The Cherub Nazi: True Story

Bright and early, up before the alarm, puppies fast asleep. Looking at these little beasties I quite simply couldn’t be happier. Put on the kettle, take my daily cocktail of meds, have my morning shit in the water closet. Puppies still asleep, so I grab my tea, snuggle back into bed, put on my non-prescription reading glasses (side note: at times like this I wish I had a monocle). 

My novella of choice: Fifty Shades of Grey.

NOW HOLD UP! Before you all get up in my grill let me explain.

This book is shit, pure and sparkly shit. Monkeys could write better than this. It’s borderline Hooked on Phonix for first graders. This book is such as travesty that I will most likely use the pages to wipe my ass when I am done lowering my IQ. I’ll save money on TP and then I can actually afford a real book. (Another side note: For those of you who are aware of my strong dislike for Fable 3, as shitty as this book is I would rather read this book over and over again, than to hear anyone utter the words ‘Fable 3’. I would rather suck someones severe hammertoe than play Fable 3)

So the book is shit, but oddly enjoyable. And yes I am quite aware that the further I read I am just a stop closer to the short bus.

Anyways, a few shades in and the doorbell rings. Ahah, suspense I love suspense. Now, why the fuck would my doorbell be ringing so god damn early in the morning? Hell, I didn’t even know I had a doorbell. But back to the why? IN GODS NAME WHY?  First off, I have no friends, second the bills are paid I swear, and thirdly if its the lady I smacked with her own flipflop…I am truly, truly sorry and would kindly ask for you to return under the bridge from which you came.

So Ativan kicking in, along with Xanax, Paxil and a few other TicTacs I cannot pronounce….Why am I melting…what is happening…Cait, do no pass go…

I put down Fifty Shades of Shit, get out of bed, think about putting on pants and brushing my hair, but don’t. Sometimes thinking is enough. Pfff, fuck it. You come here, to the place where I dwell, you ring my door bell, which I didn’t even know that I had, I will not furbish myself for you.

I creep down the stairs, bell rings again… Grab one of my shoes, just in case, take a deep breath and swing the door wide open. I mean I full on Bruce Lee’d this door down.

Is it an Angel? Oh gawd, Heavens Gate has found me. These drugs are really playing games with me. It is a boy, young, pre-adolescent, blonde hair, blue eyes, I really can’t decide if he’s a Nazi or a cherub…then I clue in…. Jehovah’s Witness….fuck me….I should have kept going to the church and if they allowed me to bring in my own bottle of wine this little Cherub Nazi would not be at my door, ring-a-ling-linging.

So since I don’t want JW going back home and whipping himself because I’m in my skivvies, I close the door so he can only see my one eyeball. I so wish I had a monocle, I would look so much more sophisticated in instances like this.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Ma’am.

Me: Oh gawd, don’t call me Ma’am. Ma’am is what you call the little old lady down the street who still has milk delivered.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Mrs…

Me: Nope, Not a hope in hell little boy. Yes, I swore on the Little Cherub Mother Fucker.

Cherub Nazi Boy: May I have you name?

Me: Sorry kid, the last thing I need is Chris Hansen interrogating me because I little munchkin is on my doorstep.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Miss?

Me: This little shit is persistentSure, Miss.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Can I tell you about your Father?

Me: So hold up, who the hell does this kid think he is? This kid wants to tell me who my father is. His peter guaranteed is no bigger than my thumb, fuck my balls are probably bigger and he has the nerve to want tell me who my father is. Sorry kid, me and my father go way back

Cherub Nazi Boy: Miss, God is your father.

Me: That is news to me. Seriously, kid I think you got the wrong daddy. My dad is tall, dark and native. Legit FBI (Fucking Big Indian) to the extreme.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Uh ma’am.

Me: Not this again. Listen kid, I ‘respect’ what you are doing. You got heart , clearly no soul and little do you know ‘Your Father’ is pimping you out, you little prost-i-tot, you. Go back to your flock of Little Nazi Cherubs, I am not flocking your way.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Uh, Miss…

Me: Fuck, I didn’t mean to swear or hurt your feelings. I’m just not interested. Your Papa I simply don’t preach.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Miss…may I have your number?

NOPE! NOPE! A BIG HELL NO! First this little shit goes from wanting to tell me who my daddy is, to asking for me number. This kid has serious mommy issues.

