She Brought Me a Murder

Hardboiled Stanton Pierre:  Go To Hell, Bastards!


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...

Which is where I am now.  It's a third floor walk-up and I'm above a massage parlor that's above a peek-a-boo joint.  Let me put it this way:  it ain't pretty.  But the office is mine and the sign outside the door says it's mine, so nanny nanny boo-boo to all those with less mine's than me..  There isn't much I have in this world, but what I have has my name on it.  Well, except for the bottle of brown eel juice and the Lucky Strikes.

I guess I hadn't been asleep for that long since one of the Lucky's cherries was still a-glow.  I put it out as I poured a shot.  Don't know how long it had been since the last drink I had that I didn't know how long it had been since the one before that, but nothing beats excess like being excessively on the piss, so I threw it down my gullet.  You know how sometimes when you're just about blind drunk you have this moment of clarity?  Like the heavens open up and this beam of light hits you and you realize that maybe you should stop drinking?  Because you have no friends- you have no money- you ain't pitching to any tail unless you pay for it, so you definitely ain't pitching 'cause you ain't got the dough- and life maybe perhaps might possibly become marginally better?  

Yeah.  Me neither.

I put the glass down on the desk along with my head.  Time to pass out.  It's been a long day of being drunk and not drunk enough.  As soon as I close my eyes I hear the familiar sounds high-heeled shoes getting close to my door.  I pull out my gun just in case it's one of them crazy snowbird faggots and not a dame.

Knock.  Knock.

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.

"Open the door!  I'm wearing a long skirt and I'm not in love with you.  Nothing's changed!  Open the got-damn door!"

Guess not.

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."

"Sure, as long as the Joneses were a bunch of chimps throwing shit at each other."

"Hey, what I do with my shit is my business.  Why are you here?"
 "I have a proposition for you."

"Not interested."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I 'm sure."

"Are you super, super sure?  Like so sure that there can be no more assurance at all?"

"Just fucking spit it out already."

"Would you like to kill my husband?"

"You mean metaphorically?  With kindness?"

"No, I mean with a knife:  a knife through his eyeball and into his brain.  Or into his heart.  Or his back.  You're good at that:  stabbing people in the back."

"Oh look at you," I bent my head attempting the most charming voice I could muster, "you are sentimental.  This is like the first night we spent together; except less fucking and more stabbing to death of your husband.  But hey, beggars can't be choosers.  Am I right?"

"Will you do it?"

"Sure.  Just let me get my stabbin' knife and we can be on the way."

She threw an envelope on the desk.  It was thick.  It was filled either with a giant brick of bologna or a giant brick of cash.  

Either way, I was eating tonight.

Either way, I was going to kill her husband.


Triumphant Arm Raising Lays In Wait

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!

In summation:


Carry on.



He stood shivering on the corner in a drenched trench coat staring at his brogues. 

She was garbed in heliotrope avoiding the puddles.

Making her way to him, she paused to think about last year's wine and cheese tasting. 

He remembered that he loved her. 

The rain began again.

She hurried to the corner all the while forgetting her wine; and cheese.

He looked up to see her approaching; he pretended not to see her.

She stopped at the corner.

"Your trench coat is soaked," she says. "And you're shivering."

"Yes, I know.  I've been in the rain."

"Perhaps you should get out of the rain."


"May I ask why?"

"Because you wouldn't be there."


Harbinger of Misery: Baseball is a Cruel, Cruel Bint

Expansion season, you ask?  Why no, my dear, that is most certainly not the case.
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:

E Young30100000.94.060
J Peterson21100001.01.019
N Markakis20101001.17.061
F Freeman20100000.90.015
C Bethancourt20000001.25-.049
K Johnson20000001.14-.060
A Callaspo20000000.88-.043
A Simmons20000000.61-.030
J Teheran20000000.70-.035


*Lineup courtesy of FANGRAPHS



Of Whom the "Bhagavad-Gita" Was Referring, Probably

In the Hindu text "Bhagavad-Gita," Vishnu was imploring the Prince to toil if only for the fact that toiling was the Prince's duty. As such, the Prince scoffed and Vishnu was forced to manifest itself into its multi-armed form saying, "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."

