jonathon lipnicky

the first complete entry

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Thu, 03 Jul 2003 17:21:39 GMT

(dated march 30th, 2002 --simon)

i finally finished the script for "one bride for seven brothers" today and am going to spend the rest of the day inhaling gasoline fumes (its harder than my cock at a daycare center to get a decent bag of rock in this fuck-infested country). last night i took the train to holland and met up with the RZA and Ghostface at a hash bar in the red light district. Ghostface is diabetic, which means he can't smoke or drink, so he spends a lot of his time crying and spitting milk in people's mouths when they're laughing. Bob Digi, on the other hand, puts away the ganj like nobody's fucking business, so when we ran into Reese Witherspoon in an alley behind the bar; we thought she was being made to suck this guy's dick at knife point,we stepped in. RZA put a knife to the guy's throat and made him suck my dick. It turns out, though, that Reese paid some guy she woke up under the night before to have one of his friends that she wouldn't have met come up to her and put a knife to her throat while she sucked his dick. That's what she likes, apparently. Well, when me and Diggs realized that the whole thing was a bust, we knocked her flat out, took her back to the pad, and made a bong out of her. But first, we slit the guy's throat. And his asshole. And we cut a flap of skin off his back and made Reese wear it like a surgical mask. And then we cut some skin off of her back and fed it to a dog. And then we fucked the dog. And I tounge-kissed a bum. We were pretty high.

So anyway, crack being harder to find than my dick at a daycare center (that is, harder than my dick gets at a daycare center, not harder than it is to find my dick at a daycare center. finding my dick is relatively easy at a daycare center. generally, if you search the children's mouths you will find it quickly. at any rate) . . .

I'm trying to by some rock off of this little girl, but she's obviously holding out on me so I'm punching her in the back of the head and she's all crying and confused and acting like she doesn't know where I can find any crack and acting like she doesn't speak english and her dad is all freaking out and screaming at RZA and Ghostface to let him go and shit and this fucking guy comes up to me and is all like, "You! American! No beat little girl! I call police! I call police!" like he's Wyatt Earp or something, like its any of his fucking business in the first place, so snap both of their necks and retreat into the shadows.

So, Europe is pretty uneventful. Which is nice, because I need a vacation.

the lost diaries, part 2

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Wed, 02 Jul 2003 04:21:23 GMT

(again, only a small piece of the page was able to be deciphered, and most of what was written was done so in binary code. it appears to be a fragment of a song. --simon)

"i'm a little robot,
short and stout,
i want to kill you
with a hammer."

i

the lost diaries, entry 1

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Tue, 01 Jul 2003 04:34:39 GMT

(this is what we've been able to piece together so far, although i'm afraid its fragmentary. the original date on this particular entry was 3.18.02 --simon)

" . . .fucking crucify you on a moving speedboat, i don't care who your motherfucking daddy is. then the bitch pisses her pants and starts crying, and didn't stop till i cleaned her up with a sweatsock. charlie's angel my pockmarked ass.

but fuck it, i just arrived in kazikstan to get to work on the movie, and i can honestly say, for the first time since i tried to drown fred durst in the grotto at the playboy mansion, that i feel like i'm actually doing something good for a change. i mean, everybody's got to sow their wild oats here and there--knockup the occasional runaway, beat a few housekeepers about the face and neck, what have you--but, and i know this sounds cliched, but i think i'm finally outgrowing it, you know. this new . . . (page missing--ed.) . . .my asshole with its paw. not the best $400 i've ever spent, but close. i really think that something big is going to happen here, bigger than just me. it's strange, but i can feel it.

its almost . . .
holy.

in the meantime, i think i'm going to go watch bijou phillips suck off a dog.

an alarming turn of events

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Mon, 30 Jun 2003 03:01:21 GMT

this is simon, jonathons handler. it seems that after briefly resurfacing after more than a year's absense, jonathon has gone missing again. i was awoken four nights ago around 3 am to a dark figure pacing nervously back and forth around my bedroom, chain smoking cigarettes and doing line after line of cocaine off of my sleeping wife's vanity. of course, it was jon.