I close the door. I need another TicTac cocktail to process what just happened.

This folks, is a first for me. Kids scare me. The things that gets ingrained into their little brains scares me and apparently the meds I am on are starting to scare me too. I should probably call Dad.

Anyways long story short……..THE END.


Pollinated by the Wind.

GUESS WHAT FUCKERS!!! I’M BACK!!! Now isn’t that just the sweetest way to say HELLO after almost a year or so hiatus. Truth be told, I have been blogging, documenting life’s little tidbits in my trusty little handwritten book, and just be too god damn lazy to type them up. But don’t worry dear friends. Time will come when these lil doodle poetics will be placed on the cyber net for your viewing pleasure only.

Anywho, I thought I’d blog ya’lls with a lil update on me. (So not narcissistic at all)….

So since I’m a 27 year old biddy, and excellent at writing lists, that is what I shall do.

  • My last blog was about me getting a baby. And no, I’m not talking about shitting out a kid or buying Mongolian toddlers from the black market. I got myself, a dog, name Barrie St.Bernard. And yes, that is his full name.
  • My cat Olive, only enjoys Barrie St.Bernard for the shear fact he eats her shit. Other than that, he is the Bane of her existence. (And yes, Bane as in Batman.)
  • I’ve up and left my last humble abode. And graduated from the Upper Ghetto of New West to Chateau El’La Shanty Town, Burnaby.
  • My 6th anniversary with my man was forgotten. La Fin.ac48f32f3daca5a9f9eb4d8686938ff2
  • I looked in the mirror one day and realized how time flies by. Also discovered a new freckle. I named it Dotty
  • Did spring cleaning in December and liked it. Also found some cheese string in a pair of denims I haven’t worn since circa,08;
  • Became addicted to Red Bull after a gaming marathon which resulted in me stroking out after I lost 142 of my saves.
  • My girlfriend passed away this summer. Incredibly heart-breaking.
  • Finally, a few of the movies I worked on are out. Check out, Step Up 5, Big Eyes, If I Stay, Night of The Museum 3 and more. I will say this my endeavors of becoming an actor have resulted in me being ‘arm-candy’, a statue, ‘girl with tray’, serving wench, ‘sad girl 2’, ‘a hungry I’, ‘wedding guest’ , ‘hand double’ etc.…My resume must be looking pretty tasty right about now.
  • Did the ALS ice bucket challenge and actually donated 100$.
  • I still wear a fanny pack.
  • My daily trips to the dog park without a dog park are no more! I am now a real person and have Barrie to venture to the parks too. Perfect place to smoke my medicine, and unwind while Barrie roams free in a fenced off area, a place that resembles a concentration camp. Anne Frank would be proud…How…ideal…
  • Convinced myself that rolling my eyes is burning calories. FYI it is.
  • I now practice drinking coffee black/decaf/with a straw/peppermint gum. Why I’m practicing? Fuck if I know.
  • Held my fart in once for a whole day, just so I could dutch-oven my man, after he forgot to take out the trash. (Future reference for anyone who has the pleasure of living with me. TAKE OUT THE TRASH).
  • New Love: Matthew Goode.
  • I realized:…..even-god-wont-save-you-worst-bad-childrens-book-vintage
  • Finally retired my Peter Rabbit stuffy to the closet. Don’t worry I’m sure he will come out of the closet again. If Anne Heche can, Peter Rabbit can too.
  • I now only make status updates on Facebook while sitting on the toilet.
  • Decided to take up cooking, by buying a microwave. Only to return it, when I realized I don’t enjoy cooking.
  • Attempted to hold a quarter in my stink crease. (Still have not found the quarter)
  • Slept in the parking lot of Timmy Ho’s. (Clearly, a high point in my life).
  • Put my car Mia, out to pasture. She’s such a slag.
  • Went home for the holidays to see the fam. So in love with being the crazy auntie from out West.
  • I wrote Dr. Phil a love letter. Also went into great detail about how I feel I’ve been pollinated by the wind. He has yet to respond. Xoxo.
  • All summer I feasted on Mexican food while living in this great city of ours.
  • YOLO, mother fucker, YOLO.

