Retiring this Blog

This just in: this blog is dead! In dying, it has given life to a new blog.

I will, with my colleague, be testing the waters attempting to re-spark my creativity and post in a consistent fashion. Corazon will continue posting on her blog, I will not. It is her blog and I have no business posting there. Also, as the breaking news brief stated above, I am quitting this blog until further notice where further notice means never or a month, whichever comes first. My money's on never because I still have high hopes on it arriving as that's when my girlfriend said she'll let me do that thing to her thing with that thing with things.

Breaking Blogger News!

What is this! A Blogger feature I’ve not seen before, a feature perhaps purloined? Purloined and downgraded it seems. I’ve seen better thefts performed by quadriplegics or the NY Times.

I’ve added the feature to this blog and adjusted it accordingly. Unfortunately, after this addition my bland blog has turned into a bland and ugly blog.

Seriously, check out those voting boxes beneath this entry. They’re crude and outdated. It’s like walking down the street and seeing Blogger wearing an expensive suit, a fitted shirt, shiny leather shoes, and parachute pants.

Is there no way to customize this feature (further)?

Seeking Guest Writers

That’s right, friends, I’m seeking guest writers. I’m looking for someone who’ll contribute to this blog for money. That’s right, I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you how I pay the street walkers who indulge me on occasion: with poems. That's right, poems.

You’d be surprised how often prostitutes will accept mediocre, drunken poetry as payment for fellatio. No, I guess it’s not that surprising. It’s only happened twice, and they were women I was dating at the time.

Anyway, potential guest writers, the ideal candidate will:

-Be attractive;

-Not be experiencing any financial hardships so as to accept poems or sexual favors as payment;

-Not outshine me and;

-Be witty and provocative.

Actually, be either witty or provocative for a writer with a combination of the two will surely outshine me. If that happens, you’re dead. You hear that, motherfucker? DEAD.

If interested, post relevant information as a comment and I’ll contact you within a minute of applying.

Chess

I used to be a goddam chess genius! My army brother taught me when I was eight and when he returned on leave a year later, I was the best player in the house—shit, I was the best player on the block! So you can imagine my surprise when all the Joe Nobodies who can barely type out sentences on Yahoo chess annihilate me.

You know, I’m starting to think my insidious fucking family let me win all those matches years ago. I’m starting to think that maybe I wasn’t so good after all. I bet if I played them again today, they’d kick my ass. Yeah, that must be it, or it’s all the inhalants I’ve been huffing.

Anniversary Party

So the one year anniversary of this bitch is coming quick. It came so quick I didn’t even realize it. Now I know how my sexual partners feel. Nah, I’m kidding, I’m as flaccid as a half-filled water balloon.

Anyway, to celebrate I’m throwing a party at my place. I’m gonna have grab bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and a 2/3-full bottle of 7up.

Lucky for you all, the anniversary lands on October 4^th, a Saturday. This means that there’s no work the next day and we can stay up as late as we want watching Saturday Night Live on my bed. I’ll be on the computer watching porn, but you guys can eat my Cheetos and drink my 7up on my bed. Just bring your own fucking napkins. I don’t want any Cheeto residue staining my bed. Make sure they’re moist napkins because dry napkins don’t do shit against Cheeto dust fingers. I don’t need to be telling you this.

If you don’t bring your own moist napkins, I’m not letting you in.

Don’t RSVP, I’ll just expect people at my door that night.

No Substance

Yeah, so I haven’t been posting with the same frequency. So what. Bite me. Just the women. Harder.

Thanks.

I’m kidding. The truth is that I’ve been slaving for two weeks hunched over my keyboard and wallowing in my filth trying my hardest to come up with something worth your time. I have pages and pages and pages (two) of words I’ve found unfit to post. Every time I write something and it’s not posted, an angel’s wings get clipped. Now you understand the enormous weight on my shoulders. Why would God do this to me! Why, God! Why!

You know what? This blog looks really bland. I mean, it’s white and there’s a glass. What the hell? Invisible powdered water? What was I thinking? Oh wait, hah! I’m so brilliant. I wish there were more color here.

There, now I’m happy. If you can help me add more color, leave me a comment. I expect no comments.

Television Kills Brain Cells, Story at Eleven

I’m bummed. There’s hardly anything good on TV.

Have you seen the Food Network lately? It’s become the MTV of food. How many different food competitions can they air? Chili competitions, burger competitions, cake competitions! What is this?

They’ve resorted to putting contestants in cake and sculpture competitions through a gauntlet of stairs and bottomless pits like in The Golden Child in hopes that there will be a catastrophic cake collapse. I have an idea, how about putting together a team of ice sculptors and bomb squad agents to see who can most intricately and artistically sculpt their way into a bomb encased in ice. This will ensure an explosion, death, and higher ratings.

And what’s up with these ‘in search of’ shows? At their core these shows are about a team of slack-jawed fools chasing nothing. Look at In Search of the Lochness Monster. How about airing the show where you actually capture the beast? It doesn’t even have to be the Lochness Monster, a peculiar fish will suffice. I’d even be happy with a larger-than-average fish. It doesn’t even have to be freakishly enormous, a goldfish the size of my hand will do.

As far as I’m concerned, the best thing on television in recent years has been the Classic Arts Showcase, a show that encourages viewers to “go feast upon the buffet of arts in their community.” There are two things excitingly cool about this: one, it’s completely non profit and funded to run by founder Lloyd Rigler until at least 2022; and two, it’s something different.

I mean, I won’t be one of those viewers who’ll go out and feast upon the buffet of arts available in my community. First of all, I’m not that interested in the arts, and secondly, the buffet of arts in my community is either paintings of naked women on velvet hanging in bars, or graffiti. I’m just glad that there’s something novel airing. CAS is like a singular rose hidden in a field of rampant weeds.

