Monday, October 14, 2002

Git Along Lil' Dawgie.


Yes, the insipid rumors are true. Thanks to the immense servitude, endless patience, and extreme generosity of Andrea and a little help from Liberty the Bitch now has a new place to cop a squat. So c'mon down to WWW.THESUPREMEBITCH.COM! I'll keep the journal here, but all new updates will be featured in the new digs. Leave me a comment, goddammit.

Friday, October 11, 2002

Bitch - 2 : Virus - 0.


The Bitch is back! Look out, my tender, neglected poppets!

White Trash Holiday.


I still have yet to fathom how the shuffling, trollish, heavy-breathing human refuse that shamble about the back alleys and trailer parks of my city think that by coming here, they are transported to a third-world slum in which they will find fabulous treasures ripe for the stealing or ridiculous insulting haggle. I will reiterate here in writing that my gallery is not a goddamn Wal-Mart without the corporate policy difficulties that disallow clientele to make up their own inane prices for anything they please.


I am sick and fucking tired to my very bones about the endless and cheesy drug references pandered to every fucking container of any import within my gallery; African folk art tin boxes, carved wooden chests from the Philippines, lacquered lidded trays from Korea. Your pot is kept in a fucking old tube sock or matchbox shoved between your mattress and boxspring - oh hell, who are we kidding, you don’t even have a fucking boxspring, you sleep on an inflatable cushion on the floor of your crackhouse. This is not a head shop; this is not a back-door black market cartel; this is not a fucking slush-sale of stolen estate goods.


No, I am not interested in any old junk that you are looking to offload on me, in a desperate and scrambling effort to rustle up some petty cash for more smack, another bottle of Jack Daniel’s, or that fifty you owe ‘Big T’ for turning some trick. We are not in the market for your crappy, dirty trade beads or hemp products. We have no possible use for any of your homemade fishing line macramé or abstract cannabis clay art or creepy, bizarre sculptures carved from the fossilized shit of your stoner roommate.


I frankly could not give a single corn-riddled shit that you have traveled to the asscrack of fuck on the Continent, whichever frigging one of the seven to which you are referring. It interests me not that your only hygiene practice was to wash your hair with the urine of small pot-bellied native children. Or that your entire month was spent consuming the indigenous population of anal slime beetles and shitpit ringworm, subsequently spending the next fortnight precariously perched upon the crapper while passing the lining of your stomach through your spasming colon. I do not wish to see the hundreds of badly-aimed, crooked, unfocused, 1-Hour-Photo-at-Wal-Mart pictures you are so insistent to press upon my bleeding eyes, going to great lengths to point out every single pebble and weed within the frame, and what possible significance they hold in the larger scheme of things. And for fuck’s sake, I’m not about to buy all the shitty refuse you dragged back with you, and weakly fold to your querulous demands of a ninety-ten split, with you receiving the ninety percent of the sale. Fuck that.


And on a related topic, please do not seek to inform me with your arrogant posture and your condescending tones all about the Niekiep people of South Hatsbwinaland, and thereby demand in a mocking drawl that I need to alter some bit of printed material I feature in presentation of said ethnic group. Have you been to South Hatswinaland? Did you squat in the dirt eating maggot paste with your fingers while communing with the dead spirits of the Niekiep’s ancestors? Has your forehead and genitals been ritually scarred with the sphincter-mark of their war-god Jimjujubee? No? Then sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up, you spavined, anal-retentive, pissy, pasty white bitch. And while you’re at it, stop being so fucking grandiose by turning a simple two-syllable ethnic name into a motherfucking Mary Poppins’ nonsense-word. There’s nothing more pathetic than an upstart honkey trying to pretend he or she is the human embodiment of National Geographic.


It is an insult to both my business and myself, for your unkempt, smelly self to slop your way into my establishment, and demand ‘discounts’ for no good reason save that you are a ‘customer’ and therefore deserve to have my throw myself prone at your filth-caked feet and grovel and swoon before the almighty buying power of your moth-eaten coin purse. I certainly have no difficulty offering a reasonable sale price for repeat clientele, or for those guests that make a habit of perusing our collector-quality pieces and make subsequent purchases. But for you to stand before me belligerent, demanding, callous and arrogant, actually mocking my words and criticizing my business methods is absolutely fucking preposterous. Take a look in the mirror, you grandstanding, pompous, ingratiating little fuck. See what a callous, withered little shitworm you truly are.


No, my gallery is not too small, and indeed I do not ‘need’ to move my fixtures and displays to an even greater circumference about the perimeter of the space. What you need to do is watch where you so clumsily toss those swollen sausage feet, taking care not to slam your blubbery body into shelving units holding a thousand dollars of hand-painted soapstone trays, boxes, and dishes, and then blame me for somehow contriving to instantly place said shelves in your precious path of on-coming thrust. What you need to do is lose about two hundred fucking pounds of shimmying, shaking fat, you pedantic lard-ass of pure fast food grease.


I am not a goddamn city directory, an endless fount of knowledge about every business that at one time, currently, or possibly could exist within a fifty-mile radius of my gallery. I do not know where Madame Ling Bing Prissypanties’ Underthings for Women could have traipsed off to, nor do I care to speculate whatever might have happened to the old Apu Malikwik Yak Fat joint that once served the most delicious falafel and rhinoceros testicles. Simply because I am a merchant of ethnic goods does not make me a frigging connoisseur of all things foreign and fucked up.


And lastly, but most certainly not least in my line-up of pissant peeves, the motherfucking bead shop is no longer here, asswipes! Stop coming in here to ask me, lest I finally pull down the Mongolian axe from its crèche on the wall, and hack off your empty, babbling head. My shop will no longer be a prime destination for a white trash inner-city holiday. The tours stop here. You have been warned, poppets.

Monday, September 23, 2002

Virus - 1 Bitch - 0.


Yes indeed my poppets, this nasty little virus still has the better of me. But fret not; for as any fool can see, the Bitch has continued to update its tongue-lashing lovelies for your masochistic perusal. Enjoy, sweetmeats! Soon the Bitch will have the upper hand, and have that virus screaming its name in orgiastic pain. Oh yes, how sweet it is.

Name Dropper.


At least, she seemed to think she was important. Slogging through the door in a stringy grey ponytail, worn jean shorts, a washed-out cotton halter and the ubiquitous ugly pink foam sandals, an older woman imperiously looked down her long nose at the merchandise, casually tossing out the title and geography of this tribe or that nation. She beelines for a pair of chiwaras, a matched set of ritual harvest headdresses with three and a half foot tall wooden carvings of antelopes perched atop. She pronounced both the name of the tribe and the name of the carvings with intonations and inflections I have never heard before, in a style of prissy poseurship that only very white people use when talking about other ethnicities. At first she seems interested in them, until I inform her they are already sold. I make the mistake of attempting to explain their ritual use. ”They don’t look old. They look like tourist pieces to me,” she announces with an airy sniff. First of all, you dried up cunt, I never asked for your opinion. How I long to voice my true opinion … but instead I explain that no, they are not old, perhaps twelve years or so; and that they had indeed been danced true to their ritual purpose. She remained dubious and nonplused. That’s fine with me, think what you like, you pedantic pompous sack of elderly ersatz effluence of gastrointestinal waste. No, I do not know if the Lord High Bohemian has entered my humble shack of a shop, nor if Lady Poobah has deigned to grace me with her portly presence. I am sure if they did, they would trumpet their worldly wonders even louder than you.


She claimed she would “announce” us to these almighty powers, so that they might take pity on our ignorance and rape the shop of what little true value we possess. Nice try, bitch. Just last night we had a strutting peacock of a man stride in, all arrogance in his tank top, revealing his buffed-out pecs and biceps … and also the liver spots, prolonged drug-use scars and the cancerous wrinkles of being left out decidedly too long in the sun. Dude looked like a goddamn Prada handbag. ”Oh, I’ve been to these places”, he insinuated out of the corner of his Clinique-moistened mouth, holding his Roman nose up just so to indicate his boredom, enough to know the inside of his nasal passages were even whiter than the outside, if you catch my drift. “Oh really?” my partner asked innocently – who, by the way, is a world traveler and a collector of much of our goods. “What part of such-and-such backwater of the world?”


Well, of course the fellow could not rightly say; he was a buyer for a local upscale business that puts Pier 1 Imports to shame in overpriced tourist drek. And so, literally stuttering and drawing out his thoughts in a monologue of ”Uhh …” he conceded defeat, and admitted his transgressions. Afterwards the man was almost humble, listening in awe to the admittedly fabulous stories my partner is capable of spinning at the drop of a hat; or in this case, a name. It’s sometimes great fun to see people put in their places in such an innocent and unassuming manner. Sometimes it even makes me realize that as crafty as I believe myself to be, there are always new lessons to learn in the art of bitchcraft.

Phone Fun.


As a brief aside, I toss out for your voracious vindictive delight the bleating woman who just waddled in here with her spawn. Yet another feeb who speaks to their offspring as to the poor child as though it is half-witted and deaf in the bargain. What they fail to realize is that indeed, the little ones are not only smart enough to grasp in its entirety the subject of conversation, but far surpass in mental conveyance their parental units. Its embarrassing and just plain weird to me to hear grown women speak to six year olds in a gushing, goo-goo babyese dialect. The girl was practically rolling her eyes every time her mother opened her mouth.


But the point of this diatribe is the final statement the woman made as she left, holding the poor kid’s arms above her head and puppet-walking her along (ostensibly to keep her from touching things). “Excuse me? Is this your telephone you left here by the door? Someone’s left their phone here.”


Never mind that I actually was on my cordless phone at the time, making a call in plain sight of her. She was pointing to the stereo remote control. Even the little girl snorted and made a face at that. Well, at least there’s hope for that offspring.


I would also like to note that I now keep that fucking remote buried beneath the counter, where no feeb can possibly extricate it. Perhaps now I will finally stop having to hear about the goddamn thing.

