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November11, 2004, 11:37PM - Idolatry and Its Subsequent Penalty   
11:37pm 13/11/2004
  Teacher Norris woke up face down in a small puddle of vomit she had created for herself in the plank floor of her kitchen. What had managed to drip through the cracks between the planks would feed the masses buried in her basement above the kitchen that she had demonstrated enough mercy to spare. In the mind of T.F. Norris, her opposition had two options. The first, of course, would be to die. The second option would be to feed on vomit until you either starved to death or died from the dozens of individuals also trapped in the same situation that would kill you over a bread crumb and then feed on your corpse of course. Death in the cellar of Teacher Norris was welcome by its inhabitants. Food was food, no matter how you look at it.

If by now you're thinking that Teacher Norris contains no shred of humanity, then think again. She practically thrives off the films of John Travolta, her favorite being the sci-fi masterpiece Battlefield Earth. She managed to obtain a cardboard cutout of Travolta's character at a screening for the film, and now treasures it as she would treasure a biological child. In any event, the item sits atop her television as many would treasure a statue of the Virgin Mary atop theirs. As it has been some 300 years since the holy experiment failed, Norris has spent much of her time looking for other places to spend her faith. In the end, she settled for this cardboard (although lifelike), portrait of John Travolta with dreadlocks and glue-colored skin, armed with a futuristic assualt rifle and ready to stomp on any dirty, Jesus-loving nig...ahem, "heathen" that steps in her path. Yes, Ms. Norris' convictions run deep, and I pity the fool that fucks with her shit, even when I'm drunk.

"What the fuck're you looking at, bitch-made motherfucker?" Norris' alcohol supply had begun to run low. At such a point, the ideal action would be to finish it off. Norris had followed suit by addressing her cardboard idol as if it was real.
"You need to stop drinking, you have a problem and I don't want to see you get hurt," Travolta's expression had not changed, but his words obviously expressed concern.
"Fuck you, you, you godforsaken son of a bitch, you left me when I needed you! You ruined me!" Norris' throat was dry as a bone.
"I tried, but I just wasn't ready for a family..."
"What do you know about family? I gave you my love, and you gave me nine months of shit. I gave you my love, I gave you...," Norris' voice trailed off into the darkness. She had tried to create something that lasted, but in the end, her cardboard cutout's abandonment left her with nothing but a broken heart and a swell in the stomach.

It was raining. Norris brandished a tire iron and began to bludgeon the cardboard replica. "Fuck you" could be heard repeatedly throughout the neighborhood, but alas the neighbors of Teacher Fucking Norris had yet to experience her true wrath.
 
     

(get the fuck out of my yard)

 
A Brief Introduction to Teacher F. Norris   
06:41pm 20/10/2004
  Once upon a time there was a bastard. His name was Horace Norris. Horace was a bastard.

Now just why was Horace a bastard? Well, it seems he was immaculately conceived from a large scab on his mother's left earlobe. Now how big was this scab? To put things into perspective, it was as frighteningly gigantic as her ass.

Regardless, Horace was on his way to a Mormon congregation although he was not Mormon. In fact he was a Wiccan Druid and cursed Brigham Young on a regular basis.

"Fuck Brigham Young," he muttered to himself as he entered the place of worship carrying a sheep under one arm and a shovel under the other. Next, he thrusted the shovel into the sheeps abdomen, and promptly left, but not before an aggrivated Mormon shot him with a spray of machine gun fire. The bullets easily penetrated Horace's spine, but by now Horace had grown accustomed to this kind of treatment and proceeded to return to his mother, whose first name was suspiciously "Teacher."


* * * * * * * * * *

"GET YOUR Mmm-Mmm-Mmm-Motherfucking ass in the house now!!"

Teacher Norris was pissed. She reached for her Luigi XM-017Z-3 Tactical 12 Gauge Shotgun, but she realized that if she put a six ounce piece of lead in the form of an explosive slug into her son Horace, his precious insides (which she had seen many times), might end up on her good china.

"Teacher Fucking Norris, I'm not putting up with any more of your shit! I’m level 12 now!"

"Damn it Horace, you stupid son of a bitch, how many times have I told you now to call me by my full name? I am your mother and you will address me by the title of 'Mamacita,' you stupid whore!" Horace was silent.

"Level 12? Have you been going to that damn Wiccan shit again?" Teacher interrogated, already halfway through her drunken stupor. She reached for her autographed picture of William Penn. She had been there for the founding of his "Holy Experiment," and even went behind their parents' backs and bludgeoned the donkey a couple of times before he succumbed to the Puritan temptation.

“It's been 300 years since…Ah, fond memories…” Teacher actually slurred the word "memories" as the last drop of liquor fell from her mouth to the floor. The rest of her body followed.

* * * * * * * * * *

She woke up in a large puddle of her own vomit. Maybe that last bottle of Jack's finest wasn't such a strangled hamster after all.

Suddenly she heard the familiar sound of a Luigi N-3712R-5 Entry 12 Gauge Shotgun as her door was blown off it's hinges. Simultaneously, the SWAT team entered the room, fully equipped with automatic weapons, and by a fraction of a second later, five bullets found a permanent hole in Teacher's skull. Her first instinct was to bleed, and then to swear.

