tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91335662861069549092024-03-05T08:29:21.295-08:00frankly writtenInvisible powdered water. Just add water and stir!frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-77365570884804656862017-11-06T16:13:00.003-08:002017-11-06T16:18:54.112-08:00Do When DoneShe was cross-legged on her couch, hunched over, phone in hand, scrolling and reading. She texted, "800 words for what"<br />
<br />
"to save m" She put the phone down. It was the first time she'd gone to the toilet without her phone in ten years. She wasn't spoiled, but she had a pleasant upbringing. Her boyfriend was raised by a television with a bulky fat remote and his current phone folded in half. At least it fits in his pocket, she thought. What does he do in the bathroom? She heard her phone vibrate and rattle her coffee table. She hated that noise. She leaned and opened the door, raised her voice and commanded her phone to read the text: "eight guys here, need to motivate them, figured around 100 words of encouragement per" The voice was robotic, but her mind translated it as she heard it applying a tone that hid concern with confidence. She tried thinking of a response, but all she could think of were questions to ask her phone.<br />
<br />
VVVVV VVVVV. She picked up her phone, read his next message and put the phone back and waited for it to ring and walked away. She could hear the table rattling from her room. She was on her back thinking, stretching and yoga and thinking, on her computer typing and thinking. She wrote him: "here are some links with tips on motivating people" She was embarrassed by her own lack of effort and started cleaning. She flung and shoved things back to their place and the vacuum tracks weren't parallel. She took the shower cold, washing only the neck down, chewed her food less than normal, skipped her sox and scarf but put on her seat belt and nearly ran a stop sign before braking hard. She pulled over to check the phone. There was a police car around the corner. The officer chased and stopped the person behind her. "than you!" her phone read and she sat there crying. frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-47576577408292986862008-11-07T12:40:00.000-08:002008-11-07T13:27:40.246-08:00Retiring this Blog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://adadventurum.blogspot.com/"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRSI3I-uJef-dHhotKq60r4EifgbTYM7oxziZA8AUVxyMvwtI0BM-enkSD0Cz9KnKO22_g3Wr-ym-DCgxwA-Si7E1_mhsyQGSKLakOUvQPHXLckmyzGZvvBwwS0tiUhU_3FnVfOZGvDU4/s320/watersme.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266021276238276658" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="">This just in: this blog is dead! In dying, it has given life to a new <a href="http://adadventurum.blogspot.com">blog</a>.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">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 <a href="http://idontknowwherethisisgoing.blogspot.com">blog</a>, 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.</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-77746683336430833262008-10-29T12:52:00.000-07:002008-10-29T13:15:17.342-07:00Breaking Blogger News!<p class="MsoNormal" style="">What is this!<span style=""> </span>A Blogger feature I’ve not seen before, a feature perhaps purloined?<span style=""> </span>Purloined and downgraded it seems.<span style=""> </span>I’ve seen better thefts performed by quadriplegics or the NY Times.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I’ve added the feature to this blog and adjusted it accordingly.<span style=""> </span>Unfortunately, after this addition my bland blog has turned into a bland and ugly blog.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Seriously, check out those voting boxes beneath this entry.<span style=""> </span>They’re crude and outdated.<span style=""> </span>It’s like walking down the street and seeing Blogger wearing an expensive suit, a fitted shirt, shiny leather shoes, and parachute pants.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Is there no way to customize this feature (further)?<span style=""> </span></p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-74839922033982578692008-10-13T12:41:00.000-07:002008-10-14T12:32:53.940-07:00Seeking Guest Writers<p class="MsoNormal" style="">That’s right, friends, I’m seeking guest writers.<span style=""> </span>I’m looking for someone who’ll contribute to this blog for money.<span style=""> </span>That’s right, I’ll pay you.<span style=""> </span>I’ll pay you how I pay the street walkers who indulge me on occasion: with poems. That's right, poems.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">You’d be surprised how often prostitutes will accept mediocre, drunken poetry as payment for fellatio.<span style=""> </span>No, I guess it’s not that surprising.<span style=""> </span>It’s only happened twice, and they were women I was dating at the time.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Anyway, potential guest writers, the ideal candidate will:</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">-Be attractive;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">-Not be experiencing any financial hardships so as to accept poems or sexual favors as payment;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">-Not outshine me and;</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">-Be witty and provocative.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Actually, be either witty or provocative for a writer with a combination of the two will surely outshine me.<span style=""> </span>If that happens, you’re dead.<span style=""> </span>You hear that, motherfucker?<span style=""> </span>DEAD.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">If interested, post relevant information as a comment and I’ll contact you within a minute of applying.</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-7705896028827147192008-10-03T11:14:00.000-07:002008-10-03T11:27:00.537-07:00Chess<p class="MsoNormal" style="">I used to be a goddam chess genius!<span style=""> </span>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!<span style=""> </span>So you can imagine my surprise when all the Joe Nobodies who can barely type out sentences on Yahoo chess annihilate me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">You know, I’m starting to think my insidious fucking family let me win all those matches years ago.<span style=""> </span>I’m starting to think that maybe I wasn’t so good after all.<span style=""> </span>I bet if I played them again today, they’d kick my ass.<span style=""> </span>Yeah, that must be it, or it’s all the inhalants I’ve been huffing.