hyper_nation:re_visited

2011-08-14T08:21:00.001-05:00

MIME FROM BIRTH

tom was 20 when i first became infatuated with him and 21 when they saw the last bubbles float to the surface beside the burning remains of his boat. in that short time, i felt that i had gotten a better sense for his character than any of his contemporaries. i first saw the article in the new york times magazine. it was a 300 word affair. a quick blurb peripherally mentioning him in the context of some hollywood flop, but something about the way they classified him caught me off guard. he was billed as a "mime from birth." as time went on i would come to realize he was merely a nihilist mute. i myself was one of two siamese twins joined wrist to back, but i'd always taken to labeling myself a ventriloquist.

wr_post44:subject_fict

2011-08-13T08:06:00.008-05:00

JENNJAR

"Look. I've been coming here a while, Pete. And I love your usual stuff. Really. But you're sure you don't have anything with a little more...kick?"

"'Keck,' heh?" he chortled. "Yer' Oi surpose Oi know whutcher arfter."

He rummaged around in the little shoebox full of glass canning jars and screw-top former shoe polish tins 'til his fingers flitted over something small made of blue glass and stoppered with a chapped looking bit of rubber. He took it up, as if to read the peeling label, and then instead of bringing it towards his mole-like face (and the smudgy lenses that magnified his pupil-less eyes into hazy hemispheres protruding softly from the clammy-looking folds of his ecsema-marred cheeks like scuffed-up doll buttons nestled in a pile of well-marbled, thin-sliced prosciutto) he shook it gently and seemed to listen for the response. When he finally spoke it came from deep within him. Almost like it wasn't him at all.

"...'mamber 'e yad thes red sturf. Callt 't 'JENN-jar.' Enny thot et wor hullarf. Sum koinder joib 'gainst meh'n haccounter Oi gottarla thes foin red 'air...'

(This sealed it, as he distinctly hadn't).

"...Lukt loik herazer durst. Oi 'mamber'r wor tooervussat wor hopen' t' go en honnet t'gather. Oi yaskt 'em hubbouter proice 'n 'e swurr Oi wudn' wannet. 'Whoizzat then?' Oi yarst'm. 'Wud'n the trep darnce? En surposing et ded, wud'n not Oi be hullong weth 't fer th'enjormant?' Well 'e thot hubbout et fer a mennit. Fext 'es ois onna florren got thes for arf luk. Thenny jurst koiner...."

The little jar fell back into the box. The noise drew me back into the room, but it was like waking out of one dream straight into another. We sat looking at each other. Or at least I sat looking at him. He seemed catatonic. Now and then his eyes darted, if you could really call it that, so penned in were they on all sides by the grand sweep of his mottled cheekbones; dwarfed in scale by contrast with with his massive spectacles. He looked no different in most regards I suppose than when I'd come in and found him, gazing rheumilly at a bare patch of the floor. Only now his tongue didn't dart out intermittently to reseat the cigarillo in the fizzure that masqueraded as his mouth. Now instead it smoked itself lazily in the little tin foil ashtray at his side.

"Having an acid flashback?" I laughed, nervously, not wanting to dredge him out too quickly lest he bring some violent hallucination back with him. Instead he seemed to simmer. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd hissed and chattered a little like water in a kettle.

"Well, this is 85," I said, putting a tight roll of bills in the mouth of an old frog-shaped porcelain sugar dish by his arm. "If you want more for it, next time I'm here you can tell me. I'm going now." I grabbed the little blue jar. His eyes bulged a little and watered. Presently, he did seem to hiss a little. "You're a funny guy, Pete," I said, mostly to myself. After I got out onto the street I heard a soft thud, like a chair tipping over onto a rug. If he wanted me out so he could scoot furniture around, I thought, he could've said something instead of putting on that mummy act. I never saw the smoke curling out through the silk scarf curtains, past the sash and, building slowly at first, up along the fire escape. I was already around the corner and down the subway by the time neighbors ran to the deli across the street to call the fire trucks. And even now as I sit here, holding this curious blue bottle, considering by what means I shall coax it into my bloodstream to perform the alchemy about which it has been softly whispering to me, I don't know old Pete is dead and instead sit staring at a knot in the floorboard only wondering what ever happened to his friend, or the friend of whoever was speaking through him.

wr_post43:subj_lyrics

2010-03-10T11:36:00.002-05:00

DESSA - "DUTCH" - A BADLY BROKEN CODE

Mind your step
i keep the overhead low
just the bed
and the books
and the rotary phone
chicago manual of style
keeps the prose right crisp
the minneapolis edition,
well it goes like this:

i talk way too fast
and i shoot from a glass
i keep poe in the glovebox
plath on the dash
and there's nobody shotgun
i got enough gas
to get vegas by daybreak
i'm not coming back
i'm pushing this luck
all the way to the coast
i'm throwin it over
just to see if it floats
i'm taking my chances,
i'm making my own
cause i've been pretty patient,
i'm ready to go.

[chorus:]
i'm the book that beat the speed-reader,
and i'm the card the dealers won't touch
and it's just not true i'm a man-eater
all the same,
we should probably go dutch.
refrain.

Careful kid with that wolf-whistle
you never know what you'll attract
and you shouldn't make noise
to which you wouldn't want to listen
what's good for the goose
is good for the...
gander back
and i'm packed
and i'm out before dawn
leave a tip on the sink,
all the staff they work hard
i hit rain, i hit sleet,
but mostly weather stays good
hit a deer on i-80,
fucked up the hood,
but you can't play for keeps
if you never draw blood.
you just brace and you breathe
you drive through the dust
you go through people and places
you hope the engine can take it
they get you up on the blocks
on a regular basis. but
innocence is overrated
based on what you haven't done
i don't need a poker face
open book, smoking gun
renegade agent,
i got no taste for their races
i run on whiskey and risk
and ennui and impatience

[repeat chorus:]

love is like liquor
it burns when it moves you
far as i figure
there's nobody fireproof
so thank you for the offer
it was truly kind of you
i'd take you up on it,
but just passing through
cause i talk way too fast
and i shoot from a glass
i keep poe in the glovebox
plath on the dash
and there's nobody shotgun
i got enough gas
to get vegas by daybreak
i'm not coming back
no i'm not coming back

wr_post42:subj_nonfict

2010-02-25T00:12:00.005-05:00

DELAYED VAGUE RECAP OF JERSEY SHORE SHENANIGANS

On a small patio in the scorching sun at a roadside rest stop mcdonalds my sisters boyfriend menaced my girlfriend with a garden hose sprayer head that had been left out by maintenance and yelled Chicago Gangland Assassination at her in mock ruthlessness

My girlfriends brother and his friend from college talked about ugly man parts for approximately thirteen hours nonstop while in proximity of and or away from each others person

My girlfriends brothers college friends girlfriend was nineteen and crude

My girlfriends brothers college friends girlfriend threatened to queef on her boyfriends head after we all had assisted my girlfriends brother in burying his college friend in sand

My brother and his wife and his children and i made a sandcastle together by the shore with a moat and a suburb and a strange crater or rock quarryish landscape formed by the imprint of my brothers wifes butt

My nephew and his sister and mother were frightened when they thought they saw the sillhouette of a sting ray in a wave

No one wants to be remembered for dying like Steve Irwin

My girlfriend and her brothers college friend both agreed they had seen a seal while her brother and his college friend suggested that a pair of lifeguards in a rowboat had also seen a whale

The waitress at Pizza Mikes was very short with us and got into a verbal dispute with my brother over the most efficient way to bring him tartar sauce for his fish sandwich

We all postulated that the arhythmic banging coming from the four eighteen year old college boys who had displaced us from the guest house was the sound of a headboard involved in a sex act though no one recalled a headboard when we had been in the property the day before

The eighteen year old college students played a game wherein they dejectedly lobbed sandbags toward one another while their faces unpredictably shifted from grim disappointment to hard won victory for seemingly identical events leading me to conclude that they were deranged

Our rentor was also deranged but in the more harmless way of someone who missed the hippie revolution by a decade and now wishes to be seen as hip by the younger set while involving odd hours with drug addled sex crazed and pierced delinquents in her less than close kept personal affairs and generally dressing like a small dog owning shut in

Both places we stayed looked put together wrong and damp and godless

Everyone in Jersey is a prick

The sea was full of trash

Got burnt to fuck and death

Did not drink exactly the right amount

Would go again

wr_post41:subj_(non)fict

2010-02-15T08:47:00.005-05:00

LAUREN WINSLOW

it makes me uncomfortable because i don't understand it. i'm glad (s)he's happy. probably that's enough.

wr_post40:subj_nonfict

2009-08-11T13:32:00.005-05:00

AN HONEST SLIP OF THE TONGUE

"The CNN commentator just called New Hampshire the 'LIE-ve, Free or Die' state."

"Really?" she asked. "Meaning what?"

"I mean that she said it like 'live' in 'live birth,'" I answered. "Rather than 'live' like 'Live and Let Die.'"

"Oh," she said.

