Goodbye, 2004, Goodbye. Don't Let the Door Hit You on Your Fat, Skanky Ass

Well, well. New Year's Eve is almost upon us -- my favorite time of the year.



Some of you may be thinking, But why, Ms. Lori? Why is New Year's Eve your favorite time of the year?.



So, for you beautiful, curious freaks, I have assembled a short list of reasons:



11) Booze.



2) Mad Cow Sticks (tiny tortillas wrapped around beef of questionable origin).



33) Stuffed mushrooms.



90) Port wine cheese slathered on fancy crackers -- crackers that are never, ever purchased any other time of the year due to their exorbitant cost.



7) Scary movies -- unfortunately (or fortunately, depending) half of which are not watched because I’m busy laughing at my husband’s antics, such as his “blind boy from Deliverance” impression, and his always sensational “Hi, I’m a dorky yet ruthless slumlord” impression. Wait, scratch that one -- he really is a dorky yet ruthless slumlord. Never mind.



19) The ball. You know what I’m talking about. It’s so much more than a glittering metaphor; it’s literally getting rid of the old, as Dick Clark knows all too well. -- it’s a well-kept secret, one that I’m privy to, that Mr. Clark loses five old years as the new one emerges. By the time 2015 rolls around, Dick Clark will be hosting the show in Pampers and footie jammies, his toothless mouth gumming the microphone as he babbles nonsense talk to the crowd. All hail Baby Dick!



76) Drunken sex. Nothing more sublime than goofy, drunken sex at 2:00 a.m. I think that this year, I’ll dress up as Martha Stewart and Lar can be the sadistic, grossly unattractive warden. Yee haw!



Die, 2004, year of hell, year of shit! Die!



Happy, happy new year, everyone!

Hey, Haters -- A Little Black Magic to Ruin Your Day

Just a quick note to those who hate my blog. I‘ve been silent for far too long:



I’m hurt. Full of sorrow. And because you gaggle of no-talent, boring, cheesy loons make yourselves feel better by stomping on my little princess, I hate you more than you hate me.



So, as a show of reciprocal hatred, my way of getting back at you for dinging me with abysmal ratings, I will now throw some voodoo your way.



May God have mercy on your souls.



(My blog, for those who aren’t aware, is possessed of supernatural powers; whenever I wish for something, it’s generally granted within the week.)



My wish begins....



1



2



3



NOW!



I sincerely wish that Patti LaBelle, wearing nothing but a chiffon negligee, wakes you at 5:00 a.m. on New Years Day by shrieking her rendition of “Over the Rainbow” outside your bedroom window. I also hope that she bursts into your home wielding a dirty frying pan, some past-due date sausage and old, old eggs, and insists on making you breakfast. I hope she ties you to your kitchen table and forces you at forkpoint to eat every last morsel, then accompanies you to the toilet and belts out “Lady Marmalade” as you vomit.



Cheers!

The Lady is a Tramp

Could be due to lack of sleep, could be the hormones, or, quite simply, it just could be that I really, really despise Patti LaBelle -- whatever the reason for this post of snark, I witnessed an abomination to top all abominations on the A&E channel, December 23, starring the flamboyant and ever so annoying Ms. LaBelle. She “performed” for the Nobel Peace Prize laureate, Wangari Maathai, alongside Cyndi Lauper (who I adore), Tony Bennet (dear Jesus, haven't seen the dude in quite a while, but I‘ll be damned if his nose hasn't sprouted arms and legs), with Oprah Winfrey and the delicious Tom Cruise hosting the event. Others performed as well, but I missed most of the first half. Anyway.



Mr. Bennet’s voice was in good form as he spun round the stage in typical septuagenarian style, a little careful, a bit shaky as he whirled and weaved to and fro. Was nervous that he might teeter off balance there for a minute, but he did just fine. I was glad when his set ended.



Then came Patti. Overblown, gargantuan Patti, imposing, disturbing, raucous Patti, who swept in like a garish hot air balloon and devoured the stage lights, just sucked them in black hole-like, along with a few of the audience members who’d been unlucky enough to have front row seats. Nightmarish as that was, the real terror was only beginning. Patti put her hands together in rhythmic time, her paddywackers clacking to the opening beats of the most beloved homage to skanky whores ever written -- “Lady Marmalade.”



Yes, dears, you read that right -- Ms. LaBelle chose to honor the esteemed Wangari Maathai with a song about whoring, and never a prouder moment existed within the realm of TVLand. I sat dumbstruck, my mouth dribbling a thin line of drool as I watched the debacle. My friend O, just as dumbstruck, dropped her cigarette, thus burning a hole in her tutu, and proceeded to rock back and forth muttering “Clowns...I see scary clowns...clowns...”



But it only got worse. Ms. LaBelle thought it a good idea to invite various mentally challenged men from the international audience to join her on stage, goaded them, chided them to dance for her, to sing, to humiliate themselves before God and their countrymen. She cruelly flitted about, pranced and hooved around the unfortunates, her face gleaming as she batted her two foot long false eyelashes at them, reveling in their obvious stupor. Then, oh sweet mercy pie, then...she lifted her dress, almost but not quite exposing her ancient nether regions, kicked her legs high, uncomfortably high as she thrust her hips and shook her gigantic bosoms in the faces of the terrified men.



This lasted for the good part of an hour, I kid you not.



gitchy, gitchy, ya ya...



It went on and on and on.



gitchy, gitchy da da here...



The camera cut to Ms. Maathai, and she was politely swaying, applauding, smiling -- but I knew what she was really thinking. Ms. Maathai was thinking, “I see clowns...scary clowns....”



I’m sure she ran for the exit soon as the performance was over, jumped on the waiting jet, downed many alcoholic beverages during her flight back home, then, upon arriving, knelt to the tarmac and kissed it gently, murmured grateful things to her god, then collapsed with relief under the golden African sun.



To Ms Maathai: I hereby regret the horror you were forced to endure, and I, on behalf of all right-thinking Americans, officially apologize. We are deeply sorry, and we are not about to let Ms. LaBelle’s actions go unpunished. There will be a public wet sponge throwing, tentatively scheduled for January 15, 2005, in the city of Los Angeles, state of California, to be held in the Kodak Theater at 5:00 p.m. Pacific time. The honorable Arnold Schwarzenegger will, if schedule allows, preside, and perhaps throw the first sponge, but that’s all up in the air at this point in time. Again, our sincere apologies, and may you deem us worthy for future visits.

A Christmas Greeting From Ms. Lori and a Couple of Little Devils

There are few people in cyberworld that make me laugh out loud -- Keef happens to be one of those few. I also have a tremendous, wholly innocent crush on this man, and have for almost three years now.



I want to adopt him, his wife, and their little cat, too, have them come live with me for all eternity. Yes, that's correct -- I want to adopt a grown man and his family.



That is my Christmas wish. Well, I'd originally wished for world peace, but I think the odds are leaning more toward grown man-adoption, so I'll go with that.



If there really is a Santa Claus, I'll have me a fine Texan family under my tree tomorrow morning. I'm so excited!



And to all of you crazy, beautiful OWM readers: May you have a holiday filled with laughter. May you wake on Christmas morning with a cramp in your face from laughing so hard. May you eat lots of goodies and not gain an ounce of assfat. May you drink till you drop and not have a hangover. May your significant other dress up as a perverted elf and ravish you all night long. May your children allow you to sleep past five a.m., and may your extended families not drive you so insane, you tear the Christmas tree from its stand and heave it across the room, then rip every single hair out of your head while dancing in circles, alternately chanting Gregorian style and weeping uncontrollably, occasionally screaming epithets in the horrified faces of your loved ones.



I sincerely mean that. Have a merry, folks.

The Entry I Was Going to Write Yesterday, But Was Too Shook Up To Do So

As I mentioned in my previous post, I am severely sleep-deprived -- not earth shattering news, especially to those who suffer from insomnia. Many, many people suffer as I do, and I’m sure they are sympathetic, understand exactly how terrible this affliction can be. But there is one difference between how my brain handles sleep deprivation and how most others’ do -- if I am lucky enough to drift off for a few precious moments, I always -- always -- dream about giving birth.



The other night was no exception. I’d spent most the night fitfully dozing off and on, comatose, body paralyzed with exhaustion, yet aware of the cat purring on my chest, her nose-air fluttering my eyelashes (she enjoys sleeping on my chest, her furry face perhaps a half inch from mine -- I do believe she wants to climb inside my mouth, which is a terrifying thought, one that may be attributing to my insomnia), and during one of my rare moments of total unconsciousness, I dreamt.



I was heavily pregnant, lumbering along in a field of corn, wearing a ripped Sex Pistols T-shirt and Doc Martins, when suddenly, the urge to push overwhelmed me. At that moment, I knew I had to get to a hospital, so, of course, I found myself walking the corridors of a maternity ward, my ass hanging out of a too small gown. I was ignored by the nurses and doctors floating past me (I’m always ignored in my birthing dreams), despite my cries for help. So I lay on the floor, right there in front of David Bowie and John Kerry, and began to grunt like a wild boar, pushing with all my might. I was so over the whole humiliation thing, considering I’d done this maybe three hundred times before.



