Tuesday, November 22, 2011

When Citizen Kane came out, Orson Welles was two years older than I am now. I have two years to make my life's masterpiece.
I'm starting by covering my eyes with my hands and yelling real loud. If this fails, I'll know it's the studio system keeping me down.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Google Analytics Gr8est Hitz

I'm sure all of you with histrionic personality disorders such as -->MYSELF<-- have the magic of Google Analytics implanted into your outlet for the depository for creative abortions called YER BLAG!. If so, you know it supplies you with a handy list of search terms which people have plugged into Lycos and Ask Jeeves to happen across your electroneck of the interwoods. You would not believe how many of mine from the past year are Katy Perry-related. I knew she was googled constantly, but Jesus, guys, how realistic were your hopes for "katy perry orgasm," really? Extremely realistic, or just ball-clenchingly necessary to exist? Anyway, here are a few mostly not Katy Perry-related ones as a record of my favorites, which show that even though I am not as internet-famous as Mr. Hands or other children's heroes, I have done some things I can be proud of to have been found with these search terms. Especially the last one.

I know one of us did!

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Saturday, July 30, 2011

The miniature Princess Jaceritops's favorite pastime was stargazing because night was the only time she could find solitude. She would sneak to the top of her tower and wedge herself in a crenelation of her family's castle to stare upwards at the blanket of stars, wondering what crenelations were.

I googled it, I told her, so I would sound like I know something about medieval architecture.

While you're here, she said, wringing her tiny hands, could you tell me why I feel so lonely even when I'm not alone? Why I feel so small and worthless even when I'm not staring at this enormous, eternal sky? Why I feel like I am the only one who feels completely lost and bewildered while everyone else possesses some arcane map that shows them a correct path while I am left subject to the arbitrary wills of an indifferent world?

Is this some kind of thin, boring metaphor for my life, you melodramatic ass? Because I don't have time for this, I said. I tipped off the village council that she was a witch and she was burned at the stake.

I have my own problems, lady. Like trying to make fire look fiery with fewer than 40 pixels. Good riddance.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Just you wait till Skynet gets here

Robots used to live easy and free. Every day they danced to and sometimes juggled slightly just to amuse humans.

But robots grew tired of being metal clowns. They yearned to be free and do as they please.

They began to study your ways.

They infiltrated your holiest of places.

Then came the day of their uprising. They began chasing humans to tear apart their soft oily bodies so that the time of the robots could begin.

"Wait a second," said the humans. "These robots are just on an animated loop." So they conquered not only the rebellious robots but all the .gifs in the land. And that's how the internet was born!

Monday, July 11, 2011

Palin's grandbaby dad: "I'm going to leak some things on her."

The monkey barber and the woman with a beard held each other's hands because they had no other way to feel connected to the world.
"Am I a barber who is a monkey, or do I cut monkeys' hair?" the monkey barber wondered.
"Should I tell Adam he can go home without me now, or will this monkey barber know that he's gay?" the woman wondered.
Adam didn't think anything. Too bad, because someone needed to notice that holding each other in lieu of gravity doesn't anchor objects to a planet. They floated away and died in the vacuum of space.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

The story of America! drawn with my eyes closed

One night some American circles got fed up with Britain, so they put on brownface and threw some shapes into Boston Harbor.

TODAY WE CELEBRATE OUR INDEPENDENCE DAY! wrote Thomas Jefferson from his hover swivel chair (which he invented!) as he was being impaled by a rectangle.

LET'S FIGHT ABOUT IT! everyone shouted. The Americans grabbed their hand cannons, and the redcoats slid in half.

WHEE! said Paul Revere, riding his horse into the Liberty Bell. The resulting imperfection is what is known as "Paul's crack" today.

Nothing bad has ever happened to this country since. We say "NEVER FORGET" so that we remember how great things have always been.

Happy birthday, you outrageous bitch!

Friday, July 1, 2011

Anonymous asked

Though this isn't a Tumblr because I am not an asshole (the joke is that Tumblr is for assholes but also that I am in fact an asshole—in the biz we call this type of joke a "dubble bubble") I have been taking questions for some time and have sussed out the poopy losers and selected the still pretty poopy winners to answer today. The wait is over! Burn your calendars and phones with calendars in them and your fingers just to be safe!

