Heyo

I just realized that 90% of my outgoing messages have the subject title "Hey," "Yo," or my favorite, "Heyo."

That's really all I have to share today. The RoBeastress and I are on vacation in Seattle this week. Hopefully on Monday (our designated Day of Decompression), I'll be able to post the Halloween pictures as well as some inspired ruminations on rain, grunge, and volcanoes.

Maybe if I'm feeling antagonistic, I'll bring up some post-election thoughts about Ralph Nader and Fox Pussy News.

Strange Days Indeed

The Ultimate Warrior was my favorite WWF wrestler back in the day. I just loved the fact that he ran everywhere grunting and flailing. Anything that he encountered, he lifted up over his head and threw or shook violently. Sure, he had no technical wrestling skills whatsoever... but I was totally into his animalistic abandon. And face paint, of course. He was the Robeast I always wanted to be.

And then he disappeared back to Parts Unknown for a decade or so, occasionally showing up in a federation, only to mysteriously leave again due to contract disputes, allegedly (not exactly part of the Warrior mystique). He traded the arm bands for a suit and tie (and a dictionary). He now preaches politics and morals more intensely than Hulk Hogan and his simple demandments. His blogs are dense and infuriating. He is a thickly-sliced beacon of Conservatism, drumming up a unique share of controversy. You either hate his guts because of what he's saying or defend him to the end. Many more just roll their eyes and dismiss his nutty rants.

I listen, but hear nothing he has to say. I look at him and still only see the face paint and the yelling and the lightning bolts and the squash matches. Sorry, Warrior, but I can't help it. I know he's dedicating his life to being more than two-dimensional, but my weak mind still refuses to process that. He's taken lots of slanderous hits over the years from former colleagues, bosses, and fans. How many people can say they've had a 2-hour DVD dedicated to having their name dragged in the mud? Sure, he's got a big fucking mouth, and sometimes he needs the world to announce that they see his foot in it, but I think he's far from a laughingstock. Like I said though, I don't care what he's saying. I don't want to hear anything he says unless it's "I'm returning to the ring." And now it's finally happening.

He's going to have a match in Barcelona in just over a month for the NWE Federation. And the Warrior web-presence is at an all-time high. He's posting videos. He's answering your questions. He's writing a book. He's making a documentary. He's blogging. He's fucking Twittering. And of course, he's training. I don't know what to expect, but I know during this month-long vamp, he's continuing to test my loyalty with these bizarre Q&A sessions...





I'll tell you what... I'm still on board. He has such an uncomfortable sense of humor that I can't help but watch. Is it the train wreck phenomenon? I don't know. I'm not one to be attracted to downward spirals. The Lohans and The Spearseses of the world... I actually feel bad for them, and not in a patronizing way. I guess I just root for the underdogs and wounded birds. I'll be watching that match, and even if it sucks, I'm still going to say it was awesome.

By the way, "Strange Days Indeed" = "Eight Days a Week."

Just Around the Corner from the Light of Day

I know I should be ready to rip my heart out and beat my breast and wail, but shockingly, I'm doing just fine, a-ok. Better than ok, I'm doing grrrrreat. Valentine's Day? Was a lovely day, and I was unaffected. In fact, I somehow felt oddly strengthened, fortified, purified even. Like I've been tested with the box filled with pain and the poison of Eros' gom jabbar, and I am still human. I didn't even want to drink myself into a stupor or anything. Nope. I was horny, very horny, on V Day, but as there is currently no other lifeform on the planet that I trust enough to fuck with this heart of glass dangling so very enticingly by a safety pin from my everso emo hoodie sleeve, I only want to peg my doppelganger, and then lovingly strangle it before it turns and strangles me. Self love truly is the bestest love of all.

I wrote the above on Valentine's Day when it was all true, but today? Today I learned that when you type the symbol for a broken heart which is on a Sidekick during a Yahoo chat that the person on the other end receives a blank line. This makes me want to cry some more. Buckets. How cyberpoetically sad. It can't rain all the time though. Can it? Can it? Don't answer that! Only Brandon Lee is qualified to answer that, and somehow I think his answer is going to be, "All signs point emphatically to YES."

The sad state of my panties these days is dry, dusty even. After 197 days of self-enforced celibacy, the mere thought of sexual congress with an actual human seems rude and awkward and totally off-putting (unless you live 5 states away and are a REAL man not some pixilated jerk-off masquerading as my soulmate). Actual physical intimacy with someone who lives in my timezone? Scary. Weird. Messy. So, if sex is off the table right now, you may be asking yourself what does set teh_Beauty's loins afire? Or you may not, but for the sake of argument, let's say you are interested. Well then, let me show you what I consider hotter than the hottest PORN.

Yeah, that's right. It's the Thundercats Lair, not even MIB (mint in box). This? This is a panty-soaker. This is the Holy Grail of action figure collecting. The only thing sexier than the Thundercats Lair is this. I can't even post pictures of it. It's too hot to trot. My screen might melt. The only thing I already own on that page is the Sandworm in the box on the card (not mint), and it's the CROWN of my collection. Truly, I am ill if this is what it takes for me to form a blazing sword. But you knew that, right? You didn't come here looking for some well-adjusted womanchild who takes it vanilla, no spice, with a side of shiny and happy? No? I didn't think so. All we have here is spoiled princesses with broken hearts who cry over accidental html markups.

PS. It is shocking how many people wished me Happy VD on Valentine's Day. Folks, I thank you for the effort and the kindly intent but wishing me a Happy Venereal Disease on the day of LOVE is a little...disconcerting, not to mention oogy. Off to form Voltron. Merry Chlamydia to you all and to all a good night.