Lately, my brain has been a frat party fruitpunch. Stir it up, and the booze-soaked chunks rise to the surface, frought with superficial inspiration. And you, as readers of my brain, are my hapless coeds.

You've been warned.

Ben is no longer estranged, by the by. Does that make him restranged?

Ben was the lovechild of my once-hippie uncle, and his onc-hippie ex-wife.

My uncle was a hippie not in the "make love, not war" sense, but rather in the "run away from home to join a commune, leaving your mom to pray desperately to Saint Jude while you take lots of acid and have lots of sex in the mud" sense. (Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost souls.)

Therefore, my cousin Ben is a lovechild not in the "tralala let's fornicate by moonlight soas to create another human embodiment of our groovy love" sense, but rather in the "condoms are for the fucken PIGS ... oh no, you're knocked up ... oh no, we're suburban white kids from conservative Catholic families, so hey, let's get married for a little while, what was your name again" sense.

Lovechild.

Since being restranged, Ben has proven himself to be a really fun guy, and really cool, especially considering my uncle's unabashedly deadbeat status as a father and the crappy treatment Ben's received at the hands of much of our extended family. The biggest drawback to hanging out with him is his strong tendency to talk about the weaponry he's been taught to use in the Army Reserves. The guy loves his explosives. And his frat party love potions.

The son of hippies. An angry lad, my cousin Ben.

When I was really little, I used to ask my mom to strain my orange juice, because the pulp reminded me of boogers. It recently occurred to me what a princessy request that was. My mom would actually do it from time to time, too, if she was in a good mood. Wow. Thanks, Mom.

So, there's a post-it note not far from my face, with a phone number written on it. It's the cell number for "Brian," the guy who collects the body-fluid-samples from the free clinic downstairs. He comes up to say hello when he's in the building. Nice guy.

So yesterday he came into my office with an armload of vials full of blood and urine from homeless folks and welfare moms. (I think that's the shittiest thing I've said all month.) He then grabbed a pen and left me his phone number on the aforementioned post-it note. Then he gathered up his juices, winked, and left.

Nice guy, Brian, who does nice things. But he should rethink his flirting approach. Ew.

Hey!

My show opened this weekend, for a screaming crowd of 12. They loved it, however, and we've received a couple of random emails from audience members, raving about the show and promising to recommend it to their friends. This is wonderful, as these audience members were not people that any of us knew, making their compliments much more genuine.

I got very drunk with the cast on Friday, and we watched a video of a British comedy show, satirizing pedophilia. It was really offensive, and incredibly hilarious. I've never seen anything so completely wrong. I highly recommend it.

My friend Cy, a devout Christian, tried to watch with us, but started weeping for our souls and had to go home. It was actually quite touching, and not drama-queeny in the least. Who knew?

Anyway ... the show!

Chicago folk (I know you're out there, motherfuckers) email me for more info, and COME TO MY SHOW! It's affordable, it's good, and I promise you'll enjoy it. So far, audiences have been really enthusiastic, and I've heard more than once that it's unlike anything they've expected. Non-Chicagofolk are welcome to fly in as well. Yup, indeedy. You don't need to introduce yourself or anything, if you don't want to ... we just need an audience. Yup.

My new favorite word is "fucktard." I haven't said it out loud yet.

I've decided that I want two really ugly, mean-lookin' badass cats that I will name "Mousetard" and "Punkbunny." I think that's the greatest idea ever, and that I'm the greatest human who ever lived.

I feel ornery, and in need of gum.

Oh, I didn't tell you ... I had this dream recently that I had a baby daughter who was kidnapped by a motorcycle gang. (Space, I briefly mentioned it to you.) I was really distraught, but I went down to the lobby of my apartment building, where the gang was waiting, and we discussed it.

They said they would kill her unless I traded my life for hers, so I agreed to go with them to an undisclosed location so they could kill me. They released my dream-daughter and took me on the road. I spent the rest of the dream riding in the sidecar of a motorcycle, mentally preparing for death. It was surprisingly both calming and exhillerating.

Oh, shit... I was on the road... That means my baby girl was alone in my apartment. With my badass cats, Mousetard and Punkbunny. I'm a terrible mother.

I saw "Kill Bill" with some friends last night, which was nothing short of awesome. Like a graphic novel, panel by panel, with fantastic music.

And now, I bring you my "Kill Bill Spoiler-free Synopsis!"

She's dying? She's bleeding! She's awake! She's moving? Feet? Feet!

Music... Driving... Killing! Beating! Awesome beating. Swords, guns, knives, cars, chicks, asshole men, BEATING!

Nunchucks? NUNCHUCKS!! Big spiky ball on a chain!

*Blink* *Blink*

400 people dead!

Snow ... blue ... yellow... red ... beautiful, beautiful blood.

Liberal sprinkling of intriguing plot and wonderfully campy lines. Japanese.

THE END ... or, is it?

I've no doubt that if she was there, Cy would have wept for my soul. Great flick.

I love how in the movies, criminal masterminds never get caught for ANYTHING, though they have absolutely no regard for discretion. They wear brightly colored sexy jumpsuits with things like "Master Assasin Asskicker" emblazoned on the back, accessorize with flourescent, screaming baby skulls, and drive bright purple monster trucks named, like, "Master Assasin Asskickermobile" with vanity plates reading "I KILL PEOPLE FOR A LIVING" and bumper stickers reading "How's my driving? Tell on me and I'll kill you."

And then? Then? They drive at least 100 MPH on major highways with disembodied heads dangling from the rearview mirror and a trunkfull of writhing foreign ambassadors, weaving in and out of traffic in their Asskickermobiles, AND THEY NEVER GET PULLED OVER.

If I was a professional assassin, I might be really good at it. But I have no doubt that I'd get busted for, like, smuggling perishable items over the Canadian border.

Later, fucktards.

Seriously, come to my show.

I'll update more often.

Smooches.

Thank you for partaking of the punch. Now, go floss your teeth.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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