</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-15496654038970774292008-09-17T12:33:00.000-07:002008-09-28T15:03:20.786-07:00Anniversary Party<p class="MsoNormal" style="">So the one year anniversary of this bitch is coming quick.<span style=""> </span>It came so quick I didn’t even realize it.<span style=""> </span>Now I know how my sexual partners feel.<span style=""> </span>Nah, I’m kidding, I’m as flaccid as a half-filled water balloon.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Anyway, to celebrate I’m throwing a party at my place.<span style=""> </span>I’m gonna have grab bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and a 2/3-full bottle of 7up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Lucky for you all, the anniversary lands on October 4<sup>th</sup>, a Saturday.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I’ll be on the computer watching porn, but you guys can eat my Cheetos and drink my 7up on my bed.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Just bring your own fucking napkins</i>.<span style=""> </span>I don’t want any Cheeto residue staining my bed.<span style=""> </span>Make sure they’re moist napkins because dry napkins don’t do shit against Cheeto dust fingers.<span style=""> </span>I don’t need to be telling you this.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">If you don’t bring your own moist napkins, I’m not letting you in.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Don’t RSVP, I’ll just expect people at my door that night.</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-1334917491610345832008-09-10T14:08:00.000-07:002008-09-10T16:13:49.140-07:00No Substance<p class="MsoNormal" style="">Yeah, so I haven’t been posting with the same frequency.<span style=""> </span>So what.<span style=""> </span>Bite me.<span style=""> </span>Just the women.<span style=""> </span>Harder.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Thanks.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I’m kidding.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I have pages and pages and pages (two) of words I’ve found unfit to post.<span style=""> </span>Every time I write something and it’s not posted, an angel’s wings get clipped.<span style=""> </span>Now you understand the enormous weight on my shoulders.<span style=""> </span>Why would God do this to me!<span style=""> </span>Why, God!<span style=""> </span>Why!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">You know what?<span style=""> </span>This blog looks really bland.<span style=""> </span>I mean, it’s white and there’s a glass.<span style=""> </span>What the hell?<span style=""> </span>Invisible powdered water?<span style=""> </span>What was I thinking?<span style=""> </span>Oh wait, hah!<span style=""> </span>I’m so brilliant.<span style=""> </span>I wish there were more color here.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">There</span>, now I’m happy.<span style=""> </span>If you can help me add more color, leave me a comment.<span style=""> </span>I expect no comments.</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-40782920574318372012008-08-22T14:51:00.000-07:002008-10-14T12:58:05.063-07:00Television Kills Brain Cells, Story at Eleven<p class="MsoNormal" style="">I’m bummed.<span style=""> </span>There’s hardly anything good on TV.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Have you seen the Food Network lately?<span style=""> </span>It’s become the MTV of food.<span style=""> </span>How many different food competitions can they air?<span style=""> </span><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Chili</st1:place></st1:country-region> competitions, burger competitions, cake competitions!<span style=""> </span>What is this?<span style=""> </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>This will ensure an explosion, death, and higher ratings.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">And what’s up with these ‘in search of’ shows?<span style=""> </span>At their core these shows are about a team of slack-jawed fools chasing <i style="">nothing</i>.<span style=""> </span>Look at In Search of the Lochness Monster.<span style=""> </span>How about airing the show where you actually capture the beast?<span style=""> </span>It doesn’t even have to be the Lochness Monster, a peculiar fish will suffice.<span style=""> </span>I’d even be happy with a larger-than-average fish.<span style=""> </span>It doesn’t even have to be freakishly enormous, a goldfish the size of my hand will do.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">As far as I’m concerned, the best thing on television in recent years has been the <a href="http://www.classicartsshowcase.org/">Classic Arts Showcase</a>, a show that encourages viewers to “go feast upon the buffet of arts in their community.”<span style=""> </span>There are two things excitingly cool about this: one, it’s completely non profit and funded to run by founder <a href="http://www.classicartsshowcase.org/lloydRigler.html">Lloyd Rigler</a> until at least 2022; and two, it’s something different.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">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.<span style=""> </span>First of all, I’m not <i style="">that</i> 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.<span style=""> </span>I’m just glad that there’s something novel airing.<span style=""> </span>CAS is like a singular rose hidden in a field of rampant weeds.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I wish there were more stimulating and somewhat innovative shows on television.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Yeah, that’d work just fine.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">Where are the donkeys?<span style=""> </span>Such is life.</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-45640421729104935192008-08-12T19:42:00.000-07:002008-08-13T03:30:05.889-07:00The Tale of Angry Dog<p class="MsoNormal" style="">Once upon a time there was an angry dog.<span style=""> </span>“Angry Dog!<span style=""> </span>Angry Dog!” people would shout as he strolled by.<span style=""> </span>Everyone always wondered why his owners named him Angry Dog.<span style=""> </span>Some assumed it was because of his angry demeanor, others because he always mauled passersby.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“That dog is Satan’s dog,” the older folk’d say.<span style=""> </span>“I’m going to kill me that gosh darn dog one’ these days,” the younger folk’d say.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">He used to be a good dog back in the day—back before he was bred as a fighting dog.<span style=""> </span>“Good dog!<span style=""> </span>Good dog!” he would hear with subsequent pats and belly rubs every time his owners had visitors.<span style=""> </span>He would sit, roll over, shake hands, and he hardly ever humped as his balls were removed, you see.