The Real Vampire Diaries

November 6, 2011

Got bit by a vampire. This sucks.

November 9, 2011

Wondering when I’ll start craving blood. Think I’ll hit up Pinkberry.

November 11, 2011

Remember what I said about that blood thing? It’s finally started happening. The problem is, I always faint at the sight of blood. How fucked up is this?

November 13, 2011

Almost killed a cat. Too gross. Need blood. Might try breaking into a blood bank.

November 14, 2011

This sleeping-in-the-day-and-coming-out-at-night thing has really fucked my system. Been constipated for days. Thought about going to the doctor, but what am I supposed to say,I got bit by a vampire and I’m constipated? Where is someone with a wooden stake when you need them?

December 2, 2011

Hey, sorry I haven’t written in a while. I tried fasting to get rid of the vampire blood in me. Didn’t work. Just made me crave blood even more. Ended up killing a cat. Wasn’t worth it. Threw up right in the middle of it. Sorry, Buttons.

December 4, 2011

Ordered a steak “blue rare.” Wasn’t bloody enough. Ended up killing the chef. His blood tasted a little off. Gave me heartburn.

December 12, 2011

Well, a lot has happened. I met a great girl. Went for a moonlight stroll on the beach. She added me to her Facebook. Then I killed her. I loved her. Delicious. Wish I could find more like her.

December 25, 2011

Was feeling depressed, being Christmas night and all. I was just lying there in my open coffin, reading my Kindle, when I heard the faint sound of carollers. I sat up, and went to the door. There they were, walking towards my home in that caroller way. The music was getting louder. Suddenly, I kind of felt like the Grinch and my heart grew 10 sizes that day. I opened the door and they smiled, singing at me. It brought a tear to my eye. I invited them all in for a warm cup of eggnog—and then killed them all. Stupid carollers. I didn’t have any fucking eggnog.

February, 8, 2012

Hey, sorry I haven’t written in a while. I’m a fucking vampire. Give me a break. I’m a little on edge. I haven’t had any decent blood in weeks. Didn’t realise it but different blood types have different tastes. In vampire circles—yes, there are vampire circles—the O-negative blood is most sought after. You can buy it on the internet, if you know where to go, but it isn’t cheap, and you have no idea what you’re getting. It’s not like there’s any fucking government regulations on blood sales. Tried to kill and drink the blood of a shyster vampire who sold me some bogus blood. That was not a good idea. Oh, don’t get me wrong, the blood was great. But it didn’t kill him and it only made me want blood twice as much. Also, kind of pissed off most of the vampire community.

February 14, 2012

OK, really hating life now. Tried to commit suicide by running outside in the daytime. Felt my skin burning. Hurt like hell. That was it. No steam coming off of my body. No dropping to my knees. It just felt like someone turned the sun up to 11. Went back inside. Now I’m embarrassed to go out at night. My skin is bright red. The other vamps will probably make fun of me.

February 19, 2012

Remember what I said about the other vamps? They now call me “Red.” I thought my extreme sunburn would go away in a few days. It hasn’t. What really pisses me off is when another vamp comes up to me and slaps me on the back. That fucking hurts. Currently devising a self-staking machine. Tried running into a wooden stake I nailed to a wall. Turns out, wood isn’t that sharp. Fucking hurt, but did’t even pierce my skin. Splinters don’t count, apparently, because there were a lot of them. Ouch.

February 28, 2012

Well, turns out you need a fucking engineering degree to build a contraption that drives a stake through your heart. It’s not something you can just call a handyman for. I attempted to build an iron maiden out of wood, but ran into trouble with getting the cover to close on me. I tried getting in and rocking the Wooden Maiden™ back and forth, in an attempt to get it to fall forward, forcing the cover closed underneath me. It fell forward, all right, but with the door open. Ended up breaking my nose and losing a tooth. Unfortunately, the tooth I lost was one of my fangs.

Come to think of it, who’s to say that this stake-through-the-heart thing works? I mean, the turning-to-ash-in-sunlight was bullshit. Maybe I’ve been wasting my time. Might consider just trying to blow myself up.

March 31, 2012

OK, the blowing-myself-up idea turned out to be a bad one. The leader of the vampire circle heard about my plans and had me taken in for observation. He considered me to be a danger to myself. Are you serious? I’m a fucking immortal vampire! Why didn’t Anne Rice write about this shit? Fuck me.

