Category: Observational Humor

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Louie, Lou-iii

Found on The Girl Can't Help it Vintage Blog
which may very well be a new fave.

Point fucking blank, I know I’ve been a bad blog friend and a bad blogger, but that is no fucking, mother fucking reason to punish me with a subscription to Martha Stewart Living and BaudV!lle (note the exclamation as a substitute for). Do you HATE ME that much?

Just call me a cuntlogger or a snatchpackage (I know it’s irrelevant, I just love the fucking word) or a bitchlogger. But, this?! This is cruel.

Baudv!lles Magazine cover reads, I kid you not, FROM THE OFFICE OF POSITIVE MOJO, in all caps. Seriously?! Each page is more subversive than the next. One section is dedicated to Build it and they will come”, a series of cards to be dispensed to co-workers, I think? One box reads. Totally Awesome in delightful brown, gold and red font, circa 1980s, filled with oodles of totally awesome cards and buttons. The one that sent me to the porcelain goddess was the, Together We Can, box. In powder fuck me in the ass pastel blue, the box features a picture of two silver hands clenched. Really?! I’m not done. Other gifts include, Great job! You’re definitely on a roll”, filled with tootsie rolls. And the, “Thanks for your Commit-Mint”, mint dispenser. Again in pastel, please allow me use this as my menstrual pad, blue, Write On a journal. Where’s the fucking irony? Where? Where? Where?

Fortunately, my sister received Martha Stewart Living before I did. It was sent to her address (we live across the street from each other, same last name). She called me to alert me, knowing I’d have a visceral reaction.

Katie, breathe and sit down. Oy vey. I assumed we were careening towards a deathversation. Metaphorically, we were.

Someone got you a subscription to Martha Stewart Living don’t panic. You don’t have to. It was too late. I interrupted. Who the fuck would have the audacity to send ME, of all people, the pastel loving, recipe stealing, K-Mart product whoring, greedy, snatchstick, ex-conzine? In Kerri, flat sarcasm form, she said, Okay. I see we’re not going to listen to Kerri. Is Katie finished? God, I lovemy sister, she knows me so well.

Hells no, I’m not finished. Egomania aside, her magazine is about exploiting human foibles. Unless those humans live by her rules, buy her products and eat her food. As we all know, it’s not about what’s inside, it’s what’s outside, what people see, that matters most. Now, are you done? She asked. I don’t know.” I said.

You’re done. You never have to see it, I’ll burn it.” She said. No. Keep it. You love her magazine. And I want you should be happy. Why don’t you just call me a dirty fuck baby, she asked. Berry, you know me better than that. Just because M-Stew is the bane of my existence and I have assigned angry emotions to her, and her magazine doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate how much you enjoy it. True. She agreed.

See, I’m not that much of a cuntarella. I have objectivity. I realize other people love these reads. Sending them to me, though?! Is this your way of chopping me from you blog life? You broke out the crates and have been sitting Shiva for me for how long?!

Now, let’s discuss last night. I went to my ma’s for dinner. She made gluten free, vegan baked ziti that was to die for delicious. We had a great time, lots of laughs, big dishing, it was fabulous. My ma is the fucking best.

She lives up the street from me, about a mile away. It’s important you know this because what happened in that mile was surreal.

I made my way down the hill and was turning left, to drive by Louie’s favorite park. It’s what I do every time I leave my ma’s, my little ritual, if you will. The memories of him running and playing warm my Yiddish heart.

I turn. I pass Louiejew’s park. I smile. I notice a cop hot on my tail. Lights start flashing, big bright fucking lights. OMFG.

Aside: Louie is a family name. My paternal great grandparents were named Katie and Louie. I am, Katie Louie and I have a cousin named, Louie Katie. I named my dog Louie, (he was a person in a dog’s costume, deal). In Jewguage, the first born child is traditionally named after the last person in your family who died. However, in Jewgirl’sworld, a dead relative name I love, trumps that tradition.

I have Graves eye disease (we know this, right?) and bright lights are unbelievably painful and blinding (yeah, I know, I won’t have to deal with this forever. For now, it is what it is). Brightness feels like salt laden daggers bludgeoning my lady balls. And, unfortunately, if the brightness persists, it impairs my vision, which freaks me out. Who wouldn’t be freaked out by it, right? Right.

I pull over immediately. He’s flashing a ginormous white light from his car, as well as the bright red and blue I’m-a-fucking-officer-of-the-law, bitch, lights. He then walks over to me with his manly man bright flashlight. I can’t look at him. I’m already wearing glasses to cut the glare from normal night lights.