Musical Idiot Savant.


What is it about the collection of African instruments strung along one wall that draws out every white trash stoner like flies to a honeypot? Nary a day passes in which I do not find one of these hemp-loving red-eyed stringy-haired barefoot wonders shambling in, espying some treasured guitar or rattle or drum, and then taking said instrument and wailing like fucking Van Halen.


We attempt to feature the highest quality merchandise available, but let us be honest – these shakerees and thumb pianos are basic pieces, well crafted but still an export product. What is most amusing is to listen to these strung-out bums attempt to put together coherent thoughts in a semblance of a discussion, arguing over the musical capabilities of a three-string sitar. “Like, how come I can’t tune this thing any better than this?” their drawling whine creeps forth in a coughing fit of phlegm and green pot smoke. Its as though they are astonished their inherent supreme ability to coax forth magical notes from any object, like goddamn Mickey Mouse in a cartoon, cannot wrest control perfection over a fifteen dollar item. Give it a rest, Hendrix you ain’t.

Toilet Poetry.


Suctioned, boiled, and strained from the miasma of my inner workings, I present to you a montage of Haiku, penned during a particularly trying and long-lived afternoon of irritation and swill. Like pearls on a string, I cast these shining bits of wisdom down into your pigpen. Do with them as you will.


Boredom


Dredged in the doldrums
Slowly fills my veins with sludge
Mine eyes at half-mast.


Sleep


Precious silver threads
Cling to me half-remembered
A time of pure joy.


Booger


Little snot nugget
Lodged within my cranium
Digging for the gold.


Elderly


So frail, so spotted
Wrinkles where I’ve not got skin
Dried up raisin bitch.


Horny Beef


Fine piece of meat there
Thick, firm, tender and juicy
Cook mine well done, please.


Poseur


Tries so hard, yet fails
Wanna-be is a dork
Mossimo sucks ass.


Homos


Tank tops A-Go-Go
Pumped pecs, tanned skins, and tattoos
Identical queers.


Homos Deux


Preppy, primping pricks
Cancer tan leaves them wrinkled
Skin like leather purse.

Hallway.


We have the good fortune of reasonable and emotionally placid business neighbors. The floor above us contains separate commercial spaces that allow their downstairs neighbor grants to display merchandise along the lobby walls, corridor, and stairwell leading to their relative domains. This essentially triples our surface spaces and makes terrific use of certain larger pieces which otherwise would ill fit within the confines of the gallery. At the adjoining door leading to the stairs we have placed a sign stating simply, ”More to see in the hallway”. Simple, right?


Wrong. Fucktards of the world, unite and drive the Bitch to madness with your idiocy and blatant blindness to the obvious. ”Whats upstairs?” is an inevitable question, one the Bitch can actually tolerate when it is in a comfortable mood. ”Is there more upstairs/ is there more in the hallway/is this yours too?” is a far more common occurrence. What the fuck do you think it is? No, it’s a completely separate import space competing with us just next door, but we’re so casual we have open portals leading into each other’s areas. Why are you asking the Bitch these inane questions? You just read the fucking sign aloud to the entire shop! You of all people ought to know that yes there is more goddamn stuff to see in the goddamn hallway! Sometimes these slothful slobs are so fucking lazy they simply read the sign, poke their neighbor, and then turn to the Bitch to ask it what lies beyond. Is it truly so hard to take two more steps and delve into the mystery yourself?


The Bitch likes it best when these ninnies actually stand in the door frame, poke their long pointy pinheads into the corridor, sweeping about slowly and lazily, before popping back in and asking it, ”What do you have in there? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What does it look like? The Bitch is going to start telling these mindless fuck-hole sheep that the adjacent room holds the sweatshop of illegal immigrant children that labor for eighteen hours a day to produce all of the tourist-grade ethnically false contemporary badly-painted knockoff shoddy shit it carries. Of course if the Bitch were to utter such a statement, it surely would be taken as Gospel; for it is the way of the fucktard to turn a blind rheumy eye to sarcasm, condescension, and flippancy. Ay, and such a waste it is, too.


The Bitch realizes that common sense, in and of itself, is a mislabeled attribute that in fact is not common at all. But even so, it makes the Bitch wonder how these people could possibly survive day to day in this modern world when they so lack the most basic of intelligent thought processes. These people should have been wiped out long ago in Darwin’s theory of evolution, but thanks to the miracles of contemporary technology, Wal-Mart and Sally Struther’s college-courses-at-home, they too can continue to consume resources, breed, and re-populate their growing numbers with equally ugly, lazy, stupid children who will grow up ignorant and fuck-witted and begin the process all over again. This makes the Bitch long for a good old-fashioned plague, sometimes.

Wednesday, September 18, 2002

Vegetable Man.


Today a would-be New Age guru of nutrition and dietary change visited me. A shifty-eyed and slithering little fellow with a balding pate and a peculiar habit of wringing his hands as he spoke, using only the most carrying and loud of his outdoor voices; he spooked the shit out of me.


He strode in innocuously enough, looking rather plain and ordinary at the beginning; his first triumph was in his success in convincing me to lower my guard. Ah, fie upon it! Fie, fie! For this was the first pebble-rattle warning that the avalanche was upon my unknowing head. ”This is my first time in,” he tells me mundanely enough. Before I could react, my senses were assaulted with a liberal peppering of explicit information I certainly did not request. ”I just wanted to let you know, and I wanted to look around to see what you have. I’ve never been in before, it looks really nice in here, you have a lot of interesting things, it’s like a museum!” Pause for breath – at last! An opening with which to spit out my venomous dispensation of this vermin! But alas, I had already succumbed to his siren song, and I was entrapped by the creepy yet strangely locking intensity of his watery gaze.


”I want to be a writer someday, I’m working on my writing,” he announces to me, this fifty-something bag of dispossessed hot wind, his statements incongruous and obscenely disjointed. ”Have you heard of the liquid vegetable diet? Its when you take vegetables and cook them in a pot with enough water to cover them, and you cook them until they’re soft, and then you strain them and you mash them together, or you can use a blender, do you have a food processor? It works much better with one of those, then you strain the vegetables or you can use a juicer, those work best, using the liquid vegetable diet, and then you have the liquid vegetables that you can drink, or you can give them to someone else to drink, and it’s a liquid vegetable diet, and its really easy to do, and you can drink it yourself or give it to someone else to drink.”


I shit you not, that diatribe was verbatim; I should know, I began to type it all down even as he blithely begat his liquid vegetable madness upon the willing victim that I had become. Faintly I goggled and stammered a reply, as he had finally shut his liquid vegetable pie-hole to take a breath … or perhaps he somehow had a blow-hole in the back of his head, which allowed him to spew forth this onslaught of frightening yet practical nutritional advice. Thank the Dark Powers of my bitchcraft, that my mental summoning at that instant brought me both a tall burly friend and a telephone call to shatter the spell and set me free. After looking the newly entered companion up and down, he gave his good-day and scuttled off. This was a Good Thing, as that ubiquitous phone call was obviously not going to sway him from his mission of implanting his foul hippie eating habits upon my black and bitter mind.


And before you think this is a rare treat for me, my poppets, know that folk such as this Vegetable Man are but a common occurrence for me in my shop. Picture one such as this entering your workplace thrice daily, every single day of the week. Now can you envision my own private hell?

McDonald Land.


It’s a sad state of affairs to witness how this titan corporate conglomerate has reached out with its barbed and slimy tentacles to infiltrate so much of our contemporary lives. Not only in our dietary habits, sedentary living style, absolute lack of knowledge or even care of what we ingest, our family functions, relative relationships and now, through the impressionable and fragile little minds of our precious, innocent children, our social morals and cultural values. This insipid, evil plot cloaks itself in the guise of a colorful cartoon wonderland of playful creatures and happy-go-lucky gentle adventures, the whole of which is literally fed and supported by the foul, filthy food shoved down our collective sheep-throats. This, my woeful and endangered poppets, is Ronald McDonald Land. Hear these cautionary tales, and remember for all time. For the sake of the children, please.


These are the real terrorists Homeland Security ought to be going after, for these hideous horrors are far more of a malignant tumor swelling and spewing upon the tender flesh-matter of our societal body. More frightening than any bitter, depraved diaper-head with Reagan Administration weaponry, it is these fearsome, foul nightmares that delve deep into our psyches and puppet us like the mindless meat-popsicles we are. For so easily have they infiltrated our current culture that they have become household names, and beloved heroes to tender little babes the world over. I present to you a villain’s gallery of the most horrible and gruesome of the offenders:


RONALD MCDONALD : This pandering, powdered clown of a creature capers and gibbers and smiles and soft-shoes in its ridiculous, flopping feet – which are sure to contain lethal poison gasses and special spray emitters to douse an entire restaurant full of Sarin in seconds. Like a goulish Mob godfather, it sits its gay yellow ass on the throne of McDonaldland, conducting its uncouth business with a wave of its white-gloved talons. Every citizen of its despot kingdom bows and scrapes in the presence of its nappy red fright wig, too terrified to ever utter a contradictory word. See how every idea the Clown announces is taken as the word of God by its mindless, vacuous followers! Tremble as its almighty power and control over its whole domain, with every single article of food named after its own entity! MAYOR McCHEESE, the ambulatory soy-meat patty with the flapping, talking cheese lips is supposed to be the benevolent ruler of McDonaldland, but is only a figurehead, a yes-man, a sad and battered pawn in the greasy paws of the Clown. One who trembles at the probable daily threat of being devoured by a grimacing stretched pair of lips, a blood-red skein of a mouth that spills across a corpse-white face; could the Clown in fact be an undead beast from the very pit of Hell? Perhaps … perhaps …


THE GRIMACE : What the fuck is going on, that this blubbering blob of a beast is given such an ugly and ill-fitting name? One who is meant to be a childrens’ character infusing a pandering sycophancy of love and tender acceptance in its gentle humor and silly, swishy errors? Make no mistake about it; this gooey gumdrop of a dandy is a flaming queen, and a not-so-secret personal bitch to the CLOWN itself. Though the Grimace serves also a darker, unspoken purpose; it is the right-hand man of the Clown, dispensing a cruel mockery of justice, punishing the cowed and quivering citizens of McDonaldland in a wave of purple terror. It is our suspicion that it devours nay-sayers, Greenpeace members, Democrats, Gaians, and juice-bar affectionados aplenty by shoving their squealing, screaming bodies up its ass until it can properly digest its captive quarry. What else would explain the bizarre and unnatural shape of its lumbering, lumpy body?


