Goodbye, 2004, Goodbye. Don't Let the Door Hit You on Your Fat, Skanky Ass
Well, well. New Year's Eve is almost upon us -- my favorite time of the year.
Some of you may be thinking,
But why, Ms. Lori? Why is New Year's Eve your favorite time of the year?.
So, for you beautiful, curious freaks, I have assembled a short list of reasons:
11) Booze.
2) Mad Cow Sticks (tiny tortillas wrapped around beef of questionable origin).
33) Stuffed mushrooms.
90) Port wine cheese slathered on fancy crackers -- crackers that are never, ever purchased any other time of the year due to their exorbitant cost.
7) Scary movies -- unfortunately (or fortunately, depending) half of which are not watched because I’m busy laughing at my husband’s antics, such as his “blind boy from Deliverance” impression, and his always sensational “Hi, I’m a dorky yet ruthless slumlord” impression. Wait, scratch that one -- he really
is a dorky yet ruthless slumlord. Never mind.
19) The ball. You know what I’m talking about. It’s so much more than a glittering metaphor; it’s literally getting rid of the old, as Dick Clark knows all too well. -- it’s a well-kept secret, one that I’m privy to, that Mr. Clark loses five old years as the new one emerges. By the time 2015 rolls around, Dick Clark will be hosting the show in Pampers and footie jammies, his toothless mouth gumming the microphone as he babbles nonsense talk to the crowd. All hail Baby Dick!
76) Drunken sex. Nothing more sublime than goofy, drunken sex at 2:00 a.m. I think that this year, I’ll dress up as Martha Stewart and Lar can be the sadistic, grossly unattractive warden. Yee haw!
Die, 2004, year of hell, year of shit!
Die!
Happy, happy new year, everyone!
Hey, Haters -- A Little Black Magic to Ruin Your Day
Just a quick note to those who hate my blog. I‘ve been silent for far too long:
I’m hurt. Full of sorrow. And because you gaggle of no-talent, boring, cheesy loons make yourselves feel better by stomping on my little princess, I hate you more than you hate me.
So, as a show of reciprocal hatred, my way of getting back at you for dinging me with abysmal ratings, I will now throw some voodoo your way.
May God have mercy on your souls.
(
My blog, for those who aren’t aware, is possessed of supernatural powers; whenever I wish for something, it’s generally granted within the week.)
My wish begins....
1
2
3
NOW!
I sincerely wish that Patti LaBelle, wearing nothing but a chiffon negligee, wakes you at 5:00 a.m. on New Years Day by shrieking her rendition of “Over the Rainbow” outside your bedroom window. I also hope that she bursts into your home wielding a dirty frying pan, some past-due date sausage and old, old eggs, and insists on making you breakfast. I hope she ties you to your kitchen table and forces you at forkpoint to eat every last morsel, then accompanies you to the toilet and belts out “Lady Marmalade” as you vomit.
Cheers!
The Lady is a Tramp
Could be due to lack of sleep, could be the hormones, or, quite simply, it just could be that I really, really despise Patti LaBelle -- whatever the reason for this post of snark, I witnessed an abomination to top all abominations on the A&E channel, December 23, starring the flamboyant and ever so annoying Ms. LaBelle. She “performed” for the Nobel Peace Prize laureate, Wangari Maathai, alongside Cyndi Lauper (who I adore), Tony Bennet (dear Jesus, haven't seen the dude in quite a while, but I‘ll be damned if his nose hasn't sprouted arms and legs), with Oprah Winfrey and the delicious Tom Cruise hosting the event. Others performed as well, but I missed most of the first half. Anyway.
Mr. Bennet’s voice was in good form as he spun round the stage in typical septuagenarian style, a little careful, a bit shaky as he whirled and weaved to and fro. Was nervous that he might teeter off balance there for a minute, but he did just fine. I was glad when his set ended.
Then came Patti. Overblown, gargantuan Patti, imposing, disturbing, raucous Patti, who swept in like a garish hot air balloon and devoured the stage lights, just sucked them in black hole-like, along with a few of the audience members who’d been unlucky enough to have front row seats. Nightmarish as that was, the real terror was only beginning. Patti put her hands together in rhythmic time, her paddywackers clacking to the opening beats of the most beloved homage to skanky whores ever written -- “Lady Marmalade.”
Yes, dears, you read that right -- Ms. LaBelle chose to honor the esteemed Wangari Maathai with a song about whoring, and never a prouder moment existed within the realm of TVLand. I sat dumbstruck, my mouth dribbling a thin line of drool as I watched the debacle. My friend O, just as dumbstruck, dropped her cigarette, thus burning a hole in her tutu, and proceeded to rock back and forth muttering “Clowns...I see scary clowns...clowns...”
But it only got worse. Ms. LaBelle thought it a good idea to invite various mentally challenged men from the international audience to join her on stage, goaded them, chided them to dance for her, to sing, to humiliate themselves before God and their countrymen. She cruelly flitted about, pranced and hooved around the unfortunates, her face gleaming as she batted her two foot long false eyelashes at them, reveling in their obvious stupor. Then, oh sweet mercy pie, then...she lifted her dress, almost but not quite exposing her ancient nether regions, kicked her legs high, uncomfortably high as she thrust her hips and shook her gigantic bosoms in the faces of the terrified men.
This lasted for the good part of an hour, I kid you not.
gitchy, gitchy, ya ya...
It went on and on and on.
gitchy, gitchy da da here...
