Monday, June 30, 2008


the headaches continue.
i think i can see through time.

Fab & Gunner in BUTU DAY

          GUNNER sits on a ratty couch drinking a Tab and scratching himself.  FAB runs in, startling GUNNER in the process.

FAB – Hot damn!  It’s Butu Day.  And bought fucking time, too!

GUNNER – It’s WHAT day?

FAB – Butu Day.  Hope you brought plenty of trail mix, my skillet.

GUNNER – Trail mix??  What are you talking about?

FAB – Butu Day!  That’s what I’m talking about!  It’s what everybody’s been talking about!  Look!  Out the window!  Everybody’s out, milling around, getting ready for the Butu celebration!

GUNNER – What the fuck?  You lost me.

FAB – Wait.

          FAB leans out the window and shouts.

FAB – Oh, boy!

BOY – Yes, sir?

FAB – What day is it?

BOY – Why, it’s Butu Day, sir!

          FAB takes money from his pocket.

FAB – (tossing money out the window) Here!  Take this crumpled-up Benjamin and buy me the finest, most expensive salmon pasta and the driest organic almonds the corner store has to offer.  As much as that Benjamin will get you.  And bring it back here for an extra special tip!

BOY – Yes, sir!

          The BOY runs off.

GUNNER – What the fuck are you throwing that kind of money at some random kid for?  You can’t afford that!  We got rent!

FAB – But it’s Butu Day!

GUNNER – And organic almonds and salmon salad?  I mean, what is this shit? 

FAB – (pinching GUNNER’s cheeks) Oh, looks like somebody’s going to get a visit from the vengeful Butu Fairy for being grumpy.

GUNNER – Stop pinching my cheeks and tell me what this Butu shit is about before I start kicking nuts.

FAB – Listen, I know you don’t really believe in organized religion . .

GUNNER – So far, I’ve seen nothing organized about Butu Day.  Trail mix and pasta?  Please.  Sounds like “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.”  Only thing missing is a fucking ping-pong table.

FAB – Make fun of it all you want, but I’m trying to have a positive, meaningful Butu Day and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bad mouth my belief system.

GUNNER – Fuck it.  You know what?  I’m going to a dollar movie and let you keep this sick charade to yourself.

FAB – Fine!

          GUNNER starts to leave.

FAB – Wait!  Before you go . .

GUNNER – Yeah?

FAB – Can you stick this plunger up my ass?

GUNNER – What?  You mean, that’s part of Butu Day, too?

FAB – Ummm, yeah.

          A cry is hear from below.  It’s the BOY.

BOY – Sir?  Sir?

          FAB and GUNNER run to the window.

BOY – They were all out of salmon pasta salad, so I got you some potato salad instead.

FAB – (to GUNNER) Uh-oh. I forgot to put out the hobo blood!  Gunner, could you . . ?

GUNNER - Oh, why not?

          GUNNER walks over to the closet, picks up a bucket of hobo blood and dumps it out the window and onto the BOY.

GUNNER – Now, where’s the plunger?

          They both laugh for a long, long, long, long, long time as the BOY stands crying below. 
BOY - (crying up at the window) I thought you were going to give me a tip.

GUNNER - Blood is your tip.

FAB – Oh, Gunner.  Happy Butu Day!

          The crying and laughing lasts for an uncomfortably long time.




Sunday, June 29, 2008


i had a headache so i went to bed early.
i had a dream about sedrick.
i hadn't seen him in 20 years.
i wonder if he somehoe gave me the headache?
i wonder if i'm supposed to do something?


               Yeah, you might’ve seen me around.  I don’t know.  It’s been a while now.

            I used to be hot shit, but I let myself go.  I don’t if you know this, but they don’t just have weigh-ins.  They have “height-ins.”  Yeah.  They weigh you, but you also got to fit the height requirements.  I mean, I was fit back then.  Sure.  I was doing those Deal-A-Meal cards, I tried an early, experimental version of lypo.  All this shit just so I was fit enough.  I even did a stint in the Himalayas.  Climbed mountains up and down.  Let me tell you.  If you ever get a hair up your ass to climb a mountain, don’t hire sherpas.  Those guys are assholes.  Least the ones with me were.  All but one of them.  Shi-Lok-Di-Loki or some shit.  I’m butchering his name, but he was one of the only good ones.  But even he turned into a dick when the other sherpas got wind that he was being nice to me.

            Yeah, I was fit back then.  Rode this horse called Saigon Mambo.  Pretty decent horse, I guess.  But that thing sandbagged if I wasn’t the one riding him.  You know Ben O’Grady?  Best of the lot.  But even he couldn’t get this horse to keep pace.  Me, I turned that animal into biological lightning.  But that’s what you do in that line of work.  You make the horse into something better than it is.

            I don’t know.  You might’ve seen me at the track.  These days I just go there to cry.  I’ve been through some horrible shit and I can only let it out in the stands.

            But, yeah, I’m just going this now.

            So, what’s it going to be?  You thinking of something smaller or go with what you have on?  


Saturday, June 28, 2008


there was something there at the end that almost made me do it.
almost did it and got away with it.
but at the end...
it wasn't worth it.

they go great ith your eyes.

he laughed. so did i.
it was a little inside.

