My little muppet Asa, spewed like a gallon of vulvic fluid (ie the discharge following the blood-filled heat) all over my bed. So Francis is asleep behind me on the couch waiting for the fluidy crappo to be released from the fabric and for the sheets to be sparky and clean adorning the bed.

I feel that if I went outside right now I would be mauled and eaten by some riley male dogs looking for a good hump. I am covered in Asa pheromones, which have a mild skunkesque “musk” quality to them. Thank god for google. I was under the impression the dog lost all her bile contents all over the bed since she refused to eat today. Then I recalled the heat and thought there could be something else special to know about the girls. I recall a similar recoiling and horror when I saw her get knocked up once and not be able to separate from the male dog for like a half an hour. Thankfully, the burr penis that the male has is responsible for the hooking that perma-locks the buppies bodies together.

On a lighter note I got fired, or faux-fired from my “too much money” position at the bar. Stephen G is one of the most disasterous businessmen I have ever met-complete with a Ben Franklin coif and a cocaine habit that would rival almost any other-he has a temper of a five year old boy and decided to fire me on Saturday because he felt like throwing a temper tantrum. I went to the bathroom and came back to a screaming psycho slamming the bar and trying to clear us out because someone was standing directly in front of the satellite service bar instead of behind the line. No joke, it really is as simple as that. When you own a bar, you must possess liquor licenses for each separate bar in nyc. So you can set up “service” bars which include a bartender and waitress that does all of the transactions. As long as no one is drinking at the bar, and no cash is being exchanged to me, then it is all kosher. We try to keep people back with a rope, but the ornery drunk crowd of Saturday night finds that hard to understand, and often crosses the line. This happens often during an evening, and Stephen has stood there on multiple occasions and watched it. He is the definition of someone who needs to be scrooged-no doubt he has completely ruined countless lives and livelihoods. And the funny thing is he never apologizes. He just spreads his psychosis like a comfortable blanket on whatever likely victims who find his attention.

The funny thing is that the impression that my friends at the bar have about true motive lie in the tattoos that I have; which are many and I was hired and told I could show however I saw fit. UNTIL the slimy hotel manager professed a problem with it-I was told that night I had to cover them all up, and I did, that night. I don’t care or protest about that too much when so much money is at stake-and there is money to be made-at least for another week or so.

But forget them. Forget Stephen G and may he be scrooged or have his brain slide out of his abused nose in chunks.

Off to find ANOTHER job. If I could afford school already I would do only that.