Scarlett is Not Really a Photo Thief...tee hee

Scarlett is NOT a photo thief and "confessed art thief."

I've been lying about Scarlett - a woman I've never met - for so long that people are asking what's wrong with Tarq. I'll tell you one thing that's wrong, in case you just dropped in from Mars.

I HATE WOMEN!

Thomas Churchwell Says: I'm a KILLING BUNNY and don't you forget it

Here's a little known fact about me. I like to play with my fantasies and mix 'em up. Sometimes, I'm a killer - like last weekend, when I threatened to beat up bloggers and blind them. At other times, I'm a killing bunny rabbit.

Dream A Little Dream

My Lies. Served Tasteless and Cold

Despite my fenzied hate posts about Scarlett, she never said this blog is hers. I didn't "get her to admit" anything! Who do I think I am today, the secret police in Bagdad?

Everyone else thinks I'm a liar and cyber bully.

I BARE MY FANGS OVER NUDIES

I had to think up a new title for this post, because I swiped the old title and used it on my hater blog this morning.

That's the kind of thing I do, fans. I LIE, CHEAT and STEAL.

I probably need a padded cage, but I can't think about that now. All I can think about are those PICTURES. I wanted NUDIES, and she tricked me! For two whole days, two years ago, she let me think those nudies were her! How could she do that to a STRANGER?

I think I'm gonna threaten to kill her again like I did last weekend.

Scarlett's site:
Tarquin Churchwell Lies About Truce, Defames Photographer

Everybody Out Of The Pool

There's an old expression: "Dying is easy, comedy is hard." Look how easy it was for Thomas Tarquin Churchwell last weekend to write about wanting to cause the deaths of several people. All I had to do was write a dozen posts on AOL saying "Churchwell is coming to stop you," and everyone in the blogosphere ran for cover. I made the idea of death sound as easy as buying a bus ticket.

But comedy is hard.

How can I go back to making jokes on this blog, after writing about the time I beat a man so bad that I blinded him?

The man I blinded wasn't even famous!

Wash My Mind Out With Soap

Last night on my Thomas Churchwell hater blog, I wrote that a post on this blog is "child porno." If this sounds weirdly familiar, readers, you have seen my hater blogs. I posted the same crap, when I was blogging as Tarquin Churchwell on Blogger and refused to stop, even after the Blogosphere heaved a collective vomit. Now, I'm at it again on AOL.

Here's what I'm talking about. In the story posted yesterday (read it below), I am an ADULT monster, NOT a child. I have gnarled fingers and hair covering my naked body. I state that I want to "ravage" a woman and encounter one on the street, who doesn't want me. Then I return to SUS, the ADULT facility where I live, an unhappy "man-monster."

So, here's the wrap up. I have a looking for child porno hobby. I like to scream, "Child porno! Child porno!" because I like the words. I've been typing them on blogs for a year, or longer. Makes me look like a TOTAL WACKO.

Because I LOVE Being a Monster

Whether I am using the name Thomas Churchwell or Tarquin Churchwell this morning, I have a scary story for you. Close the blinds and hang on to your coffee mugs.

I love Halloween. I like that children walk around acting as if they are ghouls and goblins, as if it is a joke. It isn't. If you're wondering why I am talking about Halloween in the middle of February, it's because I think about Halloween every day!

I told myself to be careful that night. I was about 12, short, fat and energetic. I was walking in a neighborhood near home, and it was late. I wanted to try it...to see the scary decorations. Before I left, I put on my Star Trek costume and Spock mask. I looked like I was ready for anything, but nothing could prepare me for...THE MONSTER.

I told myself to stay out of the alley. But I needed to pee. I heard a garbage can turn over, then I was on the ground, staring into the beady eyes of the monster, blood dripping from its gnarled fingers. I screamed. He bit me on my arm and ran away. Somebody rushed me to the hospital. I only got a flesh wound. I would live, unfortunately. At that moment, I didn't know that living was a fate worse than death!

I never talked about that night. I didn't tell my parents, my sisters or brother. Years later, before I ran out on them, I didn't tell my three children. I tried to forget. Last week, I picked up the phone. I suddenly needed to open up to someone, to unburden myself. So I dialed a number at random and told a stranger my story.

The following is a transcript of the phone conversation.

"I've had a lazy life, working for a little while but nothing in the past ten years. I used to date a lot of women, mostly topless dancers. In recent years, I've caused a lot of misery on the Internet. That part of my life was good. The biggest difficulty I had was my arm - where the monster had bitten me. The wound burned like hell sometimes - like a thousand needles being shoved into my skin. I started making mistakes on my blogs, getting my lies mixed up. I started hating more people. My body felt weird, like it was growing! I noticed hair sprouting all over my body. I had an insatiable urge to eat chicken hearts, even raw right from the meat department at the grocery store.

