Let Me Tell You About My Crazy Internet Stalker

     I just want to say that I have a crazy internet stalker who has been emailing me 1-4 times a day for months.   He checks my blog obsessively and monitors my internet presence as best he can.  He uses an anonymous proxy and thinks that he’s invisible, but my software catches him and I see when he comes and goes.  I am not in the habit of monitoring 95% of my readers because there’s no point, but I do monitor this crazy fucktard.  

     Right now I’m engaged in a little standoff with this bastard.  I reached my breaking point when he announced his intention to move in with me.  He has quite a fantasy life, as the rest of you will see if he continues to harass me.  

     He lives overseas.  I have all of his ISPs and I know his operating system.  He has also sent me pictures of his house, his family, himself, and his useless, worthless cock.  

     I have consulted my attorney.  It cost me $150, so thanks for that, you crazy internet fucktard, but it was worth it.  His pathetic death threat is a crime and if he continues to antagonize me I am going to the police and the State Department.  He will be flagged at Customs when he tries to enter the country.

      If he continues stalking me, I am also going to publish every single one of his hundreds of email online.  I will set up a special blog for it, and a tumblr, and maybe even a WordPress.  It will take several days, but it will be a labor of love.  I will publish all of his crazy emails, and his photographs, and, best of all, the photos of his idiotic worthless cock.  His family portraits are going up, too, though I will be ethical and blurr the faces of his nieces and nephews.  He can have fun explaining that to his drunkard father, who had him arrested for domestic violence, and his clearly incompetent parole officer.  I say that she is incompetent because my crazy internet stalker obviously needs to be medicated and placed under supervision, or else returned to a cage.  Dangerous trash like him should not be released upon the public.  

      If my crazy internet stalker persists, I will also forward all of his emails, including his Klassy bathroom-shot selfies and his Klassy cock shots, to his account manager at the bank for which he works.  I have her full name, because my idiotic internet stalker told me.  My idiotic internet stalker can’t fucking shut up.  My fucktard internet stalker has blown up my email box with his deranged delusional fantasyland rantings for the last fucking time.  If I have to read his shit, everyone gets to read his shit, including his reflexologist cousin! Does his poor cousin know that he’s been spending her photos to strangers over the internet?  I guess we’ll find out! 

      My crazy, pathetic internet stalker really, really hates my Surgeon ex-boyfriend.  He is jealous of him–or, more accurately, he is jealous of me,  because he is very gender-confused, as all of you will learn if I have to publish his hundreds of pages of emails online.  I hold my crazy internet stalker in contempt, but I will warn him: if you find my Ex and bother him about me, you will regret it for the rest of your stupid, pointless life.  You won’t even know what hit you.  My Ex will not be intimidated by your rantings about aliens and what a badass you were in prison and all the other putrid, inferior thoughts you concoct in your disordered brain.  Life will get very, very expensive for you very, very fast. 

    My crazy internet stalker is obsessed with sex workers and reads our blogs.  If you are a blogging sex worker and read this, please let me know and I will give you the information about my crazy internet stalker so that you can identify him if and when he shows up in your email box.  

     Unless, of course, my stalker forces me to publish all of his shit online, in which case private correspondence from me will no longer be necessary.  

     P.S.  If my internet stalker tries to hack my computer, it will all be for naught: his emails and photos, including the ones of his Dad and his klassy cock shots, are all saved on an exterior hard drive.  For insurance.  

      Now get the hell away from me, you worthless prick, and consider yourself lucky that I was fair enough to warn you.

Readers Weigh In: Creepy, Touching, or Both…?

      Do you think this video is disturbing, or touching, or both…?   The first time I watched it, I was frozen in morbid fascination, but the second time I thought it was funny and quite nice.

      What do you think?

      P.S.  As I finish grading the midterms, it occurs to me that the next time I’m at the doctor’s office I ought to have my kidney examined.  I think my kidney crayons are gangrenous, and I need nice healthy red crayons…

Supervising Anne

     This isn’t the big blog post I have in the works, but it’s a fun little Dungeon Tale and it won’t take too long to write, so here you go:

      The Studio cleaning staff is off for two weeks and things were starting to look a little gnarly.  You’d think a House full of women would be able to keep things presentable and organized, but since most of the staff are either spoiled Princess-Divas or Lumpenproles whose standards of institutional hygiene are not exactly reminiscent of Joseph Lister’s, not much was getting done.  I wasn’t getting paid for the labor, so the only messes I cleaned up were my own.  

