Monday, December 31, 2007

The closest i'll ever come to poetry (234)

She loved ren fairs.
she had lots of cats.
she loved Star Trek.
i should have ran, but her cleavage was impossibly sweet.
She always had an excuse to slip into a corset and take photos of herself.
she put them all on flickr.
there were sets of her in and out of corsets, and sets of her nipples from every angle.
Classically, she was not really attractive but her attitude made her sexy.
soon, i was brought into her amateur online photography sessions.
i was embarrassed at first, but my face didn't appear in any of the pictures, so i got over it quickly.
slowly but surely, we began to get crazier in the pictures. people added us as contacts with great frequency. before i knew it, i was somewhat of an online celebrity without even trying and without ever showing my face.
one night while we were relaxing with a ST:TNG episode featuring the Borg, she told me that some people she'd met online wanted to meet and take pictures with us.
the deal was the same: there was to be no shots of my face and i wouldn't have to do much more than just stand there and snap the pictures.
all i had to do was point the camera and snap the pictures of her, the guest star girl and my on privates being serviced.
now, honestly, why would i ever think to turn this down?
free sex with many random semi-attractive women and all i had to do was document it all and put the proof online.
i agreed, and two weeks later she arrived. i was surprised by the fact that I actually knew the girl. I'd tried unsuccessfully to flirt with her when i'd worked at the same bookstore as her 16 years ago. and now here she was, willing and somewhat excited to take me in her mouth and show the world.
I could tell that she recognized me but we both decided in a brief moment of telepathy not to mention it. we greeted each other as strangers as my girlfriend retrieved wine from the kitchen. after many glasses and some small talk, the activities slowly began. to get warmed up, i started to kiss my girlfriend, then my girlfriend kissed the guest star girl.
in an arrangement set up by my girl earlier, i was not allowed to kiss the guest star girl. this was the only thing i wasn't allowed, though.
so for three hours we fucked, snapped photos, fucked, and snapped photos.
i came so hard that my legs cramped up, and i think i blacked out for a moment. for a few minutes, i couldn't move, and we had to end the session.
It was the closest I'll ever come to poetry. when it was all over, we both thanked her and she left.
my girl promptly put the photos online that night.
The comments immediately started to pour in.
they were the most popular we'd ever taken.
A month later, i bumped into the guest star girl at a coffee shop.
we talked about what we'd been up to since working together all those years ago. we never talked about the photo shoot.
we both wanted to bring it up, i guess, but we didn't know how to or where it would go from there.
after talking for about an hour, she left to pick up her kids from school.
when i got home my girl told me about the newest girl that wanted to shoot with us.
i looked over her photos and agreed.
i didn't know her.


Shagul-Nanthu was the name that Gary gave his imaginary friend. He’d had him since he was five, at which point Shagul-Nanthu was just called Tim. As time went on, Tim began telling Gary to do things. Destructive things. Not at all uncommon for a growing boy with destructive urges. But by the time Gary hit high school, Tim had transformed into Shagul-Nanthu, telling Gary in a dream that he preferred to be called by his extra-dimensional, demonic name. Gary obliged and Shagul got him into all sorts of trouble throughout his high school years. Suspension for fighting, arson on school property and temporary expulsion for bringing a gun to school. Gary’s life took an odd turn when Shagul-Nanthu told him to apply to business school one day. Gary was a fucking natural. By the time he was 30, he’s made his millions, married a Playmate and was already planning his retirement. Shagul appeared to him less and less over the years. The last appearance of Shagul was when he told Gary to give away all of his money and shoot his Playmate with the antique rifle he’s purchased at a recent auction. Gary debated long and hard about his, but ultimately shot himself in the head to keep Shagul from giving him any more advice. His suicide note simply read, "I miss Tim."



I don’t know if I told anybody this, but I have a magical shower. If you open it from one side it opens a door to a magical land of fantastic talking animals and Jello pools. The other side opens to New Jersey. Yeah, New Jersey. I prefer to open a door much like Narnia. My wife opens the door to New Jersey. Next time you see her ask her why she likes New Jersey so much.

Sunday, December 30, 2007

fuck you Luigi (235)

the point is,
if someone heard you yell
"Damn it, i don't know how to kill this baby!"
they would probobly get the wrong idea immediately.
they probably wouldn't take the time to find out
what you were yelling about, either.
they'd just jump to the conclusion that you
were having difficulty killing a baby.
a human baby.
when the cops showed up and didn't find a
baby near, they'd start to ask all sorts of questions.
then you'd have to explain what all your yelling was
you'd have to tell them that the reason you were yelling
was probably worse than what they thought...
way worse.
worse than killing a baby.
a human baby.
man, that would have to be a bad thing, huh-
pretty bad to be worse than killing a baby.
then again, you could always lie...

It’s in the wind

Yes son, it is in the wind. The smell of change. You can ask yourself what kind of change. If you don’t know, I can’t tell you. You must find out for your self. It will be a symbolic journey to the end. A symbolic journey, mind you, that is very literal.
Geez what am I saying? I need some smokes go to the store and get them for me.


"So, can you tell the court what your song, ‘Sloppy Salad’ is about?"

"Well, it’s about a salad that’s, um . . . been poorly prepared, man. That’s all."

"Would you mind if I read some of the (clears throat) lyrics to the jury?"

"Be my guest."

(clears throat again) "’Oh, my sloppy salad. Take my croutons into your mouth. Lettuce, baby, lettuce. Thousand Island dripping down your chin.’"

"Uh-huh. Kind of square when you read it like that."

"I take it you find nothing offensive in those lyrics."

"It’s about salad, man. Salad is salad, you know?"

"This song is not about salad, Mr. Nowon, no matter how innocently you defend it."

"Okay, what’s this song about then?"

"I’ll ask the questions and you’ll answer them, understand?"


"Well? What’s the song about, really?"

"There’s this guy, okay? And he’s sitting in a dingy, little diner and he orders a salad and when he gets it, it’s an absolute disaster. The lettuce is all wilted and brown, the tomatoes are squishy, just a mess."

(reading from lyrics) "’Take my croutons in your mouth?’"

"It’s based on an actual experience I had outside of Topeka, Kansas on the last tour. The Hornrim Diner. Go there, you’ll see! See if you don’t get one of the worst salad experiences in your life."

"Mr. Nowon, please."
"Alright, so I embellished. I’m a songwriter. That’s what I do! I embellish! There was a waitress there. Thrilly Milly we called her."

"You and your bandmates."

"Specifically my xylophone player and I. He had a thing for her and had told her we were playing in town, invited her back to the hotel and supposedly got lucky."

"So, this song is about her giving him oral sex with Thousand Island dressing."

"I never said that."

"The lyrics suggest that."

"I never said that."

"The lyrics that mention a Thousand Island blow-job."

"Is that one of my lyrics?"


"I never said the words, 'Thousand Island blow-job.'"

"I’m holding transcripts from your lyrics you sang onstage at the Underbush Polytechnic on the night of nine August."

"You ask me, somebody should be raked over the coals for naming that place Underbush."

"Mr. Nowon, I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from levity at a time like this."

"Levity is the only way I can stay sane in this fucking country!"

"Mr. Nowon!!"

"You limeys are so stuck up your own asses, I swear to God! You book my band in your shitty little school, then kick my ass around for singing lyrics to a song that you knew I would sing!"

"Mr. Nowon! Order, please!"

"I’m not going to be held accountable for that!! You knew ‘Sloppy Salad’ was on the set list! It’s like you wanted me to get caught!"

"Yes, Mr. Nowon. We wanted you to stink up the poly with such degenerate smut."


"Yes, smut. Just like you’ve befouled this courtroom. No further questions, your honor."

"Judge, c’mon!! This is bullshit!!"

"Mr. Nowon, this is a court of law and I expect you to respect it as such. Court will recess for a period of no more than 20 minutes."

"Fucking limeys."


Saturday, December 29, 2007


Minka retired from porn at the ripe old age of 44.
she decided that there was nothing new that she, a Vietnamese with 52 mmm breasts could offer the world. she had always flirted with the idea of having kids, but she'd have to get her implants removed to do that.
so Minka began to write.
the ideas came to her fast, and she could hardly get them onto paper fast enough. though her English was atrocious, the words that she transcribed were horribly beautiful and full of vivid detail and haunting prose.
when she was done, she had thousands of pages of material.
it had only taken her a week. she immediately slit her wrists and let her blood pour our aver the pages, and it's descriptions of a dark force in a dark place hidden somewhere in Alabama...
as her life slipped from her, she could hear the nameless doom of the ancient gods of gods calling for her soul.
one final whisper left her lips as she slipped into the abyss of the unpronouncables...


