“Gone Girl” (the book) sucks ass

Sorry about the unclear title, haha. Anyway, I feel it is our duty to take down rich, pretentious, ass-suckingly untalented “artists.” And I’ve been wanting to take down this dreadful book for years. I couldn’t finish it; I could barely start it. The writing is so insufferably “cutesy” that it makes me want to scream. Before telling you what I hated about it, I want to share some quotes from some 1-star Amazon reviews for it:

I believe this book is the worst I have ever read; the ending really was the sprinkles on top of stupidity.

---

(apparently Amazon wants reviewers to use at least 20 words):

This book sucks. Zero stars. Don’t waste your time. I need eleven more words. This book sucks. This book sucks.

---

Junk food for the spirit.

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If you overwhelmingly want to read this book, read the first half, then throw the book into a fireplace. 

---

Twilight, 50 Shades and now Gone Girl. It’s a great time to be a talentless hack. Every now and again you come across a book so badly written, with characters so terrible, so unsympathetic, so stupid, that you wonder who the author slept with to get this book published. And when that book gets turned into a movie, you know they’ve sold their soul and body to Satan. The plot, predictable, ending predictable and moronic. The characters are all too easy to hate. To be a good book you need characters people can love and relate to. Not characters you want to beat with a spike-covered bat, chop into pieces and feed to a pig, then kill the pig and burn the body, then take the ashes and ship them to the center of the sun. Don’t read this book. I could feed my dog alphabet soup and she could poop out something better.

---

If this book were a person I’d slap it.

---

Writing insufferably cute.

---

A lot of the one-star reviews liked the writing style (heaven forbid) but hated the ending and the unlikeable characters and the profanity. I will give Ms. Flynn the fact that she has more imagination than I do (almost every writer does), but that’s it. I was not in the least surprised to hear that she had written for Entertainment Weekly magazine. I found some of her writing for it online (seems to be mostly TV program reviews) and most of it was just straightforward opinions, nothing too painful. Then we find this “gem” of a beginning sentence for a 2007 review of NCIS:

TV so easy, it’s like a diligent mama bird chews each episode for me and places it gently in my drooling mouth, right next to those Cheezits I forgot to swallow. 

That hurts my brain. It also sort of makes me want to never write any sentences that I think are funny and clever, ever again, lest they seem “cutesy” to someone else. Oh well, you have to be who you are, I guess, and, though I’ll never reach her level of fame and income, I couldn’t suck that much. What strikes me as being great or horrible about most writing is not the whole plot, the entire book, the “character development,” the foreshadowing, the “voice” and all that other Freshman Comp crap, it’s whether or not I enjoy individual sentences or paragraphs or descriptions. And this here “Gone Girl,” great title notwithstanding, is full of awful crap like this:

He has a great smile, a cat’s smile. He should cough out yellow Tweety bird feathers, the way he smiles at me.

or

I even swoon over his socks, which he manages to shed in adorably tangled poses, as if a puppy carried them in from another room.

or

They were the Pet Rock of parenting.

or (Holy Mother of God, please kill me)

lazy-condomed sex

or this final horror:

Our dignified elephant of a chesterfield with its matching baby ottoman sits in the living room looking stunned, as if it got sleep-darted in its natural environment and woke up in this strange new captivity, surrounded by faux-posh carpet and synthetic wood and unveined walls. I do miss our old place, all the bumps and ridges and hairline fractures left by the decades. (Pause for attitude adjustment.)

Now, the sentence right before the parenthesis isn’t so awful, not great, but not unbearable, and a normal comment an author might make, but then it’s as if she doubted herself for slipping in a sentence that wasn’t ridiculously sophomoric and moronic, and decided she needed the “aside” about adjusting her attitude.

There are books which just leave a sick feeling in my gut, that are just sort of inept in a “background” kind of way, but if I were to dissect the book line by line, paragraph by paragraph, I couldn’t come up with individual segments like I was able to here, to back up my claims, that (as I’ve bored some readers with before), a bear pissing on a tree would be a better use of that tree than turning it into paper for this abomination.

One good thing about “Gone Girl,” though–now I have the search phrase “what the fuck is lazy-condomed sex, you talentless twit gillian flynn” burned into my computer’s memory. And, of course, of course, when I tried to search for “lazy-condomed sex,” Google tried to tell me I meant “lazy condom sex.” Only when I put quotes around it did Google finally admit that that stupid phrase actually existed somewhere and that my memory wasn’t completely batty.

