Pinch me because I must be dreaming. Today we have another amazing addition to the Blogger Compilation Project better known as F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES (I know, I know, the asterisk fools no one, but I’m trying to class my blog up, okay?)
Anyway, this little bit o’ tome comes from none other than our very own Beach Bunny Sandy Floyd, better known to Blogworld as Sandylikeabeach. Her take on the classic Thumbelina is as witty, clever and brilliant as this tiny writing powerhouse is herself. Please to enjoy, A TINY THUMBELINA TALE.
It was a dark and stormy night. Not really, but I always wanted to start the story of my life with that line. I have no idea if it was a dark and stormy night on the night of my birth or if I was even born at night. I was just a baby so I have no clear memories of the event. I’m not even sure I should start at the beginning. So let’s begin again.
I’m special. Well, as special as a person can be in a world populated by people, each one thinking he or she is special. Of course, if we’re all special, then special isn’t really special. It’s ordinary. It is the normal order of things. But I’m the Abby Normal of ordinary though my name isn’t Abby.
I wish it was Abby. Christ! I got stuck with an awful name. I swear to God, if there is one, that if I ever have children I will not stick them with some cutesy or super esoteric or just plain fucking weird name. And the lovely name that was bestowed on me? Thumbelina. What the fuck? Who names a kid Thumbelina? What the hell is a Thumbelina? I loathed my name. I shortened it to Tina. However, there was always that one teacher who insisted on calling every child by his or her proper name, no nicknames allowed. And of course, the first day of school each year my embarrassing name would be called out and I would have to acknowledge it and then say, “But I just go by Tina.” Then the more compassionate teachers would make a note on their rosters but the damage was done. The more obnoxious poets among my class liked to chant “Tiny Tina, Thumbelina” whenever I happened by.
Of course, even without the embarrassing weird name, I still would have been teased because of the tiny thing. Just as it’s not easy being green, it’s not easy being tiny and tiny is what I am though I’m not green and tiny, just tiny. Though now that I think about it, if green is the color of your species, then how hard can it be to be green? And if tiny is the size of your species, then being tiny wouldn’t be hard either, but tiny is not the size of my species so being tiny is not easy except that it is easy to be overlooked and easy to be treated like a child and easy to be thought of as younger than you really are which will be nice when I get older.
I am a very small person though not dwarf small, and unlike most dwarfs, I am exquisitely proportioned. But if other people didn’t feel compelled to state the obvious by telling me how small I am, I would rarely think about my lack of height unless I needed to get something off the top shelf at the grocery store. Of course, I’m sure one of the functions of the lowest shelf is to serve as a step for those of us who are vertically challenged to reach the stuff we need that is always on the top shelf. And I will admit to always being surprised when I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or some sort of reflective surface standing next to a normal sized person. Honest to God, again, if there is one, I look like a miniature person.
So despite all my name loathing during my formative years living on a farm with my foster mother after being abandoned as an infant with a note pleading for someone to take care of “our little Thumbelina” thus dooming me to a lifetime of name loathing and forever linking me to a shadowy group of people with weird names, my feelings about my name took a somewhat nuanced turn. Translation: I figured out how to cash in.
Upon my successful completion of high school, I knew college was a financial impossibility. I also knew that I did not want to spend the best years of my life waiting on people be it as a waitress or a retail worker. Cubicle life sounded no better. So having no moral compass, or any compass at all, I decided to put my decidedly good looks, flexibility and passion for my passion to good use. I became a tiny stripper and Thumbelina was my tiny stripper name even though that name is not tiny and doesn’t often, or possibly ever, come up in that internet what is your stripper name thing. But I was dancing and dancing made me happy. It also made me money.
Now some people might think stripping is demeaning and they have valid arguments and indeed, I would agree it is demeaning if the stripping is involuntary. However, if stripping is a personal choice, there is power in that choice. And pardon the obvious use of the word, but stripped of its moral questions, at its heart, it is art expressed in a very specific form of dance. The best strippers embrace this. I know I did, and I was one of the best. I even won the International Pole Dance Championship a couple of years ago. Though to be fair, Miss Australia probably would have won if she hadn’t had that embarrassingly awkward slide down the pole. A little lube goes a long way.
You might not think that a strip club would be the best place to meet the love of your life and before it happened to me, I would have agreed with you, but then it happened to me though the actual meeting thing took place in a coffee shop across the street from the club, but that first sighting was in the club. He was part of a bachelor party though not the part that was The Bachelor. He was just one of The Bachelor’s buddies helping The Bachelor celebrate one of his last nights of bachelorhood.
He didn’t look like the usual regulars, but boy, did he look good. He had this tall, dark and handsome bad boy with the scruffy beard thing going on even though he wasn’t particularly tall or dark, but he was definitely handsome. And he had that scruffy beard thing which looks great on a male model, though male might be redundant because no one ever thinks a scruffy beard would look good on a female model, but I’m not typically a fan of the scruffy facial hair decision. It’s not even a decision. It’s a mark of indecision. Make a choice, already. Grow a beard or shave, but damn, it looked good on him.
I could have looked at him all night. I didn’t, because I also wanted my usual haul of tips and it’s not just the dancing that does the trick, you have to make eye contact and smile at everyone to make the most tips. But I did glance his way every now and then, and each time, he was looking at me, but not in the way the usual strip club attendee does. When our eyes would meet, he smiled ever so slightly. It was warm and sweet and it felt like we were the only two people in the room.
After my shift that night, a couple of the other dancers and I headed to the coffee shop for our usual after work confab. We settled in a booth and that’s when I noticed him. He was at the counter and he was alone. I’ve never been a big fan of fate, but fate might be a fan of me, because as fate would have it, Amber’s phone rang.
“Ugh, that was the sitter,” she said as she returned her phone to her handbag. “I’ve got to get home.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“No. Jason has a touch of a fever so I need to get home. See you later, TIna.”
“You going, too?” I asked Nina.
“Yeah, she’s my ride tonight. Good night, TIna.”
“Bye NIna, bye Amber. Hope Jason’s feeling better soon.”
The girls had no sooner walked out the door when the scruffy beard guy appeared at my table.
“Mind if I join you? I’ve never been a fan of eating alone.” His voice was like velvet – soft and smooth. A voice that could be on the radio, maybe a classic rock station or maybe even smooth jazz although much of what smooth jazz stations play isn’t even jazz, it’s more yesterday’s pop and soft rock.
“Um,” I hesitated because it’s usually not a good idea to get involved with customers, but he was good looking and he smelled good, or maybe that was the bacon cooking in the kitchen, but he looked and seemed to smell good enough to eat and I was hungry.
“It’s just a little food and conversation,” he said. And then he smiled.
“Yeah, company would be great.” I smiled back.
He slid into the booth across from me and smiled that smile. “I’m Cooper.”
I wasn’t sure if Cooper was his first name or last name, so I asked. My foster mom always told me I shouldn’t ask too many personal questions too soon, but how else do you find out stuff that you’d be wondering about and all that wondering would keep you from being able to concentrate on the conversation. And I was going to need all the help with concentration because I wasn’t really thinking about having a conversation with him, if you catch my drift.
“It’s my first name. It’s a little unusual but I like it.”
“It’s a great name. I’m..”
“Thumbelina. The tiny dancer.”
“I go by TIna.”
“How’d you come up with Thumbelina for a stage name?”
“It’s my real name. And you thought Cooper was unusual.”
He laughed and his laugh was even better than his smile. “Well, I think Thumbelina is a beautiful name. It rhymes with ballerina and you are an exquisitely beautiful dancer.”
He had me at ‘exquisitely,’ or maybe he had me at ‘mind if I join you.’ It doesn’t really matter when he had me, much like it doesn’t matter when the heart finds love, only that it does and mine did that night. We talked for hours or it seemed that way. At last, we noticed the night was easing into dawn and we made our way to the parking lot. He asked me where I was parked and I pointed to my car.
“I’m right next to you,” he said.
“That’s your bike? It’s gorgeous.” Though I didn’t add ‘just like you,’ but I was thinking it.
“Yeah, you like bikes?”
“I’ve never been on one but it looks like fun.”
“It’s just about the most fun you can have with your clothes on.”
“I always thought that about dancing, but of course, I don’t always keep my clothes on for that.”
He laughed. “Here’s my number. Call me and we’ll go for a ride. And you can keep your clothes on the whole time.”
I smiled at him and climbed in my car. “It was nice meeting you, Cooper.”
“See you soon, tiny dancer.”
A few days later I had my first bike ride. I climbed on the bike behind him and as I wrapped my arms around his waist I said, “I think this is going to be the best part of the ride.”
He laughed. “Not by a long shot. Hang on.”
And off we went. He was partially right. Holding on to him wasn’t the best part, but it wasn’t the best part by a long shot. It was a very close second. The ride was exhilarating. Sitting behind him, looking over his shoulder, the wind in my face was a great feeling. We spent the afternoon on country roads, stopping here and there to admire the scenery or grab a bite to eat.
It was just like one of those Hollywood movie montages the writers employ because they suck at writing dialogue. And it did feel like one of those too good to be true but wouldn’t it be lovely if it could happen to me Hollywood scenarios right up until it turned into a killer zombie movie but without the killer zombies, but Killer Bees instead. But not African killer bees, but the biker gang. I know it sounds like a silly name, but the backs of their jackets have this evil looking killer bee and they used a sinister typeface for the name, so it doesn’t just sound silly, it looks silly, too. But I kept my silly thoughts to myself.
We ran into the Killer Bees at Roady Toadies, a little dive bar on the outskirts of town. Of course, we didn’t know the bikes we saw outside meant there were Killer Bees inside. In fact, Cooper said he recognized one of the bikes as belonging to a friend of his. We walked inside and let our eyes adjust to the light after being in the bright sun. Cooper spotted his friend and we headed over to where he was sitting.
“Jack, this is Thumbelina. Thumbelina, this is my good friend, Jack Sparrow.”
“Like the Johnny Depp character?”
“No,” Jack said. “I had the name first but I like to think he got his character’s inspiration from me.”
Cooper laughed and said, “I think he got the inspiration from Keith Richards.”
