Necrophilia Is A Fun Word to Say. I Could Name a Child That. Except For That Whole Corpse Fucking Thing.

And in one fell swoop, the weekend has come to a close and I am sitting at this office in Midtown cursing the days that once were.

In some recent news, Artist Sol LeWitt has passed away. If you don't know his work, it might be worth looking into. On a cheerier note, manatees are going to be classified as "threatened" instead of "endangered" or "extinct" which was my first thought when I read the headline "Manatees losing their endangered status." Manipulative bastards. Either way, it's good news, that means Jenny Schecter can write more about the peaceful manatees and go apeshit on some other unsuspecting lesbian with a pulse (or even if they didn't, she'd probably give it the go ahead too.)



This is the way you woo her.
Stick your fingers in her cooter.
If her lips do not stretch,
it means, perhaps, you are a lech.

She's dead, you fucking idiot!

5 dollars from the bank you get.
Because clearly now, I won the bet.
Doubly forth we to your car,
I will need to go to the bar.

To wash my mouth of all that stuff.
I gathered, plastered on her cold cold muff.
At the time I was unaware
Distracted by all that matted hair.

She's fucking dead, you idiot!

But either or tis okay.
I got off on it anyway.
The load flew through, hard and fast.
And in that moment the die was cast.

In a flash I turned my head,
checking for the one I bed.
Vanish-ed!

I grab the 5 clams and dart
Feeling a strange tingling in my heart.
Perhaps she wasn't really stiff,
But oddly now I am instead.
My head and heart are in quite a tiff.
Sticking it to the dead, I dread,
Is a sign you are fucked in the head.

I run and run and run and run.
Stopping once for a Cinnabun.
I run and run and run and run,
Accidentally plowing over a nun.

Sinking in fear from the past,
I check into a hotel at last.
Showered twice in every hole.
I clease myself of her ghouly soul.

Looking back to see, once more
Her stony face in the bathroom door.
I scream and shout and plead for life,
her icy hands cut like a knife.

One last attempt, I try to ditch,
But she proceeds to make me her bitch.

She's fucking you dead, idiot!
She's fucking you, dead idiot!

We were married at the gates of hell by a minister who unwittingly got caught touching young boys in the spring of '92. It was a magical affair.

(The image above. Now that's what I call a cold fish.)