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.
Waking Up With a Brazilian
My sister-in-law generously gave me and my husband a set of "T-shirt" sheets in early December as a Christmas gift. Now, I’m generally not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth (not that I’m comparing my sister-in-law to a horse or anything), but I fucking hate these sheets.
I have tried so hard to like these sheets, really I have. I washed them twice, added fabric softener, whipped them with willow branches, ironed them, beat them with rocks, chewed on them till my teeth ached, sang nursery rhymes to them while gently stroking their disgusting little sticky fibers...As you can see, I did everything in my power and beyond (the psychic sheet-whisperer was a total rip-off).
These things are not sheets, they are stretchy, lint-gathering, wrinkly slabs of Satan’s skin that not only make my legs twitch, they remove body hair better than a porn star’s esthetician.
The word “sheets” evokes a sense of crispness, does it not? A feeling of cool smoothness and warm security and slip-slidey comfort. These T-shirt sheets have ruined the associations for me. Now when I think of the word “sheets,” I am reminded of the felt numbers and letters we all used to play with in Kindergarten -- remember those? -- and Kindergarten evokes memories of Heidi Campbell spitting chewed up cookies and milk on my new maxie-skirt, which makes me sad. I am positively devastated as the word “sheets” has long been my personal mantra, used during particularly stressful moments to calm me, give me peace. No more.
Example: this morning was a true test of motherly patience - the boy helped himself to a box of Goldfish (“the snack that smiles back -- until you bite their heads off“), and thought it a grand idea to empty the box onto the floor and dance atop them until they turned to multi-colored cheesy dust. As is usual in times like this, my psyche called upon the “sheets” mantra, but my soul was not soothed by images of soft, clean comfort and promises of bedtime -- instead, I was assaulted with Heidi Campbell and the memory of having woken on devil sheets two weeks ago with a peculiar burning on my genital region, a drafty, unpleasant sensation that caused me to peek under the covers then gasp in horror when I discovered the cause. Yes, you guessed right; my pubic hair had been ripped clean off by the Velcro-like spurs of the T-shirt sheets. You don’t want to know what happened to Lar. Too hideous to describe without retching.
The reason I’m writing about those wicked T-shirt sheets today is that my dryer is in pieces at the moment -- Lar took it apart last night, unbeknownst to me -- and I am not able to wash my good sheets, my nice, friendly, crisp and smooth normal
sheets that are balled up on my bedroom floor amongst the rest of the dirty laundry.
I will be forced to sleep upon the devil’s epidermis tonight, and I am filled with dread.
Jesus Christ in a pink pinafore, I was just beginning to look somewhat normal down there, too.
wheezehackwheeze...Hang On a Sec...coughcoughcough...Okay, then.
Well, I hope you all had a great weekend! Mine went well, I think. Saw my wickedly funny and adorable second-youngest brother
for the first time in almost five years, the stuffed shells were, of course, superb, my kids were happy, and I managed not to keel over into the cannolis, which, considering I woke up with the flu on Christmas Eve morning, is a huge accomplishment. I'm guessing that my little rendezvous with the porcelain yawp god the other night wasn't due to an overdose of cosmopolitans...Unless, that is, cosmopolitans induce high fevers, muscle aches, excruciating pain in the chest, severe cough and boogery head. Possible, I suppose, but highly doubtful.
I spent all Christmas day in bed, with the exception of opening presents at five a.m. (I'll bet you know that wasn't my
idea), and making a huge turkey dinner. Watched a Woody Allen-a-thon on cable, ate Russell Stover chocolates (thanks, Ms. Olivia!), and generally just behaved like a giant sloth. I don't want to be sick for New Year’s Eve, people. I must not, can not be sick. There are many mad cow sticks to be consumed, bottles of champagne to chug, and I desperately need to get freaky with Lar. Which brings me to my short list of realizations:Five Things I Realized While Lying Flat On My Back On Christmas Day
1) My stomach looks like a super model's when I'm lying flat on my back. I should go around life on a gurney, attend parties, the beach. I would wear the tiniest thong bikinis and low-rider jeans with pride.