The camera cut to Ms. Maathai, and she was politely swaying, applauding, smiling -- but I knew what she was really thinking. Ms. Maathai was thinking, “I see clowns...scary clowns....”
I’m sure she ran for the exit soon as the performance was over, jumped on the waiting jet, downed many alcoholic beverages during her flight back home, then, upon arriving, knelt to the tarmac and kissed it gently, murmured grateful things to her god, then collapsed with relief under the golden African sun.
To Ms Maathai: I hereby regret the horror you were forced to endure, and I, on behalf of all right-thinking Americans, officially apologize. We are deeply sorry, and we are not about to let Ms. LaBelle’s actions go unpunished. There will be a public wet sponge throwing, tentatively scheduled for January 15, 2005, in the city of Los Angeles, state of California, to be held in the Kodak Theater at 5:00 p.m. Pacific time. The honorable Arnold Schwarzenegger will, if schedule allows, preside, and perhaps throw the first sponge, but that’s all up in the air at this point in time. Again, our sincere apologies, and may you deem us worthy for future visits.
A Christmas Greeting From Ms. Lori and a Couple of Little Devils
There are few people in cyberworld that make me laugh out loud --
Keef happens to be one of those few. I also have a tremendous, wholly innocent crush on this man, and have for almost three years now.
I want to adopt him, his wife, and their little cat, too, have them come live with me for all eternity. Yes, that's correct --
I want to adopt a grown man and his family.
That is my Christmas wish. Well, I'd originally wished for world peace, but I think the odds are leaning more toward grown man-adoption, so I'll go with that.
If there really is a Santa Claus, I'll have me a fine Texan family under my tree tomorrow morning. I'm so excited!
And to all of you crazy, beautiful OWM readers: May you have a holiday filled with laughter. May you wake on Christmas morning with a cramp in your face from laughing so hard. May you eat lots of goodies and not gain an ounce of assfat. May you drink till you drop and not have a hangover. May your significant other dress up as a perverted elf and ravish you all night long. May your children allow you to sleep past five a.m., and may your extended families not drive you so insane, you tear the Christmas tree from its stand and heave it across the room, then rip every single hair out of your head while dancing in circles, alternately chanting Gregorian style and weeping uncontrollably, occasionally screaming epithets in the horrified faces of your loved ones.
I sincerely mean that. Have a merry, folks.
The Entry I Was Going to Write Yesterday, But Was Too Shook Up To Do So
As I mentioned in my previous post, I am severely sleep-deprived -- not earth shattering news, especially to those who suffer from insomnia. Many, many people suffer as I do, and I’m sure they are sympathetic, understand exactly how terrible this affliction can be. But there is one difference between how my brain handles sleep deprivation and how most others’ do -- if I am lucky enough to drift off for a few precious moments, I always --
always -- dream about giving birth.
The other night was no exception. I’d spent most the night fitfully dozing off and on, comatose, body paralyzed with exhaustion, yet aware of the cat purring on my chest, her nose-air fluttering my eyelashes (she enjoys sleeping on my chest, her furry face perhaps a half inch from mine -- I do believe she wants to climb inside my mouth, which is a terrifying thought, one that may be attributing to my insomnia), and during one of my rare moments of total unconsciousness, I dreamt.
I was heavily pregnant, lumbering along in a field of corn, wearing a ripped Sex Pistols T-shirt and Doc Martins, when suddenly, the urge to push overwhelmed me. At that moment, I knew I had to get to a hospital, so, of course, I found myself walking the corridors of a maternity ward, my ass hanging out of a too small gown. I was ignored by the nurses and doctors floating past me (I’m
always ignored in my birthing dreams), despite my cries for help. So I lay on the floor, right there in front of David Bowie and John Kerry, and began to grunt like a wild boar, pushing with all my might. I was so over the whole humiliation thing, considering I’d done this maybe three hundred times before.
And miraculously, without pain, without blood or fluid or flying F-words (why can’t real-life birth be this easy?), I produced a squalling infant at the feet of David Bowie. He nodded and smiled as if to say “good job,” then promptly disappeared. At this point, I had no reason to care about John Kerry’s whereabouts, for I was upset that the baby was still attached to me, the umbilical cord swaying, undulating. Due to being ignored by hospital staff, I realized that I had to somehow sever the cord myself, and I was filled with revulsion, for I had no cutting implements. I did not want to bite the cord, did not want to touch that alien thing with my bare fingers, no way in hell. I had no choice but to get up, baby cradled in my arms, and go in search of a pair of scissors.
As luck would have it, there happened to be a pair sticking out of the wall. Oh joy! I set about the task ahead with some trepidation, but managed, with eyes closed, to swiftly separate myself from my child. It was then that I felt comfortable enough to revel in my baby’s beauty, to take in every inch of her sweet fatness and rosebud skin, her downy blonde hair and perfect little fingers, and oh, I did. I did. And upon discovering the tiny cloven feet, I began to scream.
Baby Girl was not as she first appeared to be -- Baby Girl was in fact, Baby Cow.
Evidently, I was the unwitting guinea pig in a revolutionary gene-splicing research project, and this excited the heretofore inattentive staff, so much so, there was a great celebration with balloons and a marching band, and grotesquely made-up clowns.
I woke in tears, the dear scent of my baby cow lingering, and I wept even harder as I entered full consciousness. The memory of her haunted me throughout the rest of the day, and even as I write this, I miss her.
