OMG! @093&?%993!!!!!!!!!!!!

Woooooooo!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That is all.

ADDENDUM: Seriously. HAPPY WOO WOO NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!

(For your sake, I hope I don't do this all night -- but I might. I smoke up here in my office, 'cause it's got the sucking fan thing and all, so every thirty minutes or so, I take a smoke break, which, I'm sure, irritates my guests, because, God knows, a minute without Ms. Lori is a minute in eternity, but hey, it's better than blowing puffs of doom in their faces and stuff and things, sooo...

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!! 2007! And shit! YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!


SOBER ADDENDUM, 8:00 a.m., January 1, 2007: Hmmm. Apparently, I was bombed out of my gourd last night, and I don't even know what "gourd" means, or whereabouts on my person a gourd might possibly exist, but there you have it.

A couple of interesting observations:
1) I did not, in fact, take a smoke break every thirty minutes, as exhibit A will show. I present to the jury this ashtray with no more than ten butts in it, the sum of the entire day's worth of smoking.

2) I'm positive that my guests never have felt nor ever will feel that "a minute without Ms. Lori is a minute in eternity."

3) Taking into the account the above statements, I can safely surmise that I am an egotistical liar while under the influence of cheap beer and greasy finger food.

O Holy Shite

Well, hello! I’m back, as you can plainly see. Hope your holidays went well, and that you’re all looking forward to a gluttonous New Year’s Eve.

Thought I’d take a few minutes here, while I can, if I can-- got four kids home from school (plus one -- my oldest daughter’s boyfriend’s dad went in hospital on Christmas Eve morning, and so has been staying with us) -- to post a few unimportant yet extremely irritating things I either noticed or experienced during the holiday weekend. Let’s begin, shall we?

1) I still can’t stand Patti LaBelle’s voice. Although I like and respect her as a human being, and know that many people believe her to be one of the best singers alive, I nearly had a brain aneurysm on Christmas morning while listening to her destroy “O Holy Night” when she performed her version of it on Good Morning America. Even my children, who had been deep in gift opening frenzy, unmindful of anything going on around them save for the gleaming boxes and loot-filled stockings, froze with terror soon as Ms. LaBelle began to howl. My boy, however, quickly broke free of his fear, brave little man that he is, then turned to me and said, “Mommy, you told me werewolves aren't real!”

2) Extended family who call every ten minutes to report incredibly idiotic things that I nor anyone else in my home care about, should really just get a grip. Step away from the phone, noodle-noses. Back away from the phone and be silent.

3) Why is it that sanitation workers take an extra day off, even when a holiday does not fall on their work day? We now have a mountain of trash so high, my husband, embarrassingly enough, disappeared somewhere near the summit late yesterday afternoon.

4) Instruction manuals that give instruction only in foreign languages, which results in a child’s ineptly put together Christmas gift. I’m sorry, dear, Daddy and I didn’t realize that speaking French was a parental responsibility. Now go play with your new block of plastic fromage -- it beeps when you press the mysterious blue button!

5) Rain, rain, go the hell away. Don’t you understand that this is Western New York, man? Did you, perhaps, take a wrong turn on your way to Virginia or something? I can’t shoo the kids out to play in the mud, for Christ’s sake! Children don’t want to build mudmen or decorate the budding lilac bush with Christmas ornaments! Jeepers, but you’re stupid!

6) A certain mailman who is quite nonchalant about delivering the goods on Christmas Eve day, and was two hours late, thus missing the intended recipients because they, you know, had places to go at four o’fucking clock in the afternoon and couldn’t wait around for the packages, will receive no tin of homemade cookies next year from this annoyed mother of a disappointed sixteen-year-old whose main Christmas gifts were ordered online. Merry Christmas, darling girl -- enjoy your little yellow “Sorry we missed you” slip.

7) Patti LaBelle’s voice is the stuff of nightmares. Yeah, I already mentioned that, but honestly, I’m still traumatized.

8) What’s worse than having four (plus one) kids stuck in the house for a week? Four (plus one) kids who are all sick.

9) What’s worse than having four (plus one) sick, cranky kids stuck in the house for a week? Dealing with that after a night of no sleep due to a four year old whining and sniffing and coughing and kicking my head -- on top of not sleeping the night before because wrapping presents keeps parents up till two a.m., and children rise on Christmas morning at exactly five a.m.

10) My house is awash in tiny Styrofoam balls and scraps of metallic paper -- all stuck to the floors and walls with unidentifiable gooey substances and cookie crumbs. And I’m too tired to give a damn.

Interesting side note: After researching the origin of Patti LaBelle’s voice, I discovered that her vocal chords were created sometime in the 1860s by one Thaddeus S. Beaumont of Baltimore, a notorious and decidedly insane anatomist cum barber who was known to have once styled the hair of Edgar Allan Poe. Beaumont, while under the influence of absinthe, built those vocal chords with snippets of Poe’s hair, some tree bark, and a bit of dog jowl. His evil creation was originally intended as a form of military scare tactics, requested by General-in-Chief of the Union army, George Brinton McClellan -- ostensibly some sort of sound-augmenting implement placed in the neck of a bugle to terrorize the opposition during company advancement -- but had somehow escaped from Beaumont’s workshop and remained in hiding until 1944, whereupon the vocal chords reappeared in the throat of a child named Patricia Louise Holt, better known as Patti LaBelle.

Shocking, isn’t it?

I Can't Believe I'm Saying This, But...

I think I'm in love with Justin Timberlake.



Merry Christmas and Happy Chanukah, straight ladies and gay gentlemen -- may you receive your own dick in a box this holiday season. And if you're of the reverse persuasion, my heartfelt wishes that you all receive a lovely, gift-wrapped box of poon.

With love,

Ms. Lori

Cheap Whores

Stop whoring your whorey blogs to this particular high-priced, very exclusive lady of the evening.

Look, I don’t have a lot of time to diddle around the Internet, okay? I’ve got four kids, a cat that pukes every five minutes, an Internet provider run by folks who eat snail testicles (as evidenced by how slow my connection is), a brain that can’t handle much of anything lately, a book to write (hahaha, I kill me), and some sort of weird horn-like appendage that popped through my forehead last night -- it has rudimentary fingers at the tip, and bends this way and that way at will, perhaps something that'll be useful for weeding the garden come summer…

Hey! I’ve got a Weed Whacker on my forehead! Cool.

But forget about my Weed Whacker for a minute, if you can -- what I’m trying to say here is this:

If you don’t subscribe to my blog, or even just read it and comment once in a damn while, DO NOT invite me either by E-mail, Z-mail, passenger pigeon, or pony express, to link or subscribe to yours. I don't have the time, I don't have the interest, and frankly, I just don't like you.

Also, if you happen to be a Christian bloggers site, be sure you read my blog postings carefully before inviting me to join your gang. Do you really want some anti-organized religion, foul-mouthed, beer-loving, Weed Whacker-headed nutcase featured on your otherwise sweet site? DO YOU?

I fucking didn’t think so.

Rain-Making Sticks Are Scary!

Sorry I haven’t posted lately -- one of my kids hasn’t been well, and we’re going through the lovely process of CAT scans and witch doctors wielding large rain-making sticks, and all that stuff…Will post something more substantial soonishly. Maybe.

Till then, have a drink on me, think good thoughts and send 'em on over here, will ya?

Boogie oogie, you bombastic, beautiful bastards and broads.

UPDATE!!!

Have you hugged a radiologist today?

I did. Picked up that poor old, frail, wonderful, god-like, gorgeous bag of bones in my arms and swung him to and fro like a rag doll.

Should’ve seen the look on his precious face.

But the moment called for a hug, as I was in love with the world -- still am.

I love you, world, and everything’s gonna be okay.

ANOTHER UPDATE! (Which I should've posted the other day, but, y'know, hey): My girl is on the mend! Scans showed that she was suffering from preseptal cellulitis, but it was caught early (I can't imagine what she would've looked and felt like had it been caught late in the stage -- I shudder to think...). Her poor eyeball seems to be going back to where it belongs (like, inside her orbital socket), and she's feeling much better. Gawd bless the man or woman who invented Augmentin.

Bi-Scurrilous

All right, then, listen up -- bi-curious is cool, unless, that is, a certain bi-curious individual has a face like a horse whose mouth was implanted with fifteen extra horse teeth by an evil scientist named Doctor Julius Bastardo.

Let me explain.

Last night, I was flipping through the channels, came upon a VH1 documentary about bi-curious women who are married. Okay, interesting enough. What made it even more interesting was that there is a place in the Bahamas where these married bi-curious babes can go mingle with other bi-curious babes, and, perhaps, get it on…As their chagrined albeit excited husbands stand on the sideline (literally) and fiddle nervously with their crushed self-esteem while at the same time find a comfortable position in which to hide their confused and perky wieners.

Yes, it’s a wonderland, this place. Full of magical hopes, and fantastical dreams wherein girls mack on girls and men get to watch their girls mack on other girls, then go masturbate in the bathroom. Really, quite romantic.

I can’t tell you how fascinated I was. Seriously, I can’t tell you. My oldest daughter reads this blog sometimes, so, you know…

But I digress like a fat kid love cake.

