Let's go to the movies!

Bernard, or as I call him, Bew-NAHD, feels sorry for me. Maybe because he and my Mom are alcoholics and it was his idea to make perfect Manhattans to keep them nice and loose during their Christmas movie marathon? He keeps bringing me food and stuff, like a harissa turkey sandwich from Greeno's Deli (it was fucking great - I will just give a quiet "Thanks" without making eye contact and without encouraging further discourse, as I find this is the best way to continue getting gifts).

By the way, here is the actual Christmas movie marathon list (I swear to Moroni) with commentary:

Christmas Shoes

Retarded movie starring Rob Lowe about a retarded boy who thinks his retarded mother who is dying of cancer needs new Christmas shoes in case she dies and meets Jesus. Oh my fucking God, do you believe this shit!!! Then some retarded good Samaritan buys the fucking shoes for the kid. Here's the twist though - the Mom dies in the end, not because of the cancer, but because she trips over the shoes and has a heart attack (this last part is just a guess)!

Other dumb-ass movies

I cannot do this anymore. Let's just say my Mother has already died inside.

More proof...

...that Jesus hates me. On November 19th, I slipped on a Maraschino cherry in the kitchen and shattered my ankle. I have been horribly depressed. I haven't felt like sharing lately. Sorry to all of my faithful acolytes.

One free guess where the offending accoutrement came from. "Oops," right Mom?

Brother, you are history

If my house is the Franco-Prussian War (or the War of 1870), then I am the French ambassador and Oliver is the Prussian king and pizza toppings are the Hohenzollern candidate for the Spanish throne and my favorite pint glass is Alsace-Lorraine and I want my fucking glass back !!!! And stop putting pepperoni on everything!!!! And stop stealing, I mean "borrowing", my history books about the Franco-Prussian War, or as the French call it, the War of 18 fucking 70!!!!

I don't know who Napolean III is - the pizza boy? Send your answer today!

Oh yeah, and Mother is Germany (she eggs us on, especially after a full day of drinking White Prussians).

Star light, star bright...

Mum and "Bernard" took me out to a "2 star" restaurant to "cheer me up" last night. The waiter was a smug jerk-off who had this look on his face that said, "I'm just doing this to get through graduate school and you don't even register enough on my radar screen to warrant contempt." He did say, "Very good" whenever any of us asked for anything, including a new water glass that had the remnants of somebody's ultra-red lip gloss. Then when I ordered a cappuccino to go with dessert and awkward conversation, "Shawn" (yes, Shawn with a 'w' and with an 'sh' and with 'a' and 'n') said, "Is this a special occasion?" For those of you unacquainted with fine dining, this is the question smug waiters ask to feel superior because the subtext of this question is crystal clear: "You clearly don't belong here so you must be celebrating your correspondence course certificate." "Yes", I answered. "I have a metal hand now. Hooray!" He made a face and the service was much less chatty thereafter. What a dick head.

Siobhan, Siobhan

I met Siobhan for coffee today. She didn't see me though.

Give me back my pint glass, dickhead!

Oliver wore diapers at night until he was 8.

Oliver's secrets!

My brother, Oliver, has been out of my blog (as some of my astute readers have noticed) because he's been a bit of an ass lately. Well, silence hasn't smoked him out (he "borrowed" my hairbrush this morning) so I've decided that every time he fucks me over, I will reveal one of his secrets that I know he doesn't want anyone to know. Here's the hairbrush secret:

Oliver was born in an elevator.

Shove on!

Olive has a new friend. Her name is Siobhan and she is a "barrista" which I think is some kind of lawyer. I met her drinking coffee at the park. She had a ladybug on her shoulder so I pointed that out to her. She said, "Oh, thanks" and we struck up a conversation. She is lovely. "So, what's a lawyer like you doing drinking coffee in the middle of the day in a park?" "I could ask you the same question." "Yes, but my answer might make you cry." "I had my tear ducts surgically removed last year. F'ing HMO wouldn't reimburse me." "Tell me about it," I said, holding up my bionic hand. "Killer." "Who says 'killer' anymore?" "I do." "I like you." "I like you too."