And miraculously, without pain, without blood or fluid or flying F-words (why can’t real-life birth be this easy?), I produced a squalling infant at the feet of David Bowie. He nodded and smiled as if to say “good job,” then promptly disappeared. At this point, I had no reason to care about John Kerry’s whereabouts, for I was upset that the baby was still attached to me, the umbilical cord swaying, undulating. Due to being ignored by hospital staff, I realized that I had to somehow sever the cord myself, and I was filled with revulsion, for I had no cutting implements. I did not want to bite the cord, did not want to touch that alien thing with my bare fingers, no way in hell. I had no choice but to get up, baby cradled in my arms, and go in search of a pair of scissors.



As luck would have it, there happened to be a pair sticking out of the wall. Oh joy! I set about the task ahead with some trepidation, but managed, with eyes closed, to swiftly separate myself from my child. It was then that I felt comfortable enough to revel in my baby’s beauty, to take in every inch of her sweet fatness and rosebud skin, her downy blonde hair and perfect little fingers, and oh, I did. I did. And upon discovering the tiny cloven feet, I began to scream.



Baby Girl was not as she first appeared to be -- Baby Girl was in fact, Baby Cow.



Evidently, I was the unwitting guinea pig in a revolutionary gene-splicing research project, and this excited the heretofore inattentive staff, so much so, there was a great celebration with balloons and a marching band, and grotesquely made-up clowns.



I woke in tears, the dear scent of my baby cow lingering, and I wept even harder as I entered full consciousness. The memory of her haunted me throughout the rest of the day, and even as I write this, I miss her.



Creepy? You bet. But she was my baby cow, dammit. You couldn't possibly understand.

Cookies and Toilets: A Most Interesting Discussion

Well, because Christmas is almost here, ready to smash me into little bits of quivering flesh, I probably won’t be blogging much over the next week or so. Gotta do stuff. Stuff I don’t wanna do. Like, bake many cookies. And buy more presents. And bake many cookies.



It’s an all-week affair, the cookie baking. I do the doughs, put them in the refrigerator until the next day, sometimes for two days, cut them out into sweet old pedophilic figures (a.k.a. Santa Claus, Michael Jackson, R. Kelly, etc.), bake them, then decorate them, usually that night or next morning. My lovely friend O and her daughter will be helping with the decorating, as is tradition. O, if you’re reading, bring Tequila and crack -- I ran out this past weekend.



Now wasn’t that interesting? Should I now recount how I clean my toilets? I don’t wear gloves, you know. That’s right, I don’t wear gloves. I hate the feel of rubber, the smell of it, so I use huge wads of sturdy paper towel to scrub the Dow Bathroom Cleaner off until my toilets shine like a baboon’s ass (those little bubbles really do talk!). Also, I refuse to use toilet brushes, because really, who wants a germy poop stick leaning up against their bathroom wall? Not I!



Then comes the hard part: I bleach my hands, making sure to soak my nails for, oh, an hour, then rinse, apply antibacterial soap, lather for, oh, an hour, rinse, repeat as necessary.



So y’all don’t have to worry that I’m serving E-coli cookies or anything. I’m very clean.



Wow! This entry is so goddamn fabulous, I feel like breaking into song!



The sun’ll come out

Tomorrow

Bet yer bottom dollar that

Tomorrow

There’ll be suuuun



Christ, someone shoot me dead before I sprout wings. Whatever that means.



See that? Insanity! I’m still sleep deprived, worse than ever. I had a bad night, which I was going to write about today, but can’t bring myself to do just yet. Perhaps tomorrow. ‘Cause there’ll be sun and shit.



Feh.

Molested by Satan!

WARNING: The following contains explicit description of extreme acts of affection, and may cause nausea, vomiting and sharp chest pains. I strongly advise individuals of a standoffish nature, or those with heart conditions, to proceed with caution.

**********************************************************



My husband and I were molested Saturday night, and honestly, I doubt we’ll ever be the same again. Traumatized beyond all imagination, Lar and I have been drinking heavily ever since that unfortunate occurrence, so please forgive any typos I may miss with this post. Also, I am severely sleep-deprived, so some aspects of this entry might come across as nonsensical to you. For that, I apologize in advance. I will do my best to describe what happened to us, in full, lurid detail, despite the pain and humiliation it may cause me.



Onward, then.



Saturday began as any other -- screaming children, meowing cat, poop diapers -- with the exception of one thing: it was party day. My daughter’s belated birthday party, a sleepover type affair to begin at 4:00 p.m., was fast approaching, and there was plenty yet to do. I’d cleaned the house the day before in anticipation of the inevitable trashing it would receive, and I had already assembled the goodie bags, bathed the children, smoked my allotted amount of crack, and fed the animals by 8:00 a.m. -- but I still had a long road ahead. Had to bake the cake, finish laundry, check e-mail, take a shower, among other assorted essentials. I succeeded in all but the cake -- inexplicably, the fucking cake shrunk to the size of a doughnut, and I, already precariously teetering on the edge of my twenty-first nervous breakdown, dived full-on into the merciful depths of insanity. I had to feed fifteen people with a doughnut, and my mind simply couldn’t handle that fact.



The rest of the day and night that followed are hazy due to my catatonic state, but I will do my best to recollect the events. Again, I must insist on readers’ caution.



So 4:00 p.m. finally arrived, and upon its arrival, the gateway to Hell did open, as expected. Satan’s minions slipped into my home that dark afternoon, mischievous, sticky, wicked, loud, and thusly, the term “all hell broke loose” became more than a cliché -- it became truth for me. But I handled it well, thanks to the frequent gulps of courage I’d furtively poured into my “coffee” cup. My cup ranneth over.



Everything went along smoothly -- well, as smoothly as one can expect from demonic home-possession -- until the arrival of the last guest, that is. Unbeknownst to me, that precious child with the innocent brown eyes and bouncy pigtails was the daughter of Satan himself, and helplessly, I was forced to invite Beezlebub, The Prince of Darkness, Old Scratch, into my humble abode. As some of you may already be aware, when one invites Satan into one’s home, it is considered to be the most unholiest of all acts, and one will experience torments of unimaginable proportions.



Satan, disguised as an attractive African-American woman with a lovely, sweet voice, appeared, at first, as any other young mom; he patted his offspring on the head, gave her a kiss, handed my daughter the offspring’s sleeping bag and pillow, then....Oh, then...that is when Satan began to reveal his true self.



He followed me about the house, never leaving my side, inspected my good and clean home with faux appreciation, oooooing, ahhhing, asking about the woodwork, the paint, feigning interest in the wall paper. He was very, very good, but then Satan isn’t known as the Father of Lies for nothing.



And just as we were about to exchange our goodbyes, his eyes glowed with hellfire, and the stink of brimstone permeated the foyer, alerting me to his real identity. I froze. He smiled, an awful, malicious grin that sickened me to the center of my soul. He stepped close to me, closer, closer still, and then he...he hugged me. Satan grabbed me round my shoulders, roughly brought me to his chest, and he hugged me.



I must’ve gone into shock, as I was helpless when Satan then slithered toward my husband -- I could do nothing to prevent what was about to happen next...



He grabbed my Lar in a bear hug, seized him by the arms and pulled Lar to his bosom, swung Lar to and fro as if Lar were a mere rag doll. I could watch no more, and as silent tears welled up in my eyes, I looked away, focused on the happily playing minions as they laughed and danced across my living room floor. I thought the worst was over, that Satan, having had his fun, would now leave, go back to Hell from whence he came. But no, that wasn’t to be. He is a sadistic one, that Satan. Instead of waving and calling it a night, the Dark Father remained, taunting me and Lar by asking more questions, peeking into the rest of our home, eyes ablaze, saying things like, “we must get together soon -- my husband would love to meet you.” Dear God.



And as he spoke, it was within inches of my face, a close-talker like I’d never seen before, an abomination of all that is acceptable, normal human behavior. I nearly collapsed when he once again grabbed me, hugged me tight like I was his bitch.



Satan continued his torture for more than twenty minutes, hugging both me and my husband a total of three times before he finally vanished, leaving a trail of Chanel No.5 in his evil, evil wake.



It was at that moment that I allowed myself to drop to my knees, and as my husband cradled my head, I wept tears of relief. It was over.



Till the next morning, when Satan would be retrieving his tiny progeny. Needless to say, I hid in my office that morning, until it was safe. I left Lar to fend for himself, and for that I am truly sorry. But Lar is a stronger person than I. And yes, he got his satanic bear hug, and yes, my husband is still angry with me for abandoning him in his time of need, but I am weak.



I am weak.

Beat Me, Daddy, Eight to the Bar

Jack Black, Jack Black, I love you, you know

From the top of your skull to the tip of your toe

Your eyes, how they spin round your orbital sockets

How I love you, Jack Black, down to the lint in your pockets



Your mouth, rictus, and your teeth, chattering song

Make me weak, make me hungry, make me sing right along

Tenacious D make me wanna go Black and never go back

You, honey bee (not Kyle Gass), are the real daddy mack



Sunrise, sunset, and the day in between

Is filled with Jack Black -- hey! -- you’re really keen!

