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Deedleicious
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Name: Deedle
Country: United States
State: Michigan
Gender: Female
Interests: Detroit Pistons, hanging out on the ranch, where the air smells like opportunity and the chickens taste deedleicious
Expertise: Detroit Pistons, feeding the roosters, pole-dancing, eating cigarette butts, stealing underwear from my brother's drawers, unfastening difficult bras, walking backwards on my hands while giving the weather forecast in Italian (no stuttering), walking across small lakes, bringing soap to the soap operas, pretending to be a human magnet, throwing wood in a fireplace, etc...
Occupation: Engineering
Industry: Engineering
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
7/9/2004
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| Hi guys (non-gender specific), how are you feeling today?
Last weekend I found 4 quarters in my underpants. But then how I did I run the laundry? It confuses me to this day and I cope with it by blaring sappy love songs on my shortwave radio until my neighbors complain - and I live out on the pasture with a plethora of livestock.
Lesson: Sundials do not perform well in basements.
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| Hi guys (non-gender specific), how are you feeling today? The other day I went broke so I started a job at the daemon detention center.
Let me start off by complaining about the coldness of the facilities. The temperature is set to 27 degrees farenheit to equalize the thermal energy emitted by the daemons. I admittedly struggle to make my breath visible in the 27-degree weather, which typically is not that difficult even if you are 7 months old. So have yourself a laugh, but wait until I deliver the piledriver that I delivered to Pierre, the baddest-ass daemon of them all. Pierre is a hardass who thought he could tolerate my piledriver, so of course I let him out of his cage to teach a lesson and he well, uh, er, umm, hmm, eh, let's see, cut to the chase, I guess he sort of escaped. So anyways I never gave Pierre the piledriver that was coming to him - darn shame since he is probably out punishing an archipelago right now. I guess he fooled me, ruddy bastard.
So back to the rest of the daemons. As cruel and intolerant as they seem, some of these daemons possess quite a humane sense, which is all sorts of crazy. Let us explore a few select inmates.
Harriet was once a female wrestler in the women's junior-weight division. One day Harriet was losing so poorly and cheaply that she uppercutted her opponent in the chin during a Crippler Crossface submission hold. Fans booed and immediately stormed the ring, causing much turmoil and one boy got caught in the fray as an angry accountant threw him at Harriet. The boy's head exploded upon contact, and Harriet was assumed responsible. The whole scene was real ugly, cerebullum debris all over the turnbuckle. Harriet keeps herself occupied by picking fights with her inmates, who retaliate by breathing smoke up her nostrils. Harriet will probably die from lung cancer.
Now Wiggler is one of your more boring daemons. Nothing about him really strikes me, average height, average shoe size, average raunchinness in breath, average failure rate with the ladies, he sort of speaks with a lisp, but so do 36.728% of daemons. Why do I even waste font acknowledging him, you ask? Because wiggler has 2 tails and a very humane side. His tails often get into spats about political issues, they don't see eye-to-eye. His tails really get on everyone's nerves with all of their political jargon that most daemons cannot even comprehend. This pisses off Wiggler's peers as they rough him up gangster style, concluding their beatdowns with a ritualistic bukkake, a popular daemon tradition. His humane side finally kicks in when he weeps all night about why everybody hates him. Get a clue Wiggler!
Bone is an unpleasant daemon, even by a daemon's standards. Know that daemon's are equipped with very little standards to begin with. Bone was abandoned as a child; his parents could not be around Bone without risking their social status, so they ditched bone at the circus one day. The circus took advantage of Bone and shooed away the crowd after raking in revenue from ticket sales. Bone claims this single moment to be "the shit." Interpretation: Bone's life hits its peak when he helps the circus stay afloat for 2 more days. He was arrested soon after for bringing down property value and the well-being of lifeforms in the same room as him. Bone does not cover his mouth while sneezing and often forgets to make his bed. No daemon has ever made more daemons commit suicide than Bone. This is why we keep a paper bag over Bone's body. Bad form, Bone.