Anyway, one of the focus couples, a seemingly lovely pair from Wisconsin, put a bit of a damper on my…er…fascination. Mostly because the bi-curious wife was butt fugly to the point of obscenity. Had a face like a jigsaw, she did -- nice hair, though, but my sweet Madonna, what a fucking awful pity about that face of hers. Yet…I liked her. She seemed like a fun person, an open-minded lady with a boring life -- kind of like me, actually -- and she had a cute figure on her, I’ll give her that, but I just couldn’t get past that face.

Oh, that face! It is a face that blew up a thousand ships, a face that makes angels cry, then throw rocks and garbage. It totally ruined any….fascination ***ahem*** I may have had with this program. All I kept thinking was “No one in their right mind would dare put their lady parts near that row of garden shears, I don’t care how desperate they may be. No one will want to kiss that picket fence for fear of splinters, no one would want to taste the yellow, smell the tartar, bruise their tender lips -- or worse, have their lips completely ripped off, then swallowed and digested. Would they? Naw…”

But someone did, and I swear on Dorothy Parker’s grave, I gagged. I gagged and looked away as some hottie tongued the massive maw from Hell, I choked on bile when the kissing-clacking-ripping-shredding sounds permeated my being, murdered my very soul.

It was the wrongest thing ever. Wronger than wrong. Wronger than using awkward adjectives like “wrongest” and “wronger.” It was wronglacious.

I turned off the television, then quietly vomited into my teacup.

The moral of this story is a simple one, ladies and gentlemen: The dentist is your friend.

Vicodin Turned My Hair Red!

Bastard Vicodin!













Beautiful Vicodin...













Oh, my God. Not only did my little friend turn my hair red, but I think it just made a tattoo of an old woman shucking corn appear on my left breast!

Bastard, bastard Vicodin!

Beautiful, kind, horrible, creamy, chewy bastard Vicodin...

I probably shouldn’t have had that second screwdriver, yeah?

Ode to Vicodin

Oh, merciful, darling Vicodin
Your grace all packaged in white
I bow before your pulchritude
Because I’m higher than a kite

Before we met, I was incapacitated
Walked on all fours and squealed like a pig
But now I hobble happily along
While smiling really big

Oh, sweet, sweet drug of mine
Combined with valium, so glorious
You are here for me in my time of need
And now I feel victorious

Vicodin, Vicodin, Vicodin, I love you
I love you more than you know
And should an airplane crash into my house
It would be okay because I’d be too stoned to realize
And stuff
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

The End

If You Call Me a Cracker, I'll Call You a Fool

Well, Zoechi, you wouldn't be the first person to accuse me of racism because of something innocuous I’ve written, so that must mean that I am, in fact, a racist! Good call, Barney! Oh, and forgive my assumption here, but…

in·noc·u·ous [i nókyoo əss] adj --

1. unlikely to offend: not intended to cause offense or provoke a strong reaction and unlikely to do so

2. harmless: harmless in effect -- an innocuous white powder

Note: That’s “white powder,” not “power,” m’kay, chief?

It is downright despicable, I agree, to find humor in this oftentimes depressing world we all live in. Would you believe I once even made fun of Paris Hilton's hanging, white ass-flaps! And Condi Rice's curious circa 1953 Barbie hairdo -- I particularly enjoyed writing that one. I've hurled insults at Madonna, and yes, even Puff Daddy, er...Shaun Combs Diddy...I mean, PeePee Doody. Whatever. Can’t stand him and his self-loving,lifting-other-people's-work-and-calling-it-original antics.

Some more “racist” statements to make your hair curl (oops, was that a slur?):

Ebonics = Inexplicable “dialect” that makes the user sound like an idiot.

I think illegal aliens are called “illegal aliens” for a very good reason. My great-grandparents immigrated, assimilated, and produced future generations of Americans without cheating and lying and thumbing their noses at our laws. Yes, it was difficult for them, but doing things the right way usually is.

I think Louis Farrakhan is a complete moron with an Allah complex.

I believe that anyone who is at least fifty percent Native American should not be required to pay taxes -- ever. The fact that my husband is part Native American has nothing whatsoever to do with that belief, by the way. Well, okay, maybe a tad…

Many years ago, while some friends and I watched a documentary on a certain tribe in Africa, a people that wear plates in their lips, I laughed so hard, I cried. Sure, we’d smoked a bit of weed that night, but men who look like ducks and clack when they talk tend to make me laugh really hard, anyway.

Drug addicts who keep producing children should be sterilized. And perhaps, anyone named “Whitney Houston.”

Scholarships and/or acceptance into university should be based on the quality of the student’s grades, not the color of his or her skin.

I believe that all people are equal, thus do not believe they should be given special treatment based on race. When one group is given preference regarding jobs and education, kind of makes the word “equal” irrelevant, doesn’t it?

Regarding the workplace, an able-bodied man, black or white, or whatever race, has the advantage over an able-bodied, equally qualified woman.

FYI: Women make approximately eighty cents on every dollar a man makes, despite the fact she often bears total responsibility of child-rearing, household expenses, childcare, etc, due to runaway baby daddies.

“Are We Ready For a Male President?” There’s a headline you won’t ever see.

“President Obama Ends War in Iraq!” And that’s a headline I hope we do see.

I find political correctness to be about as appealing as used toilet paper.

I hate mankind, all of it, and I love it as well. But most of all, I feel very, very sorry for the state of insanity we've settled into -- easily, comfortably, I might add. And that is why I laugh -- so that I don't curl up and cry myself to an early grave.

I laugh because the alternative would be much too easy, and I've never been one to take the easy route.

I strongly suggest you dig in your heels lest you continue on your easy ride down, you fish-eyed fool.

And guess what? I refuse to apologize to any fish-eyed people who may be reading this. People with fish eyes are funny, for Christ's sake!

Dreaming of David Letterman

Okay, so I deleted the posts that had to do with O.J. Satan, because, really, I see no point in having them up now. They were taking up room, and anybody that knows me knows I like a tidy space.

But hey, David Letterman appeared in my dream world last night, which was very welcome indeed. I’ve had a silly crush on that man since I was a wee tot (look, at my age, eighteen or nineteen is wee), yet never dreamt of him before. No, I usually dream of Elton John and old Daddy Bush, occasionally Wolfgang Puck, and once, Ashton Kutcher, but it is the rare delight when my crushes grace me with their celestial presence.

Oh, hang on a sec….I just remembered my Bill Clinton dream, back when he was running the country, and OOOOO-weeeeeeeeeeeeee! that was a hot dream, for sure. I’d been dressed as a Native American maiden, and Bill had nothing on but a rawhide diaper, and I was riding his back like the magnificent stallion he is, and…

Anyway.

I sent Mr. Letterman a video of myself prancing about, striking super model poses in a room of mirrors, all while performing a killer standup routine -- fully clothed, mind you -- and lo and behold, he really, really enjoyed it, so much so, he appeared before me while I was investigating a haunted house here in Rochester.

Thing is, although he said he enjoyed my video, and I felt the sexual tension between us, I also felt a strange awareness of being mocked. I studied the gap between his teeth, his lips, his eyebrows, for signs of mockery, but saw only expressions of lust. Yet, something didn’t set right with me, something familiar was tapping at the door of Common Sense Central (an exclusive club located somewhere deep in my brain). It was a recognizable, nostalgic feeling, that finger-down-the-backbone feeling of public humiliation -- you know, like when that group of kids in eighth grade pretended to like you, were nice to you when they weren’t with their posse, but when in flagrante posse, whispered and snickered when you walked past them in the hall, or when those same kids sat behind you on the bus and shot spitballs into your hair, when only moments before, they‘d asked for your help on a homework assignment?

Yeah, that feeling.

Before I could fully grasp the reasoning behind my unpleasant feelings of being made fun of, despite Mr. Letterman’s apparent lust for yours truly (and when I say “apparent,” I mean APPARENT), Conan O’Brien stuck his head around the corner, gave me a toothy grin, then proceeded to groom himself by licking his arm while emitting odd cat-like sounds. End of dream.

I ate about fifteen pounds of leftover turkey last night, by the way.

ADDENDUM: Ooops. Totally didn't even think about the fact that if I delete my Open Letter to O.J. Simpson post, folks coming from Slate will be greeted with a big ball of empty nothingness...Sorry. I am, most certainly, a giant dick.

Nancy Pelosi in da House!

And Rumsfeld is resigning.

My sweet Lennon. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday gift.

Stay tuned for more in-depth punditry from Ms. Lori…Only, not today. I’ve a frighteningly bad cold, and so began drinking self-medicating at noon.

You know how it is.

Whenever I Feel Like Running Out into Busy Traffic...

...A compulsion I‘ve had since childhood, a little voice from below always saves me from myself…

Boy: Mommy, I like the way you smell.

Me: Thank you, sweetheart!

Boy: Yeah, you smell better than Daddy.

Me: I do?

Boy: Uh huh. Daddy smells like bugs, but you smell pretty.

Me: Daddy doesn’t smell like bugs -- he smells like oatmeal.

