Well, what to write this week. If anything to write this week. The world slumbers in the dog days of summer and nuthin’ is going on. Except the threat of nuclear annihilation and some other stuff, but hey…
I did write a very Mean Girls post but my better angels punched me in the face. So.
I’ve been doing submissions. Always a fun time. [That was sarcasm.] I did two this morn! Two. An excerpt from a novel entitled The Adventures of Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus. A one-act play about two star-crossed lovers at a Las Vegas bus stop, called Free Range Chickens. That one place did say you could submit excerpts from novels…and hey, I took them at their word.
It’s been a rather smoky caul over my tiny corner of the universe lately. Rather like being back in Shenyang City, China. That was heavy industrial pollution, this is just wildfire smoke. Or being in Beijing, which is even worse than Shenyang! I know! They are trying to ‘clean’ that all up now, that pollution over there in China. We here in America are prepared to take up the pollution slack, however! Yay! Can’t wait! I’m not bitter at all.
What have I been writing? Oh? Um. well, let’s kindly call it ‘crap’, shall we?
Yeah, don’t worry. I will not be smearing that clear-the-head writing here. It’s bad, trust me. Note: maybe I will. I have tons of it. It might be the next ripoff of Games of Thrones meets LOTR with a splash of Story of O. Intrigued???
Ahem, anyway!! It has the depth of My Pretty Pony fanfiction. Not that I’ve read any. I’m assuming most of that is unreadable claptrap. I’m also taking a break from politics, life and life’s politics via said Claptrap Crap, which helps yours truly do some very minor coping.
I also now have Ibuprofin and have resorted to using the morning’s old coffee to make iced coffee in the afternoon, because I’m a resourceful little kitty-cat. And, poured over onion-flavored ice [don’t ask], leftover morning iced coffee treat is…well, something I can drink that’s not water-flavored. It’s the little things, baby. I’m jonesing for black cherry Kool-Aid, by the way. Yes, I made some sun tea! Geez! I found some ancient tea bags I got at the Dollar Store. Yum.
Now for a Serious Writer Gal update: I went back into the third book of my trilogy wannabe and let the chips fall where they wished. I’ve got the ending [note– it’s a sad ending for right now. I am letting that soak in the inner crock-pot gravy, don’t worry!], so where was I? I have the ending, more or less, and now just need the beginning and middle! [As the ‘story’ keeps shifting about like a damn Garden of Eden snake. Eve couldn’t have crucified that damn snake and…anyway.] Whee!! Woot woot!
Saint Lysette and Bloody Alicecooks in my inner crock-pot. It heats up slowly, I can leave it all day, come back in the evening and viola, meal. If you don’t know what a crock-pot is or why you can leave it all day…Google is your friend. [Not if you have a vagina, though…tee hee.]
It will be cooler. Hopefully, we won’t be fighting for scraps in the bomb shelters. [I don’t even have mine dug yet!!! Fuck. Sonofabitch!]
Football, and pumpkins, and dying leaves, oh yes! The blankets come back out. Rain returns. We’re supposed to get another bad winter. I should dig out my mittens and scarves right now! Or go dig a bomb shelter. And find some, what, lead? Maybe line it with mangina juice scraped off King Magical Pumpkincunt? I had to get one shot in, come on.
Hey, if anyone wants to read Free Range Chickens or, um, like, produce it…HERE YA GO!!
PART ONE: IN WHICH I DECIDE TO TAKE ON UNICORNS AND RAINBOWS
It’s hot. It’s smoky. There’s wildfires burning merrily away. Merrily for the fire, not so much for the men and women fighting said merry wildfire/s. Clownstick von Pumpkincunt lied about the Boy Scouts calling It to tell It what a goodly, bigly speech It gave to the Boy Scouts. Woot woot!
Um, Pumpkincunt and Racist Elfboy [Sessions]now say it’s white folks who are the real victim of discrimination. They are diverting money from actual programs set up to fight racism and segregation and etc, etc…to investigate the real victims of America’s racist climes–WHITE FOLKS! Oh my! I wish I had made that up; I’d win some goddamn writing prizes, for sure, for sure. Or maybe not. I’d have to use a different name, maybe Sally Houswifelady. Or Jellytits McFly.
I mentioned, casually and off the cuff, that I should write a happy post about…wait for it…wait….wait for it…
Unicorns and rainbows. Mostly because my last few posts have been in the Debbie Downer column. Politics. Depression. Writing about writing. Ugh! Gross me out the door already, right?
PART TWO: ECLIPSE, NEW MONTH, NOT YET TO THE UNICORN OR RAINBOW GOOD BITS
And it’s a new month.
A brand spanking new month. Where anything can happen. Like an eclipse. I have no actual interest in the moon eating the sun — science is a liberal plot to get free government cheese and free cell phones for illegal pretty-girl dismemberment teams. The eclipse– is that even an ENGLISH WORD???— is a sign that Jesus doesn’t want anyone to get gay married, that women should become livestock and that tax cuts for the wealthiest is one of the Beatitudes.
Apparently, if you say ‘just kidding’ after whatever batshit statement you make…it absolves you of all blame and responsibility for whatever happens/doesn’t happen. Yay!
PART THREE: BIG PHALLIC HORNED VIRGIN FINDERS
Unicorns. Mostly what I know about them is that they’re virgin-finders. A white horse with a big phallic ‘horn’ sticking out of its forehead goes about finding pure gals…yeah, can you say fragile male fanfiction about their own genitals? Weee.
I remember a tale about how to capture a unicorn– you find a virgin [good luck with that, eh, boys??] female and the unicorn will find her and put its head in her lap. Um. I guess if the girl is not a virgin, you find that out, too, when no unicorn shows up. A version of Medieval slut shaming, weeeee. Though, they didn’t have social media back then to slut shame, they had other methods. Like oh, burning them alive for witchcraft, woot woot, for one. We all know witches are sluts and should be burned alive, that’s just a given.
And unicorns are pretty! Big, pretty, white or golden [I’ve seen unicorns featured in other colors, with lion tails, etc.] horse-like creatures that have magical virgin-finding powers, among other gifts. What girl, with some mild or actual artistic talent, has not drawn herself an entire portfolio of unicorns? Are there any tales of evil unicorns? Mm…
PART FOUR: GOD VERSUS EVERYONE ELSE OR THE HAPPY RAINBOW
Rainbows! God’s promise, in the Old Testies, to NOT KILL NEARLY EVERYONE ON THE PLANET BECAUSE THEY WERE ICKY. Sinning. Whatever.
It’s the symbol of God saying, hey, I won’t destroy my own creation anymore but hey, I’m still gonna keep score, you fucks.That’s my own interpretation of those dusty verses, anyway. Ahem.