<span style=""> </span>I can’t really say what caused his owners to turn such a perfectly good pup into a vicious fighting machine of death.<span style=""> </span>I asked them once and they said, “protection,” but I really think it was for the money they got at the dog fights.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">One day there was a secret town meeting where the destruction of Angry Dog was to be discussed.<span style=""> </span>“We gotta kill that dang dog,” yelled one participant.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Now how in tarnation are we gonna kill that there dog?<span style=""> </span>He just about takes one of our arms off every time we get near the feller!” said another.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“How ‘bout we stuff cats with dynamite, and set catmines next to fire hydrants!” said yet another.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“You’re all ignorant and insensitive oafs,” yelled a young woman with college textbooks clutched to her chest.<span style=""> </span>“It’s not the dog’s fault!<span style=""> </span>We should be punishing his owners!<span style=""> </span>They’re the ones who created this creature!<span style=""> </span>Target them, not the—.”<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">When the town folk returned, all they found was the motionless body of the young woman.<span style=""> </span>There wasn’t a bite on her.<span style=""> </span>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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">To this day nobody knows Angry Dog’s whereabouts.<span style=""> </span>All I have to say is be careful at the next town meeting, for it could be <i style="">you</i> who is involved in a failed mugging.</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-41143321929847063642008-08-01T14:47:00.000-07:002008-08-01T14:55:11.248-07:00My Poetry<p>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.</p> <p>A part of you,<br />yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.<br />Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me,<br />but we are one and soon two.<br />You kissed my face and we fell in love,<br />then you rotted me from the inside out.<br />After you're gone<br />you cause me agonizing pain<br />when you explode from my chest cavity,<br />face hugger baby.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>A giant bear with funky claws of tender<br />swipes at my face with beautiful fury.<br />I ate his child and he's revenging my body,<br />with pounces of gold.<o:p></o:p></p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-72654993656660135312008-07-28T12:55:00.000-07:002008-07-28T13:37:27.269-07:00To My Visitors<p class="MsoNormal" style="">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.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""> Here are some popular searches:<br /><br />By far the largest contingent of visitors would be those looking for Alana de la Garza, the actress who plays the <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">ADA</st1:place></st1:City> 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 <a href="http://l-frank.blogspot.com/2008/02/law-and-order.html">here</a>. To you, because you probably aren't aware, here is a <a href="http://images.google.com/images?hl=en&safe=off&client=firefox-a&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&hs=j8Y&q=alana%20de%20la%20garza&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=wi">Google Image Search</a> and the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alana_de_la_Garza">Wiki page</a> of my future girlfriend.<br /><br />The next largest faction consists of--and this is especially popular in <st1:place st="on">Europe</st1:place>--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? <a href="http://l-frank.blogspot.com/2008/05/three-words.html">Here</a>). 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.<br /><br />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, <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Peru</st1:place></st1:country-region>? ¿Por que? Not sure what you're looking for, but <a href="http://l-frank.blogspot.com/2007/12/even-more-dialogue-weather-reporter.html">here</a>, you'll remain unsatisfied.<br /><br />To the other 50% of my visitors, those who've been tricked by Yelp or other blogs into coming: suckers.</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-9758700509727189882008-07-14T14:50:00.000-07:002008-07-14T14:56:40.618-07:00The Story of My Father - The Boxer<span style="font-style: italic;">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.</span><o:p><br /><br /></o:p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">My father was born on a ranch far from the city, deep in the dirty hills of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Mexico</st1:place></st1:country-region> where the ground cracked, the sun charred and the water froze.<span style=""> </span>He was the youngest and toughest of seventeen, worked harder than a mule, and learned to herd sheep and stave off wolves by eight.<span style=""> </span>By ten he was herding sheep on week-long journeys where he lived off cacti and the occasional mutton.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">At thirteen he developed a penchant for boxing.<span style=""> </span>Few knew his boxing prowess as few were familiar with how a life of farming, herding, and poverty primed a fighter with toughness.<span style=""> </span>He once told me that he was play-fighting with his siblings and he fell and hurt himself.<span style=""> </span>There was blood and crying when my grandfather tended to him.<span style=""> </span>“Your grandfather,” he said, “uprooted a 150 foot redwood and broke it in two over my head.<span style=""> </span>‘That’s what you get for hurting yourself!’ he scolded.”<span style=""> </span>My parents would do this to me all the time, so I have no trouble believing the story.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">My father trained furiously.<span style=""> </span>Every chance he had, he would punch a boulder into dust.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>He progressed quickly, disintegrating boulders with fewer and fewer punches.<span style=""> </span>It didn’t take long before the compressed air at his knuckles from his swing pulverized granite.<span style=""> </span>“There were countless untapped veins of boulders in the caves atop mountains.<span style=""> </span>Other fighters never dared venture that high.<span style=""> </span>Far too many orangutans, they’d say.<span style=""> </span>What fools.<span style=""> </span>Little did they know they were my finest sparring partners.”