fasting

the remainder of all toxins weep from my pores, acidic tears burn streams into my cheeks, sediments from this broken heart have been shat and bile from too much disappointment have been SPAT...

my body is ridding itself of him.
every place that he's been, washed clean... depressions he has left in my flesh, healed.

that stupid ache forgotten.

mo anam cara

"who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness" ...

the voice of allen ginsberg, speaking by means of magic, from my iPod... roused me awake.

i lifted my heavy head and focused upon the sprawled, bloody body of a naked man half my age laying unnaturally upon the filthy carpet before me.

i blinked and tried to register what i was seeing. he was beautiful. his skin's light blue hue matched his wide-open, dead eyes which stared almost blissfully upon me.

an 8 inch blade was sunk deep into his chest ... and a red thumbtack was stuck amusingly into the center of his forehead.

he was laying inside of what appeared to be a giant heart - that was shaped from discarded sunflower seed shells, monopoly money, half-eaten gummy worms, cigarette butts, white pillow feathers and the broken glass of empty scotch bottles - molded carefully by what i assumed were my own two hands.

it was then that i recalled with a vague, pained memory, having noticed this young man the evening prior [he was break dancing in a hora circle at some bar mitzvah i had crashed] and had lured him back to my room at the marina village inn with the promise of gummy worms, cherry flavored codeine cough syrup, naked pillow fights and board games.

i'm guessing he decided to come with me...

and that things may have gotten a bit out of hand. :|

some things will never change.

at least my wild irish roses will bloom come springtime, feeding upon his corpse.

hallelujah... hallelujah...

beautiful words

"your heart aches less and less.

once it is in full bloom again the past burden will be gone, and wholeness will take hold and turn your life into colorful, fragrant flowers."

these words were written to me by a very dear friend who has such a gift for prose. i'd be envious if i weren't so enamored. such visuals populate my mind when i read the words he has written. some day i hope to write words like these myself...

until then, i'll just keep killing instead because naturally, its what i do best. ;)

kiss

my soul lays catatonic

dormant

injured, immobile and without her mate

my head aches, my eyes sting father

i am having trouble breathing father

each time i take in air, the pain of being alive

reminds me

that i feel

like dying.

repeatedly and without warning.

and i cannot tell you this father,

but today my heart is broken.

and i wish you were here to hold me together

saying:

all better

kiss

all better

kiss

all better

a day in the life of a contract killer

darts are for pantywaists ....

i, on the other hand, throw RAZOR SHARP NINJA STARS
in order to keep myself, and my murderous, rock-steady
and completely infallible aim in tip-top condition because
naturally, i am an assassin; in my world aim is everything.

oh det nice

cast of characters:

lady #1 performed by a vietnamese nail technician
lady #2 performed by a vietnamese nail technician
lady #3 performed by a vietnamese nail technician
mbk: performed by ms bees knees

scene:

mbk pops into lee's nails at 6pm on a thursday night. three "nail technicians" are on the floor. mbk is motioned to take a seat at a manicure station, as lady #1, who obviously does not want to assist mbk, is told to do so by lady #3.

lady #1 seems confused. she does not know where anything is. she keeps getting up and leaving to look for files and cotton balls... mbk is annoyed but patient. they exchange pleasantries:

lady #1: you live 'round here?
mbk: yes
lady #1: oh det nice.

after nearly 20 minutes, lady #1 manages to take off mbk's polish (sort of) and file down her nails (sort of) to prep her for a fill. mbk is passed off to a second lady.

lady #1: ok you finish.
mbk: huh?
lady#1: you go to her now (nods toward lady #2).
mbk: uhm... ok.

lady #2 nods in unison with lady #1 and motions mbk to sit at her station. so mbk gets up and does as she is told. lady #2 begins to fill and file her nails sloppily as if rushed for time. they exchange pleasantries:

lady #2: you married?
mbk: no
lady #2: oh det too bad.
mbk: ...
lady #2: you want long nail?
mbk: no... short. very short please.
lady #2: why you want short? you play piano?
mbk: ...
lady #2: ...
mbk: no i kill people for a living. It's just easier to sharp shoot when my nails are at a manageable length.
lady #2: oh det nice.
mbk: ...

