any effable reason, F-it. She must be a dull slave to cause her master pain. Then she’d get even, because he hated that crap. He has no defense, so she shall win.
How did she always get amazed at how big he was, she thought. Big shapely slab of iron. He sat down, a towel over his shoulder, and pulled her down. But he did it wrong. She ended up with her thighs on top of his, her bare butt hanging over the side where the cool air soothed. She clutched his chest on instinct. Had he forgotten how to punish? No, for him that’d be like forgetting how to golf. Was he going to spank her lap? No! That would be an evil… un-actualized.
Rick reached over the wife sitting confused on his lap, and put an Inzio box of pizza on her lap. He opened it. Pepperoni, extra sauce, and pineapple. Rick hated pineapple on his pizza. Kennedy, however, adored it. Rick, with his big hard cruel hands, pulled two slices out, closed the box, and used the top as a plate even though his wife slaved to clean all the dishes in his hearth.
He picked up one piece, blew on it, and offered his female a bite.
Kennedy glared at him, but she wasn’t as good an actress as Jessica. She poked him in the chest thrice.
‘I don’t want to be fair. I want to win.’
Kennedy bit into the offered pizza, and schemed her revenge. He’d still spank her, and properly whack some noise loose from her because five minutes meant one whole a hellacious amount of spanking, and yeah he probably would have a lot of fun smacking his wife’s butt, but after the punishment, ohmanafter, she’d grind him into jelly with sex. He’d won this battle. Decisively. But the war wasn’t over. She’d break him in bed. Yeah that would show him.
Go ahead, Kennedy thought. Feed me and make me feel special and force me to laugh and be happy because you’re so freaking nice to me I have no defense. The worm will sometime turn, and I’ll have my revenge.
‘What about napkins?’ Kennedy had sauce on her thumb.
‘I’m you napkin. Cleaning up your messes.’ Rick mouthed her thumb, and sucked and made noises like a hungry dog, and Kennedy laughed so loud she would have fallen to the floor if Rick didn’t hold her up.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
I Scream, You Scream, We all Scream for Black Mail
Evelyn and I dove eyed each other on the sly across the abyss of cafeteria tables while enjoying our second scoop of ice cream. The cafeteria was massive, as big as the gym, but I was pretty good at filtering the cacophony of excited surprise two scoop of ice cream girl talk, silver ware clinks, and Snuggle Bunny leers.
Ash went on and on about the old man she conned into thinking she was a boy. He was a tank repairman vet in the War of Reduction, claimed to have killed an armed DDU spy with a broken whiskey bottle in a Texan tourist trap cavern while millions of screaming bats swarmed around them, polished his medals everyday, knew inside and out every engine every devised by man, and despised the slightest bit of government intrusion except for DDU killing and “interstate” roads to the point that he donated all his social “lazy old fart” subsidies to a nonprofit organization that monthly judges and awards teenagers for quality street graffiti. He keeps his Vet Pay, “cuzz I earned my Commie killing wages!” Of course the DDU isn’t precisely communist, but some people find it simpler to lump all “smart talk bullshit” into one convenient word.
The two solitary wolves worked all day. They broke fast and lunched and dined, but the rest of the time they worked. He fixed parts on his worktable where he could use a scope to augment his fading eyes on broken gears, and Ash would then install the fixed dingus while the old man fixed something else. Symbiosis between an old wolf and a young wolf. At night they would light a fire, crack a few beers, and the old man would talk on and on about history and his personal adventures as a younger man, and his wife ten years gone who was the only thing on the planet that ever scared him; all the while Ash sat Indian style and piqued him on.
I listened, intently even, but mostly I plotted. It was the most tricky operation I’d ever schemed. My black and blue bottom already smarted, and if I didn’t play it right it would smart a whole lot more. Hell, even if I planned and played it just right, just turn on a dime right, I could still catch it bad. My tummy begrudged the extra chocolate I gave it, but I wasn’t in the mood to listen to reason.
My roommate Lauren separates her food, by each food group, into 90% and 10% portions. The 90% she eats like a sane person would. The 10% she saves for last, as that was the portion she set aside for Dr. Featherstone, her teddy bear. She ate the bit of meat and vegetable and fruit and ice cream and extra portion of ice cream as a surrogate for Dr. Featherstone. In confinement people will find rituals to add purpose to life, no matter how Martian. Watching Lauren relaxed me, and I needed relaxing.
