I'm ready for my strip search, sir

No, the title is not a reference to she who will not be named that got out of her stint in jail this week and instead of disappearing like I've been praying for nightly, over the span of many years, she's even MORE in the news. For fuckingsake, I nearly had to turn off my TV. The reason for my titillating title is because I got arrested myself this week and boy did it suck.

OK, that was a total lie. I didn't get put in no slamma. I'm going on vacation! Well, that's also a lie. I'm not leaving on a jet plane to a tropical isle where cabana boys draped in loin cloths bring me fruity drinks with paper umbrellas and I get shtuped on a boat deck by my beloved, I'm going to visit my family. Alone. No whitey. Just me. Yea. Family.

In a few short hours I'll be here. It's breezy, but nice.

My brother and niece are already at my parents house and that kid, in all her obnoxious monkey behavior, does act as a buffer between the crazytudinal adults that will sharing space under a single roof for a week. And she's 10 now so hopefully she'll be interested in more than Polly Pockets and riding her bike up and down the street.

My parents live in (near) fucking Yellowstone, dammit, who wants to ride a bike when you can go molest grizzly bears? Not me, that's who. Plus I don't ride bikes anymore. My ass swallows the seat whole and I dunno, that's not the look I want to portray to the world while trying to enjoy a Sunday stroll. Like a woman with a Schwinn growing out of her poonani. Call me crazy.

I'm pretty excited about getting away because work has been a bitch and my house is not selling and when I'm not thinking about how grateful I am for being alive or kissing on my lovely boyfriend I feel pretty damn shitty. Could be hormones. Could be the time of year since summer isn't all that when your a hot, sweaty mess all the time.

Remember when summer came and you struggled through the last few days of school and everything had that special feel about it? All the formal clothes were retired and replaced by shorts and swimsuits and it was all about having fun.

Eventually we'd come into the house smelling like chlorine and the sun and beg my mother for some type of frozen treat to cool us off and instead of store bought otter pops that were the rage and envy of any house that had them, despite the sharp edges ripping your mouth apart, we got knock-off grape sugar water in the ice cube tray with toothpicks.

Ahh, good times.

I plan on taking a bazillion fo toes and I hope it'll be a fun time and while I'm away you kids be good! Don't blow yourselves up with illegal fireworks and you Canucks turn on some AC. I'll miss you like stupid, baby. See you in a week!

Take note

Things I will do while drunk in Los Angeles:

1. Shove my ample cleavage in the cabbies window as an extra thank you.
2. Alternate between Corona 40's and Sutter Home zinfandel and be proud of it.
3. Tell a perfect stranger that I'd fuck Prince because I'd have no choice anyway. If Prince wants to fuck you it's gonna happen.
4. While trying to do the pee-pee hover get a little on the floor (and shoes) and not care a bit.
5. Scream "IT'S STIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG" at the top of my lungs like a teenage girl. Many times.
6. Pay $70.00 FOR 2 GOD DAMN CONCERT T-SHIRTS!
7. Yell "YEAAAAAAAA" while waving double rock fingers in the air. \m/ \m/
8. Walk 2 miles through the ghetto trying to catch a cab and shouting "asshole" at those who wouldn't pick us up.
9. [censored]

Doo doo doo me

I have just one word for you people.

THE POLICE!!

OK, technically that's 2 words, but YOU KNOW WHO I'M TALKING ABOUT!! RIGHT??

Wait, maybe you don't. Maybe you LIVE UNDER A ROCK!! Or, hrm, were born in 1980-fuckingsomething or ~gulp~ even later and weren't blessed to have experienced one of the best bands and most famous hot tantric-sexers on the planet. And for that, it SUCKS TO BE YOU! HA HA!!

And if you didn't score tickets to one of the reunion concerts, like I did, than it REALLY SUCKS TO BE YOU!! WOOT!! Although, hmm, maybe you don't care or don't like their music and therefore are obviously an alien life form with zero taste so in that case you JUST SUCK!! WEEEEE!!

If you hadn't noticed, I'M A LITTLE BIT EXCITED TODAY!! However, I'm not amped up about driving to Los Angeles or paying $35 a day (you heard me) to park at the fancy hotel we're staying in but I am looking forward to getting out of town for a night and doing something more than folding laundry and watching reruns of Trading Spaces: Shitty Designer Edition all weekend. And fucking hell, it's THE POLICE!! With Sting. Sting! Stiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.