just then a customer walks into the shop. she smiles and nods to lady #2.

lady #2: she polish you nail now (nods toward lady #3)
mbk: are you serious?
lady #2: ...
mbk: i have never been shuffled around like this before, usually one person takes care of the whole process...WTF?
lady #2: sorry my appointment here now, you go.
mbk: ...???!!!

mbk is then guided to a third station for a polish. highly annoyed, she forces herself to breathe calmly in order to resist pulling out the concealed weapon on her person and killing bitches.

lady #3 looks at mbk's nails and purses her lips. she then begins to polish slowly and methodically. they exchange pleasantries:

lady #3: you have children?
mbk: ...?
lady #3: you have children?
mbk: no
lady #3: oh det too bad.
mbk: ... (smiles and nods, deciding finally and with welcomed resolution, that everyone at lee's nails must die. it's the only way.)

after waiting an eternity for her polish to dry; mbk pays and tips handsomely (naturally), just before she pulls out her nine, screws on her silencer and proceeds to kill everyone in sight.

end scene

For Kissyfur ... With Love

one of my very favorite little lambs, kissyfur [whom i have not yet led to the slaughter] has sent me some questions to answer in order to further shine the light on my modestly charitable lifestyle and saintly nay vigilant career as an assassin. bless him! and so, due to the secrecy of my latest location, i have chosen to answer kissyfur's questions by carrier pigeon.

much love in death, ms bees knees

***************************

how and when did you realize that murder flowed through your veins?

one of my first homicides took place when i killed "lumpy lucy" at the age of 6 because i wanted her fucking twinkies.

if you could murder a celebrity, who would it be? why? and how dramatic would it be?

i'd kill britney spears by strapping her to a gurney and a feeding tube. i would pump her full of cheetos, red bull and starbucks frappuccinos until her stomach burst into a glorious eruption of blood and goo. she, of course, would be conscious and screaming the entire time. oh and i would play her nauseating music in the background, backwards, while all of this was occurring. for atmosphere, you understand.

other than yourself, what gay icons do you think have reincarnated themselves in you?

little edie bouvier beale, tammy faye messner… oh and countess elizabeth bathory, of course.

favorite pills?

yes. all of them.

what celebrity will be playing you in the soon to be released blockbuster expose of your life?

if all goes as planned… dame edna or this guy.

when did you realize that you are the queen of all fag hags?

probably when knottyboy took me under his big ol' gay wing and asked me to collaborate on a homo superhero blog project and i became his hag sidekick "haggerama".

rubbing shoulders with punk celebrity of the bay area, whom do you still keep in contact with and whom do you know reads your website?

hmm. that's a hard one. you see, after sacrificing that virgin onstage at the last green day show… no one seems to be returning my phone calls. they're probably just busy with the holidays and all. i'm sure that's it.

what shoe designer would you hold hostage if you could in order to make them do nothing but design shoes for you?

hands down, christian louboutin. i mean fuck!! these would look uh-mazing covered in blood, don't you think??

favorite murder weapon?

piano wire and arsenic.

favorite charity cause you like to support?

honestly, it's the dian fossey gorilla fund international (dfgfi); there are only about 700 mountain gorillas left in the world.

you obviously have lots of gay fans, slaves, and friends, and being a wild child of the 80's and 90's, how would you say that because living in the bay area that the hiv/aids virus has impacted your life, due to san francisco being one of the ground zero areas of the pandemic?

you know, HIV and AIDS are so predominant in the community that, by now, it's seamlessly assimilated itself into everyday life. not to say that it isn't as prevalent as it was in the 80s and 90s, but it not something to shun or hide. it's spoken of freely and understood more. now whether any of my gays are more careful with all that they know about the virus and how to avoid being infected, i cannot truly say. i'd like to think so but one never really knows.

if you were president, what would your new national holiday be?

kill a neo-con day.

what are your fetishes?

sploshing and clowning.

is it true that you like to set things on fire?

yes, absolutely. i am also a pyrophiliac.

if you ever pop out a child, and it is a boy, will you terrorize them a la joan crawford to be gay?

no. i already tried that with my nephew a few years back… and now, at the age of 6, he's more hetro than me.

should john waters run for mayor of baltimore?

fuck yes. i'll personally run his campaign.

where could one spot you in berkeley if they wanted a sighting of your celebrity?

dumping bodies off the berkeley marina pier at 2am.

any final words for my readers/advice?

how about my favorite edgar allan poe quote?