Lauren, apathetic to the conversation, still detected a lapse in communication, and did her civic duty to propose a topic.
‘Coach Van Brown,’ Lauren began as she scooped up some of Dr. Featherstone’s steamed broccoli, ‘Is in the kitchen, overcooking the broccoli.’
Senator Gail, gingerly sitting as I did, poked her fork at the center of the girl palaver. ‘She’s practicing. I heard she finally got missionary work.’
‘So?’ I said, absently.
‘An expedition to an ice belt mining base around Venus needs a cook, not a coach. So she’s been in that kitchen learning how to cook everyday and night with her IPod blaring 80’s inspirational pop music so loud you can hear it through the earphones five feet away. Even has Alexia subbing all her classes. I’ve been catching it pretty regular from her, but even I’m happy for the break. Alexia is a more verbal coach than Coach. She licks me so often I’m more comfortable getting her strap than running the mile in six minutes to get Coach’s paddle for not making five. It’s sad though. Every time Coach sees one of us she has to fight back tears. I walked in on her in the kitchen to get her to sign some papers, felt embarrassed at watching a grown woman sniffle like that, then had to go back in because she forgot an initial and that just broke her. I’ve never seen a victim of her paddle cry like that, and I’ve seen plenty of brave souls assume the position. It’s hard not to look at bravery.’
I had it.
Snap snappity snapsnapsnap.
I snapped my fingers. Everyone looked at me.
‘Er… I was trying to remember my high school locker combination.’
I don’t think they believed me.
* * *
The bulletin board was Matron’s only chance to catch me. As expected, Matron had a goonlet casually stationed at the bulletin board at all hours. That was the bottle neck. I had to get my terrorist demands on there free and clear. I waited for the bedtime rush, but knew perfectly well that Killroy (I hate to be banal, but I think she actually did kill a guy named
My time in line, I made to put mine up, thought twice, and showed her the notice calling for people to join a book club to the toothpick chewing flunky. ‘Is this eye catching?’
‘Sure.’ She chewed on her toothpick, not reading much herself except the Riot Act.
‘You sure? Cuzz I thought the Col de Mort symbol might be a little...’
‘Tack it, Archer, you’re holding up the line.’ She was from
When I have to wait I feel like my heart is going to break my ribcage, fly out, and break the ribcage of anybody standing in front of me; but my trick is to pretend that I’m a really cool person with lots of patience. I turned it on. I had to wait twenty minutes before acting, and after only twenty minutes my trick worked. I need a new trick.
Killroy was still there, on her seventh cigarette substitute based on the toothpick detritus around her feet. She eyed me as I approached the bulletin board with a new sheet of paper.
‘You’ve got a lot to say today, Archer.’ Meaning, ‘You can say it or you can scream it, so just fess up.’ She fingered her ruler. It was a vicious plastic number. It and my fanny knew each other intimately.
‘I realized I have a conflicting poetry recital so I had to change the dates for the book club meetings.’
‘Give it here. I want to see if it catches my eyes.’ She took it and compared it to the tacked notice. They were the same except the meetings went from Wednesday, when I did and do indeed attend a poetry recital, to Thursday, when I stare at the wall and pretended to watch TV.
‘Do you like poetry?’ I smiled dumbly.
‘Like a stick in the eye. OK, Archer, tack it and be on your way.’ She’s going to make some lucky man a great murder victim.
This legerdemain would require more focus than I was capable of, so I just did it without thinking at all. You might need to read this several times. I pressed the new notice on the top of the board with my left palm, just to keep it out of the way, and removed the four tacks from the old notice with my right hand, dropping each tack into the cup of my right hand which also pressed against the old notice to keep it up. When I moved to remove the old notice, I squeezed my right hand until two tacks jabbed me.
The old notice dropped to the ground as I flung my right hand down, squeezing one tack into my palm to keep it in—at the same time, in shock, I slammed my left palm(which had dropped the new notice) over the message to Gregor I had sticky glued to the board by hiding it behind the old notice. I’d kept Gregor’s notice behind the old notice with a finger and some luck. Just to be clear, on the back of the old notice I shoved in Killroy’s face was the blackmail note for Gregor. I should be a super-spy.