<span style=""> </span>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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">The first swing of his first match ended his career as the punch exploded his opponent’s head.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>The judge ruled that he take care of his victim’s family in accordance with the laws of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Mexico</st1:place></st1:country-region> at the time.<span style=""> </span>“I didn’t know what to do,” he said.<span style=""> </span>“I’d never cared for a family of rhinoceroses before.”<span style=""> </span>A daunting task indeed, especially for a dismayed thirteen year old.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">And so ended that chapter of my father’s life.</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-215287596581362462008-07-07T18:54:00.000-07:002008-07-09T12:44:18.342-07:00Rude People<p class="MsoNormal" style="">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. <span style=""> </span>She smiles and bends slightly at the waist as if talking to a child and asks my friend, “are you a hooker?”<span style=""> </span>This, of course, leaves us speechless.<span style=""> </span>The foreigner continues, “do you like being called a mooshpin?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“In <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">England</st1:country-region></st1:place> the . . . ,” she continued, sounding as though she was speaking with a sack of marbles lodged in her mouth and with censure in her tone.<span style=""> </span>I blew smoke into her face before pushing my friend back into the bar.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">We went out half an hour later for another smoke and the crazy bitch was standing on the corner near the bar.<span style=""> </span>She kept her eyes on my friend.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Is there a problem,” I asked her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“No, no problem.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Are you sure?” I asked again, drunk with liquor and vengeance.<span style=""> </span>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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“No, there’s no problem,” she said before walking across the street.<span style=""> </span>I ran across behind her and demanded an apology.<span style=""> </span>“I’m sorry.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Thank you,” I said.<span style=""> </span>She began walking away and I noticed she turned around and glanced at my friend.<span style=""> </span>The gall.<span style=""> </span>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. <span style=""> </span>I karate chopped her shoulder, she collapsed and I spit on the ground beside her and put out my cigarette in her hair. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Doesn’t she realize it’s rude to stare?<span style=""> </span>And almost just as rude to call someone a hooker?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">The next story takes place on the freeway.<span style=""> </span>My friend and I were on the 110, driving north on the right most lane that merges with an on ramp.<span style=""> </span>A red pickup pulls up behind us, then to our right to try and pass us.<span style=""> </span>Rude.<span style=""> </span>My friend speeds up and doesn’t allow the pickup to pull ahead.<span style=""> </span>He reaches 120 and the red pickup disappears behind us.<span style=""> </span>Two minutes later, the pickup attempts the same stunt but is again foiled.<span style=""> </span>Rude!<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Rude!</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">It’s the rudest thing that’s ever happened to me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I lower the window, reach for the pickup’s tire and pull it off sending it into a hellish fishtail across all four lanes.<span style=""> </span>I lob the tire behind us into the pickup’s cab where it detonates, creating a mushroom cloud dwarfing the buildings downtown.<span style=""> </span>Rude.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style=""></p><span style="font-style: italic;">This all really happened (even the shotgun) except for the wanton and needless violence.<br /><br /></span>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-69247280001337333402008-07-03T20:29:00.000-07:002008-07-25T15:30:16.178-07:00Billiards Part 2<span style="font-style: italic;">Back in </span><st1:city style="font-style: italic;" st="on"><st1:place st="on">Cypress for 9-ball</st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-style: italic;"> two weeks ago and it’s like this:</span> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">I walk into the pool hall with a friend, pay the entry fee and ask, “Am I still a 4?”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Yes, you need to come in the money twice to be bumped up to a 5.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Julio?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Yes, The 7,” I say.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“He’s the best--,” he looks around, “he’s the best player here.”<span style=""> </span>He looks around once more, “yeah, he’s the best player here.<span style=""> </span>You can win easy with your handicap.”<span style=""> </span>I hope so.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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).<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">They called the matches and I went over to introduce myself.<span style=""> </span>“Not use to giving away such an advantage,” said The 7.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Won’t make a difference, you’ll still win,” I say.<span style=""> </span>It was a good short match.<span style=""> </span>We finish, shake hands again and I walk over to report the results.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“What was the score,” my friend asks.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Three one.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Aw, well that guy’s really good.<span style=""> </span>At least you got one game.<span style=""> </span>Good job.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“No, I won.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“What!”<span style=""> </span>He says with utter surprise.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Yeah, I won,” I say while walking out for my ritual swig and smoke and feeling downright champish.<span style=""> </span>Winning’s invigorating, especially when you’re not supposed to win.<span style=""> </span>You can feel it in your belly and can’t help but to pop an electric smile, even alone, to yourself.