As a little Halloween treat for my friends and myself, I have done a little art project in which I have transformed our little group into famous horror film murderers. Ken Dashner as Leatherface from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Dan Burr as Fred Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street, Rick Popko as Michael Meyers from Halloween and me as Norman Bates from Psycho.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Party Monster
As the song "The Monster Mash" began to play on my stereo again for what must have been the 187th time in a fucking row, I bolted for the punch bowl for another stiff belt of the fruity, spiked concoction that The Phantom of the Opera had brought to my little Halloween party. I was now long past caring that the Phantom lived in a cave in the sewer tunnels beneath the Metropolitan Opera House, and the strength of the punch had finally erased nearly all of my concerns about the sanitary conditions in which the intoxicating beverage had been made. Sewer or no sewer, I just wanted to get shit-faced by that point in the evening.
In gloriously-blurred hindsight it was quickly becoming apparent that my clever plan to throw a "Mad Monster Party" and invite actual monsters was not such a hot idea after all. This was incredibly obvious as I watched in horror as Frankenstein's Monster and his bride danced about clumsily in the living room, doing irreparable damage to my hardwood floors with their fucking gigantic platform boots. The floor had so many black scuff marks that it looked like I'd held a goddamn roller derby in my living room.
An hour earlier The Wolfman had taken an enormous shit in the cat's litter box, leaving behind traces of what appeared to be the remains of my apartment building's doorman as well as those of the cat. After Mr. Hyde had given the Creature From The Black Lagoon some of Dr. Jekyll's pharmaceutical-grade ecstasy, the slimy bastard refused to stop sticking his head in my toilet and flushing it while he screamed that he was caught in an "a-hole". I couldn't tell if he was really freaking out or if he was just tripping and thought it was funny. When I tried to pull him out of the bathroom, he scratched the shit out of my leg with his nasty green claw. Dracula had to vomit after having eight Bloody Mary's, and seeing as how the bathroom was occupied, proceeded to do so in my hallway. Being a little high and tipsy myself, I just got a couple of zombies to help me pick up The Mummy (who had passed out in the hallway) and set him on top of the vomit to make sure nobody slipped and broke their neck. His bandages were very absorbent and worked wonders in soaking up the mess, although he's not going to be too happy about our ingenuity when he regains consciousness. After the Dracula vomit inccident was resolved, I heard noises coming from my bedroom and walked in on Medusa going down on the Headless Horseman...which I guess, technically no longer qualifies him as "headless". Oh, and the fucking It's Alive baby spit up in my hall closet...Blacula is gonna throw a shit fit about his cape.
At least Michael Meyers is low-maintenance...all he does is stand around listening to the theme from "Halloween" on his ipod.
Apparently these "monsters" got the label not from their frightening looks and homicidal habits, but because of their horrible behavior. They're fucking monsters alright! I'm gonna have to just move out when this shit is over. And who the fuck invited Fred Krueger? I don't remember writing "child-murdering pedophiles welcome" on the evite. Happy fucking Halloween! This party sucks ass!
Friday, October 8, 2010
Underpants Juggernaut
"You're a big pile of stinky doo doo diarrhea and you play with your weenie all night long."
I raised an eyebrow. The puerile accusations stung. It had certainly been many years since my last confession but I had no idea that the Catholic Church had lapsed to the point of actually allowing men of the cloth to resort to childish name calling. The confidant on the other side of the confessional suddenly belched loudly and the smell of cheap bourbon wafted through the screen of the partition slot. I heard the click of a cigarette lighter and the smell of cigarette smoke hit my nostrils within seconds.
"Excuse me, father...but is it customary to smoke cigarettes while hearing confession these days?" I asked.
My rather suspicious father confessor was silent for a brief moment...then came the sound of a fart from the other side of the confessional. As I held my breath and fanned the air, I attempted to place the voice coming from the next compartment. I had certainly heard it before, but not in Saint Augustine's Church. It was youthful and full of childish glee...more the voice of a playful scamp than a devoted man of God. I leaned forward, attempting to catch a glimpse of the person on the other side of the confessional through the small screened window in the wall. I caught sight of ridiculously-baggy holy vestments and a what at first glance appeared to be a midget wearing a beard crafted from cotton balls. The face was as instantly familiar to me as the voice had been. I had seen it many times on the sliver screen featured in MGM's "Little Jackie" two reel comedies.