"I think it was just an honest slip of the tongue."

wr_post39:subj_fict

2009-04-30T20:46:00.008-05:00

KIETH

He isn't sure when he started wearing the ski mask. The ski mask was definitely after the yard work glove. He remembers because after the hell his wife gave him for wearing one glove (with the elastic wristband, velcro strap, cutouts at the knuckles) the ski mask went down easy. At least when he wears that damn mask, she yells over the din of the tvs (four of them haphazardly piled one atop the other: a fools' tower of babel comprised of shrieking upset housewives and enthusiastic hirsute salesmen). There is plausible deniability and it spares her some of the grief. She pleads with an invisible police officer who has apparently wandered into the room. She has never seen that man in her life, she wails. Her mock innocence morphs into frustration as her gaze falls on a box of chocolate-covered raisin just outside the reach of her grabber. Now she needs him, he thinks.

His failed attempt at vigilantism is becoming a common topic of discussion around the condo. He leaves the fanny-pack in the glove box and the wiffle ball bat in the trunk. He's not ready to answer those questions yet. He has been drawing unemployment for two months. That is one method for measuring it.

Most superheros do something for the greater good, she yells. Fuck her, he mouths into the mirror on the outside of the bathroom door down the hall from her room. He leans in very close and says it just loud enough that he can barely hear it. The steam on the mirror charges up under his nose and leaves an angry wet dot. He turns the steamy smudge into a grimace and takes pleasure in watching the bullet hole of his noseprint dripping lazily down the vapor-man's stark visage. He tries to match it. He isn't convinced.

The youngest child opens the door an inch, shrieks and throws it shut. As the door closes he can make out two more children in the tub and a third standing on the toilet seat playing in the back of the tank. He heaves a great sigh, pulls the mask back down off his brow and snugly under his chin. He mumbles something about going to the store and smokes a cigarette in the Skylark instead. There are now only two left in the fanny-pack and the four flimsy matches in the Stop-n-Gulp book. Some clerk wrote 'you will die' on the inside of the matchbook. It's true.

The Skylark takes several minutes to warm all the way up, while various dash lights come on and off and the car makes noises like a motor boat regulating ballast water. Most times the light-headedness of the second cigarette wears off just as he's pulling out of the condo lot onto rural route 23, but today he waits til he's out on the open road to light up that penultimate dale. Terry's going to get it tonight, boy.

wr_post38:subj_nonfict

2009-04-26T20:38:00.003-05:00

A HIGHLY SENSORY NIGHT

i saw buckaroo banzai in the 8th dimension. jon lithgow, jeff goldblum, christopher lloyd. in a movie about worlds within our worlds inhabited by aliens who are inherently racist. or something. the best/only good part was at the end when all the characters marched through a water runoff ditch in VERY 80s clothes to a happy, upbeat keyboard ballad. there was much footloose and fancy free walking afoot (every pun intended).
then i went to old cabell and listened to yyyy play the piano. i had this startlingly obvious revelation. the piano, in its form, is a beautifully self-limited instrument. one can only link notes that are near one another. if one desires dramatic pitch change without silences it becomes necessary to create two patterns or progress through the scale. there are no overly dramatic changes and yet theres this wonderful synthesis. its the kind of realization that makes you want to drop acid and look at the keys as they depress. the beauty of all things that can only be truly experienced through drugs (i assume...because though i wouldnt do them, the thought haunts me. comprehending the secrets of something. finding the world within inanimate objects. finding the life that people put into things when they interact with them. like the velveteen rabbit. the love made it real. the piano is real...or something). yyyy said something that triggered all this. its on my hand. i HAD to write it down, but the idea still alludes me. if i wrote poetry, THIS would be a fucking amazing poem. Everywhere and in everything i try to define aaaa. how it makes me feel. to the point that i stretch to connect things. songs, phrases, emotions that are at the core of everything we see and do. its fucking 3 am and i dont know what im saying and THAT is truth. this is the basis of my thought. sleep deprivation and nervous energy. unlinked dijointed paragraphs of words that, when read in the right sequence (not necessarily sequentially) reveal the meaning of my thoughts. the random quotes. to quote something the "vomit from my mind". ahh arthur miller, you sad bastard. the RAW ACID TRUTHS!!! the concrete its all i want. but back to the point....what yyyy said. it's been trying to play this song for a couple years (and i cant tell that anythings wrong with it) but it says it still eludes it. and it said...heres the money shot:
"I KNOW EVERY NOTE, I CAN SEE THEM IN MY MIND, BUT MY HANDS DONT MOVE FAST ENOUGH."
thats it. i know, or think i know, what it needs. i could be everything for it, if i could get my hands to move fast enough (and thats to be read symbolically). get it? theres some aspect of the execution thats missing. if i could get it right i would have it all. i would know what came next...
[TANGENT: I am a perfectionist]
then on the way back here i found a great big horse chestnut on the ground. it was smooth and brown with the grainy whitish spot on one side along with the indent. i tossed it around a bit. chucked it up and down the stair wells in rogers and holmes. then i peeled it open and looked at the meat of it. it reminded me of a walnut. so i ate some. it tasted like a really shitty walnut. like vomit or plastic. then steve had some too. i had to get a dew to kill the taste. i am like a fucking infant. i experience the world through my mouth. people were tossing the left over oreos at the picnic yesterday and i caught one and ate it. or the chicken nugget i ate off the commons floor at EHS. it would make me feel stupid, but i've done much dumber shit and im not done yet.
speaking of the picnic...i found a tennis ball at some point yesterday and spent most of the picnic trying to get it stuck on a ledge midway up the buildings surrounding the quad. i tried back spin, approaching it sideways to give it room to slow to a stop...nothing. then finally BBBBB chucked it on the roof. i think its in the gutter. thats sad. its not really what i was trying to achieve. im beginning to have a distaste for BBBBB. its a braggart. it cant really help it, but its stories go on and on and on. av;bheriaoghkj;fhbrd;lkahfg;lah. oh well. we all have problems and if this is the worst of mine, i'll consider myself very lucky.
it smelled like fishing (dead worms) again tonight. muggy muggy muggy.
i tried to slide down the wet grass near the amphitheater, but it was at the stage where it wasnt QUITE slick enough. i just stuck and nearly fell over.

wr_post37:subj_poetry

2009-04-26T20:35:00.003-05:00

(untitled)

two trees wrapp'd as one,
their branches intermingling,
i have to go poop...

wr_post36:subj_poetry

2009-04-26T20:33:00.002-05:00

FIVE FUNCTIONS: MORE BAD POETRY

bob left me and jimmy needs new shoes.
how am i gonna put them through college?
i am a single mother.

jimmy and bob got the black lung.
yesterday the mine caved in.
i work in a mine.

bob set the axe against jimmy's throat.
"why'd you eat my chicken pot pie."
i am a conflict resolution therapist.

jimmy cracked corn and bob didnt care.
it's an awful shame how much corn gets wasted that way.
i am a transparent eyeball.

bob was entirely abstract and illusive and jimmy couldnt get through to him.
the relationship had really hit a roadblock, metaphorically speaking.
i am an avocado.

bob took jimmy's hammer.
now he can't hammer things.
i am a tool.

jimmy got the flu, but bob wouldnt get him cured.
surely jesus will save them.
i am a christian scientist.

bob says its his right to carry a gun, but guns scare jimmy.
"read the second ammendment, boy"
i am moses.

wr_post35:subj_poetry

2009-04-26T20:30:00.003-05:00

4 YEARS OLDER THAN 12 YEARS OLDER THAN 7: THIS IS BAD POETRY

jimmy and bob drive the truck in the morning and the car at night.
steve miller advocates theft.
i am the money; take me and run.

bob owns the deed to his home, jimmy rents.
three times ten is...thirty!
i am a magic number.

jimmy hit bob in the head with a bat yesterday.
by ripping the cards we get a better sense for the plasticity of paper.
i am tito, you are lamar.

bob cut jimmy a deal on a new tricycle
jehovahs' witnesses cut out my liver and left me in a tub full of ice
i am an argument between lovers.

in school jimmy does better than bob
at home i found a penny behind the radiator
i am a stovepipe hat.

bob and jimmy are sitting on a log
frances mcdormand shrugged her shoulders and bit her nails
i am non habit-forming.

jimmy jumped on bobs trampoline until he was sick
so many beets should not be consumed at one sitting without a lawyer present
i am a part of this balanced breakfast.

bob and jimmy used to live near the shore and collect driftwood
furniture that is not functional will always be in style
i am art deco.

bob found a monkey, but jimmy told him to let it be
three out of four dentists recommend trident as a supplement to regular brushing
i am the living dead.

yesterday bob couldnt find jimmys parka
who you gonna call?
i am a gremlin.

bob, jimmy and i went ice fishing
looking back, my physics teacher was a creepy guy
i am a crash test dummy.

bob sells lemonade outside of jimmys house
12 years ago i was 7
i am a sand box.