Why do I suddenly feel like putting on a day-glo orange mesh shirt and globbing my mouth with iridescent pink lipstick? Huh. Anyway, it's finally here and I'm stoked!

We're bedding down in a very nice hotel that is a total splurge but I don't care. I wanted a room with a telephone by the toilet and there had better be one, dammit. Anyone want a phone call this weekend? We'll be sleeping on a heavenly bed (whatever that means) and handing over 5 dollar bills to surly teens who will be opening our doors and retrievig the car. And I can't wait!

We'll drive up in the afternoon, hopefully timing it perfectly for our 3:00 check-in, and pray we don't get caught in hours of fuck-ass traffic. My grand plan is to relax for a couple of hours, have a cocktail, get ready, have a cocktail, cab it to the stadium, have a cocktail, ROCK OUT, have a cocktail, I LOVE YOU STING, cab it back to the hotel, [censored], go to sleep.

Then after a nice long lounge in bed the next morning (read: sleeping it off) we'll check out by noon and head over to the Long Beach Aquarium for fishies and piccies then hopefully get home at a decent hour so we can relax some more with a few Netflix movies waiting for us.

Doesn't that all sound like fun? It had better work out that way. Dammit. FUN!

I've decided that I'm going to put aside all the heavy crap that happened this week, like finding out my uncle has what is probably a brutal and swiftly fatal case of prostate cancer, an old and much-admired acquaintance was freshly diagnosed with breast cancer and a new doc of mine has ordered a jamdownmygullet endoscopy test to grab a chunk of my guts for a biopsy. Which is one of the words that causes me to shit my pants and have 47,000 anxiety attacks.

ALL of that will be put on the back burner until after I ogle Sting's buttocks, buy every souvenir my credit card (and our arms) will allow, slam my boyfriend like a $2 hoor on the 18th floor of the Westin, make a phone-call from the pooper, take a zillion photos, and carve out a moment to just sit and breathe.

Which all sounds damn good to me.

Happy Born Day

I will save the rant I have brewing for another today since it's your birthday and thus all crankiness must wait until tomorrow!!

Happy 32cnd, baby!! I love you more than words can say and I hope this next year brings you, fucking finally, some of the things you so desire. (We'll get there, babe, we'll get there.)

Thank you for being the most super awesome person on the planet who I adore so much it hurts and thanks to your mama for pushing your ass out of hers. You are the frosting on my cake, the ketchup on my fries and the brave against my crazy. And as always, I love you more than my luggage.

MUAH!

I felt a little dizzy

Oh lerd. The Fair. Who would think that going to the fair to look at my photo and eat fried whatevertheyputinthevat would make me have so many feelings. Feelings that are barely contained and spill all over the floor in a big feeling mess. Don't step in the pile of feelings!! Someone get the paper towels!! And a mop!

It's a well-known fact my brain is broken. I have the Edsel of skulls. The new Coke of minds.

I entered that photo contest saying that I'd be thrilled if just one of my 6 photos made it onto the wall, the hell with getting a ribbon. One of my photos made it onto the wall and didn't get a ribbon and I was thrilled. For about a day. Then I was bummed. Then excited. Then irritated, followed by happy, then back around to bummed. Then anxious. See? Broken.

I was so excited and proud of myself until I started thinking, which is what always gets me into trouble. The photo that was chosen was, in my opinion, the worst of the lot I turned in. Not taken with my most expensive camera, reflections spots all over the top, so how in hell was it picked? Were the others so horribly bad? What was the criteria? Should I throw in this towel before it's got a drop of sweat on it?

It's so dumb, but gets dumber, just wait.

After fighting the crowds just to get into the damn place, walking around a bit and eating crap we finally made it up to the photography exhibit. Upon seeing the first display I slowly developed a teeny tiny anxiety attack. The photos, one after another, BLEW ME AWAY. They were unbelievably beautiful. Impossibly amazing. Staggeringly awesome. All over the place! Everywhere I looked I said to myself, holy shit, what the fuck am I doing here?

And occasionally I was like, dammit, I should have submitted that other picture, or, hey, I turned in one almost exactly like that, why didn't mine make it? But mostly I just crapped my pants and felt unworthy and impressed beyond belief at the same time. I mean, these people had talent. Assloads of talent. Talent I thought I might have sometimes when the moon is in the 7th house of Jupiter on the 4th Thursday in the second quarter of the year.