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...



Chris Johnson Stars In: A Happy House Has A Vacant Master


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.


An Epigram Concerning People

There are people who say things they shouldn't.

And there are people who shouldn't say things.


Unimpressive Nostradamus Quatrain

Upon waking after the evening doze...
He will shuffle to the percolating black essence-
Upon finishing the dark, lively liquid...
He will hasten his gait to the bathroom.


Reasonable Response to The Bay City Rollers

I know how to fucking spell, assholes.

Lesser Known Batman Villians

The Kibbitzer

Uncle Touchy

Hideki Irabu

The Amazing Cubpoard Flan

Lady UTI


The Sleepy Mexican

The Twink the Bear and the Twink

Kung Fu Master Duki Pooponyu

Receding Hairline Man

Sargeant Prolapse

The Tribber

Haiku: The Last Days of August Winterbottom (He Finally Remembered His Envelope Opener)

Hands held 'neath moonlight,
We look at the stars as one.
In the breeze, a fart.


Unpopular Cereals

Ebola Flakes

Cancer O's

Cream of Crib Death

Frosted Mini-AIDS

Herpes Nut Clusters

Gonorrhea Grahams

Holocaust Crunch

Placenta Puffs

Count Cockula

Shredded Foreskin

Honey Bunches of Dysentery

Lucky Necrotic Tissue

Rape Nuts


A Gentleman Bachelor Does Broadway

There's a smell in my house-
(Where is it?)

There's a smell in my house-
(What is it?)

There's a smell in my house-
(Who is it?)

Now I remember that I shit in my pants.


Quoth Peter North, Now as a Slightly More Educated Man

"Be at the ready, my dearest... For I shall commence lacquering your derriere with the euphoric pinnacle of our binding in the merest of moments!"

There Is No Rain For Jacoby Cruthers

Jacoby Cruthers stands at the shore of the lake.  The light, calming wind - pleasing to both he and the ambient humidity - circulates amongst the trees coaxing a dulcet tone of ruffling leaves.  He takes a few steps along the shore listening to the random sounds of pebbles being pressed under his boot-heel.  April is such a nice month for laziness.  It usually rains everyday.  But this month has been an anomaly:  very little rain; too much sunshine.  Jacoby Cruthers wishes it would rain.

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.


Felix Pie Surrounded by Felixes, Pies

A man must one day find a subject that not only impresses upon him the importance of answers, but also the importance of obsessing over said answers. 

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 has been Felix Pie surrounded by Felixes and pies.


An Epigram Concerning Schmidty

It is painfully obvious that when one gazes at Schmidty, he does not enjoy even the slightest modicum of Native American extraction. 

This, though, has not belayed the tribal elders from bestowing the name "He Who Speaks As If Someone Is Listening" upon him.


Books That Will Never be Published

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 Chester Poonswipe
How To Be Tolerant Of Others (US Edition)
- by Edgar Ray Killen
- by J. Fred Muggs 
My Mommy Is A Big Fat Doody Stupidhead
- by Timmy Horowitz
What You Should Do When Your House Is On Fire At This Exact Moment (Seriously, Your Fucking House Is On Fire!  Make For The Door, Stupid!  Holy Shit!  You're Still Reading?  What The Fuck Is Wrong With You?  Ha Ha, I'm Just Kidding.  Your House Is Not On Fire.  But If It Were, Reading This Book Would Assist You In Navigating The Treacherous Waters That Come With Everything Around You Being A'Flame.  So The Lesso...Wait- Do You Smell Smoke?  I'm Not Joking This Time.  Run, Bitch, Run!  Save The Richie Allen Rookie Card!  Save The AIDS Quilt!  Vamoose, Motherfucker!)
- by Sir Nigel Houndsworth OBE

I Never Touch The Stuff

- by Charlie Sheen with Dana Plato

- by Ginger Lynn

Delicious Cocktails For The Holiday Season

- by Jim Jones



Alternative Ways in Which to Throw Someone Under a Bus


The Rubbery right arm of Old Hoss Radbourn

Ninja Collective

Famous female shot putter Helena Fibingerová


Poem: Upon Viewing a Picture of Jesse Orosco

Jesse Orosco, New York Mets (1986) 

Your X is on a spot where triumph is buried,
But gone forever is that place
Only to be left forever in our dreams.