A new leaf (falls)

Sorry about that lapse of self-control in my last post. If you guys don't think a guy who sounds like he wants to make love to teak wood isn't worth singling out, I won't hold it against you. I've been in a very pissy mood lately, barely leaving my house, watching too much television, and I've gained like 5 pounds over the last two weeks. I think I am going out of my skull in Mumsy's house. Well, only 2 more PT appointments and I will be cleared to fly again and I can return to Whistler. I'll try to keep my emotions better in check. Don't be mad at me and stop "flaming" me (you know who you are).

a leaf falls...loneliness

I feel like the one shoe that you sometimes find abandoned on the side of the carriageway while traversing the countryside in your lorry. that is if you're a gay British truck driver.

P.S. No one thought that guy who gave that fucked up description about teak was worth commenting on? What am I doing here if not opening your fucking eyes to see the shit world you live in? No one is going to comment on that piece of brilliance?

Contest!!!!

Here we go, Fans of Me! Another funrageous contestico gigantico. I have been sipping Kahlua and creams for the past 2 and 1/2 hours pondering tonight's riddle. Winner of the contest earns my eternal gratitude and, of course, a ...Diet Soap butter knife and plastic novelty hook poorly autographed by yours truly. Here's the question: Why does God hate me?

I look forward to the responses, that is, if you don't hate me too.

Nobody cares about me

It's true. And according to "Rog" I crave attention. He said I have a "personality disorder."

And I'm also pissed that no one reads this thing.

Ask Rog!

So, here is an actual excerpt from my psych evaluation from Dr. Rog.

"...defensive posture during the interview, coupled with her unwillingness or, perhaps inability, to discuss the circumstances surrounding the original injury suggests the possibility that Ms. Duster may incur a re-traumatization should she be deemed fit to proceed with the procedure."

"Ms. Duster was questioned about the death of her father and her escape from the warehouse fire that ultimately resulted in the amputation of her [I'm not telling you which - O.D.] hand. Repeatedly, Ms. Duster responded in a sarcastic manner or attempted to derail the discussion by making tangential statements with the overt purpose of avoiding this subject."

"...making the results of projective testing highly suspect..."

"...will likely resist recommended outpatient psychotherapy to facilitate her post-operative adjustment..."

"...strongly encourage Ms. Duster's family to monitor her emotional functioning as patients with this type of presentation are considered to be at risk for becoming disintegrated as previous traumas that have not been dealt with are re-awakended...."

Do you think he has a big book of phrases that he flips to at random to write this bullshit?

Olive mingles with the people

I just got back from this art exhibit (flea market) held every Wednesday at DeWitt Square. Holy shit! I guess shitty home made jewelry is in!

Just look at this broach I almost considered buying! Simply awesome, in the truest sense of the word.

Drinking and Flying

Mother called from the heliport tonight.

"One more chance for you to come with me."

[No response]

"Olive, hon?"

["Hon" is one of the many signs that she has been drinking tonight. The others include 1) her humming to herself waiting for me to pick up after I've already said, "Hello?; 2) her insisting that the chauffer call her Babs (not her name and, to my knowledge, has never been a nickname of hers); and 3) she asked me about those fucking leather pants again before she hung up.]

"Yeah, Mom, I said no already. Besides, Ass-ram said I can't fly yet, otherwise I'd be in my own home by now."

"Sweedie, this is your home."

[A private car parked on the tarmac of a heliport? Or the 8000 sq. ft. apartment that feels like a studio apartment when Mommy is home (it's worse when her gentleman-friend "Bernard" is visiting).]

"Have a good flight."

"You too."

[Yet another sign.]

Dear Mr. Jesus...

...Diet Soap offers another wildly popular contest!

Uh-member that girl who sang that horrible horrible song, "Dear Mr. Jesus" that many of us have struggled unsuccessfully to excise from our hippocampus? Whoever answers the most questions correctly wins the goods:

1) What was her name?
2) How old is she now?
3) How many felonies has she committed?
4) How many bullet wounds does she have?
5) Does she shave her underarms?
6) What was her major and minor at Yale, if she attended that school?
7) What is her favourite colour (of human skin)?
8) Who is her fav Saved by the Bell thespian?
9) How much does her tumour weigh (if she has one - bonus for location of tumour)?

and

10) What does her prison tattoo say (not the Jesus one)?

