That's "Mr. Bandit" To You

I have been calling people THIEVES for so long, my fans are bored out of their empty skulls. I get emails saying: "Tarq, when are you gonna stop? Instead of making up lies, how about posting some true confessions? Tell us again about when you used to steal watches."

Well, dum dums, I'm not sharing pickpocket memories this week. But here I am (symbolically speaking) in my new ski mask, which I helped myself to in black and 6 springtime colors.

YOU'RE INVITED!

I LUV My New Shirt

Lust In The Dust

At the end of this movie, there's a shootout.

Trying To Add More Color To My Diet

The Dummy Firing Squad

Even though I am busy doing "damage control" - meaning the "hate index" on my other blogs is down to 99.8%, here is an image that keeps running through my head.

Enjoy!

The Dummy Firing Squad

See What Happens When You Don't OBEY Thomas Churchwell

I told her to shut up, fans. I warned her.

Peekaboo...I'll Beat Up You

This is Jack Nicholson, as he looked in "The Shining." I would have posted a picture of a beaten woman, but I've had enough excitement for one week.

Yep, I had a VERY busy week. Death threats, phony truces, libel posts and a billion lies. This should shut up the dum dums that say I don't do anything!

Hahahahahahahahaha!!!

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

TARQUIN CHURCHWELL SAYS: I WON'T STOP LYING

When people want to read lies, they can go to Tarquin Churchwell's hate blogs. When they want to read the truth, they come here.

As everyone knows, I have been lying my head off for more than a year, and probably much longer. When I was a kid, my parents took me to a psychiatrist to find out what was wrong with me. I've had a life long problem telling lies.

I sit here in my underwear, still unemployed, and posting big wads of lies about women I don't even know.

Fans, this picture was my dream. It was all I ever wanted...

TARQUIN CHURCHWELL ADMITS LIES ABOUT SCARLETT

Today I posted lies about Scarlett that I've written so many times, they have a beard. Here is the TRUTH. Scarlett is a nice girl, though it makes me puke to say it. She has NEVER written "child porno stories." Susan does NOT live in the "slums." Scarlett is NOT an "online prostitute", whatever that means, and she definitely is NOT an "old hag."

I have been libeling and harassing women for more than a year on my blogs. He he he.

Slight Discomfort Mixed With Utter Denial

How do I, Tarquin Churchwell, feel about talking to my therapist?

Not good!

And how the hell do I have time to bullshit my therapist? Remember, I'm a busy guy sitting at home in my boxer shorts. I'm constantly updating my hate lists, for one thing. I have my blogs to write. And I need time to dupe people from my past. And to draw decent art that is stalled. And to watch reruns of Seinfeld. I'm a busy guy!

But once a week, I have to go to therapy.

Note: My new name, "The Artist Formerly Known As Tarquin", takes too long to type. I'll refer to myself in this post as TAFKAT.

So, I was sitting across from my therapist...

Therapist: So, how do you feel about it?

TAFKAT: I'm pissed off.

Therapist: So, what did you do?

TAFKAT: I went to my blog and wrote. That made me feel better. I always feel most comfortable just sitting around and writing lies.

Therapist: What did you write about last night?

TAFKAT: I wrote some blog posts about SUS and about some woman on the Internet.

Therapist: Hmm...

TAFKAT: Although no one reading it would guess, I must have been venting about my childhood.

Therapist: Do you think you were venting about your childhood?

TAFKAT: Isn't that what you're always telling me, that I substitute people on the Internet for my parents? Not that I believe it.

Therapist: So, writing this blog is an important outlet for you.

TAFKAT: Yep.

Therapist: Maybe you could use it as a form of therapy? A way for you to think about things. What do you write about mostly?

TAFKAT: Same thing every day. I call people names. I write about women on the Internet and about SUS. I'm even writing about barnyard animals. In the beginning I was nicer. Now I don't care.

Therapist: Really?

TAFKAT: Jesus, I can't believe I'm telling my therapist the truth about something.

Therapist: Why do you think you call people names and lie?

TAFKAT: Because they won't get off the INTERNET!

Therapist: Really?

TAFKAT: Okay, why do you think I do it?

Therapist: I think this will take some time to explore, and our time is almost up today. Have you been thinking about your childhood since our last session?

TAFKAT: I'm too busy blogging.

Therapist: I've never done this with another patient, but your blog seems to be a large part of your life. Your fantasy life. Do you think it would be a good idea, if I read your blog?

TAFKAT: Oh, I thought you had been reading it.

