Sunday, January 30, 2005

The Write Club Rules

#1) Candidates must possess the ability to pull random words out of his or her ass, string them together in a coherent manner, and form works of merit, be it fiction, nonfiction, creative nonfiction, screenplays, scripts, plays or poetry.

#2) Candidates must be inventors of words or phrases, e.g., "Mary clangified the audience with her moving poetry reading."

#3) Candidates must be lacking in all pretense, without fear of appearing foolish.

#4) Candidates must love dictionaries, thesauruses and encyclopedias, and shall prove their obsession to Committee by producing a picture displaying self as a child fondling, sniffing, reading any or all of the above. Candidates may, if they so choose, prove obsession by licking the pages of either Merriam-Webster’s Manual for Writers & Editors or The American Heritage College Dictionary. If candidate climaxes during book-licking, candidate will immediately be promoted to top-tier level membership, thus bypassing subsequent hazing rituals.

#5) Candidates must be able to quote, on demand, at least ten consecutive lines from E.A. Poe’s The Raven.

#6) Candidates shall carry police baton on their person at all times.

#7) Candidates shall use said baton to beat any monkeys caught in a typing pool of over one hundred, and will continue beating monkeys until they are pronounced dead by Club doctor. Candidates are encouraged to use especially brutal and swift blows should they happen upon Paris Hilton.

#8) Candidates will, at the whim of Committee, perform humiliating acts, including but not limited to, reading aloud particularly offensive rejections or reviews to Committee with pants around candidates’ ankles and/or eating pages of fucked-up published work without shedding one tear. If candidate is observed to be crying, gagging or wincing, candidate will immediately be cast into the Dungeon of Shame for a period of, but not exceeding, three days.

#9) Candidates will be required to slap any persons across the face with brown leather glove should candidate be asked this question: “Do you know Stephen King?” If person still persists in asking asshole questions despite stinging slap, questions such as “Have I ever heard of you?” and “Have you published in the New Yorker?” candidate will then use baton to crack person’s face in two.

#10) Candidates will honor all Write Club rules until the day they die. If candidate should betray the Club or stray from the rules at any given time, for any reason whatsoever, including medical disability, candidate will be beaten by candidate’s own baton by an individual of Committee’s choosing. In addition, candidate may, at the discretion of Committee, be banished from Club and forced into a life of self-publishing and for-the-love markets that don't even provide a contributor's copy.

Friday, January 28, 2005

Someone Pooped in Robin Slick's Chair!

This is why I vomited all over my desk just now

Thursday, January 27, 2005

At Least My Breath is Minty Fresh...

Ever comment on a message board or blog and realize later that you made an embarrassing grammar or spelling error?

I did such a thing the other day, and no matter how many York Peppermint Patties I’ve consumed in the past three days or so, my shame will not be quashed.

Because there’s nothing that I can do to rectify my hideous show of idiocy, my embarrassing error will exist forever and ever and ever till the day I die.


Oh, I suppose I could go on over to my friend’s blog and get all tardacious and things, explain away my glaring stupidity, but that seems so...liphentorphous. Not my style. So what I will do instead is this:

Per se: [adv] With respect to its inherent nature; "this statement is interesting per se"

Also: as such, in and of itself, intrinsically

Per say: [noun] Large rectangular carapace containing miniscule object that could be mistaken for a brain

Also: Ms. Lori’s thick skull

Monday, January 24, 2005

January Makes Me Shiver

My beautiful boy, Brandon Robert Young, a.k.a. Mr. Butler, a.k.a Chicken Pee,, a.k.a. Phlumpy Pie, a.k.a. Wieners, a.k.a. Papa, is three years old today. It’s also the 24th anniversary of my father’s passing. My late father’s birthday is January 11th, which, coincidentally, was my son’s due date.

Ever since my son has come into my life, I’ve discovered just how much I miss my dad. Not sure why my son’s birth brought on the healing -- perhaps it’s the way his eyebrows move, the tilt of his chin, his lips and his broad shoulders, his golden lashes and his strange obsession with fishing. He is the spitting image of my father, and that, I think, forces me to remember -- really remember. There’s no mistaking that my boy is Robert Sydney Howe’s grandson, and God, would my dad have been proud of him. Hell, I know he’s proud, right now, this minute.