<span style=""> </span>I took another swig and heard my name inside.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I’m playing the guy with a Bluetooth set forever attached to his ear.<span style=""> </span>Bluetooth man is a 6 and has to spot me the eight ball.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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:</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLbZxuOwTddPsWMJW8YU1Q7FUA2om42-cCU5OCmA1UlgJ7P_cYDmZTAls7fxpbE-JkVVlEn667xUa3AB-BCR60aGXH-Svss9cqfuF7wmINJmcNyhiMk2djOyVhSdBJDF2vSNLirtdjCZ0/s1600-h/two-nine.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLbZxuOwTddPsWMJW8YU1Q7FUA2om42-cCU5OCmA1UlgJ7P_cYDmZTAls7fxpbE-JkVVlEn667xUa3AB-BCR60aGXH-Svss9cqfuF7wmINJmcNyhiMk2djOyVhSdBJDF2vSNLirtdjCZ0/s320/two-nine.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218997061221990034" border="0" /></a>I make the combo and win the first game and run from the four to the eight in the second game.<span style=""> </span>It was a fine victory.<span style=""> </span>He wins the third and fourth games, leaving me to break on the final rack.<span style=""> </span>I break, make the one and play safe on the two.<span style=""> </span>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:</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLCsORktuRbR8BrUnnmgH6tr6s_-xBPNi08jFmjHWAPkakIs4zVbwfRnbQLQnbPOM3yldURcrWFiUd4velzVNOJvhyitZZFZVXDGFRdIjU_tvrybCdfSg6BFyERVxcgDv6g5zaPLqQyI/s1600-h/two-eight.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLCsORktuRbR8BrUnnmgH6tr6s_-xBPNi08jFmjHWAPkakIs4zVbwfRnbQLQnbPOM3yldURcrWFiUd4velzVNOJvhyitZZFZVXDGFRdIjU_tvrybCdfSg6BFyERVxcgDv6g5zaPLqQyI/s320/two-eight.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218997054113658354" border="0" /></a>My left hand is tense and shaking like an old engine about to die, but I make the shot.<span style=""> </span>“Fucker can shoot,” Bluetooth says in Spanish behind me. <span style=""> </span>“He’s not a 4.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I walk up to report my win and my friend asks for the score.<span style=""> </span>“Three two,” I say allowing a feigned feeling of defeat to sag my face.<span style=""> </span>His shoulders slump but before he says anything I say with a smile, “just kidding, I won.”<span style=""> </span>He gets excited and I walk out for my swig and smoke and I get drunk.<span style=""> </span>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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Maybe I'm not a 4, but because of it I came in third and won forty dollars that night.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-18236525726197485062008-06-23T12:36:00.000-07:002008-06-23T12:45:51.480-07:00Billiards<span style="font-style: italic;">There’s a pool hall in </span><st1:city style="font-style: italic;" st="on"><st1:place st="on">Cypress</st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-style: italic;">. They run a tournament every Tuesday night and employ a handicapping system to level the battlefield.</span><span style=""></span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br />Being a four, I’m awarded several advantages when playing against fives and sixes.<span style=""> </span>Against a five, for example, I’m awarded the last two balls on the table in a game of nine ball.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Against the rare seven, I’m awarded the last three balls on the table.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Anyhow, most take losing against me in stride, giving me a cordial smile after some bullshit shot I’ve made.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">The first time I play at this tourney, the guy running it asks me, “do you recognize anyone here?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Yes, her,” I say pointing to an Asian woman playing alone two tables from us.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Would you say she’s at your skill level?<span style=""> </span>She’s a four.<span style=""> </span>Who wins when you play?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“We’re even. <span style=""> </span>She wins mostly, though,” I say.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“This guy isn’t a four!<span style=""> </span>He’s a five,” someone says from behind me, startling me.<span style=""> </span>I turn and figure this guy’s being facetious as I don’t recall ever meeting or playing the saboteur.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“You can see me play if you’d like.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Nah, start him as a five.<span style=""> </span>He’s not a four.<span style=""> </span>He’s a five,” says the saboteur.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“We'll start you as a five.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Alright.”<span style=""> </span>There goes my advantage.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I go outside for another couple of swigs from a bottle, a smoke and some talk with the other players.<span style=""> </span>“Have you heard of So-and-so,” I ask my friend.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“No, who the fuck is that?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“That guy right there with the bandana and pony tail.<span style=""> </span>And he’s fat.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“No, why?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“He’s trying to sandbag me.<span style=""> </span>I think.<span style=""> </span>I don’t remember him from anywhere,” I say before my other friend’s name is called.<span style=""> </span>I walk in to watch him play.<span style=""> </span>He plays a four and he’s demolished quickly.<span style=""> </span>“You did very well,” I tell him as we’re walking to report his loss.<span style=""> </span>His opponent vouches to grant him a handicap of three and me a handicap of four.<span style=""> </span>Excellent, how nice of her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I went back outside for another smoke and another swig and heard my name inside.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I rack, he breaks and pockets all but the 7, 8 and 9 ball.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Were he a cartoon, he’d be tomato-red with steam shooting from his ears.<span style=""> </span>I offer to play as a five, that I don’t mind, but it doesn’t work.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I make the combo and win and he begins cussing loudly and goes off talking like a malcontent vagrant cursing God for his misfortune.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Fuck this, I’m never coming back here again.<span style=""> </span>This guy isn’t a four.<span style=""> </span>He’s supposed to be a five!