And then there is Damon. Oh golly, now Damon is quite the riot. He really isn't a daemon, but he disguised himself as one and started a fire during his scene in the high school musical just to earn a one-way ticket to daemon prison. I believe Damon has a daemon fetish because he basks in the presence of daemons 24/7. His favourite part is during showertime, when he gets to scald himself in 220 degree showering conditions just to join the rest of the daemons. Any excuse to "accidentally" knock hygienical product to the floor, expect Damon to take it. And expect him to stay down for the count.
Houston is probably the unluckiest daemon of them all; he must have opened an umbrella outside while walking around a ladder with a white cat waiting for him on the other side. Although Houston has yet to won a coin toss, Houston was in fact framed by OJ Simpson. You see, when OJ Simpson committed those murders he called Houston and told him to watch over the corpses at the crime scene while OJ left to pickup a stuffed-crust pizza. OJ's excuse: I am already running late as I ordered the pizza 4 days ago, surely the cheese is starting to harden. So meanwhile the police arrive and take Houston in for questioning because he is a daemon, and daemons do not have the right to remain silent under oath, so Houston kept shrieking instead until they escorted him across the country to the daemon detention center. Houston currently recites poetry because he saw Beast do it on the X-Men. He detects strong resemblances between them, but I don't know about that one. Houston isn't blue and Houston sits right-side up.
And finally, Gryffon was imprisoned for having herpes.
So there you have it, some of the inmates I keep in check. I encourage you to come visit, but please do feed the daemons; their favorite dish is curry.
Lesson: Always deliver your piledrivers overnight, expedited, first-class.
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| Hi guys (non-gender specific), how are you feeling today? I just
returned from a motorcycle trip to the Grand Canyon, which is located
in Kansas. The first day was totally wicked; we all met at my
Aunt Lottie's farm for breakfast. Now an important note is that
Aunt Lottie lives in Maine, and that a lot of the travellers are from
Kansas. Severe props to the Kansans for making it out here.
After I spanked everyone's carcass in Jr. Monopoly (no Caleb, I did NOT
steal money from the bank), we departed.
The trek proved to have its tricky obstacles; while driving through
Oregon, we got run off the road by a runaway yacht and had to drive
on the rumble strip for 8 hours. Needless to say, that felt
rather comforting to me, being a girl and all... nevermind,
nothing! Ahem!
Next, we stopped at a gas station in Georgia and Terrence had to use
the restroom. Ok, now get ready for a hilarious story: while we
were filling up/hitting on the gas station clerk, Terrence got locked
in the restroom. Apparently, the lock got jammed after he entered
the washroom. Since nobody wanted to imagine the stench he would
have acquired for being trapped in there, we all continued on without
his company. It was for the better.
An unexpected detour occurred when Raul was in the front, took the
wrong exit, and ended us up in Mexico. I remember getting off my
bike, walking over to him, and engaging him in a fireman's carry.
I took his helpless mass above me and lobbed him into a nearby scorpion
pit. After washing my hands with anti-bacterial soap, we crossed
back over into the states; however, Abbott forgot his birth certificate so
we had to tie a rope between him and the back of my motorcycle so nobody would notice
him (I distracted the border guard with my nipple rings).
Back in the states, we finally arrived in Kansas. I celebrated by
performing a wheelie; Hans tried to imitate me but he ended up falling
off the bridge, tough luck. Nobody bothered rescuing him; we
would not relent until we
arrived at our destination. Good thing Warner checked the map,
because he informed us that the Grand Canyon was not in Kansas, but in
Tennessee. Ulysses called Warner's bluff and heaved him into a
fence that he did not realize was 214 gigavolts until Warner's legs got
fried off, rendering him unable to continue. Ulysses set the
record
straight by telling us that the Grand Canyon is in Arizona.
