The Gory Details (Gross)

The Gory Details #13 "Somebody Scare That Fool"

The Gory Details 999 "Somebody Scare That Fool"

You wouldn't think the Gore Monger would be much of a fan of April Fool's Day, but I thought I would take advantage of the opportunity to discuss some of the things in life that may both scare and make a fool of you.

High school librarians: Librarians are terrifying. Ask your friends if they were scared of their high school librarian and you'll see how common this fear is. In an informal survey, I found many that many school librarians have acquired fear inducing nicknames like mediaeval creatures of terror. "Bun Head." "Sticky Knees." "The Butt." "The Butt" was actually from my own junior high experience. There was nothing particularly remarkable about that librarian that I recall except that, at age 10, we were all more or less at exactly the right height to stare at her butt if we were first in line in the hallway.

And what was it we were afraid the librarian was going to do if we didn't turn our books in on time? Without hacksaw or shotgun or real ability to impact our lives, librarians drove us to madness with fear of what would happen if we didn't turn in our books. Given the choice between missing the ACTs and letting a book go overdue, the wise student let the ACT go. Librarians, the heart of fear.

Life sized Dolls: O.K. true story here. Back in highschool I was dating a girl whose mom was in advertising. One night, while mom and dad were out of town, I snuck over to...discuss philosophy. After a careful examination of Plato and Socrates, I was sneaking back out of the darkened house when "AAAHH!" her dad was sitting in a chair at the base of the stairs. I reacted logically; "I..I...The car broke down, we were doing homework, is this your house, it wasn't sex, well it was sex but it wasn't sex, it was just ahhh! please, please, please don't kill me." Her dad remained very calm and I realized he was, in fact, the life sized cloth "grandma" doll her mother was working on for a marketing program. Life sized dolls, honestly, forget Chuckie. Back off "My Size Barbie." I will kick your ass.

And there's a clothing thing in the world. It's big, some kind of conspiracy or something. I haven't figured out what's happening exactly but here's how I know something is going on. Someone is dumping thousands of shoes, one at a time on the streets of America. You've seen this; one Air Walk Nike worn, not new, lying abandoned amid the leaves and hamburger wrappers on the side of the street. Start counting them, you're seeing at least one a week. Abductees throwing out some sign they're alive? Corporate conspiracy to keep the price of shoes up? I don't know, but I suspect it's another nefarious plot by the dryer sock stealing trolls who torment us all.

Another little realized terror is leftovers. Randy Quaid tried to warn us when he accepted a role in the ridiculously bad movie Parents. In it the parents keep serving their son leftovers. Curious thing, dad (Quaid) is a mortician. You work it out. Here are my questions: Where does the perfectly good food you put in the fridge last night get that greasy, yellow slime that won't come off the tupperware? How can my wife tell, without looking, whether or not I've grabbed the leftovers on my way out the door? Why do the vegetables turn to mush but the meat turns to rubber when you microwave them? Come to think of it, I'm not afraid of left overs, I'm just pissed that my wife makes me eat left over stuffed bell peppers when I could be feasting on Wendy's super value menu. Hmm, maybe if I kidnap the George Foreman grill.

For my final bit of stupid horror you need a very small dog. Very small dogs are not scary, nor are they gory unless you hit one with a large hammer or cinder block. No, the horror here considered is the horror that small stupid dogs suffer when owned by the kind of creeps who write for horror magazines. Here's how it works in my house, take any of your child's collection of hand puppets, (Elmo works well) and hold him around the corner into the room where the dog is playing. Begin hissing. Once the dog notices the evil Elmo and begins growling and barking at it, come around the corner to see what the problem is, only to be attacked by the vicious Elmo. Roll on the floor, writhing and howling in pain as Elmo goes for your throat. Die after a while, and lie still, Elmo fixed immobile to your neck. Here's where the stupid on the dog's part comes in. After barking and running in little dog circles as it watched you be brutally murdered by a vicious hand puppet, the dog will not seek shelter or call 911. No, body quivering, trail of tinkle behind it, the small dog is compelled by powers greater than the desire for life to sneak up and sniff the Elmo. Wait, the first sniff is too tentative, made with tiny nose outstretched. The second or third sniff, that's when the dog is close enough for Elmo to leap back to life and snatch the dog up in its felt lined jaws. Ah the howls of terror. Ah the howls of laughter.

Well that's a foolish as the Gore Monger gets. Now get out there and write.

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