The worst was when there was a full moon at night. I would howl like a wolf. All I could think about was finding a topless woman, and devouring her on the spot. At first I tried devouring women on the Internet, but that stopped working for me. My body grew grotesque and I was popping out of my clothes. Full of blood-lust, I staggered down Beach Street, naked, my nostrils flaring, fangs ready, growling as my nose smelled the scent of a woman. She was standing outside CVS, holding a plastic bag, when I stood up on my hairy hind legs and raised my fingers, ready to attack. She screamed at seeing a monster on a city street, but as she looked me over, she started laughing hysterically."

"Your penis. It's so small!" she laughed.

"I could barely say, "Fuck you!" before I ran from her, the cold Queens air slapping me in the face. I raced up the stairs of the SUS building and ran into my room, slamming the door behind me. Disgraced and embarassed, I spent the night watching Star Trek and eating raw chicken hearts. I was a failure as a man-monster."

"Did you go to a doctor?"

"I went to my Medicaid doctor, Dr. McFreud. I told him that I used to have a smallish sized penis, but ever since I became a monster, it had shrunk."

"Very in-ter-est-ing, Thomas," said Dr. McFreud.

"I'm not Thomas anymore. Or, Tarquin, or TC, Dr. McFreud. I am The Monster."

"I understand. But your insurance still has you listed as Thomas. It's better that we stick with that."

"Yes, thank you. What about my penis?"

"Well, the tests show a tremendous surge of adrenaline in your system, and it is having an affect like steroids. It is changing your body in many ways, one of them being that it is shrinking your penis."

"How can I be a happy monster with such a small cock?"

"I'm sure there are monsters with all sorts of penises. Six per cent of the population is sociopathic, Thomas. Your small penis shouldn't really affect your performance on your blogs, when you go searching for prey."

"Well, it's affecting my performance OFF the blogs. I've always hated women but now that I want to ravage one, I can't!"

"I see what you mean. Here you are, looking scary and dangerous from the waist up, but one little thing below the waist is making victims in the street laugh at you."

The stranger on the phone asked, "Did the doctor give you anything?"

"He gave me some pills, but they didn't help. I just got headaches. I tried herbs, Chinese root, voodoo and dealt my Tarot cards every night - nothing worked. Finally I enrolled in a 12-step program for dysfunctional monsters. There was a witch who couldn't get off her broom, a vampire without teeth, and a ghost who was too scared to scare anyone. Losers."

"Did the group help?"

"No, but I became chummy with the witch, Laureanana, and we hit it off. Man, was she wild! One day when she saw me looking at my small penis, she opened up an ancient book and started chanting:

Fooga Fama Figga
Make his penis bigger

As she finished the chant, the room started to shake. I was whirling like a top and landed on the floor. I stood up and looked down...Laureanana had succeeded! My cock was three times as big! I grabbed her, threw her on a table and screwed her for almost two minutes!"

"That's great."

"But the story isn't over. The true horror had not even begun!"

"Oh, no!"

"Even though Laureanana let me move in with her, and also let me use her phone 24/7, and I was by now a successful monster with a giant penis, I found it hard to commit to just one woman."

"I hear ya."

"After coming home from a long night ravaging topless women, I was not in the mood to do the dishes, or talk about "her day." I told her that if she got another yeast infection from her broom, she should stop being a witch and stay home and cook and clean for me. She didn't talk to me for a week."

"Relationships can be tough."

"One weekend, Laureanana came home from a witches convention early and caught me in bed, fucking a friend of hers. She went crazy, called me every name in the book. I tried to tell her it was her fault. After all, she was the one who gave me my new penis. Wasn't I supposed to share it with the world?"

"Monsters feel that way, sure."

"She ran to her book of spells, and chanted:

Boodle, yoodle, woodle
Turn him into a noodle

And the damn harpy turned me into a noodle. That's what I am right now. Can you imagine how difficult it is to use my phone and computer?"

"So, you're not a monster anymore?"

"I'm still a monster. I LOVE being a monster! But my body is a noodle!"

"I'm sorry."

"And the scariest thing is, she did this just to punish me for my transgression."

"Cruel."

"Women who are wronged are the cruelest."

"That was the SADDEST story I have ever heard."