2) I like Woody Allen movies. A lot. But I still think he's a gross little troll.
3) Russell Stover chocolates start to taste the same after the fifteenth, sixteenth piece. When I think I'm eating a coconut one and it's actually strawberry cream, I know I've had enough.
4) My kids don't care if I'm on my death bed. I imagine that when I'm lying in my coffin, finally at peace, at least one of my kids will nag me to resurrection.
5) My husband's body looks damn fine. Like, underwear model fine. Like, ohmygod-he- looks-better-than-I-do-and-I'd-better-start-working-out-more fine. I realized this while watching him change into workout clothes yesterday. He's only been training at the gym for two months, and already he looks like a slightly more mature Marky Mark.
Hope to be posting again soon, but if you don’t hear from me for a few days, it’s because I passed on. But don’t worry -- be assured that my kids will see to it that I don’t lie in state for very long.ADDENDUM:
Speaking of Ms. Olivia
, she’s co-editor of a couple for-charity anthologies, Animal Magnetism
,and Southern Comfort
All proceeds go to Noah's Ark and American Red Cross.
Check those out, folks, and help in the continuing Katrina relief efforts while at the same time enjoying some excellent SF, horror and fantasy fiction and poetry.
I Was Borne From Original Sin
So it’s not entirely my fault that I sinned to the point of praying to the porcelain yawp god last night.
My first experience with cosmopolitans, you see. There I was, minding my own business, enjoying my light beer, when suddenly, Lilith
, disguised as a perfectly nice woman named Wendy, seduced me with a glittering pink concoction so tasty, I lost my freaking mind and drank ninety-five of them. Oh, to remember the dark glee in Lilith's eye as I slid into the abyss...
But Christmas duties must go on, and I shall now prepare forty tons of cookie dough despite the sleigh bells ringing in my head and Edmund the Hyperactive and Kind of Stupid Elf bouncing around in my gut.
I may pass away today, so I’d better express my holiday wishes while I'm still here…
May you all have a beautiful holiday weekend filled with laughter, good food, and lots and lots of love.
Hugs and junk,
I hate broads who, although somewhat attractive, think they are the Pam Andersons of the ’burbs, but their low self esteem coupled with overblown ego prevents them from being pretty on the inside -- they are threatened when another somewhat attractive woman enters the room, joins the party, and they don’t look at or acknowledge the other somewhat attractive woman. At all. Even when the other somewhat attractive woman is two feet away and trying to make them laugh.
I hate broads like that.
Oh, Those Wacky Germans!
A gift idea for the horny Christian in your life.
Something tells me (I think it may be God Himself), that my in-laws wouldn’t appreciate receiving such a thing -- and it ain’t because they’re not Christians…
She's a Very Kinky Girl
My goodness, but did I have fun this past weekend! Went to a club, the first Lar and I have been to together in, oh, years -- memories get fuzzy after four kids and sixteen years of marriage. Now that our oldest is capable of babysitting her younger siblings until the wee hours, we may make this a regular event. Well, at least a yearly event. Bi-yearly? Whatever. We will certainly go clubbing again before we’re too old to kick up our heels without fear of breaking a hip.
I adore my husband’s willingness to get out onto the dance floor with me -- and if you’ve ever seen me dance, you’ll understand why that should thrill me so. I become a madwoman once the drums start banging and the lights start swirling and the third beer starts working its sexy magic...I dance with complete abandon, without restraint, and I totally lose myself in the moment, fly to another plane of existence, and just dance
, man. Good for me, not so good for those who don’t like attention on the dance floor. And if you know Lar, you know that the words “attention whore” and “Lar” are about as synonymous as, say, “Whitney Houston” and “class.” But Lar sucks it up and tries not to notice the panting geezer blatantly ogling his jiggling, pelvis-thrusting wife, the row of Guidos leering in the peripheral, their big heads bobbing like the boys from “A Night at the Roxbury.” He accepts the fact that his wife doesn’t dance to her partner’s beat, that she cannot be lead, that she will go someplace else for a while, someplace that makes her happy and excited and relaxed all at the same time. He endures the spotlight without complaint, without visible embarrassment, and just steps back and lets his wife do her thing.