I wish there were more stimulating and somewhat innovative shows on television. Something that would capture my attention and keep it like an iron trap, something like The Benefits of Champagne Enemas, or Talk Sex with Sue Johanson with Live Demonstrations and Donkey Shows and Also Instead of Sue Johanson it’s Scarlett Johansson. Yeah, that’d work just fine. Instead I have to deal with reality TV, wife swapping, and the Food Network teaching me how to chiffonade and make a roux every 30 minutes.

Where are the donkeys? Such is life.

The Tale of Angry Dog

Once upon a time there was an angry dog. “Angry Dog! Angry Dog!” people would shout as he strolled by. Everyone always wondered why his owners named him Angry Dog. Some assumed it was because of his angry demeanor, others because he always mauled passersby.

“That dog is Satan’s dog,” the older folk’d say. “I’m going to kill me that gosh darn dog one’ these days,” the younger folk’d say. And the children, they didn’t have much to say on account of them being chased across the neighborhood to be eaten by Angry Dog.

He used to be a good dog back in the day—back before he was bred as a fighting dog. “Good dog! Good dog!” he would hear with subsequent pats and belly rubs every time his owners had visitors. He would sit, roll over, shake hands, and he hardly ever humped as his balls were removed, you see. I can’t really say what caused his owners to turn such a perfectly good pup into a vicious fighting machine of death. I asked them once and they said, “protection,” but I really think it was for the money they got at the dog fights.

One day there was a secret town meeting where the destruction of Angry Dog was to be discussed. “We gotta kill that dang dog,” yelled one participant.

“Now how in tarnation are we gonna kill that there dog? He just about takes one of our arms off every time we get near the feller!” said another.

“How ‘bout we stuff cats with dynamite, and set catmines next to fire hydrants!” said yet another.

“You’re all ignorant and insensitive oafs,” yelled a young woman with college textbooks clutched to her chest. “It’s not the dog’s fault! We should be punishing his owners! They’re the ones who created this creature! Target them, not the—.” At that point the frothing beast burst through a wall in an explosion of splinters and pinned the young woman on the floor before she could finish her sentence.

When the town folk returned, all they found was the motionless body of the young woman. There wasn’t a bite on her. For months the cowardly town folk believed she had died of fright, but the coroner said no, her death was the result of a failed mugging.

To this day nobody knows Angry Dog’s whereabouts. All I have to say is be careful at the next town meeting, for it could be you who is involved in a failed mugging.

My Poetry

This first poem is called The Expulsion and is an homage to Langston Hughes. I was inspired by a man walking into a supermarket who bought a papaya. The papaya was heavenly and fresh when I bit into it. I am that man.

A part of you,
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me,
but we are one and soon two.
You kissed my face and we fell in love,
then you rotted me from the inside out.
After you're gone
you cause me agonizing pain
when you explode from my chest cavity,
face hugger baby.

The following poem is an untitled snippet of the journal I kept while hiking across the Appalachias attempting to discover nirvana. Many of you have read this as I sometimes use it as an away message, a constant reminder of the fragility of life and the power of ritual animal sacrifice.

A giant bear with funky claws of tender
swipes at my face with beautiful fury.
I ate his child and he's revenging my body,
with pounces of gold.

To My Visitors

I've noticed a good deal of my random visitors (around 50%) come after finding me via Google searches. I apologize because I've mislead you all.

Here are some popular searches:

By far the largest contingent of visitors would be those looking for Alana de la Garza, the actress who plays the ADA on Law and Order. I don't know why they're directed to my site, but I presume it's because I've linked to her picture here. To you, because you probably aren't aware, here is a Google Image Search and the Wiki page of my future girlfriend.

The next largest faction consists of--and this is especially popular in Europe--consists of people doing searches on champagne enemas, or champagne piss enema orgies, or champagne enema ass piss. I can tell they're especially desperate because my blog is around the 30th or 40th listed (why? Here). Champagne enema visitors, I won't link you to another site, but I'll say that the first handful of hits are usually your best bet for champagne enema ass piss orgy videos.

The next largest contingent consists of people searching for dialogues. Dialogues about the weather. I'm not sure why, but "dialogue about weather" seems to be a popular search among South American countries. ¿Que onda, Peru? ¿Por que? Not sure what you're looking for, but here, you'll remain unsatisfied.

To the other 50% of my visitors, those who've been tricked by Yelp or other blogs into coming: suckers.

The Story of My Father - The Boxer

This is part one of the story of my father as best as I can piece together from the little tidbits he’s shared over the years.

My father was born on a ranch far from the city, deep in the dirty hills of Mexico where the ground cracked, the sun charred and the water froze. He was the youngest and toughest of seventeen, worked harder than a mule, and learned to herd sheep and stave off wolves by eight. By ten he was herding sheep on week-long journeys where he lived off cacti and the occasional mutton.

At thirteen he developed a penchant for boxing. Few knew his boxing prowess as few were familiar with how a life of farming, herding, and poverty primed a fighter with toughness. He once told me that he was play-fighting with his siblings and he fell and hurt himself. There was blood and crying when my grandfather tended to him. “Your grandfather,” he said, “uprooted a 150 foot redwood and broke it in two over my head. ‘That’s what you get for hurting yourself!’ he scolded.” My parents would do this to me all the time, so I have no trouble believing the story.

My father trained furiously. Every chance he had, he would punch a boulder into dust. This was rare, as rocks were scarce in those days due to a boxing fad, but he found a good many and put them to good use. He progressed quickly, disintegrating boulders with fewer and fewer punches. It didn’t take long before the compressed air at his knuckles from his swing pulverized granite. “There were countless untapped veins of boulders in the caves atop mountains. Other fighters never dared venture that high. Far too many orangutans, they’d say. What fools. Little did they know they were my finest sparring partners.” He said it was the exercise, the early rising, and the boulder punching that made him such a great fighter, but I think it was all the orangutan meat he consumed.