"one bound, and i had reached her feet! shrinking from my touch, she let fall from her head, unloosened, the ghastly cerements which had confined it, and there streamed forth, into the rushing atmosphere of the chamber, huge masses of long and disheveled hair; it was blacker than the raven wings of the midnight! and now slowly opened the eyes of the figure which stood before me. "here then, at least," i shrieked aloud, "can i never --can i never be mistaken --these are the full, and the black, and the wild eyes --of my lost love --of the lady --of the lady BEES KNEES." - edgar allan poe [edited, naturally, by me]

Ms Bees Knees: CAUGHT!!!

ME?!! caught???

NOT ON YOUR LIFE!! now if you'll all excuse me...
i've got some precious diamonds to sell to the highest bidder!

xoxo

HAPPY HALLOWEEN YOU WICKED BEAUTIES!!!

halloween = edgar allan poe

this halloween, or ANY day really for that matter, i'd like to suggest that you do the following... pour yourself a glass of scotch, place yourself comfortably before a nice, crackling fireplace in a warn, leather chair and read yourself some classic, macabre edgar allan poe. 'tis the season to scare yourself silly and poe is JUST the man to do it.

boo!

A Bee In My Bonnet

So here I am, the perpetual "wedding guest" in my Sunday best. It's funny. Just looking at me, you'd never guess I have a pistol concealed beneath my hat. Or would you? ;)

the lusty lady theater, SF

i love this photograph of my favorite strip tease venue: the lusty lady, whose "dancers" are unionized and almost always tattooed. OW!!

the main theater stage is surrounded by several private booths. inside each booth there is a shaded, peeping window... and for $1, the shade will lift to reveal LIVE! NUDE! GIRLS! lounging about a mirrored, circular room... gyrating to poorly selected pop music or dry-humping poles to annoying techo. but whatever... the girls are hot.

oh and just a heads up... the far more spacious, corner "couples" booths are #3 and #11, just in case you and your coked up "date" want to fuck around.

or so i've been told.

WHAT!? *crazy-eyed stare*

me doing what i do best...

nope! not murdering ...DRINKING!! ;)

playing dead

i've decided to lay upon the floor and show you all exactly how my last slain victim looked... minus all the blood of course. ;)

drinking my dinner... again.

cheers! <-- clicky

xo, msbeesknees

Killing Lou: 2

[a continuation of PART 1]

I remained seated near the back, in the shadows of the club until closing time. As the very last dancer left for the evening, just before dimming the house lights, she looked towards where she knew I'd be and lifted her arm slowly, brushing her fingers through her heavily hair-sprayed curls.

That was my signal. I knew it was go time.

The front door locked with a deafening click. I was alone with Lou now.

“Time for work,” I said to the silence that absorbed me.

I finished the last few deep swallows of my drink, applied a fresh coat of lip gloss, cocked and loaded my Colt .45 *clink clack*, smoothed the creases from my coat as I stood and began to snake my way through the main floor of velvet seats into the direction of Lou's office apartment.

My muffled steps climbed a set of carpeted stairs that lead to the bar and a second level. Behind the bar, to its right, I followed a long, carpeted hallway that lead to the back of the club and right to Lou’s hidden dwelling. His door was left ajar by one of the girls just as planned.

I raised my weapon, sunk into a crouch, and slipped inside…

This is what I saw: filling an almost empty room was an enormous black leather sofa that faced away from me. Sitting in the very center of that sofa, with his back to me, was whom I can only assume was Lou, vigorously jerking off to the porno plastered across the 60-inch television screen in front of him.

