Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Trash (113)

They could only be aroused by the sight of fresh trash.
garbage water got them hot, and eggshells drove them wild.
doggy shit wrapped neatly in a plastic shopping bag made them cum, and a hot dog made them lose control.
they frolicked in it, defiled each other in it, and inserted whatever they could find into each other as often as possible.
It was a rough film to watch, but we sat it out.
i was slightly turned on when Jennifer Tilly frigged herself with a used vacuum bag.
Sam said he dug the orgy on the recreation of the Sandford and Son set.
there had been 26 of us at the start, but by the end only Sam and i remained.
We would tell people about the original and disturbing film we'd seen, but they wouldn't listen.
years later, a man would make a film about obvious racial discord in Dakota, and call it Trash.
it would win and Oscar.
There is no justice.


When you make that stupid trombone sound with your lips, you upset the cosmic balance of the entire universe.  With every cough or sneeze, you’ve decimated galaxies, spun them into chaos light years away from their age-old place in the grand scheme. 

You don’t have these powers under control yet, kid.  That’s what I’ll teach you.  In time.  It’ll come in stages, almost like baby steps.  Because that’s what you’re to be viewed as at this point.  A baby. 

Try to keep from doing the trombone thing, if you don’t mind.  It’s downright annoying as shit to me, but more importantly it’s brought a hundred galactic empires to their knees and caused 20 suns to supernova.

And just to be safe, I wouldn’t jerk off either. 


Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Floating Boats

We use to float paper boats down the stream in front of my house. They
would twist and roll through the water. They would rarely make it to
the drainage ditch at the end with out being completely submerged in
the water. Anything that reached the end at the maw of the drainage
ditch would be sucked under and was never to be seen again.

My best friend came out over day, and I really wanted his G.I. Joe. I
shoved him into the water and watched as the dark portal swallowed him

I loved Snakeeye.


people that don't deal with depression can't understand what it's like. they ask what it feels like, and you try to explain: it's like someone told you the worst thing you're ever going to hear, put a vice around your head, and shoved you out into public to try your best and interact as if nothings wrong.

i have speant the better part of my life trying to safely navigate the thin line between feeling not-so-bad and deep downswings.

the trouble with the downswings is that you can feel them coming, the same way you can feel a cold or a sinus attack. it's a sickness. it makes it terribly hard to concentrate and to do small tasks. it especially makes it difficult to participate in small talk.

since the majority of most people spend their days carrying on meaningless conversations about things they don't really care about, the days when you sickeningly don't really care about things things are rough.

i have had days where the laughter of people has made me ill.

so, you may think that it about happiness and sadness. it's not.
it's all about maintaining an illusion of normality.

because tomorrow, is another day.


The Ferrer’s were that strange family that the whole neighborhood would gossip about.  Overly abusive parents who could be heard screaming at each other day and night.  Three kids.  The oldest daughter was a hop-head.  Never home, sleeping with a different boy every week, high as hell.  Judy, I think her name was.  The middle child, James, took after his father.  An overweight loudmouth.  Then there was Claire, a pig-tailed angel.  My first crush.

            Apart from the echoed arguments and occasional appearance of squad cars at the house on 525 Bloom Street, the Ferrar’s were without incident.  A few scant memories remain in my head.  A wet trampoline in their backyard that we used to jump on, furniture in the house coated in a thin dust, a utility shed where Judy and I played doctor on at least one occasion, a bathroom window that overlooked the backyard where James used to “moon” us or whip out his dick.  But these were quickly overshadowed when we heard a loud pop one Saturday afternoon.  Turns out, James and Claire had been playing with their father’s rifle.  It had gone off and shot James in the face while Claire had tugged at the handle.  She ran away almost immediately and never came back.  James returned nearly a month later from the hospital.  We’d all thought that being shot in the face would be the end of him, but James had proven us wrong.  They’d reconstructed his face on the right side and, apart from his buzz cut and a few missing teeth, he looked perfectly normal.  He was the same old James, still whipping it out whenever the mood struck.

            The Ferrer’s moved away not long after that.

            My dreams lately involve meeting them years later.  The same house on Bloom Street, half a block down from my own.  The parents are gone and Claire has a son about 10 years old.  She wakes him up when I arrive and she introduces me as his father.  The boy has suffered the same fate as his uncle, shot in the face with a somewhat botched facial surgery.  The boy, also named James, has glass eyes, is blind and partially deaf.  We hug and we both cry at this reunion.  I have no memory of ever having a relationship or even a one-night stand with Claire, but somehow I accept James as mine.  We all take a tour of the Bloom Street house and the surrounding neighborhood.  There’s even heavier piles of dust on the furniture of 525 Bloom, the smell of dogs, piles of newspaper and the trampoline has a gaping hole in it.  Most of the houses in the neighborhood have been demolished and converted into football fields.  James is confident that he’s going to be a quarterback someday and who am I to argue.

            The dream ends in a slow fade to black, like an old movie.  I’m completely aware that this beautiful moment is dying and I try hard to stay asleep.  But Claire, with a tear in her eye, pushes me gently and I wake up.



Monday, April 28, 2008


The ocean blue, and all I want is to hold you.
All this red… I didn't mean to bash you in the head.

Don't count your eggs before they're hatched! (115)

Fuck You!