Killroy couldn’t top laughing.
‘Poetry in motion, Archer!’
‘Ha ha.’ I looked at my palm to see the tack jabbed in nice and deep, but really I wanted Killroy to see it. She could stop laughing after all. Curling my left hand fingers around the sticky/stuck note to Gregor, I bit down on the tack, and counted to five. I didn’t look at Killroy, but I knew she looked at me. I yanked the tack out with my teeth, making a show of it, the act causing me to rip my left hand off the board with the note to Gregor, immediately slamming my palm back against the board on the left side of the board, sticking the note to Gregor on nice and good in a new spot, because damn did that hurt.
I shook it off and tacked up the new notice in the spot to replace the old. God help me Killroy looked a little impressed.
‘Evelyn said you were tougher than you looked. Tell ya what, I’m not even gonna whack you for the cursing. How’s that sound?’
‘Like Christmas. In
‘Alright you’ve had your freedom of speech. Get going this ain’t Broadway you know.’ I obeyed orders. You know me.
* * *
Let’s settle accounts. Do as a man of Free Association would have you do so he’ll go home, and all six shall be rendered to Caesar in the mail. Acknowledge agreement by ordering fifteen minutes extra hot water per girl for one night of showers. We need a wash.
My turn wasn’t over, and now came the tricky part. The trick is to get Free Range Agent Joel Taggart to stick around until we get hot showers, then convince him to ask Matron Gregor, yet again, to change back the essay topic, and not extend any body’s Reformation sentence by signing a binding penalty agreement on all girls who might get another four years (about eight girls)—these two real demands intermixed with a number of petty little demands about our comfort level so as not to draw attention to the respective asses of my crazy friend and Snuggle Bunny Par Excellent.
‘Free Range Agent Joel Taggart?’ Taggart sat in a guest room, looking over pictures of the South Fence. Was everybody in the world fascinated with the South Fence but me? I half expected to find Indiana Jones killing Nazis next horse riding class.
‘Danielle Archer. Should I stand up?’
‘No.’ I entered and closed the door. ‘The thing is this. The third accounts are not a big deal.’ His smile went from a smile to a not smile. I was reminded, at that moment, that the man could snap my neck like it were one of Killroy’s toothpicks. ‘In any case, you’ll never get them, because certain parties have them perfectly well hidden, absolutely, and unassailable, and also perfectly. And I don’t know where. At all.’ OK, I was nervous. ‘I want you to ask Gregor to do a number of things, after she announces an addition of fifteen minutes of hot water for night showers, and I’m pretty sure she’ll obey you. So, you get what you want, and I get what I want, and a lot of girls will be that extra bit clean. Yes, I understand I’m out on a limb, but there I am. So, what do you think?’
He stood up. I think he was only four inches taller than me. Didn’t feel like it at the moment, but it looked like it. I ignored my stomach and stood firm. Very firm. Firm as a leaf in the wind but nailed to the tree, which itself was suffering from severe rot.
‘Archer, this could be serious. Give me those accounts.’ I said nothing. ‘If they are, indeed, not a big deal, then I’ll give them back to you.’ I continued to scream nothing. ‘I rephrase. Give me those accounts, or I’ll make you give me those accounts.’
‘You can’t. Men can’t punish Reformed girls, and you can’t involve Gregor because, you know. Yeah. You’ll get what you want, so don’t be—‘
‘What I want is a certainty that justice is being done here, and I’ll get it, one way or the other. Come with me.’
Rats… well, so be it. I had two angles for two angels, and no big shot toady Fed was going to spoil it. Still… fear. I didn’t really know what he planned. I predicted a few dozen horrible things he could do to me, but I knew Praxis knew a few thousand horrible things. Following him down the halls, ignoring his iron ass, which was iron hard and perfect, I told myself that people in love are imbued with power beyond the body. I had to tell myself something.
He knocked on Snuggle Bunny’s door.
