Raunchy like a Hurricane

Yesterday, I'm asked by Chelsey: "What's that song? dum dum dum..be-HIND!"

I'm stumped..

She continues, "You know. Cake, cake, pie...be-HIND!"

Me chuckling, "umm..miss murder?"

I'm thinking that beats all.



That's TWO POSTS IN A ROW about baby related things! (well, technically one's about breasts)
Do you see what's happening here, people? Sabotage!! In it's rawest form. What an outrage!

You used to be cool, Liz. You used to talk art and politics and say nifty things. Now you talk about poop and boobies. (although not together, I hope)

And now the thought on everyone's mind is, do you think of ANYthing else?
Yes, I do.

Sex, for example (ha! not you, Aneeta) but then apparently that makes babies so maybe it would mean I was baby-starved?

Sometimes I think of drinking, but then last time I went down to the local watering hole (don't worry, Seth bartends there. I'm not a total tramp) the Mustard inevitably tagged along dressed in his green Sunday finest. The inebriated clientele immediately hailed him as their leprechaun mascot and made me down a Nuclear Rainbow. Mustard, of course, loved the goings on and was soon doing keg-stands all on his own.
Great, now I look completely immoral. That sex-thinking, drinking girl.

Lets see, mmmm...oh! I occasionally like to think about art because in a perfect world I would be making the title, 'Legend of Artistic Genius' daily with my outrageous techniques and heart-stopping symmetry. The brush in my deft fingers creating whorlpools (haha, i typed poop on accident. i was tempted to leave it. whorlpoops. haha, i'm so mature) of color while I illustrate the depths of human emotion or the dizzying hights of the surreal.
..aand then my eyes snap into focus and I discover to my chagrin I've been fingerpainting mustard-like stains onto the wall above the diaperless Avicus.

What's the dealio?
Bewildered in Texas

Link of the Day, nay, the Week

Or because when first faced with the prospect of breastfeeding in public, I admit, I was timid and brought him back to the bathroom.
However, one look at the toilet, that particular odor, and I wondered "Why isn't everyone eating in here?" (Luckily, my forward-thinking is shared with a fellow in Taiwan. One day we must meet.)
But till the day I begin my lavatory feasting, I'm going to have my tender infant eat where I do...under the staircase.

Because Mother Nature made bottles for a reason.


Month II and a Half

Hello little Tycoon.
This is what your daddy calls you all day.
When I say: "Can you hold him for a minute? I need to take a shower."
"Could you change his diaper?"
"Here, say Hi."

Invariably these are met with, "But he's juuust a little Tyke-oon."

I think it's become true as you certainly have gained a measure of power and prestige over your humble subjectants.
For example, I am awoken at 8 am with a sharp rap across my cheek and a stern, "Give me of your succulent bosom that I may suckle till I am sated.' I dutifully oblige and patiently keep awake until you take you're full, stretch langorously in your giraffe printed jammies, and curl back to sleep.

True to your tycoon-ness, you sleep in till the luxurious hour of 12, but seeing as you party until 2:00 am it's not really a surprise.

You have mastered the art of "Fist-to-Mouth". And you are more than willing to perform at all hours of the day. I approach your bouncy throne and inquire "What is your will, little manfreid?"

You reply with a vicious Mouththrust and a gurgle for good measure.

I painted a picture of a topless Black and White Woman which is displayed on the wall and this has become your Playboy of Choice. You stare, you chortle, you hold privy conversations with her monochromatic beauty, till I remove you from her presence. Then you shove your entire thumb and forefingers into your mouth in an act of defiance. "Grrakk"

It's true, the rumor you've heard, that I think he's pretty much the swellest character. But who doesn't love a tycoon, especially when they treat you with moon-calf eyes and a fixating crooked smile when he hears your voice, regales you with tales of his pre-existance and then shoves a meaningful fist in his maw?

I dare Systemite.net

How does the idea of Freedom of Choice coexist with Divine Preordination?



Desiring You. Me.

A couple months ago, the KGB asked me to do a little web design for them. They wanted to update their image a bit to appeal to the youth of today. A "little more flair, a little less scare", they said in their rumbling Russian accent.

And so Boris and Molotov opened their stony hearts to try to relate somewhat to the outside world. Somewhere they can release a little of their pent up tensions and maybe even garner some converts.
Don't expect these guys to update too often as much of their time is spent on covert missions where isolation and secrecy is of the utmost importance, although the return tales of their adventures should be well worth the wait.

I give you: KGB Headquarters.


The newest and rather disspointing read

so I was gonna sit down and take some time to tell you about my trip but then as I finish doing my other important computer work and I get around to Faire un Nom I realize I'm not really interested at this moment. I'm sort of like a jaded lover. It just doesn't turn me on right now.

So too bad, maybe another night, baby.

Besides Gobbledygook tells it better than I do. Check it, check it. Word.

(I know you were here all like, "Dude! Liz has got a new post! Halleljuah!"...and then slowly, it dawns on you..."That was it? That little spurt on the page? And now I'm going to have to wait for another 3 weeks for another dissapointment like that one? Forget THIS blog. I'm going to give my affections to a more trustworthy and steady blog who, granted, may not be all that sexy but will give me what I need!")

And you know? I wouldn't blame you.