SUM NEW PIX

I NEVER POST PIX ON HERE I ALWAYS POST WORDS SO HERES SUM GODDAM NEW FUCKIN PIX I MADE ON PAINT

 

Mr. Cain's Problem

Herman Cain was seated in massive wing chair, so large he looked like a baby in it. He snapped his fingers and immediately a thin, tuxeo-clad servant in large prescription sunglasses appeared from "around the bend" and presented him with a covered silver dinner tray, which he opened. In it was a large clock adorned with various cured and spiced meats: pepperoni, capicola, prosciutto, etc. Mr. Cain impatiently thrusted the meat aside and looked at the clock. "Goddamnit fucker. I told you and your faggot twins to go out and wash my hens by half-of and here you are standin' all dumb with your shitty meat." He rose from his wing chair. "FEED THE HENS," he belched two octaves lower than his normal speaking voice, with his eyes wide and veins bulging. He spat and then automatically corrected himself: "WASH THE HENS." A green rotary telephone suddenly rang. There is a moment of great suspense. It continued to ring. Herman Cain did not move, only looked suspiciously at the phone. "Eeeyyyyeeess liiiike gooolldd flooowwweeerrrss," the servant whispered directly into the camera, with a strange accentuated drawl and a knowing smile. The telephone rang louder and louder, as though multiple telephones were cropping up in obscured locations but their utterances were heard as though they were "right there." Herman Cain began to yell over the din of telephones, "IT  BETTER HAD NOT BE"--the servant at this point began to roll his eyes and mockingly lip-synch along with Cain's diatribe, pointing out to the reader Mr. Cain's tiresome predictability--"THESE LIMP LEGGED BITCHES TRYING TO WRAGGLE SOME MORE GOLD NUGGETS OUT OF A DRY-ASS HEN TURD." The telephone rings continued. The main telephone seemed to have grown, and now looked like a giant play-phone: ugly, relentless, and plastic. The servant did a coquettish gasp and covered his mouth, drawling with giddily curious excitement: "Oh well ain't that phone mighty big!" Cain was unamused. Finally he clammered to the phone, hastily and sloppily. He picked up the receiver. "It's me," the phone replied, in a voice reminiscent of a six-year-old boy with a bad cold. Mr Cain made an urgent mumbling sound with closed lips, and flapped his right arm. The servant scrambled to remove the deli meats from the dinner tray, but couldn't pick up the clock. It seemed to be stuck. He ran to Mr. Cain and Mr. Cain expelled steaming black vomit all over the precious timepiece. "Fucking faggot!" Cain yelled, panting and slurping up bits of vomit from his lips. "It's me," the phone said again. Cain turned his attention briefly back to the phone receiver. "I KNOW IT'S YOU YOU CROOK! GIVE ME A GOD-DAMN MOMENT OF PEACE! YOU'LL GET THE EGGS, YOU'LL GET THE GOD-DAMN DIRTY OLD HEN EGGS!" After replying to the phone's veiled demand he beat his servant once over the head with the receiver, which was hollow and plastic. The servant died instantly, his body jerkily crumbling into a compact pile of steaming entrails on the massive Persian rug. Mr. Cain returned to his phone call. "It's me," he said. There was no reply. The phone seemed to have gone elsewhere, and he was left with only the shell of the once-established contact. He began to weep. He thanked the woman for handing him a box of tissues, which he spat into and returned. "All my life," his monologue began predictably, "I've been shooting for the stars, climbing up and selling my shitty old eggs at a peasant's return. And damned if I haven't got to put my dick in a boilin' pot of peas at the first sight of great victory now that all these red faced bitches each want a special egg in return for a couple bygone feels of the sweaty old steam-hole. This is what a man," he wept, farting and gasping, invoking Primo Levi at the defense of his fragile and beautiful manhood, "must come to...to give himself over to the sweaty hand of God. And I will. Twice. Three times. One hundred times."


