Sick City

A Moment With James Earl Jones

2012-02-16T04:20:00.000-08:00

He sat down at one of my tables, on a Thursday afternoon, across fromsome guy wearing a bolt of cologne and he was talking about something serious. Stevie on thejukebox singing about sunshine and suddenly James Earl Jones is looking up atme, asking for a coffee. I asked him how he takes it. He says he takes itblack.

James Earl Jones doesn’t have to wait for coffee.

For the next forty-five minutes he and this guy arguing overscript changes. And James Earl Jones doesn’t take no for an answer.

He takes a couple bites of the sandwich, and he drinks a lotta coffee, I think I refilled his cup three times.

And then he stands up, throws some cash down, and as he’s leavinghe says,

“THANK YOU”

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Nightmare (3)

2012-02-14T04:20:00.000-08:00

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I spent the day picking blackberries with Grandpa but now we're back home but now my home has prisoners on the inside. Villains and criminals there because there’s no room left at the jail. There’s a black man in a cage beside the washer and dryer, and there’s a Southern lunatic in the linen closet. They smile at me with bad smiles and I try not to look at them, I try not to get close to the men behind the bars, and I try not to look at them. Why do I have to go down to the basement? The grownups needed pickles, or a pickle jar (?) and so I had to go. Down to the basement, where the light bulb is burnt, and I hate going down these stairs because I know they’re down there. I can hear them laughing and talking as I make my way down but when they hear my footsteps they get quiet so I won’t know where they are. I started to talk to them so they would know I was there: “How’s everything! How’s everything going down here!” But they're silent with their arms in the bars and it’s so dark down here I can’t see anything in front of me. There are stacks of old newspapers from I don’t know why and old machines from before I was born and I can hear the prisoners breathing in the dark, telling stories they don’t think I can hear. And I walked past the laundry basket to the shelf on the wall and looked up and down for pickles no pickles and the prisoners started to make noises and spit from their cages and where was the pickles they needed? I tried to stand strong and stay in my place but the prisoners were shouting and laughing real mean and the basement smelled of darkness and the old and then I felt a hand come out from the bars and grab my ankle so I couldn’t run but I ran and I kicked and it was so loud that I heard them and they were laughing and trying to capture me but I got to the stairs and ran as hard as I could and shut the door behind me I’m never going down in the basement again. Never again never never again I’m never going down in the basement again.

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Wonderings...

2012-02-10T04:20:00.000-08:00

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Eenie meenie minie moe- what was that part about the tiger again?

But female cops always give me an erection, Officer

This is the part where Easter Pig learns the true meaning of Christmas!

Every Weatherman is either a homosexual or a robot... if you don't believe me take a look at the one you're with

This antique wicker gazebo is where I pork all my lady friends

My Dad's so old he remembers when Alec Baldwin was good-looking

FOX News is the next best thing to having Dick Cheney fuck you in the ass

What are the odds that the hive is full and the bees inside are furious?

Luckily I got one of those prisons where they let you keep your harmonica

The Bishop informs me that a bloody nose is not technically stigmata

My wife has a stuttering vagina and I can't get a cock in edgewise

Somedays I piss my pants just to spite my dry-cleaner

If cats always land on their feet, how do you explain that first dozen?

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Fucked Up On Love

2012-02-03T04:20:00.000-08:00

CARLOS ran to her house in the red midnight, picking a stone from her garden strong enough to break her window, and with his bare feet planted in her green lawn he pitched it perfect: to shatter the glass onto the floor of her bedroom.

Activity inside Maggie’s house now. Connections made, circuits ignited. Carlos heard his heart in his eardrums.

Some dog barking from the sidewalk next door and just a look from Carlos made it go away, made the mutt see reason as it can only be seen by a man lacking sanity. Broken glass and the Lab wandered off in humility.

Now Carlos was shouting without language, loud enough to wake the neighborhood sleeping. It was mad babble, aimed at Maggie’s heart through the splintered hole in the glass. In the middle of the monologue he stepped out, beside himself, watching it all in reverse: The police releasing him from the squad car, removing the handcuffs and pulling away in reverse, the blood dripping back up and inside the old woman’s head and her rising back to her feet, Carlos’ strong hands welcoming her up instead of pushing her down, and the film continued to rewind...

The old woman in the bathrobe, free from multiple contusion, standing beside him and inhaling the threats back into her lungs, stepping backward across the street and up her driveway and untying the knot in her bathrobe. She walked backwards into her house and the dog wandered back onto the sidewalk, the shards of Maggie’s bedroom pane reuniting in harmony, in location, the window whole, the stone soaring back into his hand.

And he held it. And he loved it. And the whole thing made him cum.

And with his bare feet planted in her green lawn he pitched it perfect: to shatter the glass onto the floor of her bedroom.

The neighbors all came out to watch Carlos get carted away. They stood silent, blinking in the cruiser’s pulsing light. Carlos looked out the back of the police car and saw Maggie, saw her on her front lawn in her nightgown, sobbing quietly and hugging her Father. As the cruiser pulled away he closed his eyes and saw her again, through the jagged gash of her bedroom window, smiling down at him in gratitude, for breaking through, for saving her, her hand beneath her nightgown and over her breast.

She blew him a kiss, and he knew what was real.

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Nana Loved Bronson

2012-01-27T04:20:00.000-08:00

Boodlust can bridge the generation gap, at least that’s what my Nana taught me, if not so much in words than by blasting the volume on “Death Wish 2” just before Charles Bronson blows the black guy’s head off.

KA-BOOM! Bet you didn’t see that one coming.

After that I was hooked for life... It wasn’t the violence, or the depravity, or the inherent racism. It was just the idea of Bronson: living in a cartoon world where shooting people in the genitals was as natural as shaking hands. And watching Bronson's barbarity with my 80-something Italian grandmother not only made his actions acceptable- it made them downright wholesome. If Nana didn't flinch during a particularly liquid decapitation who was I to say boo?

Nana seemed to trust in Charlie's actions, as if they all made perfect sense: splitting the abdomen of a wealthy banker just to get the name of a contact seemed like a perfectly valid method of networking. As a result Charles Bronson became my action movie hero, my go-to guy: this wasn’t a man who bothered with paperwork or procedure or first names... just do what he said or he would off you, okay? Do you have some kind of problem with that?

And it was the perfect coincidence that there was a Bronson movie playing every time I went to my Nana’s house: we spent hours parked in front of deep-cheddar action-classics like “Telefon,” the “Death Wish” series, “Assassination,” and the eternal “Death Hunt.” (She must have subscribed to the All-Bronson Channel: “All Charles Bronson, all the time.’)

I used to try to understand the appeal for her- was it the senseless brutality? The less-than-adorable leading man? The tissue-paper plots? Charlie’s stiff and passion-free delivery? One day I asked Nana outright what she liked about the movies but, like all great mysteries of the universe, this one would remain unsolved. She was unusually vague, shrugging and almost acting as if she didn’t know who Charles Bronson was... I’m sure she had her reasons.

But I guess the reasons weren't that important because the next time I was at her place we watched "Someone Behind The Door," on VHS.

It was a terrible movie... but blood always made the afternoon easier.

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Anytime Is A Good Time...

2012-01-26T04:20:00.000-08:00

...to visit Sick City

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Wonderings

2012-01-17T04:20:00.000-08:00

Date-rape isdevastating… but at least you get a free dinner

I have to confess: going to the morgue gives me theheebie-jeebies

Born on this date: Johnathan Swissarmy, inventor of thelegendary knife

"Beginner's Luck" goes a long way in neurosurgery

Remember those grisly circus murders? I was never seriouslyconsidered a suspect

According to my proctologist, there IS a wrong way to eat aReese's

I put a QR bumper sticker on the back of my car just tocause traffic accidents

You think Juan Valdez ever gets a coffee break?

I’m not sure what ‘unomomento’ means, but I think these Spanish people are insulting me

These Marvinburgers are delicious… I just wish Marvin couldhave been here to enjoy them...

I bought my dog a tuxedo so he could shit the floor in style

Forgot my safe word... can somebody untie me?

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What I Learned (In The City Tonight)

2012-01-15T01:37:00.000-08:00

- Hot dogs are still five dollars

- Cold is cold

- Getting kicked in the teeth still hurts

- No one has eyes on a train

- The people in the streets seem genuinely furious

- Love is alive

- I have indeed become comfortably numb

- It’s time for new material

- Sundays are for recovery

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Rarely-Used Remote Control Buttons

2012-01-12T04:20:00.000-08:00

10. Good Question

9. Extra Cheese

8. Hey Now!

7. My Bad

6. Cup Size

5. OMG

4. Maim

3. Floyd

2. Dazzle

1. And Then Some

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Souvenir

2012-01-10T04:20:00.000-08:00

The fireflies were flash-bulbing thenight like lazy papparazi. Well, anyway, that’s how it looked to me.

And they walked, slowly, becauseslow was as fast as they could go, because they had nowhere to go and foreverto get there. The warm June air was dusted with cinnamon, heavy with powdered sugar, but even for summer the night wassticky sweet. The elderly couple was almost invisible, indivisible, makingtheir way on down the sidewalk, crossing through the thick of the overgrowngrass, after the ice-cream stand, just a mile from the carnival, finding theirway to the empty bench in the center of the park, in the heart of the tourist season.

And they sat down.

A bottle rocket squealed, shruggedoff into the infinity of night sky, and as manand woman both stared straight ahead, wordlessly, purposely, he took her bonyhand in his own.

And he held it.

On nights like this he could stillfeel every reason, all the pull that had brought him to her years before. Hewas to the day proud that he had won her, proud of the worry lines on her face,lines that he had helped to groove. It was good to be a sentence in her story.

There was a surge of screaming fromthe boardwalk, from the Ferris Wheel, as another car reached the zenith andanother pair of riders had to be heard.

On the bench she squeezed his handback, so slight you wouldn’t see it if you were looking. She sighed, and heheard it. She still felt safe beside him, she still felt his strength despitehis weakening frame. She knew the furrowed brows above his eyesand she knew she’d put them there with questions, questions a man can’tanswer... but for her he had always tried.

The teenagers- out of school- weretrying on love and buying ice cream. And at this moment neither the elderly manor woman could tell you the other’s name- or even their own. They had forgotten allmemories to be here tonight, in this evening air, in this sweetest part ofSummer, to know once more what it was that brought them all this way inthe first place.

He turned to face her, and she to him. “I want adivorce.”

Some kids ran past with sparklers, lighting up the night sky with pure white light.

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The Lost Shopping List of Alfredo Montenegro

2012-01-09T04:20:00.000-08:00

The last known writings of the Spanish Poet (1908-2011)

Things What I Need:

- dedbread (large loaf)

- manchovies

- 1 cup tootpaste

- boatmeal

- crabgrab

- tomorrow juice

- meatfood salad

- white say in the jar

- asscracker

- chilkin bingo

- 3 pint sugar day

- beef egg

- angryfruit

- non-salami

- spoonjuff

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Pizza Face (Friday Morning)

2012-01-06T04:20:00.000-08:00

He threw the acid inher face, because he was a maniac, because she was a Random Girl standing on thestreet- teenaged, beautiful, smiling. He threw the acid good, like a champion,and tossed the empty Dixie cup over his shoulder, pedaling off into theaftermath, never to be seen again.

The random girl’s namewas Sammy, and her friends on either side stepped back as her face began topucker, the skin beginning to crackle and spit. In the split second beforeSammy was introduced to a pain so ripe that it would become its own reality shewas struck by the absurd thought that she would very possibly be late forschool today. Yeah, she would be late for school and miss Algebra.

And then the graceperiod ended, and the acid began to eat with a senseless hunger, to devour herflesh in search of bone in search of beyond.

It was a lucky break- Sammy hatedAlgebra.

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Wonderings

2012-01-01T04:20:00.000-08:00

Roses are red, violets are blue, if you don’t start sleepingwith me I’m gonna bang the babysitter

All the cool vegetarians hang out at the Burger King

Somedays I pour shampoo down the toilet just to spite mypsychiatrist

Just because you dive off the gondola doesn’t mean the dateis over

Can you hold the cole slaw? And choke to death on it?

Like a good neighbor, State Farm is refusing toreturn my calls

I trust Hispaniards… just not these Hispaniards…

I don’t like to hit sock puppets so consider this your finalwarning

Deja Jew: the sneaking suspicion that you’ve seen this Rabbibefore

The rapist is gone... now get back to sleep!

Chocolate mousse is just pudding with a French accent

Just promise me when I die that you won't let Morgan Freemando the voice-over...

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A-Rod In Germany

2011-12-30T04:20:00.000-08:00

“It’s my knee, Doctor...”

“Ya, I can see it.” This German doctor was looking over theMRI’s, the X-rays, the CT scans... used to be on paper but now it’s a laptop,now he has to navigate with arrows and the mousepad-

“Can somebody get me a Red Bull?”

The Doctor, shaking his head, scratching his beard, callingfor his secretary Mina. Mina, dark hair and lipstick, pausing to look at thesuperstar in the leather chair, an extra blink. A-Rod’s eyes were on hisiPhone.

“Can you get a Red Bull soda for our patient please?”

Mina nodded, and turned to get her coat with an extra bit ofswivel just in case, and then out into the hallway and the cold of Magdeburg Street, a slow snow starting to fall on a Friday morning.

Dr. Zummayer waited until the door closed, and only a Germanaccent can stop a man from texting.

“So you want to undergo the therapy?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“It’s much more than the plasma, you understand-”

“Hm-I’m beginning to see that.”

The Doctor stood up.

“This is mental. This is spiritual. This is total. This isnot about committing yourself for your job, for your game, or your image. Thisis now about your soul... you must find it... together we will heal it. Youlive in a cannibalistic culture... a very dangerous time... if you are notprepared to surrender yourself to the treatment, to the specifications... youneed not waste my time. Or yours.”