<span style=""> </span>I thought he was a five!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“I was a four until you said I was a five,” I say from behind him, startling him.<span style=""> </span>He shoves his cue into his case and stomps out in a fit of childlike rage for a cigarette.<span style=""> </span>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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">One of the cheapest yet most satisfying victories I’ve had.</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-71793815950235736252008-06-09T13:27:00.000-07:002008-06-09T13:31:03.891-07:00Jury Duty<p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i style="">Another short story.<span style=""> </span>This one was inspired <span style=""> </span>by that one time I was summoned by the court to be indicted for treason against the state and a traffic ticket.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">We’d returned from our lunch break a week into the trial.<span style=""> </span>“Your Honor, I request you declare a mistrial,” the prosecutor said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“On what grounds?”<span style=""><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Jurors 3, 7, and 8 have slept through half of the trial, and Juror 8 is clearly drunk after every lunch.<span style=""> </span>He smells like Jack Daniels and I believe he is pissing himself as I speak.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“I fucked your wife,” spit juror 8.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“I deny your request, counselor,” the judge’s words were followed by an uproar from the court.<span style=""> </span>“Order!<span style=""> </span>Order, motherfuckers!”<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Juror 8 shed a tear and the crowd sat.<span style=""> </span>“Continue your cross examination, counselor.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">He rose from beneath his desk and cleared his throat, “Your Honor, may we at least wake the sleeping jurors?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Objection!” cried the defense attorney, waking jurors 3 and 7.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Overruled.<span style=""> </span>The prosecution will rouse Juror 8.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">He poked the muttering Juror, “no.<span style=""> </span>No.<span style=""> </span>No more.<span style=""> </span>No more sausages!<span style=""> </span>Stop!”<span style=""> </span>The prosecutor’s next poke changed the setting of Juror 8’s dream who was now laughing, “Ha!<span style=""> </span>Judge, you crazy bastard!<span style=""> </span>I can’t! <span style=""> </span>No more shots!”<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>The Juror woke with a swing, knocking the prosecutor out cold.<span style=""> </span>“Most wanted motherfucker, take that!—oh shit.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“The defense requests that the charges of public fornication and beastiality be dropped.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Request granted, goat fucker.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-style: italic;">Jesus Christ, what a piece of shit story. I'll make it up to you, I swear!</span><br /></p><i style=""><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></i>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-43377225673028999632008-06-06T13:22:00.000-07:002008-06-09T13:33:55.013-07:00Cash Cab LA<p class="MsoNormal" style="">I was walking down <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">1<sup>st</sup> street</st1:address></st1:street> on my evening constitutional when a cab pulled up alongside me.<span style=""> </span>The window came down and it looked like A Night at the Roxbury had thrown up inside the cab.<span style=""> </span>A platinum blond popped her head and chest out of the window.<span style=""> </span>Her breasts would’ve hung out over the door if they weren’t so perky.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Excuse me!<span style=""> </span>Sir!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Hi,” I said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Hi, we’re on a game show!<span style=""> </span>I need your help answering a question.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Alright.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Oh, thank you so much,” she said with genuine glee.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Quit flirting with the nerd and ask the question already,” roared the driver, Dustin Diamond.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” her voice quivered.<span style=""> </span>“The Romantic Period spanned approximately fifty years.<span style=""> </span>Name fifteen English notables from the period.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">The driver leaned over the passenger side seat, lowered the window, spit through it and wished me luck: “good luck, fucker.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Barbauld, Smith, Robinson, Blake, Burns, Wollstonecraft, Edgeworth, Wordsworth, Scott, Coleridge, Lamb, Austen, Lord Byron, Shelley, Keats, Haz—”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Alright, that’s enough, asshole.<span style=""> </span>You got it,” Dustin said throwing himself back into his seat.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“You’re so smart!<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>She was very pleased.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Nah, Tennyson and Dickens are from the Victorian Age,” I said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Oh yeah, smart guy?<span style=""> </span>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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Hey, that’s not fair!<span style=""> </span>He answered the question!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Shut your mouth, Titties.<span style=""> </span>Recite the poem, bitch!”<span style=""> </span>He puffed out his chest and half-lunged at me with a half-cocked head.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“It is an ancient Mariner<br />And he stoppeth one of three.<br />‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,<br />Now wherefore stopp’st thou me—’”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“You son of a bitch,” he cut me off.<span style=""> </span>He spit on the floor and stormed back into the cab.<span style=""> </span>“Let’s get the fuck out of here.<span style=""> </span>You have two blocks left, bitch, I guess that’s enough for one more question.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“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.<span style=""> </span>I continued my constitutional and noticed the cab stopped a block ahead.