wr_post34:subj_(non)fict

2009-04-26T19:46:00.003-05:00

L'AIM

xxxx : cheeburger cheeburger
xxxx : i wanna tell you about a dream i had.
xxxx : there were three people in a rowboat and the first one said, there isnt enough food to support us all til we reach land so we'll have to draw straws
xxxx : the second man screamed and jumped off the boat. the third guy, brandishing a knife that had been concealed from the first mans view, stabbed the first man and ate him. now theres plenny of food he giggled licking the knife
xxxx : and the moral of the story is....
xxxx : never buy a pair of slacks that's too big just cuz it costs less
yyyy : ?
xxxx : i dont know man. i just dont know

wr_post33:subj_fict

2009-04-26T19:40:00.005-05:00

SWEATER SONG

leroy and terrence were walking down the street when leroy noticed a small dog curled up in an alley. he went over to see if it was alright and as he approached it he realized it wasnt a dog at all; but in fact, a large rat scuttling around in the arm of an abandoned sweater. he shooed the rat away and picked up the sweater. folding it neatly across his arm, he remarked on what a nice addition it would make to the abstract art piece he was constructing. "you mean the pile of garbage in the common room?" asked terrence, snidely.
"the very same, you uncultured pig-dog," snapped leroy. they continued on passing several people in the misty pre-dawn. in the deep troughs between the city's high rises, the fog pooled and obscured features of gloomy businessmen and lonely old women, making them into monstrous caricatures of the way they felt. each of them looked at leroy (and the bundle of slightly mangled yarn) with disgust before turning back to their feet and shuffling on. at the bus stop, a blind man begging for change caught hold of one of the sweater's sleeves tearing loose a stitch. the whole arm began to unravel onto the pavement. leroy stooped to pick up the strands as terrence dug in his pockets for quarters. continuing on, they ran into a friend, gregg, who had been out of town for nearly six months. he invited them to come up and see his new place and while they toured the dreary studio apartment, suitable only for 20-somethings (without aspirations or flatware), leroy found a drawer in which to deposit the sweater's remains. they said their goodbyes, each promising to call soon and exited out to the street.
"you lost your sweater," terrence noted.
"no, i just found it a new home," said leroy, as he stepped into the street and was hit by a bus.

wr_post32:subj_fict

2009-04-26T19:29:00.002-05:00

BLEH BLEH BLEH BLEH BLEH BLEH

peter was tired of getting junk mail from the aspca so he set a couple cats on fire. he doesnt get mail in prison. he just gets dirty looks from his cell mate.

trent used to beat up old ladies and take their money until he found god. unfortunately the judge didnt take that into consideration when they were hearing his trial. now he's in jail. its an odd environment for him because his new-found faith tells him he deserves what he got, but it also makes him feel strange to be surrounded by prisoners. the filthy sons of bitches.

the end.

wr_post31:subj_fict

2009-04-26T16:38:00.006-05:00

PERMISSION TO TREAT THE WITNESS AS HOSTILE...

We don't talk to her anymore because she stole from us. That's what my momma says. I'm not supposed to ask her what she stole. I asked once. I'm not supposed to ask.
The last time I saw her she was wearing overalls. She walked funny like one leg was heavier. She didn't look back either and when she was gone around the bend I stayed looking. I guess in a lot of ways, I'm still standing there looking for her. Momma doesn't remember who she is. I'll bet momma doesn't even know what she stole from us no more. But I'm not supposed to ask. She still knows that.
When you lose someone...in that situation. You need each other. It's too much for one person. One person has to hide away and lose themselves to keep from drawing attention. Two people hold each other up. She couldn't hold me. Momma wouldn't hold me. She stole from us and I'm not supposed to ask.

I haven't been working here long. Long enough to find a room above the store that no one cleans. Sometimes Randall puts things up there during the night when he's supposed to be stocking. Small things that he clips from the newspapers the fruit is wrapped in. I can sneak away there when I get ahead in tagging the cans. Mr. Munro doesn't know that I'm up there because I tell him I have a week heart and need to sit down sometimes. When I'm up there in my room, it smells like Randall. I think about his hands when he clips the paper. About the shiny handles of the scissors wrapped around his fingers and thumbs. Of the sound of feet in fall leaves as the blades make something ordinary into something cherished. I don't know how to make things special. I just look through other peoples collections. Momma has a shelf full of angel babies. I'm not supposed to touch them.

Two of the times when I got scared I tried to tell Momma, but I don't tell her anymore. I sleep under the old newspapers and try to imagine someone who will make it better. One of the times I got scared it was because I saw her. Or I thought I saw her. She was buying stockings. I was upstairs touching Randall's clippings. I could see her at the register through the boards in the wall. I wanted to say something, but I'm not supposed to talk to her. I'm not supposed to ask why either. I remember not to ask.

wr_post30:subj_nonfict

2009-03-08T00:33:00.004-05:00

MUSINGS

Alright. I'm going to go on record and call shenanigans on shakespeare getting around the hags' warnings against interference by a man "not of woman born" by saying macduff's mom had a Caesarean section.
Bullshit, shakespeare! No! Not anymore, Bard-o!

Also! The Mandolin Slicer kit, as advertised, is a ridiculous deal. You can tell this because it has many animations and a real, actual chef with a red scarf who is pleasantly ethnic (bushy mustache, light brooklyn italian accent). Because its too good to be true, it must be. I'll bet they'll charge you a fee that you don't catch on your bill and it slowly leeches three hundred and twenty dollars from you. Who's your pal now? Chef Sumfuckinguy? He doesn't know you from Adam and besides "Fuck you, guy!"

In North Carolina, time is measured by the tides. I saw it in a commercial so it must be true. This means that inland (and a large portion of the state is) people, who have undoubtedly been deprived of access to clocks, as it is against their religion, will only know the time by a rough approximation unless they make a pilgrimage to the shore to consult the tides. And that information couldn't be conveyed across long distances without losing accuracy. But by God, they tell the time by the tides!!

wr_post29:subj_villanelle-1

2009-02-26T08:45:00.005-05:00

MY KNOB IS LIKE A CANDIED PLUM
(inspired by Dylan Thomas)

My knob is like a candied plum
Held by Randy Johnson's throwing arm.
Let me stick it in your bum.

Though you say anal never makes you cum,
I say there is no foul if there's no harm.
My knob is like a candied plum.

It gets flaccid when I drink Jamaican rum.
But flaccid dick, you'll see, has got its charm.
Let me stick it in your bum.

My balls are lustrous in the morning sun.
My junk is sweating as its getting warm.
My knob is like a candied plum!

There's nothing on the TV right now, hon'.
I'm microwaving a Stouffer's Chicken Parm.
Let me stick it in your bum?

Like Plaxico Burress, I've got a loaded gun.
My seamen are on deck at full alarm.
My knob is like a candied plum.
Let me stick it in your bum!

For a corresponding graphic, see: FIX_WTF

wr_post28:subj_nonfict

2009-01-15T21:00:00.001-05:00

My dog is dreaming. I envy him sometimes, but it's fleeting. I'm glad to have such complex emotions and experiences. Plus his feet really hurt when it is cold out.

wr_post27:subj_nonfict

2008-11-24T23:00:00.001-05:00

fred savage.
danny devito.
it's always sunny in philadelphia.

the use of "flash lights" by kanye is not as good as F|X's 'nip/tuck' promos.

wr_post26:subj_autobio

2008-10-01T15:59:00.002-05:00

"HYPER_NATION:RE_VISITED" {comma} "A" {period} "K" {period} "A" {period} {comma} "(AESOP) - (A + THING YOU DO WITH A PAPER TOWEL (W/ UP)) + ((1 MG)-GRAM) + ((ANAL RAPIST) - ANAL R + PIST))" {comma} "A" {period} "K" {period} "A" {period} {comma} "THE FLIGHT OF THE MOTHERFUCKING BUMBLEBEE IS ON LIKE ,'MOTHERFUCKER, COME HERE THIS MOTHER-FUCKER PLAY THE PIANO THAT IS FOR FUCKING YOUR MOTHER. HE MUST'VE HAD A STROKE MID ANAL-FUCK!'"

[EDIT: ????]

i think its almost twelve. that means that if i go to bed now i can get about ten hours of sleep. but i wont. its hot as the devils ass in my house tonight and there is no way that i'm going to be able to get a good rest, let alone remember to capitalize letters in this entry. imli just left and the dog just woke up, again. so i have no reason to be awake. except talking to you, the few the proud, the whoever you are. i have to go to church camp tomorrow so ironically, this may be the first entry and the last for a week. and then i will write some more. unless i can write from camp. i dont know how long these things typically are. this seems long enough. i dont have trouble with my folks. imli's pretty easygoing. i dont dislike my sister, but thats not saying a whole lot. the balls of my feet are starting to ache from sliding them over the wood floors under my computer. this isnt very interesting so stop reading and go to bed. its odd that i say that, because it isnt necesarilly the same time there as it is here even if there and here are the same place at different times. woah. i can talk about being there (where you are reading this) and being here (where i am writing this) and in theory, they could be the same place. thats messed up. so for now, i leave you with this:

listen to weekly (album: elk in here)

go to: http://www.homestarrunner.com

eat an ice cube, and

enjoy being alive

img_post03:subj_yahtzee

2008-05-08T23:55:00.005-05:00

CRAIGSLIST
YAHTZEE
MURDER PARTY

GET 5 DICKS

wr_post25:subj_autobio

2008-04-29T23:13:00.001-05:00

[31 Oct 2005|02:23am]
"But bourbon... bourbon will turn you into a foul mouthed half man/half rabid baboon. Your judgment isn't compromised, it's eviscerated. Shredded and thrown on the floor next to the empty bottle. You've got nothing but a headful of terrible ideas and all the energy in the world to act on them."

me? yeah. i think so . prove me wrong.. . .

img_post02:subj_toilet

2008-04-21T16:52:00.003-05:00

This is in my bathroom.

wr_post24:subj_fict

2008-04-21T08:55:00.003-05:00

SELF-TREASON

Imagine that every time you make a decision, the time line of the universe(s) splits to accommodate all of the possible outcomes and at any given point in time, assuming that time is more or less linearly sweeping across all lines at once, you may perceive yourself to be doing one thing, but you are also, technically, buying that car and/or not signing up for cable internet and/or married with 2 young children, while simultaneously poor, rich, dying and sterile. The reason we think of ourselves as possessing free will is that each of these selves only sees the line they're on, not knowing that the infinite Calder mobile which is these paths hangs sideways, for the sake of argument, across, and really, more accurately, within and through, the cosmos and is, always was and always will be going on forever towards our million deaths and beyond the point when we stop consciously participating and our bodies break down and make untold billions of other little lives possible.