Two inches of snow might not seem like much, but in Louisville you might as well be standing in three feet of it. Just about every business shut its doors, supermarket shelves were cleaned out by the time the local weathermen got out the sound "snu-." The only thing open was the Bottom Dollar, a local strip club and about the most aptly named joint ever open for business. We’d been staying at the Albert, and when they told us it was last call, we decided to go trolling. It was like the dustbowl era in that town. The Bottom Dollar was the only 24 hour place and no doubt the only bar you could get a libation after 2 am. The dancefloor consisted of one long catwalk and one pole at the far end of it. No V.I.P. room, no real place to sit except for around that pitiful, cheap Christmas lit stage. It was us and two businessmen we recognized from the Albert. Both were almost identical, save the color of their suits: charcoal gray and deep blue. I remember being taken aback at how similar their toupees looked. The stage was as scarce as the house, unfortunately. Of the 14 dancers advertised on the marquee outside, only two showed, apparently because of the "blizzard." Mystique came out first. When the DJ said her name, I immediately thought of the blue-skinned villainess from the X-Men. This Mystique was pretty close to that color. She staggered out and hacked on charcoal gray. Looked as close to death as anyone I’d seen at that time. She could barely keep her balance on the four inch heels, and by the time the top and bottoms came off, it was obvious to everyone in that cramped room that what she needed was a big bowl of chicken soup. At one point during the grotesque event, deep blue and charcoal gray slipped her a couple of bill each, most likely out of pity, but even more likely to just get her the hell off stage.

She sauntered out and a sick strain of applause filled the smoky air. A hefty goddess, Bailey, came out next to the tune of Motley Crue’s "Girls, Girls, Girls," one of my least favorite Crue anthems. Her straddling of the single, sticky pole in front of her made us wish for the phlemy gyrations of Mystique again. And the nether regions of this behemoth made us never want to see a vagina ever again.

We left almost immediately after her set. No amount of alcohol could have made this floorshow appealing. Although we planned to take the town of Louisville hostage that night, we fell short in so many ways. The next day, we’d return home to our wives, each thanking God in heaven for them, and, more importantly, none of them had names that reminded us of X-Men.


Alabama Knoxcritter

Jersey Devil, Sasquach, Big Foot, Yeti, Choopacobra, and The Mississippi Mud Hound all have one thing in common. They are dangerous only if attacked. Now, the Alabama Knoxcritter is a different hill of beans. They have been known to hunt down and kill humans. You be careful when you go out camping!

Friday, December 28, 2007


live from the stage, he talked of the lord and lord like things. i waitied for him to finnish then i approached. he was a big man-not as big as me, but impressive. we danced. by dance i mean we fought. it was bloody. beautiful, though...


Killjoy stands in the middle of a wheat field. A half second ago, he was in the Timekeeper’s lab staring down the business end of his personal TimeJump Door. Now, Killjoy’s not sure where or when he is. The one thing he does know is what he plans on doing now that he’s at least a hundred years in the past. He sets his bag down into the blowing wheat.

"Jesus, God," he says to himself, taking in the miles and miles of land before him. "Hello-ooooo," he shouts. The echo of his voice bounces off a distant plateau and hits his ear after a full ten seconds. "Jesus, God," he says once again.

A storm cloud rolls over the vacant prairie as Killjoy begins to quickly unpack his bag. Twin glocks, several pounds of ammo, a tazer, Kevlar vest, sawed-off shotgun, watermelon Mike ‘n’ Ike’s. These are the tools that he will use to change history. These and list of last names scrawled onto a sheet of loose leaf in his vest pocket. Seven names with attached genealogical family trees that link to each member of the Freedom Committee, his arch enemies in present times. When he’s done with this past wasteland, there will be no more heroes in the future. That is if he doesn’t run out of Mike ‘n’ Ike’s.


So I know these two guys

So I know these two guys, brothers actually. Mike and Ike. Ike’s real name is Eisenhower, but really who would want to be known as Eisenhower? I like Ike, and he must like it cuz that’s what he asks people to call him. I asked Ike if Mike had a more elaborate name, and Mike was just short for something. He said no. It’s not even short for Michael. It’s just Mike. Weird if you ask me. Good guys both of them. I never knew they had it in them. Had they not done it right in front of me I wouldn’t have believed it.

What did they do?

Oh, I can’t repeat that. You know what momma said about gossip. Shouldn’t pass it.

Thursday, December 27, 2007


he was too afraid to venture out into the world. knowing exactly how he'd die hadn't given him strength of courage- it had terrified him beyond all belief. still, his friend had been captured by the evil countries government, and he had to do something. he had to prepare. he needed strength. he needed courage. he needed...

...the peephole of the future.


At the Three Sons Halal Market, there was a meeting of the minds last night. The owner, Mohammed, started the ball rolling by cursing the American infidels for invading his home country. His brother, Sadij, seemed to feel the same about the American infidels, but expressed his concern over the double standard of feeling this way while thriving in the American marketplace thanks to American subsidies. The second Mohammed in the room disagreed with the first Mohammed’s statement and the third Mohammed agreed with the second. The fourth Mohammed secretly planned on beating his wife when he got home and decided to work it into the conversation, despite the fact that he felt a little weird about discussing it with the other Mohammeds and Sadij. On that topic, Sadij had nothing of worth to contribute since he was the only one in the group that had never beat his wife. None of the Mohammeds were aware of this however. By the end of the night, as usual, no real problems had been resolved, but the third Mohammed’s penchant for the newly-designed Zero bar had come to light and Sadij had realized that he no longer had anything in common with any of the Mohammeds. As American as he felt, he truly hated Zero bars.


You are in my Kingdom now

The world is frozen. Millions of the frozen undead roam the earth. Jack Frost sits in front of a window overlooking a field of frozen men, women, and children. “I guess I got what I wanted. I win

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

the job epilogue (239)

I never copped to the killing.
the bosses knew beter than to ask.
they put me on a plane and sent me to the
great white north.
i'm happy here.
haven't had to kill...

...that many.

Santa vs The Legion of Dead

“Timmy, hold on!” Santa yelled over the wind rushing past his runaway sleigh. Christmas is over, Jack Frost released the Frozen Fear Virus at the North Pole, and Santa has attempted to save as many people as possible. Santa’s sleigh wasn’t made carry this many people. The magic toy bag is full. People were hanging from the edges of the sleigh when one of the guide ropes split.
Once the guide rope split, Donner, Blitzen, Cupid, and Prancer curled off, and flew back north toward the frozen dead. Vixen, Dasher, Dancer, and Comet, not strong enough to pull the sleigh, start to spiral down to the ground. One of the rails on the sleigh snagged the top of a tree, and the other guide wire broke. The sleigh crashed down amid the screams of the men, women, and children on board.
The snow-covered landscape was littered with sleigh parts and people. Santa cried, “Is anyone there?”
The only reply came with the cries of the undead carried by the wind. Santa started to run.


     The morning snow was fresh on the ground as Simon Badger left the knot hole of his oak tree. He wrapped his neck in his favorite blue scarf, put his winter boots on and headed out for Jeremy Squirrel’s.
     Jeremy had been worrisome lately. The last time Simon had seen him, Jeremy had mentioned that his wife, Alana Squirrel, had been complaining that he and Simon had spent too many nights out together. Simon chuckled at this prospect. Silly Alana, he thought. Always trying to monopolize Jeremy’s time. Didn’t she know that once a badger and a squirrel got together in this crazy, woodland world that fun times and adventures keep a’coming? Like the time the both of them had thwarted Canuck Red’s attempts at chopping down Simon’s oak tree home. Or when Frankie Skunk needed their help in Big Pond. Or that time when Robo-Ranger got set loose in the national park. This badger/squirrel team could not be stopped.
     Simon knocked on Jeremy’s door at the base of the stump. No answer. Weird, he thought. He turned the knob and opened the door and let out a "Jeremy," then an "Alana!" The kitchen was a huge mess. The oven was spewing black smoke and the smell of burnt pecans filled the air. Simon raced over to the oven and turned it off.
     A creaking sound was coming from Jeremy’s woodshop downstairs. Maybe Jeremy was cooking something, went downstairs to work on one of his trademark inventions and forgot about the oven, Simon thought. That sounds like Jeremy Squirrel alright.
     Simon walked downstairs and stopped at the bottom stair when he saw Jeremy hanging from a noose attached to an overhead crossbeam. Simon stood there in shock. He looked at the overturned chair below Jeremy and saw a note lying there. In big, black marker, it read, "I’m sorry, Alana. No nuts this years. Love, Jeremy."
     Simon sat on the bottom step with his head in his hands. He slowly glanced around Jeremy’s workshop at all the wonderful things Jeremy had made in the past. The wooden hovercraft, the wooden jetboots, the wooden, submergible flame-thrower. All he could think about was how hard it would be to get into adventures without the greatest squirrel in the world by his side.


