April 21 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Clowns

Clown fuckeryClowns can suck my ass. Those creepy white faces, reminiscent of dead fish bellies, with the paint extravaganza tied to balloons for happy-happy fun time that’s more like scary-terror cry time, haunt my dreams and fog my delusions into perfect little chaos squares and triangles and circles. Geometry can eat a big bag of fried tulip dicks, those line-thin pistils that wish they had pistols so they could shoot the fucking clown in his creepy brown eye. Bang, bang, you’re Fred the Cunnilingus Clown. Except no one wants that anywhere near their linguals—bi, tri, or otherwise.

Flash in the pan, I always say. Like scattered leaves on a Friday, late for the gym and racing through the parking lot to the circus from eloquence and pride to emotional fatigue and scary eyebrows. High those finicky whiskers soar, taking out the trash on every day except trash day. I’ll bet it chaps the garbage collectors’ asses when people do that shit. Should’ve gone down the plank at the end of the driveway, straight into the maw of that harlequin from hell, its tongue lolling, pierced with a tanzanite stud muffin, eyes hooded like Emperor Palpatine after an exhausting game of Yahtzee. He never could win that one because the Force wasn’t exactly on his side when the dice rolled and trolled across the velvet plain. Poor Palpatine.

He was like a ghost clown, wasn’t he? Shrouded in white, balmy skin, wrinkles on his pinkies while he drank tea with the Queen of New Caledonia among the flowers and wandering cats, their buttholes exposed beneath puffs of fur and giblets. Those cats are the only ones who don’t fear a goddamned clown. Cats look at him, chew their cud, and say, “Nonchalant, is it not, Theodore?”

And Theodore replies, “Whenever I encounter the swooping eyebrows, intent on selling cream for the face that comes from a looooooooong tube made of flesh and boners, I attack with my mighty claws, ripping that foreskin and fur off at the root, bedraggling the man behind the myth of trailers and three rings and elephant dung. That shit smells tidy as a seashell wriggling through a urethra, man!”

Theodore is a very wise cat. He also knows his clown DNA. GACCTGGATCC for the win. Except really, who knows what all that DNA talk is about anyway? Not Theodore. He speaks in their language, but he knows not what he says. Some consider him a genius with the genus, but the species takes a little more effort. Digging up bones is a hard job, but Theodore doesn’t mind. As long as the bones belong to that white-faced clown motherfucker sitting at the end of the table, fork and knife in hands, waiting to dig into the heartiest meal of soul he ever did climb.

Theodore eats clown souls for midnight snacks on occasion, and when they give him indigestion, he belches and farts in tandem, and the world breathes a great sigh of relief. For Theodore’s castaways can heal even the scariest of nightmares.

Long live Theodore, the Clown Atomizer!

April 18 2017

Ready, Set, SALE!

Strings_200X300STRINGS is part of a HUGE multi-indie author sale and giveaway happening this week. If you haven’t had the privilege of meeting Letty Dillinger and her pals, now’s the time to do it! The book is only 99 pennies until April 21. Be sure to tell your friends, and stop by our Facebook event for fun takeovers!

One more thing … I’ve been working on updating my newsletter to meet my readers’ needs. If you sign up today, you can get a FREE ebook copy of BANG, book 5 in the Hard Rock Harlots series. This full-length novel is not available on any retailers. The only way to get it is through Wattpad or my mailing list.

Hope you enjoy your sale and freebie. Have a rock-tacular week!



Buy STRINGS for only $.99 on these retailers:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Amazon CA

Amazon AU

Barnes & Noble



Google Play

Category: BANG, Sale | LEAVE A COMMENT
April 14 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Astroglide

Astroglide fuckeryAstroglide is my best friend because she keeps me wet and sane and happy with her electrons flying hither and thither, bouncing into particle beams of sunlight and darkness in the wells of coochies and butts.

“Give ‘em hell, Glo-Glide!” I say.

