Son of Cthulhu

I know I’ve been writing a lot about Lar lately, but that’s because I like him -- lately. As I’ve mentioned before, we’ve been married for almost sixteen years now, and those of you who’ve managed to stay with your significant others for longer than ten years know what I’m talking about when I say that there are times when you loathe, and there are times when you absolutely can’t get enough. Apparently, I’m going through the latter phase right now, which, as you will soon see, is for the good of all mankind. I have put away the butcher knife, disposed of the warfarin, filed away the generous, lipstick-stained insurance policy I formerly kept under my pillow, and everything is rosy once again. Oh, I loves me some Lar, scary as he may be.

The above statement, though sickening, plays into my optimism regarding the coming new year. Let me explain.

I believe that the year 2005 was but a horrendous universal mistake, as if It/She/He/Them, the whomevers or whatevers in charge went on a year-long bender and were too intoxicated to remember us, the little people. The consensus among most everyone I know, both cyber and flesh, is that 2005 was one of the worst years ever.

It/She/He/Them forgot to throw in some good karma to balance out the bad, forgot to include justice, prosperity, goodwill, mercy. Seems to me that It/She/He/Them slacked off in this regard since the beginning of 2004, which was a horrible year in its own right, though not as horrible as 2005, I admit. But I feel a change coming, I can taste it, smell it, hear it, and it’s all because my husband -- get ready for this, folks -- is, in reality, an obscure Lovecraftian creature named Larctuthuti, the little-known favorite progeny of Cthulhu. Yes, my husband is a shape-shifting, atypically moralistic monster possessed of great powers, and really, I couldn't be prouder.

Larctuthuti is capable of wondrous things, things like hypnotizing cashiers into giving him extra change on a regular basis, lifting cars from pinned mechanics, and building entire homes with only a hammer and his bare hands. I have witnessed him carry a refrigerator without aid of a dolly, eat two pounds of spaghetti in forty seconds flat. I have seen, with my own two eyes, unexplainable, shocking things that would cause most of you to flee for the hills.

My husband is a man of mystery, a man of quiet nobility and unassuming stature; he is only an inch or two taller than I am, but his weird gray eyes have been known to immobilize men three times his size, bring them to their knees and turn them into quivering idiots with one icy smirk. The Lar is mighty, frightening, intimidating to most mortals. Just ask my dear friend Maria -- she once remarked that she was terrified of him, that she felt every word coming from her mouth would seem ridiculous and incoherent to Lar's ear. She said that she felt embarrassed to eat a doughnut in his presence for fear of appearing graceless and uncouth. She feared his wrath. Maria is, of course, a loveable nutball, and her fears were totally unfounded.

Lar likes ladies just fine (well, except for crack whores and my mother), and would never use his powers to cause them harm. But I digress.

I only recently discovered my husband’s true nature, although I’ve long suspected his inhuman origin, and this discovery has done wonders for our marriage. I now understand him completely, his intermittent bouts of silence this past year, his orneriness and lack of humor. I now know why he was so inaccessible, preoccupied: Lar was engaged in a battle, a war between himself and the drunken, neglectful entities of the universe.

He was fighting for us, the little people, fighting for our prosperity and happiness and sanity. He poured cold water on those entities, force-fed black coffee and greasy plates of ham and eggs, slapped them repeatedly about their anomalous heads, propped them up against his massive shoulders and walked those entities right into sobriety.

He saved the world.

So take comfort in the knowledge that 2006 will more than make up for the hell that was 2004 and 2005 -- rejoice and prepare to reap the rewards Lar has wrought. We damn well deserve every last retroactive benefit.

Happy new year, everyone. And remember…

Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane.

--H.P. Lovecraft

Waking Up With a Brazilian

My sister-in-law generously gave me and my husband a set of "T-shirt" sheets in early December as a Christmas gift. Now, I’m generally not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth (not that I’m comparing my sister-in-law to a horse or anything), but I fucking hate these sheets.

I have tried so hard to like these sheets, really I have. I washed them twice, added fabric softener, whipped them with willow branches, ironed them, beat them with rocks, chewed on them till my teeth ached, sang nursery rhymes to them while gently stroking their disgusting little sticky fibers...As you can see, I did everything in my power and beyond (the psychic sheet-whisperer was a total rip-off).

These things are not sheets, they are stretchy, lint-gathering, wrinkly slabs of Satan’s skin that not only make my legs twitch, they remove body hair better than a porn star’s esthetician.

The word “sheets” evokes a sense of crispness, does it not? A feeling of cool smoothness and warm security and slip-slidey comfort. These T-shirt sheets have ruined the associations for me. Now when I think of the word “sheets,” I am reminded of the felt numbers and letters we all used to play with in Kindergarten -- remember those? -- and Kindergarten evokes memories of Heidi Campbell spitting chewed up cookies and milk on my new maxie-skirt, which makes me sad. I am positively devastated as the word “sheets” has long been my personal mantra, used during particularly stressful moments to calm me, give me peace. No more.

Example: this morning was a true test of motherly patience - the boy helped himself to a box of Goldfish (“the snack that smiles back -- until you bite their heads off“), and thought it a grand idea to empty the box onto the floor and dance atop them until they turned to multi-colored cheesy dust. As is usual in times like this, my psyche called upon the “sheets” mantra, but my soul was not soothed by images of soft, clean comfort and promises of bedtime -- instead, I was assaulted with Heidi Campbell and the memory of having woken on devil sheets two weeks ago with a peculiar burning on my genital region, a drafty, unpleasant sensation that caused me to peek under the covers then gasp in horror when I discovered the cause. Yes, you guessed right; my pubic hair had been ripped clean off by the Velcro-like spurs of the T-shirt sheets. You don’t want to know what happened to Lar. Too hideous to describe without retching.

The reason I’m writing about those wicked T-shirt sheets today is that my dryer is in pieces at the moment -- Lar took it apart last night, unbeknownst to me -- and I am not able to wash my good sheets, my nice, friendly, crisp and smooth normal sheets that are balled up on my bedroom floor amongst the rest of the dirty laundry.

I will be forced to sleep upon the devil’s epidermis tonight, and I am filled with dread.

Jesus Christ in a pink pinafore, I was just beginning to look somewhat normal down there, too.

wheezehackwheeze...Hang On a Sec...coughcoughcough...Okay, then.

Well, I hope you all had a great weekend! Mine went well, I think. Saw my wickedly funny and adorable second-youngest brother for the first time in almost five years, the stuffed shells were, of course, superb, my kids were happy, and I managed not to keel over into the cannolis, which, considering I woke up with the flu on Christmas Eve morning, is a huge accomplishment. I'm guessing that my little rendezvous with the porcelain yawp god the other night wasn't due to an overdose of cosmopolitans...Unless, that is, cosmopolitans induce high fevers, muscle aches, excruciating pain in the chest, severe cough and boogery head. Possible, I suppose, but highly doubtful.

I spent all Christmas day in bed, with the exception of opening presents at five a.m. (I'll bet you know that wasn't my idea), and making a huge turkey dinner. Watched a Woody Allen-a-thon on cable, ate Russell Stover chocolates (thanks, Ms. Olivia!), and generally just behaved like a giant sloth. I don't want to be sick for New Year’s Eve, people. I must not, can not be sick. There are many mad cow sticks to be consumed, bottles of champagne to chug, and I desperately need to get freaky with Lar. Which brings me to my short list of realizations:

Five Things I Realized While Lying Flat On My Back On Christmas Day

1) My stomach looks like a super model's when I'm lying flat on my back. I should go around life on a gurney, attend parties, the beach. I would wear the tiniest thong bikinis and low-rider jeans with pride.

2) I like Woody Allen movies. A lot. But I still think he's a gross little troll.

3) Russell Stover chocolates start to taste the same after the fifteenth, sixteenth piece. When I think I'm eating a coconut one and it's actually strawberry cream, I know I've had enough.

4) My kids don't care if I'm on my death bed. I imagine that when I'm lying in my coffin, finally at peace, at least one of my kids will nag me to resurrection.

5) My husband's body looks damn fine. Like, underwear model fine. Like, ohmygod-he- looks-better-than-I-do-and-I'd-better-start-working-out-more fine. I realized this while watching him change into workout clothes yesterday. He's only been training at the gym for two months, and already he looks like a slightly more mature Marky Mark.


Bastard.






Hope to be posting again soon, but if you don’t hear from me for a few days, it’s because I passed on. But don’t worry -- be assured that my kids will see to it that I don’t lie in state for very long.

ADDENDUM: Speaking of Ms. Olivia, she’s co-editor of a couple for-charity anthologies, Animal Magnetism,and Southern Comfort.

All proceeds go to Noah's Ark and American Red Cross.

Check those out, folks, and help in the continuing Katrina relief efforts while at the same time enjoying some excellent SF, horror and fantasy fiction and poetry.

I Was Borne From Original Sin

So it’s not entirely my fault that I sinned to the point of praying to the porcelain yawp god last night.

My first experience with cosmopolitans, you see. There I was, minding my own business, enjoying my light beer, when suddenly, Lilith, disguised as a perfectly nice woman named Wendy, seduced me with a glittering pink concoction so tasty, I lost my freaking mind and drank ninety-five of them. Oh, to remember the dark glee in Lilith's eye as I slid into the abyss...

But Christmas duties must go on, and I shall now prepare forty tons of cookie dough despite the sleigh bells ringing in my head and Edmund the Hyperactive and Kind of Stupid Elf bouncing around in my gut.

