Goatboy, the Shoggoths, and the Thing That Wailed.
A dream and two rants, for your pleasure.
Night before last, I had a really strange dream.
I was in an old hotel, built to look like a castle (there is such a thing in my town, and it's cool). There was a renfair going on there, but some of the people really were what they were pretending to be. I was dressed normally, as me.
I was looking through the rooms for a friend of mine (nobody I know in real life) and I finally found her having sex with a goat-man in a side room. I don't have a thing for goat-men, but in the dream I was furiously jealous.
"I want one," I declared.
"That's Pan," a guy (the girl's boyfriend) said. "I set them up. He has a younger brother, you know. I could hook you up."
I told him to do so at once. In another room we found Pan's little brother. He was way younger than I had expeced -- about 17 -- and was wearing a backwards baseball hat over his little horns, and a baggy orange tee shirt. No pants, just furry black goat-legs. He was, despite this fashion disaster, very easy on the eyes -- curly dark hair, dark eyes, pretty mouth, smooth chest, little flippy goat-tail.
So we hung out. And he was pretentious, boorish, cocky, a little ignorant, and a bit of a dick. But the more I was around him, the cuter I thought he was.
Then a parade started, and we heard the music coming from outside. We looked out and there were the skanky bellydancers from the renfair leading the parade to the King and Queen, and getting prizes. I was livid with fury. They sucked so much. I explained to Pan, Jr. that I danced, and was much better, and he asked me to show him.
So I danced there in the hotel room, on the crappy hotel carpet, in an awkward skirt, and in uncomfortable shoes. I danced and danced to the music outside, and he watched.
"You know," he said. "You're dancing on crappy hotel carpet, in an awkward skirt, and in uncomfortable shoes. But I can see that you're really very good. Come with me and dance somewhere else. Without any of those things."
And, even though he was sort of a cock, I agreed to go with him. Because, hey, it's Pan's younger brother. He's got to be hiding something.
We walked off to get better acquainted. I was scritching his flanks, which were really fuzzily soft. I woke up before anything improper could happen. This dream amuses me. I can't quite figure out what it means, but, hey. It was fun.
Anyway, dreams about goatboys aside, when I went to lunch the other day at the Olive Garden, it was great fun, but, oh, sweet Mary, there were three infants there, all at separate tables, all under the age of two.
The nearest began that cycle of banging on the table/shrieking/laughing/banging on the table. I only realized I was glaring like a blood-hungry predator cat when Duhddy reached over and frantically stifled the little fleshloaf, glancing nervously in my direction. This is funny because I was dressed and made up as cutely as ever I have been, and yet, the Stare Of Death still worked, perhaps all the more powerful coming from an attractive, breeding-age female.
The others were too far away to be affected by the Stare. So I had to endure their shrieking. They were, at one point, screaming back and forth to one another like miniature howler monkeys across the jungle canopy. The only one I could see (brat #3 being hidden behind a partition) belonged to one of two fat yuppie-turned-breeder whitebread cunts who were halfway through with their meal when we came in, and still took until about five minutes before we left to hike their hippo asses out the door (and we had a full meal, appetizers, entrees, desserts, so they were really dragging their swollen feet). Just before they left, they hauled out the infant and played with it (like jiggling chicken fat in a bag). They sat it on the table and generally waved it around. I don't know what they were trying to accomplish, but nobody was charmed. It shrieked hideously.
"Just think," Mom said. "27 years ago, you were a thing like that."
"Yes," I agreed. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't you want one?"
*baby at other table shrieks again*
"Mother Dear, my uterus just shriveled into a mummified husk, and my ovaries are gnawing through my fallopian tubes as we speak. Conception is now a physical impossibility."
She thought this was funny. Sometimes I do love my mother.
They left, leaving the last infant, which was seated behind a partition with the rest of its . . . family would be a strong word. There were four children and one adult. Who the Hell takes four kids to the Olive Garden? It's not Chuck E. Cheese's! Anyway, the woman wasn't keeping her snotlings under control (big surprise), and the infant was worse than the other two babies put together. It truly caused me to leap in my seat several times with its unholy screams. Nothing like an adrenaline surge at the dinner table to make you feel like you're going to puke your expensive lunch up.
"That baby sounds happy, though," my mother said.
"Mother, it sounds like a gut-wounded cat being dragged backwards across a chalkboard. In Hell."
"Yeah, I'm going to have to agree with her on this one," the waiter said. I could have kissed him. I apologized to him for having to listen to that crap all day, every day, and we left him a healthy tip. Then we left. Happy endings all around.
Last night was movie night (Troy).
This may seem like a non sequitur, but bear with me. For those of you who don't read H.P. Lovecraft, let me explain what a shoggoth is.
A huge, amorphous black thing that eats everything it comes into contact with. Shoggoths are vile denizens of the Outer Darkness, obscene, shambling masses, writhing with unholy life, unspeakable vitality. Ever-hungry, waiting with grasping pseudopods, shoggoths are horrors beyond the ken of humanity.
And I was seated next to a mated pair.
These disgusting fat things did nothing through the whole movie but stuff their disgusting fat faces with Coke and popcorn, not even pausing between disgusting fat handfuls.