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">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.<span style=""> </span>I walked up to the blond who was picking up quarters and asked if she won.</p>"No. <span style="font-style: italic;">Yes!</span>"<br /><br /><span style=""></span>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-30812692443155259292008-05-27T14:54:00.000-07:002008-05-27T15:46:00.656-07:00Tom and Jerry<span style="font-style: italic;">I </span><span style="font-style: italic;">love Tom and Jerry. I've often wondered how their antics translate into real life.</span><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.dismalist.com/d/chase.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://www.dismalist.com/d/chase.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.dismalist.com/d/fencing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://www.dismalist.com/d/fencing.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.dismalist.com/d/chase.jpg"></a><span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">Here, for instance, Tom is chasing Jerry.<span style=""> </span><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">Real life? <a href="http://www.dismalist.com/d/catfood.jpg">Ah, shit</a>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br />Here, Tom and Jerry are fencing.<span style=""> </span><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">In real life? Oh no!<span style=""> </span>Jer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.dismalist.com/d/duel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://www.dismalist.com/d/duel.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>ry, <a href="http://www.dismalist.com/d/stabbing.jpg">watch out</a>!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">Here is a duel over what appears to be a case of tomatoes.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">What a <a href="http://www.dismalist.com/d/battleship.jpg">waste</a>.</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-23310749442820849322008-05-12T22:45:00.000-07:002008-05-13T13:27:13.834-07:00There's a Moth in My Room<span style="font-style: italic;">I contemplated destroying it.</span><br /><br />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?<br /><br />It<span style="font-style: italic;"> is</span> the next logical step.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://idontknowwherethisisgoing.blogspot.com/search/label/Mouse%20Trap">similar campaign</a> 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).<br /><br />Perhaps the moth has garnered the support of its family. Perhaps I should be wary of moths from hereon.<br /><br />Perhaps it has turned my family against me.<br /><br />No, that’s crazy.frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-26639679388315758542008-05-05T10:36:00.000-07:002008-05-05T10:54:33.686-07:00Three WordsChampagne, asshole, party.<span style=""> </span>What do they have in common?<br /><br />A champagne enema orgy?<span style=""> </span>How I wish!<o:p><br /><br /></o:p>No, they are the songs of three comedians-turned-musical-geniuses. <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S0Vv47myQts">Video 1</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpWA0PdPnfk">Video 2</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZbSb74TbJ8">Video 3</a></p> For the Champagne Enema Orgy, click <class="msonormal" style=""><a href="http://www.billoreilly.com/">here</a>. Haha, frank so funny. That's as good as it's getting this month, folks.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.billoreilly.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></a><br /></class="msonormal">frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-32952356385713965872008-04-22T16:00:00.000-07:002008-04-22T16:08:30.107-07:00Last Words<i style="">I thought I’d continue my short stories.<span style=""> </span>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><o:p><br /></o:p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I’m going to witness this man’s last words.<span style=""> </span>What if I forget them?<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Here,” he strained, “take this key.<span style=""> </span>It opens a safe.<span style=""> </span>Crucial evidence.<span style=""> </span>Without it, we won’t be able to—,“ he sputtered out.<span style=""> </span>I stood and studied the key.<span style=""> </span>It was rusty, long, and with a skull at the butt.<span style=""> </span>Wait, what judge?<span style=""> </span>And what does the key open?<span style=""> </span>“Please stay.<span style=""> </span>There’s more.”<span style=""> </span>Ah, here we go.<span style=""> </span>“Take the key to my house.<span style=""> </span>In my bedroom you’ll find a painting.<span style=""> </span>Behind the painting is a treasure chest.<span style=""> </span>Use the--.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Use the key?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Use the key on the--.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Use the key on the treasure chest?<span style=""> </span>You have a treasure chest?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Yes.”<span style=""> </span>His eyes rolled into his head and he gave out.<span style=""> </span>I’d never seen a man die.<span style=""> </span>I’d also never held an authentic skeleton key.<span style=""> </span>What the hell did I get myself into?<span style=""> </span>“The judge,” so he wasn’t dead, “he’s in this building in room 304.<span style=""> </span>Take my card, do as I told you.<span style=""> </span>It’s important.”<span style=""> </span>His last words.<span style=""> </span>What valor.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I stood again and realized how fragile life was and the impact some have on others.<span style=""> </span>Even though he was a stranger, I felt immensely sad at his being eternally gone.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I began walking away to complete my mission when I felt his hand grab my pants.<span style=""> </span>“Before you go, sir, please I beg of you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“What is it?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“Remove the dildo from my ass.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i style="">To be continued.</i></p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-41065554178867690412008-04-15T00:22:00.000-07:002008-06-23T09:47:57.705-07:00A Serious Sci-Fi Story<i style=""><o:p></o:p></i><i style="">I have a couple friends who’ve begun to write stories.<span style=""> </span>I figured it was about time I did the same.<span style=""> </span>Folks, this is a very serious sci-fi love story.