Monday, March 31, 2008

the company’s computer technician

As the company's computer technician, Charlie is privy to many
different types of information. He knows who is sleeping with whom. He
knows who is sick. He knows who shops for Christmas early. He knows
who has a anniversary. He also knows who forgets their anniversary.
He comes in and takes out these people's digital trash. No one empties
the trash, and that is where he finds his information.

Not a continuation...(143)

she was fishing for information, but i couldn't give it to her. i could never tell her that I'd tried to sleep with her best friend. it would end her. it would end us. i wasn't even attracted to her friend, i only did it because i could. i defiled her in every way i could think of then left without speaking to her. i was a bastard, this is for sure.

the crops won't be coming in this year.

we're all going to die here.


        She popped her knuckles and each finger, one by one, during the meeting in the main boardroom.  From there, she popped her back, every segment of her spine, all the way down.  Then, her neck.  She took her head in her hands and spun it almost completely around, but stopped as it pointed extreme right, then left.
     If she weren’t so attractive, there was a danger of me losing my job.  I’d throw her down on the ground and pop every limb out of joint until she screamed for mercy.  Then, we’d make love, her mutated body trying to get used to the backwards way in which she would receive the thrusting.  
     I’d have to kill her afterwards, of course.


What do I remember about high school?

"What do I remember about high school? I remember riding around;
'crusing' is what we called it. We would drive through town in a loop,
stopping to talk to girls, and just loitering.
"I know loitering is against the law now. Hell, it might have been
back then. We didn't care, and the cops didn't either. At least they
didn't care until the night we had that incident with the train.
"The train and some fire crackers.
"The train, firecrackers, and a shopping cart.
"Ok, The train, firecrackers, a stolen police car, and a shopping
cart filled with half gallon jugs of buttermilk. I hate buttermilk."

Sunday, March 30, 2008


their God was stremlined- he looked like a mirrored snake, twisting and turning through the sky and occasionally swooping down to eat someone. they all ran as it twisted overhead, but cheered whnever it would consume a family member or loved one.

that year, the crops never came.


We wore the suits, just like the TV show.  Funny, we were almost unapproachable.  Big Benny was the overactive chipmunk, I was the octopus sea captain, Amy was the flatulent duck, Morrie was the pirate bear and William was the hobo ghost.  It was a sight, I’ll tell you that.  The Martell Day Care didn’t know what hit them.  All told, we were able to get away with about $1500.  I never thought day cares had that kind of cash on the premises, but fuck Amy’s duck, was I wrong.  Nobody really got hurt.  I mean, I think Morrie said he had to push a couple of kids down, but I’m sure they were fine.  And we only took two hostages this time.  One lady and some brat.  But I made sure we didn’t cross state lines so it wouldn’t bring the Feds down on us.  I don’t know.  Probably not a smart choice, hindsight being what it is.  I’m keeping the kid though.  Calling him Perry after my dad.  I think he’s going to grow up to be one Hell of an entertainer.


Saturday, March 29, 2008

The beach is beautiful

"The beach is beautiful. I just wish we could come under different
circumstances," She said as she held his arm watching the sun set.

"I know dear. I figured that we might as well. You never know when it
will be your last day on this earth," He said as he finished loading
the last of his shells into his shotgun. "There's no where else to
run, and the sun is going down fast. I hope you have plenty stakes."

"I do." She kissed him on the cheek.

Tonight the vampires would be out in force. Their problem was
compounded with it being a full moon.

"I hate full moons," he said as he cocked the shotgun. The last of
their good silver had gone into making the pellets for these shells.


Well, i guess no one can ever say i never stole the moon.

We're not stealing it, we're borrowing it. besides, if there really is a treasure buried deep beneath the moon's crust, then we have to find it.

What if the mason's find us before we get the moon back in place?

there are only two people that know how to translate the map left on the flag planted here by the original moon walkers.

And they are?

Charles Manson and Rutherford B. Hayes.

Well, i know who I'd rather deal with.

I'm with you there, Riley. Are the stone keys in place?

They are.

Then let's do this.

Ben, if you'd told me three days ago that I'd be stealing the moon and using its secret time traveling capabilities in order to go back into time and find a map to the a treasure buried deep within that very same moon...


i can't say I'd have been too surprised.

Then, Let's go!!!


He was a midget.  Half a midget, really.  He’s gotta’ have a dick the size of a pecan.  First time I saw him was fronting this band called Fifty Eggs.  All of their songs had something to do with the movie “Cool Hand Luke” in one way or another.  And this little guy belted out songs like “Boss Keen’s Ditch” and “Failure to Cummunicate” with a passion and voice that scared me.  If I’d have closed my eyes, I’d have thought he was ten foot tall and bulletproof.  When this little turd stepped off the stage, he needed a step-ladder.  And when he mingled with the crowd of endless back-patters, he was at the same time physically invisible.  Not to say I didn’t enjoy the set.  I kind of did, I guess.  Not the greatest band, certainly not the worst.  But there are a thousand hungrier bands in this town that don’t have a half-midget singer, yet won’t ever see this side of the spotlight because they don’t have pecan dick singing for them.


Friday, March 28, 2008

We're Back!

"We are back from commercial in five, four, three," The man mimes two
and then on one points toward the stage.

"Welcome back! I am your host Hank, and I am here with 'The Blob'"

The camera zooms quickly to the amorphous blob sitting next to Hank.
He makes a movement that may or may not be a wave.

Hank turns to The Blob, and asks, "Mr. Blob, how do you feel about
the required government issued legislation that required you to tell
the world your true name?"

"It was hard at first, but my wife and kids were really supportive."

"Do you have any fears that Dr. Myst, who is still on the loose, will
come for your family now that he knows your real name?"

"I was at first, but since the government backing of safe houses for
supers' families I feel much safer.

"I was going to talk to you about your thoughts on the crisis
happening in the Dakotas, but we don't have the time for that. Until
next time, I'm Hank!

Brain Washed!(146)

Brain Washington was his game, and getting shot while trying to save hostages was his game.

rest in peace, idiot


Mao Dada Mao needs to be taken down.  That’s why you four are here.  I’m crowning you Red Ops.  Now, we’re not going through normal parameters on this one, so it’s all double-hush stuff.  You don’t tell any of the Committee about this.  If any of them ask questions or start to get wise, you tell them you “broke a nail” and they’ll read between the lines.  You’ll be pulled from the Committee roster when the time is right.  You won’t be missed, trust me.  That’s why we have such a large corps of reserves.  

As you know, Mao has reeked surrealistic havoc in his home country, a pocket of China now known as Drone Nexus-Prime.  Drone is where he currently resides as far as we know.  Last intell we got from the inside reported shit that we still can’t figure out.  Out mole went rogue and is still in there somewhere, driven out of his mind from the things he’s seen.  This place is about as mad as a hatter.  Real topsy-turvy stuff.

Anyway, here’s the message we got on the horn three days ago:

“I don’t wanna’ be a part of the flea circus anymore, Dongo.  If you were here, you’d know the dark rotisseria.  Pack my suitcases full of weeds and turn them over to my grandfather.  From here on in, you’ll refer to me by my shadow name, Kapha Chisel Post-Op.  I’ve gotta’ go now.  Suspension ape Oslo.  The head locust needs my full attention.  Good night, Levy.”

