#things morbid

[lizziebordenisabitch-blog]

So, I know Momma's been a li'l morbid this week, kiddies--but this was so weird to not share. 

Fagilyu Mukhametzyanov, from Russia, lay in her open coffin at her funeral, while her loved ones eulogized her... and she woke the hell up. For realzies, yo: her eyes opened, living and all, and the family--zoom--rushed her to the hospital.

Sadly, the apparent shock of waking up during her own funeral killed the poor lady.

So. 

I mean . . . THANK GOD SHE WOKE UP BEFORE THE PUT HER IN THE GROUND. CAN YOU FLIPPIN IMAGIN, KIDS?

I mean I've been dead 84 years, but I was dead when they buried me, OK? Waking up in some stank coffin is not cool, unless a 1970s Christopher Lee or one of his Vampire brides is lying next to me ready to werq it out for a few millennia. 

Which makes me think: that the old, common theory that the phrase "dead ringer" comes from an old tradition of burying a deader with a string attached to a bell isn't actually true--but maybe you should make that shit happen, kids. Yow. Just sayin'. 

More and more reasons for me not to be reincarnated yet. 

Damn.

And I was so hoping to do that.

No, not to make a "comeback." I hate that word...

It's a return.......

[lizziebordenisabitch-blog]

Drive-thru Funerals

Hi Kiddies!

So I just read this little tidbit about drive-thru funerals in Compton CA. (Click here for video. Yes. Actual video.)

Boys and girls---things have changed since Momma B was alive.

You know when someone mysteriously murdered my father and stepmother, we waked them in my living room. The autopsies were performed in on the dining room table, kids. (Where, 120 years later, hotel guests are apparently eating their breakfast. So. Go figure.)

I'm just saying.

You know, if I had it to do all over again, I'd like a drive-through viewing for my parents. That probably woulda stopped the fact that y'all keep digin'em up every couple years. I mean, bitches: it's not a peep show.

I wouldna wanted it for me, though. I like a little privacy.

OK, that's a lie.

Actually--what I'd love is one of those shrine things? Ya know, where it's like my remains are in one of those Snow White glass boxes, and people can come leave stuff for me--like diamonds and gold and whatnot. Like Evita. I think that'd be hot.

Not like what I got now. You realize they've literally painted, like, fake footsteps so people can find my stone?

TACKY!

What in hell kinda shrine is that? I mean if y'all are gonna stalk my corpse, can you at least build me an Evita shrine, already?? Seriously.

[lizziebordenisabitch-blog]

Zombies attack! Aahhhh!!!

Happy Sunday Kiddies,

And happy father's day to all you Big Daddies out there! You can't be any worse than my father, and so I tip my hatchet to you! (But, lemme get serious wichoo kids for a sec: I'ma take my hatchet and bust up the grill of any hookas who aren't getting their child support on, you know what I'm saying? You wanna sew that seed, mufuckas, you best be feeding the plants--you catch my drift? Double-You-Eeee-Are-Cue: WERQ.)

So, as all my bitches know, Momma B likes to stay abreast (wink) of what's goin' on in the world, and shiz, and in searching the news I found this tidbit about a concerned citizen in Leicester who discovered--to his shock and awe--that the town council remained unprepared for an attack of the living dead. This mofo organized a protest of sorts, in which people got their zombie make-up on and took the streets...

OK. You do it, gurrl, if you think you need to.

I guess I wouldn't think much of this if the CDC had not recently posted how to make a kit to protect your asses in the case of a zombie apocalypse. 

Kids, while yo all joke around about this zombie shit havin' all your fun and games and zombie walks and spending government money on this stuff on the CDC website and stuff, you're wastin serious time--cuz from where I sit, bitches? I can tell you this zombie shit has gotsta be taken seriously.

Babies:  the zombies are already in your midst, and I'm be honest withca, cuz I said I always will be. If y'all don't remain vigilant, you're gonna get your faces eaten alive.

Now, cuz I'm already dead I can see things you can't--and so I know that zombies aren't those night-of-the-living-dead types you all love so much.

Real zombies are cunning.

They're clever (or, well, they claim at least that cleverness doesn't matter, cuz they're not ALL that clever, but some of 'em are clever.)

And they're hungry. They've been hungry for while.

Be ready.

Because they're comin for YOU.

First thing you gotta do: learn to recognize a zombie. The zombie leaders are often well-dressed, coiffed, and possess gleaming-white teeth--but the zombie minions are impossible to tell from the rest of you... The only way you can tell the difference between a neighbor and a zombie, is that they flock to their leaders like moths to a flame kiddies. So you gotta know their leaders, and you gotta protect yourselves.

For reals, yo: this ain't no lie!

(A zombie queen with her minions.)

God speed, mortals.

And I'll see you bitches next time.

(I hope!) 

[lizziebordenisabitch-blog]

So here's something that happens...

So it's Saturday morning, and that can only mean one thing. (OK, it can mean MANY things, STFU). For me it means one thing: STORY TIME!

Ready? And I want you to know that every word of this is probably true.

In 1989, Trygve Bauge emigrated here to the good ole' USofA from Norway, carting the forzen corpse of his dead grandfather along for the ride. For about three years, a cryogenics facility kept Bauge's GrandPopsicle on the rocks, as it were. (Actually, in liquid nitrogen). But around 1995 Bauge got it up to start himself a cryogenics facility of his own, and brought Poppa Bredo (granmpa) to his mom's house. But--get this--shortly after, the US deported Bauge for overstaying his visa, and so his Momma (named Aud) kept Poppa Bredo frozen in a shed out back! Whuut??? It gets worse! Momma got evicted cuz she was living in a house with no plumbing or electricity, and she freaked the geek out! She didn't want Grampa to thaw, ruining his chance of getting reanimated once humanity found a way to inflict immortality on itself. 

