MAN?/S BEST FREID? THICK AGAIN ;)

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.

THE DILAPIDATED RAIL~CAR

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?

A CAMEL STORY

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.

COP WORLD

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

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

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

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