Anyone Need Some Ex-Lax?
Okay, I know I’ve been a lax(ative) mothereffing craphead in updating lately, but the truth is, I really don’t feel like writing in my blog. I don’t feel like writing, period. Not even my shopping list. Lordy, you should’ve seen my shopping list last Friday. Very lean, no plot, wooden characters, and my penmanship was atrocious; case in point: my husband, who usually does the grocery shopping, purchased Ex-Lax instead of the “purple medicine” (aka Children’s Advil) I’d scrawled on the list, and presented the little box of chocolatey magic to me with a grin and a “stopped up, Lor?”
No, Lar, I’m not “stopped up.” I wrote “
purple medicine” on the list, not “
poop medicine.” I couldn’t remember the brand of fever-reducer we usually get because my brain is screwed to high heaven, and Ariel came down with a raging fever, and I just wanted the list to be done with, so I wrote “purple medicine” figuring you’d know what I was talking about, okay? What the hell’s wrong with you? Can’t you read my mind, Lar? CAN’T YOU READ MY GODDAMNED MIND?!
So he looks at me and says, “The words ‘poop medicine” are clearly written on this list. P-O-O-P, see?”
Yes, it clearly said “poop medicine,” but that didn’t shame me into admitting that my brain activity as well as my penmanship are akin to a drunken infant‘s. No, instead I go, “Well, what if I had diarrhea? Huh? What if I did, Lar? What if I needed, like, Immodium AD or something? YOU DON’T KNOW ME AT ALL! Wahhhhh! Oh, WAHHHHHHHHH!
Oh, I'm embellishing a bit here, but clearly, my husband deserves a Saint of the Year award. Or something.
One last thing before I go light up my pipe:
Dear My Daughter’s Teachers,
She has clothes to wear -- clean clothes. Many, many pairs of lovely pants, fashionable pants, pants that cost an arm and a leg if you’re of the typical shrinking middle income bracket, which we most certainly are.. Unfortunately, my girl prefers to wear only a select number of items There is simply no explanation as to why she decided to wear camouflage snow-pants today other than the fact I didn’t feel like doing laundry for a few days, and her select favorites are in the dirty clothes basket. I think it’s fair to say that a busy mom like myself has every right not to do laundry on Easter Sunday. I prepared a big-ass turkey dinner, had company over, y’know, shit like that. You understand, I’m sure.
So when you hear my daughter swishing into class today with her big snow-panted legs, please know that although I definitely do not approve, I can do nothing to prevent future clothing mishaps; my daughter, as you know, is in a class all by herself. She rocks, though, yeah?
Allow me to apologize in advance for the mud-stained, ripped-at-the-hem, so-long-they-drag-under-her-heels baby blue pajama pants she will insist on wearing tomorrow.
Sincerely,
Lori Young
Speaking of Teats...
So I finally received the T-shirt from
Animal yesterday (was getting a teensy bit worried he was going to fink out on our trade, much to my shame. I mean, really, my slight doubt is understandable considering he'd stated in one of his e-mails "Do you trust me?" Ummmm...) -- and some. He also sent a cool button, which my daughter snagged immediately, and a great tank top with the Anti-Nowhere League logo embossed in gold, which my daughter also snagged immediately. When I protested, she, in her youthful charm, replied, “But Mooooom, I wanna wear it before your boobs stretch it all out.”
Ever feel really ugly and really old?
Anyuptheoldwazooway, I went insane this past weekend and most of this week trying to fix my whore. And I think I may have given her new life. Old bitch. I had to reinstall Windows not once, not twice, but three times, the last time using “destructive system restore.” They don’t call it that for nothing, believe you me. I have to start from scratch now, which is okay, just a pain in the ass. Luckily, I’d backed up my writings, so all I have to do is put them back into Works Word. Too sick of computers to bother with that right now, so I’m taking a break from writing for a bit until I feel comfortable enough to use Word once again.