i quickly ushered him out of my bedroom so as not to wake my wife, who has been deathly afraid of jonathon ever since he forced her at swordpoint to perform an abortion on the family cat, which had been spayed the month before and was certainly not pregnant, with a heated up coat hanger, after which he drank three and a half liters of his own urine. he was making these absolutely ungodly noises and appeared to be crying. needless to say, i was hardly impressed. this is, as you know, nothing even remotely new.

almost as if by clockwork, jonathon pulled a pistol out of the waist band of his pants and beat me across the bridge of my nose three or four times. once again, old hat. i figured that he had probably just sold another bad batch of foxy to some studio execs he was trying to get to fund one of his little "personal projects", or that he had maybe, in a fit of jealousy, slain a hobo. nothing that a few thousand dollars that he could access from any number of offshore accounts couldn't clear up by morning. i couldn't have been more wrong.

i asked him what was wrong, but all he could do was shout incoherently. at this point, i was about to shoot him up with some thorazine and just wait till the next day to sort it all out, but then i realized he was trying get me to look in his mouth. two more of his teeth had been broken out, but more interestingly, it looked as if his tounge had been removed with a saw, or perhaps a pizza cutter. i gave him a pen and paper so he could try to write down what had happened to him, but i saw that all but one of his fingers were twisted and gnarled like the branches of an old tree. he put the pen between his remaining teeth and attempted to communicate with me. this is what the note said:

"40 million ASAP empty all acounts (sic) sell all assets meet me in--

the note ends here because at that exact moment, a hail of bullets came through my window, followed by a dozen federal agents. i took cover in a nearby closet.

i can't say how long the gun battle lasted; it could have been minutes, it could have been an hour. eventually, though, the noise came to an abrupt halt and an eery calm settled over the room. i walked out into the debris and was shocked by what i saw. each and every agent lay on the floor, riddled with bullets and multiple stab wounds to the face. there wasn't a square foot of my carpet unstained by blood, and bone fragments had actually stuck into the wall, such was the force with which they had been projected. i searched the room, then the rest of my estate, and then the acre of land that my house sits on, but no sign of jonathon could be found. one of the agent's had had his tounge ripped out, though.

this morning, as i was walking out of the police station after being questioned, a young woman who resembled an emaciated and strung out tina youthers approached me and handed me a beat up card board box. although she said nothing to me, the single tear that ran down her bruised face as she got back into the black van out of which she appeared told me, as if God was whispering in my ear, "This is a message from Jonathon". As the van sped away, the sounds of her screams faded along with the Doors tape that was blaring out of its windows.

the box appears to contain jonathon's diaries from the past year, although i can't be sure. they're written in jonathon's illegible scrawl, and in what appears to be pigeon blood, one of jonathon's personal trademarks. unfortunately, they appear to be in some sort of code--it resembles a yiddish/navajo hybrid, but that could very easily be a red herring to throw the wrong people off of his scent. jonathon is incredibly intelligent, you see, when he hasn't got enough blow in him to kill a small horse.

as the diaries are decoded, i will attempt to keep you updated as to what we know about jonathon's well-being, as well as his whereabouts for the past year, but i must also deal with the very real posibility that every time i make an entery into this journal, i may be risking my own life.

it all reminds me of something jonathon said to me once, after he had shot himself in the hand to see how it would feel:

"sometimes, when the camel tries to pass the eye of the needle, its entrails are scraped out and eaten by wolves. and sometimes, three strong men will restrain a wolf so that a small boy can tickle its asshole with a feather, and all that wolf can do is writhe and froth at the mouth and wonder why."

i don't know what the fuck he was talking about either.

i'm back, on smack, and my arms show tracks, jack

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Fri, 27 Jun 2003 06:00:34 GMT

listen up, you slackcunt mongoloids--i know i haven't written anything in a while, but you gotta understand, an artist has priorities. i've been in the former nation-state of kazikstan working on my pet project. you might call it a labor of love--an interracial gangbang video called "one bride for seven brothers". it took some finagling, but i finally talked that 16 year old bitch from "lolita" to star in it, along with Luther Campbell, Mandingo, three New York Mets, Jaleel White and Jesse Jackson, Jr.