'Twas that night, a multitude of ago ago, so it seems,
That our dreams were manifested
To touch and never brush away.

Would it had been more apt had you ululated nothing?
An almost vacuous yawn sutured in time,
Your silent expression navigating longer than forever.

Lo, you shouted skyward,
Along with the hordes of dreamers,
Even if dreams are silent functions of the mind. 

And so what is left is this:  A quiet exultant pause in space,
And this is enough
To remind us of what can be when dreams happen.

Star Wars Epiphany

The Imperial Guards were really shitty at their jobs.


Unfortunate Things to Yell During Orgasm

"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!"

"Gavin MacLeod?"



Alternative Lyric From Gilbert and Sullivan's "I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General"

"I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,
I know the croaking chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes!
Now let's go bang each other."


An Example of How Doing a Mathematics Proof in the Air Can be Confusing

Green's Theorem on a plane on a plane.

A Joke

Two ducks are sitting in a jacuzzi.  One duck looks at the other and asks, "Hey, do you have any Chapstick?"

"Yeah, of course."


A Rational Response to Liking Someone

Their mere presence floods your body with just enough endorphins to produce hope.

Romance for the Mathematical Enthusiast

How do I love thee? 
Let me count the ways-

1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, ...


An Epigram Concerning Danny

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. 


Boca Raton's Arthur Levine and His Famous Sexy Lines

"Nice catheter!"

"They can cure syphilis now."

"I got a pocket-full of blue pills and my homeboys do too."

"Mind if I fill that barren wasteland you call a vagina with something other than dust?"

"I'm pretty sure Medicare covers broken hips."

"You're gonna need that oxygen tank after I get through with you."

"I might fall, but I can definitely get up... if you know what I mean."

"Let's go make a talkie."

"Mammy, I'm your Sammy."

"Are those liver spots?  Because I actually think they're notches of your myriad of conquests over the past 134 years.

"My grandkids call it a 'snowball'."

"You know, in this light, with your head just fractionally tilted in that specific manner, you remind me of a barely dead Dinah Shore."


This Day in William Devane History

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.

Carry on.


Bathroom Cleaning Haiku

Missing Judge Judy.
Rubber gloves and toilet brush-
Fear the ass doctor!


Wilford Brimley Has A Modest Proposal

Stop right there, dumbass fuck-nugget!  Not only is Wilford Brimley looking more disheveled than usual, but his pointy-finger is pointed right at you.  And do you know what that means, you snot-nosed dickhead?

No?  Well, then perhaps you should allow Mr. Brimley to apprise you...


"I'm hungry, young man.  I gots the cravings for some meats.  That's right!  Meats!  Plural!   And before you and your Harvard bookworm tongue correct my grammar-- I will Van Damme your raisin bag; so keep that yapper of yours cinched!   I grew up a got-damn Mormon.  We name our children Enos and Amulek.  We wander the hilly countryside wearing forty gallon Stetsons like in that Doyle story.  We swim.  We eat.  And we make little baby sharks.  And that's...  Don't say anything, turd-handler!  I know it's from a movie!  It's a metaphor!  I was supposed to be in that hot-shit movie, but Lorraine Gary stole that part from me!  Guess I should have married a Jew when I had the chance too.  But no- I was too busy roping women and fucking cattle to bother with those no-fun Jesus tattletales.

"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!  

"Hey!  Didn't I say I wanted some meats?  Where the crap were you on that one?  Nice hustle, Johnny Nowhere-near-the-fucking-spot.  I should backhand you in the maracas.  Let me tell you a story about hasty meats-fetching...