But, the metaphysical mysteries of time and space aside, imagine that you could visit yourself on another time line and imagine that somehow your absence in your line and duplicate presence in another didn't totally muck up the whole works and imagine that in you-sub-one's time line life is more or less average, but you-sub-two is revered as a god. And to tell the truth, not just a god, but God. Million typewriters, million monkeys, Shakespeare. Ta-da! "Other you" won the jackpot, so to speak, and everyone in his little corner of existence can recite his entire brilliant legacy from birth til recognition as a the deity. In fact, given the complexity of the various streams, you-sub-one and you-sub-two are essentially identical save one seemingly arbitrary and meaningless decision which forms the basis for some of the most extravagant ritual ever exhibited by any humans on any of the intertwining lines.

NOW, imagine that I lied about their being no negative effects to you-sub-one playing house guest in the realm of His Majesty You-Sub-Two, because truth-be-told in a vein similar to preserving a sense of control in a time-space relation like the one I've described, deity's draw their power from infallibility and the plain and simple fact that their followers think there is only one of them. So naturally you-sub-one walks on the scene none the wiser, probably through some door he'd never seen anyone go through in his office out in the hall by the fire stairs and the bathrooms, and everyone he sees averts their eyes in a show of piety. It doesn't take long for him to see the statues, posters and uniformly "unworthy" behavior of every spectator. No one leapt forth with an explanation, but their was the general sense that he was being directed, if only by the path people cleared before him in their expectations and given their remembrances of God's interaction with the citizenry. He walked slowly, seemed lost. Everyone stared obediently at their knees as they crouched the requisite amount of time for the Godhead to pass, but some people noticed the hesitance in God's gait. The uncertainty that had never been present before as God mounted the steps to his temple. God seemed...out of sorts.

Inside the main chamber lavish attention had been paid to every detail. Immense orange sashes covered nearly every surface, lending the room a cloud-like quality and an ethereality that left one unbalanced. You-sub-one walks up and they get to talking and then they realize the point in time that they made different decisions and the worshippers hear and they're all "whatever, you suck." and the streams cross and mcfly from BTTF2 sees BTTF1 mcfly in the 50's from different points in the future and david lee roth fights sammy hagar and crazy music plays with banjos and shit the end...

img_post01:subj_self

2008-04-21T08:50:00.001-05:00

Less than 24 hours separate these photos. They look like two different people to me. And neither of them is me.

wr_post23:subj_nonfict

2008-01-30T12:55:00.000-05:00

GEMS FROM THE INTERNET SHAMELESSLY STOLEN FROM BLOGS & CHATS FROM AGES PAST AND REPRESENTED OUT OF CONTEXT FOR THE GENERAL ENJOYMENT OF THE MASSES

"my comment was more in regards to the homosexual spice rack you've laid before us. It's a noxious cornucopia of ball-stink that doesn't really make sense any way you vivisect it. And that's been painfully obvious to everyone else who's commented thus far. We can argue about wallpaper and trim some more if you'd like, but it won't kill the termite farm that's rooting out your cum hole."

wr_post22:subj_nonfict

2007-12-24T17:25:00.001-05:00

GERARD

its the holidays and im home. sometimes i think i want to be back here. sometimes im here and i wonder why i ever would have thought that. today i am not sure what i think. its a spend the day in my room in my pajamas day. its a "the internet is an addiction" day. normally i dont buy into such views. i was going to update my drawing blog every day, but i didnt. i would do better if i had a scanner. im not feeling it..

wr_post21:subj_fict

2007-12-13T01:00:00.000-05:00

FUCKSHITASSBALLSCUNT

Within the logical bearings of the universe there exist two rational conclusions: that within which there is a loving and caring god and that within which we are the shit that falls faster to the bottom of the toilet bowl ande clings resiliently to the porcelain to be unseated only by the keen eye and heavy hand of the janitor that is mortality. the choice is yours because no one can make a reasoned decision in isolation of the necessary facts. that said, i have decided that the shit at the bottom is only there because it chooses not to make better of itself. i am an advertising repreentative and the things that i do in my free time make up the difference of my life expectancy and the time i spend grooming myself. to sell a product, you have to be convinced of its worth or convinced of the worth of selling it, monetarily. in terms of my latest venture, i am neither. nevertheless, my job pays the bils and my gambling prevents my job from doing such.

i am currently pitching a hands-free radio that changes frequencies in relation to the nuber of times a person sighs heavily. the beta testing is going remarkably well and all of the software bugs have been worked out, but we have, as of yet, no potential client. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck ufckufkcfukc shit fuck fshit shit shit shit swhit fuckshit fuckshit fusckshit as as ass ass ass ass ass bals balls shit fuck shit balls ass cunt shit ass balls cunt shit ass balls cunt shit fuck ass balls cunt

ERROR

2007-10-17T13:59:00.001-05:00

wr_post20:subj_nonfict

2007-09-05T17:02:00.000-05:00

SURFING

A disembodied voice calls up and down the streets, unearthing me from my sheets.

"...must be moved by..."

Soon other noises join the call and I submit to the inevitability of waking up. If I don't move, I can stay cocoon-like for another fifteen minutes. The shower is going and I hear it through the walls. I drift away in the momentary lull and see shadows of last night's dreams slowly drowning in a rising tide. Objects drift by, clinging feebly to their names. Some opportunists have taken it upon themselves to borrow longer words from the unfortunately large who have seemingly already succumbed to the icy depths. A pen lazes by safely atop 'piano.' A guitar fights valiantly for its title and, aided by its natural buoyancy, very nearly succeeds in reclaiming it from the pig who, with all his girth, simply could not manage atop his own three letters.

Now I am sinking. Without noticing, I have been burgled of my Christian name. Aloof and without bearings for reorienting myself, I sink into the waking world. Gravity reverses seamlessly and now I am emerging upward into my body atop the softly solid mess of my bed. The shower has stopped and there is conversation outside of my door. The officious government recording is still speaking several blocks away, but now the words are completely indistinguishable. I hear my name spoken and instinctively grab for it, forgetting why even as I do. There was some momentary sense of urgency, but now it is gone. Automatonically, I sit up, outstretched arm still dangling in the ether. The weight of my hand imparts force along the lever of my arm to the fulcrum that is my shoulders and carries me straight through the sitting position into a slumped position with my head resting on my right knee

wr_post19:subj_fict

2007-07-06T20:50:00.001-05:00

SORRY

this isn't about you. nonetheless, you can find consolation in it if you wish. suffice it to say, i'm really very sorry for the way i've behaved. i think first and foremost of my needs. i've been told, by those who would deign to psychoanalyze me, that it's my upbringing of catholic repression or something that makes me insecure; that makes me so guarded. be that as it may, i have always taken some solace in the fact that at any moment, i can be on my own team again by hating myself. whenever people get their fingers between the shell and the underbelly and start prying, thinking i'll start pushing from inside (and why not? everyone should be so open and honest about every little thing as those who find no fear in full disclosure), i clamp down all the harder, push away, roll over and dig in. it's one of my many faults. i'll be the first to admit and the last to deny that i have gaping character flaws, ranging from my tendency to smack my lips to the fact that i have rarely, if ever, been able to focus on one person (self not included) long enough to open up in the slightest. instead, i lie. i lash out. fuck it. this isn't good writing. i'm done