The first swing of his first match ended his career as the punch exploded his opponent’s head. It was a sad day for my father, not so much because he couldn’t pursue his passion, but because he’d exploded someone’s head. The judge ruled that he take care of his victim’s family in accordance with the laws of Mexico at the time. “I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “I’d never cared for a family of rhinoceroses before.” A daunting task indeed, especially for a dismayed thirteen year old.

And so ended that chapter of my father’s life.

Rude People

So I’m standing outside of the Roost having a smoke with a lady friend when we’re approached by a stick of a woman wearing a dull coat as thick as her English accent. She smiles and bends slightly at the waist as if talking to a child and asks my friend, “are you a hooker?” This, of course, leaves us speechless. The foreigner continues, “do you like being called a mooshpin?”

“I’m sorry?” I asked but she didn’t look at me, she kept her beady eyes locked on my friend as if trying to melt her with her sight.

“In England the . . . ,” she continued, sounding as though she was speaking with a sack of marbles lodged in her mouth and with censure in her tone. I blew smoke into her face before pushing my friend back into the bar.

We went out half an hour later for another smoke and the crazy bitch was standing on the corner near the bar. She kept her eyes on my friend.

“Is there a problem,” I asked her.

“No, no problem.”

“Are you sure?” I asked again, drunk with liquor and vengeance. I pulled my friend behind me with my arm around her waist and stared into the rude bitch’s empty, beady eyes, blowing smoke in her direction.

“No, there’s no problem,” she said before walking across the street. I ran across behind her and demanded an apology. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” I said. She began walking away and I noticed she turned around and glanced at my friend. The gall. She turned her head quickly and I ran up to her and greeted the small of her back with a movie-style jump kick that sent her a few feet forward. I karate chopped her shoulder, she collapsed and I spit on the ground beside her and put out my cigarette in her hair.

Doesn’t she realize it’s rude to stare? And almost just as rude to call someone a hooker?

The next story takes place on the freeway. My friend and I were on the 110, driving north on the right most lane that merges with an on ramp. A red pickup pulls up behind us, then to our right to try and pass us. Rude. My friend speeds up and doesn’t allow the pickup to pull ahead. He reaches 120 and the red pickup disappears behind us. Two minutes later, the pickup attempts the same stunt but is again foiled. Rude! The third time it happens, I think the jerk wants to have some fun—a few races a few laughs—so I turn my head to smile and notice the two barrels of a shotgun being cocked and pointed at my face. Rude!

It’s the rudest thing that’s ever happened to me.

I lower the window, reach for the pickup’s tire and pull it off sending it into a hellish fishtail across all four lanes. I lob the tire behind us into the pickup’s cab where it detonates, creating a mushroom cloud dwarfing the buildings downtown. Rude.

This all really happened (even the shotgun) except for the wanton and needless violence.

Billiards Part 2

Back in Cypress for 9-ball two weeks ago and it’s like this:

I walk into the pool hall with a friend, pay the entry fee and ask, “Am I still a 4?”

“Yes, you need to come in the money twice to be bumped up to a 5.”

I stagger to the nearest table for a couple practice games before checking the brackets to see my first opponent, “who’s Julio,” I ask my in-the-know friend.

“Julio?”

“Yes, The 7,” I say.

“He’s the best--,” he looks around, “he’s the best player here.” He looks around once more, “yeah, he’s the best player here. You can win easy with your handicap.” I hope so. I wasn’t too worried seeing as how I’d just slugged a half pint of vodka and had my first smoke in four days. Also, he was spotting me the last three balls, so if he ran the first six and missed, all I had to do was pocket the following ball to win (which happened once).

They called the matches and I went over to introduce myself. “Not use to giving away such an advantage,” said The 7.

“Won’t make a difference, you’ll still win,” I say. It was a good short match. We finish, shake hands again and I walk over to report the results.

“What was the score,” my friend asks.

“Three one.”

“Aw, well that guy’s really good. At least you got one game. Good job.”

“No, I won.”

“What!” He says with utter surprise.

“Yeah, I won,” I say while walking out for my ritual swig and smoke and feeling downright champish. Winning’s invigorating, especially when you’re not supposed to win. You can feel it in your belly and can’t help but to pop an electric smile, even alone, to yourself. I took another swig and heard my name inside.

I’m playing the guy with a Bluetooth set forever attached to his ear. Bluetooth man is a 6 and has to spot me the eight ball. He’s cocky, so I shoot sloppily a couple drunken times and he resigns himself to being nonchalant, shooting from the hip like a pitcher throwing with one eye closed. He’s a nice guy, but his conceit gets the best of him and he misses an easy shot leaving me a difficult cut on a two-nine combo from across the table:

I make the combo and win the first game and run from the four to the eight in the second game. It was a fine victory. He wins the third and fourth games, leaving me to break on the final rack. I break, make the one and play safe on the two. It’s not a difficult shot, but again, he’s so wonderfully blasé and thinks I won’t win that he leaves me another combo, albeit a much more difficult combo:

My left hand is tense and shaking like an old engine about to die, but I make the shot. “Fucker can shoot,” Bluetooth says in Spanish behind me. “He’s not a 4.”

I walk up to report my win and my friend asks for the score. “Three two,” I say allowing a feigned feeling of defeat to sag my face. His shoulders slump but before he says anything I say with a smile, “just kidding, I won.” He gets excited and I walk out for my swig and smoke and I get drunk. Neither The 7 or Bluetooth made eye contact with me as I stepped out, but I heard each say to a friend that I wasn’t a 4.

Maybe I'm not a 4, but because of it I came in third and won forty dollars that night.

Billiards

There’s a pool hall in Cypress. They run a tournament every Tuesday night and employ a handicapping system to level the battlefield.