Creepy? You bet. But she was
my baby cow, dammit. You couldn't possibly understand.
Cookies and Toilets: A Most Interesting Discussion
Well, because Christmas is almost here, ready to smash me into little bits of quivering flesh, I probably won’t be blogging much over the next week or so. Gotta do stuff. Stuff I don’t wanna do. Like, bake many cookies. And buy more presents. And bake many cookies.
It’s an all-week affair, the cookie baking. I do the doughs, put them in the refrigerator until the next day, sometimes for two days, cut them out into sweet old pedophilic figures (a.k.a. Santa Claus, Michael Jackson, R. Kelly, etc.), bake them, then decorate them, usually that night or next morning. My lovely friend O and her daughter will be helping with the decorating, as is tradition. O, if you’re reading, bring Tequila and crack -- I ran out this past weekend.
Now wasn’t that interesting? Should I now recount how I clean my toilets? I don’t wear gloves, you know. That’s right,
I don’t wear gloves. I hate the feel of rubber, the smell of it, so I use huge wads of sturdy paper towel to scrub the Dow Bathroom Cleaner off until my toilets shine like a baboon’s ass (those little bubbles really do talk!). Also, I refuse to use toilet brushes, because really, who wants a germy poop stick leaning up against their bathroom wall? Not I!
Then comes the hard part: I bleach my hands, making sure to soak my nails for, oh, an hour, then rinse, apply antibacterial soap, lather for, oh, an hour, rinse, repeat as necessary.
So y’all don’t have to worry that I’m serving E-coli cookies or anything. I’m very clean.
Wow! This entry is so goddamn fabulous, I feel like breaking into song!
The sun’ll come out
Tomorrow
Bet yer bottom dollar that
Tomorrow
There’ll be suuuun
Christ, someone shoot me dead before I sprout wings. Whatever that means.
See that? Insanity! I’m still sleep deprived, worse than ever. I had a bad night, which I was going to write about today, but can’t bring myself to do just yet. Perhaps tomorrow. ‘Cause there’ll be sun and shit.
Feh.
Molested by Satan!
WARNING:
The following contains explicit description of extreme acts of affection, and may cause nausea, vomiting and sharp chest pains. I strongly advise individuals of a standoffish nature, or those with heart conditions, to proceed with caution.
**********************************************************
My husband and I were molested Saturday night, and honestly, I doubt we’ll ever be the same again. Traumatized beyond all imagination, Lar and I have been drinking heavily ever since that unfortunate occurrence, so please forgive any typos I may miss with this post. Also, I am severely sleep-deprived, so some aspects of this entry might come across as nonsensical to you. For that, I apologize in advance. I will do my best to describe what happened to us, in full, lurid detail, despite the pain and humiliation it may cause me.
Onward, then.
Saturday began as any other -- screaming children, meowing cat, poop diapers -- with the exception of one thing: it was party day. My daughter’s belated birthday party, a sleepover type affair to begin at 4:00 p.m., was fast approaching, and there was plenty yet to do. I’d cleaned the house the day before in anticipation of the inevitable trashing it would receive, and I had already assembled the goodie bags, bathed the children, smoked my allotted amount of crack, and fed the animals by 8:00 a.m. -- but I still had a long road ahead. Had to bake the cake, finish laundry, check e-mail, take a shower, among other assorted essentials. I succeeded in all but the cake -- inexplicably, the fucking cake shrunk to the size of a doughnut, and I, already precariously teetering on the edge of my twenty-first nervous breakdown, dived full-on into the merciful depths of insanity. I had to feed fifteen people with a doughnut, and my mind simply couldn’t handle that fact.
The rest of the day and night that followed are hazy due to my catatonic state, but I will do my best to recollect the events. Again, I must insist on readers’ caution.
So 4:00 p.m. finally arrived, and upon its arrival, the gateway to Hell did open, as expected. Satan’s minions slipped into my home that dark afternoon, mischievous, sticky, wicked, loud, and thusly, the term “all hell broke loose” became more than a cliché -- it became truth for me. But I handled it well, thanks to the frequent gulps of courage I’d furtively poured into my “coffee” cup. My cup ranneth over.
Everything went along smoothly -- well, as smoothly as one can expect from demonic home-possession -- until the arrival of the last guest, that is. Unbeknownst to me, that precious child with the innocent brown eyes and bouncy pigtails was the daughter of Satan himself, and helplessly, I was forced to invite Beezlebub, The Prince of Darkness, Old Scratch, into my humble abode. As some of you may already be aware, when one
invites Satan into one’s home, it is considered to be the most unholiest of all acts, and one will experience torments of unimaginable proportions.
Satan, disguised as an attractive African-American woman with a lovely, sweet voice, appeared, at first, as any other young mom; he patted his offspring on the head, gave her a kiss, handed my daughter the offspring’s sleeping bag and pillow, then....Oh, then...that is when Satan began to reveal his true self.
He followed me about the house, never leaving my side, inspected my good and clean home with faux appreciation, oooooing, ahhhing, asking about the woodwork, the paint, feigning interest in the wall paper. He was very, very good, but then Satan isn’t known as the Father of Lies for nothing.
And just as we were about to exchange our goodbyes, his eyes glowed with hellfire, and the stink of brimstone permeated the foyer, alerting me to his real identity. I froze. He smiled, an awful, malicious grin that sickened me to the center of my soul. He stepped close to me, closer, closer still, and then he...he hugged me. Satan grabbed me round my shoulders, roughly brought me to his chest, and he hugged me.
