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syszero 08-28-2016 09:59 PM

Reading Corner (Bent Stories Only)
I have been a fan of J0hn Hughe5 for a long time. He was a contributing writer to a magazine called National Lampoon that was very popular from the seventies to the ninties. Anyway I have the whole collection of magazines and I thought i would share some of the stories. I like them due to their bent weirdness. J0hn Hughe5 didn't write all of them but many. Let me know if you like them.


syszero 08-28-2016 10:02 PM

My Despicable Dead Mother Who Ruined My Life
Chapter I
Dead. My mother, superstar. In Beverly Hills, California. February I4, I980, at 7 PM Pacific Standard Time. Official cause of death: burping while sneezing and expelling air at the same time. Unofficial cause of death: being a Bitch with a capital B. With complications added by being a shithead. My mother, the biggest bitch goddess of the silver screen, was dead. I heard the news on the radio that gray winter day while I was slinging hash at the local hash house in Oakland, where at the age of thirty-eight I now live. With mixed vegetables on the side, I heard of my mother's death. It blared from the old wood-paneled radio we keep on the top counter next to the lemon meringues and the health brownies. While I mixed the instant potatoes, I heard the announcer say again that my mother was dead at the age of sixty-nine. (Not true. She had always taken a few years off of her real age. Her true birthdate was January I2, I864.)

Then I felt it. Boy, did it hit me. My mother was dead. I stood in the middle of the diner, threw a bunch of plates up in the air, and shouted. I shouted loud and I shouted clear. "Yippee! YoWee! Oh boy, oh hoy! Oh, great day in the morning, mv mother is dead! Oh boy oh boy!" It was, I realize now, just a cover-up of the real emotions I was to feel later and as I now feel as I sit here dictating this hook in my own words and writing it with nobody else's help. I was to and really, really still do feel pain and anger and great personal loss and undergo depression costing me at least half a million dollars in doctor bills and personal injury. A great, great loss. Especially after finding out that the lousy shrew cut me out of her will.

Chapter I I

My first memories of my mother are happy ones. I remember her bouncing me on her knee and calling rne Baby. "Whose baby are you?" she would ask me, all smiles. "Your baby, Mommy," I would reply, and we would both laugh and smile and then laugh some more. But then... then my frighteningly disturbed mother's true colors would come out and her severe psychological disorders take over. Her schizoid paranoia, her manic-depressive tendencies, and her hostile delusions would cloud what was once before she made out her will a good and kindly mind.

With me still sitting on my mother's knee, she would ask again, "And whose baby are you, Lenora?" And I, as always being a kind, dutiful, loving, obedient, and adorable daughter would reply, "Your baby, Mommy." And then, as if from nowhere, would come the craziness. "Then how about Mommy's little cupcake scooting on off to bed? Don't you think you might like to go to bed?" The first time this happened, I couldn't believe my ears. Scooting off to bed? At only I I PM? Why, I was five years old and this iron-heeled tyrant was treating me like a child! Just one minute before, she had been so kind and sweet, and now, instead of warmth, there was a demonic coldness to her and a deadly demanding fury. Demanding me to do things that no child should ever have to do.

Tearing me apart with her drastic mood swings, indicating a mental deterioration that would never enable her to know what she was saying in her will. I stared at my mother in disbelief. "Bed?" I asked uncomprehendingly. "You want me to go to bed?" "Yes, dear," she replied, raising her hand and reaching for her big hairbrush. "You've had a long day and you're tired. Now scoot." Her fingers tightened on the ugly hairbrush. I slid off the lunatic woman's lap the lap that had been so warm and comforting only seconds before and stood shivering in my nighties in front of her. My mind reeled. What did she want? Why was I being punished? What had I ever done to deserve the wrath of this monster?

What, God, what? Was I really such a horrible little girl? "Lenora," my mother said in a psychotic, threatening tone, "scoot!" Her hands now held the hairbrush ever so tightly, and she bent down closer and closer and closer, as if to... I ran screaming up the stairs to my suite of rooms in the east wing, looking back only once to see her. To see my Hitlerian mother standing there with a look of fake amazement and bewilderment on her face as she brushed her hair. As if because I was only five years old I didn't know what she was going to do. Crazy old bitch. I cried myself to sleep that night, after chain-smoking and shaking for three full hours. The anguish, the horror and fear I felt it was ghastly, it was inhuman, and it was worth at least half a million dollars.

Chapter III

That was not the last of my mother's mood swings. I grew to dread those times when a cheerful, warm, and compassionate woman would suddenly, because of a chemical imbalance or just plain tension-induced psychotic paranoia and I use the word with full knowledge of its clinical, historical, and psychological underpinnings get on the last train to Bananaville. My brother Bob and I learned to watch for the danger signals: one misplaced word or phrase, one perfectly innocent glance or act from us, could send her into a towering rage that would be felt by the two of us for weeks and weeks. I remember one night after dinner.

