Suzie Bee
About a year ago I received an intriguing invite. It wasn’t something typical, like to meet the President of some country, including our own, in the bathhouse so that he could blow me, which was a multiple times per day occurrence when I worked at the Bohemian Grove. Instead Suzie Bee told me she had space and work for me if I moved out of Dodge and into what she described as Cadillac; it ended up being more of a run-down Chevy.
Suzie Bee has been my upline in a multi-level marketing (MLM) company for about thirteen years now, whose flagship product is a bottle of liquid vitamins that has everything in it including the first wiping from a rhino’s ass. At one time in her life she was diagnosed with last-stage cancer that had spread to all her lymph nodes and was given six months to live; that was about 14 years ago. She attributes the cleansing program from this company in helping her revitalize from a yellow jacket who had just stung some dude and had half of its entrails pulled out with the stinger and was awaiting death to a bumble bee buzzing from flower to flower like a miniature Oprah during a binge.
I met Suzie Bee at the first New Life Expo I attended and found her booth right at a time when I was interested in cleansing. I came back early the next morning before the show had officially opened for the day and to buy the Cleanse & Rebuild Starter-Pak from her and then leave to work with clients. The “Cleanse” consisted of one formula to make you poop and another formula to rid you of parasites. The “Rebuild” was a formula designed to energize, balance and help the immune system. [Go to www.firstman4health.awarenesslife.com for product information] At the time I was a big fan of unsubstantiated claims and so I bought as much as I could fit in my colon—which wasn’t much on account of all the parasites and fecal matter impacted in there.
After I finished the first kit, I called to re-order and she never got back to me. I thought this lame and so I called the company up and tried to order product from them but after they told me that I would have to jump through a flaming hoop with my balls soaked in gasoline to do so, I decided to give Suzie Bee another shot. I used this trump card against her for a decade before she finally put her own lighter under my balls; I think she held onto that lighter from her crack cocaine days, which although it may not have accounted for her cancer, it probably had something to do with her having three teeth in her entire mouth that were as yellow as an incontinent senior’s sheets.
Over the years, we didn’t really talk to each other on a regularly, just periodically-whenever she was having her period, that is. She came to a health talk I gave; I stayed at her house one weekend; we shot a few emails back and forth. But the radar lit up more after I received the intriguing invite.
What she offered me was room and board in exchange for 90 hours of work a month, which comes to 22 ½ hours per week, which comes to 4 ½ hours a day with weekends off, selling other people’s junk on eBay and amazon.com for her. After being fired from IBM, she started a business where she would hire high school kids to photograph and list a bunch of crap that people wanted to unload. She would take a piece of the action, pay the kids something and then give the person whose crap had been littering her storage area a measly penance. I was to be one of her “elves,” which I had hoped would include the green uniform and the daily anal pounding from Santa. I found out that it was Suzie Bee herself who would do the fucking in the ass.
I had been ready for a change for awhile and the only other available option was a sex change. My business had gone to hell and I started having to once again act as an independent contractor jerking people off on the side of the West Side Highway in order to pay my bills. Rent, electricity and food were amounting to about two grand a month and that was seriously cutting into my hooker fund.
I had also thought for awhile that shit was going to go down in New York, besides the stuff flushed in Mayor Bloomberg’s toilet along with wads of $100 bills he uses for toilet paper, and it may be time for me to amscray. By “shit” I mean either a terrorist action (probably put into action by our CIA using their assets of choice: Muslim retards), massive flooding that has been predicted by many psychics and/or a police state where the cops would swipe your MetroCard down your ass crack before letting you get on a subway. So I took her offer was under serious consideration.
We batted around the idea like a cat does a field mouse before laying it dead on your pillow as a gift. About six months to the end of my lease, Suzie Bee was asking me again and pushing me to make a decision.
There were a few challenges to the arrangement. First of all, I would still plan to come into NYC a couple of times a week to meet with clients and teach yoga, not to mention to feel like I was still part of civilization, which would mean that unless I worked on the weekends, I would have to do the mindless work she was asking of me for about 7 ½ hours a day for three days. As I wasn’t a 17-year old kid, sitting at a computer monitor for that long was beyond my boredom threshold, not to mention that sitting on my ass for that many hours straight would take my already flat ass to new thresholds of board-dome. It can take a pounding from a dick but from a chair…? I don’t know.
