The Best Part About Death in America


For most of us, death isn’t something we like thinking about unless you’re one of those sexually-frustrated, slightly chunky, somewhat hygeine-deficient tween Twilight fans who spends your nights tattooing the name “Edward” on your left labia and “Jacob” on your right with a black Sharpie, so when you cross your legs Edward and Jacob will be kissing, then carving the words FUCK YOU, BELLA! EDWARD BELONGS TO ME over and over into your arm with your mom’s sewing scissors. Despite what Stephenie Meyer tells you, death is something that happens to everyone, no matter how many “vampires” you have sex with. I’m sorry to have to be the one to break this to you: Edward isn’t real. He’s not going to turn you into a vampire then poke you with his big, cold, glittery phallus. Even you, Twilight Fan, will someday die.

People in different cultures deal with their dead in a variety of ways: in India, they burn the bodies and set them afloat on the Ganges. The ancient Egyptians pickled the bodies and wrapped them in linen. The Aborigines in Australia put the bodies of their dead up in trees.

Here in America, it’s a much more sanitary process…at least until you’re buried. If you choose to go with the embalming-casket-viewing-wake-flowers-funeral-burial thing, you’re in for a real treat.  Like the ancient Egyptians, we marinate our dead in various caustic chemicals, drain them of their blood, pump them full of embalming fluid, poke formaldehyde-soaked cotton up their butts, glue their lips shut, dress them up, put make-up on them, and put them on display all toward the goal of making them look like they are sleeping. Well, anyone who has ever been to a viewing or an open-casket funeral can attest that the bodies of the deceased look anything but natural and I’m sorry, none of them look like they crawled in the casket to take a nap. They look…well, dead. Most of the time, the makeup is shellacked on so thick they end up looking like circus clowns or Courtney Love. But the horror doesn’t stop there. No ma’am. Once the formality of the funeral is over, everyone has hugged and cried and eaten Funeral Potatoes and the dearly departed is lowered into the ground, the REAL fun begins.

While the mortician’s chemical handiwork slows down the body’s natural decomposition process, it’s not foolproof and doesn’t last forever. Not long after the corpse is covered in six feet of dirt, or put in a drawer and sealed into the wall, a process called putrefaction begins. Truthfully, the first stage of putrefaction begins just moments after a person dies.  Luckily, thanks to coroners with turbo-charged engines in their vans, giant refrigerators and formaldehyde, we can temporarily and fairly quickly stick a fork in the process. To be clear, embalming slows putrefaction, sometimes significantly, but  after a relatively short time, strong odor, color changes and bloating begin. You’re probably thinking “Well, this doesn’t sound too bad! I have the same thing happen after a night of heavy drinking or when my Womanly Cycle destroys another pair of my white jeans!” First of all, no one should own white jeans after 1991. Second, putrefaction is much more heinous, sticky, runny, smelly and downright messy. Believe me, washing the bloody uteran lining out of a pair of white Jordache jeans will seem as easy as when you lost your virginity on a pool table at a frat party compared to what I’m about to tell you.

So let’s join Granny Mildred in her stylish baby-blue steel casket now that the old hag is finally buried and you can get back to playing Farmville on your iPhone. As the tissues of the body begin to break down, they become a veritable Chuck-a-Rama for bacteria and insects. Grab a clean plate and load up, guys!  As the bacteria begin to consume the flesh, gas starts to build up in the abdomen and other body cavities, causing it to inflate like a brand new pair of breast implants. In addition to the swelling, the skin develops dark green patches, particularly on the chest, shoulders and thighs. Blisters develop and fill with fluid. As the body expands, the gas forces liquid and feces out of the body through the mouth and the anus.

As things continue to swell, the skin becomes fragile and starts to slide off the body. This sexy process is known appropriately as “skin slippage”.  Try leaving a thawed raw turkey on the counter of your kitchen for a week in the height of summer. You may begin to get an idea of what we’re talking about. During this stage of decomposition, the bugs multiply by the thousands, crawling in and out of Granny’s various openings, laying millions of eggs.

Take a minute to go in the bathroom and puke. I’ll wait here and have a cupcake. Hurry back.