God Smacked

I’m sure I’ve talked about this particular topic before, or at least something in the ‘holy’ field. This blog is more a focus on why God ‘hym’self (terrible pun, I know) hates me. Now, I personally do not believe in the word hate. It is too strong a word. I prefer to use the term strongly dislike … However, God fucking hates me, and the Lord Almighty definitely has a vendetta on my ass.

Lets go back into my childhood. I’ve mentioned before in previous blogs how during the summers I was shipped away like an African child sold in the black market (pun intended) to my grandma. I went to her church every Sunday during those summers. Our pastor at the time loved puppets. I don’t know if he was an actual puppeteer or if it was a technique his psychologist taught him, but either way this pedo-pastor always talked to me and my other protestant acquaintances through the asses of a puppets. (Who thought finger-banging puppets was God’s way of communication?)


Hearing the Bible read to you through a puppet does not make the stories more kid friendly. Our pastor’s favourite story was Cane and Able. For this story he would use two puppets and act it out, sometimes he would even go so far as to asking for volunteers to act out the horrific bumfuck mountain story. Sorry dude, sodomy is not in my books, and shouldn’t be in God’s book either, you sick fuck. Those poor puppets.


Now, I’m sure many of you have heard the saying “God loves all his children.” Um, lets get a few things straight.

  1. I was only a child for 19 years of my life, since then I’ve sprouted boobies and drink firewater like no tomorrow.
  2. I’m not God’s child. I was the offspring of one big ass Indian and a little white lady.
  3. If God loved all his children why is their so much tragedy in the world. If God supposedly really loves all his children why do we have things like; periods, sloths and Lance Bass.

Honestly, I’m starting to think the douche strongly dislikes me because I let the alter boy diddle me or maybe its because I didn’t let my pastor drop a digit on me with or without his puppet(s). I mean, come on folks, I was born native. Now, I love being Ojibway, I love that it is a part of my life, love the food, love the men, love the dances etc. But lets be honest here. God and his followers haven’t been so kind to my people. On top of that, the bastard further damns us by having every native person in some way related to one another. I will never be able to bump my naughty bits against a native man. Chances are he is my cousin. EVER SICK! (I’ve kissed a cousin once, but that is another story).


I love my firewater. Love it, love it, love it! However, every time I wake up with gut rot and my head pounding I want to go to church. God takes advantage of my vulnerable state! (Not cool God, so not cool).

On another note, fuck you God! I was baptized and yet you still persistently plop your Lordy folk at every skytrain station, bus stop, store front handing out pamplets of… well…

22 J Returns To God.

You are better off placing your religious Nazi’s on the corners with hookers and pimps, that way they could actually make an honest living. Plus I’m sure they could teach your people a thing or two about God.


Cait Out!


Dear Jesus

Dear Jesus,

First off, I would like to say/ask who the fuck are you? Just because you were nailed to a cross you think you are Mr. Holy Hot Shot! Seriously? Come on now! I would rather praise the man who fucked the monkey before I kiss the feet of a man who was born from a lady who either was an A-sexual Sponge or who was A WHORE.… ahem, not a virgin. Everybody should know by now miracles don’t happen. If they did we would all be on ecstasy, our entire lives would be non stop orgasms and life would be a never ending drum circle.

I may have never finished reading The Bible, but that is because I only finish books worth reading (ie-Toilets of the World, How to Tell if Your Cat is Trying to Kill You). That being said,I did my time in church. (BY THE WAY JESUS, tell those religious sacks of assholes to stop shoving your holy shit in my face!)

Every summer since the age of 5, my parental units decided it would be a fun idea to send me to my grandma’s for a whole two months. EVERY SUMMER! This meant every Sunday at 9:15 am we were off to church. I basically went for the wine and bread, and at some point during my time in church our pastor had puppets which he communicated through (not sure what that meant) but nonetheless I enjoyed the puppets. Even though I had wine and bread and puppets to keep my buzz going, it did not fully sate my boredom. I was usually (if not all the time) pissed off because if God rested on the 7th day, why the fuck should we worship the bastard while he’s resting.I don’t praise my man for fucking resting! I praise him for putting the seat down or doing dishes, for actually doing something!!! If I saw God make a mountain or see him part the sea like Moses, HELL even fuck a donkey, then high-fives are definitely in order. You know what, FUCK YOU GOD!  (Sorry Grandma.)

Clearly Jesus, you can see that I am not, in no way, shape or form religious. If I was I would be whipping my self.