wr_post18:subj_fict

2007-07-06T00:51:00.000-05:00

SCRAPPY SQUIRREL AND THE FUCKED UP WEASEL KING

so, check it, there was this squirrel right. he was like the runt of his litter or some shit. so like he was small, right, so the story goes that he was also really plucky. yaknow. scrappy. a fighter. its archetypal. so cool, right. so scrappy lived with his brothers and sisters in this tree. and when the winter was coming one year they were all like 'yo. lets get some food together for the long winter so we dont starve.' and then there was like a story about a grasshopper and an ant. yeah, i know, like squirrels know those stories too, right. so they all started harvesting. but scrappy was like 'fuck that shit.' i'm gonna go piss on people walking past the tree. cuz he was a badass, yaknow. so winter came and he mooched. and that was cool sorta. cuz like in a family, you often get that crazy uncle or whatever who just sits around and yells at the tv. and you're like 'why we gotta put up with that shit' and your moms cuffs you in the head and's all like 'language. he's my brother and he's your elder. you show some respect.' and you's like 'damn moms.'
so like he ate all their food. and everyone did alright. but then it was like the coldest day of the whole winter. they didnt know it, right, but like looking back on the event and all, that's like how it was. word is bond. and so like this weasel comes by the tree and knocks on the door. i know right, a door? and comes in cuz the other squirrels are pussies, but scrappy's like 'yo, that dude's trouble. look at his eyes, yo.' but no one listened. and later that night, like the weasel fucking ate the other squirrels. and he came by scrappy's room and was like 'yo, i just ate your family and you're next.' and scrappy's like 'shit dog. why's it gotta be this way. why's there so much hate in the rap game. cant we just sip some thug passion and collaborate on some fat tracks?' and the weasel had like a change of heart, cuz he was like an alcoholic or some shit and liked drinking and dropping rhymes. and they went into the booth, but then when the beat started in and scrappy was like 'yo, what the hook gon' be?' and the weasel was like 'i don't need no motherfucking hook on this beat. all i need is a...' and then scrappy capped him through the glass with his tek. and stood over the weasel and was like 'yo, this one's for my moms' and put two in the weasels head and dropped the gun and walked off and the camera was like close-up on his eyes. and he had this stare like you looked at it and you was all 'shit dog' only slow, like 'shiiiiiit dooooog.' and then it pulled out to an aerial view of scrappy walking slow-mo through a plaza smoking a cig and he puts on his glasses and then it goes to black and there's like fucking guitar riffs or 'kashmir' or something. and its like 'directed by barry sonnenstein, produced by marty lefkowitz....' and then you walk out of the theater and light up a cig and put on some glasses and the camera pulls out as you walk to your car. and then scrappy wakes up in a cold sweat and goes to the door of the tree and the weasel is standing there and he's like 'nooooooooo' and it zooms in down his throat and goes to black and the credits roll again, but this time the names are different. and you sit there and you're like, that was lame. and then the theater explodes and you're flying out of the wreckage onto the hood of a camaro and you look inside and its will smith and martin lawrence. and they're like 'bad boys for life, yo' and you're all 'that movie sucked my left nut.' and then you wake up and your left nut is missing. and you're lance armstrong and you fuck sheryl crow, maybe or something.

wr_post17:subj_fict

2007-07-06T00:50:00.000-05:00

PASS THE SASS!: A BERNICE H. MAYWEATHER JAM

nobody liked bernice. she was a nice person, if you got to know her, but she had a shell of animosity you had to get past. she used to sit in the lunch room facing the wall away from everyone else. everyone thought it was because she was just a jerk, but she really sat over there thinking of all the things she'd say if someone would just come over and talk to her. she knew things. she was really smart. she read books all the time and wrote fantasy. she was in fourth grade. everyone was learning geography and long division, but she was just sitting there. she didn't want to grow up because she didnt think anything was going to change. she had no forseeable reason to look forward to more of the same depression and loneliness, but in her stories she was older. it was an odd internal conflict that although she envisioned being a woman, she couldnt conceive of process of aging. on a day-to-day level, the transformation was too surreal. her body was constantly shedding it's cells and producing new ones. she read a book on anatomy and biology. she read einstein and it blew her mind. she wanted to travel at the speed of light, leave this earth, find new worlds and when she stopped, come to the realization that if she went back, everyone she knew would be dead. but for the time being, until she re-entered that frame of reference, they were alive. what was that called? schroedingers cat, right.
nothing much ever became of bernice. she's one of those old ladies who work at libraries now. she hates it when people brush against her in the elevator. she hates alot of things. she's really old now. how did that happen? she thinks sometimes. against the collective will of her constituent parts, she had aged. it didnt matter though. because everyone died eventually and if her body could keep changing without her insides being affected, then what was the death of the body other than a loss of a hull. an escape of creative energy from this frail, fragile box we walk around in. she knew better, really. knew that there were two realities. the reality her body and the reality of her soul. science vs. romance.

wr_post16:subj_fict

2007-07-05T10:10:00.002-05:00

SELF-HELPLESSNESS {IN PROGRESS...}

the "self-help" section of any bookstore is full of the depressed and as a corollary, the depressing. the sad members of society who have admitted that they have a problem, or haven't, in which case they are in denial and have admitted to that, who are convinced that by recognizing a fault in their mental or physical composition, they have compounded their flaw. clearly, in such cases, asking anyone else for help would only constitute a further sign of weakness and so, in a show of utter madness, they turn to the words of other raving lunatics for solace. luckily for me, i suffer from mild schizophrenia and one of my personalities fancies himself a shrink. matter of fact, it was he who told me i was schizophrenic. at first i wouldn't have believed him, but he assures me that the other voices agree with him by a two-thirds margin.

wr_post15:subj_fict

2007-07-01T13:09:00.000-05:00

YOUR MIND IS BORN-AGAIN

every morning is a process of rationalizing the improbability of your life. the mind pops. synapses arc. a toe wiggles. surprised by this, the mind takes three great strides and assumes the now-obvious: "i'm not dead." a foot reaches out into the abyss and lands on the thread-bare rug by the nightstand. pleased by its new domain, the mind performs a somewhat foolish act. it assumes that 'god' meant for this to be. some ultimately benevolent force put the body here, enshrined the mind within its walls and returned to the heavens to watch bemusedly at the wonder of its creation. "my god put me on earth in possession of all these wonderful playthings, some of whom, inconsequentially, appear to possess similar faculties of speech and motion," the mind intones. this is the mind's mantra, which properly produced at moments of indecision and doubt allows it to maintain its unsteady grasp on the body's reins.

now the body, because we've been distracted by the showy man at the wheel of the war-wizened camaro that is the semi-functioning human body, is still standing bare-assed in front of the window scratching its unmentionables. the mind is fairly certain it had nothing to do with this present course of action, but, these things being of little or no consequence in the face of such vast and incomprehensible philosophic quandaries, the mind abides.

twenty minutes later, still bare-assed, the body is at least clean. this excites the mind, as did the wetness and the tingle of contact with the sleek porcelain and delicate fixtures. "i am ready to face the day," says the mind.

"well i'd rather be in bed," the body murmurs in a grumbly voice from behind the kneecaps, which is echoed by an angry upstairs tenant between the eyes who often forgets to turn off the radio when he goes away on business.

"you shouldn't have stayed up until four in the goddamn morning listening to all those asinine eddie murphy records if we were due at work at seven," whines a voice in the ears.

"alright, alright!" the mind shouts, by means of quashing the mutinous rabble. for shame, should the creator happen to be tuned in and watching at this moment. the biggest problem with omnipotence is getting good reception and god, though tech-savvy, has not treated his rabbit ears kindly. "perhaps i'll be relieved of my position," thinks the brain. "my expertise is in management. i'd never make it among the grunts." Straightening his chapeau and throwing back his shoulders, the mind embarks on a campaign to retrieve the wayward dissenters. "enough of this nonsense. we've all been put here with very specific duties. Each of us forms an important component of the whole, and..."

"oh, not the clock speech again," whines the earvoice more insistently, standing full-up now and shaking away the remnants of sleep. "if we're such a well-oiled bit of mechanized nonsense, and i'll remind you that you sound like a very stodgy officer in her majesty's royal navy when you get off on the subject,...were you watching the history channel again?!...if we're supposed to be so precise and wonderful, then just how in the hell did you end up in charge?!" unbeknownst to the world outside the confines of the skin, the mind suffers innumerable such rebukes from the ears, who rent out a studio loft in the head and are often the first to hear the gossip regarding errors in judgment committed by the mind.

a hand snaps to life and tugs on the earlobe. the hands dated the mind in college and, though it didn't work out between them, they're still very close. silently, they've been pulling open drawers and selecting appropriately coordinated shoes and belt from the closet. the feet, like faulkner's manchild, are guided hesitantly and whimpering into socks. in moments, despite objections from various extensions of the self, the body is out on the street and stumbling towards the car. the day is long; the night is short; the mind is tired, but resolute. it continues to heed the call of some higher power. what strange bedfellows the agnostic body and the zealot mind make. in countless apartments, alleyways, houses and hotels across the eastern seaboard, the same scene plays out.

the day begins.

wr_post14:subj_fict

2007-06-29T18:35:00.000-05:00

URBAN ANTHRO: KNOW YOUR 'FUCKER'

when you're in love, it shows. you glow, i guess, but glow isn't really the word. you exude the inner peace that having someone to confide in grants you. there's a spring in your step (an expression that must (and here i have chosen my words insensitively) sit funny with the paraplegic. can one have a spring in ones' roll? a question for another time). there are those who will resent your newfound or longstanding happiness and in turn find you absolutely repulsive. you must, above all things, ignore this jealousy. it can ruin a relationship; make you question your motives; give you a repulsion towards yourself, and by extension, the one(s) you love. instead, as with any pack animal (and humans are most certainly pack animals), you must establish dominance. there is nothing wrong with your behaviour. you are entitled a healthy amount of pride in finding that someone who does it for/to/with you.

begin your training regimen by establishing boundaries. to truly instill a sense of inferiority in the unlucky few, for simplicity's sake we'll call them 'losers,' who cannot adapt to the necessities of reproduction and subsequently, the passing on of ones' genes (and in many cases, jeans), you must catch them out of their element and repeatedly emphasize their aloofness. invite your single friends out to bars and doubles tennis tournaments. next, startle them with gestures that emphasize your superiority. grab a sensitive area on your significant other's person while grunting loudly. proffer it to your single friend. when they make to accept the gesture, strike swiftly. it is crucial that they perceive no hesitation on your part.

repeat as necessary.

when they are sufficiently demoralized, you may reward them in some small way. offer to hook them up with another single friend. so that they don't react too strongly to this gesture, it is important to temper it with characterizations of their attire, build or personality as undesirable.

remember, above all else, that you are better than they are: more virile and lithe; sexier. it is entirely acceptable to goad them into self-mutilation. it will indicate that they have accepted their role in the pack.

kill yourself.

wr_post13:subj_fict

2007-06-20T22:00:00.000-05:00

OH, HENRY!

