I have somehow managed to actually compose eleven thousand plus words for the Naked Farmers of the Apocalypse.
I am also channeling my inner Judy Blume apparently, which is fine. Sometimes one needs their inner Blume and she’s sold how many books so far? A LOT. You might have even read a few of them, dear darlings.
Before I step too far into pseudo-smarmy land, let me say it’s raining today and snow might be coming. Which makes me cheerful as a mouse in a wall. Perhaps as cheerful and industrious as the mouse in my wall this morning. I went from page fifteen or so to page twenty something. I’ll write more later today or not.
My tale is crafting itself.
I step out of its way and it kindly meanders as it wills for right now. I have no finale or overall theme planned at this time.
The rich rotting earth of American politics undermines my Judy Blume-ish wafflings. Hey, to ignore politics is to ignore the nose on your face, after all. No matter what ‘side’ you’re on.
FUCKING DEMOCRATS, PULL IT TOGETHER. Okay, done. Whee. Back now. If you’re not Americans, that means nothing to you or maybe it does. Maybe you’re breathlessly following America’s leap into the abyss. [Yeah, I said it. Someone had to.]
Back to Naked Farmers of the Apocalypse.
I invented a pop band of that name that Our Heroine, Candle Santiago, adores. Bands do, on occasion, have silly names only the kiddies can love. Death Cab for Cutie. The Clits. The Butthole Surfers. Puddle of Mudd. Bumsnogger. Aborted Hitler Cock. [I did not make that up, sadly.] Evil Edna’s Horror Toilet. The Child Molesters. [An actual band. I know. It’s okay. Go to your safe place. It’s okay.]
Everyone back now?
I bet you’re a fan of silly-named musicians either truly bubble gum lite or so serious they poop save the world slogans instead of actual poop. [Poop is natural, pooping out slogans is not…was my labored point here.]
Anyway, where was I…
Ah yes. So! I also invented an anime show, called Piko’s Planet, with a hot anime dude that the tweens go squee for…and will no doubt ‘disguise’ current political, entertainment and other wise famous or not figures for my own fun and hardly any profit. Because, let’s face the music and dance, it’s fun.
And isn’t writing, other than being about changing the very warp and weft of society itself, supposed to be fun? Yes. Yes, it is, in case you were not sure.
An excerpt?? Not yet. I’ll tease you all a bit and wait until the end of November. I’ll copy and paste something near the end of this jam-packed and turkey-flavored month, where I’ll, no doubt and is that not a silly name for a band, hello…where I’ll no doubt delve into the journey my heroine has had to take.
So, I’m not only tapping into my inner Blume, I’m scraping the hero’s journey barrel. I have many inner rooms, apparently. What a cheerful realization.
Welp. Yours truly got picked for that monthly poetry contest…not days after writing a bad unicorn poem. No, seer-eeee-us-lee! [Say that with a Valley Girl accent, m’kay?] The universe, man, it never gets tired of being the universe. My Mint in Pots piece, written for the August rush, got tapped. That little poetic ass got tapped hard. That’s for the prurient-minded.
I feel like September handed me some gifts and I is not properly grateful. Which affects my grammar and balance! So. THANKS SEPTEMBER. I will sing and dance and shake my moneymaker for your enjoyment later today. Slurpy kisses and too-long, slightly moist hugs sent your way, dear September.
The crust, for my CROW PIE, will be flaky yet dense. The crow is yet complaining it’s stuffed in a pie and the oven is broken. But damn, that pie will be consumed, hallelujah.
——–> Oh!! GO GET MY BOOKS. I have books now, for sale. THE HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD.OREGON GOTHIC. <—————–
Go and mock me in a review, you know you want to. Or do an actual review.
Write– it’s got a nice beat and you can dance to it, four stars.
I dare someone to do that. If they do, I’ll…yeah, I’ll do something funky and mildly public.
Oh and some more crow pie to consume, while I’m being brutally honest…I fell and watched AHS last night. But!!! It was all the crazy Milo-wannabe [Koi Fish] slouching around like some third-rate Bond villain with bad hair and almost none of Sorethroaty! I really don’t think an American voter would cut their arm off to cast a vote for a president. We’d cut our arm off to vote for dancing or singing, sure! But a president or some other politician? It’s so cute when the writers on AHS get so idealistic! Cute, I tell ya. Cute!
Trigger Warning: Depictions of harmless pumpkins as country-destroying fuckballs of malice.