She nods her oil-slicked head.

“Much obliged!”

Gotta keep the juices flowing, inside and out. Bring it on home in time for Sunday dinner. Can’t be waiting around for the priest to finish his rock-hard sermon about drugs and alcohol, hookers and blow. Get ‘er done and do it fast, I always say.

If it weren’t for Astroglide, where would those horny sphincters sphinct? Into the black holes of their souls, lost to the darkness and hurrying to find the light down the alimentary canal of joy. Almond Joy. Nutty goodness and tweaking ball sacs captured in radiant hues of gold with flakes of white like dandruff dropping down to the shoulder blades of hell, deep across the waters of the River Styx, ferried by the Psychopompous of gourds and reindeer and finger foods. Rejoice! Hallelujah! Our asshole king has come. Off he shoots, like a rocket seeking water on a forbidden planet littered with monkeys who eat only the rinds of dead lemons, sniffing their lemony asses for freshness they will never find.

When that winding path leads them to salvation on the dunes of Planet 10 where the Black and Red Lectroids roam, how will that swanky Astroglide fair? She’s got the swing down, bippity-boppity-boo with her jiggly hips and fair lips. Pussy lips, probably, but maybe a butt shank has a pair too. Never been close enough to notice, but my money’s on SCROTUS’s pucker to be sure. Unfair of ass, smelly of scent, incorrigible of bodily fluids wreaking destruction on various members of Parliament in their Tory and Whig headgear, flatulating, masturbating, complicating the science of the known universe and quelling fears of rogue seminars blaring tiny dollhouse wares. I don’t need another goddamn plate in that wee little kitchen. Give me an egg or at least a mighty waffle to dunk in this rebellious Grade B amber syrup, stolen from the veins of an ancient botanical orgasm.

Why would you ever feel the need to steal such thunder from a noble being of breast and highfalutin neck braces with Swarovski crystal collars? Because we’re greedy as fuck and can’t get our shit straight no matter how hard we try. The waters of Astroglide’s glorious bounty can’t even help this civilization find the path back home. We are truly lost, out of rocket fuel, a sun about to go supernova with no more solar power to spare once the dirty deed is complete. But Asssssstroglide pussies up for us when we need it most. You can bow to its awesome power or drink it for an after-midnight snack, but it ain’t gonna do nothin’ except give your trolleyway a sweet, slick home with a tacky aftertaste.

Lick the Astroglide well, for your very life may depend on it. Imbibe in the fruits of no-man’s land where only the welling tears of ass can fertilize your lost soul.

Praise Psychopompous and the gluttonous revenge of Charon!

April 11 2017

13 Reasons Why I Loved 13 Reasons Why

Some love the new Netflix sensation, 13 Reasons Why, based on the book of the same name by Jay Asher. Others feel it “legitimizes” teen suicide or focuses too much on the negative aspects of high school. As a parent of teens, I think it’s a story that needs to be shared. Below I’ll provide my 13 reasons why I loved the show and what it made me think about. (Mild spoilers ahead.)

DISCLAIMER: If you’re a parent of a teen who’s thinking about giving it a go, please consider viewing 13 Reasons Why on your own before letting your kid watch, or at the very least, watch it with them so you can talk about it.

Reason 1: Hannah. Her pain was mine. Her feeling of being lost, hopeless, subject to the whims of the sea of bitchiness and testosterone was mine. And it was yours. And my kids’. And everyone on the planet’s at some point or another. In a way, Hannah is all of us.

Reason 2: Clay. He was such a genuine, caring, beautiful character. He was kind and sweet, and even he found ways to blame himself for Hannah’s death. The difference was that though he didn’t see the signs along the way, he chose to do the right thing later. He might’ve been too late for this friend, but his experience has been forever changed because of the tragedy, and I would argue that he’ll be a better man for having faced it later.

