In honor of my mom giving me spare rolls of the wallpaper found in my grandparents’ house, and my inability to function today after enduring last night’s political circus in its entirety, I am re-sharing this tale I wrote four years ago after doing a for-funsies photoshoot of Chooch while we were cleaning out the Gillcrest house. I still miss that house every day (I mean, it’s still standing but some asshole house-flipper bought it and has since gutted it and torn up the entire back patio area so whoever they are, they can kindly go fuck themselves with a fistful of pinecones).
(The worst part is that my mom still lives on the same street and has to drive past a plot-full of memories every day.)
Anyway, onward and upward, as they say.
(“They” can also go fuck themselves with a fistful of pinecones, honestly.)
See also: this is why I don’t “write” anymore, lol.
Bun had been haunting Gillcrest for the last 10 decades,
No one had bothered him, not even the wool-clad Mormon mission-maids.
But then one Tuesday a stranger arrived with a bag—
The new resident of Gillcrest, it was a horned stag!
Bun watched this scene unfold from a darkened upstairs window,
and wondered, “How in the hell can I chase off this bimbo?”
The new resident brought with him nine pounds of lunch meat in a chest,
three truckfuls of IKEA and paint swatches tucked near his breast.
His name was Bart and he was quick to make himself at home,
Tucking into bed with a trashy airport tome.
Bun waited for Bart to close his eyes for the night
Before pulling out a nightmarish delight.
A mannequin, green like slime and with nary an arm
Out from the closet to cause all sorts of harm.
When Bart arose the next morn’ with a stretch and a spit,
His heart skipped a beat at the sight of the broad’s plastic tit.
“I swear this tart wasn’t here when I turned off the light,”
He swiped at the beads of sweat along his lip, butt clenching in fright.
Bart fled from his room and sank down into a corner,
Wondering if he was dealing with the supernatural or a burglar.
Bart thought he heard some blips, some gurgles, and a bleet,
Coming from the basement far under his feet.
“That’s probably just the house groaning, or feral cats under the foundation, boning,”
Bart laughed nervously, thinking he might call his Mother for some chaperoning.
Oh, but it was Bun, partaking in his daily routine:
A rousing game of Pacman and a few swigs of hooch at 10:14.
Bun floated back upstairs just in time to hear Bart on the phone,
Talking to his mommy who made him feel a little less alone.
She said to vacate the spooks behind the peregrine doors,
“You need to redecorate, and make this house yours!”
Bart assessed his new home from a red corner chair,
and thought, “How can I change things up around here?
I’ll knock down this wall and tear up that shag carpet,
and turn that grand bathtub into a germ-filled ball pit.”
It was like reliving his midlife crisis of 1994,
Which came with a Porsche and an affair with a Gabor.
(Not Zsa Zsa.)
“He wants to put a ball pit right here in my loo?
I gotta get rid of him with something stronger than ‘boo.'”
Bun needed to sit down and have a good thought.
So he went and did just that on the master pot.
Bun considered going the poltergeist route,
Tossing around dishes, chucking an old rubber boot.
Not wanting to break his things, he went with something more malleable,
And summoned an army of one of each stuffed animal.
Teddy bears and puppies and some weird doll-thing,
Surged upon Bart, pinning him to the wall like one big butterfly wing.
“It was probably just a fluke, something-something about gravity,”
Bart’s mom sighed over top of her daytime TV.
“You know what you need, a good healthy lay.
Go call up Bernice from 1-900-PONYPLAY.”
Bart knew she was right, some company would do him good,
So he tried to fix himself up, he did what he could.
He lubed up his horn and filled his satchel with smelling salts,
Then when downstairs to wait for Bernice and all of her faults.
After waiting in his chair for more than an hour,
Bart thought he saw something, a figure the trees tried to devour.
“Is that Bernice?” Bart thought, bringing his binoculars up to his eyes,
(He always kept them handy in case a neighbor bared their thighs.)
But what he saw didn’t resemble a hag rode hard and put away wet,
No, this looked more like…somebody’s Easter pet.
And what was that, just behind the bunny and to the left?
A head in a ditch, the chin had a cleft.
Was that Bernice, beheaded by this cuniculus killer
But Bart rubbed his eyes, and the bunny was gone, nothing out there but filler.
Bun came back into the house and changed his clothes,
Killing that stripper bitch left him bloody and anxious for her to decompose.
Bun knew that if he played his cards just right,
He’d have his estate back by the end of third night.
Just a few more moves left in this game by his pawn
Before Bart would be shitting his pants on the front lawn.
Bun spent time in the game room with his clown crew
While elsewhere in the house, Bart’s paranoia grew.
Was this some real life Amityville Horror ghost attack,
Or just another Vietnam acid flashback?
The bedside phone rang on Bart’s third night,
Not once but thrice, the trill giving his faint heart a bite.
The first two calls were white noise, static silence,
Not even the slightest semblance of a sentence.
But the third call exploded with the angry bellow of Bun:
“Bitch you’re in my house, best run motherfucker, run!”
That was enough to get Bart to peace the fuck out, see,
So he called up a ride from the Teenage Hooker taxi company.
He waited and waited by the window, so harried and eager,
His hooves percussing the floor to the beat of Bob Seger.
“A real man would have lasted more than one day times three,”
He could already hear his mother say in between sips of her tea.
But mother can suck a dick, Bart thought as he ran out of the door,
To jump in the back of the cab driven by a whore.
(Out of Uber territory.)
Bun rejoiced on the deck beneath the sun’s bright rays.
“I got my house back and I have lunch meat for days!”