So give me a sign, O monkey-like one, show me that you care

I’ll come when you call, anytime, anywhere



I will make your bed, I will cook, dust and mop

I will make your home sparkle and feed you till you pop

Christ, Jack Black, I’ll even wash your shorts and socks

Or meticulously repair all the wiring in your home so you never get shocks



Hear me, Sir Teddy Bear, Sir Wild and Wooly

I’d be a good wife, and would submit to you fully

No headaches or excuses, oh, no, not from me

Lori's drive-thru would always be open for Jack Black the Mighty



So marry me, lover, make me a happy girl

And give me your heart, your soul and your pearl

Buy me diamonds and rubies and things made of gold

And I’ll make you happy until you are really freaking old

A Manifesto of Sorts

Someone commented yesterday that "it must be exhausting" to think up all of the things I write about here on OWM. And my answer to that darling doll (who, btw, is simply gorgeous and shouldn’t be worrying over “sucking it in”) would be: No. Absolutely not. I find writing whatever pops into my tiny and slightly pointed head extremely easy. Hence my chosen career as a writer. I am embarrassingly incompetent with most everything else in life (except motherhood -- I am Earth Mother extraordinaire, if I do say so myself. Well, except on the days I feel like taking two meat skewers and plunging them straight into both eyes, making sure to twist real good, but only after I first take a turkey baster and suck out my eardrums until I am sufficiently blind and deaf). Words are a limitless wonder for me.



What is exhausting, however, is working the writing around my other obligations. I need solitude in order to write, especially fiction or poetry, and in my house, solitude is about as common as two-headed hyenas giving birth on my living room floor. But I grab what little there is, regardless of the unfortunate guilt many mothers feel when they do something just for themselves; I write through the angry demands, the occasional disapproval of my husband, the time stolen that might best be given to my kids, but is not. Because I am selfishly in love with words. And sometimes I feel so much guilt over that fact, it clouds my imagination even when I am given solitude.



That is what exhausts me and makes me want to say fuckitall.



I won't, though, because I can't. I must write, and I must be read, whether by scores of folks who happen to buy the books and magazines I'm published in, or only by the few who might enjoy my insane ramblings here. Which leads me to this: I am someone who finds it very difficult to comfortably converse with others face to face -- I can't bear chatrooms, even -- so writing is my way of connecting to the outside world. It keeps me from being a (less violent) Ted Kaczynski.



I'm known as the weird horror writer lady in my neighborhood due to my hermit-like existence. I realize that I'm seen as aloof, unfriendly, scary, and it bothers me to some degree. even though I should be used to the "weird" label by now. I was the weird little girl in grammar school, the weird hot chick in high school, and now the weird horror writer lady who never comes over for coffee or attends neighborhood doings. But don't feel sorry for me, because I wouldn't have it any other way -- I like being left alone, and I like having my husband, kids and a couple of close friends as my only company. I love my cyber friends. That way, I don't have to put on a mask, pretend that it's not hard to look others in the eye, to make small talk. I don't have to smile and laugh when I seriously don't want to; I don't have to conform to what's considered "appropriate" behavior. That, too, is what exhausts me, that pretense, that stress of trying to fit in.



I'll be damned if I put on a mask here, in my own space.



I decided long ago that since I will be me forever, I should accept who I am without apology, without shame. I like me, and I couldn't care less about those who don't. They can all hitch a ride on the flying monkey's ass, as far as I'm concerned.

Michele and Wayne: The True Story

As some of you may know, Michele Agnew is known far and wide as the Arm Wrestling Champion, Las Vegas, 1997. She captured her title by beating legendary crooner, Wayne Newton -- impressive to say the least.



What you may not know, however, is that Ms. Agnew also had a torrid affair with Mr. Newton. I know this to be the truth because I was there. And it wasn't pretty.



It all started with Michele calling me up one day complaining that she was bored...



MICHELE: Let's do something wacky, Lori. Something totally nuts and terribly frivolous!



long pause



ME: Okay? Like?



MICHELE: Hang on, hon -- I dropped my snapping turtle.



ME: Micheeeeele! [said with frustration] I thought you said you were putting that thing back in the creek.



MICHELE: Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I was thinking, why not go to Vegas? I mean, I've never been. Have you?



scritchy, snappy, yawning sounds



ME: Michele, put the turtle down. And no, I haven't been. I heard it smells like pee.



MICHELE: Come on! It'll be fun! We could get really drunk and pelt the Boobs on Ice girls with Raisinettes!



ME: Well, now that you put it that way...Sure! Las Vegas, here we come!



And so it began. Michele and I arrived that night in Las Vegas, Nevada; we were hungry, tired, and PMSing like hell. We needed to drink. We needed two burly cowboys in sequined thongs. So after we unpacked, put on our whoriest outfits (she in a gold lame' mini, me in a black lace bustier and clear platform shoes), we hit the Strip.



What a sight! What beauty and horror we beheld! It was almost overwhelming, but after a few shots of Jose Cuervo and a couple of Corona each, we began to feel right at home. We were shit-faced beyond what is feminine, especially Michele. And I think that's what appealed to the proprietor of Howdy Dude's Bar & Arm-Wrestling Extravaganza. Apparently, he scouts out attractive, shit-faced women in the hopes that they will participate in his bi-weekly arm-wrestling tournaments. He saw Michele and had to have her.



She, of course, agreed to his meager offering of free booze and, should she win, the sixty-seven dollar purse.



She murdered her first opponent right off the bat -- brought his arm down in two minutes flat. The fact that the unfortunate man had no fingers is irrelevant.



Her second foe, a three hundred pound beast named Dinky, was a bit more challenging. Michele almost lost it there, but she pulled out her secret weapon, her lip gloss, and applied it so heavily, the brutish Dinky became blinded by her glowing, laser-like mouth.



Her third and final opponent was a complete surprise to all involved -- Wayne Newton himself strolled up to the table and sat down opposite Michele. We just about died. The strobe lights swirled, the bee-hived ladies squealed, and the D.J. spun the great Newton classic Danke Shoen. It was magical.



But it didn't sway Michele, not in the least. She fought like a tigress hungry for gazelle cake, she humbled that black-haired messiah and made him whimper. By the end of that bout, not only had Michele won the purse, she won Wayne Newton's heart.



To make a long and possibly pornographic story short, they didn't leave his hotel room for the rest of the weekend. I was forced to entertain myself by shooting pool with transvestites and stuffing dollar bills into vibrating, glittering packages made of gold and silver and ruby.



I slept with Mike Tyson, too, but that's a whole other ball of earwax.



Anyway, Michele and Wayne broke up on Sunday morning due to the fact that she was made ill by Wayne's hair dye -- poor girl not only broke out in giant hives, she hallucinated and sang show tunes. It was awful.



On the trip home, Michele swore me to secrecy, made me promise that I would never, ever tell a soul about our lost weekend in Vegas. I patted her bumpy head and crossed my heart. And I kept my promise for almost nine years, regardless of the tabloids offering thousands for my story, Dateline pounding on my door...I kept my promise. Till now.



Forgive me, Michele, but the world deserves to know.

I'm Not Like Most Girls

I am a girl who blurts out incredibly stupid things for no reason at all. I am delighted with the sound and feel of certain words, the taste, so I indulge myself on a regular basis, oftentimes frightening some individuals who aren’t familiar with my, er...habit.



Last night was a prime example of scaring the uninitiated, of forcing an acquaintance to shuffle their feet, lower their eyes, wish to hell they could just click their heels three times and disappear from my home.



I was up in my office, see, and I didn’t realize that we had company -- adult company. My daughter’s little friend was over, that much I did know, but my unusual word-blurting doesn’t seem to bother the young ones, so I don’t censor myself around children. I throw out the odd word or phrase, sometimes song lyrics, with abandon, regardless of who’s present -- as long as it’s a person under the age of sixteen, or family, or close friends.



I’m strange, yes, but I’m not hopeless. Got it?



All right then. So I bounded down the stairs with the intention of starting dinner, and as I happily danced down into the hallway, I felt the need to yell, “In the year 2525, if man is still alive!” And it was good. And it was right. So I yelled it once more, this time with feeling: “In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”



Now, many of you are probably too young to know what of I shrieked. The above is from a song, popular back in the late sixties, early seventies, appropriately titled “In the Year 2525 .“ Abysmal song, really, yet very enjoyable to blurt when one is about to prepare chicken casserole.



“In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”



Of course, I don’t know the rest of the song as I hadn't heard or even thought of it in years (I was just a toddler when it was popular), but that matters not one whit. The whole point of my uttering those particular words was how they felt to me, how they tasted (like M&Ms and kidney beans with a bit of hotdog thrown in), and damn it, it’s my house and I can shout whatever I please. If you happen to enter my home while I’m in the throes of making sweet, sweet word love, and you find yourself uncomfortable beyond what you can handle, then that’s your problem. You should ring my doorbell before entering, yes? If you sneak in quietly, perhaps thinking that just because our door is unlocked it’s an invitation to step on in unannounced to retrieve your child, then I guarantee you a most uncomfortable time indeed.



You all can see where I’m going with this, I bet.



And you would be correct in assuming that as I turned the corner and entered my kitchen,



“In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”



I found myself staring into the eyes of a terrified, shoe-clicking woman who only wanted to take her child home for dinner, but who, unfortunately, had unwittingly entered the Twilight Zone.



“In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”



She quickly looked down at her feet, as is the norm, maybe even peed in her pants a little, as I cheerily greeted her with a “Why, hello!” and a “Come to get Heather, did you?”



I could read her mind. I heard her thoughts, every single one of them, and they weren’t nice ones. She thought me insane, she feared for her precious Heather, wanted to hold her daughter close and run like the wind, never to darken my doorstep ever again.