Good luck!

Mmmm....tasty!

I am sure I could make millions if I could convince Pez Candy, Inc. to manufacture a new kind of Pez - Mario Lo-Pez.

I have this friend named Jorges whom I met in Antigua like 5 or 6 years ago during the most recent deposition. I told him this idea and he said, "So, would you want it designed so the Pez came out of his mouth so you could fantasize that the candy was his tongue?"

I said, "So I could fantasize about ripping his re-generating tongue out with my teeth?"

"Well you could have his whole head tip back and the candy would come out of his neck."

"Like I'm licking his tracheotomy site?"

"What is wrong with you?"

"Can we have him drop his pants and have the candy come out of his jeans?"

"You're gonna eat his candy shite?"

I swear to God.

Trick or Teak

Listen to what this douche bag has to say about teak wood:

Teak wood is the mellow heavy duty wood without which every home should not be made, at least in part. Home is where the heart is, and risking that home by building it with anything less than teak lumber is the same as threatening the heart with inevitable destruction.

I guess you can smoke this shit too.

Dum-Dum is still dumb

So lots of people have been trying to be supportive of my new hand, making jokes, cutting off and then re-sewing hands on teddy bears, etc. etc. But leave it to Dum-Dum to say the fucking dummest thing - "So, two questions: how many gigabytes does that thing have and can it play video?" Clever.

Paging Dr. Ass-Ram

"Hey, Olive. Who the fuck is this? Dr. Ashram calling. I swear I had to consciously remind myself not to call him Ass-ram. How's my favorite patient? Who is this guy?"

"Fine."

"How's PT going? I understand there was a problem with Dr. Sanabel? Creepy PT who wanted me to change into a gown. I refused."

"He wanted me to change into a gown. I refused. I thought it was unnecessary. You did the procedure by asking me to roll up my sleeve. I thought the guy was creepy. Dr. Chang non-creepy female PT is working out fine. Only 4 more to go, she says."

"Any swelling, discomfort, discolouration, or seepage? Have you been looking at my vagina?"

"No, it's fine."

"Great. I'll want to see you once more after PT is finished, but call beforehand if you have any problems. 'Kay?"

Great. Another normal conversation with a former adversary. Do I need to re-think his secret nickname too? Nah.

Oh, also, I got to see my psychological evaluation report... I'll hit the high points next post.

Mmmm....coffee!

Cunty stopped by with a fresh brew for me this morning. Also, she gave me a teddy bear with it's arm in a sling (I didn't break my fucking arm, you dumb ass). I was like, what the fuck. Then, I burst into tears (I know, I've been doing that a lot lately, what do you want from me?!) when I realized she had cut off the hand and re-attached it in a painfully obvious way (with green thread) to celebrate (or "sale-a-brate", her fav joke) my iLimb. Way to go, Cunty. Now I have to rethink your secret nickname.

psst...

sorry i haven't posted in a while, everyone. it's just that, uh, i kinda just got the iLimb attached... it's fucked up... let me catch my breath and i'll get back to blogging. i need a little time to adjust to this thing. it's fucked up and i've been alternating between laughing and crying for the past week... don't tell anyone.

Lessons from Freud

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. But sometimes a cigar is a dolphin mocking you. At least that's what you should tell the cops when you get accused of slapping a cigar out of the mayor's mouth at the opening of a new community center. (Dolphins look kinda phallic, right?)

Ask Olive!

Former dancing great, Gail Horning, writes:

Dear Olive,

There's this guy I like who's really cute and I think he likes me. There's one thing though - he hates amputees. What should I do?

Love,

Gail Horning, Former Dancing Great
_______________

Dear Gail,

We all hate amputees. I say go for it.

Yours,

Olive

Ask Olive!

Diane Scheggler of Wichita, NY writes:

Dear Olive,

Can you settle a bet between myself and former dancing great, Gail Horning? She thinks it's impossible, but can one be racist against one's own race?

Love and Carrots,

Diane Scheggler of Wichita, NY

Dear Diane,

It depends. Are you White?

Love and Diapers,

Olive

Knock out!

Evander Holyfield is pictured here with his two children, George and George.

