Showing posts with label Methane we drink to your name. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Methane we drink to your name. Show all posts

Saturday, August 05, 2017

Fragments from an old letter to a friend

Picture source: http://miss-mosh.deviantart.com/gallery/

Been re-reading old letters I wrote. Nice to see not much has changed. Irreverent, angry, anally obsessed and funny.

"Yesterday I had some large beans cooked with tomato in the oven for supper plus five eggs for dinner. The result is that today my ass levitates at some centimeters distance over the chair due to continuous and continual gas production. I look like a levitating Indian fakir. It’s ominous. I have farting spells that last for several seconds and change tone, tune and temperature at my nether region. Their result is usually clinging around the proximity of my ass as a cloud of fluff and instant death. I am forced to change my surroundings every time I am struck by this nasty muse’s endearments. In fact every time I release one of those I start running and never look back, propelled by the gas as much as by my legs. Seriously, if we ever find ourselves in the same house I’ll let you know in such a case, so that you don’t switch on the lights. If you do, they’ll find both our corpses next day in the ruins, blackened and burned beyond recognition. :P The joys of single life, farting as much as you please." 

"I want to go to heavens and butt-rape every single meddling deity that was ever born in the collective unconscious with gigantic, whale-size dildos with spikes, then take a shit and smear it on their faces. I want to organise a party with the heads of those deities stuck on poles greeting my guests, blue tongues lolling and eyeballs dangling. I want to commit acts of violence on their hides that no intelligent race across all galaxies has ever conceived. And I’ll be laughing constantly while reminding them every bad thing that has happened to me and the ones I care about.

There are days, or rather, moments in a day I am content. Not happy, but content. I can even glimpse a shred of meaning in breathing in and out. But most days are disheartening and infuriating and exhausting. Still, I refuse to give up. I’ll stay till the last credits to see what this fucking idiocy of a movie called my life was about. But whoever is responsible should beware, because I am getting my spiked whale dildos lubed up and ready even as we speak. I’ll kick their asses so hard they’ll spend the rest or eternity exchanging postcards with their missing behinds which will have landed in the farthest end of the other side of the bloody universe. I mean it and probably can do it." 

Ah, the arrogance of some deities... ;) And some butts.

Friday, March 29, 2013

Ass hugger, or, fapping my days away over a keyboard




Once I had said to a friend of mine that I am an ass connoisseur. Well, indeed I am. I regret nothing.

Why try to hide it; if other people’s destinies lie in the stars, mine is located somewhere near the anal cavity. There is no escape from the pull of the ass. The ass holds for me the gravity of its bigger cousin, the black hole. The ass is grandiose, funny and sexy at the same time. It sings. It can kill with a single whiff. You can caress it and kiss it, slap it, fondle it, bite it. Knead it and massage it to your heart’s content. Pour chocolate on it. Draw on it. Dress it, hug it, squeeze it and call it George. You can find it on both sexes, it’s not exclusive equipment like the penis, the vagina. Boobs don’t count. They, too, can be found on both sexes.

But the ass. The ass is beguiling. It holds tight onto its secrets. It can be stubbornly shut to any approach. Demands respect because it does the dirty job and rarely complains. Poor ass. So underestimated in your struggle for freedom and recognition. So divine in your humble guise. Two perfect semicircles with so much heart in them.

By the way, I needn’t worry about finding a writer’s pseudonym. I am sure I’ll be nicknamed the trench coat author. Not because I wear trench coats often (which I do) but because all my readers will be wearing them, in order to be able to read my wonderful books on the tube, or in the bus, and masturbate without attracting too much attention.

I return to my writing.
Yours in ass appreciating bliss,

Elizabeth Fap
Ass connoisseur and writer extraordinaire.


Thursday, July 26, 2012

Rhyming smutty scatological poetry, or,


...I am overwhelmed with happiness.

Midsummer afternoon poetry.

My ass has become as round as a peach, my boobies are blown up to heaven,
the bags under my eyes fit many gallons each, and I love to sleep in till eleven.
I perform dubious acts with my cats, and we purr and we lick in unison,
and we pat and we shake our prodigious butts, and we vanish in the line of horizon,
I by farting, thus propelling my way, they by bouncing and meowing excitedly,
I believe that this poem has gone rather astray, so at this point I’ll shut up politely.
And I’ll wave you goodbye, but I want you to know
that no mischief was done while creating it,
but my Muse is PMing and my mind is just slow
bet that too has to do with not dating.

Elizabeth V

Monday, July 04, 2011

Cats, butts and radioactivity.

Experts from a letter to my penpal B. in Canada.