What would lazy-condomed sex be anyway? The “wearer” is too lazy to “bottom it out” on Little Waldo, so it flop-flops bizarrely around inside the woman, kinda destroying the vibe? Is that a thing?

I borrowed the book from the library, thank goodness, and returned it without finishing it. Oh, and thanks, PBS, for mystifyingly including this crap book in your 100 books in the “Great Read” thing, so that you actually made this now-old book a current topic, thereby ruining the “joke” I was going to end this dumb post with, which was: “Now that I’ve reviewed this hot new bestseller, I’m going to follow it with discussions about that new stalker song “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morrissette, about whether Nixon should resign, and what that crazy Adolf guy thinks he’s doing by annexing Czechoslovakia.”

Oh well, I can’t have nice things, I guess.

Man, if this is my “big comeback” after a 9-month hiatus, well, you deserve better, but what the hell. Thanks for reading.

Siberian Horror

(The following is a work of fiction, except for the last line, which is true.)

In the deepest darkest reaches of Siberia, there are areas where humans rarely if ever go. Not only because of the horrible winters, the summer mosquitoes big as your thumb, the quicksand made even more deadly due to thawing permafrost, the lack of fast-food franchises or wi-fi connections, but also due to legends of evil surrounding the areas, and forests so thick, deep, and full of trees so gnarled that a human would have to crawl on all fours for miles to find an open area. Legend has it that there are sulfurous bogs within these forbidden areas that belch hot gas eruptions, made more foul by the stench of decomposition of animals unlucky enought to stumble into them and die by the dozens. The dying screams of these animals can be heard by caribou-herders miles away, if the wind is right. They don’t sound like any creatures known to any locals. On nights like these, the locals shut the doors to their homely cabins even tighter; their dogs hide their ears under their paws and whimper.

Within one of these “forbidden” areas, there is a legendary creature, said to look like a sort of cross between a wolf and a bear, but with a hideous bald head like a vulture. No one has ever actually seen it, except, it is claimed, for one old woman, a woman who is legendary herself, of an unknown age, who claims to have been a little child who remembers the distant Tunguska explosion of 1908. The locals hate and fear her, as they say she has “the evil eye,” and can cause infertility or fatal disease with one glare. She is said to be able to communicate with dead ancestors of people and animals alike. Though they fear her and loathe her, people from miles around will come to her as a healer of last resort, especially for their sick children. Though she shoos children away from her anemic little garden and her sickly animals, she is said to have a secret soft spot for them, and is claimed to have cured many deathly ill little ones, though she will not lift a finger to help an adult. She has no fear of bears or wolves or any other standard taiga creatures, but even she bolts her door when the screams of dying creatures are carried on the winds. It is said that she feels sorry for the wolf/bear, because it is the last of its foul kind. Get up a little liquid courage of your own, ply her with enough vodka, and she may tell you what she knows about the foul beast. She will tell you that it was the last of once-proud but dying species, so hidden in the taiga forests that no one but her family, all who are gone but her, had ever seen them. When the big explosion came, they were all wiped out but the one, and its head, which had been, if not handsome, at least appropriate for its body, had morphed into its vulture-like hideousness.

The wolf/bear cannot really be felt sorry for, though. It has nothing but malice in its heart, though it feels horrible self-pity for its lonely fate, a fate that appears to include an inability to die a decent death that would put it out of its constant misery. It has several broken limbs that it lumbers/slithers around on. It periodically gets stuck in the muck for days, due to its almost infinite stupidity and inability to learn basic lessons about where to walk and where not to. With its great and horrible strength, it finally is able to pull itself out of the muck after hours and even days of straining. It eats carrion so foul that even eagles, vultures and the sickest and oldest wolves won’t touch it. If children get lost in the forest, it is said that they were devoured by the wolf/bear.