BIRDIE THE EARLY BIRD : At first one might think this character to be the feminine balance in the male-dominated pantheon of the CLOWN, but taking a closer look at this poor imprisoned creature’s role will cause for much sorrowful reflection. The only woman in the Clown’s crew of kooks and crazies, she maintains a gentle and gracious mentality, taking pity on all that come before her. Unfortunately there are precious few who ever see the poor bitch, because she is endlessly chained to the kitchen, her sole role to cook breakfast for all the men. Just look at her! She wears a diaphanous scarf and a perky little cap, and nothing else! Unlucky Birdie is even fulfilling the stereotype by shunning all shoes, remaining barefoot as she flips Hotcakes and fries McSausage for the forever-hungry maws of the Clown’s posse.


HAMBURGLAR : Oh, what a shitty state of affairs for this dumb bastard. The only dark-skinned cast member within McDonaldland, ‘the man’ has placed this deep molasses watermelon-mouth-sized tap-dancer in the role of the criminal, always laying blame on his Darkie flesh for anything that goes wrong. This makes for an effective scapegoat whenever the pasty, lily-white CLOWN has one of his little tricks backfire and becomes publicly exposed. Who else but a dark-skinned person would do, when a crime needs to be accounted for? We’re surprised that the downtrodden Hamburglar isn’t pictured with a noose around his neck, and a sack of fresh-picked cotton on his bent and broken back. “Robble, robble!” he grunts out in exasperation. Too bad no one else in McDonaldland speaks Ebonics. What he’s really saying is, “Get this whitey bitch off my tail, yo! Dag, this is whack!”


FRY KIDS : Complete in warring gang colors of blue and red, these punk-ass ne’er-do-wells are constantly harassing poor BIRDIE for a taste of her cancer-causing, oily deep-fried McTaters … or perhaps they’re simply sniffing about for her other greasepot, as there seems to be a decided lack of female Fry Kids. The juvenile delinquents of McDonaldland, even these would-be innocents have been warped and twisted around the pinkie of the CLOWN, performing his will in deed, at his almighty command. Like a swarm of locusts they descend, in constant argument and spite, leaving all behind them a burning wasteland of gang warfare. No wonder every other character, including the black bad-ass HAMBURGLAR, turns around and runs away when they see these devil-streaks coming.


McNUGGETS : These haunted, tortured souls are barely shadows of their former selves, when they ran in free-range camps across the face of McDonaldland. But when the CLOWN needed a cheap source of labor, it plundered the wealth of the McNugget clans and bound them to its steely resolve. In modern times the McNuggets serve as the proletarian sector of McDonaldland, obviously performing all the harsh physical labor and dirty domestic work necessary to keep the wheels and cogs of the fast-food machine turning. Horrifyingly enough, a common threat for these gentle meat-treats is to be dipped into the very sauces which they labor to manufacture for hours on end; only to be devoured by the very Clown itself. At the rate of which the Clown goes through peons, one thing is for certain. That sooner or late, the deep-fry basket gene pool of the McNuggets will be empty, leaving a massive vacancy on the lowest rung of the social ladder.


Beware, my poppets. They will come for you in your dreams, as you sleep, as you drift. The next time you settle down for a quick meal in their garishly lit fast food whorehouse, think about the contents of that oily piece of gristle you are about to inhale. And remember too, that enemies of the CLOWN have a tendency to vanish, mysteriously, without warning or any sign of passage.


Billions and billions served, my ass. It should read, "Billions and billions SERVING the CLOWN". Prepare to have a big red rubber Commie clown-shoe shoved right up yer hiney.

Memorial Mayhem.


The city committee endeavored mightily to provide a worthy, lasting tribute to 9/11 for the township of Jersey City, N.J., an urban locale just a stone's throw across the river from New York, and the once-proud twin towers of the World Trade Center. Yet somehow, as it always comes to pass, seeming human ingenuity metamorphosed in the harsh light of reality to reveal the moronic, the fuckwitted, the supreme foolishness that a city official will always display when it comes to cutting corners and saving a buck - especially if that dollar ends up in their pocket.


It was a lovely sentiment, releasing doves into the air at the culmination of the ceremony, a metaphoric lifting of the delicate white winged host, rising to the heavens on tender heartbeats and fluttering gestures. But instead, these foolish feather follies spiralled to their chilly deaths in the Hudson river, entangled their broken limbs in the hair of the horrified onlookers, or slammed into office windows to crumple in the streets.


The organizers had, instead of procuring doves at a company renting homing avians for weddings and other events, bought a series of meat birds from a local poultry shop. Guy Catrillo, a member of the organization that planned the 9/11 event, actually had the balls to justify his decision because he saved the city several hundred dollars, and the pigeons, from their terrible fate. "They're all free. They're not soup", he stated to the media. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant sir. The Bitch salutes you with a single outstretched middle finger.


And suddenly, I'm in the mood for some nice, gamy broth. Go figure.

Monday, September 16, 2002

Virus.


Some bastard has sent the Bitch a nasty virus which has shut down its DSL software, thereby eliminating the connection to the Internet. While the Bitch struggles to repair the intruder's evildoings, it will not be able to update as often as it would like. Stay tuned to your PCs for more bitter diatribes and mindless, vitriolic rants forthcoming right here, at The Fine Art Of Bitching.

Saturday, September 14, 2002

O Canada Thou Art Angry.


Man, I thought Americans were pissant sacks of shit behind the wheel of their filthy fuckhead sport-utility whorebanger my-sexual-organs-are-too-small-so-I-compensate-with-this-massive-vehicle were frightening to witness and fearsome in operation. We aint' got nothing on ole' Canada it seems, which transforms its bouts of road rage into sheer operatic epics of dramatic proportion.


Dumbfuck Kanuck # 1 likes to tailgate Maple Leaf Mofo # 2 on the highway, just to be a little shit, prompting # 2 to slam on his brakes and let each other kiss in a tender embrace of bumper metal and rear-end collisionary embrace. # 2 is pretty incensed, and scrambles out of his car to smash in the window of # 1, who retaliates by departing the womb of his own vehicle and ripping off the antenna of # 2's now-defunct ride. # 1 and a butt-pirate buddy of his chase # 2 into a nearby store with the antenna and proceed to beat him with the metal whip ... oh what I would give to see such shenanigans and goings-on in my own neighborhood, it makes me moist with desire.


And there's more. In another incident a driver stopped a fellow motorist on the road to complain that he was following too close; apparently these fucktards did not bother to actually leave the highway, as their parked cars caused a six-vehicle crash. Priceless ... I thought inbred antics like this were a sole American convention. Its nice to know there are pissant sacks-of-shit wonders of this nature all over the world. Gives you a nice comfortable feeling, deep in the pit of your stomach. Oh wait, I think thats just gas. Never mind.

Today's Photo.



Hope his dingle does not get wet.


Only those wacky, wild Europeans would have an anatomically correct warning sign against the destructive dangers of male upright urination. If only American men could accomplish the same task, wives the nation over would rejoice at the liberation of dirty pee piddles forevermore. Fellas, do you have any concievable notion of how unutterably foul and filthy it is to see the bottom of the basin splattered with your little tinkle-trails, simply because you are too fuckshit-lazy to actually turn on the light during your nocturnal bladder emissions? But no, I'm not bitter, not at all. This thing's gonna hang right above the Bitch's crapper from now on.

Friday, September 13, 2002

One Hundred Bead Feeb Spectacular.


Yes my poppets, its so true! One hundred fucktard feebs have crawled through my door in their quest to satisfy and sate their bizzare beading frenzies! And now thanks to a convenient link provided by Goddezzbidch, I have endeavored laboriously for hours ... well, minutes perhaps ... alright, ninety seconds! Picky bitch - have grunted and pushed long and hard to pinch off and produce for you, my fans, an action-packed motion picture epic to celebrate this momentous occasion. Sweeping the boundaries of moral guidance, common sense, and all possible comprehension, this cinematic event will change your life forever.


Thrill to the harrowing sight of the Supreme Bitch in all its fearsome glory!


Chill in horrifying witness to the pure fucktard ignorance that is its clientele!


Spill your hard-earned cash into purchasing for the Bitch one of the below-listed items of its Shit-Wish-List in orgasmic, mindless gratitude!


And now, ladies and gentleman, may we humbly present ...


Bead Feebs.


But WAIT! Thats not all!!!


For so great was the emotional impact of this motion picture, that the Bitch itself was moved into a frenzy of creative outpouring to bring to you, its dearly beloved poppets, an underground sequel that effortlessly and elegantly completes the circle that was first drawn in a skein of blood and consequence upon the heart of the Bitch. And so, we bring you, its loyal fans ...


educating the feebs.


Bring home the magic today. Bring home the Supreme Bitch. And watch as your family comes together as only the Bitch can bring them, much like the Christian Coalition wishes it could, but is too fucking ass-backwards to ever accomplish.

Tuesday, September 10, 2002

Chimp Jr.


