I BROKE A TOILET SEAT WITH MY FACE: An Interview with Constance Ann Fitzgerald  




I BROKE A TOILET SEAT WITH MY FACE: An Interview with Constance Ann Fitzgerald

 Brian Alan Ellis

I consider Portland, Oregon’s Constance Ann Fitzgerald, along with myself, a co-captain on Team Dumpster Fire. We trade humiliating stories of trauma and drunken buffoonery like they’re baseball cards. Glue, her gripping autobiographical account of a woman raised by mom and dad bikers, is one of the strongest works of literature I’ve read all year. And if that wasn’t enough, homegirl also curates/edits the great Ladybox imprint, which publishes zines and books by female writers like Rios De La Luz, Tiffany Scandal, and Meliza Bañales. She’s punk as fuck, has cool hair, makes zines, and would probably beat the crap out of you. Basically I’d have crushed hard on CAF in high school. In fact, I crush on her now. It’s not every day you befriend someone who’s broken a toilet seat…

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The Christmas Poop of Catalan

Merry Shitmas from Catalan.


Yes, Virginia, there are Christmas Poops


Whether you think Christmas is shit or Christmas is the shit, when you are Catalan, your Christmas is going to be full of shit. And I mean literally. And no, it doesn’t get that dirty (usually).

“Hey, hold on! What the heck is a Catalan?” I hear you saying. In case that you don’t know Catalonia is a nation (ooops! We’re getting into political trouble here!) within Spain, located in the North-East of the Iberian Peninsula, just right under the Pyrenees in the South of France. Do you know Barcelona? Well, that’s our capital city. Maybe you’ve seen the demonstrations of hundreds of thousands of people peacefully asking to vote for independence, too (OK, enough politics). The thing is that Catalans have their own language and also their own traditions. And buddy, believe me when I say that we have a…

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(totally more than 3 hours from that point)
So,  I elected to spend my Sunday sans food (but for a few altoids I had in my purse), sans water (but for the kind fellow Americans who returned after voting to bring water bottles), and sans bathroom break (there was a port-o-potty but I was told it was truly awful inside) waiting in a line to VOTE.
                The LA times has it wrong, today, with its “up to” 4 hours.
                 I wish it were only 4 hours.  At 4 hours, I still couldn’t see the front of the line. When I asked my new favorite people to hold my place in line to go see for myself where it ended, I almost lost hope and left.  But then I thought about those new favorite people who were right next to me in line and I couldn’t… I was the predictable PolyAnna, the “Oh, I waited in a line this long for Star Wars!”and “We’re moving faster, now!” and “We GOT this, people!”
                  What would they do without my stupid optimism? What if they decided to leave, too?  Nah… I’d tough it out.  Couldn’t be more than another hour, right?
                The line to the front was only where you put in part of your paperwork.  Then there was the sitting (thank God!) underneath the make-shift tent (like a revival!) waiting for your number.
               What we would have given for a taco truck.   An ice cream truck showed up, and I had no cash so my line buddy handed me a 5, insisting I take it, but then when I saw the line for the ice cream truck, I was like —I just can’t… wait… in another line right now.  ( I would have done it for tacos.)
                I was there the moment when someone yelled at woman yelling the numbers “Speak up!” and the crowd then started yelling the numbers back so all could hear. So she would say “5240” and the crowd would yell back “5240”. I don’t know who started doing it, but once it started, it just became what happened. For all the rest of the hours.  It had a religious feel, almost. Ditto people starting the cheer for people they knew from the time in line getting their numbers called. There were the funny moments, when a person’s number was called them yelling “Bingo!”or “I’ve been saved!” And plenty plenty plenty of just freaking BORED.
                 But best of all was that feeling about 30 minutes before my number was called.  It was like I was about to win something… maybe it was lack of food, water, bathroom breaks, etc. but I felt so excited. When I actually got my ballot, I could have cried. And after it was all over, I actually felt like I had won something.
               I could write an essay about each of the people I met and just how truly wonderful it was to get to spend this time with them, and this would be a much more interesting blog post if I did (because they were all such awesome people), but I feel this sense of sacred-ness about them.  Like we all went through this thing together, this fight against inefficacy and apathy that demanded this unbelievable commitment we made every minute we stayed.
                So instead of saying the specifics about my best friend line buddies,  I will just say that from what I hear from others, my experience is not unique.  There is no substitute for showing and being with people.  So, I leave you with this: if this election cycle has made you sick, getting stuck in a long line to vote is the best medicine out there.
 I don’t wish it on you, but I do wish you a restored faith in people that only comes from actually talking to them.
(And while you are all still voting, I will be at a happy hour eating tacos.)
                                                     Namastaco and Happy Democracy Day!