      The solution was obvious: we needed a houseboy.

      The problem was obvious: service submissive houseboys are the unicorns of the BDSM world.  They either want you to constantly pay attention to them and oversee their work, like the subs in that funny vodka ad posted down below, or else, like most men, they don’t know how to clean properly.  

      If you’re a man who is incensed by my accusation, I grant that you may be the exception to the rule, but consider this: which gender are the maids in society, and when you see commercials for cleaning products on television, what gender are the people in the ad…?  Unless it’s an ad for car wax or Mr. Clean, who is a corporate logo and a cartoon, you can bet your ass that the actor in an ad is a woman.  When is the last time you saw a dude scrubbing a toilet or sweeping the floor on TV?

Deigns to do housework because he’s big enough to pulverize any males who make fun of him.

      We went to Fetlife and Craigslist.  Two candidates.  Both of them flunked. 

      Eventually, Mistress “Rachel” sent over her female service sub, a tiny middle-aged mother of three we’ll call “Anne.” 

      Anne was very petite.  Couldn’t have been more than five feet tall.  She didn’t even come up to my shoulder.  

     She was, however, one of those pint-sized indefatigables, like a bee or a hummingbird, not unlike my mother.

      I gave her an apron, showed her where the cleaning supplies were, and put her to work.  She said that Rachel usually made her clean in high heels, but even at my worst I am not that cruel, and I let her run around in flip-flops.  I almost gave her knee-pads since she’d be spending so much time on the floor, but then I figured, what the hell, if she’s not suffering at least some of the time, these menial chores are just so much drudgery. 

      I’d come out to check on her from time to time.  Our industrious little Tornado of Clean had quite a sweat going, and when I put my foot on her ass to guide her towards an unemptied litter basket, the sole of my boot, which I’d been wearing all weekend, left quite a mark.  I took photos of it with her iPhone and texted them to Rachel. 

      After three hours, she approached me in back, where I was editing a manuscript.

      “I think I’m done, Mistress,” she said.

      I stood up.

      “Let’s inspect the work!” I said, and wrapped my hand in her hair.  I pulled her head down, towards my waist, but she wasn’t moving much.

       “Do you see where I’m going?” I asked.


       “Then why don’t you do it…?  Bend over.”

       Anne bent.

       I started to whistle as I stepped into the hall, guiding her along beside me.  The tune was “Old Macdonald Had A Farm.”  Anne’s flip-flops made slapping noises.  I was wearing my boots with the hose-shoe heels, and they produced quite a racket on the ceramic tile. 

        The place was pretty goddamed clean, I have to say, but I had to find something wrong with it! 

       “You didn’t refill the hand sanitizer!  What sort of House slave are you?”

        Anne’s body got tense.  I twisted her head around so that I could see her face.

        “I’m Rachel’s slave, Miss Margo, not the dungeon slave,” she said.

        Uh-oh.  Rachel gets the Owl Stare. 

        “You know, Anne, that sounded almost like you were contradicting me.”

         “No, Miss, it’s just that I am Rachel’s slave,” she looked very nervous.

          I bent her over further at the waist.  Stress position. 

         “Rachel gave you to us, so you’re ours right now, and that means that you also belong to me.  And you can disagree with me all you like, but if you want to survive, you keep your disagreements in your little head of yours.  Your mistress can rectify your incorrect thoughts; I don’t care what you think as long as you obey.

        You do want to survive, don’t you?”

        “Yes, Miss Margo,” she panted.

        “That’s better,” I said, and turned on the shower.  I tossed her in while the water was still cold, apron and all, because she was a dirty, sweaty mess, and I wasn’t going to return her in that condition.

                         *                          *                         *

        Rachel called me back later that night:

        “She loved it when you threw her into the shower with her shoes and apron on!  And when you were pulling her around by the hair, and a man saw!  Thanks!”