I am positively positive that if I don’t do something different than what I usually do, my brain will explode into sparkly little thingies the colour of shit. So here I am at the kiosk beginning a letter to you, or else. I still haven’t got a letter from, I should say, your demented Highness, or nicely round Butt Excellency, but hope dies last. Fear not! I will try everything, even come there to freeze my equally nice round butt together with yours in order to get that darn letter. I can see both our asses side by side at the mantelpiece. Hey, I can see our asses pressed against the windows of your house, mooning the non-existent neighbors. What the hell. At this rate, you may attract neighbors as well. I can see our asses on TV, on t-shirts, on two page spreads in magazines. I can see our asses mooning the moon itself if we have to. It’s Assholy war.

See what I mean about my brain exploding? It’s like goddess Eris herself has climbed on my shoulders and she pulls my ears and kicks my kidneys while stuffing LSD up my nostrils. I have no choice but to write bullshit under the serious disguise of a letter addressed to someone who’ll understand my ass fixation. I need a choir of Asian 17-year-olds who can and will dance nekkid in the moonlight and won't make everyone laugh themselves to hospital because of how pitifully small their ahems are. I don’t mind if they can’t sing. To hell with singing as long as they have other redeeming qualities. I want to wake up tomorrow and know Japanese without the need to scribble down kanji on scrap paper four million times each. I want to wake up tomorrow and be in Japan already, with a steady job that is somehow connected to violating the aforesaid choir. Even though to be honest with you I look forward to a trip to Japan with mixed feelings. I am afraid that my poor little Jap boys will no longer be fun to chase through the darkness of the night, because there will be no challenge; they will glow in the dark. I am afraid that I, too, will glow in the dark if I spend time there, and it certainly hasn’t been on top of my list of priorities, “things to do when you turn 35”. Elizabeth as a life size Halloween decoration, ew. Imagine the worst scenario: only my vagina turns radioactive through contact and gives new meaning to my life; it literally sheds light on matters concerning my sexual activity. Those private moments under the sheets will no longer hold any mystery; there will ample illumination on the subject. Gahhhhhhh…

[Q: You work in an office. How can you tell which pretty boy fell victim to Elizabeth’s devious sexual charms the previous night?
A: You simply tell them to stick their tongues out. Anyone with a weird glow effect on their tongues either has a penchant for fireflies, or has been in a particular bed last night.]

So I am sat at the kiosk, surrounded by an army of pieces of scrap paper thrown everywhere, all of them covered in kanji that I have been practicing in the vain hope of remembering them the next day. The idea someone will get by looking at this scene is that the whole place has contacted a nasty case of the measles, but an alien strain of it, with black squiggly thingies instead of red spots. I’m munching compulsively whatever my dirty paws can get a hold of while raising my butt every now and then and farting discretely in the pillow. There’s a perpetual stink around the kiosk like someone cracked open the door of a mausoleum full of cholera victims. I am pretty certain sooner or later a demon with a strong business sense and nefarious taste will come and shake hands with me, then offer me to bottle the essence and sell it to the market of Hell as air freshener and make us both rich. He’ll later confess to me that it was the subtle rotten egg aroma that underpinned the basic stink of death and dismay and made all the difference. I am also pretty certain that if I stand up and start hitting the pillow on the wall, ominous green clouds of stink will emerge out of it, and if I try to disperse them by fanning at them with my hands, I will discover that they are solid enough to need breaking them with a hammer into smaller pieces first.

I am absolutely positive that if I ever live together with a companion, they will die in their sleep by gas attack while I’ll be snoring in the pillow next to them without a care in the world, my ass accidentally poised at them and firing non-stop. I am also pretty certain my orange tom-cat has no sense of smell. The Persian is devious; she sleeps under the bed. He sleeps curled near my ass. Can you imagine that. Just next to the stirring volcano. Perhaps he likes it there because it’s so warm and breezy.

I do know one thing for certain. If I see areas where his lovely soft orange fur is curly and singed, I will not wonder why. One cannot escape the inevitable! Sooner or later, special becomes mundane, holy becomes profane and the grim reaper of my butt becomes the hair dresser of my cat. The mighty have indeed fallen.

Monday, May 02, 2011

Dyslexia as a bomber's cocktail.


It’s late. I should be asleep already.
Breaking news, isn’t it?

I haven’t written here in quite some time. I haven’t had internet for weeks, and now that I have internet I am up to my neck in a variety of things I ought to have done ages ago/ came up unexpectedly/ aren’t really important but are certainly as time consuming and as meaningful as peeling lentils with box gloves on.