Now, I have a personal pet peeve, and anyone who knows me in real life knows all about it, and has probably been smacked for it once or twice already. The sound of people (or animals) eating when I'm not eating (ESPECIALLY anything crunchy or sticky) makes me want to pound nine-inch railspikes through their joints and hose them down with caustic lye. So the sounds of the fat people's grazing alone would have been enough to make me wish for a fireaxe to split their disgusting fat heads, but they found ways to be even more annoying.
The sow I was seated next to kept making this noise. Like the noise you make when you are told a piece of odd but not alarming information. "Possums have their nipples in a circle," I would say, and you would go "Huh." Or, perhaps, "Hm." A sort of gentle snort through the nose and back of the mouth, not excessively loud or long. A polite grunt.
Not annoying, really, except when you do it roughly every minute and a half through a two and a half hour movie. According to my math, that's about a hundred times. And that's honestly about right.
It sounded almost like Fat Bitch had the hiccups. Except I know she didn't, because at about the point where they were burning Patroclus' poor body, she developed real hiccups, and had to stop her repulsive gorging for all of three minutes to get her spasming, fat diaphragm back under control.
And when I say that these people were fat, please understand that I mean both were well over 250 pounds, probably more like 300 in the case of the boar, who was larger.
They also thought everything was funny. I mean, I thought the movie was funny, too, but they were laughing at the weirdest things. Like, grass would come up on the screen, or a shot of a building, and they'd laugh. They also did this during the few genuinely dramatic, moving moments, but were dead silent during the parts that I found most insufferable (anything to do with Hector's squealing infant).
Now, I was snickering through the whole movie, but it was silent mirth. I like to give people at movies room to feel whatever they need to feel, without my disdain getting in the way. For all I know, the sweet old couple in front of us were having A Moment, and I wouldn't have wanted to interfere with that. Or the two teenage girls who were in the very back row (I hope to Tiamat with their hands in each other's panties) who giggled and wriggled every time Orlando or Brad came onscreen . . . I wouldn't want to interfere with that, either.
But these two grunting, slope-foreheaded, flat-toothed, inconsiderate protohumans decided that, well, whatever they felt was the rule. Between them and the teenage boys who got up four times to get extra drinks (the Soda Jerks), I was about ready to murder the whole audience, just to be sure I got all the annoying ones. Amazingly, though, not a single phone or infant went off.
But, all in all, it was a fun night. Bonding with the husband, and quality time. Right now, I'm going to creep back in bed and get some more of that quality time before the weekend gets any older.
Have a good one, all. I'll be back tomorrow or Monday.
link
Night before last, I had a really strange dream.
I was in an old hotel, built to look like a castle (there is such a thing in my town, and it's cool). There was a renfair going on there, but some of the people really were what they were pretending to be. I was dressed normally, as me.
I was looking through the rooms for a friend of mine (nobody I know in real life) and I finally found her having sex with a goat-man in a side room. I don't have a thing for goat-men, but in the dream I was furiously jealous.
"I want one," I declared.
"That's Pan," a guy (the girl's boyfriend) said. "I set them up. He has a younger brother, you know. I could hook you up."
I told him to do so at once. In another room we found Pan's little brother. He was way younger than I had expeced -- about 17 -- and was wearing a backwards baseball hat over his little horns, and a baggy orange tee shirt. No pants, just furry black goat-legs. He was, despite this fashion disaster, very easy on the eyes -- curly dark hair, dark eyes, pretty mouth, smooth chest, little flippy goat-tail.
So we hung out. And he was pretentious, boorish, cocky, a little ignorant, and a bit of a dick. But the more I was around him, the cuter I thought he was.
Then a parade started, and we heard the music coming from outside. We looked out and there were the skanky bellydancers from the renfair leading the parade to the King and Queen, and getting prizes. I was livid with fury. They sucked so much. I explained to Pan, Jr. that I danced, and was much better, and he asked me to show him.
So I danced there in the hotel room, on the crappy hotel carpet, in an awkward skirt, and in uncomfortable shoes. I danced and danced to the music outside, and he watched.
"You know," he said. "You're dancing on crappy hotel carpet, in an awkward skirt, and in uncomfortable shoes. But I can see that you're really very good. Come with me and dance somewhere else. Without any of those things."
And, even though he was sort of a cock, I agreed to go with him. Because, hey, it's Pan's younger brother. He's got to be hiding something.
We walked off to get better acquainted. I was scritching his flanks, which were really fuzzily soft. I woke up before anything improper could happen. This dream amuses me. I can't quite figure out what it means, but, hey. It was fun.
Anyway, dreams about goatboys aside, when I went to lunch the other day at the Olive Garden, it was great fun, but, oh, sweet Mary, there were three infants there, all at separate tables, all under the age of two.
The nearest began that cycle of banging on the table/shrieking/laughing/banging on the table. I only realized I was glaring like a blood-hungry predator cat when Duhddy reached over and frantically stifled the little fleshloaf, glancing nervously in my direction. This is funny because I was dressed and made up as cutely as ever I have been, and yet, the Stare Of Death still worked, perhaps all the more powerful coming from an attractive, breeding-age female.
