October 2008 - Orble - Potter in a Harry

Potter in a Harry

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Potter in a Harry - October 2008

Boiling Blood. A Recipe for Disaster.

October 20th 2008 06:49

It makes my blood boil.

Dad failed completely as a husband and father, but he had a great, long-term relationship with his car.

I didn’t just have competition from dad’s car for his attention and affection. I got it from his cleaning equipment. Even the bucket and sponge were more important. In his eyes. Those eyes as empty as a soap bubble. Pop.

“Not now, pal. I’m busy. Go and annoy your mother.”

I don’t know how many times I heard that one as a kid.

Dad would have been happier if mum had given birth to a matchbox toy. As long as it was a Ford Falcon. He might have played with it.

Mum wasn’t much better.

“Not now, Kevin. Can’t you see I’m busy? Go and annoy your father.”

I probably heard that one just as often.

Dad should have left his precious car idling, and shoved the exhaust pipe up mum’s cunt. “It’s … a … matchbox toy!”

Mum should have got a job. She was an expert at pretending she was busy when she wasn’t doing anything. The perfect employee? Management material? Promote that woman! She’s not only mastered the art of appearing busy doing nothing, she even believes she’s busy. Get her to host corporate conferences about increasing productivity?

Mum’s idea of preparing a meal (or trimming the excess fat off cheap chump chops, because dad liked his meat lean), was to stand looking at the mouldy, leftover dishes and last week’s oily dishwater in the sink with a knife in her hand.

Dad didn’t like his women lean.

‘Treat ‘em mean and keep ‘em keen’ wasn’t his motto. He was a bullish man, not just in attitude. ‘Get your fork up some pork’ was more dad. Mum’s eating disorder(s), neuroses, prescription meds addiction, and general skeletal appearance probably explains why I was an only child. Mum looked like a concentration camp victim who wasn’t thin from concentrating.

Being conditioned as a child to think you annoy your parents, makes you believe you do. It affects your relationships with all adults, especially those in a position of authority. From henceforth, and forevermore. Amen.

Having a knife waved in your face by your mother does not make you immediately think of becoming a world-famous conductor of operatic music. Or a direct marketer of unneeded and unwanted objects.

Mind you, if I hadn’t become a serial killer, I would have made an excellent conductor. I could see myself wearing an apron, and conducting Chopin with a set of cheap steak knives at the world's most famous operatic venues. I would have given the audience free, dirty crockery to bang together at the crescendo and climax to save them from clapping, and their hands from chapping. Because dishwater is good for your hands according to Palmolive. It softens your hands while you do the dishes. “You’re soaking in it, Madge.”. In London or New York. But not in Greece. You can’t hand out crockery in Greece. Those grease-balls would have smashed the plates. I would have given the hairy halitosians pots and pans and told them this was not Maria Callas’ wedding set to the tune of Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro. This is Chopin’s Funeral March you dumb fucks. Or maybe given them all a vinyl copy of The Best of Demis Roussos. Or a copy of Yanni and a free kalamata olive?

I’m not just reading the Bible in prison. I’m reading books about conditioning. And recipe books. Cook books. I might even write a best-selling, picture recipe-book from prison about how you condition your child to turn into a murderer. All you need is two non-caring parents. Just add half a bucket of dirty, car-cleaning suds and some oily leftover dishwater from the sink, and bring to the boil? Slowly.

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Posted By: Lady Henrietta Muddling - Category: Nothing Land

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Steer Clear Of Women With Pets.

October 16th 2008 09:31

"Slow down, Dildo!"

This is a continuation of Nothing Land. It’s the novel form of a screenplay about the childhood of a serial killer of the same name. But the novel comes from a completely different angle to the screenplay. Serial killer Kevin Mader is already in jail. Where even he admits he belongs. He’s writing down his thoughts and memories for the prison psych. For some reason, she wants to get into his mind. For some reason, Kevin is granting her access. Apart from being bored shitless, and just waiting to die or be killed, he likes having contact with her. It’s the first time in his life anyone has taken an interest in him or what he thinks.

Basically, it’s a work of fiction. Based upon extensive research. So, before you sharpen your anonymous knives? ??? And, I have to plagiarise someone else’s writing, find out where you live, stalk you and cut you a new arsehole, mutherfucka? ???

Steer Clear Of Women With Pets.

Sitting on a drawing pin hurts your botty. Sitting on five drawing pins really hurts your botty. You feel like a pin cushion. Or a bloke at a gay orgy for the visually-impaired. A blind faggot.

After I’d been in Grade 1 for a while, I always checked my chair for drawing pins.

Going to sit down on a chair when there is no chair there, and you land coccyx-first on the floor, also hurts your botty.

