Boys and Their Wars

Killer is entrenched in this "blog battle", which can only end badly. Without any provocation, any just purpose, he has assaulted me. ME... an innocent!

What's the difference between Killer and President George Bush?

At least Bush got out of college with a "C" average.

Please, dear reader, look away as I directly address the C.E.O. of this blog. I'm doing it out of a sincere concern for Killer and his unexplainable drive to throw Killer Rants at me. Feel free to offer your support. Your letters in this time of crisis are what sustain him.



Dear Killer,

I have read your post below and noted the picture, including the smell waves and the accusation that I reek of bologna.

First of all, thank you for making me so pretty and skinny in the picture!

Secondly, what a strange fantasy; that I would smell like bologna. Your association with yet another meat product is disturbing. I recommend you talk to a professional about your meat issues, especially your commitment to "sausage"... and you know what I'm talking about. Not that there's anything wrong with it.

I've posted a picture below (from your most recent road trip) to remind you how out of control and how obvious your problem has become. If Freud were alive today...

MMMM...The Smell of a Southern Woman

Don't Call it a Comeback!

Liz smells like fried bologna. I don't know why or if she even notices. People often can't smell their own unique aroma, so she'll probably deny it.

Since none of you know Liz, and since there is absolutely no reason for any sane person to travel to Mississippi, you will have to take my word for it.

I wish computers had smell compatibility, because I would upload a fried bologna smell to blast out at you. Instead I am forced to settle for the following diagram:


If you notice, I was kind enough to put the smell lines coming from Liz's head, but I really don't think that is the source. I am unsure as to the ages of our readers, so I did not want to get too graphic.

Let the Gay Man Speak

Oh stop it:

So, Killer wants to bust chops by telling you all that I am a flamboyant gay man? I did this search on Ask.com: Am I a gay man?

I'd love to argue with Killer, but I think he's right. At least Ask.com says so.

I have lots in common with gay men. I love a power drill. I'm very fond of a two-day beard rubbed across my back. My old boyfriend was the office slut too.

If it weren't for this damn vagina, the transition would be complete.

It's the comb over comment that I don't approve of. Wait. Let me rephrase:

Killer, if you talk about my hair again I will make you my bitch so fast those waxed balls you keep talkin' about will be gagging your sorry ass. You'll be choking on the stubble before you even know they've been cut. Now, fix me some iced tea. WITH LEMON.

There. That's my threatening rebuttal.

When I agree that I'm a gay man, I do want you to keep something important in mind. When you're talking about me and Killer, there is only one of us who is willing to experiment with anal penetration.

Hint: It's not me.

Liz Has a Comb Over

Killer dissin' Liz (for the publicity)

Leno vs. Letterman, 50 cent vs. Ja Rule, Biggie vs. Tupac, and the Donald vs. Rosie. Until recently I thought these were all silly, meaningless squabbles. It was all evidence of immature adults, acting like children.

But recently, I have found reason to see the light. I wrote a seemingly innocent post about some imaginary Olympic sports, that I thought I could win. Instead of training myself to fit in the already formulated sports, I decided it would be easier to start a new sport that fit me. In an attempt at a weak segue I mentioned an Olympic sport that I did not really know much about, and assumed none of you did either. I apparently brought offense to a die hard Trampoline fan. Normally I would give a mild rebuttal and move on, but the rebuttal was met with more friction. I was flabbergasted at the unkind words and apparent anger that maligned trampoliners can muster. I debated, "Should Killer Rants close shop? What would Liz do when she was drunk, if not blog?" Liz and I nurtured this blog from our bosoms. (true Liz's are slightly bigger than my own) If our beloved creation should now be used in such a manner to cause heartache and woe for others, should it not be put down?

Then I saw the numbers rolling in. It received the most comments for a post, not discussing my balls, ever. That is the feedback we strive for, we yearn for, we drink heavily for not receiving. Does a good controversial verbal rumble really draw in the crowds? Is the Donald calling Rosie "a fat pig" only to gain free publicity? Did Biggie and Tupac kill each other only to sell more albums, posthumously? Can I start a blogging battle with my good friend Liz, just to see if my site meter still works? Yes, yes I can.

Liz is a campy, flamboyant gay man in disguise. Every over the top stereo type of a gay man you see on television is Liz to a tee. A few years back Liz even showed up to our mutual hangout with a black and white cow fur- leather Harley hat. A hat straight out of "the Blue Oyster Bar" from the Police Academy movies.

There, I have fired the first volley. If I was more talented I would write a rap album, and pepper it with clever slurs against Liz, but this will have to do.