2 Bacon Tinued

yoooooo wats up guys

Peggers "Peggy" Thawczuck looks at her iphone in total fucking crippling despair. It no longer reminded her of simplicity and beauty and functionality. Now it carried a heavy specter which nagged at her, reminding her of her transparency and her tiny hands. She toggled the screen & looked @ the clock. 66:41. OH SHIT. the narrator informed the reader that the protagonist was late for an event. "Yes," Peggers looked into the mirror, brushing her hair, the film is black and white, "I'm running fourteen minutes late for my own death, which means by the time I make it to the re-birth, I'll already be born, so that means I might die on the way." She texted with one hand and brushed her beautiful soft hair with the other. The text message she was sending looked to be some sort of disgusting permutation. If you listened closely to her tiny hands on the massive iphone you would swear you heard the inimitable sound of mac and cheese being slowly stirred. Suddenly all of her hair fell off in one giant clump like a wig...Blood was "gushing." The floor was literally "covered in blood." Suddenly, a new character appeared, and, through his dialogue, the reader was able to discern that, nvm it was just like a whole thing of sriracha. Peggers gasped on the floor and started2drown. She was dying. Suddenly, Peggers died. "It happened so fast. I didnt know her like super well but she always seemed nice. I helped her carry her intro to management textbook because her hands were too small. This is so crazy. Like, wow. Like when things like this happen it just reminds you of like how lucky you are and not to take life for granted. Also it reminds you to return Top Gun to the library, clean the dog shit out of the inside of your external hard drive, call that guy about the linoleum, eat a fingernail, graduate high school again, look up "topaz" on urban dictionary, get a job, get a handjob, apply for disability benefits, eat a piece of shit, watch your language around babies and flowers, radiate love and wellbeing and discipline, call your ex and talk for twelve minutes doing nothing but "Scary Movie 3" quotes, love your mom a little bit more, think your dad is cool like you did when you were a newborn baby, learn to sculpt and paint and weld and do coloring books, cut back on the aspirin intake, get around to rereading Phenomenology of the Spirit, spit on something valuable, alphabetize your baseball cards."

NEOLIBERAL POLITICS KILLED ONE MILLION OF OUR NATION'S MOST PARASITIC SCUM IN THE NINETEEN EIGHTIES AND EARLY NINETIES AND FOR THAT WE CAN ONLY THANK THE GOOD WORK OF A LOVING BUT UNFORGIVING GOD

John Boehner looks up from his abridged copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. The day is beautiful. Their are probably at least a thousand trees out there, he thinks yearningly. Suddenly a six-month-old Chilean farm boy emerges from the bomb shelter located poolside. He begins to recite a block quote on neoliberalization by (Harvey, 1999). His eyes are mature, hands calloused, and his mouth is a sickening black skin-hole surrounded by boils and scabs. The skin surrounding it is so thin and shredded that it quivers rapidly as he speaks, like a piece of tissue paper held up to a large fan. John Bon Boehner-Goebbels-Jovi stands up and screams. BAD BIG MUMBOJUMBO GET OUT GET OUT he yells and then goes like AAHAHAGFAHFG2HWH just like really making these sick ass noises like twelve enormous rabid ducks simultaneously thrust into boiling molasses. John Claude Van Bonerbaby is now leaned forward, running in place and swirling both arms around backwards in circles like wagon wheels. Suddenly an enormous bug comes over and John Boehner rides away safely. The child sadly died because of how he got ran over by the bug. Funeral processions will be held at the Augusto José Ramón Pinochet Memorial Catholic Church and Specialty Goods Surplus Center, just three ticks past midnight on the night of the month's first full moon.

Reader Beware: Choose Your Own Ending

He stared at the envelope pensively. Finally, with hesitating resolve, he grabbed a letter opener. The letter opener cut his finger off at the knuckle. He smoked a cigarette slowly and thought about letting the dog out. Then, suddenly, he reached in his front shirt pocket for a bandage. He wrapped his finger up good and proceeded to open up the letter. In it, there was a small thing.


1. HE LAUGHED SO HARD HE DIED
2. "We should do lunch."
3.

Jacob's Curse

All his life, Jacob was prone to bad luck. One day, that changed. An event transpired that could surely be described as "lucky." Even his own batty mother, the syphilitic whore and self-proclaimed "village spit-rag," praised this day as the beginning of a fortunate streak. Jacob was finally happy. That is, until one day. That day came forever to be known as the day of bad luck. A most dreadful thing occured which caused even Jacob's own batty mother, the twelve-eyed gruel-lapping dumpster hound and self-proclaimed "savage pariah of the ghettoes," to shudder in despair and disappointment. Henceforth, nothing in Jacob's life went right, and Jacob seemed to be at the sadistic whims of a vengeful and unwavering divinity. One day, however, everything changed. Something happened to Jacob which would, from then on, mark a stage of his life blessed by fortunate circumstance. Even his own batty old mother, the farting barn-mule and self-proclaimed "insidious pesterer of all decent men," sighed a great sigh of relief to see his cloud of misfortune finally parted. Things were looking up. That is, until one most gloomy afternoon, when a terrible event manifested itself. It was so awful and pernicious that even his batty mother, the rusted steel dildo and self-proclaimed "roach-excrement receptacle," was shocked and dismayed upon hearing about it. It was a most awful day, and the days to follow would match it in hideousness and despair.