Pass the Popcorn

This post gave me a migraine. How can I write about my ex-girlfriend's deception without also writing about MY deception? I can't, they go together like green mold on stale bread. I could post something about the "deer-in-the-headlights" - that's the people who received my ex-girlfriend's eye-popping emails - but I don't know anything about THAT.




For now, I'm tired of the subject.

She was just one hundred seventeen, you know what I mean

Fans reading the title of today's post are saying: OH, NO... Is this going to be another Tarquin/Thomas post about imaginary old ladies? Gotcha! Today's post is NOT about my old lady thing, or topless women, or my "child porno writer" fantasy, and it's not another post about my ex-girlfriend, Miss Nipples, though this is where the tension builds.

No, the question on everybody's mind today is: Where can you go for a romantic Valentine's getaway, if you don't mind spending ten thousand dollars?

To answer this question, I looked online and found a place in the UK. The Hard Days Night Hotel opened this week in Liverpool. The 110-room, four-star hotel is located across the street from the Cavern club, where the Beatles got their feet wet. It features a rare Yellow Submarine jukebox in the lobby and candlelit restaurant called Blakes, who was the art director of the Sgt. Pepper album. The John Lennon suite has a white piano. The hot tubs are shaped like guitars. Then there's the wedding chapel, and it's not a place for argoraphobics, because, according to the article, the chapel is a "windowless, mirrored room accessed by a narrow spiral staircase." Of course, at $1200 a night to stay in the suite, you should be snoring like a chainsaw.

And, if you are alone today, romance can be around the corner..or, it can be WORKING a corner.

He he he.
Administrator's note: "I Saw Her Standing There" is no longer playing.

Just the Tip of a Very Naughty Iceberg

I, Tarquin Thomas Churchwell, am ready now to clear up the mystery of The Three Rhinestone Buttons.

First, I was so unimpressed with the guesses. I read all of them and answered a few. Some of you had a harder time than others. I was lucky, since I actually knew what the buttons meant.

(flashback)

"Daddy! Daddy!" they cried, and I skidded on the linoleum, and did the mambo around the Thomas LEGO Train that I swore their mother put in the toy box just an hour ago. "I'm coming," I yelled like Ralph Cramden. Who would have thought that becoming an unmarried father would be like this -- a life full of dangers? When I entered their room, Tommy Jr. was playing on the floor, and Tommy the third was still wrapped in his blanket that has my picture on it, his finger extended, showing me a "boo-boo."

My friend Bob entered the room, interrupting the flow of my story.

"Master, what are you writing?" He looked over my shoulder at the monitor. "Do you have two sons?"

"Do I? While I was cleaning my closet, I found this."

Bob squinted at an old snapshot on the table that showed me sleeping. "Not that," I said impatiently. I held up a crumpled old jacket. "I used to wear this jacket in the 90s. See, it has three rhinestone buttons...Do you believe in repressed memories?"

"Hmmm...no."

"Is it possible I had two extra children and I forgot?"

You mean like you went shopping and forgot where the subway is?"

"I do have a habit of forgetting people's ages...but this..."

Bob clapped a hand on my shoulder. "If anyone would forget they had two extra children, it would be you..Where's that hard drive you said you couldn't find?"

"I found it." I smiled at my hard drives stacked on the table beside the picture of me snoring with my mouth open.

"Oh, well," Bob said, "maybe this is one of those things that seems real, but isn't."

"I still have the jacket, though. Wait, I remember. I told everyone the three buttons symbolized my three kids!"

Bob was staring at the jacket. "I could use that as a rag, if you ever want to part with it."

"In case anyone asks, do not blab."

"Asks about what?"

"About my two extra children!"

"But why are you writing your post like a father?"

"I read on MySpace that one of those parenting blogs is looking for a writer. I think they pay, and it would be a way for me to get some attention. But I'd have to write about topics such as "Daddy Lost His Prozac."

"Oh, yeah? Write away, Dad."

Bob seldom makes jokes. I taught him to be respectful. He was still chuckling, and beginning to irritate me, when I had a thought. "I wonder why there aren't any "Men Who Hate Women" blogs that pay bloggers?"

"I don't know, master. I suppose they have no appeal."

I shrugged. "Every day it would be the same article -- "New Ways To Hate A Woman -- Part 82." I probably should just stick to the Daddy Chronicles. Except I don't know anything about kids. I'll just write something else today."

"Why?"

"Why? Why? Why so many questions?"

"Just curious."

"I don't know why. Something in here (I tapped the side of my head with my finger) wants me to do it and I follow like a sheep. That's why!"

"What can you write about every day? Do you have that much to say?"

"I write about my life. My SUS turmoil. The people I hate. My female readers are always curious about what I'm like in bed."