Feeling a bit agitated, I shoved Ulysses into the fence so he could
join Warner. Turning to leave the two, I remembered that I never
untied Abbott from my motorcycle after assisting him across the
border. I never would have remembered had it not been for the
rope on the back of my bike. Feeling bad, we spent rest of the
evening mourning for Abbott. I convinced myself (and my peers)
that Abbott would have preferred to go this way, while tied to my
motorcycle.
The next morning, I rose to see all but Finley had passed away from
heat stroke. Finley was the only one who remembered to apply
suntan lotion before sleeping. Reluctantly, Finley and
I stopped to wolf down McGriddles and headed off to Arizona.
The ride was just not the same, there were only two of us, yet we
started off with a solid 23. When we arrived, Finley and I
dismounted our bike, performed a two minute tango, remounted our bike,
and turned around to drive home, when Finley surprised me with a
gift. The gift turned out to be a ring, he was actually
proposing to me! I responded, "Sweetie, if you want me to say
yes, you are going to have to leap the Grand Canyon." Finley
agreed to this deal almost as if he expected to do this (Finley has
made a living leaping across garbage trucks, roadkill, and rivers). Finley
conjured up a ramp, cleared a runway path, and meditated before revving
up. After singing the national anthem, Finley was finally
ready. I stood by his side beating on a cowbell, providing
unnecessary inspiration. Before you knew it, Finley was off. Down the
path he tore, and up the ramp he flew, next thing you knew he was
airborne. Higher and higher he would climb; the troposphere, then
the stratosphere, then the mesosphere. After 10 minutes he
disappeared off my radar, and I just couldn't see him anymore.
Sickened, I called for a taxi and got a ride home.
A week later, NPR revealed that Finley took off with such
tremendous speed that he was able to maintain escape velocity and
escape Earth's gravitational pull. They are currently launching
monkeys into orbit so they can grab Finley and pull him back into Earth.
Lesson: When logged in at a public computer, do not ask their web browsers to remember your password next time you log in.
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| Hi guys (non-gender specific), how are you feeling today? This
morning, I rose earlier than usual so I could watch the movie "Dances
with Wolves." The canines that appeared on my television screen inspired me to learn how to dance with
wolves. It is a lot easier than your peers might suggest.
Ahead are my observations:
1) You need to begin by learning the moonwalk and moonwalking down to the gas station and
purchasing some beef jerky. Slim Jim is strongly recommended.
Optional: pawn a kerosene lantern off the clerk (see step 4).
2) Skip on over to radioshack and commence shoplifting one of them
boomboxes. I was able to slip mine underneath the main entrance.
3) Approach the woods.
4) (optional) Wait until midnight, then activate your lantern.
5) Proceed into the bowels of the woods, treading about as though your
feet were made of
overpriced velvet. Once you reach the 3rd clearing, set down your
boombox
and provide it with a bit of juice. If you can receive a station
that plays hip-hop country, then tune the frequency to that station.
6) We are nearly there, rub chocolate all over your body, this includes
the unmentionables. This is essential to keeping the wolves' fangs away
from your bacon. Leave not an inch of skin uncovered; cleavage violates thus offends the code of the wolf.
7) Wolves should start appearing from all directions. Remember
the beef jerky you fetched back at the gas station? Well unwrap
it now and hold it out with your arm fully extended. The arm must
be fully extended, I cannot emphasize this enough. If only you
knew how many amateurs pelted me with hate mail, whining about how they had to
type me their message with one hand. Hey haters, tsk tsk.
8) One of the wolves will have balls and approach your fully extended
arm (get ready to kick it if it bites off more than your wrist),
sniffing away with its curious nose.
9) (optional) If you find yourself in the situation where you have to
kick the wolf, aim for its gums,
for that is the weakest point in the wolves' anatomy (despite popular
belief, it ain't the testes). If you have a lantern, ignite some
wolves in an attempt to frighten the rest. If they remain
unfazed, then uh-oh. Prepare to run very fast, until you
arrive at the gas station, where the wolves will change their target to
the meat rack. Let them have it, and quickly shut the door behind
you. If the gas station clerk is still inside, do not let your
emotions cloud your judgement; leave him/her inside, for your bacon is
more important anyways (unless your name is Xanadu, at which point you
do open the door). Going back in time, if the wolf doesn't bite
you beyond the wrist while still in the woods, then ignore me as if I
were your grandparent sharing my bedroom adventures.
