Martin Frankland, who are you? Why do you follow me? I have emerged from self deposed exile and general malaise to discover: I have a follower. (exclamation point, question mark). And yet, I haven't earned such adoration, seeing as I let a philanderer dramatically affect my conviction to offer snide and useless satirical mental meanderings. Gee Martin, I hope you're either really attractive, or fabulously entertaining. Either way, I'd probably do you.

i just realized i've been googled. what a bittersweet moment for someone who hung up the blogger hat at such a young age, because of pressure from a spouse feeling neglected. fast forward to now, and who has neglected whom?

Someday, Tallulah will rise from the ashes of laziness and bourgeousie to begin anew. A phoenix, feathers aflame, ass covered with ashes and other phoenix-y symbolism. And the world will roll their collective eyes in apathy and confusion.

back from guantanamo...

The Afterlife Automated Customer Service System - Tallulah

Thank you for calling The Afterlife Automated Customer Service System. To use this system, you must have a touch tone phone. To continue instructions in English, press one. Para las instrucciones en español, prensa dos.

1

Thank you. Please listen to the following menu options, as our menu has changed. If you worship: Allah, press one. Buddha, press two. Jesus AND God, press three. God only, press four. Shiva, press five. All other miscellaneous spirits, deities, or mystic forces, press six. Athiests, please hang up and dial 1-888-DED-NGON. To repeat this menu, press star.

3

Thank you. You have selected Jesus AND God. If this is correct, press the pound key.

#

Thank you. To apply for entry into Heaven, press one. To confess your sins, press two. To check on the status of a previous entry request, press three.

1

Thank you. Using the touch tone keypad, please enter your last name, followed by the pound key.

J-O-N-E-S#.

Thank you. “JONES” is a common last name. Please enter your first and middle names followed by the pound key.

R-H-O-N-D-A-M-A-R-G-A-R-E-T#.

Thank you. “RHONDA MARGARET JONES”. For verification purposes, please enter your Mother’s maiden name, followed by the pound key.

H-A-R-D-I-W-I-C-K#.

Thank you. HARDIWICK is not correct. Our records indicate you were adopted. Please enter your biological mother’s maiden name.

0

I’m sorry, zero is not a recognized entry. Please enter your biological mother’s maiden name followed by the pound key.

#

Thank you. You have pressed only the pound key. This shows you do not know how to follow directions, RHONDA MARGARET JONES. It’s not your fault, you inherited this gene from your biological mother. She was a slut. She got knocked up at 16 when Tommy Greenbaum promised her if she let him take off her panties, her acne would clear up. You were born in Brooklyn at the “St. Beneficio Home for Wanton, Loose Girls”. Your mother gave you to the Jones’, then moved to San Francisco to become a groupie for Journey. Her last name was O’Hara. Please enter your biological mother’s maiden name followed by the pound key.

O-H-A-R-A#

Thank you. Our records indicate that you have not been to Church in thirteen years. If this is true, press one. If this is false, press two. If you went on a couple of Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday Masses, but did not put money in the bowl, press three.

3

Thank you. You are a liar. You haven’t been to church since 1991, when U2 was in town and you heard a rumor Bono might show up at Mass. You haven’t touched a Bible in at least ten years, unless you count the time you rearranged your couch and needed something to prop up the corner with the broken leg. Shame on you. But then, your biological mother was a slut, so you can’t be blamed. Plus, you’re half Jewish. It’s to be expected. Our records indicate you have performed a good number of sins which remain unconfessed and unrepented. If you have had unmarried sex, same sex encounters, group sex, or fetish sex, press one. For marijuana, press two. For all other illegal drugs, press six to go straight to Hell. Just kidding. For voting Democrat, press three. Republican, press six to go straight to Hell. Not kidding. For coveting, theft, murder, and all other broken commandments, press four.

1

Thank you. Yes, RHONDA MARGARET JONES, we know all about you. You take after your biological mother. She was a slut. And don’t try and pass it off as an “experimental phase”. What you did with that couple from Wetumka was shameless. Jesus did not die so you can wear studded leather boy shorts and find clever new uses for marachino cherries.

######

Thank you. Hey! Don’t interrupt me! Do you want to get into Heaven or what? Why is it you people these days think you can just waltz right in and get valet parking at the pearly gates? Who the hell do you think you are, missy? Mother Fucking Theresa? Ha! Yours is most assuredly not a slam dunk. Take a number, sweet cheeks. There are a lot of other sinners in line ahead of you, RHONDA MARGARET JONES. How’s Purgatory sound, eh? An eternity in limbo, bunking with shoplifters, personal injury lawyers, and Paris Hilton, all waiting eons to have their cases reviewed?

000000000000000000000000000000000000

Thank you. You already tried that, dipshit. Didn’t I tell you not to interrupt? And on the seventh day God said, “Let there be light, because RHONDA MARGARET JONES sure ain't very bright”. Besides, all our Operators are currently helping other customers. The present hold time is fifty two years. To go straight to Hell, disconnect. To return to the main menu, press the star key. To really set me off, press zero again!

*

Thank you. Please listen to the following menu options, as our menu has changed. If you worship: Allah, press one. Buddha, press two. Jesus AND God, press three. God only, press four. Shiva, press five. All other miscellaneous spirits, deities, or mystic forces, press six. Athiests, please hang up and dial 1-888-DED-NGON. To repeat this menu, press star.

2

Thank you. You have selected Buddha. If this is correct, press the pound key.

#

Thank you. To apply for entry into Nirvana, press one. For Reincarnation, press two. To become one with the universe, press three…

The Ballad of Bartholomew Slater
-Tallulah

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. I hear it in my sleep. In the car, when I’m listening to the radio, just singing along to some melancholy song it creeps into my psyche. At work, in a meeting. On the treadmill, to the beat of my stride. Tick-tock. It didn’t used to be this way. But let’s go back to the beginning…

In my early twenties, I discovered weight-lifting. I had always been scrawny, lanky. Awkward. The proverbial 90lb weakling, with acne and bad hair. In the grocery store one day I was looking for a copy of PC World. Apparently the magazine stocker was confused, because where the technical mags were always neatly stacked, there was instead a whole row of self improvement. Between ‘Shape’ and ‘Prevention’, I spied 'Joe Weider’s Muscle and Fitness'. On the cover, a huge musclehead, tan and glowing, white teeth, with a full head of hair - flexing the monumental bicep of his right arm while his left arm bulged around an athletic but feminine nymphet in a microscopic bikini. “30 Days To Your Dream Physique!” screamed the tag line. His arm was bigger than my torso. And I sure as hell had never made eye contact with a woman like that, let alone put my arm around one. The closest I had come had been Melinda Lynn Donovan. Senior Skip Day at the arcade. She was drunk, but she let me kiss her on the mouth, with tongue, and I got to touch her left breast through her shirt. She didn’t call, and moved to Virginia for pre-college summer school three weeks later. The action had been grim ever since. Slightly embarrassed, I tucked the mag in my basket between the Van Camp’s Pork and Beans and the Claritin, and headed toward the cash registers.

I read the 30 day program from end to end. I designed a workout log on my computer. I filled the counter of my mom’s kitchen with huge plastic buckets of weight gainer powder, creatine, protein shakes, and cryptically named amino acids. I joined the gym across the street from the video game shop where I worked part time. It was the classic movie-version makeover. Over several months I put on twenty-five pounds. I had some pretty decent muscle definition going. I replaced my glasses with contacts, grew my hair out a bit. I wore tank tops and patterned lycra shorts, even in the winter. Eventually, I got a good job as an IT guy for a chain of banks. Chicks were starting to notice me. I finally lost my virginity to a girl who worked in the GNC where I got my supplements. She was pudgy, so I ditched her for the total babe who worked at the Mongolian barbeque next door. I was SO in control, for the first time in my life! I bought myself a little black book, and a pimped out Honda Civic. I’d go to bars after work with some of the guys from the gym or the bank. Once, I even picked a fight with a dweeby guy I knew from chess club back at school. He snuck out the back entrance before I could kick his ass, but it was the first time anyone had ever been afraid of me. I was on top of the world.

But twenty five pounds wasn’t enough. I wanted to see greater results, and the harder I worked out, the more it was obvious I had peaked. I had heard whispers of steroids around the gym, some of the guys had gone from average to huge in just a few months. Raul, one of the afternoon guys had even come in 2nd in a pre-Mr. Olympia pageant in Omaha. Raul was a total stud, and obviously had it going on. How bad could it really be? I thought. There didn’t seem to be any side effects. It’s not like they grew a second head. Or went postal. One afternoon, I pulled Raul aside and asked him what I could do to get bigger. We hid over by the military press machine, and he gave me the number to his “Doctor”. I made the call.

For five years, I purchased “treatments” from Doctor Harold. No last name, I paid in cash. I didn’t pay attention to the names of what he gave me. Sometimes he handed me pills, sometimes he injected stuff. I didn’t care. All I knew is I had gained forty more pounds. I had muscle on my muscles. I had to ditch my twin bunk and get a queen sized bed for my room in my Mom’s attic. Mom was so proud, she showed me off to everyone she could think of. She fussed over me, making sure my meals were prepared on time, that I had fresh fruit for my smoothies. She even sewed me some shirts with expanded collars to fit around my big traps. But then Doctor Harold stopped coming. In his place, a Russian guy named Mischka.

Mischka spoke horrible English. But he did manage to convey to us that Harold had fallen out of favor with the Ukranian Mafia, of which Mischka was a member by blood relation to mob boss Leonid Bravalov. Second cousin, on his father’s side. That left Mischka in charge of Harold’s distribution channels. Most of the gymrats were concerned with the personnel switch. They found some new connections across town. I couldn't care less who delivered the goods, as long as I stayed big, and completely ripped. The first time I got the pills in the little case - with each day of the week and the date carefully indicated – I thought Mischka had really gone big time. How professional! Those other guys didn't know what they were missing. And these tiny little things sure beat those horse pills and nasty shots Harold had unloaded on us. Each month, Mischka brought me a new little case. Each day I dutifully took my pill. For two years, things seemed normal. Then, there was “the month”.

The first time I realized something was wrong, I woke up in a foul mood. I’ve always been a really easy going guy, very quiet. This particular day, Mom burnt my toast. She tried to cover the charcoal with peanut butter and play it off like it wasn’t that dark. I don’t know what happened, but I lost it! I threw the toast across the kitchen, and in one sweeping motion, cleared the table of the breakfast fixings with my forearm. “I’ll be back when you can fix a goddamned decent breakfast!” I yelled. Mom cringed. I thought I saw tears in her eyes. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t recall when I had been so angry. I stormed upstairs. I went to the closet for a pair of khakis. I pulled them on, and what the hell? I couldn’t get them buttoned! I looked in the full length mirror at my waist. Did it seem a little less defined? I thought, hell – Mom must have washed these in hot water. I pulled out another pair. Crap! I couldn’t even pull these over my butt! Third pair, got them buttoned, but they were so strained, the pleats were stretched straight across. What was the deal? I ran to the bathroom and jumped on the scale. I never deviated from my ideal weight of 195 lbs. Today, 204. Crap! In the medicine chest, I looked at my upper torso. Were my pecs getting a little soft? I had heard about the bitch tits that some guys got with steroid use, but there was no way it could happen to me! It had to have been the popcorn I ate last night. Too much salt. I vowed to hit it hard in the gym after work. I even left an hour early to get a sauna in. I decided to take two of my pills just to get an edge. I’d catch up to the correct day of the week with next month’s packet.

