This one’s Been Posted and Reposted…

…and reposted again!  Actually, this is from  Fall 2007, meaning that it actually predates this website.  But I love it so much that I just can’t quit it.  Also, check out the bonus comment from my mother that I have included at the end for your edification.  Yes, despite all my protests, my mother HAS read this website.  Once.  While I was standing there.  And even then, only because she knew it made me uncomfortable.

Happy White Trash Thanksgiving

November 27, 2008

I’m going to be at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving, which means that the Internet is…primitive, and chances for posting will be minimal.  Ergo, I’m reposting the entry I made last year, back when I was still a vegetarian and savaged Tofurkey while the rest of my family savaged the real thing. Enjoy!

For those of you not in the know, I’m a cracker. Seriously, when I was in the fifth grade this little kid informed me that he was a “black-eyed pea,” and that I was a “cracker.” Which I was totally okay with, because at that stage in life I didn’t have much experience with beans, but I knew what a fucking Ritz was. And I also knew that they were delicious.

For the record, I have never learned to enjoy black-eyed peas, but I love black, kidney, and pinto beans with all my heart. Just so’s you don’t think I’m racist, here.

But anyway, I’m a whitey McWhiterson from Whitesville, North Carolina, and while I feel that my Italian-ness somewhat mitigates all that Wonderbread and mayonnaise whiteness, every once in awhile I just have to face the fact that I? Am a motherfucking honky. And nothing makes me face that fact faster than a visit home with my family for a major federal holiday.

Because nothing makes you realize how white trash you are like having your parents try to force you to look at a dead animal.

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Repost Weekends

The other day I was thinking, “Mankiller, you’ve got like, a year and a half of posts that very few people have ever seen because very few people troll through archives as obsessively as you do.”  And then I thought:  “Mankiller, you’ve really got to quit having conversations with yourself, it’s weird.  Also, I hate you outfit.”

Anyway, I thought I’d start reposting older entries on the weekends–that way I wouldn’t have to create new content, and you could see some posts you probably haven’t already.  AND WE WOULD ALL BE HAPPY.  SO VERY, VERY HAPPY.

Ahem.  Anyway.  Here’s a post from February 13, 2009.

Kryptonite. Delicious, Delicious Kryptonite.

My friend Brandy became lactose intolerant in her early twenties, which is just plain cruel.  I mean, it’s one thing to be born unable to digest milk products, but to grow up eating cheesecake and to know what you’re missing?  I imagine it’s something like how Beethoven must have felt after he went deaf.  Except that instead of upsetting your landlords by destroying their pianos so that you can play on the floor and feel the vibration, you’re upsetting your roommates by having violent diarrhea every time you open a box of mac and cheese.

In truth, I’m a little sensitive about the subject, because there was a time when I thought I might be lactose intolerant–when a little swig of milk could make my stomach turn and the mere thought of ice cream made me want to hurl.  Fortunately, though, I am a quarter Scandinavian, and when I crap, I crap whole sticks of butter.  My aversion must have been the result of stress or a stomach bug or something, because my Viking ancestry quickly reasserted itself and I soon found myself chewing on blocks of cheddar and pillaging monasteries for the fun of it.

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An Announcement from Oliver:

If Northern Virgina gets any more snow, I’m gonna fucking claw my way out of here!

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Revenge Is Petty, But Oh-So-Sweet

E-book is here.  Buy up, bitches.

I probably shouldn’t be committing this to pixels; this confession may come back to haunt me.  But I can’t hold back any longer:  internet?  I destroyed someone else’s property.  And it was SOOOOO satisfying.

I don’t want you to think that I am some great disrespecter of property rights.  I mean, despite the fact that I keep books much, MUCH longer than I should (and occasionally dump sodas on them, sorry about that, local library), I am generally pretty good about other people’s stuff.  I chalk this up to being the youngest of three children and the baby sister of a girl with personal space issues and an itchy trigger finger.  To whit:  there was a period in my sister’s life when I couldn’t so much as look at her belongings without her screaming, “Mah-ooom, she’s touching my STUFF!”  I learned to leave other people’s things alone at a young age, largely because Catherine is a big giant boo-boo head.

But I digress.

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Boneshaker

ETA:  EEEEEEEEEBOOOOOK.

Cherie Priest, Boneshaker

So ever since I posted this picture, people have been asking me what I think about Boneshaker.  Which I find unfair, because HELLO, the Boyfriend stole it and the love of my life my cat from me.  I had no opinion because I hadn’t read it.  Because it was torn from my arms, ripped from my bookshelf, STOLEN BY THAT GREEDY BASTARD I CALL A BOYFRIEND.

But eventually he gave it back and I blitzed through it and then he started asking me about it and my God, what do you people want from me?  What do I look like, some kind of steampunk-analyzing MACHINE?  Oh, and you know what’s even worse than being asked to just throw out a reaction?  Now he thinks he has the right to an opinion about the damn book, too!

I mean, seriously!  THE NERVE!

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I Was Totally That Kid

Want kids to know what goes where and which end is up?  Go buy my e-book!

I tweeted about this yesterday, but thought I’d post about it with a bit more depth:  Ladies?  Gentlemen?  There is now officially an American school that has banned dictionaries.

See, I know I’m ancient, but I remember being required to bring a dictionary with me back when I spent my days being tutored in capitalist propoganda at an American public school.  The times, how they do change.

I could rant and rail about how ridiculous this is, but really–we all know how ridiculous this is.   What I wanted to talk about, instead, was how this probably went down.  The article states that the volumes were removed ”because a child had found the definition of ‘oral sex’ in the book” 

You know what that means?  That means some weenie TOLD!