That’s love, folks.
Pop Goes the Light Bulb, Pop Goes My Eye
Oh, that pesky poltergeist
is at it again!
Could be that it didn’t like Lar fixing the wall sconce last night (finally! -- he had to take it apart and scrape out the melted leftovers, put in new bulb), or it simply felt jealous that I was totally digging this guy:
(Aw, cut it out -- he had the sexiest French accent, tattoos, and
good hair), but whatever the reason for its annoying (and potentially dangerous) prankage, I wish it would cease and desist immediately.
Time for a story, kids. I need to tell a story. So sit back, relax, pretend that you don’t think me insane, and enjoy...The following events are true, names have not been changed, because nobody in my home is innocent.
If was 9:15 p.m., the holiest of hours, and Ms. Lori was watching a hideously bad movie
starring Matthew McConaughey, Patricia Arquette, the fabulous Gary Oldman, and a host of talented dwarves (see photo above). To her dismay, Ms. Lori developed a bit of a crush on one of the characters, a leettle man with some beeg sex appeal, which is why she continued watching this silly, didactic, thinly disguised public service announcement of a film. Anyway.
Ms. Lori watched the hideously bad movie while laying the palm of her hand against her left eyelid and silently praying to the eyeball god that she wouldn’t catch conjunctivitis from her boy. As multi-tasking had become difficult for her lately, Ms. Lori soon stopped praying and paid full attention to the hideously bad movie, though her mind did wander a bit whenever Patricia Arquette’s gnarled yet strangely attractive overbite flashed on the screen; “Why is it,” Ms. Lori thought aloud, much to the irritation of her husband, “That her teeth are so damn appropriate
? If anybody else possessed teeth of that nature, they would be shunned by Hollywood, chased by orthodontists across the globe, perhaps even forced into a life of prostitution and misery.”
The nightwind howled, the window pane shook, and Lar, as usual, ignored Ms. Lori’s inane musings to the best of his ability.
But Ms. Lori would not be ignored. “Seriously, Lar. I mean, imagine if I
had teeth that looked like they’d been worked over by a ham-fisted wise guy. I don't think I could pull it off.”
“Hey, did the kids tell you that the cat had another one of her weird moments? Yeah, Sarah got all freaked out because -- again
-- Sapphire ran around the house today with her tail puffed four times the norm, then hid under the bed. Why do you suppose she does that, Lar?"
The trees groaned.
“By the way, I’m pissed that the boy caught pink-eye, man. So not cool. Now we’re all
going to catch it, and we’ll have to spend Christmas Eve entertaining friends and family while wearing big-ass eye patches. We’ll have to wear rubber gloves and keep our distance from our guests so that they don’t catch it, too, and we’ll probably talk like pirates and shit, because, you know, we’ll most likely drink way
too much in order to dull the pain and inflammation, and I’ll definitely
embarrass myself by shrieking Shiver me timbers!
at my grandma or something, and…”
And the wind screamed.
Lar, who’d apparently had enough, somehow slipped into the other room without Ms. Lori noticing and was working on the computer.
She shrugged and continued watching the hideously bad movie as the ice storm raged outside, her muddled brain pondering Patricia Arquette’s teeth while thoughts of pink-eye and Christmas cookies competed with unspeakable fantasies involving a little French man. Ms. Lori soon began to drowse, as she even bores herself at times, but a loud popping sound, followed by the tinkle of shattered glass, jolted her awake. What the hell was that?
She rushed into the living room to find Lar standing before the wall sconce opposite the one he’d fixed just three hours previous. The bulb had exploded. He scratched his head, knuckled his hips, then turned to a wild-eyed Ms. Lori and said, “The light bulb exploded.”
“I see that, Lar.”
They both stared at the light fixture.
“I don’t like this, Lar. Not at all.”
A cold draft brushed across Ms. Lori’s shoulders, caressed her neck, slithered down the back of her nightshirt . She shivered. “ I need a smoke.”