Due to many, many circumstances, I never really had the chance to properly mourn, but for the past three years, I’ve begun to grieve, and as much as I miss my dad, the grief that overwhelms me now is proper, and I welcome it. It’s right that I should cry during the last week of January, because I wasn’t allowed that luxury as a teen, a young adult; there were Other Things I had to live through, things that tangled themselves up in the event of Dad's death, things that eventually smothered that day into submission.

By the time I was a “real” adult I’d completely buried everything, comfortable with my busy life and growing family, yet always aware of that hiding place, aware enough to realize that no matter how deep I buried the hurt, it still made sounds, called to me from time to time.

I’m now determined to get it all out, till there’s only the faintest pang, till my father’s memory is purged of the Other Bad Memories of that time, till my grief is pure and only for him. Soon, I hope, I will be able to move on from that place in time, maybe even dig up the Others and tear into them but good with another round of stark raving acceptance. The Others will have to wait, however - they've been ignored for almost a quarter century now, so a few more years won't matter much.

This a good day despite the lack of family and friends -- we're all still too sick for a party. But there's someone here who doesn't mind the coughs and sneezes, the cranky whines and runny noses, someone who arrived early and who will probably stay quite late regardless of the fact we'll all head for bed before nine o'clock. And I encourage this visitor to stay as long as he wishes, because it'll be another long year before he visits again.

There’s a story that I will tell my son when he’s old enough, a story about his first smile. I was not the lucky recipient of Brandon’s first gorgeous grin, nor was my husband. It was no one that could be seen, no one that could be heard or felt -- at least by me or anybody else in our home over the age of four weeks. But I know in my heart that this someone is real and that he made himself known to my son on that day and the week to follow. I sensed his presence while my baby gazed over my right shoulder, or at seemingly empty space, and smiled so big, his dimples made their first appearance. My husband and I caught little chills during that whole week whenever Brandon flashed those dimples and waved his tiny fists and stared and stared at someone, at something that made him very, very happy.

Dad, you old rascal.

Friday, January 21, 2005

To Sir With Love

Though I don’t know Poppy Z. Brite personally, I hereby declare my undying affection for this kind human being who, unbeknownst to her, has once again brightened my dreary day. The first time soothed my wounded writerly heart (the whole tragic story here), and today, my battered psyche and flu-fucked head.

Jesus Christ, Doc, how many thousands of hits does your journal get each day, anyway? Like, 50,087?

My thanks to the wonderful PZB readers who e-mailed -- seriously, thank you! I’ll reply to each and every one of you soon as the Capuchin monkey stops banging on my head with his little tin cup. Bastard is killing me.

Also, to my friends, to my poor friends who’ve been neglected beyond what should be legal, I apologize for my lack of communication. I love you, love you, love you, and will be writing or calling you soon.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Me and Mr. Hoo Haw; We Got a Thing Going On

As some of you may remember, I hated 2004 with every fiber of my gigantic being. It was, unequivocally, the worst year in recent memory. I needn’t go into why this is so, but please do take my word for it. It was a very bad year. And you may also remember my excitement over the beginning of a new year, my hopes and beliefs that 2005 would be payback, the year where all my dues paid would, precisely on January 1, be gathered into a big pot of much-deserved gold, a pot that would no doubt be tied up in a red bow and delivered via leprechaun to my front step.


I’m going to list what I have discovered on my front step thus far. Hint: It ain’t gold. First off, I must tell you that the tidy packages were not prettied up in bows, nor were they delivered by the venerable Lucky Charms imp -- I found a note, an ominous harbinger no bigger than a postage stamp attached to the sack, signed by a mysterious yet all-too familiar bastard named Mr. Hoo Haw.

The note reads:

Yes, It really can get worse. Oh, you have no idea...
Mr. Hoo Haw

P.S. Happy new year! Hoooooooo Hawwwwwwww!

And the sack contained the following:

A promissory note wherein the horrors of 2004 will be repeated twofold

Continued icy distance between myself and certain loved ones

A black cardboard box full of pent-up misery

A business size envelope labeled: 365 Ways to Torment Ms. Lori.
I haven’t the nerve to open it.

The flu I have never in all my life been this ill, nor have my children.

A tiny gremlin wearing a wee hat made of human feces He leapt from the sack, bounded into my home, flew up the stairs to my office, slid into my computer and promptly took a giant shit on my modem. But he still wasn’t finished. Not only did he doodoo on my modem, he felt it necessary to also crap all over my telephone line to ensure that my scheduled and much anticipated DSL would, as it had been for years, continue to exist only in my dreams.