A word of caution to those who may be asses, asses like myself who are gullible at times, asses who will try anything once, even if the end result might be painful:
Stay away from PC Bug Doctor. I mean it, stay away! It’s a total scam, and it made my whore cry.
Prehistoric Cow Captured By Kids!
Rochester, NY (Staff reporter) --
Zoologists from all over the country convened on Mr. Brown's farm Saturday morning after reports of an enormous cow-type creature roaming the hills of the Bergen, NY dairy farm reached near-frenzy level. "I thought it was a joke," states Mr. Brown, "didn't think much of it at first. Then I saw her myself and just about crapped my pants."
The creature, which has been identified as
Bovinicus Maximus, believed extinct for 20,000,000 years, has flipped the scientific world on its ear and caused many prominent paleontologists as well as leading cryptozoologists, to, in the words of Mr. Brown, "crap their pants." Dr. Joseph Crick, professor emeritus, Harvard School of Weird Animals, and curator of The Museum of Weird Animals, does not deny that he did indeed deposit fecal mater into his own pants. "When I laid eyes on that magnificent creature, I immediately felt a loosening of my bowels; I turned to my colleague, Dr. Sherry North, and asked if she, too, was feeling the same thing. She was, and she did." Dr. Crick continues, "We were, understandably, in shock, especially when we realized that there were four young children riding the back of
Bovinicus Maximus."
The children Dr. Crick is referring to, and who shall remain anonymous due to their ages, appeared unconcerned, and in fact appeared to be enjoying themselves despite the hoopla surrounding them. This journalist admits to taking part in the melee by screaming "hold on, for the love of God, hold on!" along with the children's parents and various onlookers. One of the girls, pictured above in skater shorts, smiled and waved to the crowd even as five sharpshooters, all armed with elephant tranquilizer, positioned themselves directly in the giant cow's path. "Get outta the way, retards!" was her only exclamation. It was the oldest girl, pictured holding her three-year-old brother, who made the decision to disembark from the animal. As she stated later, she had been worried that the sharpshooters wouldn't be so sharp. Wise decision. Shortly after the children slid from
Bovinicus Maximus' back and into the capable arms of special forces agents, all five sharpshooters released approximately twenty-five rounds of tranquilizer, all but two missing their mark. Fifteen dairy cows and one goat lost their lives to the stray darts. Mr. Brown has retained the locally well-known litigators Celino and Barnes to represent his case, court date pending as of press time.
Bovinicus Maximus, according to Crick, is a docile creature who feeds on grass and small trees, and though its gargantuan size could pose a threat (unintentional trampling), it does seem to take special care when moving about, as if aware of its potential danger to lesser creatures. Crick says, "The gentleness she displayed with the children is testament to her docility, and the public should know that there is absolutely nothing to fear. She has been contained, and is being held in an undisclosed location. She is doing quite well, and seems to appreciate having her teats pulled."
Oh, The Old Gray Whore, She Ain't What She Used To Be
Can anyone tell me how to fix my computer? It was filled with viruses, thanks to LimeWire, a music file sharing hellhole (kids these days -- a big bow to my oldest daughter), and though I deleted the viruses, my computer is still crashing, and I can't use Word (I get a "This application has failed to start because Ms.dll was not found. Re-installing the application may fix this problem" message) or anything else on this machine. Tried to used Add/Delete Programs (to get rid of LimeWire) for instance, but it's as if it's dead. Same thing when I try to do System Restore. Nothing works. And the colors are weird when I'm in My Computer, particularly the sidebar -- the background is black.
Also, the other hellhole, Blogger, has been on the fritz, as usual, and I apologize to those of you who have had trouble leaving comments -- today, Blogger is still shit, and you may have more trouble with comments. I'd be ever so grateful if you'd e-mail me (it's in my profile) with any suggestions as to what I can do to fix my old whore. Thank you.
UPDATE: All fixed. Had to do a complete system recovery, reinstall Windows, yaddayaddadingdong, and I drank many, many beers during the process. Thanks to all who took time out of their day to e-mail me or comment -- you helped, and you rock!