Tuesday, December 25, 2007

the job part 9 (240)

She appeared in a vinyl nurses costume and started to dance.
Everything about it was wrong.
Her children were there.
I should have left.
But i didn't. if i had we wouldn't
be here right now.
if i had, i'd never had killed her.
if i had...
well, shit. it was only a job.

Santa and the dunken bar fight with Jack frost

“One more round for everybody! After that I gotta get home,” Santa cried out as he sloshed his beer in the face of man dressed all in white. “Pardon me sir, we had a great run this year. Let me get you something.”
“The only thing you can get me is to get lost!” The man in white said as he twirled a pool cue over his head, and smacked Santa in the head. “You can’t ask Frost to get lost! The names Jack, Jack Frost.” Jack Frost says this and smacks Santa in the face with the pool cue again. Santa flies through the air, lands on a pool table, and his beer mug shatters on the table.
Jack circles the table knocking his arms out from under him as he tries to right himself. “I saw you when you were crying about your daddy. I guess you could say it was my fault your dad was in that freak snow blower accident. I didn’t think you were old enough to take over the gig, but you showed me wrong. You took over the reigns at a very young age. I have a feeling that if I am going to take over I need to take things into my hands all over again.”
While Jack was talking Santa slid his hand around the cue ball. “You killed my father!” Santa roared as he swung the cue ball at Jack’s head. They connect with a satisfying crack. Jack wheels backward. His head began pouring blood all over his white jacket.
“Yes, I did, and now I will kill you,” Jack Frost said as he advanced with his pool cue.


The concept of an all-sidekick team seemed like the perfect photo-opp. The Freedom Committee felt like they needed to dedicate more time to the core team, leaving most of their pre-pubescent partners with more time to fight crime alone. So the Committee decided to set aside the old Buscema Country Club for the new sidekick team, the Liberteens. Their first adventure ended positively enough, trouncing the Contrary’s Backward Maze, something the Freedom Committee had never accomplished. A key to the city of Steelville was given to the Liberteens and Mayor Giffen even declared declared August 9th "Liberteen Day." By their second assignment, tensions between the team leader, Bounder Boy, and the team’s loose cannon, Kid Razor, were growing. It seriously affected their performance against the Army of Evil’s sidekick team, the Shadowboys. Second time out of the gate, the Liberteens seemed to be doing rather well until the Army of Evil detonated a bomb that had been connected to the Shadowboys’ compound. The Army of Evil apparently had no problem killing off their sidekicks as long as it meant killing off the Freedom Committee’s. The only survivor of the blast was Kid Razor, who everyone knows now as Red Razor, Steeville’s most famous anti-hero. Knowing his history, it’s no wonder he ended up as sorry an example as he did.


Monday, December 24, 2007

the job part 8 (241)

two to the base of the skull.
no muss, no fuss.
she's wearing a wig, though.
her license shows that
she's actually blonde.
in fact, she looks exactly like.
oh shit.


Jive mutherfucker! You jive mutherfucker! You bring that crazy shit into my place? Into my bar? That’s plain funk is what that is!

Otha, don’t be that way, man.

Don’t Otha me! Don’t fucking Otha me! How long I known you, Mandre? How long?

I don’t know. Shit. Four years?

Ten years, Mandre, ten years! And in those ten years have I ever kicked you outta’ my place?

No. Never.

Well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess. Get your jive ass outta’ my bar!

Otha, wait!

Don’t make me get my Louisville, ‘cause right now I got no qualms about crackin’ your damn skull open!

No! Wait! I gotta’ explain this! Lemme’ explain it first and then I’ll go quietly. I promise.

You got one minute.

This life. Your life, my life. They’re shadows now. What we know as real is just a thin surface of what’s really there underneath. Some serious shit has just come to light. Shit I didn’t even want to know, I’ll tell you that. Everthing you and I know. Wives, kids, fucking dogs are fakes.

Alright, your minute’s almost up, Mandre. I’m getting’ the bat.

Otha, it’s just you and me, man. If you cave my head in, you’ll be the only one left. And then you’ll never know the truth.

Shit, Mandre. You better be glad we got history. Whatcha’ want me to do?

We start by boarding up the Late Nite.

You ain’t exactly convincin’ me here.

This’ll be homebase. Once it’s secure, boom-boom, out go the lights.


Santa and the candy coated Trixie

“Santa can you come see something I have?” Candy called out over the street noise in front of Candy’s Sweetly Coated Treats Candy Shop that she ran at the North Pole.
“Do you need anything Candy? We are loading everything up, and Herbert in accounting miscalculated our budge for double A batteries,” Santa said as he walked into the Candy Shop.
“How bad is it?” She asked as she handed him a wrapped package.
“It looks like Mississippi and Rhode Island are without Double A’s unless we figure something out. What is this?”
“A new sweet I think I have perfected. Not ready for this year obviously, but next I think the kids will be all over it.”
Santa opened the package, and took out a small clear candy that seemed to sparkle and shine internally. “This is a little different for you isn’t it? It doesn’t seem to be coated with anything.” He popped it into his mouth, and started to grin almost instantly.
“Well, the coating is on the inside.”
“Wow, I love it!” Santa licks his fingers, pulls out another, and pops it into his mouth. “See what we need to do to have these in mass production next year. Gotta run!”
Candy watches as Santa leaves, and wishes that she didn’t have to do it. If only Jack didn’t have her kids. She hopes that he will be all right tonight. It is almost Christmas Eve.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

the job part 7 (242)

I've waited in the storm drain
just outside the house
for hours.
i see the headlights of the car.
the same car from the photo.
it's almost here.
it's now or never.
this ends tonight.

Santa and the dreaded peppermint ninja clan

“There you go Dancer. Eat up. We fly soon,” Santa says, as he strokes Dancer’s neck, and gives him a large scoop of oats.
Santa likes to visit all his reindeer a few days before the big day. It is part check-up and partly to help work out any nerves they might have about the journey to come. As he moves to Prancer’s stall, he feels a gust of wind and says, “Doris, is that you? I’ve already fed Dancer, Vixen, and Donner.”
“Doris is out cold fat man,” a gruff voice said from the back of the stable.
“Who is that? How did you get to the back of the barn so fast?” Santa asks as he swivels back and forth on his feet.
Another gruff voice calls from the loft, “You know who we are fat man.”
A third voice from right behind him says, “We have come back for what you owe us.”
A Forth voice says, “Don’t call out. We would hate to hurt anyone we didn’t need to hurt.”
A fifth voice says, “You aren’t so cocky with out your legion of elves are you?”
“I can still take care of you pansies,” Santa called into the stables toward his still unseen foes.
Suddenly three white clad figures sprang from seemingly nothingness. Their only other ornamentation are the red and white striped belts they wore. They are quick and light on their feet, but Santa despite his size and girth is quite the spry athlete. He round house kicks one of them over into a stall. He cries out as he hits another ninja springing from the dark and knocks him into a second ninja who was creeping around a corner. Ninjas are jumping over stalls and out of the loft. They are everywhere. He quickly counts seventeen. He is surrounded. He holds his hands up and says, “I don’t want to hurt you, but I do have a job to do and you can’t stop me.”
The first voice stands before him and says, “Have you forgotten what you did in Sir Lanka last year? For that, you can not live.”
“So be it,” Santa says. With a twinkle of his eye, and a twitch of his nose Santa slows down time. The same magic that allows him to deliver toys to all the good boys and girls allows him to slow down the ninjas, and break their necks. Santa knows the reindeer will dispose of the bodies. They need to eat up for Christmas comes soon.


You wanna’ Lasso?

Naw, that shit rots yer’ teeth.

So what? Yer’ the one drinkin’ Bang Pop!

Okay, that’s not the real reason I don’t eat Loopy Lassos.

What? You diabetic or somethin’?

Naw, I’m not . . . look, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me anyway. Just fergit it, alright?

No! Now I wanna’ know. Why don’t you eat Loopy Lassos?

Fergit it, okay?

It’s just licorice! You allergic to licorice?

It’s not that, man. Loopy Lassos're made by the Dee-Lux Corporation, okay? Look on the bag. On the back.

Alright. So?

So, the Dee-Lux Corporation is a subsidiary of Luxor. You know what Luxor is?