The laptop digitally chirped an incoming message for theDoctor.

“If you fight me... you will win. But you will never playlike a champion again. You must learn how to lose. You must learn how to letgo... ”

Alex stood up then, his cell phone falling to the carpet. “I'll do it," and then, "I'll do it."

He looked down at his cell. "Will I get my swing back?”

The Doctor took a breath before smiling. “I promise nothing.”

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The Circus Murders

2011-12-25T04:20:00.000-08:00

“I’m not going to the circus this year, Dad,” and Fructosemeant it.

Dad took the hookah from his mouth and sat straight up.“What?!?”

“I’m not going to the circus this year. I don’t ever want togo to the circus again!” He threw his car keys down on the sofa, where theybounced and landed on the living room carpet.

Dad looked heartbroken. “No circus? Why the hell not?”

“Do you remember what happened last year? Mom got eaten by alion! And the year before that? Uncle Ray was crushed by that elephant! Do youremember the year the bear got loose, cracked your vertebrae in half and putyou in that wheelchair?!?”

Dad looked down, almost surprised, almost as if he’dforgotten he was paralyzed. “Was thathow this happened?”

“Do you remember when the clown went nuts and startedshooting into the crowd and killed my fiancé?”

“That clown saved you from a bad marriage...”

“Do you remember when the tent collapsed and put Tommy in acoma? Do you remember when Aunt Christie choked to death on a candy apple andthe bearded lady just stood there laughing? I’m starting to get a phobia aboutthe circus, Dad... I just don’t want to go anymore.”

“Welp, that’s your choice,” he said, taking a long drag onhis waterpipe, “but if you don’t go you’ll miss the puppets and the horses, thedancing bears and the clowns... you’ll miss the trapeze artists and thetightrope walkers. You’ll miss the whole show!”

Neither of them spoke as the apple smoked slow in the hookahbowl.

Dad added with a wink, “And you’ll miss the cotton candy.”

Fructose sighed, smiling in spite of himself. “And whathappens if you don’t survive?”

Dad smiled back. “Next year you go without me.”

Fructose stared into the smoke, the smile fading from his face. “Lets hope so.”

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Christmas Wonderings

2011-12-19T04:20:00.000-08:00

On the sixth day of Christmas mytrue love gave to me: blistering gonorrhea

Holiday Tip #405: ChristmasCarolers don't seem to like being greeted at the door with a boiling pan ofolive oil

Frosty just doesn’t look rightsince the gastric bypass...

Candy Canes are perfect for thosehard-to-reach places

...but he was no longer just acow, he was now The Cow That Saved Christmas. The End.

Good news for jealous Jews:Christmas has been cancelled!

Shame on you, Santa Claus, for raping my daughter yet again

Christmas: When Jesus came back from the dead to turn waterinto eggnog

And though it’s been said many times, many ways, I need youto back your Kia off of my granddaughter

I’ve been kind of a Grinch sinceI woke up to find Santa’s charred corpse in the chimney

Shitneck’s heartfelt speech filled us all with the truespirit of Christmas

Bad News: That wasn’t figgypudding

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Grandma's Pot Party

2011-12-16T04:20:00.000-08:00

Sheinvited me, and my girlfriend, “Bryan don’t you be late,” and Isaid “Okay, Nana,” because I’m always five when we talk on the phone.

Andthere I was at the Community Room of Cedar Woods Retirement Home, standing in the middle of two dozen elderly in ahaze of pot smoke. An old man named Frank passed the joint to Helene, whoinhaled with a puff of Chanel No 5, and laughed out a cloud of scorched weed, astorm forming over the punch bowl and slowly dissolving, “Just The Two Of Us”playing on the oddly–strong sub-woofers.

Andthere we were out on the dance floor, my Grandmother and I, all of us, dancing,like it was 1990-something. The folks in the motorized carts took the steeldrum solo, and we just stopped caring. Some old guy had his hand on my girlfriend’sthigh- but what do you expect with the tango? Sweet green smoke blew through the room, and the old people had forgotten their age. A bald man in a vest kissed his wife's bare shoulder.

Everyone wasmoving... The lights were bright, then the lights went out and we were in blackand white, spinning in a circle, moving as a plural. Some guy named Nicholasexhaled and everybody had it. I swear I could feel the room moving, grooving tothe tilting of the ocean, feeling the sea water splash in my face from justover the rails.

Nanahad the hula-hoop in full swing and her neighbors were cheering her on... mynext partner was a brown-haired beauty in a one-piece swimsuit named Frances,and I knew she had done this before.

Choreographycomes easy when you let it... we all looked like we’d been rehearsing forweeks. My grandmother caught me dipping my girlfriend, and I saw something magical inher eyes, and that perfume was so strong and why is it that every story has tohave an ending?

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Wonderings...

2011-12-13T04:20:00.001-08:00

Stop looking at my crotch, ladies- my eyes are up here

I move once a week just to piss off my mailman

Testicles grow back, right?

Figure-skating would be much more interesting if the audiencewas armed with hunting rifles

Tsunamis are devastating, but you’ll never boogie boardbetter

Duck sex is surprisingly provocative

If I wanted my heart warmed I’d buy a blowtorch

The early bird gets the worm… and McMuffin diarrhea

July’s lemonade tastes like April’s Tang

If dentists have the highest suicide rate how come mine isstill alive?

Wild weekends start with magic markers

A part of me wants to make love to you... the penis part

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Christmas In December

2011-12-13T04:20:00.000-08:00

“MerryChristmas, Cocksucker...”

Thiswas Santa, doing his thing, spreading the joy of the holiday season.

Cocksucker was speechless- on his knees, petrified- and unable to speak. Santa scoffed and slipped the gun between Cocksucker’s lips, pulling the trigger, exploding bloodand brain all over the decorated tree. Hot red dripped off the danglingornaments and blinking white lights, the only illumination in the midnight den.

Heexhaled hard, dropping the pistol, stepping over the body. There was a plate ofcookies on the mantle and Santa could smell cinnamon and all-spice over the metal scent of blood... he hadn't eaten all day, and nobody would miss it. He stood by the stockings, eatingall 14 cookies: oatmeal raisin, peanut butter, chocolate crinkles and molassesswamp, washing them down with the cool glass of milk left out for his arrival.

Santanoticed the stockings hanging empty, with each family member’s name embroideredon the cuff. “When in Rome...” he reasoned, and pulledhis sack from beneath the arch of the brick chimney.

Hepulled out a handful of prizes, filling the socks, topping each one off with acandy cane. He smiled to himself, suddenly feeling warm and lighthearted, andhis eyes found the plastic tablecloth beneath the tree.

Oh,why not?

Hegrabbed his other sack- full of presents- and laid everything out under thetree. The two dozen boxes in festive green wrapping held toys, games, andgadgets- every child’s dream come true. Santa laughed to himself,and his round belly jiggled under his red suit.

Hiswork was done- he felt pride- but before he left there was one last task to be done. Santa headed into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and took a hotshit in the lettuce crisper, just so no one would ever forget that Santa Claus wouldalways be calling the shots.

Back in the living room Cocksucker refused to die, twitching and spasming and forming foamy words. Santa put his heavy boot to Cocksucker's throat and crushed it- windpipe, voicebox, the works- before putting his finger to his nose and rising magically up the chimney.

But he was heard to exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Merry Christmas, Cocksucker! And to all a good night!"

THE END

Binary Adventure

2011-12-09T04:20:00.000-08:00

1101010 101010 10010110 001 0 101 0101011 11010010 11110111010 001001 100100 01010 0001 101 1010110101 110101.

000100001 101010 100110 1010 00 10 0 0 10 1 0 10 10 101 01 01 01 0111 001010 01010-001 00 110 0010- 10100 100 100 10010 10010 0 01001 10 10 10 0. 101010 1010 101 0101 101101101111 01001 10 1001 001 01001 010 1001 001001 010001 10100 1001 001 001 0001 0 0110 11000 10000001 0010 0100 100 000 10101 11010 001 001010101 01 01 010010 01 0 1010 0, 010 10001 01 0, 01 00101 0 0100...

“100 1011 00101 010, 0 001 01010 11101 110001 1001, 100010 01 0,” 010 1 1010 10 010, 100101 1010 10010 10 1 01 0 01 0101 11001 001 0 1 01 00 10, “ 10 10 01 101- 0 0111 01 0110 00 1 10 0?”

101010 010 11010 10101110 11101001 011011 010 1010 010 110100 11110 000010 10 0100100 1000 010 0 01001, 01 0 1010 0 01 010 1011010 0 10 00110 010010 0 1001101010, 10 0110 0 0 0 10 01 11101 1 1 0 0 1 0 000 0101101101010 1101 0101 01 01 0 01, 0 1010 01 0 110100. 0110 11000 110001 10100, 1000100 001101010 100 100100 10010, 1001 10 1010100111:

01001010110 100101010101

01000000010 00 10101001010

“101001 1010 101101 010 1010 11110 00101, 11001 101010 100!” 10 101 1010 01 10 010 10 10, 10 0101 01110 01 0010 01 01 10010 0 1010 10 0 101 11 01 10 00 10 10 001 01, “010110 10010 010, 1011 101 01010 010110 1100 01010 01001, 100110 1010101 0110 101101 10101: 01100110100001010001."

0101 100.

Frosty The Child Molester

2011-12-02T04:20:00.000-08:00

“Thumpety thump thump

Thumpety thump thump

Look at Frosty go”

- Jack Rollins & Steve Nelson

He stood at the counter, across from the Indian man with the accent so strange, the Indian man who wouldn’t lower his cell phone to card a nine year-old with a crate of beer, or to raise an eyebrow at a priest with a box of condoms, but here was Berbert- according to the name tag- tilting his Blackberry away from his chin, cocking his neck and interrupting his call and asking Frosty point-blank:

“What do you need with all this Reeses Pieces?”

Frosty slipped a fifty from his wallet toward Berbert, who accepted it, but asked again without breaking eye contact:

“What are you going to do with all those Reeses Pieces?”

Frosty flashed him a warm smile. “Nunyo,” he said proudly.

“Nunyo?” asked Berbert.

“Nunyo fucking business.” He beamed back at Berbert, who babbled profanity in a language not yet discovered. Berbert handed Frosty his change- sixty-seven cents- and reached beneath the counter for a plastic bag. Frosty raised his reusable canvas shopping bag, and with that Berbert was back on his Blackberry, lost in a conversation with no beginning, middle or end. Maybe he was talking to another convenience store clerk somewhere?

Frosty scooped up all thirty bags of Pieces and headed out to his car, the sleigh bell on the door jingling as he made his exit. He checked his watch: 2:49. Perfect; he was right on time. He got into his Kia Paloma and cruised down Neptune Avenue, finding a station playing Electric Light Orchestra.

Frosty loved Electric Light Orchestra.

He turned off Roxbury Road and drove past the Ridgeway Theater. He flashed back to his days in the darkened auditorium, enjoying action pictures, reaching accidentally into the bucket of popcorn which the strange man beside him had offered to share. As a kid he loved hot buttered popcorn, but when he went to reach in the strange man’s popcorn bucket he found it wasn’t popcorn that the strange man had in his hot buttered popcorn bucket of –it was- hot buttered popcorn- something else- in the bucket of- something else, something else-

His brakes whined to a stop at the same instant the school bell rang, audible even from the parking lot. There was a moment of silence, of strange quiet, and then the children began to emerge from the doors of Davenport Elementary. They sprang out like snakes from a can- full of energy and running for their lives. Frosty licked his lips because he just couldn’t stop himself.

Boy children… girl children… androgynous children who could be boy children and girl children at the same time. Frosty felt like a boy today and tore open a bag of pieces… he poured a pile in his palm and stuck his hand out the window. A six year-old wandered by and Frosty asked, “Want some candy, little boy…?”

The boy covered his mouth and walked directly past Frosty’s car. That was bizarre…

The next boy walking by had already made eye contact with his mother, who was eyeing Frosty suspiciously. He retracted his arm into the car and dumped the pieces into his ashtray… even in the winter the damn things melted so fast! If they weren’t so effective he would switch over to fun-size Snickers, if only for the ease of-

Frosty saw him. A beautiful boy, a boy he simply had to have. He was nine years old with light brown hair and blue eyes, wearing a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. He walked with a proud posture, taller than his four-foot five frame, and he almost seemed to be walking directly towards Frosty’s car. Frosty took a deep breath and got into character.

“Excuse me? Son?”

The boy stopped, alarmed.

“I’m supposed to give you a ride. What’s your name?”

The boy arched an eyebrow but answered anyway. “Logan.”

“Yeah, Logan- my name is Mr. Whitman- your Mother asked me to give you a ride. Home today.” Frosty cursed himself- that hesitation may have cost him his prize.

“Where’s my Mother?” Logan asked, wary.

Frosty decided to go for broke… he took a shot. “She had to pick up your sister… your sister got sick at school.”

The next moment seemed to last an eternity. Finally Logan’s face relaxed. “Is my sister okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Frosty said, his heart pounding in his chest, “she’s fine.” He could barely keep the grin from his face.

They pulled out of the parking lot, Frosty chatting about baseball and Logan carefully fastening his seat belt. After a few minutes on the road Frosty felt ready, and he pulled into the Rite-Aid plaza, in the back parking lot, back by the dumpsters behind the Yarn Barn. There was no other car in site.

“I need to take a break from driving for a few minutes, Logan.” Frosty put his foot on the brake, letting the car idle to keep the heater going.

“Okay,” said Logan, uneasy.

Frosty popped open a fresh bag of pieces… he held it up to Logan. “You want some candy?”

“I’m diabetic.” The boy said this as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

“Should I have guessed?” Frosty snapped, and Logan shot him a panicked look. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable in this strange car and tight-fitting seatbelt.

