Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Friday, April 30, 2010

Bosco's Review Of Music

or, "I'm Getting Sorta Mental Over You"

I have a habit of falling in love with a particular music cd for a couple of days and playing the heck out of it before switching to a different one. For the past couple of days the favored cd has been "Jazz Moods: Feeling Sentimental", which features performers such as Karrin Allyson, Rosemary Clooney, Mel Torme and Dennis Rowland, among others.

This morning, as I dozed and tried to convince myself to get up and get ready for work, Bosco came in and plopped down on the floor next to the bed and began merrily destroying something which I assumed was one of his toys until I heard a cracking sound. When I raised my head and looked, his prize was, in fact, the (mostly cardboard) Jazz Moods cd holder which I had left on the floor next to the stereo.

And that's what Bosco thinks about that. Maybe I should have played Bow Wow Wow or Three Dog Night?

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Monkshood Tea

Chloe is sitting in Danny's Coffee Shop, watching CNN with the sound off and listening to Screamin' Jay Hawkins sing "I Put A Spell On You." It relaxes her.

"I want it played at my wedding," she says, squinting, when Denise makes a face and asks "What sort of twisted shit is that?"

CNN is reporting on an escaped female serial killer, at large for several months now. They show Chloe's picture.

"Gawd. I look like an Olsen twin."

Some kid comes in, with his thumbs in his belt loops and looking around as if he sees invisible hordes of paparazzi.

He once appeared on "American Idol."

"Lord above," says God the waitress, putting her fingers to her forehead and closing her eyes. "I hate when I get his table."

Chloe says, "Rest your dogs, baby. I've got this one."

God opens her eyes and looks over. "You've never waited a table in your life."

Chloe gives God one of those big-eyed, curl-lipped bite-me looks and and goes, "Well now I am."

God smiles and does a little head shake.

Chloe gets up.

Idol Boy gives her the once over. "Hi gorgeous. What you got that's any good?"

She gives him a smile that would turn a lemon diabetic, and purrs,

"Try the monkshood tea." She leans forward, lips parted, head tilted, eyes hooded. She even winks.

The little asshole orders it.

God's arms are folded and she is trying hard not to laugh when Chloe passes her and starts rooting around in her bag. She spreads some stuff out on the table.

"We don't carry anything called monkshood tea," chirps God.

"We do now," says Chloe, without looking up.

"What's in it?"

Larkspur seeds.

Holly berries.

Hogweed sap.



Chloe brings Idol Boy his tea, then plasters a starstruck look across her face and watches.

He is in mid-boast when his expression changes and so does Chloe's.

His to confusion.

Hers to intense curiosity.

The Succubus puts down her book and calls over from her spot in the corner,

"A bag of Ghirardellis says he falls left when he goes."

Chloe murmurs, "You're on."

Her head tilts left as Idol Boy lists further and further to the right. Then he falls to the floor amid much flopping and flailing.

Chloe says smugly, "Pay up, woman."

Danny himself comes in the front door and sees the ex-celebrity dead as hell in his coffee shop.

"What are you girls doing?" He sounds as if he has been chain smoking for forty years. He has.

"Playinggggg," sing song Chloe and the Succubus like little girls.

No one else in the place has even noticed

They are all regulars.

None of them order the monkshood tea.

They know that when you come to Danny's

You order coffee.

CNN is reporting a rise in its popularity.


Monday, April 26, 2010

Darylized Story #3

Every Sunday, the amazing fashionista Daryl has a feature called Tell Me A Story, in which she posts a photograph she has taken, and asks her readers to tell her a story about it. Here is Daryl's photograph, and my story spun from it.

"Hello? Let me talk to my Fairy Godmother, please. It's me, Pandora. She's FGM # 512. (sigh) Yes, I'll hold."

(Jeopardy! theme....)

"Hello? Hi, it's me. Well, I'm fiiine. BUT. We need to talk."


"Well tell her to wait! I've been on hold half the day. Now listen. This guy you sent me...."