The next day, worse mood. I woke up with the urge to kill. I was glad Mom was off with her mall-walking cronies, I wouldn’t have been able to face her. I ran to the closet and grabbed yesterday’s khakis. I put one leg in, then the next. Squeezed my eyes shut and pulled them up. I couldn’t get them past my hips. Same routine as yesterday, but I went through six pairs. Not a one could I get buttoned. Back to the scale. 212. I reviewed in my head what I had eaten yesterday. Burnt toast for breakfast. Half a grapefruit. But then I remembered the first craving. About 10 a.m. I had had the most ungodly desire for chocolate and tortilla chips. I had stopped by the 7 Eleven and got a large nachos with extra cheese, jalepenos, and a king-sized Kit Kat. Maybe a little unusual, but I had worked out so hard later! Of course, there was the package of Bugles with ranch dip and the 17 girl scout cookies in the mid afternoon. And Mom did leave that pan of garlic mashed potatoes and a loaf of French bread. Oh yeah. The Ben and Jerry’s chocolate chip cookie dough pint I ate while watching the Oxygen channel. Come to think of it, why the hell was I watching the Oxygen channel? I vowed today I would lose every last ounce of the weight that had packed on seemingly overnight. I picked out my best pair of nylon designer Nike sweats, hoping I could pass them off at work as casual chic.

The next day, I called in sick. And the day after that. And a third day, Friday. Not only had I gained three and a half more pounds, but in three days I had eaten a Costco sized bag of Peanut M & M’s, a box of Life cereal (dry), a pound and a half of brie, a jar of queen sized manzanilla olives, and had drunk a twelve pack of Cherry Coke, a liter of chocolate milk, and two bottles of Gallo Chardonnay. Something was definitely wrong. I ate the rest of my packet of pills, and put in a “911” call to Mischka’s pager. My gut was racked with wrenching pain. My pecs hurt to the touch. I had what I thought might be a migraine, though I had never experienced one. My lower back was on fire. I figured it was all the crazy food I had been obsessively stuffing my face with, or maybe just a flu bug. So I didn’t call the doctor. But I did finally get Mischka on the phone. He agreed to leave two months worth of pills at the front counter of the gym for me.

I stayed on the couch with Mom’s heating pad on my stomach through the weekend. I found myself mesmerized by Oprah, Days of Our Lives, and Regis and Kelly. I watched Home and Garden Television. I realized I really wanted to find a way to update Mom’s living room with funky but contemporary pieces, which I could pick up at a local flea market. I felt sad for the abused women from rural trailer parks I saw on Dr. Phil. I found myself writing furiously the ingredients for fabulous picnic recipes given by the Barefoot Contessa. I watched a Katharine Hepburn movie on AMC, and Steel Magnolias and Beaches back-to-back on TNT. I knew things were bad when a Hallmark commercial of an elderly Grandma, banished to a nursing home, receiving a lovely card from her middle aged daughter, brought me to tears. I turned down the TV, put on a Michael Bolton CD and had a good cry.

The next Monday, surprisingly, I was feeling better. Still a little blah, but I thought I could make it to work and maybe to the gym. I was able to find one pair of pants that fit – which gave me some hope that I had turned the page on whatever my ailment was.

I got halfway through my day at the bank when something horrible happened. I went to the men’s room to whiz. I stood at the urinal and pulled out my member. Business as usual. But then I looked down and almost fainted. There was blood. Lots of blood. All over my slacks. My boxers. All over my hand. It was coming from ME! How much blood could a person lose before shock set in? I felt instantly faint, and then had the good sense to slip into a stall before anyone else could see what had happened. I started to hyperventilate, but made myself concentrate. I untucked my shirt. I pulled off my jacket and tied it around my waist. Could I pass that off as "fashionable"? I unrolled at least eighteen feet of toilet paper into a huge wad, dipped it in the bowl and tried to clean the blood from my hand and the front of my pants. It just made a bigger mess. I peeked out under the stall for shoes, and when I was sure the room was empty - I made a run for it. I barreled down the back stairwell, and ran as fast as I could to my car – knocking down one of the interns from the loan dept. on my way. Brown cardboard folders and legal documents flew every direction, but I didn’t stop – just kept running, digging my keys out of my pockets and trying not to pass out. I jumped in the car, absently thinking about what the blood was going to do to my upholstery, while simultaneously considering which song to have played at my funeral – Amazing Grace or Pachelbel’s Canon? I jammed the key in the ignition and roared out of the garage at top speed, narrowly missing the Taco Truck on its way in for lunch rounds. I zoomed through traffic, the entire time wishing I had told my Mom I loved her that morning. I wanted to say sorry to the guy I tried to beat up in the bar, and the pudgy girl who I had dumped. I thought about Skippy, the miniature schnauzer I had when I was a kid. Would he be there in Heaven? Oh God, would I make it to Heaven? Were steroids a first class ticket to fire and brimstone? I screeched to a halt at Mercy General in the Emergency zone. I stumbled out of the driver’s door, into the lobby – where I passed out cold right in front of a group of Japanese tourists who were stranded when their bus driver went into cardiac arrest at an Arby’s. The last thing I remember were dozens of flash bulbs. I thought they were the white light… I began reaching for it. Skippy…is that you?

When I woke up, Mom was at my side, looking concerned, with a strained smile on her face. A doctor was repeating my name. "Bart? Bart!" I came to slowly, as the doctor rattled off a litany of medical terms. I was foggy, but I tried to process it. Anabolic Steroids. Okay, fair enough. Testicular atrophy. Oh boy. Breast Development. Shit. Growth of latent female organs. What the hell? Menstruation. Oh Christ! The list went on and on. The doctor had never seen a case like this. Had asked my Mom to bring in samples of what I was taking. She had brought in some of the empty little calendar cases she had found in my bedroom. Ortho-Try-Cyclen. Mischka had not just been selling me pills. He had been selling me THE Pill. Birth control. As in: made for women pills. Stupid Fucking Russian, couldn’t speak English well enough to know the difference between steroids and hormones. The doctor said the damage might be permanent. Oh great. I had turned myself into a girl.

Nine months later, and sure enough – I’ve been having a period pretty much every 28 days. I get real emotional about a week before. I get angry at the drop of a hat and I cry a lot. Strangely, even though I can't control it sometimes, I feel really in touch with my emotional side. I lost most of my muscle, so I joined a different gym. But I don’t have the same drive I used to have. Now I just do some light cardio, read People magazine, and talk to the other girls. I’ve made some really good friends. These women are so accepting. Sometimes we go out for a cocktail and pu-pu's after our workout. During “the week”, I get cramps and bleed like a stuck pig. At the hospital, they showed me how to use a maxi pad, since tampons obviously aren’t an option. My Mom buys feminine hygiene products and Midol for me. I quit my job at the bank and went to work for a caterer. I finally get to use those recipes from the Food Channel! It’s so rewarding to be creative. So all in all, things aren’t that bad.

But there is the one thing. I’m thirty two. Lately, I’ve been so terribly concerned that my biological clock is running out. I get all emotional when I see a small child. It's really time for me to settle down. My girlfriends and I talked it over. Tonight, I’m going to call Raul and ask him to be the father of my baby. Tick-tock.

A Business Opportunity
-Tallulah

She found the invitation in her inbox. Postcard style. On one side: Name - “LeAnne Johannsen” handwritten in neat script on the first line. Followed by: Date - “Wednesday, April 20”. Time – 7 p.m. An address and hostess name followed. An RSVP phone number and “Hope You’ll Come!”. On the front of the card, a tropical floral motif with the “PartyPhernalia” logo in a tasteful pastel font, directly in the center of the photo. LeAnne rolled her eyes. She hated these things – home party sales, yet she was pegged permanently as an “attender”. She only ever went as a favor to her closest friends, though she wondered why- if they were into something she so despised - she would have enough in common with them to remain close. And because LeAnne was a horrendously bad liar, she gritted her teeth and went to the ones she just couldn’t wriggle out of. So the hostess could fulfill her partygoer quota or sell enough of whatever the essential item du jour was to fill her own house for two and a half years, and LeAnne could in turn mark the trends in American retail by her credit card statements. Tupperware, overpriced candles, Pampered Chef, home “DAY-cor”, even lingerie and sex toys. Okay, LeAnne admitted to herself – she came away with a few latex products of her own at that one. But how many dildos can one single woman stash in her nightstand? She had been talked into makeovers (she was a “Winter”), toolsets with color coded pink and blue handles, and jewelry she could only pawn off on her mother as gifts. LeAnne suspected her mom had caught on after a year or two, when she began hinting that 14k gold gave her a rash. All of these treasures delivered by a savvy “consultant” and the eager hostess with the promise of free hors d’oeuvres and hopefully some alchoholic beverage to help soften up your pocketbook. Then came the rehearsed but oh-so-sincere pitch, “And If You All Have A Party, You Too Will Be Entitled To Terrific Savings Of 25% Off Special Products Based On The Total Retail Sales From Your Show. Host Two Parties Or A $400 Show And Save 50%! That’s DOUBLE The Savings On Our Wonderful Products!” The “consultant” inevitably had a soft southern drawl and was impeccably dressed in the latest Doctor’s Wife Chic. LeAnne had made a New Year’s resolution to stop attending these shindigs, but had been guilted into six of them since January 1st.

She sighed and looked more closely at the hostess’ name. Stephanie Gordon. That girl from Accounting she had met at the “ChildHaven Toy and Educational Product” party on Valentine’s Day. They were both a bit looped on box wine, and since neither of them actually had any children, were ignoring the schpiel and lamenting in the kitchen of the suburban tract home of the Assistant Vice President of Shipping and Receiving that they weren’t sure why they had even shown up. LeAnne hadn’t had a steady boyfriend in 16 months. Stephanie was an attractive lesbian whose last live-in had gone to Southern California to attend smokejumpers school and met a woman who taught fire science at SDSU. They hit it off, moved to Twin Falls and opened a coffee house/dog grooming salon. Stephanie was crushed, admitted she had tried a few singles ads, and now found her standards lowered to accepting retail party invitations just to avoid staying home on Friday nights. In their tipsy haze, LeAnne and Stephanie bonded as most females will do under the influence of alcohol and complete sets of alphabet letters made of velcro. But since the party, they had only crossed paths in the hall a few times, nodding and smiling politely. Hmmm. Wednesday. She wasn’t familiar with the products Stephanie’s party was selling, but LeAnne had to admit she had nothing more compelling than “Friends” reruns to keep her home. She picked up the phone to RSVP.