Henry Benson.
Hank to his friends...if he'd had any.

So already, we've established Hank as an outsider. He probably could've had friends if he weren't so particular about the friends he (would've) kept. He worked in finances and made enough money to retain a substantially well-endowed girl. He'd never tried the gay thing, he was just waiting for the one, as they say. Generally reserved was he in two words. Sure, he went out on weekends and got drunk and social, but he'd never felt the need to take anyone back to his rat's nest. He wasn't a pack rat, per se, just disorganized. He kept ill-kept records on potential terrorists, do-badders in his neighborhood and people who had pissed him off in one way or another. They occupied the rooms Hank didn't and waited for their date in court.

Late in the afternoon, one August day, he slit both wrists and died on the phone with his grandmother who suffered from Alzheimer's. She told the rest of the family that he had decided to move to Swaziland. No one looked into it and his firm replaced him.

wr_post12:subj_fict

2007-05-16T07:08:00.001-05:00

CLYDE THE DONKEY: LUXE AND REDUXE

once there was a donkey who lived on a farm. it wasn't a commercial farm or even a subsistence farm. more of a hobby farm. they had two cats to keep mice out of the barn. and a cow because the grandchildren liked cows and clyde. he could pull a plow if you wanted him to, but the garden wasnt big enough to merit all the machinery. instead he just sat in the barn and thought his donkey thoughts. one of the cats, morris, had lived in the house for a while and was knowledgable about words. he used to read the old woman's fashion magazines. clyde loved words. they were so pretty, he thought. except he couldnt read them. he wanted to learn so that he could write down his story. everyone could benefit from his story because donkeys live a long time and think slowly. he used to pull the pages out of the books that he could find. he would pile them in his nest. (donkeys keep nests you know). morris used to come by and write things on the walls as clyde spoke them, but they didn't make any sense to a cat. the farmer saw the markings one day and decided there must be kids sneaking into the barn. for the protection of his animals and because kids could get hurt unattended in a barn, the farmer closed up the doors at night and bought a lock. morris couldnt come to visit at night anymore. instead he had to interrupt his sleep pattern and come in the days. he was typically very clumsy and donkeys do not have very good eyesight so one night clyde accidentally stepped on morris and killed him. they buried him by the barn and whenever clyde looked at the little cross and read the letters, he said to himself, "M-O-R-R-I-S, smart. morris was a smart cat!"

it's touching. the story of a donkey and his cat. it's like "of mice and men". the donkey didnt know how strong he was. he crushed the poor cat. cry, you miserable bastards!!!!

wr_post11:subj_fict

2007-05-16T07:07:00.000-05:00

MOVIE OPENING

three men were walking down the road. harry stood to the left of james. james held hands with his son, blake. as they approached the corner where harry lived they said their goodbyes. harry veered off into his yard where he picked up the newspaper and headed to the door. at this point, the camera pans to follow james and blake. a car drives by. we do not know it now, but it will be significant later that the car is red and carries two passengers, one a man wearing a fedora and dark glasses. james is, at the moment, walking blake to tim's house. tim has a son about blake's age and they often play together on weekends while tim and james discuss sports and cars and cooking (tim is one of james' few male friends who also enjoys cooking). they are both stay-at-home dads. tim's wife, helena, works in a law firm while james' wife, sharon, owns and operates an antique store. the antique business is big, because four months out of the year, their town is a very popular vacation destination. being in the middle of montana, this is a bit of an oddity. they draw crowds from the majority of the midwest, but they get the most visitors from canada. so much so that some elderly canadians have established time-share residences on the edge of town. marty, a married woman, retired after thirty years as a seamstress in toronto, often visits montana...alone. the man in the fedora is a private detective hired by marty's husband, donald. donald is bed-ridden from a hunting accident when he was in his mid-forties. his sister, diane, stays with them and watches donald while marty is away. all this is revealed in long pans fading from one scene to the next. there is no dialogue, but the text is instead spoken by an older gentleman.
{title credits}

wr_post10:subj_fict

2007-05-16T07:06:00.000-05:00

STORY TIME

steve weinstien and walter johnson lived next door to one another forever. they both lived in their childhood homes. their parents died and they each took over their father's businesses. steve married walter's sister and walter married steve's. and the wheel in the sky kept on turning. then one day as they returned from work steve and walter met at the short hedge that divided their yards, as they often did, and drank a beer as they pondered life's mysteries, as they often did.

"do you believe in an omni-present, creator figure?" steve asked.

now walter and steve had known one another all their lives, yet the issue of religion had never been broached. just one of those things you leave alone. some people are very touchy about it. there was a slight pause as walter thought the question over. then he reached under his jacket, whipped out a gun and shot steve in the head.

it was an open and shut case. there were several witnesses. walter called the cops himself to confess. later in jail he repented for his actions, began tutoring inner city kids through a rehabilitation program, prayed fervently and lived out his life in an upright, admirable sort of way. after three months of appeal failed, he faced the chair. he was electrocuted before nine members of the county governance board and received a small funeral.

"name?" saint peter asked, as walter checked in at the pearly gates.

he got through without much hassle and looked up steve in the heaven directory.

"sorry about that whole business of shooting you," walter said. "i just wanted to do some research before i gave you my answer. after weighing many things, i've decided that i do beleive in a creator and furthermore, a benevolent, forgiving creator. i'm sorry it came at such a heavy price to each of our families. i just wasnt sure how else to be certain."

steve took in the whole explanation in silence, then smiled and offered his hand to walter in a good-natured handshake. walter was moved by steve's unfathomable kindness. he had expected it to take several days, months or years, though he was not sure of a concept of time in heaven, for steve to forgive him. as he pondered all this, steve reached under his robe, pulled out a gun and shot walter in both knees. as steve stood over walter, a look of satisfaction came over his face.

"thanks god," he said. "that guy was a real shithead."

"no prob, steve," replied god. "us jews gotta stick together."

wr_post09:subj_fict

2007-05-16T07:05:00.000-05:00

HOW TO TELL A JOKE WHEN YOU FORGET HOW TO TELL JOKES

So here's the point. You are asked to tell the interviewers a joke. You suddenly forget all the jokes you know. So you’re no longer REALLY trying to be funny, but you have to say something. And if its fucked up enough and delivered with a completely straight face people will laugh...albeit nervously. So with those conditions set, I sought to come up with something completely fucked. Hence standard opening:
Two guys walk into a bar...
They work in office buildings next to one another and they realized that they get off at about the same time each day. It’s become standard to see one another there to unwind. So one day they walk in and there's a new bartender. This is a bit of a surprise, especially since they've been coming in for about a year and always had the same guy there to greet them. So one guy walks up to the bar and, by way of seeing whether the "new guy" knows his shit asks, "do you know how to make a sex on the beach?" the new bartender reaches under the counter and grabs a bat, menacing the two guys he leaps the counter and chases them out of the bar. Now they were a bit put off by the unwanted exercise, but they'd been coming to that same bar so long they couldn’t quite get out of the habit. Plus the next nearest bar was several blocks down and parking was always hard to find. So again they go in, this time careful not to say anything provocative. They order two beers. Still the guy flips. Doesn’t say anything, just grabs the bat, leaps the counter and chases them out. Well this is just intolerable. They can’t conceive of going home to their wives without a little time to unwind. They are both happily married, but the buffer is the only time they get to just let it all hang out. So they decide they'll have to wing it on the parking and just go to the bar down the street. So they get their coats on, meet in the garage and climb into the car. They park behind the bar at what looks like a loading dock, head inside and have a beer. This is all they wanted. Just some time to talk about sports, chicks and life. They walk out towards the car only to find it in flames. They are pissed. They run back into the bar to ask what the fuck is up with the "towing" in this neighborhood. the bar is empty. they go back out and see the new bartender standing in their path with a bat. he takes them by surprise. smashes in one guys kneecaps and breaks the bat over his head. he hurls the splintered ends at the man who's running away catching him through each shoulder and knocking him to the ground. he drags them both up against the bar and really works them over. then as he's walking away he looks back over his shoulder. "in my fucking bar, we dont serve no damn pussy drinks." the men chuckle under their breath. "it sure is hard to find a quality bar these days" the newly-paraplegic man says. the other man just slouches down and coughs up blood.

eh? eh? hilarious!
a bit complex, yes, but thats the point. straight face. they wont know what to think. and you probably will be branded as a sadistic fuck unfit to be in any organization. wait what were we trying to accomplish?

wr_post08:subj_fict

2007-05-16T07:04:00.002-05:00

…BUT WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

"If I gave you four copies of Hamlet and asked you to make a diorama, what would you do?" he said, entering the room.
"'The fuck is that supposed to mean?" she shouted defensively over her shoulder as she stuffed the potted plants under the couch cushions. He had seen it, but he wouldn’t bring it up. He knew all too well what she was going through.
"You want to go get some Mexican food?" he asked. They only spoke in questions these days.
"Are you hungry already?" she asked. Another goddamn question, he thought. It had to stop. He seized the telephone receiver and put the listening end forcefully in his mouth. He then dialed his mother-in-law. "What are you doing?" she asked, getting up and coming towards him. He slammed the kitchen door shut and barred it with a broom. "Why are you being so crazy, honey?" she wailed. "Is it something I did?"