I have no idea

I would like to say that a wizard's wand is their most important
tool, but a smaller, mostly unknown instrument is the true source of
power. It is known to some as a willie dang. Others know it as a
fizzy wiz bang. To most it is called a car. Yes, brooms don't work.
How else are they going to get around?


I put a golf club through the bitch’s door.  It was inevitable.  I can stand just so much.  When she played the techo-World Music full blast last night, I snapped.  And I gave her a fair shake.  But when 4 AM rolls around, Saturday night or not, a bitch is getting my putter up her dreadlocked, hippie ass.


It’s bad enough she doesn’t even say “Hi” when we pass each other in the hallway.


If it had been some other kind of music that volume.  Queasy Yakuza or Tchotchkes or even some brand of pseudo nil-core.  But World Music I cannot abide by.  Bitches deserve a busted door where World Music is concerned. 


Give me common courtesy or good music.  I really don’t need both.


Friday, June 27, 2008


if God is in the details as they say, then that day God was the beauty of running up and down those damn back stairs.
it seemed as if they were in slow motion as they moved up and down. it was as if they were part of the Matrix, using Stairtime in place of bullet time. when they would pivot at the top of the stairs for their return trip down, it seemed like time stood still for but a moment, and the entire earth rotated to accommodate the maneuver.
whos to say that it did not?

He ran

He ran. He ran everyday. Rain or sun he ran. He ran not from the law,
but for the law. He was the first, but stayed for the last. When he
slept he still ran. He ran for office. He ran until he couldn't run
anymore. When he stopped he died.


Duke, Sacco and Crutch waited in the alley that split up the Holsterum building and Mum’s Upscale Grocery.  They sat on Mum’s embankment, smoking and brushing off their suits.  Sacco spent most of the time pushing down the bandage on his forehead.  He went over his lines over and over while he and the other guys peered down the alley at bypassing students from Holsterum.  Duke and Crutch’s eyes split attention between the muttering Sacoo and the locked door across the alley from them.

            “It’ll open.  I know it,” Crutch said.

            “Well, staring a hole through it won’t get any results,” Duke replied.

            “What are we supposed to do then?” Crutch asked in a panic.

            “We wait in Pally’s Alley 'til Philly brings the Jew’s key,” Sacco said walking up while ditching a cig.

            “Well, we could look a little more conspicuous,” Duke belted.

            “I’d like you to say that when Philly gets here,” Sacco replied.  He turned from the other two and glanced up the alley.

            “Like to see you say that,” he repeated.

It started to drizzle and the three of them sought refuge under the Mum’s parking deck.  The day turned to night, the rain settled in pavement cracks, Sacco went through the rest of his pack, Crutch finished seven sticks of gum and Philly never showed.


Thursday, June 26, 2008


she is beauty.
irish, dark haired.
she apologized. it was okay.
she was beauty


     The twisted, sadistic caretaker of Motel Heck won’t let his guests check out without them paying the ultimate price.  He wears a giant elephant mask while taunting them with talk of Creationism.  He violently goes online and lowers their credit scores.  What’s worse is what he does to their IRAs.  He has several trust funds buried face-up in the backyard.  And at night, you can hear the shrieks of those whose stocks were cashed out while they were still only at $1 a share.

     Oh, the screaming and moaning of those whose lives were so full of promise and positive family values.

     Some say it’s Nixon back from the dead.  Others speculate that it’s Ross Perot gone completely insane.  But whoever it is behind the elephant mask, they’ve got a sick, sick grudge that they’re carving into the pockets of the huddled masses of Motel Heck.


Alice Crabtree

Alice Crabtree

A.K.A. Crabgirl

Abilities: The uncanny ability to side step at surprising speeds,
super strong crap like vice grips for hands, and an insatiable love of
Journey's music.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008


up and down, up and down.
everytime they hit a step, it was if they'd known that step their entire live, but they never hit a step the same way twice. there was a method to the madness- a style to the chaos. it was ballet during wartime.
those kids ran up and down those steps like warrior poets.
as the day went on, so did they. we all became transfixed. we made small commentary and little wagers among ourselve. how long would it last? would anyon fall?
surely, someone would have to take a rest.
surely, someone would...


They’re wrong about time travel.  Nobody from the future travels backwards.  That would be too obvious.  Besides, do you really think they’ve come that far along in the future?  They never populated the moon and cancer’s still a bitch. 


It’s all about traveling forward.  But not too far forward.  Little jumps.  An hour, one month, a year.  Just to see if you can do it.


Traveling forward doesn’t screw up timelines.  Only a slight possibility of paradoxes.  No infinite recursion problem.  Not a trace unless you go backwards, which they can’t and won’t even try it they could.


Sadly, they’ll never believe this if they bother reading it.  They’re such self-important pricks in the future.  Everything’s about them. They could give a damn what their ancestors have to say.  They’d never believe that I was from so far back.  I’m practically a caveman to them.



My baby is gonna be weird.

I see it as a mixture of Wolverine, Deadpool, the Flash, and Black Panther.

Yeah, better watch out!