‘Yeah, I’m… Hello, sir.’ Snuggle Bunny wasn’t fully dressed, as she was missing a blouse and vest, though she had her bra on which I knew didn’t belong there and I’d have to accept the dirty duty to rip it off with my teeth after Taggart learned, the hard way, that Danny Archer couldn’t be broken. Again.
My bottom still hurt from Evelyn’s castigation. I inspected my rump in detail the next morning and learned that she was serious about me getting out on time because she really let me have it over that whole breaking and entering the Matron's office lapse in judgment of mine. She always let me have it, but this time she outdid herself--I think she loosened the fillings in my teeth. I had to sit on my legs with my swollen butt pivoted a half-inch above classroom wooden chairs, and I'd have to for a few days more at least. I didn't know if I was kinky. I know I saw her point of view, and I know she did it to get me out. I flirted with the idea of being mad at her for giving me the business, but that was too stupid even for me.
However, other acts were exactly stupid enough for me. My ostentatious bottom was on my mind, I only hoped it wasn’t on Taggart’s mind. Taggart shoved me into Snuggle Bunny’s room and shut the door. Shut and locked, and nevermore.
Taggart pointed as he spoke. ‘You. Take that desk, and place it in the middle of the room. You, place yourself over that desk, with your skirt up and underpants down.’ Underpants? We obeyed. We didn’t look at each other. We made the effort not to look at each other, but habit was our enemy. I leaned over, and Evelyn lifted my skirt and lowered my underpants. It was a loving act, or tell, depending on one’s position.
‘I see. I’ll turn you two against each other to take the advantage. If you force me.’ Taggart paced. ‘Gruber, you have trained in the cane? Hand it over.’ He looked at the devil stick way too long. Not in nostalgia, just to let my own fear build up. And it worked, but not well enough. He handed the savage weapon over to Evelyn, who took it with clinical professionalism.
Taggart put his hands on his knees and his face right in front of mine. His voice was a low husk and calm. ‘Archer, you know you’re going to talk. Sometimes, in the movies, heroes don’t talk. I love movies like that, and I suspect you do too. Myths are what we live by.’ For some reason Evelyn didn’t spank the Fed for ending a sentence with a preposition. Probably had something to do with her instinct for self-preservation. ‘We are guided by stars, but we don't go to them. And a smart girl like you knows stoicism isn’t the way the world works without me telling you. Everybody talks. I’m not a cop, Archer. I deal only with Federal issues, and this school is a Federal issue. I’m not bound by the fine and fair human rights laws of the
‘My bottom is getting cold. Do you know a way to warm it up?’ I did it. I said it calm and cool, without screaming or crying at all. I felt brilliant, I never felt that fantastic before, or thrilled, even under Snuggle Bunny’s touch. I felt like chocolate perfection on Elvis’ guitar.
He turned his back in frustration, which allowed me to crack my calm and cool exterior for a few seconds. I was grateful for that.
With his back to me, he announced “One” in a firm, military voice. My brain was a little confused. Was he going to say, “One, I don’t want to do this; two, you don’t want me to do this, etc”, or was he going to-
Oh by Heavens he means cane stroke one cane please Miss Gruber. Of course. And to think I was proud of my crossword puzzle skills.
“Wow” zinged from ear to ear and back again. It had been a long time since I had the pleasure. That was a lot more painful than I remembered. The worst thing about my brilliant plan was that, after this caning, Snuggle Bunny was going to cane me again for breaking her desk which I now squeezed with the strength of four bears on performance enhancing drugs and half a can of Red Bull.
I had just resumed breathing when I heard “Two” and I screamed ‘Wait!’
Taggart whirled on me. ‘Yes?’
I looked behind me without moving my body. ‘Miss Gruber, I think a fly just landed on my rear end. Would you please shoo it away before giving me the first stroke of the cane?’ I turned to look right into Taggart’s hard face. ‘I love animals.’
He stood up and turned around. ‘Miss Gruber, continue until she talks.’ Good, let’s get it over with.