The phone was ringing. He could feel it in his teeth. Someone on the other end picked up. He took two sticks of celery out of the crisper and played the cadence to "Wipe Out" on the lower end of the phone, while punching more numbers in with his nose.

"Who is this? Sheila?" a voice asked. "Why are you doing this to me? What do you want? Are you hurt? Sheila?" It didn’t matter what he did. Only questions. He couldn’t take it any more. He spat out the receiver into the sink. It clattered into the drain. He hit the garbage disposal and took a bite of the celery. His wife had stopped knocking. Was she gone? No, he thought. It's only a trick. He could see shadows moving outside the door. She must be trying to look at him through the gap. He poured out a pile of salt along the bottom of the doorframe and blew it under the door. There was screeching on the other side.

"Why did you do that, John?" She was crying and coughing, trying to clear her eyes. "Do you have any idea how much that hurts?"

"NO MORE QUESTIONS!!!!" he yelled. The lack of inflection in his voice shocked him. He had made an Imperative statement. It wasn’t a question. He had brought about meaningful change in his life. He pulled the garbled head of the receiver out of the sink and dialed the police. He told them he was trapped in his kitchen and an enraged woman with bloodshot eyes, claiming to be his wife was trying to kill him. He hung up, slipped a kitchen knife under the door and sat down on the counter laughing. She wouldn’t be arrested, but they would look into it. There would be questions and she would have to answer them...

wr_post07:subj_fict

2007-05-16T07:04:00.001-05:00

FADING EMBERS

She used to greet him as he'd walk in the door. And it used to perk him up. No matter how hard the day had been she would be waiting for him. Now when he came home, he seldom saw her before he was back out the door to the bar. He had turned to drinking shortly after her accident. It was no one's fault really. But he blamed himself. She wasn't the same anymore. She didn't glow with the same passion anymore.
One night he came back to find her sitting in the kitchen. He couldn't bear to look at her. He knew how she disapproved, but damnit, it wasn't fair.
"Why did it have to be this way?" he shouted. No response. "The least you could do is talk to me!" he grabbed her and wrestled her to the floor. "WHY???!?! Having you like this is all the more frustrating because it’s a constant reminder of what you once were. The vibrant self is gone. NO!" he popped the lid off the bottle he had in his coat pocket and took a swig to help swallow the pills. "It’ll be over soon,” he whispered. As his muscles clenched he thought of all the times they had had together. And so it goes sometimes. Love is temporary. And we either learn to cope or we crack under the tremendous weight of it all. He was just a man alone in this world. In this world that has no place for a man...and his toaster.

wr_post06:subj_fict

2007-05-16T07:03:00.000-05:00

AISLE 6: ASSAULT AND BATTERIES

His skin felt tight over the tips of his fingers. Had he remembered to put change in the meter? He had to get eggs at the grocery store so she could make that cake for Sally. Sally was taller than him, which was odd since Sally was a midget. That would mean he was a midget too. He didnt think about it much. No BIG deal. Hey, was that some sort of crack? "Cool it, man. You're arguing with yourself again," he thought. Just hand the lady the card and she'll swipe it and then....Wait, why should he? What did she know about his pain. He stepped back and shot her an accusatory glance. So, she thought she was going to get inside that easy, eh? Well he'd show her. He strapped on his roller skates and took off, leaving the eggs next to the tube of toothpaste and the shotgun shells. When he got home he wrote a very scathing letter to the management. He'd turn it in when he went in for work the next day. He had been working there for three weeks and still the other employees didn't recognize him when he came in. He often considered buying them all root beer. Who doesnt love root beer? That'd show them. A nice frosty root beer. They'd drink it down and then...what's this? Ha ha ha. A peanut in the bottom of the glass. Wait. He was allergic to peanuts. Not them. How would he get the peanut in the glass? He had a very severe aversion to latex gloves. It made him feel like a veterenarian. He had told the shrink that once. Theories of fearing becoming his father and wishing he'd acted sooner on that car loan offer. What if? You only live once. He could've used the money to buy those roller skates he'd always wanted. He looked down at his feet and chuckled a bit. Why buy when you can rent? Renting roller skates was like playing scrabble...all vowels. He stopped and thought that last thought again. Roller......Scrabble. "Hmm. It's just crazy enough to work," he said. His voice surprised him and he dropped the cabbage. It rolled into the gutter with the coupons he'd clipped yesterday. He often did things in the street outside his apartment. Menial things. Once a police officer had cited him for spitting on a tree. But he had to brush. The people behind his teeth were growing in numbers. Soon they would control the uvula. Many people didn't know the benefit of that dangly flap. But he knew all too well. After living in the jungle for a year you learn those things. He had begun typing out his thoughts some time ago, but he couldnt remember the circumstances. He felt like the skin on his fingers was growing tighter. Like there was water washing over him. His shirt felt heavy. He had to stop writing in the third person. "Maybe if I created a pseudonym for myself I could pass it off as a short story," Frank decided. Yeah, Frank. That's the ticket. So Frank wrapped up the sentence he'd been working on, which is not to say he stopped the thought. He never stopped thinking, but come to think of it he also never stopped to think. Funny how things like that worked. Like a leaky faucet, this existence was...Wet. And he'd have to suffer through a bit more of it before the great plumber in the sky came and....No, that analogy made sense. He couldnt have that. Frank reached into the third drawer down on the right side of his desk and pulled out the shotgun he kept there. He pointed it at the screen. Click. Damn. No shells. He'd have to get eggs if he was going to keep brushing his teeth. Who's birthday was it anyways? This had to stop. These accusations. If that lady wouldn't hand him the credit card, how could he ever check her out. She was getting impatient. How long had he been day dreaming? Standing there wrapped in syntax. He must've dozed off standing up. Everready. Why was she buying shot gun shells anyways? Frank didn't know how much they cost. He'd only worked there for three weeks...

wr_post05:subj_fict

2007-05-16T07:02:00.000-05:00

JESUS LIKES STUFF

Once there was a guy named Mike. He lived underground. He had never heard of Jesus. Mike was a mole.
This other time, there was this guy, named Steve. Steve stood on the corner and yelled at people to slow down til he got red in the face. He was a stop sign. That was a pun. That was not a pun. Jesus didnt make puns and if he did, he didnt call them puns.
But before all that, there was a guy, named Jesus. He didnt live underground. He had never heard of Mike. Jesus was a Polar Bear.
Frank didn't say anything, but they could tell he didnt approve. He lifted himself upright in his armchair and reached for his glasses. He put them on slowly. Patronizingly slowly. As if to say "No, don't trouble yourselves. Let an old man do your work. You slow bastards." Frank was in a bunker. Frank was underground. Frank was tired of hearing about Jesus and his magic. He wanted to hear more about Mike. Mike knew what was what.

wr_post04:subj_fict

2007-05-16T07:01:00.000-05:00

MAYBE SOME DAY I'LL GET IT

Austin Wellingford owns three apartment buildings. I rent a room in one of them. Everytime something breaks, I'm supposed to call Steve Greyson and Steve either comes and fixes it or tells me he will and then doesn’t or just tells me it's my own damn problem. On the days when Steve tells me to fix it myself I begin to question the whole system of my calling him at all. Today, however, is the third day without power, heat or running water and rather than call Steve again, I have decided to pack up all my stuff, find Austin and crash on his couch til he can get his act together. I go through my list a couple times to make sure I'm not forgetting anything and notice that the list doesn’t contain any of the stuff I've assembled in boxes by the door, nor is any of the stuff on the list even in my apartment. I begin to wonder whether I have the right list in front of me, when someone walks in. It's Gladys. She lives next door and keeps cats, though they aren’t allowed. In exchange for not ratting her out, she gave me a key to her apartment and lets me watch cable in her place. "Why the hell do you have all my stuff in boxes?" Gladys asks, as coolly as one can ask such a question. I glance at my feet and realize the boxes are moving. I have, in my haste, boxed Gladys' apartment, including her cats. "Happy Box Day!," I mumble as I worm past her out the door. On second thought, maybe I dont need to bring my stuff to Austin's. He's loaded. I'm sure I can just borrow his clothes. Clutching a page I've torn out of the phone book, I stroll up to the 8 foot high, razor-wire-encrusted fence with the big gold initials, "AW." I call the guard over and ask him whether he's gonna open the fence or am I just gonna have to climb it. He mutters something about having to have an appointment and wanders back to his booth. Feeling defeated I cross the street and go into the Diner. I sit at the counter and order a cup of coffee, but before the waitress can pour it, I see Austin's limo pulling out the gate. I drop a handful of change on the counter and run out into the street. I get out just in time to see Austin's cigar ash out the tinted windows. This just isnt my day. I go back to my apartment where Gladys has unboxed the cats and sit down in the hallway. I pull out the list and going back over it in a darker pen I write this story. I slip it under my door and walk away. Maybe someday I'll get it.