I smiled at Jack. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”
“Likewise. Thumbelina, huh? That’s not a name you hear everyday.”
“No, it’s not,” I replied, except that I was hearing it more today then I usually do and right about then, a loud voice behind me bellowed my name again.
“Thumbelina! I’d recognize that ass anywhere even covered in jeans.”
I turned around and there was the biggest Killer Bee I had ever seen. Of course, it was the first Killer Bee I had ever seen so thinking it was the biggest one ever was a big mistake. Behind the loudmouth Killer Bee, were more Killer Bees and they were even bigger than Mr. Bigmouth which was how I was coming to think of him. Mr. Bigmouth didn’t look familiar and I had never seen men attired in Killer Bee attire in the Pussycats club. But he was looking at me, the way hungry men look at a grilled steak.
And before I could reply, Mr. Bigmouth looked around at his buddies and said, “Boys, this is your lucky day. We have a celebrity in our midst. This here itty bitty thing is Thumbelina, stripper extraordinaire!” Then he looked at me and said, “I watch your World Pole Dance routine on YouTube all the time.” He glanced at Cooper and added, “She won the championship a couple of years ago. You know that?”
“No, I didn’t, but I can’t say I’m surprised. She is quite extraordinary.”
If I hadn’t already fallen in love with Cooper, I would have right then especially since he didn’t know about how Miss Australia should have won except for that embarrassing slip or in her case, slide down the pole.
But Mr. Bigmouth wasn’t done. “Why don’t you dance for us Thumbelina? Just climb right up on the bar and show us what you got.”
“You can see me dance at Pussycats,” I replied in an even tone.
“I want to see you dance right now!”
Cooper stepped between us, “Leave the lady alone.”
“She ain’t no lady.”
And then Cooper slugged Mr. Bigmouth.
“I’m not a fan of double negatives either, but I usually refrain from hitting the illiterate,” I said to him.
“I would have slugged him even if he was grammatically correct. No one gets away with saying you’re not a lady.”
But before we could congratulate ourselves on just how clever our repartee was becoming, all hell broke loose. It was the three of us, okay two of us because I’m not much good in a fight and I’m really tiny, against all those Killer Bees. Fists were flying, glass was breaking and I was ducking. I could feel strong arms around me pulling me backwards and then everything went dark.
I wasn’t unconscious, just locked in a closet. I banged on the door, but I guess Cooper couldn’t hear me over all the noise of the fight and last I saw, he and Jack seemed to be on the losing end. After what seemed like an hour but was probably much shorter because everything seems to take longer when you’re locked inside a closet, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. My heart stopped, but not because I got shot but because I was afraid of who might have. I could hear voices but I couldn’t make out what was being said or who was talking. Then it got quiet again, so I started banging on the door and screaming to be let out.
The door opened and a rather mousey looking woman was standing there.
“It’s all right, dear. Toadie put you in there. He thought you’d be safer in there.” She smiled at me and there was kindness in her eyes.
“Toadie is a real person?” I couldn’t believe how many people had parents that made such bad choices when naming their kids.
The mousey woman laughed. “Oh, he’s real all right, but Toadie is a nick name he picked up when he was a roadie for Z Z Top back in the day. I’m Mrs. Fields, Toadie’s mother. I help out in the kitchen.”
I refrained from asking her for a chocolate chip cookie and instead asked about my friends.
“Well, they’re a little banged up, but no permanent damage. Come and see for yourself.”
She led me through the kitchen and into the bar. I spotted Toadie right away because he looked like a toad, kind of like how that senator looks like a turtle. Toadie was holding a shotgun but when he saw me, he smiled and said, “Sorry to stick you in the closet like that, but a bar fight is no place for such a pretty little lady.”
“No worries, Toadie. Thanks for looking out for me.” I was looking around for Cooper and Jack. “Where are my friends?”
“They’re in the john cleaning themselves up. Those Killer Bees did a number on them, but as badass as they think they are when you point a shotgun in their general direction and let it discharge, they run away like little girls.”
I laughed. Then I heard a noise behind me.
“She does have an incredible ass, Coop.”
I turned around and flew into Cooper’s arms. “Everything about her is incredible,” Cooper replied.
“I think I’m in love,” I sighed.
He smiled at me, “I know I am.”
Jack said his goodbyes and left the bar. Cooper looked at me, “Ready to ride off into the sunset to that happily ever after place?”
“I’ve always wanted to do that. Especially if that place has a bed big enough for two.”
He held my hand as we walked out of the bar. We climbed on his bike and he looked back at me.
“Too bad it’s midnight,” he said.
“Midnight will do.”
Oh it’s so good to be here, or anywhere for that matter. And thank you for celebrating Earth Day. It’s a small step towards saving my beautiful creation. So many people are so fucking oblivious to what is happening to this magnificent planet it boggles the mind, so thank you for the opportunity to shed a bit of light.
It’s been an unusually warm winter here in the United States. What do you attribute that to?
Well, I certainly had nothing to do with it despite what Zeus may have told you. He tried to tell me I was just having a primordial hot flash, but he’s almost as stupid about these things as most of the people on the planet. You people need to get your heads out of your collective asses and get a fucking clue. Do you think that over a century of burning coal and gas while at the same time cutting down my beautiful trees on a massive scale is having no effect on the atmosphere? If you don’t get your act together soon, the Earth is going to resemble Venus.
The world’s population is about to reach seven billion people. How has this affected Earth as you see it?
It’s making it damn hard for me to see the Earth. You know, almost all of the world’s problems can be attributed to one thing – too many people. When birth control was invented I thought you’d at least have the good sense to use it. But noooo. And now, people are a planetary problem. At least most of you seem to congregate in the same areas so there are still a few pristine places where you can experience this beautiful planet in all its glory.
You have quite the following among the New Age Hippie crowd. Which do you prefer as worshipers; the Hippies or the Greeks?
Ahhh, the Greeks – the wine, the debauchery, the bacchanalia – I love me a good bacchanalia. But then the Hippies, and not just the new age Hippies, but the old age ones, too, are all about peace and love and sex and getting high and hugging trees and the music. Yes, I think the music tips the scale in their favor.
I’ve done some research and discovered that you have over twenty children. Which one is your favorite?
I think it was way more than twenty but I lost count of the little bastards long ago. I know most mothers don’t refer to their offspring as little bastards but I never married any of their fathers, so they were all technically bastards. Now I’m not going to give you the standard mommy lie of ‘I don’t have a favorite, I love them all the same,’ because that is such a crock of shit. Of course, every mother has a favorite, it’s just that some mothers are better at hiding it than others. I simply adored Phoebe but Aergia was a huge disappointment.
Which God was the best in the sack?
Ahhh, I had some wild times with Uranus. There was nothing that guy wouldn’t do. And I mean NOTHING. It was SO hot! But he got a little mean in his old age so I got the kids to kill him. Pontus was so much fun, too. We would do some role playing, the pirate scenario was my favorite – always a hoot. Zeus had a huge ego, but sadly his manly parts weren’t so big.
How does it feel to be the original MILF?
Fucking fantastic! Though I prefer GILF or Goddess I’d Like to Fuck. There is fucking power in being so fuckable. Every woman deserves to feel like this. I think that’s what all those poser Wicca chicks are trying to achieve by invoking my name and dancing naked under the full moon.
What does Earth’s future hold for mankind?
I think you have that question backwards. It’s more a case of what does mankind’s future hold for the Earth. If you stay on your current path, the Earth is doomed. Earth is the only fucking planet you have. It is a glorious planet full of beauty and wonder. It can feed you and sustain you. All she asks in return is that you take care of her and nurture her. So get a fucking clue. Recycle, reuse, embrace sustainable farming, find viable sustainable energy, clean up the place. Tread lightly on the Earth and every now and then hug a tree.
CLICK THE RED BUTTON FOR PAST HOLIDAY ICON INTERVIEWS!!!
HE: “Hello Loki. Thank you for taking time out of your busy day to speak with me and my readers.”
HE: “Uh, that’s it? ‘Hi?’”
LOKI: “Well, I’ve got a lot on my plate. You do realize what day this is, right? Nice fucking time management there, Chickie.”
HE: *looking at the calendar* “Well, since it’s April Fool’s Day I am going to assume you are joking.”
LOKI: “You would think so, wouldn’t you?”
HE: “I am guessing that April Fool’s Day is the busiest day of the year for you.”
LOKI: “No, that’d be Valentine’s Day. People say a lot of shit they don’t mean which makes for a lot of lies to distribute. Especially to the men folk.”
HE: “That’s just sad.”
LOKI: “I’ll tell you what’s sad, having a God like Odin as your step-father. Growing up I never did anything right.”
HE: “On that note, tell us about your childhood.”
LOKI: “What’s there to tell? I was always in trouble since my dickhead brother Thor is a cock-blocking douchebag. I got him back good by convincing Odin that his perfect son wasn’t worthy of living in Asgard so he kicked him out. Now I got the big bedroom.”
HE: “Holy crap! How did you manage that?”
LOKI: “Let’s just say I hid some of our Mother’s more “intimate apparel” in his sock drawer. You do the math.”
HE: “It seems pranking and lying started at an early age. Have any of your lies ever backfired on you?”
LOKI: *laughs maniacally* “No, but the truth sure has.”
HE: “Alright, you’ve GOT to elaborate on that.”
LOKI: “Well, my mouth gets me into trouble, you see. One Thanksgiving I got ripped on Jager and told my whole family off, including my two ex-wives. Every word I spoke was the truth, but it didn’t change the fact I had to transform into a fish and hide in a river to get away from them. Shoulda just stuck to lying.”
HE: “You are known world wide for your practical jokes and pranks. Which prank do you consider your masterpiece?”
LOKI: “Pranks change with the times. I had a blast fucking with the Druids by stacking a bunch of rocks for no reason and then there were those IT virgins who blew their wads worrying about Y2K. That one was a double bonus because it also got the Military’s panties in a bunch sweating random nuclear missile launches. But I’d have to say that the best has yet to come.”
HE: “Come on, give us a hint.”
LOKI: “Uh…I’ll just say to keep a watch out for December 21, 2012.”
