Lost in a Sea of Love
Oh, man. The second episode of
Lost is just as intriguing and weird and wonderful as the first. YAY, oh yay. Me happy. Could this be? Could I possibly be as in love with
Lost as I was with
American Gothic?
I think I could be.
I like how they do the reveals veeerrryyy slowly, how everyone is suspect in some way (who's on the up-and-up, who's
that and why are they so freaking strange?). Love it!
My favorite characters so far are Curly (I'm partial to large men who say "dude"), Doctor Jack (hot,hot,hot), and the brunette prisoner chick, Kate. She's lovely with all those adorable freckles of hers, her moxie. I wonder what she did that made her a wanted woman, though. Odd how a supposed "criminal" isn't familiar with guns...She sure knew how to disarm blondie (handsome mean guy who shot that...thing), which leads me to speculate she may have been involved in white collar crime, or perhaps an accomplice. Of course, she may have been playing stupid regarding the gun -- she certainly knew how to hold it and point in a commanding way.
The Asian couple are fascinating. I'm thinking that they're father and daughter, hence his over-protectiveness, her over-the-top obeisance. I would think, in this day and age, a modern Korean wife wouldn't take shit like that from her husband.
The British rock star guy gets on my nerves, though. Stereotypical, dumb, not pleasant to look at. I dunno. I just hate him.
Maybe the giant robot (I like to think it's a robot created by extraterrestrial beings) in the jungle will kill him next week. One can only hope. It'd be good if the whiny blonde was taken out along with him. Another character I dislike immensely. Easy gig for that chick -- the only lines she has to memorize are:
Wahhhhh! and
No! (said with defiant little chin tilted upward) and
Aiiiiiiiiii, aiiiiiii, aiiiiiii! (is her scream the most annoying thing you've ever heard in your life?).
Can't wait to see if creepy orange peel man will make another appearance. I like him way too much.
A'ight. Good enough for now. Stay tuned for Ms. Lori's
Lost thoughts next Thursday.
Quick Mr. Butlerism: "Mommy, I buy you more patience! C'mon, we go to the store now!"
Who Says There Are No More Heroes?
I found one.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 29, 2004
OP-ED COLUMNIST
Sentenced to Be Raped
By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF
MEERWALA, Pakistan — I'm still trying to help out President Bush by tracking down Osama bin Laden. After poking through remote parts of Pakistan, asking for a tall Arab with a beard, I can't say I've earned that $25 million reward.
But I did come across someone even more extraordinary than Osama.
Usually we journalists write about rogues, but Mukhtaran Bibi could not be more altruistic or brave, as the men who gang-raped her discovered. I firmly believe that the central moral challenge of this century, equivalent to the struggles against slavery in the 19th century or against totalitarianism in the 20th, will be to address sex inequality in the third world - and it's the stories of women like Ms. Mukhtaran that convince me this is so.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Read this incredible story about a beautiful and brave soul who should forever be held as inspiration to all women everywhere
here.
Log in and be inspired...
It's Meme Time!
What country intrigues you the most and why?
Australia. My God, they have kangaroos! And I want to watch water go down the drain clockwise.-- I would probably spend many, many hours in the bathroom while I pet my joey and drink Fosters.
Which celebrity are you ashamed of being attracted to?
Leonard Nimoy, Howard Stern
What names do you call your pets that you wouldn’t want others to hear you utter?
Fat-ass, catty-cat, bitch, purry-pants
Are there words or commonly used phrases that you’re positive you invented?
La-la land, unibrow, warm and fuzzy
Which person of the same sex would you not hesitate to jump in the sack with?
Charlize Theron
Which animal frightens you the most?
Earwigs, hyenas
What foods do you eat mass quantities of when feeling down?
Chocolate, pastina (lots of butter and egg in there, baby), Cheetos (must be Crunchy Cheetos , not the powder-covered air type), Ricotta cheese on Italian bread, mushroom soup topped with those little oyster crackers
The last time you were so embarrassed you thought you would die -- details, please.
Many years ago I bought a wig due to the fact that I had a court date (stupid criminal mischief thing), and I thought it best to hide my Mohawk. First impressions and all that. So my mother picks me up from the courthouse, my little brothers in tow, and we stop at a convenience store on the way home. While my brothers and I wait in the car, I notice a van full of preppie hotties checking me out.. I flirt, play coy and all that, which must’ve excited one of the guys to no end because he decides it would be nice to come on over and introduce himself. As he was walking over, one of my brothers screams, “Ms. Lori! There’s a bug in your wig!” And he proceeds to pull the bug out of my wig, taking the wig along with it. Out pops my springy, pink foot-high Mohawk.
