Surgically Mutated Whore

We recently attended and enjoyed our son’s Fall Festival (a cleverly titled Halloween party) at his preschool.

Parents were encouraged to don costumes for the event, and I must say, the most impressive costume by far was what I’ve come to think of as the “Surgically Mutated Whore.”

Hers was the most impressive costume because I cannot imagine how she got her mouth to look like that (not unlike the sucker of a liver fluke) using only makeup.  It was as if I could almost see the cadaver tissue engorging both her lower and upper lips!

The buttocks of her tasteful red velvet dress sported a timeless white bunny cottontail. Real planning and attention to detail had gone into this transformation.

And those grotesque bosoms!  What a riot!  Spectacular makeup, I just don’t know how she accomplished so much and made it look so convincingly real.  And for a seasoned woman, at that!

In all, a spectacular interpretation of an overdone costume (because really, when you think of a preschooler’s Halloween party, who doesn’t immediately think ‘freakish naked whore’? I mean, come on - how cliché!) and kudos to her and her date.

Your obedient servant,
B. Freret 

Little Dude Freret, 10/28/06 - 10/30/06

Forgive any melancholy in my first post, Pretend Reader (you won’t mind if I call you that, will you?  I mean, I have to address these comments to someone, otherwise I’d just be talking to myself.  And that would be creepy.  So since you know you aren’t reading this, and I know you aren’t reading this, I’m simply going to refer to you as P.R., and you won’t mind, because you are a gracious and polite generic made up person) but the Freret family has suffered an unexpected loss.

Our innocent goldfish, Little Dude, passed away.  In a rush of emotion, I quickly jotted this down on a napkin:

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Little Dude Freret, Purchased 10/28/06, died 10/30/06.

Rest in Peace, Little Dude.  We hardly got to know you, but you touched us all, and we are better people for it.

In your honor, and with apologies to Mary E. Frye, a variation of her poem “Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep.”  I'm sure you'd say these things to us if you could.  You know, if you weren't a fish.  And dead.  If you weren't a dead little fish, I'm certain that you would say this to us.

DO NOT STAND AT THE COMMODE AND WEEP

Do not stand at the commode and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand gallons that flow.
I am helping flowers grow.
I am the gentle showers of rain.
I am fertilizing fields of ripening grain.
***
Do not stand at the commode and cry.
I am not there; I did not die.

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Your obedient servant,
B. Freret

Old School

I know, blogs are very ‘last year.’ And a bad idea from last year, at that.

But being old fashioned and perhaps too easily swayed, I’ve been convinced to start my own. (It is not lost on me that the reason my friend suggested that I do so is likely because he is tired of shouldering the responsibilty of ignoring me alone.)

Regardless, here is my very own blog, where no thought or observation will be too trivial to escape shameless public regurgitation for an audience of billions to ignore.

Your obedient servant,
B. Freret