Being a four, I’m awarded several advantages when playing against fives and sixes. Against a five, for example, I’m awarded the last two balls on the table in a game of nine ball. Against a six, I’m awarded what they call the Special Eight, meaning if I make the eight (as opposed to the nine) on any shot, I win. Against the rare seven, I’m awarded the last three balls on the table.

Anyhow, most take losing against me in stride, giving me a cordial smile after some bullshit shot I’ve made.

The first time I play at this tourney, the guy running it asks me, “do you recognize anyone here?”

“Yes, her,” I say pointing to an Asian woman playing alone two tables from us.

“Would you say she’s at your skill level? She’s a four. Who wins when you play?”

“We’re even. She wins mostly, though,” I say.

“This guy isn’t a four! He’s a five,” someone says from behind me, startling me. I turn and figure this guy’s being facetious as I don’t recall ever meeting or playing the saboteur.

“You can see me play if you’d like.”

“Nah, start him as a five. He’s not a four. He’s a five,” says the saboteur.

“We'll start you as a five.”

“Alright.” There goes my advantage.

I go outside for another couple of swigs from a bottle, a smoke and some talk with the other players. “Have you heard of So-and-so,” I ask my friend.

“No, who the fuck is that?”

“That guy right there with the bandana and pony tail. And he’s fat.”

“No, why?”

“He’s trying to sandbag me. I think. I don’t remember him from anywhere,” I say before my other friend’s name is called. I walk in to watch him play. He plays a four and he’s demolished quickly. “You did very well,” I tell him as we’re walking to report his loss. His opponent vouches to grant him a handicap of three and me a handicap of four. Excellent, how nice of her.

I went back outside for another smoke and another swig and heard my name inside. My opponent was the saboteur who was now at a disadvantage and who was surprised to have to give me the last two balls on the table. We played and he did well and he was happy until I made the 6, 7, and 8 and he became upset, upset like an ape whose territory I was occupying. I rack, he breaks and pockets all but the 7, 8 and 9 ball. He walks away from the table with a cocky smirk thinking I won’t win, but I bank the 7 and make the 8 and he storms off to talk to my friend about how I’m not supposed to be a five, not a four. Were he a cartoon, he’d be tomato-red with steam shooting from his ears. I offer to play as a five, that I don’t mind, but it doesn’t work. He keeps up his angry rampaging, throwing one of his cues onto the empty pool table next to us before deciding to rack his own break. He breaks and—this is the highlight of my night—he breaks beautifully, makes the one and the two but scratches and leaves me with a three-nine combo. I make the combo and win and he begins cussing loudly and goes off talking like a malcontent vagrant cursing God for his misfortune.

“Fuck this, I’m never coming back here again. This guy isn’t a four. He’s supposed to be a five! I thought he was a five!”

“I was a four until you said I was a five,” I say from behind him, startling him. He shoves his cue into his case and stomps out in a fit of childlike rage for a cigarette. I wait a second before walking out and passing him for another swig and smoke, but the euphoria I got from that paled in comparison to what that won brought me.

One of the cheapest yet most satisfying victories I’ve had.

Jury Duty

Another short story. This one was inspired by that one time I was summoned by the court to be indicted for treason against the state and a traffic ticket.

We’d returned from our lunch break a week into the trial. “Your Honor, I request you declare a mistrial,” the prosecutor said.

“On what grounds?”

“Jurors 3, 7, and 8 have slept through half of the trial, and Juror 8 is clearly drunk after every lunch. He smells like Jack Daniels and I believe he is pissing himself as I speak.”

“I fucked your wife,” spit juror 8.

“I deny your request, counselor,” the judge’s words were followed by an uproar from the court. “Order! Order, motherfuckers!” He stood and threw a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels across the room, showering the frenzied audience in shattered glass and drops of liquor. Juror 8 shed a tear and the crowd sat. “Continue your cross examination, counselor.”

He rose from beneath his desk and cleared his throat, “Your Honor, may we at least wake the sleeping jurors?”

“Objection!” cried the defense attorney, waking jurors 3 and 7.

“Overruled. The prosecution will rouse Juror 8.”

He poked the muttering Juror, “no. No. No more. No more sausages! Stop!” The prosecutor’s next poke changed the setting of Juror 8’s dream who was now laughing, “Ha! Judge, you crazy bastard! I can’t! No more shots!” The prosecutor began shaking violently Juror 8 who was again sobbing and muttering more about sausages, dreaming apparently of being attacked by the walking Wienerschnitzel hot dog. The Juror woke with a swing, knocking the prosecutor out cold. “Most wanted motherfucker, take that!—oh shit.”

“The defense requests that the charges of public fornication and beastiality be dropped.”

“Request granted, goat fucker.”

Jesus Christ, what a piece of shit story. I'll make it up to you, I swear!

Cash Cab LA

I was walking down 1^st street on my evening constitutional when a cab pulled up alongside me. The window came down and it looked like A Night at the Roxbury had thrown up inside the cab. A platinum blond popped her head and chest out of the window. Her breasts would’ve hung out over the door if they weren’t so perky.

“Excuse me! Sir!”

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi, we’re on a game show! I need your help answering a question.”

“Alright.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” she said with genuine glee.

“Quit flirting with the nerd and ask the question already,” roared the driver, Dustin Diamond.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” her voice quivered. “The Romantic Period spanned approximately fifty years. Name fifteen English notables from the period.”

The driver leaned over the passenger side seat, lowered the window, spit through it and wished me luck: “good luck, fucker.”

“Barbauld, Smith, Robinson, Blake, Burns, Wollstonecraft, Edgeworth, Wordsworth, Scott, Coleridge, Lamb, Austen, Lord Byron, Shelley, Keats, Haz—”

“Alright, that’s enough, asshole. You got it,” Dustin said throwing himself back into his seat.

“You’re so smart! I totally forgot about Coleridge and Blake and I was gonna say Lord Tennyson and Dickens instead.” She leaned out further and shook my hand. She was very pleased.