Well, well, well. Little Miss Bush, spawn of Dubya brother Jeb, is at it again, up to the old tricks she learned at her daddy's and uncle's knees. Already at an Orlando drug rehab center, Noelle Bush was discovered to be in possession of cocaine; but was not arrested because sworn statements signed by the center staff could not be obtained by police. Perhaps they had pity on the spoiled, dirty little slutbag and hoped "this time" would be the opportunity that changes her for the better. Fat fucking chance, folks. Like uncle, like niece it seems, and only makes me wonder just how white Dubya and sibling are on the inside too. Filthy, foul Republican offal ... the whole family is just one mass of stereotypically dusfunctional bullshit. Why is it we as an American people put up with assholes like this to lead our once-great nation - its obvious these men cannot effectively raise, teach, or even control their spoiled little princesses.


Young Bitch Bush was already incarcerated from a January 29th drug arrest, for posing as her own doctor to order a perscription of anti-anxiety Xanax from the local Walgreen's. Of course the foolish gimp was caught and had her skinny ass sent to rehab. In July, Noelle (didn't Delta Burke's character Suzanne from Designing Women have a plump pink pig named Noelle? How appropriate ...) was found to be in contempt of court by being caught in possession of perscription medication again, and had her narrow scabby self tossed in jail for three days. Even this was not enough to dissuade her from her selfish, self-destructive, petulant demeanor, and was slammed with the above-stated felony a short time ago.



Complete with trailer-ho eyeshadow and oversized gums like raw chicken, Miss Noelle Bush is photographed here in a brief, apparently rare moment of sobriety.


I know some of you bleeding hearts think I should grant the Bush family privacy during this tumultuous time; that I should not hold them up to impossibly high standards and expect them all to act as model citizens. Well, actually ... thats exactly what I fucking expect them to do! They're (sadly) America's so-called royal family at this moment, and they need to carry their redneck white trash collective with a little more dignity and respect! This is a national embarrasement, and should not be let go, or silenced, or forgotten. For me, this is yet another red mark in the gradebook of our Presidential administration, even if Dubya was not directly involved this time around. I'm sure in the months to come, his sticky little puppet fingers will somehow be found connected to the incident. He always is, whether or not anyone in our so-called liberal media ever wants to admit as much.

British Madness Never Ends.




This breaking news story is a charming companion to the previous Today's Photo listed earlier this week. Though I suspect The Sun is rather like a British version of the National Enquirer, this is nonetheless a remarkable photograph, and an even more astonishing tale of laziness, sloth, and negligence. Every day when I wake up and think that there cannot be anything more foolish and silly coming out of Europe than the previous evening's offering, something like this little gem comes along to smash my presumption to pieces.


Truly, what more needs to be said about this article, when the image above so eloquently states the very heart of the rotting matter? This is what comes of hiring negligent private contractors. Of course, the poor dead creature does rather look contrived as it sits above the otherwise neatly-painted line, its own filthy fur matted with seemingly fresh strokes of white paint. But who cares for such tawdry details! Its all about raising one's fist and shouting "Rabble rabble!" at the problematic ne'er-do-wells of our callous society! Never mind that this could clearly be a cheesy, pathetic attempt at a hoax to provide printable puff pieces for a slanderous, sloppy second-rate newsmagazine. Material such as this empowers me to bitch, and gives me fodder for my fertile fecundant mind!

Fun With Quizzes.


Courtesty of this jellybean whasherface I have partaken of some most entertaining online quizzes. Well, truly they're not, but it was a mild belch of amusement to see what random drivel would come spinning out of my scsreen in a flash of pyrotechnics, and assure me of that which I already know. But you see ... I was not aware of these happenings within my psyche, not even in the smallest increment of an inkling. Behold! For I am ...




What is your Alter-Ego Personality?


Now, how in the hell would I ever be saddled with these poseur wanna-bes? I used to thrash these losers back when I was still allowed to attend a public school campus. It would amuse me greatly to switch their campy black makeup and white face powder with something by Maybelline. Perhaps a Cinnamon Surprise lip gloss and a blush named Autumn Sunrise. Oh, lets not forget the ubiquitous White Trash Blue eyeshadow. Playing clown is fun when you use other people's faces!


Which Sesame Street Muppet Are You?
Which Sesame Street Muppet Are You?

But why, God, why Telly Monster? When I was a child I entertained fantasies of locking this gimpy bitch in a closet and starving him for weeks, poking his furry arse with a stick whenever he began to mutter and whine about the inane drivel that occupies his existence. Wait a minute ... goddammit, I am like Telly!




This one defies description. There were two choices of graphic, one for a male, one for a female. Well my poppets, as you all know, I am androgynous and do not apply to either ... but I enjoyed the sarcastic smirk on the face of this skinny bitch much better than the soulful pout of the boy-pic. So here it is in all its WASPish glory.



What Flavour Are You? I taste of Death.I taste of Death.


Doesn't everyone want a taste of death? Well they should. Most people deserve death. Keep away from me unless you think you're better than that. I probably won't like you. What Flavour Are You?


WAH HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH! FINALLY a test that truly is accurate!! Now this is good news! I can't wait to ... taste myself!!

Monday, September 09, 2002

Even More European Madness.


Boy that Eurotrash just keeps churning out fodder for this blog. No matter how inane and insane I think they've become across the Atlantic, articles like this spontaneously sprout from beneath my nose to prove my previous assumptions wrong. This poor British epileptic shit named Edwin Young suffered a seisure while he was driving his automobile. Why was he operating heavy machinery when he knew perfectly well his body was subject to such transgressions, I'll never know; but apparently he went into convulsions and ran into another car belonging to one Yvonne Rennie. She was incensed by the crazy expressions this cat was making, and sued to the tune of three thousand five hundred pounds, plus an additional thousand pounds for the traumatic experience of no longer feeling comfortable driving her car.


I used to say, 'Only in America'. Now I'm thinking of changing that to 'Only in the U.K.'. I cannot believe that a judge would ever award that much money to a plaintiff on the grounds that she didn't like the expression of the sick man who inadvertently caused an accident. Supposedly Young was making such gruesome faces that passersby thought he was having a heart attack and drug him from his vehicle, much to the consternation of Rennie, who then was subjected to the 'horrifying' sight of Young seisuring. She was also awarded fifteen hundred pounds for her slight injuries - the collision took place at a traffic light and gave her whiplash.


I'm hoping to visit my gramma next month, and if I am lucky be subjected to her heart condition, which would so upset me that I could sue her liver-spotted wrinkly old ass for all the money she's got. Can't wait to be emotionally scarred for life by her dentures, too.

Boo Hoo.


Well, my little poppets, it looks like closet-case peroxide job Lance Bass of canned-pop-singer N'Suck .. I mean, N'Sync fame will not get to ride his pony after all and go on the next planned Russian Soyuz rocket mission. Well boo-fucking-hoo for you, you whining pissant little spoiled pretty-boy tart. Looks like his sponsors had a hard time coughing up the twenty million dollar doughball needed for such an exorbitant ride up to the International Space Station. I guess this means his group's next album is going to blow chunks even worse than previously suspected. You would think that by scalping consumers at seventeen bucks a pop for their tinny computer program enhanced screeching and pop-synth strains that the kid would have a little extra cash on hand to afford such a blatant promotional event ... I mean, lifelong dream. Too bad his fat, hairy, dirty old uncle of a manager stole all the profit from his pack of painted Pinocchio pricks and left them hanging like the waste-of-flesh puppets they are.

Insult.


Man, what is it with some people who come into this gallery? I had a client earlier this afternoon perusing the merchandise, asking a question here and there. She seems to know something about tribal art - portions of her knowledge were accurate, other segments complete farce and fantasy. That in itself is something that drives me bugfuck insane, when someone has heard a particular piece of bullshit from some unknown, unreliable source, and attempt to quote this inane poppycock as the gosphel truth. I have news for these sad clowns. Just because some Rastafarian with a thick accent, thicker body odor, and a mudcloth cape told you a thing, does not make it so. And simply because I am a cracker, does not mean I know nothing about Africa, its indigenous people, or their cultures and history.


To add insult to injury, she had to insist on arguing with every single statement I made regarding one piece or another. Nothing was good enough for her ... and ironically enough, every piece she thought was a piece of export trash was an authentic tribal element, while those articles she loved best were all the least expensive and least authentic of the whole lot. "And your prices ... you can't ..." she waved her hands at me like fluttering crippled birds. "... you can't make them any more reasonable than they are now?" What the fuck? Does she not realize how personally offensive that remark is to me? Our prices are so fucking honest and reasonable that we are practically opening a vein in our wrists to financially bleed ourselves to death.


Unfortunately my largest growing fear is that reverse prejudice is working against me in this gallery - that it's because of the color of my skin that dark-complected folks think I know nothing about what I sell, or else completely discredit me when I attempt to detail the story or background of a particular item they inquire about. If you are not willing to listen to what I have to say, then why the hell do you ask me about it in the first place? Of course a client may wish to be circumspect in their testing of my knowledge. I would entertain the same notions. But enough is enough folks - it should be obvious as soon as I open my mouth that I know something of which I speak. Its just disheartening ... or would be, if I had one of those beating in my empty, black and hollow chest.

Censorship.


How interesting that only the comments relating to this post below, regarding Akwana Walker and Stephanie Bell (and of course our ubiquitous vocabulary friend NIGGARDLY) have somehow mysteriously vanished. Looks like Korporate Amerikkka has finally gotten to me as well; or so someone would like to believe. He used the same Commie Red finger-pointing slur at my ass just the other day in response to the 'Niggardly' entry. How noble and brave of you to rout me out, nail me to a cross, and set fire to my horrible threatening monstrosities. Frankly, I don't give a flying rat's ass what one person or another thinks of me, and all are free to sling the mud and insults with panache and enthusiastic glee. What pisses me off is that this fool can't see the blatant tongue-in-cheek theme of my vitriolic writing, and the fucking obvious fact that nothing here is to be taken seriously. I write for myself, and only myself; I likewise give not a single skinny shit if no one ever came here again. Even these counters serve only to amuse myself. Should I happen to illicit an evil chuckle from one of my patrons, so much the better. But if one finds oneself's delicate sensibilities unbalanced by my rhetoric, then I suggest you take yourself elsewhere and follow the simple instructions to the left of this journal. Thank you kindly in advance for culling the human gene pool of ... well, you know the rest. Otherwise, have yourself a peachy day. Ciao!