April 15, 2012

Well, I’m out of the vampire mental ward, but my thoughts of taking my own life haven’t changed. I’ve just been careful to keep them to myself. I’m too much of a pussy to buy explosives and strap them to my body, so my big plan is to find out where they’re going to demolish a building, pose as one of the safety crew and just hang out in there and wait for the big bang. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know I succeeded.

June 9, 2012

You have got to fucking be kidding me. Can’t a guy blow himself up in peace? I did everything I said I was gonna do. I found a demolition crew in Las Vegas, killed one of the workers, put on his clothes and went into the building to check it out. Once I knew everyone was out of the building, I sat down on the floor and waited for the boom. And what a boom it was. Holy shit. There was fire everywhere and things falling on top of me. Then everything went black. Two hours later, I woke up, rose out of the rubble, dusted myself off and limped away, hair singed and ears ringing.

June 19, 2012

Well, I found out why all the vamps have been making fun of me so much. It wasn’t the fact that my skin was red, it was because I’ve been wearing a white shirt, red sash and a medallion. I thought that was what we were supposed to wear, mostly because that’s what the vamps told me to wear. Incidentally, they’ve also been making fun of me because I’ve been referring to them as “vamps.” Thinking about moving to another state, but thanks to the internet, it really doesn’t matter where I move. Word will get out and it will be the same story. I just ate a rat, by the way.

August 8, 2012

I met this hot vampire chick at the last meeting and we really hit it off. We liked the same authors, same blood and we watched the same TV shows. Anyhow, she might  be my way back into the vampire community. We’ll see.

September 2, 2012

I came over to my girlfriend’s place with a bottle of AB-negative and two wine glasses. I turned on the TV.  She came out with two glasses brimming with blood. We clinked glasses and I took a deep gulp of the blood. Suddenly, my throat was burning. I gasped for air. That’s when I started to hear the laughter.

As my eyes began to water and I fell on floor, the entire vampire community came out to look down at me and laugh. They had spiked my blood with super-hot sauce, the kind that comes with a warning label. They made me beg for a glass of milk, which I had to lick out of bowl like a cat. The leader of the community pet my head with his cold hand to further humiliate me. It took every ounce of strength I had to not turn around and rip his throat out. To make matters worse, the milk was non-fat. Bleh.

October 19, 2012

Found a group that claims vampirism is just an extreme form of addiction, much like you would get addicted to alcohol or reality TV. They say they have a program that can help me kick the habit, but they warn me that the DTs for blood addiction can be extremely severe. At this point, I’m willing to try anything. Oh, did I tell you that the vampire community has started calling me “Fang,” on the account that I only have one fang. They are ruthless.

October 25, 2012

entered blud detox few days go. horrible. feel pain in lpaces i never have b4. been like this for a wile. want to di. wish was ded. just thru up what look like tiny demon baby. wtf is happeing? fukc! if sombody walkt in i wood prbly kil thm, even fi it was my own famly!

October 28, 2012

Well, that was bullshit. Turns out, the blood-detox program was a big scam. It was actually a front for an underground vampire-videos ring. They were filming me in agony the entire time. They strapped me down to a bed and watched me suffer. Then, when I couldn’t take it anymore, some guy came in wearing a suit of armor and made me beg for a drop of blood. Right now, there are a bunch of perverts watching me flipping out and getting off on it. What kind of sickos are into this shit? Incidentally, I went back and murdered everyone at the detox center. It had to be done.

October 31, 2012

Fuck Halloween.

November 6, 2012

It’s been a year since I started writing in my diary. So, I think it’s a good time to stop. I thought this would actually make me feel better, but it’s hasn’t. I can only imagine what might happen if someone managed to find this and post it on the internet. I’ll be sure to put it in a safe place.


Smivey Confessional #6

I turn on my voice recorder and walk into a popular European cafe. They have one of those long communal tables in the centre of the room. While the table is basically empty, I deliberately sit across from a guy eating an overpriced sandwich. He has several facial piercings, including one through his ear. I smile at him. He tries to ignore me, but he’s visibly uncomfortable with the situation.

SMIVEY: “Hey.”

He doesn’t say a word. Maybe he thinks I’m speaking to someone else at the table—only there is no one else at the table. I raise my voice a tad:

SMIVEY: “Hey!”

He looks up at me slowly, his brow furrowed.

SMIVEY: “I eat gelatine.”