HE: “Are all the pranks you do so grand or do you work on a more personal level with the public?”
LOKI: “At times I like to dabble in the everyday, like when one sock goes missing or when you ‘accidently’ hit Reply All on that email where you trash your boss. But remember, I still have to make a living. Right now I am the major shareholder in Pfizer, a pharmaceutical company that manufactures a little, blue pill.”
HE: “Are there any pranks you regret?”
LOKI: “Non-Alcoholic beer and Star Trek. Never thought anyone would take that shit seriously.”
HE: “What is the one thing you would like the world to know about Loki?”
LOKI: “That I am everywhere. I am a shape shifter, after all. That woman you meet in the bar that is too good to be true? She probably is. Just sayin’.”
Return April 7th for our exclusive interview with The Easter Bunny!!!
Determined to get an interview with this elusive holiday icon, I cornered him in his underground den and discovered something I’d not expected. I open today’s interview with the question that should have been asked ages ago:
HE: Say…you aren’t really a bunny, are you?
EB: Well Maybe it is time to come clean, if you wanna call me a Bunny go ahead but being a Bunny is not very useful when you deliver eggs is it! I am a Wallaby, you see, I can put all the eggs in my pouch and then I don’t have to go back and forth with my basket. I am all about convenience, you know what I mean.
HE: What made you decide to color and hide eggs?
EB: Shots. In my College years (I did not do much studying) my friends and I enjoyed colorful shots. So I now pick colors by having a shot, coloring an egg, different coloured shot, and different colored eggs. The hiding part is a long story about my friend and his … well it’s a long story.
HE: How do you feel about children eating chocolate likenesses of you?
EB: As we have just been through, I am not a Bunny, never will be because it will never be practical! So the Kiddywinks can eat as many chocolate bunnies as they please.
HE: How do you feel about sharing a holiday with Jesus?
EB: My mum once told me that story, I did not really understand it, and I mean it’s a bit gloomy for a Holiday all about the Kids, you know? Plus to me, chocolate crosses would be awful to make and color, all that blood and gore is for Halloween, not my holiday.
HE: Is there more than one Easter Bunny?
HE: Did you want to be an Easter Bunny when you were a kid…uh, a joey?
EB: No, as I have said I went to College, I just didn’t do well, this was my fall back, I wanted to be a Football Mascot but I do not think there is much call for a Wallaby, maybe if I was a Dolphin or A Ram! I mean have you ever heard of a Wallaby before today?! Do you even know what I look like?!
HE: What do you do when you aren’t hiding eggs?
EB: Nothing, I drink, I try and think of new ideas for next year but with 5 joeys at home and one on the way, thinking does not happen a lot.
Thank you, Easter Bun–Wallaby, for this timely and insightful interview. Return April 22nd as we celebrate Earth Day with none other that Gaia herself!
In honor of Presidents’ Day I took a trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota for an interview with Mount Rushmore Presidents Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln for a feature I’m calling “Inaugural SPaM.” While I hoped to get a glimpse into four of the greatest minds of history, what I actually got was…well, I’ll let you read for yourself.
H.E.: WHAT DO YOU THINK IS THE MOST SIGNIFICANT CHANGE IN POLITICS SINCE THE FOUNDATION OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA?
WASHINGTON: “Well I’d have to say that the principles of–”
JEFFERSON: “Why do you always have to answer first? Maybe one of us wants to say something insightful for a change.”
LINCOLN: “Now, now Thomas. George was merely stating–”
JEFFERSON: “Stuff it, Beardy. No one cares what you think.”
ROOSEVELT: “Whoa, hold your horses there, Jeffy.”
JEFFERSON: “I told you not to call me Jeffy!”
ROOSEVELT: “Alright, alright now just settle down. Go on and let Washington here answer and then you can speak your mind, Jeff-uh…son.”
WASHINGTON: “No, no. I’d like to hear what he has to say. Please Thomas, continue. Enlighten us with your timely opinion.”
JEFFERSON: “Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I bet you’d just loooove for me to say something so you can take all the credit. You thought I didn’t hear what you said to Franklin in the library, did you? Need someone to draft the Declaration of Independence? Sure, give it to Jefferson. He’ll write anything. I’ve yet to see a royalty check on that by the way.”
WASHINGTON: “We’ve been over this. We thought you understood that it was for the greater good.”
JEFFERSON: “The greater good of what?”
LINCOLN: “The good of the country, Thomas.”
JEFFERSON: “Easy for you to say. You and Baldy here get your birthdays’ remembered. What do Teddy and I get? Bupkiss, that’s what.”
WASHINGTON: “Not THAT again.”
ROOSEVELT: “Now, now; he’s got a point, George.”
JEFFERSON: “Damn straight I’ve got a point. Look at that crowd of people down there. They’re here because it’s Presidents’ Day. PRES-I-DENTS’ DAY. MY birthday is in April. Where’s the greater good in that?”
LINCOLN: “When to celebrate Presidents’ Day was not a decision made by George or I. We can hardly be held accountable for-”
JEFFERSON: “Figures you’d side with Washington. I think you secretly love him.”
WASHINGTON: “Now you’re being ridiculous.”
JEFFERSON: “Oh yeah? Then why does he stare at you all the time?”
LINCOLN: “I don’t know what you’re taking about.”
WASHINGTON: “I think you’ve gone off topic, here.”
JEFFERSON: Here’s a topic for you, George old boy. Of the four of us which one participated in the framing of the Constitution? Huh? What’s that? Oh right, it was ME. I find it highly ironic that I helped draft laws affording freedoms to include celebrating holidays and yet no one recognizes my birthday.”
WASHINGTON: “What the hell’s your problem, Jefferson? You don’t hear Roosevelt complaining.”
ROOSEVELT: “Well now, like I said before, ole Jeff here’s got a point. I’d like to see all our days honored, quite frankly. I know I wouldn’t mind seeing a few female citizens admiring us from below in tank tops come April. Am I right, Abe?”
JEFFERSON: “What are you asking HIM for?”
LINCOLN: “What’s THAT supposed to mean?”
JEFFERSON: “Oh I think you know what that means.”
LINCOLN: “I’ll have you know that I was married for–”
JEFFERSON: “Doesn’t matter. I’ve seen your wife.”
JEFFERSON: “And can you say HAG?”
H.E.: ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! THAT’S ENOUGH! I’LL SKIP TO MY LAST QUESTION WHICH IS THIS: WHAT DO EACH OF YOU THINK OF THE IDEA OF PRESIDENT OBAMA BEING ADDED TO YOUR SCULPTURE?
IN UNISON: “No comment.”
Like every good middle child, Junior was beyond not happy when he found out that I wrote a post about his brother, Prince Charming and not him. Not wanting to tempt fate with another phone call from his school as a result of his attention seeking behavior, I promised Junior I’d write a post about him today. Yeah, easier said than done.
First, he insisted there be pictures because as he puts it he’s, “dead sexy.” The problem is I can never keep the boy in clothes (he’d be naked 24/7 if I let him), so pictures of him are hard to come by. I decided to include these pictures from when he was nine years-old as they do a great job of summing up the first half of Junior’s personality, which is an all encompassing love of music.
Now, onto the second half. It would take all day to list every consequence of his thrill seeking, sometimes oppositional, always comedic personality. So I think the best way to sum up Junior’s second half is to list every creature that has ever bitten, pinched, snapped or stung him (I left off obvious ones like black flies or mosquitos).
Wasps, yellow jackets, hornets, etc.
Scorpions (small Florida scorpions, not the big evil ones)
Fire ants (fell into a pile of them. It was awful).
Grub (I think. He was digging in the dirt and pulled this small, white circular thing off his finger. It bled like crazy).
Gila Monster (needed shots for this one)
Non-venomous snakes (not sure what kind. It was a friend’s pet)
Baby snapping turtle
Crayfish (crawdads, mudbugs, etc).
Shark (not a great white but a Florida sand shark. It left a small, dog sized/shark mouth shaped bite on his foot. He hates that the scar faded).
Horseshoe crab (stepped on its barbed tail).
Sea Gull (tried to rescue it and it snapped).
Barracuda (caught it fishing, stuck his finger in its mouth on a dare).
* If you ask him he’ll tell you that this was the one that hurt the most. Miraculously lifeguards identified it as a Portuguese Man-O-War and not a jellyfish, because first aid differs greatly between the two.
Luckily he’s never been bitten by simple things like bats, chipmunks or squirrels since a bite from one of them requires rabies shots. I’m sure there’s more, but this is all I can think of at the moment. He’s also been impaled on bicycle handlebars, but reckless teenage injuries are a post for another day.
In keeping with the month-old tradition of holiday icon interviews I am pleased to bring you a sit down with the original weatherman himself. Today we dig deeper into the mind and home of none other than…The Groundhog.
Good morning…uh, what should I call you? Groundhog seems so formal.
*snicker* “I’ve been called a hog before, but only when I’m slow on the pass, heh. My World of Warcraft toon (character name) is ‘PudgyBits.’”
Alright…Pudgy Bits. I see you have internet access in your, uh…hole?
“The ladies call it my “Love Shack” but I call it home. Yeah, it’s a sweet set-up I’ve got here. Totally juiced. Lots of space, fridge full of Hot Pockets. Everything paid for by the Man.”
What is it the “Man” pays you to do, exactly?
“Exactly? Exactly once a year I climb out my hole, look around, do a little dance for the paparazzi, take a photo op with a Kardashian, you know the drill. It’s a good gig.”
So tell me, how does one become an official Groundhog?
“All groundhogs became official groundhogs once we won the contract from the Honey Badger Union because they, well, you know…just didn’t care. They’re crazy if you ask me. Lots of fringe benefits to this gig. I’m not afraid to say I’ve made a bit of cash on the side for selling…uh, local herbs.”
You aren’t suggesting….
“Suggesting what? That the government won’t let a groundhog earn a decent wage? It’s a conspiracy, man! What else am I supposed to do to supplement my income? Wear a tie like some corporate lemming? God put herbs here on earth for me. The Man can’t outlaw nature.”