LeAnne showed up at Stephanie’s condo 20 minutes late. The room was full, and the ladies had started in on the free fare without her. She was disappointed to learn she had missed the plate of brownies fresh out of the oven, but still had time to settle into a comfy futon with a glass of red wine and a plate full of L’il Smokies before the consultant finished setting up her wares. On the table in front of the room, a selection of what LeAnne noted were unusual and eclectic looking items were laid out with care. Stephanie hastily quieted the group, introduced the woman at the front of the room as “Rainbow”. There was a collective mental snicker as the group digested the woman’s name, then an equally collective mental nod as they justified the name to the persona. Long straight hair parted in the middle. Not a trace of cosmetics. An exotic print dress that could only be described as a mu-mu, with curly armpit hairs peeking out from the cap sleeves. Well worn Birkenstock sandals and toes that could use a good washing. Rainbow was unphased by the reaction the professional women had to her appearance, and launched enthusiastically into her sales pitch. “Welcome Ladies to an evening with PartyPhernalia. Whether it’s a large family celebration, a romantic dinner for two, or just a quiet evening by yourself in the tub, our beautiful high quality products will set the mood, enhance your décor, and ease the stress of everyday life.”

Rainbow picked up a blown glass piece from the corner of the table. “Here we have our lovely vah-se. Mouth blown glass from Jamaican artisans. Narrow at the top for your more delicate floral arrangements. If you look closely, you can see it has an etching of Robert Nestor Marley on the base. The handy detachable holder off to the side is useful as a separate bud vase for single blooms or corsages.” LeAnne’s mouth dropped open. She knew a goddamned bong when she saw one. What the hell was Stephanie trying to pull? A woman from Accruals reached across and asked politely if she could see the piece. “Oooh” she said admiringly as she ran her hands over the smooth globe at the base of the “vase”. “How lovely!” from the front desk receptionist. “Do they come in other colors?” Rainbow nodded, smiled, and handed the catalog to the woman. “As with all handmade glass products, no two are alike, and they come in a variety of sizes.” The room erupted in laughter, as though they had never heard such an amusing comment.

Rainbow continued. “And here we have our faux-roses, housed in a lovely crystal tube for display in the included stand.” LeAnne had seen the exact thing at the Mini-Mart where she got gas. Right before they got busted by the cops for selling crack smoking equipment! Faux-rose, my ASS! she thought. Before LeAnne could speak up, the women in the front of the room were clamoring to see the “roses”. Stephanie, in the role of assistant, handed the items, available in six colors, and in Swarovski crystal for an additional $20, to the row of women clustered nearby. The group was obviously impressed, and Rainbow – sensing their interest – plowed on. “In addition to accent pieces, PartyPhernalia has a multitude of useful kitchen tools. For example these hand-hammered sterling silver utensils.”

Spoons for free-basing.

“Buffet style Sterno holders in stylish metals and ceramics.”

All good hardcore drugs require heat.

“Here are our signature turkey basters, available in trendy bright plastics”.

Oh Fuck! Syringes!

“And for the children, hand crafted bubble blowers in fun designs!”

A pipe is a pipe is a pipe.

LeAnne finally caught Stephanie’s eye. Stephanie smiled coyly and shrugged. The other partygoers were now fully engaged, mulling over the samples, poring over the catalogs, and filling out orders. They were also eating. A quick look into the kitchen showed every plate had been reduced to crumbs, every bowl scraped clean. “Do. you. have. anymore. artichoke. dip?” asked Jo, the robust woman who worked in the cube opposite LeAnne. Jo had turned an empty bag of Doritos inside-out, was wearing it like an oven mitt, and between each word was licking the corners clean of bright orange cheddar-taco flavoring. Her ample bosom showed clearly where most of the loose powder had ended up. Someone turned up the stereo, and an impromptu rendition of Stairway to Heaven broke out among the cliquish ladies from the Tax dept., complete with air guitar. “Stephanie!” yelled Patsy, the wife of the Merchandise Director. She had opened the cookie jar on the counter and had her nose buried in a Ziploc bag full of leafy green herbs. “You must tell us where you got this fabulous tea! What an earthy and unusual scent!” Rainbow volunteered, “Oh, that too is a PartyPhernalia product. It’s sold by the ounce. Available in the back of the catalog. Ladies, don’t miss out – if Stephanie reaches her party goal, each of you will receive a free gift, your choice, from the list taped to the table.” The room buzzed as pens were pulled out of purses and additional items were added. The bag of tea was passed around as the women inhaled deeply at its opening. There were murmurs of potential birthday and Christmas gifts.

“Was it the brownies?” LeAnne asked Stephanie. The hostess grinned. “Rainbow says it works every time. I pulled down eight grand at the last party, in addition to the Super Hostess benefit of 50% discount. If you get friends to host their own parties you get free stuff. Beyond that, you can buy a franchise kit, become a consultant, and you’re in the money. I mean think about it – let the company carry the big inventory investment. You sell it and the hostess handles the delivery. You become your own boss, cash the checks, enjoy free goodies.”

LeAnne gave her first party May 1st. In July, she quit her job, bought the PartyPhernalia franchise kit and became a full time consultant. She now earns 60% commission at her own pace, and on her own schedule. She works from her home in a gated community on a golf course. LeAnne’s mom got a Ziploc bag full of tea for Christmas and will be hosting a party for her bridge club next week.

The Admin
-Tallulah

They are my babies. Each and every one of them I have held as near and dear to my heart as my own son would be if he had not joined that cult, changed his name to Windflower and disowned me. I tried that intervention service. Five thousand dollars later, and all I had to show for it was a hospital bill from the reclamation “expert” who got hit with a tazer by the so-called temple Leader’s wife. Well, one of his wives, I should say. Heathens and harlots. God On High will strike them down when the Rapture comes. Martin was a good boy before he got mixed up with that lot. We had our struggles, but it wasn’t easy raising a son with Hyperactivity Disorder all by myself. Martin’s no good father up and scuttled off with a hussy he met at the Piggly-Wiggly in Fayetteville. She was not a church-going woman, I tell you that. Cheap cologne, and dime-store makeup. I knew she was trouble the first time I laid eyes on her, chewing gum with her mouth open and reading the National Enquirer right there at her register. I had to politely clear my throat several times to get her attention, and then she flirted shamelessly with Martin’s father, flitting her ridiculous false eyelashes and giggling like a school girl. A forty year old school girl, at that – with a too-tight sweater with armpit stains. But I digress. My babies. Let me tell you about them.

I am an Administrative Assistant for a large Corporation, which I shall not name. We are, however, one of the world’s largest distributors of undergarments and unmentionables. We are a patriotic and right-thinking organization with many distribution channels throughout America and Europe, as well as modern, clean factories overseas, where we employee underprivileged citizens of third world countries who might otherwise be left to beg pitifully on the streets for a scrap of food to nourish their families. We are an equal opportunity employer, and do not dissuade the very young or old from applying for our sought after factory positions. Many of these young people would not have the opportunity to pursue an education, so we are graciously allowing them to learn “on the job”. As there is no Social Security plan in many of these countries, the elderly are given a chance to provide for themselves.

Do not misunderstand me when I say “Administrative Assistant”. I am in no way a secretary, nor am I to be considered a receptionist. I am a critical part of the daily operations of the company with which I have worked loyally for 22 years. I started when Martin was five, as a clerk with the Accounts Receivable dept. The pay was steady, and the benefits were excellent. I was able to keep Martin on Ritalin and get him his weekly shock therapy up in Little Rock. As I excelled at all tasks that crossed my desk, I was given more responsibility, first as a senior clerk, then within three years I was promoted to Supervisor of Textile Accounting, Vendors A-F. That was quite rewarding and challenging, but I knew there had to be more. A woman with whom I was friendly - I knew her from First Baptist Church of Jesus’ Eternal Love – who worked in the Payroll area told me that she had heard there was an opening for an Assistant to the Assistant Vice President of Merchandising and Marketing. Apparently the poor man was wallowing in paperwork, and unable to keep track of the important day to day details his busy and very important position entailed. I went home that night, and after I put Martin in his strait jacket pajamas and tucked him into bed, (he was such an angel when he slept), I prayed to the Lord for guidance. Should I leave my secure and coveted Supervisor role to pursue a career as the right-hand woman to a powerful officer of a world renown company? Would I be able to handle the pressures of such a crucial and influential position? Everyone knows that behind every successful man is a good woman. Could I fill those proverbial shoes? I slept fitfully that night. Usually, I slept through Martin’s screams, but that night they kept me awake. Lord, please? I prayed. A sign? In the morning, a songbird trilled loudly right outside my window, and I awoke, having finally found peaceful sleep in the waning hours of early dawn. Downstairs, I could hear Martin. Why, he was singing! He hated music, and would go into fits if I played the car radio too loud. I had never heard him put his voice to song, but he was singing “Crazy” by Patsy Cline, at full bore! It was my sign! I grabbed my housecoat, ran down the stairs and hugged him tight to my chest. Then I released him from the strait jacket and we had a lovely breakfast together. Eggos and strawberry preserves. I knew it was the start of a new era in our life. I was thrilled.

I applied for the position, and went through the interview process, and am proud to say I beat out three other applicants. Two, from outside the company, were unfortunately absent for their second interviews. How irresponsible, but lucky for me! The third, a young girl from the mailroom was stricken inexplicably with a violent stomach ailment, and retched uncontrollably halfway through her interview. Poor dear! And to think we had just had an amicable cup of coffee together in the waiting room. So, suffice it to say, I was offered the job on the spot. I started two weeks later. The Accounts Receivable dept. threw me a lovely party, with a cake that said “Goodbye Loretta”, and a gift certificate to K-Mart for $20 dollars. What kind and considerate people! I was very sad to hear that three weeks after my last day, Myrna, the woman who had been promoted to my vacant position. had been the victim of a hit and run collision while riding her bicycle on Main Street downtown. It was disheartening, but after all – you are always supposed to ride against traffic, and she has learned to get along beautifully without her right hand.

So off I went. A lovely and spacious cubicle next to the Assistant Vice President’s window-corner office on the fourth floor of our town’s tallest building. My Goodness, but I felt important! But God smites the prideful, so I set out to make sure I was working very hard to become the most valuable Administrative Assistant the company had ever seen. My first boss’s name was Bill. William Forsythe, to be precise. He was a lovely man. In his thirties, with a pretty, young wife and two small children. We took to each other immediately. I was the consummate Assistant, keeping him organized and timely, taking dictation even late into the evening when his schedule would not allow any other opportunity, making travel arrangements (Bill loved to stay in historic Bed and Breakfasts, and required an aisle seat in first class), and fielding phone calls from all over the globe. Our relationship was always professional, but I know he appreciated that I brought him homemade cookies, (which even Martin didn’t get to partake of - as sugar exacerbated his condition), made sure to always serve him fresh, hot decaffeinated coffee with one and one half sugar cubes, and purchased small but thoughtful gifts for him to present to his wife on their special occasions. I would have liked for Bill to see our relationship as one which had evolved into that of a Mother and Son, albeit with a strictly professional bent. I believe Bill was too wrapped up in his family to appreciate the worth of our friendship. But then there was that life changing divorce. Somehow, his wife appropriated copies of surveillance photos showing Bill having sex with a very young prostitute he met at a conference in San Jose. They were very fuzzy, but she could tell it was Bill from the way his toes curled at the end of the hotel bed. He had a birthmark in the shape of Texas on his left big toe. It could be seen clearly in the photos. Bill was devastated. He went to court screaming that it was all a horrible mistake, but his wife saw through the lies. She took the children, the stock portfolio, and moved to Boston. Leaving him disconsolate and wayward. I tried to get Bill to attend my church with me on Sundays- I was now worshipping at His Holiness’ Presence At The Alter of the Northern Light Presbyterian Parish - hoping he’d allow God to lead him to salvation, but to no avail. Bill quit his job, move to Jamaica, and last I heard he had developed a severe facial tic and was swabbing the decks of moored yachts in Kingston.