Frosty kept his cool. “A lot of people are diabetic,” he said smiling, calming, “like me. I’m a diabetic also!” He reached for the tupperware in the back seat, popping the top and taking a deep sniff. “Do you know what this is?”

“No,” said Logan, with more fear in his voice than he knew he was feeling.

“This,” said Frosty, “is seafood salad. It’s delicious. Do you like seafood salad, Logan?”

“Is it imitation crabmeat?”

The kid better be good.

“No, it’s the real thing,” said Frosty. He pulled a stainless-steel fork out of the center console and handed it to the boy. “Just a few bites of this and you’ll be… it’s delicious.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Logan said.

Frosty put his hand on the boy’s knee. “You’re gonna love it, Logan… just take a bite and enjoy the taste…”

Logan bristled in his seat, a shiver of cold fear running down the back of his neck to the base of his spine. He tried unbuckling the seatbelt but it wouldn’t budge.

Frosty stroked Logan’s thigh through his denim jeans. “It’s delicious, Logan… tuna, onion, celery… crab and lobster…” There was a musical quality to Frosty’s voice- a sinister lullaby in a minor key- and Logan saw in him something he hadn’t noticed before. He saw Danger. He looked up to see Frosty staring at him, two eyes made out of coal.

“Just relax, buddy,” Frosty said. He ruffled the boy’s hair.

“I want to go home now,” Logan said, but Frosty was just getting started. “I’ll take you home in just a little bit…” Logan tried his seatbelt again but it wouldn’t budge. It felt like it was bolted closed... and tightening around him.

Frosty’s fingers found Logan’s belt buckle, and he began to unhook it slowly. Logan felt sick… paralyzed.

“Please,” Logan pleaded, “Stop…” His speech was slow... he could barely muster the power to protest. He felt like he was underwater... awake in a nightmare...

“Relax…” Frosty went straight to his work, unhooking the clasp and pulling the boy’s belt through the loops in his jeans.

“Please…” But Logan’s mouth was so dry the word was just a mumble.

“We’re gonna have a little fun,” Frosty said, salivating.

“No,” said Logan, but that didn’t make it stop.

“I’m gonna make you feel good,” Frosty whispered, un-tucking the child’s shirt, “and you’re gonna make me feel good too. Just trust me, Logan...”

Frosty’s fingers found the zipper of Logan’s pants, and-

Logan plunged the metal fork into Frosty’s right thigh, and Frosty howled like an animal caught in a trap. His leg jerked involuntarily, slamming the gas pedal and sending the car flying over the icy pavement. Frosty was too distracted to steer, and Logan braced for the worst..

It was probably in the boy’s favor that he’d been wearing his seatbelt, because as the car smashed into the brick wall of the Yarn Barn Frosty flew out of his seat and directly through the windshield, which had spider-webbed and fallen out of its frame. Logan couldn’t be sure whether or not Frosty’s head had collided with the wall directly but he knew there was blood all over the dashboard... and he knew that it wasn’t his own.

In the impact Frosty had bitten off his own tongue, and it lay there on the dashboard, mocking the boy, taunting him, and Logan only felt better when he definitively recognized that Frosty’s skull had cracked open and that there was hot brain dripping down the car’s grill.

Logan released his seatbelt, which flew open like a hand, and stepped out of the car. He could already hear sounds from the front of the shopping center, could already hear the excited shrieks and worried voices from the people who’d felt the crash. He knew that the adults would be here soon, doing what adults do, so he walked off in the opposite direction, away from the car, away from the people, away from the child molester and his bags of Reese’s Pieces.

The force of the crash had popped Frosty’s trunk open, and who should appear but twelve year-old Katie Zelic, missing from the middle school since Friday afternoon. She climbed out slowly, wincing in the bright sunlight, sore and disoriented. She looked at the wreck- unable to process- and staggered away from the car. She sat down on the freezing pavement, too traumatized to move any further. Katie licked her dry, chapped lips and waited for the customers and employees to come around the corner and find her, to pronounce Frosty dead, to call the police in a vain pantomime of making sense out of the senseless, to return her to her home

She sat, waiting.

Frosty’s car radio was still working, a Christmas song:

“O come, let us adore him,

O come, let us adore him,

O Come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord”

Katie couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

Wonderings

2011-11-27T04:20:00.000-08:00

I’m cincosexual, which means for five bucks I’ll do anyone

What are the odds that Wetzel would dedicate his life to the pretzel?

I always use the male voice on my GPS, because I’ll die before I take direction from a woman

Blo-gurt: When the Yoplait won’t stay down

There's no "I" in team... unless you spell it wrong

Never underestimate the drunken Vegas wedding

How can jaywalking be considered a hate crime?

The buffalo will never fly again because you people were hungry for wings

Converting lesbians is thirsty work

I'm paralyzed from the nose down, so you'll have to insert the hard-boiled egg directly into my nostril

Regina the Liquid Weatherwoman always nails the five-day

You know that dog that says “I Love You”? I don’t think he means it

Saturday Morning Madness

2011-11-24T04:20:00.000-08:00

Butter melts good on a frosted raspberry pop tart, but there was no sign of Bobby at the breakfast table. He had gotten up at seven-thirty, had a few bowls of Sugar Pegs and enjoyed two hours of cartoons in a glucose-induced coma... but as usual he had snuk out to the shed to tinker with his newest mystery project and was late for breakfast proper.

Rayna was ready for the Saturday morning ritual, kicking her footy pajamas under the table and pouring a good gallon of maple syrup across her mountain of scrambled eggs.

Dad was in his paper, pretending to read basketball scores in order to avoid conversation with the family. Mom called out the back door: “Bobby, get inside for Saturday breakfast!”

“Bobby’s bad,” said Rayna, wrapping a Fruit Roll-Up ‘round a buttermilk biscuit.

“Bobby’s going through a very difficult time for a young boy,” thundered Dad from behind the Times, “I’m just glad he’s doing it in the shed instead of his bedroom.”

“Oh, Frank,” Mom shuddered, repulsed, “he’s only eleven.”

“That’s old enough,” Dad continued, face immersed in headline, “if memory serves I started at seven.”

“Started what at seven?” asked Rayna, her salivary glands squirting in her mouth.

Dad blinked behind his newspaper. “Shaving.”

Ruffy- the shaggy family dog, found a forgotten waffle corner on the floor and gobbled it before anyone noticed.

“I still don’t see Mystery Boy,” added Dad.

Mom got up to grab the sausage and called through the screen again. “Bobby Allen Anderbrook- get your ass inside this instant!” She spotted Mr. Cullen clipping his hedges next door and put her hand to her mouth, humilated.

“Mr Cullen’s out there, isn’t he?” Dad must have somehow sensed it because his face was still buried in Sports.

“Yes,” Mom whispered, mortified, “and he must think I’m a terrible mother.”

“I think he hates the lot of us,” said Dad, snatching a slice of bacon back behind his newsprint wall.

Bobby came bounding in through the back door as Mom sat down at the table. “Wash up, Bobby.”

He laid a small metal control box on the table and zipped to the sink, scrubbing his greasy fingers. Mom eyed the electro-contraption and its protruding antenna.

“What in God’s name is that?”

Bobby needed six paper towels to dry his hands. “Just something I’m working on, Mom. It’s what I’m building in the shed.”

Dad whipped the paper down, giving Bobby a dirty look. “You’re not making an explosive, are you?”

“Nope,” answered Bobby, taking a seat. He added three scoops of Strawberry Kwik to his whole milk.

“Good,” said Dad, drawing his newspaper curtain back into place.

“What are you building out there?” Mom wondered.

“Educational,” Bobby barked between bites of cinnamon roll, and that was the end of the discussion.

“I know what he’s building,” Rayna beamed, showing off her missing front teeth.

“Silence!” shouted Bobby, and Dad’s paper was down again.

“What the hell are you yelling about? It’s an explosive, isn’t it?”

“No, no,” Bobby assured, petting Ruffy from his chair. “Science fair.”

“That’s only half the story,” Dad shot back. He closed his paper, folding it up.

“I think you should tell us the truth, Bobby.” Mom was using her Mom voice.

“It’s a simple voltage converter,” Bobby lied, dunking his danish in his cocoa, “ideal for the business traveler on overseas assignment.”

“Horseshit,” said Dad, and he meant every word.

“I know what he’s building,” sang Rayna, grinning like a pumpkin.

“Traitor!” Bobby’s wandering English accent kicked in, and was just as suddenly gone.

“Bobby, I need you to be honest with me.” Mom looked like she had to make poo.

“It’s a binary bit-blitzer.” Bobby shoveled marmalade on his fried egg.

“Techno-babble!” accused Dad, pounding the table so hard he toppled the Eiffel Tower of French toast.

“I know what he’s building,” teased Rayna, knocking back a shot of Hawaiian Punch.

“Nemesis!” shouted Bobby, as angry as he’d ever been.

“Tell us, Rayna,” said Mom, “tell us what he’s building.”

“Bobby’s building a robot!”

Mom started laughing, and even Dad grinned a little. Bobby’s face went beet red as Rayna giggled melodically.

The boy shot his sister a dirty look. “I’m going to have you deported.”

“What’s his name, son? Your robot?”

“I don’t want to tell you because you’ll just make fun.”

“Come on, Bobby,” Mom’s smile was fading, “what’s his name?”

“His name is Robby.”

Mom burst out laughing, and even Dad joined in with a hearty sarcastic chuckle. Bobby burned.

“You named your robot Robby?” Dad was easily flabbergasted.

“Yes,” said Bobby, “but not for the reasons you think. His name is Robert, Jr. I call him Robby for short.”

Mom was hysterical. “You named your robot after yourself? What is he, your son?”

That was when Ruffy- a lifelong Francophile- leapt up to the table to snatch a croissant, knocking Bobby’s control box into his water dish on the floor. The box shorted out, electricity buzzing from the bubbling liquid.

“Ruffy!” Bobby bent down and grabbed the box, which dripped water onto his lap. “You ruined it you dog idiot! Now I can’t control Robby!”

“Serves you right for building a robot,” smirked Dad.

“You reap what you sow, Bobby,” added Mama smugly, “this is karma.”

Robby the Robot came crashing through the screen door, shattering the wood with his seven-foot frame.

“Kill mode… kill mode…” The knobs and switches on his chest were blinking wildly, and as soon as Ruffy ran up to him Robby hauled back with his iron leg and kicked the beast into the living room. Ruffy- airborne- said goodbye with his eyes.

“Kill mode… kill mode…” Dad stood up, furious.

“Now wait one minute Mr. Robot,” Dad said, throwing his napkin into the hash browns.

Robby slid open the junk drawer and pulled out Dad’s service pistol. He pointed it at Mom and fired, blowing her brains onto the kitchen table.

“Just who do you think you are?” asked Dad, clearly peeved. “I’ve got a good mind to re-write your programming and sell you for scrap metal!”

Robby fired twice more, putting one bullet in Dad’s throat and one in his neck. Dad sat back down, in his chair, genuinely dead.

By this time Bobby had opened the emergency service panel on Robby’s control pad and switched him back to the Idle setting. Robby dropped the gun, and stood obediently in place.

There was an awkward moment as Bobby surveyed his dead parents, and Rayna looked at her older brother in genuine fear.

“If I were you,” said Bobby, “I would get upstairs and start cleaning my room.”

She leapt to her feet, knocking over her chair, and ran towards the stairs.

Bobby picked up a plate from the table and held it up to Robby.

“Pop tart?”

Diving Into A Pool With No Water

2011-11-23T04:20:00.000-08:00

On the board, in my shorts, feeling good. About to dive into a pool with no water. Then I-

The Thanksgiving Day Massacre

2011-11-20T16:20:00.000-08:00

.
Johnny was not enjoying the holiday.

It wasn’t just because he despised food, or his family, or that he was learning how awful and endless Life could be… it was more than that. Something about these people, gathered around this table, like hogs awaiting feed, all dressed in their finest church clothes, all smiles and denials. It wasn’t just that Johnny was amongst them that was making him miserable… it was the fact that he was becoming one of them.

“Who wants to say Grace?” asked Grandma, and that’s when Johnny stood up and whipped it out.

His cock slid clean out his corduroys, already hard with anticipation. There was a horrified gasp from everyone at the table, and Grandma fainted instantly, but that might have been a blood sugar thing.

Johnny was already bonking away. His head was lowered in concentration, a lone beadle of sweat dripping down his forehead, and he was masturbating with the fury of the condemned. “Ug… pog… sab…” His mouth gurgled senseless babble as he pummeled his penis, which would have been screeching in agony if it had been blessed with vocal chords. A wave of pleasure shot from its head to Johnny’s, and he exploded like a fine volcano.

A load of semen- what seemed like a gallon- exploded out of him and splashed the perfectly-basted turkey, and the family began to scream in horror. The next round of cream slapped Cousin Larry in the face, and he wet himself, because he'd always wanted to. The next round of splooge landed in the candied yams, glazing them splendid. The following spurt landed in Aunt Judy’s open mouth, and as she prepped for flabbergast she took most of the jizbah down her throat. Dad stood up in rage, and slipped on a puddle of Johnny's goop, tumbling backwards over the table, knocking over the bowl of mashed potatoes and breaking his spine on the arm of his chair, paralyzing him for life.

Uncle Alan vomited forcefully, a projectile spew coating Aunt Sarah’s face and dripping down the valley of her provocative but soggy cleavage. Grandma regained consciousness, only to be soaked with the next load of spunk from Johnny’s gushing geyser. Her lethal stroke may have begun even before the man-juice dripped into her ear, and her face instantly froze into a contorted fright-mask, her corpse stiffening into a wax-museum monster.