Ms. Lori hurried to her upstairs office, opened the door, flipped on the light and pop!
The bulb exploded. A bulb that had been replaced no more than two weeks earlier.
Later that night, as the ice storm drifted off to other places, and Lar snored like a truffling pig, and the cat peered into the heating duct, tail poufed, ears back, Ms. Lori lay awake, pondering, as usual. She pondered over things unseen, wispy visitors of unknown origin who enjoy terrifying suburban housewives. She pondered the meaning of life, the mysteries of death; she pondered over Lar’s deviated septum, whether Breathe-Right Nasal Strips would help. She pondered over which main dish to serve on Christmas Eve -- stuffed shells or prime rib? She pondered, while rubbing her swelling, weeping eye, if wearing a patch and rubber gloves would hamper the evening as much as she feared, or if her costume would add an eccentric spice to the festivities. Finally, as her ponderings are wont to do, she bored herself to sleep.
It was two o’clock a.m. when the closet door slowly creaked open.
My boy just told me that the television in the family room turned off and on. I'll be right back.
Okay, it turned off again as I was heading down the stairs (which are right next to the family room), and turned back on when I entered the room.
This is so exciting! Yet sucks.UPDATE:
It's about 8:30 in the morning, and I was replying to comments when I heard a loud crack -- startled me for a sec, but continued working figuring it was the house settling or something. Then, about one, two minutes later, the light fixture in my office (the one I wrote of above), made a HUGE cracking sound, and pieces of the inner rim of the opaque globe-like covering (the light is on the low, sloping ceiling above me -- my office is in the attic, a small attic) fell off into the globe. I took it apart (you need a screwdriver to get the globe off) and discovered that 1/4 of the inner rim is snapped off. This fixture has been there ever since we renovated the attic (used to be a bedroom for my oldest daughter, now it's my office), and it's been perfectly fine for over four years. I'd just changed the bulb last night, and nothing seemed amiss with the globe, so WTF?!
He Remembered the Roses
I have just read something that moved me to tears, a tribute to someone I didn’t know personally, but with whom I’d had the distinct honor of sharing the same space on June 8, 2002 during the Bram Stoker Awards in New York City when he’d received, along with Stephen King, the Lifetime Achievement Award -- J.N. (Jerry) Williamson.
This gorgeous, loving, gently humorous tribute to the late Mr. Williamson is written by Gary Braunbeck, one of my favorite short story writers, an amazing writer that I’d discovered some years back when he blew me away with his Cemetery Dance
serialized novella "Mr. Hands." When I learned that my story would appear in the Borderlands 5
table of contents alongside Stephen King’s and
Gary’s, I just about wept. I think I did weep, come to think of it. If you’d like to read that beautiful, imaginative, dark literary tale (titled “Rami Temporalis“), it’s also available in the mass paperback version From the Borderlands
. And I'm thrilled that once again my piddly name is appearing alongside his in The Best of Borderlands
(Gary's story is titled "Union Dues").
Gary Braunbeck, although critically acclaimed, and who has already acquired quite a name for himself in the world of dark fiction, will, mark my words, be as well known as, say, Richard Matheson. He’s that good.
If you haven’t yet read his work
, or that of Jerry Williamson’s
, do yourself a favor and remedy that. Until then, please look at this
. If this is your first introduction to these two fine gentlemen, I guarantee that you will not regret it, but be warned: you may need a Kleenex. Or two. If, like myself, you already are a fan, then you might need three. Or four. Or five...
I Don’t Think He Should’ve Been Executed, But…
Let’s not deify the man.
Stanley “Tookie” Williams, after many denials for appeal, many years of concerted research and review of his case by dozens of dedicated legal analysts and professionals, failed in his bid to convince the governor that he is a changed man and should be given clemency. Oh, dear.
