The final note

I apologize to the empty stadium
to the vacant venue
to the expectations

This "noble" experiment has regrettably failed.

#2 says bye to you.

The Platonic Crushes

College tore them apart and music brought them back together; The Platonic Crushes' story is something truly remarkable. It's about endearing the pains of reality and churning out artistically viable music that can be sold to the masses for larges gains of profit that are directly transferred to third world countries. But let's start at the beginning....

All they ever wanted to do was play music, that is, until they started playing in high school band. Then they wanted to form a suicide pact. Luckily, that never happened. And after one night of illicit other worldly activities, the trio rediscovered their love for music. None of them can really recollect or put into words what exactly they experienced, but they assure, "It must have been wicked sweet slash awesome."

Questionable activities aside, the trio of girls decided they wanted to explore their new found interest in music together. They formed a pact that they signed with a mixture of blood, alcohol, and heroin. The blood was theirs, the heroin wasn’t. They drew straws to decide who’d to what: Katazyna, vocals and guitar; Kammaka, bass; Colette, drums.

Band Practice One: Screwed around
Band Practice Two: Slight progress
Band Night: Wrote all the songs to their first album
Band Practice Three: Worked out the kinks
Band Practice Four: Utter Perfection
Band Bar Audition: Success
Agent Obtained: Check
Contract Signed: Check
Drinks with Producer: Check
First Album: In progress…

To be continued.

Joel Samson Berntsen (Handle Me-Robyn)

Night Marry

Crouching down in my cell, I wrap my arms tighter around my knees as the hand protrudes from the bars into my 7 by 5 living space. I can just barely lay down flat, slinking away from the ghost is not an option.

The ghost curls his wrath around the bars of my cell, the long ectoplasmic tendrils of his fingers overlapping each other in his large grasp. His face is close, too close. He's pressing his body through the bars and in front of me. But not his body. His face. He's detaching, dissolving. Piece by piece I watch as the ghost disappears into a puddle of mist on the floor, shapes swirling as he soundlessly glides into my space.

My space.

Space transcends time as the ghost begins to solidify. I can't breath. My tongue is too large. It's choking me. I can't breath, I can't, cannot, can't breath. Because the fingers are back, tightening their expansive clutch around my throat. My tongue is too large because it's swelling. My eyes are bulging from the blood cut off. From the pressure, which I can't handle.

Though the ghost has no face I can hear him laughing. I can hear the loose chains of my past clanking around his nonexistent ankles. I can hear the un-oiled hinges of my closet door, creaking as it blows open in the wind.

-Samm

Up Chuck

The girl was sitting on the concrete, her legs jutted out at uncomfortable angles, her arms limp at her sides like an old broken doll. Tears streamed from her eyes and recollected in her open, gaping socket of a mouth. Her dress was torn, ragged, and dirty as was her skin. Stripes on her cheeks shone pink from where her tears had eroded the dirt and chapped her flesh.

Behind her, goblins poured out of the door in hordes, each one armed. As they passed their simultaneous queen and harlot, they kicked her, spit on her, pulled at her already disheveled clothes. The girl failed to notice, her eyes reflecting the haunting absence of spirit, displaying the hollow echo left from where her soul had evacuated the quickly growing cavern of her mind.

The goblins snickered, some delighting in her suffering, others kissing her head as a sign of respect as they passed. None bothered to help her. She alone had led them to the surface. She needed to sit and see the benefits of a naive girl's labor.

Once they chamber was full, they opened the door to the sunlight. Natural light flooded into the dimly lit room, blinding all the goblins foolish enough to keep their eyes open the entire time. The others, the older and wiser ones who remembered the light, thrived under the warmth of the sun.

-Samm

Death of a Hag

Haha j/k lol rofl idk

As Samm meandered towards a saw mill, she saw a sign exclaiming "CLICHE DEATH IMMINENT, AVOID!" Unfortunately, as a lesbian hag, she is illerate and couldn't read it. However, she saw a handsome dyke stroll by who caught her gander.

