A message to all Ladies of the Feart: your smarmy graphics, nauseating MIDIs, cream-puff "literature" and ludicrous use of manual spam to harass your critics will only increase the severity of your yeast infections!

T


he mad AOL spammer is at it again. I've decided that it's probably a woman who is responsible, since now she's bitching about the negative attention I've drawn to Ladies of the Heart, a horrible sickeningly saccharine collection of websites maintained by apparently nonliterate women. The graphic at right is a parody of one of their sacred images, that of a wolf and its young.

I have insider information that LOTH is famous for their spam assaults, particularly upon a similar but avowedly pagan group. You see, despite their use of pagan imagery, it seems that LOTH is actually a Christian organization. That's all the more reason to despise them.

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F


or me Nova Notes is refreshingly ironic when author Al mentions he is neutral in the Elly/Gus flame war as he provides a link for Elly only. Of course, her URL is easier to remember than mine is.

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O


n little more than a whim I decided to drive back to the residence of my parents in the hilly rural region a few miles south of Staunton over in the historic Shenandoah Valley. I wonder if there are any valleys that can claim they aren't historic?

In such concentrations, the birds smell exactly like vomit.

The Shendandoah has become a major center of global poultry production. From the Blue Ridge, the brooder houses (avian concentration camps) can be seen as silver flecks spread evenly throughout the flatland below. As one approaches one of the bird fattening facilities, huge sheds made out aluminum, the first sense assaulted is that of smell. In such concentrations, the birds smell exactly like vomit.

On the way, I found myself behind a truck that reeked of vomit. It must have been hauling brooder house waste. It also must have been empty, since it slashed by me and remained unpassably in front. Instead of remaining in the punishing vomitorium of its wake, I chose to drive 50 mph and fall well behind.

I've been trying to get my 486 machine up and going so I can surf the web in the comfort of my own home. It's been a total nightmare, which is what you have to expect when using nothing but salvaged equipment obtained for free. Things looked decidedly better when I found a 40 Megabyte IDE drive at the Shaque. I'd been trying to get by with an crusty old 44 Megabyte MFM drive. Only 60 percent of its sectors were in a viable state following some ancient head crash that no doubt resulted in the extinction of its internal megafauna.

Matthew Hart and I have already joked about the authentic Chinese food that was no doubt his fate.

W


hen I awoke from a mid-day nap, I assembled all the electronic goodies that I'd be needing as subsitutes for friends back in Charlottesville. My mother had gone shopping, so I also managed to take advantage of a plentiful magic refrigerator situation.
I also scooped up garden lettuce and catnip from the garden.
I still want to befriend the neighborhood cats, even if they have been aloof up until this point.
I blame Butt Noodles the scruffy gutter punk dog.
By the way, Jessika tells me that Morgan Anarchy and Toni Dirtbag lost Butt Noodles when they tied him to a tree outside a punk rock concert in the Bronx.
(Matthew Hart and I have already joked about the authentic Chinese food that was no doubt his fate. "Ah! Baht Nooders! Velly good wit dahk sauce!").

As I drove back to Charlottesville, I devoured a pint of Ben and Jerrys Ice Cream that my mother had bought for me.

Alarmingly, it was some kind of chunky chocolate flavour. It's the kind of blandly brutish American food that my psychotic brother eats. I prefer classier stuff like mint chocolate chip. That my mother should get me such stuff left me to wonder, is she forgetting what I'm like? More likely, my brother got stuck with Mint Chocolate Chip. His reaction, [said with a falsetto and vaguely German accent] "I hate this! Oh well, I guess I'll eat it anyway!"
I should say that, judging from today's experience, I'm much more dangerous when I eat icecream while driving than I am when I'm drinkin' and drivin'.

As I drove down the interstate, hot summer wind blowing in my face, I noticed the steering was pulling slightly to the right.

S


teve Weiner was hanging out alone at my house when I returned. He was being relatively nice to me, even though I'm basically just an asshole to him, condescending at best. I decided to be nice to him; I gave him a plum which he somehow devoured despite the handicap of his missing incisors. He wanted me to hang out with him on the front porch so he could smoke. I'm so spoiled on my smokeless environment that I wouldn't go out of my way enough to even do him that favour.

I confirmed that the IDE drive from the Shaque was functional, and that was almost cause for celebration. I would have liked to hang out in the living room, but Peggy and Zach were there and I don't want to talk to them, so I just stayed in my room. Eventually I began my pre-work nap.

That's when I heard the Racecar, Peggy and Zach's battered old Toyota, beeping its horn in the driveway. I looked out my window and saw Wonderboy Neek getting in. I don't want that fucker on the street, let alone the property. I hurled a bottle at Zach, Peggy and Wonderboy and it bounced off a nearby car. Then I hurled another and it smashed in the driveway. I didn't care what anyone thought. I want them to think I'm completely nuts so they'll live in fear and perhaps find moving in with Zach's Dad more palatable by comparison.

But, as we've seen before, time has no meaning to people who would lie around like grasshoppers while a womb fills with their needy spawn.

W


hen I awoke and set off for work, I noted that the glass in the screen door had been shattered. Theresa was to blame for that one.
It seems she was putting on some sort of mating display for Jasio. Yes, I said Jasio. I have trouble keeping track of the boys in whom she's interested, but I think it's "all of them."
Theresa is another person who feels a need to break things on a regular basis. When she lived at Goth Central, super glue was an ever present item on the shopping list. Now that she's spending an inordinate amount of time at my house, I suppose it's natural that she start breaking stuff here too. She's apparently apologetic, and will buy a new window tomorrow. But I have to say the whole notion of "it's okay to break things since they can be fixed" is getting old fast.
For one thing, it sets up a culture of acceptable damage.
Someone like Zachary sees all the breaking going on and, like the infant he is, wants to join in. The only problem is, he has no money. So we who live here are forced to pick up the tab.
Another problem is that frequently I am the one who is expected to fix things. This is because I am the only one who knows how to wield a tool. If I'm the only one fixing things, obviously I'm going to be the one most upset by the wanton breaking of things.
The house mates figure, "It's okay to break things, Gus will fix it!" while I'm thinking "Why fix it when the value of my labour is not even appreciated?"
What's being sacrificed with all this nonesense is valuable time. But, as we've seen before, time has no meaning to people who would lie around like grasshoppers while a womb fills with their needy spawn.

The only channel for my vitriol of late has been the Internet.

I think the reason I haven't told Peggy and Zach to move out myself is that I'm finding that bitching about them in this forum satisfying enough. Still, there is frustration. In concert with my asocial behaviour of late, the only channel for my vitriol of late has been the Internet, especially some of the more annoying people online.

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