10) Become one with the boombox and majestically perch it on of your
right
shoulder. Only through smooth head-bopping will the wolves then
understand what you have been trying to convey. They'll realize
that you just came to dance, not hunt for big game.
Congratulations, you have won their hearts over. Observe their
exotic
dance moves, I personally prefer their
corkscrew-into-bicycle-kick. If the woods is non-hostile, they
could very well break out the C-Walk. But if you are in the
California woods (specifically LA), do not expect yourself to witness
this. I've danced with wolves who are involved with both the
crips and the bloods, and those dances did not fare too well. I
did escape unscathed but one of their gang leaders, Wolfgang, has
placed a death sentence on my bacon. I'll be keeping away from
California for a while, unless a surfer boy happens to lure me back in.
11) (optional) Now some of the younger ones may lose control of their
emotions and start licking you, do not act alarmed, for this is
natural. Let them lick you, the chocolate that covers you will
teach them a thing or two about licking strangers. If they
persist, perform the box step to keep them at bay.
12) Thank the chief wolf for inviting you over (do not mention that you
invited yourself, wolves have terrible short-term memories - they even
forget their godmothers' names), and be sure to leave them your cell phone
number so you can stay informed with their latest debauchery.
13) Unlucky step, just don't get ambushed by an airborne piano (we're
talking grand piano, like Steinway and Sons). Please proceed to
step 14 ASAP.
14) That is all, you have successfully danced with wolves. I
think that more people need to appreciate this interaction with
nature's offerings. I hope your experience was as fun as mine,
though I highly doubt it; my pack of wolves ended up buying a slip n'
slide and totally wiped out while slam-dancing on it. If you got eaten alive tonight, then
you must've missed a step or two or three or four or five or six. If an airborne piano (we're
talking grand piano, like Steinway and Sons) attacks you while inside
the digestive chambers of the wolf, then you must have read step 13 on Friday. Way to screw over the poor starving wolf.
15) (Only for the faint) If you are ready for another round, return to step 1.
Lesson: Impatience fosters arrogance, which results in an airborne
piano (we're talking grand piano, like Steinway and Sons) sent in your
direction. Get ready to duck in 3.141592654 seconds.
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| Hi guys (non-gender specific), how are you feeling today? As I
watered the weeds in my rose garden, I thought about my status in the
local choir. Every Tuesday morning at 3am, we have rehearsal
at the inner-city church (this is the only time that fits into everybody's schedule).
During rehearsal, there is this one girl, named Xanadu, who constantly
gets on my nerves. She tries to run the choir, when that is
Cindi's job. Anytime Cindi carries out a suggestion, you can
count on Xanadu to overrule any of her decisions.
One day we were singing Gloria, and Xanadu proceeded to sing in the
wrong key. I politely pointed out, "Xanadu, you sound so sharp
that I think you have pierced my eardrums." Xanadu pretended that
she didn't hear my polite critique, and continued to sing
off-pitch. Next, Cindi the director yelled out, "Xanadu, you
stink worse than my husband's armpits, please leave now!" At that point,
Xanadu began singing an entirely different song, and was exercising
crude body language, which involved her body mounting Thaddeus'.
No longer able to tolerate her inappropriate display of behavior, I
made an attempt to yank her off of poor Thaddeus. Big
mistake. Xanadu turned towards me and started hissing
profusely. And then I saw what I have never seen in a human being
before, a forked tongue.