The homosexual female introduced herself as Beatrice the Butch. Samm's curiousity was piqued by Beatrice's lumberjack shirt.

Suddenly, a meteor appeared in the sky, or so they thought. Actually it was a golf ball. After their close brush with death, they decided to have a civil ceremony and tie the (well whatever lesbians tie).

That night, Beatrice told the Hag to go get some smokes and throw paint on some rich woman's fur coat (all lesbians are card-carrying members of PETA, duh).

When Samm returned, Beatrice announced that their 4 hour relationship was built on lies and stormed out.

Samm was perplexed.

Samm was confused.

Samm was hungry.

After Samm saw a man holding Beatrice's dress and walking down the street, she realized that she had just married a tranny.

This realisation led Samm to drink.

I don't mean Barbara Walters drinking, I'm talking Whitney with too much coke and a closet full of tequila drinking.

After Samm had OD'd, Bobby Brown came to her in a dream and told her to XXXXXXXXXX (I can't repeat it, it's too vile). This disgusting statement brought Samm back from the brink of death.

As she gazed around the room, she noticed that all of her furniture was gone.
The hippies had visited.
Damn hippies.

So, Samm did what every lesbian does when confronted with hippies, she sent an angry letter to the hippie times.

Unfortunately for Samm, the hippie times was now led by Al Gore.
No one sends angry letters to Al Gore.

So, Al Gore did what every has-been turned environmentalist EIC would do, he sent her a tree with a leprechaun assassin hidden inside.

After the tree had been delivered, Samm rejoiced because now she could practice her topiary skills. As she began trimming, the leprechaun struck her pot of gold with a taser.

Then, he stuffed her mouth with the last remaining famine-era potato.

She struggled, but he was a wry leprechaun. He finished her off by putting the weave of death over her dyke spike.

And that is how the Hag died.
Sorry Hag

Splenda is Still Not Sugar

Dear Viewers,

While the resident Hag finds it endearing that her accompanying Muskequeers frequently attempt to replace her, she requests it known that there is no replication for the real deal.

Sincerely,

TLH

Post Script: TLH finds it highly disturbing that she may actually miss journalism this coming year. Tragic.

Conquerings of The Three Muskequeers

Dear Enrique (The Lone Reader),

The Muskequeers have recently gone exploring (exactly what verb describes the actions of a Muskequeer?) in a most magnificent fashion.

First, we queered it up at a three-day yearbook ["We're not in yearbook!"]--excuse me, journalism camp, where we made a wonderful friend named Cathy. Cathy (just Cathy--her last name is either nonexistent or too long to remember) is the journalism adviser at Timberland High School and our instructor at the camp. She is simply the opposite of our adviser, Mr. Kuchno, except for the fact that they are both very informative. That is where the similarities end. While "Da Kuch" is physically incapable of answering a question in less than a fortnight, with Cathy, you get it straight up.

Example:

"Mr. Kuchno, do you like this masthead?"

"Well... I think we would have to look at the other options. We should probably discuss it with the other staffers. I'm not quite sure if this is the direction we're looking to go in. Did you talk to your editor? Chicken parm and Sportscenter." Etc.

versus...

"Cathy, do you like this?"

"Ew. It reminds me of O'Riley's Auto Parts"

Another difference: humor. Cathy's short discussions were filled with more of it than all of Kuchno's lectures combined. In fact, we struggled to remember a time when he actually laughed. Even their hair (Kuchno: bald on top, short on sides; Cathy: frizzy blond mane) are perfect contrasts.

But enough about Cathy. The camp was extremely enjoyable (at least I thought so) even when we weren't with Cathy. As fun as the forcedly symbolic team-building games were, the real fun came from the company. The Lesbian Hag was substituted by Natalie Bram, who can never be a real hag due to her cheerfulness, according to the real L.H. Hag or not, she completed a very entertaining foursome of newpaperness. (Also, I absconded approximately six packages of Pop Tarts on the final day, which made the camp even more worthwhile.) (Also, I just inserted that last sentence because I wanted to use the word "abscond.")