I must’ve gone into shock, as I was helpless when Satan then slithered toward my husband -- I could do nothing to prevent what was about to happen next...
He grabbed my Lar in a bear hug, seized him by the arms and pulled Lar to his bosom, swung Lar to and fro as if Lar were a mere rag doll. I could watch no more, and as silent tears welled up in my eyes, I looked away, focused on the happily playing minions as they laughed and danced across my living room floor. I thought the worst was over, that Satan, having had his fun, would now leave, go back to Hell from whence he came. But no, that wasn’t to be. He is a sadistic one, that Satan. Instead of waving and calling it a night, the Dark Father remained, taunting me and Lar by asking more questions, peeking into the rest of our home, eyes ablaze, saying things like, “we must get together soon -- my husband would love to meet you.” Dear God.
And as he spoke, it was within inches of my face, a close-talker like I’d never seen before, an abomination of all that is acceptable, normal human behavior. I nearly collapsed when he
once again grabbed me, hugged me tight like I was his bitch.
Satan continued his torture for more than twenty minutes, hugging both me and my husband a total of
three times before he finally vanished, leaving a trail of Chanel No.5 in his evil, evil wake.
It was at that moment that I allowed myself to drop to my knees, and as my husband cradled my head, I wept tears of relief. It was over.
Till the next morning, when Satan would be retrieving his tiny progeny. Needless to say, I hid in my office that morning, until it was safe. I left Lar to fend for himself, and for that I am truly sorry. But Lar is a stronger person than I. And yes, he got his satanic bear hug, and yes, my husband is still angry with me for abandoning him in his time of need, but I am weak.
I am weak.
Beat Me, Daddy, Eight to the Bar
Jack Black, Jack Black, I love you, you know
From the top of your skull to the tip of your toe
Your eyes, how they spin round your orbital sockets
How I love you, Jack Black, down to the lint in your pockets
Your mouth, rictus, and your teeth, chattering song
Make me weak, make me hungry, make me sing right along
Tenacious D make me wanna go Black and never go back
You, honey bee (not Kyle Gass), are the real daddy mack
Sunrise, sunset, and the day in between
Is filled with Jack Black -- hey! -- you’re really keen!
So give me a sign, O monkey-like one, show me that you care
I’ll come when you call, anytime, anywhere
I will make your bed, I will cook, dust and mop
I will make your home sparkle and feed you till you pop
Christ, Jack Black, I’ll even wash your shorts and socks
Or meticulously repair all the wiring in your home so you never get shocks
Hear me, Sir Teddy Bear, Sir Wild and Wooly
I’d be a good wife, and would submit to you fully
No headaches or excuses, oh, no, not from me
Lori's drive-thru would always be open for Jack Black the Mighty
So marry me, lover, make me a happy girl
And give me your heart, your soul and your pearl
Buy me diamonds and rubies and things made of gold
And I’ll make
you happy until you are really freaking old
A Manifesto of Sorts
Someone commented yesterday that "it must be exhausting" to think up all of the things I write about here on OWM. And my answer to that
darling doll (who, btw, is simply gorgeous and shouldn’t be worrying over “sucking it in”) would be: No. Absolutely not. I find writing whatever pops into my tiny and slightly pointed head extremely easy. Hence my chosen career as a writer. I am embarrassingly incompetent with most everything else in life (except motherhood -- I am Earth Mother extraordinaire, if I do say so myself. Well, except on the days I feel like
taking two meat skewers and plunging them straight into both eyes, making sure to twist real good, but only after I first take a turkey baster and suck out my eardrums until I am sufficiently blind and deaf). Words are a limitless wonder for me.
What
is exhausting, however, is working the writing around my other obligations. I need solitude in order to write, especially fiction or poetry, and in my house, solitude is about as common as two-headed hyenas giving birth on my living room floor. But I grab what little there is, regardless of the unfortunate guilt many mothers feel when they do something just for
themselves; I write through the angry demands, the occasional disapproval of my husband, the time stolen that might best be given to my kids, but is not. Because I am selfishly in love with words. And sometimes I feel so much guilt over that fact, it clouds my imagination even when I
am given solitude.
That is what exhausts me and makes me want to say fuckitall.
I won't, though, because I can't. I must write, and I must be read, whether by scores of folks who happen to buy the books and magazines I'm published in, or only by the few who might enjoy my insane ramblings here. Which leads me to this: I am someone who finds it very difficult to comfortably converse with others face to face -- I can't bear chatrooms, even -- so writing is my way of connecting to the outside world. It keeps me from being a (less violent) Ted Kaczynski.
I'm known as the weird horror writer lady in my neighborhood due to my hermit-like existence. I realize that I'm seen as aloof, unfriendly, scary, and it bothers me to some degree. even though I should be used to the "weird" label by now. I was the weird little girl in grammar school, the weird hot chick in high school, and now the weird horror writer lady who never comes over for coffee or attends neighborhood doings. But don't feel sorry for me, because I wouldn't have it any other way -- I
like being left alone, and I like having my husband, kids and a couple of close friends as my only company. I
love my cyber friends. That way, I don't have to put on a mask, pretend that it's not hard to look others in the eye, to make small talk. I don't have to smile and laugh when I seriously don't want to; I don't have to conform to what's considered "appropriate" behavior. That, too, is what exhausts me, that pretense, that stress of trying to fit in.
I'll be damned if I put on a mask here, in my own space.