Reason 3: Tony. Unhelpful Yoda. Jesus, I love this kid so much. He’s wise. He doesn’t push (though, he does gently nudge when nudging is required). He feels guilt, but he also sees the big picture and knows what he has to do to make things better for those Hannah left behind–Clay in particular.

Reason 4: Hannah’s parents. Their pain was my pain. They loved Hannah so much. They only wanted what was best for her. When they found her, I totally lost my shit. All I could think about was, “What if that was my child?” I love my kids like Hannah’s parents loved her. I could’ve been Hannah’s mom. The thought of that both devastated and lit a fire under me.

Reason 5: Drama. This show is proof that high school drama is a constant. The kinds of drama that unfolded on the show might not be exactly the same as what you or your kid experienced, but it probably follows similar veins. Self-centeredness. Dominance. Cliques. It’s all there, no matter where or when you live through it. As parents, we need to have meaningful discussions about those themes with our children.

Reason 6: Reality. People hurt. People can be mean. People can be thoughtless. That is a reality. Sometimes we take our hurt out on others, sometimes on ourselves, and sometimes, we just hold it in until it gets too big and there’s nowhere else for it to go but out into the universe in a massive, combustible form.

And sometimes the reality is realizing we made a mistake. Taking ownership of it. Making amends. A valuable takeaway from this show is remembering how to say, “I screwed up. I’m sorry.”

Reason 7: Fear. It’s easier to look away from something disturbing than it is to face it head-on. Humans are cowards. We’re afraid to deal in reality because the artificial is so much easier. If we don’t think about it or even look at it, it’ll go away. But it hasn’t always been like this, has it? We need to be better at standing up to bad shit when we see it happen or when we get the sense bad shit is on the horizon, but it hasn’t landed yet. Preventive measures aren’t always a cake walk, but they can be life-saving.

Reason 8: Selfishness. Like Hannah mentioned in an early episode, we’re so concerned with social media, with how we “look” to others, that many of us have forgotten how to be empathetic. We’re a nation of iGeneration (yes, even us older folks), self-centered citizens who can’t see beyond our own noses. We’ve lost our ability to connect with other humans on a humanistic level. If we paid attention to actual people rather than usernames and all the glitz and glamor that comes with them, our country–our world–would be so much kinder.

Reason 9: Truth. This show illustrates how relative the truth can be. Every character felt justified in their actions. Every character had her or his own truth to contend with, no matter how convoluted. Even Bryce’s truth was his own. Toward the end of the series, Tony said he knew Hannah’s truth, but he didn’t know Clay’s yet. That’s because Clay’s truth was still evolving. Truth has a sneaky way of doing that.

Reason 10: Second chances. There’s almost always an opportunity for a second chance. It may not be the one we hoped for, but it’s there in some form if you know where to look. Clay found his second chance. So did a lot of the other kids. But some of them didn’t, and maybe they never will. This show makes me want to look for second chances.

Reason 11: Life is messy. There is no universal way to deal with Bad Shit (TM) because life can go from being crystal clear in one moment, to so blurry, you can’t even make out shapes. Even black and white are a matter of perspective, aren’t they? Sometimes you have to shovel a lot of shit to get to the shit diamond underneath.

Reason 12: The need for genuine dialogue. Regardless of whether you liked 13 Reasons Why or not, I think it opens up an important dialogue. My son told me about the show. He’s fifteen. If ever there were a time to listen to a fifteen-year-old, it’s now. He hasn’t finished watching yet, but if he chooses to, I plan to discuss it with him. And even if he doesn’t, I’ll be having a talk with him about the issues presented. Who knows? This might be one of those second chances I mentioned above.

Reason 13. Depression is real. Hannah didn’t strike me as the “typical” depressed kid. She was a lot like I was in high school. She was the subject of rumors. She was called names, teased, labeled as something she wasn’t.

And she killed herself.

