I Disposed Of 7 Hooker's Bodies For My Boss And All I Got Was This Lousy Blog Entry

Well helloooooo there my children, how's life?  Alright that's enough outta you, it's my turn to babble.
I've been reading Scar Tissue by Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Poopers recently and it's fucking excellent.

The more I read about his zany exploits (heroin, coke, more heroin, banging his dad's girlfriend at age 11, more heroin, and some speedballs for good measure) the more I catch myself yelling at the movie screen of his life. "No Anthony Kiedis!" I'll say to myself, "If you OD with that chicano gangbanger you're never gonna live to record Under The Bridge!"  It's a semi fucked up dynamic really, because though I sit and curse Mr. Kiedis for almost throwing a brilliant career away, I do it with enough caffiene, nicotine, and alcohol coursing through my bloodstream to kill a miniature pony.

I find myself wondering from time to time what would happen if tortured artists with fucked up childhoods would have equally brilliant output, had their pasts been a bit more normal.  Take Rene Magritte for example.

He's the dude that painted this

His mom killed herself when he was a kid.  She jumped off a bridge and when her body was found her nightgown was draped over her face like a veil.  Magritte had a recurring motif of covering his subject's faces.   For example, one of my favorite paintings by him is called The Lovers.  It features a couple kissinng with a veil draped over both their faces.  This brings us back to my thesis question here.  Magritte was an enormously talented artist, and probably would have been a phenomenal painter regardless of how he grew up, but would his work have been as good had he not suffered the pain of his mom's suicide?  I like to imagine that he (or any other example you can dream up really) would simply produce equally amazing work with cheerier themes, but I guess that's a hypothetical I'll never know the answer to.
Eh, I'm getting a little to highbrow here for my taste.  Dicks, farts, bajinas, anal bleach and queefs.  That's right turds, queefs, now there's a topic that needs addressed.
Queefs, in day to day life are rather hilarious and should be giggled at.  However should queefage occur in a sexual situation it must be approached delicately.  You can either: A.) ignore it, power through and hope the moment hasn't been spoiled, or B.) acknowledge it giggle together like schoolgirls.  I've used both methods before and I've found that option B. works a little better.  I mean, you both know that shit happened, no reason for an unspoken awkwardness, and hopefully you've got enough chemistry with your partner that you can laugh at yourselves.
So to summarize, Belgian surreal artist, and pussy farts.
Talk amongst yourselves douchebags, I'm gonna go read on the front porch cuz its beautiful out today.
-Pretzel