(I'm not always chock-full of confidence ready to kick ass and take names. Sometimes I'm a big old crybaby with very little self-assurance and a abundance of self-doubt. This was one of those times. I'm human. Occasionally.)

As we were walking around I wasn't finding my photo and thought I could be all cool about it but finally I couldn't take it any more. I wasn't going to be able to concentrate let alone process oxygen until I found it. We booked it to the other side of the room and there, right in the middle of the wall was my shark. I squealed "there it is!" And smiled and jumped a little off the ground, then noticed IT LOOKED LIKE CRAP.

I thought I'd mounted it OK since I was ignorant to such things and didn't know anything about the process and it was too late to get it professionally dry mounted so I was stuck using artists tape and apparently did a shitty job paired with gravity which equaled a very wrinkly slightly embarrassing display and I wanted to cry through my pride. It felt like I sent my kid to the first day of school with miss-matched shoes and a lunch of peanut-butter & mayo on rye carried in a full-sized grocery bag.

These pictures are like my little children. I feel attached to them and responsible and it was a vulnerable thing to go through, especially when want to lick your finger and smooth out that wayward hair sticking straight up. But then I was also proud and wanted to tell the strangers milling about that hey! That one's mine! Although I didn't because fucking hell, my poor little pocket-camera shark was flanked by stunning portraits from the sea and not 1 but 2 merit ribbons!



Oh, the drama. I was splashed with emotions, a little indigestion from the fried Pepsi, and I've spent the last 2 days vacillating between thinking I'm a dork who doesn't compare to knowing that I'm just starting out, know virtually nothing about photography or my camera and gawd forbid I can fucking remember what aperture means so pull my head out, what do I expect?

Such is the pattern of so many minds, I think. Bouncing between the I sucks why bother and man, this makes me want to learn and strive and go as far as I can go. Frankly, if you concentrate on the former and not the latter then you're kind of a jerk and I'm no jerk. Cranky, yes, jerk - no.

I will also take my own advice I gave out recently that change is supposed to hurt. Some learning experiences are uncomfortable so we can recognize the hard work put into it. (Which, btw, SUCKS.) But, I will deal with my pulses of displeasure and moments of pain and get a grip on my feelings of lame and push myself to be better. As Big Black would say, "Do WORK, Betty, Do WORK." Which I will.

And next time I'm getting that shit properly mounted. Oi.

Wheeeee

I don't know when it happened. Was there a magic age? Turning 30? Was it from a blow to the head, I've had plenty. Or did my natural equilibrium drain out of me that last time I "accidentally" drank too many glasses of wine topped with the strongest Vodka cranberry cocktails known to man and I ended up barfing every last drop of moisture from my body until my eyeballs popped out of my head and rolled across the floor like 2 dried prunes.

I can't ride roller coasters any more.

Now, you might be thinking, oh yes, that is the biggest tragedy of the year, but hell, I like roller coasters and I'd like to be able to go to an amusement park and not have to bring a fucking book to read (yes, I've actually done this) while my crew stands in line and enjoys losing consciousness without me. And it's almost summer and that's prime coaster riding time, yo but I can't participate. In fact, I can hardly ride anything anymore. And it sucks.

I loves me some Disneyland and luckily I can still ride the ones they have there, so I think, but I can put money on it that I'd never survive the rides they have next door at California Adventure. And just about everyone I know tells me Space Mountain and the Matterhorn aren't real roller coasters and I'm still a pussy. But I'm not a pussy, I say! It's not my fault!

It's not my fault that my heart stops when I lean over too far and it feels like my head is going to explode. It's not my fault that I get dizzy when I go over a speed bump. And I'm not to blame that I nearly have a myocardial infarction when things get a little out of control in the boudoir, if you know what I mean. It's my brain or something. Or my pancreas. That damn moody pancreas. It's all his fault.

The last time I rode a real coaster I almost died. Seriously. At least I felt like I was dying. We were at Six Flags and my x-boyfriend thought it would be oh so much fun to go on the old-fashioned wooden coaster. I was trying to be brave and all good girlfriendy and agreed with a smile. After the initial click click clicks of the ascent I held on tight and off we went into what I can only describe as a chiropractors dream and one of my worst nightmares.

