I just found out tonight I don’t have it anymore,
I Don’t Have It All Figured Out.
The Democrats don’t have it
I don’t have it either.
I don’t have it in my memory
I don’t have it. Does this mean he was cheating or am I just lucky?
I don’t have it. I don’t know where it is
I don’t have it figured out.
I don’t understand it, but I have to do it
Cute and Creepy pack says I don’t have it anymore.
Do you have it? I don’t have it.
Well, I don’t have it yet, but I will when I’m born.
If I don’t have it, I’ll find it.
“If I don’t have it in, I feel naked. It has become part of my uniform.”
Okay, I don’t have it that bad
I don’t have it as bad as some people
confirm that I don’t have it but am asymptomatic
I “don’t have it installed”
I don’t have it written down anywhere now,
It’s missing but I don’t have it
Glad I Don’t Have It.
I don’t have it in me to be witty right now.
No, I don’t have it.
I don’t have it now but I can get it (git it)
If I don’t have it on by nightfall (honk) I’m going to lay on this horn.
I don’t have it. In fact i dont have anything

too undone

Too Undone
(after John Keats’ “To Autumn”)

Season of trysts and hellish faithlessness
Unbosomy friend of the immature son
Conspiring with him how to cheat and blast
With lies the vines that round a couple run
To blend their asses in the moist cottage cheese
And fill their drool with lava at the core
To swell his little gourd, and plump his lazy balls
With a slime kernel, to make breathing snore
And still more, latex flowers of disease
Until they think hump days will never cease,
For Bummer has rimjobbed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen hot asses ‘round the store?
Sometimes whoever seeks a broad may find
Her leaning careless on a subway door
Her hair entangled in a wheezing wind
Or in a half-assed marriage, sound asleep
Drows’d with the fume of pussy, while my look
Betrays new wrath and all its twined sourness
And sometimes like a weiner thou dost keep
Randy thy leaden head across this book
Or by her little dress I saw on facebook.
Thou wasted with thy oozings what was ours.

Where are the dongs and things? Ay, where are they?
Don’t think of me – I had a muse, too –
These barcodes ruin the nuptial hay
And touch your stubbly palms with pickle stew
While in a wailful choir a small gnat mourns
Behind a crying river on Zoloft
And stinking like a light brown liver guy
A full-grown man loud bleats from hilly bourne.
Hedgehogs also do sing, and now with triple action
Her red breast whistles at a garden hose
And gathering sorrows teeter in my eyes.


Hey, this was the word of the day just a few days ago!

  • ululate
  • audio pronunciation
  • \ULL-yuh-layt\
: howl, wail
The puppy ululated in distress every time he was left alone.

“[Singer] Sussan Deyhim is one of Iran’s most potent voices in exile, for the simple reason that she possesses a marvelously potent voice. She wails and coos and ululates, the sound of the soul in translation.” — From a music review in the Los Angeles Times, September 13, 2010


“When other birds are still, the screech owls take up the strain, like mourning women their ancient u-lu-lu.” When Henry David Thoreau used “u-lu-lu” to imitate the cry of screech owls and mourning women in that particular passage from his book Walden, he was re-enacting the etymology of “ululate” (a word he likely knew). “Ululate” descends from the Latin verb “ululare.” That Latin root carried the same meaning as our modern English word, and it likely originated in the echoes of the rhythmic wailing sound associated with it. Even today, “ululate” often refers to ritualistic or expressive wailing performed at times of mourning or celebration or used to show approval.

I Love Men redux

OK, so I know there’s been a lot of misandry (misandrousness?) on this blog lately.  I know that just because I’m angry at one man, or two, or a half dozen or so, doesn’t make the whole lot of them lousy.  I’ve been sending interested parties from Nerve.com over to this blog so that they can find out too much about me, and it really won’t do for them to only see this recent streak of hostility.  So let me remind you, to parrot Eartha Kitt, I Love Men, and here I am declaiming that fact to an audience of hundreds (btw I made this dress, and I’m skinnier now):

You Have to Look Past the Sausage

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Not all men are predators just the majority of them you have to look past the sausage
the men are predators who wait for the young girls to be released from the orphanage
“Men are predators.” Women face cosmetics endorsed his face, “but then, cool-looking satyr satyr is usually not known.” “What is it called?
Skirts and hair are short or long, breasts are in or out, women are “barracudas” or, as today, men are “predators.”
women know it but they also know that men are predators and have a dark side
Cosmetologically speaking, men are predators, women are domesticators. Shamanism, for males, is the paradigmatic complement to female pottery manufacture
yep again..all ‘strange’ men are predators
men are predators not goofy misguided cartoon fodder
in a metaphor like “men are like wolves,” how is the way in which wolves are predators different from the way in which men are predators?
men are predators and women are preys
Also, men are predators of blue whales.

so lonesome :-(

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I’m so lonesome I could just spit, sh-boom, sh-boom
I’m So Lonesome I Could Cryogenically Freeze Myself.
I’m So Lonesome I Could Clean
I’m So Lonesome I Could Sniff Things
I’m so lonesome I could Smile?
I’m So Lonesome I Could Bray
I’m so lonesome I could yodel
I’m so lonesome I could snuggle up to a porcupine.
I’m so lonesome I could draw an avocado.
I’m so lonesome I could screeeeam! Beepbeepbeepbeep! Nobody home. Beepbeepbeepbeep! I’m all alone. Beepbeepbeepbeep! Wait for the tone. Beepbeepbeepbeep!