Each stroke was a flash. It’s hard to report, because my perfect memory wasn’t centered. I didn’t feel myself. I remember a few things. I kept my head forward and my palms on the desk. I trembled with shock after each cut, and I think my eyes flashed a bit. My eyes welled up, but I didn’t feel like crying. I wasn't tough, I just didn't feel like crying. I didn’t feel like I felt when I cried. I kept my wet eyes on the door knob and shook every few seconds. Around eight my head bobbed with each stroke, more from the force than from the pain. Around twelve it didn’t even occur to me that I could stop the strokes. I forgot why they beat me. I felt that it was simply my lot to be hurt and humiliated, spanked again and again, no matter what I thought or did, and thus it would be pointless to feel sorry for myself. My skirt was always up, and I always bent over and took pain instead of taking pain in combat. The whole time I felt obsessed with that door knob, what it opened, where it led, and what kind of world I would enter when everybody stopped hurting me all the time. The confusion burned me. I didn't understand it. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.
I couldn’t believe I broke!
Then it occurred to me that I didn’t say it. I didn’t break. Confused, by stomach blissfully untwisted, I looked up at the man from Praxis. I think he had said it.
‘You’re really not going to tell me, are you?’
Something missing in me was just installed. I didn’t even know I was missing it, as the loss pained me for so long my body and mind had numbed. He had spoken to me is if I were, truly, an equal human, and not some silly girl in a skirt. I was a silly girl in a skirt with underpants around her ankles, and he was serious and powerful, but that’s not it. It’s that I was also a human, a free one, even if trapped and spanked; free because I was raised that way by my parents, and you can’t talk to such a person like a toddler. Even if she is silly and irresponsible, and always planned to be. I add, by the way, that mission accomplished. I’m still pretty silly and… well, I’ll get to that later.
I couldn’t answer him. I felt I’d choke if I didn’t concentrate on my breathing, which I brought down from long gasps to chest-expanding heavy. I shook my head, scrunching my red and puffy face. I sniffed.
‘Archer, you go ahead with your scheme. I’ll even play along and make your requests to your Matron. Give them to me tomorrow, but not in writing. I’ve searched every room in Southdown and I haven’t found what I’m looking for. But I’m going to find out every single secret this place harbors. You know why?’ I didn’t move, too tired, but he knelt and put his all too serious face into mine. I shook my head. ‘Because they exist, and if something exists, it can be found. Either this one secret is in plain view or there is a space I don’t know about; that doesn’t matter in the end. I’ll find it. Those accounts only describe the secret, be it caloric intake for some diet, stacks of money, or bags of drugs, or racks of guns, or cages full of exotic animals: or any ridiculous nonsense. I. Don’t. Care. That’s either nobody’s business except the owner, or the prosecutor’s job. Something in Southdown is not honest and I’m going to find it. I promise you that. I'm not giving up on that cane. It'll work, you'll talk, in a day or a week. And there are worse things. Now sleep on it, and think nice and hard about how you want me to find out: with or without your help. I have great discretion, and I think you’re a good person, but I’m not God, and the law’s the law.’ Neither one of us moved for a minute, except for me breathing of course. I’m not sure if he breathed everyday. Then he stood up.
‘Miss Gruber, you did very well. It wasn’t a pleasure to put you through it, but it’s my experience that the unpleasant can be profitable if dealt with dignity and patience afterwards.’ Boy, I sure hope that was true, because with my luck I’d get rich.
I heard the door with the knob open, then as they so often do, close. My body suffered the famous runners high. Endorphins they tell me. Well, that’s what Coach tells me after I report a Greek victory at
Endorphins and feelings of bliss aside, my ass hurt as bad as it ever had, and every muscle in my body felt like I’d been water skiing all day over
‘Well? Comfort me!’
Evelyn approached, and could it be but by her little Grinch heart she looked meek.
‘I didn’t know… I thought you might be…’
‘Shut up and hug me, stupid.’ She did, and most of the world’s problems disappeared into a memory hole. She rocked me a bit and rubbed my head and hushed me until my wet eyes really did feel like they might cry.
‘You’re going to have to tell me what that was about you know.’
‘I know, I know.’ And then they came. Tears in abundance. ‘I can’t tell you now. I just, I just, I just can’t! I will tell you, and soon. I swear, I promise I will; and if you want to punish me then I wont hold it against you at all. I’ll kiss the brush after. But it isn’t bad. It isn’t… the normal bad things I do. It’s not really bad, I swear, just give me a few days and I’ll explain every… every single stupid thing I’ve ever done and then I can, you can, we can…’
‘Shut up, stupid.’