Therapist: No, I wouldn't read it unless you ask me to. Do you want me to?

TAFKAT: Sure. Why not? I'm always looking for a fan.

Therapist: I don't know too much about blogs. How do people find you?

TAFKAT: From the search engines.

Therapist: Do a lot of people come to your blogs?

TAFKAT: Well, it depends. I like to think hundreds come to my hate blog. Right now, there's only one person from Pakistan, and I have no idea if that dummy is actually READING anything I write.

Therapist: Let's make next week a special one. We'll sit by the computer together and you'll show me some of what you write on your blog. I want you to show me things that can best help me to understand you better. Let's make your blog part of therapy, since it's so important to you.

TAFKAT: Okay, but do you realize I'm going to write about this on my blog tonight?

Therapist: I have no doubt.

Brrr. It's Still Snowing In My Brain

Thoughts From The Trail

The question on everyone's mind this week is: How come you can talk about the weather, but you can't do anything about it?

Bet you thought the question was going to be something else. He he he.

Personally, I like the cold. Freezing weather coordinates good with my below freezing approval rating.

Many bloggers around the country spend their winters moaning. They think they got it bad. Ha! From the window in my room at SUS, I can see snow caps on the sewers.

And so, for the next few days, I will be showcasing music about the weather.

Enjoy this cozy time on my blog. By the way, I don't know what I would do without the "fans" who suggest this stuff!

Happy Trails!

If I am REALLY going on "VACATION," I should get going!

Everyone who has been a target of my galloping lies:

The women on the Internet
Online merchants
Writers of books
My ISP
MSN photography forums
SUS

...will be glad, when I hit the dusty trail.

Administrator's note: "Happy Trails To You" is no longer playing.

Spam It!

A Thumping Bore

(Revised) I, Tarquin Churchwell, threatened another woman on my other blog today. Hooray for me, I'm a law breaker.

My threat was about this blog. I still like to say that someone else is writing it, but why do I blame Scarlett? She has never claimed to be the author! As for re-posting the recording of her voice, how many times am I going to bore my "fans" with this? I have been playing it for more than a year!

Can I say exploiter of women?

Before I re-post a short version of my post from Friday, here is an email that I sent to another woman on my hate list. The style of this note is clearly my own. Nothing has been changed. The bold lettering in the postscript is the way I sent it.

From: Tarquin Churchwell
Sent: Saturday, December 29, 2007 3:56 PM
To: Suzi
Subject: making up emails again?

I see you are so lonely you are making up emails from TATman just to pretend you getting his attention. Your not. Your dumb.
Gotcha Dummy. No one believes you. I dare you to post this email too.
Your dumb tiger turd!
The Always Amazing Right Stuff!!
(Maybe you could make up another email with your fake email maker and photoshop to make it look like they are from tarquin!)
GOTCHA DUM DUM!
(PS, Tell Scarlett I miss her voice. Please tell her to call me at 12 am tonight. She was the best thing I ever had.)

That email shows how mixed up I am, fans. Anyways, Scarlett didn't reply. She didn't call, email, or blog about my note. If she had called that night, I would have recorded her voice AGAIN!

Now the re-post:
Friday, January 18, 2008

I am playing that recording of her voice again, the one I made over a year ago. I had three weeks of online conversations with Scarlett in the fall of 2006. I lied to her and she got upset. The recording is a message she left, while I hid in my room and cackled.

I've been trashing her voice (AND beating off to it) for more than a year. This is bizarre, fans, even for me!

Top Ten Things I Hate...after women

10. When Bob makes me break the icicles off his mustache

9. The thought of a hate-free Internet

8. People who ask, "Working hard, or hardly working?"

7. Having a perfectly happy day and then suddenly for no reason thinking of the numbers 666

6. Can't give people the finger with mittens on

5. The exorcist

4. Instead of sirens, I hear squad cars in Queens blaring my hate posts

3. Hanging around the SUS lobby disguised as a giant woodpecker

2. Anyone who says, "Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive."

1. Three letters: TOS

Mr. Ed and Me

Fans, last night on my other blog I wrote again about the Smoking Horse. I was sitting in front of my computer, pounding out my latest hate post, when I felt his presence.

"Mr. Ed?" I asked. "Is that you?"

The room shook like a stampede. The Smoking Horse galloped toward me, a pack of Marlboros in his shoed hoof.

"You switched brands?" I asked. He used to smoke Salems.

A light flashed across his familiar, blonde-maned face. He was lighting the cigarette.

"Hello, asshole," the horse finally said.