ANOTHER UPDATE (3/21): Not it's not. You all still rock, but my machine still sucks. Boo.
The Vagina Story
Well now. I've totally surprised myself by writing a story that can only be defined as disgusting. No, no, it's not the one titled "Infant Rain" that I mentioned in a previous post -- that one's kind of sweet in a weird, horrifying sort of way -- I'm talking about one that I started while writing "Infant Rain." I like to work on a few stories at a time, which is unfortunate because I often get excited over the new one and forget the old one, and Jesus Christ, I'm not blessed with a robotic brain and am only able to work,
really work, on one story at a time. But the ideas beg to be thrown about, and I aim to please.
I've got twelve, fifteen stories in progress sweating it out on my hard drive right now, poor things, and I feel terrible about ignoring them the way I do. Especially my weird little neon-eyed babies falling from the sky one, but anyway.
The disgusting one demanded all my attention these past few days. Boy howdy, it's as if this story was penned by a man named Jed, a poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed, then one day he was shootin' at some food, and up through the ground came a bubblin' crude.
The strange thing about this story is that, oh, about 1500 words into it, I discovered a brand new magazine that it would be perfect for. The most difficult part of writing, for me, is finding suitable markets, so this is cool beans, man.
Hmmm. Synchronicity? Maybe. More like I'm just a big old gross Jed who, by some extraordinary luck, found another big old gross Jed who might pay me money for a disgusting vagina story. One can only hope.
To the Freaks, the Beautiful, Beautiful Freaks
Because of the comments received and email sent regarding
Cold Ethyl, I thought it best to respond this way rather than hiding my rage in comments.
Thanks to all who let their pain be known -- though we may be strangers, we are, on some level, kindred spirits, and I have this obscene urge to give all of you a big hug. Power to the weirdos!
Another thing: I realize that not all physical education teachers are Cold Ethyls. I know that sure as shit. Unfortunately, my path in life lead me to only the asshole PE teachers, and they are all I have to base my opinion on. Apparently, the majority of comments and emails point to frighteningly similar experiences, which is a damn shame. Thus the following:
Physical education is a useless waste of money, money that could best be put toward truly important programs such as music, art and after school activities. Now, before some of you scream about how important it is that kids get their exercise, yes, of course it is -- but how many of you really got a good workout while in gym class? Being hit by dodgeballs is hardly a good workout, doing a chin-up or two is not a good workout; PE is nothing but show, and does not teach our youth how to attain fitness or achieve a healthy well-being. There is no obvious benefit to forcing children into embarrassing, sometimes dangerous activities (I broke my arm in third grade after I fell through the open bars of a jungle gym --- I’d begged the gym teacher to not make me climb that high, as I was, and still am, terrified of heights).
Routine PE should be optional after sixth grade, and in subsequent grades, children should be able to pick and choose which activities they feel comfortable with. In lieu of, say, swimming or gymnastics, or asinine things like dodgeball and rope climbing, kids should have instruction on proper nutrition coupled with
actual exercise time such as riding a stationary bike or weight training.
I believe in educating our kids, not giving them complexes. But that’s just me, I guess.
As a side note, one of my kids has Asperger's Syndrome, though she can't be pigeon-holed as such -- she displays many of the characteristics, including clumsiness and "confusion" regarding game rules, i.e., you hit the ball, catch the ball, run over there, stay in your position, etc., but confounds the clueless and entirely ignorant doctors by not fitting perfectly into the AS stereotype. I told them to stick their fucking meds and to learn what AS is all about instead of trying to do the "easy" thing. It's amazing how difficult it's been for us to receive proper help here. Anyway, she now receives occupational therapy and is in the special ed. program at school, but is high-functioning, extremely creative, and
smart, not to mention gorgeous inside and out. Anyway, she's at the age now where other kids are noticing the "differences," and some bully kid at school spit on her during gym the other day. I promised her that one day, that kid would grow up to be a miserable failure and she will become something great and wonderful.