speaking of teens, yours truly turns 13 in just a few months, and for a present, i'd love to get my copy of a certain bukkake video featuring a certain band and a certain charlie's angel, so if you're reading this, Fab, you know where i live. its the house with the H2 sitting on gold dubs floating upside down in the pool.

i was rolling the other night and i had the best idea for how i'm gonna make back some of the motherfucking money i lost to bill bennet in vegas. i'm gonna buy an old van, stock it full of chocolate and pickles, have all the seats coated in kotex and drive around picking up bitches on the rag. i'll just let them chill out for a few days till they start acting right, then take em home. its called the Taxi-Pad. i'm gonna be rich.

aight, well, i gotta go. mary-kate's on some new thing where she wants to try puking on my cock. fuck you all to hell.

p.s. it was me who shot 50 cent, y'all know that, right?

Gandhi did it, why can't you?

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Thu, 21 Mar 2002 03:21:42 GMT

So however funny it may be when you piss in someone's beer and he drinks it, it's ten times funnier when you do it THREE TIMES before he notices.

Jeremy Irons. God bless that fucking guy, man...

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Thu, 28 Feb 2002 01:02:47 GMT

Josh Hartnett, Josh Hartnett, Josh Hartnett!

Yes, you candy-assed fuckers, Josh Hartnett is a doll among the celebrity journalists. Oh, how he moistens the crotches of pubescent girls across the nation. Oh, how he makes the Olson Sluts' collective heart throb. Yes, it seems EVERYONE wants to write a bit about Josh Hartnett.

So I engaged in a little celebrity investigative journalism myself, just to dig up some news on Hollywood's favorite all-american boy. Here's what I found out.

When locked in a basement, this teen dream
-cries like a bitch
-threatens lawsuits
-tries to use his cell phone (useless - no signals or sounds escape the basement, duh)
-after long enough, will eat his own shit and mumble incessantly

Hunky Hartnett may love to be on screen, but he has no love for having his testicles connected to a car battery.

Most people don't know this, but THIS shooting star has a sewer rat currently living in his anus.

Josh once pulled out most of the hair on the left side of his head and blinded himself in his right eye when given enough psilocybin to cause neural hemhorrage.

Yes, girls! Look for this rising star to be a major force on the big screen in years to come! Josh Harnett! That fucking twat.

I'm ten fucking years old! Who thought I'd live that long?

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Fri, 16 Nov 2001 06:10:13 GMT

So my birthday was a success, so I'm told. Fucking A, like I would know.

I just came out of some sort of coma and it appears that I'm going to have to live with a piece of a big black metal dildo embedded in my skull. The doctor covered it up pretty well, but there are some problems. Namely, I piss my pants every time the doorbell rings.

Oh, and the east wing of my house burned down sometime during the party. We're still trying to figure that one out, but someone tells me Carmen Electra got completely out of her skull on reds and port and tried lighting her farts again. The bitch.

Fuck. I'm only ten, but days like this make me feel at least fourteen.

Anyone know where they'll remove a tattoo from a ten year old?

Simple pleasures

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Wed, 15 Aug 2001 03:28:18 GMT

beyond the money, the fame, the drugs, oh the fucking DRUGS! Beyond bitches fighting for a ride on jonny's jimmy, beyond loading darts with monkey hormones and shooting from a blowgun into the firm asses of the starlets plaguing hollywood's streets, I love the simple joys of life.

Money can't buy you everything. Drugs can only get you so high (except you, Downey...). Bitches are a dime a dozen. But the simple joys are priceless.

Like right now. I'm watching a six year old Colombian orphan, out of his mind on methamphetamines, psilocybin and the joy of just being a kid. He's running around in that way only a little kid can. He reminds me so much of myself. The way he laughs and plays. The way the rabbit's blood is drying in little cakes around his red little lips. The way he talks to the walls when they "talk to him." It's just so precious. I remember being a little man, back when I was just a six-year-old cash money millionaire.