I smiled and straightened to standing. I aimed my pistol at the back of his head and moved slowly to just outside of his peripheral view…

“Oh I love this one,” I purred, “The Joy Suck Club, right?”
“GASP! ” he gasped.

“Hahaha!” I laughed.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!?” he screeched, scrambling to cover his swollen cock, “How ‘d you fucking get in here?”

“Careful Lou,” I said, gun aimed steadily at his head, “no sudden moves,” I added.

“What do you want?” he shouted, “You want money? TAKE WHATEVER YOU FUCKING WANT!” he added, shaking uncontrollably now.

“No Lou,” I said, “ What I want is your life.”

“Jesus…” he whispered.

“Not where you're going,” I corrected.

"Please..." he pleaded.

"Hey Lou... make sure you tell the Devil that Ms Bees Knees sent you," I said firing my gun and hitting my mark right between his fucking eyes, "He'll know who I am. I promise you that."

Killing Lou: 1

I found myself at a gentleman’s club in San Francisco the other day, squinting to adjust my eyes from the blinding sunshine outside to a red-lit sunken room filled with velvet chairs and cocktail tables surrounding a mirrored stage and a pole.

Wrapped around that brass pole were the muscular legs of an exotic dancer whose breasts defied gravity while suspended upside-down. She was also blind-folded and I'm guessing, about 40.

I'd insisted on tucking tens into a few of the strippers thong bottoms just so I could get a better look at them and sadly enough, as was suspected, they were all Picassos: fantastic from far away but a goddamn hot mess when examined up close. Perspiration covered their caked on, cracked foundation and flimsy ill-fitting costumed tops clung to their bulbous breasts, their asses squeezed into hot pants that reminded me of sausage casings.

Illusions. That's what these woman were. Smoke and mirrors. But the money they made was anything but an illusion. And they intended on giving 5 thousand of it to me… if I killed their boss.

And I planned on doing so right after my dirty martini.

Apparently this boss of theirs, Lou, was a real sonovabitch. He’d been pimping out, beating up and stealing from “his girls” for some time now and they’d had enough. The final straw was when one of the dancers accidentally stumbled upon a dead girl stuffed into a dumpster behind the club, wrapped in a tablecloth and missing her head, after that… the ladies pooled together their money and called me.

Conveniently, Lou had an office “suite” right inside the club so that he would never have to leave his kingdom. Now, all I had to do was wait...

Caught On Film

I was merely trying to enjoy a dirty martini this past Friday night [in between murderous missions... because you know, even assassins need time to unwind] when out of nowhere came the *POP* of a camera flash... "GODDAMN IT!," I thought as I tried to refocus my eyes... those fucking paparazzi had found me.

I'd been discovered and soon the police would follow. Time to GO. On the lam again...

Share With Me...

Two quite unusual or grossly unsettling things YOU have seen within the past few days, here are mine:

Quite unusual: a homeless black man walking down 13th street in Oakland at about 9:30 pm with what looked to be a large sofa seat cushion attached [for it was worn at a jaunty tilt and still remained!?] to his head. That's correct. A large sofa seat cushion WORN AS IF IT WERE A FANCY HAT.

Grossly unsettling: a blind woman unknowingly staring at me from across the bus with her shifty wide-open eyes. ::shudder:: I could SWEAR she was looking right through me!

Now you're turn.

Mystery Solved

a continuation from the previous post...

I was honestly baffled, I could not, for the life of me, remember what had transpired merely hours beforehand. I glanced down at myself and scanned my nude body for any telling marks, bruises or signs of struggle and right away I noticed that I had fragments of skin beneath my fingernails, which I assumed, was probably from the backside of my mystery man.

Although quite honestly, skin under my nails after a night of vigorous fucking was really nothing seemingly suspicious to me… I was known to do some real damage to the human body when caught in the throws of orgasmic passion and so I discounted it as anything suspect and continued my search.

I contorted my body, twisting it this way and that in order to get a better look at my lower half. I went over my feet, shins, calves, thighs and inner thighs, ass and stomach and found no scratches or bruising.

So far so good.