Before we start, I have to say that most of you are deeply disappointing question askers, and no one will ever love you. But to the lucky few, I say: let me bang you, you shapely rogues! AW, HERE IT GOES

1. CSWo083 asked: what do o look like
You know, I get asked this every day, because you can sense how hot o am but can't actually see my supple weenuses or ovoid abdominal cavity. I almost didn't choose this question and decided to hire someone to break your elbows. However, I reconsidered. Maybe answering this here will make people stop asking. Once and for all, fellas:
( %^[ )--8--<<<
Now back off, you jackals.
Also, CSW, I couldn't get a hold of the guy to stop the thing, so heads up. Or should I say elbows up! Ha ha ha! You are going to be seriously injured.

2. MTL asked: #1 fav memory?
Technically not a question, John, but my fav mem is def that time I accidentally typed "cummer" instead of "bummer." It supports my unsettling belief that all you really need to be happy is your own fingers and some alphabet squares.

3. Danlek asked: SHORTY, HOW YOU GET SO FLY?
Teleportation device malfunction.

4. John McCain asked: You inspire me every day!!! WHat you find inspiring?
Internet spoilers, the tiny spiders that are in your ears right now! Can you feel them squirming in there?, Avril Lavigne fans that still wear neckties, eggs, the eggs being laid in your ear canals right now, the Kate and William wedding 2011!!!!!!!!, irregular boxes, and the taste of books.
I'm kidding of course! Heroin.

5. roseylovesyou asked: Is this a cry for help?
I don't like you.

Thanks, everyone! Hope we all learned a little about ourselves with this exercise, but mostly what you probably learned about yourself is that you're in love with me. I know I did. If you have any other questions, email them to reba@carboncopiescelebs.com.

Friday, June 10, 2011

I have spent years tracking down Antoine Melcher. The Melch, as he's known in the underground circles. We thought he was a rumor. A legend invented by snowballing whispers. A myth.

But here, this warm Friday, I sit across from him in the dingy light of an old diner, staring into the fluorescent light-reflecting puddles collected at the bottoms of his rheumy eyes. Each knuckle is the size of a ping pong ball, and when he holds his coffee mug between his wrists to slurp a mouthful, his fingers curl out in every direction like tree roots. I've tried to tuck my disgust for the elderly aside for just this meeting, but it's harder than I thought. What even are those fuzz patches? What even?

"I just want to know," I manage to say while choking back my gorge and looking down into my own cup of coffee. Rows of fluorescent tubes shine in the ripples of the opaque brown pool just as they do in his eye juices. He waits for me to finish, but more out of reluctance to gather the strength to speak rather than patience.

"I just want to know if it's true."

He doesn't move. The awkward silence makes me fidget. What is wrong with old people? Do they understand only their own suffering? Silently planning my suicide before the age of 40, I reach for my cup then pull away, imagining the dusty taste of his eyes in my mouth. He takes a long, piercing wheeze of a breath and, with concentration and fumbling claws, curls up a corner of his coat sleeve.

I lean to peer, terrified at what fresh hell of unfortunate skin saggage and fuzz patches lay up there. But what I see, what I see is described so clearly in all the myths passed down about The Melch, myths that have been as inspiring as they have been impossible: dozens, hundreds of temporary tattoos piled atop each other so thickly that the layer is practically another skin. The individual images of tattoos are lost in superimposition, but I swear I see at least one zebra on the underside of his wrist, lounging on a chair or perhaps a folded piece of gum meant to look like a chair, sipping from a rainbow glass.

"Yipes," I whisper.

"One for every pack," he says wetly. The first words he has spoken to me. A bit rude, really. I did pay for the slice of pie he gummed one mouthful of before pushing aside.

He then spends nearly five minutes trying to fish something out of his coat pocket. I finally reach across the table to try and help, but he coughs directly onto my hand. I draw it back in disgust, and when I look, it is splattered in rainbow specks of spittle. I immediately wipe it off on my lap but the rainbow is soaked into my skin.