I probably should've been embarrassed, but as this entry's title suggests...



So goodbye, Heather’s mom. Goodbye to you and your nasty little Heather, mean, boogery, dirty-handed Heather who never washes up after using the bathroom. Good bye, and God bless. May you have recurring nightmares about this night for years and years to come.



***Insert maniacal laughter interspersed with choking sounds***

Ariel

You

Are garlanded with gold and silver waves

Delicate blue lines, crisscrossing, intersecting

Beneath daisy-white skin

A map that leads straight to my heart

Ariel

The conundrum of my soul

An enigma made of obsidian, crystalline femininity

A force to be reckoned with

Whose eyes blaze with knowledge and

Poetry

Fierce gray determination, threatening, promising

Like a gathering tempest

Captivating all who get caught up in

Your gale-force wit and

Wild, magnetic spirit

There’s no shelter, no break wall

Or sandy shield

Just swirling winds, a breezy, powder-scented

Hurricane

Made of fire and cool water and soft gossamer

Virtue

Unpredictable, all encompassing, a lamb

A lioness who lies down

When the skies open up

And the merciful rain comes tumbling, tumbling

Down upon my arid desert core

And coaxes the forgotten seedlings

The sleeping flowers, fantasy-bright, the color of dream

To emerge, to blossom, to follow

In the wake of your innocent storm



Happy birthday, baby girl.



I love you.



--Mom

I Couldn't Give a Flying Monkey's Ass About "Rules"

So I just deleted a post, the one I wrote earlier today titled "When I Call You Baby, I Mean That Literally."



It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.



I stick my tongue out to those who scoff at bloggers deleting posts. I pull down my pants and moon them, and I pick my nose and pretend like I'm putting boogers in their coffee. That's how much I care about their "rules."



I wrote "When I Call You Baby..." because I had to. For mental health reasons. It was a beautiful post, sad and angsty and full of woe. It was a shining example of utter egotism and blatant self-worship; it was horrific, humanistic, spiritual, and naked as naked gets. It also was disturbing as hell, and I realize that. Apologies to anyone who happened to accidentally witness my twentieth nervous breakdown.



But, it had to be written. And now I am clean. So bye bye post -- you served your purpose well, but are no longer needed. Have a lovely trip into the wild blue ether.



And to you Blog People, whoever you are with your pod-like personas and silly rules, you self-appointed kings and queens of Blogland: Bite it.

Do You Ever Feel Like Biting an Animal?

I do. My teeth ache with the desire to bite when I gaze into an especially cute furry face. Is that wrong? To want to bite a cute furry face with its sweet pink nose and its adorable fat cheeks?



Of course, it's wrong. It's sick is what it is. But this pathological desire has haunted me since childhood -- as a child, whenever I felt my teeth tingling while looking into the eyes of my trusting kitties, my loyal doggies, my twitchy, retarded teddy bear hamsters, I would immediately reach for something rubbery to sink my teeth into, like a Barbie leg or some Bubblicious bubble gum, and just bite, man. Just gnaw like the dickens.



Unfortunately, I no longer have Barbie legs handy, and since I learned that Bubblicious is made with spider eggs, I don't indulge anymore, so nowadays, I just clench my teeth together real tight. My mouth waters something awful, too, and this horrible squeal erupts from my throat, a squeal of love and hunger and insanity.



How freaking Cro-Magnon am I, anyway?



So, the reason I brought this up is that last night, my youngest daughter finally got her life's wish and received a hamster for one of her birthday presents. Her father and I dillydallied for ages about this acquisition because really, when a family of six already lives with a mentally disturbed cat and a hissy little bitch of a bearded dragon in a small ranch home, there's no need for one more pooping, stinking, "oh, mom will take care of it" mouth to feed in the household, is there?



But we relented, and thus came Kendra.



Oh, my dear, motherless lord. The minute I set eyes upon Kendra, sweet little Kendra of the fat ass and big ears, tasty Kendra of the cutest face ever created, the familiar tingling hit my teeth quicker than you could say perverted sicko!



And to make matters worse, Kendra was riding along in her spiffy pink sports car, just gliding along the floor, her tiny legs spinning madly, fat ass wiggling away with the effort...I swear to Christ I grabbed my daughter's Bratz doll and chewed its fucking arm off.



Well, not really. That's just fantasy. But I did clench my teeth, and I did salivate, and yes, I did indeed squeal, much to the dismay of my children, the horror of my husband. I squealed and squealed and squealed, said things like, "Look at the cutie weenie! Oh, mommy loves the tweet tweeter poop! Squeeeeech! Squeeeeeal!"



I was out of control. Dangerously so.



Luckily, my husband had the presence of mind to slap me upside the head or I might just have popped that delicious critter in my mouth, you know? Thank God for Lar.

Cybill Shepherd Charged With Terror!

Los Angeles (Reuters)--

Actress Cybill Shepherd, best known for her leading roles in Moonlighting (opposite Bruce Willis), her self-titled 1995 sitcom Cybill , and her supporting role in the 1976 film classic Taxi Driver, was charged Tuesday morning for terrifying young children, often resulting in odd bedtime behavior, bed-wetting, and violent tantrums.



According to Jennifer Lutz of Bakersfield, Ms. Shepherd "has turned my Brian from a happy-go-lucky child into a fearful, sleep-deprived zombie." Ms. Lutz went on to say, "If there is any justice in this world, Cybill Shepherd will pay for all of the damage she has done."



Along with four hundred other outraged parents, Ms. Lutz has filed a fifteen million dollar suit against Ms. Shepherd on behalf of the traumatized children, claiming extreme pain and suffering.



During her arraignment, Ms. Shepherd, whose head was covered by a dark blue burka which had been duct-taped around her neck, presumably to prevent accidental slippage, pleaded not guilty.



Ms. Shepherd's personal makeup artist and hair designer, both charged with misdemeanor criminal mischief, were released on their own recognizance.

People Who I Love But Are Beginning to Freak Me Out

Ally Sheedy: Dear God in heaven, what happened to that woman? Such a fine actor, such a lovely lady, yet she’s now in the C-list ghetto, mostly portraying (unconvincingly, I might add) lesbians in peril in exploitative films that are, shall we say, less than mediocre. Her performances of late -- well, the past two years or so -- are grievous displays of public humiliation and extreme boredom. I almost expect her to turn to the cameras and say, “What the fuck?” I can’t be alone in my confusion and rage, can I?



Bill Clinton: Okay, I realize that I’m going to sound awfully shallow here, cruel as all get out, but come on, what the hell’s up with his nose lately? I love this man, Hillary knows I do, but since his unfortunate health problems, his poor nose has expanded to gigantic proportions. Like, W.C. Fields proportions. I don’t like that. Not one bit.



Jon Voight: Oh, how I loved, loved, loved him. Ever since I was a wee child, I’ve had the hots for Mr. Voight. His face is wonderful still, and his acting is brilliant as ever, but...I don’t know...This whole thing with Angelina is just creepy. His embarrassing media junkets last year, filled with tears and accusations and puffy concern, made my stomach hurt. And he accuses her of being nuts? No more love for him --at least not until he starts on some Prozac. Or something.



Leif Garret: My childhood crush, if only for a year. He was so adorable then with his poufy blonde locks and almond-shaped blue eyes. Now he’s a wearer of do-rags, and if there’s anything that disturbs me more than a baseball cap-wearing man, it’s a man who wears a do-rag 24/7 -- ostensibly to hide a bald pate. Please, guys, stop that shit immediately. Men are supposed to bald -- ever hear of testosterone? The more you have, the greater the hair loss. Be bald and be proud of your potent hormones.



Julia Roberts: I liked her in Mystic Pizza, loved her in Pretty Woman, but I can’t stand her anymore. Every movie she’s done since is just Julia being herself, and that’s not acting. Her mouth bothers me. Her nose bothers me. And she's a homewrecker to boot. I find her repulsive, if you want to know the truth.



Nicole Kidman: Only Jesus knows why Ms. Kidman has morphed into a six foot tall anorexic elf who could convincingly play the long lost sister in a made for T.V. movie about the Jackson family.



Stephen King: All right, I still dream about being married to the man (shut up, you -- different strokes for different folks), but when I saw his interview with Jon Stewart a few days ago on The Daily Show, I was irritated mightily by Steve’s throaty gurgle-clicks every time he pronounced a word with an “L” in it. What up, my brother? Might you have been ill that night? Sore throat, maybe? I hope so, because if this gurgle-click thing is here to stay, I no longer want you as my man.



My youngest brother: Handsome (he‘s a cross between a young Keanu Reeves and Collin Farrell), intelligent, talented (he writes) -- yet he needs a boot in the ass something awful. And that’s all I’ll say on that subject.



Ernest Angley: There was a time when this ancient televangelist’s antics amused me. My late father got me into this early Sunday morning program when I was but a tot -- he would howl all through the program, even weeping with laughter on one occasion. I get my sardonic wit and appreciation of all things offbeat from my dad. But, although Angley seems like a truly nice man -- in his thirty plus years of bellowing “baby!” at hopeful deaf folks, there have been no shady investigative reports about him on 60 Minutes, no hookers, crack, or most surprising of all, fraud -- I can no longer gaze upon him without wanting to hurl. Could be his advanced age (old men should never, ever have hair that resembles a Ken doll’s) or it could just be that after thirty years of intermittent gawking at his bellowing and parishioner-flinging (as some of you may have witnessed, Angley is famous for shrieking “heal!” and then knocking the disabled believers onto their asses by the sheer power of his healing hand) , it has, like Angley, gotten too old for anyone’s pleasure.



