For January 12th, 2003
Messy Stench
If Messy Stench had a quarter for every time she's become a widower, she'd be richer (but less batty) than Howard Hughes in a hot tub full of fifty-dollar bills and fingernail clippings. Elaboration on the nature of these mysterious deaths is dismissed with a discomforting grin and a waving of her tube-sock-bedecked arm. Not wishing for a knuckle sandwich courtesy of our hostess, we decide to let the matter rest.
She is, after all, from Chicago. We know better than to fuck with people from fucking Chicago.
In an attempt to lighten the mood, we make small talk. "We hear your birthday is February 9th, Messy! That's pretty soon! So...what's your sign?"
"Stop hitting on me." She says, warningly. "There is metal growing out of my face, my skin pigment is becoming radically unnatural in concentrated spots on my body, and I seem to be sprouting cords, cables and wiring out of my head. My potty mouth will make you sorry you reared your ugly, buck-toothed, fat head from your bloated mamma's pimpled, greasy, yeast-infested pissflaps."
"Oh!" Says Captain Tralfaz, "So you're an...Aquarius?"
She nods.
Messy does a weekly internet radio show every Friday from 6-8 pm central. There's probably no good reason why you can't listen to the damned thing, considering you probably don't have a life that entails experiencing anything important on a Friday night, anyway. (I mean, you're here, right?)
It would also
behoove you to check out her
website and drop her an email
to proclaim your undying (yet, unworthy) love for her. As just stated, her birthday's
coming up soon. You wouldn't want to miss out on getting her something nice,
now, would you?
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