How to explain the look of horror that came across the hottie’s once handsome face? I can’t. Suffice to say, hottie ran back to the van shaking and weeping with fear as I slid to the floorboards and cringed at the sound of a van full of laughing -- screaming-laughing -- boys. I think I did die just a little that day.
Who is Satan?
Ann Coulter
Which song makes you teary-eyed every time?
Fast Car by Tracy Chapman,
Love Hurts by Nazareth,
Vincent by Don McLean,
Mercy Street by Peter Gabriel
If you were being forced at gunpoint to eat either an entire raw chicken or cooked pig’s head, which would you chow?
Easy -- Pig’s head. Salmonella ain’t pretty.
Cruel nicknames bestowed upon you during your school years?
Four-eyes; How, Ms. Lori! (my maiden name is Howe); Casper; freak; that weird girl
Current favorite guilty pleasure?
Victoria Gotti‘s
Growing Up Gotti. She’s fabulous.
Perhaps I'm Not So Bagladyish After All...
Received a lovely note from the reviewer mentioned in yesterday's blog -- confirmed my suspicions that my story is woefully injured without those last lines (despite all of the warm and caring well-wishers who wrote to tell me otherwise). Mr. Horsley stated in part: "Had I had the original lines intact...I am certain my overall impression of the published story would've been more favorable...The 'melodrama' I initially perceived is ameliorated significantly by the comprehension those lines provide."
Now if only I could send the lost lines to every single reviewer who has reviewed or will be reviewing the book. Love it or hate it, at least it would be a fair assessment.
Oh, sure, I hear some you saying, "Shut the hell up already, Ms. Lori!"
But imagine if it happened to you.
Ms. Lori -- Baglady of Horror
My heavens. Interesting review of "From the Borderlands"
here
Snippet from review of "Annabell": "...Not written for the ease of readership...
I felt there was something here, something that could have merit, so I gave the author fair value and read through this twice, every word."
The reviewer then goes on to compare my narrator to a baglady. Which made me chuckle, actually.
You know someone's good when they can make you smile even as they flay the skin off your back.
Hey, he hated Stephen King's story as well. I'm in good company.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've a six pack and some tequila sunrises to mainline...
Wonder How He'll Look Stretched Across My Boobs...
I feel like punching someone -- anyone -- in the face today. No reason, really.
Well, yeah, there is reason, but I'll keep it all to my pointy-headed little self.
To lift my spirits, I just bought myself the cutest baby doll T-shirt:
Saint Clinton
I'm a lapsed Catholic, so this is especially luscious.
Hmmm. Still in a bad mood despite this recent find, so I shall refrain from writing one more word.
Fourteen
You take my breath away, and I reach out to touch
that shining new aura of yours
Brilliant, powerful, imperfect --
I need to straighten everything up
You know, like mothers always do
But you wave me away as if I were trying to steal that platinum prize
all women covet
Beware of soul-thieves
Fourteen
I am taken by the years
The first tiny drops of
Fourteen
You pout your lips, pearly pink
Like abalone shell, exasperating
Eyes shadowed in black
What I wished to be, me
in my thick glasses
What I dreamed of, me
in my clunky Earth Shoes
And over-size smocks
Hiding, always hiding
Behind books and frowns and teenage self-doubt
You were my fantasy
Fourteen
I am shaken by the years
The mist of
Fourteen
You roll your eyes, embarrassed
When you notice my appreciation
When I gaze too long and
Blink away memory
Pull from myself the very thing I
struggle to keep
I want to brush your hair
Fourteen
I am angry at the years
The flood of
Fourteen
You are impatient, bobbing your knee
Snapping your gum
But I refuse to acknowledge the time
I will keep you here as long as I can
As long as you will allow
Don’t leave me
Fourteen
I am proud of the years
Of treading
Fourteen
Happy birthday, my beautiful Veronica.
Love until the end of time,
Mom
Lost in a Sea of Flacitude?
Watched “Lost” (ABC) tonight, and
goo, it scared me. I found myself sucking my thumb and pulling my dress over my head. I also begged my husband for another round of Eensy Weensy Spider, but he totally blew me off. Said I disgusted him. Whatever.
There’s one scene with an old guy and an orange peel that gave me shivers, and I don’t shiver easily, you know.