He stood next to me, blowing smoke rings through huge black nostrils. I waited for him to say something more, but like always, he flew out the window, trailing ashes behind him.

I Love It!

When I post lies and hate on my other blog, I always get new fans! Look what I got in an email last night.

Uh Oh...

I Recorded the Whole Thing

Yay

I almost forgot to post the stats for Reineer Droppings. Thanks for all your emails, and for making this blog a success!

Total 6005

Average per day 150

Last hour 23

Today (as of noon) 87

One more thing, I want to be clear about the pictures I post here. None of them are done by me.

Rock Me, Grandma

Fans, last night I went bonkers on my other blog. I was filled with misery and it's still simmering in my brain like a pot of spaghetti. I know it will be okay if I continue my vent over here.

When I meet a young woman online, I immediately add forty years to her age, and then I imagine that she is hot for me. Since I started blogging, I've been fantasizing about screwing a little old lady.

I asked my therapist about it.

ME: I keep having fantasies about little old ladies, and I don't even know any.

Therapist: Do you write about these fantasies on your blogs?

ME: All the time.

Therapist: Why do you feel the urge to blog about it? Readers know you have a c**k, Tarquin. You don't need to remind them.

ME: What? I HATE women! The little old ladies who I make up in my head, I just want to cuddle. I think.

Therapist: There's only one therapy that will take care of that.

Asshole.

Naked Friday

Big yellow Hawaiian banana

I Had A Nightmare

Baliff: Here ye, here ye! The State of the Internet vs. Tarquin Churchwell.

Prosecution: Your Honor, in November of 2006, Tarquin Churchwell started blogging. He wrote that he "loves making people happy." But on 300 days out of the past 365, he wrote mysogynist posts, if you can call them posts, on various blogs, which were about women. He calls women "life sucking hags" and "witches."

(Gasps are heard in the courtroom)

Judge (banging gavel): Was the defendant alive during the Salem witch trials?

Prosecution: That is likely, your Honor. Hoping that the posts might actually be read by someone, Mr. Churchwell decided to keep posting hate about women. Thus, the same posts have been repeated, ad nauseum, creating no happiness for the State of the Internet. However, he refuses to accept reponsibility for his actions and willingly continues to post all manner of hate against others. We have no other solution but to take legal action. Thank you.

Judge: Mr. Churchwell, your response.

Tarquin: Your Honor, I will be representing myself. Sluts and asswipes of the jury. Every morning I wake up and do a little blogging. What do I blog about? I will get to that soon. When I am finished, I look at myself in the mirror, and say: Hello, god!

I consider myself a god as a blogger, one who operates under his own rules. After all, isn't my blog my own creation, one that spews forth from me? When I started blogging, I said that I love making people happy and I still post those words today. But who is to say that your definition of "happy" is the same as mine? Perhaps my happiness is actually your misery. Perhaps I am happiest when I am lying and creating hate. Why should God get a free pass in creating what He wants, and I have to follow your dumb idea of what "happy" means?

The only explanation is that those who insist that I be expelled from the Internet are the same people who hate the Almighty! Do you really want to be one of those people?

Judge (rolling his eyes to the jury): Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?

Jury: We have, your Honor.

Judge: Read it.

Jury: "In the matter of the State of the Internet vs. Tarquin Churchwell, we find the defendant guilty!"

Judge: Amen.

Pic of the Day

Look out! Somebody else just read my other blog!

Tarquin Churchwell is Back on Broadway

Fans have been asking, "Tarq, what happened to that book you were writing? Is it almost finished?"

My ghostwriter and I had an agreement for me write down my thoughts, and then give them to him to write a book. I figured one and a half pages of thoughts were plenty! He said he couldn't write a non-fiction book based on nothing but that. I got even by trashing him on my blog.

Last year I was stalled. Health stuff, relationship upheavels, and the knowledge that everyone is a dum dum, have been lousy for my writing. Except for hate blogging, which flourishes in times of chaos, I haven't been working on any projects that would lead to a career. One blogger sent me an anonymous email, suggesting I write one of those "How-to Dummies" books, but I have no idea what kind of book that would be, or who would buy it.

Another fan suggested I combine all my hate posts into one book. A project like that might be fun, but who would publish it?

Even my fan Bob would probably wait until it was half-price at the bookstore in Queens. Still, it's a new year...

What could my book be about?

"Me and My Penis... Strolling Down the Avenue" by Tarquin

"You Were Always on My Mind: A Stalking Memoir" by Tarquin

"One Man's Spiritual Search for Britney Spears' Thong" by Tarquin

"The True Story Behind My Trip to New Hampshire" by Tarquin

I'm more of a fiction person, anyway.