Johnny just kept cumming, a tidal wave of baby batter dunking Aunt Nancy’s prized stuffing, drenching the relatives and the mushrooms and the pumpkin pie and the, and the, and the…

Johnny’s testicles had clearly been drained, as the stream of pow-chowder finally tapered off, and Johnny fell exhausted back into his chair. The room was rife with the bleachy funk of nut, and his foul dripped from every surface in the dining room, which was now deathly silent. The family sat frozen, their holiday ruined, traumatized beyond any hope of recovery, and a satisfied smile crept slowly across Johnny’s face. The tradition was over.

Mom entered the dining room from the kitchen, a tray in her hand.

“Sorry, everyone, I almost forgot the rolls-”

She froze in her tracks, her eyes wide at the scene before her, her mouth open in speechless horror.

Johnny took a biscuit from her tray and buttered up.

“Happy Thanksgiving"

Preface

2011-11-19T16:20:00.000-08:00

Untitled #11

2011-11-05T04:20:00.000-07:00

Untitled #11.

Peeples clicked his pen and consulted his clipboard. He looked to the clock on the wall, a standard black & white unit that had been there since he took the job. He reminded himself to buy a new one, as he had every day for the last eleven years. His eyes went back to his clipboard, briefly.

“This is never easy,” he said, contemplating a sip of coffee, “but it is my job as Administrator.”

Pemmy, sitting across from him, glanced at the placard on his desk:

MISTER PEEPLES
ADMINISTRATOR

She wanted to ask if his first name was Mister… it had to be.

“I think you know what this is leading up to,” said Peeples with a grimace, “We’re going to have to ask your Father to leave.”

“For a few hours?” Pemmy asked hopefully, shifting in her chair.

“Longer than that,” said Peeples, “Forever.”

“I don’t understand,” said Pemmy. She was still wondering if his name was Mister, and whether or not she still had two fingers of Kit-Kat in her pocketbook. He had to be named Mister, she reasoned, or else why would his parents have named him that? Coincidence was a possibility.

“Your Father is a rabble-rouser,” he continued, “An instigator. He’s a bad influence on all of the other residents. Every week we find him in the Ladies Room.”

“I think he is just curious,” Pemmy said, “curious about what goes on in there.”

“The bathroom is only the tip of the mammary, Ms. Styfers,” Peeples dropped his pen on his desk for the shock value, “he also subscribes to magazines without authorization. He switches the residents’ medication as a practical joke and he ruined the lobby carpet with his homemade wine. He comes to lunch without pants. Or underpants.”

“Free spirit?” offered Pemmy.

“It’s more than that…” said Peeples, “We have a list of complaints so long it would take all day to go through them. Seniors come to this facility to live their lives in quiet and solace, and your Father treats the place like his personal playground.” He had been waiting to use “personal playground” for a very long time.

Pemmy noticed the strap of her tank-top had slipped down her arm and she pulled it back over her shoulder. “He is anxious,” she said, without conviction, “and befuddled by the problems of society.”

“It’s not my place to psycho-analyze,” said Peeples, “but your Father is a stunted adolescent with advanced Dissociative Disorder and borderline Sociopathic tendencies. He should be put down, and by that I mean euthanized.”

“There is no argument here,” said Pemmy, un-crossing her legs only to re-cross them, “but the procedure is too costly. Can’t you let him stay here instead?”

“He cannot stay here,” said Peeples.

“Please?” asked Pemmy.

“Never,” said Peeples.

“I will give you pie,” Pemmy offered, uncrossing her legs and spreading them.

“Six months,” said Peeples, rising to lower the blinds, “and then he’s out on the street.”

Pemmy pulled off her tank top, and her breasts knocked over Peeples’ placard as she bent to slip out of her skirt.

“You have a deal, Peeples,” Pemmy said, extending her hand.

“Please,” he said, shaking it, “Call me Mister.”

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The Lost Poems of Alfredo Montenegro (1908-2011)

2011-10-25T14:33:00.000-07:00

On Sunday October 23, the world lost one of its greatest poets. Alfredo Montenegro's verse has been cherished by readers, celebrated by scholars, and whispered between lovers. Here we reprint some of his unpublished works from his final years, translated from their original Spanish:

Nutrients
Morning orange fall off the tree
Plunk!
And then
Dunk!
In the puddle
You look at me
Full of vitamin C
And accuse me of stealing your wallet

Hammock #4
Take a nap on a summer afternoon
Have a dream full of cocaine and pizza
Shout curses at the neighbors for the loudness they make
And the way they have stolen your goodness

Natural Thursday
Gentle breezes in the overgrown grass
Island music playing off in your head
Wonder women laying bare-breast in the sand
Other things which you cannot comprehend
Where were you when I was writing this poem?
You were at work and I was truly alone

From Behind
You have inside a softness
That I like to put inside me
Get down on your hands and knees please
Right away this instant
The softness!

Harmonica
Eskimo day the answer
polly is a poodle you can never refuse
baby goat
steals a motorboat
is simple with rhythm and blues

Booze (Oklahoma)
coconut luck takes me yesterday bake
bastard man choke on a bowl of corn flake
catalog frog, cat agog on a log
fish-kissing prince turns into a dog
Wonderfullness
Is dripping out the reasons like a waterwipe

Domestic #7
Meadowlark bark is the answer
“Bonk,” say the wings of the hummingbird
turbo in the bathroom and
mayonnaise is easy
Let the school bell deafen the child

Shank
Bumblebees tumble in the fumble yard
Envelope egg yolk alabama boulevard
Vegetables rising from dirty waters
Beauty lies
Between your eyes
And the depths of your hindquarters

Doublemint
Dragonfly is passing by
Lazy on a morning marmalade
Birthday suit, jujy fruit, cosmopolitan cover shoot
I am dizzy from experience
And I’m going home for the day

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Halloween Stories

2011-10-08T01:20:00.000-07:00

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A little girl dressed as a princess walked up to Tilly’s house and knocked on the door.

Tilly, an elderly woman in a plaid housecoat, opened the door. “Who is there?”

“Trick or treat,” said the little girl, “it’s Halloween tonight and I would like some candy!”

Tilly coughed, deep- from her soul- and spat a warm loogie. It splattered the little girl’s face, dripping down her nose and cheeks.

Tilly went back in the house to watch Dancing With The Stars.

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Two children dressed as bugles went out trick-or-treating.

Casey said, “I am the grandest bugle of them all!”

Bowie said, “Incorrect. I am the grandest bugle of them all.”

Their conversation was cut short when they were run over by a sport-utility vehicle.

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Benny was dressed as a knife-wielding maniac. He approached a house and rapped on the doorknocker. Mrs. Mitchell answered the door and said, “Oh my! Oh my goodness! What are you supposed to be?”

Benny pushed his blade into her gut, and it slid easy into the fat of Mrs. Mitchell’s lower belly. Warm blood spilled from her Christmas package as Billy poked through the candy bowl. He raised a Mounds to her face.

“Does this have nuts?”

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

An old lady- we’ll call her Mrs. Capricorn- was sitting alone in her house watching television when she heard a noise outside. Mrs. Capricorn went to the window and saw a terrible sight.

She dropped to her knees so she wouldn’t be spotted and crawled over to her phone. She dialed 911, trembling.

“Hello,” she whispered into the phone, “send the squad to my house immediately. There are children dressed as goblins and mad-monsters and they’re raping my daughter on the front lawn. Send the squad to my house immediately!”

“We’ll do no such thing,” said the Emergency Operator on the other end of the phone, “Tonight is Halloween night!”

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Mr. Spiggy heard a knock on his door. He opened it up and saw a werewolf.

“Trick or treat!” said the werewolf, but Mr. Spiggy pulled a gun from behind the candy bowl and pistol-whipped the werewolf to death and then some. The police came and gave Mr. Spiggy a commendation.

I forgot to tell you the news report said a real werewolf was on the loose and to beware.

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

It was the Halloween party of the century, and everyone was there! Mr. Fingerfugger was dressed as a car battery, and Barbara Carble looked to be a Stereomonster. Dennis and Penny Endig- the Endigs- were dressed as dignity and respect respectively, and Mona McNulty had come as a maxipad!
Willy Rooter, who had a mad crush on Wanda Rooter- no relation- had come dressed up like John Lithgow, and he had eaten several pounds of chocolate waiting for Wanda to arrive. His heart skipped a beat when he saw her, especially because of her costume- Wanda was dressed as a fly-fisherman! (I forgot to say that Willy’s mother had been a fly-fisherman, and had died before he was born.)
“Hello Willy,” Wanda said, smiling.
“Intercourse,” Willy said, cursing his tongue.
“I am offended and disgusted,” sighed Wendy, “you are removed from my social circle.” With that she walked away.
“O Halloween!” Willy wailed, “when the moon is full of nougat and the heart is wholly forfeit!”
That was the poetic ending.

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Some little kid dressed as Yoda went out trick-or-treating and knocked on the door of Belva Swank.

“Oh my,” said Belva, “you are a gremlin take a candy.”
“Never,” said Yoda, “I am no gremlin.”

“Apologies you are a goblin,” said Belva, “please help yourself to a candy and some nickels for the starving.”

“Neither,” said Yoda, “I am no goblin.”

“You are the night creature?”

“No,” spoke Yoda.

“One of the Devil’s minions?”

“No,” spoke Yoda.

“The return of the gargoyle?”

“You will never get your candy back,” said Yoda, as he had deftly emptied the bowl into his bag while Belva was talking.

“Wait!” Belva called, “I must know who you are!”

By that time Yoda was already waddling away.

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Some man named Needless baked a thousand toffee bits to distribute to the children on Halloween. He wrapped each one individually and wrote his name on the wrapper. On Halloween night two boys- Smiff and Julio- arrived at Needless’ house.

“Trick or treat!” said Julio.

Needless held out the candy bowl which was filled with his toffees and an assortment of other candies. Smiff and Julio picked carefully through the bowl, avoiding Needless’ toffees.

“Enjoy the toffees as well, boys,” said Needless, “Oh, I see- you think that they say “needles” but they really say ‘Needless’ – it’s my name!”

“The joke is on you,” said Julio, “Smiff is from Cuba and I am illiterate. You are a fool and these toffees were a wasted effort.”

They left at that point I’m pretty sure.

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

“Who knows how the Halloween got started? ”

Mr. Dunning was in the doorway, holding the candy bowl high above the heads of the young trick-or-treaters. The children- Bin, Spiley, and Merlot- were not amused.

“Candy only comes to those who know the history of Halloween!” taunted Mr. Dunning, dressed as a wizard.

Spiley stomped Mr. Dunning’s foot as hard as he could, and luckily he was dressed as a cowboy because those spurs sure can puncture skin.

Mr. Dunning dropped the candy bowl and staggered backwards, and the children grabbed whatever they could.

College was wonderful except for the herpes.

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Eddie the Psychotic slipped a thousand pins and needles into all the Halloween candy in his bowl.

He couldn’t wait to give it out to the children, and watch as they bit into the chocolate, slicing their lips and tongues to ribbons, wet blood gushing from their little mouths.

When the trick-or-treaters started arriving he offered them the candy, and they all took a big handful.

“Thank you,” said the children as they walked off.
That’s when Eddie the Psychotic began to cry… he realized that he would never see the results of his efforts because the children wouldn’t eat the candy until they got home.

Eddie shot himself in the face, but for different reasons.

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

“I sense the presence of the Dark One,” said Katie, clutching her candy bag.
“You are always saying that,” said her brother Lothar, “let’s continue on.”

They were walking up a long dark road toward a menacing old house, beneath the full moon in the Halloween sky.

“This time I mean it,” whispered Katie, dressed as a kitten, “the Overlord of the Underworld is just up the street.”

“You are handing me the spooks,” replied Lothar, dressed as Spiderman, “and I don’t enjoy the sensation.”

Just then Beezlebub himself materialized in front of them, his cloven feet and decaying face covered in ash. He leaned on the mailbox of the old house at the end of the road.
Katie and Lothar were scared silent, frozen to the spot.

“I am Satan, the Dark Lord,” growled the ghastly figure, the bones of his skull visible through his rotting flesh. “I have travelled many miles and through many cursed realms to be here tonight, and I want only one thing.”

“Our souls?” asked Lothar, petrified.

“Dark Lord, kiss my lips and let me join you in your black work,” said Katie, twirling her tail.

“No,” said Satan, “I want a Snickers bar.”

Lothar and Katie searched through their bags but Satan had to settle for a Three Musketeers.

.

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Bad Porn Actresses

2011-09-29T04:20:00.000-07:00

Glitz Tittles

Kaylee Sexxer, Jr.

Invisibutt

Dimples Von Pinkbeef

Beatrice Creamhouse

JoJo Toilet

Patty “Gag” Reflex

Now With Nipples

Pigfoul, A Subsidiary of the Walmart Company

Greazy Peeples

Paperwork At The Apocalypse

2011-08-16T04:20:00.000-07:00

He knew it was the end of the world. Let’s just get that much straight. He understood that this was his last day on Earth- everyone’s last day on Earth- and he wasn’t immune to the gravity of the situation, wasn’t unaffected by the emotion or philosophical implication. He cared. He just had paperwork to do.

He got into the office early that morning, turning on the fluorescents himself, navigating the grid of abandoned cubicles and idling screen-savers. He was all alone on the second floor, all alone in the building, and it was lucky that he had the spare key because not even the security guard or maintenance people had shown up today. He loosened his tie and sat at his desk.

There was his Action List, right where he left it yesterday, underneath his half-eaten protein bar wrapped safely in a plastic sandwich bag. The first item needing completion: Call-backs. Clients who left voicemails before lunch got their calls returned between the hours of two and three, and those who called after lunch received first priority the following morning. There had been six clients with questions about company policy, and he dialed every number, dutifully waiting as the phones rang unanswered, politely leaving detailed messages with the time and date.

“Call me if you need to- I’ll be here until six.”

