alliejanecompton.com

Nation’s Dad Not Sure What You’ve Been Doing All Day

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 20:53:00 -0500

Nation’s Dad Not Sure What You’ve Been Doing All Day

I wrote this article about a real crazy guy named Vermin Supreme...

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 16:16:00 -0500

I wrote this article about a real crazy guy named Vermin Supreme who is running for President as a Republican. There’s a really great video of him “debating.”

He wears a boot on his head and carries a toothbrush around, part of his “dental hygiene agenda.” He is totally nuts! I like him.

From a recent debate:

Shumaker: Romney has been accused of taking different positions on different issues. I’m asking you right now, do you still stand by your pledge made in 2008 to provide a pony for every American?

Vermin Supreme: Yes I do, sir. My free-pony platform is, of course, a jobs-creation platform …. lt will also lower our dependence on foreign oil. We will also be able to turn all that pony poop into methane gas and wonderful compost.

The important thing to realize is it’s a federal pony identification program. You will need your pony with you at all times.

He also throws “gay” dust on this extreme anti-gay, anti-abortion activist at the end. Great job democracy!

Old receipt from a trip I took to Montreal years ago. One of...

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 15:18:00 -0500

Old receipt from a trip I took to Montreal years ago. One of those instances of getting what you pay for, and apparently that was butts all UP on my grilled cheese.

apparently had this gchat last night after returning home from a...

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 13:48:15 -0500

apparently had this gchat last night after returning home from a work party where i had two manhattans and a game of beer pong for dinner. john was a good sport considering i scolded him for not coming to an event and proceeded to just rant incoherently about everything.

Photo

Mon, 14 Nov 2011 19:15:00 -0500

Great Movies Revisited: Do It For Dad, Sam

Thu, 12 May 2011 17:41:00 -0400

“Shit,” Samuel L. Jackson muttered as he jumped down from the treehouse ladder and walked toward the house. The front door was open, letting the heat out. Mom and Dad were going to be pissed.

But really, what did it matter anymore? Still, he closed the front door behind him. Zig-zagging through toy cars and puddles of paint that covered the foyer floor, he could see his breath. Dammit.

He made his way through the living room. As he passed by a tousled table lamp, the couch cushions strewn in corners and ripped open, he wasn’t concerned. Crunching over a blanket of shattered ornaments that surrounded him, the room looked like a Kristallnacht of Christmas decor, though the small tree he had purchased remained in tact, the lights still on. It was a trophy of what he endured and he paused to admire it before pressing on. There wasn’t much time left.

When he entered the dining room, he felt a twang of annoyance. One of the holiday candles he had placed out before had gone out. As he walked alongside the long, elegant dinner table, he drew his fingers through the layer of pillow feathers that dressed the tabletop. At the end of the table he stopped at the extinguished candle, relighting it with the other. He then took the somewhat-crushed cigarette from behind his ear and leaned over the candle, inhaling deeply. He walked over to the nearby window, its glass shattered, and exhaled through it.

From the window, he noticed the macaroni and cheese he had microwaved himself earlier was still placed at the end of the table. He approached it, blowing feathers from the top. Poking at it with his fingers, he found it to be cold now, the cheese congealed and gelatinous, resembling a yellowy brain. Disgusting. Thankfully, he didn’t need it anymore. He put the cigarette between his lips as he picked up the milk-filled wine glass—the liquid was a bit room temperature at this point, but he preferred it that way. Everything had gone according to plan.

The ding of the oven went off and he guzzled the rest of the milk, placing the glass back onto the table heavily in a poof of feathers. Using a napkin to clean the milk from his mustache, he went into the kitchen. Cigarette still dangling precariously from his mouth, he took Mom’s flower-patterned oven mitt and opened the oven door, reaching in and drawing out the rack that held the foil-covered pan. It sizzled as he pulled the foil back, revealing what looked like the contours of ribs. Tearing a piece of the tender, light-colored meat, he placed it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

“My,” he chewed, “That is a tasty burglar!” He chortled a little, pulling off another piece of the meat from the bone, placing it in his mouth.

“Tasty burglar,” he repeated, laughing gleefully.

Then, suddenly, he was choking. He started to cough violently, trying to shake the meat loose. But it was too tough—overdone. He’d never cooked like this before, only seen Dad do it. Leaning over the stove, he tried to work the piece of meat out by pounding on his chest with his closed fist, but it was stubborn.

Struggling to breathe, he stumbled sideways a little, his eye on the goblet of milk that stood calmly on the dining room table, just steps away. A small bit was left at the bottom. In his haste he tripped over the oven door, which he had left open. He was losing air as quickly as the oven was losing heat, and he began to panic. He grabbed for the oven handle but it was just out of reach. Flopping around like a fish, he finally managed to get his hand far enough under the oven door to grasp the handle. With as much strength as he could muster, he pushed the oven door upward a little, but it fell back down, bouncing flat. He refused to relax yet, refused to let this be the way they found him.

“AaaaahhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHH!” he screamed with his last breath, pushing upward against the door with what strength he had left. It was enough. The door caught on its hinge and slammed shut.

Samuel L. Jackson collapsed back on the floor. As his pupils dilated and he began to drift out of consciousness for the last time, he listened to the tick of the oven’s pilot light reigniting. He closed his eyes, knowing the meat would soon be overdone, but at the very least Mom and Dad wouldn’t be mad.

5 Rejected Sign Titles For Today's Planned Parenthood Rally

Sat, 26 Feb 2011 13:38:51 -0500

1. MY UTERUS IS RALLY IMPORTANT !

2. OB/GYN’S BEFORE COAT HANGERS AND OTHER SUNDRY ITEMS THAT COULD KILL ME, YOU KNOW

3. MY OTHER ABORTION DOCTOR IS A STAIRCASE

4. MY UTERUS: YOU CAN GET IN, BUT IT DOESNT RLY COUNT UNTIL YOU’VE BEEN THERE 6 MONTHS, SRY

5. LET’S COLLECTIVELY BARGAIN TO GIVE SCOTT WALKER A VASECTOMY! WAIT, WHERE AM I

AMERICA: We’re F’d.

Sat, 05 Feb 2011 19:32:19 -0500

AMERICA: We’re F’d.

AllieJaneCompton.com: No Promises

Mon, 31 Jan 2011 16:40:00 -0500

HEY! Wow, AllieJaneCompton.com is actually a real website again! Google Analytics told me that literally no one had visited my old website ever, not even once, so this shouldn’t take any getting used to for anyone. Great!

Truly though, it is time for a change. I really believe that change is good, but no one is just going to hand it over to you, except maybe when they’ve just gotten off the train and are tired and their hands are already in their pockets, and you tell them you just need it for a phone call, and they’re like, “Who uses pay phones anymore?” and you tell them that’s rude and that you use your personal phone booth all the damn time and gesture to the old-timey red telephone booth you bought on eBay as an investment, and they finally agree that you need that change way more than they do and hand it over. Unfortunately, that stuff doesn’t happen every day, but you know what? This site will! Or maybe every other day. Okay, twice a week, minimum.

Hey, no promises.