I decided long ago that since I will be me forever, I should accept who I am without apology, without shame. I like me, and I couldn't care less about those who don't. They can all hitch a ride on the flying monkey's ass, as far as I'm concerned.
Michele and Wayne: The True Story
As some of you may know,
Michele Agnew is known far and wide as the Arm Wrestling Champion, Las Vegas, 1997. She captured her title by beating legendary crooner, Wayne Newton -- impressive to say the least.
What you may
not know, however, is that Ms. Agnew also had a torrid affair with Mr. Newton. I know this to be the truth because I was there. And it wasn't pretty.
It all started with Michele calling me up one day complaining that she was bored...
MICHELE: Let's do something wacky, Lori. Something totally nuts and terribly frivolous!
long pause
ME: Okay? Like?
MICHELE: Hang on, hon -- I dropped my snapping turtle.
ME: Micheeeeele! [said with frustration] I thought you said you were putting that thing back in the creek.
MICHELE: Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I was thinking, why not go to Vegas? I mean, I've never been. Have you?
scritchy, snappy, yawning sounds
ME: Michele, put the turtle down. And no, I haven't been. I heard it smells like pee.
MICHELE: Come on! It'll be fun! We could get really drunk and pelt the Boobs on Ice girls with Raisinettes!
ME: Well, now that you put it that way...Sure! Las Vegas, here we come!
And so it began. Michele and I arrived that night in Las Vegas, Nevada; we were hungry, tired, and PMSing like hell. We needed to drink. We needed two burly cowboys in sequined thongs. So after we unpacked, put on our whoriest outfits (she in a gold lame' mini, me in a black lace bustier and clear platform shoes), we hit the Strip.
What a sight! What beauty and horror we beheld! It was almost overwhelming, but after a few shots of Jose Cuervo and a couple of Corona each, we began to feel right at home. We were shit-faced beyond what is feminine, especially Michele. And I think that's what appealed to the proprietor of Howdy Dude's Bar & Arm-Wrestling Extravaganza. Apparently, he scouts out attractive, shit-faced women in the hopes that they will participate in his bi-weekly arm-wrestling tournaments. He saw Michele and had to have her.
She, of course, agreed to his meager offering of free booze and, should she win, the sixty-seven dollar purse.
She murdered her first opponent right off the bat -- brought his arm down in two minutes flat. The fact that the unfortunate man had no fingers is irrelevant.
Her second foe, a three hundred pound beast named Dinky, was a bit more challenging. Michele almost lost it there, but she pulled out her secret weapon, her lip gloss, and applied it so heavily, the brutish Dinky became blinded by her glowing, laser-like mouth.
Her third and final opponent was a complete surprise to all involved -- Wayne Newton himself strolled up to the table and sat down opposite Michele. We just about died. The strobe lights swirled, the bee-hived ladies squealed, and the D.J. spun the great Newton classic
Danke Shoen. It was magical.
But it didn't sway Michele, not in the least. She fought like a tigress hungry for gazelle cake, she humbled that black-haired messiah and made him whimper. By the end of that bout, not only had Michele won the purse, she won Wayne Newton's heart.
To make a long and possibly pornographic story short, they didn't leave his hotel room for the rest of the weekend. I was forced to entertain myself by shooting pool with transvestites and stuffing dollar bills into vibrating, glittering packages made of gold and silver and ruby.
I slept with Mike Tyson, too, but that's a whole other ball of earwax.
Anyway, Michele and Wayne broke up on Sunday morning due to the fact that she was made ill by Wayne's hair dye -- poor girl not only broke out in giant hives, she hallucinated and sang show tunes. It was awful.
On the trip home, Michele swore me to secrecy, made me promise that I would never, ever tell a soul about our lost weekend in Vegas. I patted her bumpy head and crossed my heart. And I kept my promise for almost nine years, regardless of the tabloids offering thousands for my story, Dateline pounding on my door...I kept my promise. Till now.
Forgive me, Michele, but the world deserves to know.
I'm Not Like Most Girls
I am a girl who blurts out incredibly stupid things for no reason at all. I am delighted with the sound and feel of certain words, the taste, so I indulge myself on a regular basis, oftentimes frightening some individuals who aren’t familiar with my, er...habit.
Last night was a prime example of scaring the uninitiated, of forcing an acquaintance to shuffle their feet, lower their eyes, wish to hell they could just click their heels three times and disappear from my home.
I was up in my office, see, and I didn’t realize that we had company --
adult company. My daughter’s little friend was over, that much I did know, but my unusual word-blurting doesn’t seem to bother the young ones, so I don’t censor myself around children. I throw out the odd word or phrase, sometimes song lyrics, with abandon, regardless of who’s present -- as long as it’s a person under the age of sixteen, or family, or close friends.
I’m strange, yes, but I’m not hopeless. Got it?
All right then. So I bounded down the stairs with the intention of starting dinner, and as I happily danced down into the hallway, I felt the need to yell, “In the year 2525, if man is still alive!” And it was good. And it was right. So I yelled it once more, this time with feeling: “In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”
Now, many of you are probably too young to know what of I shrieked. The above is from a song, popular back in the late sixties, early seventies, appropriately titled “In the Year 2525 .“ Abysmal song, really, yet very enjoyable to blurt when one is about to prepare chicken casserole.