So, There!


     Hump my leg. 


     Hump my leg. 


     Just hump it! 


     You’re not humping with any feeling at all. 

Maybe you should ask nicely.  Or maybe let me do it when I’m in the mood.  You know, when the mood strikes? 

     Yeah, yeah.  Look, just hump it.  With feeling.  A little emotion if you don’t        mind.  Get into it, you know? 

I’m trying! 

     Oh, just get offa’ me.  The moment’s passed.

You know, I think my suggestions were valid.  How about we try it my way?

     Okay, fine. 

Good.  Hump my leg. 


Just hump it! 

     Alright!  You were right!  Point taken. 

I am seriously ready to give up on this relationship. 

     We have a relationship?


Sunday, April 27, 2008


"Harwold! Oh, Harwold!"


"I heard the best joke about corn."

"What is it? I'm all ears!"

The audience laughs. Jones laughs. Harwold didn't laugh. He hated his
writers. All his best staff writers went back to once the strike was

Anything (116)

I proposed to Lauren but it was all a koke. no one took it seriously. people would jokingly say "hey, when's the big day?" and laugh. they had a good time. but laur4n was nervous that herfamily wouldn't get the joke. she made a public announcement to make sure that everyone knew that it was just for laughs.

it hurt a little?

was it so bad to be fake engaged to me? I'd have let her what whatever she wanted. i'd give her diamonds, give her candy, give her pills...

I've been officially rejected every possible way.

nowhere to go but up!


The only living angle on the curb is the one you birth.
Kendall ain’t a ghost, he’s a cloud of smoke.
Whether it’s knock-down or knock-out, it’s the same difference.
Next year’s fad can’t compare to life alone, onstage.
Our breadcrumbs lead to a frozen lake.
Carbon-dated whiskers keep falling on your back.
Every sliver of hope is encased in a block of wood.
The council won’t show their faces.  They’re all plaid hoods and voice boxes.
My only caveat is that there will be no more caveats.
The auto body shop is filled floor to ceiling with hangnails.
This shirt you bought me used to be too small, but as I shrank, it filled up with ideas.
Blinking streetlights aren’t just blinking.  They’re signaling S.O.S.
I trust no one, but the person in front of me.


          Now, read those back to me.  If they stick to the wall, they’re tomorrow’s fly paper.







The Sandman

Listen well little children. There is a reason your eye lids become
heavy at night. Your parent's pay the Sandman to lull you to sleep. He
ties small bags of sand to your eye lashes, and they slowly lull you
to see. What your parents don't know is that he sits and watches you
sleep. When you dream he catches them and stores them for later.
Slowly he will eat all of your dreams until you no longer have dreams
and you are an adult.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

117 (117)

there were 117 people on the flight that disappeared. As soon as it went missing, everyone looked around the room at each other. there were all thinking the same thing: 'This is like Lost!"
But no one said it. it would have been in bad taste.
the newscasters didn't see it that way. many of them reported the story as "The real life Lost".
The families didn't see the humor of irony. Soon, with no real provocation or cause, there was a class action suit against ABC, Disney, and J.J. Abrams. Unbelievably, the case actually made it into court.
Eventually, Lost was cancelled due to the controversy. The series was never wrapped, and the questions were never answered.

THE TRUTH: Some believe that J.J. Abrams orchestrated the entire thing in order to cover up the fact that he had no ending for the show.

The "Real Lost" crew was never found...


He slaughters pigs at the Aldrich Plant.  Keeps pretty much to himself.  A loner, I guess you’d call him.

He got a wife?  Kids?

Yeah, her name’s Lianna.  They can’t have kids.

Been married long?

Eight, maybe ten years?  But again, he slaughters pigs for a living.  This could be our guy.

Killing a pig ain’t like killing a human being, matey.

Even a hundred a day?

Even a hundred a day.  Yes.

I just don’t see it.  That’s all.

You ever killed anyone?

Well, no!  Of course not!

Then, of course you don’t see it.  You have no frame of reference.  And him having a wife doesn’t exactly play to his favor.

What does that have to do with anything?

A moral conscience.  This guy could slaughter a hundred pigs a day for 50 years and it wouldn’t change the fact that if he had to “off” some welfare mother, he’d probably choke, not being able to think about anything but Lionna.



I wouldn’t count him out just yet.

A pig ain’t a human, mate.  Apart from the squealing, there’s nothing behind the eyes.  Motor functions, very limited survival instincts, but nothing behind the eyes.  No soul, you see?  It’s all about the eyes.  Fear, regret, sadness.  These things a pig don’t have.  I just wouldn’t want him choking.

But I sincerely believe this guy’s the guy.

Well, I don’t.  Next candidate.


Friday, April 25, 2008

Midnight Oil (118)

I don't know why it happened.
i was sitting there at the 7th hour of my 11 hour shift, wanting to go home, wanting to get laid, eat, and sleep and not in that order, and i was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to learn more about midnight Oil.
i don't know where it came from. My brain had run one of it's magical split second tangents because i was listening to the 80's station at work. and there it was-
"I want to hear more Midnight Oil."
I didn't know anything about them. There was a bald guy, a video where he stood on a building like predator II, possibly a video in a desert or on a mountain, and a cool reverb of harmonica in one song.
thats all the clues i had to start with.