GUY: “Uh huh.”

He goes back to eating his sandwich.

SMIVEY: “Well, the thing is, I’m supposed to be a vegetarian.”

He ignores me, eating a little faster.

SMIVEY: “You do know what gelatine is, right?”

He looks up at me and stops, mid-chew.

SMIVEY: “It’s boiled bones. I mean, well, it’s that film that builds up on top of the water when you boil bones. They make fucking Jell-O with that shit. Can you believe it?”

He looks down and continues to eat, not saying a word.

SMIVEY: “It’s in all kinds of stuff, you know? Marshmallows, Skittles, Starbursts, even some yoghurt.”

GUY: “Hey. Buddy. Enough with the gelatine, OK? Did you even order anything?”

SMIVEY: “For the most part, I do try to avoid it. I won’t eat marshmallows or Skittles, but I can’t give up my Starburst fruit chews.”

The guy gets up and walks over to me, resting his hand roughly on my shoulder.

GUY: “Look, as far as I can tell, you’ve got some kind of mental deficiency, so I’m gonna try to be nice about this. I haven’t had a good day. I’m trying to enjoy my fuckin’ sandwich in peace. Now, unless you want to sit here quietly, I suggest you move over to one of the other 15 fucking tables currently empty. Got it?”

SMIVEY: “To be honest, I do sometimes eat fish, so I’m not really a vegetarian, I suppo—

That’s about all I could get out before the guy slammed my face into the beautiful reclaimed-wood table (unfinished, for a more rustic look!). I’m told he managed to slam my head against that table about three times before he could be restrained. I blacked out after the second time.

When I regained consciousness, I found myself in the back of the restaurant with paramedics surrounding me. The manager was so apologetic for my bad experience, he gave me a coupon for a free meal and even a bag of their famous brownies to take to the hospital. Of course, I couldn’t eat them. And it wasn’t just because I had most of my teeth knocked out. No, these particular brownies were Rocky Road, which means they had nuts in them… and marshmallows—motherfucking gelatine strikes again.

How To Get A Lot of Retweets and Likes

While so many people try unsuccessfully to get their followers to retweet and “like” their posts, I’ve discovered a surefire method to guarantee success. Just follow these simple steps and you’ll be a social-media sensation.

Step 1: Become famous. Are you currently famous? Great, you can move on to Step 2. If you’re not famous yet, get famous before moving on. Are you a musician? Then get really good at playing music. Are you kind of attractive? Become amazing looking, or get involved with a political figure. Honestly, you don’t have to be even mildly attractive if you get involved with a political figure or another celebrity. Throw in a sex tape with said political figure and you’re golden. So, do that, then move on to Step 2.

Step 2: Type anything. It can be a simple phrase like “I like figs,” a random word like “butter,” or just hit any key on the keyboard, like this: o That lowercase O is guaranteed at least 200 retweets, and all in a matter of seconds. People will think you’re a genius. Remember, if you’re not famous, don’t try this. It won’t work and you’ll probably lose followers.

Step 3: Take a picture of anything: a coffee cup, the feces that just came out of your dog. It doesn’t matter. You can even take a picture of someone else’s picture. Once you’re done, post that on Instagram, Facebook, even Google+, just for a laugh. Trust me, that shit is gonna blow up.

That’s it. Three simple steps to social-media stardom: Be famous, type anything, take a picture of anything. So easy, and results are guaranteed. You’re welcome.

Incidentally, no one will probably ever read this.


I’m not one to get involved with charities and activist groups. But there are some things that I simply can’t ignore. I’m referring to a particular brand of soap that’s been a household name for like hundreds of years—Ivory Soap.

Sure, there’s nothing like it when it comes to giving my skin that youthful glow. But no matter how great it makes me look and feel, it’s not worth the senseless slaughter of thousands of elephants. I mean, what sick individual came up with this idea? How can you feel clean after lathering up with something so horrific? Ivory Soap, 99% percent pure? More like 99% evil. Ivory Soap sucks.

Update: The fine folks at Procter & Gamble contacted me to clarify some things. Apparently, while the soap is indeed called “Ivory Soap,” it contains no actual ivory. So, I guess the elephants are safe. Never mind. I feel like 99% idiot.


Proper Mosquito Elimination

I suppose you’re all wondering why my home was suddenly hit with a horrific mosquito infestation. And you’ll have to continue to wonder, ’cause I ain’t gonna tell ya. What I will do is share with you my incredible tips for getting rid of mosquitos and other flying insects—once and for all.