Boy: Well, I think boys smell terrible, and girls smell good! Girls smell yummy! ***Boy rubs tummy, licks his lips, and goes “mmmm yuuuuum“***

Me, horrified and appalled, yet enchanted: You will not be dating until you reach the age of twenty-five, son.

Boy, finger up nose: Mommy, can I have a waffle with sip [syrup]?

Scodd

A conversation between me and the boy yesterday:

Boy: Mommy, who makes all the butterflies?

Me, charmed: Why, butterflies are made from caterpillars [delete entire caterpillar to chrysalis to beautiful butterfly explanation].

Boy, bored out of his skull: No, Mommy! I mean who makes the butterflies? Who, Mommy?

Me, slightly amused: Okay, well, I think that God might just be behind all of this butterfly business, then…Yes?

Boy, aggravated: No! No, no no! You mean SCODD makes the butterflies! SCODD does!

Me, confused as hell: Scodd? What's "Scodd"?

Boy: You know! Daddy's friend who was here when it was hot out and then it rained, and we had to play in the house, and then we ate potato chips and dip?

Me, brain whirring like a Mac: Sco…? ***light bulb moment*** Oh! Oh, for Christ's…You mean Todd? [My husband's business partner] The man with a little boy named Zach?

Boy: Yes! Scodd!

Me, belly-laughing inside my head: But, honey, what makes you think Todd makes the butterflies?

Boy: Daddy told me! I asked him where butterflies come from, and he told me Scodd makes them.
**************************************************************
Note: You would be correct in assuming that our family is not a particularly religious one...

Who the Hell is Krista Allen?

And what about my man-twins? I demand man-twins!

If Lovin' Deer Chili is Wrong, I Don't Wanna Be Right

Went to a pahtay last weekend, got all up in da Jell-O shots and venison chili…

I did not feel well the next morning.

Behold the debauchery!


Me as Debbie Harry's less attractive little sister, and my best bud, Foxy Brown.

















My hair wouldn't cooperate that night, unfortunately -- more like Barry Manilow than Debbie Harry, which, of course, ruins the whole illusion...But just look at how big and red my mouth is!


Happy Halloween, Chicken Heads!

#5 in My Series of “Incredibly Bad Poetry by Celebrities or Fictional Characters”

The Saddest Clown

By Jared Leto




Look at me, you bastardly bitches
Look into my mesmerizing lady eyes
See how they hypnotize? Now look away!
I am the Wal-Mart of magicians

Marry [sic] me, marry [sic] me
I am finished with you

I apply my angst upon my face
With wicked turn of wrist, the greasepaint
My deepest agony and despair
And I cry

Marry [sic] me, marry [sic] me
I am finished with you

Scooby Doo is a magnificent cartoon
Because Shaggy smokes the weed -- I know it’s true
I scream out in pain, alone
I love myself, alone

Scooby dooby Doo, where are you?
You’ve got some fun [sic] to do now

And the wind cries Jared
Can you hear it, fuckers? Marry me
Come weep with Mr. Silly, come
Walk beside the saddest clown on earth

From the Sublime to Homoerotic Sexual Sadism

I love The Travel Channel. The Travel Channel is my one-stop shopping experience, my all-in-one, one-size-fits-all, all-inclusive package, all-you-can-eat buffet chock full of everything from ghosts to gondoliers, black sand beaches to Bigfoot…And, of course, my lover, Anthony Bourdain.

So last night, I watched Bob Geldof in Africa, a supremely affecting postcard/love letter that documents Geldof’s last trip to his beloved continent, written and narrated by the man himself. It is, in one word, magnificent. Through his eyes and genuinely brilliant commentary, along with breathtaking panoramic shots of the many different landscapes, moments capturing Africans shopping in malls, buying groceries, sitting in a restaurant intermingled with heartbreaking images such as the poverty, the starving, the close-ups of the eyes of Ugandan children, children who have witnessed the worst humanity has to offer, we come to view Africa and her people in a whole different light.

To say I was moved would be an understatement.

I sat through the closing credits, my mind reeling with all that it had learned, my chest tight with emotion…I didn’t want to move from my meditation, even though I desperately needed to use the bathroom.

And as I contemplated throughout the next five minutes of advertisements, unmindful of my screaming bladder, the screaming car salesman, I found myself slowly coming around just as the first images of Tribal Odyssey: The Yawalapiti appeared on the screen, then fully snapped to attention.

Naked people tend to do that to me.

But what I found so intriguing about this documentary, besides the nakedry of bowl-haired, Brazilian tribal men, was the explicit depiction of sadomasochism displayed before my eyes.

Apparently, the Yawalapiti get really, really excited over a lunar eclipse, and to celebrate that excitement, as well as to ward off evil spirits that might take advantage of the coming pitch-black night, wreaking havoc upon the tribe and all that, they perform certain rituals involving whips and bare buttocks.

Allow me to paint a graphic picture for you:

Naked Indian Guy bends over, in full view of his likewise naked buddies, and they’re all hooting and hollering and smiling with glee, some clearly stoned out of their minds on some form of wacky weed, and a huge bear of a man, obviously the leader of this pack of bitches, stands behind Naked Indian Guy, raises his whip, and thrashes mercilessly until Naked Indian Guy whoops in pain and flees -- while giggling and holding onto his wounded buttocks…And hopping up and down…And giggling some more. Just like the little bitch he is. And the Tribal Bitch Leader has an erection, I swear to God, just pops a big ol’ woody right there on camera.

Needless to say, I was delighted, so much so, I just had to look up these hunky freaks on the Internet this morning so I could get another fix of indigenous pornography -- I mean, honestly, is there even such a thing as too much indie porn?

Unfortunately, all I could find, besides the television listing on The Travel Channel website, were a couple of uninteresting pictures featuring clothed Yawalapiti doing mundane things (probably taken by some Christian missionary who came prepared for the camera shots by bringing Hanes underwear and Depends adult diapers), and this:












A Yawalapiti bitch being scratched with the teeth of fish.

Not as good as whipping, I admit, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Did I mention that Anthony Bourdain is my lover?

Thank You, Sir! May I Have Another?

Last April, I wrote a post about how upset I was at Lipton for ruining one of their best products, Lipton Alfredo Noodles, by changing the original recipe from white semolina to whole grain. For those of you who read that post, you'll remember how devastated I was by the loss of my good friend, Alfredo. Those of you who haven't read my original rant, I urge you to do so now, so you'll understand my wrath -- and also because you'll see that I'm not alone in my rage, frivolous as it may be.

I'm sure you will be happy to know I found a comparable product to love, one that makes me happy by staying white:








Raise your fists, y'all, and shout with me now -- White power! White power! White power!

Oy, that comes across so wrong.

Well, anyway, today I've another complaint against corporate yahoo ding-a-ling ding-dongs who can't keep their big, fat paddle of parental guidance off of my consumer ass -- Kellogg's, to be exact. First, please allow me to wax delirious about the demise of a once favorite breakfast staple of mine -- Kellogg's Eggo Blueberry Waffles. Which I rarely ate for breakfast, mind you, as I usually forgo that most important meal of the day in favor of three large mugs of coffee and five cigarettes, but instead enjoyed my waffles (heaped with butter and Aunt Jemima maple syrup), as either a mid-day snacky-doodle or nighttime treat while watching Larry King crouch menacingly over his desk.

Jesus Christ, what was I writing about again?

Oh, wait, I remember -- I was writing about corporate America bending me over its artificial knee, pulling down my electric-blue thong, and swatting my rosy, bulbous buttocks over and over again until I admit my liking for whole grains and tofu.

Needless to say, I do not respect my daddy. I break the fifth commandment gladly and without shame. I do NOT honor my faux-father, nor will I ever. I am an obstinate, willful child who will defy any attempts to break me. Fuck you, Kellogg's, for turning my beloved blueberry waffles into cattle feed, a product that once delighted and astounded me with its chewy, crunchy delectability, but now tastes like cardboard covered in urine. The butter, the syrup, the mountain of cat food I pile atop those purple-flecked bricks of shit, do not disguise the gritty non-goodness.

I HATE you, Kellogg's! Do you hear me? I HATE you! And so do my children. And so does my grandmother. And my darling husband, Banjo Boy, who usually eats any damn thing put in front of his drooling piehole.

Time to scout out a replacement waffle. I sigh, heavily.

I have enough problems as it is, you know? I despise the little annoyances of everyday life enough for ten hateful people.

I sigh, deeply, madly.

Just another brick in the wall…

So Sayeth the Angel, "ELECTROshock, Idiot!"

Here's a little story to help you drift off tonight...

Round about eight o'clock tonight, I was lying in bed, watching the encore season finale of “The Flavor of Love," 'cause, I missed it last Sunday due to drunken circumstances, and as usual, I was enjoying myself immensely, loving New York and her devious, Satanic ways, digging on her unique insanity, when all of a sudden, an angel came to me. She hovered over my bed, bright as the Mexican sun, and said to me this: "Ms. Lori, your grammar skills are slipping."

I told her she was losing her holy mind. "Me? What exactly are you implying here, Miss GlowyPants? My grammar is perfect, always. I am a true grammarian of the highest order, and I don't appreciate you coming down here to hassle me, woman."

And the angel replied, "That may be -- sometimes. But you sure screwed up royally on your blog posts about the Rolling Hills Ghost Hunt."

