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?

The Importance of Inspecting Garments Before Purchasing

Dear Woman Who Ripped My Pants,

I will begin this letter by asking you one simple question, of which I realize will get no reply, because after all, you have no idea who I am. But that’s beside the point. I am humoring myself, as I often do, and am so filled with rage, this seems a much more appropriate way to vent my frustration and disgust than, say, punching my husband’s forehead.(which, by the way, did help heal my spider bites…I highly recommend to attached women everywhere that they strike their significant others in the forehead -- repeatedly if need be -- when in dire need of a physical or mental pick-me-up).

Ah, beautiful digression. How I love to digress. I may even digress from the original digression, just for the fun of it. Watch as I digress effortlessly, feel the burn, the confusion and giddy tummy tickles as I spin you round and round on the fiery Ferris wheel of digressional pyrotechnics.

I enjoy breakfast sausages!

All right, then. My unanswerable question is this: Why, if you have a size twenty- four ass, would you even think of stuffing it into a pair of size sevens?

Honestly, I’m curious.

There I was, all excited -- almost hysterical, really -- to be returning the dreadful Ass Pants From Hell, to be browsing in a real clothing store that does not sell knitted vests, appliquéd sweaters or polyester stretch pants, a store that has not a single smiley face sign advertising falling prices or zombified old man shambling toward me when I walk in the door. Yes, there I was, thrilled to be rid of the Ass Pants, feeling good that I made the sales clerk laugh when I explained to her why I was returning the Ass Pants, my palms sweaty as I perused the acres of filmy peasant tops and sweet little skirts, the fabrics of cotton and silk and other fibers made by God, when I saw my dream pants.

They were magnificent. Lightweight denim capris, form-fitting at the hips (not pubic-area low, thank you very much), with big swingy legs that I just knew would swish about my calves in a most flirtatious manner. They would look perfect with the cute black, swingy, three-tiered, ruffled tank top I'd just purchased, as well as my fabulous new gem-encrusted Baby Phat thong wedges. I was thinking how goshdurned hot I was going to look at the party this coming Saturday.

I had to have those pants, was so nervous they wouldn't have my size, I nearly suffocated from dry-mouth. I tentatively poked through the rack, peered at the tags, my breathing becoming more labored with every wrong size, when lo and behold, there was one last size seven stuffed between the ones and twelves and fours. Halle-freaking-lujah. Trumpets announced the coming of Christ, rainbows appeared above me, and I think I actually had an orgasm, although it's quite possible it was only incontinence. Anyway, I bought the pants. Brought them home. Stood before the mirror and slipped into them, made sweet love them as I twirled while fastening the outside button, admired the flirty swish against my calves, and then...

You know where I’m going with this, don’t you, bitch? Sure you do. You know perfectly well what I’m about to write next, because it was your ass that destroyed my dream. It was your delusional ego that caused the pants to fall apart, your skeevy, rotten, dishonest own self that popped the inside button from its root, pulled the lower part of the zipper from its bed, snatched the belt loop from the waistband as you attempted to stuff your junk into what should have been my trunk, then, upon realizing what you did, whipped off the pants, rebuttoned the outside button, zipped what was left of the zipper, patted down the hanging belt loop, and hung the pants back on the rack like the criminal scurvy-ridden cur you are.

And now you must die.

Hatefully yours,

Ms. Lori

The Importance of Proper Grammar

So the other day I was busy with housework, vacuuming, dusting, doing laundry, wiping cocaine from the counters -- you know, the usual -- when my boy asked me when he could go out to play. I told him that if he helped by picking up his toys, we could go out faster. Yes, terrible grammar on my part, but crack does that to a person, you realize...Anyway, my four-year-old boy, my angel, my darling phlump-nosed chicken wieners said this in response:

"No, Mommy, you're a bastard!"

Well, let me tell you, I nearly dropped my bottle of Absolut.

I was, of course, thoroughly confused as to how my son thought I'd called him a bastard when all I said was "If you pick up your toys, we can go out faster."

Did he think I'd said, "If you pick up your toys, we can go out, you bastard"? Why would he believe such a horrible thing? I've never, and I mean never called him such a terrible name. My vacuum cleaner, yes, my son, certainly not. My boy is a phlump, a Butler, a chicken wiener, a creamy white bunch of bread dough, but never a bastard.

"Sweetie, no, honey, you misunderstood -- I said that we can go out faster if you help pick up your toys."

"You're a bastard! YOU are, Mommy!"

"Angel pie! Listen to me -- I said we can go out faster! FASTER, I say!

"BASTARD! BIG MOMMY BASTARD!"

"Brandon, son, listen to Mommy..."

And on and on it went until I finally gave up, kicked my whore of a vacuum cleaner to the corner, and swept my boy out into the warm sun.

Me Love New Keboad Long Time

In other news, I was bitten 7-8 times by some sort of extraterrestrial arachnid -- most likely the assholis fuckwituum dorkdickidus -- and the back of my leg now resembles a bubbling, rotting hamhock. Sexy! Oh, and apparently, the bite of an assholis fuckwituum dorkdickidus aggravates rheumatoid arthritis, causing fingers and toes to blow up to monstrous proportions, leaving victims not only in incredible pain, but in foul moods as well.

Advil does nothing to alleviate my misery. Alcohol exacerbates the swelling.

Perhaps punching Lar’s forehead will hasten the healing process? I’m thinking yes.

Will post something more substantial soon as my fingers deflate.