To Rick, from the "love of his life"

Today I have sent...

...my own personal minion into the Academy Awards. I dispatched him with with an evil hex that will result in The Hurt Locker winning the Best Director's Award. It's a hex that I send from ex-wives everywhere and one that also possesses a benign yet malicious intent towards James Cameron and cheating husbands everywhere.

The men of Hollywood are excellent at one thing...creating ex-wives. In this town, ex-wives vote in the Academy. So, because of ex-wives and other victims of lying men...I predict a strong showing for The Hurt Locker. I also predict that Cameron is in possession of a well rehearsed, "should she win" face. I doubt he'll pull it off...this is a man who saw a flashing light bulb designed to cut off the occasional drunk or blowhard and instead of graciously leaving the stage, he simply unscrewed the light bulb. Oh yeah, this could be good.

Too many people are aware of Cameron's arrogance to allow him to walk away with the most coveted award. I sense enough bad karma related to his ego to assure that he bats zero today. But...just in case...I sent that hex which will be being delivered from the mezzanine just as the nominees are read. :)

I woke up quite suicidal this morning…

…but soon after, the dog needed to be walked and it was such a lovely LA morning that I couldn’t imagine things being so bad that I would want to be laid out on a medical examiner’s table by the end of the day and with morning suicides, you can pretty much guarantee a trip to the ol’ slab by dusk.

Odd…that I should wake up suicidal…I was writing a new stand up routine last night before I fell asleep. I was giddy and looking forward to performing at the Comedy Store. Then I woke up all melancholy. This morning was the yin to last night’s yan.

Oh well, I’m still here. No thanks to my Twitter friends, BTW. I tweeted twice that I was gonna off myself if no one gave me a reason not to and no one did. Then, in one last desperate effort, I tweeted by plans to Ashton Kutcher who obviously doesn’t care anymore about me than any of my other twit friends. Thanks Ash.

It wasn’t fear that stopped me, I’m not afraid of my personal method of self slaughter…but I am worried about who’s gonna take the dog out next. And the poor thing can’t open the dog food cans…not even those new ones with the pull-off tops.

Whatever. I think I’ll deal with suicide like I’ve dealt with tattoos for 30 years…I’ll just do it tomorrow. I still don’t have a tattoo and if suicide procrastination works half as well, that’ll send me into my mid 60’s. I’ll probably re-evaluate things at that point.

Now, I don’t want anyone to think that just because I have morning fantasies of dieing ingloriously, that it in any way implies that I’m nuts. I’m not. I’m simply weighing options and as an intelligent adult, I wanted it to be a comprehensive evaluation.

At the risk of contradicting that last paragraph, I have to tell you, there are NOT many pleasant ways to cause ones own death. I certainly wouldn’t attempt it here in Hollywood. Jumping’s no good…with my luck, I’d fall on Angelina Jolie’s car and she and Brad would adopt my kids and I’d be all famous post mortem which certainly IS second best, but I really, really want to be alive to enjoy any accolades I have coming.

Actually, accolades would be great therapy so if any of you would like to sing my praises, do so in the comment section. (Remember Twitter!!! Don’t twit me bro!)

So…if I’m gonna live, I might as well keep my commitment at The Comedy Store for April 6th…if you want to come out and yell, “Jump!” while I’m on stage, show up and tell them Meg sent you. If not, just leave any derogatory comments in un-moderated comment hell.

If misery makes for good humor, I ought to be in rare form.

I could be wrong...

....but I think I just dodged a legal bullet. I went out with a younger man tonight, younger than usual. He was certainly a man sized man. He was soft spoken and thoughtful and we enjoyed watching a movie. Then, when he started to make his move, we simultaneously were discussing his age.

For some reason, I took a good look at him, especially his eyes. Not one line. Any guy over 25 is gonna have at least ONE line so I knew he was many years younger than the 25 plus that he represented himself to be.

Anyway, I had my doubts so I asked him for ID. He said no, "That I can trust him" and crap like that but an ID seemed simple enough for me. That's all I need...to be embroiled in a cougar sex sting scandal.