I may pass away today, so I’d better express my holiday wishes while I'm still here…

May you all have a beautiful holiday weekend filled with laughter, good food, and lots and lots of love.

Hugs and junk,

Ms. Lori

Ugh.

I hate broads who, although somewhat attractive, think they are the Pam Andersons of the ’burbs, but their low self esteem coupled with overblown ego prevents them from being pretty on the inside -- they are threatened when another somewhat attractive woman enters the room, joins the party, and they don’t look at or acknowledge the other somewhat attractive woman. At all. Even when the other somewhat attractive woman is two feet away and trying to make them laugh.

I hate broads like that.

Oh, Those Wacky Germans!

A gift idea for the horny Christian in your life.

Something tells me (I think it may be God Himself), that my in-laws wouldn’t appreciate receiving such a thing -- and it ain’t because they’re not Christians…

She's a Very Kinky Girl

My goodness, but did I have fun this past weekend! Went to a club, the first Lar and I have been to together in, oh, years -- memories get fuzzy after four kids and sixteen years of marriage. Now that our oldest is capable of babysitting her younger siblings until the wee hours, we may make this a regular event. Well, at least a yearly event. Bi-yearly? Whatever. We will certainly go clubbing again before we’re too old to kick up our heels without fear of breaking a hip.

I adore my husband’s willingness to get out onto the dance floor with me -- and if you’ve ever seen me dance, you’ll understand why that should thrill me so. I become a madwoman once the drums start banging and the lights start swirling and the third beer starts working its sexy magic...I dance with complete abandon, without restraint, and I totally lose myself in the moment, fly to another plane of existence, and just dance, man. Good for me, not so good for those who don’t like attention on the dance floor. And if you know Lar, you know that the words “attention whore” and “Lar” are about as synonymous as, say, “Whitney Houston” and “class.” But Lar sucks it up and tries not to notice the panting geezer blatantly ogling his jiggling, pelvis-thrusting wife, the row of Guidos leering in the peripheral, their big heads bobbing like the boys from “A Night at the Roxbury.” He accepts the fact that his wife doesn’t dance to her partner’s beat, that she cannot be lead, that she will go someplace else for a while, someplace that makes her happy and excited and relaxed all at the same time. He endures the spotlight without complaint, without visible embarrassment, and just steps back and lets his wife do her thing.

That’s love, folks.

Pop Goes the Light Bulb, Pop Goes My Eye

Oh, that pesky poltergeist is at it again!

Could be that it didn’t like Lar fixing the wall sconce last night (finally! -- he had to take it apart and scrape out the melted leftovers, put in new bulb), or it simply felt jealous that I was totally digging this guy:

















(Aw, cut it out -- he had the sexiest French accent, tattoos, and good hair), but whatever the reason for its annoying (and potentially dangerous) prankage, I wish it would cease and desist immediately.

Time for a story, kids. I need to tell a story. So sit back, relax, pretend that you don’t think me insane, and enjoy...

The following events are true, names have not been changed, because nobody in my home is innocent.

If was 9:15 p.m., the holiest of hours, and Ms. Lori was watching a hideously bad movie starring Matthew McConaughey, Patricia Arquette, the fabulous Gary Oldman, and a host of talented dwarves (see photo above). To her dismay, Ms. Lori developed a bit of a crush on one of the characters, a leettle man with some beeg sex appeal, which is why she continued watching this silly, didactic, thinly disguised public service announcement of a film. Anyway.

Ms. Lori watched the hideously bad movie while laying the palm of her hand against her left eyelid and silently praying to the eyeball god that she wouldn’t catch conjunctivitis from her boy. As multi-tasking had become difficult for her lately, Ms. Lori soon stopped praying and paid full attention to the hideously bad movie, though her mind did wander a bit whenever Patricia Arquette’s gnarled yet strangely attractive overbite flashed on the screen; “Why is it,” Ms. Lori thought aloud, much to the irritation of her husband, “That her teeth are so damn appropriate? If anybody else possessed teeth of that nature, they would be shunned by Hollywood, chased by orthodontists across the globe, perhaps even forced into a life of prostitution and misery.”

The nightwind howled, the window pane shook, and Lar, as usual, ignored Ms. Lori’s inane musings to the best of his ability.

But Ms. Lori would not be ignored. “Seriously, Lar. I mean, imagine if I had teeth that looked like they’d been worked over by a ham-fisted wise guy. I don't think I could pull it off.”

Silence.

“Hey, did the kids tell you that the cat had another one of her weird moments? Yeah, Sarah got all freaked out because -- again -- Sapphire ran around the house today with her tail puffed four times the norm, then hid under the bed. Why do you suppose she does that, Lar?"

The trees groaned.

“By the way, I’m pissed that the boy caught pink-eye, man. So not cool. Now we’re all going to catch it, and we’ll have to spend Christmas Eve entertaining friends and family while wearing big-ass eye patches. We’ll have to wear rubber gloves and keep our distance from our guests so that they don’t catch it, too, and we’ll probably talk like pirates and shit, because, you know, we’ll most likely drink way too much in order to dull the pain and inflammation, and I’ll definitely embarrass myself by shrieking Shiver me timbers! at my grandma or something, and…”

And the wind screamed.

“Lar?”

Lar, who’d apparently had enough, somehow slipped into the other room without Ms. Lori noticing and was working on the computer.

She shrugged and continued watching the hideously bad movie as the ice storm raged outside, her muddled brain pondering Patricia Arquette’s teeth while thoughts of pink-eye and Christmas cookies competed with unspeakable fantasies involving a little French man. Ms. Lori soon began to drowse, as she even bores herself at times, but a loud popping sound, followed by the tinkle of shattered glass, jolted her awake.

What the hell was that?

She rushed into the living room to find Lar standing before the wall sconce opposite the one he’d fixed just three hours previous. The bulb had exploded. He scratched his head, knuckled his hips, then turned to a wild-eyed Ms. Lori and said, “The light bulb exploded.”

“I see that, Lar.”

They both stared at the light fixture.

“I don’t like this, Lar. Not at all.”

A cold draft brushed across Ms. Lori’s shoulders, caressed her neck, slithered down the back of her nightshirt . She shivered. “ I need a smoke.”

Ms. Lori hurried to her upstairs office, opened the door, flipped on the light and pop! The bulb exploded. A bulb that had been replaced no more than two weeks earlier.

Later that night, as the ice storm drifted off to other places, and Lar snored like a truffling pig, and the cat peered into the heating duct, tail poufed, ears back, Ms. Lori lay awake, pondering, as usual. She pondered over things unseen, wispy visitors of unknown origin who enjoy terrifying suburban housewives. She pondered the meaning of life, the mysteries of death; she pondered over Lar’s deviated septum, whether Breathe-Right Nasal Strips would help. She pondered over which main dish to serve on Christmas Eve -- stuffed shells or prime rib? She pondered, while rubbing her swelling, weeping eye, if wearing a patch and rubber gloves would hamper the evening as much as she feared, or if her costume would add an eccentric spice to the festivities. Finally, as her ponderings are wont to do, she bored herself to sleep.

It was two o’clock a.m. when the closet door slowly creaked open.

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

Note: My boy just told me that the television in the family room turned off and on. I'll be right back.

Okay, it turned off again as I was heading down the stairs (which are right next to the family room), and turned back on when I entered the room.

This is so exciting! Yet sucks.

UPDATE: It's about 8:30 in the morning, and I was replying to comments when I heard a loud crack -- startled me for a sec, but continued working figuring it was the house settling or something. Then, about one, two minutes later, the light fixture in my office (the one I wrote of above), made a HUGE cracking sound, and pieces of the inner rim of the opaque globe-like covering (the light is on the low, sloping ceiling above me -- my office is in the attic, a small attic) fell off into the globe. I took it apart (you need a screwdriver to get the globe off) and discovered that 1/4 of the inner rim is snapped off. This fixture has been there ever since we renovated the attic (used to be a bedroom for my oldest daughter, now it's my office), and it's been perfectly fine for over four years. I'd just changed the bulb last night, and nothing seemed amiss with the globe, so WTF?!

He Remembered the Roses

I have just read something that moved me to tears, a tribute to someone I didn’t know personally, but with whom I’d had the distinct honor of sharing the same space on June 8, 2002 during the Bram Stoker Awards in New York City when he’d received, along with Stephen King, the Lifetime Achievement Award -- J.N. (Jerry) Williamson.

This gorgeous, loving, gently humorous tribute to the late Mr. Williamson is written by Gary Braunbeck, one of my favorite short story writers, an amazing writer that I’d discovered some years back when he blew me away with his Cemetery Dance serialized novella "Mr. Hands." When I learned that my story would appear in the Borderlands 5 table of contents alongside Stephen King’s and Gary’s, I just about wept. I think I did weep, come to think of it. If you’d like to read that beautiful, imaginative, dark literary tale (titled “Rami Temporalis“), it’s also available in the mass paperback version From the Borderlands. And I'm thrilled that once again my piddly name is appearing alongside his in The Best of Borderlands (Gary's story is titled "Union Dues").

Gary Braunbeck, although critically acclaimed, and who has already acquired quite a name for himself in the world of dark fiction, will, mark my words, be as well known as, say, Richard Matheson. He’s that good.