To Be Continued

Untitled

They're a large dog. Rubbery to the touch, like a seal. Their shape suggests a phallus. When they bark it sounds like a call from a walkie talkie, with the initial burst of static followed by a small and muffled metallic woof. They don't bark much, though. They're pretty quiet, and exquisitely obedient. They are the source of my popularity amongst the old ladies in the neighborhood. The ladies come over and fawn over them, and on holidays they bring me pies. I like the old ladies. The sublime reality of their impending mortality has given them a sentimental appreciation for rare living novelties, like the old pup. They call them "Saint," or sometimes use real saint's names, like "Saint John," or "Saint Matthew." It is like attending mass when they visit them. They sometimes order a pizza, light candles around themselves and the dog, and just talk, as though neither I nor the dog were there, but that the dog were an essential element to their meeting. The dog brought them together. They gave them an excuse to all talk together that they wouldn't have without them. Sometimes the dog would look over to me during these occasions and roll their eyes. I'd laugh. The ladies could be a bore, but they kept me company.
"I suppose you heard that my grandson, Jonathan, is considering going to seminary."
"My doctors say to stay away from red meat, but I had a tenderloin last night that told me to stay away from doctors."
"You always evoke a certain Shakespearean quality, Bertha. Avoid staircases."
"Theodore and Calvin are planning a birthday party for Dexter."
"I haven't seen the photographs yet. Cynthia always tells me she's going to send them, but they never come!"
"Flowers, flowers, flowers! It's like living in a florist's shop!"
They went on and on like this, gumming their pizza down by candlelight, as the dog sat quietly and panted away. Sitting with them in the candlelight like this, I would think about all the ghostly knowledge, all the fleeting dreams, all the bittersweet romances of a life winding down, a life settling in to the reality of its impending erasure. The candlelight accentuated the wrinkles on their faces, making them dark caves, probably full of wisdom, pain, joy, full of all the absurd, disorganized, chaotically beautiful, crystalline junk of a full human life. The dog would give one of their rare barks, and all the old ladies would laugh, and when they smiled, more caverns were instantaneously dug into their spectral visages. It made me wonder what it means to be young, and whether perhaps life was just a circular tour through a junkyard, with symbols and structures acquiring fleeting significance relative to other junk of their kind, but in the end just being buried away in some cave. The elderly walk slowly because they have to carry all the weight of that junk. These ladies didn't seem to mind too much. They talked and talked as though they were constantly just digging through caves, noticing this family member here, this decorative lamp-post there, noting their re-discoveries, and placing them back as they were, moving along. I'm not sure if the dog saw it that way, though. Anyway, what do I know?

Subsumption: A Fashionable Procedure for New Couples

After a particularly drunk night at Hugh Pontiac's flat, an unnameable woman became enamored with the charming and respected Arnold Hudson, and left him button-baggies with her fingernail clippings every day, until her fingertips became so bloody they looked like she was wearing nail polish. Finally, the reluctant Arnold agreed to court her under the condition that she consent to a subsumption, a minor procedure in which, to commence a formal courtship, the female's elusive subjectivity becomes chemically materialized into a malleable cathexis, and then subsumed within the male's. Far from painful, the procedure even produces pleasurable effects: the woman experiences feelings of raw affectionate sensuality recalling infantile teat-sucking, and the procedure is completed at the moment of orgasm.
After the subsumption was complete, Arnold had monopolized the power of agency to the extent that the duo had truly become one: rather than a duality, the result of this courtship's beginning was a sort of Arnold 2.0--a new, improved Arnold with a fashionable and reliable Agreement Machine as a sort of supplementary reciprocal force. For the woman to sit near another man, say, at a party, or to go off and have lunch with her prior female companions would be as absurd and unruly as a man's nose leaving his body, as in the famous Gogol story. She was to be employed exclusively as a reinforcement to Arnold's free agency.

Soon enough, Subsumption would become a multi-billion dollar industry, and thusly, the laws and regulations of the nation would reflect the breadth of the procedure's societal influence. Women who had received the subsumption procedure were given a special sticker on their identification cards to notify that it had been completed, and police would occasionally stop a woman at random on the street and ask if she had been subsumed and to check her ID. If she was, in fact, subsumed but still walking alone about the streets like a free woman, the officer would notify her mate to assure that her individual outing was warranted and solicited. Due to subsumption's massive influence on the economy of the country, and subsumption companies' powerful lobbying groups in the capitol, domestic and public law reflected the interests of the companies and the imperative that they not lose any money due to lawsuits. The government sought to protect and defend subsumption corporations, lest they be challenged by any men unsatisfied with the procedure's effectiveness. Subsumption was the magic of the future. The over-sexualized billboard woman: "Sweet, sexy, subsumed!" draped in a banner across her nude breasts. James Brown's "It's a Man's World" is the quintessential retro love song, according to NYLON magazine.