P.S. - For God's sake, if you're going to retaliate against me for this particular rant, please don't try to out-catty-call me; I will win. If one is truly that offended by my statements, I suppose I could drag myself down from my ivory tower to have an honest discussion. Well, lookie here! I just went out and made an email account, just for retaliatory rants!


Come bitch out the Bitch at supreme_biznatch@hotmail.com, who sadly could not get its name onto a shitty freebie site like MSN.com because its name is (gasp!) unauthorized. Ahh well ... I suppose I shall have to endure as the Supreme_Biznatch now.

Saturday, September 07, 2002

Niggardly.


Fourth-grade teacher Stephanie Bell did not think twice when she used the ten-dollar vocabulary word 'niggardly' to describe a literary character in the course of a class discussion. Any reasonable, moderately intelligent person would deduce that she used the word in its proper manner, to indicate laziness, stinginess, a miserly attitude. And so the children learned a new phrase and brought their teachings home with them that day.


Parent Akwana Walker heard the word and immediately began a chicken-strut dance of intolerance, finger-pointing, backbiting and petty ignorant protest. To Akwana (no fucking surprise to guess what color her deep molasses skin might be) the word sounded like a racial slur and was thus offended. After all, its her duty as an Angry Black Woman to put up a fuss and bitch about 'the man' yet again trying to bring 'her people' down. Stupid nigger. If she kept her big-ass thick rubbery lips shut for three seconds, she might figure out that no-one was trying to oppress her at all ... so now its my duty to fling some poo on her African roots.


While Ms. Bell has been told to keep silent regarding the situation, her son has come forward to state that in a memo sent by the school principal, his mother was admonished for using poor judgement, and also was required to make a formal apology to her students' parents. Son Tarl Bell has also berated his mother "for lacking sensitivity to the school's diverse population and not being aware of cultural differences". What the fuck is that about? So now we are to censor our speech just in case some dumbfuck with a chip on their shoulder five generations old might become incensed at what they percieve our words to mean? Even in everyday language, its possible to construe one's dialogue in a multiplicity of ways, without figuring in the additional equasion of stupid illiterate bitchpigs like Akwana. I feel like I need to roll my head from side to side on my shoulders and perform a 'z-snap' when I type that foolish name. At least her ghetto mom didn't name her Chlamydia.


Now Ms. Bell is no longer allowed to use the word 'niggardly' at all. Its been officially banned from her school. This is an absolute farce as far as I am concerned. And so, in tribute to the beleaguered and beaten down Stephanie, I salute with this tribute.


NIGGARDLY.


Say it loud. Say it proud. If you don't like it, close your fucking ears. And before you razz my pasty cracker ass about using racial slurs, get off your high horse. I'm not racist. I discriminate, mock, and degrade with absolute and equal measure every race, color, creed, sex, sexual orientation, religion, faith, sect, national origin, choice of paper or plastic, keeping the toilet paper end on the frontside or the backside of the roll, and selection of chicken, beef, vegetarian or Kosher meal on your plane flight.

Today's Photo.



Sotp or I'll ... stick my head back up my ass.


Yet another shining example of our hard-earned tax dollars at work. Sadly, this error was probably done in sheer negligence, and could have been corrected, would that the construction worker not have been such a lazy cuss. Now it'll sit there for a week until yet another crew can come out and alter the fine workmanship on display here. Fucking redneck hillbillies. And look how proudly the poor assclown pushes his little paint-line machine, probably thinking of what a good job he is accomplishing.

Friday, September 06, 2002

Buy Me Some Shit.


I am going the way of the begging filthy cam whore and making a wish-list of prospective treats my twisted little black heart desires. Thanks as well go out to sugarmama whom I think used to have such a directory of dreams but maintains it no longer. Or perhaps not, and I am simply being senile ... but whatever the case, she makes me think of material greed, obsessive outrageous demands, and narcissistic tendencies. Heh! Love ya, sugarmama.

Everything But The.


Seventy thousand dollars of merchandise in authenic tribal art, antique ethnographic collections (some of which hail from the De Young Museum of San Francisco and the Smithsonian of Washington, D.C.), the highest-quality candles and incense on the market, beautiful vintage textiles from the world over, fine home accessories I would be proud to showcase in my own residence. Perhance one would think that amongst all this veritable visual wealth of fascinating errata, a client would find something interesting, worthwhile to pick up and peruse.


But no. This is not to be. There is something else here amongst my Bobo tribe masks, my ancestor figures from Irian Jaya, my antique Ethiopian silver crosses. Something which calls out to every fuckwit fatass no-account who shuffles through my open door.


The stereo remote control.


"Oh, is this one of those universal remotes? I need one of those! Why do you have this here? How much is this?"


"I didn't know you sold electronics here. Isn't it kind of ... strange ... to sell electronics here?" (INSERT SNIDE EXPRESSION HERE.)


"Whats this thing for? Does it turn on the alarms or something? Is it for sale? Hey, I think someone left their car alarm thingy here!"


I am sad to inform you, my poppets, that all these statements are absolutely true, and have been uttered verbatim by some of the choice assclowns with whom I must deal on a daily basis. For reference, I keep the stereo remote by the door, tucked out of the way in the corner of the window display; the better to change CDs and adjust the volume of the sound system above the doorframe. And alas, that goddamn piece of plastic is the very first thing these people discover. And usually the only thing they ever pick up.


post-script: I have just had another gaggle of office folk trudge on through. They didn't pick up the remote this time, oh no. This time it was the sixty-four dollar Mexican prayer candle bank, you know the one, with the cobalt glasses arranged in rows along the wrought-iron frame? "Why is this sixty-four dollars?" one of the bouffant-crowned ladies asked me with a twist to her mouth. After telling her it was for the set, the set, the motherfucking goddamn set, you imbecile! ... she snorted and tossed the glass back down. On her way out she knocked over a cat figurine from Java, spun in a circle while asking what she knocked over, stared down at the forlorn kitten, and walked away with a shrug. Its going to be one of those days, I think.

Thursday, September 05, 2002

Further Proof.


Yet more evidence compiled that the Europeans are just a bunch of complete frigging assclowns. Berlin's latest restaruant uses a gimmick that no one else has ever conspired to inflict upon its patrons - namely because no one has been foolish and idiotic enough to even think this could be a good idea. A client has three choices for a meal, "meat", "fish", or "vegetarian". While an adamant flesh-eater, I think in this instance I would prefer the non-protien dish, because this bar is pitch-black. I don't just mean the moody Eurotrash goths clinging to the dusty corners like melancholy spiders, or the retro-cum-trendy light absorbent walls and minimal illumination. I mean a staff of blind people leads by the hand everyone to stumble into the completely dark room - and ironically, only those without natural-born vision can point out the tableware, the chairs, or even the food.


Presumably its great fun to sit in the dark and eat a plate of unidentified flesh, while never being able to look into the eyes of your dining companion, or know what he or she might be thinking or expressing. Hell, sometimes I wish for that now in my life. "We want people to have an extraordinary experience of tasting, feeling and smelling," said Manfred Scharbach, head of the organization for blind and sight-restricted people, which is running the bar. I got news for you, smelly-ass kraut - you're gonna have a whole different world of experiences when you flip on the lights at the end of the night and your patrons can see the slop they've been shoveling down their gullets. I know the Germans eat all kinds of bizzare and grotesque shit, but this little venture leaves the playing field wide open for abuse. Wonder if I can establish such a place here.

Today's Photo.



Come fly the friendly skies, my ass.


And you wondered whatever happened to your luggage when you arrive at your destination, and the bags do not? And this is just the frieght handlers. Betcha can't wait to see the frigging pilots.

Hippie-Crites.


My Federal holiday weekend went surprisingly peacefully, having spent a goodly amount of time opening the gallery and sucking up to the various and sundry rabble and riffraff that wandered through the doors, while on their own three day binge of slovenly sloth and drunken disarray. Of course, this idyllic scene was fated not to last, and sure enough I had another couple of fucktards to add to the little black acid raincloud that follows me perchance everywhere I might tread.


At first glance these two fellows looked hulking, foreboding, menacing; the kind that would either rape you in an alley and steal your purse, or fix the transmission in your soccer-mom minivan at an outrageous price. Shuffling, unshaven, and unkempt in mismatched plaids and cordurouy, even in the balmy autumn of a California August; I immediately kept one beady eye on their combined presence lest they get the advantage of me, requiring my taser to make their aquaintance.


"Hi there! We're manning a booth at the street festival, its about anti-racial profiling!" the whitey in the backwards golf cap piped up excitedly. His deep molasses counterpart simply glowered, arms crossed, already suspicious of this place. Before my downcast eyes was deposited a sad and scaggly pamphlet, endearingly written and re-written first on a word processor, then meticulously by hand - in the penmanship that only either a second-grader would use, or else an adult semi-literate buffoon. I tried to express interest in what this fellow had to say, nodding politely while mentally assembling a black and twisted curse to make both these boys burn when they pee, in retribution for interrupting my lonely solitude. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, if only they had actually left the damn thing for you to see, my poppets. You would shit a brick laughing at the comical imcompetence of it all; or perhaps cry alligator tears that yes indeed, there truly are people out there this backwards and ignorant.


Don't get me wrong - I truly am against racial profiling, even if it is moderately effective and functions within the current system, simply on the principle that it seems unconstitutional to me, to seek out and punish a handful of innocents in the task of rounding up the greater ne'er-do-wells and evils that exist out there. Why should they also be harassed and harangued whent they have done nothing wrong, their only crime being having the same color skin as the felon next to them? But I digress ... I'm actually sounding like a fucking bleeding heart here.