Tuesday, June 24, 2008


"who left this card in the cannister?"
that's what I thought she said. when i repeated that to her, she furrowed her brow and started to correct it, but the phone rang.
i really wanted to know ehat she said, but she continued to talk.
i don't why i hit her in the head...


We don’t want any more war.  For that reason, we’re taking down all the traffic lights in the greater metropolitan area.  We’re also setting fires to the golf courses.  I think we might blow up a few cars just to get our point across.  Oh, and the water supply.  There’s this waterborne virus we’re going to let loose.  That should make our message clear.


The signs and the marches on the Capitol and the sit-ins just aren’t cutting it anymore.  It’s time to feed them their medicine.


Monday, June 23, 2008


"stop running up and down those damn stairs!" she yelled, but her children didn't hear her.
their ears were full of the sound of running up and down those marvelous stairs. up and down, up and down.
two steps, three steps, sometimes four at a time.
she was worried that they would fall and hurt themselves, but they wouldn't.
not these kids. they had the stuff, the goods. it was as if they were born to run up and down stairs. it was as if God him self created these fantastic stairs, then lead theses kids to them to live out their days running up and down.
there was no stopping them this afternoon. they would run up, then just as soon as they hit the apex, they would descend just as fast to the foot of the stairs. it was like watching ballet. it was like a beautiful dance. up then down, again and again, in rapid succession. to the top then to the bottom, from the bottom then to the top.
it was a perpetual motion machine. a rollorcoaster. a lovely fountain. it was all these things and more, the vision of these kids. they never fell, though. never. they ran all day. and they never fell.
not today.


                       The sinkhole separated the Crane’s and Satchfield’s front yards.  It was like having a celebrity in the neighborhood.  Reporters and their photographers swarmed the place, setting up the neighborhood kids to pose near it.

            During the Halloween in which it first appeared, it ate part of my costume – a black, Lone Ranger-style mask and hat.  We tried to retrieve the costume pieces, but the wind was too strong and the sinkhole too deep.  I had to go as a partially disguised crimefighter that night.

            It took them more than two years to fill it up and make sure it had been sturdy enough from its earthy foundation.  After it was gone, we started to miss it.  We missed the notoriety it gave Bloom Street.  We missed watching the water collect in its gaping mouth.  We missed it so much.

            Once they’d filled it, we were just an ordinary neighborhood again.

            The hole of Bloom should be reopened, we thought.



Sunday snagged me. What can I say? She is awesome. I wouldn't leave
for the world. It doesn't matter that she is holding a knife to my
back as I type this. It's true! There is love here. Love at
knifepoint. Yep, that's my love!


Saturday was nice, and she was very good looking. Her problem was that
she liked to get a little too showy. She wanted a big reaction out of
every little thing that she did. At first, I complied just to make her
happy. Slowly she had to have more and more recognition for even the
smallest thing. Then, she started demanding praise for small things
that most would see as common curtsey.
The final straw came when she kept stealing my toilet paper, just so
there would be some praise when she came to rescue me with a fresh


Friday was a nice girl. I was always looking forward to her, but she
was always gone way to soon.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

The L word (61)

she said that she was in 'like' with me, which was fine. i could feel her dancing around the other "L" word, and it made me sort of nervous. While it had always been me that went there first in the past, i wasn't there yet.
not yet.


                   Mom used to drink.  A lot.  God, she could do the greatest Foster Brooks impression.  But it wasn’t very funny.  Though neither was Foster Brooks come to think of it. 
            I remember she’d tuck me in at night, puke dripping off her chin as she’d kiss me.  Then she’d go out into the living room and hit on my friends.
            Wow, I hated it when I’d find her in the bushes or passed out on the front lawn next to the sprinkler.
            Carpooling was out of the question.  Okay, that’s not entirely true.  By the time school let out around 3:30, she was on that downward slide, sobering up.  So, she was reasonably safe behind the wheel by then.  It was the mornings that were the scariest.
            Her tirades seemed to go on for hours.  Bottle in hand, she’d strike out at any and everyone.  Her most frequent target was my little brother.  I’m not sure why, but taunts like “I never liked you” and “You think you’re so fucking great, don’t you” plagued him from ages 4 to 5.  Once he hit 5 though, it was like he was free and clear until he was at least 32.
          Apart from all that, she was a great parent.  Even all the booze in the world couldn’t take that away.  And believe me, she tried to prove that theory wrong.


Saturday, June 21, 2008


she was really sexy and i could've had her, but i couldn't overlook those tree-trunk cankles. here think legs turned directly into feet with no detour or obstruction.
It didn't really matter now, anyway.
i waited too long, and now she was leaving.

so much for playing it cool.


     Cognac stinks up the hallways.  The crazy, dreadlock bitch downstairs slams the door and blares Indigo Girls and shitty World Music all day and night.  Multiple windows on floors two and three are busted from the inside.  The rattle of cans.  Late night buses shuffle by the corner bus stop filled with sad, ugly puppets.  The downstairs dumpster is surrounded by porno movie cases and big screen TVs with shotgun-blasted glass.  A rooftop deck is littered with the waste of kids who think that “getting down” is their collective major.  The boyfriend of the girl in 102 cracked her door open with his bare hands.  We keep a golf club in every room just in case the deplorable bastards try and claw their way in. 