Sad, too, because he was one of our best.  But I don’t mind shitting down his neck once you guys rip his head off.  Just promise me two things.  Promise me you’ll find out who Levy is and promise me you won’t be gentle.


Bloody Thumb Slap Love Punch

Most cultures have folklore that attempt to describe complex
subjects. Tonight we explore a little known subset that believe a
magical martial art move can render a person deeply in love with the
deliverer of the punch.
Deep in southern Alabama during the Civil War unrest among the slave
population caused new workers to be imported from China. With these
Chinese workers came martial arts from the east. One hundred years
later, the Chinese had assimilated into the Voodoo and Cajun cultures,
and a new terrifying religion/martial art arose.
At the heart of this new culture was a move so terrifying that the
master sensei would only teach it if they had proven that they could
control their emotions against anything. If he learned that one of his
pupils had mistreated they power they were given he took their life.
The move was so powerful he decided he would no longer show anyone
how to accomplish a correct Bloody Thumb Slap Love Punch. Also, to
prevent any past pupils from sharing the secret he hunted every one of
them down and killed them.

Thursday, March 27, 2008


I had a crazy sex dream. i speant most of it fingering Courtney cox and masturbating. In my mind, that is, in my dream mind, this wasn't enough. i wanted Lisa Kudrow.

I needed Kudrow.


The low hum is keeping it all at bay.  I don’t question where it comes from or where it started or where it’s leading me to.  It stops the other noises from getting in.  It overpowers the nabobs who have nothing better to say than the caterwauling in pubs and the sick, incessant self-grandizing after plays.  The low hum is in the driver’s seat of my brain now.  It hasn’t told me how to do my job or who to kill or what cereal to eat.  Not yet.  When the hum starts to form words, that’s when I’ll worry.


Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Cover Me

"Cover me!" he calls out as he dives across the room. Shots ring out,
whizzing past his head.
The fire stops and he pokes his head out from around the couch. Pop!
A plastic suction cup sticks to his forehead. Laughter erupts from the
far side of the room.
"I got you! Now give me back my bullets," his little brother called
out from across the room.

National Treasure Fan-fic! (148)

ring ring!


hey! Ben, it's Riley.

oh, hey Riley. What's up?

Nothing. i was just wondering if you saw the news...

yeah, i did. it looks like the president was an impostor the entire time.

yeah, implanted by the masons so they could use the real president to go after the lost city of Atlantic, i expect.

Riley, there is no such thing as-

-The city of Atlantis, i know. except how do you explain those photographs i sent you?

Hold on. I'll get them. hmmm, well, they look like Aeriel photos of the Atlantic ocean.

yeah, now hold them up to the light-


not any light, find a red light bulb.

i have one here in the kitchen- Ow!

Ben! what happened!

Ninjas hit me and took the photographs!


looks like you're onto something, Riley.

Well, I need you, Ben. what do we do now?

I'll tell you. we need to kidnap folk Troubadour Donovan and steal the space shuttle.

I'm in!


The Whimsipals set out on their last mission.  Their second-to-last, “The Case of the Secret Scarab,” didn’t have the closure that Kenny Filbert usually needed and, since he’s already decided on splitting up the team, it seemed normal to do it with a bang.  They’d been in over 100 adventures together over the years.  “The Mystery of the Haunted Tiki,” “The Secret of the Floating Scepter,” “The Case of the Crying Banshee,” the list went on and on.  But lately, the casefiles had been empty, and after the Secret Scarab was found to be a hoax, it appeared the well was dry.  So, Kenny did what he’d always done when things looked grim.  He invented a case.  And this time, this last case would be one that even Petey, the dum-dum of the team, couldn’t mess up.  To think that their last adventure as the Whimsipals would start with such a violent beginning and end with Kenny as the last boy standing.


Tuesday, March 25, 2008


she begged me to believe in her, but i just couldn't.

the next day she was gone.

no one seemed to remember that she'd even existed...

Rory the Littlest Mongol

Rory was the littlest Mongol in the whole horde. He rode a small
camel back and forth from school. One day his mom asked him, "Rory,
why are you so little?"
Rory thought about it and said, "Cuz I'm worthless?" He then ran into
the bathroom and cried.


The minute I start throwing rocks back at the kids who are throwing them at me, is when the cops get involved.  These kids had been chasing me on their bikes for hours.  It started near the power lines, outside of town, new that long stretch of 24-7.  I took several of them down around the old theatre, a place I remember “going up” onstage once.  Lines went straight out of my head.  The production was pretty shoddy anyway.  My heart wasn’t in it.  But I took down at least three of those little bastards from the gutted lobby.  It seemed to scare them away for a while.  Then, the cops go involved.  I yelled to them from inside the theatre that I had a hostage.  It’s really turned into something more than I ever thought it would.  Jeez, what show did I do here?  Some of the set pieces are still up.  It’s like they just closed this place up without bothering to empty it.  Oh, what did the marquee say?  If I can fill in the missing letters, I’ll figure it out.  It was so long ago.


Monday, March 24, 2008


It started like most affairs start. Flirting through glances. She
would come to visit when no one was around. She picked out a song so
they could have "a song." It was all good until they were caught. She
couldn't help but lift cars.

post 666 (150)

"Fuck you, Devil!" he said, and made a crude cross from the broken car antenna. this was the final showdown between the hillbilly and Satan, and something tells me that the hillbilly would walk away from this a winner, but changed.
not changed in a way that would compel him to lead a better life because of the things he'd seen over the devil's reign o'er his trailer park for the last two weeks. changed in the way any man is changed when he agrees to give is ass to Satan in order to save the ass of his illiterate yet sumptuous barely legal bride.
for you see, beating Satan is all about sacrifice. sometimes that means your ass...


This would be the second day he wouldn’t leave work with dirty hands and he hadn’t quite gotten used to it yet.  “Dirty hands means you’re working,” his father used to say.  So what did that mean in his current predicament?  Temp-to-hire.  Quick to fire. 

Four ‘o’ clock saw him going out to the parking lot, rubbing his hands in a blackened snow bank, then returning to his pristine, postmodern cube.  His keyboard would be black in a month if he kept this up.  The routine might get old by week’s end, but until he gets used to it, his hands will continually stay dirty.


Sunday, March 23, 2008

unicorn education

It has come to my attention that there seems to be a anti-unicorn
thread in my past few entries. I won't deign that they are demons
spawned from Satan himself. While they appear cute and harmless to the
general public, I know the truth. It has been said, that the unicorn
will bring pestilence, famine, sexual confusion, and death upon the
houses that permit their likenesses to be displayed.
Most people would question the perversion of such a cute fantasy
animal. A horse with a single horn upon its head holds quite the
appeal for young children. What most people do not realize is that a
unicorn is the perverse union of a zebra and rhinoceros. Unicorns in
real life are not pretty creatures, quite leathery and ugly as most
things that go against nature tend to be.
There is also that unsavory part where they enjoy feasting on the
flesh of young school children as they leave Sunday School. Guard your
children well. Follow my word, and banish the unicorn!

yet another thinly veiled tale from real life (151)

i have some bad news.


we have to change the name of the production company.