My mother, Bob, and I were sitting in the playroom of our gaudy, purchased for- the-public-and-certainly-not-for the- children Beverly Hills home. We were discussing what program to watch on TV that night. Dinner had been wonderful, with laughing and love thrown all over the kitchen in casual huge loads. But now it was different or about to become so. Because of the wonderful dinner. Bob and I had forgotten to keep our usual guards up. We were to regret it later. Our mother told us that there was a wonderful program about wildlife in the Amazon River basin that all three of us might enjoy. Bob and I looked at each other in dismay. His eyes communicated to me that I should tell her tactfully that we really wished to watch some other selection on television that evening. (Also, Bob had been born without a tongue and had difficulty with dipthongs.)

Although only seven years old, I was very articu- late and was determined to tell the woman in the gentlest way possible that Bob and I wished not to watch that particular show. I began haltingly. "Mom?" "Yes, sweetheart?" she replied with glaringly fake concern. "Couldn't we watch something else? Jane Russell in The Outlaw is on channel seven!" "I don't know, darling. That movie is a little " Suddenly I couldnt stand her condescension and patronizing tone no longer. My mother was strangling me! Yes, strangling me with her rules and orders and impossible demands. If I didn't tight then, I thought, she would always have me in the grip of her hammerlock will. "Oh sure, Mom," I replied with teeth clenched. "No Jane Russell for us! You're just envious because she has bigger tits than you!" I was calm, but my mother sure wasn't. The truth hurts some people.

She put down her knitting on her lap but held on tightly to the huge blue knitting needles. Very tightly. "Lenora!" she said loudly. I could almost sec the hate in the room. Yes, hate. There was hate in the ashtrays, hate in the bookcases, hate in the drawers of the ugly end tables she made us look at day after day, hate on the mantel next to her Oscar, and hate all over the rug. The room was custom hate decorated by my crazy Mummy Darling. "You are!" I said. "You're jealous of her tits!" My mother's hands gripped the huge knitting needles ominously. "But I bet your cunt's bigger, you crazy old fuck!" I was about to lose my temper. The crazed pig rose from her chair, breathing fury and trailing blue yarn. She walked toward me menacingly, clutching the huge knitting needles. Closer and closer and closer, until... The next thing I remember is waking up on the couch a few minutes later with my mother sitting by my side.

She had that fake worried look on her face that she always wore whenever I screamed and choked and fainted.
"Are you all right, Lenora?" she asked with false concern. "Would you like to see the doctor again, darling?" I nodded in the negative. She began speaking again with that false concern the bitch always had in her voice after I'd get hysterical and almost swallow my tonsils. "Are you sure, dear?" she said quietly. "We could get the talk-to man." (The "talk-to man" was the name my mother had given my quack psychiatrist.) "He could come over, and maybe you'd feel better." Her hair had those fake worried curls she always wore whenever my eyes bugged out and I tried to eat forks. "No, Mom," I replied softly. "I'll be all right."

My eyes stayed fixed on the knitting needles. The crazy old fart wasn't going to fool me this time. I was learning fast. She picked me up and put me to bed, singing those fake bedtime songs she always sang, so I ended up watching nothing on TV that night. Nothing at all. That, I was to learn, was my mother's way shower you with love, bathe you in hate, and then in the end give you nothing. Not even $750,000.

syszero 08-28-2016 10:03 PM

Chapter IV

I have said nothing about a father. That is because Bob and I didn't have one. Oh, there was a male around to plant the biological seeds in my mother's schizzcd-out fallopian tubes, but by the time I could talk and Bob could make those horrible gurgling noises my father had died. In a car accident, my mother said, one night while he was driving on Sunset Boulevard. When I was older, she also told me that Daddy had had a drinking problem (who wouldn't, living with her?) and that she was almost sure he was drunk the night of the accident. She also told me that she had never quite gotten over it, even after all these years. Uh-huh. Right. Make me laugh, asshole. Tell me another one. Sure. Change your name to Bob Hope.

I tell this as a preface to something that took place the summer of my seventeenth year. I was about to get into my convertible it was my third Mercedes, the red one, the two blues having had faulty doodads that made me total both of them. As I was about to get in, I saw my mother's head under the hood and heard clanking noises. Always on my guard, I walked over and questioned her. "Mom, what arc you doing?" I asked calmly and with great respect. She eyed me with false warmth as she answered. "Oh, nothing much, Lenora. Just fixing one of these spark plugs. I heard your motor knocking and figured it must be one of these suckers here." She held up a greasy spark plug triumphantly, as if she had just discovered a cure for tonsillitis or something. But I stood there in a panic. Sure, my mother's mechanical expertise was well known in Hollywood. But she was obviously "fixing" my car so that I would have an accident and be "killed" the way you know who was.