The next item on the list was finalizing contracts. There were twenty-one completed last week and he had to make sure all six pages had been filled out entirely, a scanned copy of each in PDF format automatically delivered to his desktop Review file. This is where he made sure pages four and six had been signed, and- if necessary- he updated e-mail addresses in the database for newsletters and surveys.

His family- and everyone else on Earth- was at home, in the streets, drinking, fucking, holding each other, declaring their love and telling secrets that no longer had any stigma. They were enjoying their last kisses- and in the cases of the children- their first. They were savoring food and the taste of oxygen, laughing and crying. They were praying for forgiveness for being human, which is actually not a crime. The sun would not rise tomorrow and the Earth would stop turning… there would be no life. There would be no more. And we all knew it.

Back at the office our intrepid employee was spell-checking a thank you letter to the New Haven Chamber of Commerce. He had misspelled “appreciation” but fixed it with a click of the mouse. He would join with all the others, if he ever got this work done.

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The Four-Fingered Firecracker

2011-07-01T04:20:00.000-07:00

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Lynell said, “I can’t believe it’s already the Fourth of July.”

“Same time every year,” I said, but Lynell didn’t get it. She went back inside for the potato salad, but the boys was still hollering on the backyard.

BOOM!

I almost choked on my can of Milwaukee’s Best when I heard the M-80 go off by the swingset. The brats had found my firecracker collection and they was running in circles ‘splodin’ things. Robby had the lighter… little fugger.

I said, “Robby you is gonna blow your fingers to Kingdom come!”

“Nah-ah!” said Robby, lighting another fuse.

This is what I hate about the Fourth of July... like it ain’t hard enough keeping the boys away from explosives the other 364. ‘Spose it’s better than them eatin’ dog turd from the neighbor’s yard like they used to. Still the boys could use some churchin’ up or they might-

BOOM! BOOM!

Damn!
That firecracker was LOUD! The brats was lookin’ at me, laughing.

I didn't find it funny. “I mean it, Robby... you is gonna blow your fingers to kingdom come!”

“Nah-ah!” said Robby, lighting up a Roman Candle. I gotta admit I like the Roman Candles… pretty colors. Then Robby pulled out a ‘cracker the size of a toilet paper.

“Papa watch this one- this one is the best one of all!”

That was when Robby blew his fingers to kingdom come. Blew his hand clean off his arm is more like it. I didn’t look for the finger bits- not cuz I’m lazy but because there was nothing to look for. Damn fingers was disintegrated in the ’splosion. Doc said he was gonna give Robby a fork hand so at least he can eat his corn.

Look, I went over all of this with the other officer… can I go home now?

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Wonderings...

2011-06-05T04:20:00.000-07:00

The best part of Tourette’s Syndrome is GO FUCK YOURSELF

Secret of the Day: childbirth is painless

Break out the butterfly nets- Grandpa gained access to the rocketpack

Ask your doctor if your heart is healthy enough for sex, then ask her what she’s doing Saturday night

Mafia hit men- do they ever knock?!?

Cream cheese has become my go-to lubricant

There’s no way I’m opening that coffin for less than fifty bucks…

It was Colonel Mustard with the candlestick… and I’m still sore

Bocce is Italian for lawn testicles

“Too rich for my blood”? Just fold, assbasket

It’s fun to glue quarters to the bottom of the pool and watch my kids turn purple

The night is young and I am bursting with bodily fluids

Jujo Flies A Kite

2011-05-28T04:20:00.000-07:00

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“Jujo get back here!”

It was too humid for kite flying but you don’t stop Jujo. He was a furious child, prone to shattering glasses and bruising schoolmates. His pets died young, and his teachers took every one of their holidays. His parents had given up any hope of controlling him; that task now belonged to the young Ms. Curby, Jujo's newest governess. She was sitting on the park bench with her legs crossed while Jujo’s kite hovered overhead.

“Jujo, please- don’t go beyond the oak tree!”

Jujo walked past the oak tree. It wasn’t his fault, really… the kite had led him there. He let out more slack on the line and the kite angled upward, testing its freedom. Fueled by the blustery wind the kite denied gravity, climbing upright. Its tail was whipping madly, taunting Jujo like a schoolmate with his tongue stuck out.

Ms. Curby had told him not to fly his kite today but Jujo flew his kite anyhow. He wanted to.

“Jujo, be a good boy and don’t go beyond the picnic bench!”

Jujo walked past the picnic bench. It wasn’t his fault… the kite was inviting him. Ms. Curby was distracted, searching her purse for a tampon or candy bar. She wasn’t going to be chasing him today.

“Don’t go beyond the water fountain!”

Jujo walked past the water fountain. It wasn’t his fault… his kite was showing him the way. The sky was growing darker, with monstrous clouds of purple amassed over the park. The breeze, defeated, gave way to gusting current.

Ms. Curby pulled her hair from her mouth. “Jujo it’s going to thunderstorm!”

“I don’t care!” Jujo said gleefully. No profanity… he must be in a good mood.

Thunder sounded a louder warning but Jujo was riding this high… he had never flown his kite this far before. The pull from above was so strong it was lifting his heels off the grass. It was a glorious feeling… the wind blowing summer leaves from the trees and stirring his emotion, his stomach untying ten knots. He felt freedom for the first time… his heart losing its meter.

A louder punch of thunder scolded from above. The menacing heavens grew sinister… sickening.

Jujo’s kite climbed even higher, deeper into the darkness, wider inside the sky… The booming thunder made Jujo jump, and startled the dazing Ms. Curby.

“JUJO! You listen to me now!”

Jujo was hypnotized by the kite, now soaring on its own authority. He did not hear his governess' warning. He did not fear the sky's promise to storm.

Jujo did not see the fuck-crazy rapist emerge from the bushes and put a steak knife to Ms. Curby's throat, and he did not hear the rapist whisper in her ear.

The desperate criminal promised Ms. Curby that he would kill her, but only after the rape and mutilation.

Ms. Curby could feel the knife's teeth, and the rapist's stubbled beard, and she could feel her heart bumping against the walls of her chest. She reluctantly agreed to return with the rapist to the bushes, for the inevitable, but as she walked off she called out to Jujo.

“Be a good boy, Jujo, and put the kite away now.”

He flipped her the bird over his shoulder, without even looking back.

Follow @Bryan_Liberty

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Menstruation At Snake Lake

2011-05-21T04:20:00.000-07:00

Don’t ever ask me to come “out to the woods” again. I don’t want any guy pitching a tent for me. I don’t want to “rough it” in “the great outdoors” or use any phrase that requires “quotation marks.” Why? Because every time I go camping I get my period. It’s a rule- a guarantee. I even got it twice during two separate camping trips in May of ‘09. Thank you God for the double-yolked egg.

Is this a coincidence? A practical joke? My body must sense when I’m in the mountains because next thing I know I’m a river of blood. (Did you see those elevators in “The Shining”?) Camping is bad enough anyway… straining coffee through the French press, bugs in my hair and say goodbye to open-toed shoes. Plus the sun is murder on my skin… I won’t go out without three coats of SPF 90. But when my period starts it’s the perfect storm.

I’m in the bushes, squatting to pee or make turtles, and my boyfriend usually finds this a good time to pretend to “hunt” me with his finger gun. It’s hard to fake-laugh with poison sumac up your ass. Last time he asked me if I was laying eggs and I seriously considered shooting him with the rifle and calling it a hunting accident. And then comes the bleeding. Some girls have a really light flow but I’m like the Hoover Dam on a Tuesday morning. Ever use a pine cone as a tampon? It’s a great way to start a hike.

And the cramping? Big. Frigg. Imagine someone pummeling your pelvic region wearing brass knuckles and oven mitts. And not to be too grody but my nipples feel like they’ve been driving nails through drywall all day. I usually get my headache just before my boyfriend pulls out his acoustic guitar for some “campfire singalongs.” I spend the time calculating the temperature at which his skull would melt. And my body just feels…Blecchghh. It’s not poetry but there it is.

The last camping trip I brought along a pair of steel-toed boots so I had the option of crushing my boyfriend’s testicles if he decided to get funny again. I went through a whole roll of TP just spotting and he had to wipe with pages from his car manual! I admit it- I get a little cranky when I’m on the rag but he has this way of telling stories without a beginning, middle or end. He asked if I wanted s’mores and I slapped him so hard it brought tears to his eyes. He managed to swallow the marshmallows without me.

I agreed to go camping this weekend- one last time- but it’s only because my period isn’t due for another two weeks. We’re going with two other couples and there’s some talk of a hoe-down and/or square dance. They’re obviously kidding, right? We are gonna play some volleyball which is awesome because I kick- hold on a second. There’s something dripping down my leg… oh no… oh God… it can’t be…

Big frigg.

Follow @Bryan_Liberty

Wonderings...

2011-05-15T04:20:00.000-07:00

Can’t we leave some children behind?

I employ a strobe light during sex… to give the illusion of motion

What do you mean your granddaughter is unavailable?

A hand ain't nothin' but five fingers and a thumb

Will you marry me if I keep asking you?

Casserole is the dark secret of suburbia

How many people do I have to kill for it to qualify as a spree?

I'd like to hear from the urine-stained vagrant

Why is my wife so threatened by my Brazilian mistress?

Cold pizza is like fucking a corpse I’ve been told

Breakfast in the morning is such a cliché

May I speak to your other granddaughter please?

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Santa Claus In Anger Management

2011-05-10T04:20:00.000-07:00

Judy, the group leader, was handing out Fudgsicles, which proved to be the breaking point for SC: “Keep those fucking things away from me.”

Now, the group responded as if Santa had shot an elf, another elf, and there was gasping and dirty looks and faces of absolute flabbergast. The mailman- who was here for kicking an Irish Setter- pointed at SC accusingly, standing up and declaring: “Words of fury, Judy- words of fury!”

“The suit is red, and the suit is silk, and I’ll be goddamned if some little shit is gonna dribble Fudgsicle on me!” Now Santa was standing, and his belly shook as he laughed, like a bowlful of something. “The assumption is I have a closet full of these, and the assumption is that money means nothing to me. Well you people can take your assumptions and go fuck yourselves!”

More balking from the group, and Judy threatened to recall the Fudgsicles. It took her ten minutes to get everyone back in their seats and to quiet the flow of profanity that had erupted. SC looked around the room, disgusted. He wanted a smoke- badly.

To his left sat Coco, a Puerto Rican prostitute, who was here for biting the nose off of her boyfriend’s face. Judy had helped Coco realize that she wasn’t a maniac- she just lacked the vocabulary to adequately express her rage. “I Feel” phrases might have saved the nose.

Across from her was Dr. Ben Bryer, a psychologist who had tried to run his wife over with his sport utility vehicle after she served him pancakes for the 9,674th consecutive morning. It was just his way of saying, “Enough with the pancakes.”

Santa’s story was much less horrific. He’d been in the self-checkout at the grocery store, behind a half-dozen teenagers who evidently weren’t familiar with touch-screen technology. It was late at night and the only register open, and the kids were giggling as they fiddled with the keypad, twirling in circles and jamming their fingers in each other’s noses.

Santa was watching them, waiting patiently with his can of baked beans, when one of the kids, a tall boy, dropped a handful of quarters on the ground. Santa sighed, and controlled himself until the boy looked down at the change and laughed hysterically, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head.

Something inside SC snapped.

He lunged at the kids, overturning the candy rack, launching into a symphony of violence, an exercise in rage that would leave three dead and two in the hospital.

Snickers! He pummeled the tall boy’s face with his elbow, bending his braces and cracking his glasses.

Skittles! He grabbed the short girl’s ponytail and pulled it completely out of her head, jamming his thumbs into her bloody scalp.

Almond Joy! He bent another kid’s knee the wrong way and forced the boy to kick himself in the face. Santa had found his groove. But, as always, the police arrive at the pinnacle of the party.

Now he was here, court-ordered, in the recreation center of the Dorothy Heroy building, listening to Judy justify his outbursts as “occupation-based anger.” It wasn’t anger… he just hated everyone on Planet Earth.

Coco got a text message and accidentally dropped her Fudgsicle on Santa’s lap. There was a moment of silence, as Santa looked from the stain on his thigh to the petrified eyes of everyone in the room.

He stood, and rolled up his sleeves.

Outside the snow was falling, and friends were calling yoo-hoo.

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In Carbonite

2011-05-05T04:20:00.000-07:00

In carbonite you can’t feel a motherfucking thing.

You can’t feel heartache, or loss, or pain… you can’t feel terror, or fear, or pain. Again.

You don’t have to think about what could have been, or what was meant to be, and you don’t have to delude yourself with thoughts of Fate, or the Force…

In carbonite a man stands, just as he is, just as he was, nothing more than he was ever intended to be.

You don’t see her face, can’t hear her voice, and there’s no worry over what happens while you’re wide awake in no man’s land. O, carbonite…

In carbonite you simply exist, for one second, forever, in a warm block of ice, in a world for the deaf and blind, and there’s nothing to say or do, even if you wanted to.

I hope I never get out.

Wonderings...

2011-04-26T04:20:00.000-07:00

Atomic testing really fucks up a picnic

Why is it that robots and gangsters are not allowed to use contractions?

My office mates and I strongly disagree on the meaning of “Hump Day”

Drowning kittens would be easier if the damn things weren’t so buoyant

Jimmy Crack Corn… and on some level that really bothers me

Oral sex at gunpoint really gets the blood flowing

Would someone please ask Junior to stop peeling the baby?

I’m not ordering black coffee to impress you… but you must admit you are impressed

Exactly what kind of business IS this Vagina Carwash?

Boogiedancing really seems to put my daughter in the mood!

On Halloween I answer the door with a shotgun, because Twix is so predictable

Being institutionalized is a nightmare… but you get to keep the bathrobe

Thanks, Easter Bunny!