“Nah, Tennyson and Dickens are from the Victorian Age,” I said.

“Oh yeah, smart guy? I forgot the last part of the question: recite one of their poems in its entirety,” Dustin said flinging the door open and walking over to me.

“Hey, that’s not fair! He answered the question!”

“Shut your mouth, Titties. Recite the poem, bitch!” He puffed out his chest and half-lunged at me with a half-cocked head.

“It is an ancient Mariner
And he stoppeth one of three.
‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me—’”

“You son of a bitch,” he cut me off. He spit on the floor and stormed back into the cab. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. You have two blocks left, bitch, I guess that’s enough for one more question.”

“Thanks again so much,” she said and the cab’s tires spun out, jutting the vehicle forward resulting in the blond bumping her head on the window’s rubber frame as she tucked her breasts back into the cab. I continued my constitutional and noticed the cab stopped a block ahead. The blond jumped out and a wad of crumpled up bills were thrown out of the passenger side window in three bursts followed by random change which she almost dodged.

The cab’s tires spun out again speeding it forward leaving the camera men and crew running wildly behind it trying to catch up to their ride. I walked up to the blond who was picking up quarters and asked if she won.

"No. Yes!"

Tom and Jerry

I love Tom and Jerry. I've often wondered how their antics translate into real life.

Here, for instance, Tom is chasing Jerry.

Real life? Ah, shit.

Here, Tom and Jerry are fencing.

In real life? Oh no! Jerry, watch out!

Here is a duel over what appears to be a case of tomatoes.

What a waste.

There's a Moth in My Room

I contemplated destroying it.

It was fluttering around, circumventing the circle of light the lamp lit on the ceiling, landing on the wall and curling into itself. Everyone kills moths. It knows this. I know it knows this and it knows that I know this. I decided against its obliteration, though. So, I’m wondering: will it attempt to kill me while I sleep?

It is the next logical step.

I’ve lost track of it. Perhaps it went into stealth mode. Perhaps it’s plotting against me. Perhaps I should seek out the beast and lay upon its face a swift swing of my fist. My friend exacted a similar campaign against an unwanted houseguest. She was much more humane, granting the creature its life while I seek to destroy it--if I wake, that is (as my life is in danger you see).

Perhaps the moth has garnered the support of its family. Perhaps I should be wary of moths from hereon.

Perhaps it has turned my family against me.

No, that’s crazy.

Three Words

Champagne, asshole, party. What do they have in common?

A champagne enema orgy? How I wish!

No, they are the songs of three comedians-turned-musical-geniuses.

Video 1

Video 2

Video 3

For the Champagne Enema Orgy, click here. Haha, frank so funny. That's as good as it's getting this month, folks.

Last Words

I thought I’d continue my short stories. This story was inspired by the vagrants I saw making love in the back seat of a derelict car. Best three bucks I ever spent.

I’m going to witness this man’s last words. What if I forget them?

“Here,” he strained, “take this key. It opens a safe. Crucial evidence. Without it, we won’t be able to—,“ he sputtered out. I stood and studied the key. It was rusty, long, and with a skull at the butt. Wait, what judge? And what does the key open? “Please stay. There’s more.” Ah, here we go. “Take the key to my house. In my bedroom you’ll find a painting. Behind the painting is a treasure chest. Use the--.”

“Use the key?”

“Use the key on the--.”

“Use the key on the treasure chest? You have a treasure chest?”

“Yes.” His eyes rolled into his head and he gave out. I’d never seen a man die. I’d also never held an authentic skeleton key. What the hell did I get myself into? “The judge,” so he wasn’t dead, “he’s in this building in room 304. Take my card, do as I told you. It’s important.” His last words. What valor.

I stood again and realized how fragile life was and the impact some have on others. Even though he was a stranger, I felt immensely sad at his being eternally gone.

I began walking away to complete my mission when I felt his hand grab my pants. “Before you go, sir, please I beg of you.”

“What is it?”

“Remove the dildo from my ass.”

To be continued.

A Serious Sci-Fi Story

I have a couple friends who’ve begun to write stories. I figured it was about time I did the same. Folks, this is a very serious sci-fi love story.

The year was one billion AD and Mecha Christ 9000 had just captured moon base alpha-z.

“General, we’ve taken the moon base and received the unconditional surrender of the zombie robot overlord,” I told Mecha Christ 9000. I hadn’t started questioning Mecha Christ 9000’s motives until he asked us to attack moon base alpha-z. Our real enemies were the mutant dragon tamers who, for the past three months, had been stealing the sun. The zombie robots were just in the wrong place at the wrong time (between us and the sun, on moon base alpha-z in the year one billion AD).

I had nothing against the zombie robots. Hell, I had a few zombie robot friends in high school. What was I still doing participating in this godforsaken war? I could run away. It would be easy, but would you abandon the ninth incarnation of the mechanical savior himself?

This moral dilemma would drive most men insane, but my mind was always occupied. All I could think of was her, my love, the perfect woman. She was made of pure energy and waiting for me in the 7^th dimension. I told her I’d write, but it was nearly impossible after Mecha Christ 9000 had uploaded my brain waves onto the ultrainternet. I mean, how am I supposed to write when my arms are wires and my hands are keyboards? Sure, I could ultra-e-mail her, but she’s frowned upon the ultrainternet ever since it absorbed part of her consciousness. It was a crazy love story and she’s never liked talking about it.

I was about to go on break when: “General, we’re under attack. The Mutagons are flinging bits of the sun at our hull.”

To be continued.

Inspiration

Sometimes certain things trigger a flicker of creative energy within me.

It happens. For some it’s a line from a poem (In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo.) For others an image: Caravaggio, perhaps Ingres.

For others still maybe a scent, a nostalgic stir of events as an aroma wafts its way into your thoughts: maybe cotton candy and a carnival, or bourbon and a well-placed electrical cord across your ass.

