An interview with a vampire...

Hello,

Right. The last blog post was a little on the serious side. Let me say one thing about that, I was drinking...heavily. And I was feeling a little blue. So, that's two things, but those two things are facts. And facts are what matters. I think.

Moving on...

I figured I'd Pistola Whip another blog post out before this year goes the way of the years of years past. End on a high note, tie up a few loose ends, mend some fences...you get the general drift.

It has come to the recent attention at the offices of Pistola Whipped that one of our dear readers and good friends has recently underwent some trials of the heart. In fact, her heart was ripped out of her chest (whilst beating), put on a train track, run through a garbage disposal, used as a shot put in Olympic try-outs and then tossed back into her chest cavity in an attempt to sustain several life systems.

In order to at least vaguely attempt to right this wrong, Pistola Whipped has really gone deep...deeper than ever before to find the correct elements that could possibly put some salve on our dear reader's deep wound.

Here is Pistola Whipped's attempt at the impossible...

Edward Cullen (from Twilight) interviews Gilligan (from Gilligan's Island)




Edward Cullen (EC): Gilligan, pleasure to meet you.

Gilligan (G): It's actually Bob Denver. How did you do this? I'm dead.

EC: Okay, Bob Denver...Gilligan. I have no idea who you are either way. As far as you being dead, I'm a vampire. I can talk to the dead. That's what we do.

G: A vampire? Right.

EC: Yes, I'm a vampire for a very popular book and motion picture series called Twilight. What elusive, wondrous creature are you to not know who I am?

G: I'm a dead creature. Remember? I died back in 2005.

EC: And how is being dead work for you? Do you miss how your heart swells and pressurizes hot blood through your thirsty veins?

G: Given that I went through quadruple bypass surgery to correct that very issue, no. Being dead is pretty lame. Kinda boring. I spend a lot of time smoking pot.

EC: Being dead for me is like a frequency, a hum of consciousness that operates at a different pitch.

G: You're a strange and intense little man.

EC: I've been told that before. In fact, I'm often compared to the director Jean-Luc Godard.

G: Never heard of him. I mainly worked with Sherwood Schwartz.

EC: Hmmm...what is your philosophy on love?

G: I'd guess I'd have to say, all we need is love. The Beatles said it best, I guess.

EC: Mine is that I'm happy with the death I have, but I do not have a margin to let just anyone come into my life.

G: Not really changing my opinion that you're kind of a ball of nerves there buddy. You could use a nice vacation on a desert island with a few beautiful women and some hammocks.

EC: No, I fancy dark brews while reading a book from a stack of books I have at my disposal in a dark corner of some trendy restaurant. Such an approach can only lead to satisfaction. I need to act on what is immediately available to me, I reckon.

G: Suit yourself, buddy. But with that attitude your eternity might last longer than mind.

Interview abruptly ends.

And that is what Pistola has to offer for the heartbroken and the downtrodden. Look with clear eyes and open hearts into the new year, even if it's through the bottom of a bottle.

May god have mercy on your souls.

Pistola Whipped '10

Thoughs of mortality on a Saturday night...

Good evening,

The night is a Saturday. The month December. The year is 2010.

I am 32 years old. Childless. Daughter to all or none or some. Single according to the government.

My backyard resembles a yard that a crater came shooting out of the night sky and sent snow flying into solid banks that encircle the patio. And that is where I lay. I don't feel the cold because I am not in a feeling mood. I stare up at the sky. There are stars, but they are faded and distant. If I were in California they would probably be magnificent and I could hang a dream or two on them. But here in Minnesota they are remote. Aloof. Dream free. They are winking at me. And I take it as an invitation to battle. Me vs. the stars.

Thoughts come rushing at me, it's like I'm not thinking them, but someone is throwing them at my brain like a bar dart. Aiming for the bulls eye, but hitting the peripheral instead. That bulls eye is protected like a national treasure.

Still laying here on the patio. Probably under this brick and this layer of clay and our plumbing and our foundation and then under this won't grow-a-fucking-thing soil are bones. I can see the bones like I can see the stars: dark matter and then a glowing light repeated like it's sewed into a quilt.

One day we will all be bones...or ashes, depending on your wishes. We go into the ground or on your mantel or scattered over a place you think matters to you. And those stars just keep on blinking. In one blink you're here and then you're not. Those bones are there with a steady stare. One big bone yard this country. Perhaps those bones will produce something that wars will be fought over one day. It doesn't matter to them because they are just watching, keeping time. They know we will join them soon. The stars just keep on winking, because they know the answer to the riddle and we lay on our patios trying to distract ourselves from the very thing that will kill us in the end.

Pistola goes south of the border in honor of Thanksgiving and Eva Longoria

Hello,

How was your Thanksgiving?

If you want to know how mine was email me personally. Or don't. I don't care.

