Author Archives: iasshole

Five Years, Many Lumps, Lots of Discussions About My Rack

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And get ready cuz this is about to get heavy
I just settled all my lawsuits
“Fuck you, Debbie !!”

–Emenem, “Without Me”

Sup, breeches. Today is my five-year blog anniversary. No, I will not be calling it a Blogoversary. Or an Assaversary. Do I have to slap a bitch. Yes, I know I was on involuntary hiatus for a while, BUT I SAYS IT’S FIVE YEARS, okay? As I have mentioned on my about page, I started this blog to braindump all the evil and stupid things I had done in my life. At that point, it was just itching to burst out of me.

I popped my blog cherry by posting my very first entry at http://i-asshole.diaryland.org. It was about an experience I had as a teenager taking…shortcuts on, ahem, personal lubrication. I got a piece of fanmail that very day (ooohm, portentious), which I will reproduce here for your pleasure.

Hey you asshole faggot!

Noone wants to hear about your pervy sex life! People like you should go fuck them selves or put up pictures so we can see what kind of faggoty shit your talking about. Dickbrain.

I couldn’t put up pictures then, as I had no access to a digital camera or paid server space. This is probably good, because inspired by this, I might have just become a pictorial sex blogger or a camwhore. Instead I was forced to Use My Words.

Eventually I got tired of writing about my past dickbrainism, like all the kids I had spit on, and about torturing my lil’ sister by ruining her science experiment, so I switched to the present tense. The historic entry, which would have been nice if it would have shown me as an older, wiser, reformed asshole, was about me torturing Seattle Federline by fucking up the cement he had been working on all afternoon. I am no peach to live with, I tells you. And let me also tell you he didn’t laugh at the end. I made that up! HAW!

(Wait, my lawyer is telling me what what I meant to say was, I AM and ALWAYS HAVE BEEN a total peach. Such a peach that little boys named James are always trying to follow me around. That’s better.)

I was totally anonymous then, and I used to get emails that started “Dear Asshole,” which I enjoyed. A couple months later I was written up on the Weblog Review as a man, but I got five stars, so it’s okay, right??? I have emailed them and asked them to update my URL, but they don’t seem terribly interested in doing that.

Two days after I started my blog, the National Bummer happened. I clicked around blogtown, which was smaller in them days *hocks out tabbacy juice*. Bloggers everywhere seemed to have a reaction. Some wrote very personal posts about New York and terrorism, others wrote angry political screeds, and other people just chunked up blurry U.S. flag gifs.

I had no reaction but silence. I was so new I didn’t feel like I had anything to contribute. I thought about letting my newborn blog languish and going outside and appreciating life and hugging a squirrel or something. But then I wouldn’t be able to work on my burgeoning librarian can, would I? I came back with the “classic” post, Vaginabreakers. The Rest is (slightly sordid and often-soporific) History.

So next week, starting Monday, I will pull one post every until Friday (yes, that’s one day for each year, Mathletes) and discuss it. I will tell you something you didn’t know, like what was really going on that I wasn’t writing about. I will track down a scanner and there will be pictures…dear god, there will be real life pictures. You will see what a Fatty McFatfat I became after I had Franny. You will see what passed for clothes when I was in my Gwen Stefani/hip-hop phase in 2003. Woof. It will be I! True Asshole Story!

Prepare yourself for Marital Misery! Tales of Unstoppable Racks! Real Behind-the-Scenes Scoop! ASSMITTENTRY! Unflattering Fashion Choices! Pictures of Me, Cute and Not-So-Cute! There may even be Dancing Strudels to break things up.

This is going to be intense, and I hope we will all still respect each other by Friday. Oh, who am I kidding? I am that chick who is pantsless and drinking Diet Coke out of a brown bag ten minutes into a party. Well, stick around to point and laugh then.

“You mean like the backseat of a Volkswagen?”

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Just assume all links may lead to graphic pics today, m’kay?

Holy crap, you guys. This loc, Jason Fortuny, recently posed as a woman on Seattle craigslist’s “casual encounters” section looking for a dominant male for some no-strings humpin’. There was an extremely graphic picture included of a woman bent over and letting it all hang out. He requested stats and a “face pic” as a response to the ad.

AND THEN HE POSTED ALL THE RESULTS. Pictures. Names. Phone numbers. Some of these men are married. Whoops.

When you use craigslist like this, and give out your information, there is no way of ensuring it won’t fall into the wrong hands. Copycat pranks like this are already springing up around the country.