"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.

Mrs. Teschmacher comes in and gives him a knowing, willing smile.  In moments she is on her knees in order to please.  He who is a god amongst mere mortals pulls out his set of knucklebones and lays them upon his Captain of Industry desk made entirely of tiger's eye...

But not the gemstone.

Image courtesy of:   @screenjunkies




An Epigram Concerning Taylor

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.

Morrissey's True Intentions

Many things are worthy of getting to the bottom of.  Alas, some things will never have their Laurentian-like depth trawled due to fear of fear or fear of fearing the unknown or fear of fearing the fear that necessitates one who is fearful.

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....




Short Story: The Mysterious Case of the Missing Keys

They were in his other pants.

Haiku: Bloody Death! Doom!

Rickety loudness!
Off-balance shopping cart rolls
Past my house nightly.

A Gentleman's Epiphany

You were in the mood and I was raring to go-
But drink detours me time after time-
I don't remember doing much for you to bemoan-
Unless I once again suggested your ass or mine.



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


A Meeting with He and His Spiffy Sandals

In honor of All Hallows' Eve, I submit to you some very quotable quotes quoted by the most famous ghost in the history of all things that do not and will not ever exist...


Yessir-ree-bob. I do indeed mean the Jesus!  Christ!  I'm quite convinced I spoke to the anthropomorphic form of Jesus! Christ! because He told me He was in fact Jesus! Christ!  And only a delusional schizophrenic foil-chapeau wearing loon whom I played chess with on a daily basis in a facility for delusional schizophrenic foil-chapeau wearing loons would know whether or not they are Jesus! Christ!

And as Jesus! Christ! once said to me as he opened with a Stonewall Attack:  "How in the fuck-basket burnt sienna has Edward James Olmos not played Manuel Noriega in a Broadway rendition of Mannix?"

Excellent query, Mr. Christ!

And now----

Jesus! Christ! on...

- Electric Cars
"Ish Kabibble!"

- Jews

"They'll come around."

- Cute Kitty Cats

"Satan's sycophants!  Nihasa ne'er-do-wellers!  Stupid Assholes!"

- The Still Breathing Gavin Macleod

"I know a guy."

- Usain Bolt

"Whooopa-dee-doo, your majesty--  Try doing that on water."

  - Dancing Like No One is Watching

"Somersets; day and night!"

- The Trappings of  Wealth

"Bjorn Borg:  scourge of the Federation."



An Epigram Concerning Me Feeling Old

From an outside observer's standpoint, it would certainly seem like I'm mentally preparing myself for the process of bending down to pick something up off the ground that is less than one-tenth my weight.


Do Not Take John Farrell Literally

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!



Be Kind-- Remind--

She ventured up to me with furrowed brow and bitten lip.  She grazed softly my face with delicate fingers.  Gazing into my eyes, I could tell her synapses were firing at speeds unknown to human-kind.  I stared back--pleading, begging, hoping--say it!  Does she dare?  Could those words I've longed to hear escape her mouth? 
And what seemed like eons multiplied by eons raised to exponent infinite...
"Honey," she says softly.
"Yes, my love?"  I can no longer wait.  I'm trembling.  Her naked vulnerability demands every ounce of my attention.
She speaks-
"Put the fucking toilet seat down."



An Epigram Concerning Robey

One could theoretically hug Robey forever if one chose to dedicate the forever necessary because forever is precisely the amount of time needed to get arms around him.


Not a Jewish Kung Fu Movie Starring Bruce Lee

Fists of Murray

Lesser Known Negro League Player Nicknames

Slappy Do-Rag Poo Poo

Pattycake Johnson

Cobblestone Knuckenicks

Old Aspergillus Face

Esther Abramowitz


The Laredo Lockjaw

Soupbone Smacker

Not Gay in Any Way Whatsoever


An Epigram Concerning Charlie

In a rotunda of social obligation, Charlie- he of distilled thought and drunken warbling- commenced to crossing the room in a most haphazard way.  "A corner I must find," he bellowed. "A corner to which I may relieve my weariness!"


