2001-02-22

Once again, I've been whiling away Valuable Company Time™, embroiled in another Fucked Up Website Battle™ with the Usual Suspects® (hey, Thursday only comes once a week. Don't give me that look).

Paula thinks she has won by emailing the URL to Chippendiddy's, the crypto-porn site dedicated to erotic male zygotomatic strippers. And while I gotta give the girl snaps for her industrious archaeology which unearthed this ... ummm ... Doozay©, it just lacks the staying power of this site, my volley back to her.

(Choke on dis, you undahhpahhhnts!)

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So, ummm, it seems I have a new fan. This guy has been emailing me every other day with pictures of himself with various and sundry props. I could stomach the leather shots. I could swallow the boney-booty pix, but when he started in on the pictures with his ex-wife's ferret, "Jorge," I began research into online virtual restraining orders.

It's people like this who prompted me to remove my guestbook aeons ago. It's people like this who make me question just why I write this diary every day. It's people like this who the Feds are searching for. Missing link, all that.

He's making me irritable. So of course I'm taking out my aggressions on the houseboy. Kev came home from a long and gruelling battle at work to find me prostrate with grief on the couch, watching Total Eclipse on slo-mo to catch a better glimpse of Leo DiCaprio's winky (cause, c'mon, that shit's funny!) and hoging on Sno-Balls and washing them down with a sixer of Tremont.

"Hey Lees," he says cautiously, eyeing the snacks and Leo's paused prick on the telley, knowing damn well that Something Was Up, and somehow, He Was To Blame.

I immediately lit into him, screaming my fool head off about how patronizingly rude it is to just saunter into a room and throw out such a hackneyed cliché opener as "Hey Lees," and just how the fuck am I supposed to respond to that!?

He went to the kitchen quietly, leaving me mid-rant, and as punishment, I put on The Shaggs, volume on 9, full-disc repeat, then left the house to go to Casa de Krebstar for some Decompression Time with bloody mary's and a good old-fashiond girl rant about how men are insensitive pig-dog-grubs and then we began going over all the movies we had ever seen trying to find the archetypal Man who helped define our estro-stration, sorting through John Hughes, John Waters and Errol Morris flicks.

Someone eventually suggested a game of Volleyball and we all know how I feel about that, so I went home, again, disarmed, disengaged and brimming with all the lovely smiles for Kev which ensnared him to me so many years ago.

Girls get away with the coolest shit!