Another problem was that there was a court order issued that doesn’t allow me within 50 yards of anyone under the age of 18. It was a simple misunderstanding involving me banging the same 16-year old whore that Lawrence Taylor stuck it to and the only positive I can think about the whole thing is that I didn’t have to play sloppy seconds after L.T. stretched out her tiny gyny with his mammoth black anaconda. That and the fact that I was able to help her with her algebra homework, after I jammed my own little linebacker into every one of her holes. For those concerned, the hearing in her left ear is coming back; apparently semen doesn’t cause long-term damage to the eardrum.
She also runs a Bed & Breakfast and we batted around the idea, like Tammy Faye Baker bats her fake eyelashes, of utilizing a holistic angle for me that fit me much better than O.J.s glove during his court trial (the court case against the bailiff who tazed me because I tried on this key piece of evidence is still pending.) We both knew having a live in yoga instructor could add bank to her bunk. We talked about having me start an organic garden and selling some of the food at the local Farmer’s Market, which I would have loved, as getting your hands dirty has been a specialty of mine since I performed my first anal fisting. I even pitched a whole bunch of ideas about her and me doing holistic healing and education weekends. Even Suzie Bee, whose vagina had dried up to a pasty pucker years earlier, started to get wet at the idea.
At four months to D-Day, Suzie Bee said she needed to have a definitive answer and I said I was in. I’m moving to Poughkeepsie! Where the fuck is Poughkeepsie, anyway? Will my weekend social life include cow tipping? Are there any non-third generation incest victims living there?
I went to visit one weekend and Suzie Bee, always the busy bee, asked, “Do you want to start making money?” I said that if it involved me sitting on my flat ass and doing nothing that I was in but otherwise I just wanted a weekend to lounge with my dog and eat her out of house and home.
She had two houses. One was where the main business took place. She told me it was a always busy and I was expecting a bit of a madhouse but it basically consisted of three teens, two posting listings on their laptops in between going to the fridge for a Grape Nehi and one photographing the goods in between sticking a vibrator over her nipples. At one time her nipple ring shot across the room, nearly blinding young Radar on the Mac and fell behind the couch. Utilizing my quick thinking, I grabbed a shower curtain ring off the shower rod and filled in her hole. I may just fit in here after all, or if not, I could probably find something around the house to “fit in.”
Abandon seemed to like wandering around the large yard and in the adjoining woods, which was private property but Abandon is as much of an outlaw as me. I asked her, “So girl, you like this place?” She said, “I saw a few rabbits out there,” which didn’t seem to directly answer my question and reminded me of a night spent walking with the Silent Stranger in Central Park who when I would ask something like, “Where are you from?” she would answer, “I like yogurt.” I asked Abandon, “So you’ll have some friends to play with if we move here?” She said, “No, some cotton-tailed, buck-toothed bastards to tear to bits!” I made a mental note to check to see if she was taking her meds.
The other house was more distant from the business and I preferred that, as if I hang around any “group” for two long, be it a New-Age healing hug fest or health nuts or even my family, I soon want to bludgeon them all and cut them up into small pieces and feed to the subway rats, and by “subway rats” I mean the ones crawling around in the hero sandwich place that hang around the toilet for Jared Fogle to finish his dump, as Subway sandwiches and Seafood Gumbo are the only two foods that taste the same going in as coming out.
Suzie Bee told me that the second floor was huge and available and like a sugar-addicted child in a candy store, I was like, “I want that one!” So this was our oral contract: 90 hours of work a week, be it in listing, digging or yoging, in exchange for food, housing, the huge second floor—and the edition of all-I-can-pop supplements. We didn’t shake hands on it, as I just saw that she scratched her cooch and I didn’t want to get any Gorgonzola cheese on my hands, but it was a sealed deal.
I was living in the city that I had lived in and known as intimately as Thelma the skanky hooker on 8th Avenue [See “Black Box” at http://rebelyogi.com/one-little-chance]; in Poughkeepsie if you want to get blown, you have to coax the sheep by poking them in the face with your cock. NYC is the city that never sleeps; Poughkeepsie is the city that never wakes up out of its coma. NYC had tons of great restaurants; Poughkeepsie had tons of restore ants, to which you would bring all your old furniture for retouching. After twelve years living in the same apartment and two years prior living about ten blocks away in the same Hell’s Kitchen area, this was going to be a big change for me.
Soon Suzie Bee started to annoy me in her emails. I told her how I was freaking out with packing and life stresses and barely paying my bills. She ignored even acknowledging any of my challenges and would solely focus on business, telling me how I should work on flyering and mailing and door-to-door suck jobs to promote myself in Poughkeepsie. She kept repeating to me that this arrangement was not a charity, that I would be expected to work and work hard. When she started sending messages like, “I expect my new people to hit the ground running,” I couldn’t help myself but to tell her to shut the hell up already with all this nonsense, that her stuffed-up vag was probably backing up her system and turning her brain cheesy and making her sound like a fuckin’ Jew, insensitive to anything that didn’t involve how to add a dollar to the coffers or making matzah out of kidnapped Christian children.