     But the 9 iron is strictly reserved for the Indigo girl.


Friday, June 20, 2008


to the editor
the killing will continue throughout the weekend as promised.
this, DEar editor is your fauLt.
there will be CHILDREN and ELDERLY. no one is safe.
this will rest on your conscience, editor, not mine.
THIs is your doing, for you were the one that decided to
call me knifey Stabberson.

the killings will never stop.

signed, killy mcKillerson


     There’s a reason why there’s not a show called Groomzillas.  You see, as brutal as guys can be, as big a dicks as they can be, they can never, ever be half as shitty as a woman who doesn’t get her way. 

     Okay, it’s the “woman’s day.”  I get it.  And exactly who the fuck started calling it that?  A fucking woman.  Understandable, I guess.  Guys have been the world’s puppet masters since God knows when.  We start the wars, we start slavery, we design the tampons.  Yes.  I get it. 

     So, for once, the guy doesn’t call the shots.  Great.  But to be a completely insane, nonsensical shrew because everything has to be done your way?  That I don’t get.  

     I’d take a barrage of slugs to my jaw over one word from you again.


Thursday, June 19, 2008

It's Krull Season finale!

what does the note say?

"dear jenny. i think you have me all wrong. you think I'm just a guy with a pointy spinny thing, but i have needs and wants. so i'm leaving. i'm going to where i can find a place to be happy.
Love Krull"

Uh oh.


Krull's taking manhattan!


Thursday was a bitch. I mean a straight up bitch. She never listened
to me. She was always right, or so she said.

We got in an argument one night. I thought all was right as rain by
the time we went to bed. Granted, I woke up in the middle of the night
with a knife to my neck, and she whispered into my ear. "Go to bed
angry. Go to bed dead."

That was the last time we had a fight.


She had more curves than that movie “Earth Girls Are Easy” or “Real Women Have Curves.”  And she drank like a fish.  Her giant mouth made a giant “O” as she poured the booze down her gullet.  When I was with her, I was the happiest I’d ever been.  Even happier than that period of my life when I managed that Korean massage parlor.  Most of all, we were happy together.  You know, like that song?  “Mama Mia.” 

But time went by.  I’d look around the room and every single clock in our house proved it.  Now, we stare at each other from across the room.  It’s like a dark mirror that I stare into, but this mirror shows me a curvier, sexier version of myself.  It’s tough to have to look at every day, and even tougher if I feel the need to jerk one off.

I had a dream about us last night.  I don’t remember much about it except that there was a giant kitten singing a slow ballad while we danced together.  I told her I loved her in Esperanto, but she told me I wasn’t making any sense.  Other than that, I don’t remember much about the dream.

I think the kitten was singing “Puppy Love,” without any irony.  But I think it was trying a little too hard to channel Paul Anka and get itself as far away from the Donny Osmond version as possible.



Wednesday was a very pretty girl but slightly overweight. All the kids
in school made fun of her, but I liked her. She always had good
cookies for snack. I really was upset with my self for what I did one
day. They were making fun of her again. I joined in mainly because it
was seventh grade and I wanted to fit in. We never talked again until
our ten year high school reunion.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

It's Krull! (65)

we have to finnish these cookies before monday!

how many!?

124 dozen!

can Krull help?

No. Go Spin outside.


Ok, this one is strange, but Tuesday was a guy. No, I don't swing that
way, but we had a bond. We danced. Glances were exchanged. He never
spoke. It was inviting, and unnerving all at the same time. At the
time, I thought we could run away together.

That is until I found out he was mute and high on ecstasy. I on the
other hand had recently been in a car accident, and had a concussion
so I am a little fuzzy on the whole event.


                                      I’m hittin’ the border of Lubbock with screaming skulls on my fists.    
                        They be raisin’ up the dead there. 
          I’m gonna’ create an army of mudmen and have ‘em eat the mayor’s wife just to show I mean business. 
                                  Tornadoes won’t be nothin’ but a memory down Lubbock way. 
                       John Wayne Gacy’s clown face’ll be on the moon and
I’ll paint the town with glow-in-the-dark paint while the mudmen take Lubbock hostage. 

                                       All these things done happened already. 
               It’s time to remind people.


Tuesday, June 17, 2008

It's Krull! (66)

Hey Krull! What are you all about?

Well, I'm deep, layered... and there's a spinny thing...



T-Roy had been back on the streets for over two weeks, but he wasn’t the same as he’d been.  The F+ Crew saw this, but nobody ever brought it up or freely admitted it.  Not even Debs, the most cynical of the Crew.


Cheri’s tight, little poodle perm had grown out since T-Roy had gotten out of the hospital, which gave him doubt that she was the same as when he’d gone in.  But her smell was the same.  Down there.  It was like the scent of freshly cut grass.  She kept her garden trimmed and that’s the way T-Roy liked it.  It was within her soft, white thighs that he felt the most at home.  She welcomed him back.


The F+ was slowly getting back to normal.  But the Crew would never recover fully, and T-Roy wouldn’t be around much longer anyway.  He needed to make a dramatic exit.  And he knew that Cheri’s garden is the only thing that would be sorely missed. 