If you haven’t yet read his work, or that of Jerry Williamson’s, do yourself a favor and remedy that. Until then, please look at this. If this is your first introduction to these two fine gentlemen, I guarantee that you will not regret it, but be warned: you may need a Kleenex. Or two. If, like myself, you already are a fan, then you might need three. Or four. Or five...

I Don’t Think He Should’ve Been Executed, But…

Let’s not deify the man..

Stanley “Tookie” Williams, after many denials for appeal, many years of concerted research and review of his case by dozens of dedicated legal analysts and professionals, failed in his bid to convince the governor that he is a changed man and should be given clemency. Oh, dear.

I think what did it in for Tookie was the fact that he showed not one ounce of remorse for the heinous crimes he committed. He proclaimed his innocence right up till the end, no repentance for him -- never mind the hours upon hours of testimony from credible witnesses, never mind that he co-founded the Crips, never mind that he helped spawn a whole new level of violence and misery. And he hated whitey way too much, which, in my whitey opinion, would’ve been best left unsaid. I mean, jeepers, dedicating his books to other whitey haters probably wasn't a good move. (Wish I had the link to that info, but all searches prove fruitless today.)

Schwarzenegger’s decision to deny clemency must’ve been a no-brainer, really.

Now, I admit that I’m not a Tookie expert -- far from it. I paid cursory attention to all the Save Tookie! brouhaha, mainly due to the fact that in the few details I gleaned while skimming news reports and blog entries regarding his case, I saw nothing that would indicate there was even a remote possibility he was an innocent man. I’m all for helping innocent folks kick the death sentence, and I probably would’ve done something real liberal like and sign a petition or protest in public by wearing lettuce leaves over my private parts while holding a FREE TOOKIE placard, but the dude murdered four people in cold blood, and thus, my interest was minimal, despite my belief that capital punishment should be reserved only for serial killers and child killers.

I was intrigued, however, that he was a writer, that he wanted to help steer at-risk kids away from gang life, but HE MURDERED FOUR PEOPLE IN COLD BLOOD! Cold is probably a huge understatement. I didn’t realize what an understatement until just yesterday when I Googled Tookie and discovered all sorts of things, things that made my usually bleeding heart form a clot. Some of those things can be found in the links above, and also here and here. Addendum: I've now learned that Williams didn't even write those children's books himself, that he had a ghost writer. A big kick in the crotch to the "intellectuals" who nominated him for the Nobel, eh?

I’m sorry that this man wasted his life the way he did, and I’m sorry for his loved ones -- Williams could’ve been a great, important human being, a leader, a true godsend for society, IF he’d chosen to use the brains nature gave him, and IF he chose to not be a murdering, racist fuckwit. But he didn’t now, did he? So, as sorry as I am for all of that, my sympathies really lie with his victims' families, the hardworking innocents he murdered. He killed three members of the same family, you know. Mom, dad, daughter. Will they be remembered, I wonder? Will their loved ones receive thousands of dollars from well-wishers and sympathizers? Will Hollywood trip all over itself to help them out?

Somehow, I don’t think so.

My Husband Cheats!

There once was a man named Lar
Who cheated at cards without care
When he was found out
He started to pout
Then pooped in his Hanes underwear

Seven Things

The lovely Ms. Purple Elephant tagged me, and I am delighted to participate...

Seven things to do before I die
1) Publish a wildly successful novel, win Pulitzer.
2) Write and sell a wildly successful screenplay, win Oscar.
3) See Africa, Australia, Hawaii, Ireland, Italy and Egypt.
4) Find true, lasting peace.
5) Kill my demons, especially Taffy Gaye, the third and most potent of them all.
6) Own a pug named Old Teats..
7) Experience the joy of watching my four children become happy, healthy adults with lots of children of their own. Grandma Ms. Lori will bake lots of cookies and give lots of hugs.
Seven things I cannot do
1) Drive.
2) Eat animal organs. Or human ones, for that matter.
3) Find Carrot Top amusing.
5) Be friends with anyone who is racist, homophobic, or cruel to others in any way, shape or form, including animals (yet I eat meat and love leather goods. Go figure).
6) Feel comfortable in social situations.
7) Give public readings of my work.
Seven things that attract(ed) me to my spouse/partner
1) His shyness
2) His unusual facial features -- Native American, Irish, and Swedish makes for a uniquely attractive Lar type thing.
3) His intellect, despite his disinterest in literature.
4) His sarcasm, displayed both with words and Stonehenge-like stoicism
5) His monkey.
6) His wholehearted commitment to fatherhood
7) His big wiener. Er, I mean his big wallet. Um, his big heart?
Seven things I say most often
1) “Fucking Christ.“ Eeep! Bad, yeah? Shhhh, don’t tell the in-laws…
2) “Gimme a break.”
3) ‘Neat!” but only while opening Christmas or birthday gifts with the in-laws. Why “neat”? I don’t have an answer for that. “Neat” is perhaps the geekiest exclamation ever uttered by humans, yet I do it. Weird, man.
4) ‘Weird, man.”
5) “Freak!” though usually only when calling my cat.
6) “Are you freaking kidding me?”
7) “Leave me alone.”
Seven books (or series) I love
1) “Beloved” by Toni Morrison
2) “The Island” by T.M. Wright
3) “The World According to Garp” by John Irving
4) “The Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe” by Guess Who?
5) “The Alias Bride” by Margaret Atwood
6) “Hearts in Atlantis” by Stephen King
7) “The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint Expery, “The Velveteen Rabbit” by Margery Williams
Seven movies I watch over and over again (or would watch over and over if I had the time) *Note* I rarely watch movies more than once -- the ones listed below have been watched maybe three or four times each…
1) Heaven Can Wait (childhood nostalgia, my first good cry at a movie -- and Warren Beatty was HOT!).
2) Pulp Fiction (oh, yeah, baby. When Tarantino blew my mind).
3) Poltergeist, Alien, The Legend of Boggy Creek (my first real scares at the movies)
4) Rosemary’s Baby (each viewing brings with it a new revelation -- one of the best horror flicks ever made).
5) Some Like it Hot. (The delightful Ms. Monroe triples up with Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon -- heaven!)
6) Pink Floyd’s The Wall (brilliant, ahead of its time, gorgeous, moving).
7) The Rose Tattoo (scripted by Tennessee Williams, Anna Magnani is a wonder).
8) Donnie Darko (I must watch this one for a fourth time because although I find it to be a spectacular film, I still don’t quite get it.

Am I Cold-Hearted Because I Laughed…and Laughed. Um, and Laughed Yet Again?

Perhaps. Especially because what happened to the poor girl in the clip I’ve linked below is something that would most definitely happen to me were I ever in that situation. But I, of course, would never put myself in that situation in the first place, nor do I sing like a menopausal German shepherd whose owners have attached electrodes to her old teats in the hopes that said German shepherd would get back her ferocious game instead of lying around the house and moaning about hot flashes and such, so I am allowed to laugh hard at the poor, untalented simpleton.

A’ight, y’all, I’m apparently not on top of my game as evidenced by the above metaphoric disaster, but I be illin’ just the same, chillin’ like Prince William, down wit’ da fillin' for a cavity dat be killin’.

Dear lord, forget you just read that. Click here to help cleanse your mind.

No Wonder Brad Booked (Booked: 80's slang meaning to flee, leave, go somewhere else; commonly used by stoners )

I stumbled upon a curious thing today via Perez Hilton, something that confirmed my longtime suspicions at last, something about Jennifer Aniston’s nipples, to be exact.

Some of you may remember my distaste of all things Aniston, but one of my biggest peeves regarding that little honey chin is most definitely her improbably erect nipples. I hate ‘em. No matter what the woman is doing, no matter what medium she is displaying her abysmal lack of talent, no matter if it’s winter, spring, summer or fall, no matter if she’s wearing a turtleneck sweater, bulky jacket or teeny tank, Aniston makes sure that her vinyl record-size areoles and rubber eraser nips are glued on tight, stiff and ready for camera action.

I heard through a friend of a friend of a friend who is a friend of a friend to Brad Pitt that he bears some wicked scarring on his back due to being constantly scraped and prodded by Aniston’s mondo pasties while lying in the spoon position.. That same friend of a friend of a friend also divulged that the fake nipple-honkers are festooned with tiny thorn-like black hairs -- it’s anybody’s guess as to why.

Here, for your disapproval, is photographic proof that Jennifer Aniston sports fake, hairy, black nipples:



Really, now.



At least she could get some of those realistic flesh-colored fake nipples, you know, like Marilyn Monroe used to wear. I might add that only Marilyn could get away with fake nipples, Marilyn and nobody else., because Marilyn was a true star, a genius talent, a beautiful, adorable, dark goddess, and she wore her fake nipples discretely, with class and fabulous, coquettish decorum.

You sicken me, Aniston. Why don't you and your fake nips go ride off into the sunset of obscurity with that drunken, disheveled Lothario of yours so I don't have to write such nasty things anymore. You make me like this, Jen, and I don't enjoy it one bit.

Learn Arabic in One Easy Lesson!

Fitful night of sleep, unfortunately, kept waking up, head pounding, found my boy next to me at one point, which only made sleep all the more impossible because I was in constant fear that he'd roll over and fall to the floor headfirst (my bed is like the princess' in The Princess and the Pea -- my husband needs a step ladder, it's so tall), so when CNN announced the continuation of Saddam Hussein's trial at, what? -- four this morning? -- I perked up like a Dumpster diver who discovered an unopened box of day old doughnuts amid the banana peels and dirty diapers.

