The Mockingbirds

Marry, Fuck, Kill: Well, Get On With It

Hello all, and welcome back to another installment of Marry, Fuck, Kill, a game that is rigged so that only we 'Birds win. It's a metaphor for life, y'all. Now that your mind is blown, let's get into it by introducing the players: Dame "I Heart Tony Soprano" Derision and Countess "Where the Hell is Tom Quinn?!" auContraire, and they are hunting down Stringer Bell, Adam Carter and Don Draper.

This game's beyond the fucking game.

Countess auContraire elucidates:

MARRY:    Stringer Bell. Street smart AND book smart?! He is my dream. Sure he's a ruthless drug kingpin, but I know that snitches end up in ditches and plausible deniability is everything, so I would make the most fantabulous mob wife. The HATS and sunglasses of it all!!! I'm just as jazzed for my funeral outfit as I am for the wedding dress.

FUCK:    Adam Carter. His work schedule is too hectic for marriage and I'm too pretty to be collateral damage if one of his missions go south. It did not work out so well for the first Mrs. Carter. So delicious sexy sex with him whispering sweet Arabic nothings in my ear it is! An English spy speaking Arabic??!!! Good God, YES!!!

KILL:    Don Draper. Sorry, Don, but you gotsta die. He's a badass for the '50s and '60s, but not nearly as badass as Stringer or Adam. Can I fuck him once or thirty times before I kill him, though?

Dame Derision waxes poetically:

MARRY:    Don Draper. For reasons further explained in the next category, I have chosen the smooth and sexy, and probably the most obvious choice. If you have the gift of sight, that is all the justification I need. Furthermore, I can dig a man who was born to wear a Brooks Brothers suit, listens to Frank Sinatra and who appreciates good whisky. And, quite frankly, some of the modern men could take a cue from your style. Do I really need to say more?

FUCK:    Stringer Bell. If my boy Omar hadn't have killed you off, you'd be up there in the Marry category. But the thought of becoming a widow and then needing to flee Baltimore as soon as your body hit the cemetery are my main reasons for turning down the proposal of one of the finest men to walk the Earth. So instead, I will choose you as my man-slave until The Baroness pries you from my bedroom chambers. (Avon was not as smart as you and I always was on your team, for the record.)

KILL:    Adam Carter. I googled you.  You're pretty cute. Unfortunately, I am not as up on  my BBC watching as I should be. That being said, I have to choose you for the muerte for this round as I am not familiar with your character. My apologies, as I'm sure you'd be worthy of trying to prove me wrong.

Pour yourself a stiff one, light a cigarette and remember, you are okay.

The Mockingbirds

Marry, Fuck, Kill: Damn Fine Bunch of Men Out There

We are 'Birds living in a material world, but sometimes it's necessary to look to the virtual one for inspiration. And men. Gorgeous, gorgeous men. Yes, the rollicking adventure known as Marry, Fuck, Kill is back, now with more sci fi/fantasy/murder mystery to liven things up a bit. In this episode, our intrepid investigators are Baroness "Hey Krycek" von Jeer and Madame "Damn Fine Cup of Coffee!" Taunt, and the characters they are studying are Fox Mulder, Special Agent Dale Cooper, and Luther.

The truth is out there, in someone's pants.

The Madame quips:

MARRY:    I’m going to ignore the tons of emotional and extraterrestrial baggage involved with this man and marry former Special Agent Fox Mulder. He is smart, driven, has a perfectly dry wit and knows all the words to the Shaft theme song. We would have to evade what is left of the Syndicate and perhaps his former bosses at the FBI, but that would translate to exciting world travels, and his obsession with capital T truth would lead to spiritual enlightenment/good stories. Not a bad recipe for a marriage.

FUCK:    Luther, because he is this man, unhinged, and with an English accent. Do the math. (I can’t, I’ll be busy.)

KILL:    While Special Agent Dale Cooper is a man with intelligence, kindness, and a spiritual-like devotion to nature, coffee and pie, he is apparently morally weak, and his succumbing to evil symbolized the corruption of innocence and the general decay of society. Thusly, I should kill him before all that happens. Right? Is that how it would work? Is that an owl?! HELP.

