<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Verdana, Arial">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Nicodemus: That does make more sense. Iwanted to have a party here before I left anyway. Bring some beer, or rice wine or whatever you drink. I'll get started digging the pit. Oh, and you can have first dibs on the tounge. What do you think, an apple or a cherry glaze?<HR></BLOCKQUOTE> Lemon or soy, for definite! and I drink anything that would be hand me! As long as it make me goofy, not very concern how taste.
oh silly me! you tell me bring own drink! I bring rice wine then too. and maybe wine cooler and what you like too?
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Verdana, Arial">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by AzN NvAzN: oh silly me! you tell me bring own drink! I bring rice wine then too. and maybe wine cooler and what you like too?<HR></BLOCKQUOTE> I was thinking saki would hit the palate nicely with a lemon soy glaze. And you can't lose with Mickey's Malt Liquor in my neighborhood. I'm sure whatever you bring will be fine though. Would you mind doing the carving? I've worked in 5 star restaurants here, but I would not want to bungle an exotic meal such as this, where presentation is so important.
The Most Unique Experience Ok, well here it is, no holds barred. My hellbender Halloween story. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. I am moving tomorrow so I figured I should finish it before I bust the hell out of here. I hate loose ends… A little background info first. I had just resigned from the local university earlier that week so I could take two full time jobs to pay off my debts and afford another motorcycle. (Public transportation here leaves a lot to be desired and being on a bicycle after dark in my neighborhood is a bit of a liability.) I had just started job #1 two days prior to Halloween. My roommate, Pimp Doggy, is executive chef at a restaurant in the French Quarter and had put in a good word for me. I got off work about midnight and changed into my costume. I met up with my dear friend Oral-B, who had just finished a shift as well. We were far too sober to deal with the raucous crowd so we found refuge in an empty bar on the outskirts until we could get loaded enough to join the scene. Four beers, three lines, and a mind eraser later, we headed back to Decatur St, but Oral-B decided he’d rather go to the “Fruit Loop” section and get his dick sucked or something… we parted ways. Alone, but nicely buzzed, I strolled into an old favorite hangout of mine, kind of a biker/punk/tattoo/heroin haven, best jukebox in town. Immediately, I ran into some people I hadn’t seen in awhile. One of them had this stupid tripping chick hanging on him that kept squirting people with large quantities of fake blood. So we’re drinking and get ahold of some acid about 4:30 and like a dumbass I go ahead and drop 2 hits, because I figure that way if it’s weak at least I’ll get off, and if it’s good, I’ll be in for a real nice ride. It turned out to be some really good shit. We stood outside the bar and fucked with straggling ½ costumed revelers until the sun came up, at which time it became painfully obvious that we needed to find an alternate plan. We hit a couple more bars but nothing seemed to strike our fancy, so we decided to head home. One of the guys I was with, Ted, is a tattoo artist downtown. He kindly offered to drive me to my apartment. It’s broad daylight at this point.. As we got closer to finding his car, he said he was too fucked up to drive, but I was welcome to it. I heartily agreed, until my eyes rested upon the deathtrap in question. His car is an old Volkswagen Beetle, with every inch of its exterior airbrushed into a loud advertisement for his tattoo parlor. I had seen it before, but had never envisioned myself behind the cow print covered steering wheel. I had a good laugh and slid into the driver’s seat. Being that this was my first experience driving a bug, I was frying my brain, and we were nestled very snugly in between two SUV’s, I had a slight learning curve with the clutch. Nothing too traumatic, but it did lurch unexpectedly out of the parking space, badly cutting off the poor schmuck coming up the street behind us. He caught up with us at the next light and pulled along side us. Before he could bitch, I was yelling, “Look, I’m sorry, Dude. I know I totally cut you off back there, but I’m really fucked up right now.” This, coming from a strung out chick in a full-length purple velvet dress with fake blood smeared all about the head, neck, and chest area. Fortunately, the other driver was on his way home too, as evidenced by the axe through his head, and had a sense of humor about it, in spite of Ted protesting loudly, “Fuck You! She’s NOT sorry; she did that on