I sure am gonna miss this kid when he's sold into the Thai kiddie porn ring.

jesus fuck...

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Mon, 13 Aug 2001 05:48:57 GMT

So another tip from the ten year old cash money millionaire file.

When you're letting Drew Barrymore inhale about twenty five grand worth of blow off your cock, keep the bitch away from sharp objects. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a woman's finger reattached at 4:30 am? In Havana? When she's buizzing like a gas-powered vibrator? And dressed like little bo peep? And covered in horse cum?

Jesus fuck, I mean it's not like we were on the Jerry Maguire set - back there, they were prepared for this kinda shit.

ugh

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Wed, 30 May 2001 22:59:31 GMT

when i was three, i was looking through my mother's underwear drawer and i found this enormous vibrator. i slept with it under my pillow for three weeks before using it to choke my cat to death.

fuck . . .

i saw the ghost of river phoneix . . . he says hi. they're saving a place for us in heaven, Downey . . .let's not keep them waiting . . .

onward christian soldiers.

a message of doom

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Tue, 03 Apr 2001 03:50:55 GMT

Hello, readers.
This is Simon, Jonathon's personal assitant. It troubles me to inform you that Jonathon has gone missing again since Saturday afternoon. When I arrived at his mansion, he was nowhere to be found. The only sign of life was a small Mexican boy in a dog cage in the basement, whom I freed into the wild. Needless to say, I was a bit upset.
However, I have recieved something that must be considered correspondence from young master Jonathon. This morning, a cassette tape appeared in the mail. From what I gather, it is an audio recording of Jonathon, with instructions for it to be printed in its entirety for his legions of fans to see. So, with a degree of hesitancy, I give you: Jonathon Lipnicky.

(three minutes of relative silence, punctuated by an occasional whimper. if one listens carefully, a faint gurgling sound can be heard in the background.)

Jonathon: (slurring) Yeah, you like that, don't you. You like how that feels slut? Huh, bitch? Does that feel good, huh, the barrel of a gun in your little slut pussy? Suck on it. Suck the gun. Taste your pussy all on the gun, you fucking cunt. Yeah. Oh, shit, yeah. Oh yeah, shit, oh fuck, I'm gonna cum, suck that pussy gun, you dirty whore. Oh yes, shit, oh, ah ... yeah... motherfuck . . . get the fuck out of here, cunt.

(immediately, the sound of snoring is heard. after a few seconds, the sound of a phone being dialed is heard. after eight rings, a girl's voice is heard.)

Girl: Hello . . . Ashley? . . . Yeah, its Mary Kate...Yeah, come get me. He's passed way the fuck out. I'll grab the money and the smack and meet you outside. . .it wasn't that bad . . . not like last time . . . he burned me, but not that bad . . . just a little on the back of my legs . . .he wanted me to shit in his mouth, but . . . yeah, right, like I can shit on heroin . . . anyways, I'll meet you in five minutes . . . wear the black thong. After sucking that assholes dick, I need to eat some pussy or I'm gonna puke.

state of the union address

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Sat, 31 Mar 2001 17:26:54 GMT

well.
i seem to have shit myself.

chirst.

i can't move my legs and i have feces on my thighs, back, feet, hands, and neck.

i am gonna strangle Mistress Cleo.

holy fucking shit!

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Fri, 30 Mar 2001 20:12:01 GMT

This kid is pain in the fucking ass! Pissing and shitting and screaming and yelling and just acting like a total fuckwad! "Daddy, I'm hungry!" "Daddy, I'm bored" "Daddy, why are you heating those pliers on the stove?" I swear to fuck I'm gonna dismember this kid with a goddamned shovel and send the pieces one by one to his grandmother. I knew I should have gotten a white one. I give the little dickhole one drag off my opium hookah to get him to shut his little faggotass mouth and he knocks the piece over, spilling black tar all over the couch. I had to freebase baby shampoo again because of little Sebastard. Goddamn it! Having a kid around is the most mind-numbling fuckass shitass fucking buzz kill I've ever experienced in my fucking life. I haven't been this pissed off since Justine Bateman snowballed me with Tina Yother's period blood.