You know what? I can tell you already don’t believe what I’m sayin’, so let’s just let it go.

No. No! What’s Luxor?

Okay, Luxor’s an independent defense contractor. They make smart bombs. Missile systems that think for themselves and hit targets whether mission control is still up or not. Real Terminator type shit.

What the fuck does that have to do . . ?

I’m getting’ there! The Lux division of Dee-Lux implants microscopic transmitters into one out of every seven Loopy Lassos. These transmitters break down into yer’ bloodstream and keep track of you everywhere you go for the rest of yer’ life. So, if you wanna’ government agency keepin’ tabs on you, eat another Lasso, fer’ all I care.

Gah, yer’ so fulla’ shit, man. I’m outta’ here.

Knew you wouldn’t believe me.


Saturday, December 22, 2007

the job part 6 (243)

I have to follow the money.
there were lots of briefcases passed,
lots on envelopes full of dough.
i'd get to the one that fucked me over.

Santa and the Drawer of Broken Dreams

He stares out his study window. Christmas is almost here. He sits at his father’s roll-top desk. The desk is smooth, and the front of it shows the wear of the constant use it has received over the years. Many toys have seen their birth here on this desk as sketches. The reason he is here today is not to remember old toys. He has other memories that he would rather forget, but knows he can’t. He pulls a small key ring out of the top drawer and places the smallest key in the bottom left drawer, and unlocks it. There are several articles here. His father’s pocket watch, his father gave it to him twenty-seven years ago. His father has long since passed. His wife’s wedding ring. She was killed in a freak reindeer accident four years ago. He hated to put Rudolph down, but the red nose was a warning sign of a mutant strain of cancer that drove him into the rage that killed his wife.
He slams the drawer closed. A tear glistens and slides down his cheek. He has to keep it together three more days. The kids need him.


Topper hated his name. That’s why he changed it to Topper. But even the name Topper was getting on his tits. He’d struggled with his name his entire life, never fully satisfied with the one from before. To date, he’d gone through 14 of them and he was never comfortable. At this point, he couldn’t even remember the name he was born with. This next one would stick though. He’d never get sick of being called Capers.


Friday, December 21, 2007

the job part 5 (244)

I was set up.
the pieces don't fit.
someone has to die.
it might be me...

but i hope that it isn't

Santa and his elfin legion of doom

The so-called “Jolly Old Elf” stands on the catwalk above the factory floor looking down at his elfin drones. They move not in what could be considered slow steps. No, they are calculated, precise movement. No energy is wasted. They know the task at hand. Christmas is coming, and this year will be different. Everyone at the North Pole knows it will be different.
Children don’t believe like they use to believe. He will make them believe this year. Every child wants a Wii. Every adult wants a Wii. The whole world, it seems, wants a Wii. Santa will spare no one. Everyone will have a Wii. Santa has even had his elf coders working on a special game to be included with the “Santa Special Edition Wii”. It is called Santa and His Elfin Legion of Doom.
The Game while looking like a simple game of Santa gathering his Legions of Elves and making toys in time for Christmas has a different under current. While children and adults swing and chop at the game, the Wii accesses the Internet, and using reverse Infinite Monkey theory to the beat of the Wiimote, calculates the world’s bank account information and passwords. Santa grins as he thinks about it. the world will have to believe once he controls the economy of the entire world.


We had the perfect life. Tropical climate, spending time in the summer house. I’d wear loose white clothes and sit out on the veranda, watching you pass in our kitchen in your little ‘wife-beater’ and my pajama pants. You’d bring me coffee on the high patio and I’d set it down while I pulled you onto my lap. We’d kiss as the sun would start to set. Each day went this way and it seemed like it would never end, as if time was in an eternal loop. I wish I’d never woken up.


Thursday, December 20, 2007

the job part 4 (245)

yeah, i've been shot before.
i have also shot people.
thats one i have over you, huh?
you are about to get shot,
just to clarify things...

Got this Pusher

I got this pusher. Not so much a pusher of anything soft. He pushes the hard stuff. It will mess you up. He is one messed up guy. He gets you hooked, and you can’t leave. Keep you eyes peeled. The little bastard wears a ribbon and nothing else.


I honestly can’t believe I got outta’ there. Who knew it could be that simple? Not me, that’s for sure. I walk in, bark the orders and everybody falls in line. Shit. Not one single person stood up to me. No guns, no plastique strapped to me, no hostages. In, out. All I had was a sandwich. Olive loaf on wheat, no tomato. I guess it’s true what they say. If you walk in with the right tone of voice, demanding something, you’ll get your way. It wasn’t even a hoagie or anything. Not a footlong. Just olive loaf on wheat, no tomato. I swear, people hit the floor. Crying, pleading. I think that one woman peed herself. And I know the security guard had a piece on his hip. Never once went for it. $4,900 and all it took was a fucking sandwich. Those people must really fear olive loaf.


Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Since I Left You

Since I left you things have been awkward. I am meeting people. I go out to movies and actually enjoy the movie instead of screaming on the inside at your constant chatter. I enjoy eating with out hearing your constant smacking. I enjoy trips to the grocery store. I don’t get screamed at for picking up the wrong jelly quite as often. Sex is more enjoyable. There isn’t quite as much pain involved. My back doesn’t bleed when I get in the shower. My foot fungus has gone away. The toilet isn’t always stopped up.
Now that I think about it the word isn’t awkward. Things have been great. If they are great why do I miss you so?

The job part 3 (246)

All I ever needed to get any information:
A can opener
A fresh lemon
A piece of sandpaper
and a pickle jar full of fire ants.
She talked quickly.
looks like i'm going to Montana


We’re leaving now. Have you said all your good-byes? It’s sad, I know, but it’s better this way. The world doesn’t need these things, if you think about it. Think back to a thousand, two thousand, a million years ago. Did they need these people around to survive? I ask you this. Would the Coliseum have been built with them around? Would Plato have been such a genius with them for inspiration? If these things had existed in DaVinci’s day, would he have painted the Mona Lisa? The answer to all of these questions is no, in case you’re wondering.

So, I’m taking them away from here where they can’t do any more damage. Let go. Let go, dammit! This has to be done and I don’t see anybody else taking charge.

Alright. That’s the last of them. Stop crying! Once they’re gone a week, you’ll completely forget about them. Like they never existed. Like you’d been eating cereal all your life without their needless faces on the boxes. I swear to you, they’re unnecessary. Fruity Stars will taste the same, even without Cosmo the Cosmonaut. Yeah, he’s in the bag, too.

No, we’ve got to go now. Believe me, you don’t want to know where I’m taking them.


Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Who’s the Rumpus

Rumpus was a nasty old guy who lived near the arcade we went to when we were kids. When I say lived I mean his cardboard palace was close to the arcade. The dude never bathed, and was always asking for money. He never said much. His signs did most of the talking. It was always something catchy and funny, like reading those church marquees. I don’t know who thought of it first Rumpus or the churches, but I guess funny signs bring in the business.
The arcade’s name was Green Charlie Video Arcade and Entertainment. We just called it Greasy Charlie’s. My mom would have killed me if she knew I went there some afternoons after school. Charlie was a nasty guy. He had one of those back rooms with adult videos and what not. He didn’t let kids back there, but we knew what he had. Why else would all the winos come into an arcade? Rumpus never went in to the back or even the arcade for that matter. He always sat outside never saying anything. I guess they never called the cops to shoo him away because he never did anything to anybody. That is until one day he grabbed my arm as I opened the door and said, “I’m running for president. Will you vote for me?” I told him yes, mainly because I was freaked out. Funny thing being that ever election year I check the ballot for his name. I’d vote for him if I saw his name. I don’t know why, but he did have some pretty funny signs.

the job part 2 (247)

I waited where I was told,
to collect the package.
It was cold.
Cold for June.
There was a noise in a nearby alleyway.
I should not have investigated.


What disturbs me most isn’t what they did to him, but how they did it to him and why. It was mob rule. First time I’d ever seen that in action. Kind of scary. Came out of nowhere, too. I didn’t see it coming and I’m sure he didn’t. One minute he’s there, next minute gone. So many hands on one body. So many people ripping him apart. I guess I knew it was possible, I just never dreamed I’d witness something so horrible.

This town really, really hates clowns.


Monday, December 17, 2007

the job part 1 (248)

She appeared in a vinyl nurses costume and started to dance.
Everything about it was wrong.
Her children were there.
I should have left.
But It was really hot.
It was REALLY hot.

