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