Hmmm. Reminds me of what someone who has supposedly quit drinking would come up with as soon as his wife caught him in the embrace of hard liquor again.

“Um, no, honey, it’s not a bottle of Scotch, I mean it is, but I swear, it has lemonade inside. I mean I went to the grocery store and I know you wouldn’t believe it, but they only had their own lemonade left and then the aliens came, I swear to God, and then (insert long winding story about aliens here) and then the Pope (insert story with Pope of Rome making guest star appearance) and then an opera singer was having her voice exercises just next to the grocery store and all the glasses and bottles broke in a ten mile radius and then (another long story here) and finally, I swear to god, I came home with the lemonade in this whiskey bottle.”

Yeah, right. There is one thing I hate more than lame excuses and this is long sorry-assed stories. Point being, I have been busy. But I have internet at my disposal. And when I get get home, after a minimum of 12 to 14 hours of work I usually spend at least one hour trying to unwind. This doesn't leave me with too much energy to do anything more deep than ogle Asian gay porn, write a few emails, eat, take a shit and so on. When I get bored of looking at pretty Asian bums being rubbed by pretty Asian hands and interesting Asian penises, it's usually so late that my brain and eyelids are making squeaking sounds of disorganisation in Unison. (Unison with a capital U is the mental institution I work for as a silent assassin of the night, aka the enthusiastic bean-eater as opposed to another thing with gardeners.) So yes, what was I saying? Something with beans, dicks and gardeners anyway, watering my sayonara with soy sauce. (Sayonara in Greek means flip flop shoe.) So. Um. Yeah. Asleep already. My flip flops are full of eels. Now, fuck off. Oh sorry, I have to disconnect.

I think what I have must be called Sympathetic Dyslexia. It catches with me when in the company of dyslexic people. Naturally, almost all my friends are dyslexic and those who aren't, look up to me as their incarnated avatar of instant dyslexia-waiting-to-happen, just add sugar and shake well before use.

*fart* Now out of my way, lamentable *fart* creatures of the *fart* capitalistic society. *FART*FART*FART* *FAAAAAAAAAAAAAART* *RIIIIIIP* (Sound of underwear spontaneously combusting) Ffffffff...FUUUUUUCK!

"Look mommy, that lady is flying! And look how funny she is, trying to dance while her bum is on fire!"

Oh screw this.

Goodnight.



[First lovely picture: Wicked_by_sideshowsito
Second lovely picture: Cinched_by_miss_mosh
Both photos found in deviantart.com]

Monday, March 08, 2010

Eat proper food, exersize, don't smoke, don't drink, don't fuck. Die healthy.


I think I want to organize an orgy.

Fat chance of that. I can barely organize my thoughts lately. I read everything wrong. I am either arbitrary relating it to sex or my misreading gives everything a new, more interesting meaning.

Jewelery makers become undertakers.
Travel agencies suddenly specialize in crepes.
Bet newspapers turn to sex marathon reports. And so on.

It could be funny. It is funny. But my energy has become lopsided, my grounding ability has gone to hell, I drop things, feel tipsy all the time and still have to think, work, walk... My attempts at walking are often misunderstood as tango between a drunken person and an invisible three legged bull on high heels. Fun, fun, fun. All my cds seem to be playing gibberish, like I've had my entire music collection stolen and replaced by the Martian top 40. And I am eating non-stop. My jaws are working overtime, gobbling down prodigious amounts of chocolaty, delicious, sugary, non healthy CRAP. Arghhhh...

I want to fondle tits, or have mine fondled. I want to be an Emperor, or run a ninja organization. I want a massage. I want to kiss the delicate fingers of Shinya, the drummer of Dir en Grey, and smack the Pope of Rome for his comment on gay people. I want all my farts to be silent and non smelly and my legs and magic carpet always waxed. I want to my tom cat to turn into a 1,90m tall black were-panther, who's well hung, polite and loves to lick me. I demand vacation, evacuation and non-smelly perspiration. Free chocolate and ice cream delivered to me till my last days by handsome ninjas in leopard thongs. Massage by the pretty Asian boys I ogle, all of them dressed exclusively in badass leather or period dresses for ladies, both versions with full make-up. Someone to take care of an indecent winged fellow that refuses to die in spite of my best efforts, and I am not referring to a mosquito. I want pillows stuffed with hamsters that smell like an almond tree in full bloom, a Japanese tattoo on my entire back, Sephiroth as my lover and Vampire Hunter D as my husband. And to cheat on them both with Totchi, the bassist of Dir en Grey dressed as a goth slut (see picture). And to give my period to someone else when I have it. And not get any zits or colds ever. And always have enough money regardless of anything else. And very very long hair.