I once wrote a love sonnet for a girlfriend. People asked if it was a poem, an image, or a scent that inspired me. I told them that it was that one time I was at the zoo when a rogue gorilla attempted to rape a slippery dolphin.

But really, creative energy can be extracted from anything. Things I’ve written in the past often liven up my thoughts, as does standing on my porch a bit drunk, watching the city lights and having a cigarette while pissing onto the barren lot next door.

Lately, though, I’ve been tapping my good friend’s description of his music: “riding a train along a coast on a cloudy day, a night time drive through new york city, a walk through desolate snowed out woods.” I love scenery and he does a good job of describing what his music evokes in someone. aíme, good stuff.

I’d like to say it’s what inspired this entry, but that was the work of my greatest muse, and she’s currently being processed by my liver.

Oh That Sasquatch

I was camping once, minding my own business. I was with a woman in a tent, pleasing her and whatnot.

I rose from her crotch to see a look of horror on her face. It was a look I’d grown accustomed to over the years. She was frozen with fear but was able to throw a glance to the side of the tent. I turned and was met by the red-eyed gaze of a curious sasquatch. I slipped out from within the tent and confronted the perverted beast.

“Friend?” He managed retardedly before I punched the fucker in the face.

April Fool's!

Top Pranks Inflicted on frank by

Friends:

“Yeah, frank, it’s chocolate cake. Eat it.”

“Yeah, frank, it’s lemonade. Drink it.”

“Yeah, frank, it's real Almond Roca. Eat it.”

“You have to understand it’s April Fool’s day. Here, have a cigar.”

"What am I going to do with this giant mallet? What am I going to do with this giant mallet?" Not bludgeon you is what I'm going to do, frank."

"Guess what, frank, today's your lucky day."

Women:

“Of course I’m over 18/not married/on birth control/female.”

Fictional Characters:

“Don’t worry, the star will make you invincible.”

“Welcome to Jurassic Park. You must try the Almond Roca, I made them myself.”

"I'll be back."

Parents:

“Que?”

Ode to The Simpsons

I love you if you know the episode.

From Future Weapons, a show on that Discovery Channel.

Host: We’re going to see an utterly ruthless weapon capable of unparalleled destruction. The engineers at Lockheed Martin have been working furiously for the past five months to unveil their newest doomsday device exclusively to you here on Future Weapons.

[Focus on bald head, shifty eyes. Tableau. Deeper focus.]

Host: Tell us about your weapon.

Scientist: We’ve been working on this weapon for months. Properly wielded, we believe it’ll be able to take the lives of countless third-country souls. But its beauty lies in its production cost: three ha’pence a piece.

Host: Wonderful. Wait, what?

Scientist: The unit is assembled in Guernsey.

Host: Acknowledged. Let’s see this masterpiece.

[A 2x4 with a nail is swung at the Host’s head.]

Host: That was too close.

Scientist: As you can see, it’s an effective weapon. The swing alone took the lives of thirteen “terrorists.” Here are their bodies.

[Host watches bodies uncarted. Turns to see the nail impaled into someone’s eye.]

Host: How?

Alright, I think what we can take from this is why does Lockheed Martin not register on MS Word’s spell check?

Also, I wrote this while completely plastered.

Star Trek

My friends, forget the Law and Order scene, I’ve trumped it with something so delicious it would seem that my writing skill has been increasing exponentially. Without further ado, my absolute greatest work, my magnum opus.

We begin after Star Trek: The Next Generation’s series finale, after Captain Picard saves humanity.

"Ensign, warp factor ass, engage!"

"Sir, I don't-- "

"Number One, lock this ass in her quarters and activate a stasis field around her ass."

"Captain, that's impossible."

"Riker, do as I say. Warp factor ass, engage!"

Aside:
"I don't know. Do you know what's wrong with him?"

"What's that muttering back there?"

"Working on warp factor ass, captain."

"Excellent. Number One, how is that stasis field coming along?"

"Captain, it remains impossible to isolate a stasis field around one woman's ass."

"Jean-Luc, maybe you should get some rest."

"Beverly, kiss my ass, warp factor eight. Engage!"

More Flags, More Enthusiasm

Is it me or has the Asian man become more zealous when shouting his more flags more fun bit?

He sure beats the hell out of that old, dancing guy. Man, could that guy move, though.

I’m going to interview him. I’m sure he lives in LA. He has to. Both of them.

Success at the Beach Part 1

"Garçon!” I called, “a pitcher of rum and ice for each of us!”

The sand burned my feet and sweat rolled down my temple, around my jaw and down my neck. It was hot and dry but the beach breeze felt cool against my arms and chest. I dug my feet into the lower layers of moist sand and so did she.

“I’m not a boy,” she said handing me a Dixie cup brimming with rum and five cubes of ice.

“Stand,” she said. I stood. “Turn, please.” I did so. She pulled on the waist of my trunks, dropped an ice cube into them and laughed.

“You, madam, are a bitch.” I reached down and pulled out the offending cube and plopped it into her half-filled, iceless cup of rum.

“Damn,” she said still laughing and threw the warm rum on my chest. She poured herself another half-rum and we sipped.

“Garçon!” I called, but she’d already begun uncapping the rum. She took my cup and scooped more ice from the cooler before handing it back to me. She tipped the neck of the bottle into my cup until it overflowed over my thigh and crotch. The ice cooled the rum and the cold rum felt fine on me and she knew this and smiled. “And you?”

“I’m going to take a dip,” she said as she laid out a beach towel before my chair. She got on all fours and smoothed it out, pointing her ass at me with her knees together, reaching and arching her back like a stretching cat. It was a beautiful sight and she did it on purpose. She stood, reached into her bag, came to me, dropped a lighter and cigarettes on my now-dry crotch, and gave me a peck on my cheek. “I’ll be back in a few and we’ll have another drink,” she said smiling before running off delicately to the water, barely kicking up sand.