Hooray!

After a furious weekend of blogging for ...Diet Soap and my other freelance writing gigs, I am proud to announce that my increase in writing has resulted, for the first time in my one-handed life, in a decrease in readers! As Mother often says, "Why buy the cow when you can be lactose indifferent for free." Okay, she said that once and she had been drinking White Russians for the better part of the afternoon.

Olive's Garden

It's the time of the year when our fearless leader, Olive Duster, reveals her favourites from the fiscal year. Signed, Could-Be-You-Intern-Apps-Due-Nov.-1st.

Favourite age for a homeless man: 56 years old.

Favourite injury: Missing hand.

Favourite obscure health issue: Lactose indifference.

Favourite snack: Little Chocolate Davenports

Favourite greeting: "Hey, hooker." (courtesy of my brother).

Favourite hobby: Putting Mario Lopez's head on the body of a dolphin.

Favourite fantasy: A fleet of Mario Lopez's following my schooner as I cruise the ocean near San Onofre State Beach plotting my next rape of wild beauty with a super 6 lane highway.

Favourite bumper sticker: "My other car is a prosthetic hook."

Thanks for noticing!

I walked into a Starbucks this morning and the "barrista" said to me, I swear to Jehova, "Hey there, sweet face. Welcome to Sweet Saturday at Starbucks. What can I do you for?"

Sweet face?

Do you for?

I replied, "I'll take a small water and 10 copies of the Gloria Estefan compilation." Then I started picking my teeth with my hook.

Piss on it!

Building a six-lane toll road through San Onofre State Beach near San Clemente outside of Los Angeles may seem like a good idea, but it's as likely to happen as this woman is to get laid.

Contest!!!!

We've had such an overwhelming response to our recent "dreams are best left to" segment that ...Diet Soap is issuing yet another fun and tedious challenge! Tell us how you would complete Mother's infamous aphorism and you could win...... a ...Diet Soap butter knife AND a plastic novelty hook poorly autographed by the even more infamous Olive Duster! Enter today and "feel the shame!"

Correction

Mother was outraged that I misquoted her on the subject of dreams. Dreams are not best left to "prostitutes and politicians" but rather for "large children and small men."

I like my variation better.

Stump grinding

Apparently, I was so upset last night that Mother had to wake me up after I cried out in my sleep.

My stump was sore after I slept on it all night.

Maybe Mother was right. Maybe dreams are "best left to prostitutes and politicians."

I'm thinking of heading back to Whistler.

I'm thinking about quitting this blog.

You can call me Rog...

Uh, yeah, the whole thing was kinda fucked up...

Not sure I have it in me to go into all the gory details, but I'll throw you all a bone.

Rog: Have you even seen or heard anything that you know wasn't really there?

Me: Does my father burning in front of my eyes every night as I fall asleep count?

Rog: Yes. Yes it does [scribbles furiously on his yellow legal pad].

Oh, I'm definitely gonna have to go down Mexico way to get this fucking robotic hand attached.

Well, I have to go cry some more now.

Looking for Mr. Goodman

Seeing my shrink tomorrow. I am totally obsessing about what I should wear. Does it really matter? Of course it does. Dr. Dreamy is a psychologist. He'll probably notice every single detail, right down to my missing hand. I bet you he insists that I discuss "the accident" with him.

Question for my readers: Should I or shouldn't I tell him. I've only discussed it with the police detective at the time and I don't even really remember that interview.

Question #2 for my readers: Why does it matter how I lost my hand? I just want a new prosthetic; is this whole consultation even relevant? Is this a mental capacity issue? Does Dr. Ass-Ram think I'm incompetent?

Question #3 for my readers: What the fuck?

Question #4 for my readers: I'm thinking of wearing an old bridesmaid dress that's sea foam green with a big bow in back along with my Israeli combat boots. Too much?

Peas and Carrots.

Real fucking funny

How much for a hand? I've got one in a bell jar I'm not using anymore.

What could possibly go wrong?

Oh, sure, dolphins are perfectly harmless. I don't know what I was thinking. You'll have to forgive me for my temporary insanity.

My good friend and famous dancer, Gail Horning, recently told me that she thinks maybe I see danger where there is none on account of the horrible "accident" that claimed my hand and my father's life (even though only charred remains and a large insurance settlement were all we were left with in the aftermath).

