The sun was out. I'd been driving for hours now. I was tired. I was not hungover. I was mad. This shitty Chrysler Cordoba isn't the luxury automobile they made it out to be. Next time I'll buy some Jap car. There's gotta be something redeeming about a car made by a nation of people that you tried to exterminate off the face of the planet with hell, fire, and hell-fire.
The road was a barren wasteland cutting through endless acres of barren wasteland. There wasn't anything to see; if there were, it sure as hell wouldn't be that much to see.
The last town I was in probably had more cow shit than brains in it. But I got myself a soft-serve and went upon my merry way. Those cud-chewing morons hadn't the slightest clue. So I said:
"Those cud-chewing morons didn't have the slightest clue. Jesus, that town probably had more cow shit than brains in it."
I didn't hear a response.
"Hey," I said turning around, "you still tied up back there?"
Yeah, she was.
Just like old times.
I woke up to a Gene Krupa bass-kick of thunder. Nearly shit myself in the process. Actually, I think I did soil my undies when my office went nova from the lightning. I've had the shades drawn for a few weeks now: haven't seen natural light in quite sometime, which is why the storm scared me back to the days when I'd hide under my bed and then realize that was an awful place to hide from a thunderstorm because there were monsters under there with me. So I'd dart out and make a break for the closet. Well, shit- there are ghouls and goblins in there too. I couldn't go to the old man's room because he was half passed out on the booze and he would think me a monster if I hopped into bed with him and then he'd knock me over the head with a bat. At least he died a horrible, horrible death in Brooklyn and not in Los Angeles...
I sit there. I aim.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
"I can smell you drinking in there, Stanton! Open the got-damn door!"
I know her voice.
"Uh, not gonna happen, missy. Hinges are all busted up and my legs is pretty bum."
Legs. Good Christ! She had legs that stretched from Aberdeen to Walla Walla. She used to wear these black leggings that had a seam that ran from the Achilles to behind the knee.
"'Are' pretty bum, you moron."
And that mouth of hers. Always had something smart to say. She was usually right, too. Like the time she called me a worthless fuck.
"You're nothing but a worthless fuck, you fucking worthless fuck," she said.
"Yeah," I said swigging back another shot, "You're probably right."
And now? Maybe she's changed. Maybe she's in love with me again.
I got up and shuffled over to the door as slowly as I could. I may not be able to torture her physically, but I can rile that pretty face up and make it red and puffy. She could be the most impatient...
"Holy shit," I said opening the door.
"You gonna let me in or just gawk at my chest all night?"
"Move," she sneered as she pushed me out of the way. She sat down in my favorite chair knowing damn well that it is my favorite chair. "I love what you've done with the place. What was your inspiration for the Chinese takeout rotting on your desk can and the pile of dirty laundry?"
"Post-Modern Dumpster-Fire meets Homeless Reprobate Eating His Own Foot. Why are you here?"
"It's been a few years, I wanted to see how you've been keeping."
"Keeping up with the Joneses just fine, lady."
Either way, I was eating tonight.
Either way, I was going to kill her husband.
Do refer to the pleasing use of a 'whammy bar" in the first four bars!
Do refer to Joe Piscopo not referring to Eddie Murphy for the first time ever whilst on camera!
Do refer to Kevin Mitchell not murdering anyone!
Do refer to the splendid perm atop Gary Carter's genetically fine noggin!
Do refer to the 1986 Topps baseball card set handled in a most haphazard way!
Do refer to the rhyme scheme of "Let's" and "Mets" and of course "Go" and "Go!"
Do refer to the presence of both God and a buccaneering Chang-Sing warrior from "Big Trouble In Little China" at 3:21!
Do refer to the passable batting stance and swing of the irrepressible Gene Shalit at 3:31!
Do refer to the entirety of "Let's Go Mets!" in all its splendor and glory!