I DON'T WANT TO TURN 33! WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Don't let me go to Japan!


I am serious. Don't let me go to Japan. I don't know what it will take, but ban me from that country. And while you're at it, ban me from eBay as well.

Just imagine me there. Or rather don't. A sex-starved, androgynous beauty devotee western girl unleashed on the streets of Japan. Like Krakatoa, a Mongolian riding excursion and a banquet sponsored by Viagra and Dionysus rolled in one and interrupted by deafening farting sounds. I get excited just by thinking about it. I'm sure I will somehow spot Gackt. Or Uruha. I will sniff them. I will use my bionic super senses, trained to locate all hairless males with arms slimmer than mine and promising lips in a hundred mile radius. I bet they smell like cotton candy, hot chocolate with cinnamon and vanilla and cat fur. I will locate them and the entire police force of Japan won't be able to open my jaws, firmly secured around Gackt's underwear (with Gackt still wearing it and struggling in vain, of course). They will lose so much manpower trying to get close and being repelled by a mysterious poisonous gas that makes even gas masks melt that they'll decide to let me have him and that will be the end of it (and him). I will drag him unconscious to my lair and lick him till he has no bodily hair left, not even eyebrows. Mmm, sweet-smelling flesh, stupidity and obligation free. He can wail and scream as much as he wants, I don't speak his language. I will then raid every shop that sells those fantabulous clothes I can't buy from here, unless I sell my entire mother and one of my kidneys to the organ market. And finally, I will leave Japan with three hundred suitcases, at least fifty of  which will be delivered to FedSex (see post: advertisement) because they'll contain nekkid Japanese boy-toys (although Gackt is over thirty five). I will declare those at customs as "bedroom decoration articles/other".

Seriously. Don't let me go to Japan. I don't know what I'm capable of, but I'm sure I will find out on the spot. Someone must declare Japanese visual kei artists as endangered species and post my photo as the natural predator of the species before it's too late! Act now to prevent disaster from happening! You have been forewarned...

Monday, February 09, 2009

Like beating a cat with a bagpipe.

Talking about bagpipes... I don't know what kind of wrong food combination I've made today, but the results are spectacular, to say the least. Watching people's faces around you blistering, melting and falling off because of a single fart can only be described as spectacular, right? Then again, girls are not supposed to be capable of farting. Yeah, right. I bet that when I meet the man of my dreams he won't believe that someone as sweet and endearing as I am is capable of producing such nasty results by the simple procedure of processing food. Well guess again- this woman is an exception. She hides a nuclear waste unit inside her ass to match the brothel inside her head. Even worse, if he has the romantic idea to sleep by my side at nighttime, he's as good as dead. I mean, save for the fact I toss and kick like I'm struggling against the armies of Darth Vader, what about my food byproducts? I do have an idea what I'm capable of when I'm awake and have some control over what's going on (or should I say, what comes out?). I'm sure that when I finally fall asleep and let go of control fully, I am transformed into a one (wo)man orchestra, with my ass performing all kinds of sounds, from strings to percussion. I'm serious. Imagine that in the morning, the first thing I do when I wake up after a particularly productive night is pick up my cat that sleeps next to me and shake him, to make sure he's still alive. If I do the same to that future boyfriend, his head will probably come off, together with the arms from their sockets.
[This one is for Danie- she knows how to make me smile.]

Monday, January 15, 2007

Funny in retrospect

It's the first of January, 2007. I am sick with one of those virus infections that last for about a day. I have violent vomiting and terrible diarrhea. On top of that, I have my period too. (I really did hit the jackpot that day.) So I am sat on the toilet in a half-conscious state with my pants around my ankles and feel like there is a horde of Tasmanian devils inside my tummy, struggling and pushing and groaning, desperate to find the exit. (Insert characteristic sound effects here.) My mother is watching me from the door, really worried and quite eager to help, but unable. Suddenly, just as I feel that I'm done, vomiting kicks in. Unable to do anything else, I turn around, pants still around my ankles, fall on my knees, embrace the porcelain goddess to which I have been paying homage for that day, and start spewing my guts out. Conversation:
Mom: "Do you want me to hold your head?"
Me: *Bluaaargh* No!
Mom: "Do you want me to wipe your ass?"
Me: *Bluaaaargh* "No! GO AWAY!"
Needless to say, I was trying to save the last remains of my dignity, unsuccessfully of course. For two or three days afterwards my tummy made funny noises. To quote my best friend J., "It's like the turkey that escaped the Christmas predicament hid in your tummy and is calling out loud to the other turkeys who might have escaped." Thanks, mate. I really needed to hear that.