2011-04-24T01:20:00.000-07:00

The bunny jammed a Cadbury Egg into her mouth, biting down, chewing, sugary yolk oozing out over her lips and down her chin. She rang the doorbell, using her strong tongue to lick up the dripping goo and return it to her mouth.

And then she swallowed.

The bunny’s name was Carrie, and she was a stripper and a whore. Carrie had no illusions about her occupation, no “exotic dancer” or “gentleman’s escort.” She took the job because her best friend Jessica had been working at one of the strip clubs in town, and the money was outrageous. When she saw how much Jessica was making she didn’t get jealous- she got furious. She knew she was five times better-looking, and she knew she could use sex to get paid. Not that she had ever done it before.

She’d been a good girl, all her life, and even in college she’d been sexually responsible: no drunken free-bangs to frat guys, no sloppy make-outs to girlfriends. But there was that bitch Jessica- with the face of a wolverine- pulling five hundred dollars in sweaty singles from between her invisible breasts. Carrie wanted in, and tabled the dream of professional dental hygenist in order to earn for tuition and save for the future. It wasn’t hard work, and it wasn’t dirty. She just had to turn off her mind and share her body. The sex part was easier than the dancing anyway. She figured she’d do it for another six months max and then get back to school… maybe eight months. She’d see…

She used the back of her finger to wipe the chocolate off her teeth. She’d been having low blood-sugar crashes lately and a strange guy’s house is no place to pass out. She balled up the foil wrapper and tossed it in the shrub, staring at the front door ahead of her. Suburbs this deep she figured middle-aged man, 40 to 45, wife and kids away somewhere for some reason. Family men were always fast, always came in a flash, paranoid and frustrated, trying to get her out of the house as soon as possible, as if her black Jetta parked out front screamed “whore.”

The front door opened and Carrie found herself facing ten little boys, ages eight through eleven. They were wearing party hats, and there were balloons tied to chairs inside the house. The table was covered in colored eggs and coffee mugs of vinegar. The boy who had opened the door wore a name tag that said “Alex.” One of the boys puffed his cheeks and blew a bubble with his gum.

The bubble popped.

Carrie felt her face getting red as they looked her up and down. One of the older boys gave her a look. She knew that look.

She smiled politely, then apologetic, “I think I have the wrong house.”

There was a silence.

Carrie was frozen, petrified wood.

Alex, hand on the knob, took a deep breath, his eyes locked on Carrie’s chest. He angled his neck upwards in super slow-motion, “No. This is the right house…”

The children parted, and somehow, for some reason, Carrie found herself walking inside. She stepped into the house and was still. One of the boys put his face up to her cotton tail… and took a deep sniff.

Her eyelids fluttered involuntarily.

They had surrounded her, and Alex slowly closed the door behind her, the hinges creaking in the cool April air. Carrie said a prayer.

The elderly Mrs. Guttman walked down the sidewalk, her dalmation Violet on a short leash. She spotted the black Jetta on the curb and shook her head in disgust, confiding in the dog: “Whore.”

Daily News

2011-04-21T04:20:00.000-07:00

Buyer's Guide to Black-Market Babies

2011-04-18T04:20:00.000-07:00

My wife and I agreed to never have children, but when the doctors told us it was impossible we changed our minds: Why shouldn't WE be parents? Fertility doctors determined that my wife’s wandering ovaries were to blame- and not the Thunderous Flagstaff that dangles down my pant leg. So we decided to adopt. But who?

First Baby - Mary

Mary was an infant from Kansas who had been abandoned by her underage, cross-eyed, glue-sniffing mother in a dumpster behind the 31 Flavors. Mary’s first word was “jizzbah,” which myself, my wife, and the Department of Social Services all agreed was weird. She was kicked out of kindergarten after force-feeding tater tots to the class hamster- the autopsy is still pending. Since then Mary has been home-schooled, which is to say she stays home instead of going to school. My wife and I soon became bored with her antics and rediscovered the biological urge to acquire another child.

Second Baby – Miko

Time to go international. Miko was a Japanese orphan and very reasonably priced. She came with her own travel pouch and a side order of onion rings. Knowing an Asian child’s penchant for the violin my wife made a trip to the Music Store… unfortunately we were only able to afford a ukele, which I accidentally demolished the day Miko began to play. A curious child, Miko's favorite hobby was sticking her finger into electrical sockets with predictably hilarious results. She spoke in Literal Grammar, which means she verbally stated all commas, periods, and punctuation marks. Fun to be sure semicolon but we wanted more period

Third Baby – Makumba

Things were getting downright nutty at this point, so we knew a bold move was in order. Makumba was a Haitian refugee we bought used from Angelina Jolie, and he quickly became the toast of the neighborhood. Instead of a spoken language Makumba communicated through a series of clicks, whistles, and meaningful bladder accidents. When frightened, he would climb telephone poles and refuse to come down for days at a time. Makumba was famous for slapping the neighborhood children just for the crack of it. There was no way to top ourselves now… or was there?

Fourth Baby – The Bear

A mistake from the get-go. The Bear wasn’t so much an adopted child as he was a bear, and by that I mean he promptly devoured Mary, Miko & Makumba upon arrival at the house. Before Animal Control put 67 bullets into him, The Bear ate my wife’s spleen and pancreas, leaving her paralyzed from the ankles up. I got off lucky as he only devoured my genitals. My wife and I survive and lead a rich and fulfilling life, but to be honest there are days I miss my Thunderous Flagstaff. The kids, too. Parenthood is like a midnight ride on a motorboat, but I forget how.

City On Fire

2011-04-15T04:20:00.000-07:00

“Alright, babe, I’ll tell you… If you want to know then I’ll tell it to you. But this is it… my deepest darkest. And once I tell you there is no going back. You and I will never be the same.”

I paused then, dramatically, waiting for a dog to bark, or the Earth to open and swallow us whole. But none of that ever happens, never when you need it. I was checking to see if I had impressed her yet, but she stared back at me with a blank face. Or maybe she was just nauseous.

“It’s time you knew everything, but just remember: you asked me. You asked to know my secret so I will tell it. I’ll tell it to you. But you have to promise you’ll still love me when I’m finished, you have to promise you’ll still love me at the end.”

She nodded, almost, so I began.

“It was a hot day in August. A summertime day in the middle of August. I remember that day. I remember hot. My younger brother was eleven which would make me twelve. And his friend Alex- a scoundrel- had stolen cigarettes from his chain-smoking mother…”

She leaned back then, her eyebrows arched, her arms folded, and she was looking at me differently. She was finally understanding the depth of my pain, the complexity of my personality. Or maybe she was in the mood for a cheeseburger.

I continued.

“This is the story of my first cigarette.”

And then, through the magic of flashback, we flashed back. Took the two of us back to a hot August day in the middle of the summertime, my hometown. And everything was happening just like it happened then: men buying milk and papers, sweating at the coolers, teenage boys getting taller just to reach the magazines at the top of the rack. Women, too hot to wear clothes, making us insane. My friends and I spent the summer wandering the streets, out of school, out of ideas, and waiting for everything to happen.

That hot August day my brother had told me about Alex, and the cigarettes, and the three of us met in the empty apartment above us. It had been vacant for as long as we’d lived there but there had been people in this place before us. Neighbors, families, business owners… maybe a dentist, maybe a sailor. But we made the place our own, pushed the boxes of newspaper out of the way and brought in milk crates to sit on and a radio for Z100. A shoebox of baseball cards sat by the open window.

Alex was beaming over his stolen Marlboro’s, wanted to tell us the whole story over again, but we got right to it, lit up as Billy Joel faded away and Guns ‘N Roses sang about the paradise city.

Flick. Drag. Burn. The cigarette was sacred, sweet, and as we sat in a circle and smoked something funny happened: A high. Dizzy with the nicotine. Hold on, hold on… the room going funny. Smiles of anticipation. The smoke was going to cure us of childhood, and hopefully the heat of the summer. We restrained from vomiting- out of respect.

In the haze of second-hand we heard Grandma calling, howling at us through the first-floor window, “Boys! Boys!” We ignored her as hard as we could. “Where are you boys, boys?”

“BOYS!”

It was probably Alex or my brother who flicked the lit ciggie into the box of old newspaper. Then again, it might have been me, but we were so stoned from the tobacco in our lungs we couldn’t remember… even if we wanted to.

We jumped to our feet, spooked like rabbits, scattering, abandoning the plan and denying that we even knew each other. The lesbian babysitters across the way watched us scamper down the fire escape, rolling their eyes without a word and cursing men as a sex. Little did our tiny minds comprehend that the cigarette was still burning, igniting yesterday’s headlines, and inspiring the cardboard box to burst into unprecedented flame.

We hit the streets, still stunned. After eight the sidewalks were ours, and we ruled them with benevolent neglect. Nothing says badass like a Bart Simpson T-shirt, and we blended in quickly with the other packs of stray kids searching for the ice cream truck. The heat never let up, and so we lived with it, took it with us wherever we went, and we would dip into storefronts for AC relief until the owners kicked us out with their brooms.

We were at Bulls Head variety eating Alexander The Grape when the Panicky Man burst inside. He turned to the clerk, panicky, and shouted louder than necessary: “The whole fucking neighborhood is burning to Hell and beyond! How much for a pack of Garbage Pail Kids?”

We were on the curb before the clerk could say fifty cents. The ghetto was ablaze and the firepeople- cosmic clowns in submarine boots and halloween hats- spat water at the thriving inferno. It was no use. The slums were burning first… but by the end we’d all be burning.

An old lady in corrective shoes ran by, turned to us. “Your grandmother was incinerated!” We barely had time to thank her for the update before she tripped over a pebble, breaking her neck against a fire hydrant and dying politely.

We stood back and watched the flames engulf, we watched the city burn, a mixture of hot shame and glowing pride: the hospital was torched, and the flames didn’t discriminate between the doctors and the patients. It was a masterpiece of golden triangle: heat, fuel and oxygen to feed the raging beast. We should have been horrified, but we had given birth to the bastard. He was our baby, for better or worse.

The church was scorched and the priest instantly roasted. The video store smoldered as the cassettes melted, the movies dripping down the wire racks. Then the police department caught fire- cops go up like kindling- and then the dry cleaners… The lake was on fire, as was the pre-school, and the high school, and the pet store. The stadium was burning, staining the ozone, as was the cigar store, and the coffee shops, the movie theater, and the government center.

And the people were consumed by fire as well… the mayor lit up like a roman candle and my school teachers proved to be a special kind of flammable. The parking lots, the bowling alleys, the pizza joints and the grocery stores… people burn good when you set them on fire.

The city was destroyed... nothing left for anyone, and the buildings blazed on into the night. We watched for as long as we could, until child eyes get heavy and need to go down, and no one asked us any questions when we slept beneath our beds that night, just so a stray cinder didn’t fly through the window and bite us with the virus.

We promised that we would never talk about it again, and we never did.

I exhaled. I turned to face her.

“So that’s it, babe… that’s my deepest darkest…”

She rose up then, stood sure and easy, ready to leave me, ready to deny she’d ever loved me. But she didn’t do that.

Instead she pulled a cigarette out of her pocket and lit up, the white fire lighting the apartment, the silver smoke filling the air. And she exhaled, blowing the smoke into my face.

And that’s how I knew she was the one.

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Outback Menu

2011-04-12T01:20:00.000-07:00

(If your server isn’t speaking in a grating Australian accent feel free to punch him in the groin)

G’Day! Why let the embarrassing sub-culture of Australia die quietly when we can keep it alive to provide personality for our corporate restaurant chain? Here at Outback we take turns choking you with deep-fried foodstuffs and slang so obsolete it baffles even Crocodile Dundee!

“Barbie that bingle, you lob corroboree!”

Steak

When you think of Australia you think filthy, beer-soaked inbreds and the best beef on the planet. But there’s more greg where that betty comes from!

Crikey!

England’s convicts have evolved and they're currently cooking your sirloin! How ’bout a Teriyaki-marinated Texas Tartare with a side order of grease-trap snappings? Or try a Bloomin’ ’Roo Zeppo Porterhouse Shark Biscuit, a flank steak comprised of beef from all eight continents!

Roight! Oy! Skem’bow!

Starters
While you’re translating, why not munch and chumple on a twelve-dollar Onionbomb? Or sink your skiners into some Alice Pozzy Bumbaloo Chicken! It’s a barbecued clucker wrapped with bacon, discharging cheese, and smothered in a sauce so secret we’d have to shoot you dead before we revealed the recipe! Or have some Eucalyptus ‘Tato Sticks! That’s what we
call french fries for some reason.

Even callow skeeters love the tinny!

If the hogswallow above is givin’ you a noggin-pounder we suggest you numb your senses with a Sydneysipper- a Crocktail with an outrageous name and offensive price!

Pattyback! Booze hits the pop-kropper!

Rippin’ Cocktails

Start with a Bongo Rita – “Rita” is short for margarita and “bongo” is the unpredictable drum… neither of which have anything to do with Australia! Ergo, we arrive at the $30 cocktail, which is easier to swallow with a fun new name- especially when you shout it across the restaurant in an obnoxious Ozzie accent.

“Bongo ‘Rita, ya right bastard!!!”

Piddling your britches has never been this rewarding!

Also available in fun flavors:

Koala-Walla Bongo Rita Bonanzer Snuka – Beer, served steaming hot with two olives

Wallaby Sting Bongo Rita ‘Stravaganzer – We don’t know what this means.

Kookaburra Bongo Melbourne Mudclip Bikkie-Bon – Why have you read this far?

Bindi Dinkum Jackaloo Bongo Prezzy Yabber Rita Deluxe – Ten men die in the preparation of this beverage

Gringo Dingo Boomer Bongo Nugfugger Pogo-Fezgig Bazaar – Ice water

We hope you had a kikapoo meal and a brisbane evening...

Come back soon, y’schmuck!

Wonderings. . .

