Tuesday, July 23, 2013


My god-damn dog is turning sixty and I can barely crawl out of bed to give that poor pooch a proper jubilee. I’m so old and my feet and are so worn. It is a rotten shame that he will not ever leave my house, and I will have to live forever--despite my desperation to die peacefully and linger in ecstatic purgatorial proximity both to the mean, cumbersome material world in which my accomplishments will forever be erected and inscribed, and to the chimerical heavens in which the vacant solace of perpetual bliss lie gaping in vulgar porosity--because I must feed this dog for all eternity. And when the Earth lets out its last yawn and crumbles, the two of us will fall into nothing and be held there, in a grasp devoid both of force of affection...But halt! What if I don’t feed the dog? Will the dog perish and allow me my respite at last? To this end I have inquired, yes. But in his humming gaze and brusque, dictatorial coughs I see my own losses, gains, nightmares and anguishes, even sometimes the full picture of my visage, and I know that if I were to meet my end, and fall up into the placelessness of my eternal and atemporal untruth, he would be there too, needless and meaningless, as before, as always.

Monday, June 24, 2013


Looking out overhead you can make out the outline of the dilapidated rail-car. Using the “zoom” function you can fixate with daunting clarity upon a scraggly fellow in a cloak of aluminum foil, growling oaths and bent at the knee, shitting and pissing, shitting and pissing. This is the Intruder. Zoom in a little further and the book is in full view. You nod. “That must be the book,” you all whisper in approximated unison, each finishing a microbeat after the other, like a hooched up round of “Row Your Boat.” The Intruder’s hands are enormous and covered in boils, soiled with waste and blood, and excreting polychromatic pus. You wait for the Intruder to reveal his next move, to unknowingly signal you to action. When you get in very close your view is wholly awash in the onyx-colored purge, which seemed never to cease. At least one of you is comforted by this, in some strange way, though this fleeting sentiment is of course never to be introduced into the focused discourse of the group. Some of you are tickled by ennui and scratch at the cold ground, unearthing text messages, missed calls, hollow voicemails speaking nothing, caverns into which the whole of spoken language were desperately but fruitlessly beckoned for all eternity. Others smoked cigarettes, inhaling deeply and slipping the wisps of exhaust into their t-shirts in bashful installments, evading both the alarmed gaze of the olfactorily keen Intruder as well as the admonishments of other members of the group in light of the former possibility. Finally the expulsion of waste ceased suddenly.
The Intruder took his time in exiting the scene. “If only we could just boot up Amazon out here and get a preview--I’m dying for a taste!” one of you joked. Nobody laughed. To get to the book would have been the pinnacle of your collective achievement and the magnum opus of humanity’s ventures. Unfortunately this never happened. In the immediate distance the Intruder began to chuckle, stopping intermittently to choke and spit, and sometimes weep? You weren’t totally sure. He wasn’t facing you but you could hear his gurgles and cackles as they burrowed into the mean, mounting wind. Some of you relaxed and leaned into the wind, a deceptively welcome relief from the turgid heat. “I’m just loving this breeze / Who could have a pina colata [sic],” one of you tweeted into some purplish moss with a rusted nail. His long shadow warbled like a television dipped in nuclear waste, and eventually crept up, casting all of you under its blanket of darkness. “Ahhhhh,” you gasped in harmony. The book was a lost cause. Its words were rendered meaningless as its context was rapidly dissolved. “We can’t find anything! What were we before that we needed something to find?” a couple of you shouted. The Intruder had gotten inside, and squeezed out the contents like a determined sandwich maker forced into frugality. The next scene is where things really start to “heat up” in terms of phantom significance within a complex network of arbitrary signifiers. This is where you lose the book. This is where your ironic dollar-bill bookmark is the only thing left on your shivering, naked body. This where you lose your place. Nothing but empty pages, blowing around like ash in the dilapidated rail-car. Is this what you came here for? Do you remember when you first left the house?