Lookit that, will you? Alliteration and bad analogy in one sentence! I rock!

So I watched a bit of the trial while my boy snored beside me, and while doing so, was hit with the realization that I do not in fact speak Arabic. I know, what a shock. Obviously, someone forgot to tell CNN that most Americans do not speak Arabic, which is why the courtroom action was broadcast in all its confusing, loud, Iraqi glory, the interpreter's voice but a tiny intrusive whisper compared to the booming melodic symphonies of the judge, attorneys and "defendant announcer" (yes, they have an announcer, just like Jay Leno's and Conan O'Brien's, who shrieks the names of the defendants as they enter the courtroom, and when I say shrieks, I mean shrieks). It got to the point where I wished the interpreter would just shut up already, as he was no help whatsoever to this sadly unilingual American dork. I strained my ears, hiked the volume, squinted (because I also hear with my eyes), anything in order to understand the proceedings, but all I heard was the booming Arabic with a faint, underlying tickle of heavily accented English. So frustrating!

After thirty minutes of gritting my teeth and cursing CNN's maddening ignorance, I swear to Allah that I actually began to understand some of what was going on by studying body language, noting the various inflections, paying mind to Saddam's fetching new beard-do (long and straggly means happy, short and sassy means mourning -- he's sporting the short and sassy, and it looks mighty dashing!). Finally, just when I was beginning to tire of pretending I understood Arabic, someone at CNN got the damn memo and turned up the interpreter to a listenable level, toned down the Arabic symphony, and I was delighted to hear the exchange between Saddam Hussein’s attorneys, the judge, Saddam himself, and his brother. Apparently, the defense attorneys, one of which is former U.S. attorney general, Ramsey Clark, were upset that the judge's dilly-dally detector was working overtime, and wouldn't allow them to interrupt the trial yet again with things such as challenging the validity of the tribunal, which they contend is a big fat crapfest due to American occupation. They have every reason to challenge the validity, of course, but isn't that something that should have been worked through before the trials started back in October?

Anyway. Everyone was shouting, the attorneys got pissed and took a hike, the judge cautioned them about the door hitting their asses, Hussein yelled "Long live Iraq! Long live the Arab nation! Long live Iraq!" and his irritating copycat brother yelled "Long live Iraq" over and over again until a guard punched him square in the 'nads, and he fell to his knees with a little squeak.

Okay, the last part didn't happen, but still. Interesting stuff.

I Dig People Who Stick Vegetables Into Their Heads...

And compare the experience to the passion of Christ.

Weirdness in the Young Household

What would make a light bulb explode? Has anyone experienced such a thing?

I ask because the light bulb in our living room exploded last night -- my husband was relaxing in bed, watching TV with the boy in our bedroom, when he heard a loud metallic BANG! He ran out into the living room and found the light bulb from one of the wall sconces all over the floor. Some pieces actually flew across the room.

Jeez, first the television (which, by the way, has been a good girl for the past few weeks), now this. Oh, and did I ever mention the banging sounds in the basement? How the pocket door that leads to the furnace room jingles and jangles in the middle of the night? How my cat sometimes tears up the basement stairs in a frenzy, tail puffed, fur raised along her back, and hides under the bed? And she's doing a weird thing in my bedroon lately -- she'll be lying with me in bed, perfectly content, sleeping, when she suddenly wakes up, runs to the other side of my room, and stares and stares into the heating duct.

Um, me no like.

Tattoos Are Forbidden Until She's Eighteen, But...

My oldest daughter is rocking a fawk (faux 'hawk), and honestly, I could not be prouder. Most parents would be upset that their fifteen-year-old little girl cut her below the waist blonde hair into a spiky warrior ‘do, but not I. Oh, no, not I. Or is that “me”? Darn, I’m having a fuzzy grammar moment. Give me a sec to gather my wits.

Anyway, I’m the sort of parent that some would consider too liberal -- I don’t have a stroke if one of my angels utters a curse word once in a while, although I’ve made it very clear since they were old enough to understand that if they dare curse at anything that lives and breathes, say, calling their unusually cruel and incompetent teacher a “goddamned shit-nosed wiener-eater,” or addressing the little fucker down the street as “big fat asshole,” or, God forbid, calling the uptight evangelical Christian family member a “dried-up old hypocritical bastard with repressed homosexual tendencies” there will be hell to pay. Cursing at inanimate objects, when the occasion calls, is fine, though. As some of you may recall, my vacuum cleaner and computer are both cursed at on a regular basis, those old whores.

Another example of my liberal parenting would be my utter lack of interest in child on child arguments. My guts ache with contempt when I’m faced with a “concerned” parent who wishes to stick her hairy, bulbous nose in her and my children’s business. Is it so horrible to allow kids the freedom to experience peer difficulties, to figure out their own solutions, to be the sometimes irrational, whiney, mean little snots they are meant to be without constant parental intervention?

Some of you more conservative parents will gasp at my disinterest, will shake your heads and murmur to yourselves that Ms. Lori is a cursing, inattentive monster whose children should be taken from her as soon as possible, and that’s fine by me. I don’t care. I do not care if Susie won’t share her Polly Pockets, and I do not give a flying Barbie boob if one of my kids tells Susie that she does not want to play because Susie is a selfish brat who smells like orangutan butt. Really, I don’t care. Can’t be bothered. I’m the type of parent who will look Susie’s concerned parent in the eye and say, “Give me a break. Go back home and finish filling out the calendar you keep for your exhausted, over-scheduled kid and leave me alone.” Kids are kids are kids, and unless someone is being physically harmed or bullied, there is no reason for me to get involved.

Perhaps the most telling trait of my liberalism, though, is my continual encouragement of my kids to express themselves in any way they see fit, to be individuals. I want them to feel comfortable being themselves, hence my opening statement; my girl’s new fawk will surely raise many a concerned eyebrow, and I expect to face many a pursed prune lip as a result. Some concerned parents in my neighborhood have, in the past, felt it necessary to spy on my girl (though they wouldn’t call it spying - they call it “gee, I happened to be at the same place at the same time as your daughter, and golly, well, I saw her walking with her boyfriend, and my goodness, she certainly has an unusual style what with her ripped fishnets and skull t-shirts, and…”

Shut up, you nosey, PTA-sucking, stretch pants-wearing, Laura Bush-worshiping pube.

I’m proud of all my children, whether they choose to wear camouflage snow pants to class on a warm, sunny day, or wear ripped fishnets and fawks, or write dark poetry and read horror, or if they find the theory of intelligent design ridiculous, if they find it plausible. I am proud of them regardless of myriad mistakes they make and will make, regardless of the stupid things they will do or say, the many times they will fail, the heartache they will cause themselves, because I know that they will learn from every stumble, and I respect their right to learn. Kids are kids are kids, and my beliefs revolve around the fact that all kids will test limits, will stumble, will break your heart, will, if they have a mind of their own, do what they must do in order to figure out this life, and all we can do as parents is be there for them, allow them their freedom within reason, be open to their every question, encourage them, discourage them in regards to drugs, peer pressure, and always but always make it clear that we will love them no matter what, even if they stumble, especially if they fall.

I want my children to be comfortable in their own skin, to grow into creative, compassionate, successful adults who think outside the box, not huddle within, and the only way to achieve this is by letting them be comfortable in their own skin. They may try on all kinds of different costumes in the process, but if they wind up truly liking what’s underneath, I’ve done my job.

"The Eyes of the Carp" by T.M. Wright

Kevin, the deliciously unreliable narrator of T.M. Wright’s "The Eyes of the Carp," loves his wife, works with his hands, enjoys entertaining friends, keeps a dish full of bright, foil-covered Easter egg chocolates to offer his guests, and occasionally explores the inside of his wife’s mouth with the aid of a flashlight as she sleeps at night.

Kevin is witty, smart, hungry for knowledge, curious, resentful, sometimes hilariously so, and to this reader’s delight, very, very weird. Oh, and he also may well be inhuman, but that’s for the reader to decide -- Wright isn’t the sort of storyteller who paints simplistic characters for the simpleton reader; he doesn’t shout Lookie! and point to his characters with a heavy finger for benefit of clarity, rather, he challenges the reader with a conspiratorial elbow nudge and a wink. I like an author who assumes his or her readership is intelligent.

"The Eyes of the Carp" is one of the most authentic representations of psychosis I have read to date, and one of the most disturbing. The narrative is constructed in such a way that sucks the reader in with its deceptive calm, Kevin’s initial trustworthiness and likeability as he rambles on about his new property, the odd things he discovers there, as well as the humorous repartee between Kevin and his wife, Janet. Kevin is a strange one, no doubt about it, but he’s not threatening -- eccentric, perhaps, but definitely not threatening. As is Wright’s style, however, nothing is ever as it seems, and the reader soon begins to worry as Kevin delicately reveals tidbits here and there that seem a bit…off. Something’s wrong with Kevin, something bad.

“Forgive me, I am not Capone, crippled by syphilis, power, and greed. I am Kevin, husband to Janet, son to Lawrence and Margaret, brother to Gwen, Laura, Bobby, Howard, and others unnamed. I have a passion for macaroni and cheese, women with large breasts, the sound of water flowing in the deep woods, brisk April breezes…[I have a passion for] finding quiet bodies in strange locations, living nearly alone, submission by theretofore unwilling women, blind kittens.”