(holds phone away from ear for a moment)

"God Mom, that was frogs. We talked about frogs, and how I might have to kiss a lot of them in order to find my Prince. This guy is a toad. Well of course I'm sure. I'm looking right at him, as we speak. What?"

(listens for a minute)

"No. God Mom, I'm telling you. Toad City. He clearly buys ALL of his clothes at Sports Authority. I am so not going out with this guy, only to be taken to some place that advertises 13 Big Screen Tvs! All Games! No. No. God Mom. Nooooooooooo."

(listens and makes a face)

"He's wearing Axe. I can smell it from here. And he slouches. What? I do NOT sound like my mother! You've got to do better. It's meeeeee, God Mom, your little favorite, Pandora. C'mon, find me a dream, or I sign with the Sandman. Oh yes, I would. Okay. Love you, too. Buh bye."

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Amy Lee

Welcome, gentle reader, to Shay's Word Garden, a place of refined intellectual sophistication and--

Omg. Forget that! Today I want to post about Amy Lee, the singer and driving force behind the band Evanescence. She is a talented and attractive young woman who--

Strike that! She's hawt. I mean, the woman is ON FIRE. Let me just go stick my head in the freezer so I can think straight. Lambs, this gal is not just some garden-variety, mass-produced, plastic diva du jour. Nuh uh. Yes, she's beautiful, but it's who she is that makes her exceptional. She's smart, boldly creative, and not afraid to tell her truth, which turns out to be the truth for lots of her listeners. Why would I admire such traits? Get out. I'm lucky if I can dress myself and not pour coffee on my Cheerios.

Besides. Dark-haired unconventional smart chick who can sing like anything? There is something sexier than that? What? I'm asking. See? There isn't anything.

Blame Mojo for this post. He got me thinking about Amy Lee. Then posted a video. You've thrown down the gauntlet, Sir. I warn you, I fight like a girl. You're doomed! LOL.


Saturday, April 24, 2010

Datura Stramonium

Find her by the roadside--

Fair of face,

And drawing the gray skies down into herself.

She wears white,

Like a nun,

Or the violet of an old-fashioned girl,

But she is the mad seed

Jimson weed

With her sharp-edged leaves

And her wild girl ways.

Go ahead.

Touch the beautiful little throwing star.

Press your face to her soft folds

And enjoy the pleasing scent of her.

She will cry before evening comes

And your instinct will be to comfort and soothe the pointed bloom that you have found--

But before twilight has moved into night,

She will be gone

And there you'll be, with her tears on your fingertips,

Wondering in the solitary darkness

If you have only been seeing things that were never even there.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

For My Gypsy Friend And The Girl With Horse Blanket Hair

If I forgot myself for a moment,

I would take the smoke of every dark dream

And the white of a wedding dress--

I would take the shadow of every hurtful loss

And the white of clean sheets on a summer morning...

I would be light and wild and long-haired

With nothing to keep me on but two fistfuls of mane;

And when we would go thundering past the Reverend's house,

I would disappear down my horse's side, Indian style,

As if I might come burn down the house

Right in the middle of afternoon tea.

There has been light and dark to every day I have ever lived

And to every page I have ever read;

A girl and her horse, common as dirt, and yet uncommon in all our particulars.

When we are fast enough,

My hair behind me in the wind is dark at the root and white at the ends--

Remember us.

We will not pass this way again.

The horse pictured is The Gypsy King.


Lately I feel like the bitch you can't pet--

Ill-tempered. Someone might say,

"She's getting older"

If there were anyone.

Go ahead, throw that god damned ball down the hall--

I won't even lift my head.

I know how this goes. If I fetch it, you'll just pitch it away again,

Or pretend to,

While I look around in confusion. You will laugh triumphantly

Because you're smarter than the dog.

I want to be Ambassador to France

And eat crepes all day,

But I want France brought here;

No way am I getting on some god damned plane,

And besides,

They would make me travel crated, in the cargo hold.