I shambled into the bathroom, in order to get a better look at myself in the full-length mirror that hung on the inside of the door and while examining my throat and shoulders, glimpsed behind me, the reflection of a leg and foot dangling over the edge of my bathtub.

"Peek-a-boo, I've found you," I said to its reflection and to who I assumed was my latest victim, turning abruptly on my heels I made my way over to say hello.

The first thing I noticed, beside the obvious missing arm, was that he was classically handsome in that sort of young Marlon Brando sort of way and the second thing that I noticed was, naturally, his cock-size.

"My god, I bet the boys never made fun of you in the locker room," I remarked as I reached down and held the still somewhat swollen length of him. "What a shame I had to kill this one so quickly," I said to myself, "I could have been hittin’ this right about now."

As my eyes trained back upon his face, the events from the night before all came flooding right back to me along with the motive of his unfortunate demise. And rather anticlimactically, I realized I had killed this man because he was a "shuffler".

That's right, a foot "shuffler". Someone who simply refuses to pick up their own feet when walking short or long distances [like say from my bed to the restroom and back] but instead prefers to drag along their feet as if they are simply far too lazy to pick them UP AND OFF THE FLOOR thus causing an irritating "schkrrrrt, schkrrrt, schkrrrrt" that, to me, is even far worse on the nerves than dragging ones finger nails across a chalk board.

There are very few peeves that drive me to murder a man and I’ve got to say that shuffling ones feet in my presence is at the top of my list.

Now please understand, I DID warn him. It’s not like I am some sort of uncivilized maniac. I had asked him kindly to please not drag his feet. TWICE IN FACT! But after his third trip to and from my restroom "schkrrrt-schkrrrting" the entire way, I simply could not stand it anymore and gripping my trusty Wusthof meat cleaver, which I naturally kept at the ready concealed beneath my mattress, I leapt at him like a crouching tiger while screeching, “I SAID PICK UP YOUR FUCKING FEET!” severing his arm with one swift, clean wack.

He died from the sheer shock of it all. Well, that and the massive hemorrhaging.

I then dragged his lifeless corpse to the bathtub for dismemberment, but decided I was far to exhausted to go on and that I would finish him off in the morning. I then swallowed 3 Oxycontin, to help me forget it all for a while and slipped into a deep, relaxing sleep atop the arm of the man I had just slaughtered.

Give Me A Motive For Murder !

I'm not entirely certain who I may have killed last night but this morning I woke up absolutely drenched in someone else's blood. How did I know that the blood was not, in fact, my own? I guess it was probably the severed, muscular man's arm I had been resting my head upon that gave it away.

"Fuck," I muttered, "Another set of 800 thread count linen-weave sheets RUINED," I groused as I peeled myself from the cold, blood-soaked bedding and eased myself onto the floor, avoiding a rather large puddle of sticky blood that had pooled at the side of my bed.

"Hmm," I wondered out loud, "Where is the rest of you?" I asked the lone, severed arm absentmindedly, scratching my head in order to emphasize my dismay.

My eyes scanned the room and quickly fell upon a pair of men's Italian wool trousers draped carefully over the back of a chair in the far corner of my room, where a beautifully crafted pair of leather shoes were also placed neatly on the floor beneath it. On the chair itself was a folded crisp, white button-up, a pair of silk boxer shorts and some socks, all perfectly arranged.

"Oh, this one was a snazzy dresser too," I mused as I walked towards the neatly displayed set of garments, a trail of bloody footprints following me all the way, "I do love a man with exquisite tastes in fine clothing," I added wondering to myself how much I could get for his things, "I wonder why I killed him?"

So?

Why DID I kill him? Hmm? What say YOU?

Honey in the Mouth, Bile in the Heart

As I dragged my latest ex-lovers body across the kitchen floor towards the bathroom for dismemberment, I realized that not only should I probably learn to take rejection a little better but that I was also in desperate need of a good manicure.

I did that, you know, after each broken heart. I pampered myself with a manicure and a new hair style. It helped, a little.

This latest one couldn’t come to grips with my homicidal history. “It’s not you,” he had said, “It’s all of those bodies buried in your backyard. It’s just… well… creepy,” he had confessed.