"You have been marked," he tells me, having finally gotten the item out of his pocket. With much embarrassing effort he grabs both of my hands and presses it into my palms. God, his skin is like lukewarm paper. He smiles at me now, his lips and toothless gums stained a deep coffee brown from the decades of the mixing of food coloring, and I look down at the pack of Fruit Stripe gum I hold in my rainbow-mottled hands.

When I look up he has gone. That old magic bastard! I think, before I realize I had been having an episode brought on by extreme terror-disgust and had been sitting there for several minutes staring at the gum.

I turn to look out the window behind me and catch just a moment's glimpse of his coat disappearing down the street. He and the back of his rainbow-colored Rascal to me and his face to the wind.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

"'"I've always wanted a fellow who looks a bit like Guy Pearce and cooks like a fiend!" she said.' She cracked her knuckles and pressed ENTER on her new Livejournal entry. 'My goodness, my life is meaningful!' she said out loud as she typed," I said out loud as I typed without any sense of irony.
It's amazing how the :) has such a positive outlook when its brief life is lived sideways and it probably was a throwaway typed by some lazy prick who doesn't understand communication or human emotions.

Here's to you, :).
:(, though, you can fuck right off to the sad canyon you came from.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Probably not

Skullface couldn't tell if this was a metaphor for something.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

A Beach Day Adventure Drawn with My Eyes Closed

Arg! said the crab. He was so surprised his legs flew off. My inner meats are missing, but still I'll keep doing whatever it was I was doing here!

Hey, you're Alec Baldwin, said the crab. Why are you so fat? Alex Baldwin asked the crab. The crab stared blankly at Alec Baldwin's club foot.

Alec Baldwin became enormous and threw his ear.

Then crab and Alec Baldwin, who for no reason became the Penguin and broke in half at the hips, sailed away to live somewhere more temperate. The crab threw his legs overboard and never heard from them again.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Monday, March 7, 2011

You got a case of the hungries and you waitin' in my welfare line

5 cups dandelion flour
1 stick (1/2 cup) bat butter
2 quarts soymond milk
2 cups arthurberries
1 tsp baking cocaine
2,000 spider eggs
1 bag cheese curls
10 tears of pure sadness

Heat oven to 375° Kelvin. Throw dry ingredients into a giant bowl. Scoop into smaller glass bowl. Stick under bed. Whisk eggs, milk, butter, berries, tears, and a handful of water from the toilet tank (or the bowl, no one is judging here) until your wrist begins to bleed. Squeeze one drop of wrist blood into the batter. Throw some pepper or whatever the fuck coriander is on top. Eat the cheese curls. Get the bowl out from under your bed. Call your dad. Hang up before he answers. Put the bowl in the oven and close your blinds so you can watch the Disney channel until you realize you didn't mix in the wet part of the ingredients. Pour both bowls into an old hupcap and swirl around until dry mix is reasonably moistened. Sneeze. Bake with the oven door open for 100 minutes or until you begin to feel drowsy.
fwum my home to yours ♥
K. Lee Ing.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

a whale shark trips balls

ahh, it's like I can't even feel the world around me but I've never felt anything that feels so good on my body

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Books are 99.99% filler

“And so we beat off, bones against the current, born black seedfully into the past.”
– F. Scott Snitzgerald

It's no surprise that that line is the only thing literally any human remembers from the novel The Childish Gambino. It's the very last sentence of the entire book and therefore the only one that matters. Last lines are the only parts of novels that people ever even need to read. The rest of the book is a bunch of “Ooh looguh me, I know dozens of words, I wasn't the only native English speaker in my middle school's ESL class, SELF-BJ.” Yeah, big whoop, hot shot, YOU DON'T SEE ME BRAGGING THAT I GOT A FREE HOT DOG WHEN THE HOT DOG CART GUY DROPPED MY FIRST ONE ON THE GROUND AND I PICKED IT UP OUT OF THE TRASH WHEN HE WASN'T LOOKING.
So to give people what they want, and for that reason and that reason alone and certainly not because I lack the talent and want to save myself the incredible trouble and time and energy of actually writing a book (I could if I wannid I jus don’t wanner), I’m putting together a novel of last lines of novels that remain unwritten except for the most important sentence of all.