What? no.

yes. it sounds too much like a cable company.

okay. one, that's stupid. two, i've had this company name about 15 years longer than i've known you, so- deal with it. You're more than welcome to name your own company, though, have at it.


yeah, oh.


      “The size of this chair is very important, Mr. Sequioa.”

         I stared down at the kindergarten-sized chair that he’s made. The place was freezing, lots of smoke.

                 “Next year, we’ll be talking about the size of this chair.  Everyone will be sitting in these things.  But I don’t want to talk about that now.  Not when we have so much to discuss.”

                 “What are we supposed to be discussing, exactly?” I asked.  “Why am I here, in this place?”

         The chairmaker scratched his beard, a beard he hadn’t had two seconds ago.

                 “Do I look familiar to you?” he asked.

                 “Um, no.”

         He pulled off the new beard, blood trickling off of his splotchy chin.

                 “What about now?” he inquired.

         I stared at him.  Nothing.

                 “I was a friend of your grandfather’s.  We fought together,” he continued.  “First Clean Six.  I met you when you were seven.  We had this exact same conversation about the chair.  I gave you one of those candies?  Hot Rocks?  It was a Wednesday.”

         He placed the beard near his chin, it attached itself and the bleeding stopped.

                 “I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t . . .”

                 “We’ll meet again in a month.  Don’t worry.  But I won’t look like this.  I won’t even be me.  But you’ll know who I am then.”

         The smoke started to clear.

                 “Try out the chair, Mr. Sequioa.  I think you’ll find it’s a good fit for you.”

         The chairmaker dissipated with the smoke and I was left standing there, alone.  I walked over to the chair and on the back of it was the word “Whetstone.” 

         I immediately woke up.  The name stayed in my head for days.



Saturday, March 22, 2008

Sloppy Milkshakes

Jose "Sloppy Milkshakes" Magilacutti has escaped. This man is to be
considered extremely dangerous. He is driving a ford dtat doesn't
pull a boat. approach with extreme caution.


i was speechless. i tried to talk but there were no words. later, when all was said and done, it became evident that the reason was that all they words were gone.
someone had stolen the wor-


Blowjobs were things that Alero seemed to excel at receiving.  He even changed his Christian name from Pascal Corolla to Alero because that was the car he received his first blowjob in.  There was something about his unit that attracted the female mouth.  Women just couldn’t get enough.  He never once – in his accumulated 1,740 blowjobs – ever asked a woman to give him one.  It was something that they immediately went for, not one of them even asking Alero to return the favor.  This was his curse.  Usually, his litmus test for a “return customer” was when, without warning, he’d spooge in their mouths or on their faces while screaming “Surprise” in an over-the-top, Charles Nelson Reilly manner.  But they always came back for more.  He was never sure why any woman would be such a glutton for punishment.  Even his tactics of yelping “Bees!  Bees!” or singing the jingle to the Mr. Mouth commercial during his inevitable climax couldn’t shake them.  He hated himself for having to do this, even refusing a long line of 14 women in the men’s bathroom at the Double Load Laundromat once.  I witnessed this “turning away” on many occasions and, as much as I envied the guy at first and lived vicariously through him in many ways, I soon realized he was just a man like me, full of wishes and dreams and goals, all of which had nothing to do with him being “The Blowjob King.”  That was a title thrust upon him.  Unfairly, I tend to believe.  

I’m sure many of you here today only know him from his performances below the waist.  Some of you, numerous times.  But Pascal “Alero” Corolla was just a man.  And when he put that gun barrel to his lips, he wasn’t trying to see what it was like on the receiving end.  He was trying to end the pain.  He was simply trying to see what it was like to be a man again.


Friday, March 21, 2008

Ever too much jism?: The sex tape files (153)

as far as celebrity sex tapes go, they are always fairly tame. sure, the Go-Go's forced a roadie to take a dildo in the ass and Paris Hilton actually took a load to her nearly nonexistent tits, but the public was getting tired of the strikingly vanilla sex tapes it's celebrities were trying to pass off as "stolen" and "unauthorized".
America needed a sex tape that shook things up. they needed to see people they knew doing things they'd never heard nor dreamed of.
I was hired by the syndicate to "find" the dirtiest, raunchiest celebrity sex tape i could. it had to be so dirty that stink lines could be seen emitting from the case the tape was in. it had to at least end the person or persons involved careers at at most, cause suicide to someone involved.
I'd tracked down tapes before, and I'd run down ghosts as well- three years ago there was a rumor of a tape involving Frankie Muniez and Tracey Ullman in a secret backroom hot Dogging incident. it turned out that it was only Pamela Anderson and David Faustino. Pamela was no longer famous enough to warrant the release of the tape, and grandmaster b was too anxious to receive a payday so he ruined the deal.
some one hipped me to a clip where Wayne newton can actually be seen executing the ever elusive Spider-man on a withered and obviously pissed off Dakota fanning, but this turned out to be wrong as well as it seems all female midgets look like fanning.
Would i be able to find or even coerce the ultimate sex tape into the nets?
who knows- I've been waiting outside of Mandy Moore's house now for two days. eventually, she's going to fuck a llama- whether she knows it or not...


She was a stout, little dumpling, and regardless of how much he loved holding her huge, bouncy boobs in his hands and no matter how many times he deep-dicked her and she cried out her name, he could never get over the fact that she looked like death warmed over.

“Maybe we‘re meant to be,” he’d think.  “Maybe this Danny Devito-titted dwarf is who I’m supposed to be with.  Why would I mess with this?  The square peg fits in the hole, so who am I to argue?”

Still, he spent years being uncomfortable while she went along thinking everything was fine.  And why should she think any different?

He thought he’d given the signs that she would understand; calling her “Dookie Jr.,” pinching her fat, shoving his hand onto her head while she blew him on long drives.  But she kept coming back.

He wasn’t sure what was more sad.  Was it worse for him to secretly hate this sexpot and continue on with this thing or have her believe that she could do no better?  Or was this all equal?

Regardless, he’d never met a woman with such a fantastic-tasting labia.



Thursday, March 20, 2008

The last Unicorn

The last unicorn was a majestic creature. Natural beauty that could
dry a baby's tears, and fix world hunger. Not many people have seen a
unicorn. Even fewer people have seen a unicorn under the light of the
moon. What most people do not realize is that when a unicorn passes
through a moonbeam it is revealed it's true form. A creature of black
shadows and sinew, smoke billows from his nostrils and tar drips from
his lips. His lone horn, that not a moment before was a shining
pillar, is now an obsidian shard engulfed in a ghostly flame. The
black pits that use to be eyes can suck the very soul from small
children and the elderly. This all passed just as quickly as it
started. He is now the beautiful creature everyone believes him to be.
In the distance, a baby cries out. He lifts his head, slinging saliva
from his mouth, and disappears into the night.


I won a free kids meal at Ihop, but the manager wouldn't honor my coupon. he said that it was intended for kids. things like this happened between me and that Ihop manager all the time. neither of us ever said it, but we loved the back and forth. to me, it was a freidnly rivalry.
i fucked his wife in the dumpster behind the store last week. i can't wait to see what he does!