We were thrown and jarred and my bones crunched and popped and every descent stopped my heart cold. I don't like the feeling of my stomach dropping because I'm absolutely positive it means my blood has turned to mud and my organs are being squeezed into my nasal passages anyway, but this shit was beyond brutal. Loop-d-loos are one thing, 100 story drops are another. Mix those with a pile of rickety old wooden slats and a car covered in lead paint and you have a disaster waiting to happen.

I barely made it and regretted every second. And to this very day I have a reoccuring nightmare that I'm on a roller coaster and it flies off the track a la Final Destination 17 or whatever. So not worth it but what the hell happened to me?

I used to love going on all other varieties of death-defying state fair-type rides put together by toothless carnies nursing wicked cough syrup hangovers and carrying bad attitudes against stupid rich kids who can afford to spend $20 trying to win a purple tiger stuffed with sawdust and the broken souls of homeless drifters by shooting rancid water into the mouth of a maniacal plastic clown.

I would get all excited whenever there was a local fair or a Halloween festival or a school function with a rented pony, I was riding something that would spin me in a circle fast enough to cause a snot line sideways across my face. I remember one time, at some rodeo ho-down carnival thing in our pseudo-shit kicker town, that I talked my bff at the time (April Gonzales) into going on The Zipper. I was stoked and jumped in ready to rock and roll. (Ha ha, roll. Get it? The wit, it kills me.)

If you've never had the pleasure there's a lever on the inside of the cage that allows you to somewhat control the flippage of your own car, since the whole damn thing goes up and around then your individual cage also flips around. After our door was firmly locked with a used toothpick from the corner of the carnies mouth we were off.

I wrapped my stubby fingers around the controller and pulled all the way back causing us to spin backwards at warp speed approximately 250 times a minute which could or could not be an exaggeration. Little did I know April was a giant chickenshit who didn't even like the ride and proceeded to scream in my ear for the entirety we were on it.

She tried to get me to stop the bonus flipping I was in control of but being the devil child that I am was I ignored her desperate shrieks and hysterical wails and spun away. Flip. Flip. Flip. Scream. Cry. Flip. Until she managed to peel her head from the backrest, lean over towards me and sink her crooked teeth a good inch into the soft flesh of my upper arm. That damn April.

After it was my turn to let out a scream I eased up on the damn flipping and the ride was over. We poured our dizzy, Ditto'd asses onto the ground where she promptly barfed red snow cone all over a hay bail. Guess I didn't consider the possibility that she could have vomited inside the rolling cage where it would have slapped me in the face repeatedly until the ride came to a stop. Suppose I'll take a bite over that.

Not all of my experiences have been good ones like that, heh. There was another time in junior high when the whole 7th grade went to a semi-local theme park and I was lucky enough to get a seat in the very first car of a coaster that basically just shoots you forwards and backwards with a loop in the middle. After one successful round we pressed our luck and ran around for another go but this time was different.

We shot forward and instead of losing speed after the first loop and gently coasting towards the stopper at the top we slammed into it then went rocketing backwards crashing into the emergency stopper in the back then whizzed through the launching area and halfway back up the loop where we were stopped on a dime causing everyone's pencil necks to snap. Something similar to what happened to these poor saps who got stuck upside down the other day.

Or else I've remembered it in an incorrect and dramatic fashion for all of these years and it was a simple matter of the ride malfunctioning for a second but it scared the piss out of me and I never went on it again.

I was also enjoying Splash Mountain sometime in my 20's when all of a sudden our log, along with 3 others, came to a bobbing halt as we all knocked into each other stacking up like a quad of giant turds in a stream. Something had broken in such a way that it was necessary to shut the whole shabang down and prevent the rest of the passengers from plunging to their death or whatever we were ultimately headed for.

We were in log number 3 and I could see up ahead that log number 1 was resting against a set of bracing doors. After a few minutes of wondering WTF and listening to Zipadeedodah blasting in our faces the lights came up, the music went off and a voice from somewhere instructed us to get out of our logs and walk behind us to a door.

Everyone chuckled nervously since we still didn't know what the hell was going on but we did as we were told and hoisted ourselves up and out and carefully walked around and over the whirring and whiz-popping animatronic animals that were still moving around to silent music.