I had a few days off for Thanksgiving so I decided to secure a celebrity interview while I was away from the office. It was hard to find someone relevant, interesting and available on such an important holiday, so I decided to head south of the border where they don't celebrate Thanksgiving (I think). Yes, dear readers, instead of spending time with my family engaging in such familial traditions as sloth and gluttony, I went to el Mexico.

Pistola sits down for turkey dinner with Eva Longoria Parker (oops! should we still call her that?)



Pistola Whipped Gets a Life (PWGAL): Eva Longoria Parker! How in la hell are you? How is your show: the Real Housewives?

Eva Longoria Parker (ELP): Oh fine. Thanks. I am now going as just Eva Longoria and my show is actually Desperate Housewives.

PWGAL: Why did you drop the Parker? And yes! Desperate Housewives! That seems so much more fitting than Real Housewives.

Eva Longoria (EL): Ahem. Well, yes. I'm getting a divorce from Tony Parker.

PWGAL: Why would you divorce him? He's a hot piece of ass. And rich.

EL: He was cheating on me. You haven't heard? It's all over the press.

PWGAL: The only press I read is Midwest Fishing.

EL: Well, he was caught sexting another woman. Wouldn't you leave your husband if he cheated on you?

PWGAL: I'm not sure. I probably wouldn't be in that predicament because who would cheat on this? [Pistola pulls down sweatpants to reveal a pair of SPANX].

EL: Um, I thought this interview was supposed to be about my Mexican heritage?

PWGAL: OLE, senorita! Hold your horses! We'll get to that. What were we discussing before you interrupted me?...Tony cheating on you? So how is sexting cheating on you again?

EL: Sending images of your genitals and sexual suggestions via text isn't cheating?

PWGAL: Hell no. That's normal communication. What else is texting for? I send sexual suggestions out to my entire contact list at least cinco times a day.

EL: Well, that's disgusting.

PWGAL: Moving on then, is Thanksgiving sad this year now that your husband left you?

EL: No, it's not sad. I'm spending time with my family and friends. And for the record, I left Tony.

PWGAL: Eva, you don't have to be act so tough on this blog interview. Virtually no one reads it. Come on, remember back to when you and Tony were just starting off? What about all those years you spent together? Don't they mean anything now?

EL: Tony and I met about three years ago. What would you like to ask me about my Mexican heritage?

PWGAL: Right. Right. Do you know Antonio Banderas?

EL: I know him. He's Spanish though.

PWGAL: Is he single?

EL: No. He's married to Melanie Griffith.

PWGAL: Have you ever sexted him?

EL: NO! What else do you want to ask because I'm about to leave, you disgusting bitch.

PWGAL: Do you have that temper because you're a Mexican?

EL: Get me the hell out of here!

PWGAL: WAIT! One more question. Would it be weird if I asked you for Tony's phone number?

EL: Throws microphone at Pistola's head and leaves interview.

And there is Pistola's contribution to your Thanksgiving celebration.

De Nada,
La Pistola Whippedalez

The sun vacuum leads to lack of happy place...

Hello,

Well, it is yet another gray day to add upon the many gray days ahead of us. Us being the fearless Minnesotans of Minnesota.

Days like this I rely upon my happy place to make it through. Y’all know what I mean: our sunny beaches, our love nooks, our ninth innings of the last World Series game right before the win…our happy places.

But when I drew upon my happy place today, it was simply no longer happy.

Yes, folks. Pistola has lost her happy place.

For the 32 years I’ve been walking (sometimes drunkenly) this earth, I’ve also been going to Ten Mile Lake in northern Minnesota. Our family has a small, Friday the 13th-esque cabin nestled among the pines, overlooking deep, mysterious blue waters. I spent every summer of my youth playing tennis, picking mushrooms, identifying birds, fishing, swimming, jumping off (getting pushed from) the dock, watching massive thunderstorms tumble across the waters. Naively believing that this place would always bring me to a place of contentment, a state of calm that matches the lake on a still, hot summer day.

No longer.

Now when I think of Ten Mile anxiety fills me.

Let me tell you why:

1.) White guilt. Some would say I have a 'gambling problem'. And let me assure you, dear readers, it isn't because of the rush of blood to my head when I hit on a slot or the surge of adrenaline from a challenging gaze across the poker table. No, it's because every time I enter a casino I feel the need to throw money at the very people we kicked off of Ten Mile in order to make ourselves happy.

2.) Guilt displacement. I blame Native Americans for my gambling problem and that seems wrong.

3.) Family. I haven't admitted to my family yet that I gambled away the deed to the cabin in a busted up game of 5-card stud behind the casino. Sorry about that.

4.) Skin cancer. You remember the days when the first thing you did in the morning was pop on your swimsuit, run out the front door, hop in the lake and get a sunburn that made your skin feel like it was about six sizes too small for your body? And you'd sleep like shit that night, but the next morning you'd do exactly the same thing? Well, those days are over. Now every mole on my body is already in stage four skin cancer.