Something about the Orange Peel Man sets my nerves on the edge of madness. Oh, I’ll be watching him closely all right. He’s up to no good, that one.
Okay, I’m being a bit dramatic here, but I really enjoyed this first episode, and I’m so hoping that this show doesn’t slide into the dirty sea of flacitude and craicktropio, which, unfortunately, so many recent made-for-T.V. thriller-chillers have. They start out great, I look forward to more, and all I get for my enthusiasm is a big bucket of something horrible. A bucket of boring and cliché and fart-like sounds that haunt me in my sleep. I want nice buckets! Buckets of Heath candy bars and buckets of razor blades, ladybugs, daisies and tobacco. I want exciting buckets that sing me ballads in a beautiful Irish tenor, buckets that explain the meaning of life to me, then make me cannoli.
I want buckets of fear and dread, goosebumps and loose bowels..
So. We’ll see.
In other news, I’m still waiting on word from editors. Any word. Hell, I get so durned quaked up about such things. I think the worst. Think my subs get lost (which, dear Jesus, has happened), think the editors are passing my stories around during drunken slush laughathons, think the editors are being passive-aggressive by not responding because they hate my guts even though they don’t know me personally, have no reason to behave in a passive-aggressive manner, so they then hate themselves for acting irrationally, and just delete my submission with a huge sigh of relief, glad to be done with ass woman and her wicked, wicked ability to make people hate themselves from afar.
Yee-haw!
'Night, lovers.
Elton, Kiki, Both
Elton John
Don't go breaking my heart
Kiki Dee
I couldn't if I tried
Elton John
Oh honey, if I get restless
Kiki Dee
Baby, you're not that kind
Elton John
Don't go breaking my heart
Kiki Dee
You take the weight off your feet
Elton John
Oh honey, when you knock on my door
Kiki Dee
Ooh, I gave you my key
Both
Ooh, ooh! Nobody knows it
Elton John
But when I was down
Kiki Dee
I was your clown
Both
Ooh, ooh! Nobody knows it. Nobody knows (it)
Elton John
Right from the start
Kiki Dee
I gave you my heart. Oh, oh, I gave you my heart
Elton John
So don't go breaking my heart
Kiki Dee
I won't go breaking your heart
Both
Don't go breaking my heart
Elton John
Nobody told us
Kiki Dee
'cause nobody showed us
Elton John
Now it's up to us, babe
Kiki Dee
Oh, I think we can make it
Elton John
So don't misunderstand me
Kiki Dee
You put the light in my life
Elton John
Oh, you put the spark to the flame
Kiki Dee
I got your heart in my sights
Both
Ooh, ooh! Nobody knows it
Elton John
But when I was down
Kiki Dee
I was your clown
Both
Ooh, ooh! Nobody knows it. Nobody knows (it)
Elton John
Right from the start
Kiki Dee
I gave you my heart. Oh, oh, I gave you my heart
Elton John
Don't go breaking my heart
Kiki Dee
I won't go breaking your heart
Both
Don't go breaking my heart
Ooh, ooh! Nobody knows it
Elton John
But when I was down
Kiki Dee
I was your clown
Elton John
Right from the start
Kiki Dee
I gave you my heart. Oh, oh, I gave you my heart
Elton John
Don't go breaking my heart
Kiki Dee
I won't go breaking your heart
Both
(don't go breaking my (heart))
(don't go breaking my (heart))
Elton John
Don't go breaking my heart
Both
(don't go breaking my (heart))
(don't go breaking my (heart))
How Nice For Skeletor
For those who don't feel like reading a lengthy article about a cadaverous socialite and her dalliances with Old Scratch himself, allow me to paraphrase for you...
Walking stick insect-like creature gets book deal because she:
a) Resembles a walking stick insect
b) Has really shiny skin
c) Gives a most excellent head job
d) Holds the record in Guiness for exclaiming the word "hot" 447,900 times during a shopping spree on Melrose Avenue.
But if you like having your eyeballs spattered with hydrofluoric acid, then please, be my guest.
Here's the skinny.
First Thing I'm Gonna Do is Draw a Big Tit on His Forehead
Sharpen your Crayolas, kids!
The George W. Bush Coloring Book
Tha Ancient One is Toasted
Oh, yeah. Seriously.
Thanks, Nic, for the fun time today -- oh my God, how I needed a fun time.