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Testimony of a Real Wiseguy

So me and Vinnie Grotto were waitin outside to get the okay from the boss on a hit we was supposed to do on a two-bit gamblin’ son of a bitch so-called “wise guy” from the suburbs when all the sudden we see Faceless Johnny Mezizzoula come up from behind the car. We both came heavy in case things went South and when we spotted Johnny both me and Vinnie had our hands on the heat in preparation for unforseen circumstances. “The fuck is this?” I ask Johnny when he gets to the window. Faceless Johnny comes from a different crew, not rivals exactly, but not necessarily with us. It’s complicated. They call him Faceless Johnny cuz the poor prick ain’t got nothing on the front part of his head, no face at all. So when he talks it sounds like it’s coming from two rooms over. Well he starts talkin’ and neither me nor Vinnie got any clue what this son of a bitch is tryin to intimate. Completely unintelligible. Meanwhile the phone ain’t ringin and we’re starting to get a bad feeling about this job we were supposed to do. Vinnie looks at his phone and the numbers are all scrunched up, moving all over the place. I start to get a feelin it’s got something to do with Faceless Johnny and I decide to take action. Well it turns out it ain’t as easy as you think to clip a guy without a face. He keeps blabbin’ out about something from inside his head while Vinnie and I are sitting back unloadin’ magazines on him as casual as if we was readin’ magazines. Finally Vinnie gets out of the car and bites into his neck. He holds the position and gives me a shrug as his teeth rip into Faceless Johnny’s flesh. Still the poor prick is talkin’ like nothing was happening. Vinnie is sawing into this guy’s neck like a chipmunk. “A little fuckin’ help here!” Vinnie says. “What da fuck you want me to do? This guy can’t be killed!” I get my chainsaw and extension cord out of the glove compartment and walk across the street to plug it in outside the gas station. “The fuck you lookin at?” I ask the attendant, who immediately turns and goes back to sleep. I rev up the saw and start in on his trunk. Vinnie and I were covered in leaves and sap by the time we finished him. Who the fuck knows what the boss is gonna say when we tell him about our little mishap. He ain’t gonna be happy the job we came for didn’t get done, that’s all I gotta say about that.

Thursday, April 26, 2012


This normally a quiet neighborhood, "he thought." But not today. Full of cops and sirens. He wasn't sure what was going on so he asked one of his neighbors. "Limited signal," his neighbor, old and made of bones and strung together with tape, retweeted in response. Reply unsatisfactory. Cops everywhere. A child screams under the heat of a novelty torch shaped like a nightstick. All of the cops have enormous wads in their cheeks and are spitting up the neighborhood. This infuriated him. "Look, can we please just talk about this?" Minimal connectivity. He watched as his plea reached its peak volume and then dissipated like a weak spit-wad, spraying into the tiny invisible pores scattered across the sheen surface of the neighborhood paradigm. THIS IS HELLA FRICKED UP! All he wanted was to be back in sleep-world. Naps were banished from the present paradigm: naplessness. Suddenly he was wisped up. A beautiful flying angel. Probably a cop, he thought. Stick to your guns, buddy. Don't let them fool you. "I'm the angel of love and joy," she whispered. "I'm here to save the children and to save this quiet beautiful neighborhood." He opened his mouth to respond with a slew of frantic queries but was interrupted by a forwarded text message from the #ClichePortal. "sshhh there's no time. ill explain in time. game time. swag" Suddenly he realized he was thousands of feet high in the air, swooping over the whole fucked up paradigm down under like a caged bird being free'd from it's bird cage. The view was beautiful and serene, much like the angel guiding him. He wondered if he could do Street View but the reply from his beautiful angel guide was hasty, you asshole, the whole paradigm is cops, it's cops everywhere, if you zoom in it's just going to be cops and cops as far as the eye can see. This when he began to realize what was truly going on. This paradigm was the paradigm of cops and it had to be stopped.