I wasn’t sure how I would spend my last day at work.  Given, this was a job I’d had for nearly three years.  Serious security, health benefits, the works.  Not exactly what I’d wanted to do with my life, but “better then digging a ditch,” as my grandfather used to say.  So, I debated on even coming in for my last day, but opted to do it out of loyalty, I guess.  Who knows?  If I ever need a recommendation from those guys, the one thing they couldn’t say about me was “He cut out on us early.”  But in my own way, I wanted to rebel on this last day.  Something slight, but with enough of an edge so that those around me knew I as actually putting some thought in rebelling.  I recalled how my manager at Musicland back in the late ‘80s spent his entire last day playing a looped tape of Johnny Paycheck’s immortal “Take This Job and Shove It.”  He spent most of the day smiling in that way that four year olds do when they’re secretly shitting their pants.  But this guy was 45, still living with his mother.  He was in charge of our classical music section, for God’s sake.  This was the extent of his rebellion.  For me, I didn’t want to go that route.  I wanted something more jarring.  So, I spent the day talking like one of the Martians from “Mars Attacks.”  

“Sam, did you go to the post office yet?”
“Mah!  Mah-mah!”
“Is that a ‘no?’”
“MAH!  Mah, mah-MAH!”

I think if I hadn’t quit that day, I still would’ve done it.


Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Twenty Three

The number of times I snuck into the girls dorm. The number of times
I've been to a casino. The number of times I should have gone to jail.
The number of times I've been to a tattoo parlor. The number of times
I have been cloned.


if you rub your hands on stainless steel they won't smell liker onions anymore.
Now, close your eyes...


The Empire Waists were a collection of failed So-Ho haute couture fashion designers who started a band.  Honestly, they had about as much business in the music industry as they had in fashion.  Their biggest hit was an out-of-tune, off-kilter, up-tempo medley of “Walkin’ In Rhythm” and “Pass the Peas.”  And it was abysmal.  But the kids ate it up.  Then again, kids will buy anything they think they relate to.  No child in their right mind should’ve been able to relate to the Meth-fueled antics of The Empire Waists.  This band made actual train wrecks look like pleasure cruises.  Their clothing, make-up and hair styles were all over the map.  90’s club kid meets circus clown meets Phantom Tollbooth meets Captain Kangaroo.  Everything was made to look slap-dash, but it was carefully orchestrated by their lead singer, Pox Devlin, who sang mercilessly into the microphone while holding a gun to his head.  No one ever knew if the gun was loaded except for Pox.  The NRA even condemned his actions, all the while funneling money into the band’s checking account.  The video for “Walkin’ In Rhythm / Pass the Peas” was simply one long shot of Pox Devlin’s feet dangling lifelessly from the top right corner of the screen.  An apparent suicide in glorious black and white.  This solidified their dangerous, avant-garde image even more than the gun or the Captain Kangaroo clothing ever could.  I guess I still don’t understand their appeal, even today, 50 years later.  And to think that was considered controversial back then.  Christ how times have changed.   


Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Hello Friend

Hello Friend,
It is time we met once again. I know you don't remember me, but I
remember you. I remember your first steps. I remember when you learned
to fold a paper airplane. I drove you to school, and the time you had
trouble with math. All the others made fun of you. I was the one to
comfort you. I held you close, and told you it would be all right. I
wiped your tears away so you would not rust. I kept you wound until
you could wind yourself. When your heart spark went out I relit the
I am sorry I left you, but you had to grow up. A man made of tin who
isn't a man is just a pile of tin. You had to learn to be your own Tin

based on actual events VI (156)

So, let me get this straight; based solely on the fact that this guy told you a breif synopsis of a film idea you had, you bought two tickets to L.A. to have him talk to some gay guy you knew that may or may not have had money to finance the film, then you were surprised when it turned out that the guy had never written the script!?


Wait- so, at NO POINT during this process did it ever seem like a good idea to see something in writing!?

I guess not.

wait, this is- i'm-
So, all he had to do was tell you an idea, and you got so goddamned excited that you started buying plane tickets, and you didn't even think to address the script until you were sitting in front of your supposed contact- right?

i guess i learned a lesson.

You are...slow.


Loomis had two options:  kill or be killed.  Okay, so Loomis wasn’t partial to either of those, so he ran.


Monday, March 17, 2008

The Morris-Majestic Cross Over

The Morris-Majestic Cross Over is what some people refer to as the
veil between worlds. It isn't a veil between this world and the next,
but a veil between this world and many others millions of miles
physically away. If this Morris-Majestic Cross Over can be breached
these other worlds are fractions of a second away. Due to the immense
distances involved in interplanetary travel and that pesky law of
physics that says a single entity can not occupy two places at the
same time calls for some drastic measures. When the cross over occurs,
the original body is destroyed down to the traveler's atoms. Due to
the destructive nature of this type of travel there is no turning back
once the journey has begun.

test that ass (157)

by the time he realized that he'd missed a question on the test it was too late. he'd gotten all of the last 200 questions wrong because he'd skipped a spot by mistake. he thought to himself that at least some of them would have to be right by coincidence, but it didn't matter. it was too late to go back. he;d done all of the studying for nothing. he'd even celebrated to himself a bit when he realized that the test was so much easier than he'd thought it would be. he thought of how the people that grade these things would see his test and wonder at the fact that he'd gotten so many of the questions right. when they would approach him about it, he'd tell them that he didn't even try. perhaps one of the graders would be a sexy older woman that would want him based on his smarts. perhaps they'd do it in the butt. he'd always been intrigued by doing it in the butt since he'd read an interview in an old hustler from an old porn star named Sunny Larue. according to the article, taking it in her "hinder' was the only way that she could come. he read this article repeatedly and looked at the four fade pictures of Sunny for months- since he'd found the old hustler in his uncles basement room. he thought of how he'd be the only guy that really knew how to make all the girls at college come- in the butt. but he wouldn't be going to college now. he'd fucked up the entire test. he thought about pulling the fire alarm. he thought about crying. he thought about putting the #2pencil in his own throat. there were no options. this one little mistake would haunt him for the rest of his life- or at least until he realized that guys that get high test scores almost never get ass sex...