Tell me again why we have to end the Brady Bunch video game with “The Land ‘O’ Suds.”  I studied this shitty series in and out to develop this game.  Bought every season on DVD.  The episode where Bobby floods the house with detergent is towards the end of the series, sure.  But not the tail end.  If we’re going to end this thing, like a really tough, final stage, Cousin Oliver should be the last boss enemy dressed in a gaudy 1930’s outfit, complete with the dumb, oversized bow and straw top hat.  I mean, he’s the one who came in and put the nail in the coffin.  Why not have him be the grim reaper at the end of the game?  The puppet master.

That’s just me.  The fucking game developer, okay?  Only the guy who’s going all the math on this shit project, right?  Shouldn’t be my call, but still.  This kind of shit should’ve been worked out well before it got to me.  Way back in the planning stages.  By someone who actually knows the damn chronology of this stupid show.  One of you geeks!

But, hey, as I said, I’m just the guy doing all the work on this fucking abortion of a game idea that nobody’s going to buy.  Just sign my check already.



Thursday, April 24, 2008

Are you in bed yet?

"Dad can I have a bed time story?"

"Sure, what do you want it to be about?"

"A beautiful princess and her prince!"

"AAARRRGGGG!!! Wrong. We are all out of sweet stories. Tonight we have
the adventures of Anthony the littlest Zombie! He ate the flesh of the
last unicorn, and learned to fly."

The little girl starts to sniff, and dad asks, "Why are you crying?
This is a happy story."

"No, the little unicorn was eaten!"

"The unicorn was fat and weak. The end."

"What happened to Anthony?"

"Oh, after he learned to fly he ate all the children's brains who
weren't in bed on time. Good night love." He kissed her forehead, and
left the room. She pulled her covers up to her eyes. As she looked at
the clock, she started to cry again. It was almost nine.


I've finally decided to write a novel. every time i tell people at work, they congratulate me. i don't know if this is standard procedure, but it feels good.
i hope people want to read it. i think the story will be interesting to some. and it's full of idiots. people like idiots. they like to feel like they're smarter than someone.
this book will allow that.
I'll give the world plenty of idiots to condescend to.


           Bo Trangle led a charmed life.  He tried to get killed in a myriad of ways, but nothing could touch him.  He set up an orgy with an AIDS-infected cult.  Nothing.  He entered the Whirling House of Blades and came out unscathed.  He hired assassins to take him out, but somehow they were killed off before it could happen.

      Bo Trangle was gifted with the power of living.  That is until he died in his sleep last night.  I guess he finally got what he wanted.


Wednesday, April 23, 2008


my legs are swollen. it feels a bit off.
i'm sure it's because of the disease.
still, i don't have many options.
one day i'll look into the mysterious swelling and dizzy spells.
one day soon- possibly.
celebrate me home.


Extract the teeth first.  Gold bits
can be melted down and pawned.  Keep the
nails in individual canisters so we can
break them apart later.  Evidence
lies in the microscopic elements we haven’t pawned. 

Just for the
record, I’m not a monster.  Not like
they say.


Tuesday, April 22, 2008

He ran off and got a movie deal too!

I had the world at my fingertips. Everything was great. I could do
whatever I wanted. That is until the day I bought that damn

He took my job, my money, my house, and my wife. If you see that thing
with the fifty two on the hood slash his tires for me. Please!


as i knelt there, putting away sodas, she said jokingly- 'you don't have to kneel. I'll go out with you.'

i don't think that she was joking, and yet, i couldn't think of anything to say.


Crush.  Dance.  Embalm.  Reanimate.

This is our ethos.

Gorem sarctorum vix patrios.

O, Dark Malevolence.  Hear the pleas of 7,000 souls ripped from their husks.  Give us the powers of Undergods, cleft palate of the crows.  We cover our heads in dusty black shrouds for you.  You, the Uncreator.  You, the great Waylayer of the Horn of the backside of this unholy reality.  Come to us in all your dark forms.  The knee-deep black frogs, the bloodied vultures, the sludge snakes coated in sweat.

We huddle together in this pact, waiting.  We are the chosen.  Appear before us. 

C’mon!  We’ve been listening to “Pretty Hate Machine” and the 1st Bauhaus album over and over for the past week.  Hurry up!  I’m missing school for this!


Monday, April 21, 2008

After the World is Gone

What will the world be like? Zombies, Vampires, floods, earthquakes,
Amazon Women, Apes, monsters, robots, dust, or nothingness. I don't
know, but what if it is all of the above?

I just hope I don't rust.

Whodunit? (122)

i know what you're all thinking.
you're thinking that when the lights went out in the storm earlier, that anyone could have dunit.
but who? who would have had the means to dunit?
we all have motives.
ms. Pennypacker, you have hated Thurston since he bought and sold your families land all those years ago.
And you, Commodore Blinken! It wouldn't take that much to get you to dunit! Thurston stole you beloved Matilda from you at the alter!
why, even it had the opportunity to dun this murderous deed.
i think what must be done is that none of us should leave this house until the constable arrives. until then, i will conduct my very own investigation into tonight's dunning.
so, no one leave the mansion. not until we answer the question...