The creature is forever plagued by mosquitoes, mange, and ticks that are the size of a small cupcake. It is home to generations of blood-sucking, evil, monstrous ticks with bites so sharp and painful that, though the creatures dull wits have been dulled even more by its foul surroundings and foul existence, its base maliciousness toward earth and sky and plants and animals, and especially toward the few humans it has ever seen, dulled by time to just a low disgust for itself and everything else, it can still feel the sharp pain of each moment of each tick’s time on its body. The foulest, most malicious of these ticks lives right at the entrance to the diseased asshole of the creature. It relishes the foul stench coming out of the creature and seems to thrive on the horrible material coming out of the creature in a hateful stream, washing over the ticks body. It pulls its head out of the creature’s orifice at irregular intervals, though it doesn’t need to, simply because it thrives on the evil joy of inflicting a new and ever more painful bite on the wolf/bear. The most foul tick on the most foul spot of the most foul creature stuck in the most foul bog of the most foul area of Siberia has a name. Its name is Donald Trump.

Thanks for reading.

 

Too Many To Choose From

I have
Hundreds of books
On several
Ultra-fancy
Walmart bookshelves
Here in the mansion
And I don’t feel like
Reading a one of them
And most of them
Would be fine
To read
Would bring hours
Of escape
But I can’t choose just one
And nothing really strikes
My bored fancy.

I wonder if that’s how
An old but still
Rich playboy
Would feel, surrounded
By a bevy of women
Young and middle-aged
No old bats,
He thanks you very much!

And they all look
Just fine
And no doubt would feel
Fabulous
Wrapped around him
But he can’t make up his mind
To pick just one
So he sneaks off to
The furthest guest bathroom
And jerks off
To the memory
Of the glowing face
He saw from his limo
Earlier that day
She was walking from one no-tell
Motel room
To another
To swap clean sheets
For jizzy ones
And she was young enough
That her dreary life
Hadn’t yet beat her
All the way down.

Better Choices For President Than Trump

I have to tell you, folks, I’ve never been more disgusted with the American public, with Republicans especially, and with that Thing calling itself Trump. There’s a complete lack of humanity, an utter absence of talent, a total void of any knowledge of how to lead or how to improve anything, in any field. I wouldn’t put him in charge of a crew of people picking up roadside trash. His opponent, a woman who has been convicted, tried, and executed in the court of public opinion, who is more rabidly hated than the nightmare of a person who turned 6-year-olds into hamburger at Sandy Hook could ever have been, hated for crimes she may have committed, may not have committed, is flawed. She may be deeply flawed. She is also deeply experienced at several levels of government. I believe our celebrity worship and the instant gratification of internet commenting, judging, trolling, has led her haters to feed their anger exponentially on itself. There is a deep rage against her which, I believe, is unfounded, and of course is based on allegations yet unproven.

In any case, I don’t fucking care if she’s the reincarnation of Dr. Mengele, a shining beacon for women, or just an arrogant, conniving bitch. She has ability, a lot of it, but her main qualification for being elected our next President: she is the only person on the planet who has the statistical chance of beating Trump, a goal which MUST be accomplished. If and when she is elected and inaugurated, she should then be investigated. Hell, the Republican Congress, in their main role as “Obstructionists R Us,” can start this coming Wednesday, if she wins. Right now, I’m reasonably, sadly sure that Trump will win. Why? Because the mere existence, of new copies of some of her emails, is therefore a guilty verdict against her, in the Internet Court of Public Opinion without even knowing what’s in the emails. Because we worship talentless “reality-show” yutzes. Because we have somehow lived through other men who didn’t know one end of a book from another–Reagan and W come to mind. Both of them committed as many crimes and cover-ups as Hillary is accused of, but at least they were in love with their wives, respected women, were affable, knew how to react to slights and how to gather levelheaded advisors around them.

Trump is nothing. Evil. Disrespectful beyond belief to women, minorities, the press, anyone not fitting into his category of normal. Let me tell you this: The sweetest, funniest thing I ever saw when I was on the road for a previous job helping to install electronic displays was when 2 maintenance workers at a hockey arena, both with slight but obvious speech impediments, stood face-to-face, doing dead-ringer vocal impersonations of each other. You could tell by the looks on their faces that they deeply respected each other, probably had done this many times, would jump into a flooding icy river for each other, or for anyone. They long since earned the right to mimic each other in a friendly way. Trump earned no right to mimic the reporter that he disgustingly ridiculed in public. No one does that, unless they are an entitled little rich piece of shit with the emotional and intellectual age of a 2-year-old. Never mind the revelation of his bragging about grabbing any old vagina, excuse me, I mean any young attractive vagina, he already gave up his right to be taken seriously way before that when he stood in front of a crowd of morons and TV cameras and shook like his version of a physically challenged reporter. Right at that moment, he gave up his right to be thought of as not only as a candidate, but as a human who should show his face out in public, to be out in public and not looked on in horror. He should be given an even wider path than the average crowd would reflexively give a homeless person who is also insane and has his pants full of urine and excrement. This is the kind of person that is likely to be our next President. He MUST be stopped.