Writer's Block, More Filler

“Come on, man, say it.”

“No.”

“Just say it once."

“No, I’m not going to say it.”

“Just once.”

“Stop. Please.”

“Say it. Why can’t you say it?”

“One flag! Six flags! More flags, more fun!”

“Awesome! You totally said it!”

“. . . .”

“Could you say it again?”

“Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

Law and Order

My friends, I’m a big fan of Law and Order. I’m such a huge fan that I’ve written a scene of the show. It is my masterpiece, my greatest work. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed visualizing it:

Judge: I grant the defense’s motion to suppress the gun.

Jack McCoy: Your honor!

Judge: Watch it, McCoy, you’re treading on thin ice.

Jack McCoy: This is unbelievable! The detectives had every right to—

Judge: That’s it, McCoy, I’m holding you in contempt!

Jack McCoy: There’s no court in session—

Judge: McCoy, you’ll shut your mouth or I’ll have the bailiff remove you.

Defense Attorney: Your honor, in light of recent developments, the defense motions to suppress all evidence.

Judge: Motion granted.

Defense Attorney: Motion to suppress the Assistant Prosecutor’s clothing.

Judge: Motion granted.

Assistant Prosecutor: [Looks to Jack McCoy.]

Jack McCoy: Do it, Connie. We can’t afford to lose this case.

Judge: I warned you, McCoy! Bailiff, remove this man.

Waiter: I’m just a waiter.

Assistant Prosecutor: [Removes clothing.]

[Brief tableau.]

Defense Attorney: Motion to suppress the prosecution.

Judge: Motion granted.

[End scene.]

Practical Jokes

My friend loves playing practical jokes. He’s pretty good at them, too. One time, for instance, he came over and hardboiled all the eggs in my refrigerator, all 144 of them. “Holy shit! Someone’s broken into my fuckin’ house!” I yelled. I swept up the broken glass and tried eating some eggs and I laughed. Hah, that son of a bitch!

Another time he replaced my can of whipped cream with a can of shaving cream! He even went so far as to serve me a slice of pumpkin pie. “Would you not like some whipped cream with that pumpkin pie,” he asked me.

“Haha, no thank you, good friend. I am lactose intolerant. You know this.”

“I insist. I will get it for you.”

“Really, I should n--,” wham! A rolling pin to the back of my head. I woke up with shaving cream all over my face. Hah, that fucker!

His most recent practical joke was sheer genius, though. Well, it would’ve been had I not seen it coming a mile away. He tied me to a tree and drove a mile away and came at me full-speed in an 18-wheeler. “The joke is on you, you bastard,” I yelled as the vehicle burst into an orange ball of fire the size of a building.

“You son of a bitch!” He responded frenetically while diving into a lake to put out the flame that had engulfed his body.

“My friend, like water is going to prevent third degree burns!” I told him.

Hah, man! This guy, I tell ya!

The Origin of Valentine's Day

It is said that in the days of yore, a mythical beast of the vale with "eyes of blood, scales black like death, and claws as long as men along its back" (Roberts 1) would terrorize feudal villages surrounding castles, swallow people whole (usually lovers in the act of coitus), and set entire forests ablaze. Speculation arose as to why those within castle walls remained safe, but recent research suggests that a tiny medicinal plant grown by the king's doctor was responsible for warding off the beast of the vale (Kingston 2). Knowing this, the king would dispatch his court to spread the medicinal plant--scientific name: Thymus Vulgaris, vulgaris from the greek 'vul,' to ward, and the Latin 'gar,' meaning beast (Doris 1)--throughout the bordering villages.

In one such instance, the king's jester, rushing the plant to a nearby village, encountered the beast of the vale and stood steadfast. The beast, never so closely coming across the plant, ran into the forest forever disappearing from the kingdom. Proclaiming victory, the king announced "The Beast of Vale-thyme Day" be celebrated throughout his kingdom. Lovers rallied and began celebrating Valethyme Day with rebellious acts of romance against the beast. As generations came and went, the Valethyme Day celebrations were forgotten and eventually replaced by a celebration of he who stood his ground against the beast of vale, the jester Valentine.

Another Filler

“And now let’s go to Larry King in Los Angeles.”

“Thanks, Wolf. Let’s go to Karen in New York.”

"Thanks, Larry. We take you to John in Phoenix. It looks like we’re having trouble reaching John in Phoenix. John, can you hear me? John can you hear me? Let’s go to Larry in Los Angeles. Larry, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Karen.”

“John in Phoenix reporting.”

Cash Cab

“Where to, buddy?”

“Sweet! Aren’t you the host of Cash Cab! Aw man, I can’t wait to make a mobile shout out.”

“Not today, man. Today I’m just a cab driver.”

“Oh.”

Adventures in Politics

I had the pleasure of shaking Senator Obama’s hand after tonight’s debate. I looked him in the eye and told him, “Senator, you’ve my vote.” Still shaking his hand I said, “I’ll vote for you because you know before he goes to bed, McCain cries about not being able to help everyone. You know Romney spends half his night praying, and you know Clinton spends half her night studying. You, though, I know as soon as you hit the sack, you’re gonna spend half your night making love to your wife. You’re one smooth motherfucker.”

“I am smooth. We’re going to ***** bar tonight. Join us.”

We went to ***** bar and I stood in line. “Come on, frank.” I walked to the door and the door man stopped me. “He’s with me,” said the senator, but the door man didn’t move. “Do you know who I am? Look at my face.” The door man let me in.

Smooth.

Inside: “What will you drink?”

“Umm, a Holden Caulfield, please.”

“May I have a vodka rocks and a Holden Caulfield please,” asked the senator.

“What’s a Holden Caulfield?”

“What’s a Holden Caulfield, frank?”

“Well scotch and soda.”