Evelyn rubbed the bottom I didn’t have the grit to. I tensed and hugged her to cause pain, but she kept on rubbing until the rubbing felt good. Then she kissed my neck until I didn’t care about anything. Boy, I tell yah, she’s a strict one.
Monday, July 28, 2008
P.S. Never date Miami porn stars/scientologists. They are lamias and terrifying. They steal children, like gypsies, and they do it while wearing absurdly tight designer pants. Formidable. Most formidable. Be smart.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
I came across this survey in a file I filled out on myspace a time ago, back when I was a fool and on myspace. Just vanilla on myspace, no spanking, though I hinted here and there, as I am perverted and obsessive about it. I'm not making this up: a bunch of school friends decided (as in made a pact) to not email me, and to ignore my emails, until I got on myspace, as I was slowing down everyones communications. Bastards. After a few years I decided my dignity was more important than fellowship. No man is an island, entire of himself. Well, that's probably true. If so, then Pallidbust is a peninsula. Or perhaps an isthmus. Is there a word of an island in a lake or pond?
But I saved this survey because I needed to spell check it. Here is an inside look into the brain and dark sordid life of Pallidbust. Mothers, hide you babies. Husbands, hide your wives.
1. EVER BEEN GIVEN AN ENGAGEMENT RING?
No, but I have been given an onion ring. Ironically, it cost the giver two months salary, as he was homeless.
2. LONGEST RELATIONSHIP?
Alcohol, 13 years. The only time we were ever apart was when I was in the hospital for three days. Liver failure or something, doctors talk too fast. Scrubs is quite accurate.
3. LAST GIFT YOU RECEIVED?
A scar from the bullet of a gun of a man I thought long dead. This isn't over, Garibaldi!!!
4. EVER DROPPED A CELL PHONE?
Can an "angry hurl" be considered a "drop"?
5. WHEN'S THE LAST TIME YOU WORKED OUT?
This afternoon, listening to NPR. Holding back my rage is like a 5K.
6. THING(S) YOU SPEND A LOT OF MONEY ON?
Porn. And Bibles. I have this compulsion with buying Bibles. And porn.
7. LAST FOOD YOU ATE?
I can tell you the last thing I was hungry for: justice
8. FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX?
Her breast size, unless she's not facing me or a mirror is behind her, in which case I notice her ass first. Or her smile, if it's really dark except for a light over her face.
9. ONE FAVORITE SONG?
"Turn to You" by the Go-Go's. Hey, stop laughing at me.... Screw you!
10. WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
Trapped near the inner circle of thought.
Is this a trick question? Ok.... I answer... 4?
12. CELL PHONE SERVICE PROVIDER:
13. FAVORITE MALL STORE:
Depends on the exits and where the mall security cop is... heh heh heh...
14. LONGEST JOB YOU HAD:
The only Job I know is the one in the Bible, and I don't know how tall he was. Who the Hell names their kid Job? Why not name him Sisyphus if you hate him so much?
15. DO YOU OWN A PAIR OF DICE?
No. I bet them and lost.
16. DO YOU PRANK CALL PEOPLE?:
I prank assault sometimes, when I'm bored and they appear old and weak.
17. LAST WEDDING YOU ATTENDED:
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, William Blake, because that poem has an open bar, dude!
18. FIRST FRIEND YOU'D CALL IF YOU WON THE LOTTERY:
If I won the lottery, my best friend would be an agent for a Swiss Bank whose name I don't yet know.
19. LAST TIME YOU SAW YOUR BEST FRIEND:
This question is a paradox, as I don't like to be around someone, and a friend is supposed to give you what you want, so my "best" friend would be the one who has left me the alone the longest, which would be Jimmy, but the only reason he hasn't pestered me for so long is because I killed him for breaking my Starscream Transformer action figure.... tricky.
20. FAVORITE FAST FOOD RESTAURANT:
Depends on the toy of the month.
21.BIGGEST LIE YOU HAVE EVER HEARD:
"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself"-FDR. Audacious fool, did they not have Animal Planet to terrorize people with flying sharks and giant spiders back then? A lot of things scare me. Step Ladders especially. Oh... well, I guess FDR didn't have to worry about step ladders like the rest of us. Oops!