The rainbow is also the symbol of Gay Pride. We’re queer, we’re here! Love trumps hate! Love wins! Love love love! All of that celebration, parading and legislation to make ‘those’ into actual ‘citizens’. Which sets the Christian Right’s teeth on edge; not only on edge but shatters those teeth. [And to be fair…no, no, I don’t have to be fair. I don’t have to say Not All Christians blurgh blag bluk. They go low, I give them wedgies.]
That rainbow flag waving about versus some dusty verses in the Old Testies…that’s just good old-fashioned fun right there. If you’re sitting on the sidelines with no dog in this here hunt, that is. [That’s an American idiom– no dog in this hunt. I understand it instantly, but I am from an actual hunting/farming/hillbilly/poor folks background.]
The rainbow is also some scientific thingie
to do with weather…or something.
But hey, let’s not bring anything so liberal elitist social justice warrior feminazi victimize the white folks into this here discussion on how the poor rainbow has been used to take down Jesus. Amen.
PART FIVE: CONCLUSIONS, MEANDERINGS AND GENERAL SMARTASS-NESS
Purity and visible evidence that God won’t take us out again for being sinners. Unicorns and rainbows. Cute fantasy figure and using the visible spectrum of colors to fight for inclusion of LGBTQ folks in all walks of life. An equine symbol of purity [sorry, gals, not even Mother Teresa can out-pure a unicorn. Even the Virgin Mary looks like a grubby pole dancer next to a one-horned horse.] and a symbol of God’s divine decree that even if we’re down here lining up puppies to debauch, God won’t send a heavy rain.
God didn’t say anything about earthquakes or other natural disasters. As people, to this day, equate a local/not local earthquake or some other fun Mother Nature-ish event, with some judgment they just know is being delivered on the heads of the local/global sinners. God punishes everyone they hate —It’s just great that God hates everyone I hate, ain’t it??– with a tornado.
It’s very convenient, random punishment by random earthquake or other disaster natural or otherwise, and such conclusions of divine justice involve no actual work or use of brain tissue. Earthquake equals suffering and death for sinners. And a few innocent bystanders who probably deserved it.
Yeah. I once had a carload of elderly ladies try to tell me that earthquake in Fukushima, Japan was God’s judgment on Japan for being atheists. My my my. We humans never seem to get away from branding all happenings, good or horrible or in between, with some sort of divine agency. Yes, I came to that conclusion all on my own…I amz smartie.
Back to the divine symbol of God’s forgiveness--I forgive you motherfuckers for being shitbirds, even though I designed you, but I ain’t taking any responsibility for how you fuckwads turned out, no way, no how! Have a goddamn rainbow, you sunsabitches!
So, God is reduced to striking small areas along fault zones or in tornado alley or in the path of hurricanes or…yeah, instead of punishing us all at once and just starting over with new models.
PART SIX: TEQUILA!
Why didn’t God just wipe out Noah and company, too, and start over? Other mythologies have just this– where the gods and goddesses had to start over and over and over again with humanity. So why didn’t the God in the Old Testies just do that with the obviously fatally flawed shits it created from dirt and probably a truly gargantuan cosmic-wide tequila bender? Yes, God created tequila before he created the sun. I know it, you know it, let’s get over it together, fellow babies.
Having been the victim of that truly evil liquid myself, I can well sympathize with God cataclysmically messing up humanity and forming them into such imperfect little shitwads of hatred, nastiness and so forth. Who hasn’t done stupid things while buzzed on tequila?? Hands? Hands? Yeah, okay then!!
Am I actually blaming the faults of humanity on God having one too many shots of demon juice AKA tequila? Yes. Yes, I am.
Oh that note!! August, it promises to be a super-hot crap-smeared slide into madness and further obscurity for yours truly. Hoooray!! If I start low, all I can go is high, right? Shhh. I think I hear a unicorn…nope, just my hopes and dreams being stomped to death by an angry horse with a plastic horn duct taped to its face.
So, on the very date, back in 1948, Truman integrated US military forces…45 declares, via some fucking Tweets, that transgender folks can no longer serve in any capacity in the military.
Now, I just. Yeah. Uh.
Granted, there are some MAJOR SCANDALS AND TREASONOUS CRAP going on right now involving the Orange Clownstick of Fuckistan. Russia, for one, interfering in our election.
Allegedly, a’course. Pootie denies he allowed an army of trolls loose on our gullible ‘murikkans and Pootie never lies or kills journalists. Pootie also never headed the KGB. Nope! Pootie-Putin, sorry if I confused anyone.
Mueller and that onrushing crush of lawyers, testifying about who met with whom and if they spoke with a Russian accent, blah blah blah. Sessions now being told to stay put by the very people who told him to get his ass back to the antebellum South or wherever he actually slithered from. The Racist Elfboy is publicly ‘feudin’ with Clownstick, which is…probably another distraction. I’m losing track of which distraction I’m supposed to ignore and which distraction I need to like/hate on FB, or retweet/click that heart thing over on Twitter.
PART TWO: FROM A DISTANCE
Jesus in a Toyota Corolla, this would be such an entertaining shitshow if viewed from the comfort/nice coffee house or friendly local bar/pub/place where they serve adult beverages… of a stable, modern country not trying to turn back time. Watching from a safe nice distance as some laughably now-awful country [USA! USA!] tries to hide emerging acts of treason beneath blatantly obvious LOOK OVER HERE FUCKERS tactics. An actual, in your face, public attempt at setting up a dictatorship. In the land of democracy, apple pie and some other ‘murican stuff. [USA! USA!]
PART THREE: MEMES, MEMES EVERYWHERE
People have invoked the Handmaid’s Tale, Orwell’s 1984, uh…some other grim, humorless takes on what happens when it’s a very one-sided government. Just look at the memes, my dears! MEMES ARE EVERYWHERE.
With quotes on them! Dire, sour, clinical quotes lifted from dire, sour literature and reduced down for quick, indignant consumption. You can look them up yourself, of course. Listing them here will just bloat my already bloated ranty rant.
[Some are very accurate, so don’t get your long johns or pettipants in a roar, dears. See what I did there?] Oh– women, I read, in dealing with their Monthly Curse, way back when in olden times, the Victorian Age, for instance, might have just bled into their clothes. Yeah. We’ve come a long way, baby! Where was I?? Oh, memes and such and indignant quote mining.
PART FOUR: HISTORY? TURN BACK TIME?
As if…we’ve all failed history or never even heard of history. Gee, what happens when a single party rules an entire country, kids? What happens when that single party set of control freaks starts stripping rights from all others not in their special He-man Woman-Hater’s group? What happens when…??? Anyone? Anyone? Do I really have to write the names of those who took batcrap crazy to new and murder large swathes of people heights? Is your Google broken? Or your fucking brain?
Do I really have to write that shit gets bad, fast? Really?
Oh it can’t happen in America! We have checks and balances! Someone else, not me, will put a stop to that. I’m woke!
BWHAHA HA HA HA HA.