I also love, complete and total subject swing here, so hold on…how people are suddenly so PATRIOTIC. Especially when NFL players take a knee or link arms to protest police violence and racism and a host of other societal ills that are Making America Sick as Usual. MASU! And Pumpkincunt jumped into this fight with both feet in his dick-shaped mouth. If yer a red-blooded ‘murican, you’re ballz deep in this here fight already and knows allz abouts it. If you’re, say, Euro-other-country-not-Europe…well, you have your own worries with Sharia Law being enacted there and immigrants taking your good women and your bad jobs and making you all speak Spanish or something.
Oh and the latest attempts at making sure poor people just die as horribly as possible did not get a vote in the Senate or something. But like Freddy, Jason and those Alien critters, it will probably come back for many, many, many sequels…cause some rich people sure do hate poor people buying insulin and birth control or somethin’.
But did you see the Voice last night?? Jennifer Hudson is gonna be a HOOT. Adam and Blake are the cutest! Miley is a goddess! If you don’t vote, those singers might have to go back to waitressing and being poor and not having health insurance. God damn it!! Do you want that on your head???
Oh, also, Puerto Rico, pretty much destroyed by Hurricane Maria. Being ignored in favor of tweeting insults at…sigh.
To sum up: right after I wrote a snarky poem, a somewhat okay poem of mine got selected. Crow pie for moi.
I fell and watched AHS, sigh!
I took two careless seconds to address both rampant racism and the truly ghastly health care system in my country.
I also included a PLUG FOR MY BOOKS, House on Clark Boulevard and Oregon Gothic. I begged, shamelessly so, for reviews and purchases of said books. I’ve tried cutesy, I’ve tried serious, so now I’m just tryin’.
My first run at this ran into the lots of words count and seemed more about Hot Scottish Guy on Outlander and rehashes of all the AHS seasons. That Hot Scottish Guy on Outlander, by the way, starred in one of my all-time favorite Hallmark Christmas confections called a Princess for Christmas. He played the brother of Our Heroine’s dead brother-in-law. She, wait for it, falls in love with him because it’s Hallmark. What else are they gonna do in a Christmas movie set in an actual castle? Team up and fight Dracula and #TeamTransylvania? Oh and a James Bond was in it, too! Roger Moore! Score!
I will restrict my remarks to the CURRENT two episodes of AHS I’ve managed to cringe-watch. No, not a OMG IS THIS SCARY SHIT HOWDY cringe-watching but a OMG THIS IS CRAP ON TOAST SHIT HOWDY cringe-watching. Oh it’s bad, it’s just so very bad.
And not in a good way. It’s not a show so bad you have to watch it because you’re so entertained by how bad it is. Like, oh, Preacher. Which, also, has lost me as a viewer because it has no discernible story, attempt at story or story. If there’s one, I’ve missed it entirely. [Violence begets Jesus turning into a hooker is the nearest I can get to a story line here.] Whee…maybe there’s a blog post here as well. Mmm…
Shoot! Back to Sorethroaty and AHS:Cult.
I get sucked into the AHS promotion machine. The previews always look so sexy-scary, right? This year– dripping honey-colored semen and bees! BEES!. Sexy sexy bees. Scary bees and clowns and honey-tinged horror fluids! Argh! Sign me up!
Except. Ah. Monkey never learns.
I hate the Sarah Paulson character, AKA “Sorethroaty”, five seconds in. With a hate that’s probably never going to end. I had a very graphic death mapped out for her character involving Koi Fish’s medieval penis guard and the walkers from Walking Dead [with Daryl and his crossbow doing a walk-by cameo for no reason at all] but this is a family values blog so I’ll just hint of such things and let you fill in the blanks. Koi Fish is my nickname for whatever KKK-flavored Milo wannabe Evan Peters was told to embody in a cloud of rancid meat farts and Axe Body Spray posturings for the ‘woke’ crowd that still defend their protest Jill Stein votes. [Or the, just fuck me running here, BernieBros. I just hate everyone right now, geez. Ugh!]
Yep, I developed an unending, Satan-flavored rage-hate for Sorethroaty’s shenanigans about five seconds in.
That’s some wicked hate, to quote from someone. Agatha or Alba or Alli-Lu or whatever! is a Johnny One-Note here and boy oh boy…does it get old in about, oh, five seconds. Scream, scream, cry cry, there’s a clown, why does no one see the clowns, scream, scream, cry cry, I protest voted for Jill Stein because I didn’t trust Hilary, scream scream cry cry, there’s a clown, no one believes me, something about tiny holes, scream scream, cry cry, clowns are everywhere yet no one sees them but me, scream scream cry cry, I’m afraid yet woke, scream scream cry cry…
Oh. Now try two episodes of that, dearies. Two hours spent ‘watching’ Sorethroaty cry and scream and see clowns and BECOME THE THING SHE FEARS and…Wow, is that my melting brain tissue sliding down that wall because my head just exploded? Yes, yes, it is.
