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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