Milton C. Newman (mcnewman) wrote,
Milton C. Newman
mcnewman

  • Mood:

The Hell?!

I'm layin' here, not hurtin' no one. Just readin' a browsin' some porn and listenin' to a radio feed, when that pigment-challenged disgrace of a teenager shows up with a carryin' kennell. First off, he could barely lift the thing - he drug it halfway here (and right over that loud asshole, Tomroy's grave - the fucker never stops singin' showtunes. I see why his wife killed him).

I sees him, and I just brace myself for the next stunnin' act in what should be shown in Vegas as the most astoundin' acts in stupidity. All he needs is some cute hoochie-gal in sparkly shreds of fabric to hand him items he can hurt himself with, and a couple a gay boys and a tiger, and hell, he'd be rolling in dough. People would come from miles around to watch this ninny harm himself in the grandest of ways. Pure family entertainment.

Anyways, he waits for a while, paces around and, y'know, pacin' is contagious. Someone paces around you, you get nervous to, and YOU wanna pace. Now, imagine that urge while you're stuck horizantal in a glorified shoe box. Don't make ya too hospitable. But eventually, a few of his pals show up, and to my shock, the first little jerk's the pick of the litter. I can only assume the clown look is in, because them little gals that showed up had so much makeup on their chalk white faces that they honestly shoulda shown up in a tiny car with about thirty more of Barnum's best.

So, it's the usual bullshit. Stand in a circle around Milton, chant, cut your hand and bleed on the old man's grave. But then the tallest of the lot, who apparently is the ring leader, addresses my special friend:

    Alpha Moron:: Lord Timicus, you have truly found an appropriate vessel. The dark spirits from the next world speak to me. Yes, this shall be the one, they proclaim. This shall be the servant.

    [other morons clatter excitedly]

    First Asshole:: High Priest Ravencry, it is my pleasure to serve. I thank thee for your words, but I was merely a compass for our True Lord, whose mighty taloned hand led me to our place.

    [more clattering]

    Alpha Moron:: Very well. Let us now close the ceremony with the ritual. We will return in a week's time and, under these velvet night skies, see our seed rise and bear fruit. The dark gods demand a gift before they will give us our desire. They thirst for blood, and we have given them such. But now, they desire meat as well. So, we shall feed them, and our servant, with they essence of the night. The embodiment of the shadows. Lord Timicus, give to me the grimalkin!

    [First Asshole opens kennell and pulls out a little yappy dog, the kind with the eyes that bulge out]

    Alpha Moron:: [pissed] What the fuck is this?!

    First Asshole: [sheepish] It's a pekingnese, man.

    Alpha Moron:: [pissed] Tim, you fucking crackbaby! You were s'posed to bring a cat!

    First Asshole: I couldn't find one!

Okay, I just wanna stop the story here to call a bullshit on this. There is NEVER a time you can't find a goddamn cat. All ya gotta do is put on a nice pair of black slacks and those fish-stinkin' little fuckers materialize from the ether just for the chance of rubbin' against your leg and leaving a trail of their hair.

And even if you don't wanna go to that much trouble, they're everywhere! Rippin' up garbage bags, nestin' in garages. And they aren't hard to catch. Just don't act like you're trying to. Leave food out for 'em, or catnip and shit. And scoop 'em up. Cats ain't bright (and don't you cat lovers start bitchin' at me about how smart your little tuna sucker is, and how much he loves you. There might be one or two bright ones, but the chances of your cat knowin' what the hell's goin' on around it are the same as it lovin' lasagna and sittin' around, drinkin' coffee and mullin' over how much it hates Mondays. And it don't love you, either. If you dropped dead today, the cat would shrug and search out its food. If it can't find none, it'll strip your bones for its own satisfaction. It ain't gonna wail and beat its chest over the loss of your companionship. Cats don't give a shit about companionship. They let you come near 'em because you give 'em food, and they figure it's the best way to string you along into keepin' it up. Anyway...

    Alpha Moron:: I can't believe you! We've wasted an entire ritual now. We won't be able to do this again for two fucking years!

    First Asshole: No, it's good. The gods won't mind. Really! I mean, think about it. One of our chief lords is Loki, right?

    Alpha Moron:: Yeah, so?

    First Asshole: Well, this dog is named Tricky! It's my aunt's! So, like, we're giving the Trickster of the Gods a tricky sacrifice, right?

    Alpha Moron:: [unsure] Seems like a stretch.

    First Asshole: And, like, dogs are always barking at shit at night, right? And waking people up? And our coven is called the Order of the Night Howlers, right?

    Alpha Moron:: Okay, fine. We'll try the dog. But if this doesn't work, you're out of the coven and I'm not returning that Nitzer Ebb cd I borrowed. It's void in your heart will be your eternal reminder of the vacancy waiting for you in the afterlife for failing the Lord and Lady!

And then they KILLED THE DOG!

But, oh no, they didn't get that right, either. Y'see, Trickly wriggled free and they had to CHASE HIM DOWN! Only he was to fast. He was also too stupid, because he ran headfirst into my tombstone and cracked his little skull like a walnut and dropped dead.

The gaggle of freaks commenced to try to carve the pooch up in such a misguided fashion that I can only imagine the horror ahead for each of them as they try to carve Thanksgiving turkeys and lop of their own fingers instead. And then, and this is the best part, THEY SPREAD YAPPY DOG BITS ALL OVER MY GRAVE!

So, here I am. They've left. I've got a big blood spot on my tombstone and my grave is covered in the stinking, steaming entrails of a dog.

It is at this point in time I would like to recommend to all of you to enjoy the wonders of cremation when you die.

Subscribe

  • (no subject)

    One of the cemetery workers stopped by my grave today to admire my bloddy, fly-ridden lawn ornament. "Well, how about that," he muttered, and…

  • (no subject)

    I just heard a yap. A ghostly, disembodied yap. Shit. Another one. Oh God, no. No ghost yappy dogs, please no!

  • I Finally Got a Tombstone.

    They finally put it on my grave. It reads: Molly A. Richerson Loving Wife and Mother April 3, 1945 to May 3, 2003 In Christ's Arms, Forever…

  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic
    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 8 comments