There’s a valuable lesson, for me, here. Repeating–without moving the story forward a bit, is just…repeating. It annoys the audience or reader. Don’t do that. Here endeth the lesson.
Also, if you’re going to write a character this repulsive, she or he has to have LEVELS. I had, earlier, gone with a cup of ‘redeeming qualities’ for my recipe for Character Pie but…fuck. Why? Why do characters have to be redeemable? They don’t. They just have to be entertaining! The anti-hero, yummy! Here endeth another lesson, fellow babies. I love learnin’!
There has to be something that compels us, the audience, to want to tune back in to endure all that HYSTERICAL FUCKNUTTERY. If we get surprised, for instance. If this character heads toward a le petit mort of a story ending that’s an actual bang, we’re there. We’ll endure the screamy shenigans with a blissful smile! If it’s all sound and fury, as AHS has produced nearly every fricking season, then, I’m afraid, my patience is done gone. Done gone is code for done gone, btw, #LOLIdioms
You wonder, also, why Sorethroaty’s apparently TOTALLY NORMAL wife, yep, wife…AHS never misses a chance to be ‘edgy’… You wonder why the SuperLesbian with the Short Sporty Haircut stays with Sorethroaty. Superlesbian Ermengarde [not her name, it might be Emma or Emily or Embeth or Emma the Wonder Goat] stays out of…loyalty? I’m not sure right now. The current political climate makes them afraid to break up? Oooh…ugh. Also, Sorethroaty has a therapist and takes pills…uh, that doesn’t put a mighty dent in their single income? Wow. Did Murphy and company just not get around to hammering the health care shit onto the AHS Wall of Horrors yet?
I had a near page on Outlander’s Frank. I’ll sum that up with– go watch Outlander to observe for yourself how to take what could have been a truly repulsive character and how those writers and the actor involved, Tobias Menzies, turned Frank, Clare’s modern day husband, into an actual messy human we both root for and against at the same time. He’s not Hot Scottish Guy, but he’s also not Monster Asshole Supreme or Saint We’d Like to Cheerfully Vivisect. That’s hard to do. Well done, Outlander.
What does the above have to do with Paulson’s godawful travesty of a character over on AHS? Probably not much. Maybe episode three will have her character develop…oh fuck me.
I just can’t. I just can’t hope and wish through ANOTHER SEASON of AHS, waiting for it to ‘get good’. It never does.
I’ve seen better storytelling on WWE. My dog can tell better scary stories about American life. [And she’s a dog.]
Now, granted, I was titillated and understandably moistly elated at AHS taking a swing at the current Political Unholy Hellscape or for the ‘other side’–LOL Libtards, Cry Me a River. Pumpkincunt’s influence and pall over life on Planet Amerikkka seems a tasty GMO-grown, gluten-rich, corn syrup-infused Candy Corn wonderland to explore. The wounds, after all, remain fresh and ripped open right now. Just today, Pumpie tweeted a doctored video of itself bashing Hilary with a golf ball. Yeah, it just WUVS the pussies, you betcha.
I’ll sum up a whole page I had on the clowns and the neighbors not seeing said clowns. WRONG. FAKE NEWS. Yeah, those surburban sardine smasharoonies…people see all, they just ignore a lot. Someone else will deal with it– that’s the actual motto of America’s heartland, urban ghettos, walled communities and rural escapes. It’s always someone else’s turn to change the diapers, so to speak.
But, more episodes spent hating myself because I didn’t have the strength of mind to resist the AHS propaganda machine…might lead to me writing even more blog posts on AHS and nobody wants that. Nobody!
To the clowns of September, buh bye. Don’t let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya. Are clowns the new zombies? Can we go back to sparkly vampires?
I do have the requisite glasses and I live in the right state for this. Or-eee-gone. Or to natives–Ore-gun. [Correct pronunciation– ORE-gun] I hope this solar event [sky event? event taking place way, way above my head?] is everything it’s supposed to be. A total distraction from Life In America, a mystical journey into my soul and a big bag of Easter candy. [Mostly those super-sweet Cadbury Eggs. I’m thinking the eclipse will send a rain of Cadbury Eggs. A girl has got to have #dreams]
I’d write some long-winded diatribe that veers off into #WTFPumpkincuntLOL but hey, tomorrow, if WE ARE ALL STILL HERE, is another day. Oh my gosh…which side won the Civil War again? I have to go check the local statues. Bye!