You will need the following:

  • 18 1.5 litre plastic bottles of cheap soda (or really bad iced tea)
  • 1 butt load of sugar
  • 18 packets of baker’s yeast (I make my own)
  • 1 badass utility knife
  • 2-3 rolls of duct tape or duck tape, if you don’t mind what they do to those poor little ducks to make it
  • 18 sheets of black construction paper—sans glitter
  • 1 small 1/72-scale diorama of a medieval village
  • 1 teeny-tiny saw
  • 4 very small sticks

STEP 1: Drink all the soda—or shitty iced tea— and then rinse out the bottles with hot water and very cold soap.

STEP 2: Pee for, like, an hour or so, since you just drank over 18 litres of liquid.

STEP 3; Use your badass utility knife to cut off the top of all 18 bottles, using the top edge of the label as a guide. Whatever you do, do not throw away those tops. Did you throw them away? You did? What did I just tell you 10 seconds ago? That’s right. Don’t throw away the tops! Now, go dig those things out of the trash and pay more attention!

STEP 4: Get out one of those big spaghetti pots that no one really uses for spaghetti and fill it up with water. Put it on the burner and bring the pot to a boil. Why do people say “bring the pot to a boil”? If you brought the actual pot to a boil, it would have to be hot enough to turn into a liquid, and I don’t think any stove can achieve that kind of temperature. For the record, I meant bring the water to a boil, which is much easier to do. Also, feel free to watch the pot as it boils, because it will boil, whether you watch it or not.

STEP 5: After your pot of water has come to a boil, pour in your butt load of sugar. Not a box. Not a case. A butt load. When you put in some sugar and you think it’s too much, put in more. That’s a butt load. Once you’ve got a bunch of sugar in there, stir that shit up with a gigantic wooden spoon. If you don’t have a giant wooden spoon, visit any elderly woman and you’ll probably find one displayed on her kitchen wall as decor. Once you’re done stirring, you’ll have what they call a simple syrup. It smells delicious, but don’t taste it. You’ll end up drinking the whole thing and then you’ll have to go back to Step 4.

STEP 6: Assuming you haven’t made yourself sick from drinking all that simple syrup, let the syrup cool for a while then pour it into the bottom halves of the cut soda bottles, up to about the half-way mark. If you have any left over, you can drink it. Next, drop  a packet of yeast into each bottle. I find it helps if you remove the yeast from the packet before dropping it into the syrup, but to each their own.

STEP 7: Now comes the hard part. Remember those tops of the bottles I told you not to throw away? Get those. Place one of the tops—inverted—on top of the bottle, so it’s like a funnel, then tape it securely to the bottle. Do this 17 more times. That’s one time for each of the other bottles, in case you’re an idiot.

STEP 8: Next, you’re gonna want to wrap that black construction paper around the bottle and tape it down. Boom, you’ve got a motherfuckin’ mosquito trap. Repeat this step 17 more times with the other bottles, then place these badass traps all around your home. Outside. Inside. Wherever you want.

STEP 9: And now you wait. After a few days, you won’t see as many mosquitos. That’s because most of the little fuckers are drowning in that delicious simple syrup you made for them.

STEP 10: Dig out a couple mosquitos from one of the traps and leave them out to dry.

STEP 11: After a day, your mosquitos should be sufficiently dried out and you can proceed to use the tiny saw to saw their little mosquito heads off. What? No, I’m not crazy. You want to get rid of these damn mosquitos, don’t you? Then saw those heads off and sheddap!

STEP 12: Wow, you really sawed those mosquitos’ heads off? Do you do anything anyone tells you to do? Ha! No, I’m just kidding. You’re gonna need those heads. I guess I should have told you that earlier. So, if you threw the heads away, go ahead and fish another two mosquitos out of the sludge and dry them out, saw their heads off, etc. Ready? OK, get out that diorama of a medieval town. Is it 1/72 scale? Great. Place it on a tabletop somewhere and get ready for Step 13. Here it comes…

STEP 13: Take one of those tiny sticks and very carefully place a mosquito head on it, then carefully place the sticks in the centre of your medieval town. If you purchased the town at the right scale, the heads should be the perfect size to create the effect you want. If your diorama is at a larger scale, your mosquito heads on stakes will look ridiculous. Be sure to replace the heads every week, or whenever they blow away, which they tend to do.