Xanadu was relentless, she continued gyrating her hips over poor
Thaddeus to the point where Thaddeus could no longer handle it, and
fainted. Xanadu finally dismounted Thaddeus, and began leaping
around the room. This was pure madness, and she was still singing
the wrong darn song! She leapt into the stand that held the music
stands, and stands went flying every which way. She kept bending
them by beating them over her head and scratching them with her tough,
pointy teeth. I think she even etched out a message in
hieroglyphics, because I simply could not comprehend the advanced
calligraphy. Her next target was the music library, she crawled
into the library and locked herself in, eating all of Bach's concerti,
and tearing Handel's Messiah to shreds. We were too frightened to
move a muscle, but eventually Peter regained his courage and quietly
notified the fire station, carefully making sure Xanadu wouldn't
witness
this exchange.
Hours afterward, a gaggle of firemen forced their way into the church,
kicking down the
front door, which must have required the strength of a wooly mammoth on
steroids,
or my 30-inch pythons. They bashed down the library door and
blasted her with their firehoses, pinning her against the wall.
I couldn't help but notice Peter staring at Xanadu's wet t-shirt and
promptly slapped him. Her body wouldn't give up: it kept on
twitching until she finally sank
to the floor, defeated. As the chief fireman went over to examine
her, she suddenly snapped her head up and began gargling water from
the fire hose and ultimately spewed it into the chief fireman's eyes,
burning his retinas and
permanently blinding him. Since the chief
knew braille, he felt his way towards the men's restroom so he could
rinse his eyes out. As for Xanadu, she ended up jumping through
the ceiling and escaped through the rafters. Fortunately, Federal
Bureau of Investigation agents were waiting outside the church
in their ferraris and spotted her bounding down the dirt road. I
couldn't resist the urge to tag along, so I climbed into the trunk,
demonstrating my inherited shogun stealth. They began to chase
after her, alerting the local news station so they could circulate an
alert to the local community. Whenever the agents came within
striking distance, Xanadu would shed her nails onto the road, which
deflated their
tires. But the agents were unrelenting in catching her, pulling
up to the pit stop so they could change their tires.
It was only a matter of time when CNN would catch wind of the
situation, agreeing to document the hot pursuit. The chase went
all morning into the afternoon, and then into the
evening. The agents couldn't afford to miss dinner so they
stopped at
TGIFs, got the waitress' number, and refilled their gas.
Fast-forward 50 minutes, they were
back on the Xanadu's trail, chasing her all the way to the
coastline. When they
arrived at the coast, I made the decision to reveal myself, so I popped
out of the hatch, surprising viewers nationwide with my knowledge of
the
shogun. This proved pivotal, as Xanadu saw me raise the last page
of the Messiah. As she beared her pearly whites, I taunted her,
"you wanna treat doggie? Let's dance." and blew my nose with the last page of the
Messiah. A showdown was inevitable, I ordered the FBI
agents to turn tail and run while they still could. Concerned for their well-being, they indeed pulled a 180 and fled the
premises; however, I ordered the cameramen to remain situated in the
bunkers. The choir bus was not too far behind, as I requested
their presence so they could provide essential background music for our duel.
After the bus arrived and CNN paid the bills, the stage was finally set. I cued Cindi
to conduct Carmina Burana, by Carl Orff. Jeremy was able to
recover and also made the trip, getting his sweet revenge on Xanadu by
singing all of the solos.
I shed my choir robe only to reveal a silk sash, which glimmered in
front of the cameras. The paparazzi went crazy and unleashed a
fury of flashes. Xanadu jealously scurried over to the camaras,
and started posing, flexing her forked tongue and performing her
trademark hip gyrations. The cameras ceased almost immediately,
and I quickly
wrapped Xanadu up in a headlock. Down went Xanadu. Up went
the
cameras. The duel was finally over, and viewers at
the sports bar exhaled in a unified manner. Following the
infamous battle, I was presented with a championship belt signed by
Iron Mike Tyson and accepted the Nobel Peace Prize for the year.
As for Xanadu, her gyrating hips were no more...
Lesson: When ordering a soft drink, proceed with caution when asking for
ice. If they dump in excessive amounts of ice, no volume
will remain for the actual beverage. I prefer asking for "light
ice." 'Tis merely preference, of course.
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