There is one consolation for me in knowing that he will win: that, in a year or two, his followers and all of us will see that he is worse than Clinton could dream of being. He will be called a Clinton by those who hate all things Clinton. Hillary will be thought of as “Clinton-Lite” compared to him after his upcoming crimes. He, after all, has already shown a history of shredding pertinent documents and lying about it. Do yourself a favor and look up the history of the government’s lawsuits against him when his dad and he refused to rent to those nasty “n-words.” He (or rather his staff, since he would never dirty his hands) shredded pages and pages of documents which the courts had ordered him to produce.

I meant to have less preamble, to have this be more immediately lighthearted, but some things need to be said. I at last offer you this list, which I mostly wrote months ago, of those entities which would make a better Presidential candidate than this lizard calling itself Trump.

Better Candidates For President Than Trump

-Satan
-Jeffrey Dahmer
-Maybe not Hitler, but his dog, yeah
-Lady Gaga
-Weird Al
-Stalin
-My neighbor’s dog that excitedly shows me the sticks she picks up.
-Neighbor’s dog number two that chases imaginary birds.
-Neighbor’s dog number three that shows off sticks and is still mostly a pup and does laps around everyone and every other dog.
-A rabid monkey.
-A rabid monkey with Ebola.
-Charles Manson
-Charles Grodin
-Marilyn Manson
-Shirley Manson
-A Mexican drug lord.
-An empty bottle of Lord Calvert.
-Even Kanye, yes Kanye
-Yes, even Hillary
-George W. Bush for that matter–most of us survived him but I don’t think we’ll survive Trump.
-That Texas rich punk who drove drunk and killed people and got off easy due to “affluenza.”
-A boil, on the ass, of a homeless person who is also insane and has his pants full of poop and pee–that festering boil would be a better President than Trump.
(With proper apologies to Weird Al, Shirley Manson, the dogs, and perhaps Hillary and Lady Gaga for their inclusion in this “nest-o-losers.”

(Please, if you wish, search for “trump shredding documents in renting lawsuit.” I would include a link, but, if you live in the U.S., I could probably drive to your house and hand you a piece of paper with the links listed on them, faster than my computer will go to Salon or Newsweek’s stories about his shredding. A combo of a crappy computer and an oversold internet service provider capability is a bad combo.)

Thanks for stopping by.

If I Met Jenny

I think we’re all star-struck
To some extent, aren’t we?
We’d like to meet someone famous
Maybe not to just say we did
But just to have a little bit
Of their time.

Would Michael Caine
Be as charming
As he seems?
I’d like to buy him “a cuppa”
And ask his opinion
Of American politics.

I’d like to visit Willie
On his tour bus
And have a smoke with him
And sleep it off for 3 days straight
Afterwards.

I’d sell my car
To afford one cigar
To offer Michael Jordan
And ask him
“How’s the ego holding up?”

I’d like to buy Robert Duvall
A cup of coffee
And ask him:
“Boo Radley, Gus McCrae, or Tom Hagen,
Which was
Most fun
Most challenging
Most rewarding?”

I’d bring a box of chocolates
To that Crosby girl-(Mary?)
(Yes, Mary)
And ask if Bing was really
An abusive prick
And why the hell
Did you shoot J.R., you bitch?

I’d buy Walter Mosley
“3 straight shots of bourbon”
And tell him, “You’re right:
‘Enough whiskey can take the edge off sunshine.'”
And ask him
Why the hell Easy Rawlins
Has to be so damn hard
On his women
And on himself.

Meryl Streep
I can’t get a read on what to offer her
Maybe a bagel with cream cheese
And a bloody Mary?
(I’d bet on tea though)
I’d tell her that I’d write a check
Right then and there
For a hundred bucks (hey that’s a lot, to me)
To her favorite charity
If she’d sing me just one verse
Of “Amazing Grace.”