Watched
Badlands (starring Martin Sheen and Sissy Spacek) tonight for the fiftieth time. One of my favorite movies. Martin Sheen, I am positive, is the hottest human being to ever breathe air. He may be old as the hills now, but I'd still bake him a carrot cake and ice it up special just for him any damn day (little sugar carrot on top and everything). When he was young, though, his beauty was almost extraterrestrial. Those jeans he wore in
Badlands...
Lord!
That floppy 'do of silky erotica dancing about his head, the way it hung over his eye all cool and shit, that mouth of heavenly peace...Help me, Jesus!
Mercy.
So, um. So.
I'll probably delete this in the morning, because history has shown that Ms. Lori is not particularly interesting when toasted to a dark crisp. Rather, Ms. Lori is gushy and annoying, and many people have tried to put an ax in her head for speaking in third person, just as she's doing now.
Just so you know, I ate about 43 or 49 McCaine Smiles tonight. They are, without a doubt, the most addictive foodstuffs ever to be sold without a prescription. Not that food needs a prescription, but hey, I'm drunk.
I call them Crack Heads. Try them and see for yourself.
Warrrrpppp! Damn image won't show -- and I tried three different Smiles images, too! Why those wily little heads of potatoey wonder.
They're adorable, too. Look a bit like Drew Carey.
What else, what else...
I got carded today while buying beer, only I didn't have my I.D. with me. Been a while since I last bought my own beer, and I figured, hell, I'm eighty-two, so why bother with I.D.? But the tiny mite carded me, and I told her that I was old enough to be her mama's mama, so gimme the beer, child.
I called her
child!
How very old of me.
Well, no, I didn't say that. Not only am I annoying and gushy when drunk, I also tend to lie.
I kissed her is what I did., then promised to pay her college tuition.
'Kay, I'm outta here.
R.I.P. Johnny Ramone
Rock'n, rock'n'roll radio Let's go
Rock'n, rock'n'roll radio Let's go
Rock'n, rock'n'roll radio Let's go
Rock'n, rock'n'roll radio Let's go
Do you remember Hullabaloo,
Upbeat, Shinding and Ed Sullivan too?
Do you remember rock'n'roll radio?
Do you remember rock'n'roll radio?
Do you remember Murray the K,
Alan Freed, and high energy?
It's the end, the end of the 70's
It's the end, the end of the century
Do you remember lying in bed
With your covers pulled up over your head?
Radio playin' so no one can see
We need change, we need it fast
Before rock's just part of the past
'Cause lately it all sounds the same to me
Oh oh oh oh, oh oh
Will you remember Jerry Lee,
John Lennon, T. Rex and OI Moulty?
It's the end, the end of the 70's
It's the end, the end of the century
--The Ramones
Introducing Mr. Butler
Well, since today marks my 45,765th day without sleep, I thought I'd celebrate by adding a regular feature to my blog: Mr. Butler's World!
Mr. Butler's World! will include random musings, rants, and helpful hints by my son, Mr. Butler.
A little bit about Mr. Butler:
Born on January 24, 2002, Mr. Butler enjoys taking baths,
"Oobie" (the creepy talking hands show on Noggin), eating books (particularly the works of John Shirley and Graham Masterton), and putting his head up ladies' shirts. He is a man of few words, but he does enjoy a good debate if the opportunity should arise. Favorite topics include: "Toilets -- are they scary or not?" and "Monsters in the closet -- fact or fiction?"
Mr. Butler does not like his mommy calling him Mr. Butler because that is not his true name; he also hates when his mommy calls him Phlumpy, Chicken-Pee, Wieners or Mr. Noodles, but he realizes that he is powerless to do much about it, so he tolerates the nicknames with as much grace as is possible.
Stay tuned for Mr. Butler's first installment of Mr. Butler's World! which will explore the pros and cons of putting $2.75 worth of quarters in one's diaper.
Instant Karma's Gonna Get You
I wrote a long post to go along with the following link -- it involved my leg disconnecting from my body, and me bleeding to death and shit. Good stuff.
Unfortunately, I have dial-up, and as you dial-up losers know, it often sucks large and heinous things that live in caves.
So I lost my post.
But damn, I love me some big
karma
Kerry gets twenty points for that one. Good thing, too, because he was starting to get on my nerves.
Mama's Helpful Boy
Gawd, I've been feeling so tired. So crappy. Just an overall feeling of anger mixed with depression, general body aches. I hear it's going around. Something called Bushupyourassitis or something like that. Hard to pronounce.