Done? Good. Wait- you have some chunks stuck in your hair. No, I won’t get them out for you, go wash them out like a normal human being. You’re disgusting. NO! DON’T EAT THEM!

Now, Putrefaction is our first stage. The next one is even more vile. The second stage of decomposition is called Black Putrefaction. Personally, I wholeheartedly think the name of this one ought to be changed, it sounds a little racist to me. I’ll write my congressman when I’m done here and make sure something is done about this, posthaste.

So, Black Putrefaction. During this stage of decomposition, the gases built up by the bacteria that are ravaging the soft tissue cause the body cavity to rupture or explode. Now, a little bit of a detraction here. Most funeral homes will try and sell you a casket that is air and/or water tight. You want to keep the bugs and water and all that icky stuff off grandma, right? Unfortunately, not only will you pay a lot more money for one of these bad boys (or girls, whichever) the big problem with caskets that keep these elements out…they also leave no room for the body gases to escape, either.  It’s not like letting a fart next to an air vent. Just as the body itself can rupture or explode to release the gas that’s been built up, the casket will likely follow suit. So that $10,000 you spent to make sure Granny Mildred stays nice and vacuum sealed and preserved for Eternity will typically also explode, spraying pieces of Granny all over the grave vault. Now, if she is six feet below ground, chances are, no one would ever know if or when her internal organs and viscera decide to catapult out of her body. However, if you decided to inter her above-ground in a crypt, or in the broom closet of your summer home, the consequences have the potential to be downright catastrophic and emotionally crippling for the surviving family. So the moral of this little detour into casket-shopping…for not only your sake, but the sake of the deceased, and other unsuspecting mourners who happen to be present at the time when Grandma Mildred’s decaying corpse goes kaboom!…don’t buy an airtight or watertight casket. If you do, just make sure you also purchase a good sturdy mop and a large bottle of Clorox Clean-Up.

So, after the body ruptures, it…well, deflates and begins to turn black, hence…Black Putrefaction. This stage in the process allows even more hungry insects to come to the feeding trough and maggot orgy that is Granny’s rotting carcass. At the end of this stage, the skeleton begins to poke through as the soft tissue is consumed by bugs and converted into rancid, reeking gas.

The final two stages aren’t as interesting, so I’ll just give a quick shoutout to ’em. After Black Putrefaction, we have Butyric Fermentation, which is just a fancy name for Mummification. This stage is where we encounter what’s called “grave wax”. This refers to the wax-like quality that the cadaver takes on after it bursts like that pesky zit in your butt crack that wouldn’t pop no matter how many hours you spent squeezing it while squatted over a hand mirror. Personally, instead of the term “grave wax”, I cast my vote to call it “casket-cheese”. Hand me those Wheat Thins and let’s start spreadin’.

The final stage is called Dry Decay. In a nutshell, this is when all the soft tissue is completely depleted and the bones begin to break down and turn to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Speaking of ashes, thank the Good Lord there are choices when it comes to ditching your Earthly Shell that don’t include nuclear bomb-style Exploding Caskets and Rotten Anal Leakage.  For instance, there’s cremation. Now, the best thing about cremation is there is a veritable smorgasbord of options available to the discerning Burnt Corpse.  Of course, there are the traditional time-honored customs: a pretty urn to keep on your mantle or the dashboard of your Toyota Corolla. This way, you can always have a a good supply of your Loved One that you can snort right along with your daily $300 bag of cocaine. Human ashes look fabulous on a coke mirror as well. Just make sure that hooker you hired doesn’t get greedy and snort it all herself while you’re in the bathroom trying to scrub the shame off your body. Whores tend to do be quite selfish that way.

Another popular method is having your ashes scattered at a special place; like the chemical toilet in your RV, in your child’s lunchbox, or in that casserole you were guilted into making for that bitch down the street who just had her appendix out. Another really practical method we learned from the movie “Meet the Parents”, human ‘cremains’ (another scrumptious word) can actually be used as kitty litter in a pinch. “Oh LOOK! Kitty just shat a loaf on Gramma! How CUTE!”