"The hell I did."

The angel smiled, shook her head sadly, then waved her delicate, obscenely boney hand across the span of my bed, and before my weary eyes appeared my Rolling Hills Ghost Hunt posts. It was awesome. All three-dimensional-y and sparkly...Sublime, beautiful. But as I admired my shimmering words, chuckling ever so softly at my own humor -- praising myself, really -- it dawned on me that something just wasn't right. Not right at all.

Goddamned angel was spot on. I royally screwed up, and my once swollen head deflated with an audible, swift shhhhhffffttttttt.

The angel laughed and laughed, and kept on laughing till my beloved New York faded from the TV screen. I blinked back tears of anger, tears of wonder, of gratitude, then ran the fuck up here to my office and fixed my...

Oh, this is so hard...

Mistakes.

Good night, everyone. And God bless!

You Know, I Just Ain't Feeling It

The initial high and burst of creativity I experienced after the ghost hunt was lovely, but, frankly, it’s just not there anymore. Could be due to the unholy pain of my latest muscle/joint attack coupled with the return of -- and more severe than ever -- shitstorm of my faulty mitral valve, which manifests as a large, beefy-handed nun in a neon blue habit who whacks me nonstop with a metal ruler in my left chest whenever I lay my head down to sleep, or could be the delicious anxiety of dealing with my extended family and their problems, which they are always so kind to involve me in, or it’s possible, nay likely, that I just don’t give a fuck. I’ll go out on a limb here and say that because I’m feeling overwhelmed about many things going on in my life, things that make me want to drink entire bottles of Absolut, my usually humorous (ahem) take on life has dissolved into a giant puddle of ennui. So there.

I apologize to those who actually do give a fuck about my most excellent time at Rolling Hills, but I’m going to put “The Night Paris Peed Her Pants” aside for the time being. Besides, despite his promise, the three foot tall, one-eyed Hasidic Jew whose name I do not know, never sent me that picture, the only good one, really, of me and my freaky electroshock therapy room spirit buddy, so, yeah…Not very godly of you, little sir. Not godly at all.

Also, I believe an apology is in order to those who read yesterday’s (now deleted) post on my MySpace blog... It’s not like me to use the “C” word, nor do I normally refer to people as “corpse-eating sphincter-sniffers,” no matter how repulsive I find them to be, but, jeepers, I did yesterday, among other atrocities of the epithetical kind, and so, I’m sorry to anyone who witnessed my breakdown of good sense and decorum.

And on that note, here, for your amusement and disdain, is a picture of me at Rolling Hills “speaking” to Emme the Psychotic Nurse, who assured me that she is not, in fact, psychotic, but merely a misunderstood soul who enjoys haunting her bedroom closet and remembering the days of abusing orphans. Emme decided to leave her closet for a bit, and is standing directly in front of me and my trusty rods. Rock on, Emme, you sick, twisted bitch, you.

I Feel Dead People

Listen, when I've had some sleep and can think clearly, I shall post details about one of the most amazing experiences of my life, along with pictures. It may be a couple of days yet, may be tomorrow, depending. I'm waiting on some pics that were taken by my friend, Maria, as well as one that was taken by a fellow ghost-hunter dude whose name I do not know, but was kind enough to promise that he'd e-mail a great shot he'd taken of me with my leetle ghostie friend in the electroshock therapy room...Am I babbling? Probably. I got home around 5:30 a.m. and just decided to stay up.

I may never sleep again.

ADDENDUM: Ah, my prediction of not sleeping has come to pass...Freaking, frigging insomnia...Still waiting on pictures from the ghost hunt (oh, please, Mr. Hasidic Jew Guy Whose Name I Do Not Know, have a heart and keep your promise), but I did review the ones I took on my rappity-crap piece of crap digital camera...Sort of. Still have to download them on my husband's computer, or I might just put the software on my computer, which makes more sense, really. Of course, in my home, nothing should ever make sense.

I know for a fact I captured at least two orbs, which isn't exactly mind-blowing evidence, I realize, but damned if I can tell where they are on that camera of crap.

Hey, did I mention I feel like hell?

I want to growl obscenities in someone's ear.

Does the NFL Allow Pampers, I Wonder?

I woke this morning to the sound of my four-year-old's Fred Fllintstone feet slapping on the hardwood, a purposeful, hurried slapping that infiltrated my dreams and produced images of an old Italian fish monger slapping the side of a large cod. Annoyed, as it was only six a.m. or so, I pulled the covers over my head and waited for the inevitable Mommy! Mom? Mooooommmmmyyyy! as well as the usual earthquake of my hefty boy throwing himself onto my bed, the unpleasant sensation of his meaty knee connecting with my ribs, but much to my (short-lived) relief, none of that occurred. Instead, my boy stood quietly at the bedside, and as I listened to his huffy, impatient breaths, I caught a whiff of the very reason I'd dreamt of baccala. I thought to myself, "Not today. I'm not well...Let Lar do it today."

So I played dead. I'm entitled to play dead, goddamnit.

Apparently, the boy picked up on my vibe, and slappity-slapped his way out of the bedroom, taking his vaporous trail of hell along with him, and then I heard him say, "Damn it, Daddy, change my diaper!"

I had quite an epiphany at that moment. It hit me, right at that pivotal, frightening, earth-shattering moment, that my son, my darling, smart-as-a-whip, broad-shouldered, big-legged boy will be wearing diapers until the end of my natural life. And then I wept.

Lost: It's Two-Dimensional

Yes, it's true -- the islanders are all virtual beings. I'm telling you right here, right now, the whole lot of them are artificially intelligent images who don't realize they are as such. They're all characters in some freaky old dude's video game.

I can't wait to say "I told you so."

Oh, and I'm going on my ghost hunt tomorrow night. Hopefully, I won't feel as sick to my stomach as I do today...

Guest Blogger, Amy Scheibe

Mommy Baddest

by Amy Scheibe


I'm in the Zeitgeist right now--as often happens when you raise children--you know, when you suddenly come across a morsel of information that you never thought you'd need and bango, it's everywhere. Spanking. Swatting. Flicking. Smacking. Hitting. Slapping. Twisting.

Rage.

Before you get pregnant no one ever tells you that morning sickness has nothing whatsoever to do with the morning. When you're ready to have the baby they don't tell you that when the anesthesiologist puts the needle in your back he just might miss your spinal fluid and hit your sciatic nerve. They don't tell you that you might need reconstructive surgery on your vagina. Try to get one person to tell you that breastfeeding is going to make you want to kill yourself from time to time--in particular when the baby latches on around day five, or when you get engorged and thrush AT THE SAME TIME. I really thought I was finally about out of the "they don't tell you" woods when I encountered in myself a shocking amount of rage, triggered by the object of my affection -- how could someone I love so completely make me so palpably angry? And why didn't anyone warn me that this exists?

Surely I'm not alone?

There are times when Bo has needled me into what can only be called a very ugly place. I first encountered my "bad mommy" space after I had Hedda last summer and Bo had just turned two and a half, when my husband -- having perhaps rightly decided that I had enough help with my nanny for Bo and a baby nurse for Hedda -- went back to work five days later. Right around that time my estrogen levels bottomed out, and I started having what I can only look back on as blind fits of anger. One night I actually threw a chair -- not at anyone, just down on the floor -- screaming, crying, begging my son to LISTEN. Understand, please, that I was never out of control, but I did find myself on a very thin sheet of ice. Happily a few months ago I asked him to do something, he did it, and then turned around to me and said "Mommy, I'm LISTENING!" If he had turned that corner in the opposite direction I might have completely lost my shit. I'm sure I'm one of the lucky ones.

What I'm trying to say is that no one ever told me that at 41 years old I would be seriously worried that I could not control my anger around my child if provoked. And by provoked I mean a constant volley of attempts to kill his sister. A constant sneaky hitting of his sister, pushing her off of things, tripping her, etc. There have been a few times when I finally felt the need to resort to "smacking" Bo to get his attention long enough for Hedda to get away unscathed. By few I mean exactly three. By smacking I mean twice on the butt and once on the bottom of his foot. By unscathed I mean breathing.

Clearly, in the moment it seemed like the right thing to do, and Brian supported me in the decision (having been raised by a world-class ear-flicker), but after each incident I couldn't shake the deep guilty feeling it attached to my soul until the Zeitgeist happened: within a week three of my close girlfriends confessed to me--unprovoked--that they had recently had what one of them called "bad mommy" moments; times where their children had gone out of control and they reacted with smacks. I had been under the impression that no one ever, ever, ever physically punishes their kids anymore -- that somehow kids can now be reasoned with. I have no idea why I thought that, especially after one of my college friends told me about ten years ago how she had to engage a spanking ritual in order to get her daughter under control -- trust me, this wasn't a Lisa Welchel "God says it's okay to hot sauce my kids" kind of situation, the girl was seriously a danger to herself and her baby brother. I guess I simply thought that I would be different -- much as I had convinced myself that my hips were big enough to pass a 9 pound baby. What the fuck was I thinking?