I'm getting rid of this little suckass shitfuck kid. I am not fucking father material. This parenthood bullshit has been the longest 45 minutes of my fucking life. Fuck! He's got his dirty Mexican hands all over the fucking coke mirror! Motherfucker!

i am a family man now

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Fri, 30 Mar 2001 19:47:16 GMT

when you find yourself unable to look into the mirror without breaking down and weeping, when one too many mornings have found you face down in the parking lot of some Mexican grocery store, face all cut to shit with a whiskey bottle, vomit in your hair, blood and semen caked to your naked thigh, not sure if the sick red and yellow mess is your's or Dave Coulier's, when giving up and going on are both the same dead end, its time to make a change.

i am ready.

i surrender.

redeem me.

i have found what i was missing in my life, and now i can't imagine ever living without it.

jonathon lipnicky is a father. and i didn't even have to do no impregnating.

when faced with the idea of spending my few remaining years alone, i decided to adopt a child. normally, this is a time-staking process, full of paper work, background checks, and waiting lists. i found this process is utterly unnecessary.

adopting kids is easy. kids are everywhere. they practically grow on trees. every playgroud, every day care center, every shopping mall is a potential adoption agency. and in some neighborhoods, especially the hispanic ones, there's like, literally, hundreds of kids running around without anyone paying that much attention to them. i mean, shit: i've got a van, i've got candy, viola, i have a kid. he's little and says his name is ricky (more like Spicky--j/k). but since i'm his new dad, i'm calling him Sebastion. he's all mine.

i will mold him into the man i cannot be. its hard to believe, but just four years ago, i was Sebastion's age, and now i can steer him down the path of life, the path i didn't take. my boy will never have to try to find happiness forcing his dog to watch him jerk off, will never feel cold and alone when he realizes that setting homeless people on fire and taking polaroids of Gweneth Paltrow trying to piss out the flames isn't fulfilling any more, will never be faced with the shame of having his camera found in the under the toilet seat in the girls room at Chuck E. Cheese's. i look at him with his hopes and dreams, and i see myself in him, i see my hopes and dreams in him. Granted, I don't know what Mexican kids hope and dream about--burros? blue jeans? not smelling like shit? I'll just tell my friends he's tan. i'll be the best dad ever.

he'll have all the perks of being the child of a rich and famous man. I mean, how many kids do you know whose dad's have Dana Plato's bones in a box in the garage for him to play with whenever he wants?

he will teach me things about myself that i never even knew, and i will guide him into manhood. we're a family now, just like your's.

and if he doesn't stop crying about "going home" and his "mama" and yelping like a goddamned woman every time i put the curling iron on him, i'm gonna take him out back and feed his fucking ass to the pigs.

Checklist

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Thu, 29 Mar 2001 01:41:03 GMT

Okay, so I've got 16 naked, writhing porn stars, completely fucked on benzedrine and ecstasy, chained under this hitching-post type thing with dog collars. They should be ready to rock for the next 8 to twelve hours.

Griselda, my maid, had her cousins come up from Durango. Told them they could work for a month. Suckers. They're in a pen right now, loaded with monkey tranquilizers. We're going to get them going with a little PCP and play "pin the tail on the migrant worker" a little later.

Jimmy Kimmel lent me his trampoline and three of his indentured servant cheerleaders, for when we need to chill and just watch some nubile pussy on trampolines.

Robert (yes, we fucking made up. Turns out it was a misundertanding between him, his fucking faggot therapist, me, and RuPaul) is bringing the powdered goods. it's powdered milk, of course. Peruvian Blue powdered milk.

Andy (yes, andy dick, you bunch of fucking nancies) is the BEST! He commissioned a mosaiac picture of me riding - of all things - a fucking TIGER! It's made of pills, kinda like president reagan had that portrait of him made of jellybeans. We have EVERYTHING! There's pills for whatever you want to see, pills to stop seeing it, uppers, downers, creamy centerers. Fuckin A! I look good in that picture, and don't EVEN start a sigfried and roy joke, lest you get my fucking 9mm in your throat, with my cock as a chaser.