All of us have something beautiful and unique to contribute to this world, and it hurts my soul to know that many of us are stifled, shamed and bullied into not realizing our beauty, our full potential and worthiness. Children should be respected, listened to and cherished, and if rules must be revised or even broken to achieve a happy and healthy child, well then, I say break the damn rules. It's time we listen to our kids and work out a suitable health program that will not only strengthen their bodies, but their spirits as well.
So, to the entire Department of Education, I say this: Please don’t kill the messengers-- kill the gym teachers.
Cold Ethyl
When I was a young girl, there were two words certain to send me into a dizzying spiral of despair: Gym class. Didn’t matter if I was enjoying a Thursday night sit-com or a fun-filled day at the park, if someone (or some
thing) whispered, moaned, or even insinuated those words in my presence, all good feelings, embarrassed for having even tried to make an appearance, would sheepishly trudge back into the room where good feelings go to die and bad feelings are born. Gym class. O, thy smell is acrid, thou art evil and cruel and totally not cool.
I was not the most athletic kid. My shyness prevented team spirit, and my thick octagonal wire-rimmed glasses hampered any attempts at running fast enough, carefree -- those hideous abominations weighed approximately fourteen pounds, and nine-year-old children should never, ever be forced to run with fourteen pounds of glass attached to their faces. Oh, but this child was, and this child suffered mightily. And the patch, sweet Jesus, I would be remiss in not telling you about the patch of shame, the plastic clip-on beige wafer meant to correct my lazy eye. You might not believe me when I say that whenever I attached that patch to the left lens of my thick octagonal glasses, bright pink neon words magically appeared on that patch, like those of a Magic Eight Ball, all foggy at first, then nice and clear and hypnotic if I stood still long enough. Those words?
Please shoot spitballs at me. Thank you for your time. The other children, transfixed by my magical patch, could not, unfortunately, resist its lure.
Despicable as gym class was to me as a child, what with its forty mile an hour winds whipping past my ear from overzealously thrown dodge balls, the outrageous and completely unacceptable square dancing, I hated gym class even more as a teenager. Gone were the thick octagonal glasses and magical patch, but in their place came a painful realization that I was not, in fact, slim enough or big-busted enough to endure an hour in the high school swimming pool. Many girls, as they begin to go through puberty, enter a special place, a whole other realm of torment that defies anything a young man might go through; it is a place reserved solely for girls between the ages of eleven and sixteen, and it makes the bowels of hell look like Disneyland in comparison.
What kind of jackboot-wearing turd invented the notion that a young woman should appear in a swim suit, in the middle of winter (ostensibly to put pasty, goosepinpled flesh on display), before the whole of her class, boys included, when she can’t even bear the thought of disrobing in the girls’ locker room? A sadistic turd, of course. A man or woman who wore a perpetual crew cut and baggy shorts, a semi-talented jock who never could let go of his or her high school hey day as captain of the volleyball team or quarterback for the Blue Devils, and who tried to recapture those feelings for the rest of his or her miserable life by being a gym teacher.
A sadistic hasbeen turd who secretly got off on watching you, yes
you, going in and out of the showers. Which is another topic I’d like to explore, but not at this time. I’ll just leave off by saying that public showering should be optional, and that all gym teachers be forbidden from sitting in their perverted "sentry" chairs, checklist in hand, fiddling obscenely with their big shiny whistles. and lasciviously eyeing every child as they enter the shower room.
I can’t even believe this is legal.
Anyway, I skipped my entire year of ninth grade gym class. Which leads me to the point of this blog entry.
See, my oldest daughter is a student at the high school that
I attended during my sophomore year. Let me say first that this school is the only school in my high school career (I attended three different schools) where I sort of, kind of enjoyed myself. I made my best grades there, and I even made some friends. But I also had to make up for skipping ninth grade gym, and was required to take gym every day of the week.
Once more for emphasis:
I had to take gym every day of the week.My gym teacher, true to form, was a sadistic turd with a crew cut and big shiny whistle. She was a cold, hard Ethyl, a mean, ugly, spiteful whore of Satan who took great pleasure in my apparent misery. She made what could have been a delightful and long-overdue year of joy into a so-so high school experience for me.