When I sleep,

My hands and feet flip up and down, because I am remembering

That I have always been sweet by nature, eager to please,

And with any luck

I will not wake up,

But instead make you laugh and be declared cute.

Tranquilized and muzzled, caged high on the back of the animal control truck,

That's what this bitch is dreaming.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Bone Girl

Bone Girl approaches the counter at Macy's,

But she's gone way beyond dry skin.

She clanks against the glass display case, scattering jittery clerks, who immediately throw away their diet pills.

Bone Girl goes to the dentist and sits in the chair.

The dentist starts to say "open" but falters, realizing this is not necessary. No gum disease here!

Bone Girl sits alone in a cafe.

She wants to stuff herself, but anything she eats just goes right through her.

Har de har.

Bone Girl was once as plump and rosy as a German beer hall waitress,

Then the rats began to gnaw.

The you are not attractive if you are not skinny rat.

The your life is over if you are not young rat.

The can you do this for me rat.

The I'm leaving you for someone else rat.

The oh shit, wtf happened to my life rat.

Bone Girl has lost her figure.

She injures her lovers simply by embracing them,

And besides,

They tend to be creepy anymore, anyway.

Bone Girl has lost all her softness

And the sparkle in her eyes.

Bone Girl's hair has gone all to hell, thin and wispy.

She has a speech impediment.

It is Springtime.

Bone Girl picks a flower and goes to place it behind her ear, as if she were a flamenco dancer,

But of course it only falls.

God in His mercy

Has made her deaf as a stone,

And so she cannot hear it fall;

Cannot hear the happy children laugh

When they steal it.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

4 Girls

Every Sunday, the amazing Daryl has a feature called Tell Me A Story, in which she posts a photograph she has taken, and asks her readers to tell her a story about it. Here is Daryl's photograph, and my story spun from it.

Meet, from left to right, Ann, Bonnie, Carla and Danielle.

In the beginning,

Ann and Carla were friends, as were Bonnie and Danielle.

Bonnie thinks Ann and Carla are the definition of cool, and wants to be like them.

Danielle has no idea.

Carla tries to get Ann to sleep with her, but she won't, saying she's straight.

Meanwhile, Ann and Bonnie have become lovers, and are doing it like rabbits.

Danielle has no idea.

Neither does Carla.

After a month, Ann stops sleeping with Bonnie. She doesn't tell her why.

Ann has started hanging with Danielle.

Bonnie has no idea, but Carla knows.

Bonnie complains to Carla about Ann.

Ann has no idea, until Carla tells Bonnie about Danielle, and then confronts Ann about Bonnie.

Bonnie stops talking to both Ann and Danielle.

Ann stops talking to Carla.

Danielle goes back to her old school.

Ann goes back to boys.

Bonnie and Carla stay friends.

Stay tuned.


Breakfast rebels.

"What makes you think," challenges a crepe,

"That you can just arrange me, serve me up and consume me? Am I not human? If you prick me, do I not bleed?"

I blink, fork in hand.

"That's strawberry juice," I point out.

Orange juice burbles, "You have taken me from my fruity womb, and poured me into this glass body, where any may stare at my nakedness!"

I have never encountered a modest breakfast drink before.

Strawberries moan, "You have rent us, and thrown us upon strangers, to die!"

"You're a fruit garnish!" I protest. "I just got up! What is this?"

"You see us only through the prism of our utility to you," whispers the entire group. "You see us as less than you, as existing only in relation to you. Shame, shame..."

"And you have made us party to it all!" shriek the plates.

"But I'm hungry," I plead weakly.

Whipped cream implores us sweetly, "Can't we all just get along?"

I drink some of my coffee, and am denounced as a murderess and a heartless savage.

The stand-off drags on.

"You are getting cold," I point out.

"We are frozen in our resolve, impenetrable in our determination," declares breakfast.

"Look here," I say, "It's early. I brought you into this world and I can take you out!"