But what on earth was the diminutive child star doing dressed as a priest and sitting inside a confessional booth at Saint Augustine's? As a certified private detective, I felt it was my duty to find out. I decided to play hardball with the little creep and went for the jugular with a line of bullshit about being a star-struck pedophile with a Little Jackie Jones. The kid went all queasy as I pretended too lust for the rotten little bastard. "Little Jackie is the reason I play with my weenie all night long, Father. I feel so dirty, but I just can't help it. Little Jackie is so beautiful! I must make sweet sweet love to him!"
Silence from the other side of the confessional, then finally Little Jackie spoke, this time attempting to make his voice sound deeper. "Uh...well, gee mister, that's awfully horrible. If I'm not mistaken you can get arrested for that sort of thing."
"Yes. I would have to strangle him afterward and dismember his little body and distribute his various body parts in dumpsters around the city to avoid going to the electric chair...but it will all be worth it when I track him down. I think I'll save his penis in a cigar box."
"Jesus Christ, mister!" Jackie said. His voice was now filled with terror.
"I can't wait to suck out his eyeballs!" I said, taking a live duck from my overcoat pocket that I'd managed to catch in Griffith Park. With lighting-quick speed I punched out the screen of the confessional wall and shoved the duck through into the adjoining compartment. Little Jackie screamed as the duck flapped its wigs and quacked frantically.
Before Jackie could bolt from the confessional I made my exit and opened my trusty violin case. I removed the large, nude female doll that I kept inside for just such occasions. When Jackie burst out of the confessional I poked the doll in his face and screamed in a high-pitched voice. "That's the man got me pregnant! That's him! Infected my womb with his syphilis-tainted baby batter! Our baby come out all crazy!"
Little Jackie ran from the church screaming bloody murder, baggy priest vestments dragging behind him, his eyes wide with horror. I smiled and lit a well-deserved cigarette, and then, laughing, dropped my pants and went to the bathroom on the floor of the church.
The End (?)
I raised an eyebrow. The puerile accusations stung. It had certainly been many years since my last confession but I had no idea that the Catholic Church had lapsed to the point of actually allowing men of the cloth to resort to childish name calling. The confidant on the other side of the confessional suddenly belched loudly and the smell of cheap bourbon wafted through the screen of the partition slot. I heard the click of a cigarette lighter and the smell of cigarette smoke hit my nostrils within seconds.
"Excuse me, father...but is it customary to smoke cigarettes while hearing confession these days?" I asked.
My rather suspicious father confessor was silent for a brief moment...then came the sound of a fart from the other side of the confessional. As I held my breath and fanned the air, I attempted to place the voice coming from the next compartment. I had certainly heard it before, but not in Saint Augustine's Church. It was youthful and full of childish glee...more the voice of a playful scamp than a devoted man of God. I leaned forward, attempting to catch a glimpse of the person on the other side of the confessional through the small screened window in the wall. I caught sight of ridiculously-baggy holy vestments and a what at first glance appeared to be a midget wearing a beard crafted from cotton balls. The face was as instantly familiar to me as the voice had been. I had seen it many times on the sliver screen featured in MGM's "Little Jackie" two reel comedies.
But what on earth was the diminutive child star doing dressed as a priest and sitting inside a confessional booth at Saint Augustine's? As a certified private detective, I felt it was my duty to find out. I decided to play hardball with the little creep and went for the jugular with a line of bullshit about being a star-struck pedophile with a Little Jackie Jones. The kid went all queasy as I pretended too lust for the rotten little bastard. "Little Jackie is the reason I play with my weenie all night long, Father. I feel so dirty, but I just can't help it. Little Jackie is so beautiful! I must make sweet sweet love to him!"