Oh, I can hear you saying, "Jeepers, how bad could she possibly have been?"
Two more words sure to put a shiver down any woman‘s spine: gym suit.
One day, when I'd "forgotten" my gym shorts, she bullied me into wearing an army green gym suit, a garment dripping with early twentieth century attitude, all poufy bloomers attached to cap-sleeved, equally poufy blouson top, both glamorous parts connected at the waist by a large strap of white elastic. The expression on that gym teacher's face when she handed that rag to me and said, spittle flying, "Put it on, Howe. NOW!" was absolutely one of the most frightening things I'd witnessed in all my fourteen years on earth. I hated her, and I'm not afraid to say that I hate her still.
Yesterday, while commiserating with my girl about the horrors of gym class, I found out that this monster not only still lives among us, but is, appallingly, my
daughter's gym teacher. To say that I fear for my daughter's sanity is an understatement.
This is definite proof that, at the end of time, after the bombs have fallen and the stars tumble from the sky, the only creatures left standing on our barren earth will be cockroaches and gym teachers.
After the initial shock and awe wore off, I gently instructed my girl to bury her usual strong, opinionated personality and fierce sense of justice, and become mouse-like. I told her to always be prepared for gym class, no matter how tired or ill she may feel. I implored her to not look that evil woman in the eye and to always do as she is asked, within reason. If she picks on you, I said, pretend that her words are not hot pokers slicing through your very soul, but words of encouragement and wisdom. And do not, I said, DO NOT, under any circumstance, refer to that woman as "Cold Ethyl" within earshot.
And I also said this: If she ever, God forbid, brings out the gym suit, you have my permission to run screaming from the locker room, run screaming on home to Mama, even if you are threatened with detention. I've got twenty-odd years of pure, unadulterated hatred built up in me, honey, and it's about to blow. Give me a reason to stick my foot up Cold Ethyl's ass, give me one little reason. So don't you worry -- Mama's got your back.
Daniel
"Daniel," written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin, is one of those songs that punches me right in the gut every time I hear it. Hell, it gets me even if I just think about it. For me, there is so much meaning in those few seemingly simple lines, so much truth.
Happy belated birthday to my brother, Daniel. A man who, like the man in the song, is always traveling on a plane, who is always far, far away, and who, like the man in the song, is a star, even if he doesn’t know it yet.
Love you, bro’. We miss you. Come home soon. Please?
Daniel is travelling tonight on a plane
I can see the red tail lights heading for Spain
Oh and I can see Daniel waving goodbye
God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes
They say Spain is pretty though I've never been
Well Daniel says it's the best place that he's ever seen
Oh and he should know, he's been there enough
Lord I miss Daniel, oh I miss him so much
Daniel my brother you are older than me
Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won't heal
Your eyes have died but you see more than I
Daniel you're a star in the face of the sky
Daniel is travelling tonight on a plane
I can see the red tail lights heading for Spain
Oh and I can see Daniel waving goodbye
God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes
Oh God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes
It's Mr. Butler Time!
My son, Brandon Robert Young (click to enlarge unbelievable cuteness):
See? Told you he’s the mack daddy baby king. Also, notice the red marker over his eyebrow and on his ear. He'd colored his entire head with red marker that day, and though I scrubbed him clean, some remained. Odd that he chose red, as he generally prefers blue.
The man, the myth...The Butler!
Addendum, because there's no such thing as too much Butler:
Excuse the crap on the bottom shelf of table -- we were just finishing up the addition. But just look at him! Yes, he is a savant, and yes, I plan on making lots and lots of money by exploiting his talents.
While Discussing the Virtues of My Cat's Ass This Morning, My Hair Caught On Fire
(Click to enlarge ass.)
ADDENDUM:
My cat is much more than just a pretty ass.
Just Because I Like the Word "Department"
Writing Department: Been working on a new story titled “Infant Rain.” I like it.