To Be Continued

Friday, March 16, 2012

How to Determine False Dogs

1. False dogs can be born but never die. If your dog reaches the normal age of dog termination but resists the natural forces of decay, your dog could be a false dog. False dogs outlive all humans. If you realize you have purchased a false dog, and you reach the age that you may want to consider partitioning your estate to your loved ones, include the caretaking of your dog as a condition in your will.
2. False dogs are indestructable. If you attempt to kill a false dog, even by burning or mutilation, the dog will reassemble seamlessly.
3. A very subtle, mostly inaudible, static accompanies a false dog's bark. It is as though the radio is all fucked up in the dog

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Where's Flan?: The Untold Story of Newt Gingrich, the Hydrophobe

Newt Gingrich never cared much for the beach. He never really understood what all the hype was about. You get all covered in sand, you've gotta bring this and that and the other, and, for a celebrity like Newt, there's always a chance of being harassed, photographed, "glittered," et cetera. The beach seemed to him to be, frankly, a hassle. But it was his granddaughter's birthday and she wanted nothing more than to go to the beach and splash around in the waves with her best friend, Flan, so off the Gingrinch clan went: Newt, Callista, Maggie (the granddaughter), Robert (her brother), the grandchildren's mother Jackie, and her husband Jimmy. They were escorted in a bigass Hummer limo with plentiful acoutriments and by about an hour into the four-hour trip Newt had quite a buzz on. "Global warming...impending doom...this country's gone to fucking hell...faggots and immigrants running around..." His family--the children playing and screaming violently, the young couple making 'small talk'-- paid no attention to his mumbling, except for Callista, whose tiny gap in her lower teeth excreted a tiny squirt of drool as she smiled nervously, patting his back at an attempt to placate him. By the second hour of the trek, Newt was roaring drunk, and his mood changed from eschatological despair to nervewracking, insane elation. "I might not win this election but when...when doomsday comes, baby...when the big dark day comes I'm gonna be ready with open arms, baby, with open arms..." he paused. Nobody was listening except Callista. Disney's "Cars" was on and the children, far too old for that sort of thing, were screaming obscenities at the television while Jackie and Jimmy talked church gossip and sipped sodas. "I need to fuckin' piss..." Despite his wife's attempt at restraining him, he rolled the limousine window down and stuck his body out awkwardly. As soon as he removed his penis from his pants a swarm of bats flew by. Most of them did not bite Newt Gingrich on the dick but unfortunately one of them did. Blood flew all over the place. Newt screamed with laughter. Callista dabbed his penis clean with a cotton ball. "KILL THE FUCKING FAGGOT! KILL HIM WITH A GRENADE!" screamed Maggie incongruously at "Cars." She made an exaggerated throat sound and spat a giant wad of saliva at the television. Robert screamed with violent laughter. The interior of the vehicle was covered in fluids: intentionally spilled soda from the kids, Newt's penis-blood, saliva, whiskey. Callista awkwardly tried to fit a bandage on her husband's penis while he slugged down another glass of bourbon, spilling it intermittently all over her face and chuckling. "Hold still, Newt," she said. "I'm holdin, babe...I'm holdin holdin holdin." Finally the bleeding stopped and, soon enough, they had arrived at the beach. Newt stumbled out of the limo first, and vomited all over the parking lot. It was a cold day, cloudy and dismal. "Fuck this beach," Maggie said. Callista calmly but sternly explained to her that this is where she wanted to be, and now she was going to enjoy it. "I was just fucking with you, Mom, you idiot." Robert and Maggie laughed. The family trudgingly started towards the beach, which was sparsely populated. Newt stumbled, looking mainly at the ground. Suddenly the hellish specter of the water appeared before him and gave him a sweat to the bone. Newt was briefly incapacitated by the image. He crumbled to the ground in fear, sweating, shivering, and foaming at the mouth. "Grampa got rabies when that bat bit him on the cock," Robert announced. "I learned about that shit in class." Newt's face was now blood-red and veiny. His eyes looked about ready to completely pop out of his skull, and his mouth emitted a foot-long stream of greyish-white foam that looked like dirty month-old snow. Newt had fucking rabies! Lmao
To be continued