Wednesday, September 20, 2017

I am SO sorry, Bandit! I'm sorry, Spido and Belle!

Stephen King's "Fore"...

Lucinda never saw where the golf ball came from. She never saw its graceful arc through the air, over the trees by the  gas station. No, she only felt the bone-crushing impact, a grisly impact that changed her life, forever...

No! You're still as smart as you ever were, Lucinda! Maybe a bit slower, and unable to move your right arm, but you are still you!

After the accident her life became a shambles. Her shakiness led to the death of three pets at the Veterinary Hospital...

I am SO sorry, Bandit! I'm sorry, Spido and Belle! I could not control the scalpel, and now you are in Doggie Heaven, and it is my fault...

No one was able to determine where the golf ball had come from. Oh yes, there were rumors -- dark rumors of a monster that stalked the driving range at night, a monster carrying a glowing red nine-iron. But those were just rumors, silly rumors...

WERE those rumors so silly? Stop thinking about it, Lucinda! Four women had been hit by golf balls in the last month. Four women! Lucinda told herself it was just coincidence, but that did not keep the cold fright from chilling her to the bone. Sure, THREE women hit by golf balls might be coincidence, but FOUR? No, there had to be something darker at work...


I am Laslo.



Tuesday, September 19, 2017

No. You're torturing yourself, George. It isn't want you think it is. It can't be. IT CAN'T BE.

Stephen King's "The Sticky"...

George felt his blood run cold, like a thousand cold needles raked lightly down his back, His beautiful wife Barbara was motionless on their bed. Motionless, and covered by hundreds of gallons of a sticky white substance. A sticky white substance that reminded him of...

No. You're torturing yourself, George. It isn't want you think it is. It can't be. IT CAN'T BE.

But what if it was? What if the sticky white substance that smothered his wife was... semen? 

Stop it, George. There is no way that sticky white substance is semen. Sure, it certainly smells like semen, but it would take a thousand men to produce the amount that glazed his wife like a cinnamon roll...

A thousand men -- or, perhaps, one Monster. A Monster of horrendous appetites and an unending supply of jism...



I am Laslo.


Saturday, September 16, 2017

I am a career woman. I am a career woman. I am a career woman.

Brooke Baldwin Inner Monologue...

Did he say boobs?

He said boobs.

Boobs.

It always comes down to sexism.

A good-looking female journalist makes it on her own to the network and everyone thinks it's just because of her being pretty, or her boobs, or her sleeping with Someone Important.

Now everyone is looking at me for a reaction.

What am I going to say about boobs?

I wasn't hired for my boobs. 

No, I wasn't.

If I come off angry I'll be seen as a shrill man-hating prude.

If I act like it's a good-natured joke I will be raked by Social Media.

Keep steady. Keep steady. Keep the thoughts on the Inside.

Boobs. He fucking said boobs.

Yes: do a slow burn.

Steady: don't overdo it.

I am a career woman. I am a career woman. I am a career woman. 

Good, good: Keith is talking.

Bring up the 'incredulous' look, but -- slow, slow.

I am Incredulous.

I am an Incredulous Career Woman.

I did not get hired because of my sex.

I did not get hired because of my sex.

I thought we were going to be talking about Trump and white supremacists.

Indignation: that's it.

I am Indignant.

I am Indignant, and Clay is a White Supremacist.

Disdain.

Yes: disdain.

Show everyone the Disdain...



I am Laslo.


Saturday, September 9, 2017

The man from the ice cream truck: Harlan had not thought of him years.

From Stephen King's Novel "Urf"...

The man from the ice cream truck: Harlan had not thought of him years.

Don't lie to yourself, Harlan.. You think of him every night, as you thrash about, twisted in sweat-drenched sheets..You remember his breath. You remember his touch. And you remember something more.

Urf. Urf.

Oh God, he did remember. The man in the ice cream truck took Lucky's life, But he also took from Harlan something more...

Urf. Urf.

Urf. Urf. Urf...



I am Laslo.



It sounded like Lucky, except it didn't sound like the Lucky he remembered.

From Stephen King's Novel "Urf"...

The memory of Lucky triggered other thoughts, thoughts that Harlan had believed were buried in his past, like a stash of horror comic books in the attic. He had met the man in the ice cream truck before.

Urf. Urf.

It is best not to remember this, Harlan. It is best not to remember the back of the ice cream truck and what happened there.

The sound in the hallway was coming closer yet. It sounded like Lucky, except it didn't sound like the Lucky he remembered.

Urf. Urf.

It's not Lucky, Harlan. It is not Lucky, and it is not the man from the ice cream truck. It is not the man whose hot nicotine breath you felt on the back of your neck. It is not the man whose pants sat down upon his ankles, and the ice cream truck music played relentlessly, an abomination of childhood joy...

Urf. Urf.

Urf. Urf. Urf...


I am Laslo.



Maybe that dog even looked like Lucky, Harlan's childhood dog that died at the wheels of an ice cream truck.

From Stephen King's Novel "Urf"...

The rain clattered against the window, a sound like a gypsy's long fingernails tapping against a porcelain teacup. The sound was almost enough to make Harlan pretend he wasn't hearing what he heard from the hallway.

Urf. Urf.

Don't be such a child, Harlan. There is nothing in the hallway. It is just steam in the pipes, that's all: steam in the pipes.

The sound seemed to be getting closer, and as it got closer it seemed less and less human. More like a beast, a fevered dog, perhaps. Maybe that dog even looked like Lucky, Harlan's childhood dog that died at the wheels of an ice cream truck.

Urf. Urf.

It's not Lucky, Harlan. Lucky died, while children were waiting to eat ice cream treats. It cannot be Lucky in the hallway, slowly moving closer to the door...

Urf. Urf.

Urf. Urf. Urf...



I am Laslo.



No, I sucked cock like a Fifties Housewife, and afterward I spit into a paper napkin...

From the Gloria Steinem Diaries...

I remember it so very clearly: Donovan was playing on the Hi-Fi the first time I ever sucked cock...

I knew there was something patriarchal about cock-sucking, but my thoughts had not fully coalesced at that point. No, I sucked cock like a Fifties Housewife, and afterward I spit into a paper napkin...

Now I realize what that cock was doing to my psyche: the representation of Masculinity was literally thrusting into my head. I was a mere receptacle of Male Dominance, and only now do I recognize the ejaculation as the seed of Feminine Oppression, and I did not like the taste...



I am Laslo.