Yes, something is definitely not right with Kevin, and as Wright skillfully leads the reader on a hideous journey through Kevin’s ravaged mind, each new revelation brings with it a palpable chill, a queasy pinch, even as Kevin waxes ridiculous with his random "Gaggle" searches and seemingly arbitrary recounts of childhood memories. It is the randomness, the unforced humor, and the seemingly arbitrary that make Kevin all that more frightening. Wright knows that the devil doesn’t always sport horns, that sometimes evil comes in the beguiling form of an ordinary man who loves his wife, macaroni and cheese, and bright, foil-covered Easter egg chocolates, and that the commonalities between the average man and the monster are greater than we’d like to believe.

It Took Two Men and a Crowbar to Pry That Stool From Between My Buttocks

But that's what I get for eating forty pounds of turkey and a whole ham with all the fixings yesterday.









Although, to my credit, I did not eat even one pie. I know my limits, dammit.


Now on to a rant that has nothing to do with stools or flabulous giganticus buttocks:

I just read the most appalling post on a message board I visit, and though I had a lot to say to the person who wrote it, I kept my fingers to myself, because, well, my reply would've included words like "cheapo," "asshat," and "cheapo asshat." And, gee, as my tagline says, I am a kind women who is capable of thinking horrible thoughts. It's a good thing to know when to spew those horrible thoughts and risk hurting some clueless asshat's feelings and when to spew them on one's blog. Since the clueless asshat in this situation has a lot of back-patting friends (whereas I, unfortunately, do not), I decided to duck out on the fun of being crucified for pointing out said asshat's asshatedness and post here, my safe little obscure blog.

Okay, so asshat has a book available, some anthology for charity thing that Roc put out, and asshat is proud, as she should be, and decides to mass e-mail friends and family about her recent success. Fine. Thing is, asshat got her panties all in a bunch when her eighty-something nana e-mails back with a request for a signed copy of the book.

Yes, asshat was upset that Nana dared request a copy of her assahat granddaughter's first book.

And if that didn't make my insides turn like a screw, asshat's back-patting friends couldn't wait to jump in with their empathetic remarks. What's worse, they, including the board administrator, stomped on some poor soul who ventured to add his opinion that asshat was being petty, in so many words.

Not for nothing, but although I certainly don't offer information to every single family member and friend about every single upcoming publication, I did make a big deal about my Borderlands appearances, and I threw down a few dozen bucks in order to give copies to the following people: My best friend, my mother, my two grandmas.

Yep. I actually gave my nanas copies of the first bigtime book I ever appeared in, and I even inscribed them. Hang on a sec -- I think I may have even given my next door neighbor a copy of "From the Borderlands." Am I a loon or what?

Here's something that truly deserves disdain, asshat: In the past year or so, I have been contacted by complete strangers, some from overseas, who have requested signed copies of a couple of magazines I appeared in as well as Borderlands 5. They all stated that because the publications in question were no longer available/not for sale in their country/sold out/whatever, would I be willing to help them out, thank you.

My astute intuition tells me they wouldn't attempt this with Stephen King or Gary Braunbeck, but because I'm a lowly unknown, they feel comfortable asking me. Like I'm supposed to be flattered? I replied with a roundabout "ever hear of Shocklines/Amazon/Google/eBay? If not, please acquaint yourself with the Internet, and happy shopping. I'd be glad to sign your purchases, and you will, of course, pay postage both ways."

That, my cheapo friend, is something bunch-worthy. Now go give your nana a hug and tell her you're sorry for being such an asshat.

Annie Lennox is the Coolest Woman That Ever Lived

Still have chills after watching the Eurythmics perform on last night's American Music Awards.

Anyway, since this is the time of year where Americans should be reflecting on their good fortune, I've compiled a list of things I am thankful for:

1) Annie Lennox's words
2) Annie Lennox's voice
3) Annie Lennox's gorgeous gorgeousness

Aw, that's silly (silly but true). Okay, here's my actual list of thanks -- be prepared to be absolutely bored out of your skulls:

1) My kids, despite my hatred of self when they make me so nervous while I'm trying to take a shower, I am forced to scream "Fucking stop fighting, goddamn it!" and they ignore me, continue fighting, throwing objects, wreaking havoc, making the boy shriek, and soap is burning my eyeballs, and someone flushes the toilet, and something in the living room breaks, something that sounds like a treasured Egyptian knickknack, so I grow gigantic demonic testicles, which, of course, frightens me and adds to my nervousness, and I scream "I'm going to fucking kill you all -- do you hear me! ALL OF YOU!" and upon exiting the bathroom half-washed, fire-eyed and wrapped in a towel that barely covers my ass, discover the neighbors' kid sitting on the couch, and our eyes lock, and my throat constricts, and the kid's mouth gapes open in a silent scream then runs home to tell her parents that Ms. Lori has gigantic demonic testicles.

2) My cat, despite my hatred of cleaning cat vomit, because I love her face way too much. And I also love the way she suckers me into giving her extra helpings of breakfast by reciting poetry to me every morning -- today it was Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night," and she received not one, not two, but three extra helpings of Fancy Feast for her troubles.

3) My friends. I do love you, you know, despite my hatred of phones.

4) My awesome cooking skills, despite my hatred of touching raw meat. My turkey melts in the mouth, my stuffing brings tears of joy to the eyes, my vegetable casserole has magical healing powers, my mashed potatoes, manna, only better because it doesn't drop from the sky and gunk up your hair.

5) My husband, Lar. I do love you, you know, despite my hatred.

Have a beautiful Thanksgiving, everyone.

Come Worship With Me

Like my father before me, I've become an ordained minister, because I not only believe in spreading God's word, I believe in tax breaks. As this will be my first public sermon since ordainment, I'm a bit nervous, as you can imagine, so I'm extending an invitation to all One Whipped Mother readers to come lend support.

Please join me in celebrating the Truth this Sunday at First Baptist, 9:00 a.m. (e-mail for directions). Brunch provided after service, with special musical guest Howard Dean and the Moonbats!

Hope to see you there!

Cosmetics Line Raises the Dead!

Children, gather round, set a spell and rest your aging, weary, perhaps overweight and pimpled bodies, for Mama Lori has a story to tell. It is a story filled with wonder, hope, reanimated corpses, and, of course, lipstick.

Some of the following is based on fact, but most of it is from my warped imagination -- I will leave it to you to decide which is which. I wrote this after having attended a cosmetics party last night, an event that I was forced to attend by the nose of a twenty gauge shotgun, and I admit, loyalty and genuine affection for the darling innocent who threw said party. I spent sixty-four dollars on three items, not because I was suckered by the “independent consultant’s” intriguing though impossible claims, but because of my genuine affection and loyalty to that darling innocent. A darling innocent who will probably hate my guts after reading this, but I hope realizes eventually that this is meant in good fun.

And so, we begin…

In a land far, far away, during a time long ago, there lived a man named Petter Myørck, and he was a humble man, and he was a good man. One day, as Petter Myørck was sitting in his favorite café, dining al fresco on diced citrus fruits, fresh oysters snuggled in a bed of sea salt, and weak tea, watching passersby with minimal interest, there appeared to him a homely, naked, time-ravaged hag named Heidi. As if from a dream, Heidi materialized in front of the startled Petter with a loud bang, thus causing poor Petter to flail his arms wildly, knocking tea cup, platter of fruits, and bed of oysters to his lap. The apparition before him smiled knowingly, and pointed her cracked, unsightly nail at the spoiled lunch oozing over Petter’s lap. Embarrassed, Petter began to wipe the mess with a napkin, but the hag shook her head vigorously, floated to his side, and curtly slapped his hand. Confused, Petter shrugged his shoulders and said, “What? I should leave this mess to ruin my trousers? Woman, be gone!”

Finally, the homely Heidi spoke, but not with word -- she gently gathered the citrus, the sea salt, the tea into her malformed hands and began to rub the sweet-smelling concoction over her entire body. She rubbed and scrubbed and smoothed and massaged until a curious thing happened, a remarkable and spectacular thing…Transfixed, Petter couldn’t help but watch as the once hideous, pockmarked, cellulitic, sagging, psoriasis-ridden Heidi morphed into an unlined, slender, firm, rosacea-free young woman. She was breath-taking. Petter gasped and shifted in his chair so as to hide his emerging trouser monster.

The now glamorous and societal beauty ideal smiled once again, then pirouetted gracefully, her de-spotted hands fluttering like exotic white butterflies, and the napkins, the restaurant check, the table cloth all rose up together like an ocean current, the materials ebbing when she lowered her hands, then rising when she did that weird pirouette thing again.

Barely able to speak, Petter said, “You-you are trying to tell me that natural botanical cosmetics will be the wave of the future?

She nodded.

“And, I am to be the founder of a company that sells such products?”

Again, she nodded. Then she surprised Petter by swiping the money he’d placed in his shirt pocket in anticipation of paying his lunch bill, and promptly stuffed the coins into her gleaming, plump mouth. Aghast, Petter watched as Heidi swallowed his hard-earned cash, licked her alluring red lips, then threw back her head of luxurious black hair and laughed herself into oblivion.

“No! Wait, please!” Petter shouted at the foggy, shimmering outline. “Beautiful lady, I have so many questions! Why did you eat my money? It was all I had! And what is your number?”

But she disappeared entirely, leaving behind only the residue of sea salt and the tang of citrusy goodness. Petter was angry, frightened, but he also was a smart man; he put two and two together fast as a scorpion injecting his prey with poisonous poison, and smiled.