"You don't actually own this place, do you? You just work here?" the black man stepped in finally, laying the bitter, accusing cards on the table that I knew he had been holding to his chest while Squiggy chatted me up beforehand. After nodding and replying that I did indeed own the gallery, their little faces fell into a twisted wreck of the tender hope they carried when first they walked in the door. The pamphlet was unceremoniously snatched from my grip while I was reading it, and afterwards I was critically lambasted by both of the fuckers at once. "We thought an African worked in the store," the excuse was given to me. At least, I presume they thought that a reasonable response to their incredible rudeness. "Sorry to dissapoint you two," I winced (I wish I could say smirked, but the truth is I felt pity for them), watching them back out slowly as though they thought the shop would turn into some kind of death trap a la Indiana Jones.


The saddest thing to me, is that neither of these would-be politicos ever noticed that they completely racially profiled me. I've never felt bad about being a cracker, until these two clowns shambled in that Saturday ... but perhaps somehow, even in their flawed presentation, they did get me to look at all the colors of humanity in a slightly different light. Now I think that not only the whites but also the blacks, reds, yellows, purples and cyans are giving me the mental finger for beng the pasty fuck that I am. Sigh.

Wednesday, September 04, 2002

Even More Fun With Search Hits.


Yes, my precious poppets, its that time again; no Goddezzbidch*, the bad-driver blood sacrifice is next week. No, Acidman Mars*, put away the torches, we're not burning any French people anytime soon. Since the Supreme Bitch is unable to contrive any possible useless potty humor for this post (look at this shitty intro, what more needs to be said?) it will instead list a delightful medley of recent search hit criteria, which have brought the stinking unwashed masses to the very door of its ivory tower.


* Supreme Bitch expects a royalty fee of $1.50 for each hit generated by its gratuitous linking, and may be paid by cash or PayPal. Thanks to this silly cunt Karyn for the idea of begging for cash, in a stylish manner.


infantile labia : Hmm .. there's a couple of interpretations here. Is this pervert looking for newborn labias, or simply tiny baby-like labias? Who can say.


I need to earn fast easy fucking money : Oh honey, so do I. If you learn how, give me a jingle ... unless you want to make easy money by fucking, in which case I ought to refer you to someone else. I'm easy, but I'm not cheap.


man fucks dog : Jeebus, I get like twenty or thirty of these fuckers a week at least. I never knew there were so many animal perverts in the wide world of kink. What is it that gets someone off watching some guy stick his dork into a poor overwrought poodle?


hippie merchandise : What the fuck? This shit is disgusting! Get outta my site, goddamn hippies!


nun fucking from animals free : Sigh. Why is it these jackasses never seem to have any grasp of syntax or spelling? How in the hell is a nun supposed to fuck from animals? Detached reverse pelvic thrusting does not accomplish the penetration necessary to result in a fuck. Best of all, this sick shit is not only twisted and unholy, he's cheap and wants his dirty nun for free. Go figure.


easy steps to commit suicide : Alright, admittedly this one has me concerned. If I actually had any emotional response left in my electroshock-therapied brain, I might actually feel a twinge of compassion for the poor lonely fuck who is looking for a way out on the Internet, for Christ's sake. This is perhaps the most disturbing of all my hits.


old woman fucks child : Remember what I just said about the most disturbing of my hits? I was dead wrong. Oh so very, very wrong. The horror ... the horror. Bad enough that your dad feels the kid up, now Granny wants a piece of the action too?


panties smell-o-vision : Must be some overseas Japanese visitor. What is their obsession over schoolgirls' underwear all about? And how in hell do they expect to be able to discern a fragrance from finding an online image of the Underoos?


shit pee movie girl free gay : Talk about your tall orders. This bastard is a cheapskate too (see the trends developing?), and wants hot lesbo action face to face, and they have to be expelling out of both ends simultaneously! Thats a tough act to follow for the poor bitch who comes after that show.


cheerleading competition craft ideas : Now, how in the hell ... just ... how? Heh. Bet that bitch was in for a shock when she found me instead of fabulous new pom-pom fashions.

Today's Photo.



Whoring Out Harry : The Nimbus 2000.


Courtesy of Ethereal Reflections. That boy looks like he is partaking in one serious wank. Either that, or he's laying a massive loaf right in his pants. Its always disturbing to me to see little children clutching at any phallic instrument close to their wee groins.

Tuesday, September 03, 2002

Friendly Fat.


Here I have assembled undeniable evidence that indeed, it is good to be overweight. Its already the well-established American way to carry an extra twenty pounds of blubber, but as one can see, fatties are an international epidemic of health-friendly proportions. I have been waiting for years to tell the ne'er-do-well granola eaters to piss off, and now I have my retribution to back up my bitter retorts once and for all!


Joel Freeborn has a built-in bottle opener - its his navel. Plumping up at a respectable jelly-jiggling stance, Freeborn managed to fit a dollar-forty worth of dimes into his belly-button before attempting for the first time to open a bottle of beer. He claims to have "... really strong stomach muscles on a coat of fat. I just push it in there, and my stomach muscles act like a hand to squeeze the bottle. One good twist and it's open ..." It makes one pause in ponderance to presume what else Mister Freeborn might have stuck in his tummy.


Fortunately for Michael Summerhayes, his blessed belly rolls saved him from certain death when he fell and accidentally impaled himself on a five-inch spike. The thick layers of blubber kept his internal organs protected, which otherwise would have ruptured and spelled his doom within minutes. If he had been some gym-toting wonderboy, always noshing on tofu and bean sprouts, the poor bitch would have shat out his spleen and been done for. Long live fat, I say!


So join me now, in packing on the pounds, and thereby prolonging your life!! Fat is good for you, and can save your skin when you least expect it! Just look at these two fine upstanding gents - don't you just want to binge on deep-fried foods and bloat yourself to Free Willy proportions? Think of the years of quality living you will be adding, for you and yours. Its one to "grow" on, hee hee.

Friday, August 30, 2002

Inane.


It has been a parade of stupidity throughout my workday this afternoon, as I attempted to process, unpack, price, and merchandise and unexpected shipment of goods that have only just arrived. Not so much one single, bloated, blatant instance of pure redundant idiocy, just a heckled peppering of foolishness throughout. Here are some examples I am the unfortunate witness to record:


"I just like to look around little places like this," a twenty-something girl states to her older companion, a father of perhaps fifty years; who replies while picking up a bronze Hindu oil lamp from Java, "Oh, here's something from Australia!" They both spent approximately fifteen seconds within the gallery.


"Do you have any oils (pronounced AWL-lus)?" demands yet another black woman looking for something to put on her ashy, ashy skin. There's more dead flesh on her than in a graveyard. She is perhaps the fifth one this week to insist that last she was in, we carried her "awl-lus" and I am hiding them from her deliberately.


"So did you just buy all this junk from wholesalers, huh? Yeah," the bitch answers her own question; ironically, everyone who ever makes this incredibly insulting, demeaning, ignorant statement inevitably nod to themselves and reply on their own, before shambling out the door - usually tripping on the lintel in the process. For fuck's sake, pick up your feet!


"This (INSERT OBJECT NAME HERE) was way cheaper when I bought it in (ASSCRACK END OF THE WORLD)! Why are you so expensive?" Two words, fucktard. Shipping. Handling. Never mind that your statement is beyond inappropriate to make to me, even if it is honestly curious.


Sigh. It never ends. Yes, I hear you up there in the peanut gallery, this is the world of retail. Shut the fuck up before I break my foot off in your ass.

Travesty In America.


Please read with an open heart...


Since September 11, 2001, Americans have come together as never before in our generation. We have banded together to overcome tremendous adversity.


We have weathered direct attacks on our own soil, wars overseas, corporate scandal, layoffs, unemployment, stock price plunges, droughts, fires, and a myriad economic and physical disasters both great and small. But now, we must come together once again to overcome our greatest challenge yet.


Hundreds of Major League Baseball players in our very own nation are living at, just below, or in most cases far above the seven-figure salary level. And as if that wasn't bad enough, they could be deprived of their life-giving pay for several months, possibly longer, as a result of the upcoming strike situation. But you can help!


For only $20,835 a month, about $694.50 a day (that's less than the cost of a large screen projection TV) you can help a MLB player remain economically viable during his time of need. This contribution by no means solves the problem as it barely covers the annual minimum salary, but it's a start, and every little bit will help!


Although $700 may not seem like a lot of money to you, to a baseball player it could mean the difference between spending the strike golfing in Florida or on a Mediterranean cruise. For you, seven hundred dollars is nothing more than a month's rent, half a mortgage payment, two unemployment checks, or a month of medical insurance with COBRA, but to a baseball player, $700 will partially replace his daily salary.


Your commitment of less than $700 a day will enable a player to buy that home entertainment center, trade in the year-old Lexus for a new Ferrari, or enjoy a weekend in Rio.


HOW WILL I KNOW I'M HELPING?


Each month, you will receive a complete financial report on the player you sponsor. Detailed information about his stocks, bonds, 401(k), real estate, and other investment holdings will be mailed to your home. Plus, upon signing up for this program, you will receive an unsigned photo of the player lounging during the strike on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean (for a signed photo, please include an additional $150). Put the photo on your refrigerator. It will remind you of other people’s suffering.


HOW WILL HE KNOW I'M HELPING?


Your MLB player will be told that he has a SPECIAL FRIEND who just wants to help in a time of need. Although the player won't know your name, he will be able to make collect calls to your home via a special operator in case additional funds are needed for unforeseen expenses.


YES, I WANT TO HELP!