Ma’am, he says (I am so not a ma’am). I butt in. Please do not flash that light in my face. Please, I have Graves eye disease. What is that, he asks. Extreme sensitivity to light, I’ll give you my doctor’s number and you can call him right now. He’ll tell you. I’ll take my glasses off and you can see my swollen eyelids (I wanted to scream, I hate my jacked lady balls, and taking them out for show-and-tell, but I will humiliate myself for you). I am begging you to please turn that light off. To which he responds, “I have to check your car for weapons.

I’m thinking, you pulled over a fat Jew broad, wearing prescription/glare cutting sunglasses, driving an understated, vintage, registered, insured vehicle and you’re checking it for weapons? You’ve seen me. What part of my person screams glock, or Wusthof-for-murder, knives? (No disrespect, Joe-Joe-Bean.)

Because I always confess and freak out when I get pulled over, like the fucktard I am, I tell him I am coming back from my mother’s. We had baked Ziti. I have some. You want? You can eat it when you get back to the station. Do I have any forks with me? No forks, sorry. You’ll love it. You want to taste it? You can finger it. (Katie, you did not just ask an officer of the law if he wants to fingerbang your mother’s baked ziti?) Do you want to call her?

He says, You’re a big girl (I’m thinking, you better fucking mean age wise), you’ll be fine.

How do you know I’ll be fine? The other day, a guy in a wheelchair rolled by, yanked my sweatshirt and called me fat. I called him a criptard. Though, he was kind of a hot handi. Maybe it was the glasses, I’m not sure. I lied to my sister yesterday. I’ve been playing phone tag with my father for two-weeks, and I really want to talk to him. I feel like we’re growing apart and it worries me. One of my brother’s is in Korea and we’re not communicating as much as I’d like. He never emails me back. My younger brother has yet to respond to me regarding visiting my dad in August or September. I lied to my dentist and told him that I couldn’t make the appointment because I was stuck in the Valley, when really I just didn’t want to go.

He interrupts; the nerve, ma’am, can I just see your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance?

But, there’s more, I exclaim.

I’m not a Priest, he says. I’m not a Catholic, I say.

Driver’s license, please?

Fine. I give him my license. Your middle name is Louie? I love that name. Thanks”, I say. I can’t find my registration or my insurance because I’m shaking like a crack addict, and, or a Graves  addled, or Parkinson’s patient.

He goes to his car. The lights are blindingly bright. I’m now wearing two pairs of glasses trying to keep from going blindy because I have to fucking drive after our engagement.

10 minutes later he comes back and says, Well, Louie, I have to give you a ticket. Sir, sorry, officer, my first name is Katie. He literally says, I like Louie better, so I’m gonna call you Louie.

My close friends and an ex-boyfriend call me Louie. But, whatever, Louie’s fine. He gives me a ticket for a burned bulb, my front light, whatever the fuck that’s called. I read the ticket, it says, Louie Schwartz. I say, Officer, my first name is Katie and this ticket is made out to Louie Schwartz, won’t that be an issue when I pay it? I don’t know. I don’t care, really, I just like the name, he says. Okay, fine. Great. Thanks. I say. He bids me a safe and fabulous night and finally turns his blaring white light off.

I collect myself for a minute before I drive, to blink-out-the-temporary-blindyness before I drive off.

I go ONE BLOCK, got it, one fucking block. As I’m passing the gas station, a car that just entered, is stuck behind a bus. Instead of waiting, he doesn’t just back into me, he slides the side of his car across my front bumper, which destroys his car. He calls ME a bitch and drives away.

How was your Saturday night?

PS: If you’re not bored stupid yet, my Jewchives are still housed on All The Way From Oy To Vey.

The Semitard Who Went Pro in Creeptardaree

It’s no secret that I’m Jewish. Anyone who reads my Jewchives from All The Way From Oy to Vey or my new site/blog right here, knows that I’m a proud Heebalicious Heebareena. Certainly, it’s not written on my face. Though I’ve been told that I look Jewish on many occasions, whatever that means. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding, I can spot 90% of my people within a one mile radius. Still. Some of us really don’t look Jewish, but we remain the Jewiest of Jews.

Recently, I had an opportunity to visit a place I hadn’t been to since I was a kid, a Schwartz landmark, if you will. After walking the grounds (patch a’ grass), the new owner, gem that he is, came outside to greet us. We met him at the bottom of his stoop.

To say that I was rattled by his appearance would be an epic lie. I could get past the faded, trying-to-be-blue Dickie’s and the grey, green flannel shirt, as well as the baseball cap worn so high, it was flirting with his forehead. I even overlooked his tooth. Yes, tooth, not teeth, one single solitary tooth and the ginormous mole on his forehead with two protruding grey hairs. What I absolutely could not get past was the dire situation manifesting between his legs, which I am convinced wanted to come out for show-and-tell: Elephantitis penis (EllyPeen). Or, perhaps it was Elephantitis ball sack (EllyB-Sack-Relidhj). I really don’t know and didn’t think I should ask. Though, as you continue reading, you’ll probably think what I’m thinking right now, “Bitch, after the way he behaved, ya shoulda fuckin asked.”