Other things: Fire-breating midgets, cripples in wheelchairs dressed as little robots for mobile drink stands, this one fucking guy who keeps lifting things with his cock ring, and a plastic ball pit (it's total whimsy, and motherfucking Jude Law better not piss in it like he did last time).

This is going to be the best surprise birthday party grandma has ever SEEN!

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Tue, 20 Mar 2001 07:22:19 GMT

The nice thing about being a child star is that you get so much play, not from other child stars (though I did just pay the Olsen twins a hefty sum to get naked and do the beaver bump) but from their MOTHERS.

Jesus, you think these dumb bitches would be busy using their kids' earnings to do things like I do. Like swimming through a room full of good coke, or firing cannons at the Baldwins, just cuz I CAN.

Like that Pepsi Girl's mom, Linda. I dunno if that's her name or not. A good rule to follow is to think of one name and call every woman that name. I chose Linda. When you're a ten year old cash money millionaire, you can get away with shit like that.

Anyway, Linda. Right. I'm not gonna share details, but she's "gotta have it," hard and from behind, from the "choice of a new generation."

So I've been selling myself as a talent scout. These soccer mom-wanna-be-hollywood-mommies will buy ANYTHING. They see ten fingers full of diamonds and 32 gold teeth, and they know I mean business. Or so they think.

Truth is, I'm only in it to get them face down on a casting couch. you think I give a fuck whether their snot nosed little angels get a movie deal? "I'll talk to my agent." Heh. Riiiight. And I'll also respect you in the morning.

But with the new business, business has been business and business is good.

I'm gonna go have a little snack off a mirror, then go take a shit on Fabio's couch.

Because I can. Because I motherfucking can.

Where I been

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Wed, 14 Feb 2001 18:46:18 GMT

Alright, you bitches keep asking where I've been. Before I tell you, I would like to mention once again that I am a CASH MONEY MILLIONAIRE, and I could have you raped and killed within the hour. So get off my dick, alright?

But FOR THE FUCKING RECORD:

Jan. 22 Leave on pleasure cruise with Dom DeLouise, Katie Holmes and Jerry Springer. We're going to Hawaii for a little maui wowie and some hula action. We're two hundred miles from LA and Springer's torch he's freebasing with sets the whole fucking boat on fire. Katie jumps ship and starts swimming. Dom, the fat fuck, drops dead from a heart attack. The boat's going down fast, so Jerry and I take Dom's already bloated corpse, blow up two inflatable dolls (both Dom's), lash em together and make a raft. After three days, we were finally picked up by a buncha japs in a shrimp boat. Fucking A. Three days of eating raw fish left the same taste in my mouth as that one time I went down on Susan Powter.

Jan 29 - Held on bond, LA county jail, juvenile ward. Let's just say that I shall NOT be appearing in a buddy-buddy baseball film with tha pedophile fuck Kelsey Grammer. I was a little hopped up when they put the treatment past me, and unfortunately, i didn't take it lightly. It took three guys, plus my agent Simon to pull me off the fucking producer (We'll call him Alan Smithee). Fortunately, it looks like we'll settle out of court with a little cash and a connection to a few dozen kilos of the good stuff.

Feb 1-6 In Ecuador. Let's just say it's hard to find a "dentist" who will give a "root canal" to a "ten year old cash money millionaire" in the united states. The "root canal" was a success, adding a full "three inches" to my "root."

Feb 6-10. For the record, Ex-presidents do NOT make good party guests. A certain recent ex-president (who shall remain nameless) came and we hooked up for a few drinks. Did you know they get secret service agents after they leave office? Fuck, I need a job like that. At any rate, the fucking bore is crying over leaving office, and keeps talking about wanting to finger fuck sharon stone again. Griselda spills his drink on the floor, and he goes apeshit, threatening to declare war on Mexico. I might also add that injecting a former chief of state with 200 cc's of tranquilizers is a bad idea, and you have to watch your ass for the next few days.

Happy fucking valentines day. Remember, nothing says "I love you" like fucking Bette Midler up the back passage.