Boy howdy, I feel nervous about anyone having starkers pics of me, let alone emailing them to someone who is representing “herself” as a wide-open beaver. Seriously? Is it worth it? I suppose that if you sent a nice email without pictures and said, “let’s meet in a coffee shop and we can decide from there if I would like to beat you,” you’d probably get deleted.

On the other hand, QUICK, SEATTLE LADIES! Run over there and see if anyone you’ve dated is on the list!!! I love the one that a guy sent that has his peen in another girl’s mouth. YEEEAH, women love that klassy stuff. Don’t tell Companion, but I am praying that for my birthday he will give me a framed picture of him and his ex-girlfriend!

Today, the PNW is not boring.

Jason Fortuny’s LJ
An entry where he discusses the fallout.
Great analysis over on Waxy.org.
Encyclopedia Dramatica has the whole shameful list.

Update! O HAY SIR, please don’t send in a picture of yourself at Disneyland??? with your wife cropped out whilst trolling for sex. kthx.

Update! Because I am a rogue librarian and stuff, and because the original Encyclopedia Dramatica post is now inaccessible because the server blew up (hmm, that’s weird, huh?) here is the Google cache for this entry.

Oh Fweet Tinfoil Hat I Embrace Thee

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Strudelvision is the first hit on You Tube for the search term “DJ Assault.” Sorry, Mr. Assault.

In other, real life news, did you hear that ABC/Disney is making an ad-free drama about The National Bummer five years ago? They’re pulling Clinton into this, because apparently when you get a hummer you are letting the terrorists win. But that whole thing with The Pet Goat…that didn’t actually happen, did you hear? There’s a few interesting articles about this over on Pandagon today.

Oh well. You’re the man now, dog.

Since every day is hyperbole day in these United States, I am going to say that when you buy a Little Mermaid sleeping bag, you are letting the terrorists win.

Speaking of propaganda, I walked over to the Zoo yesterday, and there was no evidence of a Steve Irwin shrine or memorial near the south entrance. Did anyone else catch it, or was the Zoo assuming that there would be a public outpouring of cards, flowers, and little stuffed crocs that didn’t actually come to pass?

My Girl Wants To Party All The Time

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AAAAGGGGGGHHHH!

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I am trying to clean my house, which is making Strudel cry because I’m not paying attention to her every second.

So I sit down to pay attention to her, and she runs off to find crud on the floor to hand to me. I KNOW THERE’S CRUD ON THE FLOOR. I’M TRYING TO CLEAN IT UP!

AAAAGGGGGGHHHH!

I’m going to the Zoo to take pictures of the Steve Irwin shrine there. I can’t clean, and she’s not actually interested in playing. Never satisfied. Sometimes I feel like I’m living with my former in-laws, all wrapped up in one tiny pre-verbal body.

Oh, and PS, The Baby: “HUN HUN HUN HUN HUN,” while annoying and attention-attracting, is not actually a word.

Footie Assault!

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This weekend ended up being relatively quiet, in the end. We had Bumbershoot tickets, but big lamers that we are, we did not go. Now I take a break where I imagine my eighteen-year-old self punching my twenty-eight-year-old self in the fucking face. Sorry, surly youth! I was tired.

DJ Assault was more than enough excitement for me on Saturday night. I decided that since I had some extra time, I would dress up as a hootchie. Because, come on, it’s DJ Assault.

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Figure 1: You better believe the other one reads “J.”

Companion hovered near me in the bathroom while I made myself “pretty” (Necessary Estimated Time: three hours).

Companion: What are you doing?
Me: This is called backcombing.
C: What does that do?
Me: It makes your hair stand up. See, now I comb the unratted hair over the top. POOFY!
C: Is that bad for your hair?
Me: Yup.
C: Now what are you doing?
Me: Curling my hair.
C: Is that bad for your….
Me: Just assume everything I’m doing tonight is bad for me.
C: Okay.

To paraphrase Supa, if it looks good, your hair probably got damaged in the process. It was hard to backcomb my hair without a cigarette hanging out of my mouth, but I managed.

Result: Crazed Anime Shi-Tzu Hoochie!

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“I know that bitch did-EN just call me a SHIT-SOO. Uh-Uh.”

Shi-Tzu, Me. You can’t tell the difference.

I rocked my gold fakeskin shoes, which have left cuts on my footies that are still sore. The price of being a GLAMMA QUEEN, I tells ya.

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I told Daniel that if he bought me enough drinks I would make out with some big booty girls in front of him.

“A double-WHATEVAH for the lady!” he replied, suavely. What a high roller that pimp is.

