Ü ÜßÝ Ü Ü Ü ßÝ ßÝ Ý Ý Ý Ý Û Ý Ý Ý BLaH Ý ß Ý ÜßÜ Ý Ý File ÝßÜ Ý ÜÝ ÝßÝÜÝ Written March 21st, 1993 #037 Ý Ýig Ýong ÜßÝ Ýnd Ý Ýairy Ý Ý Ý Þ Ý Ý Ý ÝÜß ÝÜÜÝ ßÜÜßÞ ÜÝ ÞÜ Presents Ú ÄÄ ¿ "Judy Blume Nightmare" ³ by ³ Guido Sanchez À ÄÄ Ù Judy Blume Nightmare Insomnia keeping me up that fateful night of April 30th, I opened up the old suitcase of crap that I had felt worth bringing back from my parents' house, just in case I wanted to relive the manipulated childhood I had recently given up. These were the old books that were too moist and discolored to be sold for twenty-five cents at our garage sales which Mom treated like a circus with her colored flags strung up throughout the front yard and 'Teddy Bear Picnic' streaming forth from speakers put on display to prove that they were worth the five dollars we were asking for. These were the books I loved and cherished, being a literate child of the late seventies and early eighties. These were from that unique era of literacy which was somewhere between Dr. Seuss and science fiction novels. These were the works of Cleary chronicling the epic struggle of Beezus and Ramona, the hard luck story of Henry, and yes, even Ralph the motorcycle mouse. These were the choose-your- own-adventure books which I had liberated from the school library in the fourth grade. These were the sagas of Jupiter Jones and the rest of The Three Investigators. And yes, among them were the sweet magnum opuses of a woman named Blume. A maelstrom swept over me of memories and feelings. Of the times I'd had back in the fourth grade. Back when the immense cult appeal that is the crux of my being manifested itself. Fondly I remember the friends I'd made as president of the self-founded unofficial Meditation Club where we sat about during recess with eyes closed chanting "Oh-lolli- pop-i-um" ad nauseum while my friends slyly slipped lollipops into their laps, keeping most of them for themselves . Ah, we were masters at knowing when someone was peaking, and only the submissive would get their reward. We could have tamed them all if it were not for that bothersome Cult Watch representative having an unfortunate liason with the principal. That and the fact that I was physically repulsive, quite the opposite of the primal Adonis that I am now. Small, fat, and with glasses made for not a pretty scene. But that never stopped me from being the social acolyte that I am now. Ah, the times I spent reading in the library, reading on the playground at recess , reading on the bus ride home, and reading before I went to bed. Yes, you truly cannot keep a well-rounded individual down. Yes, from the 2nd to 6th grades I peaked. And from these newly re-discovered tomes, I could get the ego-boost that I so desperately needed. I grabbed the first one I saw, a pale blue book with a litte boy jumping up and down on a bed gracing the cover. My lips trembled as I read the title. "Superfudge", I whispered as I would the name of anything else I held as sacred. As I turned to the back cover to read the plot summary and book reviews, a warning light went off in my head. There had been a first one. Yes, _Superfudge_ was but a mere sequel to another book. I racked my brains and the suitcase trying to find what it was. Both my brains and my hands found what I was looking for simultaneously. There, in a coverless book with a sea green spine, was the primer of the Fudge saga. _Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing_ rested in my cradling arms, rocking back and forth until my brain made me hear it croon. I turned the first page, and prepared myself to sally forth into my childhood. About 70 pages through the book, I nodded off to sleep. My dreams were filled with the sadistic images I had just encountered. I saw myself as a turtle, being plastered with stamps, dangled cruelly above someone's mouth, and finally eaten by a small child. I saw myself as a little girl, brought to a little boy's house and then forced to urinate on the rug and commit other devious acts which involved teeth. I saw myself as a little boy, neglected by my parents, ridiculed and scorned by my older sibling, and exploited in television commercials. I saw myself as Sheila Tubman, subjected to exposure to cooties, called ugly, and having my older sister called fat. I saw myself as all of these characters and others from the other books Blume wrote. I awoke screaming out loud for Jesus Christ, knowing that a scream for my mother would almost certainly bring forth the flames from Judy Blume's personal Hell. This was the first time I felt in my heart that I had truly accepted Jesus Christ as my saviour. It was also the first time I realized why my childhood was so happy. No matter how much my drunken father beat me, no matter how many times my mother made sexual advances toward me, and no matter how many times my older brother threw me outside on the snow nude and locked the door; I knew that what I was going through nowhere near rivaled that of the ordeal of Fudge Hatcher, and that none of this really mattered anyway because Jesus loves us. Thank you, Judy Blume, for being my Beatrice and showing me that Divine Love is the way. Praise Jesus! --GS {---End of File. Welcome to the valley of the great white sleep.---} From the Ayatollah of Rock-n-Rollah!... BLaH ts.. Nun-Beaters Anonymous <708>251-5094 The Battle of Evermore <312>476-1508 The Obloid Sphere <708>965-3098 Yes, there are fewer sights to be seen because I have made no contact with any of them in a long time. If you'd like to be a BLaH sight, then call yourself one. 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