Even though I am not on my knees for religious purposes (on my knees for fun purposes), I would like you to know, my parents went to church as kids. Luckily, as when they became parental units they opted out of the steeple pleasing cult. Odd though, come Christmas we would go to midnight mass, we would have Easter brunch and a random pig roast in the summer (not the sinning kind). Also as kids we were baptized. It’s funny how I do not believe in God, but when I have kidlets I would have them baptize, I would celebrate Christmas, Easter and all those ‘God Inspired’ Holidays. Probably with a doobie.

To be honest Jesus, I don’t really know much about you. You are like a one night stand Imagethat never should have happen, mainly because of the crab thing. Those Bible humpers and thumpers, are fucked up. Looking at all these depictions of you, makes you a definite candidate for  Dateline NBC’S: To Catch A Predator.

So you are the Son of God, I’m the daughter of an Indian (feather not the dot). The only enjoyment I get out of you is you slightly resemble Chuck Norris and saying Jesus Christ with a Scottish accent is funny. You died once already why come back to only die again? Well, hold on, actually…tell you what, how ’bout you come back one more time, I give you a well-deserved wedgie and you can die again. Three times a charm.

So Jesus, you are probably wondering why am I writing you this letter. It’s not fan mail you can count your blessed little heart on that. I’m just taking time out of my day to let you know a few things every man who nailed hard wood should know (aside from the fact they might be a fag). 

  • The Bible=Book of fiction and terrible at that.
  • Jehovah’s Witness vs Heavy set woman of colour? Um, I choose the coloured gal any day! Aunt Jemima knows how to keep my floors squeaky clean and that girl can make a tasty pancake.
  • Thank you Jesus! Especially for residential schooling your preacher freaks set up for us. I am now no longer a savage, nor do I speak Native Gibberish  I speak ‘real’ language English.
  • I said it once already and I will say it again! Those religious goons handing out pamphlets need to stop! The last thing I need is a sister shoving holy porn up my nose!

Perhaps Jesus, this is not a letter of hate. or a letter of what you and your drones did wrong. Perhaps this is a letter of appreciation. Thank you for all the hate, despair, wars and false hope. Sure, you are not solely to blame, there are other Gods out there who fucked us over. In fact I’ve blazed with Buddah a few times and on more than one occasion that fucker left my high and dry (but mostly high). 

This all being said.


P.S Go Fuck Yourself Jesus!

P.P.S Excuse my while I go to confession, then possibly masturbate.

Hangover For Churches

Why is it that every time after a night of heavy drinking, I feel the need to go to church. And I’m talking like, I am hung the fuck over: Can barely put words to together, headache, gut rot, I don’t know whether I want to laugh or cry, and I am completely aware that chances are there is a large cock and balls drawn with a Sharpy on my forehead. All I can think of in these self-reflecting moments is God fucking hates me. I should go to church. FML.

I used to go to church. I mean I was baptized as a wee little babe, in a God forsaken long  “Uni-sexual” gown of Bounty and Royale (excuse my language). In the summer time, I stayed with my Grandma and every Sunday she went to church, and I felt this deep over-whelming sense of guilt if I chose not to go. So going, I made sure I had a mission: Wine. bread, and puppets. (Don’t ask me about the puppets.)

As I got older, I would find my ways to make up excuses to not go to Church.

  • I’m working.
  • My butts to big for the pews.
  • I’m sleeping.
  • Me and the alter boy sinned together.
  • They banned me from singing hymns.
  • I visited God last night.
  • I’m constipated.
  • Etc.Etc. Etc

Every time my Grandma left to go to her Holy ground of Bible thumpers and humpers, I would give her the Vulcan Salute and say “Peace Be With You”.

I just couldn’t do it. Hearing the reminders of God’s love was boring, repetitive and a fucking lie. God doesn’t love me. If he loved me he would say (in a Jamaican accent) “Cait, my child, the yellow ones taste like chicken, and Jesus loves the pole. BONG!”

I drink wine. I think that it is a wonderful blasty blast of a way to show my love for God. But whenever I do, he punishes me. I think it’s because I really don’t love him. If God could cure my hangovers I would consider going to church. Actually if God was a Jedi Knight, I would go, I feel the force would be strong in that one,

Forgive me Father for I have sinned, I find your lack of faith disturbing.