"You motherfuckers!" Teacher shrieked as a hot ball of acid erupted out of her mouth, engulfing the entire SWAT team and all of their high-powered weaponry. She cackled as smoke exited her hole ridden face and lower forehead.

Teacher looked around at the mess she had made. She had known all along that a SWAT team would come by, she just didn't know when. From crimes against humanity to crimes against nature, and eventually to such crimes as indecent exposure and lewd conduct, T. Fucking Norris had done it all.

"Horace, get your ass in here and clean this shit up!"
"Wait, let me fin--”
"I said now dammit!"
"Fine…"
"While your up, get me some more Cheetos and chocolate and…"

What's the difference? Questions echoed through Horace's mind. Cheetos? Chocolate? Pork rinds? The special Vaseline from your secret drawer? Who gives a fuck?        

"DAMMIT Horace, you think I can't hear that shit going on in your head? That was your last betrayal, you pathetic bastard!"
"How the he--?"

Suddenly, it had seemed like gravity had decided to disappear, then come back seventy-eight times harder that it had been before. Horace's life flashed before his eyes, but then the sight of Teacher Norris's enormous rear hovering above him brought him back into reality before collapsing on top of his face, departing him into eternal oblivion forever.
 
     

(2 migrainemigraines | get the fuck out of my yard)

 
October 20, 2004, 6:19PM - An Alternative to Anger   
01:08am 20/10/2004
  The sensitive piece of skin sticking out from in between the nail and the right side of the index finger on the right hand throbbed incredibly. On previous attempts Oswald had been able to sever the offending hangnail with a pair of nail clippers he kept in a drawer inside a desk by the couch. Inspired, Oswald frantically searched through the drawer. It contained a number of used tissues, as well as coasters from a nearby seafood restaurant and some masturbation paraphernalia also.

"Ah horseshit! Hey, uh, Peggy, where the hell'd you put my damn clippers?"

At this point, informing Oswald that a domestic abuse incident had prompted Peggy to divorce him twelve years ago would be futile. He was obviously secure in his belief, and even if he could be convinced otherwise, there was no one in the house to inform him. In any event, Oswald quickly grew tired of the search and clenched the hangnail between his front teeth. He pulled his mouth away, leaving a wound that went two-thirds of an inch down past his cuticle. The tear quickly began to fill with blood. This set off a chain of incomprehensible stuttering and murmuring that went on for about ten or fifteen minutes and would eventually be interrupted by a knock at the door.

A little boy wearing a baseball cap and a boy scout uniform stood upon Oswald's porch.

"Hello Sir, my dog ran under your fence and is in your back yard--would you be able to unlock the gate so I can find him?"

A flash of anger swept through Oswald's cheeks.

"Now hold your horses there you little son of a bitch, I'll get him for you. I don't like outsiders in my back yard. Just wait here." As Oswald closed the door, the boy saw him take a metallic object out of the waistband of his worn-out brown jeans.

In about two minutes, a sound that reminded the boy of the 4th of July, only more intense, echoed through the air. He heard a man laughing in the back yard and decided it would be a good time to run home.

Oswald threw the pile of fur over the fence into his neighbor's yard and sat down in his rocking chair on the back porch.

"He he he, take that you motherfucker! He he he!"

The thought of his own action entertained him for the next half hour or so, until he realized he was still bleeding and headed inside for a Kleenex.
 
     

(get the fuck out of my yard)

 
October 18, 2004, 4:13PM - Crisis Stage One on Holiday Avenue   
06:24pm 18/10/2004
  "Oh fuck me Jesus, what the hell is this shit?"

P. Oswald Garrick looked inside of the dryer and noticed the blue smears across the shimmering white Maytag interior. He removed sweater after cardigan sweater until the pile of eight sat in a brown laundry basket on the damp wooden plank floor of the laundry room.

"Who the fuck put a pen in my motherfuckin' dryer?"

It was a conspiracy against him and a damn good question. Oswald lived alone, so someone must have snuck in through a window in the cellar and put the pen in his laundry, or possibly the dryer itself once turned on. Of course, this must have occurred when Oswald was sleeping because when awake, he claimed to have the senses of a cat. When asleep however, he was at his most vulnerable as he was the deepest of deep sleepers. One time a neighbor's golden retriever managed to enter the house through an open window, and entered Oswald's bedroom. The dog had recently consumed a cardinal outside, and as Oswald told the story to his poker buddies at the lodge, "The bitch shit bird guts all through my motherfuckin' bedroom!"

He examined the damage. Four sweaters were ruined entirely, while the others might be OK with some Shout if Oswald felt up to it later on. A trail of profanity followed him back to his tattered grey couch in front of the television, where it mixed with the scent of stale urine in the rug under the coffee table and Cuban cigar smoke lingering in the air. Luckily, there was still 10 minutes left of the Steve Harvey Show; Baywatch had been cut off in favor of a safe-sex themed episode of a sitcom starring Patrick Duffy on Oswald's other favorite station.

"Goddamn condoms," he had remarked to the televsion before turning it off to check the laundry.

Oswald was not a fan of contraceptives. For him, they only got in the way when he was trying to "run train on a bitch" with the rest of the Lions' club at the lodge, amongst other personal issues, of which there are many.

You will hear about all of them.
 
     

(2 migrainemigraines | get the fuck out of my yard)