January 2008


[due to the low resolution image, the letter is transcribed below]
letter

Dear Jim –
I know you think that I think you do not like me anymore, but it is simply untrue. I like your mom and I thought we got along well even though she thought my outfit was inappropriate. To me, yellow and blue do match. What is really going on? I really do still like you, too.

Give me a call back.
(I’ll give you a handjob.)

Sarah

laundry
[Help! They are blasting Bryan Adams in here! Let me out!]
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17Now that I’m giving birth, I’ve come to a change of heart about this whole motherhood thing. I know, I know. I’ve had 9 months to mull over the options and you’d think that there would have come a point in time where I realized that I’d make an unfit mother, but it really wasn’t until the last five minutes when my water broke that the truth hit home.

My dialating cervex seems to me like a death sentence. Why would I ever want a kid? Look at all the trouble its already causing: my roommate Tasha is having to ready warm water and towels, and our landlord is yelling through the door about quieting down all the agonized screams of: “Oh my God! The baby’s coming!”

This baby is already cramping my style, man, and it’s only just begun crowning. Sheesh.

Now I’m gonna have to play the “who’s this infant look like?” game to figure out who I’ll need to call for financial support. I’ve got my ideas who is behind this birth (that is currently tearing the tender skin between my vagina and anus apart). Let’s see, it would be the usual suspects: God, having ‘overshadowed’ me at my Santa Maria high school reunion, may have left me with a consubstantial propitiation for sin. Or, it could be Tyler the bowling alley attendant. I certainly wouldn’t be surprised if the fast moving alien that leapt out of that giant pod and planted itself on my face laid an egg in my stomach that’s now gonna burst from me and become an acid blooded monster. Then again, it may well be that this all is just a bad case of gas. Who knows?

Tasha is a great midwife. She’s a cashier at Hot Dog On A Stick by trade, but she visits Wikipedia all the time to read about massage therapy, so she pretty much has this ob/gyn stuff down pat. She also was a lesbian in college, so her working knowledge of women’s dirty parts is better than average. For example, she just screamed that I’m having a “breech birth and it looks like conjoined twins!” That’s pretty impressive. I don’t even know what that means.

You hear a lot about the ‘miracle of birth’ but you’d never guess that it would be such a blood drenched affair. This couch will definitely have to be sold on eBay without a photo.

In a few minutes, if all goes according to plan, Tasha will have given me a “Sea Section” (whatever that is) and I will be a glowing mother of two! Or is it ‘one’? How do you count twins that are connected at the neck and share the same head?

Anywho, I’m sooooo excited! (OMG!) I’m for sure going to post pictures on myspace and change my home page song to “Baby Baby” by Amy Grant!

I’ve just got couple of pieces of advice for Jamie Lynn Spears and all the other beautiful baby-mommas to be:

  1. Drinking booze is probably okay in the third trimester once all the important fetal development is done.
  2. Abortion is a quick, easy, and safe way to assure that you will rot in hell forever.
  3. More pregnancies=less periods=more sex. Now, that’s some math I like!
  4. Not cutting the umbilical cord will rescue you from ever having to say those tough ‘goodbyes’.

So, all you hot ladies with baby lumps, good luck and mazel tov!

Ryan McGivern
http://www.myspace.com/mckibbon

m&mI love Peanut M&Ms. Without batting an eye I’d sacrifice my only son Isaac if Peanut M&Ms asked me to. Because I love them. Why do I love them? Three reasons: the bright colors that remind me of Sherwin Williams paints, the thin skull-like candy shell that protects the peanut-brain of deliciousness, and the overeating enabling “Tear and Share” jumbo bag.

How many people who have bought a “Tear and Share” sized bag have ever shared them?
None. I defy you to give me one example of someone who has ever walked up to you and said, “Look, this bag of ambrosia like candy is too big for me to eat by myself. Will you please share it with me?” I defy you!

But, the packaging works on me. When I buy the huge “Tear and Share” Peanut M&M bag and lay it on the counter, I make sure to point to the labelling on it for the cashier and I make a “Don’t judge me. I’m not some fatass who’s gonna eat all this. I’m gonna share it with someone!” face and feel self righteous. Then, I hide in a dark room and devour the bag in the course of 4 minutes.

Thank you Peanut M&Ms for making it just a little easier to hide the fact that I’m a candy guzzling, sweet toothed maniac with a gorging problem!