Now, I did manage to capture and kill the gremlin, and the phone line is working properly. For now. DSL will have to wait until Lar escapes the nightmare twilight existence known to many as Work, but at least my modem is somewhat usable -- enough for me to post this, at least.

Hmmmm? What’s that you say? I should just go ahead and install the DSL myself?

Sure, okay. I‘ll get right on that -- after I rebuild the engine in my husband’s truck and finish the masonry on our patio.

Anyway, my next post will again be slow in coming as I also must attend to my sick boy. Mr. Butler has been very ill, and he has bright red spots all over his little bod. Before last night, he hadn’t eaten a bite in three days. I hand-fed him some applesauce while he soaked in the tub, and he held it down well. And yes, he’s been to the doctor -- twice in the last week. The first time they diagnosed an ear infection, gave him amoxicillin, and instead of Mr. Butler feeling better, he became even sicker. The second doctor, the one he saw yesterday, said that he doesn’t have an ear infection, but his throat is swollen and pussed-up. Lar, however, came home from the appointment empty-handed -- no prescription, no instructions, and a glib “bring him back on Friday if he’s not better” -- and Mr. Butler came home with a cough that you would not believe. Yes, I called the office and let loose a stream of insults on the poor, incompetent medical personnel, but they still insisted that we wait till Friday to bring him back in.

Yeah, life is good.

Thursday, January 13, 2005

I Am a Cannibalistic Sea Hag Swimming in an Ocean of Shit

I'm not a happy hag.

This may well be my last post for some time -- depends on whether I can get my damn modem working again. Started to crap out on me yesterday, which, coupled with my already slow dialup service and whore of a computer, makes my online experience comparable to a twelve hour-long enema.

But while I'm here (inexplicably, my modem has allowed me this time with you -- been trying since 8:30 this morning, but I'm here), I'll leave you with this grotesque thought: If you eat seafood, please keep in mind that many sea creatures of which you partake also partake of you. Well, not you you, but human remains. This, I realize, is a sick, disgusting statement to make. I'm appalled at myself for even making my morbid thoughts publicly known. But it's true, you know. Sea creatures think they've hit the jackpot when they come across a floater, and will immediately consume as much as their little bellies will handle. Crabs do it, flounder do it, tuna and swordfish and sweet little clownfish do it. Yes, Nemo will eat your ass up in a New York minute.

If you eat seafood, then it stands to reason that you are, indirectly, a cannibal.

This gruesome and decidedly inappropriate thought has been brought to you courtesy of Ms. Lori's Sick Thoughts.

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

An Open Letter to Jennifer Aniston

Dear Jennifer,

You are an idiot. No, I really mean that. You are, without a doubt, a huge, skankerous idiot.

Now, before you get your ever-present perky nipples all in a tangle, I'll explain why I believe you are an idiot, then, if you're so inclined, you may have your say. However, please don’t expect me to reply, because I generally don't reply to idiots -- I only bash them, dig? But, if after many cocktails I deem you worthy of my time, I might just go ahead and enter into cyber intercourse with you (no darling, not that kind of intercourse -- there are a few different definitions, all of which can be found in a dictionary). But no promises, 'kay?

Better grab on to your gigantic head and hold tight, baby; it's going to be a bumpy, insulting ride. I'd hate to be the cause of any further injury to your mushy little brain.

First of all, two words: Brad Pitt. Brad fucking Pitt! Are you insane? Have you completely lost your food-deprived mind? Brad Pitt, possibly the most beautiful creature ever created, wants to have children with you, and you'd rather make movies? What? I'll say that again: What?

The man gave you four years, Jenny. You had four years alone with the god of all men, had all that time to party, live it up, enjoy your beauty and youth, smoke all the righteous cannabis you wanted, and, to put it delicately, attempt to become a major movie star. I'd say that that's a damn good chunk of time. But that wasn't enough for you, was it?

I have one question that's been burning my soul, Jen: Why did you get married? Was this some kind of statement? Were you saying, "I snagged the god of all men, and I am now queen -- queen of the wooooorld!" Was Brad merely a trophy, something to be admired on occasion? Was Brad your validation, tangible proof that you are not, as you've claimed many times your mother has said, "homely"?

Is Brad your middle finger, J?