“
In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”
Of course, I don’t know the rest of the song as I hadn't heard or even thought of it in years (I was just a toddler when it was popular), but that matters not one whit. The whole point of my uttering those particular words was how they felt to me, how they tasted (like M&Ms and kidney beans with a bit of hotdog thrown in), and damn it, it’s
my house and I can shout whatever I please. If you happen to enter my home while I’m in the throes of making sweet, sweet word love, and you find yourself uncomfortable beyond what you can handle, then that’s your problem. You should ring my doorbell before entering, yes? If you sneak in quietly, perhaps thinking that just because our door is unlocked it’s an invitation to step on in unannounced to retrieve your child, then I guarantee you a most uncomfortable time indeed.
You all can see where I’m going with this, I bet.
And you would be correct in assuming that as I turned the corner and entered my kitchen,
“
In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”
I found myself staring into the eyes of a terrified, shoe-clicking woman who only wanted to take her child home for dinner, but who, unfortunately, had unwittingly entered the Twilight Zone.
“
In the year 2525, if man is still alive!”
She quickly looked down at her feet, as is the norm, maybe even peed in her pants a little, as I cheerily greeted her with a “Why, hello!” and a “Come to get Heather, did you?”
I could read her mind. I heard her thoughts, every single one of them, and they weren’t nice ones. She thought me insane, she feared for her precious Heather, wanted to hold her daughter close and run like the wind, never to darken my doorstep ever again.
I probably should've been embarrassed, but as this entry's title suggests...
So goodbye, Heather’s mom. Goodbye to you and your nasty little Heather, mean, boogery, dirty-handed Heather who never washes up after using the bathroom. Good bye, and God bless. May you have recurring nightmares about this night for years and years to come.
***
Insert maniacal laughter interspersed with choking sounds***
Ariel
You
Are garlanded with gold and silver waves
Delicate blue lines, crisscrossing, intersecting
Beneath daisy-white skin
A map that leads straight to my heart
Ariel
The conundrum of my soul
An enigma made of obsidian, crystalline femininity
A force to be reckoned with
Whose eyes blaze with knowledge and
Poetry
Fierce gray determination, threatening, promising
Like a gathering tempest
Captivating all who get caught up in
Your gale-force wit and
Wild, magnetic spirit
There’s no shelter, no break wall
Or sandy shield
Just swirling winds, a breezy, powder-scented
Hurricane
Made of fire and cool water and soft gossamer
Virtue
Unpredictable, all encompassing, a lamb
A lioness who lies down
When the skies open up
And the merciful rain comes tumbling, tumbling
Down upon my arid desert core
And coaxes the forgotten seedlings
The sleeping flowers, fantasy-bright, the color of dream
To emerge, to blossom, to follow
In the wake of your innocent storm
Happy birthday, baby girl.
I love you.
--Mom
I Couldn't Give a Flying Monkey's Ass About "Rules"
So I just deleted a post, the one I wrote earlier today titled "When I Call You Baby, I Mean That Literally."
It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.
I stick my tongue out to those who scoff at bloggers deleting posts. I pull down my pants and moon them, and I pick my nose and pretend like I'm putting boogers in their coffee. That's how much I care about their "rules."
I wrote "When I Call You Baby..." because I had to. For mental health reasons. It was a beautiful post, sad and angsty and full of woe. It was a shining example of utter egotism and blatant self-worship; it was horrific, humanistic, spiritual, and naked as naked gets. It also was disturbing as hell, and I realize that. Apologies to anyone who happened to accidentally witness my twentieth nervous breakdown.
But, it had to be written. And now I am clean. So bye bye post -- you served your purpose well, but are no longer needed. Have a lovely trip into the wild blue ether.
And to you Blog People, whoever you are with your pod-like personas and silly rules, you self-appointed kings and queens of Blogland: Bite it.
Do You Ever Feel Like Biting an Animal?
I do. My teeth ache with the desire to bite when I gaze into an especially cute furry face. Is that wrong? To want to bite a cute furry face with its sweet pink nose and its adorable fat cheeks?
Of course, it's wrong. It's sick is what it is. But this pathological desire has haunted me since childhood -- as a child, whenever I felt my teeth tingling while looking into the eyes of my trusting kitties, my loyal doggies, my twitchy, retarded teddy bear hamsters, I would immediately reach for something rubbery to sink my teeth into, like a Barbie leg or some Bubblicious bubble gum, and just bite, man. Just gnaw like the dickens.
Unfortunately, I no longer have Barbie legs handy, and since I learned that Bubblicious is made with spider eggs, I don't indulge anymore, so nowadays, I just clench my teeth together real tight. My mouth waters something awful, too, and this horrible squeal erupts from my throat, a squeal of love and hunger and insanity.
How freaking Cro-Magnon am I, anyway?
So, the reason I brought this up is that last night, my youngest daughter finally got her life's wish and received a hamster for one of her birthday presents. Her father and I dillydallied for ages about this acquisition because really, when a family of six already lives with a mentally disturbed cat and a hissy little bitch of a bearded dragon in a small ranch home, there's no need for one more pooping, stinking, "oh, mom will take care of it" mouth to feed in the household, is there?
But we relented, and thus came Kendra.
Oh, my dear, motherless lord. The minute I set eyes upon Kendra, sweet little Kendra of the fat ass and big ears, tasty Kendra of the
cutest face ever created, the familiar tingling hit my teeth quicker than you could say
perverted sicko!
And to make matters worse, Kendra was riding along in her spiffy pink sports car, just gliding along the floor, her tiny legs spinning madly, fat ass wiggling away with the effort...I swear to Christ I grabbed my daughter's Bratz doll and chewed its fucking arm off.