"Liberty! Equality!" chants breakfast.

"All right. I've had enough. Time for the Ultimate Weapon!" I set the plate in the microwave and turn it on.


I laugh dementedly.

"Our younger siblings, lunch and dinner, will avenge us!"

And then it is silent, except for the little bell dinging.

"Ask not for whom the bell tolls," I intone, setting my plate back on the table. "It tolls for thee!"

I begin to eat.

My dog looks up at me accusingly.

"Et tu, Bosco?"

He licks his lips.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

The Love Asylum

In the Love Asylum,
Diagnoses are tattooed...
Our methods quite crude.

You'll room with Medea Manica,
She's up all night...
Painting everything white.

Spend afternoons in the Activities Room,
Poisoning mice...
Living on ice.

And if, in the end, you're not quite cured,
Leave your heart in the hall...
We'll see it gets burned.

Friday, April 16, 2010

The Phillies Use Lifebuoy...But They Still Stink

Boffo McBlimp came up with the Fightin' Phillies on May 5th, 1955, and was given uniform number 55. He made only one start, throwing 55 pitches in a game eventually lost by the Phils 55-0. 55 fans saw the game. Boffo died at 55, leaving behind 1 wife and 55 children. He was murdered.


Thursday, April 15, 2010

Ah! Bright Wings.

It is morning at Danny's Coffee Shop.

God is walking by with somebody's espresso, when she kicks something and nearly takes a header. It is (another) dead salesman on the floor.

"Gosh darn it!" says God. "Who got this one?"

"I think it was Chloe," says the Succubus absently, wrapped up in her book. It is Billy Collins's "The Apple That Astonished Paris." This is a step up from last week's trash novel.

"How's the book?" God asks this while stepping gracefully over the dead salesman.

"Oh, bitter...bitter..." says the Succubus. "But I like it. Because it is bitter. And because it is my book."

"Pffffft!" says God. "Hey what's that weird noise? It's coming from outside!"

"Sounds like a creature in abject terror!" observes the Succubus brightly. They both go out to investigate.

They look up.

There at the edge of the roof, is the Queen Of The Vampires, in black cat form, peering down and yowling, her eyes big and offended, in classic get-me-down-from-here mode.

"What's she doing up there?" says the Succubus.

"No clue," says God slowly. It is an error to believe that She knows everything. She could if she wanted, but she prioritizes. Hair product knowledge, then coffee beans, then famine and junk like that, and finally cats on rooves, which she doesn't get around to all that often.

"Ohhhhh," says the Succubus, the light going on. "She's up there with the Dark Haired Chick. Shoulda known. It's like those two are joined at the fucking hip."

"Please don't curse," says God automatically. 

It's true though. They are both up there.

"What the fuck?" says the Succubus. It's a reasonable question.

God climbs up the ladder. There, on the roof of Danny's Coffee Shop, she finds the Dark Haired Chick painting pentagrams. 

"What the fuck?" says God. 

She gets the Dark Haired Chick by the ear and drags her down off the roof, with the cat in her arms, protesting loudly. 

Later, while God waitresses through morning rush, the other three sit together at a table. "You know she's gonna make you go back up there and remove them, right?"

"Fuck you," says the Dark Haired Chick. 

"Row. Rowwwwoww," say the QOTV.

"Don't curse," says the Succubus, smirking. "All that work. Poor things. Oh well. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...."

"Who gave you a library card?" It is the QOTV, who has shape shifted back to her natural form. She pronounces it "libary." 

The Succubus raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. "God works in mysterious ways, Her wonders to perform." 

God, rushing past with an order, laughs. Her laugh is like cherry Coke. 

It is morning at Danny's Coffee Shop. 

There was a dead salesman on the floor. There are pentagrams on the roof. (For now.) There is God, looking good in a white shirt and jeans. 

Welcome to Danny's.

What can I get you?