I think what did it in for Tookie was the fact that he showed not one ounce of remorse for the heinous crimes he committed. He proclaimed his innocence right up till the end, no repentance
for him -- never mind the hours upon hours of testimony from credible witnesses, never mind that he co-founded the Crips, never mind that he helped spawn a whole new level of violence and misery. And he hated whitey way
too much, which, in my whitey opinion, would’ve been best left unsaid. I mean, jeepers, dedicating his books to other whitey haters probably wasn't a good move. (Wish I had the link to that info, but all searches prove fruitless today.)
Schwarzenegger’s decision to deny clemency must’ve been a no-brainer, really.
Now, I admit that I’m not a Tookie expert -- far from it. I paid cursory attention to all the Save Tookie! brouhaha, mainly due to the fact that in the few details I gleaned while skimming news reports and blog entries regarding his case, I saw nothing that would indicate there was even a remote possibility he was an innocent man. I’m all for helping innocent folks kick the death sentence, and I probably would’ve done something real liberal like and sign a petition or protest in public by wearing lettuce leaves over my private parts while holding a FREE TOOKIE placard, but the dude murdered four people in cold blood, and thus, my interest was minimal, despite my belief that capital punishment should be reserved only for serial killers and child killers.
I was intrigued, however, that he was a writer, that he wanted to help steer at-risk kids away from gang life, but HE MURDERED FOUR PEOPLE IN COLD BLOOD!
Cold is probably a huge understatement. I didn’t realize what an understatement until just yesterday when I Googled Tookie and discovered all sorts of things, things that made my usually bleeding heart form a clot. Some of those things can be found in the links above, and also here
I've now learned that Williams didn't even write those children's books himself, that he had a ghost writer. A big kick in the crotch to the "intellectuals" who nominated him for the Nobel, eh?
I’m sorry that this man wasted his life the way he did, and I’m sorry for his loved ones -- Williams could’ve been a great, important human being, a leader, a true godsend for society, IF he’d chosen to use the brains nature gave him, and IF he chose to not be a murdering, racist fuckwit. But he didn’t now, did he? So, as sorry as I am for all of that, my sympathies really lie with his victims' families, the hardworking innocents he murdered. He killed three members of the same family, you know. Mom, dad, daughter. Will they
be remembered, I wonder? Will their
loved ones receive thousands of dollars from well-wishers and sympathizers? Will Hollywood trip all over itself to help them
Somehow, I don’t think so.
My Husband Cheats!
There once was a man named Lar
Who cheated at cards without care
When he was found out
He started to pout
Then pooped in his Hanes underwear
The lovely Ms. Purple Elephant
tagged me, and I am delighted to participate...Seven things to do before I die
1) Publish a wildly successful novel, win Pulitzer.
2) Write and sell a wildly successful screenplay, win Oscar.
3) See Africa, Australia, Hawaii, Ireland, Italy and Egypt.
4) Find true, lasting peace.
5) Kill my demons, especially Taffy Gaye, the third and most potent of them all.
6) Own a pug named Old Teats..
7) Experience the joy of watching my four children become happy, healthy adults with lots of children of their own. Grandma Ms. Lori will bake lots of cookies and give lots of hugs.Seven things I cannot do
2) Eat animal organs. Or human ones, for that matter.
3) Find Carrot Top amusing.
5) Be friends with anyone who is racist, homophobic, or cruel to others in any way, shape or form, including animals (yet I eat meat and love leather goods. Go figure).
6) Feel comfortable in social situations.
7) Give public readings of my work. Seven things that attract(ed) me to my spouse/partner
1) His shyness
2) His unusual facial features -- Native American, Irish, and Swedish makes for a uniquely attractive Lar type thing.
3) His intellect, despite his disinterest in literature.
4) His sarcasm, displayed both with words and Stonehenge-like stoicism
5) His monkey.
6) His wholehearted commitment to fatherhood
7) His big wiener. Er, I mean his big wallet. Um, his big heart?Seven things I say most often
1) “Fucking Christ.“ Eeep! Bad, yeah? Shhhh, don’t tell the in-laws…
2) “Gimme a break.”
3) ‘Neat!” but only while opening Christmas or birthday gifts with the in-laws. Why “neat”? I don’t have an answer for that. “Neat” is perhaps the geekiest exclamation ever uttered by humans, yet I do it. Weird, man.