Between the second and third days of camp, the queers set off on another (to borrow a Shrek term) whirlwind adventure: The No Doubt concert featuring Paramore. We (including Brooke Morrison, aka Lesbian Hag Sub II, aka my girlfriend, aka cover) scooped up tickets to the show, figuring it would be cheap ($10 lawn seats) and fun. Can you say understatement? [of course you can, what a stupid question]. Paramore was great, despite the facts that they played for less than an hour and lead singer Hayley Williams asked us out of the blue if we were on Twitter. After they performed, many idiotic tweens texted on the Megatron (ALL HAIL MEGATRON!) that everyone could leave now because Paramore was done. Oh no, my ignorant little poser prepubescent friends, the show was just about to begin. From the moment Gwen Stefani swaggered on stage in her wife-beater halter top (which, much to Joel's enjoyment, she quickly sweat through, revealing a lime-green bra) the feeling was simply electric. The music was great, as was the setup, the dancing and every other aspect of the show. No Doubt was undoubtedly [get it? get it?] spectacular. So spectacular, in fact, that the Three Muskequeers purchased No Doubt shirts and subsequently donned them in a most unqueer fashion the next day (except Joel, who bought a girl shirt "accidentally," he claims). And, [SHAMELESS PLUG WARNING] if you'd like to read more about this and other concerts I've been to, check out my blog in a couple days. It should be up by then. I think that's all I have to say. I'm sure the other queers will give their accounts as well.

Until next time,

Brandon (The Blond Muskequeer)

P.S. !!!! (Sorry Cathy)

Obvious Origins of A Blond and the Not-So-Obvious Origins of a Band Kid

How I became a blond

My mom gave me a recessive gene. My dad gave me a recessive gene. End of story.

Not too exciting, eh? So here's a slightly more interesting saga:

Origins of a Band Kid

It all started before 5th grade.

"Wanna play trumpet, kid? It's loud, it's shiny and it's only got three buttons."

"Sure. Why not?"

Fast forward eight years.

Still playin' that horn--now louder, and less shiny, but still three-buttoned--and one year left to go.

What happened in-between?

It's been a never-ending battle that always ends with me getting bitched at by an alcoholic leprechaun with a combover.

But I guess some good has come of it. I am now much more accustomed to:

1) heat (the weather and verbal kinds)

2) really strange people

3) an interminable sense of dread in my gut

Maybe I should've quit. But then who knows, I might be getting yelled at by Coach Arlee Connors on the sidelines of a football field. And, as scary as that little band man can be, I think I'll take him over the huge, gold-toothed beast of a coach.

At least Meador doesn't give dead cockroaches.

As for now, I'm just glad I get to miss the first week of band camp--although that will surely instigate more midget tirades--and hoping that, like everyone says, my senior year flies by (at least band-wise). Then I can join the lesbian hag as a band alumni and retire that godforsaken piece of twisted metal pipe that has caused me so much stress, affliction and wasted free time.

Sea-Threw

Things you should briefly know about this particular writer:

• I am in fact not a registered English major, but an Education major.
• I'm an Ares. Why is this important Daniel?
• I'm always exhausted; therefore, I'm always a bit deranged.
• I like music I can freak out to.
• La Vita e Bella, Go Big or Go Home, Never Give Up Never Surrender
• I enjoy making movie references. I especially enjoy when people get them.
• Patterns in real life make me smile. "She's on her third husband, Wallace Lumbley the Third, a particular pattern she doesn't lecture us on in class."

-Samm

Adrift in a Sea of Confusion

Samm and Joel certainly aren't going to be English Majors (sarcasm? yes)

I'll save my origin tale (kind of like of Oregon Trail, but slightly, only slightly, different) for later.

At the moment, I'd like to ramble.