Which brings me to this: The whole deal with your mother proves, to me at least, that you are a cold-hearted brat who can't seem to accept responsibility for your own weaknesses. If the worst thing your mother ever did was be honest with you (she tried to tell you how hard Hollywood can be on homely folk, which, at that time, you most definitely were), then you should consider yourself lucky. Oh, wait, forgive me -- she also suggested that you wear make-up and lose weight. And yes, she wrote a book capitalizing on your name. Why that horrendous old hag!

Untold millions of people have had to deal with drug-addicted, physically abusive horrors for mothers, mothers who thought nothing of telling their children how much they hate them while beating them with turkey basters. And so on.

Yet you have shunned the woman who gave birth to you, simply because you are an idiot.

And your movie star aspirations? Hasn't worked out like you expected, eh? Aw. Too bad the American public can see that you have only minimal comedic ability, and that anything beyond is wishful thinking. Your hair ain't gonna get you the brass ring, girl. The one movie that you starred in that had merit, The Good Girl, was carried by the fabulous Jake Gyllenhaal, not you, dear. Sure, you flattened your glorious mane for the part, adopted a passable folksy accent, but your character was just Rachael dealing with a bitch of a hangover, wasn't she? As subsequent roles have shown, you are limited, sweet bones. Very limited.

Just because you hypnotized many fans of Friends into thinking that you were the “It Girl” and not, as she so deserved, Courtney Cox, don’t bet on the spell lasting much longer.

You're delusional, and you're screwed beyond measure. Not only have you pushed away those who truly care for you, at age 36, your imagined Oscar will never, ever come to be. So, no Brad, no babies, no career, and you're middle aged. It’s midnight, and your coach has just turned back into a pumpkin.

Your fairy godmother has left the building.

Let's tie all of this up in one big word, shall we? Idiot

May you find peace at some point in your life -- I sincerely mean that.


Ms. Lori

P.S. The only reason I wrote this letter is because I’m envious of you -- I‘m a fat slave who is not appreciated by those whom I slave over, a bitter sow who wears clothing designed by the renowned house of Target, and I make myself feel better by dumping on others who appear to have a life of leisure and privilege and endless possibility. Still, I really do think you’re an idiot.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Ms. Lori Eat Book: Liquor by Poppy Z. Brite

Well, I could...If I were starving to death. See, there are crumblets of meals past sprinkled throughout the pages of this particular book -- roast beef, gravy, honey mustard and ham. There are smears of Little Debbie cake cream filling and garlic butter, a dab of marinara here, ricotta there.

I usually respect my books, abhor food specks, bent pages, cracked spines as much as the next bibliophile (which is why I no longer lend my books to a certain family member -- she regularly returned my babies sullied with liverwurst), but something about Liquor made me to throw caution to the savory wind and munch down while at the same time devouring chapter after delectable chapter -- yes, I pigged out. Shamelessly gorged myself without care, and it was right, and it was good. I became decadent, gluttonous, ignored all protocol and dove right in, face first.

I dare anyone who loves food the way I do to open this novel and not immediately crave something thick and saucy.

Poppy Z. Brite has written something of real substance here -- it's not a tiny morsel able to sit on a Ritz, it's a multi-course meal that pleases with its many textures and nuances, fills and satisfies without that heavy, bloated feeling.

Set in present day New Orleans, Ms. Brite, a native and long time resident herself, deftly presents her protagonists without blatant introduction and needless exposition -- I enjoy it when an author can make a character come alive without shouting, "Hey! Look at me! I have brown hair and blue eyes, with a handsome cleft in my chin, and I'm kinda sarcastic, yet sympathetic, and I really, really hate Joe, the secondary character, and..."

No, Ms. Brite allows the reader to acquaint themselves slowly, naturally, lets us form our own images and sounds, yet controls with expert ability, just exactly how her reader will interpret that image.

Rickey and G-man, the two main characters, are not the most likable at first. First impression may be one of pity or disdain -- unmotivated losers drinking their lives away. But as we delve deeper into their world, we see that they are anything but losers, and certainly far from unmotivated. They have a plan, even if they don't know it yet. Part of the fun of this story is discovering that plan right along with Rickey and G-man, sweating it out with them, celebrating with them. Oh, and eating with them. Always the eating. Scrumptious, colorful descriptions are to be found on almost every page, whether it be sautéing, rolling doughs, seasoning meat, or simply sitting down to a table heaped with yummy things so vivid, my tongue wept. I learned a great deal, too, another thing I appreciate -- I love it when I discover facts or new information via narrative. Here, for my own amusement, are a few things I learned while reading Liquor:

1) I must -- and I mean must -- try truffles before I die. Italian ones.