After I’d been in Grade 1 a while longer, I had to check that my chair was there. That it hadn’t been pulled out from under me as I was sitting down.

Laughter doesn’t hurt your botty. “Sticks and stones and drawing pins and non-existent chairs may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”

Two of the things I learnt in Grade 1 were: 1. The botty, or bum, or buttocks, or anus, or colon, or arsehole, or poo-tube, or fart-bellows is quite a sensitive area. 2. Popular kids at school are very insensitive.

I wasn’t popular at school.

At first, I thought it was because I was brainy. That the other kids were jealous of me because I was always top of the class, got 100% for every subject, and got to sit out the front.

But I was unpopular because the popular kids considered me weird. Popular kids consider everyone weird except themselves.

My Grade 1 Teacher, Miss Oddlum, or ‘Miss Odd Shoes’ as she was called, used to pat me on the head and say well done every time she handed the test papers back.

To the best of my knowledge, I still don’t think they’ve made a perfume to disguise menstruation. When you’re six years old, your nose it at adult crotch level.

When I think back, I’m sure that’s why I did good at school. Not the odour of a bleeding woman. Human contact, or human touch. And the encouragement.

I found out later in life that criticism for its own sake never made anyone a better person. And, if you go without human touch, life is very lonely and isolating. And woman only stink for a few days each month.

One of the things I learnt about the anus after I left school was why gays like sticking their dicks up each other’s bums. It’s a sensitive area.

It’s also a sensitive subject?

Apparently, you’re not supposed to call gays pooftas or fags. It’s hardly likely to get me into more trouble than 33 consecutive life sentences. I wonder if they’ll ever find the other hundred or so bodies?

How donut punchers came to be known as faggots is a tough one. The word originally meant a bundle of twigs bound up. They used to use these piles of sticks to burn heretics at the stake. Some of the heretics were fags. Well, all fags are heretics. They all come across as nice, schmaltzy, schmoozy characters on the outside, but inside they’re nasty, vicious God and straight haters. Only weak people who want others to like them, like fags and dykes. They care more about what other people think of them than what God thinks of them.

You have a lot of time in jail to read books like the Bible and the dictionary. Bibling up passes the time. And you learn more than you learn at school, if you teach yourself about things outside of school hours. Being in prison is like being at school, but you’re the teacher and the student. You can give yourself a pat on the head? And rub your tum-tum at the same time. But it’s hard to cheat. On yourself. Although, a lot of people are really good at it?

Do I hate faggots? It depends. Do you mean do I hate a pile of sticks or a gay poof who likes rimming his boyfriend, or mistaking his arse for a Vegemite jar in need of punching or a donut begging for its hole to be filled? Or steals straws from McDonalds and felches his boyfriend and pretends the sperm is leftover chocolate/vanilla milkshake because he’s high on drugs? Or says stupid things to straight blokes like, ‘Just imagine I’m a woman.’ Why not get a woman? What a stupid justification and self-defeating rationale against your own argument. I wish they’d all stayed in their closets. Where they belong.

If I hadn’t become a serial killer, I would have made an excellent inventor. Not just of stories. Of real useful appliances.

I even thought of developing a Velcro muff once. Going out with a fag, Velcroing it to his bumfluff, drawing some tits on his back with a big pink marker, sticking a cut-out picture of a supermodel on the back of his head, rooting him up the arse, and going, “Is this what you mean about pretending you’re a woman?”

How mentally deranged would you have to be to felch a man? What I did was normal. Everyone wants to kill someone at least once in their lifetime. We all say things like, “I’ll kill the prick.” But who gets angry and goes, ‘I’d like to felch the bastard?’ Only a faggot. Animals kill each other but you don’t see too many bulls looking for another bull during mating season. Bulls are into cows.

Faggots make me feel normal.

Nature teaches us heaps about being humans, but no-one takes much notice. Most modern people are into saving nature and promoting unnatural acts? Abort children and save the beached whale? It makes no sense to me at all. They’re all deranged.

Hasn’t the English language changed? I used to be able to say I was gay because I was happy, but I can’t say I’m gay now without being accused of being a gay? But if you’re gay you can say you’re a gay gay. Ga-ga more like it.

A lot of people will get on their politically-correct bandwagon and defend the disgusting, unnatural actions of faggots, and deny me my right to call them faggots. But they’ve never been to jail. They’ve never been fucked up the arse when they didn’t want to be. It’s all theory to them. They champion tolerance but won’t tolerate a person who uses the word faggot?