Her name was Monday. She was a beautiful girl, but not the type you
bring home to mom. Well, unless your mom loves a klepto. That girl
could and would steal anything. Jeweles.

Yep, that too. She took my one good kidney. I get kidney stones now
more than ever. Still, I think about her a lot.

Monday, June 16, 2008

It's Krull! (67)

Hey, Krull! What's for supper?

Spinning blade weapon thingy.



                “Hi, kids!”

            “Hi, Bumbly,” the rabble of restless children screamed in the crowded TV studio.

            47 year-old veteran of stage and screen, Hud Gamble, stepped out in the “hobo bee” costume he’d worn for so many years as the hundreds of children cheered.

            This seemed to be the closest he’d get to the tier of fame he’d previously had in the past.  No more comebacks, no more all-night parties in Canyon Valley, no more orgies with the Farmer Quintet.  Hud had peaked years ago and God wasn’t letting him fall quickly.  This was a slow descent.

            “What time is it?” he asked the crowd while he chewed on a plastic cigar.

            “Pollen time!” they screamed back.

            It was the part of the show that he always dreaded.  Midway through the live broadcast, Bumbly the Hobo Bee would always scamper over to the oversized sunflower, land face-first into its center and reach deep down to pull out a letter that had been sent in by one of his faithful viewers.  Bumbly’s “drones.”

            “I’m gonna’ do it this time,” he thought.  “This time, I’m gettin’ out.”

            Hud shook his fat, bee ass comically towards the flower and took a flying leap into it, face-first.  The pre-pubescent howls shook the studio’s walls, as if the kids hadn’t seen this happen week in and week out.  As if it were the funniest bit in the history of comedy.

            And that’s when Hud held his breath.  Motionless on the flower, he worked his hardest to fake his own death in front of the studio full of children and the millions watching at home.  In his mind, he was already dead, so what was three, four or five minutes?  This was the role he was going to play to the hilt until everyone watching believed that Bumbly the Hobo Bee was truly dead.

            “10-Mississippi, 11-Mississippi, 12-Mississippi, 13-Mississippi, 14-Mississippi . . .”


Sunday, She was a nice girl, but...

Ahh, Sunday. We use to go out a long time ago. She was one wild girl.
She claimed to be a real life zombie hunter. I thought it was some
weird reference to a sub set of bounty hunting. Nope. That girl
carried a shot gun filled with split slugs. She called them the
devil's stingers.

I wanted to break up right then, but then again I didn't want to walk
away leaving my back exposed.

Don't tell her I changed my name.

Sunday, June 15, 2008


i slept really late, then i took a nap that lastes way too long.

now the day is gone

tomorrow i have to go to my "fulfilling" job, and i only have a few hgours left to enjoy my non-annoying freedom.

every week with this.

every week...


 With my doctorate in zombie research science, I think my opinion is fairly valid.  Now, you can talk about your sub-categories of the zombie kingdom, but that doesn't mean I have to buy into any of it.  First of all, the very idea of a zombie mummy is not only redundant as Hell, but the fact that you call 'mumbies' is a true insult to Egyptians everywhere.  Zombies are mummies and mummies zombies, you see?  Albeit zombies that go through a different process of rebirth.  Sure, mummies are more likely to simply strangle you or tear your arms off.  They don't live on brains or anything, but we're speaking of the basic concept of the walking dead, so they are fundamentally the same, are they not?

And in regards to the gentleman's question about the army of Chinese zombies?  No.  I normally do not classify them in terms of region.  Therefore, I would not even consider calling them 'Chombies.'


Saturday, June 14, 2008

...the Event (69)

hmmm..I suddenly have this overwhelming feeling to die.
perhaps I'll go out and taunt these lions.
oh, that's odd..
they were able to pull at my hand and rip my entire off at the shoulder.
i didn't think it worked that way.
in fact, I've watched video of lions tearing at wildebeest for an hour, and they never got a leg free.
perhaps I'm built differently than most people.
perhaps my need to kill myself has made my muscles loose and flimsy like wet paper.
I can think of no other explanation.
for what's Happening!


 I really enjoy watching the movies of my youth today.  They still hold up, those flicks from the 70's, but I kind of get tired of people calling each other "turkey."

I mean, was this the worst thing people could say to each other?  Or was it just a polite cover-up for something more venomous?  Like when people say " f-bomb" or "fuckin' A?"

Every time my mother resorted to calling me a "turkey" (which she did a LOT), I just assumed she was calling me a fucking asshole.


Friday, June 13, 2008


She talked me down off the ledge. i was ready to walk away from it wll out of anger- out of principal. but she put the common sense back in me. she said that i had too much change going on in my life to add any more. and she was rigth. even though i would be in the right, it wasn't time yet. this move could wait. i thanked her, we exchanged sweet nothings, and that was that. i didn't know how soon it would be before i would see her again, but i hoped it would be soon.
every decision we'd made was wrong, except the one...


This was the end of the show’s run for everyone except for Marv.  He felt so “in tune” with his ‘Salesman’ character in “The Bombardier Cried” that he decided to continue to play it every Thursday, Friday, Saturday night and two-show Sunday matinee, long after the set had been torn down and the theater was rented out to another theater company.  Surprisingly, the next show going up – a Restoration comedy called “The Academy of Cuckolds” – was very accommodating. 