2) New Orleans can be a dangerous place to visit if you're a clueless idiot with a stick up your ass.

3) Never, ever pronounce New Orleans as "Noooo Orleeens."

4) It takes a shitload of time to prepare fava beans.

5) I'm not alone in hating salad preparation. The best chefs in the world also hate it.

6) Chefs use a nifty little puree wand to make soups. I desperately want one.

&) My kitchen is a disgrace, full of dull knives from Wal-Mart and scratched pots and pans that were hand-me-downs from my mother, stolen from ex-boyfriends, or "losers weepers" (casserole dishes and glass serving plates left by former guests who I'll never see again).

7) I'm not a drunk or a food hog -- I'm a bon vivant.

8) Gay men in long-term relationships suffer from the "Too Busy to Have Sex" syndrome, too. Oh, and they don't all toss their hair and flap their hands like little birds when excited about something.

Aw, I'm being silly with much of this list, but I did learn many things, you know, surprising facts and tidbits that delighted and intrigued me. And who knew that the restaurant business could be so freaky? I'd always thought of chefs as being sort of geeky, but I feel differently now. I'm even a little afraid of them, if you want to know the truth.

In summation, Liquor is good eatin'. I give it five pork medallions out of five.

Monday, January 10, 2005

Drop it Like it's Hot

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Fox bans manly hunk of old ass.

I am now officially a Mickey Rooney fan for life.

Friday, January 07, 2005

Ms. Lori Eat World

I haven't completed a short story since September of '04. I haven't attempted the novel that's been badgering me for almost two years now. I am afraid to write anything that I might love.

I'll bet you're all thinking "Writer's block!" aren't you? But you would be wrong. It's my computer that is the culprit. My computer. The one who will not play nice, whose word processor will invariably shut down on me in the middle of a story, thus decimating every last new thought. It doesn't care that I spent hours bleeding through my fingertips, meticulously putting flesh to bone, thought to imaginary brain, planting seeds and conjuring love, hate, and every other emotion in between, carefully choosing just the right word, phrase, punctuation mark to make it all come alive. My computer murders my people as easily as one would flick a light switch; my computer takes my blood like a fucking vampire, my spirit, even. And it just doesn't care.

I have hundreds of thousands of things to say, dozens of worlds begging for creation, character after character that haunt me day and night. I sense it all, can practically taste the words, smell the air, feel the clothing, hair and skin. I hear the voices clearly, and lately, they've been screaming.

Dramatic, huh? Why, I'll give you dramatic! Let me put it this way: I've needed to write words, befriend my characters, move into their neighborhoods, breathe the air that surrounds them, since I was eight years old. Not wanted, needed. When I don't fulfill that need, I get a little bit loopy, scatterbrained, moodier than usual. I have been known to become violently irrational, agitated by the least little remark, crying over nothing, laughing at inappropriate times.

Yeah, I'm crazy, but even more so now. I feel like ripping my own face off. Because I can't write what I might fall in love with for fear of it being murdered.

Oh, I try every now and then, and was successful in September -- wrote a 4,000 plus word story within days, without incident, and it was heavenly despite the constant fear that subtly shrouded the creative process. But since then, everything I start is lost to the vampire, so my attempts are becoming fewer and farther between.

I can't write longhand -- physiological reasons that I won't go into here -- and I can't use a bastard typewriter (tried that for years, and I was thisclose to actually going ahead and ripping my entire face off). I haven't the money for a new computer, haven't a clue as to what may be wrong with it, am not able to bother with professional help. Believe me, if you knew what I go through just to acquire ink and paper for my printer...

My writing is not top priority in this reality, in this space I occupy. I'm not bringing four figures into the household on a regular, monthly basis, so I am relegated to the bottom of the heap of bills and obligations.

You who may be writers will understand when I say that writing is unbelievably hard work, demeaning work, at times. Respect is but a dream, one realized by perhaps 5% of us. Who else but writers would work so damn hard for so little? Who else would take the constant rejection and neglect for the occasional pat on the head, a kind word from a reader, a paltry check that wouldn't cover the mortgage payment? Nobody, that's who. Those nobody elses don't get our obsession, do they? They can't possibly fathom how close to heaven we fly when our work is validated, recognized, there in print for all to see. But even validation doesn't compare to the feeling of finishing a piece that dances, does The Hustle and spins on its back like a B-boy rolling on X. Whether anybody else reads it or not, it's finished, and it's all ours. A piece of ourselves, our souls made tangible...There's nothing like that feeling, for me, at least. And I miss it so much.