That’s my evil laughter, by the way. I produce it in my lower chest voice. Some people do that evil laughter with the M sound starting them off down the road of twirly mustache, maiden tied to train tracks evilness.
Nope. I’ll focus on Clownstick and the current GOP agenda to turn back time to some mystical man-only world where women existed to serve sammiches and make babies for wars.
Where there were no gay folks or transgender peeps or minorities OF ANY KIND trying to get all uppity. Where, yep, people knew their places. And they were happy in those places!
There were no single moms. Or women over thirty. No sluts or whores trying to get their lifestyle legitimized. Marches for rights were nice and sweet and that nice Dr. King never got in trouble. Schools didn’t teach that bad science stuff like evolution or that your gender is whatever you decide it is that day. People understood their place! Sob!! [Flag waves in the gentle breeze as Lee Greenwood’s God Bless the USA throbs from the speakers and orgasms in the ears of all red-blooded patriotic sorts before they settle in to watch an evening of bull riding, tractor pulling and Jeff Dunham’s puppets repeating easy to digest glurbs of comical gems.]
Hey, I’ve written something like the above before…that Glorious ‘murican Past where men ruled the roost and everyone else knew to suck it up and just let those manly men get on with it. Huh. Mm. My CD must b skipping today. My record has a scratch. Tee hee.
PART FIVE: POST-RACIST AMERICA ANY DAY NOW, DARLINGS AND DEARIES!
Yeah. I keep hearing this is the last gasp of that generation of overprivileged racist sexist knuckle-dragging sadsacks. Um. You sure about that, dears? Cause boy oh boy, is that same sentiment– whites only, shut up and go away the rest of you– quite strong in the younger set. That doesn’t dissipate. It goes underground and hibernates and waits for White Spring. [I’m blurbing about America’s history of blatant racism and then the poorly not hidden really at all attempts to include those ‘others’ into the American fold.] That prejudice and hatred, it hangs on, like mold. Like ingrained, never gonna Lysol that crap away mold. That ‘nationalism’ goes into burrows and lairs, then surges up when it gets the least itty bitty little chance, hello. History, anyone? Ugh. That’s right, history is a liberal plot to make us all turn into social justice wariors who hate Jesus and coal miners.
PART SIX: CLOWNSTICK VON PUMPKINCUNT
I’m looking at the reason Clownstick Von Pumpkincunt gives for banning transgender folks from serving in the US military. Vague medical twistings about how you can’t be transitioning and fire weapons or something. That transgender folks cause morale problems and disciplinary risks. That people just join the armed forces to get the military to pay for ‘the operation’. Which, apparently, will and does cost the military BAZILLIONS OF BUCKS. Ugh? I think every vague prejudice against transgender anyone was trotted out in that series of tweets. And people are nodding along to it, going, yeah, we need to…ugh. If people can be kept out for a skin mole, then sure, yeah, we should totally, like, ban all those people from serving. Cause, MAGA. LOL.
There are already transgender folks serving, RIGHT NOW, in the military, in all capacities. So. That came up, too. What about those serving honorably and what will happen to them now? Do they lose all their benefits and rank and…? Will they be discharged and…? Does this blanket ban get a vote in Congress??
I get it, Pumpkincunt is super-jealous of Obama, who made it okay for transgender folks to serve openly in the military. So, Pumpkincunt and probably Pence the Secret Masturbating Wunderkind Who Gets Off to Tiny Animals Being Stomped to Death by Jesus, went after an actual step forward in declaring All Lives Matter. By stating, no, no, your life and your right to serve your country does not matter because I hate Obama who is more bigly popular than me and I should get all the love and my crowd size is super-huge and I grabbed pussy and she liked it! It’s just locker room talk, boy scouts. And did I tell ya about that orgy my friend had with young teenage girls that the animals we let in, disguised as humans, want to rip apart? Settle in, boy scouts! Settle in!
I feel like I need a shower today. I just had one, I feel the constant filthy tides in ‘murica right now lapping at my hairy calves and I just want to…scrape my fingernails across my skin until the dirt comes off. Even if I start bleeding. Which is gross, right, gentlemen? Girls, blood, eh, gross me out the door!
PART EIGHT: NEARING THE END, MY FRIEND.
So, to end this weird, wandering diatribe– what the actual fuck is happening to my country? I keep asking that. I was never afraid and angry all the time under the Bushes or even Reagan. That’s right, I remember Papa Raygunz and how scared we all were that batshit crazy grinner was gonna start a nuclear fuckwar with…yeah, the USSR. He’d fall asleep with a mouthful of jelly beans and push THE BUTTON. The Day After, anyone remember that TV movie? Red Dawn? I’m sure there were other macho Hollywood movies about what would happen if THEY invaded US and we HAD TO FIGHT BACK.
But I never actually believed ole Batshit Crazy Raygunz would, um, destroy us all and talk about his dick size while he did so. You know he was hung like an elephant. [Ha ha, feeble GOP shoutout. Ha ha…sigh.] Oh crap, now I have a mind movie playing Nancy-Just Say No-Reagan playing hide the sausage with Mr. Teflon. [He was called the Teflon President as nothing stuck to him. Everyone around him got charged, indicted, smeared in public, but he escaped, more or less, all that fun. Iran-Contra, etc. Yep.]
I never thought Bush Daddy or Bush Junior would actually destroy us while waving a flag and talking about their crowd sizes and why Hilary Clinton needs to be investigated for Pizzagate. [Before Pizzagate had been invented by Alex Jones, of course. I was trying to tie the Bushes to Pumpkincunt for a slight comedic hyperbole effect. Okay!] I thought, and still do, they were not the best presidents but that they actually did give a care, at times, for others not in their pockets. They had manners and a basic public dignity to them. [Am I putting on some rose-colored glasses here because the present fuckstick shitting itself in public in the White House is just such a clusterfuck? I’m going with yes.]
Stripping entire groups of this, that, the other…is not the way to govern. It’s never been the way to govern. Do I really have to write that down? Going after a tiny minority group– less than or about 1% of the population– and accusing that group of bloating the military costs…um. Yeah. I. Well. Um. Fuck. It’s rather like LBJ signing the Civil Rights Act and then Nixon coming along and un-signing it. Something like that. Yeah, makes me wish, all over again, that I could watch this from a foreign shore and laugh my ass off at those Krazy Amerikkkans ripping their country to shreds out of pettiness, jealousy, ignorance, masculine vapors and every day common ole spite. All righty, what next in the ‘Distract Those Motherfuckers So We Get Away With This’ collection of tweets? I know!! Women don’t need to vote. It also raises the costs in our military [according to Jesus-Stroking Pence and the ICR institute] and they should be home taking care of all the kids they’re not allowed to abort because of ‘safety’ concerns [TRAP laws, bwha ha ha ha].
Make America Manly Again. Woot Woot.