The rest of the weekend there was grumping and napping by everyone. On Sunday we went to a barbeque at Halo’s parents’ house. Halo changed her plans and will be here for the rest of the week, so MF squee! I haven’t seen her in five months, but due to the gloriousness of free cel phone long distance, we’ve been in touch. It doesn’t make up for seeing her, though. Her off-the-cuff observations, which I’m not used to hearing in person anymore, make me “HAW” several times.

And Gracious Houseguest made her way out of our gentle haven and into her own apartment. I can’t wait to see it!

And now we have no houseguests. This place feels too big for just us and Strudel now. Soon, assuming that they don’t end up in International Dumbass Limbo (IDL), Franny will be back on the fifteenth, all jet-lagged and ready to start first grade!

Now on a sign in a gas station in Wallingford:

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“Thank God for the rain to wash the trash off the sidewalk. “

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Daniel goes peanut butter bonkers on his hair. I think he needs to do a write up on this, or at least mention how long he’s been a hair farmer for. Holy fucking crap. Even if you don’t know Daniel from Adam’s Housecat, it’s still a cool series of pictures. Daniel is my Bitchmaster.

Daniel is officially my Oldest Friend Who Will Deign To Be in the Same Room as Me.

His accomplice was the lovely Zan, who resides over yonder.

In Other News: Assault…Is Comin’, Assault…Is Comin’

Tonight I will be seeing Daniel’s shiny head in person, as we are attending DJ Assault together. I’ll be at Bumbershoot tomorrow, but tonight it’s time for some hardcore ghetto tech. Doors at NINE, BREECHES. Hopefully they will be doling out Pussy By the Pound.

FREEZE, SUCKA!

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As the captain of our new police force, we at the offices of I, Asshole will tell you…YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SEXY. Disregard the sign…please DO cross that line. Especially if you at all resemble a hottub full of jiggly bikini girls.

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Mroow! Expect to be frisked.

Godzilla Meets Gamera; Gamera Comes Away With A Hickey

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HEY WOW, I went on a date last night. With my baby daddy.

No, not Earl. No, not Randall. No, not Marsha. COMPANION. Sheesh, you guys. I guess I have to be more specific.

Anyway, Gracious Houseguest has watched my children twice in the past week so we could go out. Do you know the last time we went out before that? May. And the last time before that? February. I’m talking about out-out, all by ourselves with complicated, highly-stainable clothes and shit.

Presumably (and I say “presumably” because I don’t really know) Franny is in France right now. So we stormed the Greenwood neighborhood with impunity, because we knew other babydaddies wouldn’t be lurking about there. I still heart you, Greenwood. I’m sorry you make Companion a little queasy.

We ate dinner at Olive You, which I liked for lunch about a year ago. The fellow at our friendly neighborhood comics shop (one of the only reasons I come back to Greenwood) told us that Olive You is now featuring a full bar. This was our final deciding factor in going.

Supa ruined me for Seattle Greek food by taking me to this orgasmic place while I was in San Francisco. She’s said in the past that there’s ultra-deluxe Greek food to be had in Denver as well, and I have to admit I thought maybe her memory was telling her it was better than it really was. But I concede to her. There is this whole other tier of Greek food…and it’s not in Seattle. But the appetizers at Olive You are pretty good. The service both times I’ve been has been terrible. I hate having to beg for water, because I’m one of the most water-drinkingest people I’ve ever met. But I will probably go back to get some of those spreads.

Then, to walk off our bursting bellies and make room for beer, we walked up to the 74 Street Ale House. It has been at least two years since I’ve been out for cider on tap, so three went down scary-easy. The waitress remembered us from somewhere, and we told it was from that pub. We confessed that we had a baby and so weren’t out nearly as much. She said that couples often disappear for a while because of spawnatude. “Welcome back,” she said.

The rest of the evening is kind of a blur. I woke up and a bra had been completely torn in half, which was not the bra I began my evening in, my butt hurt, and there was mongoose porn everywhere. Illegal things may have occurred. I think I have met my match. This babydaddy is a keeper. Sorry, Earl. Sorry, Crockett. Sorry, Tubbs.

And today I am staring a lot and eating Peanut Butter Puffins (heck yes, yum) every two hours in lieu of actual meals. I think we should go out more often so I don’t have a Shedonism explosion like this every time. And tonight we are going to the elementary picnic to meet Franny’s new teacher! I am going to buy corndogs at the Quite Fucking Costly to eat while the good moms there serve their progeny something organic! I’ll get to say, “Would you like more eyeballs and assholes in a sweet corn coat, sweetheart?” All this without Franny! So I will get to tell everyone who innocently asks, “Did Franny get off to France alright?” what happened. Suckas!