Unguent for the tortured soul

I left Mean-Spirited Tales at this book store where I want to have a reading, because the associate said the owner needs to look through my book first.  “Call in a week,” he said.

It’s weeks past the time he said to call.  So I’m sure the owner has read the entire book by now and is waiting anxiously for my call.  I’ll bet she’s all like, “Gosh, when’s Sandee calling?  We need her!  This Mean-Spirited Tales, it’s unguent, for the tortured soul…”

Of course it’s unguent — it has sadism, a beheading, alcoholics, liver pâté, the devil, an angel and some cats.

Do you know how many souls I’ve healed with my book?  It frightens me to think of it.

My other reading was at the Indian Road Cafe.  Patrons were there eating and talking.  Good thing I invited lots of people and screamed the stories to drown the patrons out.  After while I couldn’t hear any patrons.  Or maybe they were just fascinated by my hypnotic story-telling skill – yes, that’s it.  No wait – they were captivated by the creature horns on my head, by my piercing glare.

The Indian Road Café is a nice atmosphere and the food is great, but the book store has a podium!  I’ve always wanted to pontificate behind a podium.  No horns needed to draw attention to my flapping maw – I’ll be the center of everyone’s eye, standing tall.

I need to end this bookstore owner’s anticipation for my call though.  I’ll hurry and call and schedule the date for my reading, that way she can celebrate it over the weekend.  Who says Aunt Sandee isn’t altruistic.

 

 

I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to kill you

I wrote this inspired by the Cannibal Corpse phrase above:

You violated.  And you’ll know how big a mistake you made when I’m done.  You’ll be a bleating peasant, on your knees.  I’ll rip the meat from your arms with my teeth and pull out your hair strand by strand.  I’ll tie you with wire, smash your toes with a mallet and have rats nestle with you in a tub filled with bloody piss.  I’ll pull out all of your teeth and dangle you from the 50^th floor.  You’ll be fired from your job because your boss will believe every lie that I tell him about you.  I think of killing you in ways where you’ll live for a week before you die. You’ll want death.  But I won’t do it – you’ll die on your own from the torture.  I’ll cry with you then snatch my hand away and laugh at the snot on your face.  In that dimming light you will regret.

Somebody please…

 

 

…come up with a better way to scan a woman’s breast for cancer!  I went back for a second scanning today because I have natural imperfections let’s just say.  I dreaded it.  For the first mammogram over a week ago I was inspired to write  “The Sloan Kettering Titty Smashing Machine…”  This time I’m just crying out for a better way!

Thanks goodness I don’t have cancer.

The poor technician doing the mammogram began sweating.  I felt sorry for her.  I’ve never had that thing cranked up so tight — “Fuck!”  I yelled.  The woman looked troubled.  I felt bad.  “Are you okay?”  I ask.  Look at me all still concerned for somebody else after being tortured.  “Doing this all day to women’s breasts must be hard,” I said.  I asked her if it was hard to watch women in pain.  She nodded.  I apologized for cursing and thanked her.   She went out to get the doctor’s opinion and told me to have a seat.  I might have to have another scanning, she said.  Great, I thought.  This time I’ll take it like a man.

Yup, that’s what she had to do.  I took it like a man.  I thought sick thoughts — Some people pay good money to have this kind of pain inflicted on them.  I flipped it around, see?  And gosh darnit it worked!