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.