“I understand,” I replied as I reached for the ice pick beneath my pillow, “You’re just like all the rest,” I added as I plunged the pick deeply into his left eye, killing him quite suddenly.

I was just pulverized by having to kill this latest lover.

He was a goddamn tiger in bed, you understand, but he couldn’t accept who I was, and that compelled me more than anything to drive the pick deeper into his ocular cavity.

“Time for some new shoes too,” I had mused as I buried the remainder of him under the blooming rose bush,” maybe something in red.

How Would YOU describe ME?

How would YOU describe ms bees knees? I'm looking for some good descriptives so THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX PEOPLE!!!

Here are a few to get the ball rolling:

homicidal
psychotic
Sicilian
persnickety
cranky
irritable
serial killer
salacious
seductive
bitchy
murderess
tattooed
killer
drinker
pill-popper

Now let's hear from you. Go!

A Novel Idea!

So, due to the insistence and overall encouragement from MANY OF YOU... I'm looking into turning the adventures of Ms Bees Knees and her many murderous rampages into a graphic novel. Check out my concept here:

KILLER BEES

Now I just need to find a comic book-style artist who is crazy enough to collaborate with me in order to help me storyboard this idea... !!! Can any of you guys draw??

my secret rendezvous

i've agreed to meet with fellow blogger and playwright extraordinaire lecram at an undisclosed location for an exclusive interview, on account that he not reveal my whereabouts. which he, wisely agreed to.

ms bees knees: i apologize for all this hush-hush business but with my line of work it is of the utmost importance that we follow protocol and remain as invisible as possible.
lecram: by all means… but what exactly *is* your profession?
ms bees knees: i'm a hired hitman… you know, a paid assassin. i thought you knew that? what with all of my past exploits and whatnot. to make a long story short, the "right people" recognized that i had a talent for, uhm, homicide… and brought me onboard, so to speak. so now i kill for a living, and its fantastic! i actually have to be on my mark in less than two hours for another job so…
lecram: yes, of course, let's see… ms. bees, word has it that you had taken a break from blogging because there was some sort of world tour involved. is that true?
ms bees knees: world tour? in all honestly, i was on the lam. running from the law. incidentally, i was almost captured just the other day. but my captor suffered an unfortunate accident when his head met with my ming vase and, well, here we are!
lecram: hey, it was tough tracking you down to do this interview... do you usually hang out in an alley dressed in a slip?
ms bees knees: only on hot days.
lecram: tell us about your adventures... perhaps some charming incident that occurred.
ms bees knees: well, i finally killed a man with a new technique i've been honing for a while. i slit him from navel to neck and gutted him like a fish while he was still alive. i'm really quite proud of that particular hit. i felt i was really able to tap into my inner artist and just kind of go with it, you know?
lecram: i…. see… [shifts uncomfortably in his chair]… changing the subject. what are your plans now?
ms bees knees: to continue murdering for a living… and perhaps record a pop album. even though i decry pop, it seems to be the thing to do these days. i'd also like to pursue acting what with my past experience in gonzo porn… i figure that should be cake for me.
lecram: ok... i've been meaning to ask this for a long time. vanilla or chocolate?
ms bees knees: i loathe both. isn't there a vodka flavored ice cream yet?
lecram: sadly, i don't think so.
ms bees knees: oh… well, listen i should probably get moving along but before i go…
lecram: yes?
ms bees knees: care to join me for a dirty martini?
lecram: and if i say no?
ms bees knees: i'd advise against that.
lecram: well then, i'd love to.
ms bees knees: shall we?

A Bitter Sweet End... Or Just The Beginning?

as much as it pains me to do so, i'm taking a break from blogging in order to focus on WORLD! FUCKING! DOMINATION! ...but i'll STILL be around ... stalking your every move. lurking under your stairs and hiding in your garbage cans... because honestly, even if you tried... you could never REALLY get rid of me. now could you? hmm?

feel free to email me anytime you SEXY BITCHES: msbeesknees@gmail.com

My Liver Hates Me

[clicky ->] Me and Pete being retards backstage before the show [second night] at Slim's in SF.