Right now I feel very lucky that Bo has matured again, and even though we had three really rough behavior days last week, I was able to keep my composure and use the time-honored torture of the isolation chamber -- "go to your room" -- and alienated him mentally instead of physically. Has anyone proven that that works any better? Or causes less damage? Probably. And I'm sure there's a study to countermand those findings too. What I can tell you is that since my friends confided in me, I feel stronger and more capable of handling my rage. There is strength to be found in solidarity. Now that I know I have people I can trust to talk about this topic I feel more in control of the decisions I make -- I've listened to their solutions and offered them some of my own. We compare notes. We learn.

As I say to Bo on a loop "don't hit don't hit don't hit don't hit." But then I remember how vicious my siblings and I could be to each other and that my mother intervening with her voice was RARELY enough to stop us, even when she would yell above the din "CUT IT OUT OR I'LL GET THE KNIVES!" She spanked, but she was 27 and it was 1967 and she also smoked while she was pregnant! I recently witnessed two brothers, seven and nine, get into a fight with fists that ended with one of them kicking the other in the face -- all in the time that it took their mother to flip a pancake. And these are super-excellent well-behaved kids. She swatted the kicker on the thigh and sent them both to their rooms. Afterwards they were much calmer and less violent. But she felt like shit, like there should have been a more magical and competent reaction. I know it helped her to have me there to listen without judgment, just as it helped me to see that though the road ahead of me may not get any easier, I have one more mommy to turn to for advice.

Now, I'm sure there are parents who never meet their inner monster, who never have a child who provokes or disobeys in a menacing or potentially dangerous way. I think that's great. But I'm even more sure after my Zeitgeist week that so many of us need guidance from each other on how to handle these flare ups, that we need to have all of it out in the open so that the best of us can help those of us who are as new to this dynamic as we are to wiping a little brown circle without cracking up and making our kids anal retentive. I can't help but think sometimes that if someone had told Andrea Yates about this sneaky rage, if she had had a group of mothers confiding in her who had navigated their way through it, if she had just one person say to her "I know exactly how you feel," for god's sake if she had had just one blog like this one to read, she just maybe would have made it through one more day with her children and found a way to ask for help.
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Note from Ms. Lori: Amy Scheibe is the author of “What Do You Do All Day?” now in paperback and available at your favorite online or brick and mortar bookseller.

Ms. Scheibe is an editor at a publishing house in New York City, where she lives with her husband and two children. She is currently working on her second novel.

Sad Weekend

First, I was so, so saddened to hear of Charles L. Grant's passing on Friday night of heart failure (beautiful tribute by Christopher Golden here), then this afternoon, I received word that my Uncle Mike, my cousin Mike's dad (the cuz who got me into MySpace) was in a serious auto accident last night. He was airlifted to a trauma unit in Tennessee (he'd been traveling in a remote area near his home in North Carolina), and is in serious condition.

Please think good thoughts and send 'em on over to Uncle Mike and my dear cousin Mike, won't you?

Don’t Hate, Celebrate!

Halloween, that is. Who here among us could possibly hate Halloween, huh? Nobody, that’s who (oh, be quiet Mrs. Born Again Fundamentalist From California who stalks my blog), and so, in anticipation of my favorite night of the year, a night that should be celebrated with the ones you love, a big ol’ kegger, and some creepy flicks, I simply must present to you two new upcoming DVDs from Anchor Bay Entertainment -- now go get your scary on.

From the press release for Voodoo Moon:

From renowned special effects artist Kevin VanHook (I, Robot, Daredevil) comes a new excursion into the beating heart of evil with the October 3rd DVD release of Voodoo Moon from IDT Entertainment's Anchor Bay Entertainment. Starring Charisma Carpenter (TV's “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and “Angel”) and Eric Mabius (Resident Evil ), Voodoo Moon promises viewers a horrifying journey into the netherworld of satanic rituals and voodoo rites! SRP is $19.98 and pre-book is August 23rd. Distribution pre-book is September 5th.

Twenty years ago, a demonic massacre in a sleepy Southern town left two young siblings as the lone survivors. But for adult Cole (Eric Mabius) and his younger sister Heather (Charisma Carpenter), an obsession with their parents' satanic slaughter has lasted a lifetime. Now through Cole's psychic connection with a group that includes an outlaw biker (John Amos, “The West Wing”, DIE HARD 2: DIE HARDER), a traumatized cop (Jeffrey Combs, RE-ANIMATOR) and a mysterious healer (Dee Wallace, CUJO and THE HOWLING), vengeance is about to take a very unholy turn. Tonight they will all be brought together in a place where depraved secrets are exposed, legions of the damned are unleashed, and the final battle between Good and Evil will be fought beneath the VOODOO MOON…

In addition to his previous visual effects credits, VanHook also wrote and directed the 2005 cult film shocker The Fallen Ones.



And here’s the press release for Left in Darkness:

Stuck between a rock and a hard place?

Try being stuck between Heaven and Hell!

Poets have written about it. Painters have tried to imagine it. But exactly what does happen after we die? Is there a Heaven? Or perhaps the question to ask is: Is there a Hell? From the fertile mind of legendary television producer Stephen J. Cannell ( Demon Hunter, “21 Jump Street”) and Steven R. Monroe, the director of It Waits, comes the provocative new horror film Left In Darkness, materializing on DVD September 19th from Anchor Bay Entertainment, an IDT Entertainment company. SRP is $19.98 and the DVD features enough value-added supplements to occupy this life – and the next!

Starring Monica Keena (Freddy Vs. Jason, “Entourage”), David Anders (“Alias”) and veteran horror actor Tim Thomerson (Trancers, Dollman), Left In Darkness illuminates the story of Celia (Keena), a troubled girl whose tortured past places her in spiritual and physical limbo. Her mother died in childbirth, and she always felt responsible for the tragedy. When her father disappeared, her grandparents raised her. As she got older, her sense of guilt grew deeper. And on the night of her 21st birthday, Celia is drugged, raped and dies of an accidental overdose at a wild college frat party. But for her, it's just the beginning: Trapped in a netherworld between sanctuary and damnation, Celia must now battle the demons -– including hordes of horrific Soul Eaters -– that prowl the Afterlife. Is the spirit of her recently deceased grandfather (Thomerson) trying to lure her to an eternity of suffering? Can her guardian angel (Anders) safely lead her to the other side? Is there any way to go towards the light when your soul is Left In Darkness?

I Need a Friend...Or Fifty Thousand

Okay, I did it. I got a MySpace thing. My cousin's fault. All his fault, that dirty, rotten bastid.

WHY, MIKE? WHY DID YOU LURE ME INTO HELL?

Anyway, I need friends. As of this moment, I look stupid and unpopular, and that just won't do. So, please, friend me. Do it. Now. Like, right this second. Or I won't stop writing sentence fragments. Ever.

Introducing Ms. Amy

I’m pleased to announce that the fabulous Amy Scheibe, author of 2005’s oh-so-hot novel “What Do You Do All Day?” ( my review) which is currently Target’s “Breakout Book Selection” for September, will be guest blogging right here on One Whipped Mother!

As an extra treat for you fine folks, we’ll be giving away copies of “What Do You Do All Day?” to the first five people who e-mail a request to: biskwik3 [AT] gmail.com, so please, keep an eye out for Ms. Amy, coming soon!

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"Amy Scheibe's knowing observations about all-consuming, alpha motherhood add a piquancy to a landscape that will be highly familiar to readers who find themselves at the weird juncture where Jimmy Choo meets Fisher-Price."
Meg Wolitzer, The Washington Post

"Scheibe wins us over with honest and funny observations of parenting minutiae."
Entertainment Weekly

"Sharp, smart, and true...hear one of the few fiercely independent and provocative voices in contemporary women's fiction tell you what it's really like on the inside."
Laura Zigman, author of Animal Husbandry

"A fun read, jam-packed with witty barbs."
Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus, authors of The Nanny Diaries

"With a light touch and a sparkling plot, Scheibe takes on the conundrums and beauty of motherhood for driven yet nurturing women."
Publishers Weekly
***********************************************************
ADDENDUM: All of the books have been claimed, and I will be sending them out within the next week or so.

Truth Really is Stranger Than Fiction. Really. Seriously.

This is definitely the most disturbing thing I have ever seen/read/heard.

I am traumatized.

I am freaking out.

I am filled with wonder.

I am pissed that I can’t find more on this particular story despite searching the ‘Net for forty-two hours straight. Okay, a half an hour. But still…

I am inspired, finally, thankfully, to write some fiction. The damn thing is already written in my head, right down to the ending. Threw down a whole page almost immediately after reading the aforementioned story.

I am delighted to report that the rush of inspiration, of which I’d not had the pleasure of experiencing in a long, long time, still feels better than a four minute orgasm. Which reminds me…I think I’d better put up my “When the Office is A’rockin', Don’t Come A'knockin’” sign but quick!

The Hair

Oh, about four years ago or so, as my husband and I were driving somewhere inconsequential, me enjoying the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, Lar rudely forced me from my reverie by suddenly reaching for my throat, thumb and index poised as if to pinch, his hand like that of a large, fleshy crab claw, and declaring, “The hell, Lor? You a werewolf?”

A werewolf? The hell, Lar? And remove your repulsive digits from my person immediately.