A Gentleman's Excursion

I was enjoying my journey 'cross the land of Thai-
But drink deviated me from my well formed plan.
At least I found a mate with whom I could lie-
But I probably should have asked if she was a man.


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!"


The Retiring Corpulence of Johnny B.

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
No death.
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!


Non Sequiturs for Lovely Pilgrim Ladies

"... 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."


A Gentleman's Effort

My week was consumed by the most exhausting toil-
So I was drunk on drink upon joining you in bed.
Immediately I had to ravish you 'till your blood did boil-
But would have stopped had I realized you were dead.


Base-balling Words of Wisdom

When playing against the Giants of San Francisco, it would be a rather prudent idea to do everything that is in your power to not hit the ball within three zip codes of Brandon Crawford.



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.  

It is of absolutely no secret to anyone that Holder loved speed.  His infatuation with extreme wavelength stretching velocities bordered on the obsessive; and according to his myriad of female lovers, he was also obsessed with buying saffron in bulk.

Little did Noddy know that when his lead-footed ways forced the DeLorean to reach 88 mph, it would transport both man and car to a preset temporal destination.  The year was 1849.  The place was a small cafe in rapidly industrializing Paris, France.

You may be asking yourself how Holder ended up in Paris if that was not the place of his immediate departure.  Well, I don't fucking know.  But what I do fucking know is that Noddy Holder had a cup of coffee and shared some laudanum with Charles Baudelaire.  So shut up and read some excerpts from their conversation, okay?


Be always drunken.  Nothing else matters:  that is the only question.

I don't want to drink my whiskey like you do.

The act of love strongly resembles torture or surgery.

I wanted to show the colder broads how hot cookin’ they are- So give me good time gals to love the rest of my life - wooo!

I love Wagner, but the music I prefer is that of a cat hung up by its tail outside a window and trying to stick to the panes of glass with its claws.

Them kinda monkeys can't swing and them birdies can't sing.  If them pigs could fly maybe they'd fly away from me

To love intelligent women is the pleasure of a pederast.  

Boys get tight.  Ooh, what a sight.  Ready to use their charms.

And, drunk with my own madness, I shouted at him furiously, "Make life beautiful! Make life beautiful!"

And you told me fool fire-water won't hurt me.

If rape or arson, poison or the knife has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff of this drab canvas we accept as life- It is because we are not bold enough!
Gotta find some way outta this town tonight.  There's a hot shootin' mama gonna crack your skull on sight.

--- Cheers to Dayn Perry


Not a Movie Where a Simian Society "Goes With the Flow"

Platitude of the Apes

A Gentleman's Eschewal

I wanted to share in our son's blessed day-
But drink had turned me a shade of green.
Rest assured I was still well on the way,
Until I realized my pants were rather unclean.


An Epigram Concerning Jim

"Bone" constantly appeared in Jim's scholastic and employment endeavors .  But because of the  utterance of "I do," that particular word has since been deleted from
his universe.


Conversation Between the Author's Senile 82 Year Old Grandfather, the Author, and Very Briefly, Knish, the Elder's Dead Dog

Knish.  Knish.  Knish! 

Uh...Grandpa, Knish isn't here.

 What do you mean?  Where is he?


 How long ago?

Two years.  Give or take.

 Did an ironclad get him?

 They don't have ironclads anymore, Grandpa.

 Fiddlesticks!  What are they using for naval engagements now?

Submarines.  They're kind of like ironclads that operate underwater.


 No, maritime engineering.  Witches have nothing to do with it.

 Communist treachery!

 Yes, communists are often treacherous dogs, but the invention of the submarine had nothing to do with communists.  It was just science.

 I don't trust them.  Damned rust-buckets in the water.  How do they move?  Do they use Orientals with oars?

 Nuclear propulsion.  See...