And Jenny, oh Jenny what can I say?
I’d buy Ms. McCarthy
Whatever she thirsted for
I’d hand her a beautifully
Gift-wrapped box
From a fancy New York
Department store
With one hand towel in it
To her furrowed-brow query
I’d sweetly reply:
“For the blood, you know
On your hands, on your hands,
For the blood that’s all over
Your beautiful hands.”

 

The Best Pie in the World (For this week anyway)

There are two kinds of people in the world: People who love coconut, and people who belong in some sort of camp. Not a bad camp, mind you; we coconut-lovers are so happy, happy from enjoying eating anything with coconut in it, that we couldn’t possibly make your camp experience unpleasant, but that IS where you’d belong. Coconut-deniers.

My favorite candy bar is Almond Joy. My favorite “sweet-rolls” are coconut cream long johns. My little one’s favorite candy bar is Almond Joy. Her favorite pie is pumpkin. Mine is pumpkin or coconut cream.

It would be inaccurate to describe eating a piece of coconut cream pie as being similar to listening to angels sing. Eating a piece of coconut cream pie is more like: a) having a piece of coconut cream pie, then b) having sex with an entire band of singing angels, but (somehow magically) in some non-creepy, platonic way, that (again, somehow magically) was as satisfying as the real thing, then c) eating another piece of coconut cream pie.

Though I have actually followed a recipe and made a “from-scratch” coconut cream pie, complete with charred coconut, the easier recipe is as follows:

Simple Coconut Cream Pie

One package Jello coconut cream pudding mix
One package Jiffy pie crust mix
One tub Cool-Whip, thawed
One jug Ancient Age Kentucky Sour Mash Whiskey, chilled
5 tablespoons water
1 3/4 cups milk

Fork water into pie crust mix one tablespoon at a time, knead till larger than pie pan
Bake pie crust at required temp for about 13 minutes
Cool pie crust
Add pudding mix to milk; whisk angrily or joyously for 2 minutes
(Drink liberal amounts of sour mash whiskey at any time during process)
Pour pudding mix into pie crust
Chill on counter and in fridge for at least an hour
Add liberal amounts of Cool Whip and sour mash whiskey
Enjoy.

As usual, thanks for reading.

Walking the Dog (Fun With Dialog Tags)

I’ve heard comments here and there from writers stating how much they loathe “dialog tags,” otherwise known as the “he said, she said” of book-writin’.  As in, “I’d rather stab needles in my eyes than have to tag everything the characters in my novel say,” professed my writerly friend Reginald Peter-Beater. “But only after stabbing the needles in my mother’s neck for having my half-sister with Edmond Peter, then divorcing him and marrying Liam Beater and letting herself get preggers with me, then deciding to hyphenate rather than not share a surname with both her children,” he vehemently declaimed.

“Well count your lucky stars that your old floozy of a mum never slept with her neighbor Clive Pumpkineater,” I snarked at him. As I escaped his flat with my life in my hands and Reggie at my heels, I thought with relief, “I’m certainly glad that Reggie doesn’t knit.”

Of course, I’ve never been to London (would love to go), nor do I have any British friends other than in the blogging world, but that doesn’t matter if you’re trying to create a world for your readers. You just take them there, and if your characters talk, you must not leave the reader in doubt as to who said what. Nothing’s more aggravating than something like:

—

“You need to take the kids to school today,” she said.

“I can’t, I have an early meeting,” he said.

“The toilet’s backed up again. I wish you’d fix it.”

“The neighbor’s dog barked all night again, and you just slept through it.”

“If I can sleep through your snoring, I can sleep through anything.”

“You sleep the minute your head hits the pillow. I swear it’s so you can get out of sex.”

“Maybe it would help if you’d lose the 80 pounds you gained in the last 2 years.”

“That reminds me. What do you want for supper?”

“Anything, I don’t care, as long as you don’t try to poison us like you did last week with the potato salad.”

“That was your fault; you left it out too long.”

—

The reader is left having to go back and say to him/herself: “she said, he said, she said,” because it’s relatively easy to keep up with who the snorer is, but, the farther the reader is from the last dialog tag, the more one has to double-check to figure out who the cook is, especially if it’s a non-traditional role like this one where the man is apparently the chief cook.