4) ‘Weird, man.”
5) “Freak!” though usually only when calling my cat.
6) “Are you freaking kidding me?”
7) “Leave me alone.” Seven books (or series) I love
1) “Beloved” by Toni Morrison
2) “The Island” by T.M. Wright
3) “The World According to Garp” by John Irving
4) “The Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe” by Guess Who?
5) “The Alias Bride” by Margaret Atwood
6) “Hearts in Atlantis” by Stephen King
7) “The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint Expery, “The Velveteen Rabbit” by Margery WilliamsSeven movies I watch over and over again (or would watch over and over if I had the time) *Note* I rarely watch movies more than once -- the ones listed below have been watched maybe three or four times each…
1) Heaven Can Wait (childhood nostalgia, my first good cry at a movie -- and Warren Beatty was HOT!).
2) Pulp Fiction (oh, yeah, baby. When Tarantino blew my mind).
3) Poltergeist, Alien, The Legend of Boggy Creek (my first real scares at the movies)
4) Rosemary’s Baby (each viewing brings with it a new revelation -- one of the best horror flicks ever made).
5) Some Like it Hot. (The delightful Ms. Monroe triples up with Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon -- heaven!)
6) Pink Floyd’s The Wall (brilliant, ahead of its time, gorgeous, moving).
7) The Rose Tattoo (scripted by Tennessee Williams, Anna Magnani is a wonder).
8) Donnie Darko (I must watch this one for a fourth time because although I find it to be a spectacular film, I still don’t quite get it.
Am I Cold-Hearted Because I Laughed…and Laughed. Um, and Laughed Yet Again?
Perhaps. Especially because what happened to the poor girl in the clip I’ve linked below is something that would most definitely happen to me were I ever in that situation. But I, of course, would never put myself in that situation in the first place, nor do I sing like a menopausal German shepherd whose owners have attached electrodes to her old teats in the hopes that said German shepherd would get back her ferocious game instead of lying around the house and moaning about hot flashes and such, so I am allowed to laugh hard at the poor, untalented simpleton.
A’ight, y’all, I’m apparently not on top of my
game as evidenced by the above metaphoric disaster, but I be illin’ just the same, chillin’ like Prince William, down wit’ da fillin' for a cavity dat be killin’.
Dear lord, forget you just read that. Click here
to help cleanse your mind.
No Wonder Brad Booked (Booked: 80's slang meaning to flee, leave, go somewhere else; commonly used by stoners )
I stumbled upon a curious thing today via Perez Hilton
, something that confirmed my longtime suspicions at last, something about Jennifer Aniston’s nipples, to be exact.
Some of you may remember my distaste
of all things Aniston, but one of my biggest peeves regarding that little honey chin is most definitely her improbably erect nipples. I hate ‘em. No matter what the woman is doing, no matter what medium she is displaying her abysmal lack of talent, no matter if it’s winter, spring, summer or fall, no matter if she’s wearing a turtleneck sweater, bulky jacket or teeny tank, Aniston makes sure that her vinyl record-size areoles and rubber eraser nips are glued on tight, stiff and ready for camera action.
I heard through a friend of a friend of a friend who is a friend of a friend to Brad Pitt that he bears some wicked scarring on his back due to being constantly scraped and prodded by Aniston’s mondo pasties while lying in the spoon position.. That same friend of a friend of a friend also divulged that the fake nipple-honkers are festooned with tiny thorn-like black hairs -- it’s anybody’s guess as to why.
Here, for your disapproval, is photographic proof that Jennifer Aniston sports fake, hairy, black nipples:
At least she could get some of those realistic flesh-colored fake nipples, you know, like Marilyn Monroe used to wear. I might add that only Marilyn could get away with fake nipples, Marilyn and nobody else., because Marilyn was a true star, a genius talent, a beautiful, adorable, dark goddess, and she wore her fake nipples discretely, with class and fabulous, coquettish decorum.
You sicken me, Aniston. Why don't you and your fake nips go ride off into the sunset of obscurity with that drunken, disheveled Lothario
of yours so I don't have to write such nasty things anymore. You make me like this, Jen, and I don't enjoy it one bit.
