wendyclem dot net                                                      
email:  wendyclem@gmail.com

about me:  a profile

I should be so thin.


hair shirts
great mysteries
true crime
manageable obesity
no money woes
misspelled church marquees

people who don't take everything literally
joie de vivre
character actors
fish lips
adult diapers
my hunchback
my third eye
obscure graves

the paranormal
clever people not heeding the Siren Song
lima beans
stupid politicians
stupid cable "news"casters
sleeping in
Millard Fillmore

a sense of hummus
my penis memorabilia shelf
not buying into rhetoric
movie marathons
Comedy Central
anything forensic
the DIA
anything offbeat
Calvin Coolidge

I like food, and I promise to try and not break your furniture. (It IS steel-reinforced, right?)

I love skipping through the meadow in a flowing frock, picking wildflowers, tweeting at the birds, my face lifted to the sun's rays--------rrrrrrt *needle on a record* OK. I TRIED.

Look. Look with your special eyes...and your rubber sheets.

Guess what I found in a gift shop in Gatlinburg? A beaver finger-puppet! And, I noisily and inappropriately discovered it while two Mennonite women were searching next to me for inspirational reading selections.

Yes. I spoiled them for God.

See? Life just happens. I love being there at such pivotal moments. :)

What is it about life that make people comment about your mention of butts and penii, but no one will object to your serial-killer references? :D

Can I spell irony with a Capital Phallus?  Can I give you a colonoscopy?  Leave your shoes on.

Prepare to slog, Gentle Reader...

It may make you crawl into a fetal position, but I would describe myself as a riddle in a puddle and an enema in an eggroll. Still, others find it necessary to psycho-analyze me; you know, the typical Rainman, only without his charm, genius and wit.

Apparently I'll find the flat-lined, flaccid, and flatulent on my own, so don't be shy!

Most people haven't met me in person. Those who have are never heard from again...hee.

I love to travel, most recently to Aruba (and wasn't fully murdered), the Florida Keys, and enough of Tennessee to know they took away the camel races in Pigeon Forge and there is a Salt & Pepper Shaker Museum in Gatlinburg.

In the Keys, I got to commune with, and eat, one of Hemingway's cats with the extra toes. They are actually pretty tender when dipped in butter.

Talking about myself is hard, and I have to ass myself: Does the next Ted Bundy NEED to know where I live?

Nevertheless, the surrounding world fascinates me more than most, but I haven't -- yet -- been arrested while exploring it. Then, I write about my experiences, and take photos.

Time here has taught me to have limits. And, apparently, there is a need for rudimentary RULES:

If I can't have fun, I won't play. NO exceptions. Swim along if you don't GET HUMOR and insist on taking everything literally. I maintain the right to be me.

Don't down your customary evening fifth of Jack, then head to a keyboard to speculate on my anatomy. My GYN already sells my photos; I don't need another agent, thanks.

Long profiles are really integral to the essence of the person. If, while reading this, you become dizzy and need a nap, decide to research "butt-plug," or you need to feed your python your ex-wife's fingers, I'm not The Friend For You.

Save me the 'puter time of pointing that out when you send me a know-it-all diatribe TYYPED LIKE THSI, ok?


When the moon hits your eye
Like a big pizza pie
It's amblyopia.

My poetry is more John Lennon than Joyce C. Oates. I can do the serious crap, but I much prefer screwing around. I may age with each birthday, but I don't have to grow up. :P

It's imperative that you GET THAT. NO exceptions.

I'm a bona fide people-person, who doesn't get through a day without finding humor, picking up lucky pennies, extolling pragmatism, and trying to make the world a better place. I'm an inveterate wise-ass, including a lifetime bent toward self-deprecation.

I love finding new friends and I am OK with stretching there -- God, my pants have been doing that for years. But, meeting others should not cost anyone their soul. Or, anything else, except bail money. And my fee. More later on that...

I'm irreverent/irrelevant, but can accurately size up people pretty quickly.

I like to hear from people, but don't spam me with penile implant ads, od drone on about you when we need to talk about me.

The last thing I need is some real-life Barney Fife carrying on about his single bullet when Yoko Ono is trying to get through.

Still, humans -- retarded and not -- are actually drawn to me in real life -- some without treats. You probably pass by without a glimmer of recognition, though; I tend to Photoshop my photos. That usually takes care of the pose-able head-arm, hunchback, and interchangeable noses. Usually.

See; if I can laugh about me, expect me to laugh about almost e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.

Sometimes, I wear the moles of my ancestors in a vial around my neck, steeped in sour cream, wrapped in muslin inside of an egg roll, carried in a fanny pack. It's a family tradition. Don't ask.

Even animals sense my compassion and that I won't eat them raw. Well. Without unrefrigerated condiments. :)

Keeping up with me and the body count can be a challenge. I'm in a League of My Own Lime.

If you have a killer sense of hummus (yes, I spelled that right) or at least can understand mine without needing a Rorschach paint-by-number explanation, if you can keep your integrity when all around you are salt pillars, if you weren't a certifiable nut-job even before meeting me, if you can allow me to breathe without becoming a serial killer, pop in. Just worship me unconditionally -- without leaving once-live sacrifices on my front porch. I have enough for my collection, thank you very much.

AND IF YOU ARE COMPELLED TO ASK ABOUT PENISES? That was a part of my life I would rather not broach until we have showered in prison together, OK?

Bring your favorite merkin; an unmolested carrot; your pet roly-poly; bail; and a shiny pair of balls. Preferably your own.

When an eel lunges out
And it bites off your snout,
That's a moray. (my friend, Ran-Ran)

Don't be an eel.

I quote movies, break into spontaneous soprano aria, and pet animals instinctively. I can appreciate a good crime scene with the best of them.

I do, however, prefer to not be the victim. 

Let's file together for CCW's while dressed as Kwame and Monica, sit in church on paper toilet-seat covers, traipse through a funeral drawing pentagrams on the casket, and pretend we have Tourette's during lunch at a Chinese restaurant.

(Extra credit if you can guess which of these I have actually done in real life.)

Just in case, bring a small barnyard animal -- preferably a virgin.

Also, wear three Ove Gloves (use your imagination), be an orphan without traceable fingerprints, juice from a Bosch pear, cream cheese, and a claw-less kitty with a lot of ear fur.

Don't worry; I'm almost a licensed doctor.

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