Me, Tubby and Suzanne entered the bare arcade.  I don’t remember what we were doing there, though I guess we all had a weakness for video games.  Well, there weren’t many left from what I recall.  There were maybe two or three left and I remember one of the video games in particular.  “Marathon Man – Deluxe.”  I suppose a tie with the Dustin Hoffman / Roy Scheider movie with Hoffman’s scared face as part of the console art.  This one happened to catch Tubby’s eye.  We looked around to ask how much the thing was, but the proprietor was nowhere to be found.  I remember I had seen him earlier – a Randy Jackcon type.  We’re not there five minute and the door slings open.  Who is it, but Dustin Hoffman himself, followed by and entourage of hangers-on, friends and bodyguards, one of which is that country bumpkin actor who played the head Pharaoh in “American Grafffiti.”  Hoffman circled “Marathon Man” impatiently as his bodyguards looked for Randy Jackson and generally made us feel uncomfortable.  The Pharaoh kept making passes at Suzanne and when I told him to back off, he playfully shoved me, the smell of aftershave and his leather jacket overpowering me more than his jabs.  I pushed back, but he was stronger than hi wiry frame led on.  The last thing I recalled was Suzanne screaming for us to stop and an elbow to my head.  I don’t even remember hitting the floor.  Occasionally, I came to, only to see snatches of what may or may not have happened.  Hoffman’s hoods carry off “Marathon Man,” Randy Jackson macks on three of Hoffman’s entourage, The Pharaoh makes love to Suzanne, sucking on her toes in the process.  I don’t know whether any of this actually happened though.  When I came to, the smell was one of death.  It was dark.  The wall’s neon was broken and sparking.  The floors were covered in blood and it looked like there were human remains scattered about.  I almost threw up, but I kept it all in somehow.  I wondered where Tubby and Suzanne were and why I had been spared from this massacre.  I started to leave when I saw the blood-soaked head of Hoffman sitting upright in the corner.  I rushed over to it, got on my knees and looked into its eyes.  The disembodied head had long hat pins stuck into its right side and chin.  It opened its mouth to try and tell me something, but quickly gave up as it tilted down into the blood-soaked floor.  I was still half-dazed with a huge headache when I made it to the exit.  I turned around to see Randy Jackson through the previously shuttered windows.  He held Suzanne down on the floor in a room set apart from the arcade.  I watched as the docile Suzanne suddenly slammed her fist into Jackson’s fat face.  He recoiled and she ran from the room.  I screamed for her from outside, and it wasn’t long before I saw her running towards me as I stood on the corner.  “C’mon, Suzanne, run,” I thought.  No words would form in my throat.  Just as she cleared the house and hit the street, Jackson – bloodied, shirtless with a blonde wig – appeared, running at top speed behind her, like a cue from some slasher flick.  I held out my arms, urging her to go faster.  He almost caught up to her, but gave up running as he spotted me on the corner.  Me and Suzanne ran as fast as we could to my car a block away.  No mention of Tubby or what had been done to her by Jackson or why Hoffman was beheaded or what happened to the Pharaoh.  We just got in and drove. 

We’ve never talked about it.  In fact, this is the first time I’ve relived the event.  I drive by the corner where the arcade used to be.  It’s now a vacant lot that’s about to give birth to a bunch of useless condos.

I’m thinking about killing myself.


Sunday, March 16, 2008

Danger Ranger

Danger Ranger Rodger Raider swooped through the black inky cold of
deep space looking for wrong doers, hobos, and ner'do wells. His
section of the sky was rather quite tonight. It had been quiet for
months, that is until the ner'do wells showed up. Wrong doers and
hobos are threatening in their own way, but a ner'do well can kill a
man. Rodger Raider being a brave and not stupid man kept to himself.
He ate his lunch on the far side of an asteroid to avoid detection.
What he did not realize was that when he lifted off from the asteroid
it caused it to alter its trajectory. In one hundred and fifty years,
it will strike the earth killing every living soul on the planet.

Too bad Raider was a chicken to do his job properly.

Based on actual events (158)

oh man! that's Richard Kiel!


Yeah! I'm gonna go over...

hi. I'm with a local news show, and I wonder if i could ask you a few questions for the show?

When would this air?

Monday morning. it's a wrap up of the comic convention.

nah. that doesn't do me any good.

really? but your fans would really like to see it...

I'm sorry, but this business is give and take.

Okay. well- could you say "you're watching sports with Brad Gardner"? that would air tonight.

okay. good.

Whenever you're ready.

"Hi. I'm jaws from the bond films. You're watching with Frank Grainger."


"Hi, I'm jaws from the bond films. You're watching Bran Grainger."

Thanks so much.


How did it go?

he sort of smelled...


There are targets on every head.  Everywhere I look, these good-looking, nicely-dressed pretty yobs have targets on them.  I’m slowly getting a bead on each and every one.  They stand in different corners, looking over their lines, rehearsing their deliveries, doing their warm-ups.  And I sit here with my hundred-yard stare, painting targets on their heads, one by one.  This is how I cope.  Shooting them down, snapping their spines, severing nerve endings with a quick bolt from my brain.  All the superficial dopes will be blown away by the ugly duckling boy.  The crosshairs widen to take in more and more as their kind begin to multiply.  It’s over-priviledged prick season.  Right between the eyes. 


Saturday, March 15, 2008

The Work (159)

they started calling him Dumpster Davis in elementary school. there was no real reason other than the cruelty of alliterative school children.
it stuck, which turned out to be a cool when he became a hired killer.


Pine trees have always been his enemy.  As a child, these were the only trees in his yard and the benefit of being barefoot was lost.  The needles dug into his heels, and when he was responsible for raking them up, that was the point in his life when he truly learned how to use the expression “an exercise in futility.”

He’s only recently missed the trees when he went back to the house he grew up in, only to find them hacked down at their bases.

He’d always had dreams about setting them on fire or cutting them down himself, but seeing the stumps gave him little satisfaction.

They have always been in his consciousness and they’re always the first trees he thinks of when someone mentions the word “tree.” 

Yet the absence of pine trees within the yard he no longer plays in, years later, brings a tear to his eye. 

Why couldn’t they have just been oak?  


Friday, March 14, 2008


Did you hear about the sequel to Jumper? It's called Sleeper. A
narcoleptic jumper has a spell every time he jumps. He wakes up in a
new location and doesn't know where he is. It's gonna be great! Kinda
like Quantum Leap, but with out helping people.

based on actaul events IV (160)

holy shit...


look at this...

Uh- What is that?

well, it appears to be 9 leather jackets.

are any of them yours?

if any of them were mine, would i be this surprised/

point taken, but why does anyone need 9 near-identical leather jackets?

see? this is why i can't wait to move.

this is really gay.

hmm. well, you haven't seen the Men's Fitness poster book yet.

okay, that could just be for excerciseing.

sure it is. so i suppose you can identify the stains on the pages?




So, then Prince plays “Purple Rain,” dedicates it to his father, the crowd loves it, Prince gets the girl, credits.

That’s the ending.

Yeah.  That’s the ending.


Oh!  And The Time all commit suicide.

The band, The Time, suddenly commit suicide.


I’m not buying the ending here.  Why would The Time commit suicide just because Prince played “Purple Rain?”

Well, actually they blow up.

Blow up?!!?

They self-destruct.

What?  Now they’re robots?


Let me get this straight.  This 40 year old fey lives in his parent’s basement, rides around on a purple motorcycle like a tool, he beats the only piece of ass in the whole movie, yet she still stays with him because he’s not actually as gay as he appears.  Believe it or not, I’m sold on it up until this point.  Now you’re saying his rival band in the movie are a bunch of robots who blow up when he beats them with the titular song.

Yes!  Now, will you please greenlight this thing?

Fine!  Only if he ends it with “I Would Die 4 U.”

I, uh . . . I’m sorry.  I won’t compromise my vision.


Thursday, March 13, 2008

based on actaul events III (161)

what kills me is that you thought that fucking a lead actress a week before filming was a good idea.

I know

obviously, you don't. you think this is satisfactory producing?

i didn't really think about it.

that's an understatement. this couldn't have waited two weeks until we were done filming?

