Monday, June 29, 2009



1. a fear of imperfection, defects

If atelophobia is wrong, baby I don't want to be right.

Yeah, I get this. I myself have never known what it's like to not be completely perfect. I get up every morning and go look in the mirror, searching desperately for some flaw to have manifested in my perfectly shaped features, my chiseled jawline, my perfectly defined brow. But goddammit I always just see the same Greek God standing before me, perfection to it's core. Some mornings I even appear to be glowing, and yesterday for some reason I realized that my hair had turned into pure gold.

So I think, OK, that's fine I can deal with being physically godlike, as long as there is some flaw in my character or personality, my opinions or intelligence then I can rest easy. So I search and search and search and still I find nothing. My wit is sharp, I have an IQ of 189. My political views are fair and balanced, perfecting tittering on the brink of what is right and good and moral and smart. I always say the right thing. I win every contest I enter, every endeavor I attempt is successful, every word uttered from my perfectly shaped mouth, divine. My oatmeal is always perfectly cooked, my hair does not have split ends and rumor has it that Aphrodite brought in a picture of me to her plastic surgeon when she got her nose done.

It's not that I fear you mortals with your issues and your acne and your horrible human attributes, it's just that I don't understand you. And I feel like I give and give to you specimens of flaws you just take and take and take from me.

"Eugenia, I have polio, touch me so I can be cured."

"Eugenia make this water into wine."

"Eugenia come hang out with me so I can know what Heaven is like."

And if one more of you falls to the ground weeping as I pass you, desperately trying to touch the hem of my garment, I'm gonna lose it. You people just have no boundaries. Did I give you permission to touch my wings, little blind girl with the horrible red birthmark shaped like India on your face? No, I did not.

So I suppose I have developed a slight phobia about the epidemic of rampant imperfection that seems to affect everyone but me. Can you blame me? Maybe you people should stop being so envious and needy and try and put yourself in my diamond studded perfect size 7.5 shoes for a second. Not as easy as it looks eh?

On an end note, if you crazy lunatics try to touch me again my bodyguard Sven will put you in a headlock, because unlike me--who has never known what anger is like and can remain clam and poised in the worst of situations, Sven has issues with rage and has no qualms with killing or physical annihilation. Just ask his wife and kids, oh wait you can't: they're dead.

Friday, June 26, 2009



1. A poem in which shepherds converse.

This time children, try to write an eclogue that does not contain bestiality.

To reiterate, that's what the word used to mean, now it's more informal and you can call a poem that involves a duck and cup of tap water an eclogue as long as they converse. A rhyming diddly where two bums talk about cheese? Eclogue. A ten page poem where two stoners say dude to each other over and over again. Eclogue.

That's just so sad. Yet another example of a word who can't just be itself, who has to change in order to be accepted. I for one was perfectly happy when eclogue meant a poem in which shepherds converse but clearly it was insulted at one point and felt the need to reassess it's life, rethink it's priorities and sadly reinvent it's old image so that the world would accept it.

Eclogue probably went to it's high school reunion and the word it used to get a boner for in high school was there with some guy who used to be on the debate team and weigh 98 lbs but later started taking steroids and bleaching his hair and turned into douche who wears promotional Corona sunglasses on the back of his head, thinking it would land him more chicks.

And those two douches were like, "So what are you doing with your life now Eclogue?" And the poor word was too embarrassed to say that he still was a poem about shepherds talking just like he was in high school so he lied and told everyone that he has grown as a word and expanded and now meant pretty much anything.

Did he get the girl? No, of course not. Because girls don't like anyone who changes and grows and expands their personal definition. Girls like emotionally stunted, immature losers who will verbally abuse them and borrow money from them to pay for their band's practice space.

And that ladies and gentleman is the moral of this little story. Don't change, don't grow and certainly don't redefine yourself. And if you're in a band and want to borrow money from me in exchange for occasional drunken sub par sexual encounters that neither of us will me.

Thursday, June 18, 2009



1: any eellike, marine cyclostome of the order Myxiniformes, having undeveloped eyes, a barbel-rimmed, circular mouth, and horny teeth for boring into the flesh of fishes to feed on their interior parts.

My body dysmorphic disorder makes me think my chiseled features and rock hard abs are more akin to a hag-fish then the world renowned supermodel that I am.