Um, on a note that has nothing to do with the Eclipsia…coffee is such a wonderful beverage. Sometimes you have to take a stand, ya’ll. [yawl]
Well, it’s nearly ECLIPSE TIME, and boy, is Oregon overcrowded a bit right now. Whee!! I have almost no interest in this cosmic event; it’s rather weird and starting to upset me a bit. I should be coming out of my own skin over this. I should be able to spout eclipse facts and know the exact trajectory of when our common moon eats our common sun up there in that big blue thing for a bit. I should be able to map with geometric exactness where that eclipse will best be seen. Basically, I know in my area it will last about thirty seconds, and over in Weiser, Idaho…it will be about two minutes. That’s it. That’s what I’ve gleaned.
I did manage to go to my bank and get three pairs of viewing glasses. They were free. Whee. Whoop.
Central Oregon [which is code for Not-Portland] has turned into the Los Angeles 405 during rush hour. Crazy, man. Crazy. Prineville, the Ochocos, Madras, Bend, Redmond–crowded as hell’s waiting room, baby.
Gas stations, I’ve heard/read seem to be running out of gas. Basic necessities seem lacking due to all the folks who’ve come from far and wide choking the poor middle of Oregon like a chunk of gristly pork during a family picnic. Gag gag cough cough. Oh and there’s some truly crazy wingnut over on Twitter called Deplorable Amy throwing a shit sandwich of a shit fit over how everyone is so ‘mean’ to her because she’s a Central Oregon tRump Supporter.
TRULY DISGUSTED AT HOW MANY PPL WISH ME ILL WILL BCUZ I LIVE IN CENTRAL OREGON & AM A TRUMP SUPPORTER. THESE AREN’T THE OREGONIANS I KNOW..
One of the replies to that tweet is from Turtle Vision: Oh I’ll say it Do Go Fuck Yourself -Real Oregonian
[Who doesn’t love a good juicy in-state Twitter tirade met by fellow Oregon staters on the ‘other side’? It was under Central Oregon if you wish to go peruse that or even drop a Tweet or several.]
Oh I know why I’m rather indifferent to the cosmic fun about to go down.
My country seems poised to become Whitelandia.
Now!! Oh believe me, I had a whole diatribe about Whitelandia, that batshit insano ‘fake news’ conference where Pumpkincunt went off the rails and tried to take us all with it. [I can’t think of Pumpie as a ‘he’. Sorry. Just can’t do it. I guess that makes me just as evil and awful as your basic Aryan Nations ‘nice’ person.] I live in a state that overflows with those separatists hate the gubbermint sorts who have caches of military grade weaponry ready to go against the leftie commies trying to turn ‘murikka into some commie playground. [That would be me, I guess.]
Portland, Eugene, Salem, that’s the liberal paradise everyone thinks Oregon is. More like most of the folks in Oregon live there and so the state remains fairly blue. As the rest of the state is about as red as a baboon’s ass. But they don’t have the votes necessary to overcome the commie hippie libtards that mope over there in Portland, hello. Otherwise, Oregon would be as red as poor ole Idaho. Californians are also blamed for how ‘liberal’ Oregon seems. [As in they move here, all Cali transplants are liberal and hence they buck up the votes for liberal causes.] This can all be researched on your own time. Take it from a native Eastern Oregon sort…Oregon has a red undercoat that’s dangerous, ready to rebel for white causes and more than ready to kick some commie liberal Portland weak asses. Family values, you know.
I find it hard to write anything these days that doesn’t descend into gibberish or sarcastic despairing. I pull up a new file and my brain meat smokes and fumes. The words that do manage to land seem clumsy or not the words meant. [Which is, I think, the actual curse of nearly all writers ever.] So I’ll return to the eclipse because the stark, awful political landscape fills me with razor blades, gopher poison pellets and an obsession to see if our guns are locked and loaded just in case. Just in case. [Yes, the left is armed and ready, too. Despite rhetoric and the comforting belief that the ‘other side’ are pussies who won’t fight back when, WHEN, it all goes down.]
I, like others, am waiting for a Savior To Rise and make all this jagged awfulness go away. It’s like lines from Thunder Road, a Springsteen song– You can hide ‘neath your covers and study your pain/Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain/Waste your summer praying in vain/For a savior to rise from these streets…
I think after the eclipse mania dies down, we’re gonna have to save ourselves. There’s no deus ex machina about to swoop in and make it all better. After all, we’re not about to repeat history over and over and over and over and over. We’re not that fucking stupid, are we? [Yes, yes, we are. I was being, like, totally sarcastic.]