Senseful ramblings of an incoherent nature from a delusional schizophrenic (or my views on current events)

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

WARNING: this story contains dirty language, Vegas, mean students, beastiality, poverty, a gang bang, marriage, bodily mutilation, death, and a zit

Right now I have a question. One that doesnt eventually lead to the salvation of the world, or one that will positively or negatively affect anyone's life but my own. However it is a question nevertheless, with the utmost importance to both me and my sanity. Here goes:

If I get a zit on my ass, ok, ok, more like in my ass, but not actually physically in my ass, more like in my ass crack, where the skin from one cheek touches the skin from the other, if I get a zit there, does it mean that I dont wipe my ass good enough?

And the next day, after thoroughly cleaning my ass after every use the preceding day, if I then still have this now painful zit on my ass and now a blooming zit on my face, does this mean that after first realizing I had a zit in my ass crack that I didnt wash my hands properly and then touched my face, moving the dirty zitty area from one mostly concealable part of my body to my most prominent part of my body?

Thank the good lords I didnt touch my nose which is already bent in such a fashion that I have been nicknamed Broom Hilda by my students. The always brown, sometimes hairy mole that I already have planted on the side of my nose already provides enough extra curvature. On a side note I am much thankful that I am no longer called the wicked witch of the Weist, I quickly took my husbands name after marriage.

He later died, but that's ok because he beat me, but I kept his name, mostly to annoy his rich, catholic family who hated that I was a teacher from a poor Russian neighborhood. I married him in Vegas. I was 35 and on sabbatical, he was 20 and had to bring the ugliest woman he could find to his fraternity's spring formal. We got married on the way to the formal Circus Circus. I have the documents to prove it. His family doesnt believe in divorce, even in extreme situations.

We met on the strip, not the new strip but the old strip. It was the only place I could afford after saving for three years on my teachers salary. I ate nothing but canned tuna fish for two of those years to save up the UPS labels in order to redeem the points. They had really neat things to purchase, even if you had eaten only a little bit of their tuna. There were stuffed seals for fifty points, and Sea Monkeys for twenty five. My trip to Vegas cost 15,000 points.

When I went to claim the trip from the tuna manufacturer I was nearly laughed out of the door, but I showed them all of my UPS labels and they let me speak to the vice president of marketing, whose office overlooked the fillet station by the way. Eventually I was rewarded with my tickets and I had my picture taken with their mascot, a seal in a can, it doesnt really make sense.

On my way out of the door the vice president of marketing asked me why I didnt just go purchase tickets to Vegas instead of buying the cans of tuna. I told him I was hungry, and that I liked their tuna.

I eventually saved enough cash to afford my hotel room on the old strip and went there with Vegas' motto on my mind. Plus I felt that my pussy was getting dusty and full of cob webs. I figured there had to be at least one tubby chaser out there to moisten my loins.

I barely left the front lobby when my future husband approached me with his buddies. I noticed they were all drunk so I just figured that the farm animal noises were a result of their lack of sobriety. Plus there was this really fat lady standing behind me, they were probably just making fun of that poor monstrosity. I looked really good in the mirror.

My beloved wrapped his arm around me and shoved a martini glass in my sweaty hand. I drank and the party began. Although I must admit that everything from after that point gets a little blurry. Ok, downright invisible.

I must have blacked out because I woke up the next morning with a ring on my finger, my panties across the room and white residue all over my face. My husband was sleeping next to me with his tie wrapped around his forehead and his pants around his ankles. All of his friends where passed out on the floor, most of them naked.

On the table next to the bed was our wedding license. I began to cry, happy tears, for I have found my true love. He even went the extra step and gave me a face treatment to keep me pretty to meet his family. I cant figure out why my ass hurts.

I go over to my husband and turn him over. I see that his cock is hard, so I kneel down and start to blow him. As I move my wet mouth up and down his shaft he starts to moan and grabs my head to make me work faster.

Then he screams and I cant remember anything again, up until I wake up in the hospital with my adopted brother Pastel sitting beside me. The strange thing about Pastel is that I dont have any childhood memories involving him, and I am pretty sure that he is at least my age. He always seems to have on leather pants, similar to the ones I found in my parents closet that dont have crotches. I once tried to fix the pants for my parents, but my mom yelled when she found me with needle and thread in hand and told me that those pants werent for the outside anyway, which is why I have always wondered why Pastel got to where his inside pants outside.

Pastel told me that my headache was a result of the punch that my husband gave me to the back of my head, which then caused me to bit, and I bit hard, but apparently not hard enough. I bit my husband hard enough to make him bleed, but not quite enough so he was freed from the clamp that my jaw created.

He bled out before the EMS could get there.