Tuesday, April 13, 2010


I said to the wind,

"You have cheated me"

And the wind said,


Have you learned that the sky is not as empty as it seems,

Nor the earth so strong?"

I said to the wind,

"You have carried from my bones the flesh I deserved,

And replaced it with old leaves and bullshit from bins"

And the wind said,


Have you made peace with the lead dress?

Have you learned to dance at the bottom of the sea?"

I said to the wind,

"Cut the shit.

When do I get some answers?"

But the wind said nothing,

And swept my words away into silence.


Monday, April 12, 2010


Before she was turned, The Queen Of The Vampires was called Gladys Hotzelbacher.

Facts are facts. What can she do? But all that is over, now she is the magnificent Queen Of The Vampires, able to shape shift into anything, and mesmerize anyone she chooses with her regal and otherworldly manner.

Getting there was no walk in the fucking park, Bo Peep.

Penelope Hotzelbacher, the aged aunt of the aforementioned Gladys, the very same wretched and screeching old battle ax who told her she was damned and who tried to kill her with a silver dagger cleverly hidden underneath her ill-mannered and piebald Persian cat, who never moved except to crap in the potted plants,

That very same old mothball auntie has kicked the bucket and left the QOTV a small amount of money, delivered this very day by check. 

Well now.

The QOTV would love to tear it to little pieces and dance on it in exactly the way dear auntie would most have objected to, but she can't. She owes the fucking electric company a certain amount, and if she does not pay it by 5 p.m., out go the lights. 


So, the Queen Of The Vampires grabs the number sixty-three bus to Evergreen road where the bank is, and walks in.

She is dressed entirely in black and crimson, with her hair down to her waist and her attitude filling the room like a brimstone plug-in. 

Just barely restraining the urge to shape shift, she walks up to the teller. 

"I want to cash this check," she announces, and presents it with a flourish. The security guard is transfixed, but the teller is all business.

"Sign the back, please," she drones, while doing something else.

The QOTV withdraws a genuine quill pen from her bosoms, and pricking her finger with its tip, she signs "Q.V." in blood, on the back of the check. 

"Ma'am?" The teller sounds spectacularly nasal and officious. "This check is payable to the order of Gladys Hotzelbacher. Is that you?"

There is a long pause. A very very very....long....pause.

The QOTV purses her lips, the same lips that have bewitched her victims to the point that they willingly bared their throats to her. People behind her are watching. The guard is watching. 

Very softly, she says,

"I was."

"What does that mean, Ma'am?" The teller sounds like a particularly dull  machine in a factory. "May I see your driver's license?"

The QOTV shifts from foot to foot and resists the urge to shape shift into a cobra. 

"I don't drive."

"Ma'am, I can't cash this check if you aren't Gladys Hotzelbacher. Are you Gladys Hotzelbacher or not?"

The QOTV remembers Gladys, the cowed, unloved whipping girl of the Hotzelbacher clan. Nothing like she is now. Nothing to do with who she is now. 

"It's my check," explains the Vampire Queen through clenched teeth, including the very long, very sharp ones. "Please cash it." Saying please to this automaton is costing her. 

"Ma'am," drones the teller, "I am not authorized to cash this unless you can show that you are--"

With that, the Queen Of The Vampires shape shifts into a black panther and leaps onto the counter, letting loose with an ear-splitting cat-scream and slashing an inch away from the teller's face with her murderous claws. 

She crouches, ears back, screaming, showing her fangs, and says, with her cat-mouth, "Cass da fucking check!!!!"

The teller says, blandly as a beige wall, "You'll have to sign it Gladys Hotzelbacher before I can cash it for you. It's regulations." She says this last bit the way some people say "It's in the bible" as if that settles everything.

So, not wanting her electricity cut off, the Queen Of The Vampires shape shifts back, bites her lip, stands tall and silently signs the hated name. 

Money in hand, she catches a bus downtown and pays the power company their money. Then she takes a third bus home. 