Well, not really. That's just fantasy. But I did clench my teeth, and I did salivate, and yes, I did indeed squeal, much to the dismay of my children, the horror of my husband. I squealed and squealed and squealed, said things like, "Look at the cutie weenie! Oh, mommy loves the tweet tweeter poop!
Squeeeeech! Squeeeeeal!"
I was out of control. Dangerously so.
Luckily, my husband had the presence of mind to slap me upside the head or I might just have popped that delicious critter in my mouth, you know? Thank God for Lar.
Cybill Shepherd Charged With Terror!
Los Angeles (Reuters)--
Actress Cybill Shepherd, best known for her leading roles in
Moonlighting (opposite Bruce Willis), her self-titled 1995 sitcom
Cybill , and her supporting role in the 1976 film classic
Taxi Driver, was charged Tuesday morning for terrifying young children, often resulting in odd bedtime behavior, bed-wetting, and violent tantrums.
According to Jennifer Lutz of Bakersfield, Ms. Shepherd "has turned my Brian from a happy-go-lucky child into a fearful, sleep-deprived zombie." Ms. Lutz went on to say, "If there is any justice in this world, Cybill Shepherd will pay for all of the damage she has done."
Along with four hundred other outraged parents, Ms. Lutz has filed a fifteen million dollar suit against Ms. Shepherd on behalf of the traumatized children, claiming extreme pain and suffering.
During her arraignment, Ms. Shepherd, whose head was covered by a dark blue burka which had been duct-taped around her neck, presumably to prevent accidental slippage, pleaded not guilty.
Ms. Shepherd's personal makeup artist and hair designer, both charged with misdemeanor criminal mischief, were released on their own recognizance.
People Who I Love But Are Beginning to Freak Me Out
Ally Sheedy: Dear God in heaven, what happened to that woman? Such a fine actor, such a lovely lady, yet she’s now in the C-list ghetto, mostly portraying (unconvincingly, I might add) lesbians in peril in exploitative films that are, shall we say, less than mediocre. Her performances of late -- well, the past two years or so -- are grievous displays of public humiliation and extreme boredom. I almost expect her to turn to the cameras and say, “What the fuck?” I can’t be alone in my confusion and rage, can I?
Bill Clinton: Okay, I realize that I’m going to sound awfully shallow here, cruel as all get out, but come on, what the hell’s up with his nose lately? I love this man, Hillary knows I do, but since his unfortunate health problems, his poor nose has expanded to gigantic proportions. Like, W.C. Fields proportions. I don’t like that. Not one bit.
Jon Voight: Oh, how I loved, loved, loved him. Ever since I was a wee child, I’ve had the hots for Mr. Voight. His face is wonderful still, and his acting is brilliant as ever, but...I don’t know...This whole thing with Angelina is just creepy. His embarrassing media junkets last year, filled with tears and accusations and puffy concern, made my stomach hurt. And he accuses
her of being nuts? No more love for him --at least not until he starts on some Prozac. Or something.
Leif Garret: My childhood crush, if only for a year. He was so adorable then with his poufy blonde locks and almond-shaped blue eyes. Now he’s a wearer of do-rags, and if there’s anything that disturbs me more than a baseball cap-wearing man, it’s a man who wears a do-rag 24/7 -- ostensibly to hide a bald pate. Please, guys, stop that shit immediately. Men are supposed to bald -- ever hear of testosterone? The more you have, the greater the hair loss. Be bald and be proud of your potent hormones.
Julia Roberts: I liked her in Mystic Pizza, loved her in Pretty Woman, but I can’t stand her anymore. Every movie she’s done since is just Julia being herself, and that’s not acting. Her mouth bothers me. Her nose bothers me. And she's a homewrecker to boot. I find her repulsive, if you want to know the truth.
Nicole Kidman: Only Jesus knows why Ms. Kidman has morphed into a six foot tall anorexic elf who could convincingly play the long lost sister in a made for T.V. movie about the Jackson family.
Stephen King: All right, I still dream about being married to the man (shut up, you -- different strokes for different folks), but when I saw his interview with Jon Stewart a few days ago on The Daily Show, I was irritated mightily by Steve’s throaty gurgle-clicks every time he pronounced a word with an “L” in it. What up, my brother? Might you have been ill that night? Sore throat, maybe? I hope so, because if this gurgle-click thing is here to stay, I no longer want you as my man.
My youngest brother: Handsome (he‘s a cross between a young Keanu Reeves and Collin Farrell), intelligent, talented (he writes) -- yet he needs a boot in the ass something awful. And that’s all I’ll say on that subject.
Ernest Angley: There was a time when this ancient televangelist’s antics amused me. My late father got me into this early Sunday morning program when I was but a tot -- he would howl all through the program, even weeping with laughter on one occasion. I get my sardonic wit and appreciation of all things offbeat from my dad. But, although Angley seems like a truly nice man -- in his thirty plus years of bellowing “baby!” at hopeful deaf folks, there have been no shady investigative reports about him on 60 Minutes, no hookers, crack, or most surprising of all, fraud -- I can no longer gaze upon him without wanting to hurl. Could be his advanced age (old men should never, ever have hair that resembles a Ken doll’s) or it could just be that after thirty years of intermittent gawking at his bellowing and parishioner-flinging (as some of you may have witnessed, Angley is famous for shrieking “heal!” and then knocking the disabled believers onto their asses by the sheer power of his healing hand) , it has, like Angley, gotten too old for anyone’s pleasure.