But then there are the less conventional ways to use human ashes. You can now take the ashes down to UPS, shipped off and have them turned into a synthetic diamond or diamonds that you can add to that gold grill you bought to wear to the Justin Beiber concert. Nice. You can send the ashes to a glass-blower and have them turned into a candy dish or bedpan or an ugly piece of art that the cat who squeezed out a loaf on Grandma would eventually knock off the shelf and break. BAD KITTY! You can have the ashes mixed in paint and and have an artist paint a likeness of Granny…as long as you don’t choose to have the artist paint a portrait of her wearing that black teddy and those fishnet support hose she loved to squeeze into when she was hopped up on quaaludes and tequila. Hell, you can even have dear old Gran’s pulverized cadaver dust shot into orbit. The risk you take with that is she has the ability to fuck up the reception of your satellite dish. And we all know watching Desperate Housewives is more important than that vile dead hag anyway.

So, right now is probably the moment you’re thinking, “What the hell is all this about? The title of this post doesn’t really match the subject matter! We’re on pins and needles here! What’s the best part about death in America?! It certainly can’t be the part about anal leakage! That’s the second or third best, but no way it can be first!!!”

Well, you asked at exactly the right moment. The best thing about death in America? Whether you choose to spend eternity in a box or have your body burned burned up like last year’s Christmas tree and put in an urn…you can conveniently purchase either of these fine receptacles at your neighborhood Costco. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the next time you decide to buy a new camera, a flat-screen TV and that box of 3,500 Jumbo Super-Absorbent Tampax In Assorted Colors and Flavors you’ve decided to give out as Halloween candy, because face it, those little tramps dressed up like angels and witches could begin bleeding at any moment and it’ll be a cold day in hell before you let those little sluts bleed all over your new bearskin rug while their greedy hands are groping for a Snickers bar, you can also pick up a satin-lined coffin for Aunt Gert and a matching urn for Gert’s transsexual lesbian love-slave named Dot.

So this brings us to the end of our journey. I hope you learned something new. Now head to the restroom, please. Those chunks in your hair are beginning to dry.

What’s Next? Poptarts Marrying Eggos?! Filthy Whore!


With the advent of Proposition 8 being overturned yesterday, I swore I wasn’t going to follow the pack and blog about it incessantly, but because I am a person of weak character, I caved pretty easily. But this rant isn’t really about Prop 8 specifically, so I’m still able to maintain a modicum of my dignity.

I was told recently that if I don’t want someone to get up on a soapbox about something,  I shouldn’t provide the materials to build one. A very wise statement indeed. However, this time, I brought some nice hardwood 2×4’s, a can of fabulous chartreuse paint, and my Bedazzler. This is going to be one damn cute soapbox.

Because I love to try and anticipate my readers’ inner thoughts, I’m sure you’re saying, “Jesus, Mike. Build your fucking soapbox and quit talking.” So I’ll get right to my ranting.

If you’ve ever listened to anyone who is opposed to gay marriage talk about the issue, I’m sure you have probably heard their, uh, “arguments” against the issue. So, here I will list my favorite ones, and explain why each of them is completely idiotic.

Exhibit A: “If “The Gays” (I love the blatant use of the word ‘the’ in front of ‘gays’. I especially love it when they capitalize it. Feeds into my Napoleon complex.) are allowed  to marry, what’s next? People marrying animals? Adults marrying children? Britney Spears re-marrying Kevin Federline? Where do we draw the line? I don’t have time to wait for you to respond! I’m late for Sacrament Meeting!”

This one is one of my favorites to respond to, because common sense is the only thing that’s needed to spray this argument with fecal matter. Gay couples getting married cannot in any way be compared to bestiality, paedophilia, or Britney Spears. Why? Because dogs, cats, goats, fish, cows, horses, children and Kevin Federline cannot sign legally binding contracts. And Britney Spears is normal again thanks to the fine folks at Merck Pharmaceuticals, so chances are she’d never want to get back with KF anyway.  With gay marriage, we’re talking about two consenting adults signing a legal contract. This is basic stuff, people. We aren’t asking to bend the law to allow us to marry our Yorkies. We aren’t demanding the right to go to elementary schools to get down on one knee and propose to a 6-year-old. We aren’t members of NAMBLA for chrissakes.

Exhibit B: “Well, if The Gays (yay!) are allowed to marry, the human population will become extinct! All the Churches will be replaced with Gold’s Gyms!”