A mentally incapacitated manager, thereby rendering Mittens Tuberculosis -- his most favorite-ist cat-- writing the opening day lineup, you inquire? Nope. Sorry, squirt, you're rather mistaken.
Then how, you wail to the heavens above, could anyone trot out what could only be considered a stream of consciousness lineup for a professional game?
No idea. But here's the poop-pudding in your lunchbox:
*Lineup courtesy of FANGRAPHS
While one should never think to disagree with religious text -- regardless of the mutual absence of empirical proof -- one could allow themselves to assume that Vishnu's form was not so much intimidating for his multiple appendages, but for his striking resemblance to...
Speak less, you moronic dumbfuck.
Chris Johnson grumbled and stood up from the couch. The old Teledyne giggled at him with its archaic HORIZ and VERT as he adjusted the antennae. The screen door whistled a monotone tune from the constant breeze. Autumn is good for song.
Chris Johnson sits back down and finishes his Salisbury Steak Hungry Man dinner. His fork bangs against the aluminum trey forming a beat to the wind-skirl coming through the screen door that is hanging off its rusted hinges. He sometimes wonders if he actually forgets to repair the door or that he forgets to care about repairing the door. "What's the difference," he thinks.
The wife is in the kitchen. She is playing solitaire with red-backed cards. She had blue-backed cards, but the print on the front was too small for her. The red-backed cards have bigger print. Now she doesn't have to wear her glasses. She thinks she's less attractive in them. She has never bothered to ask anyone.
The dog gets up from the wife's feet and enters the living room where Chris Johnson has fallen into a dreamless state. The dog looks up at him and tilts his head. Slight whistling sounds are coming from his nose making a pleasing harmonic with the evermore gusty breeze outside. The dog barks at the high frequency of the sound and Chris Johnson is startled awake. His body flings itself into an apoplectic ballet while his foot kicks over the aluminum tray that contains the remnant of his Salisbury Steak onto the floor. How long had he been asleep? Had he even been asleep? He'd prefer to remember being asleep as opposed to the idea of being asleep.
A dull thud comes from the kitchen. Chris Johnson stands up from the old couch with its third (or was it the fourth?) slipcover. The color was always brown; always brown. He walks into the kitchen to find the wife standing over a rubber-headed mallet on the floor. This is must have been the thud he heard. Why was there a mallet on the floor?
Chris Johnson looks at the wife. The wife looks at him.
"Chris," she says putting on her glasses, "do you think I look less attractive in glasses?"
"No," he lies,
"Are you lying?" she asks.
"No," he lies.
"Okay," she says while turning around.
The mallet sits in the middle of the dirty dyer's-broom linoleum floor. Chris Johnson hears the wife quietly crying. She must have known he was lying.
"For Christ's Sake," he mutters as he picks up the mallet.
Hands held 'neath moonlight,
We look at the stars as one.
In the breeze, a fart.
The man on the other side of the lake waves. He sees Jacoby Cruthers meandering along the shore with his hands in his pockets looking at nothing in particular. The man wonders what Jacoby Cruthers is thinking about. The man always wonders what people are thinking about when they're by themselves. It never occurs to him that they are thinking about exactly what he is thinking about. The man never thinks what people think about him.
Jacoby Cruthers sees the man wave out of his peripheral vision. He wonders why the man is waving. It's quite a large distance to the other side of the lake. If the man wants to have a chat, it would take thirty minutes or more to meet. Jacoby Cruthers has never liked the term "half hour." It bothers him... he doesn't know why.
The Man on the other side of the lake starts skipping stones. He likes skipping stones. His record for most skips is twelve. He thinks that's a lot of skips. He's never bothered to find out if it really is.
Jacoby Cruthers watches the Man on the other side of the lake skip stones. The man is good at it. Jacoby Cruthers picks up his own stone and flings it at the water. It doesn't skip. "Blast it," he says quietly.