A door opened and a Disney person in costume motioned us over to her and we were led down a scaffold-type set of metal stairs and onto the back lot. We all followed her to another door that she opened and the small group of us were deposited back into Frontierland amid the throngs of Disneygoers.

When I turned around the door we just came through was gone, disappeared into the fake logs of a fake fort wall. It was like going from a psychedelic color movie to a black and white back to a color. Surreal to say the least and we never did find out what the hub bub was all about in the first place but we got to cut in line when the ride was fixed about an hour later and I (obviously) survived the big plunge so hey, I have that going for me. Which is nice.

But alas, I fear these days I couldn't withstand a Ferris wheel let alone a mild coaster. Just the thought makes me swoon. Our county fair is going on right now and we're going on Sunday (to see one of my photos that was chosen for display in the photo contest, my very first one ever thankyouverymuch) and we won't be venturing over to the Fun Zone. I'll just have to be happy watching the pig races with some deep fried Coke and giant pickle on stick.

I'm here to be entertained, you know

The skies were a pale shade of grey and the morning as crisp as a cracker. We'd decided a few days previous that a weekend trip to the San Diego Zoo was in short order since we hadn't been in a couple of years and my fancy shmancy digital camera hadn't been used on the critters inhabiting our "world famous."

We don't often venture out of the house on a Sunday since we spend so much of our time in the presence of botards and fuckwits, stuck in traffic and lines and all other matters of urban sprawl but we won't be here in Southern California for much longer (gawd damn willing) so we need to soak it up while we can.

We woke up relatively early, ahem, let me clarify, I woke up at my normal retarded hour of 6:49 a.m. and he didn't sleep past 10:00 so our day began almost at the same time (please note my use of the sarcastic font.)

We drug ourselves out of the house and hopped in my car. After a stop for coffee (him), water (me), and egg mcnasties (us) we were on our way. I was hoping the skies would stay dark since that's a much more comfortable time outdoors for me on account of I'm the heat miser with better hair but any temp upwards of 65 and over has me sweating and whining and melting into the floor in a crabby mess. And, lower temps won't heat up the animals sending them into dens, under brush or otherwise comatosed.

All was going smoothly down the road and I hadn't had a panic attack yet. Oh, haven't I mentioned? Ever since last January when I was taking whitey to the airport, and I was positively dying from bronchitis, I've had heart-stopping, head-swirling, fucking hell I'm going to pass out while driving 75 mph panic attacks. It's so much fun (saracasm again.) So anyway, going smoothly, driving, yada yada when I noticed a long string of orange cones on the freeway as far as my sleepy eyes could see.

Hmm, I said to myself, they've shut down the fast lane, strange. After moving a lane to the right I was forced over another then another and WTF! The whole fucking freeway was CLOSED and before I knew what was happening I had no choice but to detour to a whole 'nother freeway and consequently travel on one that does not go past the effing zoo. Well shit damn crap.

Fucking hell, I said out loud realizing I'd screwed up my days and the reason for the closure was the stupid Rock-n-Roll marathon. I mean, who the hell needs to run 26pointasshole miles and on a friggen freeway no less, anyway? Argh! After switching to our 5th freeway, yes, 5th, we were finally on the right road and made our way into the Zoo parking lot which didn't look all that crowded yet so maybe it wouldn't suck too bad.

However, by the time we arrived 20 plus miles to the South the sun had poked through the clouds and I was squinting. Great. I hoped we were still early enough and it was cool enough that the animals would be a little active. Ha ha. I'm funny. Whitey and I half-heartedly joke that we have no luck and when we're together we have bad luck times two. Today was no exception.

Our first stop was the flamingos who, if you didn't already know, smell like a shit house full of shit covered in shit. But they are pretty. It must be brooding season or whatever you call bird porn because these feathered fellows had turned most of their enclosure into a birthing ground. I had no idea they made giant nests out of mud. I didn't get any closer than this because of the shit.

P. U.



After we got a good smell look at the birdies we pointed ourselves towards the children's zoo, which, unfortunately, you can only get to by passing the snake house. I have a pretend-you-don't-exist/hate relationship with snakes and lizards and tend to be very prejudice picking and choosing what I think is OK and what should be gathered up, stuffed into a rocket and blasted into another universe.

Of course the boy wanted to look at all things gross and fatal so we started at the first corner of the 4-sided structure where I was promptly face-to-face with this beauty.