I addressed this one in my last entry, but because of  its sheer stupidity,  the topic clearly bears further discussion. This is yet another argument that only requires a teensy-tinsy bit of common sense to relegate it to the You’re In Permanent Time-Out Because You’re A Retard pile. Allowing gay couples to marry in no way increases the number of gay people in a given population. Marriage or not, gay people are still going to be gay, straight people will continue to ogle and boink the opposite sex…unless they’re drunk, in which case, the gender of their chosen sexual partner may become a bit…erm…squidgy.  Heterosexuals and homosexuals alike will continue pushing both hetero and homo children into existence at the same rate as before.  Gay marriage will not infect heterosexual uteri with some glitter-slathered hormone that causes all their children to push out of the womb as butch lezzies or Nathan-Lane-In-The-Birdcage-esque fairy-boys. Just because we (The Gays) are given the 1,138 legal rights afforded to married heterosexual couples doesn’t mean there’s going to be a giant 5000-foot-high drag queen in enormous Jimmy Choo knockoffs marching into downtown Large City, USA gobbling up all the straight people and shitting out shiny new fagbots to take over and begin decorating and doing hair. Although it would be cool, we’re not going to replace the Statue of Liberty with a gargantuan metal edifice of Ellen DeGeneres (although, again, it would kick quite a lot of ass if someone made such a statue).

Exhibit C: “If The Gays can get married, the sanctity of traditional marriage will be destroyed!”

I have yet to discuss this argument with anyone who supports it who is able to back this up with any kind of logic other than “it just will.”  First off, I think the breeders (notice my lack of capital letters here) are doing a pretty damn good job of destroying their own marriages. They don’t need our help to accomplish that. Drive-Thru Marriages, Drive-Thru Divorces… how on earth is that sacrosanct? 50% of all marriages end in divorce. Yes, this even includes Mormon marriages. Just because you are a man married to a woman, or vice versa, your marriage is not immune to destruction. And believe me, the homos aren’t the ones destroying it.

Also, the whole “traditional” marriage semantics thing really gives me an epic wedgie. Since when has accepting every status quo been a good thing? America has always been such an innovative and forward-thinking country, ever since its inception in the 18th century. The only thing holding us back from being The He-Man Of The World is the fact that at heart, we are still a nation of Puritans, and because of this, no matter WHAT the Constitution says about a separation of church and state, religion still has the ultimate control.  Religion, for some baffling reason, gets to decide what is or isn’t moral when it comes to legislation.

Exhibit D: “The Bible says Homosexuality is an abomination. God says being gay is wrong.”

Well…The Bible says a lot of things, none of which are even remotely clear and most of which are grossly irrelevant in this day and age. There are so many archaic “laws” in this book that seem to be conveniently forgotten, EXCEPT that pesky one in Leviticus that people love to gurdge up to try and support being anti-gay. Well, Leviticus commands that we stone whores to death (throwing rocks at hookers is just mean).  Leviticus says you shouldn’t mix fibers in your clothing (better throw away that heinous poly-blend track suit hanging up in your closet or you’ll end up on your knees in hell giving Satan head). Leviticus says eating shellfish is an abomination (I ran into the bishop of my old ward shoving a lobster tail in his mouth at McGrath’s Fish House. Guess he’s going to be roasting in hell right along with all us fags). These so-called “commandments” are so quickly discarded by Bible-Thumping-Trailer-Trash who love to quote scripture all the time.  Oh! I also love the folks that quote Leviticus 18:22 (“You shall not lie with a man as with a woman. It is an abomination.”) and Leviticus 20:13 (“If a man lie with a man as he would with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination.They shall surely be put to death. Their blood shall be upon them.”) as many times a day as possible, but when they are challenged that that particular scripture is outdated and archaic, they throw out that there is now a Higher Law that Ivana Trumps Mosaic law.

So tell me, O Ye Righteous, where in the New Testament does it say anything about homosexuality? When did Jesus ever wander the streets of Jerusalem brandishing a “God Hates Fags!” posterboard?  Oh, you can’t right now? Oh, that’s right, I forgot. It’s fast-offering time. Okay, I can wait until you’re done. What? You have Missionary Splits later? Well slap (or stone) the ho and call her Ponteequa. If this Higher Law is now the one that everyone should follow, doesn’t that automatically negate Leviticus 18:22? “But Mike, you don’t understand! The people that wrote The Bible must have had short-term amnesia and just forgot to include Abomifags in the New Testament! Matthew, Mark, Luke and John were busy guys!” Right. You sure put ME in my place.

