Friday, April 23, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Big Tobacco: Episode 4
(continued from April 2 entry)
That pet-eating monster of a black kid had vaporized. Ran off so fast, Vicky doubted his existence. That's a valuable skill, she thought.
Vicky stood at just under five and a half feet tall. She weighed 105 pounds, and favored a mix of tailored and form-fitting clothing for everyday, erring on the flouncy side of femininity when dressing up. On the days she remembered to wear earrings, she couldn't resist putting on her Grandmother's diamond and ruby ring. Grandma had been murdered in a hospital.
"I may LOOK cute, but without my glasses, I don't SEE cute," Vicky used to say. Then she stopped saying it because it was true.
When Vicky walked back into her house and began looking for Big Tobacco, her movements began to quicken with every step as she searched each room upstairs and downstairs, underneath every piece of furniture, and under every comforter. But where could she be? No! She must have bolted out the front door? Vicky's internal organs jutted out into the biosphere, heat-seeking that expensive, bearded mutt. "Biggie T!" Vicky called.
"BIGGIE T!!!"
With that, Vicky's bladder deposited roughly a teaspoon of urine into her Olga Secret Hugs, which brought new meaning to the term "Full Briefs".
That pet-eating monster of a black kid had vaporized. Ran off so fast, Vicky doubted his existence. That's a valuable skill, she thought.
Vicky stood at just under five and a half feet tall. She weighed 105 pounds, and favored a mix of tailored and form-fitting clothing for everyday, erring on the flouncy side of femininity when dressing up. On the days she remembered to wear earrings, she couldn't resist putting on her Grandmother's diamond and ruby ring. Grandma had been murdered in a hospital.
"I may LOOK cute, but without my glasses, I don't SEE cute," Vicky used to say. Then she stopped saying it because it was true.
When Vicky walked back into her house and began looking for Big Tobacco, her movements began to quicken with every step as she searched each room upstairs and downstairs, underneath every piece of furniture, and under every comforter. But where could she be? No! She must have bolted out the front door? Vicky's internal organs jutted out into the biosphere, heat-seeking that expensive, bearded mutt. "Biggie T!" Vicky called.
"BIGGIE T!!!"
With that, Vicky's bladder deposited roughly a teaspoon of urine into her Olga Secret Hugs, which brought new meaning to the term "Full Briefs".
Saturday, April 10, 2010
"EXCUSE ME"
Setting: A cafe.
"Excuse me. Excuse me. You mind if I sit here with you?"
*iPod ear buds removed* "Uh. Uh." *Looking inwardly horrified*
"You mean right here with me?"
"You mean right here with me?"
"Well, yeah. There's nowhere else to sit." *Indicates*
"Well, looks like they're about to leave." *Indicates*
*Woman at other table indicates, man approaches table, another man approaches soon-to-be-left table and stakes claim on said table*
"We've been waiting for this table."
*"Excuse me" walks over to a different open table that had been available all along*
FILE UNDER FAVORITE HEADLINES:
DOWNER COUPLE VS. UPPER COUPLE
There was the downer couple, and the upper couple. A member of each couple drank coffee every day. The upper couple needs meth to not feel like a downer couple. The downer couple had to stop drinking coffee because it began to feel like meth as it built up in their bodies over time.
FILE UNDER FAVORITE HEADLINES:
"Victoria Principal To Go Into Space.
LIST OF MEGASTARS WHO DRESS(ED) INTERGALACTICALLY, OR AT LEAST HAD SPACE/SPACESHIP THEMES IN ALBUM ART OR STAGE SHOW:
1. David Bowie
2. Grace Jones
3. The Isley Brothers
3. Earth, WInd, and Fire
4. Michael Jackson
5. Lady Gaga
6. DEVO
7. The Knife
8. ?
Friday, April 2, 2010
Megasode 3: Big Tobacco
Marbled bundt cake. Do you think they'll be offended?
With the cake thought, Vicky was trying to eclipse black boy pet-eating monster thoughts. A trip upstairs to the instrument tray was warranted. As Vicky grasped the business end of her banister, Big Tobacco ceased all movement and appeared as a doorstop. This broke Vicky's heart-something about a porcelain cat plummetting to a certain death out of Vicky's girlhood window. She steeled herself as a state of wild expectancy activated several brain function mechanisms in Vicky's dome, but not the eye-hand coordination one. She placed the snow globe of St. Petersburg she'd carried from the study onto the former location of her Frank Gehry side table. Crash. Mess. No time. Up the stairs to fetch a scalpel.