After a second night of live shows and "partying" back at the phoenix hotel, exhausted with bloodshot eyes and the best Peruvian bump money can buy firmly caked into both of my nostrils ... I somehow miraculously still found my way back home and into my own bed at 4:21 am this morning with, naturally, the biggest GRIN frozen upon my lips, already counting down the days until the Bouncing Souls next tour stop in SF.... rock-n-roll baby, rock-n-roll. OW!

This Just In: I'm Alive!

Although, after last night, I HURT ALL OVER... drugs [check!], booze [check!], rock'n'roll [check!], groupies [check!]. [clicky ->] Here we are BEFORE the damage. Note my huge face [wtf? This is why I hate smiling in pictures!] and my huge guns [yoga bitches!] And to think... I have to do this all over again tonight. The calls have already begun. ::whimper:: ;)

Rock And Roll All Night!

So, as most of you might know by now, I had a rather colorful past in the East Bay punk rock scene. My 20s were spent living in a squat in Berkeley, CA with arguably some of the most notable bands coming out of the punk scene at that time. You can see a few photographs as well as other memorabilia here, if you're interested.

And so, here I am, a good 14 years later and not much has changed... I still have a cloying desire and undying weakness in my dirty little heart, for icky musicians covered in tattoos with dyed black hair and drug habits, I still get misty eyed when I pass local punk club 924 Gilman Street ... and I am still best friends with Pete Steinkopf of the Bouncing Souls.

Our story is a LONG story which I'll some day fill you all in on... but for now, just know that for the last 14 years, whenever Pete's band comes to town, we get together and we FUCK some SHIT UP. Strip bars are visited, cocaine is snorted, pills are swallowed, vodka is gulped, packs of cigarettes are smoked and inevitably, 5 years are taken off of my lifespan in the course of an evening. It takes me weeks to recover. WEEKS.

And its all about to happen again... I just recieved a text from Pete, whose band will be playing at Slim's in SF this Halloween. The text goes as follows:

"hi! how ya doin? we're gonna be out there in a couple days! yay! let's go out drinkin! fuck yeah! [Followed by another enthusiastic] let's fuck some shit up!!!"

See what I mean? He knows that I'll never say no to a good old fashioned bender. Not with my Pete. And so, it begins again... PRAY FOR ME!!!!

Friday the 13th = New Tattoo!

Sorry the picture is so crappy... I took it with my mobile. So I went and got more work done by Jesse Tuesday at Temple Tattoo in Oakland.

I HEART JESSE. He is the bestest.

The artwork is a solid locket heart with a key going through it, sort of like and arrow, and roses on either side of it. I love it. OW! Who has sexy tattoos? I DO! I DO! Yay for me!!!

I Swear Upon My Bees Knees!

I assure you all, that something downright witty and utterly obnoxious is coming soon. Plus, mikevil [he's crazy AND gay AND Danish Canadian...! a vile and deadly combination!] is currently holding a water pistol to my head while I write this and is threatening to give me a "really good soaking" if I don't write something fast , so when I say SOON I really fucking mean SOON... !

Live From California State Prison....

Yes... the feds finally caught me. I'm currently in the clink doing time. Send money, birthday cakes [preferably with metal files baked into them] and naked pictures of yourselves. I'll be in touch.

Or will I???

By the way, anyone know of any good attorneys? Just wondering. Pray for me.

Sincerely, Ms Bees Knees aka "fish"

The Day I Got Clowned

SQUIRT! [chuckle]

SQUIRT! [mmm... !]

I love a man who will squirt me in the face, drenching me entirely, and laugh maniacally while doing so. I'm referring of course to the water one shoots from his squirting "gag" flower. The kind of plastic corsage often seen pinned to patchy-plaid, jumbo lapels worn by professional pranksters who KNOW how to USE them.

SQUIRT! [oh god YES!]

Clowns: I have a thing for them. That's right. Clowns. Hobos, Tramps and yes, even mimes. They all make Ms Bees weak in her knees.