Bad Trips and Hot Lips

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Mon, 12 Feb 2001 04:09:55 GMT

Ever been arrested for preaching to squirrels in central park while on the peak of a 4-day acid binge?

I have.

Hey, it's a life experience.

And for the record, squirrel meat stays in your teeth for days. I'm gonna need fucking industrial strenght dental floss just to move it outta there.

speaking in riddles

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Sat, 20 Jan 2001 15:00:45 GMT

Word on the street is that the goddamn feds have been monitoring this journal, so I'll keep this message short and sweet. Robert, you can stop worrying about your "Mexican hairless cat" having "kittens". Me, "Maverick", and a hot coat hanger took care of that for you. If you want to thank us, you can drop off the 42 kilos of "catnip" at my place tonight. Also, Dr. Roth, my "little Asian friend" is going to need a "face lift" of sorts after last night's little
"lovefest". It was an accident, really. Oh, and one last thing. The "car battery" that I've been using to "torture Mellisa Rivers" is getting a little "low on juice" and the "jumper cables" that I've had "attached to her nipples" are just about "fryed all the way through" so, P. Reubens, if you read this, get some new ones ASAP, if you catch my drift. Anyway, I can practically feel the motherfuckers breathing down my neck, so I'm signing off.

jonathan swift kick in the ass!

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Thu, 18 Jan 2001 06:07:36 GMT

Damn, people look at you funny when you're ten years old and you buy a 12 pack of Magnum extra large condoms.

But i've gotta get this shit moved past border patrol next week, and I'm sure as hell not going down there without a Hunter-Thompson-Special-Pack.

So last night, me and Christian (Yes, slater, you dumb fucks) are sitting there shooting beer cans off of Griselda's head with his .45. I almost busted a gut, she was standing there crying and blabbering in spanish, but Christian kept handing her hundreds and I kept handing her the fat blunt, so she stayed the fuck put. So after a while, we get bored, and griselda's pissed herself, so we leave her alone and go to dinner. Christian made reservations, and we were supposed to meet Verne Troyer and Alicia Silverstone at this one place, "THE MODEST PROPOSAL."

God DAMN! What a weeeeird place! So we walk in, and it's in like a sub sub sub basement. Right at the door are the cryogenically frozen bodies of Arthur C. Clarke, Walt Disney and the guy who played Willow. We get to our table, and it's like Benihana or some jap place like that, and they roll the barbecue over. Lo and FUCKING behold, it's a little baby on a spit, slow roasting over the flames!

So I'm about to flip my shit, and Christian hands me a horse sedative to calm my shit down. now, I'm totally cool with eating mexican, but this was beyond me. I guess it's a co-funded place run by the City of LA and a couple big wig jew producers, kept on the down-low. They don't steal these kids, they actually buy them on the street or coming over the fucking border. They pay top dollar for these kids, and have even been known to trade green cards. It's all very humane really.

But Alicia kept looking at me the whole time like she wanted to take a bite out of me. Now, I'd like to take a bite out of her, but fuck me, not THAT way. Crazy cannibal bitch!

I suppose you're wondering about the taste. My attorney recommends that i not say any more about it, but I'm definitely a fan of "the place I can't speak about." I'm looking forward to the next time Christian says "let's go eat some chinese."

Good news for bad people

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Mon, 15 Jan 2001 15:07:43 GMT

Fuckin' A, ladies and gentlemen! I just may be the happiest 10 year old cokehead in L.A.! Turns out all that shit with Robert Downey Jr. and the fire department didn't even happen at my place -- I was so fucked that I didn't realize I was in Bob Saget's attic during the whole twisted ordeal. Not just that, but I get back from Thailand, my cock just raw, and my marital troubles are taken care of. My tranvestite bride apparently was unaware that Prozac, liquid morphine, and Wild Turkey just don't mix well together, and to celebrate the freedom of my new found widower status, I had a little party. See, we had to get rid of the body, so we buried it in a pile of leaves, set it on fire, and had a bonfire, and all the old guys came out: Hopper punched out my neighbor's giant poodle, Drew Berrymore spent the night trying to get three cocks in her mouth, and Dustin Diamond shot himself in the face when Mark Paul Gossler didn't remember his name. All in all, a sucess.