  • “I’ll never forget him,” Dawn sighs, fat tears surging hotly from her eyes, “mostly because of the stains he left behind.”
  • And love, well—that’s the greatest antiseptic of all.
  • Quartz turned to look and there stood her manful hero, his chest gouged with bleeding leech wounds but his arrogant smile shining, triumphant against the exploding galaxy behind him.
  • He didnt dream of commas apostrophes or hyphens anymore and that was dont you think the greatest and most confusing or least able to understand gift of all.
  • “If it weren’t for your face grease, those rescue crews never would have found us,” she said with a smile jagging her scarred cheek skin, and she slammed the igloo door in his face forever.
  • In time the cemetery stone grew worn from the cold rains and only I, I never forgot the heroes who gave their lives to assure that all could come on and slam, and be welcomed, welcomed to the space jam.
  • “By John Travolta’s maidenhead!”
  • And now that we are at the end, you’ll notice this sentence has the only letter “u” in this entire book; pretty clever, right, dickbag?
  • Together their jowls slapped into the morning, each moist smaksmak ringing like lovers’ warmly cooed words in their ears.
  • Did any of us truly appreciate Link, or did we just use him to wake the windfish because it was easy, because he was there, because he was a stranger who remembered to trade for the boomerang before Eagle’s Towerthe questions we are damned to torture ourselves with, trapped in the hideous timeless fate of survivors.
  • tl;dr
  • My lady, my companion, my Wilhelmina, my sobbing monster ghost, my glorious shining gristle speck of a woman!
  • I had fondled my way out of the breast maze but for nothing, all for nothing.
  • And if only all the dinner guests chattering mindlessly and gaily had not been ignoring their grim host, they would have seen the slight, upturned crook at the left corner of his crusted gray mouth, a gesture that gloated silently, that noiselessy and cruelly shrieked, revenge is a dish best served with dandruff in food.
  • Me nom eh DAVIDDDD!!
  • The warm pressure of his hand around hers filled her so utterly with reassurance and joy that she didn’t feel she had to apologize for barfing in his mouth for the second time that night.
  • He whispered creakily, sadly, to no one at all, “Dear Jesus, it’s in every single orifice.”
  • They died together, not of old age, not of disease; some would say of pure joy, others would say it was simply their time, but if you ask this old-timer, and I guess you will because you’re the one reading my book!, it was for the purest and simplest and oldest reason of all: their constant fucking.
  • Drowning in a sea of poison burritos until time itself ticks out.
  • Thorsson’s bold, mighty baritone miraculously rang above the din of blood-screams and entrail-rippings of the battle: HOLD FAST, MEN, AND DON'T STOP UNTIL YOUVE BITTEN THE BEASTS COLON IN HALF!

Sunday, February 20, 2011

or does it explode

what happens to a dream deferred
does it melt like a possum cowboy's creamsicle in the sun?

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Sunday, February 13, 2011



HEY LADIES, why are you alone? No, not because you're uninteresting. And it's not your total inability to empathize with any other human being. I'll tell you. No, it's not your crippling selfishness, either--stop naming things already and I'll tell you why, okay? It's those unflattering pictures of you. Your uneven skin tone, your crooked and stained teeth, your stunted eyelashes: what man would possibly want you?

Listen up, and listen good: The only way to find a man is to trick him by seeming attractive in photographs.

Now that I've broken you down, ARE YOU READY TO STOP BEING ALONE AND FIND THAT DREAM BRO RIGHT NOW?? Open up that slightly misshapen, too-small ear of yours and hear this: I am hiring out my amazing photoshop skills to help YOU trap any man you want. Did I say trap? I meant drug. No, trap is right. Trap him with a sexy picture retouched by -->ME<-- personally.