That, my babies, was only eight people out of the hundreds and hundreds of People Who I Love But Are Beginning to Freak Me Out. More to come. But I think I'll wait until I'm good and drunk for the next go-around; being this mean while lucid puts too much of a drain on my conscience.

I'm Glad I Wasn't There

***Warning: Offensive language, use of the “N” word***



My husband came home last night, his face in its usual repose (his facial muscles are capable of only two expressions -- placidity and nonchalance), popped open a cold one, sat down at the kitchen table and said this:



“There was this old lady at the store tonight.”



The kids were screaming, as usual, and I was trying to fry still-frozen ground round. Well, stabbing it violently is what I was really doing, chipping it into a bust of Hillary Clinton in the hopes that it would make the meat thaw faster. Anyway, I didn’t bother to look up from my masterpiece when I asked him “Yeah, and...?”



Lar’s not one to willingly elaborate; stories must be dragged from his mouth by two dozen wild horses, and on occasion, a punch to the head.



He took a long swing, wiped his mouth and said, “Well, I was waiting in line, you know, and there was this old lady behind me with a cartful of toilet paper and oranges, and she...she...”



“She what?” Damn you, Lar, and your clam-like mouth. I left Hillary to melt (her chin had shrunk down nicely, and her eye sockets collapsed inward so that she resembled Renee Zellweger -- good going) and sat down at the table, stole Lar’s beer, drank it down. “She what, Lar?”



He fidgeted nervously. “She said some pretty bad things to the cashier. You know, while the cashier was ringing up my stuff.”



“Things?”



“Yeah. All of a sudden she just yelled at the cashier, and it sucked big time.”



“What did she yell, Lar? The suspense is killing me.”



He put his head down and muttered, “She yelled ‘stop talking about me, you fucking nigger! I know what you‘re doing! Stop it, you whore!’” He got up to get another beer. “It sucked really bad.”



Now, as horrible as this is, I started laughing. Why? Because if you knew my husband... Lar is one of the shyest, most laid back individuals I have ever known. He is a man who avoids confrontation at all costs (he did save a man’s life once, but that’s for another time) -- we’ve fought maybe five or six times in our entire fifteen years of marriage due to his hatred of confrontation or drama in any way shape or form. He is easily embarrassed, and his cheeks turn bright cherry-red whenever he is faced with adversity or sticky situations of any kind. His left eye twitches unmercifully.



I couldn’t help but imagine his twitching eye, his cherry-red cheeks -- I selfishly enjoyed the terribly uncomfortable situation my Lar was forced to endure, and I laughed like the insensitive ass I am.



“It isn’t funny, Lori. It sucked.”



His face burned bright at the memory, his eye began to flutter, so I laughed even harder.



“So what did the cashier do? What did you do?”



“Nothing. I just kind of gave the old bitch a nasty look, and the girl finished ringing me up, like she hadn’t heard a thing, then I got the hell away from there. Crazy old bitch.”



Then the sickness of the whole situation hit me, the serious humiliation of all involved, and I stopped laughing. I felt so badly for the cashier, badly for the obviously insane old woman, badly for Lar. My soul ached. Lar was right, of course -- it wasn't funny. Not in the least.



I gave my husband a quick hug, and went back to chipping at Renee Zellweger’s now completely flattened face.



The goulash turned out pretty good.

DOG!

I love my husband, heaven knows I do. But I’m only human, and humans, every so often, develop crushes. That said, I have developed a crush, and I am not the least bit ashamed to admit the severity of this crush, nor am I ashamed of who has captured my fast-beating heart: Dog, the Bounty Hunter.



For those of you not familiar with Duane “Dog” Chapman, the world famous bounty hunter, please allow me the privilege of introducing you:



Isn’t he just the dreamiest?



I do believe that the Dog is masculine beauty personified, both physically and spiritually -- he is macho, beefy goodness in its purest form, male with a capital M who is not only frighteningly aggressive, but is also in touch with his feminine side. He is sweetness and light, dark shadows and creeping vines, a child-man, a teacher, an avenger. He is zen.



I’m insanely envious of his wife, Beth (who I also love, but, you know, not in that way. Well, unless I was really, really drunk...).



I love you, Dog. I want you to be my daddy.



How do I love thee? Well, let me count the ways, bra:



1) Your craggy face, lined with untold experience, hardship and joy, love and brute anger, thrills me.

2) Your saggy eyes, so puppy-like yet so menacing. When you crinkle them in amusement, I melt.

3) Your forearms, thick as uncut slabs of Canadian bacon, and your hands, big as King Kong’s, only not as hairy, cause my womb to quiver.

4) The mace that swings from the side of your hip is but a phallic tease that fuels my fantasies. Swing it, daddy.

5) The handcuffs. I cannot elaborate, for I am incapable of writing good pornography.. But you get my drift.

6) Your voice, deep and commanding, cracked from years of screaming “You’re under arrest, bitch!” leaves me weak.

7) Your integrity.

8) Your patience.

9) Your humanitarianism

10) Your gorgeous son, Leland, whose hand I now humbly ask for marriage -- not to me, of course, but to my eldest daughter the minute she turns eighteen.



Dog, the Bounty Hunter will air its last show of the season next Tuesday, 10 p.m. Eastern time, on A&E.



How will I survive?

Salma Hayek's Eyebrows

Have you ever seen a movie that resonated within you like a swarm of bees, that made sleep impossible for all of the buzzing and wild wings beating against your heart, your very essence? Rare is the film that does that to me, and last night I experienced one such film -- Frida, starring (and co-produced by) Salma Hayek as Frida Kahlo, the Mexican/communist/bisexual/totally intoxicating/tragic/divine surrealist painter who made her mark in the thirties.



I’m ashamed to admit that I’d not heard of Frida Kahlo before Ms. Hayek’s critically acclaimed portrayal -- I’m woefully ignorant of the artworld -- but was curious to see this film based on (and this is really embarrassing) the eyebrows.



Yes, the eyebrows fascinated me to no end; though I’d not heard of the amazing Frida Kahlo, the notion that Salma Hayek would paste a carpet to her forehead intrigued me. As it turns out, it is so much more than the eyebrows. Pardon the humungous understatement.



Salma Hayek proved, to me at least, that this woman is much deeper, darker than her celebrity face, that she is capable of pulling out the demons within and making them dance for our entertainment with an ease that is both disturbing and disarming. And with Frida, Salma Hayek shows the world that she’s a chick to be reckoned with. She’s no ball of exotic fluff, rather she’s an intense, passionate, crazy-smart individual who has the shiny brass not to allow the box of generic Hollywood sex goddess be closed up around her.



She takes risks and does so with a relish not seen since...well, forever. Sure, actors like Charlize Theron (who I adore) display some mighty chops when given the chance (few and far between, unfortunately -- Hollywood likes to keep its pretty young things nice and unthreatening, male-friendly, if you will), but Salma Hayek, particularly in Frida, blows a big hole in the theory that women can’t be dominating, visceral geniuses who also happen to be the ultimate male fantasy.



Put Pamela Anderson side by side with Salma Hayek, and I guarantee that any man with at least five working brain cells would immediately drop to his knees before Salma. She deserves to be worshipped, not for her preternatural outer beauty, but for what burns within her. To put it simply, her performance in Frida is outstanding, unusual, gut-wrenching and inspirational. She peels back the feminine mystique with grace and spectacular aplomb, yet stirs it all up with down and dirty stark realism, with raw sexuality and blinding presence. She brought Frida to life, made her familiar, as if I’d always known of this great artist, and by its conclusion, Frida Kahlo became my hero.



Could another actor have pulled this off? Maybe, but I doubt it.



It was well after midnight when the film ended, yet I couldn’t help but go online and look up everything Frida. I devoured thumbnails of her art, stories about her remarkable life, until two a.m.. I had to stop myself from staying up the rest of the night.



Ms. Hayek’s got herself a brand new admirer, and because of her, so does Frida Kahlo.

Why Are Some People So Damn Stupid? Why Do They Exist? Why, God, Why?

Jesus H. Christ, he did it again.



This asshole [URL deleted -- for the time being], the plagiarist who stole my work last month has reposted my work under a different title. I wouldn’t have known if someone hadn’t just informed me of this. Thanks to that kind soul.



I am at my wits’ end. Now this dick has actually insinuated that I plagiarized him?



This is the letter I just posted on his blog:



DELETE MY WORK FROM YOUR BLOG, PLAGIARIST!



You initially took my work down (you originally retitled my post, [title deleted] to [title deleted]), yet someone has recently informed me that my post is still up. Indeed it is, retitled yet again as [title deleted].



Then, to add insult to injury, you dare add a disclaimer insinuating that I plagiarized YOU?! Are you freaking kidding me?