“Thank you, lovely lady who used to be a hideous hag. Thank you for giving me the means to invade American pocketbooks, give false hope to the hopeless, attain immortality through corporate enterprise. I shall embark on this journey a humble man, and will end this voyage a corrupt one.”

He stood, gave the café’s proprietor the finger, and as he ran from the baseball bat -carrying pastry chef and shouting waiters, Petter shrieked “I shall attain wealth so immense, I’ll buy this shithole and burn it to the ground! HA! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!”

At first, Petter peddled door to door, displayed his homemade cosmetics to hapless hags throughout Switzerland, sold them by the wheelbarrowful with claims of renewed youth, slimmer thighs, radiant sex appeal, and as his business grew, he realized that he couldn’t do it alone, certainly wouldn’t be able to invade America by the power of only his one mouth. So he recruited others to do his bidding, and he called them “independent consultants.” He made promises of a white Mercedes Benz and outrageous monthly income to top sellers. He indoctrinated his followers with hours upon hours of rigorous acting classes, schooled his associates in the ways of screwing over the consumer with steady eye and beguiling best-buddy affectation. “Tell the wenches of your own supposed successes! Tell them of your transformations from hideous hags with gynecological problems and planter warts to healthy, beautiful sex kittens! Tell them you have witnessed the raising of dead loved ones with only one application of our three hundred dollar papaya-scented lotion to the corpse‘s body! Tell them! Run! Spread the news! Make them believe!”

And the wenches did believe, and there were many pocketbooks emptied, souls destroyed, and embittered greasy-faced hags left in the independent consultants’ wake. Petter Myørck, true to his word, bestowed a white Mercedes Benz to every single one of his top-selling consultants, though only for one year. After the one year lapsed, the luxury cars were spirited away to a used car dealer in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Petter Myørck died just as he’d envisioned: a very wealthy and corrupt man who attained immortality through corporate enterprise.

His distraught followers, self-professed “Myørck's Army,” attempted to raise their master from his cold grave, but only succeeded in making his rotting flesh smell really, really nice.

The end.

Another Dorkinville Resident Bites the Dust

You may be surprised to learn that Bill Maher, former host of the delicious and much-missed Politically Incorrect and now pundit cum satirist cum Lady Elaine Fairchild look-a-like host of HBO’s Real Time With Bill Maher, is a big dorky dork from Dorkinville, Kentucky.








(Dorkinville, for those who don‘t know, is the home of such luminary writers as Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, Jewel, Madonna, and Pamela Anderson, to name but a few.)

The myth that witty, intelligent people like Bill Maher can successfully write anything they please with masterful aplomb has been shattered with this, his debut novel titled “True Story: A Novel.”

No, I haven’t read the book, and I don’t plan on reading it. After “meeting” his main characters, Dick, Shit, Fat, Chink and Buck, whose monikers, I’m certain, were chosen by Maher’s five-year-old nephew, and reading lines like: "Hey, get down off there!" ejaculated the conductor, and the giggling colleagues dismounted and took their rightful places inside the gleaming trispangled Amtrak Minuteman, bound for Trenton, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington, D.C., towns where comedy was king and the audience peasants, I decided it would be best to click the little red X in the right hand corner of my screen and pretend that I had not just witnessed literary suicide.

R.I.P. Dorko.

Perhaps You Didn't Hear Me the First Time

But, Doc, I really do think I have something in my eye.

Some Disturbing News...

Thanks to my oldest daughter and her newly acquired mice, I am now educated in the ways of male rodent domination, and really, I couldn’t be more sick to my stomach.

Apparently, if a male mouse’s territory is threatened by another male mouse, he will not hesitate to chew the invader’s testicles off.

Ladies and gentlemen, Batman has literally made Robin his bitch.

I need to lie down now.

Mr. Butler’s World: Episode IV

Hi, I'm Mr. Butler. For those of you who don't know who I am, please refer to my previous posts by searching my mommy's blog for the words "Mr. Butler's World." I would provide links if I could, but I'm only three, and despite my advanced vocabulary, I am computer illiterate. Onward then.

I got up in this morning really early because I had a bad dream about some man with a head like a big, round ball.










Mommy was talking at the TV last night at that man, and called him a lot of naughty names. I think his real name is The Fat Robertson or something.


Anyway, I got up really early. It was fifteen o’clock, and it was dark, but I went pee-pee in my Pull-Ups a little, which was very uncomfortable, and I desperately wanted a peanut butter sandwich, so I made my way through the dark, scary house and woke Mommy up. She seemed angry and told me to go back to sleep. I, of course, did not. I felt that Mommy was wrong in not rising immediately to my demands, but I only screamed and punched her door for free minutes or so. I’m proud that I am able to control my tantrums. That must mean I’m becoming a big boy, which is a good thing. Mommy says that big boys get to go to school and have Nemos that won’t die, because big boys don’t go pee-pee and poopy in their Pull-Ups, so the teachers won’t get mad, and big boys don’t put Doritos in fish bowls and kill Nemos.

Yeah. And I watched cartoons until Mommy and Daddy finally woke up.

I tried to tell Mommy about my bad dream about The Fat Robertson, but all she said was “Oh, honey, there’s no such thing as ball-headed monsters.” As usual, she just didn’t understand. Seems to me that grown-ups understand very little.

Sometimes I wonder about things. I wonder if The Fat Robertson has a little boy, and if the little boy has a big ball head, too. Is The Fat Robertson nice to his little boy? Does The Fat Robertson tell big stories to scare his little boy like he does to other people?

Sometimes I tell big stories, but only if I really need to. Say I feel lonely, or bored, perhaps confused about something abstract that presented itself to me during the day, and my brain starts to hurt. I will tell a big story to make Mommy feel sorry, like the time I told her that there was a sad mousie named Cutie Nose in my tummy when there really wasn’t, and she picked me up regardless of my heavy thighs that put a strain on her back, and she kissed my head and pretended to bite my fatty arms. I liked that.

I wonder if The Fat Robertson tells big stories because he is confused, too.

Jarhead -- An Unorthodox Review

Dear Jake Gyllenhaal,

If I may be so bold, would you be interested in spending time with an older (way) woman who’s married with four kids? It doesn’t have to be anything long-term, or even a date date type thing, just one night where the both of us could relax, kick back with a few brews and some pork chops, perhaps a dollop of my homemade stuffing on the side and some of that delicious mashed potato salad I’m so famous for, and then, maybe, if you’re so inclined, you might consider taking your pants off and swinging on a pole for me. Only if you really want to, of course.

This has nothing to do with sex, per se, rather an innocent albeit totally inappropriate attraction I feel towards your glorious, glorious man ‘tocks. As much as I admire your mind, your phenomenal acting skills and dreamy blue eyes that exude lifetimes of wisdom, it is your backside that interests me most. I would very much like to have a deep and meaningful conversation with it, tell it a joke or two, regale it with stories of my wild days of yore, tell it my hopes and dreams, discuss philosophy, debate political issues. I could definitely teach your ass a thing or two.

I’m fully aware that it is completely wrong for one human being to objectify another, to look upon another as nothing more than eye candy, a plaything, a soul-less mass of flesh with no merit other than its physical beauty, but you see, while watching your latest theatrical efforts in Jarhead last night, my mind got to wandering, began mulling over such things as pork chops and potato salad, life, death. Uh. And your butt.

My mind wandered quite a bit during Jarhead, unfortunately. Despite the amazing accomplishments of all involved, your brilliant portrayal of a young, confused, angry marine, Jamie Foxx’s devastatingly good depiction of Staff Sgt. Sykes, to name only two out of the many laudable performances, there was, in my opinion, little else besides the beautiful cinematography, awesome soundtrack and terrific acting to hold the attention of most average movie goers. I totally got the theme of Jarhead, that Desert Shield/Storm was just as brutal an experience for those marines as, say, getting sprayed with toxic chemicals while trudging through Vietnam’s jungles on rotted feet, that those boys were prepared to do what marines do best, yet were not allowed to “go get some” because the U.S. now destroys its enemies using fast machines and big bombs, all aided by technology, not bare hands and killer instinct. Our wars now just ain’t half as fun, in fact, those boys were damn bored out there in the searing desert sun, waiting, waiting, waiting for their shining moment. And waiting some more. And some more... Jarhead involved a lot of waiting.

And the audience waited right along with them, hence my wandering mind.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to make light of the awesome sacrifices our men and women of the armed forces make while defending our country -- I’ve nothing but admiration and respect for each and every one of them. Those who are fighting and dying right now, this very second, are heroes, plain and simple, regardless of what an idiot I feel their commander-in-chief is. And I can’t begin to imagine the horror the men and women of Desert Storm witnessed, the burned bodies, the undeniable terror, the physical demands, the deprivation, but let’s not forget the fact that compared to other wars, this was an “easy” one. Most of the enemy population laid down their weapons and fell to the sand in surrender -- oftentimes, our troops didn’t even have go looking for them, as hordes of Iraqis would seek out our troops with full intention of surrender. Take me away, thank you. Is that a Hershey bar you’re eating? Dear Allah, is that a bottle of water? Take meeeeeeee! Thank you. That war lasted a total of 43 days, and as your character glumly states, his contribution spanned exactly four days, four hours and one minute. And he didn’t get to kill a dang thing, darnitall.