Depression is a malevolent beast, an expert at camouflage. I know because I live with it. And I hide it when it behooves me to do so. I’m not suicidal right now, but thoughts of ending my life have entered my mind many times. Would you have known that about me if I hadn’t typed it here for the world to see? Would you have guessed that just a few months ago, I contemplated ways to make myself disappear for good?

I’m a forty-seven-year-old woman who is depressed. I get help sometimes, but not always. Is this blog post my cry for help, or is it a plea for attention? How would you know if it were either?

Depression is real. It’s not something people make up. It’s not something you can see with your eyes. Yet, it thrives like cancer inside otherwise “healthy” bodies where you’d never expect it.

If you’re depressed, please tell someone. Talk to your partner, your friend, your family, a doctor–just tell someone. Depression can be treatable, but, as with Hannah, if no one knows you’re having problems (or how serious the problems are), it’s hard for others to help.

BONUS reason 14: Hope. Like depression, hope also exists, even though you can’t see it. Hope hides out in the open sometimes. In the face of debilitating darkness, it can be hard to take at face value. Can this be real?

Yes. It can be real. It is real.

When you find hope, grab it and don’t let go.

13 Reasons Why forced me to pay attention. It saddened and angered me. It woke me up.

One piece of advice I’d offer after having seen this show is to reconnect with those you haven’t heard from in a while, and even those you have. Tell someone if you’re hurting. Watch 13 Reasons Why to learn why we need to be talking about 13 Reasons Why.

April 7 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Bigfoot

Bigfoot fuckeryBigfoot. She’s a dirty old girl, slumming through the forest city, chomping on bits of foliage and twigs with the best of the creatures. She swings her bigfoot titties and sways her long, swanky bigfoot arms, trolling for a hairy beast of a man to quench her healthy, if somewhat sickening desires of the flesh. Trollin’ and swollen, she is.

Once Bigfoot sets her sights on something, she won’t relent until she attains its glory. If it’s a trophy in the form of a man’s head, she’ll hang it on her tree wall. If it’s a bunghole cut from the anus of a stripy zebra, she might eat it for dinner or savor its delicacy for a special time later. If it’s the remnants of a shit toboggan gone off the Colorado rails, she’ll rub her face in it to mask her scent from other bigfoots who might try to prey on her feminine wiles. She’s full of candor, and she’s not afraid to use it, especially with those big testosteroney males looking for a poo-well to dip their wicks into. Fire! Fire! My candle’s on fire with flaming shit and bird nests and seagrass and worms! Blow it out, big Bigfoot with your staunchly republican values and your emaciated testicles, hungry for the man-fuels of your forebears.

If the violence doesn’t get them, the tsunami will. It washes the shores of Bigfoot country, snuffing out their scent, rendering copulation virtually impossible because those sperm need a place to swim. Upstream like a salmon on its way to die. Death is the great beginning for those Bigfoots of the forest. Like her, they wear their tits on their sleeves, shaking them at foreigners with their strange currency and ideas.

“Don’t bring those horribly tasteless pants into this country, mister! You’ll never live those things down with your balls dipping out the cuffs of the too-tight shorts.”

The least they could do under the circumstances is share their languages with the Bigfoot people, who are inherently brilliant with languages. Those linguists can curse with the best of world leaders and the worst of priests and cardinals and blue jays, mocking the “normals” for their loose ideas on women and guns and profiteering. Get back in your cave and sort things out. One day, your ship will come, and Bigfoot Queenie will captain that bitch. She will pitch the wide sails high and ride the seas until they mount the dike, all the while wearing their favorite death clogs, painted blue and white for posterity.

And when the curtain falls on the darkest night, Bigfoot will rally against the light and drag some bitches into hell, screaming like meddling kids on their way to solve a mystery. Those bitches will melt with ice and snow, fire beaming from their eyes, and they will lament their coarse lives as men who wished they could be as good as Bigfoot. She who has the biggest feet blows the biggest farts.

Amen, sister Bigfoot. Amen.