Pastel congratulated me on my marriage and told me that he was utterly sorry for my lose. At least we spent the happiest times of our lives together. Pastel said that I will always have the night we met. I cherish those memories.

But at the same time I cant forget about this zit on my ass. I cant figure out why it doesnt have a twin zit on my other cheek. Maybe I do too much sitting on my right ass cheek and it doesnt have anything to do with improper wiping technique. I am a second grade English teacher and I do sit on my ass and read to children every day. And my right leg is my dominant leg, at least it was when I was in second grade and we played kick ball and I would kick the ball with my right leg. Maybe I favor sitting on my right cheek which caused this nasty painful zit in my ass crack.

Then again I always go back to blaming myself. I guess it would help if I was actually able to reach my ass and whip it myself. I cant imagine that relying on the dog to lick me clean is the best way, and having to hold it in all day long while at school hasnt been great either. My doctor says that my hemorrhoids are a direct result of my shitting habits. I dont say shit around my students. Sometimes I dont want the dog to stop licking. It's funny when I eat mexican food.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

I think it fell off

I went to Merion Elementary school, naturally for my elementary school education. I had some interesting teachers, a big fat man who claimed to have laughed a pepperoni out of his nose and got uncomfortably close to all of the girls (and later got fired for it), a man who constantly complained about his stones, and a music teacher who loved M&Ms and is in the Guinness Book of World Records for consecutively playing songs on the piano (she would even take requests and play the song without music!). A pretty important tragedy happened there (although it was three years after I left) when the plane of Pennsylvania's Senator John Heinz (and former husband of Theresa Heinz) collided with a helicopter and crashed into the fields during 1st grade recess. And I certainly had some interesting times, like when my parents dropped my sister and I off there at daycare during a hurricane, or when a couple classmates and I were playing catch with an arrow and I missed catching it with my hands and the arrow hit me in the chest. But this story is about the playground itself and one of my adventures while playing on it.

When I was in elementary school safety on the playground wasnt an issue, or at least it wasnt as big an issue as it is today. The school didnt have a swing set because it was deemed too dangerous, but it did have to large castles made from one foot by one foot by 3 foot wooden blocks, stacked so you could climb up to at least ten feet in the air. These castles, while extremely fun to play on also caused many splinters to be had, many falls to occur, and provided an excellent place for older kids to drink and have sex during the weekend. Countless empty bottles and used condoms were found by us naive elementary school children during recess.

There was also stood a vertical metal pole held up by three more metal poles that kids could try to climb, and then slip and fall off.

Wild berries and honey suckles grew on the fence, so naturally there were children always eating the berries and sucking on the flowers, usually getting stung and ending up with a belly ache.

The last piece of playground equipment, and the one central to this story, was a metal pipe balance beam that stood about 3 inches off the ground and had to other metal pipes that stood about two feet off the ground so you could balance yourself while walking along the lower one. I dont know who invented this piece of equipment, but it was an accident waiting to happen and naturally I provided that accident.

I dont know what persuaded me to attempt this trick, but I tried never the less: I thought I could crawl, on my hands and knees, across the higher metal pipes. I approached one end of the apparatus and put both of my hands on the pipes. I then moved forward a little bit and swung my legs up behind me so that I was completely supported by the metal pipes. I began to crawl forward and gained momentum as I gained assurance of my crawling skills. I got about half way when it happened.

I fell.

I fell two feet.

Remember what was between the two higher bars, resting 3 inches off the ground? Do you know what is in the middle of a young boy’s body?

Yes, as I fell my penis landed right on the lower bar. It hurt. It hurt like the dickens. I slightly moaned and crawled away from the bar. The whole lower portion of my body was numb.

As I started to regain feeling the shooting pain in my pants began to amplify. It hurt so much that I thought my penis was separated from my body.

I stood up and swiftly shuffled back towards the school, not crying, but definitely tearing up. As I got to the door I asked the teacher if I could go to the bathroom. She was grading papers as she responded, but then she looked up and saw my face. Im sure she thought I crapped my pants, so she lightened up and let me through. As I continued shuffling to the bathroom I thought about how I would have to tell the nurse and then the principal about how my penis is detached because I hurt myself on the playground and how embarrassed I would be. As I opened the bathroom door I thought about how ashamed my parents would be. I went into a stall and pulled my pants down fully expecting a bloody mess and my penis just hanging on by a thread of skin

I was happily surprised that it was still a part of my body. It was then that I started to cry, partly because I was still very much in pain, but mostly because I still had a penis. I remained in the bathroom for the rest of recess, regaining my composure and waiting for the pain to go away. Needless to say I never once tried that trick again and stayed away from that balance beam for the rest of my time at Merion Elementary.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

I kicked a kid

A couple weeks ago, while up in the Poconos for a garlic festival, I kicked a kid. It wasnt intentional, although I have had yearnings to kick children before. When the garlic festival was over I went to the nearby outlet malls to hopefully find a new pair of Vans sneakers (my mission was successful as I ended up with a pair of navy kicks). As I was walking down the sidewalk I noticed a young lad with curly blond hair, oversized glasses (or maybe he had a munchkin head), a dirty soft white shirt and blue and white striped Osh-Kosh-Bagosh overalls. He was no older than 2, and probably just learned to walk recently. He was standing off to the side of the sidewalk, so I paid him no mind as I passed his position. I then looked to the left to stare into another store when I felt a familiar thud on my right foot.