Learn Arabic in One Easy Lesson!
Fitful night of sleep, unfortunately, kept waking up, head pounding, found my boy next to me at one point, which only made sleep all the more impossible because I was in constant fear that he'd roll over and fall to the floor headfirst (my bed is like the princess' in The Princess and the Pea -- my husband needs a step ladder, it's so tall), so when CNN announced the continuation of Saddam Hussein's trial at, what? -- four this morning? -- I perked up like a Dumpster diver who discovered an unopened box of day old doughnuts amid the banana peels and dirty diapers.
Lookit that, will you? Alliteration and
bad analogy in one sentence! I rock!
So I watched a bit of the trial while my boy snored beside me, and while doing so, was hit with the realization that I do not in fact speak Arabic. I know, what a shock. Obviously, someone forgot to tell CNN that most Americans do not speak Arabic, which is why the courtroom action was broadcast in all its confusing, loud, Iraqi glory, the interpreter's voice but a tiny intrusive whisper compared to the booming melodic symphonies of the judge, attorneys and "defendant announcer" (yes, they have an announcer, just like Jay Leno's and Conan O'Brien's, who shrieks the names of the defendants as they enter the courtroom, and when I say shrieks, I mean shrieks). It got to the point where I wished the interpreter would just shut up already, as he was no help whatsoever to this sadly unilingual American dork. I strained my ears, hiked the volume, squinted (because I also hear with my eyes), anything in order to understand the proceedings, but all I heard was the booming Arabic with a faint, underlying tickle of heavily accented English. So frustrating!
After thirty minutes of gritting my teeth and cursing CNN's maddening ignorance, I swear to Allah that I actually began to understand some of what was going on by studying body language, noting the various inflections, paying mind to Saddam's fetching new beard-do (long and straggly means happy, short and sassy means mourning -- he's sporting the short and sassy, and it looks mighty dashing!). Finally, just when I was beginning to tire of pretending I understood Arabic, someone at CNN got the damn memo and turned up the interpreter to a listenable level, toned down the Arabic symphony, and I was delighted to hear the exchange between Saddam Hussein’s attorneys, the judge, Saddam himself, and his brother. Apparently, the defense attorneys, one of which is former U.S. attorney general, Ramsey Clark, were upset that the judge's dilly-dally detector was working overtime, and wouldn't allow them to interrupt the trial yet again with things such as challenging the validity of the tribunal, which they contend is a big fat crapfest due to American occupation. They have every reason to challenge the validity, of course, but isn't that something that should have been worked through before
the trials started back in October?
Anyway. Everyone was shouting, the attorneys got pissed and took a hike, the judge cautioned them about the door hitting their asses, Hussein yelled "Long live Iraq! Long live the Arab nation! Long live Iraq!" and his irritating copycat brother yelled "Long live Iraq" over and over again until a guard punched him square in the 'nads, and he fell to his knees with a little squeak.
Okay, the last part didn't happen, but still. Interesting stuff.
I Dig People Who Stick Vegetables Into Their Heads...
And compare the experience to the passion of Christ.
Weirdness in the Young Household
What would make a light bulb explode? Has anyone experienced such a thing?
I ask because the light bulb in our living room exploded last night -- my husband was relaxing in bed, watching TV with the boy in our bedroom, when he heard a loud metallic BANG! He ran out into the living room and found the light bulb from one of the wall sconces all over the floor. Some pieces actually flew across the room.
Jeez, first the television
(which, by the way, has been a good girl for the past few weeks), now this. Oh, and did I ever mention the banging sounds in the basement? How the pocket door that leads to the furnace room jingles and jangles in the middle of the night? How my cat sometimes tears up the basement stairs in a frenzy, tail puffed, fur raised along her back, and hides under the bed? And she's doing a weird thing in my bedroon lately -- she'll be lying with me in bed, perfectly content, sleeping, when she suddenly wakes up, runs to the other side of my room, and stares and stares into the heating duct.
Um, me no like.