The Baroness states, in exposition that is wittily crafted:

MARRY:    Luther. It's true that he comes with a lot of baggage- his first wife was murdered, he has a thing with a serial killer who's on the lam- but he lives in London and he's obsessed by his work. I will be left to my own devices in the best city in the world quite often.

 

FUCK:    Mulder. He's smart, cute, and has got a great sense of humor, but commitment is not an option. He's a porn-addicted, Elvis devotee whose partner/love interest carries a gun that she uses freely, sometimes even on him. Not worth it.

 

KILL:    Special Agent Dale Cooper. This is a necessary evil, as it were. While he possesses a ton of great qualities- intelligence, looks, a deeply-rooted enthusiasm for coffee- if I recall correctly he is also possessed by the scariest spirit in the history of the universe. A spirit who tortures and eventually kills his possessees. It's for the best for both Agent Cooper and my 10-year-old self who didn't sleep for weeks after the "Who Killed Laura Palmer" episode.

We are not alone in the universe, except maybe in the metaphorical sense, at least after this madness. But our pursuit of the sexy truth is unrelenting. Sorry about that.

Does it look like we're joking?

The Mockingbirds

Marry, Fuck, Kill: And The Band Played On

And on and on, and so forth and henceforth, et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum. We will leave no stone unturned and no male untouched as we Mockingbirds marry, fuck and kill our way across the globe. We are still evaluating musical folk, and in this round the players are Dame "Jack White is The New Black" Derision and Baroness "Newsted Doesn't Get Enough Love" von Jeer, and the playees are, in alphabetical order, Lenny Kravitz, Lars Ulrich and Thom Yorke.

Bang a gong or something of that ilk.

The Dame in sotto voce: (This is a perplexing set of choices because whom I pick to kill, might in a most unfortunate ironic turn, cause not one, but two fellow 'Birds to kill me. You, readers, are my witnesses, just in case this winds up being my last post.)

MARRY:    Thom Yorke. This is not the choice for 99.9% of the masses, but I do not care nor does that keep me from choosing him as my lawfully wedded husband. I would be surrounded by musical genius and would gladly become his baby machine. Please note that I do not say this about anyone. There are only a few living, breathing men that I could say this about, so you best know I'm not kidding. Did I mention that if my soul could sing, it would sound like his voice? Mock me all you want about his uneven eyes or spastic dancing. I. Love. Him. No...really, can we make this happen? Please?

FUCK:    Lenny Kravitz, as I will gladly take sloppy seconds from Denise Huxtable if he will sing my favorite songs off of Mama Said to me after he catches his breath. While we spoon. What can I say? The man is hot, whether it's long dreads, short dreads or no hair at all. He also happens to be a Gemini, his middle name is Albert (which is a great fucking name) and his mom was on The Jeffersons.  Hel-lo, bonus points.

KILL:    Lars Ulrich. I'm sorry, Baroness and Madame, you know I, too, loves me some Metallica (METALLICA4EVA!) and all, but poor Lars just can't come into my bedroom.  Unless he's going to set up his drum set and play for me. Despite having the requisite awesome qualities like being a drummer in a band I love, unfortunately it is his physical traits (as well as the fact he's up against Thom and Lenny) that disqualify him altogether.  He just doesn't meet the minimum height requirement necessary to gain entrance into this palace.


The Baroness strums her acoustic thoughtfully:

MARRY:    Mr. Ulrich. I know this seems like it would be a knee jerk reaction for me to choose to marry a Metallican. But, in the interest of fully participating in the exercise, I considered several factors before arriving at my final decision. Like, could I marry someone when there is no physical attraction? (I share The Madame's inability to view the musicians I love most in a sexual way. Besides, he prefers women who are taller than him, and I prefer men who are taller than me. Since we are the same height, it'll never work. I guess you could say we see eye to eye. Ha!) And, could I handle his incessant talking? This is particularly problematic for me as I talk almost as much as him. I don't think we would be able to convince people to hang out with us. Except for Kirk. Kirk does whatever Lars says.
 