The Hard Sell

“Look, I know it doesn’t sound like you need this, but trust me, you do,” A man in his mid-thirties dressed in a parka, boots, and a beanie holds a piece of blue plastic. Twenty similarly dressed people who are all standing in knee-deep snow surround the man. The blue plastic has twenty molded indentions across the top of it. “Trust me, this is all the rage down south in Memphis. These help keep your iced tea, iced!”


I’m writing the check! You hear me?

Yeah, writing the check out. Right.

You know, once I finish filling it out, our transaction is complete. You'd better know that.

Yeah, I got it.

Once I sign and date it, which is the last things I always do, you fulfill your side of the bargain and that’s the end of it.


No more money down the line. This is the last check I write for you.

I understand.

Do you? ‘Cause I can’t make this any clearer. Date annnnnnnnnnnd my signature. Okay, there you are.

Alright, then.

Wait! Don’t leave yet! Are we clear?

Yeah, I got it.

So, you’re just going to leave, deposit the check and . . . take care of it?

I’ll probably take care of it, as you say, then deposit the check. I’m a professional. You don’t pay until it’s done.

God, don’t you have any feelings? No remorse or, I don’t know, pity? Guilt?

Well, I haven’t done it yet, have I? So, how could I feel remorse or guilt for something I haven’t even done? As far as pity, I have none. That’s why I’m in this line of business.

You’re exactly what Sequoia said you were. A cold fish. That’s what you are.

Everybody’s gotta’ die sometime. We’ve all got targets on our backs, pally.

Speak for yourself.

No, really. We all have enemy quotas. If yours is 49, you can only make 49 enemies in your life. That 50th person will be the one who kills you. Looks like this broad made her quota, huh?

Uh . .

Can I leave now?

Yes, fine. Please leave.

See you ‘round.

I should’ve paid him in cash.


Sunday, December 16, 2007

Danger Crane (249)

The idea came to him late one night as he sat alone watching infomercials about wonder tapes, magic creams, miracle paints, and sensational knives.
The Danger Crane.
It didn’t take long for him to craft the initial plans for the project. He worked non-stop for two weeks laying out the blueprints for what would definitely be something special.
It wasn’t difficult to find the time to work. He had been laid off from his job as a cafeteria worker and had gone on a tour of colleges up and down the east coast performing as a puppeteer. Through those puppets, named Carlos and Tigra respectively, he delivered messages of tolerance, acceptance, and sexual freedom.
After the shows he’d have sex with as many of the wide-eyed college students as he possibly could.
It wasn’t even about sex, not really. He found it completely insane how many of these young women would sleep with a stranger based simply on the fact that he’d shown up at their school for one evening and did a few funny voices while crouched behind a canvas and pvc pipe stage in the commissary, cafeteria, of student lounge. The message that he was delivering wasn’t even his own. He’d signed up for the job after he was laid off, and gotten a call late one Sunday afternoon. It was a very easy gig. They provided him with the script which he memorized immediately, a map of schools and dates, paid for his travel expenses, paid for his hotel room, and wired him a check every week.
But none of that mattered. He’d do the 45 minute show, then breakdown the stage which took another 15 minutes. As soon as he was done, he’d almost certainly find a group of students waiting to talk to him. And he would talk- he found their interest in his stupid puppet show to be quite uplifting. And after a few hours of talking, he’d be left with the one girl that had decided that she was going to sleep wit him that evening.
He slept with girls that he’d normally never have any interest in, but only because it was being offered. He slept with girls that wore flip-flops with jeans and walked on the backs of the cuffs until they were ragged and dirty. He slept with girls that added extra syllables to the ends of their words so that “No” became “No-ah”. He slept with girls who it seemed really had no real concern about anything he said but were only waiting to speak.
And the things they spoke about were boring, tedious, and almost not worth the effort. They discussed their friend’s sex lives and their own fights with their stepparents and their cousin’s abortions.
They tried to convince him that they were crazy party girls with little disregard for what people thought about them, but he could tell that it was all an act for his benefit.
He found their exploits sad, their behavior even sadder, but he slept with them anyway.
They always wanted his number and he’d always give it. Some would actually call for a few weeks. The road was lonely, even with all of the one night stands, so he’d gladly talk to them. Eventually the calls would stop. He figured that the only reason they’d made the attempt to begin with was to try and fool themselves into believing that they hadn’t just been in a one night stand with a traveling liberal puppeteer. Maybe the calls meant that there was an actual relationship.
When the tour was over he moved into his parent’s basement for a while. It wasn’t the best situation, but it would do until he figured out what to do with himself.
So he sat in the basement collecting unemployment checks and waiting for an idea to hit him, and one night it did.
The Danger Crane.
Before the Danger Crane idea came along, he’d been blocked. He could think straight after the tour. The life on the road hadn’t offered him the tales and experiences that he’d hoped. All he was left with were memories of the now nearly faceless cavalcade of coeds he’d done things to in cheap hotels up and down the coast, and a sense that he would never accomplish anything meaningful.
But the Crane was something special. It was to be the way that he got into the game. When he finished the blueprints, he mentioned the project to a few people in hopes that they’d be willing to take part in his plans.
This proved to be a misstep.
Things were running smoothly at first until his associates began to assume that they knew more about Cranes than they actually did.
It didn’t take long for everything to go down hill. So excited was he about the possibility of making something that mattered, he capitulated when he shouldn’t have.
He just wanted to build a quality Crane, but he’d gone about it the wrong way.
He wallowed in his disappointment and anger for quite sometime after the destruction of the Crane, and eventually began to put it behind him.
He started to call all those girls he’d met a few years back. He asked them why they’d been attracted to him and why they’d decided to sleep with him, a stranger, based only on his unenthusiastic puppet performances.
While each girl had a different answer, the gist was mostly the same.
Everyone wants a story.
Some people have lives that are full of events that are worthy of telling. Some people are constantly being thrust from anecdotal situation to anecdotal situation without a care in the world. But some people have to manufacture their colorful happenings. Some people have to sleep with a puppeteer just to have a story to tell.
He wrote about all of these instances about the girls looking for stories to tell.
The wizard never gave the tin man nothing that he didn’t already have, and our hero realized that he always had the stories.
He wrote about the cousins and stepmothers and everything else.
People read these stories and liked them. This was all he ever wanted.
Eventually, he even learned to love the mess that was the Danger Crane. It was designed with love, executed hurriedly, handled badly, and left to rot. But there was heart involved. And like anything with heart it would live again someday, if only as an excuse to tell a story.
There isn’t a moral or epilogue to all of this. I wish there was. All there is the small mark of a man that shard in loveless lovemaking, built a Crane that didn’t do exactly what it was supposed to, and somehow managed to make it all work out.
Hey, storytelling, like Crane building, is hard work. If it were easy everyone would do it.




2. somebody authorized to substitute for somebody else.

I had known about the Proxy program for quite some time. It was kept secret. When the rich are able to substitute people into their lives and act on their behalf, it scares the little people. These super rich who can afford the Proxy program guard the secret so well that an individual can only be invited to join after extensive background checks. High profile clientele are only allowed to participate if one or the other can be hidden from the public eye.

Proxies were kept in check by an electronic impulse regulator implant placed on the spinal column. I found out how to remove the EIRI. I am the first free Proxy. No one can hold me back.


     During a high fever, while at rehearsal for "Our American Cousin," Marv had let everyone in the cast know about the shallowness of his acting method, if you could call it a method.  After a simple note from the director about one of Marv’s line-readings, he had blurted out that he was "no fake" and that "whatever line came out of his mouth at a certain time would be the line that was appropriate for that particular time."  He was stretching the boundaries of what was considered "acting," he thought.  No thought, no prep, lines down, but coming out in whichever order he deemed necessary.  This unorthodox approach not only pissed off the director, who lobbed a quick "well, I hope you’re not trying to instill confidence in your fellow actors," but also his fellow actors, to the point where very few of them talked to him in the dressing room after the incident.
     Later, he would blame the outburst on a head cold, but deep in his gut, he knew that he’d meant every word.
     He hated actors. And even worse, he hated that he was one of them. 


Saturday, December 15, 2007

Neil Patrick Harris Stole my baby!!!

How many times do I have to tell you? Neil Patrick Harris stole my baby! He came up on his motorcycle, tied a balloon animal, and stole my baby!

What was the balloon animal? A dog or something, I don’t know what it was. They all look the same to me.