Look, you retarded mass of donkey testicles, I was nice at first, wrote to you that it was cool if you wanted to quote my words, or even post my entry in full, as long as you gave me credit, but you ignored me until you were pressured by others. I thought the matter was over with. And now I see that you not only republished my words as your own, but added that laughable and entirely preposterous disclaimer?! And the sick thing is that you actually have this posted on here:



“Copyright and courtesy

Never ask someone to make you a layout, to help with your site or show you how to do a certain script or graphic effect that they have on their site, unless they specifically offer their help. There are plenty of tutorials available to help you, just use a search engine to find what you need.

Never use anything off a person's site, be it writing, images or html code, unless they say otherwise. People are very attached to their work and don't usually respond well when others help themselves to it.

Copyright is protected by law and in effect the minute something is created, whether the author has a © notice or not. There are online tools where you can learn about copyright laws like What is Copyright? and Redistribution In Graphics Has To Stop.”



Listen to me, freak, and listen good -- not for nothing, but I’m a well-published writer who gets PAID for my work, [OMG, could I possibly sound more pompous?] who respects the written word much too much to even entertain the idea of plagiarism -- your accusations are not only laughable, they are grounds for a defamation suit.



My blog is my marketing tool, my way of reaching out to my readers. [Again, someone hit me the pomposity stick] You tread on dangerous territory here, bitch. [Look how tough I am!]



Plagiarists are scum, and your behavior regarding this whole matter is proof of how disillusioned and unimaginative you really are. You should be ashamed of yourself. Your mother should be ashamed. You should get a life and do something original and positive with it rather than making others miserable.



Addendum: He removed my work from his blog -- for the time being -- so I erased his name, website and the blog titles. For the time being, of course. 'Cause, you know, I'm cool like that.

Bah, Humbug!

Yeah, that's right, bitches, I'm the Scrooge of Thanksgiving. And, as per usual, I'm expecting three visitors tonight, which is why I'm now drinking heavily in anticipation.



That one ghost with the chains scares me most of all, but he is the most necessary of the three. He looks like Bill O'Reilly, only with dreadlocks, and he forces me to eat suspicious-smelling pie while regaling me with stories about his penis, Frankie Joe. It's highly entertaining psychological horror at its best, and it teaches me a lesson about how I should appreciate my good fortune, my family and health. I always but always give thanks -- sincerely give thanks -- after he visits.



Excellent. Now that the obligatory Thanksgiving talk is out of the way, I must now order you to go forth and read this.



My lovely soul sister, O, be the author, and this little flash kicked my Scroogy ass.



Go and show her some love, why don't you?

Spyware Violates My Whore!

Humph. Been a very hard past couple of days, brothers and sisters. Been fighting persistent Satanic crap that was, as always, downloaded via my daughters' favorite kiddie sites, and let me tell you now -- I'm ready for my nineteenth nervous breakdown.



My computer never was one to run smoothly and nice-nice. My computer (who I've affectionately named Whore), tries her slutty best to get up off her back and do some work despite the fact she comes from bad blood -- the HP Pavilion family -- and wears dial-up rags instead of DSL couture, but my poor Whore is invariably knocked back down and ravished by spyware and the like every single time. I'm beginning to think she likes it.



Companies that force themselves on our Whores should be violated in return. It is a grave invasion of privacy, a serious, intrusive act that costs millions of us money, time, and sanity. It's not just the pop-ups or the fact that some of these bastards are able to track our every move, perhaps even gather personal and financial information that could be used for nefarious purposes, it's also what their products do to the well-being of our Whores. It makes our Whores skittish, untrustworthy, undependable -- they never do return to pre-assault behavior. Gang rape on a regular basis will do that, I suppose.



I'd like to see a law passed that punishes these violators but good. I'm appalled that their criminal, immoral activities have been allowed to continue thus far without serious repercussions. I propose that these behemoth pigs, who I always imagine as looking somewhat inbred with their crossed eyes and hanging noses, their lips dripping with shit, be subject to the following:



1) Immediate seizure of company assets

2) Public whipping

3) Public humiliation, which would include branding of foreheads with the word "Asshole," and, if male, forced Brazilian waxes. Female violators will be ordered to wear large black beards which will be sewn on offenders' chins by government sanctioned seamstress cum dominatrix.



I plan on writing my congresswoman, Louise Slaughter, detailing what I have just proposed, and I urge you all to do the same. If there is a God, my little fantasy will soon become reality.

Nipples!

I'm sure you all will be pleased to know that I was bombarded by nipples this past weekend. It started innocently enough, this nipple bombardment, with my boy, Mr. Butler, approaching me on Friday with the fear that his nipple had somehow disappeared. I laughed it off, of course, because really, aside from David Blaine's famous nipple-melting illusion, how could a nipple disappear into thin air?



So I continued making the beds, feeding the animals, wiping counters, all the while Mr. Butler following me around from task to task repeatedly complaining about his lost nipple. Well, after about forty minutes or so, Mr. B ceased to be satisfied with my "mmmm hmmm's" and "yes, honey, your nipple went bye-bye, didn't it?" and he proceeded to throw a fit, throwing his arms, stomping his fat little feet and screaming, “Stupid Mommy! No nipple! No nipple, Mommy! Wahhhhh!”



I was embarrassed for him and his divaesque behavior -- Momma didn’t raise no Elton John.



I'd had enough of this nipple talk, and my hands were shaking with Windex withdrawal -- I knew that if I didn’t appease my tiny Elton, I might not get my Windex fix until later in the day, and that just wouldn’t do. So I bent down before him and inspected his nippleage. And true to Christ, if he didn’t lose a nipple.



Mr. Butler lost a nipple.



The one nipple was fine -- tiny pink nub of nothing, but fine -- the other, however, was but a miniscule dent, a pale slash, like the head of screw. Dismayed, I lay with Mr. B on the couch and willed the lost nipple to reappear, attempted to locate the nipple with my nipple-raising super powers. Alas, the nipple remained inverted. I tried gently poking at it, talking to it, telling it jokes, but it refused to come out of hiding.



It was then that I felt myself enter the horrible vortex known as Irrational Paranoid Hypochondria by Proxy (IPHP). Some of you may know what I’m talking about. My mommy instinct bellowed “cancer!” and due to the confusing effects of the vortex, it seemed completely plausible that my two-year-old would develop a case of breast cancer.



I wasn’t thinking in my right mind, obviously, and it wasn’t until after I’d put Mr. B in the bathtub on that chilly morning, that I realized how far gone I was -- the nipple emerged soon as Mr. B hit the water. My son was ecstatic, delighted with his impish little friend, and I collapsed in a heap of relief while clutching my Windex bottle.



And if that wasn't enough to put me off nipples for the rest of my life, Saturday night brought with it nipple hell.



My brother's fault entirely. It was he who thought it would be a good idea to watch a movie titled Blood Gnome, and I regret not going with my gut and insisting on Night of the Lepus instead.



I was and still am traumatized by the lead actor's nipples. They were abominable, damnable, revolting trash can lid-size slabs of rectum-colored flesh surrounded by black swatches of thick, straight hair. They were hideous things, and that actor should be ashamed of himself. If that unfortunate, shameless man should ever come across this post (and by God, he should read this for his own good as well as that of all humanity), I'd like him to read this in the spirit it’s intended -- good will.



Mr. Grody Nipple Man, sir, please seriously consider a nipple reduction, a waxing, perhaps even a total nipplectomy. If surgery isn't feasible, then please, for the love of all that is holy, keep your shirt on, man.



Keep it on. Even while swimming. Especially on camera. Keep. It. On.



Thank you.

May the Magic Continue...

As per my good friend Angie‘s request, I will now take advantage of my blog’s supernatural abilities and write about our winning the lottery. As history has shown, whenever I write about something I’m wishing for, my wish is granted soon afterward, so I expect the lottery wins to occur anywhere between today and next Wednesday.



I really, really, really want to win the lottery. So does my good friend Angie. You see, My good friend Angie and I are not greedy sorts -- not at all. We are philanthropists who believe that good fortune should be shared, and so will use the ill-gotten spoils for the betterment of mankind only. (As any God-fearing evangelical Christian worth their pillar of salt knows, Jesus hates gambling, but I must reiterate that the money will be used for clean, Godly purposes.)



Listed below are some of the things my good friend Angie and I have planned:



1) Build safehouses for all the disenfranchised voters who are embroiled in abusive relationships with their red states.



2) Give Manolo Blahnik shoes, one year of weekly massages, and wardrobes from the designer of their choice to all single mothers in our respective states who are valiantly trying to make ends meet on current minimum wages. It is important that these women experience the decadence of Paris Hilton at least once during their lifetimes.



3) Buy Bush a fucking clue. Unfortunately, even with our combined winnings, there may not be enough funds to procure this, but we’ll see.



4) Declare November 8 as Women’s Day, a day in which all women will be given the respect and worship they deserve. Women's Day will be observed annually on November 8, and occasionally February 15 as well, dependant upon the whim of benefactors. The fact that November 8 is also my birth date is pure coincidence -- when God tells me this is to be, who am I to argue? On this day, women will be excused from all daily duties, some of which may include:



a) Child rearing

b) Cleaning house

c) Cooking

d) Wearing uniforms whose sole purpose is to put legs and breasts on display

e) Shaving legs

f) Pretending that their male bosses are the most humorous and intelligent humans on earth.

g) Making coffee for aforementioned dickhead.

h) Pretending that it doesn’t hurt when their heads hit the glass ceiling.

i) Dieting to achieve the impossible perfection required of them by American patriarchal society.

j) Saying “yes.”