Then, there was Sydney Van Der Hoffer. Martin was 13, and I had packed him up and sent him off to the Tuscaloosa School for the Psychologically Gifted But Slightly Impaired with sadness in my heart. I knew here, though, he would get a good education and a chance to learn the sensibilities of a responsible young adolescent. Oh, my little boy was growing up! So, with Martin away at school, I had plenty of time to jet off with Sydney to fabulous cities like Omaha, Minneapolis, and Fresno. We were inseparable, the two of us. Sydney was not married, in his forties and quite the renaissance man. He played the cello, was a gourmand, and spoke German. What a lovely, lovely man. We worked together for many years, and although we kept a professionally appropriate distance between us, I could not deny there was definite chemistry. One evening, after trying for two weeks to get up the nerve to ask, I approached Sydney with a proposition, wearing my best cardigan, synthetic pearls, and summer print dress. My church, Rolling Stones Gathering The Moss Of God Assembly Of Christ, was having a square dance for singles. I just knew Sydney would be ecstatic to attend. But he was not himself that night, and I fear there was something he was not telling me. He awkwardly declined, and from that moment on, I felt an uneasiness creep between us. Soon thereafter, a woman began calling for Sydney several times a day. Her name was Maureen, and she seemed to have no real business calling him. I believe these were personal phone calls, which is – of course – against company policy. I might have been tempted to bring this up to Sydney if he hadn’t suffered that horrible fall from his box seat at the symphony. Paralyzed from the neck down. So tragic! I still get the occasional email from him from his room at the invalid home. He has a little machine that he blows in with his mouth that makes letters on a laptop computer. Gosh, what a boon is technology!

From Sydney, there was Gary Goldberg. He wasn’t around long enough for us to enjoy the level of camaraderie I had with my previous employers, although I had every intention of caring for him as I had the others. I found him a bit of a braggart. And Jews are difficult people to get along with. Such volatile personalities. Terrible thing though. First the accusation of embezzlement, then the very public trial. I don’t want to point fingers, but one point nine million dollars had simply disappeared, and Gary did have a lovely new Mercedes. God works in mysterious ways… After Gary, there was Dave. Dave was a quiet and thoughtful man, but it was obvious he was of the homosexual persuasion. Now, I don’t want to be judgmental, but homosexuality flies in the face of all that is good and holy, and taught in the Bible. I cannot condone living my life in service to a person who, (as I always preached to Martin - when I read him stories at night) - in the words of Leviticus, ignores God’s directive that "if a man lies with a male as a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall be put to death, their blood is upon them." But, happily – I was spared the discomfort of continuing to work with Gary, as he and his partner were unfortunately the victims of a food processor explosion which happened during a live demonstration at the 2001 Bentonville Culinary Exposition and Home Show. The grater blade flew across the room and hit Gary in the face. His friend was electrocuted when he reached across the table to unplug the machine and inadvertently stepped in a puddle of carrot juice. Gary was rendered blind, and after the funeral, left the company to pursue his dream of raising show ferrets. We parted amicably.

So, recently, it’s just been me and T. Winston Williams the Third. The T is for Thomas, though he only shares that with a trusted few individuals like myself. Thomas is the youngest Assistant Vice President in our Company’s history, hired at only 23. At first, he seemed a very polite and considerate young man, who reminded me very much of my Martin (before the overdose of barbiturates and the embarrassing act of sex performed on the statue of General Lee in town square). In the beginning, Thomas and I had a lovely rapport. He did not ask me to work excessive hours, allowing me free evenings to attend Bible study at The Episcopalian Chapel Of The Bells Ringing For Redemption Day. But over the past few weeks, Thomas has asked me to stay three times to arrange a Power Point presentation for him on the benefits of our new Cotton-Poly blend boxer-brief, and to compound the issue, he asked me to work last Saturday to enter data into a productivity spreadsheet he created. I told him I was scheduled to work the rummage sale at the church that day, with all proceeds going to the EGOFUC club, (or Episcopalian Girls Organization For United Chastity) – but he insisted. Lately he has been complaining that my coffee is too strong, and he refused my “peace offering” of his favorite: fresh lemon bars, saying he was “watching his weight”. He listens to ghastly jazz music in his office, which drifts over into my area. His taste in music is most assuredly due to him being of the colored variety. Young black males are known for their lack of traditional education, which might have given him a taste for Chopin or Lawrence Welk. Of course, Thomas ethnicity has no bearing on my feelings about our working relationship. I truly feel as though Thomas does not appreciate my significant contribution to his success, nor does he value this wonderful organization which I myself have put a good deal of time and effort into. He does not appreciate the effect my status as a single, working mother has had on my precious son Martin (whom I know will denounce his cult and return to me and beg for forgiveness). Thomas has taken for granted my doting on him as though he were of my own loins. Proverbs says: "The eye that mocks his father, and scorns obedience to his mother, the ravens of the valley will pick it out, and the young eagles will eat it". Thomas should be very careful… I believe his lug nuts are looking wobbly.

How Do I Hate Thee?
- Tallulah

You see me nearly everyday. We work in the same building. Although I go out of my way to avoid it, we cross paths. Sometimes it’s in the stairwell, the ladies room, or the break room. Our eyes meet, you smile and greet me. I mumble a reluctant hello, and look away. There is a palpable tension in every encounter. It’s been this way a long while.

You must feel that I hate you. I can imagine all the reasons that would cross your mind. But I believe you may be misled. Let me dispel your concerns, and clarify my truest feelings. Will it lead to clean air between us? Time will always tell, what will be will be…

It may appear that I hate you because you are tall, slender, and graceful – while I am the genetic mutation of mismatched bodytypes. My most productive growth spurt came between the age of 5 and 6. All other growth since then has been horizontal. While you glide by on shapely legs squeezed into jeans with an inseam taller than me, I barrel around like a pint sized construction worker on sturdy little woodland stumps accented by hips that scream “breeder”.

But I have come to appreciate my size as “petiteness”. I celebrate my hard earned muscularity, and forgive the few extra pounds that surround it. Where you concern yourself with each tiny calorie, drink hot water and nibble lettuce leaves to fill your tiny stomach, I eat pizza with gusto, and derive orgasmic pleasure from Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. I find humor in my lack of coordination, have interesting scars to show for it. I have lived a life observing those less fortunate than myself, and this has made me grateful to be able to walk, run, dance, and carry my own weight. I have found that self confidence is beautiful and it emanates from within. I do not disparage you your physical attributes and carriage…

Perhaps you believe it is your shining, smooth blonde hair – always expertly coiffed, or your impeccable makeup, or even your vast array of stylish clothes? Maybe I dwell on this while I wake up each morning to tame the beast that is my frizzy terrier-hair? It might cross my mind once, in the heat of battle, when I have beaten it down to manageable “natural” curl with all variety of torturous implements and magic chemical products with botanical extracts - that hair like yours is truly wash and wear. I may wish I had the creative spark that allows women like you to create art with different adorable accessories – and somehow manage to achieve the impression that it’s never the same look twice. Years of helpful friends offering makeovers, invitations to Mary Kay parties, free samples from the Nordstrom cosmetic counter, and an infinite variety of how-to articles slyly ripped from fashion magazines in waiting rooms has still not prepared me for the Bozo The Clown face looking back at me from the mirror – on those rare occasions when I have attempted the art of cosmetics. Clothes, or should I say stylish clothes - are the eighth wonder of the world to me. This could be due to the fact that I have the shoulders of a linebacker, the torso of a Cabbage Patch doll, and the lower body shapeliness of a soft serve ice cream cone. There are three criteria that clothes must fall under in order to be considered for a home in my closet:
-can be washed with red socks or muddy sneakers
-can be dried at high heat for up to three hours, while still repelling permanent stains from the cherry chapstick that was unfortunately lodged in the front pocket of yesterday’s jeans
-must offer camouflage from all colors and textures of dog hair

It takes me 32 seconds flat to pull my hair back into a ponytail with an inglorious little scrunchie. My choices are generally white or white. I have learned to keep it simple, and life always benefits from simplicity. As for enhancement through cosmetics? Through trial and error I have realized that there’s comfort in knowing that I look much the same on Saturday at the grocery store as I do on Monday in the conference room. In my youth I spent a fortune running after the style train, which I believed was standing room only with girls who dress like you. Time I used to spend obsessing about what to wear, ironing, accessorizing, and coordinating just to frown at myself in the full length mirror - is now most often spent playing tennis ball with my dogs, drinking coffee on the back porch, or catching a few extra z’s. All of these things make for beautiful ornamentation. You are naturally a lovely girl and I have only admiration for your ability to make the most of your God given attributes. For your style and beauty, I could never hate you.

There is the age difference that might make you think I take issue. Ah, to be twenty something again, hey? Where you still have control over the state of your body, are glowing with youthful exuberance, and have the metabolism of a hummingbird – every bone in my body creaks and pops in unison when I assume an ease of movement after rest, my face has been permanently etched by life, environment, and experience, not to mention low thread count discount bed linens, and my metabolism? Think Gentle Ben in winter… Where you have the energy to stay out until early dawn at upscale trendy clubs, drinking Technicolor cocktails and being seen by the cognoscente, I hesitate to go out on “school” nights, and when I do acquiesce, my preference runs to quaint, blue collar neighborhood pubs with low lighting and dark, frothy beer. Two $2.50 pints and I’m in bed by 10. Regardless, my early thirties snuck up on me, and now I am facing down the shiny barrel of the mid-thirties demographic revolver, still feeling for all intents and purposes that I am nowhere near the age of which my driver’s license brutally reminds me in large type font.

Do I desire to be twenty-something again? In all honesty, not if you paid me. Life then was a struggle to understand emotions, find acceptance and security, and carve out a solid identity somewhere between the world of adolescents and adults. I have achieved a good deal more success in this, my fourth decade on Earth. I have learned to communicate, have nurtured relationships, found deep, comfortable friendships. I have experienced loss and love, hardship and good luck, failure and success. I have picked up experience, but unloaded baggage. This makes me healthy, secure, and well rounded. Perhaps you find this point in life simple and comfortable. Maybe everything is coming up roses. Maybe you secretly struggle with adult life and long for a childhood lost. Either way, I wish you success in your endeavors, and I do not find disfavor in your youth.

So what, you may ask, is the root of the distance between us? If not beauty, style or grace, then what? If one cannot point to youth or having all the means to procure a backstage pass to the good life, what then could possibly be the reason?