After visiting her place, it was clear to me that Sue Bee was a natural nurturer but she was not receiving any nurturing back from the children with which she surrounded herself. I became suddenly afraid that an unspoken part of our deal would require me to carve away the epoxy in her vag with my chisel dick. I was certain she had a long-term live-in boyfriend who was like a husband but when I asked her about him I found out that he had left her awhile back, that after going down on her and puking into her mildew-ridden cavern, he had decided to do something less disgusting, like becoming a professional cesspool swimmer.
I did an energy healing session on her, hoping that this would provide her with some relief and I wouldn’t have to give send the old “wiggly wand” down the funk hole. The next week I invited her into the city where I treated her to a massage from a credit I had at a spa for doing some modeling work for them, followed by dinner. I saw that my living in Poughkeepsie was going to provide Suzie Bee with a lot more than one more computer geek trapped in front of a computer, that I would bestow onto her some of the nurturing that a 17-year old “it’s all about me” child could never. And I was glad to serve. She was like family after all. I mean, granted I hate my family…but still.
I had asked her what it was that was “alive” in her, that she really enjoyed doing and didn’t just do to pay the bills. She told me that she liked to dance and danced in these rodeo hick things for years with her boyfriend until he left her for more fertile pastures. She also said she loves cooking for people. I told her that we should try to get things going with a focus on getting her back to doing the things that she loves, namely dancing and preparing meals for people, preferably not at the same time. I was starting to breathe some life back into a woman who even Jesus after taking one wiff of her snatch would have said, “Sometimes It’s best to leave dying dogs dead.”
A week later I got an email from her asking if I was definitely in, as any oral agreement without tongue to genitals was suspect to her. I said I was in. She said that to keep the room empty for me was costing her money. I told her to rent it out until I’m ready in May. I even said I would be willing to be flexible, staying in another room until my second floor mansion opened up if she had to book it out for an extra month.
About three weeks from D-Day, she sent me an email saying that she had a room for me for only $500 a month (or 50 hours of work.) I emailed her back essentially saying, “What the fuck?” She told me that she had a Hispanic couple living in my second floor resort and that she liked the maintenance work that they were doing around the place and didn’t want them to leave. I wrote back that I didn’t really give a shit about the nice detailing they did to her yard, that the second floor palace was mine and I wanted their Spic asses out of there and deported back to Mexico.
Suzie Bee then started saying that she couldn’t kick them out right away, as they didn’t speak any English and a tenant of hers who did and could provide translation was away for another month. I started to get pissed, not only at her throwing me an excuse that was lamer than the one I gave to my Dad one youthful night of yesteryear as to why I had come home so late, “You see, and because I had a rock in my shoe, I was forced to walk home much slower, henceforth the 3:00 a.m. arrival home,” but also because while I accept bullshit as a fact of life—we have bulls and they have to shit—I won’t be spoon-fed it no matter how attractive the spoon on which it’s placed. This was my life we were talking about now, not a taco stand.
I wrote her an email saying that I needed to know exactly when my second floor mansion would be available. She told me probably by the end of July, as she didn’t feel good about throwing them out to the curb so suddenly. I told her this was unacceptable as—besides breaking our agreement—I had 12-years of accumulated crap and a small room, while perhaps suitable for fifteen Tex Mex’s, wouldn’t be adequate for me. She threw my offer to be flexible back at me. I was like, “That was if you had to push it a month—not three and not entering it with me having to scrape salsa off the walls!” I found out that she rented all her rooms out on a month-to-month basis, so her amnesty plan had no real vital necessity; she just wanted the wetbacks.
Soon Suzie Bee started to bitch about all her debt and how if she went under, her “elves” would continue to live with their parents while she would have to move to Pennsylvania and live with her sister; more shit I didn’t care about. Finally, in an email, she told me she was going to call the broker tomorrow and see if she could sell the second house—my house!
The deal was dead. It was 2 ½ weeks before my lease ended and I had nowhere to live. I was in a bind and not just because my dominatrix had just tied me up! I could deal with a little sting but what I needed from Suzie Bee was an apology for screwing up my picnic and maybe for being irresponsible and inconsiderate as well. I got nothing from her. Not even a buzz.