Gratiot {'gra-shit} Blog

Packed Tighter for a Slower Burn

It's been

Days Since Sex Spiritual Guide:

1 - 5 days: Romantic Glow
6 - 60 days: Dull Ache
61 - 120 days: Depressed and Sad
121 - 300 days: Frightened and Angry
301 - 425 days: Forget About Sex
426 - 635 days: Remember Sex and Get Desperate
666 - 820 days: Flirt with Pretty Chicks
821 - 925 days: Flirt with Ugly Chicks
926 - 1,000 days: Prepare for Self-Castration
1,001 - 1,150 days: Divorce Wife
1,151 - 1,450 days: Date Blind Women
1,451 - 1,725 days: Date Crippled Chicks
1,726 - 1,950 days: Post Online Singles Ads
>1,951 days: Point of No Return

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Stupid Cupid

It's been almost a year since I got divorced from my first black ex-wife. Some of you I have already soiled with my fragrant man seed. But many others await my two minutes of ecstasy. I am back on the prowl and ready to date women who are desperate, lonely, and have lowered expectations.

You should be aware that I live with two of the most beautiful women in the world -- the dancer and the Waif My Maiden Bride. So you have your work cut out for you. And the guy I used to live with, the professor, is probably more pretty than you are too. So here is what it's like to go out on a date with me:

Start with a ritual shaving of my body and genitalia on the Altar of the Pink Rose in the Maiden Bride's bedroom. She quietly and purposefully watches me from under the covers. Her doe-like eye blinks inanely.

Massage my gold-plated prostate with a Northern Maine Scarlet Crested Porcupine quill. The dancer gives me a strawberry milk enema. Now I am clean. I put on a diaper, snap on my pants, and apply my eyeliner. Ready to score!

Drive slowly to your house (or facility) in my gold Saturn. Manly! Crawl through your bedroom window. You wake up with one of my hands over your mouth and the other in your silken panties. I apply blue eyeshadow, pink lipstick, and orange rouge to the front of your face. We meditate and pat Buddha on the tummy for good luck.

Snort some crank and yank on my testicles.

Take you out to dinner at Ponderosa. We order a "steak." I get macaroni and cheese and the red jello. Cut up your meat into little bites and feed you your food because you are wearing shackles. I wipe the tears from your eyes with your silken panties. Take money out of your purse to pay for the food.

Sneak a sip from a flask full of vodka.

Drive you to Dairy Queen. I eat an ice cream cone and I make fun of the fatty losers who eat there. You are not allowed to have ice cream anymore. You are to stay thin and pure. Wholesome and smooth. We watch the East Grand Rapids High School cheerleading team get fatter.

I thumb your clit.

Go to the Knapp Corner movie theatre. We sit in the back so I can try to get my entire fist into your colon. We watch Herbie Reloaded. You ask me for some popcorn. I make a mental note to sew your lips shut. I pinch your on your arm to get you to laugh . Lindsay Lohan is so funny!

Swallow a couple OxyContin®.

Take you back to my ghetto slum house. I sit you on my "couch." You are undressed now. The maiden bride is in the chair watching a hyper-violent Japanese DVD. She glances over at you, shakes her head, and purses her bee-stung lips. I perform mouth love on your genitalia. You begin to weep in happiness.

The dancer enters the living room holding a spotlight on her face. She walks around the house like that all of the time. We have to look at her or she starts cutting herself again.

Chubby Emo MS75 Barista Bitch is using a hacksaw on his leg irons in the basement. Silly whore. I take you to the basement and force you to pee on him.

In my bedroom now. Angela Peck is in my closet eating a pork chop and doing webcam porn. You are fed a hearty meal of moose testicles, pigeon eggs, scrapple, and dried seaweed that I prepare on my hotplate.

Unhook my pants and remove my underoos. My 3-inch penis makes your eyes swim and blocks out the light from the lamp. Squeezing my man-pump so it stays firm, I twist it into your slippery pink domain. My man juice puddles in your pubic hair.

I push you out the window and then fall asleep. Dreaming of my innocence.

Any takers?

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Spam Poetry

you earthshaking me
electorate me
you adaptive me
playboy me
you lorelei me
capsule me
you turbojet me
creek me
you osprey me
surf me
you asheville me
stake me
you deathward me labyrinth me

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Torturing Palestinians

Much intrigue and interest from whore-sluts who want to live in the Greenhouse. This is the application process -- please submit your application for when a roommate has an unfortunate suicide. Or falls down the steps a couple times. Or is horribly eaten by goats.

The interview begins with a comprehensive and exhaustive full body scan and cavity search. Bring Vaseline, Hello Kitty panties, and penicillin. Just ask blahkitty. You must be 85 lbs or less and look goth or like a rockabilly babe with long brunette hair and bangs. If you don't, you must be accomplished in unusual bedroom antics or be able to cook really well. You must not be an asshole. Or a doofus. Or a stupid.

You will take off your shoes and grind your toes into my groin. You will jump up and down on the Chapel of the Pink Rose Memorial Trampoline. You will renounce yoga and all of that metaphysical bullshit. You will give me the names and phone numbers of your hot female cousins. You will describe the last time you were with a girl. You will submit to several urine tests and supply a stool sample for joethecabdriver to analyze. You will be quiet.

A Certain Gentleman

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Cuddly Menace


Long time no write, BITCH! Miss me? I was on a transcontinental butoh festival in Gary, Indiana. Spent the whole week in a rat-infested public park with a rotting Civil War statue.