Well, what the hell do you think? You screwed my boyfriend, you skinny-Amazon-knock kneed-Tammy Faye Baker looking-Britney Spears wannabe-high school drama queen-FUCKING BITCH!

The Fashion of the Christ – What Would Jesus Wear? - Stanton Busy Bee Courier-Press
-Tallulah

Women’s Wear Daily reported today that following on the heels of many celebrities such as Hilary Duff, P Diddy, J Lo and Beyonce – and hit movies such as Spiderman, Lord of the Rings, and Finding Nemo - Mel Gibson’s film production company and it’s partner in “Passion of the Christ” - NewMarquette Films has announced plans to market a clothing and household goods line based on the hit movie. Talks are underway with Target, K Mart, WalMart, and Zeller’s of Canada to find an exclusive distributor of these items. Already, the film has spurred a buying frenzy, prompting sales of Christian items at book and gift stores secular and non alike. “Faith-based Sales”, as marketing executives are calling it, have revived an industry which briefly peaked in 2000, then hit a plateau following the wild popularity of merchandise emblazoned with the acronym WWJD? or What Would Jesus Do? Crucifixion “nail” pendants and trademarked crosses have been flying off warehouse shelves at Sam Simon Designs, retained by the film company to create and distribute the movie themed items. Pete “Bud” Morton of Humble Pie Christian Book store in Poughkeepsie spoke to the Bee. “Ummm, yeah. We ran outta bibles this here Tuesday. I hadta special order the King James Annotated Version In Large Font, as people were gettin’ real testy.” The rush to be associated with all things Jesus has begun impacting middle American retail markets.

The lucrative deal with the chosen retailer will begin with an initial rollout of fashion related to the film. Seen at Milan and New York fashion shows this past week by celebrities the likes of Madonna, Whitney Houston and Pauly Shore - were heavy burlap robes with embroidered emblems of Jesus’ face on the left chest (a la the Izod alligator or Nike swoosh), earth tone head scarves for women, teeny togas and Roman style strappy sandals, not to mention rubberized “thorned” crowns, and glove and sock sets with little “bloody” holes in the palms and feet. Expect to see affordable versions of these acoutrements, as well as "Passion" themed baby-tees, boy shorts and panties, velour yoga pants, denim jackets, and ultra-lowrise jeans at a box-store near you by spring. Lest you think consumers will be limited to products that are a throwback to biblical times – a modern menswear line is being negotiated with multiple designers. Isaac Mizrahi, currently attaching his name to affordable work-ready fashion at Target stores – and one of the designers being considered as co-creator of the “Passion” menswear line had this to say: “Jesus and his friends had few fashion choices way back then in uhhh uhh, BC. Clothes were truly more functional than stylish. We are re-interpreting for the new millenium. We see Jesus endorsing linens, cottons, and colorful silks. Masculine cut clothing with urban appeal – easy care, stain repellant and wrinkle free wash and wear for busy, hip Christians.”

In addition to clothes, a line of bath linens, with matching bathroom sets and fixtures are in design phase. The well adorned bath suite this spring will include a manger soap dish, frankincense scented bath beads, stone shaped little soaps for toddlers to toss at each other in the tub, muslin brown towels and handcloths monogrammed with “JC”, as well as an enameled cross shaped toilet paper holder. For use outside the home - a series of hanging air fresheners depicting scenes from “Passion”, and car window stickers with sayings like “Flagellate This!” and beloved Calvin urinating on Pontius Pilate. But don’t expect any of the items to carry a high price tag. “Jesus was a simple man”, says NewMarquette’s Executive Director of Retail Aftermarketing, Samantha Goldstein-Greenbaum. “And Christians are not historically an upscale demographic. They want to look good, have nice things, and not break the bank. We intend to make it fun and easy!” Jesus was also a carpenter. Hence, the Gibson/NewMarquette team is planning a line of mid priced hand and small power tools for the Christian hobbyist. Lowes and Home Depot are each actively lobbying for exclusives.

Gibson/NewMarquette has made it their company mission to bring quality Christian themed goods to the forefront. Goldstein-Greenbaum goes on to say, “The company that we go to bed with on this deal will have exclusive rights to products with the words ‘Jesus, Christ, and Passion’, as pertains to fashion, jewelry and household items. NewMarquette is prepared to bring swift and punitive litigation upon any person, entity or company who infringes on our copyrighted and trademarked items.”

When asked to comment, Pete “Bud” Morton of Humble Pie said, “That sure is a load of bullcrap, eh?”

A nice bottle of Tourette's Vinyard, Aged, Barrel Select, 1998
-Tallulah

Dear Diary,

God but today has been horrific. I don’t even know where to start. Why does life have to be so difficult and trying? It’s so terribly unfair. Sometimes I think I’m just going to have a mental breakdown. They will whisper about me in the social circles for a good deal of time following my admittance to an asylum. Maybe I should just kill myself. Take a load of pills and wash them down with a whole bottle of white zinfandel. Speaking of wine, I am having a nice bottle right now. So forgive me, Diary, if I become a tad bit less lucid. Bacchus always calms me, my only friend (except for you Diary)! As I was saying, kill myself and just be done with this awful, cruel world. Perhaps I’ll drive my Hummer over the median straight into oncoming traffic. Ron wouldn’t care. He’d simply cash in the life insurance, pay off the summer home in Tuscany, upgrade to that Gulfstream V he keeps threatening to buy. He’d pack up the children and send them off to boarding school. Mmmmm, this is a lovely vintage. Flavors of raspberry, burnished oak and finishing with thyme and fresh rose petals. Really, I should make sure to drink every bottle we have - before I expire at my own hand. I guarantee he’ll move that n’er-do-well Lila into our bedroom and fornicate with her on my 800 count Egyptian cotton sheets. God knows what he’d do with Pandora, Buddy, Sippy, and Bronco. He’s never liked them, poor little dears! I don’t care what Ron says, they’re not “yippy”, they just naturally have a high pitched bark – a signal of an excellent pedigree. If they were the horrendous ugly beasts that he would like to keep, they’d bark just as frequently. Much like those fearful guard dogs outside, patroling the perimeter. Just louder and deeper. Oh, wonderful, wonderful wine! I really must have my sommelier arrange a private labeling for our cellar.

What have I done to deserve this? Goodness, what legs this wine has when I swirl! I really need to remember to replace the Swarovski tulip-glasses that Maria stole. I’m so relieved to have finally fired that thieving puta! Oh, oops! Sorry, diary, tee hee! Must be the wine. Speaking of which – ah, that’s better. Full glass. So, Diary – my travails: my liposuction appointment with Dr. Bauermann was rescheduled for the third time. I know it’s only because he’s so busy with all those gaudy Hollywood types he kowtows to. Why, he’s nothing but a prostitute in a white coat! An overpaid slut with a stethoscope. Cretin. While I suffer from the embarassment of extra cellulite peeking out from under my tennis skirt, he’s got his nose up Jennifer Aniston’s perky little ass removing a microscopic mole that her agent insists is going to become malignant if she doesn’t get it checked. I wish it would turn cancerous. I hate her stupid show anyway. Hmmm, I must have forgotten to fill my glass… Doesn't she know Brad is a damned homo?

Yes, so as I was saying, as if that weren’t enough to try the patience of a saint, the window treatments arrived today from Morocco On Rodeo. Rubbish. Pure crap. The toile was obviously machine made, the silk sheers – purported to be hand made Dupioni - were sub-standard, and the shade of Azure Mediterranean that I requested was most certainly Turquoise. A vile color, to say the least. Suitable only for Native American jewelry, (why can't we just call them Indians?) which is hideous in my opinion. Really, they should just shut down all those damned reservations. Ghastly shitty blight on the landscape. Oh no, what happened to the rest of the wine? One moment, Diary, don’t go away, ha ha! – I have another bottle right here.

So, about that fucking bitch Lila. She was his goddamn secretary. How fucking trite. He calls her his “administrative assistant” but that’s just a fancy name for a young thing in a tight skirt with 38 double D’s popping out of her shirt who delivers coffee, creamer and blowjobs. Ah, bursting with fruit flavors, and exceptionally low tannins. Why couldn’t he be creative and fuck his yoga instructor? She’s not that unattractive – I’d do her were I to dabble in hair pie. All those crazy positions she could entertain one with. But Lila? What the hell trailer park in the deep south did she crawl out of anyway. Money grubbing skanky ho. I wonder if this is aged in oak or mahogany barrels? Damn I’m out of

And then the club. The goddmaned fuckin clup. i hate every stinkin one ooooof them they theink they are all fucking royaltie. Kings and queens NoT. Cocksujckers and pusszyeatrers because I tell mary “laugh line s as she put it. what a fuchkih cuthnt. shee fudks donekneys and Then I juest tolgd her that at leat I coold laugh about my wrinktle4s, bshe was justs buttass uglye and thedre’ wasn;t a surgery in thhe workld coiuold helip bher. Fuckinnnnnnnnnn dyke. Al\ll her golddmmn kidddddddds are uglhyn otooo. an d her jusb and fukced lila tooolk8. thids winee is skoi yjmmy!Q
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sfo diayh, pleeeeeeeeeeee fori v me if Iii’m tired tonjghlt. shut ujp broncol! i will feed yo to th fujlkjin guyhard diioges I f yhou don’t jujsxt shut tth hell up[1 get offf my legds panedonra! godgamddddddddddddd dogsd!@

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Cooking Vegetarian
-Tallulah

Hellooooo! (applause) I’m Emeril Lagasse, welcome to Emeril Live! How's everyone doing tonight? Tonight we’ve got a special treat for you. I get so many letters and emails from fans watching their carbs, looking for dishes with lean protein. But with all the bad press lately about Mad Cow disease, Bird Flu, fish fulla them PCB’s and mercury, restrictions on declining game populations and all that – what’re ya gonna eat? Well, I tell ya – You know Emeril’s always up for pork fat - (audience “Ha Ha!”) but if that isn’t your style, I got you covered. I’m gonna show you how to get your protein. Your vitamins. Your minerals. And we’re gonna spice it up good while you stay healthy and happy. (applause) Stay tuned, when we come back we’re gonna make Dr. Atkins proud, Emeril style! (enthusiastic applause) And now give it up for Doc Gibbs and the Emeril Live band!...

