Velvet Love Pocket…



is the best euphemism ever.

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Go Brazil!



Hey Brazil, thanks for standing up to the US of A and saying no to the Bush Administration’s space alien AIDS policy.

“Brazil declined $40 million of US funds to fight AIDS, making it the first country to take a stand against the Bush Administration’s AIDS policy requiring recipients to sign a pledge opposing prostitution. According to Voice of America, Brazilian officials feel that condemning prostitution will damage efforts to protect sex workers from contracting and spreading HIV/AIDS, a group that has the highest risk of contracting AIDS.”

Source: Feminist Daily News Wire

Those dinks at the white house only fund abstinence-based education, which obviously leaves people all over the world with little ability to protect themselves against HIV/AIDS, other STDs, unwanted pregnancies, etc.

In fact, health organisations outside of the US that receive US funding are barred from using SEPARATE, PRIVATE monies for abortion counseling, services, and referrals – a Reagan/Bush Sr. policy that the current Bush reinstated on his first official day in office.

Donate a buck or something and help out. The money’s gotta come from somewhere if it ain’t coming from those evildoers in charge.

AND KEEP THE US OUTTA OUR UTERUS!

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Jennifer Robbins bends crowbars with her meat ax!



I was tipped off to the Jenville Show today and I gotta pass it on. It’s so simple, so smart…

Jennifer Robbins interviews our fav musicians and in the process they cook together or share cooking secrets.

Damn it’s a great idea and I’m all about ideas these days. So go on, try a dorrito burrito or some peanut butter veggie sausage toast and feel like a star.

I know I’m not a rock star in your version of reality, but I’m going to share a food story anyway: Soon after moving out, one of my fav things to cook (really the only thing I *thought* I knew how to cook) was ground beef mixed in with a can of mushroom soup. It doesn’t get much more trailer than that… but it tasted good growing up and I wanted to recreate a “home” ritual.

The problem: when I first tried to make it on my own, I put the raw meat into the soup instead of adding the soup to the cooked meat. No roomate would eat my flesh goulash and I was sad. Yet, deep down I knew I made a major miscalculation somewhere. The whole thing stunk and no amount of boiling was going to fix it.

My pride made me eat it. And in the end, thank the food gods, I lived to tell.

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I steer my *own* GOD DAMN evolution!



I drank *the Devil* under 23 tables, I am too *intense* to die, I’m insured for acts o’ God *and* Satan! I’m a human being of the *first* GOD DAMN water, who’ll try to blow me down? They say a godzillion is the highest number there is. Well by God! I count to a godzillion and *one*! I’m a bacteriological weapon, I am *armed* and *loaded*! Who’ll tear flesh with me, whose candle will I fart out? I pick the fucking terror of the god damn slabs o’ wimp meat out of my *nose*!

now you try

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Dear Toilet Top Tinkler,



At our mutual place of work, I have a favourite washroom stall that I like to practise peeing into – second one from the left if you’re facing the sinks.

I have a hunch that it’s your favourite stall as well and I’d like to talk to you about it. I think you need more practise or something.

Some days are frantic. I run from meeting to meeting into a lunch meeting only to face an afternoon of more meetings. I simply don’t have time to inspect the toilet seat prior to a transaction. Do you know where I’m going with this? Does it need to be so forwardly addressed?

To me, work is a clean and pretty safe place. Maybe if I were needing to make a deposit at the Eaton Centre, I’d consider the erroneous squat’n’totter – but at work! No ma’am. I know the folks I work with well enough. I don’t mind that their bums have touched the seat I’m sitting on. It’s just a bum. And truthfully, even if some of them are the slutty girls we secretly wish we were, it’s doubtful that any of that sexiness will make the improbable journey from their bathing suit parts, to the toilet, to your bum. I’m positive it doesn’t work like that. So I don’t mind.

But what I do mind, what I very much do mind, is this: sitting on the toilet at our mutual place of work, second one from the left if you’re facing the sinks, only to realise that you’ve been there moments ago. It’s not long until I recognise that familiar wetness against my once clean bum and I feel anguish, knowing that when I stand the air will affirm the degree of wet – clammy or soused. I can only hope for clammy, but even then, it’s hardly consolation now that I know my underpants must mop up this mess. And then I think about my jeans – surely they’ll rub up against the parts of my bum that my panties do not. They’ll be contaminated now too. But I just did laundry…

Do you see how your imprudence quickly turns my world upside down?

Did you ever see the movie Falling Down?

Yours truly,
Lily Dustbin

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