The Man on the other side of the lake sees Jacoby Cruthers toss a stone in the water. He's not very good at skipping stones, he thinks. The ripples in the water are getting closer to him. He thinks he should walk to the other side of the lake and teach Jacoby Cruthers how to skip stones. He thinks he is a good teacher.
Jacoby Cruthers watches the ripples in the water move away from him and toward the Man on the other side the lake. He thinks back to something his math instructor once said: "If you are six inches away from a silver dollar and you step half the distance to it and each subsequent step is half the previous one, you'll never get to the silver dollar." Jacoby Cruthers watches the ripples wondering if they'll ever get to the other side of the lake.
A light rumble in the distance causes a flock of birds to fly from the trees. Both Jacoby Cruthers and the Man on the other side of the lake look toward the direction of the sound. The sky is clear. The sun's glowing warmth abounds.
Jacoby Cruthers sees the Man on the other side of the lake turn to look at the direction from where the rumble came. Jacoby Cruthers finally removes his boot-heel from atop a fist-sized stone that he stepped on five minutes ago. He picks up the stone and thinks he should bash the Man from the other side of the lake's head in. He wonders if the blood-red droplets mixed with the blue water from the lake will make purple ripples that go on forever.
There is another rumble in the distance. But this time, the rumble doesn't seem as far off.
And having grown older and more weary having traversed the tundra of banality we call life, I one day sat upon my stoop and asked the heavens to intervene and bequeath me a subject that would hog-tie my brain for the remainder of my years as I patiently wait on the doorstep to nothing-ness.
The heavens moved as the trumpets blared. A booming voice - of whom I could only assume was Michael Clarke Duncan - said unto me, "Learn to pluralize 'Felix!' And then do some shitty clip art with Microsoft Paint."
This, though, has not belayed the tribal elders from bestowing the name "He Who Speaks As If Someone Is Listening" upon him.
How To Be Tolerant Of Others
- by Pol Pot
Gimme That Fork, Asshole!
- by Stuart Cassington
Amelia Bedelia And Her Tasty Pie
- by Peggy Parish
Hasty Meats Fetching: The Art Of Being A Highly Awesome Me
- by Wilford Brimley
Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! Awesome And Wonderful! Hooray!
- by Albert Camus
Dental Dams and You (A How To Popup Book)
- by Ginger Lynn
Delicious Cocktails For The Holiday Season
- by Jim Jones
"Parsnips. Parsnips. Parsnips!"
"A lux is defined as a lumen per meter squared!"
"I hope it's a girl."
"Daddy did it that way too!"
"Oh, the gaping maw that is your vagina reminds me of Admiral Akbar breathing!"
"You are sofa king we Todd Ed!"
"I'm getting a pap smear on Monday!"
I know the croaking chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes!
Now let's go bang each other."
Danny drinks heavily his Jagermeister, with whom he shares with none,
due to his insistence
on creating the largest liver in the northern hemisphere-
He smokes heavily his Marlboro's, I think, due to his insistence
on contracting the black lung like so many West Virginia coalminers-
His gait is fairly effeminate, which is why, one would presume, that he imbibes and inhales heavily his Jagermeister and Marlboro's-
In order to obfuscate the taste of cock.
On this day in 1974, William Devane ordered an unsweetened iced tea with lemon-wedge and a tuna melt on whole wheat toast.
Those whom were present claim that he was not displeased with the sumptuous repast laid before him.
This has been another edition of This Day in William Devane History.
"I see your eyes, prolapsed rectum-head! What? You're surprised we made sweet sweet burning love to our cattle? Or are you shocked that our ladies were into bondage? I'm not sure I want an answer from you. You're an ignorant swath of doofus!
"One day my father walked in my tiny room. He was wearing overalls. Not the OshKosh B'Poop kind: the kind that only a real man would wear who endured hours of torture from swarthy Indians. His eyes hid long lost pain from long ago. He sat down next to me on my tiny bed and put his arm around me. He tousled my hair and gave me a smile. Then he Jack Johnson'd me in the buckshot bag... "Pow!" He tousled my hair one more time and then boxed my ears. He walked out of the room without a word.