And so it is that Chloe finds the Queen Of The Vampires curled up in a ball in one of the outside chairs at Danny's, by herself, with her face down on her arms, crying.

"Oh sugar, what's wrong?" Chloe is not generally known for her Earth Mother warmth, but she knows a girl who needs a shoulder when she sees one.

The serial killer holds the red-eyed Vampire Queen for a while, and sings to her. True, the song is "99 Bottles Of Beer On The Wall", but hey. 

There are people working regular jobs who could learn a little humanity from golfer-killer, judge-seducer, prison-escapee Chloe. 


Sunday, April 11, 2010

Darylized Story Time

The amazing Daryl has started a feature called Tell Me A Story, in which she posts a photograph and asks her readers to make up a story about it. Here is mine. The photograph is, of course, Daryl's. :-)

The Little Orange Phone was happy. This had not always been the case.

Shortly after being born, in a dismal factory someplace far away, the Little Orange Phone was sold (sold!) to someone called FlyDJ4u, who smelled bad and listened to worse music.

What? Did you think that a phone cannot smell nor listen? They certainly can. The Little Orange Phone's favorite scent is lilac. Its favorite music is Diana Krall.

After only a day, FlyDJ4u returned the phone to the store, because he said it wasn't working properly. It wasn't. It didn't like him.

After being repackaged and set on the shelf again, The Little Orange Phone was bought by LilacGrrl. Everything about Lilacgrrl is wonderful, according to the Little Orange Phone. She smells good, listens to Diana Krall and wears the most agreeable and pleasing jewelry.

One day, Rockgod54 texted Lilacgrrl. He said not-nice things. He said u better call me. He said, who do u think u r, the queen of the world?

The Little Orange Phone knew Lilacgrrl would be upset. So, it made a decision. All by itself, it texted Rockgod54 back. Calling itself CraZ4LG, it said, leave Lilacgrrl alone. If you have a problem, come see me at Jim's Karate School, and gave an address, then added: and she IS the Queen of the World.

Then the Little Orange Phone lay back inside Lilacgrrl's bag, and smiled to itself. You didn't think a phone can smile? It can, when it is very very happy.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

The Inexplicable Survival Of The Knives

It is a month after the deluge--

Stevens and I are the only humans left.

The rest have passed through the Brita filter of God's wrath, and into the next world.

It is up to me, now, to be the mother of mankind's future;

This means, of course, rapid extinction.

"Have a strawberry," urges Stevens. He thinks it will improve my snappish morning moods. It won't, but as a gesture I have agreed to leave my collection of ceremonial daggers locked in their gleaming glass cases until at least nine each day.

They were a gift from a former girlfriend, and I have kept them; even the one or two she kissed my bones with, by way of goodbye.


Stevens is now huddled like a fetus up in the useless guard tower, watching old black and white movies.

He would like it if I loved him.

I do not.

In the evening, the sun sets into Stevens' tea cup, lighting his boyish face as if he were some outlet store saint.

I have to admit, he looks appealing at such times,

But all of my favorite dresses got ruined, my jewelry is gone, and I am prone to moody tears at the drop of a hat.


All of this prevents me from going to him, wrapping my fingers around his sensibilities, and growling in his ear, "Planting time in the garden, Country."

Wouldn't he just love it if I did.

Wouldn't our Eden be lush and green, with happy babies in my arms and underfoot, as numerous as pebbles.

The truth is, though, that I wish Stevens were a woman.

He is not.

It is a month after the deluge--

Stevens and I are the only humans left.

When I get lonely enough, I let Stevens wear my black top hat and pitch the knives at me;

It reminds me of my true love's touch,

And if it grows dark enough,

He almost looks like her, except that his shoulders are too broad and he does not wish to kill me.

"Why are we the ones still here?" I scream at him in sudden desperate misery.

"What kind of crazy joke is this?"

I would like it if he would answer me,

But now he, too, is gone.


Thursday, April 8, 2010

The Hag Of Windy Days

Gypsies cursed the weather--

You can't chart that.