So, writers and readers and critics generally agree that a writer needs to use some dialog tags and use them judiciously, putting them in where needed, but not overdoing them. As a firm believer of my own adage: “If some is good, then more is better,” I love overdoing things, so here’s a story with a non-judicious use of dialog tags:

Walking the Dog

——-

“Are you ready for our Saturday morning walk, love of my life?” she liltingly inquired.

“I’d love to; just let me get my hat,” he joyously replied.

“I was speaking to the dog, you ninny,” she teased as she bent over and wrapped her arms around their Springer Spaniel, Molly. “But you can come too if you promise not to squat in the neighbor’s lawn again,” she guffawed as she slapped her husband Ron lightly in the butt with the dog leash.

“Behave, Penelope, or you’re going to get tied to the bed with that leash when we get home,” he seductively yet hopefully gambled.

“You should be so lucky, Old Baldy,” she jibed.

“Ouch,” whimpered Ron,”you knew I was losing my hair when you married me.”

“Well, thank goodness it’s growing back–in your ears,” she cooed as she kissed him. “Now let’s get going before it gets too hot.”

“I’ll grab some bags for Molly’s, um, souvenirs,” he chuckled at his own joke.

“Oh, here, I’ll take them,” she corrected him, “I’ve got some dog treats for Molly and donuts for us to eat in the park, in this paper sack here, and we can keep her ‘souvenirs’ hidden better on the way back home.”

They grabbed water bottles, one phone (for emergencies only) and, of course, the delighted pooch, and headed off down the street. They walked for a good hour, stopping at the park to eat their donuts and marvel at how beautiful the day was. They watched a couple lovebirds flying around, pooping on everything.

“Chirp, chirp, chirp,” one bird endlessly chirped.

“Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp,” the other bird answered with mindnumbing repetition.

“Well, let’s head back home, how ’bout?”  Ron predictably offered.

“Say, why don’t why go by way of Elm Street?” Penelope unpredictably proffered.

“Sure, that’s a pretty walk,” he acquiesced. “But, wait, doesn’t that old redneck bastard Smith from the bait shop live there?”

“Oh, yeah, in that rundown shack in that overgrown yard next to that abandoned mill. That’s right. Oh never mind him, and anyway the rest of that route is pretty,” she countered as if that was the end of the matter. It was, of course.

Elm Street was an old working class neighborhood that had become gentrified, except, that is, for old man Smith’s house. His next door neighbors had loved the area and the nearness to the newly renovated mill area, and, money being no object for them, had bought two lots, built a tasteful but large house on the lot farthest from Smith, then planted dozens of trees and a high wall next to Smith’s shack. Smith’s other neighbor was the last building standing from the old mill. The rest had been converted into upscale apartments and shops.

As they passed Smith’s craphole, a squirrel leaped from the wall to an elm tree, then zipped down the tree and tore across the yard. Molly broke loose from her leash and tore after the squirrel. Penelope tore after Molly; Ron tore after Penelope. Molly never caught the squirrel, but they cornered Molly up against the factory fence. Just then old man Smith came out on to his porch in his tattered t-shirt and droopy Bermuda shorts.

“You liberals get off my lawn,” he bellowed as he brandished an over-under shotgun with one hand while digging at his balls with the other, with his arm buried elbow deep in his shorts.

“This is for trying to dry-hump my ass as I was getting minnows out of your stinky tank the other day, you asshole,” raged Penelope as she pulled a pistol out of the paper sack and blasted the old pervert between the eyes.

“Coming, honey?” she impatiently questioned as Ron stared dumbfoundedly at Smith’s lifeless body. They dragged Molly off and hurried off past the old mill area. For some miraculous reason, in addition to the hidden location of Smith’s dump, it appeared that no one saw or heard what happened.

When they got home, she put the dog in the shade in his outdoor kennel, made sure he had food and water, and dragged Ron forcibly into the house.

“Wha-wha-what are we going to do?” stuttered Ron as they entered the kitchen.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” she commanded as she tugged at his running shorts, tore off her own skimpy shorts, and bent over the breakfast table.

“I love how huge you get after I murder someone,” she purred as she lustily ground back against him.

“I love how wet you get after you murder someone,” he gloated as he reached up to pull her hair, eliciting a little yip of joy from her.