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Mon, 08 Jan 2001 20:39:45 GMT

Alright, I've checked into narcotics anonymous, found Jesus and I'm getting myself off this path of destruction and abuse.

HA! Got you there, fuckers!

So it's official. Robert Downey Junior and I are no longer friends. Motherfucker comes to my door at three am with a full 8-ball, wanting Bowser to cut the shit for him. FOr some reason, he's got this little mexican baby, which he says is his dealer's. Now, if you've not been paying attention, the law has their eye on this piece of shit like a pedephile watching a catholic girls grade school. So naturally, I was a little sketchy. I make the fucker go round back, put on a hat and come in through the servants quarters.

After about 20 minutes of waiting for his fucked up ass, I get a little suspicious, so I go to check. Bad Idea. I get down there, one of the beds is on fire, and robert's dry-humping this 12-year-old vietnamese boy. I have no idea who this kid is - he's not one of mine, believe you me.

Now, I'm a little coked. Okay, a LOT coked (Come on! It's not everyday that Reese Witherspoon takes a bunch of ecstacy and shows up in only her silk bathrobe at your door!) so I run upstairs and get my fucking 9mm. Leaving reese with that one bitch I keep around just for kicks. I get back there, cock the fucking pistol, and of course, Johnny Law is making his way in, with he fire department.

So i book it out the front, somehow avoid the fucking police spotlights and spend the night hiding from Malibu's finest under a porch. I swear they throw their dogshit under there. I've got this cramp in my back from sleeping on a fucking gun, I can't get this stank off my Prada shoes and the goddamn cops have been hounding Bowser for the last thirty hours.

Fuck this. I'm going to Thailand. I need a little opium and a ten-year-old whore after this little escapade. Suffice to say, Downey is going on the persona-non-grata list. I'm putting a hit on that motherfucker. You do NOT fuck with Jonothan Lipnicki. You do NOT FUCK WITH ME!

guess what? i fucking got married! i' m going to kill myself, i swear to god.

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Wed, 03 Jan 2001 20:32:38 GMT

i'm starting to make Robert Downey Jr. look like Carry A. Nation. i woke up this morning to a six-foot tall black transvestite in my kitchen making the most foul-smelling omlette on god's green earth. He/she wouldn't leave and started to cry, so immediately, I called Simon, my agent, to see if he knew what the fuck was going on, and he says that everyone's been looking for me since Sunday night, which is when I realized that I had no idea what day it even is. I told him to hurry the fuck over. I held off the transvestite with a hot curling iron till Simon got here and shot her ass up with some thorazine so she would chill the fuck out. When she finally stopped crying, she said something about finding me at the Port Authority naked, trying to extract my two front teeth. She said she took me home and cleaned me up, we started doing lines, and well, to make a long story short, according to the great state of New Jersey, we're legally married. Naturally, there's no fucking prenup, so I can't just fucking boot the bitch to the curb. Jesus Christ. I can't believe I fucked that thing. Ugh. Simon tied her to the radiator in the basement and knocked her unconscious with a curtain rod. We need to figure out what to do quick, before she wakes up and starts screaming again. I'm so fucked.

by any means necessary

shortgirlonfire@aol.com — Sun, 31 Dec 2000 19:18:35 GMT

fuck you jews and moneylenders! i am a cash money millionaire and i'll never let you motherfuckers try to bring me down! JONATHON LIPNICKY WILL STAY ON TOP BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY! i don't care who the fuck you think you are, i kill without remorse. i know how it is. one day you're five years old, learning how to tie your shoes and eating cereal, and the next day you're a goddamn star, riding in limos, drinking cris, teenage girls wanting you to fist fuck them and do the alfabet in sign language up on their clitties. you think i'm gonna give this up for you, bitch? please. fuck y'all, i got to go call my motherfucker Andy Dick. we're gonna go to the Nickledion New Year's bash and slip G into bitches drinks so i can bust a nut on some prepubescent titties. i'm out.