I was, of course, confused, frightened.

Turns out my oh-so articulate husband was referring to a long, platinum neck hair that had been waving frantically in the wind along with those atop my head, no doubt illuminated by the bright spring sunshine. I quickly turned my upper body away from Lar and tugged with all my might until the hair broke free of its follicle, then shamefully tossed it out the window along with my dignity. I’ve not felt such humiliation since that fateful day.

As the years passed, I kept a close watch on my freaky little friend, that pesky platinum nuisance of which I had no control. I would oftentimes stroke my neck while surfing the 'Net or watching my children play, searching, searching for signs of its reappearance, and I was always mortified to discover its return, no matter that I’d plucked the bitch only hours before. Somehow, beyond all rhyme or reason, the hair always presented itself in exactly the same length as the day it was born, approximately one and a quarter inch long. Always. As if it didn’t simply grow, sprout from stubbly infancy to fully-grown silky adult, like a normal hair, but spontaneously birthed itself, learned to walk, got a driver’s license, graduated from college, married, had five kids, and developed a drinking problem, all in the span of twelve hours.

How is that possible? Well, it isn’t, not for an ordinary human hair. So, horrified as I was by that lupine hair, I learned to love it; I embraced it, conditioned myself to look forward to our daily plucking sessions, fooled myself into thinking it was a relaxing pastime. I even gave it a name. Then, one day, it was gone -- poof -- gone, vanished, went back to Hell from whence it came. And I was glad. And I rejoiced. I could once again wear fine gold chains without fear of entanglement. Life was good.

Tonight, however -- or, rather, this morning, I should say, since it was around three a.m. -- it returned.

I woke, as has been usual lately, after my three hours of sleep, and groggily shlumped to the kitchen to make coffee, feeling, as has been usual lately, pissed off for being awake, resentful of my sleeping husband, all cozy and snug and blissfully snoring into his pillow, and upon entering the kitchen, felt a strange tickle on the top of my right foot. Thinking it was perhaps, a spider, I flapped my foot like a cat who’d stepped in water, put my right foot in and shook it all about, then I did the Hokey Pokey and turned myself around, yet the tickle remained. Annoyed, though relieved that there was not, in fact, a spider laying eggs on my foot, I continued on my way, attempted to ignore the increasingly odd sensation as I filled the coffee decanter, placed the filter into its filter thing, and tip-toed upstairs for a cigarette. It was while climbing the stairs to my office that I realized something was terribly amiss in Ms. Loriland. Something awful was brewing...Growing...Something familiar. Something evil.

Oh, dear, sweet, fragrant Lord, no! Not again! Anything but that!

I hurriedly fell into my chair and slung my foot up onto the computer desk, put on my magnifying glasses, and inspected, with baited breath, I might add, the top of my right foot. What I saw there astounded me.

The following dialogue actually transpired:

Me: Well, hello there, Becky Sue. Fancy meeting you here…On my goddamned foot of all places.

Hair: ***

Me: I see you haven’t changed a bit.

Hair: ***

Me: Still the same length, same color.

Hair: ***

Me: Oh, don’t be coy.

Hair: ***

Me: Why do you haunt me so?

Hair: ***

Me: Are you from Hell? Have you been sent by Satan himself?

Hair: ***

Me: I hate you. Do you hear me, Becky Sue? HATE YOU!

Hair: Diabolus est abbas malum saeta. [Translation: Satan is the Father of Evil Hairs]

And with that, I plucked the demon spawn from my foot, whipped out my Bic, and lit the whore on fire. Her screams echoed throughout my office as I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed, then wept a little bit…

It's only been a few hours, and I can already feel her stirring, reanimating, buzzing beneath my skin. Three o'clock a.m. is the witching hour, and I tremble in anticipation as I survey my weaponry, the tweezers, the alcohol and Bic lighter. Tonight, Becky Sue will die, so help me God. So help me God...

We’re Baaaaaack!

Yes, you read that right, chicken heads -- thanks to my computer-savvy neighbor, The Squirrel-Slinging Firefighter, my computer and I are back, bitchin’ and misbehavin’, and we’re as happy as any reunited inanimate object and its mistress can be! So hang on to your beaks, folks, because I’ve got some cool stuff coming your way, including a most excellent book giveaway -- stay tuned for details!

#4 in My Series of "Incredibly Bad Poetry by Celebrities or Fictional Characters"

She Weeps the Body Electric

By Ms. Lori’s Computer

‘Twas August 12th, an evening otherwise mundane
When my mistress killed me, then went completely and utterly insane
Though not of her own volition, it was her crackling fingers of doom
That short-circuited my wiring and made my motherboard go boom

She weeps the body electric, man
She cries over lost information
She weeps the body electric, man
And there’s nothing I can do

I was but a young pup, purchased July of last year
And she filled me with AV-ware and firewalls -- I had nothing to fear
Yet as is the norm, her preternatural ability to inadvertently destroy PCs
Could not be controlled, like a block of spoiling cheese

She weeps the body electric, man
She mourns for the days of yore
She weeps the body electric, man
And she's creepy, dude, it’s true

So until I am waked from this suspended animation
And Ms. Lori returns from the Land of Damnation
Talk amongst yourselves --

mike myers is god. discuss.

-- Talk amongst yourselves and be aware
That we shall return, someday, sometime, somewhere...

#3 In My Series of “Incredibly Bad Poetry by Celebrities or Fictional Characters”

My Lumps

By Hillary Clinton’s Bust

Gaze upon mine curiously smooth breasts
And wonder, aloud if need be
What the hell my Creator was thinking
When he chipped and hammered and
Banged me to life
With chisel, with big, gnarly hands

stony silence

Dear God, do you not hear me scream? Listen!
Marble heart breaking, tears of pebble plonking
Down my unnaturally aged face
I am a rock
I am an island
I enjoy Simon and Garfunkel

rocky mountains sigh

Lo! The horrors of my existence
As I waste upon this pedestal, eyes wide
And endure the gawks of guffawing Republicans
The leering sneer of Pat Robertson
Wake me from this nightmare, Bill
I have stopped thinking about tomorrow

Fun-Filled Facts About My Weekend

1) The Ghost Hunt that I was supposed to attend on Saturday is postponed until September 30.

2) So Lar and I went to a party instead.

3) I met one of the most interesting and adorable human beings ever.

4) He has piercing ice-blue eyes and, due to a near-fatal car accident in his twenties, a dent in his head big enough to fit a small woman’s fist.

You may be wondering how it is that I know a small woman's fist would fit in his head-dent. Aw, c'mon, sure you are. Well, the man actually grabbed my hand while we were conversing on a completely different subject, which, naturally, startled me a bit, and proceeded to plunge it into the head-dent while shrieking, "Feel the dent! Feel it!" It was an awesome experience.

5) I love his wife, too. So I think I’ll adopt them.

6) A six-year-old girl, with whom I’d just become acquainted, asked me my name. I told her, and she said, “I wish my last name was Young.”

“Really?“ I said, “why is that, honey?”

“Well, because I’m young, so Young would be a good name for me!”

I nodded and said, “Ah, of course. Perfectly good name like that wasted on old, old me…”

“Oh, but you’re a young old person, so it’s okay!”

7) I ate approximately 4.2 lbs of ham yesterday. And a bucket of cheddar cheese mashed potatoes. A bushel of salad. A half gallon of chocolate almond ice cream. And that’s after consuming a pile of shit on a shingle (for lunch), with a lovely fried egg sandwich as a chaser.

8) Jesus help me, I forgot to include the kids’ bridge mix I stole out of the cupboard. I ate every last chocolate-covered morsel.

9) Even after all of that abnormal chowing, it wasn’t until I felt like elbowing Lar in his thyroid gland, just for making one of his usual bad pun/jokes, that I realized I’m currently in the throes of raging PMS.

10) I watched the season premiere of ”Flavor of Love” last night (my very guilty pleasure). One of the skanky hos pooped her pants during the elimination round. Flavor Flav almost vomited.

Wow. I just realized the irony of a skank pooping her pants during the elimination round.

94) I’m not feeling my best this morning.

Pictures Depicting Me, a Miniskirt, Lar, and a Big Cigar

My daughter snapped this -- she's all thumbs, as you can see...












(Click to enlarge the Hasselhoff.)




Now, I snapped this one, and I do believe that I captured the true essence of Lar and his Hasselhoff.












(Click to enlarge Lar's Hasselhoff.)


ADDENDUM:
This is especially for my sweet Alice. My nose-picking was aimed at my neighbor, the lovely Bambi-Jo. Note the concentration on my face. Also, if you look very closely at this photo, you may be able to see boob-sweat.

My Husband is a Strange and Awesome Being From Planet Tool

So last night Lar and I were hanging with his business partner, Dack Smackler, and his adorable wife, Dusky Monroe, having a few beers, some munchies (oh, my God, you must try Cape Cod Potato Chips! Divine!), and we were having a grand time laughing, talking, just goofing on one another and enjoying every adult‘s favorite party game, Age Regression, a.k.a., Insult Your Significant Other. It was apparent early on in the evening that Dusky and I would win the most points in the Goof Off, much to the chagrin of our husbands, which is a beautiful, beautiful thing, let me tell you. Were I ever to lose face in a name-calling contest, I might just end it all right then and there. Anyway.