purpose, ya fuckin’ faggots!” I managed to navigate home and the two of us came in to see if we could scare up some much needed herbage. As we entered, I noticed the dogs (one is mine) were a little slow greeting us at the door, but I didn’t think much of it. I walked to the back of the house to let them out in the yard through the kitchen door. I was standing down a step or two, holding the door open, waiting for the usual “running of the bulls” behavior that the dogs usually exhibit when I let them out first thing in the morning. But they weren’t interested. That’s when I saw my roommate. Pimp Doggy was seated on the kitchen floor in between the island and the counter (which is why I didn’t notice him when I came through), half passed out, with his pants down. He was still wearing ½ of his Halloween costume (he had been dressed as a pimp, in full regalia). I yelled at the dogs to hurry up and go outside, still not realizing the full gravity of the situation – partially from my drug induced retardation, and partially because of my obscured view. That’s about when Ted came into the room. From his vantage point, he had a much clearer shot of the sordid scene, and immediately set to interrogating Pimp Dog at a high decibel. “What THE FUCK are you DOING?!? You SICK BASTARD! No, REALLY, what the FUCK are you doing? Jesus CHRIST! What is WRONG with you?” Etcetera, etcetera… Pimp Dog whipped his pants up and shakily got to his feet, but the damage had already been done. The casserole dish spoke for itself, as had the image of the 2 dogs lapping macaroni & cheese off his nads. Ted and I were simply astonished beyond all comprehension. I sternly told my roommate that I would discuss it with him later, and headed upstairs to change into something more comfortable than a blood drenched costume, leaving my guest to verbally abuse Dog boy as he saw fit. I was thankful he was with me, I can’t imagine walking in on that alone… or SOBER for that matter. Although, I could’ve done without the LSD for this one. Ted made his way up to my room a few minutes later, at which point I excused myself to take a shower, as I was still covered in fake blood. When I returned, I saw that he was making calls from a cell phone, leaving messages with everybody he could think of – all from my roommate’s cell phone. I thought that was a nice touch, but offered him mine instead. We were so fucked up that he ended up leaving 2 semi-incoherent messages on my own voicemail, which I savored for nearly a week. Ultimately, however, what I needed most was to think about something else – indeed, anything else - for awhile; but naturally, we could talk of NOTHING else. So Ted went on his way (yeah, he sobered up enough to sure as hell drive away from here). And I was left here alone with a head full of acid, wondering what the fuck I was going to do. I put on the new Tool album and pondered my predicament: 1) Rent is due today 2) Roommate is having sexual relations with the dogs (at least in the Clintonian sense) 3) One of them is MINE. Ewwwww 4) I now also work with my roommate 5) Ted is a walking billboard and the whole town is likely to hear about this by sundown – everybody knows everybody here, if you hang around long enough 6) I am out of weed 7) This is the best shit I’ve taken in years, and I just missed out on some really good sex (the mood just wasn’t the same after the Incident) I sat at my computer and laughed hysterically at the absurdity of my predicament for about 5 solid minutes. I called Oral-B, who had just moved in a week prior, and told him to get his ass home before I had an aneurism, but he couldn’t make it for a couple hours. That’s when I thought of all you fuckers at Fugly, and how much you would appreciate a gritty tale of this caliber. Oral-B wasn’t much help to me when he arrived. He was still coke-addled, and kept trying to convince me that I was over reacting. Not what I needed to hear. On top of that, he had harbored a crush for Pimp Doggy (there was some funny business going on between the two of them that they were careful to hide from me until after Oral had moved in) and was urging me to be lenient and understanding of Dog’s “problems.” Wrong answer again. I threw him out of my room (my only sanctuary) and tried vainly to get some rest. It was almost eleven, and I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do about the fact that I was supposed to be to work in 4 hours. I mean its one thing to go into work and suffer for the sins of the night before. But this was a little different. Next thing I know, PD’s alcoholic crackhead mother is standing in my room yammering to Oral-B (who had slipped back in to use my computer while I was apparently unawares) about whatever longwinded bullshit she was on about. A little history on her: I had gotten fed up with constantly