I don't like to write when I'm in such a state, but since I see there's been a flurry of new visitors here since I last checked, I figured I'd pull out all the stops and add a mind-blowing new entry -- perhaps my most scintillating yet.
So this morning, I come down from my office after checking e-mail, and I discover that the cat puked all over the kitchen floor. Also the dining room. And the living room. She must've devoured my husband, the mess was so big. If Lar doesn't show up by 6:00 tonight, I'll know then to call the insurance company -- I understand my benefits will double if death is caused by cat consumption.
Anyway, not a great thing to discover, for sure, but what really pushed this discovery over the top was that my two-year-old boy thought it would be a wonderful thing to help his poor, tired mama by cleaning up the mess. And honestly, what could be cuter than a tiny, sweet cherub, naked save for his diaper, wiping cat puke with Mama's brand new dish towel? It was especially adorable when he flung the puke-bits against the wall (ostensibly, his way of cleaning the towel), and proceeding to wipe down the couch.
I was so charmed, I burst into tears.
If only you could've seen the look of pride in his eyes. My boy, my beautiful, fat-legged phlump of vanilla joy. Oh, how I love him.
That 9/11 Feeling
Not that anyone would care, but September 11, 2001 will forever be etched in my mind, every detail, every sound and smell and conversation, for reasons beyond the obvious.
The horror of it all, to be sure, is a feeling that cannot be explained or categorized by one simple term. "Terrified" doesn't cut it; "sick," "sad," and "freaked out" don't encompass all of the minute zings and mini-shocks and utter helplessness involved. There is no word in the English language to describe that feeling, and I'm damned surprised that someone hasn't coined a term for this feeling, that it isn't in the new edition of Webster‘s.
Maybe I should start a trend, start using the term "nine-eleven" whenever I'm faced with crises, e.g., "Man, I'm feeling so nine-eleven right now." Admittedly, this term should be reserved only for major crises, like, for instance, if my arm should ever spontaneously combust.
It is a feeling that makes the bottom of your feet numb, your heart feel as if someone's pressing on it with their boot, your head light, as if it's attached to your neck by only a thin strand of cobweb. Well, that's how it felt for me, anyway. Very dream-like, a hypnagogic half-reality, half-nightmare experience. Yet not.
How to explain the feeling of being 4 1/2 months pregnant with the last child I will ever bear, turning on Good Morning America for a quick snippet of Charlie and Diane before going off to my ultrasound appointment, and instead of warm morning chatter to go with my coffee, I see a plane flying into the World Trade Center? We were transfixed, my husband and I, our noses inches from the screen, as if being that close would somehow make things clearer. We had to literally tear our faces away; we had an appointment to meet our baby, you see.
How to explain the feeling of driving to the doctor's office, radio blaring the obviously terrified (nine-elevened?) voices of normally wacky and upbeat D.J.s?. Another plane hit the towers.
Another. Plane. Hit. The. Towers.
The United States is under attack! That's what those nine-elevened voices screamed as I rubbed my tummy and searched the skies. I patted my baby's in utero bottom, and I searched the clear blue skies while my feet went numb and someone stomped on my heart with their big fucking boot. How to explain the need to hold my children close, smell their hair? A jet flies overhead and my head feels as if it may just float out the window. I want my kids. I wantmykids, wantmykids.
There is a television set up in the doctor's office, and in between treating patients and answering phones, doctors, nurses and their staff are running into the reception room for the latest news. It is quiet, and nobody talks -- if I happen to catch someone's eye, they do not smile. S'okay, though, because I don't either.
I lie on the table, shirt hiked up to my neck, and the technician smoothes the cold blue gel over my skin, works the magic wand in a slow zigzag across my jumping belly. A nurse pops her head into the darkened room, and says simply, with lips stretched tight, "The Pentagon was just hit." She pops back into the hallway, closes the door with a quiet click. The technician shakes her head, murmurs "Jesus Christ," and continues searching my womb. There's a foot, there's a leg, an arm. A perfect head, a perfect, sweet, rapidly beating heart. Then the wand stops moving and she says to us, "You have three girls, yes?" My husband and I nod our heads, and my stomach does flips. "Well, now it's your turn, Mr. Young."
"Your turn"? What the hell does
that mean?
Takes a moment or two before we realize what she’s saying. And we see the tiny, perfect penis, and we all laugh, and I cry, and the technician's eyes grow misty, and I just can't believe this day. I really can't.