GET YOUR PUPPET ON!!! (the Danger Slater way)

Fungasm Press

Please join FUNGASM PRESS and DANGER SLATER on their journey through PUPPET PUBERTY with a PUPPET SKIN CONTEST!

A puppet, you say? You might think, “How is this possible?”

Well, you can either:

a.) Paint your face up to make you look puppet-y
b.) Use a photoswap app to switch your face out with a puppet’s face
c.) Get some paper or an old sock and craft a puppet version of yourself.

Then SHARE THAT SHIT on social media (Facebook, Instagram, Twitter)

Using the hashtag #puppetskin – and BOOM! You’ve been entered!

1st Prize:

*We will TURN YOU INTO A PUPPET! That’s right folks, using a photograph of your face that we will steal off of social media, you will have a little puppet version of yourself to love and treasure forever and ever.

*A Danger Slater T-Shirt (featuring the art of the extremely talented Mr. Erik Wilson).

*Your very…

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I recently saw BONED, an indie horror comedy by Laura Lee Bahr. I know Laura as a Bizarro writer, so I knew I would be in for a hell of a ride. Laura both wrote and directed this film. The movie is a love story, but not in the traditional way. This is a love story for dog lovers.

In BONED the stakes all revolve around an adorable little dog that becomes the pawn in the twisted plans of The Mistress, played expertly by Bai Ling. If Cruella DeVille was a twistedly sexy dominatrix, she would be The Mistress. Samantha (Angela Landis) plays a professional dog walker and struggling actress. She has a chance encounter with Dr. Edward Pierce (Josh Randall) when her car door scrapes on his car by mistake. As their romance awkwardly unfolds, they stumble deeper and deeper into a web of deception and dog kidnapping…

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“We do doodily do doodily do doodily do, what we must muddily must muddily must muddily must, muddily do muddily do muddily do muddily do, ’til we bust bodily bust bodily bust.” So says K.V. Kinda got a “Bawitaba da bang” ring to it? Nah… it doesn’t. Better keep writing.


A Personal Essay by Danger Slater


Being a writer is hard.

Being a relatively obscure small-press writer is doubly hard.

Being a relatively obscure small-press writer who writes the sort of weird niche bullshit that I write is triply hard.

Struggling to find readers is Sisyphean endeavor. You splash links up on Facebook, bait the world with Twitter hashtags, maybe you stick pictures of your cat up on Instagram or share snippets of your half-finished poetry on Tumblr. You scream as loud as you can into the void, only to hear your own stupid voice echoing back at you. Days and weeks and months and years you do this, and in the end you’re still left with the same old questions. Questions about your self-worth. Questions about your skill. Questions about your devotion. You think: thousands of hours I’ve poured into this task, honing this talent, perfecting this craft. You…

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Miss Jean Louis is not my grandma, Louis Jean. Or is she?

My grandmother was a really incredible woman.  She was also the only person I have ever known named Louis Jean.  Even as the years tick by I have never heard of another woman named Louis Jean.

But this year, there appeared this mysterious woman who is “Queen” of an international scavenger hunt who is named Jean Louis. MISS Jean Louis, to be exact.

Like my grandmother in mirror, she is.

They call her “elusive.”  She has 17.1K followers on twitter, and follows only 4, likes only 5. Her pic on twitter indicates a starlet on a bender, but I suspect this is not the ‘real’ Miss Jean Louis. Her tweets are nonsensical, unsettling, out of space and time … just like my grandmother’s comments became as she persevered into her nineties.

My theory is that Miss Jean Louis is actually

a.) a Misha Collins-bot, designed in the alter-ego image of Misha Collins himself


b.) My grandmother speaking to us all from the great beyond.


c.) Both

In any case,  she should ‘like’ more things on Twitter.  And definitely ‘follow’ me. @lauraleebahr is the handle.  I implore you, Miss Jean Louis, to let me know if you are real, if you are my grandmother, and/or if you are a robot Misha Collins!