When I was at Penn I played college football. I was the starting defensive lineman, but I was also the back up punter. When you kick the pigskin your foot usually stings for a couple seconds. I felt this same twinge when I punted this young lad. While I was able to punt a football about 45 yards, this young kid went a mere three feet. However, those three feet were enough to startle the hell out of him as he didnt even know to cry as he lay there, recently punted, on the hard concrete.

I asked his father if he was ok, and feigned concern very well. After he was picked up and scalded by his father and mother I walked away and laughed and laughed and laughed. I can only hope that he remains permanently scared or at least left lumpy.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Dog Reaper

I was awoken by the little miniature pincher scratching on the front door, wanting to get out to go for a walk. Everyone else was dead asleep, so I decided that I could wake up and help the lil fella out. I know that if I was a dog and needed to take a walk I would want someone like me to wake up and take me out.

So I got up, got dressed and found the dog’s leash, noticing the wet carpet and soaked paper towels on the floor, but not paying them any attention. I attached his leash, opened the door and followed him as he sprinted out ahead of me.

It was still relatively cool outside and because of the early hour the campground was still pretty much unstirred. The only movement came from the hopping frogs and the early risers looking to catch the fish, who are more likely to be caught early in the morning. The sun was just peeking out, but couldnt be seen as the tall evergreens filtered out most of the light.

We started our ill-fated trek by turning left onto the campgrounds thoroughfare. He walked up to the first shrub, lifted his leg and squirted a little of his early morning tinkle to leave his scent. He put his leg back down and walked to the next shrub.

He sniffed

And sniffed.

He looked at me

and then sniffed again.

He squatted his little doggy ass towards the ground and began to try to take his little doggy dump. He began a squat/walk that some dogs do as to not get poo on themselves. But all was not well.

Poor dog, nothing was coming out! He did his squat/walk for about 10 feet and still nothing came out. I finally tugged on his leash thinking that he might be more successful trying somewhere else. Maybe he wasnt comfortable doing his doggy business in this area. Maybe someone was watching him and he couldnt perform with all of the pressure.

We walked another 30 feet or so and were approaching the small fishing-hole lake when he tried again. He squatted and walked and still nothing came out. I let him go for about 15 feet before tugging on his leash again, asking him, "doggy, what's wrong?"

And just then hell broke loose. He started to heave, violently and uncontrollably. I have only seen this kind of heaving before from cats with fur balls. Unfortunately for this little dog, and similarly to his other end experience, nothing came out. He heaved for a good minute, while I was looking on dumbstruck wondering what to do and then he fell down on his side.

As I was kneeling over to see if he was breathing, curious about what just happened, and wondering if I just killed this poor dog, a blond haired, short and sloppy menace child skretched the breaks on his bike and stopped right in front of me and the dog:

"Is that dog yours?"

"Uh?" wondering what to say since the dog isnt mine. Im trying to take care of this dog and this child is giving me the 10th degree.


"Uh, yeah, I mean no, the dog isnt mine, I am just taking it for a walk." I felt the dog’s chest and noted that he was breathing, but only intermittingly. I turned away from the kid and picked up the dog thinking that I would have to carry him back to the house, wake everyone up and tell them that I killed their dog.

"Where's the bathroom?"

Wait, the kid hasnt left. "Not near here, use a tree."

"I cant use a tree! That's dirty!"

"I dont know what to tell you, Im busy, leave me alone." I put the dog on his stomach and just then, without warning or provocation, he stood up, licked his little doggie lips and started to talk back to the house.

As I walked back with the dog I could hear the kid still asking me questions, but I honestly couldnt tell you what they were since I was still flumished from my near dog death experience.

Apparently the night before the dog ate something that dogs shouldnt eat. He had doggie diarrhea all night long, which was cleaned up earlier in the morning with water and paper towels. I can only assume that the dog heaved so hard and for such an extended period of time that he made himself pass out. Obviously not the smartest dog in the world, but at least he is still a living dog. For the sake of my sanity, I wont be walking this dog again.