"The lesson that I learned that day was Meats-- then God. Golden calf tastes delicious because it's young; it's tender. I'm renaming it 'alchemy veal.' You writing this down, weenis? Get out your fancy ThinkPad and stylus the dookie out of this shit. Do you have Mindspring on that thing? I just got it. Boobs and NRA updates. The future is here! You know what's not here though? My meats!
"Holy Charro's knockers, doody-lips! When I was your age and an elder told me to go forth and return with meats-- verily -- it shall be done! You're just standing there! Onward, fart-farter! And upon your removal from my sight, do tell Mrs. Teschmacher the she and her cock-nibbling talents are needed toute de suite!"
And as you scramble out the room, El Brim Grande finally leans back in his ergonomically appropriate leather cushioned La-Z-Boy and stares at his meats indices. They're up- just like his blood. Not in pressure, mind you, but in temperature. He is a riled man: a turgid feral beast existing in a world of flaccid corporate nabobs.
But not the gemstone.
It is a matter of course that an intelligent person will occasionally muse upon the existence of a being of higher power than themself. The obvious corollary is that the intelligent person in question will also muse upon the non-existence of said being.
And with questions such as these slowly traversing across his steppe-like mind, Taylor makes himself a grilled cheese sandwich.
And so a question arises-- a question that has been studied, deconstructed, and obsessed upon-- just who is Morrissey really singing about in the beloved ditty "Our Frank?"
Fortunately for all of mankind, there is an answer....
They were in his other pants.
Super-mega-maximum-awesome is a term that describes something as being super-mega-maximum-awesome in nature.
For example: If you were to find your paramour's genitalia especially aesthetically pleasing, you might be inclined to say, "Damn, girl, your cunt is fine as fuck!"
But with the new term of "super-mega-maximum-awesome" nestled comfortably in your gentleman's lexicon holster, you can now quite regally state,
"There are those, my dear, that might proclaim your vagina to be wholesome. And there are those that might claim it to be rather handsome. But I am not one of those; therefore, I shall hereby announce for all present and future parties that your vagina is the representative monarchy of every single thing--including dark matter-- in the universe that is super-mega-maximum-awesome!"
And just like the prophet William Joel once caterwauled...
"Tell her about it. Tell her everything you feel. Tell her that her taco is
Needing a spark during the ALCS, John Farrell-- manager for the Beaneaters of Boston -- said that it was time to throw young-buck rookie third basebagger Xander Bogaerts into the fire. While one should ignore the spark/fire reference as both hackneyed and legitimately dumbass-ian, it is quite necessary for one to note that "fire" was used as a metaphor.
So it is rather unfortunate that a third rate cardiac surgeon with a stupid hat took literally Farrell's quote and did this:
|Piddles and damnations to Murgatroyd! I left the Pepcid in my other sacrificial turban!|
"Yes, my love?" I can no longer wait. I'm trembling. Her naked vulnerability demands every ounce of my attention.
Not a Sci-Fi Civil War Movie Starring Charleton Heston and Edward G. Robinson with a Quote From Said Movie Where Charleton Heston Raises a Concern
Soylent Green Apple Quickstep
"Soylent Green Apple Quickstep is poo poo!"
An Excerpt From Hilaire Belloc's "The Four Men," Contemporized for Persons Suffering with Mysophobia
- "May all good handshakes that here agree
- Sanitize thy hands to be germ free,
- And may all my bacterium go to hell!
- Purell! Purell! Purell! Purell!
- May all my bacterium go to hell!
- Purell! Purell!"
Avast, ye Fat Man! How you've raped death!
Flick! Flick! You finger-fucker;
You abundance of negligible. Stare across the horizon of your imminent demise- bask in the shade-
The dirt molds between your toes.
How ankles must buckle under the gravity of your mass.
You flick! Flick again!
Incessant with your obsession, have you shame inside?