23. WHERE'S YOUR FAVORITE PLACE TO EAT WITH FRIENDS?
In their beds of course. It's hard to drug a person into waking paralysis when they are awake.
24. CAN YOU COOK?
I can cook in a kitchen, but I can sizzle anywhere. yeah, baaaaabeeeeeeeeee.
25. WHAT CAR DO YOU DRIVE?:
The Burgundy October
26. BEST KISSER?
Though I am a righty, I think my left haymaker makes the best impact.
27. LAST TIME YOU CRIED?:
The time I saw that insurance commercial where Godzilla teaches his son, Godzooki, how to spew radioactive flame on Japanese people. I have father issues.
28. MOST DISLIKED FOODS:
Anything that has a good lawyer.
29. THING YOU LIKE MOST ABOUT YOURSELF:
Either my ability to make the little people around me feel important or my height.
30. THING YOU DISLIKE MOST ABOUT YOURSELF:
The half dead flutterings of my conscience.
32. LONGEST SHIFT YOU HAVE WORKED AT A JOB?:
I don't work, I divine.
33. FAVORITE MOVIE?
I don't know the title, but that Eastern European girl on the crossbar whipping post was very... gifted. Gifted AND talented.
34. CAN YOU SING?
Not for you, copper.
35. LAST CONCERT ATTENDED?
Concerts... the places where you can pay a dirty roadie to stand for three hours around dirty hippies and listen to someone play your own CDs. Sorry, my brain functions, so I don't attend concerts.
36. LAST KISS?
Would be the Kiss of Death, wouldn't you think? Unless you get unlucky and your county/parish coroner is a necrophiliac.
37. LAST MOVIE RENTED:
I'm sure it was a season of Scrubs. Er, I mean an artistic French film by... a French film maker who is now dead... yet celebrated by... The New Yorker?
38.ONE THING YOU NEVER LEAVE THE HOUSE WITHOUT:
Garibaldi's eyes burned into mine. This isn't over, Garibaldi!!
39. FAVORITE vacation spot
Either my bedroom or my living room, depending on how tired I am.
43. LAPTOP OR DESKTOP COMPUTER?:
Well it depends, doesn't it? For a computation and data storage machine, or as a weapon?
44. FAVORITE COMEDIAN?:
No BS, Brian Regan is the funniest human extant, and on 03/28/08, I saw him in my hometown. At the end of the show people winced out of the theater, holding their ribs, laughing and crying from the humor and the pain. The man is a genius. The call girl I took also thought he was funny. What? I had two tickets!
46. SLEEP WITH OR WITHOUT CLOTHES?
My kink is moody and unpredictable.
47. WHO SLEEPS WITH YOU EVERY NIGHT?:
My memories of Montenegro, so I don't get to sleep easy... and I don't sleep long. Damn you Garibaldi, this isn't over!!
48. DO LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS WORK?
I am so fucking tired of this Opraesque, fashion magazine "dilemma". Do you fucking love each other? Jesus... it's called phone sex and webcams, you drama queens.
49. HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU BEEN PULLED OVER BY THE POLICE?
Pulled over? As in, complied peacefully? Never.
50. PANCAKES OR FRENCH TOAST?
Depends on whom I'm eating them off. If she's tough enough, a nice steaming column of pancakes.
51. DO YOU LIKE COFFEE?:
I like coffee if it helps the waitress bring me my Diet Coke faster. And yes, waitress. I like to be waited on by the ladies.
52 HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR EGGS?
53. DO YOU BELIEVE IN ASTROLOGY?:
I believe it works on lonely drunk women.
54. LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?:
It wasn't a person, it was my student loan officer.
55. LAST PERSON ON YOUR MISSED CALL LIST?:
See Question 54.
56. WHAT WAS THE LAST TEXT MESSAGE YOU RECIEVED?:
SLO: WE WANT OUR $
58. NUMBER OF PILLOWS?:
Ahhhhhh.... I got nothing. This question isn't funny.
59. WHAT ARE YOU WEARING RIGHT NOW?:
A patina of shame.
60. PICK A LYRIC, ANY LYRIC:
Looking like a tramp/like a video vamp
little missa innocent/can I be ya man?