(commercial break)

…Welcome back to Emeril Live. (applause) Tonight we’re gonna take the Atkin’s diet and Kick It Up A Notch! You wantchyer protein? (audience, “YES!”) You wantchyer meat raised on healthy stuff like fruit and vegetables – chock fulla vitamins and minerals? (audience “WooHoo!”) You wanna learn how to make and serve succulent dishes and still watch your diet? (audience “Em-Rul, Em-Rul, Em-Rul!”) Well I'ma show you how RIGHT NOW! (applause) Tonight we’re cooking Vegetarians! (stunned silence) Oh yeah, Babe. That’s right! And not just any Vegetarians! These are quality Vegetarians, what my Ma always called Hippies back in Boston. Fed macrobiotic diets, and watered from a flouride free natural spring artesian source – these guys are raised on a ranch in rural Alberta, you know in Canada? Our friends to the North? These are 100% free range Vegetarians, raised where the air’s got no pollutants, and the soil is real fertile. Did you think Emeril would serve you up some low-grade California Vegetarian – all stuffed fulla xenohormones and Starbuck’s? (a smattering of audience members “ummm, no”) Yeah! That’s right – only the best from Emeril’s kitchen! And you’re only gonna serve the best in yours! (light applause) Make sure you ask your local market for pure Canadian Vegetarians. Hold on right there, we’re gonna break for commercial, enjoy a little vino and come back to our show! Hey, how ‘bout that band?! (Band plays, applause picks up) …
(commercial break)

…Alright, when we went to break, I took a nice flank here – and cut it into small cubes. Now, you can do whatever size you like, but if you’re gonna go big – remember - Vegetarians generally slice better ALONG the muscle. Don’t go tryin’ to slice across! This is tender meat, and falls apart if, you know, you rough it up. Use a SHARP knife. Don’t be roughin’ up yer meat. (audience giggles) Now, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’ma take this saute pan, see – nice and generous with the extra virgin olive oil. See how it’s just starting to bubble a bit? You don’t want to overheat – MEDIUM temperature – that’s why the most important tool in the kitchen is these things here: the KNOBS! And I dunno where you buy your Vegetarians, but where I get mine, they don’t come seasoned. (audience “Ha Ha!”) While that’s heating, let’s take a little garlic (audience, “Whoop!Whoop!”) All right! A lotta garlic! Oh yeah, Babe! And then what we’re gonna do is take that garlic and toss the cubes all up in it. Now some Essence, and as always, a little salt and pepper. We did a little extra garlic, which is gonna be okay in this particular dish, but folks always tend to wanna overdo the spice when preparing Vegetarians. This meat is delicate and you don’t want to overpower its flavor with lots of spice and heavy sauce. Alrighty, now we drop our cubed Vegetarian right in that there olive oil like such… OH! Do you smell that?! I don’t know about you at home, but I’ve got SMELL-O-VISION here in the studio. Wow! OH! MMMMM! (audience “MMMMM!”, applause) Okay, that’s sauteeing nicely. Over here, I’ve got some puff pastry. You can buy this in the freezer section, or try making it yourself but use REAL butter. A puff pastry made with margarine burns easy. And you know what? You know WHAT? (audience “What?!” - Band member taps his cymbal “tiiiing”) Heh, heh… That pastry ain’t gonna do it for ya! What fun is a puff pastry with no PUFF? (audience “BOO!”) What I do is i just cut the pastry into little triangles like this. We got ourselves some parsnips over here, too. Vegetarians tend to go well with your tuberous vegetables, rutabagas, potatoes, kohlrabi etc. To spice it up a little, I like pahsnips. Ours are shredded and drained. You can set aside the juice for a smoothie if you like. Very nutritious. I use it as soup stock, as well – but don’t let it sit in the icebox too long – it’ll ferment and you’ll have you some pahsnip wine. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! (audience “Yeah!”) Take your shredded pahsnip, place it in the middle of the pastry triangle – make a little pile like such. Now, we add some goat cheese. Yeah, Babe… See, you could buy crumbled feta at any store, but mosta that’s made with cow’s milk. We like the goat milk products for the milder taste, texture and our lactose intolerant friends can enjoy with us. Alright, when we come back – I’ll show you what our finished meal looks like as we continue our show – and…KICK IT UP A NOTCH! Stick around! (Emeril runs into the audience and hugs two elderly ladies in the second row, applause picks up and band plays)...
(commercial break)

…Hey welcome back, if you’re just joining us, we’re making Vegetarians tonight! If you missed the first part of the pastry dish, you can go to Emeril.com or the FoodNetwork for all the ingredients – you can even print a shopping list! Ain’t technology a beautiful thing? Okay, we’ve put our Vegetarian cubes into our pastry triangles, and turned ‘em each over, pinching the corners. A little of this egg warsh brushed on top and 375 degree oven, for 30 minutes. Hey, say “hi” to the band! We’ve got John on bass! (applause, bass riff) Danny-O on keyboards! (applause, tinkling of piano keys) And our own Antoine on percussion – lay it down for Antoine! (applause, Antoine smiles) Heya, alright. We made some of these earlier, they should be just about done… and - VOILA! Veggie Empanadas! (applause, “MMMM!”) See, empanada is a Spanish word for a turnover with a sweet or savory filling. It is the Latin version of the piroshki, or little pie - and OH BOY are they a treat. Growing up in Boston my Mom and her friends were always cooking empanadas. We even had ‘em in our lunchboxes. So, on the break we whipped up a quick Hollandaise – NEVER use canned Hollandaise if you want to make it into Food Heaven. (audience “Yaaay!”) So to serve, in the middle of the plate I’ve got a small pool of the Hollandaise. Don’t need too much, remember: DEL-I-CATE flavor! I’m gonna take this little pie, place it in sauce like such. A coupla pieces of lemongrass on top this way. Make it look good, yeah? (audience “Ooooh!”) Some pahsley sprinkled around edge of the plate and we’ve got our dish! BAM! BAM! BAM! (enthusiastic applause, standing ovation)

Press Release: Bill and George to Wed
-Tallulah

To help alleviate loss of perception and the potential of negative market value impact associated with the Patriot Act and software products failing to meet customer-centric expectation in any given infrastructure or environment, an executive decision was dialogued today. John Kerry’s camp could not be reached for comment as they were teaching Senator Kerry to play sax for Jay Leno, but anecdotal evidence indicates that a meta-decision agenda was enacted today to marry two global players (metaphorically / heterosexually), primarily because there’s no one left to merge excepting Philip Morris and Disney, who are in talks this week. Microsoft Inc. and the Bush Administration today announced a multi-phase strategic alliance to integrate O.H.S.H.I.T. weapons of mass destruction design automation (originally backsourced by CIA developers lacking personal bandwidth), and the centergistic A.W.F.U.K. DeploymentPoint collaborative resource management solutions (SQL/Java/Lotus/Linux driven database of 18 year olds in all trailer parks countrywide), including specific functionality from the Megalomania and TaxBreakForTheRich platforms, with Microsoft’s Windows Antitrust Schmantitrust Operating System. The alliance will enable expanded big-picture collaborative invasions across world platforms by pretty much any 14 year old with a DSL connection, but hell, someone needs to find those damned nukes before the next election. A multitude of benefits, both high level and granular, including design, configuration, DNA Retention, employee realignment programs, genome cloning, supply chain management, breast augmentation, troop reskilling management for all female enlisted complaining of sexual harrasment, and resource servicing and support addressing the needs of both regime/government change control enterprises and private exchanges in industries such as automotive, oil, aerospace, petroleum, high tech, crude, industrial machinery (oil rigs), polar fleece, and black gold - unless of course the persons in question are homosexual terrorists using an Apple iMAC, drinking Swiss water decaffeinated fair trade coffee. The two industry leader entities will be initiating a combined globalized heavy-lifting go-to-market sales, marketing and annhiliation-of-all-who-oppose-us strategy targeting key customers in Middle Eastern and volatile Indonesian countries, and the Russian Mafia, as well as envisioning dialogue and face time with up and coming mission critical prospects in these industries and anyone willing to try to get around the McCain Feingold act, but not fly planes into office buildings because those bastards ruined this country. The French are the first to experience Phase 1 testing of the new product prior to an accepted vision scope, although they oppose it. Pending successful implementation - all resources will be outsourced to India. The payback, a projected $17 trillion a quarter ROI- will in part be used to melt the frozen water on Mars just because we can...

...The resonating hydraulics of the situation incent that customers orchestrate leveraging the R.I.T.2.L.I.F platform knowledge into their structured enterprise and change control environments, while incorporating National Republican Party read- only- values post haste to take advantage of the low hanging fruit and undocumented labor who can be paid cash under the table in a matrixed environment, the alternative being hauled off to a penal facility for re-purposing and anal penetration by large, assertive unfriendlies who voted for Ross Perot prior to incarceration and are PC illiterate. The enhanced tier-zero visioning architects the process to provide lateraled, tighter integration and deeper collaboration with Mel Gibson’s production company (currently in talks with Nepalese officials to make a movie which chronicles the really violent parts of the Bhagadvad Gita) while concurrently the network-centric H.T.R.O.M.R.G. one-source solution will enable global manufacturers to recognize greater results from interfacing, revel in the Safe Harbor Statement (US Private Securities Litigation Reform Act of 1995), buy and sell Imclone stock at whim with no lasting repercussions, streamline efficiencies in the supply chain, develop and nurture scalability and reduce costs while still watching their Net carbs. It’s a win-win for all!

Violations of the Employee Agreement at Heaven Inc.
-Tallulah

“Forgive me Heavenly Father, for I have sinned.”

“Cut the crap, Syd. Sit down and shutyer trap. We need to talk. Seems you have exceeded your limit on guardian angel demerits allowed in a 6 month time frame. For the 8th time! Dammit, Syd – I’ve given you chance after chance. We’ve done sensitivity training, substance abuse rehab, therapy – aroma and psychoangelical, anger management, and angel intervention. We’ve tried counseling notices and three day suspension without pay. I don’t think I can possibly give you one more chance. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Ummm, Sir Heavenly Father Sir… ummmm…

“Speak up, for criminey’s sake son!”

“Yessir. Ummm, I don’t have a good answer for you. I don’t know why I can’t meet expectation. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that… that… ummm…”

“Syd, we’ve given you the easiest cases, cut and dry – absolute NO BRAINERS. Post-Gen Y Yuppies, Boomers, Republicans, Ovo-lacto Vegetarians, and white bearded guys who play Santa Claus at the Veterans’ Home every Christmas. You have shown a distinct lack of interest in your workload. You roll in late and you leave early. You take two hour lunches and thirty minute bathroom breaks. Last week you were caught with “PlayAngel” and a Nalgene full of sacrificial wine in the breakroom. You make long distance personal calls to your bookie in Hell while your charges wander Earth blundering into crisis, sin and temptation. And I’m pretty sure you’re skimming from the Employee Association Water Cooler cash jar.”

“No Sir! I’d never steal money from my co-workers! It was Lou! I saw him with his robe pocket full of ones sneaking out the Wing 2 fire exit on Tuesday!”

“And what about all the other issues? What about Janine Platt?”

“Oh.”

“Damn straight ‘OH’ you moron! Janine Platt. Wife of a Presbyterian minister. Twopointfive kids in swimming, T-ball and she’s selling Mary freakin’ Kay door to door to earn extra money for the church roof fund. One day she passes by a tattoo parlor. She gets an irresistible urge to have the words “Satan Is My Homey” plastered right across her ass. Where were you on that one, dipshit?”

“Satan Is… 8,9,10....14. At least it was symmetrical? I mean 7 letters on each cheek?”

“You’re absolutely correct. Leaving plenty of room for a picture of the Horned Bastard having his way with what looked remarkably like a 12 year old Campfire Girl! What makes you think I shouldn’t fire your pathetic ass right this second? Certainly wouldn’t want to bring up Pavel Romanovich to make that point, now would you?”