"I think this photo of you sleeping might give your readers some idea."

And with that, we laughed and laughed.

Note: I want to thank my old girlfriend, Miss Nipples, for telling the world that I have three children. Without her, this post couldn't have been written.

Reason No. 28 Why I Am a Valentine Victim

I will get back to the Three Buttons soon, and delve into other mysteries. But I want to use these seconds before bedtime to reflect on Valentine's Day, which is two days away. Here is a conversation I once had with a girl about Valentine's.

Her: I wish you wouldn't make me pay for my own Valentine card. That takes all the zing out of the day.

Me: I can't believe you just said that. You're so retarded.

Her: I really hate it when you use that word like that.

Me: What? Retarded? That's how you're acting. Retarded.

Her: Do you even know how high my IQ is?

Me: It can't be that high, because you're retarded.

Her: 120. My IQ is 120.

Me: So what? Mine is 1072.

Her: IQ, TC, not your apartment number.

Me: Retardo!

Get the idea? I think I'll go lie down now and scratch my belly. Nighty night!

Why Would I Wear Anything Else?

This reminds me of a jacket I wore in the 90s...

Wanna guess "who" the THREE BUTTONS signified in my life? Leave a comment on the blog. The guess that comes closest to the truth wins a NO expense-paid trip to Queens and lunch with me in the SUS cafeteria!

Administrator's note: "Rhinestone Cowboy" is no longer playing.

In Which My Head Nearly Explodes

I posted a lot of hate yesterday. Fans, I want every Google search of my name to turn up nothing but bad, bad crap.

Sometimes I blame my blog tirades on manic depression. Sounds cool to say this, because a lot of celebs claim they have it. But is this really what's wrong with me? Or, is this like the times when I indulge my persecution complex by saying I'm a Jew? I am not a Jew, nor do I have many of the symptoms of manic depression. I probably have what's known as a borderline personality disorder.

One of the “haters” jotted down some notes, so that I can show them to my therapist. It's unlikely I will do this.

Again, these are NOT MY THOUGHTS:

I can’t tell the difference between lies and truth.

I blame others for everything that happens to me.

No insight. I do not see myself as others see me.

My relationships. I alternate between neediness, arrogance, rage and suspicion. I use people and can't identify with them.

Paranoid thinking. I am always on the lookout for an attack.

No job. I actually resent having to do anything and expect praise all out of proportion.

I don’t understand cause and affect. I attack people and become outraged, when they react. I think I should get a free pass on my conduct and be treated with tenderness and indulgence like a child, because I am “ill.”

I spend so much time getting myself in and out of trouble, in making the most complicated efforts not to work, or to face my problems, that I have no energy left for normal thinking.

I use my good qualities, like my sense of humor, in a negative way to ridicule others.

Throughout my life, people have tried to help me, but I am stuck in Victim-land. Only I, with the help of a patient therapist, can pull myself out of it...

BLAH. BLAH. BLAH.

This Is Not Miss Nipples

This is Britney in happier times. I'm with you, Brit.

My Crock Pot Runneth Over

Can you feel the love tonight?

It was just one week ago when I went bonkers on my blogs again and I've been dealing with the inevitable fallout in my usual way. I did not apologize to Blogland, or to the woman I attacked. Instead, I've been writing blog posts about you, fans. I've been writing that you are sending me waves of love in emails, and that I am loving you back.

Yep, I've been lying my head off again.

The question everyone's been asking this week is: will Tarquin/Thomas go bonkers AGAIN? Does a pancake stuck to the ceiling always fall? HA HA HA. I love it when my blog posts make me laugh.

I wrote a poem about love (a variation on an old song).

Ode To My Crock Pot

Sometimes in the evening when shadows are deep

I stand here beside you, just watching you steep
And sometimes I whisper what I'm thinking of,
My crock pot runneth over with love.

Sometimes in the evening when blogging is done
I reach for a chopstick instead of a gun
I memorize big bites that I'm fondest of,
My crock pot runneth over with love.

In only a fortnight we both will be old
I won't even notice your bad smell and blue mold
And so in this moment with starlight above,
My crock pot runneth over with love!

With love!

"Show us, show us, show us how you do that trick."

Dummies have been asking for a year, "Tarquin/Thomas, how is it that you go on lying rampages, and then act as if nothing ever happened? How do you do that crummy trick? Is your conscience on cruise control, or something?"

The way I do it is easy. I get my mask on.

famous Chinese mask

A Man and A Woman and A Deer In the Headlights

Yes, fans, I will explain the picture that I posted on Tuesday.

Keeping you informed

In which I cut to the chase