Speaking of laws; are the rumors true that you allegedly received monies from a Mississippi Senator to drive up tourism from the north by falsely claiming six more weeks of winter?
“Wait…Sena-what? Is that who that dude was? Geez man, I don’t know. The dude was talking all weird and shit, like Deputy Dawg. Heh heh. You ever see that show? Funny as hell. One time me and my buddy Irish got totally baked and watched…wait, what were we talking about?”
Accusations of taking a bribe to throw Groundhog Day.
“Oh riiiight...yeah, I don’t remember much about that day. There was some kind of fungus growing on the grass that messed me up good. Saw my shadow everywhere…”
Alright, what does a groundhog do for the remaining 364 days of the year?
“You’re lookin’ at it man…uh, lady. I chill in my “lair” and get my WoW on. I just got my level 72 Death knight’s frost spec up to 32 so I can use howling blast and pown PVP kids. That way I can raise my conquest points and buy my 347 B.O.A. gear. Whoa, did I just say that?”
Ok…I can’t believe I’m going to ask this but…is there a “lady” groundhog in your life?
“Oh no. I’m not making that mistake again. Last female I met online tried to eat me. Literally. I’m working on a restraining order as we speak, so yeah, look around. I’m staying right here.”
*in bursts female honey badger, irate and charging* “OH HEEEELLL NAH-O! WHO IS THIS BITCH??”
*Groundhog jumps back, waving paws wildly* “WAIT! SHE’S NOT–”
*Honey badger shoves him aside and then turns toward me* “Oh I know she’s not. Skinny little female needs to step away from my man. That’s MY hog, BITCH!” *spins back around to groundhog* “And where the hell is my money?? You best get to rollin’ some clover before I eat your ass. I’ll roll ya and smoke ya myself. I’m a Honey Badger, fool. I don’t give a shit.”
*while she is distracted I scramble out of the hole.*
FOR MORE GROUNDHOG GOODNESS, VISIT POLYSYLLABIC PROFUNDITIES!
WANT MORE INTERVIEWS? PICK UP A COPY OF ICONIC INTERVIEWS TO BENENFIT LIBSTRONG!
Yes, you are correct, it is my birthday. I know this to be true because I follow Edward Hotspur’s blog and El Guapo’s blog and Ginger’s blog and Sandy’s blog (as well as kind email wishes from Trask Avenue, LeClown, and many a sweet comment from my good friends John E. and PMAO). All better blogs than mine, because quite honestly I completely forgot it was my birthday until I read them. Wait…more to the truth I forgot again that it was my birthday since my kick-arse British friend Megan wished me a Happy Birthday the night before (suck it, HR and Elias. She beat you to it).
It’s been through these good people that I’ve made even more friends today, and perhaps have even sold a book or two. That being said, I am not sure mere words can describe what all your birthday wishes mean to me. Without knowing me personally, you may not understand what a Dickensian upbringing I had, and how kind words and well wishes I never received as a child mean the world to me now. You have all become my family, and I am grateful for each and every one of you. Thank you for sharing my day.
I’m sure I’ve mentioned somewhere in previous posts that I’m a New Englander, but unless you’re from here you can’t really comprehend the significance of that statement. New Englanders wear their citizenship like a badge of honor, defining ourselves not by our individual states but by our geographical region, much the same way someone from Scotland or Ireland would define themselves by their family, or clan.
So to help all of you southern, inland and west coasters out there understand the Clan New England, I’m going to break it down with a metaphorical example. Imagine a Thanksgiving day dinner table, and at one end you have:
This is grandpa. He doesn’t do or say much, and he’s been around so long you almost forget he’s there. Oh, and he doesn’t have teeth. Next to him is:
This is the oldest son, the one who went off all gung-ho to Vietnam and came back disillusioned and pissed. He rides a Harley and defends his right to not pay taxes. He’ll school you on the history of any firearm known to man, whether you ask him to or not. When he’s not at Laconia for bike week he’s at a Knights of Columbus meeting. He earns his money either by being a trucker, mechanic or working construction. And his wife is Asian. Always. Next to him is:
No one gets under New Hampshire’s tough leather skin quite like Vermont. Part hippie poser, part Phish fan, all organic NPR listening Vermont. He’s college educated, usually earning a degree in either history or philosophy, which makes him an expert on EVERYTHING. He’ll chastise you for driving anything other than a Prius and is forever preaching the evils of pop culture. The only reason he owns a television is to watch PBS, and he’s married to a girl from:
The oldest daughter of a respectable family, make no mistake she is Vassar bound. When she’s not out shopping for argyle socks she’s sticking a finger down her throat or sneaking out to heavy metal concerts to bang tattooed pretty boys on motorcycles. I’m guessing. Next to her is:
He’s the red-headed step child; New England’s own version of Oliver from the Brady Bunch. Our own personal small ball of “why?” And that leads us to the twins. I say twins because this next state is geographically bipolar. Divided by the city of Worcester (pronounced WOOS-tuh), their personalities are as oppositional as any two children could ever be. And that state is:
The child west of Worcester is the girl twin. She’s well-adjusted and lacking in any definable accent. She knows what she wants and that is to GET THE HELL OUT OF NEW ENGLAND. The twin east of Worcester is the boy twin, the one who calls you at 2 a.m. to come bail him out of jail because he:
A. Gave a Yankees fan a beat down.
B. Defended his position that Manhattan clam chowder is, by definition, not a chowder.
C. Beat someone who said something disparaging about Aerosmith or Godsmack or Denis Leary.
He’s the guy who doesn’t actually live anywhere; he just floats from couch to couch to couch. He borrows your car without your permission, drinks all your beer and steals your stuff. And even though you know he’s going to sleep with your girlfriend you let him in your house anyway because he’s just so damned awesome.
Just like any family we fight and spat amongst ourselves, but heaven help the punk who steps to one of us, because then he steps to all of us. Whitey Bulger wouldn’t be Whitey Bulger if he were from the midwest. Well, maybe Kansas. That place is like the friggin’ Twilight Zone. So the next time you cross the border into New England, roll down your windows and listen carefully; you just might hear our siren song:
For those of you who just can’t get enough of the holiday spirit, consider purchasing the collaborative blogger eBook:
ICONIC INTERVIEWS - The world’s most beloved holiday icons presented in a collection of irreverent interviews that take on the backstory of their imagined existences.
Your favorite bloggers are interviewed as iconic holiday characters, each one zanier than the next. All proceeds from the purchase of this book are donated to the bloggers collective project known as Wrists Around The World. For a free copy of this eBook as well as additional works from H.E. Ellis visit: www.wristsaroundtheworld.com
AVAILABLE IN EBOOK FORMAT THROUGH SMASHWORDS
AVAILABLE IN EBOOK FORMAT THROUGH AMAZON
AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK THROUGH AMAZON
I’D LIKE TO THANK THE FOLLOWING BLOGGERS FOR THEIR GENEROUS CONTRIBUTION:
BrainRants as Santa Claus, Mrs. Claus and Lipschitz the Elf
THANK YOU ALL AND MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Well, blogworld, your faithful Hellis here. We’re coming up on one of my very favorite times of the year. I do truly love Christmas. However, many of my readers might be shocked to learn just how totally-
[Insert News Flash Music][Insert the Attention-Grabbing Alert screen]
(Scene cuts in to our Anchorman, Pennis Stone)
Stone: (perfect, jet black feathered hair and smoldering brown eyes) Ladies and Gentlemen, this just in! North Pole News SkyCam Reporter Chip Swizzle is live with us right now! Apparently Chip has spotted – all on his eagle-eyed own – the notorious red Impala reported to be connected with multiple escaped Santa sightings. Chip, what can you tell us?
[Visual with helicopter noise: red Impala with two passengers, one in a Santa suit, one a woman in a gown]
Chip: Thanks, Dick! Yeah, we’re here just outside the North Pole capital and spotted what we believe is the fugitive Santa Claus, wanted on multiple drug, prostitution, and a smorgasbord of Federal Code violations related to shady business practices and money laundering. I’m told police are on the way now, and … yes, yes, here they come. Our pilot is going to try and fly lower…
Stone: Heh heh, that’s Pennis, Chip! (winks at camera) Can you describe what you believe the fugitives are doing? I see what looks like a man in a Santa suit and a woman. What do you make of it, Chip?
[Shaky aerial visual continues, red hat twirls out over the rear of Impala. Picture tightens, and a white-haired fat man rocks out with a woman face-down in his lap]
Chip: Holy moly! I’m not sure what they’re doing down there, but the police are catching up fas… oh wait, two just skidded off the road in the snow. Anyway, we’re still holding station.
Stone: Chip, it looks like the same thing going on right here under the anchor desk. How close are the police now?
[Continued aerial shot of car, woman now sitting up, face in hand as fat man attempts to run cop off road Hazzard-style]
Chip: Dick, it looks like a struggle down there, and I can’t tell for certain but the woman appears to be Gloria Allred… oh, man! Santa just rammed one cop off the road! And there’s two up the road making a road block! Are you getting this, man?
Stone: (irritated): We’re getting it fine, Swizzle stick. This looks like the fugitive Claus is done running. Swizzle, anything new developing?
[Wide-angle view, red Impala speeding toward two cop cars with lights going]
Chip: Yeah, Dick, you may be correct. Santa doesn’t appear to be doing any evasive moves, and looks like he’s on a cell phone. That’ll be another charge against hi… OH HOLY BEJEEZUS!
[Scene jolted wildly out of kilter, sleigh briefly visible in skewed picture, rumbling of afterburners]
Stone: What’s going on, Swizzle? Talk to us?
[Scene shows Santa sleigh with a burly man in a kilt, a Thai hooker and two black-cloaked passengers swooping down toward the Impala]
Chip: Holy Klingon battle cruisers! We were just nearly blown out of the sky by what looks like a sleigh pulled by reindeer… and … I might need to lay off the rock, but I’d swear there’s a guy with a sword in a kilt and a Thai hooker in his lap… and .. wait… what is this? Halloween on Christmas? I’d swear the two people in back are both dressed as the Grim Reaper.
Stone: Ha! Yeah, Swizz, you need to cut out that smack. What’s developing now?