I would like to sponsor a striking MLB player. My preference is checked below:

[ ] Infielder

[ ] Outfielder

[ ] Starting Pitcher

[ ] Ace Pitcher

[ ] Entire team (Please call our 900 number to ask for the cost of a specific team - $10 per minute)

[ ] Alex Rodriguez (Higher cost: $60,000 per day)


Please charge the account listed below $694.50 per day for the player for the duration of the strike. Please send me a picture of the player I have sponsored, along with an Alex Rodriguez 2001 Income Statement and my very own Donald Fehr MLB Players Union pin to wear proudly on my hat (include $80 for hat).


Your Name: _______________________
Telephone Number: ____________________
Account Number: _____________________
Exp. Date:_______
[ ] MasterCard [ ] Visa [ ] American Express [ ] Discover

Thursday, August 29, 2002

Most Expensive Glass Ever.


I am so endlessly tired of the same pedantic rounds of questioning I must endure from the fuckwits who schlep their shambling way through my gallery with nary an intelligent thought mashed between the pair of wee brain cells left in their craniums. Every fucking week, without fail, at least one brilliant slack-jawed wonder pipes up with the exclamation, "Thats the most expensive glass I've ever seen!". The article in question is a bank of prayer candles from Mexico, a series of twelve cobalt votives with little white tealights, all arranged in rows on a wrought-iron stand of filligree and turned legs. Upon a single cup I have placed a price tag; it is this marking that causes the shocked, condescending, smug debates I am forced to answer time and time again.


Who would ever think that a single glass, in an obvious set of one collective piece would ever be sixty-three goddamn dollars?! And whats even more pathetic is that these pissants think they have the upper hand with me, cleverly deducing that indeed, no bit of blue bauble should ever be the same price as a complete surf & turf dinner for two. Not that these trailer-park celebrities probably ever have tasted such a meal - these are probably the same people who buy that gristly, purple meat thats sat so long at the butcher's counter in the supermarket its been reduced to half-price. So on top of the idiocy I get to handle their swollen egos and pride, gleefully bursting their mis-shapen bubble of superiority with my pointy pin of bitter bitchcraft. Suckers. At least there is something in this outcome from which I may derive satisfaction.

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

Meanest Landlord Ever.


Sadly, this disparaging tale of the classic themes of greed and stupidity does not come as a shock to me; rather I was almost expecting something like this particular pile of shit to hit the fan of social conciousness sooner or later. Danielle Kousoulis, a twenty-nine year old blossoming executive served as vice-president of Cantor Fitzgerald, located on the 104th floor of the north tower of the World Trade Center. She had just signed a lease for a twenty-five-hundred dollar a month loft apartment and moved in her furnishings, when ten days later she was killed in the devastating terrorist attack. Now her fucktard landlady Denise Lyman has suddenly sprouted the thought in her little pinhead that she is an unpaid creditor, and has threatened to take the dead woman's family to court. Only a full fucking year has passed for her to come to this conclusion, but hey, sometimes pissant narrow minds like this one need a little more grunting at the pot to pinch off an idea.


To the tune of twenty-seven thousand dollars of unpaid rent, landlady Lyman cites in her complaint this month that one cause of the demanded monies due is that the client failed to give three month's departure notice; further evidence of this brilliant hack job's train of thought. Lyman also had refused to allow the family of the deceased Kousoulis entrance to the apartment, in effort to obtain a DNA sample from a brush so as to identify remains. It took police intervention for this fuck Lyman to open the door and let them collect the hair. Can you possibly imagine what was going on in the mind of this dead woman's mother and father as they entered with law officers to collect the hair of their lost child, so the government teams could discern whose foot or finger was their daughter's? Why is it, in this insane world, its people like Lyman that are put into positions of power? I suspect once this story truly hits the streets of the Big Apple, she's going to become even more vile and hated than old Juliani.


The family even sent a letter to Lyman last October, stating that all personal effects would be vacated by the twenty-second day of that month; the family cleaned the apartment, left the key with the doorman, and scheduled the Salvation Army to take away the last of the furnishings. Lyman expressly ordered the doorman not to let any of them in, and then moved into the fucking apartment herself! How is it this woman can possibly expect anyone with an ounce of common sense or human decency, to feel she is owed a year's rent from a dead woman, while she lives in the dead woman's home herself! Amazing! Incredible! Only in America! God bless, I guess.


If anything at all, at least I am appreciative of my own crackpot landlords, who treat both our building and ourselves like slum residents; still, they never come around to pester or harass, except to sneak into the flats when no one is home, and snoop and spy through our belongings (this is a true statement; two of my neighbors have caught the landlady coming out of their apartments, with only a weak and thinly-veiled story as an excuse). On purpose for the next time this happens, I have left a little ... surprise for the Slumlords. Lets just say, it could shock the old farts into apoplectic seisures.

Today's Photo.



I think there's three square feet of space left over in the lower right-hand corner ...


And you wonder why Japan has one of the highest suicide rates in the entire world? I can only imagine the incredibly banal, ear-piercingly sharp reverberating whine of the language welling up from this "water park" like a geyser. It would probably make a Westerner's head explode from the sheer pressure of the soundwaves.

Tuesday, August 27, 2002

Stephen Hawking's Voice.


Someone's being a Negative Nancy in response to my humble declaration of my supreme genius, so I have soundly trounced them with an appropriate epithet, striking deep within the well of their self-conciousness. Naturally those among you who worship me most had to provide added commentary to the fray; see this archive and the appropriate comments link above it.


As a reward for my loyal hounds, I have endeavored for hours, slaving away at the great fount of knowledge that is Google to bring Marc and all you other dedicated fans a true taste of stereosymphonic sound sensation. Thanks to Bell Labs Text-to-Speech now Marc (along with the rest of you precious poppets) can indeed listen to what the glorious Burgermeister of Brains himself, Stephen Hawking, would sound like if he too called someone a 'pissant ball-less wonder sack of shit'. Simply repeat the previous text into the alloted box and select the 'pitch' of the voice; choose the Big Man tone to hear what I believe is an approximate tone of Stephen; click on the 'Ridiculous' voice to experience what the Supreme Bitch would sound like, were it to denounce this apoplectic, jealous fool of a pissant ball-less wonder sack of shit.


If you have a DSL connection and a couple of minutes to download (it took me less than three) then please feel indisposed to fill in the blank with this diatribe instead - and remember to use the 'Ridiculous' voice. I want to record this shit and put it on my voice-mail.


You pissant ball-less wonder sack of shit. You make me sick like a bulimic cow which devours its own fecal matter, hurling up chunks of half-digested diaspora from the very pit of my soul. I loathe you with the white hot heat of a thousand suns. Satan has prepared an especial place in Hell for you, bitch.


Post-Script : Indeed, the Supreme Bitch does refer to itself both in the third person, as well as a sexual null. So then, Negative Nancy, if you wish to post an anonymous whine regarding this fact, please take the preconcieved reaction from the Bitch and kindly go fuck yourself.

Christian Crazies.


Where the fuck were these people back when I was still allowed to enter the church? Nowadays if I even go near a house of worship, a divine finger thrusts from the clouds to menacingly shake at me, sparks of lightning setting afire to any nearby unfortunates as it prepares to mightily smite my wicked ass. But if ever you're in Cedar Hill, Texas, y'all better haul yer gizzards to Hell House and get the holy fright of your life!


Unsurprisingly, it would be Fundamentalist Christians in the steer state that came up with the concept, though I must give them Bitch Snaps (TM) for the creative effort in surpassing all good taste, social grace, and offending virtually every ethno-socio-economic group in existence within the country. This is what a religious cult should be! A haunted mansion populated not with your tired, cliche ghouls and ghosts and goblins, but with the Dark Prince himself, the Sultan of Sin, That Red-Assed Guy with the Pointy Pitchfork, none other than the one, the only, Satan!


Beelzebub relaxes and unwinds during his leisure time within Hell House, vacationing for a fortnight or so while enjoying the hosting of Trinity Church. For his perusal and pleasure there are many delectable delights awaiting his torture, roleplay scenarios a-go-go; a young pregnant girl to mock and tempt into abortion, another happy-go-lucky dancer at a rave to seduce into taking Exctasy, be raped by a naughty frat boy, and subsequently end her life by her own shaking, sinful hand; yet another schoolchild suicide, this time by a young boy in his class. Then theres the wife of infidelity, running off with some stranger from the Internet while abandoning her husband and four children. With each seperate scene, Satan gets to taunt the victims before dragging them kicking and screaming to his Hellish fire-pit.


Presumably the goal is to save souls through abject terror. As with all good B-rated horror shows, this one is no exception, wrapping up in a culminating final scene depicting every last baddie being tortured in the realm of Hades. After all these fun and games, the good-hearted Christians step forward and ask if you wish to declare Jeebus to be your Lord and savior, and join their church (seems to be a hand-in-hand one-two punch; you still roast in the flames of damnation if you choose to go to another house of worship).


I think what frightens me most of all is that these right-wing freakies are bringing their Hell House to fifteen different cities this year.

Bathroom Bobby.


Seems America is not alone in its vehement complaintative state regarding its own corrupt and scandalized domestic police system. In Merry Ole' England one bobby radioed for water-closet support after he realized that the stall he had the unfortunate fate to select contained no toilet tissue. Since apparently this was one massive dump, the civil servant turned to his dispatch buddies and had no less than four fellow members race to his aid within minutes, each laden with a veritable bounty of asswipes heaped in their arms (since they're not allowed to carry guns I suppose they have plenty of cargo space available). And naturally, this event occurs immediately after a major 'bank holiday' weekend, as those dashing Brits so charmingly call their useless archaic government memorials; during which several hundred telephone calls were completely ignored, including a desperate woman crying for help as her sister was attacked by a knifeman. Supposedly this sheer gross negligence stems from a lack of resources available to support public demand. But at least there seems to be enough to go around for group shitters!

Pariah Of A Stalker.


