A Note to My Readers:
Today, children, Lucrezia is not a happy camper! Yesterday,
Miss Weaver, the publisher, called me and insisted that I attend the weekly
staff meeting scheduled that afternoon. I never go to those damned things,
and she's never said anything about it before. Nobody at those meetings
understands me or my work and all they do anyway is sit around and talk
about dead Indians, bad restaurants and sex.
Anyway I go. I'm sitting there and get presented a copy of a letter somebody
e-mailed me some indeterminately long time ago. I never saw it before. It
was from Northern Europe somewhere: I couldn't make out the stupid header.
I guess it ended up unread in one of my boxes. Funny, I usually read the
foreign ones! Seems some egghead type, disputing some news article or other
(don't ask me - I never read them), used the message he sent to me to underscore
whatever goddamned point he was making. He got me in some deep, major shit,
so, thanks a lot, Professor Kool!
Harriet Weaver and her fucking crony stooges
started bawling me out and riding me like I was Secretariat. I started getting
a little steamy, so I exposed both my breasts to the whole bunch. They just
kept on talking and pretending not to notice, so I took down my panties
and mooned them for about five minutes. No reaction. Harriet just did her
school marm number and said “I'd like everyone to leave the room with the
exception of Ms. Borgia.”
Everybody else left the room and I started to put my ass away, but Harriet
said “Wait! Not just yet!” She told me to bend over one of the conference
chairs. She put on a pair of frayed and hardened leather construction worker's
gloves with shards of glass imbedded in the fingertips. She stuffed a rag
in my mouth and flailed at my lily white buttocks for over twenty minutes
until I was black, blue, battered, bruised and bleeding. Oh, God! Oh, God,
how I love that woman! Of course then I told her, while licking the street
filth off the bottoms of her shoes, that I would do absolutely anything
she asked. “Just answer the letter, dear!” was all she said and then left.
I went immediately to my desk and deliberately sat down very hard on my
raw and shredded buttocks, stuffed a rag back in my mouth and started working
feverishly like the worthless little slave-slut whore that I am. I answered
the letter. It was hard to do amid all that pain, all that ecstasy!
Featured Question:
Dear Lucrezia:
My boyfriend couldn't make up his mind. One day he wanted to marry
me. The next day he wanted me to get me to a nunnery. All the while
he was playing hide the salami wherever I would let him. So I got
this idea - pretending to drown myself (see enclosed picture), then
getting my brother to kill my boyfriend with a poisoned sword. So,
okay, sounds good, right, what's my problem? Well my boyfriend shows
up, undead, with one of my girlfriends from Germany. Good riddance,
they're welcome to each other. That's not the problem. The problem
is: I've lost my Gingerbread recipe, and I've already got Hamlet and
Gretel laid out on the baking sheets. Professor K suggested I write
you. Can you help?
- Clueless in Elsinore
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Dear Elsie:
Of course I can help! But, you've taken on quite an assignment for yourself!
Have your prepared the main ingredients? Certain Danish men need small
bits removed with great skill or you'll be in a funk for six to eight
weeks after eating. I'd recommend your taking him to a capable Japanese
chef who has experience preparing puffer fish.
And you might need to soak the German girl a while in brine or vinegar
to avoid your getting sugar shock or prolonged post-prandial compulsive
sentimentality. The best way to test for this, if she's still alive, is
to ask her to bite her nails. If she smiles and smacks her lips, a good
soaking is definitely in order. I will share with you the ingredients
and techniques taught to me by my best friend, Witch Claudia West, W.S.H.
(also a German girl, by the way, and you know I could swear that she once
mentioned someone named Gretel to me in passing. Small world, huh?).
First, you'll need to urinate on each of them several times to tenderize
them. It's best if they're still alive and tied down because their vivid
experience of physical struggling, outrage, humiliation, helplessness
and disgust give the final outcome that special je- ne-sais-quoi. Next
comes the mixing. Some say that you should kill them first as it is less
physically demanding, but I advise against this. Rent a thoroughly cleaned
cement-mixer truck, a Bessemer converter (check at your local steel mill)
and an array of earth moving equipment.