[Scene now stable, showing the sleigh crossing above the Impala while the two Reapers reach down to pull Santa clear, Allred taking the wheel and snapping a u-ey, and the sleigh rocketing out of sight][sonic boom sound]
Chip: Noooo waaaay! That was totally bitchen!
Stone: Chip! Did Santa just escape?
Chip: (deep inhaling sound)
Stone: Chip? Chip!
WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BLOG…
…and so, after all that heartfelt revelation on my true feelings for Christmas, I wish all of you and yours a truly merry one! (Thanks for the tunes, Frank!)
Just in time for the holiday season comes the latest installment of our F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES courtesy of the one and only Sparklebumps!
The Emperor’s New Clothes (otherwise entitled A Woman Scorned)
Once upon a time, there lived a very beautiful boy who longed to be king and live in great finery. This would have been all well and good, except for the fact that he was the bastard son of a peasant, and there were no chances for boys such as him. So he grew up always looking in shop windows and coveting the fine silks and satins that were displayed in them.
One day, the boy (who was becoming a young man by this time) was hauling cow dung to the nudey community on the other side of the village, and as he passed the shop window, he looked inside. This time, instead of wishing for the fabulous duds inside, he spied the shopkeeper’s daughter, who was also very beautiful, and fell instantly in love with her because she produced in his pants the same reaction that fine fabric did.
He entered the shop, went right up to the gorgeous girl, and planted a kiss on her berry-colored lips. At first, she was taken aback by the force of his passion (and the fact that he wore d’odour du cow shit)but then she realized what an amazing kisser he was and her knees became weak with want. She kissed him back, and when they were both breathless, she took his hand and led him to the back room of the shop. The young man looked around and saw that he was surrounded by garments of the chicest style and materials. He was so overcome with desire, from the kissing and the clothing both, that he prematurely ejaculated.
“Aaaaahhhhhrrrrgggh,” He groaned as he shivered with pleasure. The shopkeeper’s daughter looked at him curiously.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” She held out her hand to steady the man.
“Um…er. It’s nothing. I just find you so sexy, and I have a passion for fashion, so I’m just overwhelmed.” He flushed bright red and his eyes darted nervously around, as he hoped she wouldn’t notice the wet stain on his pants. Her touch was already making him hard again, so she hadn’t noticed his deflated… ahem, ego. He pressed his body against her once more, and gripped her buttocks so firmly that she cried out, and responded by loosening the ties on his breeches.
They proceeded to fuck each other senseless throughout the night, and the girl only wondered about the wet spot on the man’s pants for a moment before drifting off into a perfectly-sated, sexy-dream filled sleep.
As the sun rose, the gorgeous boy awoke with a start and realized he had never delivered the shit to the nudey community.
He jumped up, and ran out of the shop, to where his wheelbarrow of crap sat, undisturbed. He hurried on his way, never once letting the girl he’s just de-virginized know where he was going, or if he’d be back.
On the way to the nudey community, the boy passed a grand procession, and as he maneuvered his shit out of the way, the Empress inside one of the wagons admired his beauty, and also his ass. She stopped the procession with a slight snap of her fingers,and whispered something to her head man.
“Hey, you! Pretty boy! Stop right there!” The man cried out in authority.
The boy froze, certain he was about to be beheaded for offending royalty with the stench of his cow dung, and turned slowly to face the wagons. He was too afraid to speak.
“The Empress is pleased by you. Come forward.” The boy stepped gingerly toward the ornate carriage, but stopped when he heard a voice like the tinkling of bells.
“Do you long for power? Wealth and finery? Do you dream of having loyal subjects to do your bidding?”
The boy’s jaw dropped, for these were the very things he daydreamed about.
“Yes!” He said vehemently.
There was a giggle, adn then the curtain was drawn back on the wagon and the lovely exotic face of the Empress appeared.
“And what would you do, my sweet boy, to gain all of these things? Would you be willing to be tied up and allow me to paddle that beautiful bottom of yours til it’s pink and sore? Would you allow my teeth to graze your nipples and your innocent member without promise of your own release?” She raised an eyebrow.
The boy contemplated an S and M relationship with an Empress, and couldn’t see any bad angles of the arrangement, so he responded with a confidence he didn’t necessarily possess.
“My queen, my all, I would allow even the largest of your strap-on dildos to invade my anal crevice if you could make me powerful and wealthy.”
The Empress grinned broadly, for she had every intention of doing that very thing to her next submissive. With only a look, the boy was shepherded into the carriage, and the Empress wasted no time in beginning her training. The boy was shackled to the roof of the wagon, and he watched his wheelbarrow of crap and the shopkeeper’s daughter fade into the distance as the Empress sucked furiously on his cock.
The boy did so well as a submissive, that when the Empress died, she bequeathed to him the whole kingdom, and he became so obsessed with fashion that he would spare no expense to obtain every style that arose.
Because the boy was so beautiful, and so obsessed with his wardrobe, he would spend every moment in his dressing room admiring himself in front of many mirrors, front and back. While in most kingdoms, when someone would ask where the Emperor was, the normal response was, “He is in his statesroom.”, in this kingdom, the servants would say, “He is in his dressing room.” The Emperor was so self-obsessed that he would host fashion week, and insisted on modeling all the newest fashions himself. Masses of horny women and gay men would flock to the kingdom to admire the fine Emperor and his fabulous duds.
Our story truly begins as the Emperor searches high and low for the most daring and creative of clothing designers to feature at fashion week. He shook his head ruefully when his servants suggested such designers as Betsey Johnson and Alexander McQueen. He wanted someone who would shock the masses and make them insanely jealous of his frocks. His servants whispered amongst themselves while the Emperor racked his brain.
“What are you idiots muttering about? Do you realize that fashion week approaches , and I haven’t one designer who’s designs make my prick hard? What are we to do?” The emperor raged.
One brave lad stepped forward. “My lord, there is one who may be just the designer you seek, though there are stories that all who hire her are susceptible to her spell. She has left a string of broken-hearted royalty across many lands.”
“Pshaw,” the Emperor scoffed. “You needn’t be concerned on that front. Do you not know by now that my desire is only for fashion? I think not even a magical pussy would cause my manhood to rise. Find this fabled designer, and bring her to me.”
The servants scurried like mice in every direction then, embarrassed for the Emperor and the fact that no woman could get it up for him.
An envoy was sent out to find the talked of designer, and returned with her in no time.
Now this designer, when presented to the Emperor, DID in fact create a reaction in his pants when he gazed upon her. He found her oddly familiar, yet couldn’t recall where he had seen her before. Years of being tied up and spanked by the Empress had made him forget his first sexual encounter- that with the shopkeeper’s daughter. If he had remembered this, he would have realized she and this lovely designer were one in the same.
After she had been de-virginized and left alone, the shopkeeper’s daughter vowed to shame the boy who had popped her cherry just as he had shamed her. She worked day and night, becoming a well-respected maker of high fashion, fueling her designs with the rage she felt at being abandoned that day.
Her hard work was about to pay off, because she saw that the emperor did not recognize her. She gave him a flirtatious smile and bowed graciously. The Emperor beckoned to her, and insisted at once that she show him her latest designs.
The woman tilted her head and spoke.
“Dear Emperor, I have no designs to show you, for the collection I’ve been working on is very magical indeed. It must be made of the finest cloth, from the richest silk worms in the world. And it must be encrusted with the most shining of gemstones. But once the design is woven, it can only be seen by the man that is worthy of the position he holds. If he cannot see it, it proves that he is indeed an unworthy fool, and must be fired.”
Now any unfoolish person would know that this story sounded like complete poppycock, but the Emperor was so vain that he could not distinguish truth from a lie. So he sent his men to the furthest reaches of the land to procure the finest silks and clearest gemstones to provide the designer with. Upon receiving the goods, the designer would secretly tuck everything into her trunks to save for her real collection, and then she would set to work on her sewing machine without a stitch of thread strung though it. The Emperor’s servants saw her working on the clothes that weren’t there, and became distraught at the idea that they were fools unworthy of their station, and so remained silent.They murmured amongst themselves, until the whole kingdom was murmuring about the invisible clothes. The emperor was so impatient after hearing the rumors, that he insisted on checking out the clothes immediately.
When he entered the sewing chamber, the designer smiled delightfully, so that the Emperor’s manhood grew quite hard.
“Have you come for a fitting, my lord?” She asked innocently.
“Ahem… er, ah, yes. I’m ready to see the fine designs.” The Emperor began to grow nervous, because he was seeing no clothing to try on, and was a bit afraid the servants would notice his raging boner if they couldn’t see the clothing either.
“Here.” The Designer pretended to hold out a piece of clothing, when in actuality she held out nothing at all. “It is a fine tunic, is it not?”
She couldn’t help but admire the tumescent member of the Emperor as he stripped and held out his hand to accept the garment she offered. She scooted closer, and as he slipped the non-existent clothing over his head, she slid her hand down and gently grazed his manhood.
It had been so long since the Emperor had been touched in such a way that he squealed and spurted his hot baby gravy all over the imaginary clothing.
“Now look what you have done!” The designer cried in dismay, though she was laughing inside to herself. “There is no way to clean such dirtiness out of such a garment! This will have to be re-sewn with new fabrics!” She turned away from the Emperor in feigned disgust.
The man was so embarrassed he couldn’t speak, and he covered his face in shame. This was exactly the reaction the designer had hoped for- she wanted him to be degraded as she had been. After many minutes, the Emperor spoke.
“Oh please do not be upset, my dear. I will send for more fabric and more gemstones, only please do not divulge what has happened here to anyone.”
The designer pretended to think on this for a moment before bowing her head in respect.
“As my lord wished. I will work on the other designs while I wait for the things I need.”
The Emperor knew he was being dismissed, and though he normally would not allow someone to treat him thus, he was too afraid she would announce his surprise discharge to the masses, so he said nothing. He left the room in the clothes that weren’t there with his jizz dripping down the front of him. The servants in the halls whispered behind there hands, surprised at the Emperor’s nakedness, and admiring it as well. The emperor went to his chambers and did not come out again until word was sent that the collection was completed.