Weird part was, Marv’s ‘Salesman’ character was about as thin a character as you’d imagine.  He didn’t even have a name and had more off-stage time than on.  But Marv had infused such passion, such life into it, he simply could not stop playing it.  And everyone knew it.

Certain parts of “That Academy of Cuckolds” made no sense when he entered, dressed in his 1980’s ‘Salesman’ garb.  Somehow it didn’t matter, though.  It also didn’t matter that his lines had nothing to do with whatever was being said onstage by the foppish wig-wearers in “Academy.”

“Audiences were ready,” he thought.



With both Sarah and Jason safely inside the escape pod, they looked
at each other and laughed.

While they had just barely escaped a version of earth where apes were
the ruling species, they couldn't help but laugh at the fact that most
of the apes had the last name of Heston.

Comlink issues

Sarah had just rescued Jason from the octopusmen when their crawler
stuttered. They were both tossed against their restraints when the
crawler in its attempt to regain its balance tripped and crashed into
a Giant Sequoia. Jason's head slumped forward, and he was unconscious.
The wounds on his arms were seeping blood from where the octopusmen's
suckered tentacles had latched on to him.
"Jason wake up! We have to get out of here."
"Huh?" was his only reply.
She took her knife out, and cut him free. He fell out of the tilting
crawler onto the forest floor. She took her Rimmer 610 out of its
holster at her side, and checked to make sure the six shot pistol
shotgun was loaded. It was. The pistol size made it easy to carry, and
the advantage of an extremely short barrel proved invaluable in close
quarters fighting. There wasn't a lot of close quarter fighting to be
had in these woods, but when the opponents have eight legs a wide
spread is nice.
"Roco, we need a lift." She called into the comlink. She only heard
static on the other end.

Thursday, June 12, 2008


most people say they hate mimes without ever running afoul of on of the sonsovbitches in real life.
they just grasp onto this general hatred the popular culture breeds.
but i hate them fuckers honest, cause they fucked with my shit, and left it fucked so i had to kick some ass.
and i know what you're thinking "he's writing about mimes because it's quirky. he's quirky."
your mother's quirky, i'm dead fuckin' serious. i hate them babyfuckin' mimes!
them baby fuckin', couch stealing, fuckin' silent but dealy fuck fuckers!


P’Tunard was always the couple’s favorite non-Korean haunt.  There was an Asian flavor to it that they enjoyed.  But not too Asian.  Just enough. 

Before appetizers, they partook in the Festival of Flaming Headdresses.  They’d been 0 for 2, so they hoped that this time would bring them the victory they'd craved (it wasn’t to be).

After that, a dip in P’Tunard’s world-famous Stinging Springs.  Nothing really got their appetites going like a refreshing scald.

Toweled off, they followed the bleeding skulls to their table.  The waiter, dressed in the traditional P’Tunard black hood, served the regulars rum-soaked corn puffs.  After downing those, the couple ordered two sets of double steaks and a side order of pale skin shavings to share. 

P’Tunard was ‘their’ place.  They’d sampled just about every entrée and tried many of the treatments.  The one thing that they’d shied away from, however, was the Hall of Rusty Blades.


The Tesla Microdrive

Jason ran along the edge of the clearing. He had seen glimpses of his
sister Sarah through the trees for quite sometime, but he did not want
them to know he was following them. They had taken Sarah and the Tesla
Microdrive. It had their directions home programmed into its secure
partition. It was the only way home.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

They've ruined McCorkendale (72)

if it's one thing I hate, it's monkeys in birthday hats with magical powers. i hate it even worse when i find out that those monkeys have lost their parents due to strange extraterrestrial testing, so now they use those aforementioned magical powers to solve crimes. I hate it if they are all business by day, but love to party at night, and i hate it when we realize that we share a secret bond that brings us together. this is all the stuff I hate, cheif. but that's okay, because I'm a detective now and i'm going to wipe these streets clean with my 9mm mop!

Uh, Meet your new partner...This regular monkey.

Damn it! oh well, I'm driving!


Jason grunted and kicked the access panel on his Trans Dimensional
Portal Instigator. His young frame couldn't do much, but as soon as
his foot left the panel he ran a hand lovingly across its surface.
"How are we suppose to get home now?" he asked his sister, Sarah.
Sarah, Jason's younger by approximately ten minutes, threw him a
wrench and replied, "You have to get the engine to turn over, and shut
up. I will do the calculations."
"You hate math," he shot toward her.
"Not as much as I hate being stuck on this Earth."
Jason crawled under the TDPI while Sarah pulled out a notebook and
pocket calculator. She was punching numbers furiously when he broke
the silence by asking, "What Earth are we on right now anyway?"
"Can't you be quiet for ten minutes? If I mess up we might windup on
an Earth where Hitler won, and everybody eats wiener snitchel instead
of hotdogs."
"Jeez, why don't you paint a picture of joy for me?"
"Sorry," She said as she put her head back down to work.
They both worked in silence for the next half hour. Jason slowly
poked his head out of the access panel and asked, "So, what Earth are
we on?"
"Ninety-seven percent probability we are on 2012GR87"
"Which is that?"
"According to the handbook, 2012GR87 has a branch of Greek Mythology
that is real."
"Cool," Jason said as he slid back into the TDPI.
"No, not cool. I am talking Hydras, Colossi, and other supposed
'mythological' beasts."
"Crap is right. Now hurry!"