Commercials irritate me, no matter how well they are written.
I think it's funny that they only translate obvious things into Spanish (Cuidado!).
I find it weird to contemplate death, especially in life threatening situations (like when striding across a recently mopped floor).
If there are safe houses, does that imply that we are living in danger homes?
Dan:
Finds it creepy that you are always within 6 feet of a spider.
Hopes you find that as alarming as I do (Arachnophobes unite!)
Needs to think less and do more (no matter what people tell me).
loves iPhones.
is searching for a flash of inspiration, until then I will continue rambling.
EUREKA!
I've got nothing.
Except...
Nope, still nothing.
Hmmmm...

I miss the 90s...

Anyway, I miss the lesbian. I've only seen her once this summer. I've seen the gays plenty, especially next week for JCamp. I can't wait for the No Doubt/Paramore Concert.

Hmmm... Maybe I should have written creatively. Oh well, next time :)

Hopefully you've been reading my blog ;)

SHAMELESS PLUG OF THE WEEK: read above sentence, again.


Funny things from France:
God is a brand of sextoys
Condom Machines are located at every bus stop
A kid walked up with a backpack and unpacked a 5ft bong; he proceeded to use it
They take suck it to the next level, they constantly make fist-fucking references
Large penises are a frequent subject of conversation


Well, hopefully that titillated your...

Until Next Time,
Kissinger's Lovechild

The Not-So-Secret Origins of Not Being a Guy

It began in a test-tube.

The doctor bent low to examine the subject, his pale skin and dark hair reflecting in the opaque glass of the tube in a grotesque fashion. He sucked his lips under his teeth as he grasped the top of the tube. A flash of victory crossed his pinched features as he turned towards the couple before him, the vial held triumphantly in his fingers.

"A girl, as promised," he told them, an expectant look greeting their smiles.

The male reached into the back pocket of his white painter's shorts, unveiling a large amount of cash neatly folded in half. He rapidly peeled away thirty crisp hundred dollar bills. As he slid the remaining money back into his pocket he held out the three-thousand for the doctor.

Salivating, the doctor reached too quickly, the test-tube girl slipping from his fingers and plummeting to the white sterilized floor. The doctor cringed at the hardened looks the couple was offering, his mouth growing dry as the man retracted his money.

"Not to worry," the doctor began quickly, "all those still in the tubes are girls."

The woman smiled and nudged her husband to hand the money once again, a question dancing in her eyes.

The doctor smirked thinly as he scooped up the remaining cells on the floor into a sterilized bottle for cough syrup. "Only the broken ones become boys," he explained.

-Samm

Brandon Foster: Unabashedly Perfect (jk, jk)

Ah, here is what you have truly been waiting for: the first post by Brandon Foster. Well as the saying goes, the best has been saved for last.

Surely, you would like to get acquainted with me, so I shall comply. I am clearly the greatest (and least queer) member of this shabby bunch. I, after all, did coin the term, "Muskequeer," and yes, I am the artist behind that beautiful work of art at the top of your page. What else must you know about me? I am simply perfect.

So thank you for gracing this blog with your Brandon-adoring presence. And please try to muddle through the other members' posts as you wait patiently for mine. They are trying, after all (if not succeeding).

Adieu,

The Glorious Brandon Foster

P.S. Thank you for allowing me to cleanse my system of its pretentiousness. I considered leaving my intro as it was, but I would hate to mislead our readers--excuse me, reader (What's up, Enrique?)--so here is the slightly more realistic version:

I'm actually very shy and self-deprecating, my humor consists of making snide comments that few hear and fewer laugh at, and I have no idea what we will be blogging about.

Hey Kids!

Hello there, marvelous reader.

This is Samm Ravens, the female in this perverse equation of homosexuality. But I would be the Lesbian Hag, yes. Welcome to the blog, reader. Stomach what we have to offer if you can.

-Samm

Welcome Deer Readers (oh and you non-deer folk)

Hello, my name is Kissinger's Lovechild, and I would formally like to welcome you to our collective blog.
We appreciate your profound interest in the blog.
We promise a keg of hilarity and a pitcher of wisdom with every visit!
So, bask in the glow of the three muskequeers and the lesbian hag.

Enjoy,
KL