So there you have it. Just a small sampling of the common arguments I hear day in and day out explaining why gay marriage is wicked and will be the downfall of society as we know it. Well, you know, I think Society-As-We-Know-It is due for a downfall. Or a least a good haircut and a shave. If we always sat back and just accepted The Way Things Are, nothing would ever change, and we’d still all dress like pilgrims, and none of us would have iPhones. And I’m sorry, I refuse to dress like a pilgrim and be denied my iPhone. That would be an abomination.

Emotional Masochism (or, Why I Figuratively Cut Myself by Reading the Comments on ksl.com)


Self-flagellation. Cutting. Branding. Piercing. Tattooing. Scarification. Aqua Net Hairspray.

These activities, among others, are ways different people use to purposefully cause themselves pain and misery.  Some people do it for sexual gratification. Some do it to alleviate emotional pain. Some do it for spiritual transcendence.  And still others are addicted to the adrenaline rush. As for using AquaNet hairspray, that one I will probably never understand. There are things in this world that are beyond comprehension, and AquaNet is one of them.

I think at some point, every person in this world deliberately causes themselves pain in one way or another. I have done the cutting thing. It worked in a pinch when I was in the throes of an epic panic attack and a Satan’s Butthole depression episode, but chronically, I just don’t think I could do it. Scars don’t match any of my outfits. I have pierced so many parts of my body, I have lost count. Same with tattoos. But these two things are done in the name of beauty, so they don’t count. And don’t give me any backtalk bullshit about this also being an excuse for using AquaNet. AquaNet doesn’t fall anywhere in the category of beauty. It falls into the category of Caustic Chemicals That Will Kill You.

So, dearest darlingest reader, I hear you asking, “Mike, what do YOU do to hurt yourself? I hope it’s something gory.”

Well, my torture device of choice is reading the comment boards on ksl.com. For those of you who don’t live in Utah, KSL is a local, LDS-Church-run news station. There is, of course, the corresponding website that is much like a local version of CNN.com or MSNBC.com but reads much more like Fox News. For each story, people are able to post their opinions of whatever topic is being reported, which is also very commonplace.

So, in order to illustrate why these comments are typically so heinous, I need to give you a bit of background about the people that do most of the postings on these boards.

Recently, KSL reported a story about a young Mexican man, a husband and father, who was murdered close to downtown SLC. When this story broke, the general atmosphere of the people weighing in on the comment boards for this story was (and I’m paraphrasing here): “Well, he was Mexican. He was probably illegal anyway, he deserved to be killed. White POWER!” Yeah. Just makes you want to go out and hug someone, right? Wrong. It makes me want to go out and push old, sweet grannies wearing bunched-up support hose out in front of oncoming traffic.

While I shouldn’t be surprised at the unbelievable level of racism that exists in Utah– I am, after all, living in a state where anyone who isn’t at least somewhat Aryan-looking is gawked at and feared like they’re walking around covered in yak poo and a coat made out of human flesh. Even with this in mind, I am still to this day a bit incredulous that people still think this way.

So, now that you have a little idea of what these people are like, can you imagine what they have to say about gay people? I hope I don’t get in trouble for quoting one of the posts here, but what the hell. Sue me.

As you probably already know by now, Proposition 8, the amendment to the California State Constitution banning the marriage of same-sex couples, was overturned by the California Supreme Court today. KSL ran the story (burying it deep in the National News section of the site) and the comments have started coming in by the hundreds. The following is a response from someone to a man who believes that being gay is a biological, genetic thing, not something that is chosen:

“So, you claim it is not a behavior and you don’t choose it. Thus, you must (by default) be saying that it is genetic. You don’t really want to claim that, do you? Because, if it is genetic, then it is a genetic disease.

According to the theory of evolution, genetic characteristics are retained if they promote the survival of the species and are excised if they decrease the fitness for survival. Several hallmarks for genetic fitness is ability to reproduce and the internal desire to do so. Homosexual behavior contravenes both of those, decreasing the likelihood of survival. Thus, homosexual behavior either is not genetic or is a disease that will lead to extinction of the species whose DNA embraces it.”