Gail, the dolphins are real and they're smarter than you think.

Parallel Universe

Readers of ...Diet Soap have been following Zsa Zsa Gabor's legal troubles with the tenacity of an army of meat ants in the presence of a Leaf Hopper. It is with great sadness, then, that I have the duty to inform my readers that Zsa Zsa and her 9th husband, Frederic "Freddy V." Von Anhalt, voluntarily dismissed their lawsuit against Zsa Zsa's daughter, Francesca Hilton, late last week. Readers of ...Diet Soap first became intrigued by the case when they noticed eerie similarities between the rocky financial relationship of Gabor and Hilton and the rocky house cleaning relationship between Mother and myself. Mother, too, dropped her informal complaints against yours truly when she came to the realization that I have a hook for one of my hands and I simply can't lift the 200-fucking-pound ancient Hoover UP THE FUCKING STAIRS BY MYSELF!

Ask Olive!

I get thousands and thousands of letters and e-mails from admirers and well-wishers every week and occasionally I take some time to respond to a select few.

On this day (give or take a week) in history...

Seriously, where the hell is Elian? I haven't heard dick about this kid in like 6 years. About 3 years ago, I heard he was mixing some demos with Timberland and now nothing!

Fun Facts!

Most of us know that Mario Lopez stole the hearts of millions of pre-teens around the world when he burst on the scenes as "Slater" in television's Saved by the Bell in 1989. But did you also know that the dreamy thespian has never incurred a serious hand injury? Photos don't lie.

A real intellexual!

Last night, I called the psychologist's office to set up my evaluation expecting to speak to a secretary or assistant. So I was surprised when I got the good doctor, himself, on the line. Dr. Roger Goodman, with a smoky, sultry voice assured me I could call him, "Rog." "When can we get you in here?" "Uh, right now please?" "Ha! I like eager customers," he said. "Ah, well. I did have a cancellation for next Wednesday at 9 am. How does that sound?" "That will give me plenty of time to get my legs waxed. I'll take it." "Okay, sounds good. Do you need directions?" "No, I've been getting my legs waxed at the same place since I was 20." "I'll look forward to our meeting." Me too, Rog. Me too! Do you think psychologists can date their patients? Do they have any ethical constraints on the matter? Do you think I'll have to lie on a couch? Will I have to look at ink blots or do free association?

"Mother."
"Leather pants."

"Father."
"Warehouse fire."

"Love."
"Carrom."

"Hate."
"Dolphins."

"Family."
"Prosthesis."

"Friends."
"Cunty and Dum Dum."

"Fear."
"Dolphins."

"Hope."
"No ethical constraints."

"iLimb."
"Senator and Mrs. Mario Lopez."

Paging Dr. Ass-Ram

So get this. I didn't even want to see Dr. Ashram. I only went because a) Mother dropped $60K on this iLimb, b) the iLimb appears to be kick-ass, and 3) I thought he might know something about my father's demise. Well, before he'll go any further with my consultation, he is making me see a fucking psychologist. "It's a normal step in the process," according to my quack. Please, God, let me hear the psychologist say, "Tell me about your mother." I bet you I can make him cry.

Man, I'm hungry...

Being with Mother in the City has it's advantages, but I can't find my favourite snack anywhere! I am totally craving Assail's Eye Power Sugarless Blueberry Tablets. Yum! God, I could kill for some of this shit right now! There's nothing more satisfying after a night of binge drinking than artificial blueberry flavour in tablet form. Trust me on this one.

Close your eyes, Billy.

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. We are approaching 35,000 feet in the air and we're midway through our journey today. If you look to your left, you should be able to see the city of Whistler just on the horizon. If you look to your right - HELLO! Well, hi there. I'm the Captain. What's your name? Kyla, hmmm, that's a nice name. No, I'm not staring at your breasts. That's crazy! I was just, uh, thinking that you should, uh, wear a name tag so people can - what? No, it's on autopilot. Oh, okay. Talk to you later? Hey, maybe you could, if you wanted, put this blanket on so - it's just kinda distracting and... Whatever, it's cool. We're cool, right? I HEARD YOU! I SAID I'LL BE THERE IN A SECOND! Jesus, do you believe that? Anyway, I gotta get back to work, but, hey, if you write your number on this napkin, maybe we can... No, that's just turbulence. Alright, but I'll keep my eyes open for you after the flight, 'kay? Kewl.