“Annual military spending on Viagra: $41.6 million Cialis: $22.8 million Trans medical care: $8.4 million… ”
As July is coming to a rapid, hot as hell close, I thought, hey, why not one of the Beastface Bay tales to tide my lovely readers over until I snorgle out some all-over-the-place political rant on bagel dogs, slipper socks and houseplants, culminating in a last paragraph that attempts to promote something or other…ahem.
The following is not, I repeat, not an actual interview with a giant squid. I feel in these current climes of EVERYTHING IS FAKE NEWS ONLY I HAVE THE TRUTH WAH that I truly do need to state that, no, I did not, somehow, obtain an interview with a giant ex-pet of one Jesus. H. Christ. [H stands for Horsefly. I kid. I kid!] It’s just a fun little piece I wrote for this project I started a couple months ago. It’s a mixture of Faulkner, Twain, Euripides, Proust, and Stephanie Meyer. With a pinch of Louis L’Amour and a snip of V.C Andrews and a suggestion of Dickens. Also, some Thurber, and those people who write Positive Slogans for a living. Those people. Okay. I’ve hemmed and hawed enough. Here ya go!!
INTERVIEW WITH FURBO D’FURR
The following is taken from an interview with the author of Truth’s Rainbow. I have omitted the interview formatting, and if you like, you can read this in its novel-length entirety in the Obscure Writer’s Annual Review, back issue VII. “Furbo” is a squid, and one of the ex-pets of Jesus. She learned to talk but hid it, instead choosing to shout out ‘vengeance’ with the other squids. Bess, name protected to protect her from detection and lawsuits and smitings, dictated her story to a sympathetic aquarium worker, who then turned that into a novela, which, unfortunately, has not been selling that well. This squid prefers Bess to Furbo. She is also planning a graphic novel about zombie vampire squids who have to defend their underwater castle from attacking shape-changing whales. I have high hopes this new venture will take off. Having read the first few chapters, it looks like a blockbuster winner of epic proportions.
Jesus grew tired of us. That’s why Henny escaped and wreaked havoc there in Beastface Bay. If Jesus had cared at all, still, for us, Henny wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.
After all, we lived in giant, all-comforts-provided pools. We had everything we could want. The best sea water, the best food, the best squid toys, like giant shells, floating kelp bundles and sailors to drown. They were not real sailors; they were animated by Jesus to fight us. Rather like a youngling’s toy, if you put those, um, batteries in it and it moves and acts real, something like that. Jesus, like so many, just grew weary of caring for pets. We’re a lot of work, we take up a lot of space, we’re constantly breaking things. That is the nature of pets. He tried to teach us all to talk, but only I learned. At least, I think it’s just me that picked up learning more than one word to parrot back. Sometimes I think all the others are disguising that they, too, can talk. It’s a sort of defense mechanism. If we’re perceived as stupid, no one much expects much from us. Also, we know quite a bit about Jesus and heaven and all that. Which is rather dangerous. No one would want to believe in Jesus anymore. As he’s rather awful and petty and small-minded. It might just be because he’s rather old and has lived too many years watching all of us. I mean, all who are in his jurisdiction.
Heaven? Oh that. Well, if everyone knew about it, they’d go elsewhere for service.
Well, it’s boring, for one. An eternity spent twiddling your tentacles. Well, thumbs or paws or whatever you possess at the end of your extremities. There’s nothing to do. You can walk around and look at the gardens, but you can’t work in those gardens or even go into them to enjoy them. You can look but you can’t touch, yes, exactly! Oh there’s the mansion of Jesus, but again, he doesn’t like to share his stuff. Or let anyone near his stuff. Since you’re dead, you don’t really need a house or even a bed; you won’t get a house or anything. You just wander about on the paths. Trying not to anger Jesus. There’s lots of signs put up, telling you what not to do or what you can do. Mostly you’ll just sit in the little designated areas and stare at the gardens you can’t enter for fear you’ll ruin them. Jesus has them all just as he wants them; he has no wish to garden further.
Jesus does not think of others, despite the propaganda. Sorry, the writings about him. He rolls his eyes at those writings, a lot, but does nothing to edit them. They serve their purpose, he gets praised, and he gets traffic past the Gate. Oh, that’s the name of the point of no return. Once you pass by the Gate, you can’t go back again. There’s like a force field there. A barrier. Many have tried, once they find out how boring and tedious heaven is. That you only get porridge to eat and tap water to drink. Porridge without cream, sugar, honey, berries, bananas, salt, boiled eggs; nothing is added to that porridge because Jesus likes plain porridge and so, apparently, does the rest of everyone in heaven. If Jesus likes something, everyone likes it. If Jesus hates something, then everyone hates it. He has no concept that others think or do differently than he does. Of course, he is an eternal deity and they are rare, few and far between.
Well, yes, you do eat in heaven. You might not sleep but you do need to eat. Nobody ever asked Jesus about that, as he’s a bit prickly. Or they did and he sent them away. He doesn’t like questions. He likes praise or just silence so he can talk.
Yes, there are other deities out there, to get back to that; they’re busy amusing themselves or napping to pass the time. They’ve worked out the boundaries out there and once in a while they all get together to have something like a party. A reunion? Ah, yes, yes, a reunion. They brag to each other, they talk about how hard it is to be a deity in today’s modern world, they stage contests like who can stand on one leg the longest. That is, if that deity has legs of some kind. Some don’t.
So yes, Jesus took us all in. We’re all from the same batch of eggs. I guess that does make us all brothers and sisters. Jesus had us all neutered, so none of that matters. He’s a responsible ex-pet owner. I’ll give him that. Oh it was painless. We were all put to sleep for a bit and woke mostly totally uninterested in all that reproductive business. Totally fine with me. It’s not like we need more monstrously big scarlet squids in the world or out of it. We’re monsters. Look at me! I’m a gigantic scary mess. Learning to talk brought a certain self-awareness, yes. Yes, I think that’s accurate. I’m very aware when others look at me and make faces and scream and then throw things like harpoons and bullets and missiles. It’s not a nice feeling when you’re so feared and hated on sight. It’s just not nice at all.
So, on the day Henny escaped, we all watched. Henny surged over the top of his tank and then pulled himself toward the Gate. Now, our tanks used to be right by the Gate. Henny and the others continued to feel, well, amorous, even though they couldn’t make any more little squids, so to speak. I found that I did not. But I also think the other squids were horrifically bored and it was something to do. I was busy teaching myself to talk and think, so I didn’t have to fall back on, um, other activities. A teacher worked with me, by the name of Carla Fay. She was quite patient and it passed the time for her, as well. Jesus, to my knowledge, didn’t know about Carla Fay coming to see me. Or if he did, he found nothing wrong in it or Carla Fay would have found herself in quite another place.