The same nurse who reported on the Pentagon pops her head back into the room. "Everything okay in here?" It's apparent that the laughter and whoops of joy coming from this room have startled her; perhaps she thought we were crying out in misery. There are worry lines between her eyebrows. I tell her I'm having a boy. A
boy!
Her face relaxes. She smiles and says, "There's still beauty in this world, isn't there?"
That's what she said, and it's a hokey thing to say, but at that moment, it was the most perfect thing to say.
There is no word to convey a feeling of helplesness, terror, profound sadness, joy, wonder and pure love. But I felt that feeling, and it stays with me still, and I hope to God I never feel it again.
Oh. Heh Heh...
I apologize, Blogger.com, for my senseless brutality.
But it did take my getting frisky in order for you to fix my blog, now didn't it? So really, the blame lies fully on your shoulders.
Still, I feel kind of bad about biting your ass.
That was totally unnecessary.
Hatin'
Well, doesn't my balding blog look lovely? First my profile migrates down to the bottom of the page for absolutely no reason at all, then I couldn't blog for two days due to problems with Blogger.com, and now, my babies, half of my blog page is missing. My profile, my Blogroll, my
things, my
stuff, the very arm of my existence! Where'd it all go? To heaven, I bet.
Rest in peace, arm. I shall miss you.
Hating Blogger right now. Do you hear me, Blogger?
I hate you! Foul bastard. There oughta be a law against such foulness, and I should be the arresting officer. Think I'll pretend...
Put your foul arms behind your foul back, Blogger.com! I said, now!
Blogger.com attempts to flee, but I tackle it to the ground and twist its foul arms into a pretzel behind its back. It weeps, begs for mercy.
Shut up!
Blogger.com cries out for its mother.
So I kick Blogger.com in the head, but it’s not as bad as it seems because I’m not wearing shoes.
I told you to shut up!
Blogger.com whimpers softly as I slap the cuffs on.
I bite Blogger.com on the ass for good measure.
The End
Git Along Little Dawggie
'Kay, gonna see if I'm able to publish this bitch. Blogger's been on the blink for two days now...
From Texans for Truth:
George W. Bush: AWOL in Alabama
“Texans for Truth, established by the 20,000-member Texas online activist group, DriveDemocracy.org, has produced a 0:30 second television advertisement, "AWOL." The ad features Robert Mintz, one of many who served in Alabama's 187th Air National Guard -- when Bush claims to have been there -- who have no memory of Bush on the base. In other words, Bush failed to fulfill his military duty while others were dying in Vietnam.”
Click
here to watch it.
Googling My Hand
I was having a hell of a time yesterday searching for information regarding the weird symptoms I've been having lately -- "hell of a time" meaning
bad time, not
rollicking, good time. You'd think there would be at least four thousand and fifty-six sites directly pertaining to my unholy pain, grotesquely misshapen hand, and intense self-hatred, but nooooo, all I get are a few S&M porn sites. Sure, my search includes words like "red," "swollen," and "unholy pain," but come on already, Google. I can't be the only person dealing with this problem.
So I got to thinking...why not search for "chicken penis"? I've never seen a chicken penis, never even thought about seeing one until today. So I threw "Chicken Penis" into the engine.
Which lead me to nothing, of course, because it became obvious to me that “chicken,” although certainly an appropriate reference, is most often used in the feminine vein -- hens do not in fact have penises; they have cloacas, for Christ's sake. Cloacas, I eagerly learned, are where the males (roosters)
supposedly deposit their sperm.
So I searched for "Rooster Penis," and lo and behold...
Again with the nothing. There is mention of the rooster penis on some poultry anatomy sites, but it's only a brief mention, no meat there. I wanted meat, I wanted to see that rooster penis so bad I could taste it. So I Googled under images.
Surely there are hundreds if not thousands of rooster penis pictures out there in the world. I'd even settle for a crudely drawn diagram.
No such luck. Not even a diagram.
Apparently, the rooster penis is only a myth, and hens are, in reality, parthenogenic creatures that scoff at the notion of rooster penises.
In the poultry world, roosters are looked upon with disdain and revulsion. Roosters are the "dirty caste," the untouchables, which explains why they’re often so darn testy.. Roosters have tremendous wattles to deflect from the fact they are useless creatures with no real reason for existence -- those bright, flashy red flapples of flesh serve not only as a nostalgic remnant of a time long ago when roosters had penises and needed to attract the ladies (presumably ending shortly after the Coolidge era), but as defensive warning to the other animals of the barnyard, much like a cobra's hood. When antagonized by cruel hens (and sometimes pigs), the rooster shakes its head back and forth in a rapid "no, no thank you" motion thus causing the wattle to flap to and fro; the blur of flapping red skin frightens and intimidates the name-calling, corn-throwing hens (or pigs), which results in the rooster crowing at the morning sun in peace.