Gather the following:
- 1 fresh Hamlet (prepared)
- 1 fresh Gretel (soaked)
- 300 tbs. vinegar
- 225 cups of milk
- 600 teaspoons baking powder
- 775 teaspoons soda
- 150 teaspoons salt
- 600 teaspoons of ground ginger
- 300 teaspoons ground cinnamon
- 75 teaspoons ground cloves
- 100 cups shortening
- 150 cups sugar
- 300 eggs
- 225 cups molasses
Preheat Bessemer converter to 350° ·
add vinegar to milk and set aside · sift and mush together twice
Hamlet, Gretel, baking powder, soda, salt and spices · in the cement
mixer, cream the shortening with the butter. add eggs and churn on high
until fluffy. add molasses · add mushed people and spices, a quarter
at a time, alternately with the curdled milk. churn thoroughly ·
steam shovel into industrial pans and bake 4½ to 5½ hours
until bread rebounds to the touch in the center and doesn't giggle. serves
2400.
- Lucrezia
Other Questions:
Dear Lucrezia:
My boyfriend wants to have sex. I say I'm too young and want to wait until
I'm married. He says bunk. I'll be fourteen in a month and he's fifty-six.
What do you think?
-Scaredy Cat
Dear Cat:
Go ahead and have sex with him and let him fall asleep. Empty one or two
large cans of pineapple or papaya juice on him and let him soak for the
duration of his post-coital nap. Kill him. Clean thoroughly. Roast him
on a spit or in a large oven for 5 1/2 hours at 375. Salt and pepper to
taste. Serve with broccoli or Belgian endives.
- Lucrezia
Dear Lucrezia:
.
What do you do with a man who snores like a buzz-saw? My husband could
wake the dead, so don't suggest suicide.
- Bags-Under-the-Eyes
Dear Bags:
His balls cause that. Cut them off. Dust lightly with flour, adding salt
and pepper to taste. Sauté in olive oil with a little rosemary
until golden brown. Remove from the heat and let stand for 10 minutes.
Serve as is on toast points with a little relish or wrap them in pickled
scrotum, warm in a low oven for 15 minutes and serve. If snoring still
persists, remove his upper lip, tongue, and soft palate with a very sharp
paring or boning knife. Julienne and refrigerate. Serve raw on crackers
with sour cream. Must be consumed within 2 days.
- Lucrezia
Dear Lucrezia:
I'm 17 and I'm absolutely determined to marry a very rich man, I don't
care what he looks like or acts like - only that he has plenty of money
and will share it with me. Any suggestions?
- Climber
Dear Climber:
You're a real little morpion, aren't you ? Yes I have suggestions, spirochete,
and here they are: First, practice, practice, practice - whistle a lot
and eat lots of bananas. Second, while a lot of rich men have earned their
money, many others have not - they've either inherited it or stolen it.
These are the wimps and dirtbags you'll want to chase because they likely
have marginal self-esteem and feel guilty about their money. This makes
them less likely to be tightwads. Third, learn quickly any and all the
things they're ashamed of, learn them backwards and forwards. Keep at
it and in no time you'll be shopping your tits off.
- Lucrezia
Dear Lucrezia:
Please help settle an argument between my boyfriend and me. He says I'm
a disgusting little cesspool slut and I say he's a filthy, wart-covered
walking zit and an asswipe.
- Mad as Hell
Dear Mad:
Remember the old Certs ads? I think it applies here, like: Stop! You're
both right! As a couple, you folks are TWO, yes TWO, TWO festering biological
disasters in one! Next time, just call him an oily pencil- necked geek
and let it go at that.
-Lucrezia
Dear Lucrezia:
Why is your left tit showing?
- Curious but not Yellow
Dear Yellow:
Oh Jesus Christ! They printed the goddamned picture backwards again! That's
really my right tit.
- Lucrezia
Lucrezia OnLine !
Lucrezia will answer certain readers questions when
and if she
feels like it, sometimes directly online, sometimes by e-mail.
Don't get your hopes too high: some of her unread mail is three
years old now. If you want a shot at it, try clicking in this box:
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