EllyB-Sack-Relidhj who hadn’t seen the light of day or spoken with humans outside of his four walls in at least 30-years, explained that he bought the SL (Schwartz Landmark) from a couple a’ Jews. “Lot’s of them Jew people were here before we arrived.” I wanted to scream, “Hey, fucknard, I hate to break it to you, but you happen to be standing in front of two a’ them, Jewesses, to be clear. Lil fuckin’ FYI for ya. Oh, and PS: instead of Jewhatin’, you might want to tend to that creepy fuckin Ellypeen protruding from your never-been-washed Dickie’s, OVERWHELMING and TRAUMATIZING my lady balls for life, I assure you.”

Of course the writing on the wall screamed Don’t go into the house, don’t, don’t, don’t do it. History’s pull outweighed our intuition. And so we entered. Inching our way into the foyer, memories flooding back for one. Sport nausea for both. Fab. After decades some things remained intact, exactly as they were remembered, those elements were resplendent.

As we ventured into another room, out popped the semitard who truly went pro in creeptardaree (SWWPIC). And I’m not kidding. Imagine a 5×5, 40-year-old man stuffed like a sausage casing into a white tank top designed for women. His only pair of Lee jeans, streaked with food stains, urine droplets and oil smudges, as well as, acne, backne and arm acne. And thank God, I will remain forever in the dark about his other body part acnefestations. Oh, and he had two teeth — that makes three between them. I have every confidence they jointly chewed and faught over who got the swallow.

In a high pitched, I-never-talk-to-people-unless-I-force-them-to-so-I-can-kill-them-with-my-screwdrivers-hammers-and-wrenches-in-the-basement, hiding under at least 30 dead women, buried underneath concrete, he eerily repeated, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, while folding his thick, unwashed clammy hand into mine.

The tour didn’t end there.  Terrified, yet incapable of walking out, we peered into each room, until we hit a two-room pocket with no exit. The SWWPIC was inching so closely behind me, I could feel his unflossed, never been rinsed breath on my neck.

Everything came to a halt when the other gazed at the ceiling and saw a ravishing, simple fixture, from their childhood. Memories as important to me to see and hear as they were to the other. Ellypeen reminded us that them Jews put it in, not them. After snapping multiple pictures, it became evidently clear that we needed to make like a leather clad republican, snorting Crystal Meth, while fucking two she-male hookers before getting caught. Or, in this case, killed.

Traversing around them to extricate ourselves felt like we were playing the last game of the final 4. Worse, As they followed us out, Ellypeen said, “Them Jews left a Jew thing on the door. We smashed it with a hammer and burned the thing inside.” Seeing the front door before us, and seething from their audacious hatred, holding my tongue seemed moot. Stupidly, I said, “You are telling two JEWISH WOMEN that you destroyed a Mezuzah.” The Other looked at me with that what have you done, child, look.

Of course Ellypeen didn’t care. Of course he didn’t hear me. He was preoccupied, flaunting his EllyB-Sack-Relidhj and spewing ignorance and hate. The Other grabbed my arm and dragged me out, willingly and gratefully, I’ll have you know.

The house reeked of piss. I am convinced they dragged their cocks out for Daily Battle of the Urine Stream contests performed in each room, for variety sake, you know, to keep it fresh. And when they weren’t doing that, they were decpitating barbies, setting them aflame and jerking off in watermelons, gumming Hungry Mans and deuling for the final gulp.

Safely in the car, the freakshows followed us out. The driver, a yummalicious Dominican, got behind the wheel as we drove off and ranted like banshees. Though he was quite familiar with cursing, he’d never quite heard cursing like this. Fortunately had a great sense of humor.

In a weird way, I felt bad for the SWWPIC. He never really stood a chance. Raised in an insular, hateful world with no formal education, friends, or social skills, to speak of. What choices did he have?

As far as that day goes, it was one of the most surreal, beautiful, haunting days of my life that I will treasure forever.

The Vey B-Roll (links) will be addd throughout the week, lovers, don’t break up with me and don’t think I’m dissin’ ya’s, cause I ain’t.

A Bragging Rights Shit

For three days, I have been bunged up like an overly stuffed red pepper. I think I have to attribute this to my hummus addiction, which I have now stopped OCDeating for fear that I’ll find my human ass in the hands of a veterinarian begging him to express my anal glands.

I can see it now, Schwartz on all fours atop a silver table while a cheek spreading tool is inserted, as a vet digs his made-for-canine claws into my rectum. Lovely.

My ass feels like a sausage casing ready to spontaneously combust. Similarly, my stomach is distended, out to the moon, really, only exacerbating my shituation.