So, um, by this logic, gays are going to cause the extinction of the human race. Seriously, go us! I love that people like this fucktard actually believe the gay community wields this much power. Well, we kind of do, but that’s for another post.  There was a study done roughly 30 years ago that estimated that 10% of the population is homosexual. Now, 30 years ago, being “out” wasn’t as prevalent as it is now, being that homosexuality is not nearly as taboo a subject these days. I’m sure the percentage is actually quite a bit higher, but let’s say for argument’s sake that 30% of the population is homosexual. Factor into that number all the millions of happy homosexual couples that are HAVING CHILDREN BIOLOGICALLY (Yes, even gay people have the necessary reproductive organs to facilitate this bodily function),and  you can probably safely remove about about a third of that 30%. So 20% of the population is going to cause the downfall of mankind. Right. Got it. Congratulations.  So in keeping with the spirit of evolutionary extinction of the human race because I like to fuck guys in the ass, all the heterosexual people out there that either choose not to have children, or are physically unable to reproduce are also contributing to the death of the biological reproductive imperative. Makes perfect sense to me. To my best friend Lydia, I say HOW DARE YOU GET CANCER AND HAVE TO HAVE YOUR OVARIES AND UTERUS REMOVED! YOU’RE CAUSING THE STARS TO RAIN DOWN FROM THE SKY! WE’RE ALL GOING TO PERISH!!!!!!!!!!

Another real special commentator on the article said this:

“We should be alert to other movements that are growing and harmful to traditional families. Part of why it has been so hard holding back gay marriage is because we have ignored it for decades and not addressed the ramifications to society early on. We just wanted to treat the systems rather than to identify the cause. Now it is too big to stop. The only chance we have of diverting others from this lifestyle is to help them to understand their divine nature, set good examples of gender roles and help others, without scrutiny, to embrace what God has set as a pattern. Gays need to have the bigger picture of the eternities and the role their gender when making a decision to participate in this lifestyle. When you oppress a people, they will rise up and rebel against you. Our only chance at influencing them to change is not by force or laws, but love and acceptance and then by introducing them to better choices.”

This sounds all warm and fuzzy, right? Yes. If people like this could just show us how life is REALLY supposed to be lived, we faggots would finally understand that a PENIS is meant to be thrust into a VAGINA and that this is our true DIVINE NATURE. Oh where has this person BEEN my whole life?! Gee, if I had just been “diverted from this lifestyle” I would know what true happiness is. Well thank you Tony Robbins, your giant teeth have shown me that I really don’t want or need to suck cock anymore.

See? I get my tampon string all knotted up about these posts. But why? The only logical explanation I can come up with is the impulse probably originates in the same section of my brain that forces me to watch reality television. It’s a well known fact that watching people whose lives are even a bigger garbage dump than your own makes you feel better about yourself. Look it up. I’m sure there is a fancy scientific study published out there someplace.

But here’s the in and out of it (in and out of a VAGINA, thank you). I read these comments because I am an emotional cutter. They make me so sad and so angry, but somehow, getting all the rage and incredulity out of my system makes me feel better.

When you were a kid, did you ever vent your anger by taking lightbulbs from storage and smashing them against the pavement? No? Never mind, then. Point is, I think getting pissed off at people I don’t even know helps redirect my anger away from myself.


Jesus Christ. Goddamn fucking epiphanies. Time to go have a drink before my meds wear off.

A Letter to the Most Hateful Woman Ever to Slough Her Uteran Lining



It’s been years since I have lived in the god-awful 4th ward and haven’t seen or spoken to you or your family in years, praise the Lord, but some information was recently brought to my attention concerning some things you said to my brother the day my mom died, and I can’t sleep until I confront you about it and finally tell you what I really think about you.

“So, your mom finally overdosed, huh?”  Imagine my surprise and abject horror when my brother K informed me this past Saturday night that these were the words that spewed out of your gossip-mongering, hateful mouth the morning my mother passed away. How DARE you? In the 12-odd years that my family lived just a few doors down from you, you were nothing but hateful, acidic, nosy, and downright evil toward us; spreading HORRIFIC gossip throughout the biddies in the bitch-den Relief Society, and airing out my family’s dirty laundry throughout the entire ward.  Apparently not much has changed in the 8 years since we’ve been gone.