Silence from the other side of the confessional, then finally Little Jackie spoke, this time attempting to make his voice sound deeper. "Uh...well, gee mister, that's awfully horrible. If I'm not mistaken you can get arrested for that sort of thing."
"Yes. I would have to strangle him afterward and dismember his little body and distribute his various body parts in dumpsters around the city to avoid going to the electric chair...but it will all be worth it when I track him down. I think I'll save his penis in a cigar box."
"Jesus Christ, mister!" Jackie said. His voice was now filled with terror.
"I can't wait to suck out his eyeballs!" I said, taking a live duck from my overcoat pocket that I'd managed to catch in Griffith Park. With lighting-quick speed I punched out the screen of the confessional wall and shoved the duck through into the adjoining compartment. Little Jackie screamed as the duck flapped its wigs and quacked frantically.
Before Jackie could bolt from the confessional I made my exit and opened my trusty violin case. I removed the large, nude female doll that I kept inside for just such occasions. When Jackie burst out of the confessional I poked the doll in his face and screamed in a high-pitched voice. "That's the man got me pregnant! That's him! Infected my womb with his syphilis-tainted baby batter! Our baby come out all crazy!"
Little Jackie ran from the church screaming bloody murder, baggy priest vestments dragging behind him, his eyes wide with horror. I smiled and lit a well-deserved cigarette, and then, laughing, dropped my pants and went to the bathroom on the floor of the church.
The End (?)
Friday, October 1, 2010
To Felch A Rat Carcass And Other Exciting Stories
"Well, bikini-wax my taint!" Grandma said. She'd never seen tomatoes grow so big, or so neon purple for that matter.
"Must be somethin' to do with that weird meteor that landed in Potter's Grove last night is all I can figure." Grandpa said, scratching his forehead. "Saw a squirrel the size of a small child having sex with one of them glowing, red watermelons this morning. And I mean that sucker was really going to town."
"You think that meteor is responsible for that new roller disco in our front yard that mysteriously appeared this morning?" I asked Grandpa.
"Only way I can figure it." Grandpa said.
"Never seen so many faggots in gold shorts and fishnet tank tops in my life!" Grandma said. "If we don't shoo them off we'll be up to our necks in semen by tomorrow!"
The aforementioned meteor had plunged out of the sky last night shooting a trail of hot blue flame behind it as it crashed into the hard earth of Potter's Grove at what I estimate to have been about ten thirty PM. Grandpa and I had driven the truck out to take a closer look and less than a mile from our farm had come upon the strangest site my young eyes had ever seen. The meteor itself looked to be about seven feet around in circumference and was a glowing shade of what I can only describe as a sickly lime green. There was an audible hum emanating from the core of the thing that sent an unpleasant throbbing into our bowels and caused us to crap our pants whenever we came within five feet of its mass. By morning the entire span of Derringer Springs seemed to have been transformed into a kind of freakish, supernatural wonderland. Everywhere grotesque mushrooms sprouted ten feet high in the most repulsive colors and shapes imaginable, and our previously beloved vegetable garden had now been transformed into a twisted jungle of otherworldly mutations. Sometime in the night my cat, Petey had also grown to the size of a mountain lion and sprouted a small humanoid head from his neck that reported the local traffic and weather conditions every hour on the hour. The two-headed monstrosity had stolen a pair of Grandpa's coveralls from the clothes line and put them on, afterward repeatedly asking me if they made its ass look fat.
"Good Gravy! Those used to be my green beans!" Grandma said, pointing at several greenish, oblong-shaped creatures wearing toupees and making love to an upright piano. "Fuck a duck, Joe. You'd better break out the old theremin for this shit."
"Theremin's in the shop, Nancy." Grandpa said, eyeing our apple tree, which was now dressed in a white tuxedo and furiously masturbating to a "Tiny Bubbles, Don Ho's Greatest Hits" record album cover.
"Wonder how far this is gonna spread." I said, noticing that my left foot had mutated into what looked like a fried chicken wearing a lobster bib.
"Bad time to have the theremin in the shop, Joe." Grandma said, then began to perform her own high-pitched humming version of the musical notes of the instrument to accompany the strange goings-on taking place before our eyes.
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