FUCK:    Lenny Kravitz. He's gorgeous, friendly, laid back (even if it's chemically induced), and since I can't stand his music, I won't feel like a groupie.

KILL:    Thom Yorke. As a general rule, I try not to judge artists by the quality of their fan base. But Thom Yorke fans are, for the most part, the most self-serious, self-righteous and blowhardy people on the planet. It makes it hard to see past that, and I can't resist the opportunity to see their faces upon hearing the news that their savior is no longer with us.


The end. And this truly is the day the music died.

No, we are not above making that joke,

The Mockingbirds

Marry, Fuck, Kill: Music Is in the Air

And it is also in our hearts and pants, for we are about to partake in another round of Marry, Fuck, Kill, a game of wits and a comedy of manners, with pictures. We are ladies of the world, in case you have forgotten, and as such we are exploring the fine art of music, evaluating the dudes it has to offer. Up first are, in no particular order, Andre 3000, James Hetfield and Chris Cornell, to be judged by Madame "Metallica seems like such a nice band" Taunt and Julee "Sucker DJs" auContraire.

Let us get down on this.

The Countess sings (quite well, actually): (This one's both frightening and fascinating. On one hand, whatever I do to James Hetfield will probably get me murdered (most likely via icy Medusa-esque stare down) by The Madame. But on the other hand, I am so interested to see if she does some crazy marry-fuck-murder-suicide combo on James that I'm willing to play this out.)

MARRY:    Andre 3000. What he lacks in my height requirement, he more than makes up for in being the dapperest dude around. My music collection would be multiplied by amazing. Our children would have dazzling, dimpled smiles. And now I can get Gillette products on a deep discount.

FUCK:    Chris Cornell, because why the hell not? Once he showered and deep conditioned his hair, he was totally doable.

KILL:    James Hetfield. Now that I think about it, James needs to die so I can test out whether using a mirror will save me from The Madame's death stare. It's for science!

The Madame yells with devil horns raised: (St. Anger is better than ReLoad. Also, my icy stare is not necessarily lethal, but it did give The Countess all of her gray hairs. Science, indeed.)

MARRY:    Jaymz, because, having not a groupie-like nature, I have never looked at the Metallica boys in that way. Not at all. So I'm thinking a nice, sexless marriage will do me fine, and Mr. Hetfield and I can wile away the years listening to some righteous tunes, comparing hairstyles, and generally being moody and sarcastic together. And then I will make a "little drummer boy" joke about Lars and we will laugh and laugh. It'll be pretty great.

FUCK:    Chris Cornell, because I like to connect with my fellow pasty types on the physical level from time to time.

KILL:    Andre 3000, because he looks better in plaid pants than I ever will. Jealousy is an ugly thing, but I am woman enough to admit when it has me beat. Also, it has been approximately 800 years and I still have moments when I can't get that damn "Hey Ya!" song out of my head. Not a bad jam, but I'm going to file this choice under musical revenge.

This has been better than a Grammys telecast, but only slightly. Come back for more shenanigans next week, when The Baroness and The Dame mold Lionel Richie's head out of clay, blindfolded.

It's only a mockblog, but we like it,

The Mockingbirds

Marry, Fuck, Kill: Sliding Into Home

 
When you're fabulous and leading a double life (one of intrepid bloggers with hearts of coal and the other being pretty drunks who are pretty drunk) you don't have time to make sports metaphors that make sense. You just dive right the fuck in to another round of Marry, Fuck, Kill. We have some dudes: Rafael Nadal, Tim Tebow and Dwyane Wade. We also have some chicks to throw the judgment down: Countess "Texans Rule" auContraire and Baroness "Husker Nation" von Jeer.

Insert your own boxing joke, thanks, and let's go.

The Baroness communicates through hand signals:

MARRY:    Rafa! Not only is he a precious little lamb who orchestrated one of the most legendary wins in Wimbeldon history, but he makes his home in Mallorca and I could travel with him on the ATP tour. It goes many worthwhile places. I would also very much like for him to introduce me to Marat Safin and then negotiate the terms of an open marriage.