61. WHAT KIND OF JELLY DO YOU LIKE ON YOUR PB & J?
Who are PB and J? Is PB me, Pallidbust? I don't like any jelly on me. I would think the girl who is to lick it off should decide.
62. CAN YOU PLAY POOL?:
I can play like I can play pool. Can I get the balls in the holes? Yes, but with my hands, not those stick things.
63. CAN YOU SWIM?
Like running, I swim when chased.
64. FAVORITE ICE CREAM?:
Are they're many rappers named Ice Cream? I fear they will have to "cap" each other, because there can only be one MC Ice Cream.
65. DO YOU LIKE MAPS?
I'm not going to answer this question.
66. TELL ME A RANDOM FACT ABOUT YOURSELF:
I masturbate to pictures of people on my Myspace Friends List.
Every. Single. Day.
68. EVER ATTEND A THEME PARTY?:
Is "justice" at a criminal justice hearing a "theme"?
69. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SEASON
70. LAST TIME YOU LAUGHED AT SOMETHING STUPID?
Ahhhh... yes, the Democratic Party Primary.
71. WHAT TIME DID YOU WAKE UP THIS MORNING ?
I don't wake up. I stir when a hobbit steals some of treasure. Then I arise.
72. BEST THING ABOUT WINTER?:
Protesters whining about Global Warming loosing fingers.
73. LAST TIME A COP GAVE YOU A TICKET?:
Damn you, Garibaldi!!
75. NAME OF YOUR FIRST PET?:
The restraining order wont let me talk about her.
76. DO YOU THINK PIRATES ARE COOL OR OVERRATED?:
I don't know, let me consult MTV.
77. WHAT ARE YOU DOING THIS WEEKEND??
I'm guessing it involves my TV.
OK... I've come too far not to finish this damn thing, but this is a lame ass question.
79. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE:
Above the Law, so really I just want to continue.
85. ARE YOU ON A LAPTOP?:
No, I'm on a chair--HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
87. ARE YOU SMILING?:
No, nothing small and helpless is dying in my fists right now. I'm typing.
89. DO YOU WISH YOU COULD SEE ANYONE PARTICULAR RIGHT NOW?
90. IF YOU COULD GO ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD WHERE WOULD YOU GO?
Where everyone knows my name.... and owes me money.
92. ARE YOU IN HIGH SCHOOL?:
I look back on high school like Senator John McCain looks back on a former French colony in Southeast Asia.
93. DO YOU HAVE A CRUSH?:
I have a vice... crush is a verb I do with the vice when someone tries to love me. No matter how much they thought they loved me, the vice educated them all.
94. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE NAME?
Depends on the drunk and desperate woman with father issues at the bar.
95. WHAT COLOR IS YOUR BATHING SUIT?:
Don't have one--commando!!
96. DOES YOUR SCHOOL START IN AUGUST?:
I don't know when Shark Week is, but I'm there with an apple for teacher, sister.
97. DID YOU GO ON VACATION LAST MONTH?:
Yes, I went on a vacation--from innocence.
98. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ON A CRUISE?:
Sharks belong on my TV, not under my feet.
99. DO YOU HAVE A SISTER?
I'm white, so, are black women still my sister? Or Sista, as you would, if you will, as it where. If a guy tried to hurt a black woman, I'd kill him because I'm a big damn hero, so I think I should be able to call black women "sister", but I don't know the etiquette and protocol.
100. ARE YOU UPSTAIRS?:
Yes, I'm afraid the calls are coming FROM THE ATTIC!! GET OUT OF THE HOUSE, hot young BABYSITTER!! Squad cars are on the way, but GET OUT OF THE HOUSE NOW!!
101. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN THE HOSPITAL?:
Yes. There was this one brilliant doctor, truly dedicated, who brought my "mark" back to life.
Rule Four: Always finish the job. The client wont pay God for Acts of God. The client pays for the kill.
102. WHAT JEWELRY ARE YOU WEARING?
Ring of ears. Italian ears. Just eleven, though. Not a complete set. Damn you, Garibaldi, this isn't over!!
103. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO AFTER THIS SURVEY?
Write a book! Or read a book... or download porn.