          “My pleasure.  She sure whipped this place into shape.”

         First time ever dominating a woman who was not a member of a heterosexual couple.  I almost want to ask if I can borrow her this week for my place.  I need to do my floors. 

Lazy Instructor Doesn’t Want to Lecture

Read More

      I’ve been working on a few more substantial blog posts, but I’m also writing under a deadline for another project and grading midterms (Oh. My. God.  Whyyyyy do they not study when I tell them what will be on the test?  Whhhyyyyyyyy I give them all the answers?  Why?  Why?). 

       In the meantime, here are more videos…I feel like the lazy teacher showing videos in class instead of lecturing…shame shame shame….

       Blogger DrugMonkey, of Your Pharmacist May Hate You (check my blogroll), turned me on to this one.  SOOOO FUNNY! 


      I’m not a fan of weed myself, but I do like politics and history, and this video made me laugh.  Who do you think did the best impersonation…?  I’m leaning towards Nixon and Obama.  The Obama actor really nailed the President’s diction.  

     This image courtesy of Animal Life, which is the best Twitter ever…

       And speaking of animals…I like this playful image a lot.  It’s not sexy, but it’s very…fun?  


“I Lived in a War-Torn Country”

    Miss Margo Note:  Pouring over my dream journal today.  I had this dream in 2010, and I remember it vividly to this day.  The Kings were like Egyptian gods: human bodies with animal heads.

      You don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to figure out the symbolism, but my birds represent my heart.

     I lived in a war-torn country.  Enemies invaded the borders and marched inward with their armies.  People left their homes to become refugees on the roads, trying to walk to a safe place.  I was one of them.  I took my birds with me in a travel cage because I would not abandon them to die.  At night when it was time to sleep, you could see towns burning on the horizon where the enemies had arrived.  They were close and getting closer.  I tried to comfort my birds, who were very distressed. 

     The King of my country, who was a wolf, came for me at night.  He scooped me up and put me behind him on his horse.  I tried to shield my birdcage in my coat. He rode us hard, far ahead, into the desert where we were all alone.  The desert was familiar and the sky had a million stars!  Then he pulled me off the horse and raped me.  He was huge, the size of an automobile.  I couldn’t help it. 

     As soon as he was done, he looked over his shoulder and said, “They’re coming!  We have to get away!”  He put me on his back, which was covered by a royal scarlet cape, and started to run.  He was so fast that it was scary.  I held on for dear life. There was nothing to help us in the desert; nowhere to hide. 

I looked behind me and saw his enemies coming in the distance.  There was a Lion King, a Tiger King, and a Doberman Pincher King.  They had crowns and capes.  They had united against him, the Wolf king.  They were coming to take him. 

     Wolf King was sweating and running so fast that I was terrified.  But I saw the other Kings get closer and closer.  Eventually, they caught us, and Wolf King tripped and landed in the dirt and I went flying. 

     They took Wolf King as a prisoner and then came over to me.  I said that Wolf King had kidnapped me and that I was not with him voluntarily.  They did not believe me.  Before my eyes, they released the birds from my cage while I cried and begged them not to do it.  My birds flew away to a certain death.

Best Cartoons Ever

       I must be getting my period or something, because I just cried my eyes out over this video.  It has a happy ending, but jeez, was I ever sad for that little ugly ducking (swanling?)!  It was awful to see him rejected by his parents!  His mom hated him because he made her look bad in front of the father.  And he was so cute!  The cutest little cartoon baby swan!  It ripped my heart out when he thought that the wooden decoy duck could accept him! When he cuddled with it! And when he thought that the mother swan wouldn’t want him at 7:50, so he was like ‘okay, I’ll just leave.’  And crying at his own reflection because he thinks he’s ugly! Break out your hankies!

Oh my gawd, alll of the feels!

And it got 1,483 “dislikes” on YouTube!  What the fuck?!  Who could possibly dislike this video?  This cartoon would melt my landlord’s heart!

The only way that it could be better is to show his transformation into a beautiful handsome swan. 

      I like this one, too.  Flying whales!  What an amazing concept!  They’re so beautiful and that little whale calf is the cutest guy!  I like how he was trapped in the glacier and his parents helped to guide him out of it.  