I don't know.


I never really believed in bros before hos.



The oven clock activated it.

There was a 10 minute time displacement within Dutch’s house and the epicenter of it all was his
oven.  He’d won the house on 770 Bloom Street in a poker game.
Even at the time he thought he wasn’t playing at his best. 
And the Bloom Street house deed, even as it sat at the center of the table,
seemed too good to be true. 

Yet now the whole thing
made sense somehow.

A completely furnished house, cupboards stocked,
dog in the backyard, was his.

He’d walk
from his bedroom at 8:30

and he wouldn’t truly enter the kitchen until

8:40, even though it was but five

feet away.

He would always say that he would just get another stove, but he never bothered.

A rift in time

was but a small

price to

pay for free room and



Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Chicken Soup Causes Cancer!

I could tell you things that would blow your mind. I won't, but I could.

based on actual events II (162)

Welcome back.

Thanks man.

so, how was it?

awesome! there was a nice looking art school and lots of cool people.

okay, great. how did the movie go over? what did people think.

well, i want to wait and talk to you about that.

wait for what?

i want to wait until pete is here.


i want to wait and tell you when pete is here.

are you kidding?


so, you go to another country to represent my film at a festival and you come back and won't tell me how it went?

not until peter is here.

you're not a smart person, are you?

paying for hand jobs is legal in Toronto.

getting them for free is legal in America, half-wit.


Apart from all the UPS procedures and everyday job reports you’ll need to keep track of, there’s a few more things you’ll need to know as part of your training.  Stuff I probably shouldn’t tell you, but stuff you should know just the same.  First off, the boss works in a sort of Bizarro-esque style.  Like the Superman villain.  Everything he tells you?  He means the opposite.  If he says, “Good-bye,” he means “Hello.”  If he asks you to drop off some mail at the end of the day, dump it in the trash.  And he likes to be addressed as “Your Pussy Majesty,” but he’s big on formality so make sure to call “Mister Your Pussy Majesty.”  Oh, and one of the women in the front office likes to be called “Sugartits.”  I’m not supposed to tell you which one.  You’ll have to find out by process of elimination like I did.  Otherwise, most of the women respond well to the expression, “Shake your dinners.”  It’s also advisable to bring a personal firearm to work.  The guy you’ll be working closely with is going to want to play rough at times. I’m not saying shoot the guy.  God, no.  Use the gun as a “power-positioning tool.”  A gun’s greatest power lies in it not being fired.  I think Sun Tzu said that.  Now, the boss’s wife is a pretty big flirt and by that I mean she’s an overweight whore.  Don’t let this stop you from sleeping with her, though.  Don’t think of it as sleeping your way up the corporate ladder.  More like her sleeping down the corporate ladder.  Again, if the boss finds out and comes close to beating the life out of you, consider it his way of giving you a raise.  And you’ve still got your “power-positioning tool” if all else fails.  If you’re feeling under the weather, the medicine cabinet is stocked full of pain relievers.  I’ve taken the liberty of replacing the ibuprofen with horse tranquilizers and, if by chance you cut yourself, the sterile gauze is actually sheer sheets of LSD.  There’s a great deal of foot porn that I’ve left on my computer for your perusal once I’m gone.  I’ll be thinking of you.  And if you’re not much of a drinker, now’s the time to start.  Now being nine a.m.


Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Freakin’ Ninjas

No, you heard me wrong. I didn't mean the fact that there are 200
ninjas in my house, there are. It was more that they are all freakin'
you know bumping and grinding all up on each other, the walls, the
banister, the tv, the Wii, my arm. Hell, EVERYTHING in this house is
getting freaked on, around, or near by a ninja.

I would say this would be a good time if it weren't for the fact that
every single one of them has a katana.

based on actual events (163)

I think we should invite Al.

nah. he could steal the idea.


he could see the movie and quickly make another one before anyone ever sees ours.


you know he could do it. he has connections. listen, i know he probably won't, but i'd feel better if he wasn't there.

Just in case he steals the plot from the already filmed movie and then with his bottomless well of resourses, quickly makes a film identical to this one and sells it before we get a chance to seel this already completed film...




     My mailman’s a prick.
     I don’t know the guy.  I’m basing this all on the way he shoves my mail into that vertical mailbox.  So, I have a number of old bills in there.  And Valentines.  So what?  Maybe I’m making a snap judgment here.  Then again, maybe I’m that person who actually wants the Bargain Shopper circular.  And that person who wants it without rips in it from my mailman’s ham-fisted approach to postal work.  Does he know me?  I might be that person.  He doesn’t know me in the same way that I don’t know him as an insensitive prick.  So, we’re even.
     God!  And this night was going so well, too.  I had such a warm feeling tonight, watching the lunar eclipse.  Even in this below-zero temperature, it made me feel like I was experiencing something unique.  It reminded me of that broken moon from Thundarr the Barberian.  Shit, so much of that cartoon was balls-deep badass.  Ooklah and that cool mutant horse he rode?  C’mon!  And that sorceress chic in the blue leotard?  Shit hot!  And Thundarr’s lightsaber?  Okay, we knew it wasn’t a REAL lightsaber, but it as the early 80’s, so of course EVERTHING had that Star Wars vibe to it.  So, I’m on this Thundarr high and I get in here to find my mail shoved into my mailbox with all the grace of John Holmes’ beautifully warped cock entering some poor girl’s vag.  I wish Thundarr were here right now to slice that pension-getting, box jockey the fuck in half for what he’s done to me.


Monday, March 10, 2008

The curse of those hot beats!

The Boston's were some of Blottstown's most prominent citizens. Their
fall from grace was a fast and fiery affair. The history books will
say it was a combination of drugs, alcohol, polygamy, tax evasion,
fraud, money laundering, ritual animal sacrifice, and good old fashion
murder. The real truth only came out after years of interviews with
the townspeople. None of them would rightly admit it, but much like
observing a black hole, which is impossible, but the effects on the
surrounding things reveal something that cannot be observed

New Countrap was to blame. Yes, that bastard amalgamation of New
Southern Rap with New Country.


Excuse me. hey. i need two dollars to get back onto the bus.

i just left work, and i'm headed home. I don't have any money to give away.

you don't have two dollars?

not to give away.

i just got off and i need to get back to west end.

why didn't you plan your trip better. you knew you wanted to go back, right?

You don't have two dollars?

the bus only costs $1.25

i know, but-

But, what?

I just need two dollars.

for the bus?


For what?






What about that washed-up actor?  What’s his name? 

Pearly Baines? 

No!  Ac-TOR!  Ac-TOR!  Did I say ac-TRESS?  A guy!  You know!  What’s-his-name.  Did those cowboy/sci-fi/fantasy/horror/ flicks in the 70’s. 

T. Allen Cooch?  M. Davis Vines?  L. L. Sherman? 

No, Goddammit!  It wasn’t one of those initialized actor doofuses! 

Ratheon Diggs? 

No, no, NO!  White.  More Jewish. 

Ira Greenbaum? 

Too Jewish.  You remember.  This guy did that sci-fi/fantasy crap in the 70’s.  The, the, the “Xenoman” trilogy!  That’s it.  “Xenoman!” 