Vicky was back down in the foyer before she was ready to be, and just in time to be walloped by the Damien Omen II door chime cycle from hell the boys had re-initiated. Credit that cachophonous misfortune to the former Mr. Vicky. Open door, smile, allow entry, look for weapon bulges, invite further in, wait for signs of aggression or darting eyes.
Darn it! She had forgotten the most important thing and it was too late! Locking up Biggie T. Peripheral to her right side field of vision, Big Tobacco was still door stopping, but now displaying the added feature of a very naturalistic barking noise. All at once the uglier boy dove in the dog's direction like a defensive lineman performing his 100th quarterback sacking. As you do. Somehow Biggie T. grasshoppered out of harm's way just in time, with a high-pitched wail.
"Oh this is all I need," Vicky growled internally, "little bastard." She herself then leapt boyward, and things then happened so fast she didn't realize it was she who straddled the narrow shoulders of pet-eating Monster #2 as she checked the position of his accomplice, with her scalpel hand raised high. Accomplice Monster #1 yelled, "What the fuck, bitch?!" as he shot her a three-layered (horror-disgust-contempt) napoleon of a facial expression which Vicky felt constituted nothing less than unbridled hostility and the promise of certain attack.
With that, Vicky plunged her scalpel into Monster #2's screaming tongue.
Who accounts for blood squirting on walls in a situation like this thought Vicky. Not Big Tobacco, who was already shitting a lung in private somewhere. And why does it smell like suntan lotion? Is that what monsters smell like? And finally, if monsters lunge for my dog, should I have a cocktail at 3:10pm? The poor woman was jolted from her reverie by Monster #1, who was now hightailing it in an easterly direction and had to be stopped. How could he leave his accomplice writhing in pain on my rug, she wondered. Kids today.
Stay tuned for more.
With the cake thought, Vicky was trying to eclipse black boy pet-eating monster thoughts. A trip upstairs to the instrument tray was warranted. As Vicky grasped the business end of her banister, Big Tobacco ceased all movement and appeared as a doorstop. This broke Vicky's heart-something about a porcelain cat plummetting to a certain death out of Vicky's girlhood window. She steeled herself as a state of wild expectancy activated several brain function mechanisms in Vicky's dome, but not the eye-hand coordination one. She placed the snow globe of St. Petersburg she'd carried from the study onto the former location of her Frank Gehry side table. Crash. Mess. No time. Up the stairs to fetch a scalpel.
Vicky was back down in the foyer before she was ready to be, and just in time to be walloped by the Damien Omen II door chime cycle from hell the boys had re-initiated. Credit that cachophonous misfortune to the former Mr. Vicky. Open door, smile, allow entry, look for weapon bulges, invite further in, wait for signs of aggression or darting eyes.
Darn it! She had forgotten the most important thing and it was too late! Locking up Biggie T. Peripheral to her right side field of vision, Big Tobacco was still door stopping, but now displaying the added feature of a very naturalistic barking noise. All at once the uglier boy dove in the dog's direction like a defensive lineman performing his 100th quarterback sacking. As you do. Somehow Biggie T. grasshoppered out of harm's way just in time, with a high-pitched wail.
"Oh this is all I need," Vicky growled internally, "little bastard." She herself then leapt boyward, and things then happened so fast she didn't realize it was she who straddled the narrow shoulders of pet-eating Monster #2 as she checked the position of his accomplice, with her scalpel hand raised high. Accomplice Monster #1 yelled, "What the fuck, bitch?!" as he shot her a three-layered (horror-disgust-contempt) napoleon of a facial expression which Vicky felt constituted nothing less than unbridled hostility and the promise of certain attack.
With that, Vicky plunged her scalpel into Monster #2's screaming tongue.
Who accounts for blood squirting on walls in a situation like this thought Vicky. Not Big Tobacco, who was already shitting a lung in private somewhere. And why does it smell like suntan lotion? Is that what monsters smell like? And finally, if monsters lunge for my dog, should I have a cocktail at 3:10pm? The poor woman was jolted from her reverie by Monster #1, who was now hightailing it in an easterly direction and had to be stopped. How could he leave his accomplice writhing in pain on my rug, she wondered. Kids today.
Stay tuned for more.
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