Had she also "fixed" my two blue Mercedes? Again the panic welled up inside of me like an overinflated bladder ball. If I told her that I knew what she was doing, she would only give me that horrible fake look of concern, that same look she was giving me twice a day now when I came back from the talk-to man. I decided it would be best to say nothing, to just get in and drive away as if everything was fine and then go to the Beverly Hills police and report an attempted homicide. But would they believe me, what with my mother's reputation as a crackerjack mechanic? So I blew a kiss to her, got in the car. and drove off as if nothing was wrong. The last thing I heard was my mother my dear, sweet mother screaming at the top of her lungs, "Lenora! Lenora! You forgot your glasses! Remember, you're legally blin " I didn't feel like waiting around for IUT to finish her phony-baloney sentence. This time, I was going to the police- Needless to say, I never got there. The red Mercedes, so beautifully "fixed" by my mother, ended all tangled up in the big gate at MGM after hitting forty-three Negro extras and a trained pig they were using for some musical with Kathryn Grayson.

I wasn't hurt physically, but emotionally... emotionally I was scarred. Badly. Those scars haven't healed even now, over twenty years later. Even now. Sometimes I think not even one mi'tlion dollars would heal those scars. Chapter V In all fairness to my mother, I must admit that she was the biggest whore in Hollywood. And the biggest boozer. I say this remembering Christmas Eve of '56, the year I got only one lousy present: a crummy little coat made out of sable or something, and imported from Russia, of all places. I guess my mother was a communist too. I wouldn't know. You wouldn't catch me in a voting booth with that Looneytune.

Anyway, that Christmas Eve she had invited some of her "intimate" friends over: Clark, Spencer, Kate, Bette, Claudettc, Noel, Gary, Marilyn, Cecil B., Jimmy, Hank, and the Duke— a whole bunch of creepy losers. The wine really flowed that night. I remember counting fourteen empty champagne bottles planted in my bedroom before I passed out. To make a long story short, I was going to the kitchen to get some more hors d'oeuvres (my mother always insisted on giving the servants the night off; it was all for show, and I ended up being slave all evening to her lousy friends) when suddenly I saw my mother, wine glass in hand, kissing a well-known actor in the dining room who I always thought was a homosexual.

I stopped and screamed. "You! You! Why are you such a dirty slut? Why can't you be like other——" I stopped, too choked up and too emotionally wrought to continue. I thought I would be violently and physically ill right there on the wall to wall. My mother walked toward me and again —it was always "again" with her—started to "explain" to me what had just happened, as if I were blind and hadn't just seen the whole thing.

"But, Lenora, dear," she slurred, "we were just standing under some mistletoe, and it really was just an innocent——" I couldn't stand it any longer. "Don't give me any of your shit;' I replied quietly. "Everybody in this town knows you got your start by blowing Harry Warner's dog. I'm going to my room." And with that I left, leaving my mother gasping with that fake open mouth of hers, which wasn't fake when Harry Warner or his dog were around.

In my room, I suddenly felt a surge of affection for her. After all, she had given me a cute little thirty-eight-carat diamond for my birthday that year. And she hadn't said anything when it accidentally got flushed down the toilet after our fight over the last hot dog. I had an urge to protect and help her, help her to overcome her horrible problems. But first, the story of my mother's drunken orgy had to be hushed up. So I called Hedda, Louella, UPI, AP Photoplay, True Confessions, Modern Screen, and about a dozen other places, begging them all not to tell about Mummy's alcoholism and uncontrollable urges to fuck. They all promised me that they wouldn't, but somehow the story got out. After it broke, my mother became worse than ever. Her mood swings, her drinking—it all intensified. Yes, the abusive, hysterical shitheel was getting worse. Even the talk-to man agreed with me, about sixteen times a week.

Chapter VI

Epilogue: That was my childhood. A life filled with fear, hate, mistrust, brutality, anxiety, desperation, lies, and tears. Filled with everything, I guess you could say, except love. Love was the one thing my mother could never give me. And the final ignominy, the ultimate degradation... I am shaking as I write this... I was cut out of my mother's will not only because she didn't love me, but because she was a viperous wretch. Can you imagine the pain and humiliation of not having the two million dollars that your own sinister dead mother owes you because she went out of her way while she was alive to make sure that you would always suffer and never have any pleasure after she was dead? But that's the type of diabolic, dirtwad hag she was. I hope all of you understand that now. It's important to me that you really, really know.

moefugger 08-28-2016 10:28 PM

That is more than 10 words at a time.

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