It is Halloween. Though I don’t care for all the games, Igor, my sweet subservient Igor, humorously donned a wedding dress. Despite refusing to leave the laboratory, the young lad must love his look given the fits of rapturous howling every fifteen minutes.
Pogo sticks for legs was a bad idea. Using different-sized sticks nearly proved catastrophic.
I remain perplexed as to the genesis of Igor’s strong opinions regarding the choice of which cadaver shall provide the penis.
Two grave robbers arrived late last night hocking their latest wares. Nearly purchased a torso, but Igor insisted we wait for a more muscular specimen. Something about the functional and aesthetic benefits of a toned core.
Unable to join me on my trip to market, Igor provided his shopping list: 2 legs, 1 nose, 37 meters of intestine, 3 rolls of skin, 100 ounces of hair (color assorted), 3 & 1/3 testicles, a dozen eggs, a scalpel, and 11 packs of condoms. But why eggs?
Neighbors called on me earlier to address concerns regarding the smell wafting from my property across their own. Tensions escalated when I in turn stated my concerns that their daughter remain unwed at such an advanced age.
I entered the laboratory this morning and came upon Igor dancing with the monster, holding it propped upon his feet. “Motor function…muscle memory,” he whimpered before inquiring (again!) after the status of the penis.
As the iteration phase drones on and on there arises a need to cut costs wherever possible. I regret skimping on the teeth—now a confusing mix of wood, cavities, white, and corn cob yellow point in seemingly random directions. I’ve sent Igor to secure a quote from Das Orthodontist.
Awoken deep in the night by melodies emanating from the laboratory, I moved quietly and carefully to investigate. Igor was there singing a song whose only discernible line—“your body is a wonderland”—he crooned over and again into each of the candidate penises.
How could we have used that many nipples?
Igor offered one of his kidneys to the monster today. When I rebuffed him he responded that he “would do anything to be inside it.” I admire his commitment to our mission.
Stricken with insomnia, I wandered throughout my estate. Outside the front gate I observed a group of adolescents conjecturing. They heard tell of my experiments and asked to see my laboratory. I denied having a laboratory at all. Then the smallest of them—a girl—looked me in the eyes and called me a “whimpy ass wanker.”
We animated the head! It spoke! It spoke! “Please, Igor, no more.” And then the electricity melted the face into a puddle of putrid pus. I do not understand the choice of words but it spoke!
Heated argument with Igor today concerning the optimal circumference of the anus.
On a hill at my property’s edge I observed a dog sniffing the remains of a bird and I was struck by a thought: I think Igor might be fucking the monster.