Tips for the disabled

Shown above, last year's intern poses for ...Diet Soap's public service brochure demonstrating one-handed dressing techniques. She did a really shitty job.

The Heat Is On!

Lot's of intern applicants submit their essays over the internet. One special applicant showed up at our offices along with this special treat - Patrick (of SpongeBob fame) shaped cupcakes. The rest of you have your work cut out for you. Of course, I have to assume they are poisonous as I have many enemies (e.g., dolphins). So after the applicant left, I gave them to the creepy doorman of Mother's building (with whom I made out a while ago and I have since been avoiding like the plague that is likely living in his "beard"). Well done, Sophie. You truly have a leg up on the competition. Can't wait to read your essay, "Off Da Hook: Why I Need This Unpaid Internship with a Saucy Amputee."

You know, as I read this, who better to apply for this unpaid position than Homeless Businessman. I will contact him immediately.

Intern Search!

It's that time of year again. Time for ...Diet Soap to file a restraining order against last year's intern and time to start searching for this year's lucky applicant. We will be accepting applications starting Sept. 12 until Nov. 1, 2007. This year's lucky intern will experience the behind-the-scenes action of a real live blog. Learn how to make sarcastic comments, search and post funny photos, and get to work side-by-side with a real live amputee! Our interns will be groomed by one of the best and brightest in the field of blogging and will learn the ins and outs of getting coffee, cleaning hooks, distracting Mother while the publisher sneaks in, and pre-reading the paper and clipping out any offensive references to dolphins before said references sully the eyes and mind of the publisher. Plus, you will get to rub shoulders with many ...Diet Soap celebs when you screen phone calls from...CUNTY....DUM DUM....DR. ASHRAM....and the creepy guy known only as....MY MOM'S DOORMAN, and many, many more! If interested in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, submit your essay on why you want to work for us! If you are missing any body parts or if any body parts have become detached from your person, please submit all the gory details and pics to the comment section of this post. And don't fuck up your only chance to impress me like this guy did.

Mystery

So I came home this morning and found this package on my doorstep addressed to my father - no return address or anything. Regular readers know that Daddy died in a work-related accident. So, I decided to open it. And look at this thing. What the hell? I hid it from Mother.

Oh, I forgot to mention that my appointment with Dr. Ashram got postponed by a week... Maybe I should try this bad boy on.

What's the crime?

Citizens of Columbus, Ohio are puzzled. Since when was robbing a church and then assaulting one's attorney a crime?

I thought I hated babies...

I had a dream last night that I gave birth. When the doctor handed him to me, he spoke with the voice of Henry Kissinger. He said, "You will fail as a mother." I think he made some derogatory comments about my one good hand too. I thought I hated babies.

So what does this phantom baby want with me?

Do these pants make me look guilty?

I've been feeling really guilty about the following five things. I need your help to determine if I should feel bad about these things or if I am beating myself up over nothing.

1. My new friend keeps referring to my two oldest friends as "Cunty" and "Dum-Dum" on her blog. I have neither confronted my new friend about this nor told my old friends about this (because I kinda think it's funny).

2. I made out with the doorman of my Mommy's building last night after drinking with Cunty and Dum-Dum.

3. I borrowed Mother's leather pants to go out last night (she has never worn them but, for some reason, she won't let me borrow them). I spilled pickled egg juice on them but simply returned them to her closet without telling her (I'm telling you, she kinda smells like pickled eggs anyway and so she'll probably never notice).

4. I told the doorman I lost my hand in a dolphin training mishap (a lie).

5. Oliver's bitchy girlfriend called last night looking for him and I said he was with "Carol" at "the party" and, "Oh, he said you knew her and he was meeting you at the party." And, "He told me you guys broke up." And, "God, what an asshole! How could he do this to you?" And, "You should just show up at the party and get it over with." And I gave her a fakey address.

On this day in history...

Hey, whatever happened to Elian?