We were having a great time, a relaxing, stupid, much-needed evening of idiotic banter and lovely refreshments -- that is, until Lar, who is not known for his witty comebacks, put a damper on the party by confusing all involved with this little gem: “Oh, yeah, Lori? Well, you…You’re a…You…You’re a CORN-HATING WHITE WOMAN!”

The silence at the table was deafening.

Dusky, obviously embarrassed for my husband, managed a weak smile, a small twitter, then politely averted her eyes and focused intently on her cocktail. Dack slithered from the room on the pretense of checking on the kids. Me, I just stared at Lar, my feelings wildly fluctuating from humiliation, empathy, and disgust to sorrow, pity, and finally, hatred.

Good Lord, what have I married?

ADDENDUM: My friend, the fabulous Ms. Jordan Rosenfeld, is looking for “overheards,” as in amusing snippets of conversations that you or someone you know overheard -- if you‘ve something to share, visit Jordan's blog for details.

Because My Office is Still 5,000 Degrees and Rising….

And I can’t write a coherent, witty post with hot, burning coals for fingertips, I give you this instead:

You Are Most Like Bill Clinton

No doubt, your legacy may be a little seedier than you'd like. But even though you've done some questionable things, you're still loved by almost all.

What Modern US President Are You Most Like?

Big surprise.

Now, I suppose I could use the quiz results as fodder for a long political rant on global warming, and how if Big Sweet Daddy Honey Pie (my pet name for Clinton) were president right now, my attic office wouldn’t be 5,000-plus degrees, nor would I be having nightmares about Laura Bush’s creepy serial killer eyes, but I think my left breast just burst into flames.

The Tooth Fairy

Well, well, it’s that time again, folks. What time, you ask? Why, it’s MOVIE TIME AT MS. LORI’S, of course! Next flick up will be Anchor Bay Entertainment’s “The Tooth Fairy,” and from what I hear, this one’s a doozy -- weird old lady who steals teeth (for god knows what reason) then murders the unwilling donors with an ax. Hell yeah!

Love me some lowbrow cinema, especially if there’s beer involved.

From the press release:

Remember the innocence of putting a tooth under a pillow at night and finding it mysteriously transformed into a reward the next morning? My, how times have changed…Anchor Bay Entertainment, an IDT Entertainment Company, extracts the dark side of a beloved childhood ritual with The Tooth Fairy! Co-written and produced by legendary producer Stephen J. Cannell (“The A Team,” “Hunter,” “Profit,” “21 Jump Street”) and featuring such horror alums as P.J. Soles ( Halloween, The Devil's Rejects ) and Jesse Hutch ( Freddy Vs. Jason ), The Tooth Fairy turns the innocent fairy tale into the ultimate nightmare! Presented uncut with never-before-seen footage, The Tooth Fairy also offers bonus features, including an audio commentary and behind-the-scenes interviews, that viewers can really sink their teeth into!

Come one, come all, BYOB, and leave your sensibilities at home -- I’ll provide chicken wings and witty commentary throughout the show.

See you there!


(Not work-safe! Well, unless your boss doesn’t mind flying penises careening across the company computer screens.)

Bollywood? More Like GOLLYwood!

Once again, Lar and I are watching our middle daughter’s friend for a few days while her parents are away at a conference, and it’s always a pleasure to have her here. This is a bright, adorable kid who has a wonderful sense of humor, a kind heart (she’s always nice to the boy, includes him in games, much to the irritation of his sisters), and a fascinating life story. She was born in Bombay, adopted by her parents there -- mom is Indian, dad is American, both brilliant professors at RIT -- and has visited more countries than I’ll probably ever see in my lifetime. She delights in introducing my daughter to Indian culture, the special celebrations, beautiful clothing, the delicious foods, and she even occasionally brings treats for me, which may be why she happens to be my favorite friend of Sarah’s. Bring me treats, your score rises ten points each time. (I added that last bit in case my oldest daughter’s boyfriend reads this).

So last night, the girl arrived packed and ready for her stay here, duffle bag filled to the brim with snacks and bathing suits, toothbrush and GameBoy, games, books -- and a treat for me! And not just any treat -- Indian cinema! What a sweetheart, that girl, to remember our last conversation wherein we discussed Indian cinema, Bollywood, such as it may be, and how interested I was in foreign films, especially Asian and East Indian.

Darling, precious, sweet, thoughtful girl.

The smile on her face was heart-melting as she reached into her bag and produced -- proudly, I might add -- the film. I anxiously ripped it away from her tender hand and inspected the cover. “Everyone who’s seen this has loved it,” she said with that lovely, proud smile.

I hurriedly flipped the DVD over and read the synopsis. “My mom and dad really like this one.”

My throat dry, my stomach lurching a bit, I flipped the case over again and stared at the dark-haired beauties that graced the cover, stared at their half-closed eyes, their luscious lips barely connecting. “Um. Honey? Have you seen this?”

“No, I haven’t. I think it’s for big people. But everyone says it’s a great film.”

I continued staring at the case, read the words “BANNED IN INDIA!” over and over again, my mouth quivering, tried to compose myself as wild laughter bubbled within my chest as I read the words “LESBIANS!" and “HOT!”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have…” I managed, my face, I’m sure, as red as the DVD cover.

“No problem!” she said cheerfully. “Enjoy!” Then she skipped out of the room to go play, oh, I dunno, dolls or something.

I immediately ran outside and told Lar about what had just happened, and he laughed, as expected, but what I didn’t expect was that he then jumped up from his chair like his ass was on fire, ran into the house, and finally -- finally -- hooked up the DVD player that’d been growing dust in our bedroom.

Yay for lesbians!

Addendum: Poor Lar. Turns out the flick is a beautifully made and intellectual character study, not a porno.

To say he was disappointed is an understatement.

BWA-hahahahahahahahahahaha!!!

Shoes

This biotch could be my twin! The similarities are terrifyingly evident…


(WARNING: Foul language, hot chicks with Hula Hoops, and all around stupidity)

Banjo Boy Revealed!

Courtesy of my favorite neighbors, The Squirrel-Slinging Firefighter and his lovely wife Bambi-Jo, I present to you…

Ms. Lori and her lovely albeit sunburned husband Lar!











(click to enlarge my breasts)



You may be able to detect that Lar and I hit the libations that day (this was taken in late April during a party at the home of The Squirrel-Slinging Firefighter and his lovely wife Bambi-Jo), but what you probably can’t detect is that only moments before the picture was snapped, Lar, A.K.A. Banjo Boy, indulged in a bit of nipple fondling.

Stay tuned, as there will be more pictures to come, a few of which depict me, a miniskirt, Lar, and a big cigar. Hot!

Yeah, I Got Your Kutcher Right HERE!

Quick post today -- office is still hotter than Satan’s ballsack, so I’ll keep this short and sweet before I get to the point where my hair melts and my frontal lobe liquefies, and my mouth turns down into a hideous, permanent grimace, etc., etc...

I dreamt last night that I was meeting some friends at a local bar, and while entering the establishment, I was startled by a large, perfectly manicured hand that had appeared out of nowhere and clasped onto my own as I pushed the door handle. I spun around and found myself staring into the eyes of none other than Ashton Kutcher, famed paramour-now-husband of Demi Moore.


Coochie-coochie coo!













My first thought was, “Heavens to Betsy! Isn’t he a lovely young man!” and my second, immediately after he pulled me into his arms and slung me over his shoulder was, “Not my type, but lordylordGOD, please don’t let the kids wake me now.”

Ashton and I moved through the crowd, me cradled against his chest as he whispered sweet nothings in my ear (“Your pasta sauce makes my tongue tremble,” and “Gosh, your potato salad totally rocks”), and I was so overcome with lust, I began sucking on his chin, much to the delight of onlookers. Now, I don’t quite get why I would suck on the man’s chin rather than his luscious lippage, but suffice to say, it was an incredibly pleasurable experience.

Anyway, we finally found my friends, all of them hooting and hollering as we neared their table, and I suddenly got the urge to yell “Look, ladies! I got me a Kutcher!”

I woke, unfortunately, to the sounds of my son slurping a Jolly Rancher lollipop, which he then accidentally dropped into my hair. Not sure which one of us was more upset, really.

I Have Been Saved! (From Lip-Inversion Syndrome)

If there were more preachers like the lovely Ms. Alecia, I might just attend church more.


I think what I enjoy most about Pastor Alecia’s sermon, in addition to the awesome psychedelic effects, is the constant expression of embarrassment on her face. She has that Muppet-like, I-feel-good-but-also-kind-of-stupid inverted lip thing going on -- you know what I’m talking about, right? The ol’ self-conscious lip-tuck- and-stretch thing that invariably happens to all of us when we first get up to dance at a club or wedding?

Oh, don’t lie. If you’re human, and you’re not a professional dancer, you certainly have experienced the lip-tuck, even if only for a moment (whenever this happens to me, I immediately spin away from the crowd and unfreeze my face by mentally slapping myself with, “Ms. Lori, your face looks really stupid right now, and everyone can see that you feel good but also a bit embarrassed,” and voila! Problem solved.