FUCK:    Dwyane Wade. Full disclosure: I know very little about the NBA and the athletes that populate it. Look, he's obviously hot, but he can't be trusted in a relationship, right? Am I thinking of the right guy? And isn't he one of the three chosen ones on the Miami Heat? One night stand it is!

KILL:    Tim Tebow. This pains me. I grew quite fond of him last season; he's seriously good looking with the body of a Greek adonis; and I really want to see him debunk the current prevailing wisdom regarding what a successful NFL quarterback looks like and what his skill set needs to be. But, he kind of leaves me no choice. I can't marry him (what would I do with an Evangelical Christian from Florida who was homeschooled his whole life?) and I can't fuck him (please refer to the part where he is an Evangelical Christian). The worst part is, I think I'm doing John Elway a solid. I do hate John Elway.

The Countess does the wave and yells:

MARRY:    Tim Tebow, because I've been told that opposites attract. He's a world class athlete. I am a world class drinker. I think I read somewhere that he doesn't swear. I curse all fucking day. He's anti-abortion. I'm anti-government uterus control. He's against premarital sex. I don't believe in buying the cow when you can get the milk for free. We should get along famously.

FUCK:   Dwayne Wade. He's a tall drink of luscious-lipped chocolate, even if he does play for the stupidly overrated Heat. Lebron, be damned.

KILL:    Rafael Nadal. Sorry, Venus and Serena, I really tried, but I can't be bothered with tennis. So the only time I ever see this kid, he's all sweaty, hair pasted to his neck. Not remotely sexy.


The picks have been made in the sex draft, and some of these lovely lads did not survive. It's a cold world, and even colder here at Casa Mockingbird (when we are out of booze). But thank you for playing, and always remember this: John Elway is an idiot.

We shall return,

The Mockingbirds

Marry, Fuck, Kill: Rocks for Jocks

Does that title make sense? Does life make sense? No and no. It is all tomfoolery so get on board. We are back from a slight break to marry, fuck and kill our way through the population, this time around focusing on the more athletically inclined. The participants this time are Dame “Laker 4 Life” Derision and Madame “Go Big Red” Taunt, and the jocks are, in no particular order, Victor Cruz, David Beckham and Jeremy Lin.

Watch out for tip off jokes.

The Dame chants: 
(The fact that The Madame didn't include a Laker in this round makes me slightly sad, nor was I given the opportunity to kill off Mark Cuban in an official capacity, but she did do me the favor of not including anything referring to a Tebow or a Roethlisberger, so I guess it's a draw.)

MARRY:    Jeremy Lin. Why isn't Dwight Howard in this mix?  Because that's who I'd want to pick. This choice is mostly due to strategy. If I can marry this young, up-and-coming-star of the NBA, I am banking on my chances of distracting him enough off of the court to not be able to play well on the court. Specifically when New York is playing Los Angeles. This man went to Harvard. He was born in L.A., raised in California and went from the D-Team to Starting in less than three months. This man isn't even thirty years old but he's got a solid future and, most importantly, he can introduce me to Dwight Howard.

FUCK:    David Beckham, as if there's even a question as to why?
And also because I don't know if I'd want permanent sloppy seconds to a Spice Girl. (Give me a week and I'll tell you if he was able to convince me otherwise.)

KILL:    Victor Cruz, because I'm sorry, I've never even heard of you. When I looked you up on the internets it informed that you not only play in the NFL on the East Coast but were also born in the later part of the 1980s. Though you play football, you will understand this baseball reference: Three strikes and you're out.


Madame Taunt cheers:
(I don't really understand why it isn't football season right now.)

MARRY:    I’m going to choose Jeremy Lin for he went to Harvard which of course means he is smart and that our kids will be smart and even if they are stupid they can still go to Harvard. That’s covering the angles fairly well. Also, he seems like a pretty together dude and I’m thinking it might be nice to try “normal” and “stable” for a change.

FUCK:    Have you seen Mr. Cruz do his touchdown salsa dance? Into the bedroom, good sir!