The Emperor, still being very vain, had decided he would be the only person to walk down the runway during fashion week in the designs made for him. Since it was only twelve hours before the first show, he sent word to the designer telling her this decision. When she heard the news, she smiled to herself, because the Emperor would be walking in the nude down the catwalk in front of the entire kingdom exactly thirty-two times. Finally, her honor would be avenged.
The following morning, the emperor arrived in the dressing room, and was immediately worried because once again he saw none of the fine garments he was supposed to be modeling. The designer entered the room and waved her arm in the direction of the clothes that weren’t there.
“Is it not the finest wardrobe my lord has ever seen? Is he not pleased?” She looked at the Emperor expectantly.
The Emperor was momentarily distracted, because the designer was provocatively dressed in a skin-tight gown that was cut down the front all the way to her navel. Her breasted were perfectly shaped underneath, and the Emperor’s memory was jogged about a similar pair of hooters he had seen long ago. His manhood once again grew to abundant lengths, and his regained memory was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“Ahh, yes, er… fine indeed. The most splendid I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He fibbed, for his eyes for not laying on anything other than a pair of perfectly shaped bosoms.
The designer seductively smiled and sauntered close to the Emperor. Her breast brushed his arm, and he jumped.
“Now, only payment must be made, and everything shell be yours.” She whispered invitingly.
The Emperor could not resist, and stuck his hand down the front of the designer’s dress. She peeled his clothes away and climbed onto his ridged cock, riding him until she found release. She did so quickly enough that the emperor was left unsatisfied, and with a boner still.
“Mmmm, that was great. Now, you must get ready have the entire kingdom admire all you have to offer.” She dressed so fast he hadn’t a chance to utter one word about his remaining boner, and was suddenly left with many servants trying to look busy and ignore his manhood.
The fashion show began, and the emperor hadn’t even enough time to take care of himself before it started, so he donned the non-existent finery and hoped that no one in the front rows would notice the bulge underneath. Out he went on the catwalk, naked as a jay bird.
The masses oohed and aahed, not because of the grand garments as the Emperor thought, but because they were so surprised at the largeness of his member, and the fact that he was completely naked. Not one of them said a word, but continued to admire the emperor as he strutted back and forth for half of the show. It was not until a child in the audience cried out, “Mama! The Emperor’s peepee is sticking out!” that the Emperor realized he was really and truly naked, and at that point he had already been in front of the audience for so long without clothes, that he thought, “What the hell? I look good,” and continued to strut his stuff. Upon realizing that the Emperor had just spent a good forty-five minutes nude in front of children and adults alike, the police came and arrested him for indecent exposure, and he was sentenced to one year in prison for every count, which ended up being… well, a really long time since there were so many people there. He became the bitch of a burly black man during his stay in the kingdom’s penitentiary and spent the rest of his life getting it up the butt.
What happened to the designer, you may ask? She road away with her trunks of silk and gemstones in tow, laughing out loud at the Emperor and his insane vanity. She now lives in Aruba and designs red carpet duds for the likes of Angelina and Salma Hayek.
North Pole – Shocking developments today at the North Pole rocked legal and judicial communities all around the world.
Santa Claus, under arrest for a variety of charges since early this year, has escaped custody. The warden for the North Pole District Detention Facility declined comment.
Unnamed sources cited mafia connections in this classic jailbreak, which ultimately caused an entire wing of the Detention Facility to be shut down for repair. “Total overkill,” one guard said, “One minute, I was rousting this sex offen… uh, checking on the prisoners, and the next I woke up in the middle of the deflated Bouncy Castle down on the floor. The inmates were devastated.” Other sources confirmed that riotous prisoners were transferred to separate them after a near riot over the Bouncy Castle.
The usually taciturn District Attorney maintained that, “We will of course seek justice for the people in this case. This is in no way over.” An unnamed source close to the DA hinted that the unofficial verdict here in the Pole region is ‘good riddance’ after the ongoing circus of civil disturbances resulting from Santa Claus’ arrest and incarceration.
At the height of the Santa Crisis, the NAACP provided Claus an attorney to replace Jose Baez, who quit the case citing personal reasons. Santa Claus’ pro bono lawyer declined comment, but later Al Sharpton issued a statement saying, “Justice is served for Brother Claus. Whether he’s free now or was set free later by an activist jury doing the right thing, justice has prevailed.” NAACP and Sharpton spokesbrothers were available for further comment.
The legal circuit media here in town were not put off breaking news for long, however. Only hours after Claus’ mysterious and violent escape, North Pole Police responded to a 9-1-1 call allegedly made by staffers working for Gloria Allred, the lawyer representing Mrs. Claus in her divorce proceedings. One jelly-donut-filling-smeared officer stated, “We have no suspects at this time, but the connection with the jail break cannot be overlooked.” A source within NPP said off the record that one key item logged into evidence were salad tongs that were found at the scene.
Other sources close to the presiding judicial figures in these cases hinted at a unilateral backroom deal that would settle both cases without further court drama. Just this morning beat reporters went to the blogs to announce that Mrs. Claus boarded a commercial flight out of the Pole, possibly confirming rumors of this alleged backroom deal. No official representatives of any North Pole offices were available for comment after this.
FOLLOW THE DEBACLE:
Anyone who knows me knows that I am an extremely restless individual, and that every now and then I’ve got to switch things up. It could be something as easy as driving a different car for a while, or something as epic as painting my bedroom hot pink.
Since I’ve taken on more hours at work, the switching up has been happening at my desk, or more specifically, my desktop, to the amusement of my many co-workers. So for the amusement of you all, I share with you today a gallery of my ever-changing desktop wallpaper.
Ah…yes. The General Lee. My first love.
Next we have two pics that are the perfect marriage of humor and music, Tenacious D. and Dethklok. If you don’t know who they are, I suggest hitting the Google immediately. If you don’t like them, well…we can’t be friends.
Now we have the two greatest bands I’ve ever had the good fortune of hanging out with backstage. Lit and Godsmack. Boys and their tattoos. Dreamy.
Why Lemmy? Because Lemmy is God, that’s why.
Because I can’t download porn.
Next are two pics of my seldom seen daughter, Babygirl. The one above was taken on Halloween when she was two years-old. Her father wanted her to be a princess, but she wanted to be a “basketball boy.” You see who won. (Yes, that is a regulation sized basketball. She was, and still is, very tiny). The one below was taken in our backyard with my nephew. I plan on writing a story just so I can use that pic as a book cover.
Last but not least, for reasons that I cannot begin to comprehend, my all time favorite desktop wallpaper pic ever!!!!!
Doesn’t this pic just say it all?
1. Go to Google.
2. Perform an image search on the word “coughing.”
3. Witness countless people giving the Invisible Man a blowjob.
All across America families are gathered around their tables in celebration of Thanksgiving; a holiday that commemorates the first harvest of 1621 for the Pilgrims of Plymouth, Massachusetts. Here in New England, the birthplace of Thanksgiving, we honor our forebears by keeping with the tradition of serving turkey, an indigenous bird to this part of the country.
While many of us view turkey as festive holiday fare, there are some who consider our gesture of patronage murder. There is one who goes so far as to call it genocide. Today’s holiday interview is like no other that’s come before, because today we are conducting our interview in a secret hide-out free from the tyranny of New England’s native carnivores. Today we interview Pro-foul resistance leader, Tom Turkey.
Hello, Tom. Forgive me for sounding trite, but how are you doing?
Eat me – that’s how I’m doing. Oh, I’m doing really well. Gobble gobble and shit. I’ve been soaking in this hot tub all day – it smells great, sort of spicy or something. It’s making me hungry! GAH! Wait a minute…
Without revealing too much information, can you explain what is involved in engineering and maintaining an underground system of foul relocation?
Ah yes, the Undergrain Railroad. Well first, some wild turkeys are helping out with that by disguising some of us with camouflage and leaves. Those guys are poultry in motion. Secondly, we eat nothing but donuts and burgers and Cheetos to ensure that even if we’re caught, we’re too fatty to be palatable.
From what your lieutenants tell me you’ve been able to successfully move over one thousand turkeys out of New England to a Vegan commune somewhere in rural California. What are the logistics involved in such a massive migration, and were there any bumps along the way?
Besides these red things, you mean? HA HA! GOL! (Ed. note: gobble out loud) One word: trains. This country hates trains, so it’s easy to sneak on like a bunch of hobos and ride them all across the country. And when we can’t do trains, we ride bears. That’s right, bears! Grizzlies! In return for eating bugs. They hate bugs.
Have there ever been any close calls?
Yes there have – hunters. Those damned turkey calling things are like a siren song to some of us. Some of us are really fucking stupid, and when they hear one of those things go off, they go running out, and BLAM! Though this one time, one of our boys was able to get someone shot in the face. Hilarious!
And there was that one time when someone got a little smart for her own good, and read a map, and saw this country called… you know. She put the wrong two with the wrong two and got… well, eaten.
What would you like to see the Obama administration do in the form of policies that would make hiding out unnecessary?
Useless, Hellis. Useless. It’s already been tried. Over 200 years ago, we started a grassroots whisper campaign to get Benjamin Franklin to make the turkey the national bird. We would have been set FOREVER! But that idiot ran out in a rain storm and got shocked, and he was never the same. We couldn’t even get him on the ballot. Eventually, he went to France. Yeah, France. I know, right! Gobbledammed eagles swooped up and took the bird prize. They’re endangered, of course, but no one is eating them, are they.
More than just winning sovereignty for the Turkey population, you’ve been quoted as stating you’d like to see the Thanksgiving holiday abolished altogether. What in particular about Thanksgiving (other than turkey consumption) do you find distasteful?
Cranberry sauce. Terrible stuff. Oh, and those hand thingies, where human children trace their hands and pretend they’re turkeys? What the hell – those look nothing like us.
What’s your opinion on Turduken?
Well, I’ve stuffed a duck AND a chicken before, if you know what I’m saying, and I’ve seen ducks and chickens having some fun, but… yeah… this is just sick.
Finally, where do you see yourself in the future?
President of Mars, which will be renamed Turkopolis. It will also be renicknamed The Red Thingie Planet.