And that’s it. Once the remaining mosquitos see what happened to their fallen brethren, they’ll pass the word along to the others, and you’ll never be bothered by mosquitos—or any other flying insect—again. You’re welcome.



How To Make An Edible Flower-Pot Cake

For this project, you’re gonna need one of those clay flower pots. Clean it out really well, since no one ever expected you to do something stupid like put food inside it.

You’ll notice a hole in the bottom of your pot. That’s to let the water drain out when you overwater your plant, which you tend to always do. However, that little hole is a big problem when it comes to flower-pot cakes. You’re gonna need to plug that thing up. I recommend a thick layer of peanut butter, or maybe some fondant.

Once you’ve got your hole plugged up, you can start filling your pot with cake. I don’t like to fuck around with batters and crap like that, so I just buy a poundcake at the market and jam it in there.

Fill the rest of your pot to the rim with leftover coffee grinds and then stick one of those expensive edible flowers on the top.

Boom. You’re done. Just don’t eat that shit. It’s disgusting.

Remember, I never said it would taste good. I only said it would be edible.


How I Became A Millionaire At Age 12

Hello, dear readers. Remember me? I haven’t had much to write about for a while, so I haven’t written anything. Anyhow, I just read this fascinating story about a boy who started off poor and managed to become a millionaire at age 14.

Coincidentally, I started off my business in a similar way. I collected large rocks and painted popular Star Wars characters on them. I called these works of art “Star Wars Paperweights” and priced them at $7 a piece. Before too long, I had managed to sell the nine rocks I had made and received orders for 20 more. I quickly painted up another batch of rocks and increased the price to $10. The rocks sold out within days and I started getting orders from as far away as New York (that’s really far from here). Unfortunately, I also got a call from a lawyer who said George Lucas was pissed and unless I pulverised any existing Star Wars Paperweights and mailed the resulting dust to George Lucas, they would sue my ass.

Now, keep in mind, at the time, I was only 12 and had no idea what “suing my ass” meant. So I ignored their warnings and kept on making those paperweights. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for George Lucas to come knocking at my door. At least I think it was George Lucas. He was wearing a disguise: a big, black mustache and a sombrero. He called himself Jorge, pronounced WHORE-HEY, and used a very racist accent. Anyhow, Jorge asked if he could come inside and, being the stupid 12-year-old that I was, I gladly invited him in.

Once Jorge stepped inside, I asked him if he wanted a drink or maybe a snack. Continuing with his racist stereotype, he requested something called horchata and some refried beans. As Jorge chowed down on a can of refried bean, sans horchata, he asked me if I had any hobbies. I told him that I like to collect dead flies and glue them into Civil War dioramas, but he didn’t seem too interested in that. I also shared with him how my alchemy experiments destroyed 17 bathtubs. Again, he didn’t give a shit. He was also disinterested in my collections of rare paperclips, false teeth and plastic sushi I had stolen from various Japanese restaurants. But when I happened to mention my Star Wars Paperweights, Jorge’s eyes lit up.

I brought him up to my room (stupid kid) to show him my latest works: a stone depicting Boba Fett riding a Tauntaun and a smaller rock with a Jawa face on it. Jorge picked up the Boba Fett stone and admired its craftsmanship. Then, without warning, he brought that stone down on my hand, shattering almost every bone I had in there. And just to ensure he did, he bashed my hand in ten more times. As I held my basically boneless hand, Jorge punched me in my 12-year-old stomach, then kicked me in the face while I was down and dumped his remaining refried beans on my head. “You want to fuck with George Lucas, motherfucker?” he said, his accent strangely disappearing. Before I could reply, he continued, “This is just a warning. Next time, I’m not gonna be so nice.” Jorge then took the Boba Fett stone and the Jawa rock and left me on my bedroom floor, gasping for air.

After a severe beating like that, you’d assume I’d give up on my dream—if you were an idiot. I mean, did you not read the title to this blog entry? I became a millionaire at age 12. You think I’d lie about something like that?

In any case, having the bones in my hand pulverised into dust never deterred me. Sure, it slowed me down a bit—OK, a lot—but, still, I persevered. I purchased the hand of a lunatic for $50 and had it attached in Chinatown for $30, plus tip. Though slightly off-colour from my original skin tone, the hand functioned well. About the only noticeable side effect was that my thumb would often twitch violently for hours on end. And sometimes I would involuntarily give people the finger and tell them to fuck off.

