2003-02-12

OK, I�ve had a request for an entry about a fucked-up childhood memory. Aaaannnd�I got nothin�. My childhood was irredeemably bland. I grew up in a scenic area of British Columbia (Kelowna, for my Canuck readers), playing barefoot in the woods and stealing apples off neighbors� trees. It�s enough to make you hurl vomit like that cunting Linda Blair.

That�s my favourite line from The Exorcist: �Look what she�s done�your cunting daughter!� Woo! �Cunting.� See, I didn�t even know that �cunt� was a verb! But if the Prince of Darkness says it�s a verb, well, damned if I�m going to argue. I�m not sure what action exactly is designated by the verb �to cunt�, but it�s fun to speculate, isn�t it?

Which brings me to my point. God needs a new public address system if he�s going to get his edge back. Obviously, when people have to choose between listening to some platitude-spouting peacenik with a piercing fetish or a foul-mouthed and preternaturally flexible teenage girl, it�s the bucking bronco ride with tits all the way, oozing facial pustules or no oozing facial pustules.

Wow. If that tangent got any more X-treme, it would need its own show on TSN.