2011-04-07T01:20:00.000-07:00

..

Crisp lettuce, my ass- this is aluminum foil!

Which one of us is gonna wake up Motherfucker?

I slap my kid every day, because you never know when he’s gonna get it

Free Bernie Madoff!

Life is like a string of pearls that is choking me to death for some reason

I put an ice-cream sandwich between my wife’s thighs and she’s like, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?”

Please ignore the blind alcoholic currently destroying my apartment

How many pounds of pressure do you think it would it take to crush Bon Jovi’s skull?

Marriage is like prison without the sodomy

Children are a blessing... especially at these prices

If there's no business like show business why hasn't Sarah Silverman been shot in the face?

Note To Self: The SWAT team doesn't have a sense of humor

Do I have to wait until I get home or can I break this gerbil’s neck right here in the pet store?

Yes, Nanny chainsmokes… but the twins don’t seem to mind

Dumb Bobby & The Dynamite

2011-04-05T19:15:00.000-07:00

The box was hand-stamped “TNT,” but Dumb Bobby couldn’t read yet. He would often find himself out in the shed behind the house, his hair mussed, his trousers down around his ankles, fudgsicle fingerprints on the light switches and doorknobs.

“No, Dumb Bobby,” his Mommy would say, “that dynamite belongs to your father. You musn’t disturb it or make plans to detonate the neighborhood.” She would pull his pants up around his waist, lick her hand and comb his hair down, and then she would serve Bobby a big steaming bowl of oatmeal. It seemed like Bobby was always being fed oatmeal.

But that didn’t stop Dumb Bobby from wondering. He was always reading fairy tales and action comics, and wondering just what happened before he was born. He was always breaking his toys, and singing songs of his own composition. And he was always curious about the dynamite in the shed.

He would sit for hours on the stone wall at the top of the street waiting for his Father’s car to arrive so he could ask him, so he could find out what the dynamite was for, what it was all about. When the whirlybirds fell off the trees, he would pick them up and split them and give himself a witch’s nose. He would watch the trucks drive by, and ask the drivers to honk their horns, and eventually the sun would fall from the sky. But his father’s car never seemed to arrive.

One day when the leaves began to change, Bobby walked up the hill to wait for his Father. Today there was no songs, no toys, no whirlybirds. He sat alone for an hour on the wall, which is quite a very long while, and when his Father failed to show he decided to find out for himself just what that dynamite was all about.

Just before dinner Bobby told Mommy he was going to play outside.

“Alright, Dumb Bobby,” Mommy said, “but don’t be long- your oatmeal is almost ready.”

Dumb Bobby grabbed the big box of wooden matches from the cupboard and ran out the door. He walked past the swings directly to the shed. He opened the crate stamped TNT and pulled out a bright red stick. There was something written on it… “Ex-plo-sive.”

Dumb Bobby struck a match and lit the fuse. He held the stick in his hand, knowing something spectacular was about to happen. As the wick grew shorter he panicked, and nearly dropped it, but he held strong, believing his Father would want him to.

Dumb Bobby saw it getting close now… the fuse was almost down to the stick. The flame was dancing its way down, winking at him, telling him everything would be okay. He wondered if-

Greatest 80's Montages

2011-04-01T01:06:00.000-07:00

Scarface – “Push It To The Limit”

Say hello to my little friend!

What better way to advance the plot of this sloppy gangster film than with a sloppy montage? In only three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, we see Tony Montana consolidating his power, marrying the pfeisty Michelle Pfieffer, and- for unknown reasons- purchasing a used tiger. The background track is pulsing power-rock, complete with snarling filth-guitar and every cliché ever set to music: “Walk along the razor’s edge… past the point of no return… throttle wide open like a bat out of hell!”

This clip- also known as “Cocaine Power”- features briefcase telephones, sacks of cash, and enough white blazers to make Don Johnson blush. (Is there nothing more badass than an electric cash-counter?) Pacino lusts after his sister and smokes a big stogie, but none of it changes the fact that he is a short, short man. In spite of its flaws the sequence is exciting enough to give you a contact high for those days when your dealer is out of town. The world may be yours, but what the hell are you going to do with a tiger in your backyard?

National Lampoon’s European Vacation – “New Looks”

For the definition of the phrase “Ugly American” please refer to this collection of scrap footage, the highlight of Chevy Chase’s instantly-forgettable sequel. Released from prison after the grisly Wally World slayings, Clark Griswold takes his family across the pond to assault France, England & Germany with obnoxious non sequiturs, numbing sight gags and Rusty’s eternal puberty. And then comes the inevitable montage.

“Scuzzed out” and in need of a new wardrobe, the Griswold family embarks on a Eurotrash spending-spree that would make Boy George vomit in his tea cup. Clark and the kids hit the boutiques and sample outrageous fashions to the syrup-throated warbling of Dr. John.

Watch Fat Audrey don a giant leather jacket while dreaming of pork sausage… laugh as block-headed Rusty insures his virginity for at least another decade by dressing as a psychotic duke. (Nothing says high fashion like Velcro.) Even sweet Bev D’Angelo looks d’isgusting in her four-foot fascinator. But it’s ultimately Clark’s interplanetary zoot-suit that sums up this sequence, and provides grounds for justifiable homicide. It’s a long way down the Holiday Road…

Teen Wolf – “Way To Go”

(Jump to 3:00 for the montage)

This pretty much represents my high school experience: Becoming a werewolf to earn a spot on the basketball team, surfing on the roof of a moving car while hanging with my best friends Stiles and Boof.

Michael J. Fox takes a break from howling “Doc!” to play an ordinary teenager who becomes an ordinary werewolf, and what better way to show him finding his groove than with this spectacular montage! It’s all here: high fives and walkmen, spontaneous schoolhouse breakdancing and signing autographs for his toddler fan club. (The scenes of Teen Wolf satisfying his bloodlust by devouring babies and stray dogs were omitted due to time constraints.)

The fantastic Mr. Fox is only seventeen inches tall, but luckily the wolf costume disguises his basketball double so the three-pointers look seamless. This is not just a montage… this is Cinema. You gotta go with the flow, Joe…

Attack Of The Kirstie Alley

2011-03-30T04:20:00.000-07:00

“Is she real, Mama?”

Timmy was looking up at her, his eyes wide and watering. The boy wasn’t deaf… he had heard the stories, he had heard the sirens. He wasn’t blind… he had seen the worried faces of the neighborhood men as they gathered in the cul-de-sac beneath the slow summer twilight, sitting on the hoods of their cars and making plans… drawing strategies. And the boy wasn’t dumb… but at nine he was still young enough to be fooled. And that’s why Mama pulled him close and kissed his forehead and lied to his face.

“No, baby, she isn’t real.”

Neither of them spoke as she held her son close to her chest. Anna, the baby, gurgled and cooed in her high chair, and outside the wind chimes jangled in the still wind.

The soothing sound was drowned out by the violent screech of a cat. It came from the backyard, an inhuman howl that sent shivers up Timmy’s spine. “Pepper!”

The tortured squealing continued, streaming in the kitchen through the screen door, Mama wincing at the sound. And then, suddenly, there was silence.

“Papa!” He stuck his head in the door before Mama had finished calling his name. He was wearing his camouflage hat and carrying his shotgun. His well-groomed mustache was twitching on his upper lip.

“I heard it.”

He grabbed five pounds of hamburger meat from the fridge and opened the back door, listening.

There was no sound.

Papa waved Mama away, and she lifted Anna, leading Timmy into the den.

Papa stepped out onto the backyard, and there beside the kiddie’s pool was Pepper’s skin and bones. She’d been eaten alive, and there was no meat left to speak of. “Poor bitch,” said Papa, shaking his head.

He leaned his gun against his shoulder and popped the plastic wrap bubble 'round the hamburger. He took a hunk of chuck and formed it into a grapefruit-size ball, holding it out as he stepped toward the bushes.

“Here, Kirstie, Kirstie…” He knew she could smell it, knew she was crouched behind the shrubs, and he held the-

Kirstie Alley pounced from beneath the porch, going for the meat, gulping it down in one massive bite of her jaws that took Papa’s right hand along with it.

She was chewing, her highlighted hair filthy and matted, wearing only a massive housecoat and nothing underneath. Her stout legs were hairy and her feet encrusted in brown dirt. Her nostrils were flared and her enormous frame shook as she lapped up the chop meat.

Papa looked down at the bloody stump at the end of his arm and snapped. He started running in place, his knees reaching high, and as he fumbled for his gun he fired accidentally into the air. Kirstie didn’t like this.

She ran at Papa with all her might, knocking him to the ground and cracking his spine against the cement-grounded tether pole. This had a two-prong effect on Papa: it paralyzed him from the waist down and killed him instantly.

Mama held Anna and Timmy close behind the sofa, afraid to take a breath or make a sound. They knew Papa was gone but now they had to save themselves. That was when they heard Kirstie in the kitchen.

She had made her way into the house and gained access to the refrigerator. She stood with the door open, her head inside and devouring every item she could get in her mouth: moldy pizza, jars of pickle juice, an entire carton of expired sour cream. She gobbled pasta salad and deviled eggs, heads of cabbage and mystery beef. The beast let out with a bellow that shook the house to its very foundation.

Kirstie kept eating. It seemed like fifteen minutes had passed and the sounds of her gnawing and swallowing hadn’t stopped: The girl gobbled good.

Mama couldn’t wait any longer- she decided to make her move. She jumped up from behind the couch and grabbed the spray bottle of bleach, running into the kitchen, hoping to surprise the creature. Kirstie slammed the refrigerator door shut, a stick of butter in her mouth, and turned to face Mama just as Mama sprayed. She spritzed seven straight blasts of bleach into Kirstie’s eyes, which went red and teared up.

Mama grabbed the phone to call 911, but that’s when Kirstie dislocated her own jaw and bit off Mama’s head in a single, noisy chomp. The cordless fell to the floor but Mama’s headless torso didn’t go down right away… she danced like a lunatic, spinning around the kitchen with her arms flailing… she picked up a rag and wiped the crumbs off the counter. Kirstie watched her, popping open a jug of extra-virgin olive oil.

“Cheers,” she said, raising the bottle to her lips and chugging. Headless Mama- through humiliating herself- finally collapsed to the linoleum in a heap.

When Kirstie had relieved her thirst she squeezed through the door frame and made her way into the den, where Anna sat on the sofa, smiling sweetly and sucking her fist, completely unaware of the bloodbath before her. Kirstie spotted the pudgy infant and licked her lips. Dessert…

She advanced on the oblivious newborn, lifting her up and smiling. “There is nothing like the smell of fresh-baked ba-”

“Leave her alone, you bitch.” Timmy stood in the doorway behind her, his late Father’s shotgun trained on the obese behemoth. Kirstie laughed, all five of her chins jiggling in rhythm to the menacing cackle. She squinted at the boy, her lips snarled.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Timmy fired, putting two bullets into her immense backside and nearly sending himself to the ground from the force of the blast. Kirstie dropped Anna to the sofa and roared in agony, running off through the front door and across the driveway, back into the wild and toward Los Angeles. She left a pile of droppings behind her as she went, and the entire neighborhood could hear her wounded, guttural moan.

Timmy raced to check on Anna, but the baby was unharmed. He picked up the phone and dialed 911, reloading Papa’s shotgun just in case the mammoth returned.

“I’d like to report a Kirstie Alley attack.”

Wonderings...

2011-03-29T01:20:00.000-07:00

Is there nothing more romantic than pulverizing a vulva?

Children are not dogs, and yet they seem to enjoy eating from bowls on the floor...

Some days I use the toaster just to spite my microwave

I hang out at the IHOP, but only to be seen

Has science figured out yet what Louie Armstrong was leaking?

The moon landing is the biggest scam since the invention of the Continental Breakfast

The best way to start the day is with a cup of coffee and a phone call from James Earl Jones

Your magic show was fantastic, but I'm gonna need my spleen back

I’ve been six times ‘round the galaxy but I’ve never seen an ugly woman on a sailboat

Marriage is just slavery without the suntan

The world is your oyster, so shut up and start shucking!

Old Man Live Alone

2011-03-27T06:54:00.000-07:00

Old Man Live Alone was sitting on the toilet, belching, his beard stubble itching his chin, his belt buckle scraping against the tile on the floor, which was yellow from age and bad aim. He was experiencing stomach cramps, and he wondered if he had any Pepto Bismol in the medicine cabinet, or should he just jam a steak knife into his throat.

Old Man Live Alone was an old man, who lived alone, but ironically enough that was not how he got his name. Just trust me on this one… that’s not how it happened. How he got his name, my friend, is a story for another day.

An hour later the plunger- filthy and humiliated- was returned to his home on the pantry floor beside the vacuum and the broom without bristles. The plunger was still dripping with foul, but Old Man closed the door, plunging the poor bastard into darkness.

Old Man Live Alone- wearing a promotional Marlboro polo from 1987- flopped down in his recliner and switched on the television. He liked to look at television, really look at it. His daughter had made him a cable channel guide on an index card so he’d stop calling her at 5 AM and asking, “Where’s TBS?”

She scotch-taped the guide to his end-table, where he kept his pill bottles and glasses case and then she told him how much she despised him, sharing her personal goal of never seeing him again for the rest of her life.

Old Man found the Weather Channel channel and punched it into the remote. He was halfway through the flash flood alert for the Pacific Northwest when his doorbell rang.

“Who is it there?” he called aloud.

The bell rang again.

Old Man got up and crossed the living room floor, stepping on a shard of glass and driving it into the soft flesh of his bare foot. He was too old to curse, but the tears were still happening. He made a mental note to hang himself that afternoon before opening the front door.

A young boy, about eleven years and seven months old, stood on Old Man’s faded welcome mat, a pillowcase in his hands.

“What do you want? Me to do?”