This word, apart from it's highly amusing definition, serves me with a kick ass insult which I will now pepper my already boorish vocabulary with. I am constantly looking for combination's of words which encapsulate the rage I want to unleash upon the person/subway system/poorly made sandwich they are directed at: but because of my lack of innovation I always end up saying, cock-sucking, muther-cunting ass-fucker, or stupid fat meanie instead of the articulate insult I wish I could come up with. Now I see the error of my ways and will substitute these cliche excuses to say,"Pardon my french" with....Hag fish.

Yeah, I'm talking to you, the subway agent who would not return my glorious gold one dollar coin after it got eaten by your machine. You are no longer a depressed, unsympathetic idiot with an uncommonly large head, you can now go home and tell your family that some white girl called you a Hag-fish.

And to the cab driver who "didn't have any change" and forced me to forfeit my two dollars after giving you a $20.00 for a $16.00 dollar ride. I'm sorry I said that you should go back to your own country and I apologize for saying that your wife has a mustache. What I meant to say is that you both are Hag-fishes and you both have mustaches.

Last but not least, to the little kid on the subway today who meant to throw a Cheeto at your friend next to me but hit me in the face instead with that greasy bit of cardiac arrest inducing filth? Well, it was delicious, but I would have preferred if it was made of Hag-Fish.

P.s. I dare you to not think of an angry vagina if you look up images of an actual hag-fish. So, maybe we should put the word pussy on hiatus, let it nap for awhile and substitute the word hag fish instead.


Thursday, June 11, 2009





1. A large tomb, usually an ornate stone building.

Even after death I will be superior to you, my mausoleum will be bigger and shiner and encrusted with diamonds, yours will be lame and ugly.

I always thought that I wanted to be cremated. I imagined a gala of darkly clad weeping loved ones throwing my remains into a large body of water and after deciding that was not dramatic enough, agreeing that the only way to fully tribute my memory is to set themselves on fire and die with me. In my mind this event is publicized world wide and there would be a moment where every single person in the world would simultaneously fall to their knee's, reach there arms to the sky and scream, "WHY??? WHY? Take me instead!"

Now, although this is a very realistic scenario, I just gave it some really deep thought (for 15 seconds) and decided that in additional to all of that, I want a mausoleum constructed in my honor. I want guards standing watch at all times. Actually, a bouncer named Bubu will do. He will be there to check ID's because my grave may look like a depressing tomb from the outside but on the inside it will be a CRAZY disco! So, you'll have to be 21 to enter, obviously. Or you can try to bribe Bubu, but he only accepts hand jobs and self help books, so don't embarrass yourself by trying to pass him a 20.

Are you kind of hoping I die tomorrow so this magical place becomes a reality immediately? Well tough luck folks, cause I went to a witch doctor this morning and she said that Dead Eugenia Disco will not be opening until 2075.

Deal with it.

Monday, June 8, 2009


Churrigueresque (choor-ee-guh-RESK)

Baroque; lavish; over-the-top.

Call me crazy, but I find these outfits a bit churrigueresque.

Well of course this word means "lavish" and "over the top". That's like naming your dog Sickem' and the being upset when he bites you. Or named your daughter TeenageSlut LikesIt InTheButt and being heartbroken when she becomes a porn star. I find it very doubtful that there was not a simpler spelling for this word. Was churrig already taken? Nope, I just checked churrig is totally free.

This type of word makes me think that whoever is in charge of creating words (who is in charge of making up words, by the way...can I be in charge?) got food poisoning and had to call in for a reinforcement. But then the reinforcment's grandmother died so they has to call a sub. But then the sub had to go to the vet to put it's hamster to sleep so he called a temp. But the temp attempted to kill himself the night before because he discovered that The Neverending Story was not a documentary so he had to call his cousin Louie was totally free cause Louis is a loser who never does shit. Louis dropped out of 3rd grade because it was too stressful and now he sits on the couch all day playing with himself and smoking pot from a bong shaped like Beavis and Butthead.

So thanks Louis for words like Churrigueresque, you were obviously just trying to order a churrio from a Mexican woman but you were slurring too bad from all the whipits you were doing and messed everything up. You were responsible for this piece of shit too, huh? And I have it on good authority that you also invented the word, awesome.