Ryan McGivern

http://www.mms.com/us/

skate ***Warning: spoilers and honest appraisal of the worst book ever contained below!***

I settle into bed and snuggle up with the last installment of the Harry Potter series with some tea on the bedstand and a rare gloomy L.A. to avoid. I wrongly assume this will be a pleasurable end to the series.”Alright! Here we go! Let’s get some rocking action going!….What? A newspaper article about Albus? What the hell? Who wants to read periodicals in a book about wizards?…What? A wedding? Who cares about this stupid wedding?…..Alright! Some action!…What? Camping in a goddam tent? Who wants to read about a camping trip with three jerks?….Ron leaves! Finally!…He’s back…What’s up with the Putter Outter suddenly being a deus machina? What the hell? This book sucks! Deathly Hallows? What the hell?”

I quickly realize this book is a bunch of nonsense. First we had to learn all about some stupid Horcrux bullcrap and now it’s a hunderd pages to explain some crappy Deathly Hallow bullcrap. I begin to squirm. This reading experience suddenly seems that it will be like peeping tomming at Curves-not as cool as you’d think.

“Dobby? What the hell? Alright! Hermione’s gettin’ tortured sweet! Fight at Hogwarts! Sweet! Awww, nothing cool happens. Harry’s gonna die! Sweet! Awww, crap.”

I read that Harry Potter can’t be killed by Voldemort anyway because of 14 different convoluted reasons some of which involve Deathly Hallows or something. All of this is as exciting as finding out why you can’t return items bought at the dollar store.

“I’m sure something cool will happen! There’s only a few pages left. Awww, crap. Oooh! An Epilogue! I’ll find out what all the kids are like in the future! Hmmm, Hermione still has no real personality, Ron Weasley is a dumbass, and Harry Potter has no personality but is somehow quietly wise and has a buttload of kids. Crap. Maybe it’ll say what Harry’s up to-is he in the Ministry, a Quiddich player? An Auror? Awww, crap.”

I find that J.K. Rowling is indeed the worst author ever who writes out her ass and who has not only no sense of what makes a good book, but doesn’t ask someone who might know to help her. She can’t even take the chance to decide what the main characters of her book do as adults…Becuase, most likely, she doesn’t know either. Just as it seems she had no idea what to do with her series, she had no idea of how to end it.

I close the book and feel dirty and used.

I rewrite the book in my mind where Dobby and Hermione end up together in a lobby firm for elf rights, Ron Weasley is a full blown bigot, and Harry Potter raises his family quietly in the forbidden forest.

One last unimportant thought about an unimportant book flashes in my mind… “How in the hell will this ever be made into a movie when the main characters are either invisible or Polyjuiced to look like someone else for 90% of the goddam story?”

Ryan McGivern, proud Muggle and bonafide hater.

In the Clouds
by Andre Jordan

cloud
“Listening to the Earth”
photography
Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Due to the rising cost of life in Hell (heating bills, depreciation of the American dollar, royalties to death metal bands for HELL 99.9 Broadcast Radio/Internet Streaming, a well-organized Torturer’s Union demands for universal health insurance and paid maternity leave), Death takes odd jobs when he can get ’em.

Death at work

Death Takes a Holiday Photoshop Contest

Valentine’s Day is already around the corner! Gulp! I still haven’t even taken down my Halloween decorations. Boy, how time does fly.

heartIt seems like only yesterday that I burned out my credit cards on Christmas presents and my husband went to prison.  David has been locked up for thirteen Valentine’s Days now and in that time I’ve learned some real helpful ways to make the most of the two hour Valentine Day conjugal visit the State of California gives us.

Its important that you ladies out there know that there’s much more to a conjugal visit than just the requisite sex act. Plan on having that ‘sex’ stuff out of the way in the first  three minutes. The rest of the time you’ll be focusing on lying about the status of the money that’s supposedly still buried in the backyard, who you’ve been seeing on the side, and how many children you’ve had in the previous year by his friend RazorDog.

I’ve found that all this lying and skirting around issues can be tiring, so drink a lot of coffee before going in.  Remember ladies, you’re not just seeing your husband in jail on Valentine’s Day. You’re seeing all the cute guards too. This will be a good time to pick up  some numbers if you’re on your game so dress up! I know personally that if you play your cards right with the guards at San Quentin’s ‘high risk offenders’ area, you’re in for a real treat.

Don’t forget to compliment your husband’s new scarifications and tattoos. These not only designate his status in cell block 28’s gang, but they represent the slow chiseling away of his soul by the System.

Have a great time this February 14th, and may your smuggling go well!

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