Prick Charming

I just received this in my inbox:

"After Penis Enlarge Patch your cock won’t resemble a soft balloon filled with jelly. It will be hard and charming."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!

The Hills (Probably) Have Eyes

Guess what I’ll be doing on August 5th?

Go ahead, take a guess.

Noooo, not waxing Lar’s back…Good try, though. One more guess.

Again, wrong. You should know Ms. Lori well enough by now to realize she abhors anything even slightly farm-related.

All right, one last try, because I love you…

GAH! Are you out of your freaking mind? What would make you believe there was even a remote possibility I’d be interested in that? Sick is what it is. Sick and twisted, and…Actually, it’s not a bad idea, but I’d have to really work on Lar to get him to agree to that one, and I gag easily, which makes for unpleasant work, if you know what I‘m saying…Nah, forget it.

Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ll be doing on August 5th, because frankly, I‘m tired of your ignorance.

Ready?

On August 5th, I will be going on a…

***drum roll***

***awkward silence***

***awkward drum roll***

Ghost hunt!

That’s right, my terrified little ass will be lurking about Rolling Hills here in Western New York, a famously haunted estate that was featured last year on the SciFi Channel’s Ghost Hunters, armed to the gills with flashlight, camera, sage (to ensure no hitchhiking spirits), and plenty of beer, all in the hopes of capturing some ghostly activity. Should I be fortunate enough to do so, I can’t promise that I won’t poop my pants, so I’ll be sure to include a change of underwear in my arsenal as well.

Boo-yah!

EDIT: Ghost hunt date changed to September 30. Mommy!

Loving the Yankovic

Weird Al Yankovic may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but I must confess that I’ve always found him to be a most fetching little scamp. When a man possesses not only mischievous wit and a tongue made for satire, but a head full of creepy spiral curls, I tend to fall deeply, madly in lust (Howard Stern and Dee Snyder are yet two more hideous examples of my unorthodox taste). But when you put all of the aforementioned together with stupid lyrics, well, that’s the deal-clincher right there.



Sigh...So Dreamy...










And when you add in a touch of class, have mercy. He’s mine forever. Case in point: For his latest, yet-to-be-released album, Mr. Yankovic recorded his version of James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful,” titled “You’re Pitiful,” a soul-less, gorgeous hunk of spoofery, but Blunt’s record label would have none of it. What’s a Yankovic to do? I’ll tell you what he did. Despite the fact he didn’t really need Blunt’s permission, as under Section 107 in the Copyright Act’s Fair Use criteria, an artist has the right to parody anything or anyone he wishes, Yankovic graciously pulled the track. But to my joy, he’s put “You’re Pitiful” on his website for free download, and honestly, you’d be hard-pressed to find any other singer-songwriter who makes use of the term “farty-pants” better than Weird Al Yankovic.

My Brain Smells Like Roasted Karma

Goodness, but it is freaking HOT here in my office, so hot, my hair actually melted yesterday while writing a post. Upon publishing and rereading said post, I then realized, to my horror, that due to the ungodly heat and humidity, my frontal lobe partially liquified as well. The post, as you can probably imagine, sucked swine testicles.

Apparently, one cannot write in a coherent manner when one’s frontal lobe is oozing out one’s left nostril -- shocking, I know.

So I immediately deleted the twatacious entry, gathered my hair in a plastic cup, ran downstairs to the air conditioned kitchen, and wept copious amounts of brain matter-laced tears into a tall, cool glass of iced hooch (does that answer your question, sweet Alexis?).

I have attempted to write something entertaining, really I have. For days and days, I sat up here and typed through the blinding, suffocating, disgusting, retarded, asthma-inducing squalor of my windowless, fan-less office, and produced nothing but swill.

So here we are, me in my once again sweltering box of hell, perspiration dripping from beneath my breasts and pooling into my lap, you reading the unfortunate offerings of a melting halfwit.

And for that, I am truly sorry.

Zombie Hamster

My daughter, Ariel, woke on Father’s Day morning to find her hamster dead beneath the exercise wheel. Kendra had somehow caught her leg and became pinned -- that alone shouldn’t have caused death, but my husband believes she may have had a heart attack while attempting to free herself. Lar had a heck of a time plucking her stiff little body from the Wheel of Death, a gruesome time, so it stands to reason Kendra‘s tiny heart just couldn‘t take the stress.

Kendra was all of two years old, barely middle age, and as is usual when hamsters we love leave us much too soon, there are regrets, there are questions. We wish we’d spent more time playing with them, we ask ourselves if we’d been the best companions we could have, we lament our busy schedules and self-absorbed interests and hate ourselves for not paying more attention, for not putting an extra carrot in the food dish or taking our friends out into the morning sun for a nibble of dewy grass. We mourn the loss of scratchy little feet on our forearms, tickly pink noses against our cheeks. We cry and sympathize over our loved ones’ lonely final journeys, and we swallow cold lumps of guilt as we gaze at the empty cages, the toys left in the corner, the sunflower seeds tucked into secret burrows. The nests still bear the imprint of our dear friends’ furry forms.

We buried Kendra behind the playset, three of my children in attendance, and as the last handful of dirt was thrown, the wild flowers scattered atop her grave, my boy wept like never before, just great, wrenching sobs that tore my heart in half, brought tears to my own eyes. “Ohhhh, Kendra,” he wailed. “Kendra, my poor buddy!”

My poor buddy.

I don’t believe I’ve ever heard such a sweet declaration of empathy.

Ariel whispered, “Goodbye, Kendra,” wiped the one silent tear that stubbornly refused to stay put despite her tightly closed eyes, then ran to her room to grieve privately. Sarah, my middle girl, openly cried, unashamed, and held onto her dad, while I, my throat knotted, stroked Brandon’s hair and gently steered him toward the house. By now he was hiccupping, he was crying so hard, his face bright red, his hands shaking. It was time to break out the pop and candy.

Delighted, even if for a second, with the lollipops and Gummy Worms I offered, my boy still wept, yet managed to stop long enough to ask me this: “Will Kendra come back, Mommy?”

“No, honey. Kendra’s in heaven with the angels now.”

“You mean, like with your daddy?”

“She may be, yes.”

“Well, if they can walk to heaven, then why can’t they walk back here?”

“Because their spirits are in heaven, not their bodies.”

“But how come they don’t have their bodies?”

“Our bodies stop working when we die, but our spirits, the inside part of our bodies, live on.”

“Are spirits full of blood?”

“No.”

“But I thought there was blood inside our bodies.”

“Well, yes, there is, honey. Spirits are what make us who we are. Bodies are like boxes, they hold our spirits until it’s time for us to go to heaven. Blood makes our bodies work. Kendra’s body stopped working, like when the batteries die in a toy.”

“I think we should buy some new batteries for Kendra, then. I really think we should get her out of the ground now.”

By this time, my son had calmed down considerably, but now I was getting frazzled, not to mention a bit annoyed. Thankfully, Sarah, who’d been listening to the exchange, came to the rescue. “Brandon,” she said, “Kendra can’t come out of the ground because then she would be a zombie, and zombies eat people.”

I gave her a stern look and told her to go play.

My son chewed thoughtfully on a Gummy Worm for a moment, then said, “Mommy? I really, really think we should put a big rock on top of Kendra.”

R.I.P., Kendra (Fat Butt) Young, 2004-2006

The Garden

Man, I do love me some Armageddon!

From the press release:

On July 11 th IDT Entertainment's Anchor Bay Entertainment, the acknowledged industry leader in horror DVD programming, presents the DVD premiere of The Garden , the latest exercise in terror from the fertile mind of acclaimed writer/producer Stephen J. Cannell (“The A Team”, “Hunter”, “Profit”, “21 Jump Street”). Starring Lance Henriksen ( Aliens, Near Dark ), Claudia Christian (“ Babylon 5,” The Hidden ) and Sean Young ( Blade Runner, Stripes ), The Garden digs deep into the greatest fears of civilization itself and will take viewers on a mind-bending journey, possibly to the end of times! Seeded with a bushel of value-added bonus features including audio commentary from the director and exclusive behind the scenes footage, The Garden promises a harvest of thrills for the casual and ardent “horror”-ticulturalist! SRP is $19.98 and pre-book date is May 31st.

Sam (Adam Taylor Gordon) is a boy with big problems: he is besieged by nightmares (sometimes religious in nature), he cuts himself and he's recently been released from a mental hospital. When he and his recovering alcoholic father (Brian Wimmer) are involved in an auto accident, they are forced to stay on a ranch owned by the enigmatic Ben Zachary (Henriksen). Soon, Sam's dark visions become frighteningly real. Even Sam's benevolent teacher (Young) gives no comfort. Amid the wheat stalks and horse trails, the dead walk, evil is everywhere and Sam fears that an apocalyptic prophecy might come to pass. Produced by Stephen J. Cannell and Michael Dubelko, directed by Don Michael Paul and written by Samuel Bozzo, The Garden is a provocative horror thriller about the battle for the soul of mankind – waged within all of us.




All right, who’s up for movie night at Ms. Lori’s? Pizza, beer, and Satan -- who could possibly ask for more?