With my new hand and a new lease on life, I decided it was time to get back into business. Of course, Jorge made it clear that continuing with my Star Wars line of paperweights would not be a wise choice, but making stuff out of rocks was the only thing I knew. Besides, if Jorge should return to crush my new hand, at least I wouldn’t feel it, as I could not afford to have any of the nerve endings reattached.

And so, one night, as I was strolling through the town in my top hat and tails, because I was a very strange child, I spotted one of the most amazing rocks I had ever seen. At that very moment, I was struck with inspiration. I tossed the rock through the window of the local jewellery shop. Then, covering my face with my new hand, I used another rock to break into the display cases and got away with about $50,000 worth of gold and diamonds. I sold the jewellery on the black market for half of its worth, then used the money to purchase one of the most amazing rocks I had ever seen.

Now, you might think that $50,000 was a lot to spend on one rock, but that would prove how you’re not really paying attention. I said I got away with about $50k in jewellery. But I sold it for half of its worth. That means I only had $25,000 to spend. Now don’t you feel stupid?

Anyhow, so I took that perfect rock and I carefully sanded it down to get rid of all the shininess, then applied a thick black coat of paint. This would be the base of what would turn out to be the most significant work of my career.

I then had my parents drive me and my masterpiece to Marin County, California, where my artwork found its rightful home, right in the middle of George Lucas’s personal study. I placed it there myself by throwing the $25k-rock through one of George’s windows in the middle of the night.

As the alarms sounded and the security lights turned night into day, I sprinted away, literally blinded by the light. But my escape was cut short by a small hole in George’s yard, just large enough for my foot to slip into, which immediately snapped every bone in my ankle, tearing my foot clean off.

I sued George Lucas for $4 million, but settled out of court for $1 million. I used all but about $35,000 of the settlement to pay for lawyer fees, medical expenses and the cost of a bitchin’ new bionic foot. Unfortunately, I could never afford to pay for a more adult sized foot after I had grown up.

And that, dear friends, is how I became a millionaire at age 12. Oh, and in case you’re wondering what I painted on that $25K rock I threw through George Lucas’s window that fateful night, it simply said “You Suck” in red letters, with a crudely painted Darth Vader on it, giving him the finger.

The Art of Sensual Gum Massage

While many may associate sensual massage with the arms, legs, thighs, buttocks and boobies, there is an often overlooked area of the human body that is bursting with erogenous zones. I am speaking, of course, of the gums. Now to some of you who didn’t read the title of this blog entry, this may come as a surprise. And all I have to say to those people is, read the fucking title!

Sorry. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Work has been overwhelming and, well, frankly, I just haven’t been myself. I changed my name to Sasha about six months ago and I started speaking with an obscure accent. Every day, I bring my lunch to the office and I make sure it’s something that looks weird and smells foul. I haven’t shaved—anywhere—since I changed my name. I’m not really sure why I did this, or why my employer still continues to employ me, but it’s really not important. You’re here to learn about sensual gum massage, so let’s get to it.

To begin, guide your lover to your gum-massage table. If you don’t have a gum-massage table yet, you can make do with a chair that has a reclining headrest. Don’t have a chair with a reclining headrest? Fuck, you are really making this difficult for me. Just figure something out. Use the damn couch, for all I care. And if you don’t have a couch, just kill yourself. The rest of us would like to get on with the massage.

Hey, sorry about that. I don’t really want you to kill yourself. You’re a good person. Maybe I shouldn’t be writing this right now. When I changed my name, I also decided that I wouldn’t change my clothes for a year, and well, the smell is really starting to get to me. Is it possible to faint from body odour? I think I’m close. Anyhow, back to the massage.

Once you’ve got your lover on the gum-massage table, you’ll want to gently—very gently—pull the bottom lip down and tape it to your lover’s chin. The cool air awakens the gum line and prepares your lover for the incredible sensations that are to come. Next, you’ll want to pull back the upper lip and tape it to your lover’s nose. It’s imperative here that you use professional lip tape. Using something like masking or cellophane tape could cause damage and will be rather uncomfortable to remove. I buy mine in bulk from

At this time, you should have your lover’s lips securely taped open and the gums titillatingly exposed. I know you’re probably dying to dive in, but before you start sticking your fingers in someone’s mouth, you need to take some precautions. First, make sure your fingernails are trimmed down—all the way down. After all, you’re going to be dealing with very sensitive tissue, here, and nothing can spoil the mood faster than an unintentional laceration. Next, you’re going to want to throughly wash your fingers—but not with soap. Remember, you’re trying to reward, not punish your lover. I soak my fingers in a solution of blue Listerine® and crushed cloves. It sterilises the fiingers and makes them taste all minty and clove-y.