Edgar dreamed of her again.  Sure, there were the random moments of, well . . randomness, like any dream.  There were moments where he was at his old elementary school learning about the Book of Nehemiah.  Moments when he’d be ramping a BMX bike through trees, grazing their limbs, almost weightless.  There were times where he’d have conversations with his father, whom he’d never met.  Other times where the recurring dream of that weird sensation he’d get sometimes.  Of chewing on a brick that was wrapped in silk.  That thing again, entering into this dream of her.  She was there.  Famous now.  Much more famous than him.  And the dick move of him trying to get close to her.  Not because he longed to be with her again, but because he wanted a taste of that fame.  It was leveling to Edgar.  Much more grounding than the silk brick dream could ever be.

And, sadly, when he woke up, he felt as if he was in love with her all over again.  He felt that way the entire next day.  All day long until he put his head on the pillow that night, just hoping she would enter his dreams again.


Tuesday, June 10, 2008


i was never the type to rise above.
i tried, lord knows i did, but i could never really make
then i met her, and she was so loving and so affectionate--
the fact is, i assumed that she was up to something.
i'd never been the object before.
it was probably all of the Law and Order.
all of the 48 Hours marathons.
but i think she actually might be...


You’re thinking it, but afraid to say it.  And I have no fear of saying it.  Every word that comes out of my filthy fucking mouth is the stuff of a repressed society.  And you, as an audience, take this bile and scream for more to be shoved up your ass.  That’s what the audience wants.  They want to be abused, ridiculed and told to go fuck themselves.  And they’ll keep coming back, that’s the sad thing.  That’s the beautifully sad thing.  When you want it that much, maybe I don’t want to spit at you as much.  Ever thought of that?  No, I didn’t think so. 

Hate warms you.  Hate makes you realize that you’re not such a bad person.  And I’ll never tire of doling it out.



Sometimes I would like to be the Hulk, a massive mound of green
emotion that is forced into action by the slightest annoyance. Then, I
think, would uncontrollable emotions that lead to the destruction of
property and lives around me be worth it?

Well, I guess it just depends on who is near by.

Monday, June 9, 2008


it was getting close to midnight on the day of my birthday. i felt like i should do something, something meaningful, but what? his girl tried to I.M. him ideas, but none of them really hit.
she said that she was sorry that she didn't have any ideas, but she missed him. this was a good enough present, he thought...


There’s a gray spot behind this mask, devoid of color.  It’s the self-destruct mechanism.  If it all becomes too much or you’re just looking for a cheap high, press it.  It’ll take a whole city block down with you, so try and do it in an unpopulated area. 

This is the last thing I’m going to show you.  It’s the last of the important information.  All the tricks.  You know it all now.

Honestly, I don’t even know if the gray spot works.  I never had to use it, thank God.  It’s just something my dad told me.  And now I’m passing it down to you, this mask.  Don’t waste it like I did.


Under the Bed

Where did the kids go?

I don't know. I think that thing under the bed got them.


Sunday, June 8, 2008


everyone starting eating right after grace was finished.i didn'want any chicken, but that's all they had.they noticed i wasn't eating and asked why.i explained that i didn't like chicken, and they asked if i wanted anything else. i wanted to go home, but i couldn't. i was stuckhere. i was stuck with no meat. this was hell.not really hell, but apretty suck gathering.


The comedy duo introduced their magnum opus in front of a capacity crowd of at least 700.  A film they had made called “Deerdorfe’s Whoopie Machine” would have made its world premier.  The 700 attending were of the comedy and film aristocracy and this was the duo’s lucky break.  TV specials, a slew of movies, their own brand of medicated yet erotic foot cream.  All these things would be possible with the viewing of “Deerdorfe’s.”


The lights dimmed.  Applause stung the duo’s ears as they ran down to their seats in the front row.  The theater’s projector sputtered to life and shot a bright beam onto the screen.  As the duo’s names sprang up in the credits, the audience applauded again.  The duo looked at each other and smiled, neither one of them thinking that this moment would ever happen.  Yet, here it was.


As the first scene began (a long dolly shot of Deerdorfe’s messy laboratory), the film broke.  A strange groan staggered through the crowd.  They became restless as the duo craned their necks towards the projection booth, only to be met with a confused projectionist in the tiny window with spools and spools of film in his hands.


The duo hit the stage, trying to explain the problem away and buy the projectionist some time.  They fell back on what they knew best: comedy.  A few poorly placed and nervously delivered racist jokes didn’t exactly help.  Normally, they were pretty good at reading a room, but with the nerves and a front row seat to their own dwindling careers, things quickly went from worse to hella’ worse.


The audience started to throw shoes and ripped-out theatre seats.  Some must have anticipated it going badly because they threw fruits and vegetables.  Even little kids were getting in on the act, throwing pacifiers and squeaky toys at the men on stage.