Kids?  I was totally that weenie.

When I was in the third grade, I went on a mini-mythology binge.  I say “mini” because my elementary school library had exactly two books on mythology, so I could only binge so much.  Anyway, the Greek myths were pretty successfully sanitized–bowdlerized to the point of nonsense, if I remember correctly–but the person who’d adapted the Egyptian myths had tragically opted for a more honest rendering. 

THERE WAS TOTALLY NON-DESCRIPTIVE AND NON-SPECIFIC BONING, Y’ALL.

Now, here’s the hilarious part:  I knew that reading about boning was not acceptable, and that, if caught, I would be subjected to all sorts of tortures (no TV for a week, arrrrrrrrrrg!).  But I kept this book out, y’all.  I kept this book out for WEEKS.  I kept this book out until they were finally like, “Mankiller, either you give it back or you pay for it,” and then I handed it over and was all, btw, it has bad stuff in it.

“What kind of bad stuff?” the librarian asked.

“Inappropriate stuff,” I said.  I knew the word for “sex,” since FANG! had come home from health class sometime during the middle of my second grade year and said, ”Talulah, do you want to hear about something COMPLETELY DISGUSTING?” But I couldn’t imagine saying that word to an adult.  What if they’d had it? 

But back to my conversation with the librarian:  “Inappropriate stuff, okay,” she said, and then went and called my parents.  If Iremember correctly, she and my mother had a conversation about it and I was later told that the book would now only be available to fifth graders.  I was thrilled:  I was sure my prompt action had earned me a special place in crappy-Protestant heaven.  I walked around, surrounded by an aura of smugness, and everyone kindly and gently didn’t ask me about what I’d been doing with that bad, dirty book for all those weeks.

So yes:  I was totally that kid.  I harshed the mellow and deprived my fellow children of a more well-rounded education.  I was a tattle-tale.  If I had bothered to look in a dictionary, I probably would have turned it in as contraband, too.

So my question is, how many of you were narcs?  Be honest, now.  You’re among fellow assholes.

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Strong Stomach Needed

E-book is here.

In addition to being about various horrible and incurable diseases, this book contains lots of race-, gender-, and pedo-FAIL.  You have been warned.

D.T. Max, The Family that Couldn’t Sleep

Max’s “hook” is the family history of an Italian clan that suffers from a rare prion disease called fatal familial insomnia:  basically, it eats away part of your brain, burns out your adrenal gland, and eventually kills you because you can’t sleep.  Several victims were actually observed by a world-renowned sleep clinic before their deaths, and even though the patients went into REM and everything, their sleep wasn’t…normal.  REM is supposed to momentarily paralyze the sleeper, but the people with FFI were up, walking around, and occasionally bowing to the Queen of England (no, I didn’t make that last part up).  Unsurprisingly, when the poor bastards finally “awakened,” they didn’t feel like they’d slept at all.  Because they hadn’t.

Say it with me:  THAT SHIT BLOWS.

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How Things Are Going to Be/for Your Edification

So I wrote an e-book.  It is here.  I am not saying that you have to buy this e-book, because times are hard and there are plenty of worthy causes to donate to right now, tomorrow, and forever.  But let me lay this out so we’re all on the same page, here:  my e-book costs you, the buyer, 3.00USD.  That was about as low as I could price it while still turning anything resembling a reasonable profit (in this case,  1.21 USD).  The rest of that $3.00 is lulu’s, and I don’t begrudge them it, since they’re allowing me to distribute this thing and also, they gave me that WICKED SWEET cover with a smoking gun on it.

But if you read my previous post, you will know that the first hundred dollars this e-book makes are pledged to Scarleteen.com, and after that they get 25 percent.  The truth is, I never expected ”The Dumb Whore Brigade” to make more than $100, because my readership is low and so is my profit margin.  I was just trying to account for the best case scenario.  BUT.  I would like Scarleteen to get their $100, and to that end, I’m going to include a link to “The Dumb Whore Brigade” in every post from now until doomsday the end of February.  I’m not doing this to annoy you.  I’m not doing this to guilt you.  I’m just doing it because if a lady writes a series of essays about her vagina, the sex ed org she’s donating the profits to* DAMN WELL better profit.

And now, on to the real post of the day.  Which, not coincidentally, is about vaginas.

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The Dumb Whore Brigade and Other Stories

Over the past week or so, I have been working on A Project.

That Project is finally…DONE!

Behold, I made an e-book, which is being sold on the appropriately titled lulu.com!

Yeah, I know.  You’re all, “Excuse me, but  since when do I need to PAY for your ramblings, Mankiller?”

Well, since I wrote some highly personal stuff about my wagina.  Sorry, but I don’t want that to live on this website forever.  I do have some boundaries.  They’re few and rather porous, but they ARE there.

Also, well.  Let’s read the introduction, shall we?

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Dear CNN

I understand that Haiti is big news, and that you have 24 hours worth of programming to fill, but frankly?  No one needs to see survivors tossing the corpses of their less fortunate brethren into the back of a dump truck on its way to a mass grave site.  And there was no reason to show the week-old, stark white, concrete dust covered cadaver of an earthquake victim. 

The bodies of the dead are not news. 

I can’t say that I have never seen the corpse of an American disaster victim, because one of the strongest images from my childhood is of a firefighter carrying a dying baby out of the blast site after the Oklahoma City Bombing.  But that image was so strong because it was shocking:  it was not one of many pictures of many dead repeated ad infinitum over a 24 hour loop.

So please, give the people of Haiti the same respect you would give to the people of America.  Quit showing hundreds of the nameless, faceless dead.  After everything else they’ve suffered, it’s the least you can do.

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