You’re also going to need some massage oil. Don’t bother with those store-bought gum-massage oils. They’re a ripoff. You can make your own with a base of extra-virgin olive oil, a drop of clove oil and just a pinch of dried and finely ground deer penis. You can find the deer penis at your local Chinese herbalist. It’s expensive, but a little goes a long way. Also makes for a delightful salad topping.

Now then, lower both of your pinky fingers into the massage oil and make sure they’re nicely coated. Pat off the excess oil on a finger towel, then place the tips of your fingers just above the upper front teeth. Don’t go straight for the molar area, pervert. Use some self-control. Build anticipation. Slowly work your way back using tiny circular motions until your lover is literally wriggling in ecstasy. For the lower gum line, I prefer to use my thumbs. Use the same small, circular motions in the front and then use your pinkies for the rear area.

Once your lover gets comfortable with the idea of receiving a sensual gum massage, you may want to consider adding a light Waterpik-ing or perhaps a refreshing tongue wrap made by soaking a standard tongue sock in iced peppermint tea. Speaking of peppermint, I also like to sometimes place shreds of the leaf on the gum line at the end of the massage. Not only does it freshen the breath, it leaves the gums with a delightful youthful glow, kind of like Meg Ryan in her heyday.

Anyhow, those are the basics. The professionals, of course, use much more advanced techniques (slipping warm pebbles between the lip and gums, for instance), but those methods are not for amateurs. Just keep it simple and  follow the instructions above, and before you know it, your lover will be putty in your finger tips—or my name isn’t Sasha.

That Stage

I’ve come to that stage in my life where I just want to buy a small house with a lawn. Not that I love lawns. I just have this incredible urge to yell at kids to stay the hell off my lawn. But first I need a lawn. Otherwise, I would just look insane.

Scary Christmas

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

With the kids jingle-belling

and everyone telling you “be of good cheer”

Now wait just a damn second.

Look, I know this song is a holiday classic, but the lyrics are pretty half-assed, don’t you think? Kids jingle-belling? Really? What exactly does that look like? Does he mean they’re singing Jingle Bells? Then I suppose they’re also Frosty-the-Snowmaning and Ruldolph-The-Red-Nosed-Reindeering. OK, point made. Moving on…

It’s the hap-happiest season of all
With those holiday greetings and gay happy meetings

What the fuck? “Gay happy meetings”? Sorry, I can’t let that one go. Yes, I know, this song was written back when the word “gay” only meant “happy.” So, if that’s the case, what’s with the redundancy?  Not to mention the fact that he used the word “happy” two lines in a row. Is there no other word for “happy”? What about “joyous” or “cheerful”?  Or why not just go with “wonderful meetings,” which would actually fit the song better. Anyhow, it’s a great tune. Please, don’t let me interrupt.

There’ll be parties for hosting
Marshmallows for toasting
And caroling out in the snow
There’ll be scary ghost stories
And tales of the glories of
Christmases long, long ago

Ah, now this brings me back. I remember how every Christmas, after we hung our stockings by the chimney with care, we’d turn out the lights and illuminate our faces with flashlights, taking turns telling Christmas ghost stories. One of my favourites was about a reindeer that got very sick during the long trip around the world (some versions of the story say it’s Vixen. Others, Prancer). Santa was in too much of a hurry to deal with it, so he just cut the sucker loose. They say that every Christmas eve, long after Santa has made his rounds, you can still hear that reindeer convulsing and moaning on the roof, as if it was begging for the angel of death to have mercy on its soul.

Think that’s frightening? One time, my father actually hired someone to climb up on the roof  and flail around up there to add to the horror of the story. The next year, he had us look out the window to see four stiff reindeer legs sticking out of  the snow. Needless to say, we cried ourselves to sleep that night. Ha. Yeah, I miss those days. Maybe it really is the hap-happiest season of all. Anyhow, I’ve got some vegetarian marshmallows to toast. I hope you all have a very scary Christmas and an exceptional new year.