cleaning up after PD’s dogs (an enormous STUPID codependent Weimeriner and a teacup Pomeranian) because he was never here to take care of them. I told him I was over it, so he took it upon himself to hire his mom to come by every day and pick up his slack for $100/wk. I was more than annoyed that he hadn’t consulted with me before arranging for a stranger to be in my home EVERY DAY, but it wasn’t until he paid her that first time and she no-showed for the next 3 days that he confided in me that he was worried she had used the cash to buy some rocks. She was really weird and kind of obnoxious, and my friends and I had joked about her doing speed, but DAMN, a CRACKHEAD HAS KEYS TO MY FUCKING HOUSE??? Oh, she’s on welfare too, big fucking surprise. Anyway, that stupid cunt caught the brunt of my wrath. I just couldn’t believe that in a 1900 square foot apartment, the morning after Halloween, the two of them could think of no place better to carry on an inane conversation than in my goddamn room – within arms reach – very dangerous. Neither one of them should have been in there to begin with. Finally, a good friend of mine that NEITHER of my roommates knows (Elvis) called me up from his job to find out how my night had been. I immediately commenced begging for a place to stay for a couple days in exchange for a really fucked up story. He was happy to oblige, and picked me up 2 hours later. As I was waiting for him on the front porch, the Sick Bastard staggered out of the house and had the nerve to ask me what my evening was like. (?!?) I told him it was scary and that he should inform them at the restaurant that I wasn’t going to be in. I couldn’t even look at him. I drank almost an entire bottle of vodka at Elvis’s house before I was able to pass out that night. I woke up early the next morning, still drunk, still disturbed, but calmer and more confident in my ability to be rational. I looked at the call record on my phone to see who all I’d talked to the night before in my alcoholic stupor. I hadn’t left too many stones unturned. Flashbacks of bits & pieces of conversations. I had joked about moving to Kansas… Strangely enough, the more I sobered up, the better the idea sounded. I called my mother at work (in Kansas) about 8:30am to break a censored version of my experience to her and see what advice she had to offer, if any. Much to my chagrin, one of my friends (a 21 yr. old clean cut college boy/US Army Reserve Drill Instructor from Southern Louisiana bayou country) had already called and told her the whole story the night before, while trying to hunt down my brother. He was kind enough to leave out the part about the drugs and the specifics about my “friend” Ted. She knew everything else though, which was sort of a relief, because that meant I didn’t have to explain it to her myself. She was surprised, but happy to hear that I was thinking of blowing this gumbo stand, and quickly made preliminary arrangements for me to move out to my cousin’s house. That’s pretty much it, there’s a bunch of other dirty little details that I won’t bother to get into. I’ve been waiting on Pimp Dog to settle up with me on bills for the past week an a half so I can afford to get the fuck out of here. As it is, he shorted me on some of the rent because he has to pay kennel costs for his sexual partner. (I told him if they were still here when I got back I would take them both to the SPCA. His mom took the little one, so it’s probably in good hands… not.) What the fuck do I care? Not my problem. Oh, and he’s still in denial about the whole thing, doesn’t want to talk about it. Hmmmm.. Maybe he should have thought about that before choosing a common area of the house as a stage for his bestiality. Anyway, his days here are numbered. The girl that owns the place is a good friend of mine and is completely repulsed by the whole thing. All I know is I’m outta here tomorrow and I’m taking my dog, the electricity, the water, and every stick of furniture with me. Wonder how long it’ll take him to figure that one out? Sick Fucker.
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Verdana, Arial">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Emetic: How do you feel about casseroles at this point?<HR></BLOCKQUOTE> Well, for starters, I am sure as shit leaving that dish behind. I think that after some therapy, perhaps I will be able to work my way back slowly to white trash cuisine.
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Verdana, Arial">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Ambitious Procrastinator: Uh, Lomo, about those tornado pics... <HR></BLOCKQUOTE> Shit... you're right... now that the Fugly Uploader is up and running, the only excuse I have to fall back on is my sheer and utter laziness. I'll discuss it at the next procrastinator's meeting...