Tree trunk cut from its base.
Its branches finger their way up to intermingle between the
ins and outs of the chain link fence. 
A path the fingers took over the course of a
dozen or more years. 
This tree holds onto the fence even after it’s lost its life. 
A death grip. 
How long ago did someone come along to but its life out?
Why didn’t they remove
the fingers?
What was the point of
leaving them?


Sunday, April 20, 2008

Grandpa's attic

Two little boys were playing in their grandfather's attic when they
found a dusty old box. This box wasn't like any other box. It wasn't a
cardboard box. It was a plastic box. The older of the two boys picked
it up by its handle, and they both ran down stairs. Once down stairs
the younger brother insisted they open the box immediately. The older
brother complied. It was a very old typewriter. It didn't even need to
be plugged into the wall.

The boys dug around and found a piece of paper, and threaded it into
the machine. With very heavy claps, the typewriter clunked letters.
They took turns typing random letters when they discovered there was
no erase key. The typewriter also did not have correction tape. The
boys then decided that they would write a story with the typewriter,
but it would require them to think about it before hand since they
could not correct themselves. They decided to write a story about a
dark and stormy night. As they typed the words, "It was a dark and
stormy night." the sky began to darken outside their window, but they
did not notice. They also didn't notice when they typed that a meteor
shower bombarded the country side, that outside small things were
falling from the sky.


max lanolin. the name sounded fake, but it was his. the son of Dr. and Mrs. Peter and Shelby lanolin.
tonight he would be electrocuted for murders he didn't commit. he was afraid, and it showed. he held out hope for a reprieve, but he couldn't stop crying. tonight, his life would be taken from him.
he would see his parents in heaven.
the true murderer would come to the execution and watch it. there was no joy in this. he was actually sorry for max. they had never met. not truly or by coincidence. but the stars had aligned in a way to make Max the fall taker for this one, and the murderer, while not happy about this, was happy that he hadn't been caught.
he would wait two years until things had died down, then begin to kill again. the papers would call it copycat, but the cops would realize too late that they had electrocuted the wrong man.
they would never catch the murderer


                The cast of “Gondolier Syndrome” spills into the hundreds.  As far as I know, it’s the largest cast since “Les Mis.”  So many divergent storylines.  I thought it would be hard to keep track of all the story arcs, but they seemed to unfold in a pretty spectacular, easy-to-follow manner.  What I really had to get used to was the seven different people who played each of the character throughout various stages of their lives.  And the whole “alternative universe” thing.  And there are 25 main characters, plus their alternate selves, which makes, what?  200?  250 maybe?  Then, you take all of their parents, spouses and extended families throughout their lives.  Let’s just tack on another 250.  Oh, right!  I forgot the minor characters of “Gondolier Syndrome.”  The cops, best friends, cab drivers, the mayors throughout the timeline, the dogs, cats and TV personalities in the story.  Plus, THEIR alternate universe selves.  Let’s just tack on another 100 or so, though that might be generous.

Apart from all that, what sets this play apart is that it’s compressed into a meager 14 hours.  “Gondolier” makes you feel like you’ve lived a lifetime with these characters once it’s over.  And I recommend watching it all the way through.  Don’t opt for the intermissions every four hours.  You won’t regret it.  This play is about the big picture and it should be viewed in that format.  All the way through.  It’s about relationships.  And that’s what you get back after the 14 hours.  Something a simple two hour Neil Simon won’t give back.  Wise up, America.  “Gondolier” is theatre’s future.



Saturday, April 19, 2008


I have a parasite growing in me. It feeds on my food. It shakes me
down and I can't do anything about it. Every time I put food in it
eats it. I am so hungry!


As Charlie Loads, i had the world laid out before me, and all that being the most popular up and coming porn star had to offer.
my problem was that i couldn't seperate the sex from my feelings. so day after day, i was heart broken to find that Tamika Gape, Cherry Lustang, veronica mounds, and Chelsea VonLipps could except my seed upon their faces, but didn't really love me.
it was difficult to be a porn star and a romantic.


This boutique promises everything in its faded, tacky signage.  The words “Dale’s Eccentricities” blast you with glowing orange neon, which is the only life I see coming from this store.  The windows are covered in old cardboard, promising everything from designer snowboots to low-priced medications.  The place looks like it’s been in business for more than 20 years.  It’s weird because I know I’ve seen customers walk in, but never seen anybody walk out, much less walk away with anything they’d just bought.  Is it a front for some shady dealings or is it actually a real business?  And what qualifies as “eccentricities?”  I should pay more attention to Dale’s clientele.  Stake the place out maybe.  But I’ll never have the balls to ever go in.


Friday, April 18, 2008


                     DOUGIE sits at an outside table of the Hopped-Up coffee shop.  A hipster
                doofus in $90 pants, distressed fake Army vest and Vans walks by with his
                girlfriend, another fashion casualty with a round ass.  DOUGIE notices her.


DOUGIE – (to himself) Oooo, bubble-ass.

$90 PANTS – (to DOUGIE) What did you just say?

DOUGIE – Nothing.  Just thinking outloud.

$90 PANTS – You called my girlfriend “bubble-ass!”

BUBBLE ASS – Yeah!  What the fuck?

DOUGIE – No, no.  I think I would remember something like that.

BUBBLE ASS – I heard you!  He heard you!  What’s your problem?