I’m not having a good day today. My botty is sore. Some nights in here you get butt-fucked more than once. But you did ask me to write down my honest thoughts as they came to me. People will probably accuse me of being a gay hater, but I hate women just as much as men. I guess I’m people intolerant. I don’t think I’m racist. I killed all sorts of people because they were people. Stupid, ignorant black, white and yellow fucks.

And let’s face it. Most people have their own little fetishes and private desires. Mine just happened to be killing people. Each to their own? When it comes to fetishes, women are the worst offenders. What’s with the dildos and the cats and dogs? What type of woman owns a cat or dog and refuses to admit she’s lonely for human company? Then uses a vibrating plastic toy on her own pussy? Only a man hater. If you’re male and want a good relationship with a woman, steer clear of women with pets.

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Posted By: Lady Henrietta Muddling - Category: Nothing Land

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Killing Creativity. (Cutting Life Short. Like A Bad Haircut).

October 8th 2008 21:49

Walking along a main street of a country town is like talking a stroll though an abandoned movie lot littered with billboards all saying the same thing: Don’t Be Creative.

Once I’d left the cemetery, the shortest route to school in the morning was along the main street.

Trish’s Hairdressing Salon was the first billboard I’d come to. Sometimes, I’d even see Trish herself, opening the shop. Trish was a walking billboard saying: Forget Fashion: Dress For Comfort.

If I hadn’t become a serial killer, I would have made an excellent hairdresser.

But I wouldn’t have worn a K-Mart sweat-top, Target tracky-dacks and Ugg boots to work. Regardless of how bogan my clientele was. And, I certainly wouldn’t have permed my own hair with a frizzy bit at the front, and told people frizzy fringes were all the rage, and if you don’t believe me, watch movies like Flashdance. Then done a tacky, cringe-worthy, ‘Oh what a feeling’ jump for emphasis. And landed fringe-first on the floor among the unswept hair clippings?

I would have lived on the fringe, and called my shop, Living on the Fringe. I would have been a walking billboard saying: Be Yourself. If old ladies had asked for blue rinses, I would have spiked their hair, dyed it bright, nuclear orange and added shock-pink and lime-green tips. Out of respect for the elderly. And their love of pretty flower gardens and colourful birds like ring-neck parrots. I would have done the odd blue rinse. Not a standard one. A bright, neon-blue Mohawk cut. Slapped them on the arse on the way out of the salon, shot my fingers off, and gone, “Go kill some cowboys! Go get ’em, gran!”

Okay, so none of them would have ever come back again. But that would have been why I did it. If they’d sued me? I would have counter-sued for emotional distress at having to listen to them yap non-stop about nothing interesting while I was butchering their hair. And claimed compensation for post-yap traumatic distress. I would have blamed it on the yap. Shooting their mouths off. Dragged the court case on for years until they were dead.

Being a hairdresser probably wouldn’t have prevented me becoming a serial killer. The yap would have driven me to it. What is it with people? They either say nothing at all, or never shut up.

After a few more billboards, [Shazza’s Haberdashery, Dazza’s Hardware & Plumbing Supplies, Bazza’s Deli, Bruce’s Garage, etc, I’d arrive at dad’s shop, Leon’s Electrical.

I used to stare at the shop frontage. It’s squareness and blandness was beyond metaphorical. It was as though dad was living vicariously through his shop frontage.

If I hadn’t become a serial killer, I would have made an excellent signwriter. But I wouldn’t have called my business, Kevin’s Signwriting. Or used home-made stencils for signs on shop frontages or my work van. I would hardly have come across as a professional.

I would have called it something like Perverse Generation. [A sign(writer) of the times]. I wouldn’t have bought a van. I would have bought a hearse. And kept all my tools of trade in a coffin in the back. One refashioned into a giant tool box. With hinges, clips and padlocks. I might have dispensed with white overalls and dressed like a funeral director. In a suit and tie. I don’t think I would have gone so far as to wear a Grim Reaper’s mask for work. I wouldn’t want to lose business. But I do like the idea, because you have to wear some sort of mask when you’re spray painting. There’s a lot of harmful toxins and chemicals in paint. The same ones they use in cigarettes. They can kill you. They should put health authority warnings on paint tins. Painting causes throat and lung cancer. Don’t let children breathe your paint fumes. Painting clogs your arteries. Painting will harm your unborn baby. Abort now?

A beautiful corpse isn’t much of a consolation to a creative person who dies young. It usually means your life was cut short. Like a bad haircut.

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Posted By: Lady Henrietta Muddling - Category: Nothing Land

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Black Angels. The Grime Of Life’s Air.

October 3rd 2008 22:19

You asked me what, if anything, interested me about life when I was young? Death. The answer is death. I never really found life all that interesting. Certainly not anything to get excited about

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