“That’ll be 23 dollars,” said the bartender.

“Do you know who I am? Look at this.” He showed him a membership card: Member: 109th, 110th Congress. Our drinks were free. He left a c-note tip. Smooth.

We chatted it up for fifteen minutes about immigration reform, universal health care, and Denmark when he noticed a blond eyeing me.

“Go talk to her,” he said.

“Nah, I’m shy.”

“Talk to her and take her this.” It was a mandarin vodka rocks. I was struck with an elegiac pang but walked up to her.

“This is for you.” We talked for fifteen minutes about immigration reform, universal health care, and Denmark before some chump bumped into me and me into her drink into her. “Forgive me,” I said.

“It’s okay, they’ve got it.” It was two guys in black-on-white suits and shades. Shades in a bar. Cool. Not really.

They talked into their wrists and pulled her away.

Senator Obama came up: “Do you know who I am?”

“Oh, hello Senator,” she said.

“Oh, hey Chelsea. This is my friend. He’s voting for me.”

“Oh really?” She began walking away again.

“No, I’m kidding. He’s voting for your mother.”

“Good,” she said with a smile and stayed to talk. The Senator smiled and winked to me and to the penguin suits before walking off to the bar to order another vodka rocks. What a smooth motherfucker.

Battle of Potato

"Where did you get this?"

"I got this in the war. Yeah, The Battle of Potato. I got cocky and overzealous. I peeled without regard for anybody’s safety. I ended up peeling my pinky. It’s a lesson I’ll never forget."

"And this one?"

"This one was near the end of the war at The Battle of Tomato. 'Slice! Slice faster,' they yelled. I sliced as fast as I could, but the knives we were issued were duller than butter knives. Do you know how hard it is to slice tomatoes with a dull knife? It’s fucking hard! I sliced and sliced and sliced, tomato after tomato after tomato. I was so tired and scared. I never seen so much red. They tell you in training not to close your eyes, even for a second. I tell ya, those bastards know what they’re talking about. I closed my eyes and when I opened them . . . . It was my knuckle, cut almost down to the bone."

"Baby, you’re so brave!"

"You gotta be."

"And these?"

"This was in The Battle of Carrot. I was shot three times in the chest."

Stupid Slow Bastards Part @

I was walking towards him about to bust him to smithereens when his buddy exploded a bag of cement into my face. I felt my way out of the grey cloud of dust like a zombie escaping a fire thick with smoke. My dad pulled me out of the dust like an archeologist in Pompeii.

“I’m gonna get some hot dogs,” he said. “Don’t scratch the truck.”

“Of course,” I told him as one of the stupid slow bastards swept my legs from under me with a two by four. He tried to drive it through my chest but I caught it and broke it in half with my palm. I swung my half into his crotch and he doubled over crying. I stood and charged his buddy and tackled him to the floor. I picked him up and spun him above my head thirteen times before throwing him into the freeway support pillar. It collapsed bringing the freeway down with it, burying the bastard under 27 cars. I said something witty like, “that’s what you get for not letting us pass. Don’t drink and drive.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” my dad said handing me a hot dog.

Stupid Slow Bastards Part 1

I was with my father pushing our way out of Home Depot. Our cart was filled with 90 pound cement bags and eight foot two by fours were jutting out either end. This awkward 600 pound beast was hard enough to push in a straight line without having to guide it around these stupid slow bastards who were blocking our path.

We were in our work clothes and looked as the day laborers who wait for work in the Home Depot parking lots. My pants were baggy and faded, my shirt was thin and white and powdered grey with cement. My father attempted to maneuver the beast around these two guys in their mid twenties who were decked out in the latest clothing trends.

Under his breath one of the stupid slow bastards muttered condescendingly: “you could have said excuse me instead of just standing there.”

“Or you could not be in our way,” I said. He was taken aback, surprised that I spoke English.

“Oh, sorry,” he said quickly, unable to maintain eye contact. They moved out of the way and let us pass.

Exciting New Technology

Do kids realize the power they wield around their wrists? Check out these bracelets:

Haven’t made the connection? Floating Light Tube technology applications:

Ghost Detection (note the FLTs along the antennae of the doctor's device),

And Time Travel,

Fucking time travel! I’m willing to bet these braceleted kids aren't really kids at all. First chance I get I’m going to interrogate one, and if he bleeds oil, well, the robot invasion has begun.

Almost Done With Dialogue: In the Mood

“Kill him!” The muffled words from the kitchen.

Damn. You know it’s going to be a rough day when your head is pounding, you’re dry with a hangover and you’re wanted for dead. I guess that’s the price you pay when you sleep with someone’s woman. I stood naked from the bed and reached for my rum as they knocked down the door to my bedroom.

“Don’t!” I yelled, “or I’ll do it!”

“Do what?” One said pointing his knife at me.

“Not a step closer, fuckers. I’m warning you.” I swilled the rum and threw the bottle at their feet, but they took a step closer. Something stirred and moaned from beneath the bed sheets. "Be still, wench! Alright, bastards, you asked for it,” I said and picked up my watch, adjusting the time.

Poof!

“Coward! Arrr! Fleeing coward,” said the one with the knife. “Wench, fix me some eggs and fix baby Jesus some formula.”

“Aye,” said the wench as she left the room.

“’Tis time for rum, mateys.”

Poof!

“I’m back!” I said.

“Kill that scurvy seadog!” Knifey yelled.

“I wouldn’t do that! You wouldn’t kill your own father, would you?”

“Aye, whose father be ye?”

“I’m all your fathers! That’s right, you goddamned time pirates, I went back in time and made wenches of all yer—err, your—mothers!”

“Arr, Jesus Christ!”

“Baby Jesus be sleepin’!” Yelled the wench from another room.

I put on my knickers and got back into bed. “Now let's carry on with the plan and kidnap Shakespeare. I’m in the mood for sonnets.”