The things that happened to my family leading up to my mother’s death were some of the darkest times of my entire life so far, and to have it all thrown back in my face by hearing the horrific bile that bubbled up from you made me want to throw up. AND NONE OF IT WAS ANY OF YOUR GODDAMN BUSINESS, LADY.  K was 17 years old and completely alone when he discovered my mom had passed away. He attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation for 20 minutes while on the phone with the paramedics, who wouldn’t tell him ANYTHING about what was happening. Then to have you come running down the street like a screeching vulture so you can get more fodder for your fucked-up gossip and assume that my beautiful mother had OVERDOSED? FUCK YOU, ROBYN. And to say that to a seventeen-year-old kid who just discovered his mother’s lifeless body? How low are you willing to stoop? THEN, you had the nerve to show up at her funeral? You sick fuck.

It has also been brought to my attention that you CONTINUE to ask and badger several people that are close to my family about how my mom “REALLY” died. Again, THAT INFORMATION IS NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS, ROBYN. YOURS OR ANYONE ELSES. PERIOD. For the record, she did NOT die of an overdose, or ANYTHING ELSE self-inflicted.

Your behavior during the invasion of our house by the Relief Society in the name of “service” was nothing short of appalling. You and all those other horrible women came swooping in like seagulls with syphilis to see what goodies you could lay your hands on and what gossip you could gather up to spread around.  Did you get what you wanted? Did you learn all the deep dark secrets about my family?

I’m not getting this information second-hand either. I WAS THERE while it was going on. I vividly recall my dad throwing you out of our house because of it.

Oh, but the bile kept coming. I have also learned that the question of my sexuality came up between you and a couple other ladies, and you said that they should keep their kids (my friends) away from me. Yes, I’m gay. Feel free to spread it around; I don’t give a flying fuck at this point, lady. My life is my business, and I’m happy and comfortable in my own skin, and there’s nothing you can say or do to take that away from me. Air it out all over the ward you evil piece of trash, I know you’re going to anyway. Now you have my blessing to do just that.

In a nutshell, you are a deplorable cunt. I can’t say it any more plainly than that. You claim to be a good, faithful, God-fearing Mor(m)on, but you know absolutely nothing about Christlike behavior. Quite the opposite, in fact. I can only imagine you 4thward bitches sitting around in Relief Society and dreaming up ways to make other peoples’ lives miserable. When were ANY of you (other than Mxxxxx Cxxxx, who is a SAINT) there for my mom? ALMOST EVERY SINGLE CUNTY WOMAN IN THAT ENTIRE WARD abandoned her when she needed support the most. All you bitches could do is judge, judge, judge, gossip, gossip, gossip and then shed fake tears at her funeral to make yourselves look and feel like good Christian women.  So you and 95% of the 4th ward can all go fuck yourselves. You made our lives there a living hell for over 12 years.

Leave my family alone. Don’t ask about us, don’t contact us, don’t think about us, don’t do anything. Find some other poor family to aim your hateful words and thoughts at. We have had enough. Find something more constructive to do with your time instead of trying to wriggle more gossip out about my family.

Yours with utter and complete disgust

The Antichrist: A Treatise


Nostradamus has nothing on me.

Don’t get me wrong, Nostradamus was a pretty cool guy. Sure, he was unfashionably cryptic, and had that beard that small children could get lost in, but still…he was a pretty alright guy from my estimations.

In the past few days, I have come face-to-face with the true meaning of the Beginning of the Apocalypse. Yes, people. The time of reckoning is at hand. The Seals are being blown open (haha, I said “blow”), the Four Horsemen are putting the finishing touches on their makeup. The world is turning upside down and now that things have been put in motion, there is no going back. We’re fucked.