DOUGIE – No problem.  Really.  I don’t want any trouble.

$90 PANTS – Oh, you just put some trouble on layaway, you faggot!


$90 PANTS proceeds to shove DOUGIE from his chair, spilling his five
subject notebook to the ground. DOUGIE hits the ground as $90 PANTS
                spots the notebook and grabs it.


$90 PANTS – What have we got here, Poindexter?


 $90 PANTS flips through it.


DOUGIE – Hey!  C’mon!  You don’t really want to read that!  I’m sorry, okay?  Just give it back!

$90 PANTS – You were writing about my girlfriend!


  BUBBLE looks over $90 PANTS’ shoulder to read.


BUBBLE ASS – You even referred to me as “Bubble Ass!!”  What the fuck?

DOUGIE – Listen, I didn’t . . . I mean, it’s about you, but “Bubble Ass” is more like a metaphor.

BUBBLE ASS – For what?

DOUGIE – The . . . war?


                $90 PANTS throws the notebook back at DOUGIE, who catches it, 
                gets up and brushes himself off.


$90 PANTS – Apologize.

DOUGIE – What?

$90 PANTS – Apologize to my girlfriend, you faggot!

DOUGIE – Alright.  Listen, uh . .

$90 PANTS – Her name’s Ruthie.  And get down on your knees, for God’s sake!

DOUGIE – C’mon!

$90 PANTS – Do it or I beat your scrawny ass!


                DOUGIE sighs and gets down on his knees.  A crowd is beginning to gather.


DOUGIE – Ruthie . . .


DOUGIE – I’m sorry.

$90 PANTS – Good.  That’s better.

DOUGIE gets up.


DOUGIE – I’m sorry you’ve got a bubble ass.


  DOUGIE sprints like a marathon runner down a nearby alley.


DOUGIE – Beeyewww-awww!


                $90 PANTS starts to run after him. BUBBLE ASS stops him.


BUBBLE ASS – Jerub, wait!  It’s true.

$90 PANTS – Ruthie, no!

BUBBLE ASS – I do have a shapely, misformed ass.

$90 PANTS – No, Ruthie, you don’t!

BUBBLE ASS – I have one and I accept that.

$90 PANTS – Well, then.  So do I.


                $90 PANTS and BUBBLE ASS embrace as the both of them begin to cry.
                A street lamp flickers above them.  The crowd disperses.  
The alleyway down
                the corner lights up, revealing DOUGIE in a fetal position, out of breath. 
                He hears them crying and wants to cry along with them, but he can’t bring
                himself to get off the ground.                        



They might be slow, but they got stamina

The girls of univ. blvd. #1(125)

they were cute southern dentists with long, dark hair. they werer married, so he kept his interaction stricyly to mild flirtation. this was easy. the ones with nothing to lose loved to flirt. he stood there thinking of the crazy lady- jocelyn with the juicy, jewish, middle-aged ass. he decided that there was no reason not to make a move, and the next time he saw her, it happened.
he asked her if he could ask her a personal question. he warned that she might be offended, so she better be sure. he knew that this would peak her curiosity. she said yes, and they stepped out side.

Thursday, April 17, 2008


Today i became really frustrated with the current state of my life. since i'm a christian boy, and not a quitter, i oppted not to kill myself. instead, i burned things.
i burned old letters from girls that used to claim to like me. i burned my toast, which was dissapointing because i was really hungry. i burned all my bridges to local strip club bouncers. fuck those guys. i burned this kid when he couldn't complete a simple skateboard trick. he didn't really deserve it. fuck him, though, fuck him and his alkie mother.


Our focus tonight, gentlemen, is total world conquest.  I don’t want to hear any of the old ideas you’ve put out there.  That’s ancient thinking.  Scrap it all and bring something we can build on.  We want a simple solution, something easy to implement.  Now, I know we were bandying the deadly gas idea around.  But we were stymied by the effect it might have on the ozone.  We’re not working on killing the planet here, people.  We just want to be in control of it.  And the infinite recursion detonator had its moments, even I’ll admit.  But let’s talk probabilities here.  The real.  Might as well order Thai because nobody leaves this boardroom until we come up with something.


Wednesday, April 16, 2008


Ralph 2783 rolled to a stop. If he had been a little boy he would be
crying. Being a robot he could only leak lubricant. He can't leak too
much or he will freeze up, and that would be real trouble.


Crows evolve with pigeon heads.

“The slicker the meat, the hotter the treat,” the billboard by the dock says.

A band called “The Spinning Gobos” sets up on the pier.

First sign of blue smoke means I am not here.

Buzz recalls dreams of dancing bears while disheveled in the corner.

Hallways are decorated to celebrate Little Jack Horner.

A minstrel show shows up late in 1923.

They’re met in the 70’s by a pissed-off Queen Bee.

The jalopy of Tallulah banks hard left and misses a cherry-red mountain range.

Kudos go out to all the baby-mamas next to Hobo Rex, who hands out chump change.

Urinal cakes drop from construction sites holes.

A man in a plaid hood buries all of his clothes.

Alleyways fill with witch hazel, the moon’s as black as tar.

But no on ever thought Gatty’d get this far.