“Pavel Roma…roma…?”

“Ro-Mah-No-Vich. Son of Jewish Czech Immigrants. Only son to go to college. Major in Economics, minor in Eastern European literature. Hit it big in the stock market. Driving a Hummer, living in a loft in SoHo with two upandcoming fashion models. On a day that you were caught on security camera sticking a coat hanger up through the vending machine to get an extra bag of pizza flavored goldfish crackers, Pavel falls head over heels in love with a skinhead from Hayden Lake, Idaho in town for a John Birch reunion. The last anyone saw of Pavel was him getting into a 1994 Nissan 2 wheel drive pickup with a rebel flag, a “Cowboy Up” sticker, and a picture of Calvin pissing on Osama Bin Laden.”

“Ummm… they were ranch.”

“What?!”

“Ranch goldfish. The machine always rips me off. And I only had Canadian.”

“You just don’t get it, do you Syd? You have not shown me one iota of quality workmanship, sincere ethic, or even first level angelship! How the Hell did you get hired? Why don’t you complain to Jordan O’Keefe about Canadian money?”

“Sir, he was a lost cause!”

(intercom buzzes, “Heavenly Father…”)

“Shit Doris, I told you I did not want to be disturbed! Syd, I don’t consider an ROTC student, Honor Society AND Spanish Honor Society, Eagle Scout, Thespian Club, Varsity running back, Young Businessmen’s Guild, Captain of the conference winning hockey team and Youth Counselor at Wenokochobee Camp for the Developmentally Disabled - a LOST FREAKING CAUSE!”

“Sir, she was askin’ for it… And she carried a lot of cash.”

“Oh CHRIST! ‘She’ was a 67 year old Meals on Wheels coordinator for the community Senior Center. ‘She’ raised long haired Chihuahuas for show. ‘She’ was a spokesperson for the local office of the AARP, and a longstanding member of the Good Sam Club. The money was on its way to the National Bank of Superior to start a scholarship fund for the Girls in Mathematics program. Jordan O’Keefe and Mrs. Donald Jorgenson were NEVER SUPPOSED to meet!”

“I was feeling very ill that day, Sir. It’s not my fault they both felt like Thai.”

“You were hung over and playing 18 that day. I have the credit card receipt from the Pro shop in my office. I blame this entirely on you!”

“Forgive me Heavenly Father for I have-”

“Shut the fuck up, Syd. Get out of my office. Pack your things and security will escort you downstairs. (Presses button on intercom.) Doris, bring me that stack of resumes. And coffee. And I want milk! None of that damned non-dairy crap! And one of those sprinkly donuts.”

www.jcsototallyrocks.yahoogeocities.com
-Tallulah

Welcome to my site! Holy shit! I’m like “so” excited to show the world my most favorite movie star of all time who is now the Son of God. How totally “wierd” is it that his intials are J and C?!!!!!!!!!! That so totally rocks! Of course I’m “speaking” about gorgeous, talented and oh so sexy actor JAMES CAVIEZEL. I totally started this site like “forever” ago, when I saw him in Pay It Forward where he played a super nasty homeless ‘druggie” type, but he was still WAY fine! And it was just a movie so he probably smelled better than he “looked”. He was also in GI Jane where he was way “cuter” than Demi Moore with a shaved head. Even though she did totally have a nicer butt and she kicked Viggo Mortensen’s ass and said “Suck My Dick” which was the COOLEST! Anyway, he did like some “parts” in some other movies like Thin Red Line which I didn’t see because I don’t like violence except like fake violence like in video games. My gramma “bought” my brother Grand Theft Auto for his birthday and we played it after church last weekend. That game so totally rocks. I especially like the way the girls “dress”, cuz you know it’s Miami and it’s really hot so they wear like the cutest little mini skirts and guns and stuff. Not that I would wear that stuff cuz like you get in trouble for like guns and stuff in school and our skirts have to be like 2 inches above the knee or we get “sent” home which TOTALLY sucks!

So anyway, JC (that’s my little pet name for him) is now in that movie Passion of the Christ. Which is way cool you know cuz now my WWJD anklet can mean like What Would Jesus Do, OR What Would James Do. I “wish” he would do me. HA HA, not really cuz I’m “saving” myself for marriage. Maybe to James? Well, I mean I’ve tried stuff but like I kept my bra and panties on the “whole” time. And it was the cutest bra I got from Victoria’s Secret free after my mom bought like some stuff for her to wear for Gordon, that’s her “boyfriend” he’s totally gross and makes me like so mad and his breath stinks. Yeah, so like I’m getting “tons” of hits on my site now, and some not very “nice” emails saying how the site hella sucks cuz all my stuff is “old”. Well, chill – I’m like way “busy” – I have like babysitting jobs on the weekends and I work at PetSmart at night because I totally love all animals and I have school (well actually it’s SkillCenter – I’m learning fashion design) But so like, HELLOOOO people step off okay? Just totally kidding, but yeah I am “getting” some new pix and stuff, and I’m trying to get the site “updated”. I’m totally down with you guys like sending me emails (nice ones, though) and gossip and pix and stuff. Check this: THIS IS SO AWESOME: I got an email from this kid in Japan whose cousin was a camera dude on the set of Wyatt Earp and he has an autographed pic of James all done up like a cowboy guy if you click here it will take you to his site which is in Japanese but is also totally “devoted” to JC and you can see his autograph which is in American, so you can totally see that it’s James’es sig.

So yeah, like the Passion of the Christ I “heard” is really good and that James look SOOO FINE! I haven’t actually “seen” it yet, cuz my Mom said we had to wait until our church rents the theatre and it hasn’t been “available” because those assholes over at First Baptist and Church of the Nazarene like totally bogarted the Twin Pines Multiplex for like two weeks, and the Players Cinema on the east side is closed because “someone” put an M80 in the men’s room on Ash Wednesday. My mom says it was probably one of those Jewish kids that moved here from Chicago. They hate both JC’s. But Ashley Nabors saw it (she’s Episcopalian but she went with her friend Sienna who I totally HATE she’s such a slut and she doesn’t even “like” James she just went cuz her stepmom made her.) So when I go though, I know I’m totally going to cry because I can’t stand seeing James all bloody and “people” throwing stuff at him. I mean, I know it’s a movie and it’s fake and stuff but I totally know I’ll cry. I get so “blotchy” when I cry, way nasty. I’ve totally seen the previews, and the lady who plays Mary is like so nasty and old looking. I was really hoping Paris Hilton would get to play her, I saw her look really sad in Us mag after she got in “trouble” for that video and she looked so real I wanted to cry. But I’d hate to see JC hook up with her I’d be so “jealous” HA HA HA! Or maybe Mandy Moore cuz she was hella good in How To Deal and she’s like the “greatest” actress.

Thanks for "coming" to my site – before you go, please click here to sign the petition to tell Mel Gibson that he should make a Passion of The Christ, Returns or Too or "something" like that. Cuz we want MORE JC!

Comfort Food Love
-Tallulah

Welcome to the Stouffer’s Comfort Food Fetish Chat room. There are currently 7 visitors.

The comments and opinions of Chat Room guests are not necessarily those of the Stouffer’s Consolidated Family of Food and Petroleum Products. Enjoy your visit!

macncheesemama69: hey hOt missed you last night get lucky?
BIGBISKIT71 has joined the chat
hOtdiggitydOg: mama if you only knew tha haff of it. she CRAZEE for the dogman. we worked over a whole pack a ballparks… we met at tha arby’s
NAUGHTYFRYCOOK has left the room
mityhungryindallas: hi biskit. you’re new here – welcome to the room **grin**
lovinspoonfulXO: ya, welcome biskit. u watch hungryindallas – he loves the large ladies LOL
macncheesmama69: yo biskit
BIG_BISKIT71: hi room. hi hungry. this is a cool room.
macncheesemama69: no shit hOt? she into the plump when you cook em, too> she’s a keeper. you hook up tonight?
stiK_E_buns: hi biskit. yeah this is good times. what food you into?
hOtdiggitydOg: no she got to work. she done made me a whole pan mashed potatoes before she left tho
lovinspoonfulXO: damn, hOt! you got potatoes and you’re chatting?
BIG_BISKIT71: i do mixed vegetables when i’m by myself. sometimes though – when i’m sad, saltines.
stiK_E_buns: **smile** i LOVE mixed veggies. the peas and carrot kind? my fave! what u got to be sad about biskit?
hOtdiggitydOg: ya – savin’ em for when emeril come on. that show makes me hot! that guy was makin shepperds pie last night. he keep that up i’m throwin out the viagra
macncheesemama69: yeah i tivo him for after the kids go to bed. just me and emeril and some nice boloney slices and miracle whip. too bad you don’t like white women hOt, we could hook up. XOXO LOL!
BIG_BISKIT71: i like the peas and carrots, but also really dig when there’s green beans and little red peppers. reminds me of my ex, though – that’s when i get sad.  do the saltine thing.
lovinspoonfulXO: with campbell’s chicken noodle? that’s when i like crackers. but i like the little zesta ones. they don’t poke as much.
BIG_BISKIT71: oh they don’t poke bad with enough margarine. alphabet soup is good, too. with beef. makes your skin real soft.
stiK_E_buns: man biskit your ex sux . don’t know what he’s missing. do you have a picture? wanna instant message?
macncheesemama69 is taking a break
mityhungryindallas: wonder what macncheesemama is doing? ***GRIN*** you got her all worked up hOt! she’s probably got the shake and bake going right now!
hOtdiggitydOg:: hungry, you so bad!
mityhungryindallas: biskit, when you get bored of stiK, i’ll be here. i’ve got a fresh bag of cool ranch doritos and the food channel on, i ain’t going anywhere .

Messin' with the MIBT
-Tallulah

Bob boarded the rental car shuttle, carefully avoided giving his brown leather airline approved overnighter to the black driver with the crinkly gray afro so as not to incur the discomfort of not tipping. He mumbled an “excuse me” to the man as he passed by, but spoke loudly and clearly when Gold Members were asked to identify themselves. GRAVELLY, BOB. Hell, you have to be a Gold Member these days to avoid going to the counter and making nice nice with the damn turban headed clerks just to end up with a fucking sub-compact. Just find your name in dots on the scrolling marquee, head to your very own stall and drive off with a tauruscamry626bonneville in a wide variety of colors ranging from pearl white to egg white to cocaine white.

Next to him, perched on the edge of the velour bench seat an anorexic Business Woman in coordinating slacks, jacket, pumps, purse, laptop bag/portfolio pulled a cell phone out of its little leopard print case – tediously punched out ten digits with her 1.5 inch mocha brown fingernails, tipped her Linda Evans hairdo to the side and put the phone to her ear, where it fit perfectly into the groove between large gold hoop and earlobe. Hot Damn! The race was on! Cell phones, formerly strategically poised for the big event - popped out all over the shuttle, a spontaneous symphony of self-important one sided conversations designed to impress and intimidate. Which rider would come out on top? The big time MIBT. Most Important Business Traveler. Contracts were discussed, signatures required by firstthingmondaymorning, ultimatums delivered (headsaregonnaroll), acronyms and Networking techno terminology filled the air in staccato bursts. They may have been massed into one homogenized non-identity on the plane - where the only distinct separation was between aisles 1 through 6 and steerage – but the shuttle was a place to shine.