Oh yes, there is a hell. Jesus dug a pit and lined it with pulsing slug skin and lined the floor with dust bunnies. Always moving dust bunnies so that anyone sent there couldn’t sit down or find any rest but had to keep moving about, in the dark, trying not to touch the wall or stand for too long on any given dust bunny, as they tend to bite if stood on too long. Jesus sends those there he takes issue with, but only if they break too many of his rules while wandering about his heaven or if they just annoy him. It doesn’t matter what you do while you’re alive. You’d have to really catch Jesus’ attention, as in be a dictator out to beat the records of all other dictators for being truly awful. Then, Jesus would feel obliged to just put you in his hell pit. Without letting you wander about not touching any of his stuff or getting in his face or asking questions for a while or a long time or almost no time at all.
There were sixteen squid. But one, Stovetop, pissed off Jesus one time. Stovetop tried to, um, get friendly with Jesus. Jesus peeled poor, in love, Stovetop off himself and popped him in that pit. Stovetop is still there, as far as I know. So, not only would you have to contend with slug walls and a dust bunny floor but you’d have to contend with a lonely, confused, sorrowful squid who perhaps never understood exactly what he did wrong.
Ghosts, yes. Ghosts are very real. When someone dies suddenly or violently or just dies in general, one can become a ghost if one chooses. You can go right through the Gates or the Narrows or the Chasm of Chomping Fangs, whatever that point of no return is called in your area. But once through, and the deities are all in accord here, you cannot step back through and go back to where the living live. Now, as a ghost, you won’t be able to do much more than make yourself visible to the living. You can talk to the living, of course. You can spy on them, as you can keep yourself invisible at will. At least you’ll be entertained, for a while, wandering about among the living. A ghost is transparent. That’s the way you tell them from the living. You can see right through them. They also tend to float. They float about unless they purposely anchor themselves downward. They can’t touch anything or anyone. They have thoughts and feelings and get sad or bored or happy, just like when alive. They don’t have to eat or sleep or anything else, though once you pass by the Gates, you do have to eat a bit. Again, trying to ask Jesus why that rule is in place will get you a trip to that pit of slug walls and dust bunny floor. The real rule with Jesus is not to question anything he does. Ever. Act like another of his ex-squid pets is my best advice.
A Texas preacher was wailin’ and waxin’ large on how this is going to be a bad day for the devil. And naturally, on hearing this shouted from the next room, during the early hours… I had a thought of– is any day a bad day for the devil? It seems the devil gets a lot of shit done. Wars to petty little malicious gossip fun. Everyone’s getting devoured by that devil walkin’ around. The devil takes a stroll and checks things off her list.
What?? Her list??
Have I lost my gol-durn mind? Yes, I have, but that’s a whole other hysterical and barely readable blog post.
Part Two: Gender Politics
I have always wondered this. Why is the devil male? Other than patriarchal absolute control over everything from religion to nail polish choices, of course. Positions of power must always be filled with male figures! Even in legends, mythology, religion and tall tales. Women with power tend to be evil queens, evil stepmothers and witches. Or a combo thereof– an evil stepmother queen witch, such as Snow White’s dad’s second wife. Yep! There are ‘good’ witches but…they’re still suspect, because they have vaginas under those pretty princess-esque ensembles. And could go rogue at any time! We don’t get many tales of queens without there being some sort of ‘love’ story involved where she ends up secondary in her own story as a kingly sort steps up and ‘saves’ her from having to rule and make decisions or she falls into disgrace and gets tricked or…I’ll stop there. Ahem.
Other than that…why is the devil always portrayed as a male figure? We have witches, of course. But. They’re subservient and doing the will of their master…yeah. Witches went from powerful independent sorts to cringing, tricked, lied to servants of Satan. They went from enjoying their power and their relative sexual freedom to being puppets who just endured the cold sexual caresses of Hell’s Landlord. [Because why not strip even sexual enjoyment out of witchcraft, can I get an amen??] See Malleus Malificarum.
Women and power, it’s makes people uncomfortable. I get it. There’s reams written here. The powerful woman getting reduced to evil crone who licks the devil’s bottom during ceremonies held beneath the full moon. Read all that stuff. Read about the witch craze and how midwives were suspect and…yeah. But.
Part Three: A Tale of Love Gone Wrong
That rebellious beautiful angel who went against God. That reads more like a love story gone horribly wrong than some servant acting up and getting spanked, big time, for all eternity. Actually, that fallen angel gets rewarded, by being made the Big Baddie who gets to pretend to go against God. [And here, you can start screaming I don’t know anything about religion, the devil, God or blah dee blurg. That my years in the Lutheran church apparently did nothing more than give me a curious case of soul rash.] After all, does it not say, in Revelation, that God wins?
It’s right there. That’s bad storytelling. You don’t invent this great villain and then say, baldly, that that villain is going to lose. We know the villain loses, we want to pretend some actual surprise. There has to be a moment when we think the Joker is going to squash Batman and yank his wings off. That’s just how good stories trot along. We want, maybe, to even believe, for a bit, that the villain, the Big Bad, will win the day and destroy the planet, kill the tied up girlfriend/love interest/wife/some random girl; uh, get that death ray to work, etc, etc. You don’t state that so and so will win while presenting some Big Bad as the ‘villain’. Unless you plan on springing a surprise on us. Like some super-villain in the wings. Maybe her name is Mary who wraps her holy thighs around the devil and God and devours them both with her girl parts and comes out the winner of it all.
I would so watch that movie. I would even buy the over-priced gold-plated popcorn to munch as I watched that movie.
You cannot announce that you’re the winner ahead of time. It’s insulting. Why do you need an adversary? Especially one that seems on the payroll? Why is he needed at all? Oh…because the devil has a case of bitter grapes and seeks to take down as many as he can before THE END OF IT ALL. [No, seriously, that’s the answer I’ve seen to this one. The devil wants to have a game of freeze tag before the End. Yep.] Cue evil laughter, ala Vinny Price.
PART FOUR: MORE GENDER POLITICS AND EVEN MORE LOVE GONE WRONG MUSINGS
How bitter do you have to be to infect as many humans as you can before God yanks the curtains closed?? That’s female territory…that’s spurned lover territory. That’s…yeah. I’m marching out some rather tired female tropes here— the woman scorned, the bitter woman who wants to repay her ex in spades, the nasty woman who will do anything to smear her ex, etc. Entire industries chug along on that crap alone. There’s also the crazy ex who stalks the current Pretty Young Thang and there’s a catfight where boobies bounce a lot. That’s both a movie plot go-to and the newest ad campaign for Chanel Number Five. Petty revenge against a force that’s all-powerful and who announces they’re going to win no matter what happens…doesn’t seem like male on male catfighting. [Can men have catfights?? Mmm. Maybe tomcat fights? Because tomcats are both slinky and possess testicles? MMMM!]
PART FIVE: WHAT SORT OF DAY DOES THE DEVIL HAVE?