KILL:    Oh Becks, you are so pretty and so very well-built but that voice. THAT. VOICE. It is like nails on a chalkboard to the tune of a Bieber song. Not even an English accent can save that nasally whine, and I fear that I would not be able to last three minutes listening to that before I threw myself in front of a Lamborghini Gallardo (that’s how I want to die, for the glamour and headlines) so this is just self-preservation.


This was a thrilling little display of strategy and athleticism, wasn't it? Like...cricket. With pictures of hot men. (The Mockingbirds, always on the cutting edge.) Come back for more awesomeness as the game is afoot, and will be for some time.

The Mockingbirds

Marry, Fuck, Kill: Worse? How Can It Get Any Worse?!

We press on with this exercise, ignoring the locusts and sweeping up the dust that used to be The Baroness and The Madame. We do it for you, we do it for humanity, we do it because our senses of humor are not just sick, they're terminal. Come with us, won't you?

This round of hypothetical deity interaction involves Jesus, Buddha and Mercury aka Hermes, and the ladies doing the marrying, fucking and killing are Dame "Opiate of the Masses" Derision and Countess "Holy Hand Grenade" auContraire. Hark, the herald angels do sing.

The Countess declares:
(First, let us pray: Dear Lord, forgive the task The Madame has placed before me. She is a faithless heathen with a Metallica addiction, and knows not what she asks. Amen.)
 
MARRY:     Hermes, as he is the messenger to the gods. I love gossip. He is the protector of many things, including shepherds, wit, athletes, and money. I love meat, snappy comebacks, chiseled bods, and money. Dude has winged sandals, which I'm pretty sure I get a pair of on our wedding night. I love sandals. But most importantly, he has GOT to have the hook up at the Hermes store. I LOVE scarves.

FUCK:     Buddha. Two words: Kama Sutra.

KILL:     Jesus. It just took me three Hail Marys to type this, and I'm not Catholic. But I don't have what it takes to be a bride of Jesus, with the celibacy, the silence, the nunnery full of ladies all cycled up together. No, thanks. Sexing Jesus is totally out of the question, cuz ew. So my only option is to kill Him, which is a-okay since He'll rise again and forgive my murderous rage.


The Dame says:
("One man's theology, is another man's belly laugh."  That being said, let's do this, heathens!)

MARRY:     Buddha, because let's face it, he's going to be the most understanding of the contenders here, no smelly brimstone funk and because he's a little more portly than the rest, he won't have any body image issues with his wife. Plus, since his religion has been around a hell of a lot longer than certain Christians on this list, I've got a better chance of avoiding that pesky place called Hell. He seems like he'd be a generous lover and with such a peaceful expression on his face all the time, it wouldn't be so bad spooning him as I drift off into sleep every night. And besides, what's the point of killing a man who is just going to turn around and be reincarnated several times over again anyway?

FUCK:    Mercury/Hermes, because he has a strong face, his footwear is sassy and he's known to be in tight with all of the Greek and Roman gods, so he'd be fun to go to parties with. Conveniently, though, he is said to be the inventor of all arts and the god of travel and trade, so he'd be a booty call that bears presents. Bonus! And, since he's the messenger of the gods, I'm hoping he can put in a good word for me with Eros, as that guy still owes me one.

KILL:    Jesus. Call it a gut feeling or just simple math, but he's the only one left. That's just a lot of pressure to have to live up to some Virgin named Mary's standards for her precious son. Mother-in-laws are tough as it is, I don't need that kind of pressure. Plus, give him a few days and he'll be on his feet again.

Well, it's been nice knowing you. We are officially out of 'Birds with that bit of blasphemous action. Or not, who really knows? The universe is but a mystery, and we are fucking resilient.

See you at the dance clubs, Mercury!

The Mockingbirds

 

Marry, Fuck, Kill: Jehovah! Jehovah!

 
It’s a new year, a new dawn, a new era for us Mockingbirds, one full of hope and beauty and where we take the inevitable step from simple agitators to full on blasphemers. It feels good to be home.