I don’t understand why everyone believes everything a doctor says. Doogie Houser is not a real M.D.!


they were part of the Poison Ghost clan, a radical sect of ninjas that worked under the evil reign of the Dread pirate Shockopus rex. they traveld the seas on the look out for Anti-diamonds, the only element in the universe that could fuel the evil heart of Rex.
they'd been defeated many times by the Covert Kids, Boy martian, Rocket J. Science, Monster girl, and even prof. Racecar, but it never stopped them from their goal- anti diamonds...and a record deal.
sometimes, they would busrt into song.
brother, you didn't want to miss that!


The marathon blow-job sessions just weren’t doing it for him anymore. Beyond the waves of triple cheeseburger baskets and back-to-back John Woo film festivals, there was something missing in his life. An emptiness deep down that couldn’t be filled up, regardless of the number of lemon Bundt cakes and vanilla-frosted doughnuts that came his way. Sure, he’s bedded plenty of redheads that he’d desired, but each one added up to a total of zero in his mind. The only way out of this life was turning his back on God. Heaven was truly hell.


Friday, December 14, 2007


there are bugs under there. they're bigger than any bugs I've ever seen. i don't know what they are, or what they even look like-in comparison to other bugs. they are sort of round and black, but they seem to have long clear stripes down their backs. clear as in, you can see the inner-workings. you can see inside the bug. some have long sharp and scary looking pincers, and others have snouts. i think the snouted ones are male. they hardly ever come out. the pincer ones are always bringing small things back to the hole- other bugs, small rodents. a kitten once.
so far they haven't botherd me or the kids- except for the noises they make crunching up their food, they aren't really bothersome. i just hpe they don't bite. and for chrissake, i hope they can't fly...

Birds by Audrey

“They are beautiful. How did you capture them all?”

“Patience, patience and lots of time spent out doors.”

“In the last year how many days did you spend outside taking pictures?”

“At least three hundred. I would say I spent everyday outside, but I know of at least two days I shot things from my bedroom window.”

“I guess that’s who discoveries are made. Is it true you discovered two new species and rediscovered one species that was thought to be extinct?”

“Yes, it is true, but I don’t like to talk about that out side my scholarly writing. I got lovely shots of them.”

“Is there any truth to the rumors from some of the scientific community that you fabricated those discovered birds?”

“Ah, who said that?”

“I can’t say.”

“Then this interview is over.”

THIS WEEK ON "Fashion Victim Catwalk"

Damien, what were you going for with this dress?

Well, I hate all women, so I was trying to make whichever woman wears this dress suffer.

I see . . .

So, we’ve got the tight collar cutting off circulation to the neck and head, respectively. The very loose waist makes even the slimmest woman look really, really, really fat. So, we’re doing damage to her psychologically as well as physically.

Now, explain this bleeding that’s going on with your model.

Okay, I started by keeping the pins in so she was constantly bleeding, but when I noticed it, I decided to go a little more extreme and I put inverted spikes into the arms. You know, spikes are really punk rock and I just wanted to make a statement that punk’s not really dead, it’s just wounded.

Interesting. That would explain why the model is crying.

No, actually, I doused the whole garment in pepper spray. It not only gave it a stained, urban look, but it kept that feeling of oppression hovering over whoever wore it.

Well, as a fellow gay, I can honestly say that this does it all for me. It keeps me better-looking than the any woman I’m near and it punishes her for my shortcomings. Nice work, Damien.


Thursday, December 13, 2007

the soft shoe (252)

I yelled until it felt like there was blood trickling down my throat-until i couldn't make another sound. after that, i cried. I wept until it hurt to breath, until my eyes burned and i collapsed onto the floor, in sort of a wheezing dry heaving. I was exhausted both physically and mentally. something was dripping from every hole in my head at this point, and i took out my gun and started to bite down on the barrel.
what had started as heartbreak had turned into regret and resentment. it always does, and it's amazing how quickly it happens. then only thing keeping me from eating a clip full of cop-killers was my fear of hell and the fact that i didn't want to think of my mother at my funeral. no parent should outlive their child.
eventually I'll look back on this episode and feel horrible about the spectacle that I'd become for someone that surely didn't deserve the energy. one day I'll realize that it was meant for me to walk this path alone. one day, if I'm lucky, I'll get to dance on her grave.
the soft shoe.
but tonight, i had a case to solve. people were going t take beatings they only partly deserved, and it was likely that someone would be shot. someone cold die. if i thought about it, along the way, I'd make sure to tell them that it wasn't personal.
it was all because of her...
and she'd never know.


The sun will rise like a chariot of fire racing across the sky. No, never mind the slight pop culture/ Greek mythology reference. It’s true. That great ball of fire and boiling liquid gas will burn me alive soon. I have made my peace with the things I have done. I can’t do anything about what I have done. I can just say that I am truly sorry, and my last action will be my last attempt at redemption. I know there will be no redemption, but at least I can say I tried everything I knew to do. The sky is starting to turn violet. I havn’t seen the sun in over four hundred years. It will be beautiful.


Her car was sprinkled with powdered sugar. There was no way this was snow. Somebody was consistently goading her. Each morning she’d find her car covered in a different condiment or seemingly delicious topping. It started last week when she found her Le’ Car smeared with creamery butter. She almost didn’t notice it, but when she put the key into the door, she could see that it was dripping with the stuff. The next day it was a peanut butter, then Grey Poupon, then what appeared to be alfredo. Somebody was going through an awful lot of trouble. Somebody seriously wanted her to eat that Le’ Car. Her only hope was that they’d never discover her weakness for caramel.


Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Where is my Mind?

Where Is My Mind

“Are you sure that’s the title?”

“Dude, I know. It’s ‘Where Is My Mind’ by the Pixies.

Earth Pirates Attack! (253)

Campbell pulled hard on the wheel and sent the craft spiraling towards the small moon just outside the asteroid belt.
“Are you fucking insane!?” marsh yelled over the intercom while trying to line up the rouge ship that was gaining on them.
“If you hit one of these, we’re-“
“I know all of this!” Interrupted Campbell.”
“But I’d rather crash than let these Space Pirates have my ship! We’re going to land on that moon and fight them on the ground!”
“Yeah, well- we don’t need the space…” Marsh said, his volume drifting off as he took a shot and missed.
“We don’t need what?” Campbell asked.
“We don’t need the ‘Space’! I know they’re pirates and I know that we’re in space, but you don’t have to call them Space Pirates! It’s implied seeing as we’re in space, and they’re in space, and neither of us is in a boat!”
Campbell shifted in his seat, and pulled the wheel hard in the opposite direction. This sent the members of the crew drifting all about the cabin.
“I told you people to tie yourselves down!” He yelled as he threw the ship into overdrive, and went zooming towards the dark side of the moon.
“Okay, smart ass, since you want to be mister linguist-“ Campbell shouted into the intercom,
“What do you call those!?”
Marsh took a second to focus on the dark shape that was fast closing in on the ship from the moon. He shook his head, furrowed his brow, then noticed that he really was seeing this- the white shape of a skull attached to the sails of a ship- a pirate ship!
“Earth pirates!?” Yelled marsh, and started to fire at them.
“Things just got space crazy.” Campbell whispered, and took a sip of rum.


Incessant beeping pierced the night air like a tornado warning. People walked out into the streets, looking up. Children turned to their parents for answers only to find none. The churches filled up with sudden believers. Lines of cars made a steady, unmoving beeline out of town. The impatient ones abandoned their vehicles on the freeways and grabbed all available luggage in order to proceed on foot. Dinners was left on tables, untouched. The city became deserted. Fear had pushed them all out.

In hindsight, the new Thanksgiving siren was probably a bad idea. Maybe we should’ve told people about it instead of springing it on them.


Tuesday, December 11, 2007


Normally, this story would show us, ironically, what a great life Carpenter had before he was killed. It would show us all of the fanciful or heroic things that he had done before he was shot point blank in the back of a dark and loud Goth club.
But carpenter was no extraordinary man. He was no leader, no hero. Carpenter was the best type of man- the kind that followed orders, kept his mouth shut, and kept things running smoothly. Carpenter was a cog in a greater machine that made cogs. He wasn’t insignificant, but he could be replaced without thought. The simple fact was Carpenter was invisible.
He wasn’t noticed by the neighbors at the apartment he occasionally called home. He never ate at home; he always went to a small Chinese restaurant a block from his home and always ordered the Mongolian beef and two spring rolls- one veggie and one pork.
There were no decorations in his apartment, only his clothes, a gun, and a television set. He didn’t have cable.
All carpenter had was a job and a dream. His job was secret to all but those that he worked for, and those he worked above never even learned his name.
His dream was a secret only known to himself and to his one friend, Joe.
Carpenter waited at the club that night for his friend Joe to arrive and meet his new team. He knew that Joe would do good things with the young agents. Joe had a knack for taking people away from their weaknesses and making them into great men. Joe’s job was even more of a secret than Carpenter’s but whatever it was that he did, he did well.
He saw Joe enter the club and he nodded in his direction.
“There he is,” he said to the young agents.
“There is the man that holds the future in his hands.”