But anyway. The devil, in my opinion, always has a good day. The list of sins is long and people are stupid. You can’t even have naughty thoughts without making God’s I Saw That! list. You can’t lust in your head, your thoughts are on trial. God is literally the thought police. The devil wants you to run that hardcore dungeon daddy fantasy involving a Viking era cowboy-ish muscled up pretty boy who puts you through your paces with a small whip and a large donkey. The devil is saying, hey, baby, go for it. You say, okay! Good day for the devil. Or maybe, hey, you’re in charge of an entire country. And you’ve got pretty bombs and tanks at your disposal. Why not use them on something? Like Chicago?? Yeah, the devil doesn’t even have to do more than shrug and go, hey, baby, go for it. That whisper of permission to give in to your darkest or most silly little vices. Instead of living with your knees crossed and your mind full of amens and hallulujahs and notions that the world is burning alive.
So it makes sense, to me, to make the nemesis of the desert God who stalked about in the lands of Canaan and Judea and so forth…a girl.
And hey, if we keep the devil a boy, well…kettle of very LGTBQ fish, can I get a high five and a clobber verse, amen? [There are six, by the way, six. That’s it. There’s about six maybe references in the entire Bible about this issue. Uh huh.] You can’t have women with power, after all and you can’t even entertain the notion of God and the also-male devil being exes…because how soon before we’re making bestiality and incest legal and letting people marry their own houseplants?? Hello!
A seductive temptress whispering, go for it, baby, as she picks your pocket and paints a target on your back. That, after all, is what women are…we’re either whores or good girls. That Madonna/Whore dichotomy. One fall from grace and we’re forever branded a sin-filled whorebeast, we gals. There’s no forgiveness for us if we tumble a bit or a lot or at all… We have to be kept covered and controlled and in our place otherwise…chaos. That’s the central core message of pretty much any major or minor religion…women are suspect. Big time. Beware. You give women any sort of freedom and they turn to the devil and become witches and try to become men and want to vote and shit. Gol durn it, not on my watch!
PART SIX: WHERE I FINALLY MENTION SOME WRITING PROJECTS OF MINE!! YAY!
Which leads me to…yes, my piddles in this area, writing-wise. Gotcha!! I wove a pretty web, I offered some sweet blasphemy and oh, viola…here we arrive at some stark PR for my products. Oh my!
Being a writer chick, I invented a character. It’s kinda what I do on occasion. She drives around in an old Caddy, seeking whom she may devour. I didn’t give her a name, other than ‘devil’. She’s a black woman riding the roads of America, offering deals. I was writing along in Alice in Oregonlandia and went, as you do, hey…what if the devil shows up.
What if the devil shows up.
And, sometimes, my mind-worms poop out some useful smeary images. One of those 50’s monstrosity cars with fins that get about three miles per gallon because gas was cheap back then. Flames painted on the black doors. An engine that can heard miles away, one of those big powerful V-8 take on all comers engines. And a woman at the wheel, a powerful woman, a woman to be feared, a woman of sadness and fierce laughter, the devil. With dark skin , a body that’s hers and hers alone, a confidence that her road trip isn’t gonna end any time soon. She suggests sins, doesn’t tell you to actively commit them. She knows you and maybe even loves you a little, but still wants to turn you inside out to watch you strangle in your own guts.
She also turns up in my third book, Saint Lysette and Bloody Alice. Which I’ve let ‘rest’ for a week, as other writing urges hooked me like a fly fisherman hooks one of those trout in a river in Montana. Must write this now! I’m mulling ideas for that third book, deciding just who and what Mr. Blue, Bong Bong and Mr. Peepers are. [If you have no idea who those characters are, it’s okay. I forgive you. Go in peace.] I’m inventing the mythology and reality of this world Alice, and her mother, Nancy, exist in. What happens if there’s devils within devils within devils? What happens if. It’s what writers do, after all. I’m not thinking Overall Literary Theme. I thinking, what if the devil is trying to fix her mistakes? What will Alice do when she finds out what Lysette is? What does Aaron know? I am thinking in terms of what comes next, not Man’s Inhumanity to Man.
The devil, after all, is in the details.
PART SEVEN: BWHA HA HA
Bwha ha ha.
The devil always has a good day. She likes to keep busy and she’s a multi-tasker, as women have been since the time they lived out in the open scavenging lion kills. God will snap His fingers and the devil might very well not even notice. She’s bent over whispering into a susceptible ear to some sexually confused young Christian man to look up three-way twink and bear porn [if you have no idea what this is, boy, are you gonna have some fun with Google today] over on porn hub [a real site, in case you thought I made that up, my innocent sweeties]…whispering in that ear to go for it, baby. God will be saying, hey, I’m ending the game. The devil will look up, from whispering sweet nothings into various ears. You do that, baby, if you think that’s best.
And God will swell up and stomp back to heaven, with a hearty string of expletives for his Ex and the devil will smile. It’s always a good day for the devil.
I shall follow up my wildly popular and highly fluffy post, Let’s Go to the Movies, with some quote mining from yours truly. Titles with numbers in them seem to be known as ‘clickbait‘ and by Jove and by gum, I wish to be clickbaited! I know how that sounds, but I’m both needy and indifferent to the world. I am a contrary contrarian. If you repeat a word twice, you sound either Dickensian or that you have a scratch and your devices are having trouble playing you back.
Thirteen quotes. I suggest some of you make memes out of the following. Or a GIF. Or is that just ‘gif’? Ugh, modern spelling, amirite?
#1– from my short play, the Bluegrass of God,which has actually been performed!
ALITA: I buried all my things. In my backpack. I buried my past. It was nice. I said a little prayer and I think God heard me cause I found this place and the wind, it blows through like fiddle music, and it don’t care, it don’t care that I’ve been slapped by the Devil. So you see, Miss Paula…I can’t go with you. My past is buried nearby and it might, it might just burst out of the ground like a rocket. Just like a rocket.
#2– from my completed novel, The Adventures of Sexy Jesus and Grumpy Odin.That’s right, completed. I had fun writing it, even if no one ever reads it, publishes it or goes near it with a twenty-thousand foot pole:
Jesus came swanning in and women and yes, the men, too, watched him. That careless human beauty he wore as his own skin. The graceful workings of his slender frame. Loose sweatpants the color of November nights, a loose brightly printed shirt covered with abstract squiggles and squares, a forest green background, bright blue designs. It was rather like a cardinal landing among a flock of wary, admiring sparrows. That buttery dark hide had been burnished by his time in the harsh Nevada deserts. Those dark eyes held murder and rage in the center of each, twin black flames that promised a horrible, prolonged end to whatever crossed his path or even looked at him a little funny. Lights flickered. The dirt monkeys murmured, looked up, their faces open and wondering. They were moments away from asking the gods to make the lights stay on. No amount of modernity could reroute that urge to appeal to whatever forces might be listening for help, for comfort, for an ending of a torment.