It is my theory that the "rooster penis" lie has continued to be perpetuated by sympathetic farmers all over the world due to the fear of widespread rooster-bashing. They like their roosters because roosters wake them up at the crack of dawn, help the farmers with chores such as scratching straw and chasing unruly hens back to their roosts. Roosters also offer the farmers that certain down-on-the-farm
je ne sais quoi,, a homey,
aw shucks, it's nineteen twenty-two! kind of appeal that we all find so comforting. Can you imagine a farm without a rooster? Of course you can't. A farm without a rooster would just be so wrong, unhealthy. It would be un-American, man. In times like these, nobody can afford to appear un-American, especially the farmers.
So the farmers lie, and we buy into that lie, and really, it's no big deal. What's a little non-existent penis in the whole scheme of things?
I feel sorry for roosters now.
A Brite Morning
Argh. Could my title be more asinine? Forgive the asininicity; I haven't slept for more than five hours total the past few nights, so, y'know, I'm entitled to indulge in asinine behavior. Insomnia and excruciating physical pain go together like birds of a feather.
See? Asininicity in its finest form.
More asininicity for your reading displeasure: I like corn!
Anyway, Poppy Z. Brite rocked my world with this:
She's So Lovely
The fact that PZB cared enough about my little problem blows my mind and makes me smile so big.
Though I've come to terms, even accepted that "Annabell" will probably never see print in its original form, it's beyond cool that the lost lines are posted on her journal. I mean, yeah, I was in a bad way when I first saw that the story was once again incomplete (felt a bit...insulted, like, why only *my* story? It wouldn't have bothered me if the editors *wanted* the lines dropped, and we revised the story prior to "Borderlands 5" and/or "From the Borderlands," but that wasn't the case. So, I felt like the universe was just taking a big dump on ol' Ms. Lori as per usual), but "Annabell," as has been pointed out to me by various writers I respect, works just fine without the last lines. I can dig it, daddy.
Now go forth and buy Poppy's newest novels
"The Value of X" and
"Liquor" -- I just did. Well, “Liquor,” at least -- “The Value of X” is currently out of stock on Amazon. I've read some of her amazing earlier works, but hadn't gotten off my ass and purchased her recent stuff until today. My jowls are quivering with anticipation.
ADDENDUMdeDUM: Well slap my jowls and call them jiggly! Subterranean Press will be putting out the second edition of "The Value of X" -- preorder
HERE
Of Course. Of Course...
So my husband returns from grocery shopping bearing handfuls of "From the Borderlands." I was so excited and happy, couldn't wait to hold the book in my hands, so I ripped a copy out of his proud grip, ran up to my office, sat down (all atremble), lit a cigarette, and opened it.
The following are the actual thoughts that crossed my mind as I perused:
Look at that awesome cover! I am an "And Others!" Cool.
Mmmm, paper smell...
I feel so incredibly sexy right now.
Well, gee, my bio's not so retarded. Not really. Could be better, but hey.
Oh, hahahaha! Still love that intro.
"Kay...let's see, where's my story, where's...
I feel all weird inside. And it's not a good weird. I have a familiar, horrible feeling...
Shut up, ass. Everything'll be just fine. Everything will be just...
*shocked silence*
Of course. Well why the fuck should it be any different? Of course, of course, of course.
*sigh*
Not again. This can't be happening...
*tear*
*speaking to God* Kick me while I'm down, why don't you? Take away the one little joy left to me this whole annus horribilus. LAR! Come HERE, PLEASE!
Story makes no sense without those last lines, no closure...LARRY! LARRY, GET UP HERE!
Three little lines, so important, so vital...
What is that man doing? LAAAAARRRRRR!
*tear*
END SCENE
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Midnight Cowboy
John Kerry speaking at last night's midnight rally:
"Misleading our nation into war in Iraq makes you unfit to lead this nation."
"Doing nothing while this nation loses millions of jobs makes you unfit to lead this nation. Letting 45 million Americans go without health care makes you unfit to lead this nation. Letting the Saudi royal family control our energy costs makes you unfit to lead this nation. Handing out billions of government contracts to Halliburton while you're still on their payroll makes you unfit. That's the record of George Bush and Dick Cheney, and it's not going to change."