We’re all doing time here.
We’ll fall doing nine here.
The weird ball ruins lives here.






here in the early thirties, i feel as though i'm falling apart. i'm constantly sick even though i've finally stopped smoking and drinking soda. my back constantly feels terrible. i can't buy magazines or movies because eve though i work 4 jobs, none of them pay me on time- if ever.
i have no medical insurance, and i seriously believe that i had a light stroke recently.
as i lay there, trying to decide if i should call the ambulance or not because it would end up costing me about 2 grand, all i could do was become angry.
"Another fucking bill to pay" i said to myself, on that saturday where i may have died.
"Another fucking bill..."

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Pete’s Ponies of the ‘Pocalypse

Pete's Ponies of the 'Pocalypse was one of the greatest bands you
will never hear on mainstream radio. Besides being prone to
alteration, the Ponies, as their die-hard fans called them, were the
world's first Death Metal Blue Grass band.
The fans started referring to their particular genre as Death Grass.
Pete, the lead singer and double banjo extraordinaire once said of the
moniker in a 2012 interview that, "We really didn't want to label
ourselves any one genre. The label on the other hand wanted something
to file our sound under on iTunes."
Igor, the backup fiddle, tambourine player, and blood splatter
technician, was so inebriated one night that he described their sound
like the four horsemen of the apocalypse playing bluegrass singing
about death, dismemberment, and a deep south revival. From that
drunken comment the press came up with first the Death Metal Blue
Grass comment, and the fans shortened it to Death Grass.
Rumor has it that the band preferred the label Death Grass. It is
also rumored that their third drummer, Ulrick "Bubba" Yorlofski, had
it tattooed across his chest just before his spontaneous combustion in
effigy in Berlin in 2010.


As i walked to work today, I came upon two young people in love.
they played with their dog in the chilly April air, and then when the mood hit, they'd kiss each other playfully and passionately.
i was sickened by this display, and wanted so badly to hit them with a brick that i actually cried a little.


     Knives are falling.  This is the day that the multi-national Sharpcorps marketing department decided to take the metaphor “dropping our prices” and somehow make it more real to the consumer.  Sharpcorps stores worldwide are required to begin throwing product out windows, starting at noon.

     Now I stand three stories below the corporate office, checking my watch, with a herd of marketing jackoffs, waiting for them to change their minds before the big and little hands reach 12.


Monday, April 14, 2008


What's that?

The humdinger.

What does it do?

It tells the future.


Well, only the weather.

Only the weather?

Yes, but it isn't that reliable.


Randall could tell that he was in a small room, and he could tell that he was not alone. He heard dripping water. He heard that it was hitting concrete. There was a sickly sweet smell- it was mold.
Occasionally he’d ask “Where am I?” and “Why am I here?” but he never got an answer. The blindfold let in some light, but he could not make out any images.
He winced from the pain at the back of his head. Someone had hit him- hard.
The last thing he remembered was sleeping with that waitress- what’s-her-name.
Now, he was here, tied to a chair someplace dank. But he was not alone. He could feel the other person breathing. He could feel the other person watching him.
He remembered a dream he’d had about a leaking bellybutton, but he couldn’t remember enough to put it back together.
Suddenly, there were footsteps. Randall waited as whoever was in the room with him moved closer, and put something cold and metallic against his temple.
He tried not to panic. If this was his time to die, he thought, he’d do it with dignity. He would not panic, and he would not cry. This was the one thing that Hogarth had always told him; never let the situation rob you of your dignity.
So, Randall sat quietly with something cold and metallic pressed against his head.
“I just want to know why.” Randall finally said.
“I just need to know.”
After a second more pregnant silence, Randall finally heard a voice.
“Be more specific.” The voice said.


Rusted ovens, trailer hitches, rotting spare tires, broken swingsets, hot water heaters, air conditioners, twisted radiators, gutted transmissions, busted computer monitors, cracked bug zappers, leaking oil drums. 

These are the currency of Downland.  The drudges come around by nightfall and we greet them with a gallery of thirty-ought-sixes.  Originally, the gates of this place had turrets.  That’s what I remember as a child.  And a gorgeous woman who used to sit atop turret seven.  I’d watch her spilling, red hair unforgiving on the breeze as she unloaded on approaching scumbags.  I don’t know what happened to her.  Somebody once said she left, only to be raped and killed out in Downland tundra, but I don’t believe that.  She was too rough and tumble to let that happen. 

I’m going out there to find her someday.  Someday soon. 

The world’s got to change.  Any day now.


Little known fact

King Henry the Third had a toilet built into his throne in 1437. It
was not of the modern design that most people enjoy today with running
water. His was open to the floor. Below and servants ushered his waste
away. This is also where we get the slang name "The Throne" from.

This has been another little known fact brought to you by me!

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Boys Cry- the return of Based on Actual Events! (130)

have you seen the blog?

yeah. i don't get it.

what don't you get?

okay, first, it's supposed to be a blog that promotes the movie.


okay, then there are random entries from characters where you have basically just cut and pasted lines from the film into the blog.


so, the characters are blogging one side of the conversations they had in the film.


Then, for no real reason, one of the characters blogs the lyrics to Boys Don't Cry.

uh huh.

you don't have a creative bone in your body, do you?

well, that's what you say.

nice comeback.

I know.