Oh shit! My roommate from hell story has just been trumped, by none other than Oral-B. He just sent me this email: It's even worse than that, actually... Here's the full article from the Times Pic: BOYFRIEND CUT UP CORPSE, COOKED IT Killer's suicide note leads cops to grisly scene Thursday, October 19, 2006 By Walt Philbin A suicide note in the pocket of a man who jumped off the Omni Royal Orleans Hotel on Tuesday night led police to the grisly scene of his girlfriend's murder, where they found her charred head in a pot on the stove, her legs and arms baked in the oven and the rest of her dismembered body in a trash bag in the refrigerator, according to police and the couple's landlord. In the note, Zackery Bowen, 28, confessed to killing his girlfriend, Adriane "Addie" Hall, 30, on Oct. 5, according to police sources and friends of the couple. Officially, police declined to release the name of the victim, saying she was still a "Jane Doe" until the remains of her body could be forensically identified. "This is not accidental. I had to take my own life to pay for the one I took," Bowen wrote in a suicide note found in a plastic bag in the front pocket of his pants. The note directed police to the scene of the crime and gave a synopsis of what he had done, according to sources familiar with the case. A source familiar with the investigation said detectives found in the couple's apartment two pots on the stove, one containing a woman's head and the other her hands and feet. Next to the pot containing her head were carrots and potatoes that had been cut up; none had been placed in the pots. In the oven were turkey-basting trays containing human legs and arms, the source said. At least one of the pans had seasoning sprinkled on the limbs, the source said. No cannibalism At an afternoon news conference, Cannatella said there was no evidence of cannibalism, and an autopsy on Bowen, done 13 days after he claimed to have committed the murder, showed no evidence of human body parts in his system. Police gave no indication they suspect Bowen might be a serial killer, but detectives said they were compiling a detailed profile of Bowen to submit to an FBI database that stores suspected acts of serial violence. Homicide Detective Ronald Ruiz said he is looking at other murders nationwide to see if they can be connected to Bowen. When police arrived late Tuesday night at the apartment Bowen and Hall shared, they found a screed from Bowen, printed on eight pages in his girlfriend's journal, providing a graphically detailed accounting of the slaying. He started the note formally, giving his full name, Social Security and driver's license numbers, and his date of birth. "Today is Monday 16 October 2 a.m. I killed her at 1 a.m. Thursday 5 October," Bowen wrote. "I very calmly strangled her. It was very quick." But what Bowen did after he killed Hall was anything but quick. He claimed in his note to have sexually violated her body several times, eventually passing out in a drunken stupor on the futon next to the corpse. The next day, he went to work delivering groceries, then came home and moved the body to the bathroom tub, where he used a handsaw and a knife to dismember her remains. An autopsy conducted Wednesday confirmed that Hall was strangled and dismembered after her death, police said. "He appeared to clean up the bathroom a lot after he did it," one officer said. Directed by a spray-painted note on the wall, police found the victim's head burned beyond recognition in a pot on top of the stove. Her legs and arms were in the same condition in pans inside the oven, police said. In his note, Bowen wrote that he put her feet and hands in pots of water on the stove burners. Bowen was from Los Angeles, police said, but apparently had lived in the New Orleans area for some time. He registered to vote in Louisiana in August 1996. Friends said he claimed to have served in the military in Iraq and Bosnia, and displayed both pride and angst in that experience. Hall was not a New Orleans native either, although police said only that they believed she came from Pennsylvania. She registered to vote at a New Orleans address in 2002. Signs of trouble As of Wednesday, police had found no other evidence of domestic violence in Hall and Bowen's relationship, said Chief of Detectives Anthony Cannatella at a police news conference. After being tossed out of their apartment on Gov. Nicholls Street in the French Quarter at the end of September, the couple rented an apartment together at 826 N. Rampart St., above a voodoo shop, said their landlord, Leo Watermeier, who recently ran for mayor. "He may have in retrospect seemed a little troubled," Watermeier said of Bowen early Wednesday morning, hours after he led investigators