I’m officially in ASS HELL.

Sure, I can blow a harmonious tune from the twin cheeks that would make Beethoven jealous, but I can’t seem to go the distance. I need an asstastic movement that will do my porcelain goddess proud and severely piss my cunting neighbors off.

What the fuck? I thought being vegan meant I’d be as regular as Sands through the Hour Glass. I thought garbanzo beans; beans being the operative word, would yield a rectalrific experience. Fuckin ell was I wrong.

If there is a rectal God, I have news:

Dear Rectal God:

Thank you for your time, I appreciate it. Real quick, I promise.

I know you’re busy with other asses, but I am begging you to move heaven and earth for my Jewass.

In reciprocity, because I’m an ardent fan of give and take relationships, I will give you a shout out on my blog, so everyone knows how assalicious you can be and that all it takes is a friendly request.

What do you think? Are you in?

Love,

Katie Schwartz

PS: To be clear, I’m the Jewish Katie Schwartz from New York living in Los Angeles, the writer. I knit, speaking of; I can knit you a hat. Would you like a hat? I’m also the vintage tchoch collector. You can’t miss me in a crowd. I temporarily skew Jew x 4, and have dark brown hair. I’m always in glasses. Am I ringing a bell?

What the Fuck, Katie Schwartz

Change, though not always planned, doesn’t have to suck the ass of a geriatric patient with bleeding hemorrhoids. That being said — Schwartzy has a new joint. BREATHE. I’ve decided to consolidate. I’m not giving up All The Way From Oy To Vey, NEVAH. Thanks to Crionaberry, that’s where my blogventure began. The Vey is home to three years of my life with my near and dear online and offline friends. We’ve laughed, cried, and lived super out loud there, so it ain’t goin’ nowhere.

However, BREATHE, I will be blogging here now. Still breathing? Great. I need a central website, one place where I can blog and also update what’s going on in my writing life and with Dear Thyroid, which (knock wood), seems to be really moving its story forward (yahoo), etc. etc. etc. With the help of Bit Depth, if he can stand my ass painery, I’ll map my domain KatieSchwartz.com to WordPress properly.

So, why haven’t I blogged in close to a month? Fuck me and suck my ovaries, what a month this has been, seriously. Mostly good, mind you. Some if it overwhelming.

Let’s start with the fucktardaree that is my home life, shall we? I am officially living in Moushewitz. My kitchen wall is shared with psycho Cindy who now scratches the walls when she smells anything to her disliking coming from my apartment. To be clear, I collect and wear gorgeous perfumes — sorry, but it’s true. I do not burn incense. I have been known on occasion to light a scented candle, but not often. The building next door is a few feet away. Off my kitchen window, we have Saphareena and her mother, cunteralla. Convinced that I stare into her windows, which is impossible unless I have X-ray vision, considering she has thick curtains covering her windows, has resurrected two HUGE 3 ft long plywood barriers with slats in them. Why, yes, it does resemble the haunting vision of a train en route to Auschwitz. Between the scratching and that, I’m done. I can’t run fast enough. For the past two weeks, I’ve been house hunting. Last night, I found a great house for rent that I’m super crazy about. I’ll keep ya’s posted. I think I’m done with neighbors and need some space from people in a home setting. Rents have dropped like mad, yo! I hope to be outta here by mid-June, July 1st at the latest.

Up next, I’m down 45 pounds (still a sphere), and my thyroid has now been balanced for 3-months straight, yay. Love Endogirl, she’s tits to the tenth. I’m mentally and physically healthy, so there’s that. Things are going a-okay. I think I’m on the right track. If you click here and scroll down, you’ll get the gist of what’s doing.

Oh, before I forget, I will be adding all of the links on The Vey, to this blog. If I inadvertently leave anyone out, spill. I want every one of my peeps here with me. Kindly start linkdating with me here, please?

Helen Wheels of Just Ain’t Right fame, who also happens to be one hell of an amazing woman, I’m not kidding, helped me out of a canine sitch, which I am eternally grateful to her for. She also told me about movies at cemeteries that I’m now jonesing to attend.

I’m grossly inappropriately behind on my blog reading, I am so sorry. I will catch up.

The Three Dames With A Clue show was a smashing success. I’ll be posting about that tomorrow, I hope, with pictures and all. We’ll also be announcing June’s show. I also met Dusty from the Siren Chronicles, she’s tits.

Other things that have kept me busy, well, getting out of seclusion and back into my life…

I have missed you all terribly. Thanks for not breaking up with me. I’ve tweeted with a few of you, Frannygirl, Utah and Grainylish, and I’ve e-dished with Cormac, Jin, Zipgirl, Bubbsie.

A proper post about Lewch is forthcoming, along with an interview with my cousin, Dorian, the edgiest artist in San Francisco.

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