Bob took his time pulling his little Motorola off the clip on his belt. Gazed pityingly at the smallish man in a stylish silk shirt next to him growling about bandwidth restrictions. Weak urban buzzword bingo bastard. I’ll take it from here. One button speed dial number. Lean back against the window, cross the right leg over the left.

“Williams. Gravelly………. What’s this I hear about production problems? I leave for two days and the whole GODDAMN place goes to hell? ……………. Listen Fuckface, you work for me – I pay you to solve problems. If I dropped you from an airplane with no parachute it’d be your problem to pull that tree top out of your ass right? Bet you’d get GODDAMN creative then, eh? What’d they teach you in that pansy ass film school? THIS AIN’T NO FUCKING DISNEY MOVIE! No talking GODDAMN animals, no precocious pissant orphans. THIS IS THE GODDAMN ADULT FILM INDUSTRY…………. You tell that bitch that we pay her a GODDAMN good salary to fuck whoever and whatever and however we tell her. If she doesn’t like it we’ll put her 16 year old sweet cheeked ass on a bus to whatever backwater Walmart she came from.……….. What the fuck does that mean? If the GODDAMN Viagra isn’t helping, can his ass, call the agency and get Peter Pecker, or no wait, get that Irish dude, Dick O’Steele or whatever the fuck his name is……… Well, for chrissakes then – get him a GODDAMN green card. Jesus! If I could reach through this phone and bitchslap you I sweartogod I would. JUST GET IT DONE…….. I’ll call you from Chicago. If this shit isn’t squared away by then you fudgepacking piece of roadkill I will personally make sure you can’t even make a living running production for GODDAMN community fucking access TV!"

Bob’s meaty index finger punched “END”. He gently closed the flip cover. The shuttle was quiet. Business Woman shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the seat, as the vinyl piping was most likely cutting off the circulation in her bony ass. Silk Shirt was tapping his tasseled loafer against his briefcase and inspecting a hangnail. The other players became suddenly interested in the landscape outside and the little paper tags on elastic strings attached to their luggage.

“Gold Members stop only. If you are not a Gold Member, please continue to the counter stop.”

Bob smiled to himself. GODDAMN I love the grocery business!

An Easter Tail
-Tallulah

Name’s Hal. Short for Halmuth. Named after my great grandpa, Halmuth Morten. Last name’s Takamoto. Yeah, I know, it’s a little different. Mother’s family was from Hungary. Moved over after the war. Your standard issue immigrant family. Oryctolagus cuniculus. Ma met Pop over in Syracuse, at this field off Highway 117 where she used to go on Sundays with her family for wild lettuce. Place is a WalMart Supercenter now. Isn’t that the fate of the “open space”?. My father came over from Japan with a biology exhibit headed for NYU. Pentalagus furnessi. That’s where we get the “Takamoto”. The bus carrying him and his pals hit the median and flipped over. Pop was a little dazed when he came to – so he hopped around for a while in all the confusion, then headed into the woods. Just so happened that Ma and her folks were having lunch when he wandered into their lettuce field. It was love at first sight. Least that’s how Ma liked to tell the story. She always was a romantic one. Anyway, she and Pop hitched up and had a bunch of little ones right quick. Let’s see… I’m number…seventeen. somewhere in the upper half, I guess you’d say. Most of my siblings hung around the burrow until we got booted by that CarMax franchise. That was a real low point for the family. Ma was never the same after that. What with Pop staging a sit in, you can imagine what happened. That bright yellow bulldozer just rolled right over the top of him. And the family home. We lost everything. We never did find Pop’s body. My brother Costa’s Born-Again, and he said at the time that Pop was up there with the Big Lapin in the Sky, eating tubers from an endless vegetable garden. I don’t believe that crap myself, guess you could call me agnostic – but it made my little brothers and sisters feel better. We lost Ma shortly after that. The Greensport Cottontail Press ran the obituary, saying she had passed after a brief illness. Illness my ass. Ma died from grief. Pure and simple. Pops was everything to her. She still had 26 little ones to care for, with no home, no worldly possessions. After that, the youngest kits went to live with our Aunt Magda in Connecticut. The rest of us hopped off to make our way in the world.

And that’s kinda how I fell into the job that eventually got me into this mess. Moved down to Poughkeepsie. I was pretty hard up, got some petting zoo gigs, but mostly I just hung out and waited for the phone to ring. Jobs were pretty scarce, I’d go down to the union shop and drink with the guys, pick up my welf-hare checks, but I knew there had to be more. One day I saw an ad in the Daily Hare-ld. Normally I don’t read that kind of liberal rag, but they had a good agriculture section. So the ad says “Work Part Time for Full Time Wages!” So I’m thinking, Yeah – one of those work from home envelope stuffing jobs. Or telemarketing. God, there’s a recipe for low self esteem. Kinda typical ad, nice looking fella in a suit and tie, holding up a handful of cash in one hand, and a basket of eggs in the other. Looking for all the world like “Hey! Two weeks ago, I was a schmuck, but now I’ve got a great job!” Fine print wasn’t very specific. Equal Opportunity employer, no degree necessary, blah blah. I don’t know why I called that particular time, I mean – it’s like the ads for those fat-burners. “Carrot Blocker” and “MetaboRabbit”. You see a svelte, hot little bunny with some musclebound meathead on the beach and you say to yourself “Those two have never been fat in their lives”. But a little voice in the back of your head says “What if? What if I lost that little spare tire I’m waddling around with? Maybe I could I get me that little lop-eared sweetie from the coffee shop to go out with me.” So eventually the “what ifs” win, and you make the call. 1-800-PTR-RABT.

The phone rang, and was picked up by a pleasant sounding female. She took my name, directed me to an address on the south side of town, told me to bring ID and be there at 8 p.m. sharp the next night. She gave no details about what the job actually entailed. I was both intrigued and bothered, but sick of having no steady pay and bored to death with TV and solitaire. With a hand me down, but decent tweed blazer, and my ears gelled up nice, I showed up ten minutes early. A non-descript office building in an industrial park. There were eight other guys milling around nervously, no one really saying much to each other. Uh-oh, I thought, it’s a cattle call. I hadn’t expected to interview against anyone else. At 8:05, a door opened. A big fella in a slick, European style suit came out. Dark fur, dark shifty eyes, large unlit cigar stub hanging out of the corner of his mouth. “Alright alla youse. Here’s the schtick. Easter holiday’s tomorrow. Lotsa kiddies out there want eggs, pretty colored ones. That’s what we do. We haul ‘em in, hide ‘em up nice. It’s a one night gig. Company supplies the goods, buses you to your designated area – you do the heavy lifting. Pays cash under the table. Good, decent money youse can’t pull down in six months of some 8 to 5 crap job. You do good, keep your nose clean and your mouths shut, you come back next year. This work is what we like to call ‘under the radar’. You got a problem with that, or with keepin’ things on the DL - get out now.” The room was quiet. Everyone looking at each other to see if anyone was going to bail. I made eye contact with the head honcho, and nodded. A couple of “I’m in’s” from the rest of the group. The big guy clapped his paws together and said, “All right, see Vera upstairs for your assignments. We meet back here at 9 p.m.”

Vera, the overly made-up aging receptionist assigned us each a number, handed us a watch and a map with red stars corresponding to our numbers. In a voice made gravelly and deep with years of cigarettes, she read the delivery instructions. “Hide the eggs good, but not so good that they’ll never be found. Do not break the eggs. Broken eggs will be deducted from the your pay. Be careful not to trip burglar alarms, or alert guard dogs. We will admit no knowledge of you should you be incarcerated or eaten by Rover. Your pick up times are laid out on the maps. The watches are synchronized. Miss your pick up and you’re on your own. We will not pay for a partial night’s work. Any questions?” There were none. I think we were more scared of Vera than we had been of Luigi or Guido or Vinnie, or whatever the big guy’s name was. I never actually caught it, but I just knew it had to be a your typical Mafioso name. We boarded the bus at 9, Luigi wasn’t there – but a small skinny guy with a broken front tooth was in the driver’s seat. He greeted everyone with a “Heya! I’m Chrith. Take a theat. We’re headin’ out.” As we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway, Chris said into his microphone: “Get ready. At each thtop, grab a bathket of eggth from the back. Run to the marked pothition on your map, do your thing then move on to the pick up point.”

We were at the first stop in ten minutes. “Number ONE thtop!” yelled Chris. He pulled up quick at the curb, opened the bus door and out hopped the short, squatty guy who had been directly in front of me on the bus. We raced up the street. “Number TWO thtop!” That was me. I grabbed my basket, and scooted out the door. The bus roared off, and suddenly I was a little nervous. I didn’t know for sure if we were doing anything illegal, but in my gut I had a bad feeling. Get over it, I said to myself. Six months of pay makes this a bargain at any price… Using a street light, I glanced at my map, and headed to the two story tudor style behind a large hedge. 1645 Porter Street. Yep, this was my marked destination. I gulped and went to work. An egg behind the shed. One in the bird bath. Several in the flower beds. Looking at my watch, I figured I had three more minutes to stash eggs. Okay good, mailbox! I liked that one. Ooh, definitely avoid the dog house… There’s a family of gnomes. Ha ha! Right under the Father gnome’s butt. This was getting fun. One more minute, three more eggs… Then BAAAAM! Lights went on everywhere! It was instantly daylight. Suddenly there were voices, and men in black coming from every corner of the yard. “D.E.A.! PUT DOWN THE BASKET!” I was paralyzed. “DROP THE GODDAMNED BASKET AND PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!” For a moment I had the absurd thought Is he talking to me? Did he mean ‘paws’? There was the sound of a helicopter directly overhead. More lights, a million candlepower bulb shining right on me. I gingerly set the basket down, so as not to break any eggs. I waved my paws in the air. “GET DOWN ON THE GROUND, NOW!” I began to slowly bend down. At that moment, a searing sensation ripped through my back. I had never felt such pain. Rubber bullets, I learned later. Everything went black. My last thought was that I was definitely going to miss my pick up time. Then, I dreamed of the old family burrow. And Ma…

So, yeah. That’s how it all went down. I took a little temp job and ended up doing hard time at the fur farm. I got no bail and a pre-pubescent punk fresh out of some backwoods law school for a Public Defender. I’m sure it’s just a matter of time for me. My cellmate went two days ago. By next week he’ll be lining some rich bitch’s denim jacket for a night on the town. Seems Guido, Vera, and pals were running a very lucrative courier business. Coke, crack, meth, X. You name it, those little colored eggs were full of it. They dupe a few brainless, hard luck bunnies like us guys into being the mules for one night, close up shop and move onto another town next Easter. I’m glad my folks aren’t around to see me like this. They’d be so disappointed. Pops had such big dreams for all of us. Oh hey, here comes the food cart. Great, Purina Rabbit Chow pellets again. Vile stuff. What I wouldn’t do for a nice, fresh turnip.