     The first video has the original score, which is best, but the second video has the entire scene, so you can follow his entire journey.



        I also spent 30 minutes trying to get Parrot to pose with the stack of money I made at the Studio this week (business really picked up, thank God…but I had a session with a guy who looked exactly like Bat Boy, and I cannot get the visuals out of my mind.  Bat Boy tipped me $100, though, so that was cool).  I want to submit a picture of her to the Tits and Sass blog for their ‘Dogs and Dollars’ feature.  Though I suppose with Parrot, it would be Birds and Bills. 

Reader Mailbag: Attention Whores and CP Telephones

      “What’s it like to be an attention whore?”
                                               –random anonymous internet stranger

        Howdy, stranger!  I had to translate your question into English through Google Trollspeak Translator in order to understand it.

          Translation: It makes me angry and resentful when women take up space in the public sphere, even if that space is just the electronic void of the internet.  Women should not talk about themselves or their experiences, even anonymously via a self-published online blog with 8 readers.  I am frustrated because girls won’t go out with me.  Women should be modest and chaste and seek approval from me. 

        Listen up, asshole.  The reason you think I’m an “attention whore” is because you are paying attention to me.  See how that works?  Does your brain have enough computing power to get my point?  You came to me. 

         I blog under a fake name for free.  Fake name.  Free.  There are no ads, donations buttons, amazon wish-lists, membership subscriptions, or paywalls.  For security purposes, I do not even book sessions with people who find me via the blog (that I know of).  My photos are selfies so that I know they are the only ones in existence.  Tell me how any of this is self-aggrandizing?  

         The blog is open to the adult public.  When an artist paints a picture, do you think it is vain of him to show it to other people? 

         Autobiography!  Memior!  First-person reporting!  All attention whores!  Nobody should express themselves or contribute to the dialogue, ever.

        The only one seeking attention here is you.  Admit it: I just make you mad.

         “What are you, some kind of communist?”


         And that reminds me of a funny story!

         Back in the raging days of my youth, I visited New York City with my organization.  Part of the trip was networking and planning and part of it was political agitation.  I almost got a ticket for hawking books in Central Park (I didn’t know it was not allowed). I am almost positive that I sold one of our books to Alan Greenspan (if it wasn’t him, it was a dead ringer).  I don’t know if he actually planned to read it, or display it on his coffee table in an ironic gesture, or give it to one of his buddies in the Ayn Rand Reading Group as a joke, or what.  

       (This little trip almost disqualified me from interning for a rather powerful politician a few years later, by the way.) 

         While we were here, we visited the Communist Party HQ office on West 23rd Street.  This was before they renovated it.  I was expecting cobwebs of gargantuan proportions, but it was clean.

       The Communist Party had several landlines but they hadn’t paid their telephone bill in, like, 27 years.  Telephone service was never cut off, though, because the FBI was monitoring the phones.  They were all bugged and had been from time immemorial.  The FBI (or someone) wouldn’t allow service to be terminated because they wanted to hear the conversations.  

        Who paid the bill?  The FBI?  The taxpayer?  Did the phone company just absorb the cost in a gesture of capitalist solidarity?  Who knows?  

          You could get on these phone and call anywhere you wanted.  Long distance to the moon, whatever.  Wanna call comrades in Spain?  Africa?  Your grandma in Kansas?  Want to harass your congressperson?  Plan a protest?  Order a pizza?  Talk to your girlfriend? Go right ahead!

        Well, a few years later, we got the email.  It was a sad, sad day in my Trotskyist youth group’s list-serve.

         The phones had been disconnected.   The phone company finally pulled the plug!

         The end of an era!  

         What that meant, of course, was that the government no longer cared about the Party enough to pay attention to it, which was a real bummer.

         If my politics–which, radical as they may be, are nonetheless also well-informed–offend you, reader, you may remember the disconnected telephones, and take solace. 

Halloween Post!

      A few fun clips to celebrate the holiday…


     LOVE this dance by Salma Hayek, “Mistress of the Macabre!”  Check out the foot-fetish part where she pours tequila/beer into Tarentino’s mouth @ 3:10