Oh, kaloo, ka-lay, my little poppets, certain love-slaves of the Bitch around here love me enough to spend at least an hour or two neglecting their own children while building an intricate blog journal that exactly mimics mine! The very model of admiration, this magnificent work is! Taking cues from my bitter, disjointed rants and random bits of bullshit featured in these poison pen pages, Bead Feebs, in its shining brilliance, truly captures the essence of all that I despise!! Could this be the ultimate form of flattery? Or is some fool simply attempting to mock me from my own gilded throne high in the ivory tower? Who can say? Go and see Bead Feebs for yourself. Or else! Move it, lard ass! Chop-chop, on the double! What do I have to do, tie a piece of fucking fried chicken on a string and dangle it in front of your bloated, sweaty face?

Monday, August 26, 2002

Hard Evidence.


Finally, some proof of what I have always known deep within my most secretive and dark of hidden, secret hearts - that I am a friggin' genius! Behold the final, shining proof of my cerebral greatness!






Quiz kindly drawn to my attention via sugarmama - thanks to spacefem for providing the veritable bounty of brainfood.

Saturday, August 24, 2002

Die, Bitch, Die.




I fucking hate this foul, lecherous, deceitful, conniving, lawless, shameless, filthy money-slut with all the white-hot heat of a thousand suns. Visit the skank-hole at www.savekaryn.com to see the mockery she has made of the Net, and laugh at her whining, capitulating banter about her attempts to rid herself of fradulent, ridiculous credit-card expenses. Pity the poor dumb fucktards that actually give her money. Then go to www.dontsavekaryn.com to laugh at her even more, and revel in the superior feelings that ensue from pointing your finger at this plump little cash-porker and her fucking ugly, trite, desperate clone-like Friends-esque appearance attempt to look cool, trendy, and with-it. Fuck off and die, "Karyn". Preferably in a PT Cruiser. And before you depart this mortal coil, for fuck's sake, spell your name properly for once.


p.s. this is especially for sugarmama. Love to hate, babe.

Racetrack Hoedown.


Hoo wee! Miss Tina is gonna git an' elegant weddin' feast t'night! Jesus, why is it stories like these exist only in the Good Ole Eu-Ess-Of-A? Its fucktards like these trailer trash freak rejects from Jerry Springer that give the rest of Middle America a bad name and an acrid, sour taste in the back of my throat.


So there's this chick Tina, regular kinda gal, mousy little office gopher I would imagine. And she has herself a man, Corey Ainsworth, whom I will bet bottom dollar is missing at least two teeth and has a relative that fulfills two family spaces in the tree, i.e. his mother is also his aunt. And of course Cory just pops a boner for Nascar, and Tina, being the obedient little barefoot-in-the-kitchen sort of woman, agrees to be wed on the track at Bristol, Tennesse. An amusing side-note - one of the requirements to be married on the raceway is to actually have a ticket to the forthcoming race. How thoughtful of the track administration to consider that every patron present is a valid paying customer! "We didn't want to encourage people to get married, divorced and remarried each year just so they could get tickets to the Sharpie 500 night race," said speedway president and general manager Jeff Byrd.


Most frightening of all is that these two lovebirds aren't alone; at least four other couples plan to participate in the mass nuptials. This particular pair think their go-go-Speed-Racer ceremony is a good idea because, between the two of them, they have managed to spawn no less than five children from previous relationships. Isn't that a fucking surprise, my little poppets? I think I might have a heart attack and die, right now in a pool of my own bodily fluids, from that massive shock. At least Tina will have quite the kingdom to rule once she becomes the queen of Cory's double-wide trailer.

Friday, August 23, 2002

Today's Photo.




Helena Bonham-Carter's stunt double in Planet of the Apes.


This photo taken at the Frankfurt Book Fair in Frankfurt, Germany on October 19th, 2000 depicts Leni Riefenstahl; a famous German photographer and filmmaker who celebrated her 100th birthday yesterday on August 22nd. Her hair frankly terrifies me, and I can only imagine the chemical tortures it must undergo to look like that. If you ran your fingers through those crusty locks - not that anyone would want to - they would crumble to bronze powder. The Saturday Evening Post once dubbed her the "Nazi Pin-Up Girl" for good reason - even now she adamantly claims her work for Hitler, films portraying Nazi Germany and postwar still photos, were about art, not propaganda or ideology. I must say that her complexion is remarkably preserved; I can imagine skinning her face to make a fabulous Prada satchel. Heil Avante-garde fashion!

Takes All Kinds.


As anyone who has ever worked in retail can tell you, there is a veritable plethora of freaks, geeks, and sneaks that seem to make it their mission statement to piss you (the retail worker) the fuck off. After having been a sales associate, a department manager, a store overseer, and amazingly enough now, a business owner (appropriate crescendo of thunder and creepy string quartet ensues), mine eyes have been witness to an astonishing cornucopia of insanity. After only two brief hours of conducting shop, I seem to have been hailed by a representative from virtually every iconoclastic group that exists within the consumer palette. Let me share with you but a tiny sampling of my own private hell.


The Mumbler : These seemingly-normal appearing folk often trudge in like the downtrod, stepped-upon lower-middle-class citizens they most likely are. Often a Mumbler will even greet me politely, and I think nothing more of their presence ... until they begin to speak. And not to me. Mumblers' primary characteristic is just that; they mutter and stutter and mumblefuck as they pick up this object or that, conducting intense cerebral debates within their craniums. It is usually impossible to determine exactly what a Mumbler is saying, but suffice it to state, its hella creepy. Of course once you actually draw attention to the Mumbler and directly interact with them, the volume is raised to sufficient indoor-voice status, and they suddenly revert back to relative normalcy.


The Loud Fuck : This pissant prig strides into the place like he owns the joint, quite often already babbling away on a cellular phone - just in case you might miss the importance of his massive, overinflated ego. Eventually he (or she, arrogance knows no gender bounds), might grace you with his or her attentions - usually not; I've had these bullish bastards conduct their entire business with me, from product inquiry to final register-ringup while they're still on their fucking phone. Why can't these otherwise average schmoes see firstly, that a telephone cancer-growth spreading from the side of their head only makes them look like a punch-clown fucktard, and secondly, that its the height of intolerable, snide condescention to do such a thing to me? Oh wait, I just answered my own question. Those bastards. All I ask, if you plan to suck me into your twisted little world of self-delusionary importance, is that you do it with a goddamn indoor voice for Christ's sake! This one however is not to be confused with ...


Loquacious Lynn : Inevitably this character is a woman - I've never met a man, straight, gay, transgendered or what-have-you, who could ever compete with the sound-barrier-breaking speed of her flippant, flying tongue. Sometimes I can actually see the steam from evaporating spit rise from the cavernous portal of her mouth. So quickly does she form her consonants and vowels that I long for a recorder with which I could tape her voice, if only to play it back at a regular speed so I might understand what inane, empty words she is spouting. The gift of gab 'aint nothing on these fuckers, and its a wonder their heads do not spontaneously impode from the sheer volume of air they must suckingly intake to keep their pie-holes vented and moving.


Little Miss Bitter : I think I hate this bitch most of all. Perhaps because she reminds me of, well, me. You would think I would embrace a fellow supreme bitch, considering our breed is so rare and scattered across the face of this shitty planet. But no, we are the ultimate in hissing, extended-claw catfighting, and baby, it shows when two of us cross unfortunate paths. This cunt is not satisfied with anything in my gallery. 'Objets de Primitive' which once were displayed in Oceanic Art exhibits in the De Young Museum, the Guggenheim or Smithsonian (and yes indeed, we have such pieces) are sniffed at and distainfully downplayed. "If its so great, whats it doing here? Why isn't in a container under lock and guard?" To begin, one great purpose of this business is to bring culture to the city in which I live; I also wish to make these pieces accessible to all people, not just the wealthy bourgeois with their platinum cards shoved well up their tight asses. But don't tell this to Little Miss Bitter, she'll have a biting retort for anything. And God forbid I stock the merchandise with anything she might have seen elsewhere - it'll have been cheaper, higher quality, with better selection at the other place she last saw it. I hope Satan prepares an especial place in Hell for Little Miss Bitter, so by the time I get there her ass will be tender and red-hot for me to thrust my pointy poker-pitchfork in even deeper.


Bead Feebs : Do I really have to say any more? I did not think so.


The Anal-Retentive Specifics : Nothing is good enough for these pinheads, though their idiocy and complaintative demands are a far cry from Little Miss Bitter. These fine folk are looking for exactly something so goddamn particular it will never be found by their endless searching, unless it is custom-made to their every ever-changing whim; and unless someone is capable of creating a malleable substance capable of instantaneously altering its appearance, size, and mass, these dumbasses will always be dissapointed. "Don't these come in (INSERT HIDEOUS NON-FASHIONABLE COLOR HERE)?" "Can't this come in (ADD MICROSCOPIC HEIGHT DIFFERENCE HERE)?" "Don't they make this with a (PLACE INAPPROPRIATE GLARINGLY WRONG-CULTURE REFERENCE HERE)?" The sad thing is that these people remain blissfully unaware of their petulant, child-like demands the entire time. The only good thing about them is that eventually they will sigh their weary, defeated sigh of regretful surrender, and buy something that they just know won't be the right thing; reluctantly parting with their worn little ten-dollar bill clutched in their sweaty paw (inevitably this haggling is over a product that costs less than a McDonald's Value Meal).


Ethnic Wonders : I'd just like to state for the record - this is not a black folk's store. Not that Kunta Kinte will ever listen to my cracker ass. Yes, that carving from Papua New Guinea was crafted by a dark-skinned person. He was not one of your people. Nor are the Indonesian textiles of your people, nor are the Korean artifacts the handiwork of your people, nor are the Mexican wrought-iron pieces produced by your people, and most important, I sure as fuck am not one of your people. Go light a fucking Kwaanza candle and leave me be in peace to jerry-curl my 'do.