You may recall we have been dabbling in the Marry, Fuck, Kill arts, somewhat casually, but we feel we’re ready to get really real, as the saying goes. This round we will be hypothesizing about deities, higher powers, actual gods (instead of gods among men). The subjects are Yahweh, Ganesha and Pluto aka Hades, and the stone throwers are Baroness “Agnosticism is not a Disease” von Jeer and Madame “Loyal Opposition” Taunt. Can we get an "Amen"? Thanks. Let's get on this.

Madame Taunt says, Blessed are the cheese makers, and also:

MARRY:    Yahweh, because all of the fear He has inspired in me has evolved into respect, and that is a criteria on this blog (and in real life in a strange twist of events) for a marriage partner. The one hitch would be all the rules He has (apparently there are lots!) and how they would affect every aspect of my life, even the eating parts; I do suspect, however, that He could introduce me to Spielberg so I could definitely work within those confines.

FUCK:    Having to do more with convenience than anything, I choose to fuck Pluto because I will be spending much time in the underworld (read: all of eternity). Plus, the Greek gods have the physiques that inspire Daniel Craig, so you know, YES.

KILL:    I am choosing to kill Ganesha mostly due to a process of elimination thing and my own ignorance. I am aware that Ganesha is the god of knowledge but he has yet to bestow much knowledge of Hinduism upon me, so this his fate. Logic. (Unless naan is part of its belief system? I know much about naan.) Anyway, ethnocentrism rears its ugly head and I apologize.


The Baroness says, You are all individuals! as well as:

MARRY:    Pluto/Hades.  The joke is trite, but I will be surrounded by friends in the
underworld. And, isn't metal the soundtrack in hell?  I do like metal.
 
FUCK:    Yahweh. He has no fewer than 613 commandments to follow. You can't speak his name. Your face melts off if you try to look at him. In short, he's too scary too marry. (Rhymes!) But! He's also too scary to kill. So, this is really the best place for him.
 
KILL:    Ganesha. This is also primarily due to process of elimination. And since he's all concerned with learning and the arts, and not something powerful like war or thunder, he seems pretty easy to kill as far as gods go. I am all about conserving energy these days.


Well, our hand basket is waiting so we will leave you with this deep analysis to ponder over a nice glass of wine, the appropriate drink. And as is our way, we will be back with another exciting installment of this Marry, Fuck, Kill series as we know you are all dying for it.

Watch out for lightning,

The Mockingbirds

Marry, Fuck, Kill: Worst Case Scenario, Take Two

Storm clouds gather, Jesus weeps and kittens spontaneously combust: the nightmare never seems to end as we Mockingbirds engage in the sordid, tortuous challenge known as Marry, Fuck, Kill. We must decide the fates of people we don't even know, and we must do it now. Some will be blessed, some will get laid and some will sleep with the fishes depending on our whims and blood alcohol levels. The "men" in this round are Shia LaBoeuf, Arnold Schwarzenneger and Axl Rose, and the judges are Madame "Hiccup" Taunt and Countess "Shots!" auContraire.

Let's get down on this.


The Madame says:

(Side note: Have you ever tried twelve Harvey Wallbangers? It’s real nice.)

MARRY:    I’m going to marry Shia LaBoeuf because this seems like a pretty solid way to meet Spielberg, which would of course be an honor and way awesome and also step one in
my plan to avenge the atrocity that is The Crystal Skull, a plan so secret that I can’t tell you and I am not entirely sure exists. Also, this is probably a good way to deal with whatever legal ramifications may arise from interactions with this kid who is like 13, right? Whatever.

FUCK:    Arnold Schwarzenegger- that’s why they’re called Harvey Wallbangers, amirite?! And I thank you. This can’t be that bad because he’s in really good shape but the kind of shape where it will all be over soon plus after another three of these cocktails I won’t remember anyway so there.

KILL:    Axl Rose must die because he screwed Slash out of not only millions of dollars but also the rights to some pretty righteous rock songs but mostly because he nearly got Metallica killed by inciting a riot in Montreal when Jaymz needed to get to the hospital and FOR THAT HE MUST PAY. He will die slowly, listening to Master of Puppets (the album!). Unless he is already dead, which recent pictures seem to suggest, so this was pointless. Metallica 4EVA!
The Countess says:

(Side note: Let me begin by saying, “Eeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!” and “I hate this…a lot.” Okay, let’s go.)