Uh, yeah. Unfortunately, according to the polls (and disturbing reports that scream: If the elections were held now, Bush would win by majority electoral vote!), many, many people still believe the lies. What to do, what to do...
If I were magical and could make people do anything I wanted with a switch of my bulbous nose, I would conjure up the bound and gagged top level Republicans who know the truth, hate that truth, desperately wish to reveal the truth, and would make them sing like a drunken murder of crows. I know they're there. Their eyes haunt me when I watch them on T.V. as they gently defend the president, eyes full of knowledge and secrets and self-loathing. Some of them are good people, people who actually do want *all* Americans to be free, devoid of fear, safe, respected, *prosperous*. But they cannot and will not speak out because nobody but NOBODY crosses the thin redneck line, and I have a feeling that it has little to do with loyalty. When people are faced with whistle-blowing or self-preservation, most will save their own ass. Which I totally understand.
Someday, perhaps many years from now, the truth will be revealed. Sure, a lot of the redneck warriors will be very old, some deceased, but the truth will eventually come, sentences will be passed, and those of us who knew the truth all along will be vindicated. Someday.
On a lighter, humiliating note: I checked out Poppy Z. Brite's journal today (I love this woman's humor, her foodie-talk, her balls), and saw that she picked up "From the Borderlands." How lovely and cool, I thought. I also thought, "Oh, God, I hate myself." Why do I hate myself? Well, because my bio is quite possibly the most retarded bio to ever see print in a mass market publication. I'm serious. When I wrote the bio for "Borderlands 5," I didn't know what the hell I was doing. Should I be serious or funny? Write it in first or third? Include publication credits? Upcoming credits? Include blurbs from authors who are reputable that will validate my worth because I'm such a nobody?" I had no fucking idea.
And, with regret and much embarrassment, it shows just how clueless I was at that moment in time. All of the other contributors have snazzy bios, funny bios, bios that are professional yet interesting. I know how to write a bio, dammit. Funny ones, quirky ones that show my personality in one hundred words or less, but I chose to appear as an amateur -- it is a bio suitable for Joe Stank's Desktop Zine. And I hate myself. And there is nothing I can do about it.
I haven't seen the paperback yet, and I'm praying that the bios aren't included. Oh, but I'm sure they are. They most certainly are.
And I can already feel the "Man, this chick is so lame" vibes coming from readers. From people like Poppy Z. Brite, perhaps even from you.
I am so ashamed.
Things That Make You Go Ewwww
Bush's disembodied head courtesy of my fellow hater, T.M. Wright.
I thank you, Terry, for this hideous monstrosity.
Things that make me go Ewwww #2: Ashley (or is that "Ashleeeee"?) Simpson. Lord All Mighty, I pray for strength, I beg thee for the ability to understand, to be patient, to not have a brain aneurysm. Amen.
#3: Nail fungus commercials. If I am subjected to one more revolting cartoon of toenail-lurking fungi that sound disturbingly like Jackie Gleason, I may just die.
#4: "Bears shitting in the woods" toilet paper commercials. The bears are cute, I'll give them that, but the ecstatic expressions on their faces as they wipe their nasty bear asses makes me feel ill. Then, to add insult to injury, they happily hand over the T.P. -- WITHOUT WASHING THEIR PAWS FIRST -- to the next bear in line. I can't even believe that. This one deserves a ten on my scale of Ewwww.
#5: Kinky women's products commercials. To our left we have the "bladeless razor," which, as the commercial shows in all its glorious kink, is safe enough for your boyfriend to use on you while you are helplessly blindfolded, legs spread wide as he makes hacking and slashing motions with razor. According to the advertisement, this action will send your man into a vampiric frenzy, thus tackling you to the bed and sinking his fangs into your neck. It is implied that the both of you will then live in undead bliss for all eternity.
To our right we have shampoo that promises to bring women to unnaturally achieved orgasm, no matter if it's in public or not. In fact, it's apparent that the more people around, the better. And if said shampoo cum orgasm-maker frightens and intimidates the obviously impotent men in our lives, all the better. Perfect for the exhibitionist, sadistic whore in all of us.
#6: Michael Jackson. Ew. This is all I have to say, because if I think on that subject for one more minute, my head will shoot off my neck like a rocket then orbit earth like some gruesome satellite, and I really don't want to do that to my family.