#3–Ah, here’s the latest from my Wind in the Willows, American style, knockoff. I wrote this in the last couple of days, so it’s FRESH. This concerns the two sides about to have a fake war to bolster economies and get rid of the giant squids of Jesus that Luke and his side have had to take care of, since Deadlion’s End does not have a public aquarium. Meryl, by the way, is the mayor of Deadlion’s End. From my Tales of Beastface Bay, War Talk:
Or we can cobble together something ourselves, said Meryl, thinking of the expenses for hiring speech writers, then paying them extra to be quiet about the speeches they wrote. I’m sure, said the mayor, we can all write our own speeches here. I mean, how hard is it, really, to write a good, stirring patriotic barn burner of a speech? Rah rah, freedom, courage, we all have to sacrifice, liberty, they won’t beat us into the dust, we’re better than this, they can’t break us, courage, liberty, freedom, the blood of our ancestors, freedom, liberty, courage, freedom isn’t free, giant squids must go, courage, liberty, freedom, they can’t break us down and make us lose our liberty, courage or freedom. Something like that and then we all hug and cry, and go off to make sure our side wins.
#4– I shall make most of these short, don’t worry! From my massively produced and even published! short play, the Mating Season of Flying Monkeys:
BELINDA: Marjorie. You can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m…an old woman now. You’re my sister, not…not my mother. I’ve decided to have a one night stand, if you absolutely must know.
#5– From a poem I wrote for a monthly poetic challenge, where Rattle puts up a random picture and poets of all stripes who so wish can compose a composition inspired by said artistic photo or rendering. M’kay? This is from She Enters the Forest:
She can see the cerulean hint of bluebells just there oh just there. I am not a good girl. She smiles over her shoulder toward the anxious eyes awaiting her return. Forgive me, I think I’ll need forgiving. I think this is unforgivable. I hope so.
#6–Ah, my next selection is from a short play of mine, the Man Who Went Insane From Money.A bank teller has had enough of the world. This one came from a happy, fun conversation I had with a fellow artsy sort, in Eugene, Oregon, at a party. What if bank tellers were honest about your bank account? We were laughing back and forth about what bank tellers would actually like to say to customers, and indeed, what all customer service sorts would like to say…and so I wrote a bit of a play. Inspiration sometimes comes from actually talking to other people. I know!
TYLER: Just turn on your too-high heels and totter out of here. Go get drunk and find a new man to suck dry, though you are kind of old. I’d max out your one remaining credit card for some plastic surgery, get your ass tightened up, your vajayjay, too. The boobs, goes without saying. Get those wrinkles filled in. Do some high class fucking and sucking and then presto, back in business. Just some friendly free advice
#7– Be patient, we’re more than half way through my self-induced tour of quote mining from my own stuff!! This is taken from City Full of Rain, a short story I need to rework. I think the ending…yeah. If you’re a writer [hashtag WeAreAllWriters] then you ‘get it’. You ‘get it’ so hard right now. You are ‘getting it’ with a cherry on top.
I probably am crazy, I probably made this all up to amuse myself because life is so very un-amusing. But I doubt it. I’ve been writing all this down for a year or so, hand-written in those single-subject notebooks they still sell at the supermarket. Each little scribbled word drains me. Yet I do it anyway. I want a record of what I did. Don’t we all? A record of why I did what I did and why it mattered. Don’t we all? I am not violence-minded, don’t worry. How could I hurt them? They’re angels or whatever they are. Survivors to this modern age. Nothing is that careful or cautious, nothing. Not even God. They’ve survived, Mike and Penny, because they’re impervious, not because they’re cautious. I could expose them but who, honestly but a handful of other crazies and wild-eyed breathless others, would take me seriously?
#8– Ah, from a Christmas short tale I penned. Seven Swans A Swimming Toy Store and Comic Books Emporium. Some writing challenge thingie for some vague project that might happen and so I wrote a short tale about an uncle and his niece and a ghost in a toy store. And it’s not even scary. I’m slippin’, I tell ya. Slippin’. La Grande, Oregon, by the way. Since that’s my college town and…yeah. Yep.
Allegedly, he was quite sad his older sister had died so tragically, in a giant city famous for crushing its inhabitants in traffic jams, mudslides and tales of the once-famous reduced to tiny, faded ends. The rise and fall of the famous had become Los Angeles’s gasoline of choice. But, he and Holly had never been close. He could not fathom such a nomadic sort of life. He could not fathom creating a child and dragging it around like an extra-annoying backpack…as Holly had once labeled her own offspring. La Grande had been where he had attended school and then La Grande had become his home when he got a job teaching indifferent teens elderly literature selections they could not fathom as in any way relatable to their lives. They memorized bits here and there for the tests that would open doors to elitist liberal bastions of indoctrination that they’d spend a lifetime paying for if they took out student loans. Dreams in America now seemed for the very rich or the very delusional.
#9– Hang on, Sloopy! Almost at the end! This is from a rather sweet short story I puffed out on a Sunday afternoon, about an elderly lady named Maybelle and her very special doll. The story is, of course, called Maybelle.
Judi had gone out for ‘supplies’ or rather, a lunch with her friend, Beau, a married man. Maybelle found that rather sad but said nothing. It was Judi’s life. Her own life had been a series of dead ends, heart aches, losses and quiet little deaths of her every dream and most of her hopes. The only bright spot remained Baby Cynthia. The one boy who had squired her about a bit had gone off with another, prettier, livelier girl without a backward glance and no one had stepped in to take that place. She had tried to be a nurse, had tried to be a teacher, had ended up taking odd jobs here and there when she had no talents for nursing and no backbone for teaching. She had dreamed of her own little house and times being what they were, always, for her, that had never come to pass. Sometimes life just shunts people gently or not so gently aside.
#10– Oregon Gothic gets a nod, my patient lovelies! This excerpt from Bailey, the first salvo in my OREGON GOTHICcollection, is a real treat. It’s candy corn, Peeps and Cadbury Eggs kinda special. Or a kale smoothie, organic yogurt enemas and rain water collected from one of those temples in Cambodia treat special. Hey, I try to cater to all reading and other sundry tastes here. Our plucky heroine has broken down after enjoying a meal with her grandparents…
Because it’s perfect.
How many horror movies had she watched with just this crap going on? Storm. Broken down vehicle. Girl alone. Psycho with knife, axe, gun. It was practically an American institution, an American movie classic shown every single freaking Christmas and twice at Easter. Halloween. Night of the Living Dead– the original, not the shitty remake. Friday the Thirteenth, the very first one. Carnival of Souls. Every Dracula movie ever, surely. She couldn’t think of any more movies, her mind just refusing to spit out any more examples, because she seemed too busy trying not to piss herself in fear. So where was the psycho?
Stop it, Bailey, just stop it. She scolded herself as she walked along, trying to hurry. It was not that far to town. And she had been discussing local murders with her grandparents. No wonder she was spookedy-spooked. Weiser, Boise, nowhere near here though. Nowhere near. Miles away, in a different state. Idaho was full of crazies. Oregon was not, which was not true but still comforting.