“Oh, my God, I’m going to come–infrared gas grill!!” Ron ejaculated after 15 minutes of earth-shaking, table-bouncing pounding.

“Yes, yes, yessssssss–granite countertops!!” Penelope orgasmed out as she shuddered to a climax.

They detached themselves, rearranged their clothes, and let Molly in the house. “What do you think, brats and potato salad for lunch?” Penelope peppily popped out.

“Sounds great. For some reason I’ve worked up an appetite; I’ll fire up the grill,” Ron randily replied.

“Arf!” barked Molly, stupidly but happily.

—

 

 

New Year’s Eve

It’s not so much
Not having the
“Significant other”
To celebrate the “holiday” with
It’s not the increasing strength
Of my conviction that
New Year’s Eve (as a party, not just a calendar date)
And Valentine’s Day (as anything)
Were both started
By some evil precursors
Of the bully girls in “Heathers”
(Only think grown-up, married “Heathers”)
When one said, “You know what would be great?
Let’s start some artificial
Crap
Holidays
Where everyone is supposed to be
Coupled up
So that the ugly kids
And the unlucky ones
And the uncool ones
And the nerds and the shy and the fat and the widowed and the divorced
Can all feel
(The next line they shout together as they jump up and quick-hug with glee)
EVEN MORE LONELY!!”

It’s not so much that my
Little girl just wanted to stay home this week
And play with her computer
And her dog
(And my friend at work who has a granddaughter that age says that’s what they’re like
Which makes me feel a little bit less like ending it all;
Not that I ever would, because, someday soon, I’ll see my little pumpkin pie again)
And I haven’t seen her
Since Christmas Eve.

It’s just the odd weirdness
Of the end of something
So I guess I can see it
The need, that is, to commemorate
This particular midnight
It’s like when your heart is broken
Over anything
You need to get lost
In booze
Or TV
Or internet
(Which is dead because everyone else is coupled-up,
at fabulous New Year’s Eve parties,
and not on the ‘net entertaining the lonely,
and the bored,
like they’re supposed to)

It’s just that
This night is almost like
Driving past some summer festival
That you didn’t go to
And you see the trash
Glistening in the streetlights
And you feel some sort of loss
That something big
Or even not-so-big
Happened
But now it’s done
And everyone,
Even the ones who had fun there,
Everyone is looking at each other
And looking in the mirror
And wondering where it all went
And what could possibly come now
And it’s like being heartbroken
Over something vague
So the only thing to do
Is to drink just the right amount
Get lost in some entertainment
TV, Netflix, music,
Till the couch or the bed
Looks like a friend
Then you sleep

And tomorrow is just a normal day
And everything’s just okay
And life goes on.
It just does.
There’s nothing else.

Things I’d Say on Bluetooth

You’ve seen ’em, those bluetooth users who seem like they’re talking to themselves, who say “Hello” really loud, then look wide-eyed and cross at you when you say hello back, at about the same time you see their earpiece.

If I had the money, I’d get one of those odd mobile-phone devices commonly known as a bluetooth, drink a bit too much coffee, and walk around walmart with it strapped on my ear. When I’d come near people, I’d start up some “conversations” with my imaginary cell phone caller, something like these:

—————-

Hi, honey, what’s up?
Honey, don’t worry, I don’t think they’ll come tonight.
Calm down, honey. They don’t abduct the same people every night.
Honey, had we ever seen a UFO before last week?
Well, then maybe we won’t see the spaceship again for a long time.
No, honey, I didn’t like it either.
Yes, dear, I’m still sore too from what they did to us.
No, I didn’t think I’d ever have anything like that up there either.
No kidding, it’s great that we had extra days off to recuperate.
Well, I told you to use aloe vera.
Yes, I know you had double the fun.
Somehow I knew they were going to let us go, didn’t you?
And man were they uggggly!
Ha ha, I was hoping that would make you laugh.
No, I didn’t like it, you little fucker.
No, I’m not going to rush out and buy a black dildo, or a spaceship looking dildo. But you probably will. I think you were sweet on that one Martian.
That one that was a lighter green than the other two.
No, goddamnit, I did NOT like him! I think you’d like to have his Martian child.
Yes, he, she, well, IT would be a beautiful alien…human…thing.
Yes I’m saying you’d give birth to a lovely interplanetary baby. I bet that wasn’t your goal in your high school yearbook. Well it was 1969, I guess, so maybe so.
Oh, yeah 1979, sorry, ha ha.
Yes, I’m a cradle-robber honey, and you’re the prettiest space mom ever.
Ha ha, no, I don’t want to watch the Twilight Zone when I get home.
No, I’m not going to forget the whipped cream.
Or the aloe vera.
Love you too, honey.