This time last year I put up a post entitled Why No NaNoWriMo which chronicled my need for self-distraction whenever I sit down to write. How I accomplish writing a blog at all I’ll never know. Needless to say, this year has been no different and I’ve yet to finish the second novella in my REAPERS WITH ISSUES series. What’s got me blocked this year is:
The Oakland Raiders – Walking Dead – Firefly’s 10th anniversary re-release – Coconut Rum – my promotion – Tom Elias – raising a daughter as stubborn as me – learning to love Scifi – wristsaroundtheworld – Junior’s shenanigans – Frank Stallone’s faulty brakes – Prince Charming’s charm – and this little ditty right here:
My son Junior considers himself a burgeoning Political Science expert (read: Insufferable teenage know-it-all), so when I came across this brand new Editorial Policy on the contact page of the Krill Press website I immediately asked him for his opinion:
My take on this policy is that it borders on, if not downright defies, the First Amendment right to free speech. Junior, however, disagrees.
He states that as long as Krill Press is a for-profit enterprise that doesn’t receive monies from the government they can choose to publish or not publish anything or anyone they want to, and that the First Amendment protects their ability to do so. I didn’t see how that was plausible, so he took the time to look up and then cite the following:
The First Amendment does NOT protect the right to make or distribute obscene material. – Roth v. United States, 354 U.S. 476 (1957).
Junior believes this is the piece of our Constitution that justifies Krill Press’ editorial policy. He states that if Krill Press believes liberal content to be obscene, then they have the right to deny its publication.
He and I went round for round with this one, and in the end we agreed to disagree. His last statement to me was, “Just because you don’t like it, doesn’t make it wrong. There are some things that can’t be done and some things that shouldn’t.” Nothing like having your own words hurled back at you by your fifteen year-old kid.
At the end of it all I suppose I see his point, but there is something very distasteful in what I am reading above and I can’t put my finger on it. If anyone out there has any ideas, I’d love to hear them.
For the whole sordid story visit Krill Press. By the way, the misspelled words above were taken from the site exactly as is. I left them to prove a point.
Once upon a time (because this a time-honored way of beginning fairy tales), there was a swan, and she was pregnant. She didn’t want to be, because she wasn’t in love with her swan boyfriend, and the egg made her fat and almost totally ruined her bitchin’ prom dress. So after she laid the egg in the bathroom of the Sheraton that her high school had rented, she scooped it up and snuck outside, making tracks for the hospital a couple blocks away.
She’d managed to fit the egg inside her clutch, so no one at the hospital knew what she carried up to the second floor, the neo-egg unit. She also managed to sneak into the nesting room and stick the egg in one of the cribs. Birds aren’t very good at security.
They’re also not very good at math, because none of the nurses noticed that where once there was one egg, now there were two. Luckily for them, the mother was a duck, which meant that she was stupid.
The mother and father duck went home the next day with their two new additions, and the mother duck sat on the eggs until they hatched. The hatching day was a big deal in the duck household. There was cake, and soda, and balloons, and cousins and uncles. When the eggs cracked open, everyone gathered around the nest to watch. The duck, the real duck, emerged from his egg first.
“Aww, he’s so cute,” said some distant aunt. No one really knew who she was related to. She smelled like moth balls, though.
Next was the swan.
“Holy shit,” said the distant aunt, “He’s fucking ugly!” And even though no one was sure if she was supposed to be there, or if she’d wandered in off the street, everyone agreed with her. That second duckling was fugly. Seriously, have you ever seen a baby swan? Bow-wow City.
The swan grew up thinking he was a duck, and he was constantly tormented. At school, he was pushed into lockers. His lunch money was stolen. His head was dunked in every toilet in the school. Ducks made gagging noises when he walked by. No duck chick would date him.
At home, his parents ignored him and doted on his duck brother. This brother was the duck version of David Beckham. When he entered a room, angels sang. Little old ladies helped him cross the street. Even blind ducks knew how good-looking he was.
In a situation like this, it can go two ways: the ugly duckling (even though we all know he’s a swan, let’s stick with this for the time being, hmm?) can rise above his tormentors and graduate and go to college, where things might not necessarily improve, but maybe he’ll turn out to be a whiz with computers and get wicked rich, or he can go on a shooting spree at his school and make the papers.
It went the third way: the ugly duckling decided to cut off his brother’s face, wear it, and take over his identity.
Did I mention that ducks were stupid? Well, swans are fuckin’ crazy. Like Mexican cartel crazy.
One day, the ugly duckling stole a scalpel from his science class. That night, he slipped some sleeping pills into his brother’s milk and waited until sleepy times. Then he cut off his brother’s face. Bill and all. He spent the rest of the night cleaning up the blood and figuring out a good way to attach it to his own vile mug. There wasn’t one. He ended up stapling it on. Then he dressed in his brother’s clothes and ate breakfast looking like Duck Leatherface and his parents had no clue. Ducks are so stupid.
Fortunately, most of his teachers were geese. Geese are very smart. They let him go to his first period class, then called him to the principal’s office, where the police were waiting. The cops were also geese.
His lawyer was a goose, too, and once he got a look at the duckling’s real face, he knew he was dealing with a swan. He also knew that all he needed to do was file a bunch of legal papers and get the trial delayed a few months. Because, you see, teenage swans are butt-ugly, but young adult swans are like David Beckham times a thousand.
And thusly, once the trial finally started, the judge and jury and all the court people saw this gorgeous swan waddle into the courtroom. The judge (a duck) was confused. He wanted to know where the filthy psychopath was.
The lawyer, not missing a beat, said that the psycho duckling had escaped, and this poor beautiful swan had been imprisoned in his place. Injustice! cried the jury (also ducks). So they let the swan go, and a manhunt (duckhunt?) was launched for the psycho duckling. They never found him, of course. But a lot of unattractive ducks suffered some vigilante justice.
And the swan, meanwhile, started a new life, but because he was a swan, and therefore mentally unstable, it wasn’t too long before he strapped a few homemade bombs to his torso and waddled into his old high school. He blew himself sky-high and died a virgin.
As a kid growing up I had lots of crushes on boys and sometimes men, most of them actors on television. One of the earliest crushes I had was on a certain Latin actor named Erik Estrada, better known as Officer Francis “Ponch” Poncherello on a little show called CHiPs.
Anyway, what I remember most about that time were my prepubescent fantasies of a chance romantic encounter with Senor Estrada. Seeing that he is Puerto Rican, I had always imagined learning to speak Spanish in order to impress him when we finally met. I envisioned a mall scenario where my bilingual ability would impress him enough to set me apart from all the other adoring fans. Enough for him to invite me into his van (Note to all you youngsters out there- all sexy guys in the 80′s had vans. And mustaches, but that’s another blog post). So for my weekly offering to Romantic Monday I bring you:
AN ODE TO ERIK ESTRADA
I stand in a line that stretches the length of the mall, sipping my Orange Julius, waiting patiently for the Latin object of my preteen desire to sign my copy of Dynamite Magazine. I size up the competition standing between me and my love while I wait. I count ten blonde heads in all.
They must have known someone to get in line in front of me, I tell myself in consolation. I’ve been here since five a.m. goddamn it. No one loves Erik Estrada more than I do.
I do little to hide my glee as I watch girl after eager girl dismissed with an autograph but without a second glance. Little by little I inch closer to the man who I am convinced will someday make me his bride. Anticipating a kiss, I pop a stick of Zebra Stripe gum into my mouth as I wait patiently for him to notice me.
Finally I reach him- sitting behind a table, his glorious dark hair feathered just so. My heart races as I pass him my magazine, intentionally brushing my hand against his as I do. He doesn’t look up as I ask for his autograph, and I can tell he thinks I am just another groupie only interested in the celebrity that surrounds him.
Oh Erik, my love, I am determined to prove you wrong!
He heaves a heavy sigh as he scribbles his name and without looking up says, “Is this it?”
He slowly raises his eyes to meet mine and we stare deep into each others eyes for what seems like forever…the two of us locked in a gaze of pure intimacy.
“You speak Spanish?” he finally asks, clearly impressed with my dedication to learning all that I can about him.
I answer clearly. “Si.”
In an instant he’s up and around the table. He grabs my hand and pulls me quickly through the crowd of jealous teenage rejects to the exit doors that empty into the alley behind the mall. There awaits a van, his van, the site of my soon-to-be epic deflowering.
He slides the door open and hops in, reaching a hand out to pull me inside. Once I’m in he slides the door closed and tells me to make myself comfortable. I lay down on a purple silk bed built into the rear of the van while he twists the cap off a wine cooler and then pushes play on a cassette tape. David Bowie’s China Girl pours out of the speakers as he hands me my Bartles & James and says, “I want you to be my only Chica…”
My voice trembles as I say, “Si.”
He takes the drink from my hand and sets it down before he pulls me in close to him. The intoxicating scent of Aqua Velva mingled with Latin machismo emanates from his skin leaving me dizzy and breathless. He breathes in deep my own scent of Jean Nate and teenage lust as his hands move slowly to my back, working their way under my shirt. My skin is soft to him and smells “delicious.” He asks if he can taste me.
My breasts heave as I say, “Si.”
Sliding his hands up my body, he brings them to my face and then leans in to place sweet, gentle kisses at the corners of my lips, his tongue working its way into my mouth, tasting me as promised. His kiss is passionate and deep and makes me feel like the woman I am desperate to be. He asks if I want more.
Our breath mingles as I pant, “Si.”
I feel the beat of his heart racing with mine and the intensity of his desire through the denim of his Jordache for Men. My hand finds its way to his manhood straining against his jeans. I let my hand linger, teasing him. He begs me to set him free.
I whisper, “Si.”
I let loose the top button just as strong hands stop me, holding me in place. My beautiful Latin lover stares down at me with dark brown eyes and whispers, “You’re eighteen, right?”
I smile as I lie.
FOR EVEN MORE ROMANTIC MONDAYS VISIT:
Today I’d like to welcome a newbie to our little corner of blogworld, g00dg33kranting with his timely take on the classic THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER. Not only is our new friend a contributor to our F*cked Up Fairy Tale project, but he is also a novelist in his own right. You can pick up a copy of his book, RISE OF THE DRAGONS through a link at the bottom of the post.