And like some malignant cue from the universe, a male voice said, “ Hey. “
#11– This is yet another tale that graces Oregon Gothic, also about a ghost at Christmastime time, that visits one of the residents at a nursing home. Tiny Rooms.
“It’s all right. I don’t mind. So you sit with a little ghost and cook things for Christmas. What’s crazy about that? That’s rather nice.” I had somehow said just the right thing. Nora smiled, that rare real smile she had.
“I think so, too…or I’d have told her to go away and leave me alone, ” Nora confessed. “One Christmas, I had a tuna sandwich and a cup of tea. It was all I had in the house. I was just grateful I didn’t have to go hungry. I couldn’t afford a tree that year, either. And. And I never bothered to buy one after that. It was just…not worth the bother. It was a relief. To be done with it all.”
#12– This is from Lady Judas, one of the first plays I ever wrote. It’s been rewritten X amount of times since then and I rather like how it’s evolved. A suicidal woman comes home to a family dinner where Jesus shows up. Now, originally, I had Jane, the protagonist, actually dying as she’s imagining a homecoming of sorts. But. What if she lived and had to face everything and everyone? Ray speaks about his wife and the mother of Jane and her sister, Lanie, toward the end of this latest rewrite, about what love is, to him.
RAY: Is that what you all think? She ripped her arms open because of me? Is that what you think, Jane? I loved her. I loved her, I love her to this day. She was a mean, bitter woman and some people are just like that, but I loved her. I cleaned her up when she had her spells, I put bandages on Lanie and you, I cleaned up the mess so nobody had to see it but me, I…I did what I had to because I loved her to pieces. I loved her to pieces.
#13– Something wildly cheerful to round up my baker’s dozen! This last long quote, ha ha ha, is taken from my soon, I hope, to be published novel, The House on Clark Boulevard, about Nancy who’s both battling the holiday cooking and family demands as well as battling the Forces of Darkness. Enjoy!!
“Is there going to be those eggs?” Art asked, as he did before all holidays. Those eggs. Deviled eggs. Mayonnaise and mustard and egg yolk, mashed together and spooned back into shiny white egg halves. That’s how he knew it was a special day.
“Yes. Mom will probably make a big batch. Anything else you want? Apple pie or cherry or maybe a chocolate pie?” She sent out and Art just smiled, he was back on familiar ground, not dealing with a crazy wife with her cracks showing.
“Apple pie is always good. Do you like apple, Alice?” Art threw an unexpected curve ball at his strangely silent daughter, who turned her eyes to her father, her mouth full of mushy egg noodles.
“Can we have lemon?”
Lemon?? Art shrugged, cast Nancy a why-are-kids-so-weird glance. “Sure.”
Oh yes, lemon. When both Art and Alice hated lemon anything. “I’m sure we can make a lemon pie,” Nancy replied very agreeably. It seemed vastly important to reassure everyone she was back to normal, that she was mama and wife again. With some stitches and blood loss, but still mama and wife, no name at all, just mama and wife. That her only interests were cooking for Christmas and cleaning up after one and all and being pleasant. Nancy quickly shoved that thought far far down, shoved it into a ghost bottle with a bit of her own fingernail in it. She was Nancy the Magnificent Mr. Blue Fighter. She had conquered an invader here in the lands of Oregon East. “A big ole lemon pie with a playing card crust!”
Whew!! Thirteen quotes! I had fun. Did you? I seem to have a real spite against Christmas. I left out most of the writing that contained adult themes or language. I tried to keep it short and snappy. Tried being the operative word. Well, goodbye until next time. I’m sure yours truly will come up with something like Five Ways to Write About Potted Plants or perhaps 16 Ways Socks Figure in the Cannon of Western Literature.
Yes, moi is planning a stay at home all day and not mingle with the relatives be alone festival. Mostly because my ability to deal with people borders on cringing away in horror that other people actually exist outside my fevered brainlands. As said relatives, in a small town off the wilds of Boise [Idaho, for those who think I live in France or Canada, tee hee] have invited their relatives, who fill me with actual snarls. I have no wish to hear about how the lib’rals are blah blah blah and the paid protestors and…yeah. All of that swirling conspiracy crap spews from the various mouths and yours truly just wishes for that damn meteor of death already to hit. Boom. Gone. No more uncomfortable dinners with earnest little tape recorders.
I am a liberal in a very red part of my state/s. As this region here might as well be called Idaho-lite or Idahgon. But I won’t go into this, nope nope nope.
It’s the Day of the Rabbit. Where a magical rabbit hands out chocolate eggs to all the good children of the land and then there’s ham and springtime.
I know what Easter is, thanks. Brought up a Lutheran. Did the whole nine yards. Jesus and I have agreed to see other people but we still keep in touch, to misquote from True Blood. Lafayette. I’ve been rewatching that, which is why those particular words occurred to me in this context. Not so much watching it as it’s playing in the background as I write frothy somewhat happy morality tales about talking animals. I still grind my teeth over humorless Bill, who should have been staked in the very first episode, and shrill Sookie, the helpless little houseplant. [They made her do stupid things so Beell could save her all the time, it got old freaking fast.] I still enjoy Eric and Pam, wishing the show had cut most of the other characters and centered the show around those two Fangtasia fantastics. I won’t do a True Blood
run down, don’t worry. It’s Easter! It oddly seems appropriate on the Christian Day of Blood [yeah, I went there and if you’re offended, that means you’ll come back hoping to be offended again. Yay!]
Okay! Working on my Beastface Bay tales. I have about five done. The giant squids of Jesus, Teddy’s back story, Burt and Judy and their crime spree, Sean and Bean’s exodus from Froggy Pond, and oh, how Teddy got and lost a friend. Oh. That tale went into a dark but satisfying place. I didn’t wish to write that fate of that little fish, and I know full well I can unwrite it. I’ll read over my words and see if it ‘rings true’ or not.
Oh, there are no tales about any rabbits in my Wind in the Willows knockoff.
Well, there’s a baker rabbit in Driftwood who might be selling her seven daughters to the locals for, um, favors, but that’s just a rumor there in a small town. You know how small towns are!
Oh my, this started with my staying home by myself on Easter and ended with a weird reference to a mother rabbit pimping out her rabbit daughters. With a hasty sneer toward True Blood, which I hatewatch, apparently. I should probably edit this heavily and add some smiley face pictures. Well, back to writing! I’m about to dive into Captain Isaiah’s shipwreck while hauling slave horses back to Beastface Bay during the dark days when slavery was a thing. Have a nice day, Jesus.
PS– Night of the Lepus was on last night! I laughed, I cried, I laughed so hard I cried. I just want to thank whomever over at TCM for deciding to run that truly so bad it’s good little gem right after the rather sweet Ernest Borgnine movie, the Rabbit Trap. [I was not out having sparkling conversations with sparkling poets, sorry. I was schlumped at home with the remote control and some tap water.]