One Whipped Mother

Son of Cthulhu

I know I’ve been writing a lot about Lar lately, but that’s because I like him -- lately. As I’ve mentioned before, we’ve been married for almost sixteen years now, and those of you who’ve managed to stay with your significant others for longer than ten years know what I’m talking about when I say that there are times when you loathe, and there are times when you absolutely can’t get enough. Apparently, I’m going through the latter phase right now, which, as you will soon see, is for the good of all mankind. I have put away the butcher knife, disposed of the warfarin, filed away the generous, lipstick-stained insurance policy I formerly kept under my pillow, and everything is rosy once again. Oh, I loves me some Lar, scary as he may be.

The above statement, though sickening, plays into my optimism regarding the coming new year. Let me explain.

I believe that the year 2005 was but a horrendous universal mistake, as if It/She/He/Them, the whomevers or whatevers in charge went on a year-long bender and were too intoxicated to remember us, the little people. The consensus among most everyone I know, both cyber and flesh, is that 2005 was one of the worst years ever.

It/She/He/Them forgot to throw in some good karma to balance out the bad, forgot to include justice, prosperity, goodwill, mercy. Seems to me that It/She/He/Them slacked off in this regard since the beginning of 2004, which was a horrible year in its own right, though not as horrible as 2005, I admit. But I feel a change coming, I can taste it, smell it, hear it, and it’s all because my husband -- get ready for this, folks -- is, in reality, an obscure Lovecraftian creature named Larctuthuti, the little-known favorite progeny of Cthulhu. Yes, my husband is a shape-shifting, atypically moralistic monster possessed of great powers, and really, I couldn't be prouder.

Larctuthuti is capable of wondrous things, things like hypnotizing cashiers into giving him extra change on a regular basis, lifting cars from pinned mechanics, and building entire homes with only a hammer and his bare hands. I have witnessed him carry a refrigerator without aid of a dolly, eat two pounds of spaghetti in forty seconds flat. I have seen, with my own two eyes, unexplainable, shocking things that would cause most of you to flee for the hills.

My husband is a man of mystery, a man of quiet nobility and unassuming stature; he is only an inch or two taller than I am, but his weird gray eyes have been known to immobilize men three times his size, bring them to their knees and turn them into quivering idiots with one icy smirk. The Lar is mighty, frightening, intimidating to most mortals. Just ask my dear friend Maria -- she once remarked that she was terrified of him, that she felt every word coming from her mouth would seem ridiculous and incoherent to Lar's ear. She said that she felt embarrassed to eat a doughnut in his presence for fear of appearing graceless and uncouth. She feared his wrath. Maria is, of course, a loveable nutball, and her fears were totally unfounded.

Lar likes ladies just fine (well, except for crack whores and my mother), and would never use his powers to cause them harm. But I digress.

I only recently discovered my husband’s true nature, although I’ve long suspected his inhuman origin, and this discovery has done wonders for our marriage. I now understand him completely, his intermittent bouts of silence this past year, his orneriness and lack of humor. I now know why he was so inaccessible, preoccupied: Lar was engaged in a battle, a war between himself and the drunken, neglectful entities of the universe.

He was fighting for us, the little people, fighting for our prosperity and happiness and sanity. He poured cold water on those entities, force-fed black coffee and greasy plates of ham and eggs, slapped them repeatedly about their anomalous heads, propped them up against his massive shoulders and walked those entities right into sobriety.

He saved the world.

So take comfort in the knowledge that 2006 will more than make up for the hell that was 2004 and 2005 -- rejoice and prepare to reap the rewards Lar has wrought. We damn well deserve every last retroactive benefit.

Happy new year, everyone. And remember…

Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane.

--H.P. Lovecraft

posted by Ms. Lori @ 11:59 AM