The start of a possible novel?

I'd rather die than go back to Vision Circle, soliloquized our fair prince. I'd rather stab through my heart a thousand times with a dagger made of fire than to set foot once more in that wretched, awful, awful place. But times prove the inescapability of fate, and it is I who must conquer the demon of vision quest, for it is my destiny, our destiny, my love. To continue on, to journey forth, this is our destiny, this is our calling. He turned to his love, the fair princess. He gave her a face like this













and it froze in place like a well-timed screenshot. Mock-chewing as though he were salivating on a juicy cud, he continued: "I got a buddy up 'ere says ee can blast a buck point-blank five miles away got some sorta big ole scope I says I bleeve it when I see it."
       The fair prince and princess were on the crest of a great mountain. It was dusk. Behind them, great waves roared and trembled in the misty moonlight. Our fair prince was chewing away at something, standing triumphant with his sheathed sword and a heavy heart, full of yearning, passion, and Schizoaffective Personality Disorder (DSMIV-295.70.) He looked towards his fair princess. She was beautiful. The narrator then described her beauty using adjectives. Our fair princess finally began to speak, but when she opened her mouth all that would cum out was a fucking HUGE SLICE OF PIZZAAAAAAA LOL WHAAAAAAT





















tyO BE CONTIUNEUD

1866: Echoing Adventures in Cyber yber yber yber, Part 2

He opened the box. He then after he had already opened the box removed the towel from the box and took the gun out of the towel in the box. It was a lever-action straight grip Henry .22. He then knew what he had to do. It all came clear to him, as clear as the sky can tend to be during certain parts of the year in which clouds are infrequent. Just then, old Mrs. Bonnie Russel came galloping in. He gasped. She tweeted. She knew all along.
"I...I..." he stammered.
"You what?" she demanded, farting rapidly like a broken motor.
"I thought..."
"Yes?" she was growing impatient. New text message. Bridget. wuts up when r u guys coming down? do u guys need drinks im about 2 go on a liqour run
Finally, he spoke. His tone was pleading and confessional. "I didn't know what I was doing." he shook as he spoke. "I thought I could handle it. I didn't know it was you. I didn't mean to kill the boy. I thought I was more handsome. I didn't know she could hear me. I thought it was a urinary tract infection. I didn't see the holes in the wall. I thought it was all a game. I didn't understand what she was saying. I thought the mule was already dead. I couldn't smell the sulfur. I didn't realize we were being watched. I thought my horses could handle it. I didn't realize it was Diet. I thought she'd ordered a small. I didn't know how it was supposed to look. I thought it was a possum. I wrongly considered the vicissitudes inherent to the tenuous subject of alterity to be extraneous, when in actuality the mobility of "otherness," as explored through the work of Spivak (2003) and Kristeva (1999), is central to the question of mimesis in poststructuralist accounts of subjectivity and difference. I didn't realize it was loaded. I thought he'd ordered a pickle and some coon bark. I didn't realize it was pure copper. I thought I'd gone down the other street. I..."
His pathetic begs for mercy were interrupted by a Skype call. It was the Sheriff, on his high horse, Bucky. "Quiet down there!" The sheriff's eyes shot out at different directions like Marty Feldman's, and his voice had the tone quality of a choking duck. "You're a bad man and you've committed a crime at a point before this story had begun. Many other events have transpired that have led the populous of this small 19th century American Western town to consider you a common scoundrel. I sentence you to death by Having A Player Piano Dropped On Yr Head."
nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo etc

To Be Continued

1866: Echoing Adventures in Cyber yber yber yber

Money. Boys, we need money. All the poached hen in upper Arkansas can't gild our washtubs and sanitize our washwomen. This is a time of great contention and it is not yet certain that our fucks are in order. Get on the Youtube, boys, get on in there for the long haul. Tie a hair clipping dipped in molasses to a mule and send it to West Twitter. get out a Big Fucking Picture of a Fish and Look at It. SNEESUS, MOSES, AND HARRIET. NEVER IN THE LIKES OF THREE CONSECUTIVE ALL-COUNTY EQUINE FISTICUFFS SYMPOSIUMS HAVE I SNYFF'D THE LIKES OF THREE ALL-COUNTY BEAN-BURSTIN' HOOCHY COOCH LIKE THAT'N. What do you say, old fuckers? "Sure's shootin, she's mighty fine...jus' itchin' for a status update!" #Sheriff Longabee: Uh-uh-uh, this ain't the time for rustlin' about. As I been sayin, we need to settle down a minute, don't be jumping the fence in an antique Mobile Upload like your crepuscular old hallway-starin' granny. "My oldest just had her first poop in the commode. My second youngest, Harold, died in childbirth and my oldest, Patricia, works for the Acquisitions department in an Old Time Saloon just down the Dirt Road from over there because it's the Old West and horses and tequila and milk