Meanwhile, the town freaked the geek out, too. According to Wikipedia: The story caused a sensation. In response, the city added a broad new provision to Section 7-34 of its Municipal Code, "Keeping of bodies", outlawing the keeping of "the whole or any part of the person, body or carcass of a human being or animal or other biological species which is not alive upon any property"

It gets weirder, of course, cuz Momma Aud got "grandfathered" in, as they say, and got to keep Poppa Bredo--literally--in a shed out back. And though Aud got moved, Poppa Bredo got to stay in a "Tuff Shed" full o' dry ice.... and now every year in March the town of Nederland, Colorado, where this all went down, holds Frozen Dead Guy Days--a winter festival, featuring (among other things) frozen salmon tossing and coffin races. The tagline for the fest: Freeze the Day.

Crikey.

And what I what I wanna know is: WHERE'S THE LIZZIE BORDEN DAYS, FOR EFF'S SAKE??? I want a celebration of my awesometasticness. We could have hatchet throwing contests--cuz I loved chopping wood, of course. We could have, like, mutton fat for breakfast, we could give away pigeons... and stuff... it'd be hot.

OK maybe it'd be lame, but I still want it.

I mean, the weirder the celebration, the better it is, right? Look at Gay Pride. What better way to show that gays are just like everybody else than dressing up in dog collars and flinging condoms at people while listening to terrible disco music? Nothing says "we deserve the same rights as you do" than getting bombed and having illicit ally sex with someone you don't know.

So riddle me this, kids: how would YOU celebrate Lizzie Borden Days?

[lizziebordenisabitch-blog]

RIP, Dr. K.

So, welcome to the other side Dr. Kevorkian. 

I know a lot of people got all "we-hate-you" about your job, and stuff--and I know maybe Momma Borden's opinions aren't always the most PC, but I'ma just say it: I really liked your work.

I've always been a big proponent of putting people out of my misery. 

Their misery. I mean. Putting people out of their misery. 

(Little slip there. Woopsie.)

And, sure, you were a little weird....

...you gave people their end-of-life release from suffering in the back of your VW.

...you called your primary instrument of death "Merciton," which sounds like the name of a bad movie Joan Crawford did after she became BOX OFFICE POISON.

But I believe that if people wanna get their suffering off, than they should. And so, even though you're creepy-looking and even though I won't be going on any posthumous bootycalls witcha--I say: way to do yo thang, mu'fucka. 

I raise my dead-girl glass to the John Brown of death. 

Nobody's gonna be writing any songs aboutcha, but that's not always all its cracked up to be, anyway.

I should know.

40 wacks my ass. 

IT WAS 10! 10 WACKS. ...for my father. Abbey got 19, but still.

40 wacks.

Whaddo they think I am, Colossus?? It was the middle of August, it was hot, and I'm supposed to take an axe and hit someone 40 times with it? Like, gee, maybe that's not OVERKILL?

If I did it, I mean.

Which I didn't.

Anyhow, we're not supposed to be talking about me, we're supposed to be talking about whatsisface.

That dude. What's his name?

I forgot already.

Well, here's to whatshisname. I'm singing "For He's a Jolly-Good Fellow" to you, right now--in the voice of Madeline Kahn. [Cat sound]

[lizziebordenisabitch-blog]

84 years and counting

Yo Kidlingtons.

How is you?

I’m OK myself.

So yesterday was the 84th anniversary of me kicking it.

Yup.

Died 84 years ago.

And lemme tell you, for a bitch who’s been dead almost a hundred years, this girl is fierce.

[Cat sound.]

Being dead is a strange thing. I mean it’s not as dramatic as I thought it would be, and allayall down there have gotten pretty much everything all wrong when it comes to the D-Word.

For example: Hell?

Bwahahahahahahahaahahah.

C’mon.

WHO COMES UP WITH THIS STUFF?

Fire and brimstone—and what even is brimstone???

Well it’s funny you ask, because I happen to know exactly what brimstone is.

You ready?

Brimstone is another name for sulfur. WHUUUUUTTT??? That’s right, bitches. Brimstone is a word we got from Middle English—originally brinston—made up of brin (to burn) and ston (stone). Literally: burnstone. Which makes total sense: sulfur is a rock that burns—with an icky-sticky-suffocationtastic scent and a mysterious blue flame.

[Ghost noise]

But there aint none o’ that shite up in hell.

In fact, there aint no hell.

Nietzsche was almost right: Hell is the Republican National Convention. Whuuuuut?

Oh, she went there: SCORE.

EAT IT RON PAUL! (Who—digression—said yesterday that people who go to speeches he doesn’t agree with should be arrested or deported. Ummm… HUAC anyone? Anyone? Apparently not. Who needs civil liberties!)

And I don’t wanna give away too much of the surprise? But things don’t look like a Care Bears cartoon up in here, either. Aright?

Heaven is sort of a . . . . long afternoon, with a glass of sangria and a good book.

(OK, sometimes it’s also like a night having a three-way with Mae West and Rossano Brazzi . . . but, again, not gonna say too much about that, either.)

Winky times.

Literally!

OK, I’ma bust outta here, but I’ll be back later, trannies.

LB.

Sulfur                                                                    Rosanno Brazzi

Mae West

All things that BURN!