Also Louis, you look
ridiculous wearing a sheet as a superhero cape, and your balls are falling out of your boxer shorts. Get a grip man, you're 39 years old.
Search Engine Submission - AddMe

Wednesday, June 3, 2009



1. A cricket or grasshopper.
2. A small or young eel.
3. A lively or lighthearted person.

This Prozac makes me as merry as a grig.

This word is clearly having an identity crisis. And it's bullshit because this epidemic may spread. Soon other words will take heed of the precarious nature of this word and feel like they too have the right to attach numerous meanings to their old meaning just to screw with our heads. Chaos will ensue.

Can you imagine if the word sandwich meant a tasty layered snack AND a neon green bowling ball AND and invitation for anal sex? Why not take a word like love and attach an alternative meaning to it like,

1: a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
2: The intent to kill a person with no warning; usually involving ice picks, blunt objects or sawed off shotguns.

That way when someone says I love you, you can say I love you too, even if you really want them to die.

My mother told me than when she was living in South Korea and trying learn Korean she would accidentally ask people for sex when she meant to ask them for soup because the words were exactly the same and she would put the emphasis on the wrong syllable.

Well that's all fine and dandy but that's why I don't live in KOREA, I live in AMERICA where everything is perfect and beautiful and each thing has has its very own word. But then grig had to come along and fuck everything up for me. Well I'm not going to take this sitting down. I'm going to make up three new words for baby eel, grasshopper, and cricket.

From here on out a baby eel will be called a baeel. A grasshopper will be called yummmmcrunch, and a cricket will be called, uh. Fine it will be called an um-uh.

Got it? Good.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009



1. Of illegitimate birth
2. Not genuine: false

Just because 95 percent of my memoir "never actually happened" does not give Oprah Winfrey the right to call it spurious.

My mother used to call me a "storyteller" which is a much nicer word, in my opinion, than liar. A storyteller is someone who wraps you in a mohair blanket and snuggles next to you by the fire, relaying tales of unsung hero's who save little (Caucasian) kittens from burning buildings. Where as liars tell you that cats cannot understand English and care not if you rescue them or let them go to kitty hell.

Story tellers lull you to sleep with tales of little (Caucasian) girls confined to wheelchairs---who, because of the power of love--stood up on her own two legs (with a Journey song playing in the background, obviously) and went on to win the Olympics for long jump. On the other hand liars will tell you that they once had a friend who had MS and she died, not from her disease, but because she lied about what she had for breakfast and the Lord struck her down.

I have always been of the opinion that reality is sweeter with a little bit of sugar involved; you can replace the word sugar with ignorance or gullibility or whatever your pathetic fad diet accepts but honestly isn't life so much sweeter when you believed anything is possible? When you are sweet and naive and susceptible to everything and oblivious to the dangers which engulf everything from your tap water to your daily commute?

Yes, unicorns don't exist and the concept of something as magical as a horse with an added super power of a ummmm....horn, is beyond our frame of what can exist in reality. Because, seriously if we all believed in the possibility of adding a pointy, permanent weapond to our person, the world would fucking EXPLODE. Cause if it's a permanent attribute, you can't have a law against having it. That why penises are still legal right?

I guess my point is that I believe in honesty when it's important but when it's not why not substitute importance for utter entertainment and the art of lifting spirits? Why not tell your manic dinner mate that you saw a woman lift a disheveled car off of her crushed pittbull with one finger while blowing the biggest bubble gum bubble EVER...instead of saying...the truth...that you saw a sad woman with a pittbull almost get hit by a car but she didn't...and then you got a cup of coffee and they put sugar in it even though you told them you were diabetic. Bor-ing!

If you can give your pathetic friends a moment of hope or something which entertains or inspires them, then why not? I believe in photo shopping my stories in order to make them more entertaining, easier to swallow and in the end, easier to digest. I guess if I had kids I would puree their vegetables and put them into cupcakes, understand?

Which reminds I saw a pink elephant getting evicted from his apartment and he was getting tasored by a bunch of exotic white tigers....but at the last moment the elephant put on a multi-colored tutu and started playing
Claire de lune on his magic harmonica's and all the tigers put down their tasor guns and joined hands and....

Never mind. Fuck it.
You don't give a shit.