She was a big-boned Caucasian gal.


That is the kind of snake that doesn't make me want to throw myself onto the ground and stab my minds eye out with a rusty spork to avoid the memory recall I'll undoubtedly have at wonderful moments like when I feel a tickle on my leg and don't automatically think it's a stray hair hanging from my yoga pants or something else reasonable but probably something like this:


Blech.


I know!

I'm proud to say I only freaked out (loudly and publicly, mind you, there was plenty of silent screaming) about 5 times and I made it all the way around with only a little stress rash starting on my right arm, go me. I tried to take some decent pictures which was not easy through old warped glass not to mention they were of reptiles anyway. Such as these:

Blech. Blech.


And this:

Anyone need any insurance?


Next we went to the komodo dragon house (hello! We're supposed to be going to the children's fucking furry babies and no icky snakes zoo!) and was surprised to see the big guy out and about. He was crusing around and I was all "yay, he's not laying around! We're getting lucky!" And I took some pics! And he was actually cool! And I didn't vomit!

How yoooooo doin'?


And then exactly one minute later he booked over to a rock and laid down and didn't move again.

I'm so over it.


Sigh. On our way to the children's zoo and the nursery that I was so excited about because baby animals squeee! we stopped to gawk at the parrots. Who did nothing but stare at us.

You got a problem? I'll give you a problem.


or refused to look me in the eye. Hmf.

I'm not looking at you, you know.


And that's where I knew our double-whammy bad luck had followed us again and I was not to be proven wrong.

The dik dik wasn't havin' it.

Who you callin' a dik? Dik.


The ducks were aloof.

Gah, I'm so fucking full.


I'm blue.


And the goat wouldn't get out of the bucket.

This bucket is all I need.


The bat-eared fox was unresponsive.



The meerkat was tuckered.



And I think a little depressed.

~sigh~ What does it all mean...


Of course there were no babies in the nursery to squeal over, unless you count the 50 pound porcupine, so we went over toride the sky tram thingy and check out the polar bears, smelling the flowers along the way, well, at least the bee did.

Does this flower make my butt look big?


No moonboots on the tram!



We arrived at the other end of the zoo and watched a small animal chase around and kick the crap out of another small animal and since I couldn't do anything about it I took pictures of a hummingbird.

I should NOT have had that last cup of coffee.


We walked down a hill to steep you practically had to scoot down on your butt and went to see the polar bears. At least one of the two out in the enclosure wasn't snoring under a log. We finally had a few minutes of entertainment watching this giant set of teeth try and chew an even gianter ball.

Mmmm...balls...


And then it was over.

Mmm...dreaming of balls...


I wasn't ready to give up just yet. I was determined to see something good! We pointed ourselves towards another part of the park and knew we were getting close to some critters when the log-jam of gawkers came to a sudden and impacted halt. All to see the following.

Bored hippo.



Melancholy okapi.



OCD tiger.



Hungover monkey.





CRAP.

We were now hot and sweaty and squinty and had enjoyed the melodious (sarcasm) sounds of a million screaming children and had played dodge the stroller for a few hours and were ready to head home, by way of the best thing we saw the whole fucking day. A wall of art one could only be explained as precious. Horrible, bad and precious.

Mentally Challenged Bear and his cousin Beer Belly.



Crack Pipe Bear. Rahhh, we're my pipe?!?



Fancy Gay Men's Chorus Bear. ~jazz hands~



We'd almost made it home when after taking our normal exit discovered my little town was having a celebration and the whole street was closed. After another effing detour and a brief stop to get provisions we got home safe and sound armed with beer (him), ice cream (me) and enjoyed the rest of our day. In peace. With no snakes.

The End.

Jesus Christ!

An after midnight poem. I call it;

SHUT THE FUCK UP

Chainsaw, buzzsaw, rattling brains
Displeased, displaced, my bulging veins.

Awoke from slumber with a start
From far more than a tiny fart.

This happens every god damned time

I'm this [] close to committing a crime.

It always comes after beer six
God dammit you, now I'm in a fix.

Woke you up, 3 times at least
Can't quiet this snorting, noisy beast.

I say this with all the love I can muster
at this time of night I've lost my luster.

But...

Onto the floor your blood will be pouring
If you don't roll over and STOP FUCKING SNORING!!