 Because Chinamen made a damn fine railroad.  Swinging their hammers every which way.  Goes to assume they'd be good oarsmen.  They'd be awful coxswains.  You'd never be able to understand their jibber jabber.

 A cox...what?  Why are you talking about an Asian's penis?

You try spending all of May 1954 without Chinese penis in you.

Wait.  You fooled around with guys?

I shot McKinley.

Irony Watch 2013: A Man of Principle

Edward Snowden, this generation's Hal Holbrook, has blown a klaxon in effort to to inform the populace what 1984 had already informed the populace of sixty four fucking years ago.

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.

Carry on.


Lock Up Your Children, For Jerry Don Gleaton Has A Van


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 --

Act accordingly.


If "Satanic Verses" and Hip Hop Collided

Salman Rush-D.M.C.

Seldom Used Klingon Proverbs

"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."

A Gentleman's Explanation

'Tis true I forgot to put the toilet seat down.
It only happened after I consumed much drink.
I don't quite understand the reason you frown-
At least this time I did not use the sink.


Trixie Carmichael Has Fallen in Love

She courts her reflection with eye-hardened resolve.
"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.

And Trixie Carmichael crouches down
to pick a daisy.
And Trixie Carmichael sticks it
behind her ear.
And Trixie Carmichael looks at 
The smoke-
The soot-
The shit-
And wryly smiles.

For Trixie Carmichael Has
Fallen in Love.


Rejected Children's Television Show Titles

You Can't Do That On Television Unless You're In Germany

Loofasam Dodecahedronculottes

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


Not a 1970's Porn Loop Starring Darren McGavin

Kolcluck:  The Chicken Choker


A Gentleman's Excuse

I considered going to your lecture on Erasmus.
But one drink turned into quite a lot.
Please don't take personally my absence.
It's just you're a rather boring twat.


A Gentleman's Error

I'm sorry I broke your priceless china.
I was a wee bit drunk last night.
And you say that wasn't your vagina?
I thought it felt a little too tight.



Thinking of You

Grocery list:


Hand Lotion

Cliche. Response.

Cliche:  "The world is your oyster."

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.


The Foreclosure of Taylor Bean's Smile

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.


Epiphany of the Day

Chili with no beans has identical undesired effect as chili with beans.


Advice From an Asshole

Dear Asshole,
                        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?


                                                        Lost in La Crosse

Dear Delusional Bitch,
                                     Let's start with the obvious, shall we?  You were already a porcine individual.  The only time added weight is a "negligible amount" is when you're a heifer.  Plus, you're living in Wisconsin.  As I understand it to be, Wisconsin is full of fifth generation Polacks whose metabolisms are slower than a retard on Jeopardy.
                                    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!

 Let us investigate:

1)  You started dating each other in November

2)  Shit gets really cold in November, doesn't it?

3)  In cold weather, people need to keep warm as best they can

4)  Fat people can help keep their partner's toes from falling off

5)  It's not cold anymore

                                   So now that it's not cold he doesn't want anything to do with you.  What a shocking revelation!  He doesn't need your blubber to insulate him from the frostbitten tundra that is Wisconsin.  And since he doesn't need your podgy backside anymore, he's not attracted to you.  The sad part is that he was never attracted to you; and you thought he was.  HAHA!  What a giant massive moon-like tubby dumdum you are.  He's banging some skinny broad whom he can actually stand thinking about while he's porking her.  And speaking of porking...Oink Oink, bitch!

                                   Now, normally in this situation I would advise the person to run a warm bath, light some candles, grab a pint of Häagen-Daz, and just relax.  But with you, I can't recommend that.  You obviously don't need to be eating any ice cream, your tub may not be big enough for your William Howard Taft-esque ass, and you're so stupid that if you use candles, you might just burn your fucking house down.  

                                    Here's what you do:  break up with the guy.  Take a spin class.  Eat a salad.  And before you know it, you'll be the gal that the guys are cheating with instead of on.  Now that's progress!

                                    And please drop me a line in six or seven months.  December can get frigid.