The non-sequitur post…from hell?

Dish from my e-stalkers…

This, from Rylee: “My dad said mabey to the sleepover but u never no a mabey is a baby to grow up to be a yes!!!”

Aside from the misspellings, among other things, I’m obsessed with the comment – maybe is a baby to grow up to be a yes. Does this scream pregnancy pact, Lifetime Television for women to anyone else or is it just me?

Another email from Rylee: Say hi to Josie and her dog noobie!

The dog has to be adopted; it simply can’t be a puppy. Otherwise, naming shim Noobie, lacks irony, and is misspelled. Although misspellings are common with Rylee, I take umbrage with Noobie, for some reason.

Rylee’s final email from last week: Hey Katie I miss you sooooooo much even thow I get to see you 5 times a week for practicly 1 whole year!  I  think that is more times than I get to see Josie and that’s allot because after for the grade we still have a nother whole year to gow because we still have fith grade! And your not moving because you just did! Love, lol baybay – wait I don’t think that makes since

For once, Rylee is correct!

Reasoning with her at this point in our e-stalking relationship is moot. Though, I appreciate her commitment to weekly e-stalkage. Fortunately, she doesn’t have my mailing address.

Ryleee feels so very magazine-cut-outs-of-letters-sent-on-pink-paper-sprayed-with-Anais-Anais perfume. Right?! Having my olfactory’s desecrated at this stage in our relationship is a boundary I’m not ready to travel with her.

New Day Nazarene Church invited me to an Easter service with a FREE (all caps) continental breakfast. Shouldn’t the fear of God be enough?

Someone kindly ordered a Tommy Bahama – Swimsuit, Palm Print Halter On, with my email address. I question the on. Isn’t that redundant?

A few weeks ago…

Once every 6 months, my sister and I have dinner with Butter. We made a pact never to go without each other. Butter is an obstinate handful. We coined her Butter because she does butter shooters out of ramekins, in public. Call me crazy, but shouldn’t some food addictions remain in the closet?

Imagine, if you will, a 35-year-old, opinionated, uneducated, racist, homophobic, republican sundial. Her legs, stumps really, buckling from encumbering poundage. Wearing a fluorescent green mini dress, drag-queen hosiery scrunching around her knees and beige walking shoes, very Florida-shuffle-board-at-the-clubhouse. She is the authority on everything. For reals!

Dinner was, as you can imagine, hell. I wanted to spit twice and die. Butter’s boyfriend, coined FREAKO, is a girl’s dream come true. He’s a gaming addict, still married, doesn’t work and lives with his mother. He’s never met a fingernail clipper, much less a cleaner. In fact, his French Tips are the contents of eons old jet black dirt. Hot, right?! He’s a miserable son of a bitch. She is his massive ass in shining armor. In reciprocity, he gifted her with multiple STD’s. What a guy.

Present day…

Follow me on Twitter to find out, yo!

Whether I’m in a conversation or happen to be eavesdropping, a favorite past time. If done correctly, it’s exceptional cardio. I’ve leaned so far that I’ve fallen out of chairs—stretching my legs, neck and arms enough to pull muscles.

I have noticed that everyone has a guy for a thing, whatever that thing is, have you?

1. I need someone to install my hardwood floors. I’ve got a guy for that.
2. I’m looking for someone to fix my hairdryer. My guy is great, cheap and quick.
3. My sunroof isn’t closing properly. Hire my guy, he’s the best.
4. I need my vibrator repaired. If you don’t want to buy a new one, my guy can do it. If you let him watch, he won’t charge you.
5. Oh shit, I ran out of cash and need menstrual pads. My guy will walk around with snatchpads (towels) between your legs for 7-days; he’s super easy going and has a menses fetish.
6. I don’t feel like going super big potty right now. Pulling down my pants, undies; it all seems too daunting. Plus, the seat is cold and I don’t feel like having chilled ass at the minee. My guy has this shit laser transformer thing, it’s so cool! He basically points it at your intestines and teleports the shit from you to himself. The best part is that you feel NOTHING. Isn’t that great?! Love him—total shit-meister.
7. I need to have my gall bladder removed, but I so can’t be bothered. My insurance sucks ass. They’ll cover maybe 20%, if I get my MD to sign a 20-page document and my upper GI guy to sign a 10-page document and fax it all to Agent 5608983719042 on February 12^th @ 3:07 PM. OMG, my guy LOVES Jello. Wait for it—do you need a guy to be your MD/GI guy? I have one.

Who is your guy and what can he do for me?

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.

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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.