Whew.

It's me again...Margaret

Hi ya'll!

I've spent a lot of time out of commission lately health wise but I'll spare you the gory details...and trust me, ALL of the details ARE quite gory.

Anyway, I'm here and finally feeling well enough to think up something to write about. Now remember, I have been ill so don't expect my best work, but trust that I still have it going on. (Whatever the hell that means.)

I'm actually having a pretty decent night, the best in weeks, so here I am. First, let me say how shocked I am over Marie Osmond's recent loss. It's dreadful and this women has been through more than most. I truly feel for her and her family. My prayers to my own personal higher power are with them.

So, as I try to remember what it was that I came here to say, let me mention that I'm very frustrated at this moment because I have an eigth of ICE weed and my bong is packed with the stuff and my lighter only lights every 23 times you click the mother fucker. So, since lighting a bong on a gas stove is a bad idea considering the angle you'd have to maintain, (and remember, before you read my concern...I'm only a girl) it might pose a problem. Chances are pretty good that I'd kill the fire when I tip over the bong and it'll sizzle and the house would smell like scalded bong water. One way or another, smoking this killer weed is posing to be quite a problem.

But...of this you can be sure...as God is my witness...I will get this ganja king smoked before I lie down to fantasize about Michael Madsen. Of course, if I smoke enough, I might accidentally finding myself fantasizing about Steve Carell, Maxwell Smart or Barney Rubble. At some point I would come to my senses of course...unless Carell is a stud amongst studs. Of course, it's MY fantasy, duh...I could just create a man among men, Herculean, Sex God of Planet Earth out of Carell. But something tells me that no matter how much I smoke, don't smoke, drink, don't drink, that fantasising about Steve Carell is never going to take me all the way and I'd simply end up with a sore arm...afflicted by pussy wrist. It's similar to carpel tunnel syndrome but there is no cure. Just an occasionally relief. That is, of course, if you keep Steve Carell out of your sexual fantasies.

Speaking of sex...I had an interesting experience the other day. I had been feeling poorly but during a short lived up-feeling that struck me Sunday morning, I got frisky. Thor said he had given up hope of any weekend horizontal boppery due to my illness. But...I was in the hospital the week and a half before so this was my first shot in a month.

First he took his clothes off and jumped in bed. I quickly noticed that he had left on the one piece of clothing that MUST come off...especially when you've already lost 98.9% of your other clothes. Anyway, I told him to get those jockeys off and he said that I couldn't get my clothes off any faster.

Oh...he of little faith.

He agreed with my official time...3 seconds. First I rolled back enough to pull my pants AND panties off in 1.3 seconds. Then, I rolled back up and reached behind my back and pulled my top off in 1.7 seconds. He was amazed.

To be fair, I wasn't wearing a bra. But...it was one helluva stripping record nevertheless. I'd be happy to hear from any women who can beat that. Men can't, they have to check their wallets lest their date steal the 18 bucks that they inevitably have stuffed in there.

Anyway, after the stripping race (and my undisputed Championship of THAT contest), as planned, sex ensued.

We played around for a while and then he made his move south. I was so giddy that I giggled and assured him that "today we have an ALL YOU CAN EAT SPECIAL!" I was as tickled as I could be. I had unsuccessfully tried masturbating earlier that morning before he woke up but it didn't work. I can't blame Steve Carell for that one...I'm in a fantasy transition and I haven't quite decided on the proper crazy sex stuff that I'd never do for my next fantasy serial.

Anyway, just as I'm getting into the "right frame of mind"...the Norwegian in him called him back north and before I knew what had stopped hitting me, I found myself staring at my own stupid face in the mirror on the ceiling wondering what the hell had just happened. (Great things, those mirrors. You can lie flat on your back and still see The Tonight Show.)

Now, you can look at this a few different ways. You could say that I should have told him to get his Speedy Gonzales tongue back where it had just come from and finish what he started. You could even say that he never should have stopped so soon in the first place.

But I have my own idea. I give a hell of a 90 second blow job.