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!
Tuesday, September 5, 2006
Friday, September 1, 2006
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...
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...
Saturday, August 26, 2006
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!
Saturday, August 19, 2006
#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...
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...
Friday, August 11, 2006
#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
Monday, August 7, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 2, 2006
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.
(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.
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