KID! Yeah you… get over here. Put that stupid video game down for a few minutes and come listen to me. I have a story to tell you. You and your lazy generation playing video games and texting on your phones and facebooking on everything; it’s SICKENING.
Listen to this story and you will rethink how you act. I’m going to tell you about the Ant and the Grasshopper.
DON’T GIVE ME THAT LOOK! This is more exciting than your Twilights and your Spidermans and your Thors with their actors who are too good looking to be real people.
So you see, there was this Ant and a Grasshopper and they were married as any good Grasshopper will end up married to an Ant at some point in his life. Now the Grasshopper went to work but he mostly slacked off a lot when he was there and then said he was too tired to help out when he got home.
This made his Ant wife very mad since she had to take care of their 437 children all day. Then had to cook dinner, get all 437 children to get their baths before getting them to bed. As you can imagine it is very challenging to get 437 children to bed by 8:30 P.M.
The Grasshopper would drink a lot of beer and watch football. This infuriated the Ant even more. Eventually the weather got cold at the end of the year and the Grasshopper wanted to get intimate with his Ant wife.
But she just ignored him and went to sleep. In the middle of the night she cut off his Grasshopper junk and threw it in a field, leaving the Grasshopper, and took her 437 children to LA and married Matt Damon just to dump him and take half his money.
And I miss your father every day… NOT, now go clean your room or I’ll cut yours off too.
PICK UP A COPY OF HIS BOOK AT AMAZON:
The date was October 25, 1993. At the time I was watching television, indulging in fistful after fistful of candy corn (yes, I actually like those). I was nearly three months into my first pregnancy so the reality of dressing my swollen belly up for Halloween and partying the night away was out of the question. Well, it was for me anyway.
Enter Mikhail Vlakfeld, my future ex-husband, heading toward the door dressed as- you guessed it, a Vampire. With all the wisdom of an eighteen year old only four months into marriage, he opted to leave me home to go party with his friends.
Relegated to a night of sulking over my Uterine Bastille, I began flipping through channels until I stumbled upon a Vincent Price movie marathon. It was in that moment that I uttered the phrase that would come to haunt me for the next nineteen years:
“My God, isn’t that guy dead yet?”
Seems like a harmless enough phrase, right? Jump to the next morning and me opening the front door to find my future ex-husband passed out face down on the front step, drooling onto a newspaper with a headline that read:
Vincent Price- dead at 82 years old.
That’s right. Apparently at the exact moment I uttered the above phrase, the great Vincent Price keeled over dead. You better believe my family never lets me forget this happened. I wish they would because let me tell you, Vincent Price is NOT the guy you want to kill with the power of an ill-spoken phrase. I expect the afterlife will not be a pleasant place for me.
Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, the day is nearly here when we will unveil Book Two of the four book compilation series called REAPERS WITH FANGS. The sequel to Reapers With Issues follows the Grim Reaper on his journey through middle management Hell.
For those of you who have not read Book One of the series entitled, REAPERS WITH ISSUES but would like to purchase a copy visit www.wristsaroundtheworld.com where every purchase donates 100% of the profit to a great cause that you too can be a part of. Don’t forget to visit the REAPERS WITH ISSUES website and sign Grim’s DEATH BOOK. Now onto a preview of:
REAPERS WITH FANGS
Death’s bag landed with a thud, dumping its coconut scented contents and nearly a pound of beach sand onto the cold, office floor. “When was someone going to tell me about this?” Grim asked the three Horsemen scrambling to form a line in front of him.
“What ‘this’ are you referring to?” Famine asked, backing away slowly.
Grim stepped forward and shoved a pink, bubble gum scented memo into Famine’s bony hand. “THIS is what I’m referring to. This memo that’s nearly two weeks old. I count on you three to cue me into this kind of thing when I’m gone. I shouldn’t have had to hear this from Lucifer.”
Pestilence flinched at the word “Lucifer,” but said nothing. War looked to Famine who, after returning a stony glare, reluctantly answered. “No one wanted to bother you. We all agreed you needed the break.”
“So you thought waiting until I got back from vacation to walk into this mess was the better idea?” Grim asked as he snatched the memo from Famine’s hand and tossed it atop a monstrous stack of waiting paperwork.
“No, that’s not what we thought at all,” Famine explained. “We agreed we’d do some recon first and get a handle on who this Ashli person was before we decided whether or not you should worry.”
Grim startled. “Worry? Why? Who is she?”
Without saying a word Pestilence slowly lifted Grim’s mug off his desk and then went for coffee just as Famine produced a silver flask from deep inside his cloak.
“That good, huh?” Grim asked, not convinced he wanted to know.
“I’m not sure “good” is the word you want here,” Famine said as he poured a stream of red, viscous liquid into the steaming cup of coffee. Pestilence blew the billowing smoke away before handing the mug to Grim who promptly set it on the desk behind him.
“I’m not a Cherub, Fam. You don’t have to pussy foot around me. Just tell me straight out who this Ashli person is.”
Famine took a quick sip from the flask, steeling his courage before he spoke. “From what we’ve been able to gather Ashli is…well, let’s just say word around the Cloud is that the boss has got himself a new girlfriend.”
Grim stood frozen for a moment before he snatched the flask from Famine’s hand, tipped it back and sucked it dry.
“We’re still not sure what this is, so I see no reason to assume the worst,” Pestilence said in an attempt to put Grim at ease.
“Bunch of bullshit is what it is,” War blasted. “Give me five– no, four thousand real Reapers and we’ll take care of business no problem I guaran-fucking-tee it. We don’t need no Bible bitch tellin’ us how to do our jobs. We–”
Famine backhanded War into silence just as Grim dropped the flask to the floor. “Wait–what’s he talking about?” Grim asked, wide eyed. “What did he mean by, ‘telling us how to do our jobs?’”
Famine hung his head and sighed. “Yeah…I hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”
“So what are you saying?” Grim asked. “That I finally got Skippy and his shih-tzu out of my department and now….now I’ve got the girlfriend setting up shop here? Are you telling me she is actually in command of the OHD??” Grim’s shocked reaction forced his eyeballs to pop out of his skull and roll along the floor.
Famine picked the eyes and his flask up and set them all on the desk. “I’m afraid that’s the way it looks,” he reluctantly replied.
“Well that’s just fucking great,” Grim said as he ripped off his best tanned meat suit, stopping short of revealing a heart-shaped tattoo with the words Fran Forever emblazoned across the bicep. A tattoo that for the life of him Grim could not recall getting. “I need to sort this shit out so give me a few minutes alone, please. Pronto.”
Famine nodded and then led the Horsemen out of the office. As soon as he was alone Grim headed straight to the closet to change into his regular uniform. His official cloak, Grim decided, would put him in the right frame of mind to deal with the fact that once again, God pulled the rug out from under him.
As Grim slid on the heavy, black robe he set to putting this new dilemma into perspective. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Anything had to be better than Jesus and his Reaper disaster. After all, the Big Guy never kept a woman for long, and he was sure it would only be a matter of time before this new one grew tired of his continued absence. Running the Universe for an eternity isn’t the nine to five job most women think it is.
Still, there was reason for concern. Even though this wasn’t the first time God took a mate, it was the first time in at least two thousand years he’d been this public about it. As Grim could recall, Lucifer was the reason behind God’s last romantic debacle. Grim wondered just how deep into Ashli’s pie his demon colleague’s fingers were, and just how bad the blowback to the OHD might be if God found out.
His mind racing with new concerns, Grim threw open the office doors and called for his Horsemen. “Have any of you spoken to Lucifer yet?” Grim asked once they arrived. “He’s the one who forwarded the memo. He’s got to know how this happened.”
“We…didn’t think it was such a good idea,” Famine tentatively began. “We didn’t know how much of this action originated from the Southern offices, you know, considering how Jesus’ Reaper solution went down.”
Grim ran a bony hand back and forth along his spinal column. “I do know what you mean, but it seems like a lot of risk, even for Lucifer. This isn’t Jesus and his shih-tzu we’re talking about, this is the Big Man and his woman. Anyone remember Lilith?”
“Come on, Boss,” War interjected around a wad of chew. “You know you can’t trust ol’ whistle britches, especially when there’s a female involved. Don’t matter who she is. He nails ‘em faster than Jesus to a cross.”
Hearing his Horseman echo his thoughts reinforced Grim’s suspicion of Lucifer’s role in Ashli’s sudden appearance at the OHD. Determined to get answers, Grim reached for a phone that rang as he grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Why Grim! You’re back!” Lucifer announced with mock cheerfulness. “What’s the good news?”
“You tell me. I’ve been skull deep in sand for the past two weeks.”
“Hmm…how very odd. I’d have thought your ponies would have alerted you to the magnitude of the situation by now.”
Grim shot his Horsemen a look of death as he spoke. “Never mind all that and just answer a question for me. Did you have something to do with this Ashli bullshit or not?”
“Hold your Horses,” Lucifer snickered. “The answer’s no, I had nothing to do with this. Although I wish I had, because this is more glorious than any plan I could have concocted.”
“Plan? What fucking plan are you talking about?”
A sudden, thunderous crash resonated throughout the office followed by a sulfurous puff of smoke. Lucifer appeared at Grim’s side. “Sorry about the theatrics Grimmie old boy, but I just had to be here when you got the news.”
Grim rubbed his skinless temples in exasperation. “Fuck the news and just get to the plan.”
An expression that was both gleeful and menacing at once took hold of Lucifer’s face as he stared into Grim’s and said, “I can sum up the plan in one word-
FOR MORE REAPERS VISIT:
TO BE PART OF A GLOBAL PROJECT AND GOOD CAUSE VISIT:
For those of you who may not know, the great Edward Hotspur hosts a weekly blog-wide post-off known as ROMANTIC MONDAY. As someone who isn’t much of a romantic, I wasn’t sure I’d have anything remarkable to post on this topic. But something about the Halloween season inspired me to write the following tale of love and devotion gone wrong. For my first Romantic Monday offering I give you: