All I can say is it’s about fucking time unicorns got what they deserved. Year after year, they show up in fantasy art looking all mystical and glittery. Granting wishes. Spearing things. Peeing on your grandma’s corpse. Kicking babies. Stealing your underpants… Wait a second, that’s not unicorns. That’s me!!!

via Jame “No Joke” Hoke

Any side of the bed this cuckoo clock wakes you up on is the wrong side. Of course, I don’t need any inspiration to wake up as a haunted, homicidal schizophrenic. My morning murder rage is entrenched and dependable as your bed-wetting. But, I guess The Shining Cuckoo could be a step up from the Jenna Jameson alarm clock I’ve been using – decorating-wise. Just depends on what kind of Stabbin’ Cabin I feel like living in that day.

If I were totally invisible, I’d probably murder a lot more. After that, I’d just walk around quoting lines from The Shadow radio show. Then I’d miss the hurt faces people make when they can actually see you flipping them off for no reason. And after that, there’d be no reason to go on, would there?

It’s Friday, otherwise known as the night I get hammered on white wine and throw things at men. Why? Pregnany, war and Tommy Bahama – all your fault. You might as well all be Himmler.

You know what else is hammered? This stuff. And if you think that was heavy handed, just wait until you get punched in the groin.

Artist Haroshi makes art out of old skateboards. I, on the other hand, make art out of skateboarders. Okay, fine, I call it “art”, you call it “roadkill” or “carnage” or “vehicular manslaughter.” Jesus, everyone’s gotta have an opinion.

via Clint, whose bowling name is Clunt

I want Judy Paul’s Tiger River print for the empty wall space above my bed. See, the tiger is a metaphor. Sure, it says that I’m a wild cat in the sack, but much like a tiger I can also spend up to eighteen hours sleeping, I eat mostly meat but will occasionally enjoy vegetation for fiber, and that I made my first kill at around 18 months of age.

I already wrote one good post and then Dumb Alan told me it was ancient and asked if a pterodactyl sent it to me. Now I’m stuck with this thing which is a little unsettling and a lot psychotic. I mean I threaten violence as much as the next gal, but when it gets right down to it, I’m a poisoner.

I told my last man-friend that I wanted a trip to Paris for Valentine’s Day. Instead, he got me this Eiffel Tower broom. Yeah. Paris, Paris icon-shaped broom? Same dif. Just like being sedated and operated upon with a surgical blade is the same as me duct taping you to the floor and going after you with a rusty cheese grater. What? You’re the one who wanted a vasectomy.

PS – All of that is a lie. I hate fucking Valentine’s Day.

Today is just one of those days and I’m in a mood. A mood called “I hate you.” It doesn’t matter who you are or if you sail a yacht around the world saving baby turtles and curing children’s cancer, I hate your face and want you to die. I hate you more than I hate Arby’s. More than I hate fixies. More than I hate fun.  But don’t take it personally, because it’s not just you. It’s also everyone else. Even this cheerful lemon print and its sexual innuendo. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some lunch and a meeting to hate and then a full day of hate.

This is enormous, but you, too, can have a smaller man-shaped herb garden if you just do it your damn self. Simply decide which herbs to grow, trace out the shape of a person, and plant them in the ground. It’s cute, easy, and results in a charming garden sure to impress the people who pretend they’re your friends just so they can watch American Idol on your flatscreen TV.

Fun tip: For the ideal “man shape,” scrape away the top layer of soil until the remains of your probation officer are just under the surface. Pat the dirt firm so you get a corpse relief, then trace the body shape with a pick ax. Easy!