Fashion Department: Dying my blonde hair dark red tomorrow. I do that sometimes.
Trading Art With Animal Department: Traded a copy of “From the Borderlands” for a rude and utterly fabulous signed T-shirt depicting Animal (of the band Anti-Nowhere League) giving the finger to the world in general. Animal, despite outward appearances, is a literate, accessible, and kind man.
Nonsensical Whimsy Department: This morning, my cat stood on her hind legs, cleared her throat a couple of times, and proceeded to recite “When You Are Old” by W.B. Yeats. I cried like a baby then gave her an extra helping of Fancy Feast.
Got Brass? Not I, Sayeth the Ding-Dong
See,
this is why I will never become a well-known author:
“Apparently signing books for six people will be a much better use of my time. Nothing against the staff of this Borders, who apparently really want me to come and have promised all sorts of advance publicity, but in my experience, chain-store signings are always an embarrassing waste of time unless you're a bestselling or local author. They stick you at a table with a little sign, and customers who apparently can't read even though they are in a bookstore ask you where to find the computer books (or maybe a copy of The Davinci Code), and you go away bruised and muttering, reminded of how little you ultimately matter in the scheme of things. Since Prime is almost as much a Dallas book as a New Orleans one, I'm disappointed that my one event there will likely be a bust. If you live in the DFW area, please, please come to this signing and prove me wrong.”
Jesus, Mary and Joseph and all their followers, and all their followers’ children, pets included. If
Poppy Z. Brite can’t draw a huge, raging crowd...
Almost every novelist I know has frightened me senseless with similar horror tales. and upon reading Poppy's words regarding bookstore signings, I've come to realize that that I will forever be a spineless ding-dong whose Great American Novel will only be discovered years after my death; I will gain posthumous fame and fortune, and my great-grandchildren won't have to worry about college tuition.
I can’t even read a fucking poem in front of an audience let alone even
think about the prospect of sitting in a bookstore, me a lowly nobody with a funny, nasally accent (Hi, I’m from Raaaaaayyychester -- may I have a glass of waaaaayyter?) and just...rotting. No way. I’d poop my pants then leave the store while weeping hysterically. I‘d feel sick for about, oh, five days or so, then decide it‘s time for me to move into a straw hut in the hills of Kentucky, just me, fifteen cases of hooch, and Anus, my loyal hunting dog..
Not only would the literary world lose a spectacular, wondrous, awe-inspiring talent, but my children would lose their mother.
So, I guess I’ll just stick to short stories and poems and relative obscurity, thank you very much. Praise!
Baby, We Were Born to Run
My third daughter, Ariel, has been throwing up since one o’clock this morning, and I, praise the lord, have had the runs.
Oh, how I love winter. Just love the fuck to bits.
I can't
wait till this bug hits everyone in my family! Six of us fighting for the bathroom. Six of us fighting for the puke pail.
I'm always curious about other families' puke pails. Ours, for instance, is a flesh-colored plastic bucket that we keep in the basement. When that bucket makes an appearance, we know torment is nigh.
There is nothing more sickening than to put one's face near a flesh-colored bucket that has had years of experience, which is why we use it -- the thing induces vomiting by its very nature, thus getting the sick out faster. Really, nausea is much, much worse than the actual yakking, in my humble opinion.
How about you? Tell me about
your puke pail! What makes your puke pail special? Is it the history? The color? The shape and size? Is it the comforting lullabies it sings as you hurl?
The best puke pail story wins a fabulous prize, signed by me, the revolting yet fascinating Ms. Lori.
ADDENDUM: Joshie Boy wins the puke pail contest! Inspiring, touching, and nauseating as hell, Joshie has written
the Puke Pail story to end all Puke Pail stories. The fact that he was the only freak to enter matters not one whit -- he's a winner through and through, and I'm proud to discover such talent in my midst. Send me your address, Joshie, and you will soon receive your FABULOUS PRIZE! Congratulations!
Please, round of applause, everyone!