MARRY:    Ahhnold. He’ll be too busy chasing maids and getting his face pulled back even more to touch me, and I’ll get mad cash in the divorce. Win!

FUCK:    Shia LaBoeuf because he’ll be too busy to talk. 

KILL:    Axl Rose, and this is a tough one because I initially found him the clear choice for Marry. Guns 'N' Roses is the shit and his relaxation app is without peer. So of the three heinous choices, he is the only one whose body of work I appreciate. But if I kill Axl, I’m pretty sure Slash will both fuck AND marry me, thereby making me Champion of The World!

Okay. Well, that was horrifying, but not without its bright spots. We are going to need the holiday season to recover from this particular exercise, but we will be back, perhaps in full effect, and it shall be glorious.

Peace be with you (but not you LaBoeuf),

The Mockingbirds

Marry, Fuck, Kill: Worst Case Scenario, Round One

This twisted experiment, a battle of wills and a trier of souls, continues on. If you are lost, just look here to be reminded of the glory and the agony, and the rest of us with reading comprehension skills shall proceed into that good night.

This round is darker, a bit more intense, as the participants have been forced to look into the abyss and decide which of the following they would like to marry or fuck or kill: Marilyn Manson, Billy Ray Cyrus and Kelsey Grammer. The suckers playing at present are Baroness "The Baroness" von Jeer and Dame "The Dame" Derision. May God protect them and watch over them or at least let the surviving 'Birds know all their passwords.

The Baroness says:

(Side note: Even as I was playing the first time around, I knew this Marry, Fuck, Kill game was too good to be true. I cannot find the words to fully express my dismay when The Madame revealed the three men amongst which The Dame and I are forced to choose. I say this far too often, but this time I seriously threw up a little bit in my mouth. Our backs are against the proverbial wall, and I, for one, am not taking it lying down.)

 

MARRY:    Kelsey Grammer, subject to the following conditions precedent: 1) he becomes a eunuch; and 2) I receive a frontal lobotomy. 

 

FUCK:    Marilyn Manson, subject to the following conditions precedent (in no particular order): 1) full sensory deprivation; and 2) backup drugs.

 

KILL:    Billy Ray Cyrus, subject to the following conditions precedent: 1) I get a time machine so that I can kill him prior to a) the release of "Achy-Breaky Heart", and b) the conception of Miley; 2) I first get to use said time machine to ensure that his cameo in Mullholland Drive is protected.


The Dame says:

(Side note: Thanks to these choices, I was forced into a mental health hospital for a few days for fear that The Madame might actually call my bluff and force me to marry my choice. On the upside, I can't say I'd shed a tear if I was able to rid the world of the elder mulleted Cyrus. If a gun (or one of The Madame's other choice weapons) was put to my head and I was involuntarily coerced, these are my picks.)

MARRY:    Kelsey Grammer, simply because I could turn around and divorce him, after signing a pre-nup that The Baroness has written that commands a severe exit fee and expressly forbids any actual sex with aforementioned spouse, that will hereto be referred to as the "future ex-douche". It would just be too creepy to hear Sideshow Bob whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Later after the press dies down following our split, Bravo TV will offer Camille and I (and the other two ex-wives) a reality show where we can dish about his small dick and his other...shortcomings.

FUCK:    Marilyn Manson, because from my perspective, he is the most eligible of these men, given the limited range of mobility we've been given. Neither of us would feel anything though because I'd make him wear a box-worth of condoms since he has been inside of Evan Rachel Wood. At the very least we might be able to share makeup tricks. These are the tough choices in life we have to make, people.

KILL:    Billy Ray Cyrus, and I have to say this was the easy one. His mullet, his one-hit-wonder-of-a-shit-country-song and his offspring all compel me to cast him to the fiery pits of Mordoor.

So that happened. We should point out that no creepy stars were actually harmed during the production of this post. Do with that information what you will.

There will be more and there will be blood.

Until then,

The Mockingbirds