The little boy blinked twice and went into his pitch. “Would you like to buy some candy to send my class on a field trip to Washington, DC?”

“Where is it?” Old Man asked. “The candy?”

The young boy took a deep breath. “Do you have a moment to hear about the adventures of Jesus Christ and The Implausible Paradise?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Pennies for Unicef!”

“Listen to me, you little son of a b-”

“Would you play ball with me? And become my de facto grandfather until my real one passes away?”

Old Man grabbed his bottle of Hornet-B-Gone and sprayed the little boy in his eyes. The youngster reeled back, howling in Portugese, and tripped over the porch step, falling neck-first onto an rusty nail that was still Number One on Old Man’s To-Do List. Old Man Live Alone closed the door before the bleeding began, optimistically reasoning that the boy would most likely grow out of the situation.

Old Man felt a sharp pain in his groin. This was the warning of an imminent piddle or the birth of another fatal kidney stone. He decided he would drink that bottle of bleach above the washer/dryer, but before he got a chance he noticed the phone was ringing.

He searched for his cell phone for a good three minutes before he remembered he had lost it six months earlier. That’s when he answered his home phone by picking it up, bringing it to his ear and saying, “Hello?”

Sometimes the classics still work.

“This is Lorena from MalComm Cable… I’d like to ask you a few question about your service experience.”

“I love you,” replied Old Man.

“Excuse me, sir?” countered Lorena in her polite Latin accent, “but I just have some questions for you about your cable experience.”

“Do you? Love me too?”

“How would you rate the quality of the picture on your cable box- Excellent, Very Excellent, Magnificence In G Major, or Dazzle Fantastic?”

“’Dazzle Fantastic?’”

“Thank you, sir, just nineteen more questions for you.”

“You see, Lorena, I’m having a party on Friday night-”

“No, sir, you’re not.”

“How did you know that? And can you be here by six?”

“Sir, I can tell my supervisor that you were unable to complete the survey because you don’t speak English. Would you like me to tell him that, sir?”

“Yes, dammit,” said Old Man Live Alone, genuinely steamed, “speak English!”

Lorena did a dead-on impression of a dial tone, but Old Man hung on the line for a few minutes, just in case she decided to call back.

That was when the smoke alarm started. Old Man noticed the smoke, and remembered the Everything Bagel he had jammed into his filthy toaster oven. Was that this morning or last night?

He ran for the fire extiguisher, remembered he didn’t own one, and ran back toward the blazing appliance, stepping on a thumb tack, which pushed the shard of glass deeper into the pink meat of his footbeef.

“Raspberries,” declared Old Man Live Alone, and he vowed to overdose on sleeping pills the moment he put out the fire.

Old Man Live Alone had long since mastered the oven mitt, but he was so flustered he reached bare-handed into the toaster to retrieve both halves of his flaming bagel. They say fingers don’t burn, but Old Man would beg to differ. He dropped the hot Everything and raised his blazing digits to the heavens, his mouth spouting inspired babble, consonant-free, octaves beyond the human range.

Old Man could only think of one way to put out his barbecued sausages… he ran into the bathroom and dunked his flaming figgies into the cool porcelain waters of his toilet bowl. Like you didn’t see that coming.

It was especially unfortunate that his last bathroom visit had been so furious… the bowl was still filled with lingering marine life, defiant oysters that even the sewer had to refuse. Old Man Live Alone was elbow deep in his own liquid shame. He pulled his hands out slowly, his scorched paws black and ashed, his smoldering palms unrelentingly pungent. Old Man wondered if the Everything Bagel could be salvaged, or maybe just jump in front of a subway car.

The doorbell rang, again, and Old Man washed his hands before he answered. It was the little boy from earlier, duct tape wrapped around his punctured gullet, only this time he was pointing a Slovak semi-automatic pistol directly at Old Man.

“Okay,” Old Man surrendered, “I’ll be your Grandfath-”

The boy fired twice, putting four bullets into Old Man’s belly. Old Man fell to the ground on his welcome mat, clutching his stomach, promising himself he would slit his wrists if he survived this.

“Say hello to Jesus for me,” said the boy, giving the finger to the grote writhing in the doorway.

“Only if you’ll do something for me,” said Old Man Live Alone, dying.

“Tell Lorena I love her.”

Follow @Bryan_Liberty.

We Wrote Our Own Vows

2011-03-25T04:29:00.000-07:00

HIM

“My dearest Amanda… the way you look at me lets me know you’re about to start talking. When you walk…you walk. And when you talk…you don’t stop. I’ve been looking forward to writing our own vows since the day we got engaged. Why? Because I knew that, for once, you would take a break from said talking and it would be my chance to talk.

Some nights, when I want to make love to you, but can’t, because you’re busy talking, I look into your eyes, and I wish that I could stop you from talking long enough to tell you that I love you and your constant talking. For the record, my middle name is Zemick. I’ve just never had a chance to tell you before today. On account of all the talking.

It was your talking that first attracted me to you… your primal fear of silence has filled my ears with the music of your words, and your words have filled my eyes with salty tears of appreciation. Your talking is the first sound I hear when I wake up in the morning and the last noise I hear as I fall into a coma-like sleep every evening.

“When I answer my phone I want to hear your talking, and when I open the door I want you to be there talking to me as well. If there were some way to broadcast you over television I would want to have you talking to me there also. Ditto on my portable devices. My darling, I haven’t won an argument with you yet, and with any luck… I’ll never win one for the rest of my life.

“You’ve been talking to me for the past five years, and during that time I’ve become accustomed to your talking, and even listened to parts of it, and I want you to know that on this, our wedding day, I hope you never stop talking at me. I hope for years to come you will talk to me through childbirth, and Christmases, and anniversaries, and during Jerry Lewis Telethons, and the eventual auditing of our joint tax returns. Just keep talking and I will make all the magic happen.”

HER

"One day God made a puppy, and opened a window, and a bird came down from heaven, and melted the puppy with Cupid’s burning arrow, because I forgot to say earlier that the puppy was frozen in a block of ice, but that was okay because a dove flew over the puppy in the garden where a single red rose was growing, and a little girl picked that rose, and a rainbow appeared. Did I mention that little girl was also an angel? She was.

Two weeks later I met my beloved Remy in the spatula section of Bed, Bath & Beyond. He was buying a spatula. That was the day the stream began to flow, the warm stream of our love, and it mixed with the river of Jesus in the ocean of America, and so now all our waters is mingled, and we are ankle-deep in liquid love.

Remy, you are my moon, my sun, my Jupiter and my Alderaan. You are the gravity that keeps me from floating senselessly into the atmosphere, high on fizzy-lifting drinks, clutching at street signs and telephone poles so that I do not leave Earth’s orbit and burn to a crisp in the deadly radiation of the Van Allen belt. You are my rocket ship of goodness, and when we find ourselves under fire from attacking alien cruisers we get into the escape pod together and press the button… the button that makes it go whooooosh!!!

The love you give goes flowing out of me and back into you, passing through our friends and family members, surging through our acquaintances and co-workers. The love in my heart swells to twice the size of my devotion every time you re-dedicate yourself to share in the thunderstorm of my eternity. Now I’m feeling partly cloudy with a 30% chance of showers and I require immediate medical attention.

"I now pronounce us man & love-puppet..."

Wonderings...

2011-03-17T04:48:00.000-07:00

...and that's how I became President of Mexico

Somedays I slap my kid just for the crack of it

A voting booth is like a slot machine with no chance of winning

I heard through the grapevine that you're getting married... to a raging alcoholic

It’s a wonderful pre-afterlife...

Be nice, because you never know where your next blowjob is coming from

I take my time with the menu, because life is short and I’m an illiterate

I’d love to come to your party but my coven meets that night

Balconies are a great place to parade your Haitian mistress

I won’t be truly happy until all my schoolteachers are reunited in Hell

You can’t cry over spilled milk... but you can slap the hell out of the cow

The Truth About St. Patrick's Day

2011-03-17T00:37:00.000-07:00

Anybody can pop a can of Schlitz and get blackout drunk on St. Patrick’s Day. But did you know the historical significance of the ‘Irish Holiday?’

A long, long, long time ago- let’s say 1962- Ireland was a gorgeous pastoral paradise, a land where drunkards and their captive wives could roam the countryside freely, growing chubby on potatoes that were plentiful and guzzling gallons of ale that flowed as freely as urine after a prostate exam.

“Aye, ‘tis a good land this Ireland,” one such ruddy lump was most likely overheard to exclaim, tipsy on potato beer, “’Tis a good time to procreate and fill the land with little Iricks.”

Iricks was the prehistoric term for Irish people, which was later changed to ‘Hawaiian’ and then, after much confusion, changed back to ‘Irish people.’ And the little Iricks did appear… little boy Iricks toddling the fields, little girl Iricks mooning the clergy… There were scores of young Iricks frolicking in the fields… look it was just a lot of Iricks, okay? Being born with a blood-alcohol level of 6 is no easy way to come into the world, but what truly made life difficult for the young Iricks is that their doughy flesh and lack of parental supervision made them extremely susceptible to the attacks of wandering snakes.

“Aye, these Irick babies is delicious,” slithered one snake, if snakes were able to talk when they slithered. But of course they cannot, so we as a group must assume. “’Tis time for the lot of us to gobble these babies whole, like the proverbial Egg McMuffin, which at this time has yet to be invented.”

Pending trademarks aside, the snakes did attack, swarming over the hills and through the valleys, across the dells and around the lowlands, and into the rudimentary sewer systems. They sprang from under pillows and shot out of toilet bowls… they crept into nurseries and playpens and devoured the tiny Iricks in a single swallow. It wasn’t long before the Irick parents began to notice something was wrong.

“Me baby is missing,” spoke one red-headed mother on the condition of anonymity, “and this time I don’t think me husband sold him for whiskey.” In an ironic twist, he had. But the rest of the parents had legitimate concerns.

“If the snakes eat our babies who will carry on our legacy of stumbling over cobblestones and piddling our britches?” Such questions led to the first ever Irish town-hall meeting, at which shrimp was served with that delicious cocktail sauce. The townspeople spoke as they de-veined.

“The bad news is that all our children are missing,” spoke the village Mayor with a toothpick in his mouth, “but the good news is that none of us are paying for babysitters this evening.”

Savings aside, the Iricks knew something had to be done. They built makeshift contraptions to suspend their children above the ground by hanging them in a harness from a tree branch, but this only served to invite attacks from lazy bears and ambitious eagles.

Another town hall meeting was held.

“All in favor of passing a law to shoot Leprechauns on site?” asked the Mayor.

“Aye,” said the villagers in unison.

“Next order of business,” said the Mayor, genuinely offended that no one had brought any shrimp to today’s meeting, “the little matter of the baby-gobbling snakes.”

“There is no solution!” a woman cried out from the crowd.

“I surrender!” spoke another Irishman.

“All hail the snakes and their glorious domination over our dominion!” someone shouted.

“Repeal the Leprechaun law!” spoke a short gentleman in a green suit.

“SILENCE!” came a thundering cry from the back of the room - and there stood a man twice the size of any man half his size. His eyes were burning, similar to the way fire burns but with significantly less smoke. He removed his tam as the villagers watched him, hushed.

“My name is Patrick,” he spoke, twirling his mustache and stepping to the front of the room. “Patrick Weinberg. I can rid ye of the snakes and your babies will be safe again. But in exchange I want your souls for all eternity.”

The shortsighted villagers- desperate for a solution- quickly agreed, and so the very next day Patrick set to work.

He walked to the center of the village, where a crowd had gathered to watch. Patrick pulled out his flute and began to play a melody so lovely that the townspeople could scarcely believe their ears. Patrick did a jaunty dance to the shanty as the music flowed through the air.

At once the snakes began to appear. They slithered out of taverns and nurseries, overcome with the power of Patrick’s righteous fife. They slank out of homes and crawled out of basements, squilting from behind bushes and scrooping from beneath stones. No snake could resist the funky Celtic rhythms…

When the snakes were all gathered Patrick began to march…and the mesmerized snakes followed him as if they had no will of their own. Patrick marched over the hills and through the valleys, across the dells and around the lowlands, and through the parking lot of the Home Depot. He marched the snakes to the coast, and continued to play as he stepped into the ocean, the snakes following blindly.

One by one the snakes entered the water, drowning almost instantly. Patrick did not stop playing his tune until every last snake was gone from the land. He turned to face the villagers.

“The snakes are all gone, and your children once again safe.”

The villagers cheered, shouting their appreciation, and Patrick bowed before them.

“And now,” he said, “I want your souls for all eternity.”

The villagers realized that they must keep their end of the bargain, and they lowered their heads in shame, awaiting damnation.

“Aww hell,” said Patrick, “I never wanted your souls… let’s go get shit-faced!”

A great roar went up from the Iricks and they bought Patrick shots until he achieved Sainthood. More babies were manufactured and today the Iricks survive as hobbit-like creatures – but hobbit-like creatures with children safe from hungry snakes. Today we celebrate St. Patrick’s day to give thanks that we are not Iricks and do not have to deal with bizarre problems such as snakes, leprechauns, and, of course, the accent.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Wonderings...

2011-03-16T02:07:00.000-07:00

I'm not afraid of puppets anymore, and if my wife tells you any differently then that bitch is just a filthy liar

Childhood was a breeze, what with Papa’s weakness for Mexican snatch

Avoid Everything Bagels, because they really do lead to the harder stuff

Excuse me, but are you the woman they call the Human Dumpster?

I have climbed the mountain, and the view from the top is just as pathetic as I thought it would be

My son Lousy has low self-esteem for some reason

The best thing about blacking out is

I have no problem with gays in the military but I agree they should be banned from deep-space exploration

Everything you do is zen- except that

Guilty, Your Honor, but it’s a great story…

‘Nana’s medication’ is not a food group

Somedays I feel like the last dyslexic in Alphabet City