to the gruesome scene inside the apartment. Though they appeared happy when they rented the Rampart Street apartment -- telling Watermeier they had fallen in love on the night Hurricane Katrina struck, when Hall gave Bowen shelter -- they soon had a bitter falling out, Watermeier said. After the storm, the couple lived a vagabond existence in the shattered city, becoming feature fodder for the swarm of reporters eager to profile post-flood diehards. But on Oct. 5, during a dispute over which of their names would appear on the lease, Hall told Watermeier she intended to kick Bowen out of the apartment, after finding out that he had cheated on her, Watermeier said. Bowen did not take the news well, Watermeier said. "He said, 'Did you just let her sign a lease alone? Because I'm screwed. I'm totally messed up now. She's trying to kick me out of our apartment,' " Watermeier said. Hall admitted she was trying to throw Bowen out, he said. "I caught him cheating on me, and I am kicking him out of this apartment," she told Watermeier. Watermeier told the couple to work through their differences and get back to him. He never saw Hall again, and assumed they had worked it out. Second thoughts Bowen's suicide was discovered Tuesday about 8:30 p.m. when his body was spotted by someone in an upper floor lounge of the Omni Royal Orleans. Police determined that Bowen had jumped from an outside terrace near a swimming pool on an upper floor to the roof of the Chartres Street garage on the fourth floor, police said. Bowen methodically planned the suicide. He left police the phone number of his estranged wife, spray-painted on the wall in the Rampart Street apartment, while warning them in his note that he hadn't talked to those closest to him. "I didn't contact any of my family," he wrote. "So that'll explain the shock." On Oct. 9, according to his letter, Bowen came home from his job and again set to work dismembering Hall's body, in an apartment where he had set the air conditioning at 60 degrees. Then he stopped. "Halfway through the task, I stopped and thought about what I was doing," he wrote to police in his girlfriend's journal. "The decision to halt the first idea and move to Plan B (the crime scene you are now in) came after awhile. I scared myself not only by the action of calmly strangling the woman I've loved for one and a half years, but by my entire lack of remorse. I've known forever how horrible a person I am (ask anyone)." __________________________________________________________ I thought there were a couple nice touches here, the first being the killer's foresight to put his pocketed suicide note in a plastic baggie. After all, who wants to be the guy who has to clean all the splattered blood, minced flesh, and shattered bone off of the "evidence" before it can be rendered useful? That's some damn spankin' consideration for others if you ask me. I was also rather amused at the timely twinge of conscience he had, as he recontinued his dismemberment project after a 4 day hiatus. I guess he was a good guy after all. Too bad his shoulder angel was on vacation when this whole dilemma began. What a shock that must have been. Ya spend 2 weeks in Fiji, and return to find that the person you're supposed to be guiding toward the light has been trying out Essence of Emeril recipies on his girlfriend. Bet the big guy will be pissed. You know they're gonna take this shit out of his bonus.
Yeah, Lomo your credibility is really starting to suffer. What's it been, 5 years now? I think we've been more than fucking patient.
I was actually more mortified by the nard shot than I was the entire "cooking with kooks" article. I wonder if any of them are on mydeathspace.com.
To bad you did not have a cell phone with a camera ready for your room mate suprise a few years ago. Wife's cellphone pics 'smoking gun' in sex-with-dog case [/url]
Notice, that Nauseous hasn't posted since my nad picture has been up... I really should've taken that picture on a warmer day... :roll: I'm looking up the address of the apartment he stayed in as we speak, trying to see if it was above the voodoo shop we really liked in the French quarter. (Nope - found a 'card' - from "VooDoo Authentica" - 612 rue Dumaine. The chick that owned it seemed pretty cool, but I'll level with ya - the closer you got to her, the more you'd notice that she didn't use deodorant. Looks like our hotel was about four blocks away from that incident. Pimp, I tell ya - those tornado pics are coming. You just don't have patience.
Could've done without that, man... Could've done without that. Don't get me wrong, there are times when a little bit of that particular aroma does wonders for me, but when I'm standing in front of a cash register - that's not one of them.