Jarhead is not a film about dealing with the enemy, but a film that attempts to explore the enemy within -- the men depicted are fighting against their own inner demons, the demons of boredom, fear, the helplessness of knowing they are powerless against the blows coming from the civilian world, like infidelity (which appeared to be quite rampant during Desert Storm -- lots and lots of cheating wives and girlfriends, so much so, the men erect a “board of shame” featuring pictures of the nasty ho’s.) or missing the moment of their son’s birth. There is much dysfunction amidst the troops, as evidenced by your character, Jake, and that in and of itself should make for a riveting film. I love character studies, find the human mind, especially a damaged one, much more exciting than guns and bombs and car chases. However, this film fails to inspire my need to care about the characters. That’s right -- I didn’t care about your character, Jake. Or your best bud and gung ho spotter, Troy (wonderfully played by Peter Sarsgaard), or any of the others, for that matter. I felt nothing when tragedy fell, nothing when I should’ve felt even a little something, and you know why, Jake? Because the screenwriter forgot to include backstory. There are small bits that hint at some very intriguing lives, but they are just teases, no substantial meat. The writers forgot to create three dimensional beings who beg for attention not by naked asses and a few funny epithets, but by their stories. No matter how superb a character is portrayed, if there isn’t a story behind that character, a look into his soul, his experiences, then it is merely a sketch, pretty pictures to oooh and ahh over, but nothing to think about, nothing to make me care. It’s all just eye candy. Kind of like your beautiful derriere. Which, as you must have surmised by now, I enjoyed very much.

So, are we on, then? Pork chops, beer, a pole? Eight o’clock this Saturday would be perfect.

Love,

Ms. Lori

An Actual Photo of an Actual Groupie Doing What Groupies Do With an Actual Rock God

Tomorrow's my birthday, and I'm feeling a bit nostalgic, I guess. Dug through some of my old pictures today, and as I looked at the images, I was hit with the realization that I am now officially way too old to be a slut.














She was a fast machine
She kept her motor clean
She was the best damn woman I had ever seen
She had the sightless eyes
Telling me no lies
Knockin' me out with those American thighs
Taking more than her share
Had me fighting for air
She told me to come but I was already there

'Cause the walls start shaking
The earth was quaking
My mind was aching
And we were making it and you -

Shook me all night long

Working double time
On the seduction line
She was one of a kind, she's just mine all mine
She wanted no applause
Just another course
Made a meal out of me and came back for more
Had to cool me down
To take another round
Now I'm back in the ring to take another swing

'Cause the walls were shaking
The earth was quaking
My mind was aching
And we were making it and you -

Shook me all night long

A Witness to Murder

Did anyone happen to catch Dateline last night?

If so, did your throat constrict, your jaw clench, your stomach jump, heave, slide from your abdominal cavity and ooze down your leg?

Never have I felt so weird while watching a television show, never. It was a feeling of disgust, embarrassment, righteousness, sadness and hardcore disbelief. As I watched one obviously disturbed individual remove his clothing and enter the home of a supposed young boy, twelve pack of beer in hand, all atremble with the hopes of engaging in a sexual tryst with a minor, I swear my bowls loosened just a little bit.

And the rabbi? Oy! No, this can’t be happening, this can’t be…

Did you see, as I did, the face of hopelessness, of true and naked terror on that man?

When he realized that he would be featured nationwide, exposed for the sick fuck he is, his body actually surrendered in a way I’d never seen before -- it was utterly horrific the way his arms flew up, almost as if warding off a physical blow, the way he staggered over to the camera crew, to Chris Hansen , and disturbingly pleaded like a child would -- his whole persona changed from a cocky, horny monster man into that of a little boy.

They all became frightened children, all of them, the doctor, the teacher, the naval officer. Some collapsed, some ran, some just sat there, heads hung low, and admitted defeat. It was the most sickening hour of television viewing I‘ve ever experienced, not only because of the obvious reasons, of being witness to depravity in the making, but by witnessing the destruction of the human spirit. As much as I loathe those men and wish nothing but misery for them, there was a tiny piece of my heart that felt extremely sad for them…Not an empathetic sadness, no sympathy from me, thank you very much, but a deep, nauseating sadness for any vestiges of humanity left in their dangerous minds. I am not a sadist, and watching another human being crumble, no matter how despicable his actions, is not my idea of a good time.

I thought about their wives, children, mothers and fathers, sisters, brothers…I couldn’t help but feel the pain those innocents must’ve felt while watching this nightmare unfold. Good Christ, how will they deal with the knowledge that life as they knew it would never be same again? How will they survive their neighbors’ whispers, the hate mail, the loss of personal faith? Oh, and the anger I felt is indescribable, just total rage toward those men for choosing a life of deviance over the safety and well-being of their wives and children, for putting themselves in a situation that would cause irreparable damage to those who love them.

Those men murdered their families last night by publicly humiliating them, spitting on their very existence, and Dateline, I’m sorry to say, was an accomplice to those murders. Yes, it made for “good” TV, and yes, I know that Dateline’s report was a public service tenfold, but did the producers and journalists ever stop to think about the hundreds of silent spiritual deaths their report would cause? I know that I certainly did, and that, unfortunately, overshadowed any righteous joy I may have felt -- those men sacrificed their own souls and the lives of their families in the name of perversion, but Dateline, despite all good intentions, helped dig the graves.

Ebony, Ivory, Singing in Perfect Harmony

(no subject)
1 message
Peaceofmind10@aol.com Fri, Nov 4, 2005 at 12:35 AM
To: biskwik3@gmail.com

On 11/4/05, Peaceofmind10@aol.com wrote:
This is Peaceofmind10@aol.com

I recently accidentally happened upon your website and was delighted to see my comments posted. In full I would like to say that you are one sick woman. You obviously seem to have a problem with a woman of color who exudes the beauty, grace, glamour and class of Gene Harlow, Greta Garbo, Marylin Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor to name a few. These women are all white and the fact that Ms. LaBelle exudes these qualities without apology is obviously a problem for certain people. The Lady Marmalade portion of the program the men all volunteered to come on stage and knew full well the fun that is involved it is a trademark part of her show (educate yourself). As for her five octave range it is something called talent and singing with conviction and passion. Something you obviously have not been given the ability to appreciate. I could go on but I wont because I think I have made my point. Open your eyes and learn to accept truth. Patti has overcame too many obstacles and been a blessing to too many people for you and your unfounded thoughts to even be considered by anyone with the sense of a log. Post this!

Your wish is my command, sibling. (Not sure whether to call you "brother" or "sister," O anonymous one.)

Dear Madam or Sir,

I'm sorry that you took my good-natured ribbing of Ms. LaBelle as a symptom of mental disability -- I am, in fact, a bit loopy, but not totally 'round the bend. In another ten years or so, when my four children have all reached teenagehood, I'm sure I will completely cross over into absolute madness. But until then, I assure you, my faculties, for the most part, are intact.

Also, please allow me to apologize for having offended you -- I certainly meant no harm. You are correct in assuming that I'm not educated in the ways of the LaBelle -- I only know what I've seen through the years regarding her numerous television appearances. Or should I say "heard" through the years. And what I've heard still echoes like the mythological Irish banshee throughout my skull. To put it simply, I don't care for the woman's voice. Regarding her Nobel Peace Prize performance, I found it to be in bad taste, an embarrassment for all those involved. I suppose it could've been the beer goggles distorting my view that night, but I highly doubt it --- I had a witness, someone who watched the same thing as I, someone who was just as horrified, if not more, and that witness happens to not only be my best friend of twenty years, she is (was?) a LaBelle admirer. And -- get this bit o' timeless cliché -- she's black. Yes, you read that right -- old Ms. Lori, who has a "problem with a woman of color who exudes the beauty, grace, glamour and class," is best friends with a woman of color who not only exudes beauty, grace, glamour and class, she IS all of the aforementioned, and more. Plus, her voice doesn’t cause me to go into epileptic seizure.

As an aside: My seemingly light-hearted response to your bold assumptions may seem flip, arrogant, but the truth is, your assumptions hurt.

I just don't care for Ms. LaBelle's voice or persona, dig? Just like I don't care for Jennifer Aniston or Paris Hilton (if you're so inclined, check out my archives -- plenty of snarky posts about white women and men in there, friend). My humor is not meant to be vicious, I mean no ill will. The people who regularly read my blog know this. If you don't appreciate my brand of sarcastic nonsense, then please feel free to never set eyes on my words again. Besides, do you honestly believe that my silly rants would have any impact on those people whatsoever? Do you really think that those blessed and fortunate chosen ones, those famous, beautiful, unattainable and busy people would give one crappity-crap about what I say should they accidentally happen upon my piddly blog?

I can say with the utmost confidence that they would not.

One last thing: You wrote, “As for her five octave range it is something called talent and singing with conviction and passion. Something you obviously have not been given the ability to appreciate.”

I wholeheartedly disagree, and shall do so by ending with two brilliant, compelling, fabulous words: Aretha Franklin.

Respectfully,

Ms. Lori

But Then Again, the Universe, She is Kind Sometimes....

So I'm all gloom and doom after my last post, just depressed as hell, and then the phone rings. I ignore it, continue weeping into my huge bowl of chocolate almond ice cream. sigh, oh, sigh....weeeeeep...eat...sigh...snort (What a big old sad pig sounds like.) Phone keeps ringing, and it's making my curly little tail twitch, so I hoof it on downstairs to answer it, but before I can, Mr. Butler takes it upon his tiny phlumpy self to do the honors.

"Hi, what's your name?" he shrieks in his sweet girly voice.

Silence

Silence

Silence

I decide that it's time to rescue whomever may be on the line.