So. I am lost, just like my words. And, really, nobody cares but me, which, I will tell you without fear of appearing like the loopy nut bone I am, is the loneliest feeling in the whole world.

Addendum: After I posted this, I went downstairs to check on Mr. Butler, and to my horror, found that he was covered in blue marker. And I mean head to toe. He says, "Mommy! See? I'm blue!"
To which I replied, "HAWHAWHAWhahahahahahahahHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Thursday, January 06, 2005

There’s Snark, and then There’s Being an Asshole

Look, I like curmudgeons, and I love curse words -- all of them. I swear quite frequently, to the dismay of my conscience, and I enjoy every last filthy syllable. I also enjoy a good snarkfest, when it’s well-written, funny. I like it when people hate stuff, even if that stuff might include me (oh, yeah, baby, bring it on). It feeds my inner demons -- whose names are Catherine, Barbara and Billy, by the way. It soothes my self-loathing, my anger at the world, how screwed up it’s become, how unbelievably stupid I find most people despite my genuine empathy for them all. I’m a hypocritical misanthrope without a cause. To sum up, I like bastards and bitches, people like Don Rickles, Howard Stern, Rosanne Barr, Stephen King, Chris Rock and Margaret Cho...people who aren't afraid, are wound a bit too tightly, who are opinionated, who sometimes engage in socially unacceptable behaviors. I like insanity, and I like it raw, balls out. I like it with ketchup, hold the onions. Give me an intelligent nutcase with something valid to say.

Do not, however, give me a big tub of rancid lard, a thing of indigestible shit that stinks like Donald Trumps’s feet. Do not, do not, do not give me four letter words unless they are used to emphasize a point made, a funny quip or an angry diatribe of merit. Don’t throw them at me like a four-year-old who only just discovered how funny pee and poopy are. That’s just stupid.

If that tub of lard happens to be a man, and he often uses disgusting, insulting epithets to demean and intimidate women, that’s more than stupid -- that’s war. Tub of lard rates a thousand on my Hate O Meter. Perhaps even a million.

I have recently come across a huge tub of lard so revolting, so heinous and over-the-top “retarded” (his favorite word, it seems), that I feel compelled to defecate upon his unfortunate blog. No, I shall not link to him. Guess.

I went there, to the Tub of Trump Stank (my name for this blog), because I’d heard he was dissing a friend of mine, putting her down, yakking on her blog and whatnot. I’ll be honest and say that I didn’t, at first, think that the Tub of Trump Stank was all that bad, really. I mean, I’d read on others’ blogs about what a shitty writer the guy is, how boring, blah, blah, blah, but I found myself taking to some of Tub’s posts. Some, mind you, certainly not all. What a shame, I thought, that Tubby, Tubby, Trumpy Stanky Pants can’t keep his obviously miniscule member off his site; he rubs it all over the page, moaning, until he climaxes with uproarious self-loving laughter. It’s awful to see.

Anyway, I went back there, out of curiosity, and, because I’m an honest soul, I’ll also admit to sort of liking the Tubby fuck. Well, I wish I hadn’t. He was at it again, rubbing his thang up against his monitor, engaging in the most shocking display of frotage I have ever witnessed. You see, he disrespected another friend of mine, only this time, it was worse. He not only disparaged this woman, but he thought it humorous to make light (understatement here) of a nightmarish experience she’d survived as a child.

That won’t do. Oh no, not at all.

My fingers were poised to let out a vent of enormous magnitude, but then....I stopped myself. Because...because....because.

I was too sad. Couldn’t get up the gumption. Didn’t want to waste my effort on such a lost cause.

Rule number 5,097 of Good Snark: Say it funny, and say it true, even if it hurts a little, but don’t slay your subject. Ever.

Peace out.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

My Mack Daddy Baby King

I wish my webcam wasn’t broken. I so want to show you my boy, my Mr. Butler (to my newer readers, Mr. Butler is a name that came out of thin air -- I know of no Butlers, nor does my son condone being called Mr. Butler). He is also known as Poppy, Papa, Wiener-Roaster, Phlump, Chicken-Pee, and Chumpie-Blump, all equally hated by him.