The others were too far away to be affected by the Stare. So I had to endure their shrieking. They were, at one point, screaming back and forth to one another like miniature howler monkeys across the jungle canopy. The only one I could see (brat #3 being hidden behind a partition) belonged to one of two fat yuppie-turned-breeder whitebread cunts who were halfway through with their meal when we came in, and still took until about five minutes before we left to hike their hippo asses out the door (and we had a full meal, appetizers, entrees, desserts, so they were really dragging their swollen feet). Just before they left, they hauled out the infant and played with it (like jiggling chicken fat in a bag). They sat it on the table and generally waved it around. I don't know what they were trying to accomplish, but nobody was charmed. It shrieked hideously.
"Just think," Mom said. "27 years ago, you were a thing like that."
"Yes," I agreed. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't you want one?"
*baby at other table shrieks again*
"Mother Dear, my uterus just shriveled into a mummified husk, and my ovaries are gnawing through my fallopian tubes as we speak. Conception is now a physical impossibility."
She thought this was funny. Sometimes I do love my mother.
They left, leaving the last infant, which was seated behind a partition with the rest of its . . . family would be a strong word. There were four children and one adult. Who the Hell takes four kids to the Olive Garden? It's not Chuck E. Cheese's! Anyway, the woman wasn't keeping her snotlings under control (big surprise), and the infant was worse than the other two babies put together. It truly caused me to leap in my seat several times with its unholy screams. Nothing like an adrenaline surge at the dinner table to make you feel like you're going to puke your expensive lunch up.
"That baby sounds happy, though," my mother said.
"Mother, it sounds like a gut-wounded cat being dragged backwards across a chalkboard. In Hell."
"Yeah, I'm going to have to agree with her on this one," the waiter said. I could have kissed him. I apologized to him for having to listen to that crap all day, every day, and we left him a healthy tip. Then we left. Happy endings all around.
Last night was movie night (Troy).
This may seem like a non sequitur, but bear with me. For those of you who don't read H.P. Lovecraft, let me explain what a shoggoth is.
A huge, amorphous black thing that eats everything it comes into contact with. Shoggoths are vile denizens of the Outer Darkness, obscene, shambling masses, writhing with unholy life, unspeakable vitality. Ever-hungry, waiting with grasping pseudopods, shoggoths are horrors beyond the ken of humanity.
And I was seated next to a mated pair.
These disgusting fat things did nothing through the whole movie but stuff their disgusting fat faces with Coke and popcorn, not even pausing between disgusting fat handfuls.
Now, I have a personal pet peeve, and anyone who knows me in real life knows all about it, and has probably been smacked for it once or twice already. The sound of people (or animals) eating when I'm not eating (ESPECIALLY anything crunchy or sticky) makes me want to pound nine-inch railspikes through their joints and hose them down with caustic lye. So the sounds of the fat people's grazing alone would have been enough to make me wish for a fireaxe to split their disgusting fat heads, but they found ways to be even more annoying.
The sow I was seated next to kept making this noise. Like the noise you make when you are told a piece of odd but not alarming information. "Possums have their nipples in a circle," I would say, and you would go "Huh." Or, perhaps, "Hm." A sort of gentle snort through the nose and back of the mouth, not excessively loud or long. A polite grunt.
Not annoying, really, except when you do it roughly every minute and a half through a two and a half hour movie. According to my math, that's about a hundred times. And that's honestly about right.
It sounded almost like Fat Bitch had the hiccups. Except I know she didn't, because at about the point where they were burning Patroclus' poor body, she developed real hiccups, and had to stop her repulsive gorging for all of three minutes to get her spasming, fat diaphragm back under control.
And when I say that these people were fat, please understand that I mean both were well over 250 pounds, probably more like 300 in the case of the boar, who was larger.
They also thought everything was funny. I mean, I thought the movie was funny, too, but they were laughing at the weirdest things. Like, grass would come up on the screen, or a shot of a building, and they'd laugh. They also did this during the few genuinely dramatic, moving moments, but were dead silent during the parts that I found most insufferable (anything to do with Hector's squealing infant).
Now, I was snickering through the whole movie, but it was silent mirth. I like to give people at movies room to feel whatever they need to feel, without my disdain getting in the way. For all I know, the sweet old couple in front of us were having A Moment, and I wouldn't have wanted to interfere with that. Or the two teenage girls who were in the very back row (I hope to Tiamat with their hands in each other's panties) who giggled and wriggled every time Orlando or Brad came onscreen . . . I wouldn't want to interfere with that, either.
But these two grunting, slope-foreheaded, flat-toothed, inconsiderate protohumans decided that, well, whatever they felt was the rule. Between them and the teenage boys who got up four times to get extra drinks (the Soda Jerks), I was about ready to murder the whole audience, just to be sure I got all the annoying ones. Amazingly, though, not a single phone or infant went off.
But, all in all, it was a fun night. Bonding with the husband, and quality time. Right now, I'm going to creep back in bed and get some more of that quality time before the weekend gets any older.
Have a good one, all. I'll be back tomorrow or Monday.
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