To Be Continued

Marxist Dinosaurs and their Detractors

Here is the link to a one-act play I wrote, called "Marxist Dinosaurs and their Detractors." It is an absurdist slapstick musical play extravaganza, which I submitted as a final project for a boring and nominally misleading class called "Art + Politics." It's only 12 pages, and, being a play, it contains more blank space than a short story and is thus a far quicker read. So plz read it! It's funny! Help me put it on someday! (Or is it more of a closet drama, a la Faust? The dinosaurs, admittedly, are a considerable challenge.) The title should be summarizing enough for you to get the idea of what you're getting into.

http://www.sendspace.com/file/l5n23v

The most common themes in my dreams, of the past several months

1. Reuniting with old friends or old flames and having nothing to say at all
2. Being pursued by murderous gangs, ie. the mafia, the KGB, the government, the Illuminati, etc.--and consequently fearing for my life
3. Being a cast member in horror film projects in which the film eventually begins to blur with reality
4. Running through fields and obscure wilderness

Where are they now?

I'm sitting in the college library as nursing students make powerpoints about the Metaphysics of Silly Bands and I'm looking around to make sure there aren't any attractive or important looking people as I fart and fart, slowly and trudgingly. I break up what would be big, voluminous farts, mobilized in other situations for purposes of offense or humor, into tiny, slow, silent fragments. The smell creeps up. Pretty girl leans in to show me her silly bands. She gets "all up in my face." There are twelve of them. She is silent and her face is humorless. She doesn't remove them from her arm. I panic, and in my state of mental disrepair, I accidentally let an audible fart emerge. She remains unfettered. A dog in Helsinki remembers eating a banana.

Graham Christler Hepatitis Wanna See a Picture of my Dog

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Humorous Re-titlings of Critical Texts

Milfologies by Ronald Barfes




























That's all I could think of! Thanks, guys!

State of the union 2011

Big noise hard farts. Entrance. Soft farts. Keep spittle in cups. Awkward high heels. A decorated military Amy Sedaris in a desert of breathy chuckles.

Prezy Boy b-town Clinton Friedman steps up, farts, burps, shits, claps twice
(ALL CLAP TWICE)

Fellow-boyz, fellow-ghurls, gimme a big long wet stick I'ma show u my real bizness. This is 2011, the Coming of the new world big town Govvy-gov order for panzies and coarse Texan 'noid-boyz. (John Bon Boner groans: "you'd think they could soften the seat cushion, the Regular Feeling in my soft ass feels Some-what Altered") But this isn't pubbyboyz or demmyjoyz, this is New Town General Electric neolib 1970something, and my gunnyboys got a little slice of "coup d'etat, crossaint, deja vu"(nervously clammering for pocket French handbook)
Honoring distinguished colleagues section:
)( hurley international
V nike
M macdolands
$ Wld B'ank
:) nafta
:^ twitter
(5g) five guys
/\ Clintonian neoliberal "triangulation" policies

Man, yo, turn that shit off. I need a water cracker. I need a pillow. I need a crumb. I need a smart car. MAN I NEED A BIG BROWN CD ROM.

"It is my honer and privelege to present to you two decent men: Mr. Milton Freed-man and Dr. Joe Boehner-Goebbels, disdainguished colleagues and horse cleanliness advisors." take two good looks. each fart. Equine Sterility Level determined at 60% ^ from 1935. uhplause. Come on, a god damn no good Chilean farmer-faggot could be doing this shit. bring in some real bossboys. This horsey business is getting fishey.
Flash again to enormous sideways poster of a military decorated Amy Sedaris frozen in a crowd of anxiously slithering fart cells

hasteful breaths
Jon Bon Boehner-Jovi Goebells Friedman looks out from under his soft wet brown visage
"Shit, lotta fresh porkin' meat out thar"

Barry utters one boisterous clipped laugh. Audience imitates.
"It really is awful now isn't it?" nervous, very very very nervous laughter. Coughs. (resigned, humorous, petty tone) "I am going to have to sell you all to the IMF." very very very very nervous guilty laughter. "(godfather references)(pizza)"


Toby Continued
Happy Prezzy day Brack Finster Belarus-Wurallfuct