And now my happy place has become the creation and solution to all my problems: the bar. So what can one do? I guess I'm off to my happy place. Bottoms up!

Pourin' one out for ya,
PBR Whipped

Voting leads to thinking...

Buenos Noches!

So, I did this thing we Americans call vote tonight.

Whilst I was perusing the ballot a few thoughts crossed my mind, like:

'Who are these people?'

'I'm hungry for a bear claw right now.'

'Who are these people again?'

'Would a bear claw be fresh enough so late in the day to be good?'

And, last but not least,

'All these combination running mates makes me wonder what other combos I would vote for...'

Which leads us to our next bit, Pistola Whipped cracks the combination.
(I know, you come up with a better name).

Cheese and crackers



Gimme 20-year aged cheddar and some Pepperidge or straight up saltines and EZ Cheese, I don't care which way you serve it, that's a combination that would get stuff done in Congress.



Lady Gaga f. Beyonce in 'Telephone'
That Jamaican accent that L. Gaga uses when she sings 'party' and then when Beyonce rips in channeling Tina Turner in 'We Don't Need Another Hero' during the breakdown KILLS! Put those bitches on a ballot and you got my vote any November 2.



Ralph Nader and Winona LaDuke.
Check.

The long part of Dennis Miller's hair and Tyra Banks' forehead






Everyone's minds would be so blown by this powerful and glorious combination that things would just get done. And get done fiercely!

Pistola Whipped is a democratic nation and welcomes your entries...

Got out and voted,
P. Whipped

Pistola speaks nonsense and then in metaphors....

Hello,

Are we all surviving?

Well, IT is here. You know it and I know it. Dang, we all knew it was coming. We could feel it in our bones. Some dimension is added in our perpetual depression. Our coffee tastes different. Instead of looking out the window to view our backyards hopefully we now look wistfully. And this thing's arrival sits heavily on our chests, like a small monkey might while picking lint out of a bellybutton. Our eyes droop as the television flashes images of better bodies, better kids, better lives and we fall asleep...

Wait, do you know what I'm talking about? Because I don't. Oops.

I'm doing some baking right now.

Yes! I know. I know. You are all asking how does lil' Pisty here find time in her busy schedule to bake?! Quite honestly it is hard to manage with a full schedule of Real Housewives of Atlanta, Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Project Runway, Teen Mom, 16 and Pregnant, Judge Judy, The First 48 and, of course, The Tyra Banks' Show, but I'm managing.



As I was adding in a teaspoon of salt, a tablespoon of vanilla, a cup of sugar and a dash of love, I was thinking: baking is kind of like a relationship.



You add attraction, you fold in interest, you sift in a helluva lot of baggage, a pinch of this and that, mix it all up, heat it all up and you get this delightful treat. But sometimes it isn't all what it cracked up to be. And sometimes what looks like a cow paddy ends up being the tastiest morsel you've ever tasted. Sometimes it's lovely and sweet and lingers on. Sometimes it doesn't bake all the way through and you get a big fat mess where you keep finding dried up batter bubbles in your kitchen for years and you think how do I keep finding these things and it reminds you of that awful cake you had to throw out. Sometimes you get something that is so amazing, wonderful and fascinating that it's gone before you know you even had it so good. And sometimes you get a recipe that you keep coming back to because it's always fun and challenging to make and the outcome is consistently a fucking delight.

Off to frost the old standby.

Stay classy,
Pistola E. Whipped

Let's tackle complicated themes like civics, sobriety and sleaziness...

Hello,

How’s it hanging and banging?

Once again I’ve let my civic responsibility lapse.
My blog = my civic responsibility.
This is the kind of rationalizing I do in order to get out of voting in non-presidential elections.

Things are a-changin’ here in the life of Pistola Whipped.

Let’s have a look how, shall we?

1.) I’m dabbling in sobriety. And dear readers, it is a strange and new world. It feels weird to not be sick with a debilitating hangover at least once a week. I've had to find a new scale on how to base a person's merits since judging a person based on how they make a drink is no longer applicable. Oh, and the most unusual and positive change is to have some extra bucks in my wallet. Sobriety has created an alarmingly large amount of time in my life to pursue such hobbies as painting, writing, reading, staring at the ceiling, wondering what my friends are up to, watching even more reality TV than before and turning into a bore that obsesses over my eyebrow hairs. That being said, do my eyebrows look weird to any of you guys?

2.) I am going to write an article for a Minneapolis newspaper. Not the ‘Star Tribune’. Nope, not the ‘City Pages’. Negative on ‘The Onion’. Actually, in the likely event that I am rejected I’m just gonna go mum on the name of the publication. If they do publish my article then I’ll post that shit all over this blog. In fact, I’ll probably rent Conan O’Brien’s orange blimp and drive it all over the state with a banner that says, ‘I am the next CJ!’



And that is really about it.

Take it sleazy folks, because if you’re reading this blog, that’s probably the only way you can get it.

PW