I woke up yesterday morning and began my Getting Ready For The Day ritual as normal. Got up, had a smoke and sat on the toilet to read the news on my iPhone. As a gay man, it is in my very nature to be drawn to celebrity gossip. Maybe the scientists that are researching the so-called “gay gene” will be able to identify the DNA strand or hormone that causes gay men to lie awake at night pondering  The Real Housewives of Atlanta, or whether Jennifer Lopez will be the next American Idol judge. Consequently, the first app I generally open up while I’m on ths shitter is E! Online. On this seemingly innocuous Monday morning, there was no way I could have prepared myself for what I would see. Thank God I was on the toilet at the time, or I would have had a rather horrific mess on my hands…and in my boxer briefs.

But I digress. Whilst (I love this word) sifting through the 1200-some-odd stories about La Lohan and her ridiculously short time in jail, during which time I really have to hope that she was repeatedly violated with a toilet brush handle by her cellmate named Mildred, I came face-to-face with yet another news story about the One Who Will Bring Down Humanity And Cause Small Children To Wet Their Pants And Scrub Their Eyeballs With Clorox:

Justin Beiber.

Now, Justin and I have always had a hate/hate relationship. I hate him, and I hate him. Many nights I have lain awake in bed attempting to telepath all manner of plague-like diseases toward him. You know, the usual: oral gonorrhea, anal herpes, necrotizing fasciitis…those kinds of things. Don’t tell me you’ve never wished the same thing. You’d be lying if you told me you never secretly wanted to witness Justin’s flesh rotting off his 12-year-old-girl body revealing the putrid soul that lies underneath. And liars go to hell.

Anysnork. After gagging through what I read on my beloved E! app, I can’t fuck around with telepathic plagues anymore.  The time has come for full-on apocalyptic warfare. I’m cinching up my corset and donning my metal brassiere. This time, the little fucker crossed a line.

Justin Beiber (I refuse to pronounce his last name correctly as “BEEber”, to me he will always be BYber) has penned a memoir. A MEMOIR. My bowels are turning to liquid even as I type out that sentence. Let’s analyze this for just a minute.

The twerp is sixteen years old. Sure, he has become a tween wet-dream almost overnight, but what about that would warrant an entire book? How many pages could possibly be filled by tales of a talentless, hilariously androgynous teenager who sports what could very well be dubbed the single worst celebrity haircut in Hollywood history, and that includes Bravo’s “Top Design” judge Kelly Worstler? If you don’t know who she is, stop reading this immediately and Google her. I’ll wait while you do that.

Sufficiently horrified? Me, too. So, back to the Beiber. I have so many nagging questions. First,  why does this syphilitic vaginal wart have a career? What is it about him that makes young girls and sexually confused boys squeal like mongeese (is this the plural for mongoose? Hmmm.) in heat whenever his name is mentioned? What made him wake up one morning and decide he was relevant and important enough to chronicle his life in a book?

But, dear reader, this is only the beginning of the horror. “What??” I can hear you screaming, “How in the name of Candied Yams could the world be such a bleak and desolate place to allow such a thing?? I am this close to cowering in a corner and eating my own feces!!!!!!!” Reader, prepare thyself. Wield your rosaries and clutch your Bibles (BIBLES not BEIBERS).

The blissfully ignorant executives at Paramount Pictures have greenlighted…wait for it…A MOVIE ADAPTATION OF THE NECRONOMICON THAT IS JUSTIN BEIBER’S MEMOIR. And not just any movie adaptation. A 3D MOVIE ADAPTATION. Do I have your attention? Do you grasp the seriousness of this situation? Not only will the Hallowed Shelves of Barnes and Noble be desecrated with the gooey, pus-filled atrocity that is JB’s memoir, now, unsuspecting moviegoers will shell out $10.50 a ticket at the local Hoptoogieplex to commune with the Infernal Imp in three dimensions. People, this is like an addition to the “Saw” franchise but with far deadlier implications.

I cannot be clearer: Justin Beiber doesn’t deserve TWO D’s, let alone THREE. The only D he should be allowed to experience is the final D: Death. As in decaying corpse, exploding abdomen, anal leaking, Final Destination-style, Ceasing-To-Exist Putrefaction.

Yea, the Day of Judgment is drawing nigh. The time for action is now. We cannot, nay, we MUST not tarry long.  The Armies of Righteousness must gird their loins and gather at the Place of….Something…and bring the Dark One to justice. Blood must be spilt. Bowels must be Emptied. For when the Two Testicles drop…it will be too late.


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