The duo were luckily able to make an escape behind the movie screen, but not before they’d decided to look at this as an omen and call their relationship quits, then and there in the back alley of the movie theater.


The formerly unflinching comedic team, a double whammy on the brink of high-altitude success known as The Margot Kidders, were no more.


Saturday, June 7, 2008

Please, not again.

"Why is it so dark in here?"

"Shut up," the looming voice yelled and slapped him in the face again.

He forces back a whimper. The looming voices comes back from the dark
and says much softer, "You should have eaten all your vegetables."

another girl...(76)

I couldn't wait to see her.

I wasn't supposed to, but i wanted to.

It wasn't a good idea, though.

The right thing is the hardest to do...


Stephan lays out on the roof wearing his turquoise speedo while the remnants of last night’s kegger cum orgy litter it.  Passed-out bodies, bags of empty bottles, puddles of vomit and cigarette butts numbering in the hundreds. 

Stephan is unphased.  He’s stepped over worse in order to get his Sunday morning baste on.  Every so often a frat boy or a feminine dimwit covered in dried spooge gets up, dusts themselves off and, after a hungover, snide comment, stumbles down the stairs into a hazy, awaiting day. 

Stephan may as well be a carcass.  That is, if it weren’t for the warmth of his hairy, well-tanned, well-greased skin.  No matter how much noise the revived mob makes, he does not move.

It’s just another Sunday morning on the Humwoffle rooftop deck.


Friday, June 6, 2008

Dude, you broke my back. I need your mother!

That could be the single best line ever committed to paper, if it had
been written down. Yes, that is the tragedy of such awesome words.
They are usually a spur of the moment blurb shouted at the peak of
triumph or defeat.

Let us examine this a little deeper. The word 'Dude' is used in the
familiar sense. It is followed closely by the 'you broke my back."
Surely he did not really break his back. We can be assured that some
injury occurred, but nothing as serious as a broken back.

Lastly the ' I need your mother.' Is a jab at current pop culture's
facination with tieing sexual innuendo to someone else's mother.


I don't know what it means. I just thought it was funny.

Desert island list (77)

everything is going to shit out there. i think it's the end.
but i think i'm safe in here for now.
the explosions haven't happened for at least 4 days, and the screams are fewer.
the screams, actually, have turned to wails.
but i'm safe in here.
i have Valley of the dolls and London calling.
i'm going to finish this book and listen to this album- because it's the last music i'll ever hear.
i think i made the right choice.
this is my favorite album. it'll never get old. each song takes me to a different place in my mind- back to when i was younger. back to when people i loved were still alive.
Dolls is harder to explain. i've never seen the movie. i'm not even really sure what it's about. but the cover has always intrigued me. the trade paperback cover that's just a picture of a huge pill.
i'm sure it's trashy and tawdry, but i'm going to read it. it's the last book i'll ever read.
there is nothing here but the minibar. i don't know how long i can last from mixed nuts and toblerones and booze. i think i'll need water. i'm sure water is more important than food.
i may have to go out.
but first things first...
"Chapter one..."


She sucks you off while she sits in a baby stroller.


C’mon.  What?


Yeah, that’s part of the service she provides.


I don’t go for that.  No thanks.


What, you don’t like getting blown by a gorgeous woman?


It’s the baby stroller I have a problem with!


You’re not getting blown by an actual baby!  She’s of age!


I, uh . . . I don’t care.  That creeps me out.  Sorry, but I’m not doing that.


Damn, for somebody who lives in LA you’re a fucking prude.


I didn’t grow up in this fucking stinkhole.  I’m from Goddamned Wisconsin and I’m not a prude!  Look, I agreed to do this picture, but I wasn’t aware that you’d be adding scenes like this!


Fine, fine.  What if we put a mask on you?  I’ve got a mask in the costume shop.  Nobody would know it was you getting head from the baby.


You just said it wasn’t a baby!!!


It’s not!  It’s not!  The girl!  The hot, busty woman!  While she blows you, while she’s in the stroller, you’re wearing a mask!


What kind of, uh . . . what kind of mask?


Deputy Dog?


Now, that I like!


Thursday, June 5, 2008


Where are you taking me? I can hear you breathing. Can't I take the
blindfold off? Please? Wait, what is this? Eye balls? Really? It feels
like peeled grapes. Eeww! What is this? brains? I didn't think brains
felt like cold spagetti!

Supposedly meaningful advice from that guy your mom insists you start calling "Dad"(78)

You can't blame the chcken for being raw if you eat it.

(i told you not to do it and you did it anyway, so whatever happens is your fault.)


Blue neon.  That’s how Florida was represented in his mind, though he’d never been there.  Cool, blue neon.  Whenever he heard the word “Florida” on the news or in a casual conversation at a bar, his brain would supplant the image of blue neon.  He never really thought twice about why.


This move was both invigorating and scary to him at the same time.  New place.  New people.  New identity.  Speedometer rolls back to all zeros.


Florida would be the place where he’d stay, he thought.  No more moving around.  Stakes would be planted firmly.


He only hoped that whenever he landed in Florida, it would have blue neon somewhere.