For the holiday’s inaugural year, all women over the age of eighteen in the Continental United States, Hawaii, and Canada will receive a package on or before November 8 that contains one XX Large T-shirt (this will be their day, so comfort is of the utmost) that reads “Bow Before the One You Serve.” It’s gonna be a good day.



I can hardly wait.



These are but a few of the many exciting events my good friend Angie and I have planned -- the list of all good works will be announced in its entirety shortly after lottery payments commence, so stay tuned.

And Sometimes Quickies Aren't Very Satisfying

Just had to get a few things of my chest. You know, before I die of suffocation:



1) Plagiarists are shit-eaters!

2) The thing I hate most about being a writer is the waiting. Sick of it, do you hear me?

3) Condoleezza Rice is a big dork.

4) My ass is super fat today.

5) I want to stay home this Thanksgiving with my husband and children, have a friend and her daughter come eat turkey and stuffing with us (I make a righteous turkey), then get totally stupid on Corona after the kids are in bed, watch some movies, laugh, eat pie. But I can't. Obligations, obligations. How I hate obligations.



YEAH! I feel a bit lighter having removed those stones from my heaving bosoms. Not.



AddenDumDeDum Wow. This blogging business just may be magical -- first my nighttime weirdness goes away, and now this: almost immediately after posting the current entry, I heard from an editor regarding a story of mine that will be appearing in the mag's next issue. Excellent. Two wishes down, sixty thousand to go, then.



Maybe I should write an entry about how badly I want to win the lottery...



I invite all and sundry to rub my blog, if you're so inclined.

GLORY!

I have not pulled even one lash while sleeping since I posted about that dreadful occurrence. It may be that the mere act of writing about it has purged the evil compulsion from my brain, but I tend to believe it's because of the Lord's merciful grace. I've been spending a holy amount of time over at Landover Baptist Church lately, and the Lord's spirit has slowly but surely passed its infinite cleanliness over my weary, eyelash-plucking soul. PRAISE!



Forgive me my religious fervor, but I'm happier than a clam on crack.



I'd known of Landover for a couple of years now, thanks to my good friend Brother Terry, but I guess I wasn't quite ready to take the plunge into full tithing glory until our Lord and Savior, G.W. Bush, was re-elected. God, in all His wisdom, spoke to me that wondrous night and told me that it was finally time.



18:17 If he refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church; and if he refuses to listen even to the church, treat him as you would a pagan or a tax collector.



AMEN!

I Have No Eyelashes and I Must Scream

Dear lord. Yet more proof that I am not well. Not well at all...Listen up, yo. It ain't pretty.



This is humiliating to admit, but, as my longtime readers know, I love humiliating myself (and comment once in a while, will ya? Geez, I know Blogger's commenting system sucks Beluga, but c'mon and gimme some love every so often, albeit as "anonymous").



For example, just 'cause I love to digress, too, did I ever tell you about the time I told the handsome, funny, and righteous horror writer, Jack Ketchum (Stephen King's a big fan), that it looked as if a dog had pissed in his hair? Oh, the look of fright and confusion that passed over that man's lovely face...



It's true! And I still feel the sensuous burn of that particular humiliation more than a year later. YEAH! I so kick ass.



'Kay, back to my latest humiliating confession. Ready? 'Kay.



I pull my eyelashes out. That's right, I wake up in the middle of the night pulling out my eyelashes! WTF? Seriously, WTF?



This started happening, oh, about a week ago or so. Just woke up one night pulling out my lashes, and there are no signs that this behavior will end any time soon. It's not a conscious thing that I'm doing, not at all -- I'm asleep, then wake during the act. I am, of course, horrified. Good thing I have lots of lashes (long and purty, I might add), but I fear that my eyes may be bald soon if this bizarre nighttime compulsion doesn't go away.



Have you ever heard of such a thing?



Also, as I've mentioned in previous posts, I am a spewer of beverages. Laughter is the main cause, but occasionally I spew just for the hell of it.



Not this morning, though. This morning was an accidental spewing that nearly took my life. There I was, reading e-mail, smoking, drinking coffee, when WHAM! my throat closed up, my lungs collapsed, and coffee spewed all over my computer screen and my printer. Then I gagged and gasped for air for, like, ten minutes, even as I ran around with paper towel and Windex cleaning up the mess. Hey, if I'm going to die, I want the paramedics to find a clean death scene. I want to leave this earth knowing that the paramedics and police would think to themselves, "Wow. That dead woman was a clean, tidy, and considerate woman."



Well, so. My throat eventually opened up again, my lungs puffed up nicely, and after much weeping and shaking, I finally calmed down, lit another cigarette, and continued reading my e-mail.



Perhaps I should cut down on the coffee?

Ms. Lori's List of Hate

1) Bodily functions. I wish I were a robot, a nice, clean, smooth mass of steel and circuits. Alas, I am not, and I disgust myself.

2) Eating noises. I despise slurps, chomps, smacks and mmmmphlerps. Crunching's okay, though.

3) Saliva strings and smoochy sound effects during kissing scenes in films. This is not only unnecessary, it is stomach-turning. As are the spitty actors who engage in this vile behavior.

4) "Woody" broccoli. In this day and age, there is no good reason for hard splinters in my well-cooked Bird's Eye broccoli (high-end vegetable product? I think not). Bird's Eye, you should be ashamed.

5) Religious pamphleteers who come a knockin'. Leave me alone, ye fuckers.

6) Donald Trump. There are no words.

7) People who invade my space. When I'm having a conversation with someone, especially if it's only an acquaintance, I'd appreciate it very much if they would not sit in my lap and gaze adoringly into my eyes. Stay back, bitches.

8) Dog smell. Look, I like dogs, really I do -- my favorite pet as a child was a dog, a beautiful fawn boxer named Cindy (who I still miss to this day) -- but the reason I don't own a dog now is a simple one: they stink.

9) Shizzle my fizzle bizzle woo-woo, den axe my nipple what up. If you refuse to speak English correctly, I refuse to listen to you.

10) When my cat hisses and runs around with her tail puffed up at two in the morning. Could be a prowler lurking outside, could be a ghost. Or, it could just be that she's out of her freaking mind. Whatever her reasons, I wish she would stop doing that.



'Kay, I'll give this a rest for now, even though my list of hate is as long as Ben Affleck's chin and as obscene as his gummy smile.

White Man Talkin' Dat Jive: A Haunting Ball O' Nostalgic Funk, Y'all. Mercy!

BAD BLOOD

-- Neil Sedaka, 1975 (Spent three weeks at number one on the Billboard charts)



It could've been me, but it was you.

Who went and bit off a little bit more than he could chew

You said that you had it made, but you been had

The woman no good, no how, thinkin' maybe the blood is bad



Bad (bad) blood (blood)

The woman was born to lie

Makes promises she can't keep

With the wink on an eye



Bad (bad) blood (blood)

Brother, you've been deceived

It's bound to change you mind

About all you believe



From where I stand, it looks mighty strange

How you let a woman like that treat you like small change

I don't understand what you're lookin' to find

The only thing bad blood do is mess up a good man's mind



SPOKEN: Hear me talkin' now



Bad (bad) blood (blood)

The bitch is in her smile

The lie is on her lips

Such an evil child



Bad (bad) blood (blood)

Is takin' you for a ride

The only thing good about bad blood

Is lettin' it slide



Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron

Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron

Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron

Bad blood, talkin' 'bout bad blood



Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron

Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron

Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron

Bad blood



SPOKEN: Here we go



Bad (bad) blood (blood)

The bitch is in her smile

The lie is on her lips

Such an evil child



Bad (bad) blood (blood)

Is takin' you for a ride

The only thing good about bad blood

Is lettin' it slide



The only thing good about bad blood

Is lettin' it slide

Those With a Conscience Apologize For Those Without.

See more apologies from all over the United States at: Sorry Everybody.



But I doubt that anyone could apologize enough for Jerry Falwell.



An army to “fight“ gays? Dude, you and your retarded mass of Jesus-twisters really must get stoned. And I ain’t talking wacky weed.

Speaking of Poop...

The following message is intended for a couple of so-called friends who didn't send me a birthday greeting yesterday. They didn't even call. Or buy me diamonds, the bitches.



Better don your helmets and face masks, because the green poop is gonna hit the fan. Starting....



Now! --------------------------------------------->



To those who didn't send me, Ms. Lori, most excellent friend, darling angel who was sent from heaven in order to spread joy and wonder to the miserable people of earth, a birthday greeting, I hereby pronounce you dead.

Bastard Birthdays and the Bitch Who Loves Them

Things I have learned during my eighty-two years on this earth:

Men who name their penises should be avoided at all costs. Trust me on this.

Drink one glass of water for every two beers you consume.

If you think you look good, others will think so, too.

Coffee will keep you regular.

Women named Lisa are usually beautiful, but they tend to be two-faced and mean. If your name happens to be Lisa, forgive me, but you have my utter disdain.

You don't have to like your parents.

There will be at least one incident where you will giggle uncontrollably during a wedding or funeral service.

Caviar does not taste good, nor will it ever taste good. If someone tells you they like it, they are lying.

Male science teachers often touch themselves while explaining thermonuclear dynamics.

People who don't smile easily are usually the most trustworthy.

Monkeys and apes should not be held in captivity. That's akin to putting your Uncle Joe in a cage and keeping him in your basement.