That, my babies, was only eight people out of the hundreds and hundreds of People Who I Love But Are Beginning to Freak Me Out. More to come. But I think I'll wait until I'm good and drunk for the next go-around; being this mean while lucid puts too much of a drain on my conscience.
I'm Glad I Wasn't There
***Warning: Offensive language, use of the “N” word***
My husband came home last night, his face in its usual repose (his facial muscles are capable of only two expressions -- placidity and nonchalance), popped open a cold one, sat down at the kitchen table and said this:
“There was this old lady at the store tonight.”
The kids were screaming, as usual, and I was trying to fry still-frozen ground round. Well, stabbing it violently is what I was really doing, chipping it into a bust of Hillary Clinton in the hopes that it would make the meat thaw faster. Anyway, I didn’t bother to look up from my masterpiece when I asked him “Yeah, and...?”
Lar’s not one to willingly elaborate; stories must be dragged from his mouth by two dozen wild horses, and on occasion, a punch to the head.
He took a long swing, wiped his mouth and said, “Well, I was waiting in line, you know, and there was this old lady behind me with a cartful of toilet paper and oranges, and she...she...”
“She
what?” Damn you, Lar, and your clam-like mouth. I left Hillary to melt (her chin had shrunk down nicely, and her eye sockets collapsed inward so that she resembled Renee Zellweger -- good going) and sat down at the table, stole Lar’s beer, drank it down. “She what, Lar?”
He fidgeted nervously. “She said some pretty bad things to the cashier. You know, while the cashier was ringing up my stuff.”
“Things?”
“Yeah. All of a sudden she just yelled at the cashier, and it sucked big time.”
“What did she yell, Lar? The suspense is killing me.”
He put his head down and muttered, “She yelled ‘stop talking about me, you fucking nigger! I know what you‘re doing! Stop it, you whore!’” He got up to get another beer. “It sucked really bad.”
Now, as horrible as this is, I started laughing. Why? Because if you knew my husband... Lar is one of the shyest, most laid back individuals I have ever known. He is a man who avoids confrontation at all costs (he did save a man’s life once, but that’s for another time) -- we’ve fought maybe five or six times in our entire fifteen years of marriage due to his hatred of confrontation or drama in any way shape or form. He is easily embarrassed, and his cheeks turn bright cherry-red whenever he is faced with adversity or sticky situations of any kind. His left eye twitches unmercifully.
I couldn’t help but imagine his twitching eye, his cherry-red cheeks -- I selfishly enjoyed the terribly uncomfortable situation my Lar was forced to endure, and I laughed like the insensitive ass I am.
“It isn’t funny, Lori. It sucked.”
His face burned bright at the memory, his eye began to flutter, so I laughed even harder.
“So what did the cashier do? What did
you do?”
“Nothing. I just kind of gave the old bitch a nasty look, and the girl finished ringing me up, like she hadn’t heard a thing, then I got the hell away from there. Crazy old bitch.”
Then the sickness of the whole situation hit me, the serious humiliation of all involved, and I stopped laughing. I felt so badly for the cashier, badly for the obviously insane old woman, badly for Lar. My soul ached. Lar was right, of course -- it wasn't funny. Not in the least.
I gave my husband a quick hug, and went back to chipping at Renee Zellweger’s now completely flattened face.
The goulash turned out pretty good.
DOG!
I love my husband, heaven knows I do. But I’m only human, and humans, every so often, develop crushes. That said, I have developed a crush, and I am not the least bit ashamed to admit the severity of this crush, nor am I ashamed of who has captured my fast-beating heart:
Dog, the Bounty Hunter.
For those of you not familiar with Duane “Dog” Chapman, the world famous bounty hunter, please allow me the privilege of introducing you:
Isn’t he just the dreamiest?
I do believe that the Dog is masculine beauty personified, both physically and spiritually -- he is macho, beefy goodness in its purest form, male with a capital
M who is not only frighteningly aggressive, but is also in touch with his feminine side. He is sweetness and light, dark shadows and creeping vines, a child-man, a teacher, an avenger. He is zen.
I’m insanely envious of his wife, Beth (who I also love, but, you know, not in
that way. Well, unless I was really, really drunk...).
I love you, Dog. I want you to be my daddy.
How do I love thee? Well, let me count the ways, bra:
1) Your craggy face, lined with untold experience, hardship and joy, love and brute anger, thrills me.
2) Your saggy eyes, so puppy-like yet so menacing. When you crinkle them in amusement, I melt.
3) Your forearms, thick as uncut slabs of Canadian bacon, and your hands, big as King Kong’s, only not as hairy, cause my womb to quiver.
4) The mace that swings from the side of your hip is but a phallic tease that fuels my fantasies. Swing it, daddy.
5) The handcuffs. I cannot elaborate, for I am incapable of writing good pornography.. But you get my drift.
6) Your voice, deep and commanding, cracked from years of screaming “You’re under arrest, bitch!” leaves me weak.
7) Your integrity.
8) Your patience.
9) Your humanitarianism
10) Your gorgeous son, Leland, whose hand I now humbly ask for marriage -- not to me, of course, but to my eldest daughter the minute she turns eighteen.
Dog, the Bounty Hunter will air its last show of the season next Tuesday, 10 p.m. Eastern time, on A&E.
How will I survive?