A hollow cunt you are-
Filling it. Filling with naked promise of another day of
Your maker lives atop a mountain Rocky-
Taste the cock of your maker! Guzzle His fluid-life killer!
Drenched in your own perishable skin-sack, upon a weeping heap of collapsing, creaking, beveling earth.
Your steps take an infinity stolen from finite time- your Lorentzian length expanding in proportion.
The residue of your breath insulates a Siberian hut.
Staring at the poltergeist of the Ace of Hearts- yours beats heavily;
Have you guilt? A life worth the definition?
Have ware that all ends are nigh- but some not soon enough.
Fare-thee-well, Fat Man!
"... and then we used our safety word."
"... and that's the last time I ate a chocolate bunny."
"... his face, covered with some sort of viscous fluid- like that scene in Ghostbusters."
"... smelling like a birthing wildebeest at noon in the dead of summer."
"... horseshoes, except with onion rings and a cock."
"... you know- the guy with stumps for hands who works at that Oriental massage parlor?"
"... and hold the placenta."
"... slips on it, falls flat on his ass onto Aunt Trudy's most favorite wombat, kills it, and then blames the Bolsheviks!"
"... how he got it all the way up there, I'll never know."
"... name him after Hitler."
At some point in the summer of 1985, Noddy Holder (top-hatted frontman of Slade and inspiration for the currently dead Kevin DuBrow) stole an innocent looking DeLorean DMC-12 from the driveway of one Dr. Emmett Brown.
--- Cheers to Dayn Perry
Conversation Between the Author's Senile 82 Year Old Grandfather, the Author, and Very Briefly, Knish, the Elder's Dead Dog
Two years. Give or take.
To wit: LINK
And where, pray-tell, does the aforementioned Snowden hide his yellow-bellied traitor loins in order to stand mightily on his principles?
Why Hong Kong, of course.
This has been Irony Watch 2013.
Run away, children! Run to the bosom of your birth-mum! Jerry Don sees you. Jerry Don smells you. And Jerry Don has brought candy. He may have a pack of Sugar Babies, some Fun Dip, or even Pop Rocks hidden 'neath Poseidon's headdress.
"He looks like a fine young fellow," Some of the mothers pushing strollers might say. Ignorant slags! He's not peering into some far off horizon reliving the skirt steak he devoured for lunch. He's looking for escape routes: escape routes that he will vanish on after nabbing your child with his homemade frog gigger and burlap sack.
When he's not playing baseball, Jerry Don Penis Erectus Gleaton loves to toil in his shed. His tools calm him from a long day of suffering fools in the fool's paradise around him. His hands calloused from an ironmongerer's daily grind: he melts hot hot lead like he melts hot hot hearts and succeeds in both because of his hot hot sex.
Someone should really call the authorities. But would they care? One look at the strapping broad shouldered, immaculately groomed face, and criminally tight glutes of Jerry Van Dyke Don Corleone Gleaton would cause even the most cynical man to revert to optimistic sunshine. How can you not look at him -- shouting to Almighty God Almighty, "Thank you, Lord of all things and Jerry Don Gleaton! I have found the definition of perfect!"-- and not find the closest shoulder in which to dry your eyes?
But do not be fooled! He may write beautiful sonnets; he may be able to pat his head and rub his belly simultaneously. But these are mere parlor tricks from a man who has given himself over to evil.
Jerry He Was Such A Quiet Boy Don Gleaton has moved into your zip code -- with his van --
"Revenge is a dish best served with bedroom eyes."
"Revenge is a dish best served at 40-Love."
"Revenge is a dish best served at an internal temperature of 165°."
"Revenge is a dish best served before midnight just in case there are Gremlins present."
"Revenge is a dish best served in interpretive dance."
"Revenge is a dish best served with a lovely side of sauteed shitaki mushrooms followed by a single white grape to cleanse the palette."
"Revenge is a dish best served by using Victor Borge's skull and kneecaps as vehicles for said revenge while being topped by a delicious FroYo."
