So apparently, someone in Japan made his own version of Augustine’s Member.
Which, for whatever reason, reminds me of this awful passage:
Francis woke in his room, shivering. He had kicked the covers off – no, he hadn’t. Why so cold? Irritated out of his wee-hours grogginess, he glanced over at his window – closed. Then he saw it. In the corner opposite from his bed, just behind the damp city-light drifting through his window, sat a quivering pile of something that did not belong. He tensed and sat up, gripping the sheet with his fists, then leaned forward, squinting into the dark.
Whatever it was, it was about three feet high and three feet across, a rounded, lumpy mound. Lumpy – it seemed to be comprised of nothing but lumps: small lumps, big lumps, firm lumps, flaccid lumps, round lumps, tear-drop lumps, lumps squeezed together, one against another, lumps upon lumps… and on top of each lump, a darkened point… Francis’s face looked he was gagging, like he had just swallowed something designed to make him vomit. What was in his corner was a jiggling pile of women’s breasts.
A voice slipped out from somewhere within the pile: “Hello, Francis.”
Oddly, the salute made Francis feel better. Once the thing had spoken, he had been reassured of his safety – here was something he could engage.
“W-What are you?”
“I’m surprised you ask. Weren’t you at the Timken a few days ago? I never made it into the paintings – a touch vulgar for serious art, I’m afraid – but I can assure you that Bosch was well acquainted with me. As for my name, you may call me Buub-el. I know it’s an awful joke, but it was felt that you would appreciate it.”
“What are you doing here?”
“That’s right. What am I doing here? Why aren’t I in heaven? Wake up.”
Francis woke up; it was morning. Over breakfast, he gathered up the stray bits of lore he had received concerning the fall of the angels. Lucifer, God’s favorite, had rebelled with the cry of Non serviam – I will not serve. Better to be a king in hell than a slave in heaven. He had committed the sin of pride, the root of every sin, putting himself before God. A third of the angels had joined his revolt; there had been a war in heaven, and St. Michael had cast Lucifer down into hell. But why? Why would someone who looked God in the face ever suppose that there could be something better?
When we were house-hunting, we looked at one home which had, in the basement, an objet d’art which was best described as a hard fainting couch covered with nipples. We did not buy that house.
And this from the gal with Cthulhu in her basement.
You know it’s awful writing, so why are you doing it?
I’ve heard of Cthulhu, which looked interesting (even if he sounded a bit creepy), from the very little I understood. Was it supposed to be the final theory?
You know it’s awful writing, so why are you doing it?
Perhaps it was felt that we would appreciate it.
To Churchill’s defense, I think “it” is the writing, not the blogging of the writing. What I believe (hope?) she is trying to say is, if you know it’s bad, why don’t you make it better?
I personally don’t think it’s bad, by the way; I just think it’s bad the way Matthew teases us along with a little here, a little there, but he really never shows us what we came to see… So we all leave hot and bothered and hoping next time, NEXT TIME, it will be different…
JOB
Or perhaps I should say I read it every Christmas!
If you were cheerful as well as being lewd and a Christian, you’d be the new Johnny Appleseed.
A pile of talking breasts? Were you hitting a lot of strip clubs while writing this? Research of course.
You don’t think it’s about calcium deficiency?
Porn involves objectification, the reduction of woman to parts, i.e. her sexuality as opposed to her entire personhood. I was trying to manifest that reduction physically, in a way that would get at the horror of it. Nobody ever said I was subtle. I have been in a strip club exactly once in my life, for this story.
I understand the point you were trying to make. BTW, It was obviously clear the point you were trying to make. I was being just being sarcastic.
I knew you got it, CM. I’m just tired of Angelico pestering me to take my calcium supplements every morning at shuffleboard practice. Plus, I wanted to link to that story – the part in the strip club is pretty good, I think. In that I found a good interview subject.
It’s never too early to start fighting osteoporosis! And be sure you’re getting enough vitamin D. Remind me to remind you at the K of C bingo this Friday.
I like the fact that Francis is still human enough to find dialogue — even a nightmare dialogue with a demonic voice — more comforting than straight-up carnal objectification (‘designed to make him vomit’!!!). It’s ice-cold comfort and way twisted, but that’s what the topic demands.
Though I’ve managed not to see any Kevin Smith movies, I have to wonder what he would make of this scene.
And for the record, JOB speaks for me when he talks about those of us hoping that next time, NEXT TIME, it will be different…
Good Reader story, too, if a slow skim gives an accurate sense of the whole. Thanks for linking it. Genuine insights about humor (from author and interviewees); glimpses of San Diego at a moment in time; and the particular charm of the way you integrated the family into the story, what with Mrs L. aiding your investigation and Number One Son getting his joke on the cover.
Pity you gave up so easily on the barbershop, though.
Vitamin D, brought to you by…. The University of Wisconstemcellsin.
Let our chemical accident be your nightmare…
JOB