::memory fade::

It all began with Mr Yobo Wobbles. As a girl I'd developed a crush on the comical "clowny-chef" in skintight, checked pants, wacky neckerchief and drooping cook's hat, who gig'd at all of our neighborhood parties. The way he worked those finger puppets and flogged the other children with his rubber chicken: it took my breath away.

::end memory fade::

As I grew older, my fetish held fast! I couldn't pass a circus without getting aroused. Until, one day, it finally happened. I got clowned.

I found myself engaged in a threesome while crammed into the backseat of what appeared to be a VERY tiny clown car [which was surprisingly expansive on the inside... I KNOW!! HILARIOUS!! ] with some not-surprisingly, well-endowed white-faced circus performers whose names were Inappropriate the Clown and Pickles ["Just Pickles."].

Sky high from huffing helium and eating mescaline, we engaged in lascivious acts that involved, but were by no means limited to, flogging one another with 19" juggle clubs, coconut cream pies to the face, balloon animal "play", a whoopee cushion enema and some light, magic rope bondage. Our "show" ended with the POP-POPPING of a confetti spewing, double-shooting wad, I mean WAND.

My clowning experience was exhilarating, even though I unfortunetly caught a case of firecrotch [which I assure you was really not that funny at all], and to this day still remains unrivaled in both perversion and naughty naughty sexual hilarity.

Clowns... they're not just for children anymore.

Forgive Me Bees...

...for I have sinned. Confession time.

Okay, here goes: this one time, when I was 6, I convinced a retarded boy to drink water with lemon-scented dish soap in it by telling him it was lemonade.

And he drank it. The whole glass.

Wow... that was strangely cathartic. Although, it doesn't really matter. I can never wash off the dirty dirty. No matter how hard I scrub, my soul is still totally hell-bound.

Because God loves the handi-"capable" and he doesn't want to be around girls who play tricks on them. And I accept that. But not really.

Ms Bees Is Back From The Dead

I am all too aware that my posts have been rather sporadic as of late. This ominous life that I lead of intrigue, unchecked aggression, espionage [not to mention my one-time stint as an amateur porn star in the clown-fetish genre … man did THAT take fucking forever to live down], often and inevitably result in a few "missing weeks" here and there where I am forced to "lay low" for a while until the shit-storm settles and often times, my sweet, sweet babies, that means, Ms Bees Knees must operate sans communicato.

Although, even when there are communication devices available… I still manage to find myself fucked due to the amateurs I'm stuck seeking refuge with.

Like this one time when I unfortunately found myself sharing a spider hole in Tikrit with Saddam Hussein, were I took to living off nothing but dirty martinis and strawberry fruit rollups [but that's not really what's important here although, honestly, it is astonishing on and of itself], what is important here is that Saddamn not only smelled like camel shit, complete with a halo of buzzing flies, but he also turned out to be a total fucking laptop hog.

And of course, the very second it was my turn to do some blogging, the US military and their fuckin' Operation Red Dawn, found us out and I have to flee to another undisclosed location, sans laptop.

Weak sauce.

Or like this other time when me and Bernado Provenzano [the head mob boss of notorious Cosa Nostra who eluded the authorities for the last 43 years], were hiding out in this farmhouse in Sicily and he, of course, monopolized the only old manual typewriter between the two of us writing love letters to that butterface wife of his and naturally, the very moment it became my turn to type you all a "Wish you were here" letter, we were discovered by the police after that whore-of-a-wife-of-his delivered Bernie's laundry, thus leading the authorities right to us.

And since smuggling that hulking typewriter out with me, by way of shoving said piece of equipment up my ass, was somewhat out of the question, I was force to flee in search of a new hideaway sans the Underwood manual.

Bootsy.

But for now, I'm back from hiding and am able to blog once again from the comfort of my own Mediterranean coastal villa, for the time being anyway, that is until I kill again. You know how I be.

So gather 'round my sweetie-darlings and my babygays, and tell mama bees what you've been doing while I've been away. And it better be wicked-scandalous. Or I'll be obliged to kick your asses [you heard me right bonanza jellybean!] and you'll all be forced to like it ... Muahaha!

I'd KILL For A Drink Right Now