I’ve never heard of that! 

You’ve NEVER see the "Xenoman" movies? 

No.  Should I have? 

That’s blasphemy!  Jesus!  You work in this business and you’ve seen “Xenoman?”  Even the shitty TV spin-off? 


That’s like saying you’ve never seen any of the “Dead Gods” movies. 

Haven’t seen those either.  Sorry. 

God.  How old are you? 


Fuck, I’m old.  Well, I want the guy from “Xenoman.” 

What else might he have been in? 

Oh, schlock, teeny-bopper crap.  I think he was in those invisible dog movies. 

“Ghost Mutt?” 

Yeah, sure.  He was the voice of “Ghost Mutt.” 

Oh my GOD!  My parents took me to see all of those movies when they came out!  Every sequel, the day they came out! 

Okay, so, what’s his name? 

Hud Gamble!  I think that’s it. 

Right, right!  Hud Gamble!  “Xenoman’s” Hud Gamble!  Well, get his agent on the phone, and if he doesn’t have an agent, see if he’s still alive and get him to do it for scale.  I’m going to jumpstart Xenoman’s career!


Sunday, March 9, 2008


earlier today, my compuer gave me an odd option.

"remember me?" it asked. it wanted to know if i wanted it to remember me. i thought about thins for a bit, then turned off the computer. i took out the chipthat made the computer's memory manually selective.

i placed it in my brain, and went out looking for love.

i think this will make things a lot easier.

remember me?

My peanuts

When I was younger I use to think I wasn't anything like Charlie
Brown. As I get older, I realized that there is a little Charlie Brown
in all of us.

Me? There is no way on this earth that I am like Chuck Brown. I could
be wrong speaking out of turn for some six billion odd people, but at
least for me, I have a little Charlie in me.

I don't see him as a loser, but as a realist who trusted to much.
Being a realist kept him grounded. He knew all things wouldn't always
work out, but he had faith that some things would.

Trust, but realize you will be let down. Oh yeah, man's best friend
also has a little sass too.



My new hair has really turned my life around!  Before Hercu-Hair came into my life, I was a big pile of nothing!  The biggest pile you could conceive of.  Seriously, I meant nothing to nobody, especially myself.  But once I applied the Hercu-Hair formula to my scalp, I knew I could be a god.  Now my hair is as thick as shag carpet, Jungle Room-style.  There’s a mouth on my dong every five minutes!  It gives me the confidence to split the skulls of the weak and bury my face into the great galactic muff!  The power I feel with Hercu-Hair can only be compared to the greatest superconductor in the greatest Communist block country circa 1982.  The breeze no longer mocks me with its dulcet voice saying. “Freeze, skinhead!”  Now I feel it whip through my steel locks as I shake my bloody fist in anger towards the sky!  And when I died, Hercu-Hair kept my brain active long enough for me to separate my head from my body and live on inside this fishbowl.  No matter what comes my way - famine, supernovas, Mister Belvedere marathons – I can always count on Hercu-Hair to stay bouncy and erect, full of killing power.  My hair will find a way to stop time.


Saturday, March 8, 2008

Cooking misconceptions

Cooking misconceptions

Devil's Food Cake is not made from devils. Angel's Food Cake is not
made from angels. Unicorn cake, while shaped like a unicorn is not
made from actual unicorns. Why do we have all these cakes named after
things they aren't?


i made the list, like i promised i would.

she had always underestimated me, but she couldn't any longer.

i made the list, and her name was the last name on it.

or the first...


He’s on the expensive, combination cellpone/email/iPod/pocket pussy.  It’s attached to his ear in the thumping nightclub and he’s making “the Deal.”  Capital D.  “The” Deal.  This is the one that puts all the deals he’s made in the past irrelevant.  Sure, he had a lot riding on the other ones, but this one is the be-all, end-all in his mind.  His $700 coat swishes by the unimportant people in the room.  He has that tattered look that costs more than what most of these schlubs make in a month.  And that look is premeditated.  It says, “I’m just like you, only better.”  The product in his hair does the same.  Disheveled, unkempt.  Always a five’o’clock shadow.  But this is a manicured five’o’clock.  More like 6:30 on the dot.  Again, better.  This Deal is the one, and all the stars in the sky are so in alignment that they spell out his name:  Marty Biggins.  On the other end of the pocket pussy is a high roller.  The highest of the rollers.  A man who shits doubloons on his lunch break.  And he’s talking to Morty from another thumping party in an even more important city, if you can believe that.  Morty certainly can’t.  All attention on both ends of the pussy is honed, focused on the other end.  Bank is made.  Payroll is laid out.  Billions of toilet doubloons are set aside for the Deal.  And when Morty runs his clean fingernails through his scalp, it’s calculated.  So calculated that each strand of hair is commanded to lay just right, in an unkempt way of course.  When all of the nobodies surrounding these two men have gone home for the night, sliding into their poor beds, the Deal will dwarf their pathetic lives and change the universe.  And all of this goes on within the confines of Morty’s sad, nicely quaffed head as he talks into the pocket pussy with no one on the other end.


Friday, March 7, 2008

Quite Time

Quite time, or at least that's what mom said. I never understood why
quite time for me meant mom got her shotgun out, and shot out the
upstairs window.


Watchy talkies. they were all the rage- in the living room. in the dining room, people were discussing Pumpers. soon, a battle would erupt that included both watchy talking and pumping.

soon, watchy pumping would sweep the nation.

our stupid, stupid nation...



The English countryside. A land of hedgerows and cozy pubs and hard-to-understand brogues. But maybe that’s just Ireland, that last part. Regardless, they’re a really hard-to-understand people, those country Limeys. But we’re not talking about that. We're talking about the English countryside. A foggy nesting place for the hard-drinking, working class. Aw, hell, where was I going with this? I started watching Straw Dogs and it was all I could do to side with Dustin Hoffman’s character. I mean, they raped his wife and killed his cat. And, sure, the marriage wasn’t working out, but those drunken Limey bastards pushed him too far. Of course, it ended in a bloodbath. It was Peckinpaw. What would you do if they threw rats in your window and killed your cat and raped your wife? The same thing, that’s what. And to think they wouldn’t have really pushed him into it if Hoffman weren’t sticking up for that guy who played the bad guy in Time Bandits and Tron. Jesus, I really hate that guy. But is it because he’s a Limey or because he always plays the villain? Aw, I got nothing against him, I guess. He’s classically trained. I can’t fault the guy for being talented. Where was I going with this? Ah, yes, the English countryside. I HATE the English countryside.


Thursday, March 6, 2008

From Russia with Hugs and Kisses

My mom was an immigrant. I don’t know if I have told too many people, but she came here when she was very young. Still, she went back and visited enough that we were still on one of those government Cold War watch lists. When I was very young I saw the James Bond movie From Russia with Love. It always made me think of my mom. I would ask for hugs and kisses from Russia when I went to bed. She never disappointed me.


I waited all night until i heard the sirens.
as soon as i did, i ran to the top of the house and looked for the twister.
i could seeit approaching from the east. it was huge.
when i saw my chance, i leapt from the roof into the center of the tornado.

this was it- i was finally going to kick Scarecrow's ass...