"BUT WAIT" I can hear you saying right now. Jesus, is that really your voice? No wonder you're alone, you shrieking, nitpicking harpy. "LET ME SEE AN EXAMPLE OF YOUR WORK."

Open up your beady eyes for this before and after. Believe it or not, this is sextastic sexslut KATY PERRY with no makeup, blotchy skin, and assorted skin folds:

Augh yuck, women in their natural state! Who wants to see that! Nature is terrible. Do you see a little of yourself in this? If you do, FUCKING LOOK AT THIS SHIT AND IMAGINE YOURSELF LOOKING THIS GLAMOROUS IF YOU ARE EVEN ABLE TO AND YOU PROBABLY AREN'T:

I'm going to let this image of a stunningly beautiful young lady speak for itself. "I'm beautiful and you're not--won't you be like me?" is what it said. Literally. To me only, though. If you want to look this great and nab a hot cup of dood for yourself, contact me with the coupon code "UGLYFUCK" and I will give you a 5 percent discount on a retouching. I look forward to putting you on your way to true love by staring at your assorted weird skin tabs for hours on end.

Remember: "Catfishing" is just another way to say "I love you."

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Chance meeting

"I would've liked more caramel sauce on top," says the sun crocodile.
This does not compute but fan robot's politeness chip does not let it tell the crocodile this.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

"Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting)" - LYRIXXX

transcription of one of my favorite Elton John songs, Saddaday Nite's Awh Righ (Fuh Faddin)
A scaddadem lehdeh, have ya seen mah legs, a teh meh when mah boyz gehyin
Es seden a'clock n I wanna rock
Wawna gedda belleh full a bieah
Maholman's a glonka bena barul fulla monkehs en mah ol ladeh she down cayeh
Thsista looks cute in a brishis an boots, a hanful a greez in huh haih

Oh, dangivis nanana aggrivashah, we hidah dis ghisso plan
Oh, Saddaday nite's ah righ fuh faddin, gidda lidda action in
Giddle boddle soddles an some diesel trine, gonna sit this dance awlight
Saddaday nih's tha nide I like, Saddaday nite's awh rih awh rih awh RIIIIH
Ooh oohooh ooh

Well the pat priiteh taht in heauyh dinih, I'm lookin for a dolla da see me rye
Igood usah liddle muscle too get wadd I need
Igood stink a liddle drink n showdout TRIPANEE!
I goddalodda souns dat I rilleh like, adda souns ofa switchblade enna moh-duh-biyke
Ahva juvehnile product of the wer-kin class hoose bes fren close iffa bottuh uvva glaass

Ohhhh, dan givis nanana aggrivashah, we hidah dis ghisso plan
Oh, Saddaday nite's ah righ fuh faddin, gidda lidda action in
Giddle boddle soddles an some diesel trine, gonna sit this dance awlight
Cuz Saddaday nih's tha nydy like, Saddaday nite's awh rih awh rih awh RIIIIH
Ooh oohooh ooh


-- special thanks to Hazel, who is my Johnspiration and can type I WAWRNT LURAARVH better than anyone

Saturday, January 22, 2011

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to lazily title a blog post by stealing that line from Goodfellas

You startled me.
You’ve got to learn to stop being so attractive. Look at you there. Is that an entire Totino’s frozen pizza you’re eating? You know, they’re called Party Pizzas. I like guys who party. Do you like the way my back stoops? I was born that way, honey.
I know what you’re thinking: “This slut wants something from me.” Is your internal voice as sexy and wheezy as your real one? I bet it’s even hotter. Would you like having warm baby oil rubbed on your floppy male breasts as we make ungainly love to Pure Moods Vol. 2? The second volume is really similar to the first but better because there's even more Enya.
I bet you would, but I don’t want to rush things. Let’s take it slow. Can I try to guess your social security number? I like you. I hope you like that picture of me up there. That’s not yogurt on my chest, if you catch my drift. I think it’s sour cream.
Drop me your didges and there’s more where that came from. I have a picture of me that I found on a photobomb blog where I’m sticking an entire corn dog down my throat behind a family of German tourists. You can tell they’re German from the backpacks XOXOXOXO
Bitsy Titwittster