</i><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br />The year was one billion AD and Mecha Christ 9000 had just captured moon base alpha-z.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">“General, we’ve taken the moon base and received the unconditional surrender of the zombie robot overlord,” I told Mecha Christ 9000.<span style=""> </span>I hadn’t started questioning Mecha Christ 9000’s motives until he asked us to attack moon base alpha-z.<span style=""> </span>Our real enemies were the mutant dragon tamers who, for the past three months, had been stealing the sun.<span style=""> </span>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).<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I had nothing against the zombie robots.<span style=""> </span>Hell, I had a few zombie robot friends in high school.<span style=""> </span>What was I still doing participating in this godforsaken war?<span style=""> </span>I could run away.<span style=""> </span>It would be easy, but would you abandon the ninth incarnation of the mechanical savior himself?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">This moral dilemma would drive most men insane, but my mind was always occupied.<span style=""> </span>All I could think of was her, my love, the perfect woman.<span style=""> </span>She was made of pure energy and waiting for me in the 7<sup>th</sup> dimension.<span style=""> </span>I told her I’d write, but it was nearly impossible after Mecha Christ 9000 had uploaded my brain waves onto the ultrainternet.<span style=""> </span>I mean, how am I supposed to write when my arms are wires and my hands are keyboards?<span style=""> </span>Sure, I could ultra-e-mail her, but she’s frowned upon the ultrainternet ever since it absorbed part of her consciousness.<span style=""> </span>It was a crazy love story and she’s never liked talking about it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I was about to go on break when: “General, we’re under attack.<span style=""> </span>The Mutagons are flinging bits of the sun at our hull.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i style="">To be continued.</i></p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-70074626869451274302008-04-03T23:30:00.000-07:002008-04-12T01:00:21.244-07:00Inspiration<p class="MsoNormal" style="">Sometimes certain things trigger a flicker of creative energy within me.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">It happens.<span style=""> </span>For some it’s a line from a poem (In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo.)<span style=""> </span>For others an image: Caravaggio, perhaps Ingres.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I once wrote a love sonnet for a girlfriend.<span style=""> </span>People asked if it was a poem, an image, or a scent that inspired me.<span style=""> </span>I told them that it was that one time I was at the zoo when a rogue gorilla attempted to rape a slippery dolphin.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">But really, creative energy can be extracted from anything.<span style=""> </span>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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Lately, though, I’ve been tapping my <a href="http://www.myspace.com/aimespace">good friend’s</a> description of his music: “riding a train along a coast on a cloudy day, a night time drive through <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">new york city</st1:place></st1:city>, a walk through desolate snowed out woods.”<span style=""> </span>I love scenery and he does a good job of describing what his music evokes in someone.<span style=""> </span><span class="nametext"><a href="http://www.myspace.com/aimespace">aíme</a></span>, good stuff.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">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. </p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-35347624218345478272008-04-03T00:09:00.000-07:002008-04-03T00:12:01.375-07:00Oh That SasquatchI was camping once, minding my own business.<span style=""> </span>I was with a woman in a tent, pleasing her and whatnot.<span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" >I rose from her crotch to see a look of horror on her face.<span style=""> </span>It was a look I’d grown accustomed to over the years.<span style=""> </span>She was frozen with fear but was able to throw a glance to the side of the tent.<span style=""> </span>I turned and was met by the red-eyed gaze of a curious sasquatch.<span style=""> </span>I slipped out from within the tent and confronted the perverted beast.<span style=""><br /><br /></span>“Friend?”<span style=""> </span>He managed retardedly before I punched the fucker in the face.<span style=""> </span><span style=""><br /></span></span>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9133566286106954909.post-37980790256126845872008-04-01T00:12:00.000-07:002008-04-01T00:27:56.290-07:00April Fool's!<p class="MsoNormal">Top Pranks Inflicted on frank by</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Friends</span>:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, frank, it’s chocolate cake.<span style=""> </span>Eat it.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, frank, it’s lemonade.<span style=""> </span>Drink it.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, frank, it's real Almond Roca.<span style=""> </span>Eat it.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You have to understand it’s April Fool’s day.<span style=""> </span>Here, have a cigar.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p>"What am I going to do with this giant mallet? What am I going to <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>with this giant <span style="font-style: italic;">mallet?</span>" Not bludgeon you is what I'm going to do, frank."<br /><br />"Guess what, frank, today's your lucky day."<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Women</span>:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Of course I’m over 18/not married/on birth control/female.”<br /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fictional Characters</span>:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Don’t worry, the star will make you invincible.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Welcome to <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Jurassic</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>You must try the Almond Roca, I made them myself.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p>"I'll be back."<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Parents</span>:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“<span style="font-style: italic;">Que?</span>”</p>frankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11090446391618881831noreply@blogger.com1