About three months ago, I received an email from an independent director in town (he made one Girls Gone Nude movie that did well on DVD). He wanted to know if I wanted to work on some pitches with him. A producer had seen a copy of his Girls Gone Nude video and was eager to hear some ideas. The producer was looking specifically for a certain kind of project, scripts that might appeal to young fans of slasher films. Sounded good, and I knew I wasn't planning to do any actual work.

My writing "partner" and I were supposed to meet the producer two months ago -- but the Writer's Strike stopped it from happening. So, I waited...and I don't like to wait.

To satisfy my fans, I have decided to star in a Broadway musical! A remake of "Beauty and the Beast" but this one is called "Beauties and the Beast." The reason for the title change is because two female bloggers were up for the lead and BOTH ended up getting the part. I like to call them hags, because I hate women -- he he he -- but they are so beautiful that the producer said, "What the hell, let's re-write Disney and have two heroines." And, that's what he did.

On opening night, producers will be sitting in the front row, and want to sign me for the movie, which will become a huge hit, and I will become so famous that men all over the world will stop calling their members "Dicks" and "Peters", but will start calling them "Beasts." Millions of women will be screaming for "Beast" every night!

You might know how the story of Beauty and the Beast ends. Once the Beast lets love into his heart, he is transformed. The producer, after seeing my audition and loving it, said, "Tarquin, I'm going to change the ending so that it will be believable."

That's all for now, fans. Bob is waiting for me in the hall, screaming at the top of his lungs like Ralph in The Honeymooners.

Beds I have Known

Like the reindeer thanked Santa after they had their first flight in a year, I want to use this day before the new year to thank myself for bedding 3,000,000 women, back when I was hot.

I can't believe it's been fifty years (it feels like fifty years) since I bedded all those women. Fifty years of short relationships and wondering what the hell "bedded" means, anyway. But like those hardy reindeer, I continue on, doing the blog work to build something that will live in infamy, making up lies and never asking for thanks, just knowing that one day my past will catch up with me and I'll be going to jail.

Oh, right. And about the bedding part...I love beds.

Here are some beds I have known:

Rusty's Bed
Rusty's bed was in a cave

Rusty was my first "bed-ee" of the heyday. She lived in a cave, a small hollow apartment scooped out of the side of a two-story building. After one bedding, we lost touch. Still, we always remember our first, don't we?...


Peaches' Bed
Peaches bed was in Georgia

At first glance, Peaches and I had little in common. I was a New York celebrity and fallen Catholic. She was a Baptist and the sister of a bigwig in the Klu Klux Klan. But getting herbed up can make strange bedfellows, and despite our differences, we immediately bonded over our love for Grade A weed.


Astrid's Bed
Astrid's bed was in New York


Astrid was a busy designer of rare beds, and this was one of her creations. In the photo, you can see her legs, waiting for me.


Cecily's Bed
Cecily's bed was in New Hampshire


When I met Cecily, she told me that she liked to sew. That night she knitted my undershorts to this quilt, and I was still in them. Geesh.


Mistress's Bed
Mistress's bed was in Manhatten


Mistress was not a shy woman. In fact, she was a pole dancer. She introduced me to S&M and banged my head against the metal bed frame for hours.


Doreen's Bed
Doreen's bed was in hell


She had more food wrappers on the floor than Mickey D's. "You are the banana, I am the tomato," she yelled, as I inched my way to her bed. Unfortunately, I slid on a wrapper, broke my collarbone and was in traction for six weeks.


Lucy's Bed
Lucy bed was in New York

Yep, that night it was me, Lucy and Ricky. Ricky snored.


Monique's Bed
Monique bed was in France


During my brief stint in St. Tropez, I met Monique on the beach. Look at the European artistry of her bed!


Cashmere's Bed
Cashmere's bed was in upstate New York


Cashmere was highly allergic to pillows and sheets. She was called Casper at the time, because this was right after her sex change operation. One day, I levitated her bed. See the picture?


Petal's Cat
Petal's (never seen) bed was in New York

She said, "Well, TC, there is nothing I enjoy more than eating a hot dog, then riding a kooky man, my perfect breasts bouncing, until I'm orgasming to the music of Queen." I went home with her that very night. Her cat wouldn't let me go in the bedroom. Bad pussy.

When I think about the women I bedded, I also remember the ones who got away...but that's another story, fans.