All children deserve respect. And if you don't believe that, you are an asshole.

While you are giving birth, your doctor's face will invariably morph into that of an evil clown.

Baby heads and feet are, without a doubt, the most precious, godly objects one will ever gaze upon in this lifetime.

Jealousy is the sickest emotion.

Hate is futile.

Potatoes are the perfect food.

No matter how bad today is, it will pass. Better days truly are just around the corner. I guarentee it.

A funny man is a sexy man.

A funny woman is a sexy woman.

Looks don't mean dick -- confidence, excellent personal hygiene, compassion, and humor mean everything. Money is gravy.

Hollywood and Madison Avenue are the rectum and urethra of our world.

The Eagles' "Hotel California" produces hallucinations.

Poetry is the word, man. Dig it.

True love: When your significant other wants you to have the biggest piece of cake. Think about that for a moment. That's pretty deep.

There very well may be alien life forms, a God, sea monsters, bigfoots, ghosts, reincarnated souls, demonic spirits, other planes of existence, and life after death. Or not. I pity the fool who is so arrogant they can't imagine the possibilities.

I am fabulous because I said so, and that's good enough for me.

Oh, The Things I Say!

So this morning I was running around like a crazy woman, as per usual, doing things that mothers do like vacuuming, wiping counters and butts, serving breakfast, making beds, breaking up fights, smoking some crack, doing laundry, cleaning unidentified gooey stuff off of the T.V. screen, and in the process, I stubbed my toe on the coffee table. I stubbed it real good, too, and it bled like my liberal heart.



It was awful.



And what came out of my mouth would disgust even the most hardened criminal. If you're easily offended, I would suggest not reading any further.



It really is disturbing.



So, like, go forth and surf to another blog.



I mean it.



Go.



Away.



Now.



'Kay.



After I stubbed my toe, the pain was so shocking, so nightmarish, I actually felt my soul leave my body. And during the interim absence of my soul, Satan slipped in but quick and possessed my vocal chords. The following is not suitable for children under seventeen.



***************************************

I said this:



Flapfuck! God, oh, God, flappyfuck flap flap flap!



Apparently, “flapfuck” is considered the worst of the worst in certain circles of Hell.



I screamed the above while running around the living room on my heels. I did that for exactly two minutes and 34 seconds.



Then I felt better and had some coffee.

Republican Erotica

On His Paper Pillow



Fires rage beneath his lids, smoke of billowing red

And white

With souls purged, cleansed

By his self-appointed ministry

The screams of thousands evaporate into the blue

Vanquished by righteous indignation

He smiles against his paper pillow

Buries his conscience deep, deep

Within its soft, green American weave

He smiles and rolls toward his wife

She of the milk-fed exterior and

Careful poise

Lies open-eyed as he puts his hand

Over her heart

As the screams of thousands

Millions

Echo, spin, thrash

Against impenetrable walls of gold





--L. Lynn Young

What a Fucking Surprise, Eh?

My friend's fiancée was accosted by two men in Canadice, NY when she attempted to exercise her right to vote. The men, who'd emerged from a white SUV as she walked up to the polling place, blocked her entrance and assaulted her with hate-talk, with bold lies and misinformation. They would not listen to her protests, and they would not let her be. They only left her alone after a polling official saw what was happening and came to her aid. She has reported this to the authorities. What good will come of it, I haven't a clue. I'm thinking not much.



Unfortunately, hers is not an isolated case of voter intimidation. But those of you who read with your eyes open already know that.



For those of you who voted for Bush and may have come across OWM by accident, I apologize for my strong language. I respect every American's personal beliefs, political bent, religious affiliation, etcetera, etcetera.



But.



I am now certain that many of you have rocks in your pointy little heads.



I am appalled, frustrated and physically sickened by the flagrant misconduct happening right in front of our eyes, and I am especially sickened by those who choose not to see it.

Open your eyes, goddammit, and see the truth for once in your life. Open your eyes to the fact that our current administration is the

most corrupt in American history, that the powers that be are not concerned with your welfare, but of their own agendas. We are in the grip of a massive power-hungry, fascist, corporate-run regime that will continue, if allowed, to destroy everything America has stood for since 1776.



They, the current regime, have systematically reduced our civil liberties; brought uncertainty and economic hardship to those of us holding on to middle class by a thread; knocked down the "almost there" class to poverty level; devastated America's integrity; engaged in loophole-loving tactics that empower the top 1% income bracket, thus empowering the regime, thus keeping us little folk down. You know, where we belong.



They have lied to us, they have endangered our security beyond measure, have murdered scores and scores and scores of our young men and women, and now, due to dirty tricks so heinous, so unbelievably old-Soviet in nature that even Ronald Reagan would shake his head in disgust (secretly, of course), they will continue to do so.



I do not want this regime to continue killing its own citizens, nor those of other countries.



I do not want this regime to continue its corporate-sucking ways, because, dammit, old folks need medicine as well as food. They should not have to choose.



I do not want this regime to continue leaving children behind. Mr. Bush had already proven with his governorship in Texas, then with his presidency, that despite his claims of "compassionate Conservatism," he practices anything but.



I do not want this regime to continue polluting our air and water.



I do not want this regime to continue on with its sneaky yet obvious (to those with a brain) attempts at keeping women, gays, lesbians, minorities, as well as those who oppose its ideology, in a box. A box where no one can hear them scream.



I do not want this regime to continue its decision-making influenced by the word of God. I think I speak for all who believe our commander-in-chief should always and forever be possessed of intelligence, integrity, presence of mind, and true compassion, not by some imaginary friend they think is "God," when I say that Mr. Bush is unfit for command.



Spirituality is beautiful, insanity is not.



And lastly, I do not want this regime to continue threatening my children's future, the security of my comfort in old age; I do not want this regime to continue destroying my of quality of life. Or yours. I want this regime to go away now, just go away and leave us be.



I want America back.

I Know, I Know -- Preaching to the Choir. But I Can't Help Myself

And so, my friends, on this election day...



GET OFF YOUR ASS AND VOTE!



Or suffer the consequences.

November Reigns

I like October okay -- Halloween is good, the air smells good, the trees look good. October is...good. But November, ah, now November is...



C) My birthday month. November 8th for those kind souls who are just dying to give me a present. I like books (all genres except romance), jewelry (especially diamonds, but cheap, funky shit is great too), chocolate, music (all forms except gangsta crap and country), and cigarettes (anything menthol). I don't have the P.O. Box # on hand right now, but I'll be sure to add that in here a.s.a.p. Get your credit cards ready, yo. I'm fucking serious.



5) Election time. Can't wait to bury my boot up Bush's ass.



6) Thanksgivinglicious. I dream of turkey, potatoes and stuffing smothered in gravy. I dream of pie and cannoli and large bottles of alcohol. Yeah.



N) The first snowfall. I hate snow, but that first snowfall makes me break down and weep tears of wonder every time. It really is beautiful, but I get sick of it quick, like if Brad Pitt were to live in my house 24/7 -- heaven to look at, but after a while, the cold, stark beauty becomes tiresome, especially after it's been sitting around too long and gets all nasty with dog poop. Familiarity breeds contempt.



3) Rainy time. Rain washes all that nastiness away, even if only temporarily. I enjoy the fact that there's no worm smell in November.



Sigh, oh, sigh.



This bit of November silliness isn't what I'd planned on writing about today. I had a much more serious and depressing topic in mind, but I changed my mind as I began typing.



Well, I changed my mind yet again, because I can't get this bastard monkey off my back.



It has to do with betrayal. Has to do with having a knife plunged into my heart by someone close to me, someone who I love, who I trusted (to an extent) regardless of his past. No, it's not my husband, nor is it my children that I'm talking about, but it is someone I've known for a very long time. Someone who, in the spiritual sense, is now dead to me.



He stole money from my purse this past weekend. The man ate my food, drank my beer, enjoyed my hospitality, then went into the bathroom, found my purse, opened my wallet, and stole my money.



As if he had a right.



I was devastated.



But November is my favorite time of year, and I'm filled with good feelings, excited with the new year to come, glad that the old one will soon pass and take with it all the hurt, disappointment and hardship I experienced -- 2005 is gonna be great, I just know it. I refuse to allow my optimism to be taken from me as well.



Oh, God, December 31 is only a calendar flip away. I plan on giving it a big wet kiss, a warm hug, maybe even a dry hump for good measure.



Here's to new beginnings.

Plagiarism

The definition of plagiarism: plagiarism is using others' ideas and words without clearly acknowledging the source of that information.



I'm flattered if someone enjoys my posts enough to e-mail them to friends, leave me comments, or write me directly -- I'm extra flattered if someone even goes to the trouble of posting something I've written on their blog -- but kids, if someone's posting my shit word for word on their blog without giving me credit, it's called plagiarism. Even if they add their own parenthetical quips, even if they change the title.



Most of you wouldn't think of doing such a thing, mainly because you have your own vivid imaginations, your own wonderful way with words...but there are some who obviously do not. And you know who you are.



Plagiarism is wrong, sunshine, both legally and morally, and it hurts Ms. Lori's feelings.



It makes me want to kill you.



That is all.



AddenDumDeeDum:'Kay. The problem has been resolved, so I deleted the plagiarist's site link from this entry. Thanks to all who commented or e-mailed me -- much appreciated!