This is the place where you come to die.  It’s full of the walking dead.  Most citizens of Fernside aren’t even aware that they’re dead.  They still go through the daily routine – selling papers, stacking shelves, short-changing the other dead – never fully alive. 

This was the town founded by the worst people in the world.  This was where the writers from “According to Jim,” DMV workers, performance artists, fans of Dane Cook, the screenwriter of “Glitter,” the talent scout who discovered Interpol, filmmaker Gus Van Sant, the bass player from The Eagles, Disney stockholders, Steven Hawking, the inventor of Intellevision and finally David Sedaris held court. 

Fernside is the ultimate haunted fun park.  A place that only the most hideous monsters that Hell ever produced could dream up.  A place where these horrible bottom-feeders could blend into within the camouflage of the dead.



Saturday, April 12, 2008

Conversations with myself

What do you want?

I want a story.

Me too. A story would be nice, but that would require me to be awake.

Aren't you awake?


The Adventures of the Young Private Eye Kids in: Private Eye Kids vs. the Gun-cleaners Union(131)

"I have never seen so many dead children with magnifying glasses" said the chief.
"Do you think the Gun-cleaners union had anything to do with this?" asked Deputy Smart
"Probably" answered the Chief


               Jerub awoke on the third day.  The mausoleum door had been rolled away, so he decided to take in the fresh air again. 

            His first stop was the Come ‘N’ Go down the block.  He was met with some seriously strange looks, especially when he asked for a pack of smokes and realized he didn’t have any money in his suit.

            He walked down the parkway towards home.  The only thing on his mind was to get home, slide into his Lay-Z-Boy, watch that Hot Yoga infomercial that always aired on Sundays and chow down on a delicious brainburger.

            Wait.  “Brainburger?!??!?”  No, hamburger.  Hamburger.  Why did he immediately picture a human brain in place of a patty between two sesame seed buns?

            By the time he got to his apartment complex, Jerub wasn’t feeling too well.  He happened to catch his reflection in a neighbor’s window.  Man, did he look beat.

            A harsh voice in the courtyard suddenly caught his attention.

            “Jerub!  Step away from the door!  Now!”

            “I’m just looking for my keys,” Jerub remarked calmly.

            “Don’t fucking move, you zombie fuck!”

            “’Zombie fuck?!?!?’” Jerub thought as he turned to face two police officers, guns drawn.

            The police officers unloaded on Jerub.  Hot stings, like bees, ripped through him.  He began walking towards them with a confused look on his face.  Was this really happening?

            “Wait!  Wait!” he shouted, bleeding from all sides, arms outstretched.  “I just want to go in and sit on my Lay-Z-Boy!  Maybe drink some blood!”

            Blood??!?!  Yeah, that sounded really good to Jerub right about now.

            Bullets flew through him faster and faster, but each one simply went in, then out, barely phasing him.

            “Aim for the head!  Shit!” one of the officers screamed.

            “No, wait!” Jerub pleaded.  “This is my apartment!”

            The last bullet did the trick.  Jerub’s head exploded.  His knees buckled and he came down with a thud in the otherwise peaceful courtyard.

            The officers surrounded him.  He glanced up at their sweaty faces.

            “I just wanted cigarettes,” Jerub whispered.

            His last thoughts were of his first crush in kindergarten.  A little, Jewish, pig-tailed girl named Leisel.  He wondered what she was doing right now.  And what her brain must taste like.


Friday, April 11, 2008


I was really dissapointed in the way things went down. no one had listened to the plans.
slims girl goty drunk and caused a ruckus. max tried to hit on the girl i was with. pal's dad bought us dinner, though. that was great.
i was owed a few bucks. i intended to get it.

What year is it?

What year is it?

I never know. I go to sleep in 1998 and wake up in 2943. Not much
has changed. My home town in the sticks finally got the internet. Taco
Bell did not win the restaurant wars. Milo's, KFC, and some BBQ joint
from Arizona called Big Bob's Sticky Fingers joined forces.

Big Bob's is actually really good. Wal-mart runs the country. It's
not so bad. Everybody has a job. It doesn't pay much, but most things
don't cost much.

Oh yeah, and we got rid of humans about two hundred years ago. The
planet almost fixed herself.


               Why are we taking Mr. Capers to the doctor?

            Well, when kitties are sick and it gets too expensive for mommies and daddies to pay for them, the doctor puts them down.

            What’s “puts them down” mean?

            That just means the doctor puts Mr. Capers to sleep.

            Oh, that sounds nice.

            It is nice, hon’.  It really is.

            How long will Mr. Capers be asleep?

            Well . . . forever.


            That’s right.  Think about how great that would be, sweetheart.  No more school, no more homework . . .

            No more Byron Danvers beating me up.

            Uh-huh.  You’d sleep and sleep and sleep.

            Aw, man!  That sounds great!

            Oh, it is great.

            Can you ask the doctor to put me to sleep, too?

            I don’t know, hon’.

            Please!  Please, please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!

            Alright.  We’ll ask him, but Mr. Capers goes first.  And if the doctor’s got enough sleep juice.  Then we’ll see.

            I love you, mommy.

            Yes, you do.