Dancing the dance of . . . life. In front of Vietnam Vets, cat ladies, crack whores, drug dealers, Japanese school girls, and garbage men. Bet you and your suck-ass Space vs. Tramps never had an audience like that!

We need to get together, babe. Got lots of performance ideas for you. Interpretive tattooing. Branding my ass with a Chalupa. Doing my Rachel impersonation. Drinking Mistress Popov through my nose. Moneymakers!

Yours in performance,

PS If Jana burrowed into Kari, they'd make a low-fat Creamsicle

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Sexy Anorexic

You are my teacher and mentor. A RABBI, man! I love you so much and respect you as an artist and teacher. Your essence is one of beauty. This is you mean to me:

T: Turning my head out of the puddle of my own vomit so I don't drown
E: Erasing my failed life by giving me an identity to steal
A: Ache between my thighs is what you give me
C: Chlamydia ain't no joke, man
H: Here is my soul, now stomp on it bitch!
E: Early to bed, early to rise means that I'm in jail again!
R: Revenge is what I will get one day, so WATCH your back

Yours in performance,

P.S. Jana is to healthy like I'm to wino

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Mt. St. Helens

The Ballad of Misty Blue

Misty Blue was born in 1975 during the heyday of Pol Pot's government in Cambodia. She was the daughter of a Le Monde correspondent and an American spy. He had been advising the Khmer Rouge on their genocide in order to provide a proper political balance with the Chinese.

The invasion of the Vietnamese was worrisome for the US government, so the CIA whisked their agent and his daughter out of the country. Her father named her Misty because his eyes got misty while he watched the Vietnamese officers drag his wife away as their helicopter took him and his daughter to safety. They left the Frenchwoman behind. She ended up living in a hog pen for ten years until she was finally executed.

Misty Blue spent her early years in a rustic cabin in southwestern Washington about 50 miles northeast of Portland, Oregon. She was a bright child, nearly five years old. She had auburn hair, olive skin that was red and blotchy. An ugly girl. Sort of fat faced and pudgy. But she liked to run and play in the crisp mountain air. But that rarely happened. She was mostly locked in a closet without food and water. Her father and her step-mothers would say she was a very bad girl.

Very bad. Nasty and dirty. Showing her ass and tits. Lying about doing chores. Wetting her pants. Flirting with the neighbor boys. They beat her with belts and hangers. Made her bleed. So they just threw her in the closet. They fed her enough to barely survive. Just open the door and throw the food at her. Like a dog. Poured boiled lentils on her head. Her skin stained by rotting grapes and strawberries. Cheese and crackers pushed through the crack in the door.

Her father's old Army buddies would visit him in their cabin in the woods. They would play cards and get drunk, pawing over her mother. At night, they would come into Misty's room. She would lie still and pretend to be dead until they left her alone.

Misty was in the dark closet, twisted into a ball, gnawing on a corn cob one evening in May. She couldn't sleep with how the welts on her back burned. Her knees were pulled up to her face and feet pointed at the door in case her step-mom opened the door. That is when Mt. St. Helens erupted. The volcano's north side slid away, sending rivers of ash and rock across the landscape. Gusts of lethal gas and steam blasting into the air. Her father died from the poisonous gas out on the driveway. His corpse was swept away by a wave of liquid ash. The ash poured through the windows boiled the skin off her step-mom.

Misty was saved by her closet. The study walls created a barrier against the deadly steam and rocks while the cabin floated hundreds of feet down the valley. She survived but lost consciousness. She awoke several days later, buried under mounds of ash. Clawing through the gritty dust, she finally broke free of the ash to see the most beautiful sunrise. The sunlight was set on fire by the gases and matter in the air.

Misty sat down and looked around. It was barren of life. Gray. Death everywhere. She brushed the ash off her arms and legs. Her skin was different. Pale, almost white like the ash. Purified by the heat and steam of nature. It glistened in the sunlight. Her limbs were smooth, polished like they were carved out of a fine marble. Her hair was different too. It was no longer dark. More like a dark gray. Or blue. That day in May, 1980 was the birth of Misty Blue. A woman of mystery and danger. Darkness made her hungry. Stillness was life. From that day forward, food and death were linked in her heart and mind.

She walked for days over to the coast and then worked her way down to California. Living with foster parents for several months at a time. She avoided school. Never made friends. Took what she needed. When she was old enough, she went off on her own.

She became a professional surfer in Santa Cruz, CA. Worked as a burlesque dancer in Las Vegas. Was a test driver on the Bonneville Salt Flats. Moved to Seattle and popularized coffee and helped to invent grunge music. She fought in the Special Forces in the invasion of Granada. Created the first internet browser in Silicon Valley, which she sold to Microsoft.

But throughout the glamor and money, she was not satisfied. She had a dream where she would be naked on a table. The room would be dark and full of people. She would be lying naked on a table under a spotlight. Her alabaster skin covered in the most luscious fruits and vegetables. The people, her friends, would eat the food off of her body.

She was the Appe-teaser.

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Aum Shoko Sect


It's me. I have been trapped in a motel on DIVISION chewing Percoset and Oxy-Contin like they were gummi-bears. But they're not. They are DRUGS. I can help you with your 12 steps if you need. I read the BOOK.

So, the Butoh workshop we're doing on Sundays is great. I think we really work well together. Sharing our knowledge with the group. About the eyebrows. Can you TWEEZE me? I must look fresh and succulent for my modeling clients. It is a shame that men objectify such beautiful and alluring women such as we. I wish I could find pants that show more TORSO.

Got to go sling the half-baked hash (and hashish) at the Coney. you got to come for dinner. it's GREAT! All the guys there want to pork me.

I remain your junior butoh diva.

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