We’re going to have to let him go. That’s all there is to it.

We can’t just lay him off! What about the law?

Positive Spin is bullshit! It doesn’t make sense to hire these people if they’re not qualified!

Well, I’m sorry if I’m the only one in this company that cares about people’s feelings.

It’s got nothing to do with feelings or caring, Joan! We’re running a business here! I want the best guy for the job, not some spazz who can’t even boil water without dropping it on his crotch.

Oh my God! Did Kenny really do that to himself?

No. No! But I did catch him trying to put his puppy in the cake batter.

Look, I don’t like the law any better than you, but let’s face it. Positive Spin gives some fantastic opportunities to people who might never have gotten a chance to show the world what they can do. It opens doors for them and broadens the workforce. I shouldn't even have to explain this to you.  It’s about self-worth!

Yeah. Explain that to my cousin who lost a promotion to a 40 year old who still wears a diaper. You realize how long my cousin’s been walking that beat? This waterhead swoops in and makes sergeant!

Don’t call them that!!

What? Waterhead? Sleepyface? God’s Lil’ Abortions? What? What should I call them then?

You’re being irrational! Kenny stays on. That’s the end of it!

Okay, fine! Don’t listen to me, the voice of reason! But the next time we cater a party and the guests complain that the crepes taste like dog dick, don’t say I didn’t warn you.


Monday, December 10, 2007


I reviewed her book on Amazon, even though i had not read. i thought for sure that their would be ass in it for me. there was not. she quizzed me on the book and i had nothing. i tried to bullshit, but i could not. she left me. i read the book the other day. it was good.


That dog’s still up there. Jesus, how long has it been? A week, maybe? He’s still up there, barking at everything that passes by, from the roof of that boarded-up movie house. How did you get up there? Or, more importantly, how are you going to get down? That’s a good two-story drop, at least. Dogs don’t land on their feet, you know. They hit the pavement with a thud, just like people. So, how is this going to end? What are you saying? What are you saying to us? Is that one of those angry barks that all dogs lay claim to? Or are you simply saying, "Help. Help me. Help me down?"


Two Terrorists Walk Into a Bar

Two Terrorists walk into a Bar

Two Terrorists walk into a bar. This is an age old setup for a joke. Quite a classic, if you believe people who say things are classic before they have passed the twenty-five year mark. The someone walks into a bar with someone else joke has been around ever since Hitler and a Churchill walked into a bar which started back in 1943. The funny thing about these jokes is they always have a shred of truth to them. Here is the background behind one of today’s most popular jokes.

Two terrorists walk into a bar. One was named Billy Bob and the other Akmed. This is where the similarities end. The joke goes down the tired path of Mid-American Mountain Man/ Middle Eastern religious, socioeconomic, and cultural strife. In reality, Both men sat down, had a drink, shook hands, and left twenty minutes apart. Whatever colorful direction the joke teller attempts to steer the listener, he always ends it with both men detonating the explosives they happen to be carrying on their person. If this was the case who would be left alive to relate the meeting of these two mismatched individuals? Although boring, the truth is they nodded toward each other, shared a drink, shook hands and left.

And kids that’s why we celebrate Joke History month, if we don’t know the truth behind a joke, the joke is on us!

Sunday, December 9, 2007


Wanted: Dead or Alive

The Lunch Pail Bandit.

Wanted for stealing lunch pails, and eating the contents.

Reward: A twinky and a little Hug Drink.

No one wants to know how hot dogs are made (256)

I met the drag queen that went by the name of Ginger Vitus when i was stranded in a Florida Greyhound station. she had just won second runner up in a drag queen competition, and i was- it doesn't matter what i was doing. it stands to reason that if you are in a greyhound station in rural Florida at 2 a.m. you're probably only up to two possible things. leaving a drag contest is the second thing.
we talked about life and love and people that had done us wrong. Ginger was in love with a young hipster that worked in a North Carolina record store that she frequented. it was the only store that carried vinyl records, and ginger was an audiophile of sorts. She had fallen Head over heels for the guy while in drag, and had never had the courage to go to the store dressed like a man. she knew that the guy wasn't gay and that she'd lose the one thing she had to look forward to- being flirted with by a young sexy man that had no idea that she was a man.
she asked me if a=she should tell him, but i said no. why ruin a good thing?
just take from it what you can until you can't, then find something else.
if I'd learned anything from my constant romances with the insane, this was it.
Ginger and i exchanged numbers and hugged when her bus arrived at 4:30.
me, i left. i had a long walk ahead of me. I was never waiting for a bus anyway.


Peridically, this thing’ll throw me a curveball. I mean, I test it. I send something in before I jump. One of those ping-pong balls. If it goes in and comes out alright, I jump, but there are no guarantees. But I know how this thing works. This guy, I don’t even know why he even tried, not knowing the first thing about it and all.

Well, where is he? You must know!

That’s the thing. I don’t know where he is. When he is. Right now, he might just be in a slipstream. We have to give it time.

Yeah, funny. There must be some record, you know? Some way to figure out what time he jumped into.

No, see, time doesn’t work like that. Just because you go in at this moment doesn’t mean it pushed you instantaneously onto the other side. It only seems like you just jump one minute to the next, one second to the next. It doesn’t work that way. You can be in the slipstream for years and not age at all. You just end up at the place you set it to go whenever it wants to put you there. No time would’ve gone by because what is time inside of, uh . . . well, inside of time.

But you call yourself The Timekeeper! You have to be able to do something!

Yeah, it’s a really cool name and an even cooler costume, but at the end of the day, I’m the leading mind in the unexplainable. The unprovable. Most people think they know how time works, but I’ve got to tell you, I could write a book on chronophysics. Ten, in fact. But once you go in there, it’s in the universe’s hands.

So, did he go forward or back? Can you tell me that much?

Oh, he went back. No question. You can’t go forward. Forward hasn’t happened yet. Backwards, yes. Maybe we can send him a signal once we find out where he landed. He’ll be able to get the message, then send some message forward to tell us where he is.

I thought you said you couldn’t go forward.

He can go forward because we’re here in his future. It’s happening now. If one of us went forward from here, now? Well, I pray to God that never happens, even by accident.

Why? What happens if we go forward?

You don’t want to know. Let’s just concentrate on getting him back first. You know, just because it’s rocket science doesn’t make it an exact science.


Saturday, December 8, 2007

the further adventures of that white band from the Motownphilly video! (257)

"Another day, another dollar." said the Guy in the Shades with the blonde spiked hair.
"Amen, brother.' responded the shy one.
"Guys, i need you two empty the grease traps" said the dark-haired one who had recently been promoted to shift leader.
"Man, you've changed." said Shades.
"You've changed."

Next time on T.A.O.T.W.B.F.T.M.V...

"Hey, can we get residuals from that video?" asks Homeless Cool guy that rapped.

A Vampire's Prayer

Thank The Lord For The Night Time. For it is not quite so bright as during the day. The darkness hides the undesirables, and those who are easily forgotten. Thank you for the homeless, and destitute. Thank you for winter’s lengthy nights. Though your cross burns me, it is just in remembrance of your power.



"Boring burgers?!!?"

"Sloppy seafood?!!?"

"Sorry, kids! Those are your choices! I’m tired of cooking at home, so it’s either pick a place or starve!"

"Aw, mom!!"

"Oh, God! I wish there was a place where fast food didn’t play by society’s rules!"


"Well, God’s not the answer, Diane."


"That’s right, kids! I’m Dante, the Bar-B-Que Demon! Quick! Tuck yourselves under my cloak! It’s time to feed your souls . . . ."


". . . . to DANTE!!"

"Wow! We’re really here! Dante’s Bar-B-Que!"

"You know, kids, you don’t just eat the best ribs in town here at Dante’s. You don’t just indulge your sweet tooth on our Sin-amon rolls. And you don’t just savor our six hundred and sixty-six herbs and spices in every bite. At Dante’s, we’re about satisfying the soul as well as the palate."


"That’s why we have The Killing Floor, an arcade for kids, full of the newest hate-filled, blood splattering, first-person shooters on the market. And guess what, kids! They’re absolutely FREE!"

"Wow!! Free video games???"

"That’s right! Just sign here. And don’t think we’ve forgotten about the adults. We’ve got Purgatory! While they’re waiting for you, they can indulge themselves in our high-grade shopping center. Top notch porn for the guys, devilishly inexpensive shoe stores for the ladies. It’s all under one roof. Dante’s!! We’ve Got Soul!"