He is, without a doubt, the cutest little man ever to walk the earth. Oh, I realize that everyone thinks their own children are the cutest ever, but I’m telling you now -- Mr. Butler would kick your kids’ asses in the cute department.

Allow me the honor of describing Mr. Butler, of painting a Butler picture so Butlerish, you’ll want to trade your kid in for mine. So imagine this (be prepared to feel ashamed that your child isn’t as cute as Mr. Butler):

Thirty-five months old, Mr. Butler is approximately two feet all, weighs in at a hefty 40 pounds, all muscle, with wide linebacker shoulders, and huge thighs of doughy delight that shake with each slap of his adorable, fat, Fred Flintstone feet. Blonde, devastatingly so, with blue-gray eyes that are fringed with lashes so golden, so long, they cause serious envy in most grown women. My boy could make Dick Cheney weep with love.

Mr. Butler enjoys the ladies, and makes no secret of that fact. In his short time here on earth, he has amassed a harem to rival that of Hugh Hefner’s. One look at my boy, and, if you’re of the female persuasion, you will completely understand how the legend of Mr. Butler came to be. In certain circles, Mr. Butler is known as MDBK (Mack Daddy Baby King). Despite the adoration, Mr. Butler remains humble, and he truly thrives on every single kiss and hug he receives. He is quick to compliment, oftentimes sniffing a lady’s hair or made-up face and exclaiming, “You smell good. I like your smell.”

They can be dangerous, those compliments of his; many women have collapsed in a heap of glorious wonder over his genuine appreciation. One woman, a friend of mine who’d not yet experienced the charms of my boy -- let’s call her “Joan” -- actually melted after Mr. Butler whispered in her ear, “I like your necklace -- can I borrow it?” after which he said, “Your ear smells good. I like your ear.” When I say “melted,” I mean that literally. Joan slid from her chair, her body collapsing onto itself like an accordian, her legs dissolving first, then her torso, then, finally, her head. There was a pool of Joan shimmering on my kitchen floor for two whole days, which, I must say, was a bit of a nuisance. The cat repeatedly scratched at the tile in her ever hopeful attempts at covering the unsightly mess. We, my husband, kids and I, all had a good laugh over that.

Not only does Mr. Butler compliment to the point of liquefying ladies, he’s also capable of causing grown men to make cooing sounds in his presence. My husband will attest to that. Many a time, my boy has turned the manliest of men into simpering pansy-asses just by smiling his gap-toothed smile, flashing his almost-but-not-quite-deep-enough-to-be- called-dimples dimples and uttering “Are you Spiderman? Yeah, you are.”

They float...they all float.

I witnessed such a pansification just this morning. It was, oh, around 6:00 a.m., when Mr. Butler entered the living room where my husband was having his coffee and watching the news. Mr. Butler was upset, kept saying “I had a bad dream!” but wouldn’t elaborate. Finally, after I’d woken to his sweet screeches of woe and joined them, Mr. Butler explained to us that “There were big cups there, but they were empty!” So Lar said, “Empty?” And Mr. Butler said, “Yes! There was no pop in them! No pop!” Then he laid his head on Lar’s chest and moaned, “It was terrible!”

I swear to Christ that Lar grew boobs right then, big, bodacious 38 D’s. His voice became high-pitched, babyish, like Anna Nicole Smith’s only more sickening, and he batted his eyelashes and swooned as he said, “Awwwww! Big boy had a bad dream?” over and over again until I threw up in my coffee mug.

No exaggeration here, folks.

You just wait until I buy a new webcam, dammit. You’ll see then. You will all see.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Things I Will Force Myself To Like in 2005

A) My ever-expanding yet still perky and firm ass. If it droops even one inch, though, I vow to hack it off with my husband’s buzz saw.

B) Rubber gloves.

C) The word “maw.”

D) That one pesky hair that insists on reappearing under my chin despite repeated pluckings. I think I’ll name it Mary Jo.

E) My innate, totally uncontrived ditzyness. Honestly, some days I swear my I.Q. dips below 40. I am a true blonde, yo.

F) My neighbor across the street. Gonna be tough, liking that one, but I’ll make a sincere effort to push back the urge to kick him in his fucking neck.

G) My cat’s queer propensity to lie on my chest while I read or watch T.V., her face 1/4 inch from mine. I don’t get it, and it weirds me out, but, hey, I’ll try.

H) My oldest daughter’s blossoming gorgeousness. Where’s my baby, man?

