the biggest problem with hell

is that theres no chicken exits you cant quit you cant stop you cant hang your self.

or shoot yourself.

or become anorexic

or racist or fat or shoot everyone in your school.

or jump into the la brea tar pits

or course.

you cant kill yourself.

you cant kill anyone else.

and you cant even cry because in hell everyone is looking at you waiting to laugh at you if you cry.

you just have to deal.

and if you deal they’ll figure something out the next day.

and something worse the day after.

but they’ll wait until the worst

to bust out the worst.

see, theyve been doing this way longer than you.

someone narced on me and said i was bitching, so they turned me into a monkey, gave me a guitar and made me take requests.

people were yelling out for skynyrd tunes and i could do that, when i wasnt a damn monkey.

then this crazy woman crawled up behind me and started singing something totally different than “gimme three steps” and people started booing, and i kept wanting to tell her to shut the hell up as i was trying to get adjusted to my paws and the terribly tuned kiddie guitar but all that came out was eeep eeep eeep.

some fat lady in the front row was laughing her ass off and i was thinking i could take a jump at her head, bounce off and maybe make it to the bottom of the left balcony, climb up there and make a quick getaway until i saw that i was chained to the stage.

so i let the bitch behind me sing and tried to play rhythm.


dave matthews band!!


people in hell have no taste. or maybe they do. maybe to ease their pain they just try to bring more pain to those around them. pass the buck as it were.


i slapped the chick with my tail which stunned her and i tried to fingerpick the opening to “dust in the wind” and i had it working until a string broke from my wickedly long nails.

the drunkards loved it.

they really loved it when i took the guitar string and started to strangle the chick with it and pulled her hair with my tail and bounced around and scratched out her eyes and pissed on the floor.

but they stopped laughing when i shat and threw it at them.

they rushed the stage just as the curtain fell and the clown came out with a hose and firehosed me, the chick, and the trucker who had started wailing on me.

and strangely, that wasnt even the best act of the night.

the invisible hand + vodka pundit + danielle

after my exit interview

two guys took me into a tiny little room and tried to prove that i was gay.

you’re gay.

no im not.

yes you are.

no im not.

you were a poetry major.

i did it to be near girls.

you were good at poems.

i was good at everything.

gay guys are good at everything.

not knowing about sports.

what about costas?

costas was gay?

you tell us.

fellas, im not gay.

do you like art?

everyone likes art!

do you like quiche?

do you like quiche?

shut up and tell us you’re gay.

fine, youre gay.

did you go to a lot of foreign films?

just to impress the ladies

maybe he’s bi.

are you bi?

not even a little.

would you make out with a guy to get to have sex with the hottest chick in the world?

hmmmm, let me think. maybe.

ok youre gay.

making out doesnt make you gay.

yes it does.

well if you do it for like an hour, maybe.

even for five minutes.

then i guess im not gay cuz i havent even done it for 5 minutes.

4 minutes?


3 minutes?

is that an invite?

youre so gay.

you two ever go to Wendys?

of course.

theres a salad bar at Wendys, you two ever went up there and gave the man a few bucks to eat at the salad bar?


me neither. always wanted a burger of some sort, and i always wanted pussy whenever i got hard. never the salad bar. never dick.

theres a special place in Hell for the gays.

then i guess im not special.

got that right, sweetheart.

and then they kissed me.

flagrant + rabbit + pandar