———————————-

Hi honey.
Over by the incontinence products.
Yes I know you don’t like the same products I do.
I don’t know, that Depends.
Yes, I think I’m funny, at least one person has to.
It was “designer Depends” that I wanted them to advertise. Their advertising tagline would be “Fashion Depends on You.”
Yes, honey I’m adding them to my shopping list right now. KY lube and typing paper and pop tarts.
No I am not going to buy a Justin Bieber CD, you tramp.
I thought you liked being called that.
Sorry. I won’t call you that again. Whore.
Do they even sell CDs any more?
Who besides me buys CDs?
Yes, honey, I’m absolutely sure they’re losers too.
But they don’t have beautiful wives like I do.
Hey, I try. Looking forward to taking those fashion Depends OFF you.
Ha ha, love you too.

———————————-

Hi, boss.
Yeah, I know we screwed it up today.
But you shoulda seen her.
She came to the door in just a robe. I don’t think she had anything on at all underneath.
Yeah, and she kept bending over in front of me to ask Ed questions about what he was hooking up. Then she’d look back at me.
Yes, I apparently forgot to get the washing machine drain hose secured into the drain.
Yep, that’s why her basement floor got all wet.
Yes boss, she got all wet too the day we were there. That’s why you’re the boss, I guess, because you’re the classiest one of us.
Yeah, her and Ed disappeared into the other part of the basement for about 20 minutes. I just figured he was having her sign the papers.
Yesss, I guess she was signing the papers with her lips.
Yes, with Ed’s pen.
Yesssss, I know I shoulda noticed they were gone for too long, but I couldn’t see past the giant mug of coffee and the plate of cookies she left on the dryer.
Well, she shoulda gone to the rec room with me. I would’ve made her forget about her wet floor.
Yeah, I know I had plenty of time to double-check the connections. I was too busy checking out the drawings of her on the basement walls. Naked with snakes wrapped around her. Her body and her face, but more stylized, like she was some kinda warrior woman.
Yeah, Ed’s one lucky sumbitch.
Yes, ha ha ha, I’m sure you would’ve got the 2-ball in the corner pocket. I’m sure HR would like to hear that you said that.
Wow! I was thinking the same thing, boss, that tomorrow would be a good day for me to take the day off. See you Monday, boss.
Oh, and boss? Sorry about the wet spot, you know, in her basement.
Fuck you too….sir.

——————————–

Mom, mom, MOM! Calm down!
You what! You and Dad need more money?
Mom, did I or did I NOT give you guys a hundred bucks last month?
Well, how much toilet paper and chicken noodle soup can 2 people go through in a month?
Can’t you skip a meal or two here or there?
Do you really need ALL those pills?
Oh wah, wah, wah, diabetes medication costs so much money. Can’t you just drink more orange juice or something?
Oh, oh, oh, you changed my diapers didn’t you? Let’s bring that up every time I don’t want to finance your casino trips. You seem to forget who had the damn diaper detail for Dad when you had the flu that one weekend.
You think you’re sorry that I missed my date? I just LOVED telling Sally, “Oh, honey, I can’t take you to the movies tonight because my MOM has a little bug, and she’s too LAZY to do the poop detail for Dad.”
Yeah, Mom, I guess that makes me sooooo mean. I’m such a bad person because I wouldn’t rather change my dad’s underwear all weekend than be on the silk sheets putting my girlfriend’s legs up in the air.
Gee, I’m sorry you don’t appreciate that rough talk. I guess I was the result of immaculate conception, wasn’t I, Mom?

——————————-

Kristerella

I dedicate this desecration of this sweet classic to itself, the original Disney animated film of the Cinderella story, which first showed on this date in 1960.  In 2012, I wrote this for H. E. Ellis’s F*cked Up Fairy Tales.  I don’t know what I was possibly thinking when I wrote it, but I know it was great fun.