I) Her boyfriend. Handsome and polite as he is, he’s way too manly-looking for my taste. And tall. And he has a penis. But I’ll swallow my gorge and make an attempt.

J) My husband. HAHAHAHAHAAHAAAAAAAAAA! The bastard.

K) George W. Bush

L) And if you believe that one, you don’t know me very well, and that's just a crying shame. Visit me more often, lover.

M) Paris Hilton. Why? I don’t know. Just because.

Hmmmm. I can’t think of anything else I should force myself to like right now. I like most everything, really. Well, except headcheese. That will never, ever happen, not if I live to be two hundred and fifty-six. Nope.

Sunday, January 02, 2005

Interview With Ms. Lori's Liquor Bottle

Q: Good morning, Liquor Bottle. I'd like to first thank you for taking the time to speak with us.

LB: Thank you for having me.

Q: I’m sure many of our readers would be interested in knowing how you started in the business -- did you always want to be a liquor bottle? What steps did you take in order to achieve your success?

LB: Well, actually, no, being a liquor bottle was not my first and only aspiration; when I was much younger, I’d always imagined that I would follow in my father’s footsteps. As you know, he is highly regarded in the racing field, and --

Q: Of course. For those readers who may not already be aware, Liquor Bottle’s father, Steering Wheel, has worked with some of the top NASCAR drivers, most notably the late, great Dale Earnhardt.

LB: Yes, and his son as well. But during my apprenticeship with my father, I was approached by Joe Bob Jenkins --

Q: The CEO of Wild Kentucky Whiskey, Inc.

LB: Uh, yeah. And he offered me a top level position as Juvi VP.

Q: Juvi? Odd title, if you don’t mind me saying.

LB: [Laughs] Keep in mind, I was only fourteen at the time. Joe Bob has a great sense of humor.

Q: I’ve heard. So you started out under Jenkins’ wing -- what was the deciding factor in branching out on your own?

LB: My father. He despised Joe Bob, as would be expected. Drinking and driving...well...Dad wasn’t happy with my decision [to leave the family business]. My father referred to Joe Bob as that “F*cking Hooch Monger,” even to his face. Joe Bob would often pick me up for work, and whenever Dad answered the door, he’d summon me by saying, “Son, the F*cking Hooch Monger’s here!”

Q: That must have been difficult.

LB: It was, it was...And I certainly understood my father’s animosity. I’d slapped him in his face, so to speak. But by the time I was twenty-one, I knew that being an independent liquor bottle was something I had to do. Almost as if that path had been chosen for me by some higher power. I felt I had no choice but to sever my relationship with Dad and Joe Bob.

Q: Powerful stuff. Tell us how you met Ms. Lori.

LB: Funny story -- When I saw her walk into Shiny Spirits, I knew she was the one for me. You see, as she entered the establishment, she tripped over the walking stick of an old blind man who‘d been wildly swinging his way through the aisles. The proprietor, as well as many of my colleagues, had been bracing ourselves for the worst -- I mean, the guy was really swinging that stick! One of the sales clerks politely attempted to assist the old man, but he begged off, insisted that he be left alone. Anyway, after Ms. Lori stumbled over the stick, fell onto the floor, face first, she surprised everyone by uttering a stream of obscenities at the codger. Called him a “stupid, insane a*shole,” I believe. Told him that she would, “take that g*ddamned stick” and “ram it up” his “saggy, pimpled a*s.”

Q: That is funny.

LB: I thought so.

Q: What happened next?

LB: After Ms. Lori calmed down, brushed herself off, she made her way toward the fine Champagne. It was like something out of a romantic film -- we locked eyes, my heart began to pound, her mouth began to quiver, and we just...knew. She lifted me to her bosom, cradled me, cooed in my ear, and I just about passed out from lust. Her musky scent intoxicated me, her trembling, drooling lips put me in a daze -- I call her my Little Poppy. [Laughs]

Q: She purchased you, brought you home, and....?

LB: I’m not one to kiss and tell, but I will say this: She’s insatiable. An animal.

Q: All night long, was it?

LB: All night long. Over and over again. By the time I was spent, she was screaming for Jesus.

Q: Impressive.

LB: It’s what I do best, my brother. It’s what I do best.

Q: Indeed. Will you be seeing Ms. Lori again any time soon?

LB: You bet. Her fifteenth wedding anniversary is coming up February tenth, and let’s just say that I’ll be giving that husband of hers a run for the money. [Laughs and laughs and laughs]