It rains or it turns raw,

And I feel naked--

Not like I have no clothes,

But like I have no skin.

Gypsies cursed my memories,

And yet I hoard them.

I think of you, and my hands come away wet--

They've been petting the wound again.

They drip blood into the pot

And then call that soup

And I call that


Gypsies travel

Ever further south,

Growing more sultry and more removed from God with every turn of the wheel.

Me, I stay here--

Our Hag Of Windy Days--

With an old tin funnel, I pour vile scalding soup down the marrow bone,

And when I scream

Like a cat dropped down a lightning bolt,

You'll say,

"It's that damn gypsy,"

Then close your window and light the fire.


Monday, April 5, 2010


When I dream about you, it is always summer;

Time lazes like grass stalks.

When I speak your name, it is like sucking on a good ripe plum;

It is both ordinary and sharply delicious.

When I dream about you, I always want to kiss you, and you want to, too;

Then I wake up and all day I feel sun-warmed and sleepy with desire.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Va Jay Jay, Bay Bay!

Darlings, it's me, Babs, from Objets D'art. Oh, don't start hyperventilating, your favorite little Rimbaud-ette, Fireblossom, will be back dispensing her gloomy poetry and promoting sexual inversion before you know it. But I have a matter of some ridiculous importance to bring up, and I needed an audience. Oh yes, I know, I'm over there at my blog, casting my pearls before swine, but there just aren't very many of them, unfortunately. So I said, "Fireblossom honey, here's twenty dollars; go buy yourself an ink pen without rainbows on it. It's all yours if you give me five minutes on my soapbox at your lovely (*titter*) blog. Well, she went for it, and here I am.

But I digress!

My text today, Lambs, is an outrage perpetrated by the three major American television networks. No, not Bravo, Food Network and Lifetime! I'm talking about ABC, NBC, and CBS.

It seems that the empty suits who decide such things, recoiled in horror when presented with a Kotex ad which actually used the word "vagina." Oh dear. Have I shocked you? Darlings, I hate to be the bearer of such jolting news, but 52% of the world's population have got them. Pssssst, the secret may be out already!

Now, as some of you may know, I do not bleed. I like to think it is because my veins are filled with nothing but the sweetest honey. Let's go with that, shall we? But many women do. Oh, Cupcakes, I thought you knew! Sit down if you need to. No, not on my good sofa! Over there, on the ottoman.

Anyway...the Kotex people went back down into the dungeon where they keep their advertising people, and reshot the ad using the euphemism "down there." What is this, kindergarten? But still. The networks blanched and waved their hands in a dismayed "no." Still too shocking for the American public. Now correct me if I'm wrong, Darlings (Haha! Can you imagine? Me, wrong? This is what we call, saying something for "form's sake.") but I can't even watch the Nightly News without hearing ad nauseum about male erectile dysfunction, not to mention encountering the Colon Lady and that horrid Jamie Lee Curtis playing state-of-your-bowels Grand Inquisitor. It's dispiriting. And besides, it's like I used to say to my sainted late husband: if you need a little blue pill to get excited about me, then just take it with hemlock tea. Dainty little thing that I am. 

So, you nosey parkers, if you would like to find out more about this silliness, go here. You can even create your own spoof ad, or give them your signature. For every signature gained, a dollar will be contributed to Girls For Change.

Lambs, I'm simply exhausted now. I think I'll have RRRRRamon bring the Rolls around and take me back to my own blog. Oh I know, I know. No need to play make believe with me, Darlings, I know you really want Fireblossom back. If you swallow poison and are fresh out of syrup of ipecac, you can read her latest poem, "Ode To Why I'm STILL Not Completely Over That Tiresome Bitch What's Her Name." Oh my. Did I just say the B Word? Out loud? I did, didn't I. Well, just deal with it. At least I didn't say... you know. Down there. Va jay jay. Hoo ha. Vagina.

Well look at that. I said it and the world didn't end!