"Kids??? Kids!! Where’d you go? It’s Mommy! Seriously, this isn’t funny, kids! I’m counting to three! You hear me? Three!! One . . . two . . . . two and a half . . . . . ."


Friday, December 7, 2007

Private Eyes

The dimly lit interior of the office swam in smoke that was tossed and swirled by the slowly oscillating fan clogged my nose, and I coughed slightly. The room was dark like the inside of a paint can still dripping with wet black paint. The smoke wasn’t from my cigarette I quit that habit not three days ago. Granted, it is because of the smokes that there is smoke. I told the guy I would kill for a cigarette. I then told him that I would kill him if he gave me one. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. I wish my .45 didn’t make such a loud noise to go with all that smoke. I bet I gotta use it again. Damn I hate the smoke.


This one, they called The Crying Man.
it was simple really. Frank would get into his best suit, then rumple himself up a bit. He'd go into the city, and wait until there was a bit of a rush, then he'd stumble from a buildin, crying his eyes out. not in a hysterical or comical manner, but real heart felt, soulful tears. he'd think of his grandfatehr or the fact that we all die someday. this was his method. and he'd wander around a bit, crying his eyes out, and occasionally reach out for someone to give him a hug. somethines someone would. now, sine these were real tears and since normally the fact that someone moved enough by this is probably a person with real emmotions, well- they'd start to cry too. and as they asked him what was wrong, he'd never answer. Frank would just stand there on a busy street crying and hugging a complete stranger, drawing a small group of onlookers. and when he'd finally stopped crying, he'd compose himself and walk. without ever saying a word.
Frank and Joe were giving people stories to tell. In thieir own twisted little way, they were doing a good thing.


"we’re going to need to shove this spike into your head."


"no time to argue. just sit back."

"Wait! Wait!! Let go of me!"

The group of tan labcoatmen surround Nickels and forcibly hold him in the chair as one of them brandishes a seven inch, metal spike. It’s attached to a long, black hose that snakes behind the chair.

"Please! Don’t do this!!"

"you’re not going to feel anything. i promise."

With that, the spike penetrates Nickels’ forehead. It slides in clean. His hands grip the chair’s armrests, then loosen.

"see? what did we tell you? now, let’s boogie."

Two tan labcoatmen pull Nickels out of the chair and strap a backpack to him, which houses the other end of the long, black hose. One of the tan labcoatmen slaps Nickels. His eyes flip open.

"come on, buttercup. we need you frosty here."

Nickels glances around to see the tan labcoatmen running off into the inner recesses of the cave. Three streams of blood seep slowly from the end of the spike in his head. He feels woozy, but apart from a throbbing headache and a hot patch on his face where the tan labcoatman slapped him, he feels alright. He races after them, hugging the curves of the cave as fast as he can. The screams of many labcoatmen echo ahead of him as he rounds a corner and sees hundred of giant, heavily-armored turtle creatures tearing into them. Most of the labcoatmen try to fight back, but they are no match for these walking tanks.

"nickels! now!"

Nickels concentrates on the mass of crazed, slow-moving turtles. He feels fire searing from his eyes.

"And here I thought the spike would be the worst part," he says.


Thursday, December 6, 2007


They called it "The Legend"
they'd stake out a bar or cafe in a small town that seemed to have a small, regular clientele. Frank would arrive and order a drink. after some time establishing himself as a mysterious loner, he'd begin to tell a tale about the legend of a great guitarist. he'd talk about how this man was 100 years old, but didn't look a day over 30. how the guitarist had learned from Robert Johnson on his death bed, had taught Clapton, and had done it all while on the run from Satan himself. he'd add fantastic detail after fantastic detail to this legend of a guitarist that no one had heard of, but he'd pepper the tale with enough real facts so that it just seemed like he was building up a guy that could exist, and who could actually be really good. when this phase was done, he'd pay his tab- then decide to buy the house a round for putting up with his story, then he'd leave.

later, Joe would wander into the bar with his guitar on his back and have a seat at the bar. the people would whisper, but surely this couldn't be him- could it? he fits the description, right down to the type of drink he ordered.

eventually, some one would approach him and ask him a question- who was he? what did he play? why was he in town. He'd give short, mysterious answers, never letting on whether or not he was the Legend.

then he'd leave. man, that used to fuck them up!

All out of Love

That’s right. You heard it first here ladies, and gentlemen. Karen Knox is getting married. To the three people in the world who have been living under a rock for the past ten minutes, Karen Knox who up until five minutes ago was the most eligible bachelorette on this planet, or any other for that matter. She met the love of her life, and he proposed to her not five minutes ago. This is a sad day indeed. I know I had my heart set on her favor. It was just a matter of getting in contact with her.
Wait! This just in, they broke off the engagement due to irreconcilable differences. From what I hear there have already been three new proposals. I would go to our camera man on the street covering this, but he was the third guy to get shot down since the break up. What a tough blow to his ego. Granted it is Karen Knox. She is one hot cookie.


     The little girl begs her father to let her go into the freak show. He plays the typical parent game, dragging her around the fair to tire her out or believing that, in time, she would have forgotten about the ramshackle tent at the end of the fairway.
     Two hours later, he says, "So, you ready to go, Pumpkin?"
     "No," she says with a stomp of her feet, pulling her hand away from his. "I wanna’ see the mummyboys."
     "Aw, you sound tired. Aren’t you tired?"
     "Daddy, please?"
     "Alright, okay. We’ll go see the mummyboys, but we only have a few tickets left."
     "How many do we need?"
     "Well, let’s go take a look."
     They walk hand-in-hand again down the fairway, past the Tilt-A-Whirl and the brightly-lit, double Ferris Wheel, beyond the games of chance and the last ticket booth. The grass beneath their feet begins to fade into red dirt, and by the time they reach the gaudy, painted tapestries which advertise such oddities as "The Electric Eel Girl" and "Mister Hammerhands," the mixture of 80’s metal and calliope music is far behind them.
     "Oh, honey, I don’t see them," the father says in mock disappointment.
     "But the mummyboys were right here," she says in a whiny voice.
     She runs down the length of the enormous tent before them, past the entrance to "The Conjoined Septuplets," "Tina the Stick" and "Regurjo."
     "Honey! Wait!" the father says, trailing after her at a brisk pace.
     As she gets to the end, she sees two men taking down a banner that reads, "Mummyboys of Qyxtople."
     "Where are the mummyboys?" she asks the men.
     "Oh, they’re done for the night, sweetheart," the man on the ladder replies.
     As the father catches up, he says to the men, "Sorry. She just really wanted to see those kids, I guess. C’mon, Pumpkin, he said they’re gone."
     "But, Daddy . ."
     "I know, I know. C’mon! Mommy’s going to wonder why we’ve been here so long."
     He takes her by the hand and they head back to the grassy fairway. As they reach the end of the red dirt, she turns her head back down to the large tent. She sees workmen scramble to take the freak show tent apart. And far in the distance, she sees a little boy in a blue hoodie looking her way, waving at her. She waves back, letting go of her father’s hand and turning to face the boy.
     "What is it, Pumpkin? What are you waving at?" he asks, turning to get her.
     The boy pulls his hood from his head, revealing vertical layers of skin, which are hanging loosely from his face. From that distance, Pumpkin isn’t able to see the red muscle tissue beneath, peeking out from where the loose skin doesn’t fully cover.
     "Adios," the mummyboy yells.
     "Bye," she yells back.
     She smiles as she thinks about the mummyboy while holding hands with her father, walking at a slow pace past the double Ferris Wheel as its light go out.






Wednesday, December 5, 2007

The Rich Preacher Mysteries (260)

Yes, his name was Richard Preacher. Yes, he was a man of the cloth that had gotten rich due to a lawsuit against the city. It is also true that in his spare time, he was an amateur detective. Rich preacher was his name and his game...and solving mysteries was his game as well.
he carried two guns that he called Peter and Paul, and he'd learned kung-fu from a monk. Not a Shaolin monk, but a benedictine monk.
when he was approached by CBS about tuning his adventures into a weekly series, he agreed with the request that the last 5 minutes of each episode was a mini-sermon about the evils of smoking and drinking and crime and coveting things.
the show was a success, and oddly enough, the last two minutes were the best part.
later the show was cancelled due to low ratings. Rich Preacher was told that it was because people just didn't find religion cool anymore. Rich knew that it was because the writers had decided to add a talking dog sidekick.
in real life, Preachers sidekick was a talking sugar glider.