Thursday, April 10, 2008


DJ Muthafuckin' Pope was the best in the buiseness, period.
whenever he did a show, it was packed.
whenever he released a mixtape, niggas lined up for blocks to cop one.
he was primed to become the next big thing in music.
the problem was, he refused to change his stage name.
as creative and revolutionary as he was, the world was not ready to buy albums by an artist that called himself the Muthafuckin' Pope.
David Geffen pleaded with the kid to change his name, but he wouldn't do it.
Sony offered him a 1.5 million signing bonus to consider calling himself DJ M.P., but he refused.
eventuallym the offers dried up and Muthafuckin' Pope remained underground. other tried to steal his sound, but they were all just sad copies.
the Muthafuckin' pops influence can stiil be heard today in the Golden Girls theme song as well as the theme to Scrubs.
The Muthafuckin' Pope lives on!

Damn Rodger

The whole gang was there. Mr. Toast, Mr. Hot Pants, The Junkyard Cat,
Miss Congeniality, and of course Rodger.

We didn't care for Rodger, but his mom made awesome rice crispy treats.

As I was saying, the whole gang was there. Fun times were being had
until Miss Congeniality starter coughing, and then Mr. Toast did too.
Then, we were all coughing, except for Rodger.

Damn Rodger.


The P.O.W.R / T.O.C.H design is just the prototype.  It’s the farthest we’ve gotten without the standard glitches.  Mid-grade weapons system without the Defense Department mark-up.  Nobody’s building $1,000 hammers around this compound.

             Primary Ordinance.  Now, that’s in keeping with that antiquated law they passed nearly 100 years ago, back when stuff like this wasn’t even a gleam or some sci-fi movie pitch.  Check your law books.  It’s in there.  Primary Ordinance 7070 passed through Congress via Truman.  That guy was always looking forward.

            Working Robotics.  ‘Nuff said?

            Tech Ox.  Fifteenth in the series.  First one to be fully functional according to specs.  Started with Tech Aardvark, then Tech Bull, Tech Cobra, all the way up to Tech Ox.  Military always had a fudged-up way of naming stuff.  Stupid codenames and such.

            And finally, Computer Hardware.  Again, ‘nuff said.

This little meany doesn’t blow up houses, it blows up city blocks.  I suppose if we kept at it, Tech Zebra would be able to take out entire continents or half of the Western Hemisphere.  Thank God somebody up the chain was satisfied with this one.  For now. 

 Once we get you strapped in, you’ll be fully mobile.  It’s featherweight armor, so hopefully it’ll feel like you’re not wearing anything at all.  The faceplate’s got more than enough sat-com info to brief you.  Most of this thing’s functionality is auto-driven.  You’ll simply be along for the ride for most of it.

Oh, here.  Sign this and you’ll be free to go.  And by the way, we never met.  That’s not an introduction, that’s a warning.


Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Ridiculous Connotations

Ridiculous Connotations

Yes, that is my name. Most people call me RC for short. My mom said
she named me that because my dad went around saying, "That's what she
said." After every little thing anyone else said. She said he would
even do it when it didn't even make sense. He would also say, "Your
mom," fill in the blank. Your mom wears underwear. Your mom likes
pickles. Just anything that he could stick your mom in front of he
would do it.
It all ended the night he pulled a your mom line on a guy who had two
guys for parents, and one was a tranny. Allegedly, he said, "Your mom
has a penis." He thought it would be funny, and there was no way that
could be true. It was true for that guy. He shot dad in the parking
lot a few hours later. I never knew my dad, but Mom made sure I knew
not to repeat his mistakes.


They called them Texas Ninjas.
i don't know why.
we still called them rape robots.
they were getting smarter... raping.
damn this universe


Snow signals spring around here.  Snow covers mistakes.  Spring opens up those mistakes like a pop-up book.  A pop-up book of bloody entrails.

Xero, Alaska.  Bullet break.  That means there’s no leads, no suspects, no nothing.  Less than negative.  What we used to call back in the force, “unbent.”

I hate the cold.


After the Break

"Coming up after the break, Tennis Ninjas. Why this black clad fad is
sweeping the nation," Dan said.

"Ok, We're into commercial," the Floor manager called from the dark.

"What the hell are Tennis Ninjas? What is this crap? Are we really
this far back in the pack that we have to make crap up that wouldn't
even make the Weekend Report on SNL?"

"Sir," the floor manager said from his dark corner, "This is a real
story. We ha…"

"Sure like that report we had a few nights ago about elephants that
got loose from the circus and were juggling clowns that were on fire?
The live truck got there and made us all look like asses!"

"Sir, we had it on good authority that they were juggling fire
clowns, but the fire marshal beat us there. He made them stop."

"Do you know we are the punch line of every local news joke in town?
Even channel 11 makes fun of us!"

"Channel 11, aren't they the station with the Hooter's Girls
Cheerleader squad that does the weather?"

"Yes, as well as that damn talking gorilla."

"Sir, the gorilla can't talk. It uses sign language."

"I don't CARE! They still make fun of us!"

"Sir, we are on in Three, Two,"

"We are back." Dan's professionalism is back in a flash and he
continues, "Tennis Ninjas are sweeping the nation. They swoop in on a
game in progress knocking the tennis ball out of the court and
disappear in a puff of smoke. We have staged a game at a local high
school to hopefully catch this elusive event. Paul can we go to the
live feed?"