glorias-houston

A Paternal Epiphany

Today, I showed my dad what Pandora Radio is.

Now, this is the man who has locked his truck radio onto a Classic Rock station. He jams out to Journey, Nirvana, and Bon Jovi. He’s a Dean Winchester sort of music guy.

So it surprised me a bit when the first thing he types in for his new station is, “Madonna.” But I figured it’s the 80’s, y'know? I let it slide.

But then he kept adding variety, and I kept getting more and more confused: Cyndi Lauper, Prince, Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, Gloria Estefan…

But I totally lost it at the conversation that followed when his new station played the second song: Bad Romance by Lady Gaga.

Dad: “What is this? I didn’t add The Gaga to my list.”

Me: “It picks songs with similar traits to what you add. Same with artists.”

Dad: “Well, good!” *likes song* “That means it’ll come back later, right? I like the Gaga.”

My dad, the man who raised me on Queen and Asia, “loves Lady Gaga.”

I feel like my life has been a lie, but for some reason this sudden revelation has also made me inordinately happy.

It has also given me the headcanon that Dean Winchester secretly listens to Lady Gaga when Sam’s not around to tease him about it.

Life is good.

Creepypasta #414: Finding A Killer

I’m Mark Houston, my wife is Gloria Houston, we live at 1901 Kennedy Drive. It’s 7am, a Tuesday, and I’m leaving for work. I kiss my beautiful pregnant Gloria but don’t dare tell her where I’m going because she won’t like it.

After months of hard work and dead ends I finally got a lead on the missing women on the east side. The police haven’t had any luck finding this guy; he’s a real sicko who loves knives and sex, at the same time.

Now I’m no cop, and I’m not a hero by any means, but I do like to think I’m doing the Lord’s work.

I pull up to an old dilapidated brick apartment building surrounded by similar squalor. I pause in my Toyota Camry thinking about how this will make everything right and how good it’ll feel when it’s finally over. I breathe out, I grab my things and I rush in.

Behind his door I can hear rhythmic thumping. I get prepared and then knock. The sounds stop and after a few moments I can see the eyehole dim from someone on the otherside. The door opens and a large gluttonous man stands there with only a towel around his waist. Streaks of water with a reddish hue adorn his giant hairless gut.

I finally found the creep and now it’s time. I raise my hand and give him a piece of paper. I don’t say anything, I just turn around and walk out of the building.

The fat slob flips over the paper and reads, “Gloria Houston, beautiful, pregnant, at 1901 Kennedy Drive. She’ll be home alone all day.”

Credits to: JohnRoyale

4

Houston, Texas: March and rally in solidarity with the Ferguson uprising, August 20, 2014.

“Whose streets? Our streets! Took over the streets in Third Ward, marching in solidarity with Ferguson, from the HPD cop shop on West Grey and St. Emanuel and through the hood. We out-smarted the cops who were trying to block the streets and keep us on the sidewalks. HPD, out of our community!”

Report and photos by Gloria Rubac

5

Houston, Texas: March and rally in solidarity with the Ferguson uprising, August 20, 2014.

“Whose streets? Our streets! Took over the streets in Third Ward, marching in solidarity with Ferguson, from the HPD cop shop on West Grey and St. Emanuel and through the hood. We out-smarted the cops who were trying to block the streets and keep us on the sidewalks. HPD, out of our community!”

Report and photos by Gloria Rubac