"Revenge is a dish best served without bread so as not to fill you up before you've had your necessary portion of revenge."
"Truth is beauty; therefore I am true," She may think to herself.
All the while the dirty dishes pile up and the laundry goes unfolded.
She kisses from a distance that only a sextant knows.
"Such pleasure I must bring unto you," She may think to herself.
All the while the fifty car pile up and beaten housewife go unseen.
She bats eyes in the direction of no one in particular.
"A shame you were not here to witness that," She may think to herself.
All the while the hissing cacophony of existences pile up and a cello goes unheard.
She ignores the smoke- the soot- the shit: with ambivalent watering mouth.
"Imagine what it must feel like to see me amongst all this," She may think to herself.
All the while the sins of the dead pile up and the flooded city goes unpumped.
She does snow angels in the ashes of the long forgotten.
"I am a Metatron of the world around me," She may think to herself.
All the while vulture-picked eyes pile up and a flower goes unbloomed.
You Can't Do That On Television Unless You're In Germany
Where In The Greater Metropolitan Des Moines Area Is Chastity Bono?
Everybody Poops: The Animated Series
Pinky And The Duodenum
Coast Guard Tom: Real High Seas Coward
Uncle Jack Kevorkian's Playhouse
Snuffleupagus' MAOI Inhibitor Fun Hour!
Smile Time With Satan!
Elderly Disfigured Al-Quaeda Emus
Response: Must be why I'm so horny all the time.
Cliche: "Christmas is a season for giving."
Response: I'm Jewish.
Cliche: "As useful as tits on a bull."
Response: I do enjoy the company of a more voluptuous lady every now and again.
Cliche: "Don't get you knickers in a twist."
Response: I'm pretty sure they prefer "African American" these days, buddy.
Cliche: "April showers bring May flowers."
Response: Fuckin' dumbfuck bees.
Cliche: "You are what you eat."
Response: My friends call me Manischewitz Paint Chips Kitten.
I am a blurred picture on a carton of spoiled milk resting upon a ziggurat of decaying rubbish.
My guffaw: neither true nor charming-
It is an overcast Cleveland.
From many evenings last to many evenings future,
I am there; forever will be.
I am a thermos without a lunchbox.
Put your arm around me-
let us steal this moment.
I will cherish it and many more; They are my skyward idols.
My heap is rummaged through by a starving and bed-less one.
His last breath stinks of ethanol. And inconsequence.
My alley: my home: my raison d'etre-
We are all here; or maybe just you and I.
All that there is is all that there is.
I ask for nothing more than more of all that there is.
I am in a technicolor prison atop discarded 8 tracks.
I am a smile for the camera.
There is no camera.
Away to the far-
I will travel light-
The Great Wall is a bunch of Legos.
I am a speck in the distance- a molecule orbiting nothing in the vastness of space,
But I am where I want to be-
Under a false umbrella-
pelted by the acid
and the rain.
I gaze around with eyes that sting;
A-look for anyone-
Anyone like me.
There are so many false umbrellas: So many like me.
We are all blurred pictures on cartons of spoiled milk.
My boyfriend and I have been together for almost six months. Until recently, our sex life has been excellent. We did it every day and could not get enough of one another.
We haven't had sex in the last two weeks. He kept saying that he was tired from working so much or that he wasn't feeling well and thought he was coming down with the flu. I was skeptical and decided to confront him about it. My biggest fear was that he was cheating on me. That has happened to me in the past and is an unpardonable offense. He told me he wasn't cheating and the reason we haven't been having sex is that he thinks I've gained some weight and am no longer attractive to him.
While I have put on a few pounds, I believe it to be a negligible amount and certainly not enough to be unattractive. I know I still look good. How do I convince him of this?
Now that we got the fact that you're a giant fatty out of the way, we can focus on whether or not your boyfriend is cheating... Of course he's cheating, you corpulent twat!