"Don't blow sunshine up my ass. What are we into here?"
After begging the question, General Brickman stepped back and glared into the face of the man in silver.
"What are you, deaf and stupid?" Brickman asked in a roar of spit. "What did you see, spaceman?"
The man in silver shuddered as sweat dripped down his face. He caught his breath and let out a quiet response.
"The Confederate got through somehow. He grabbed hold of that creature, that thing. He was able to get through somehow. He made contact with that creature."
"Stop talking in riddles, you sci-fi, fucking nightmare!" screamed Brickman. "What the flying fuck does any of that shit mean? Why is this so Goddamned important?"
Brickman retrieved a pistol from the Private next to him and pointed it at the temple of the man in silver.
"You'd better start making some sense in five or your future is fucked!" Brickman wheezed.
"There isn't going to be a future soon," whimpered the man in silver. "That creature is the Confederate and the Confederate is that creature. Don't you see? When he makes contact with his evolved self, it's all over."
Brickman handed the pistol back to the young Private.
"Shoot this man, Private," Brickman said calmly.
"Sir?" the Private asked.
"Take him out back and shoot him. Preferably in the head."
Brickman leaned into the man in silver.
"The only future that's fucked is yours."


Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Shave and a Hair cut!

"I kid you not. I was down at the Shave and Save getting my hair cut
when a werewolf walked in and requested a hair cut, shave, and shoe
shine. I say requested instead of asked because they tried to call the
cops. You know what got him real mad? It was the fact that they wanted
to charge him full price for the discount shave. I don't blame him. If
they have it as a combo on the marquee they should honor it. No
matter who comes in to take advantage of the deal."

Sapphire bullets (169)

here's the official word-
they aren't dead. they aren't alive either. i'm loathe to say it, but i think that they're...

They're women.
God help us, they're women.

aim for the brain...


I kind of like being the non-threatening male.  It's nor like I don't think about these things, I simply don't act on them.  Oh, I'm a pervert.  Sure.  But in any given room, I'm the least threatening guy in it.  And I honestly take odd pleasure in this fact.  The fact that I don't ogle every woman who walks by.  Well, not when they're paying attention.  But this non-threatening guise has a price.  I've lost women because I wasn't forceful enough.  Not enough of a "man," they would say.  They wanted it all, those skags.  They wanted the absolute pussy, but they wanted that guy who takes the reins.  I'm working on becoming that guy.

She'll never take me back.  I just have to admit it.

The hum in my left ear is lower now.  And it's been going on far longer than I previously thought.


Tuesday, March 4, 2008


“Mom, where do Cadbury Eggs come from?”

“Son, when a rabbit and a chicken love each other very much they can make what some people call are Cadbury Egg.”

“Mom, where do jelly beans come from?”

“They are unicorn eggs. If we don’t get all the jellybeans the unicorns will rise up and attack. Their horns glistening in blood in the harsh sunlight, they would seek to destroy the earth. So dear, make sure you eat all your jellybeans.

I may not be a smart man...(170)

I watched Forrest Gump six times last Saturday.

I cried everytime Young Forrest, son of Forrest, got onto the school bus.

I think need to talk to someone.


              The screams next door were becoming more and more frequent.  And every third or fourth scream was followed by a thud against the adjoining wall.  It sounded like a woman being tortured, but I hadn’t heard any true cries for help.  It was as if my neighbor was wanting this abuse.  I put my ear to the wall and could only hear her shrieks.  No second voice at all.

            I didn’t have a phone in my place at the time, so calling 9-11 required me leaving the safety of my efficiency, walking past her door and running to the pay phone at the deli a block down the street.

            On the way back to my apartment, my heart raced in my chest.  My only thoughts were of some meth addict redneck meeting me in the hallway of my building, screaming at me to mind my own business.  However, I reached my door without any confrontation and left my door cracked while the screaming and pounding continued next door.

            After about 10 minutes, the screaming had stopped.  Her door opened and a large, naked woman sprang out, fell to her knees and muttered to herself.  No words, just numbers and formulas fast as lightning coming from her mouth.  I peeped through the crack of my door to see a couple of flashlights shining over her face and body.

            “Mam?” a husky voice echoed through the hall.

            With that, the tubby woman sprang up off of her knees and ran back into her apartment, slamming the door behind her.  A couple of police officers – one man, one woman – approached her apartment, knocked twice, then entered.  The screaming became worse from inside.  After an audible scuffle, the cops exited with her, still chanting her numerical yammer.  She was in handcuffs and wearing a bathrobe, but the odd formulas kept coming out of her.  I could still hear them after I’d shut my door, while they put her in the car.

            That night, I dreamt that she and I made love in an abattoir.  The sound of dying cattle were only occasionally drowned out by her incessant number crunching.  She screamed a formula as I came on her tits.  Years passed.  We watched out twin boys go off to college, get married, then, years later, die in a car wreck.  I held her in me arms as she lay in her deathbed, which was also in an abattoir.  I don’t know if was the same one as before.  Her final words to me were, “Good-bye.”  It was the first and last actual words she ever said to me.




Monday, March 3, 2008

Keep It Clean

The gaping maw gleamed in the sun. Teeth, that should be white, shimmer with a yellow film covering the edges. Of all the thoughts this scene could have conjured, there is only one that makes it past my teeth. “Don’t you ever Brush your teeth?”

The Pause that Nauseates (171)

it felt like an eternity.
It felt like Fore-fucking-ever.
he waited, trembling but focused
Calm but panicked
it was too early
while he was planning it, he hadn't let his cooler head prevail.
he thought that it was time.
but it was too early-
or was it?
if he could do it, then there was no reason that he had to be alone.
logically, the odds were just as great that his timing had been perfect.
though, if it had been he would not be stuck in this wormhole of silence and despair.
the silence had gone on far too long for him to get what he wanted.
there simply was no way that this would end well.
he could feel his hair turning white.
he could feel his fingernails growing, his heart stopping, his organs all failing.
he could feel his eyes begin to water.
this had happened to him so many times before.
he told himself that he was used to it, but he wasn't
it was just as terrible as the first time,
every time.

he stood there for days.


cities crumbled under the weight of themselves as he waited.

humanity destroyed itself and began to rebuild.

he stood there, realizing his mistake, wondering if he'd made a mistake, hoping he hadn't made a mistake.


"I love you."

it was too soon.


The projectionist spliced film together randomly with the scraps he’d kept over the years.  Most of the frames were from the most forgettable parts of the movies:  car chases, aerial shots of cities, extreme close-ups of fingers, an occasional cameo by third tier actors.  He spent most of the night editing, and by morning he spooled it up and labeled it “Mankind.”


When it played at the Elm Avenue Art House a week later, the place was packed by the local film glitterati, believing themselves to be the cutting edge audience that was on the cusp.  The barrage of half-second images caused the ones that weren’t convulsing in seizures to vomit in their popcorn.


The press ate it up, calling it a “meta-movie experience not to be missed” and “the ultimate experiment in the field of the surreal.”


During its extended run at Elm Avenue, the projectionist watched every single night from the projection booth, laughing as the audiences spewed bile from their mouths or ran out of the theater, screaming.


“Mankind” had been unhinged.