"Give me the phone, Brandon." I say, adding, "It may be the police cops." That's the only way he will relinquish the phone without a tantrum, you see. We wouldn't want to incur the wrath of the police cops, no way, uh uh.

"Hello?" I say, figuring that the unfortunate caller lost patience and hung up.

"Is Larry Young available?"

"No, may I take a message?"

"When will he be available, ma'am?"

Ah, a telemarketer. They never leave contact information, only the residue of their annoying gnat-like auras. I'm usually quite cordial to telemarketers as I realize they have bills to pay just like the rest of us, but sometimes...Well, sometimes I fucking want to rip their hearts from their thoraxes.

"I don't know. Sorry. He, like, works."

"Is this Mrs. Young?" (Said in hopeful, annoying, gnat-like tone.)

"One moment, please."

I cover the mouthpiece and whisper to Brandon, "It's not the police cops -- it's Dora the Explorer!" then hand him the phone.

I go back upstairs and continue eating my ice cream, and instead of weeping into the bowl, I grunt with glee till the very last spoonful.

Damn That Witch Who Put the Evil Eye On My Family In 19th Century Abruzzo!

I’ve written maybe two or three posts about my ever-present difficulties regarding writing, the strange happenings surrounding my attempts to produce fiction for publication, the odd and too-constant-to-be-coincidental events that have tried their best to make me break down and scream for mommy, events that include editorial oversights, E-mail glitches, computer crashes, printing errors, embarrassing reviews, lack of familial support (extreme lack) -- frustrating, disappointing events that happen to every writer at least once in their lifetime. But these mysterious happenings present themselves to me all the time.

No exaggeration required here. But the reason I didn't post more often about these happenings is a simple one: I don't want to bore you. If I wanted to subject you, my regular, wonderful readers (all two and a half of you), I would list in excruciating detail, by date, no less, each unfortunate event that has caused me to come to the following conclusion, but I won’t do that lest I lose the two and a half readers I’ve managed to hold on to. Suffice it to say, I have come to the conclusion that there is a curse woven throughout my writing endeavors, and I’m sick of trying to ward it off. My poor fingers are tired of being pointed in a perpetual mano cornuto, my heart is exhausted from the disappointment, my mind warped beyond repair from beating my head against the wall in disbelief. The injustice of it all, the almost laughable way I’ve become Murphy’s bitch has, despite my perseverance, my love of words, caused me to hate writing.

Okay, I can’t help it -- I must tell you about the last unfortunate event (and I do mean last). Okay. So you know how my old whore died and I lost all of my work? How the floppies I’d used to back everything up were somehow ***cue spooky, maniacal laughter*** corrupted? Okay. Okay. Well, after that, the one hundred and fiftieth unfortunate event, I thought I’d just lie on my back and expose my neck to the demon dogs of hell, just accept the fact that I am doomed never to publish again, and end it all with a modicum of dignity. But I couldn’t. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t lie down and die. I’ve been going through a very different kind of hell lately, an even more painful one, and I guess I felt the need to hold on to something that gives me the illusion of being in control. As you will see, however, that illusion has been shattered forever.

So I began writing again, even started a novel that didn’t repulse me to the point of abandonment. Over four thousand words into it, and still going. Well, was going. Anyway, I began writing again, feeling that old hope and excitement regarding submissions -- I’d submitted a story to The Barcelona Review last May and was optimistic about possible publication there. I truly felt that my story would be perfect for this venue, and I so needed a recent publishing success to boost my spirits, get me going again. Make me feel worthy during a time when I’ve never felt so worthless.

But it’d been quite some weeks over the stated response time, so I queried the editor yesterday, confident that she was simply mulling over which font she would use to print my byline in the next issue. Um. No?

She never received my story. I have an auto-response from TBR to prove it got there, but she can’t find the fuck. She kindly asked me to resend, promised she’d “look at it right away,” the dear, but guess what? Remember my old whore, the corrupt disks? Yeah, that’s right. My story’s gone forever, gone, gone, gone. And so, my darlings, am I.

The Last Halloween

I was eleven years old, and it was a perfect night for trick or treating: clear sky, vivid moon, temperature hovering around sixty. My friend Geraldine, a heavy-set, beautiful red-haired girl from Ireland, a year and some months older than myself, was not only my Halloween companion, she was my costume designer -- it was her direction, I believe, that was the means to an end, the cause for what was to happen to me later on that initially magical night.

Geraldine meant well, I suppose. Being that she was almost thirteen, about six inches taller, and Irish, I admired her, trusted her worldly ways, valued her opinion. If she’d suggested that I cover myself in brown Magic Marker and go as a giant cow patty, I probably would have. I was desperate for suggestions, as my parents were otherwise occupied that year, too busy with everyday frustrations, cuckolding, holding on to their sanity by any means possible. -- you know, typical grown-up stuff -- and they hadn’t a moment to help me with something so trivial as a Halloween costume. And there it was, six o’clock p.m. on October 31st, and me with no costume. I was hastily putting together a suitable disguise when the doorbell rang.

Geraldine was appalled. She whipped the white sheet with crude cut-out eyes off my head, took the scissors from my hand before I could finish the jagged mouth, and said, “that’s retarded.” Perhaps, but at least it was a costume; Geraldine, voluptuous Geraldine with her freckles and too-short skirt, sunset-pink lips and blue-shadowed eyes, was dressed exactly as she always had, albeit a heavier application of lipstick, a tad more eyeliner, a trashier than normal lower-cut top. “Where’s your costume?” I said to her cleavage. She waved her hand across her navy blue leather skirt and said, “I’m wearing it.”

“Okaaaay...”

“I’m a hooker.”

Well then.

Geraldine immediately began her hunt, plowing though my closets, investigating my mother’s makeup box. It was getting late, and all I really wanted to do was put on my old sheet and hit the streets running. But no, Geraldine had other plans. “Here,” she said while holding out my mother's peasant dress, circa 1970, Cover Girl cosmetics, and a sombrero. Sombrero? Where the heck did you find a sombrero? She ignored me. “Put this stuff on while I run back to my house -- and take off your glasses!” I dutifully did as I was told. She returned shortly wielding a long black wig, the synthetic fibers fuzzy with age. It smelled like basement. She plopped it on top of my head, tucked my blonde hair up under the mesh cap, parted the back without aid of a comb, and braided the two halves into thick ropes. She then slipped a fabric rose above my right ear, applied my mother’s Scarlet Secrets lipstick with a heavy hand, poked my eyes with the mascara wand more times than I’d like to remember as she transformed my lashes into spidery appendages, set the sombrero at a jaunty left angle, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Hmmm. Something’s missing...Something...” Something called boobs, apparently. She shoved handfuls of Kleenex into my pitiful training bra until my figure took on the form of an unfortunate Playboy Bunny dwarf.

I scrutinized my metamorphosis, awestruck by the vision staring back at me from my Barbie-stickered mirror; I truly was a butterfly. I was beautiful, horribly beautiful, a stunning otherself with gigantic breasts and pouty red mouth, a Mexican whore just coming off a three day bender. “All right,” Geraldine said. “We're ready!” I wasn’t so sure.

The first half of the night was uneventful. We visited the usual neighbors, received the usual candies (as well as the always disappointing apple), and generally had the usual good time. Until, that is, Geraldine mentioned the fact that since our parents were busy either supervising our younger siblings or skulking about in some seedy motel parking lot, we were basically free to stay out as late as we wanted. This would be the year we would visit The Forbidden Zone, a tract adjacent to our own, but one that was off limits in our younger, ten-year-old days. Breathless with freedom, we giddily ran toward The Forbidden Zone, laughing, swinging our sacks of loot at one another. It was a fine time. The people of The Forbidden Zone gave out better candy, bigger candy -- no apples, no miniatures or skimpy sticks of powdered sugar -- they gave out full-size Snickers and artfully designed party bags chock full of candy corn and wax lips, Charleston Chews and Junior Mints. We hit the motherlode, baby.

Then we came to a house toward the end of Nivens Road, a dark, foreboding house that whispered go away, leave nooooow with its stark dead trees and patchy lawn. We wouldn't have bothered to knock had we not noticed the glow of television streaming though the front window. Someone was home, and that meant the real possibility of more candy.

After what seemed ages, the door opened, and a pleasant-looking middle aged woman greeted us, bowl of treats in the crook of her arm. Slowly, though, the pleasant expression on her face gave way to one of distaste, her brows turned down, mouth set into a grim line. Uh oh.

“Aren’t you too old to be trick or treating?” She said this to me. Me!

I said, “Um…I‘m eleven?”

“Liar! You should be ashamed of yourself! Go home! Just get out of here and GO HOME!” Then she slammed the door on my crushed spirit, tears blurring my vision even worse than it already was without my glasses. Geraldine called her a bitch and kicked the door before we ran away, but it didn’t make me feel better. I wept all the way home, not only because of that woman‘s heinously inappropriate reprimand, but because I realized that the Halloween I always knew and loved was lost to me forever.

My oldest child just turned fifteen, and she’d debated whether or not to go trick or treating this year. “I’m not too old, am I, Mom?”

I not only encouraged her to trick or treat this year, I demanded it.

Attention Parents: Avoid Party City Like the Plague

Mommy, Mommy! I wanna be an asshole for Halloween! Please, please, please may I be an asshole?

The Ass-Flaps of Evil

Fine, how about this, then:







Does that offend you?








(Click to enlarge flappage.)