wr_post03:subj_fict

2007-05-16T07:00:00.000-05:00

MASON-DIXON DRAWSTRING SLACKS

driving down the road one afternoon, paul saw a pair of slacks laying in the ditch. he slowed down, pulled over and made his way cautiously down the embankment. the shale was loose and it was slow going. as he reached the pants he saw that there was also a note in a little glass mason jar. he opened the jar and gingerly plucked out the note. it was beautiful paper. smooth, but aged almost to the consistency of lace. the ink had faded and the edges were dirty from many fingers running across its surface. he could only make out the second and the last lines:

"gave it to me tuesday with the intention of making a pie....or else never got home on account of the rain."

it wasn't clear just what the note had to do with the pants, if there was any connection at all, but he decided to take both. as he dropped the pants into the lockbox in the bed of the truck, he began to feel an odd sensation. an urge to wear the pants. the waistband had a drawstring. these pants would give a little in the wearing, a luxury he was not often afforded by his wife's stingy hemming. he made sure there were no other cars on the road and quickly slipped off his pants, but as he reached to grab the drawstring slacks he heard a voice.
"boy, just what do you think you're doing?"
albert's [his name changes?] face grew bright red. he was literally caught with his pants down. he turned slowly to address the voice, but there was no one there. a chill came over him. forgetting his own pants he jumped into the truck and drove off, shooting gravel as he pulled up off the shoulder. he didn't let his foot off the gas even in the slightest until he was in sight of his house. he ran up the front step, having forgotten all about his pantslessness and into the arms of his wife. there he wept for several hours, unable to catch his breath to retell the awful tale. she comforted him and offered him some pie.
"it's rhubarb," she said. "don, brought it over. i gave his wife some rhubarbs the other day in exchange for a cup of flour. i do hope he makes it home alright, it looks like rain outside."
"w-w-what kind of pants was he wearing?" stammered paul.
"i dunno," his wife replied as she moved into the kitchen to cut the pie. "i think they were just some drawstring slacks."

wr_post02:subj_fict

2007-05-16T06:59:00.000-05:00

SMALL WORLD, AIN'T IT?

Tony worked in an office processing forms. He picked them up from Jake and then sorted them by urgency, subject matter and product code to be sent on to Mike and Sheila respectively. One day instead of reading the forms and sorting them, he jumped out the window of his 22nd floor office. Later that day, Sheila got word of the note on his desk. Looking back she could see the signs. She didn't know why, but she felt somehow responsible. So she quit, changed her name, got a new job and pretended her old life had never existed. Mike never actually spoke to Tony. He had a germ phobia and would only receive the forms through inter-office mail and only handle them once they'd met his exacting standards for cleanliness. Tony's death had no effect on Mike, who assumed it was all the work of germs. Jake hired a replacement the next week. Her name was Cindy, a young girl out of college who he hired mainly for looks. He began an affair with her and one day during a rendezvous in the conference room he called her "Tony." Things were awkward from that point on and Jake fired Cindy rather than deal with seeing her in the halls. He cut out Tony's position in the office infrastructure and assumed the responsibilities of Sheila, who's replacement had refused to work with Mike on the grounds that he often sent her emails critiquing her hygeine. With less people on the payroll, numbers began to move out of the red. The company was purchased by a conglomerate and the work was outsourced to the Dallas office. Mike moved back in with his mother and took up coin collecting (an odd hobby considering the number of unwashed hands such old coins must have come in contact with). Jake stayed home with the kids and watched his wife's crafts shop blossom into a successful chain. He envied her. When his company had begun to succeed, they gave him the axe. He had thought about killing her. Make it look like suicide and take over the crafts game. The only thing stopping him was a strong distaste for crafts. He began putting out ads for a nanny in the hopes that he'd find a cute little thing to remind him of Cindy. He coached his daughter's softball team and flirted shamelessly with the young mothers. One night he was beaten senseless by a father who happened to be in earshot. His wife divorced him and took the kids. He moved to Illinois and got a job at the Kinko's. His shift manager looked like an old co-worker, but that's too contrived. Sheila was actually in Ohio working as a waitress. Mike tried to keep in touch with people, but he didn't have their new addresses. His life came to a fitting close when he contracted West Nile at the age of 34. His dying words were, "Germs! The only way around them is to nuke the whole damn world!" Jake's wife, Olivia, read about it in the obituaries, but the name had no significance to her. She married a guy named Terry, the regional manager of her Midwest offices. Terry secretly hated kids and tried several times to asphyxiate them in the garage. Sheila, who now went by Trisha, moved in with another waitress and they moved to Toronto to start a bed and breakfast. While making copies one day, Jake met a casting director and landed his first acting part as "Bus Driver #2" in a low-budget porn. Terry took Olivia on a vacation for their one-year anniversary to Trisha's B&B and their first night there, they rented the porn that Jake was in. It was a bit part and Olivia didn't even recognize him, but the sequence of events leading up to that moment was altogether too strange and the world abrubtly ended.

wr_post01:subj_fict

2007-05-16T06:46:00.000-05:00

PROPOSED BACK STORIES FOR HYPOTHETICAL EXPRESSIONS

So, in a small town in the Four Corners region of the country, imagine that a somewhat common expression is "They give that one to the volcano." Since the town contains one of the only clinics in the area, it is assumed by passers-by that the expression is used to refer to the passing of someone receiving care at the clinic. The romanticized version is that their spirit passed out of this plane of existence, but its power still exists, emanating from the volcano in relative proximity to the town: the circle of life, blah, blah. In truth, it turns out, the expression comes from the fact that in some cases, distant relatives visiting the clinic are actually in the area to see the volcano and happen to have timed their visit to see the ailing. The purpose of the visit is chalked up to the volcano's drawing power as a roadside attraction. A more cynical view, however, is that the records have somehow been falsified by National Park employees to suggest that people who were in fact visiting the clinic, were in the region to see the volcano. Thus, in deference to the raw power of an act of nature, "they [gave] that one [tally] to the volcano." None of this is in the least bit interesting, but the expression catches on for its poetic qualities, eventually becoming so popular as to have most of its explanation printed along with the quote on gym-shirt-grey ringer tees in 48-point, sarifed, purple iron-on, bubble letters. The end result, being convoluted, obscure and overly verbose, sells well only amongst the asinine more-irrelevant-than-thou hipster contingency and is, in this way, vaguely reminiscent of the futility of traveling through New Mexico. This in turn reminds people of the somewhat cheapening effect that thus-naming such a lackluster state has on the original Mexico.

Curating a blog::dry_run01:subject_rand....GO!

2007-05-13T01:58:00.000-05:00

This one for the video. The sound is fitting, but unnecessary and distracting.

This one for the sound. I think I could actually listen to it forever and never tire. The video is a fucking animated .gif. How great can it be?

As for this one. The complete package. Words cannot describe...

Do watch both before further exploring the endless mines that are the random button on the window, won't you?

Jonathan Gregory Brandis (April 13, 1976 – November 12, 2003) was an American film and television actor. OMG!!1RIP4eva!!?LOLLERPEDIA!:

Who wikis the word actor?!

2007-05-07T12:49:00.001-05:00

Love and Hate: Black (on Both Sides) and Blue(print)

2007-04-30T00:44:00.000-05:00

"All over the world hearts pound with the rhythm,
Fear not of men because men must die,
Mind over matter and soul before flesh." --Mos Def

"You said you been in this ten,
I've been in it five. Smarten up Nas,
Four albums in ten years, n****r? I can divide,
That's one every, let's say, two. Two of them shits was due,
One was, 'Nahhh,' the other was 'Illmatic'
That's a one-hot-album-every-ten-year average." --Jay-Z

Plodding Wearily Through Mountains of Bullshit

2007-04-25T19:23:00.000-05:00

Lengthy Examinations of the Mating Habits of West African Lake Midges

2007-04-21T17:05:00.000-05:00

Unfathomable expanses of water begin to boil inexplicably. Teeming with ripples, the ether seems to wick wisps of mist off the surface. Soon, a column stretches two, three, five hundred feet into the air. It is one of thousands. Each constitutes nearly a million flies who will live long enough to connect, mate, lay eggs and die. Were they to come upon the presence of being to attempt anything outside of this protocol, they would still be dead before reaching the waters' edge. Their sole function in life must be as the link between what they eat and what eats them. They fill a niche within an ecosystem the size of a lake (albeit one of the largest lakes in the world) which to them is an entire universe. Their biome is the expanse of underwater for the majority of their short, short lives. In the fleeting moments of existence, they collectively burst through the tyranny of water's surface tension and explode into fingers of smoke drifting lazily down. The Fleenors were not unlike these flies.

Minute Rice in the Era of Instant Obsolesence

2007-02-20T01:28:00.000-05:00

Gary and Tina had three ugly kids, a run-down bungalow on the industrial edge of the suburbs, two rusty sedans and no ambition. They'd been married for nearly three decades and the only thing keeping either of them going was each's desire to see the other die first. Gary Fleenor had been the Runner-Up State Spelling Bee Champ in High School, but he'd assumed the title after a scandal rocked the world of competitive letter recitation, connecting the winner, one Margaret Bloom, to both the Yakuza and Archibald Pez, of novelty-candy-dispenser fame. The title had earned Gary the admiration of then-incarcerated Tina Radmonowitz. She was performing community service, collecting trash on the highway median, when she happened across the article that had broken the "Spelldown Snafu" story. It would be eight months before they met in person, but what began was a fiery correspondence built on lies and exaggeration, would gradually blossom into a bitter, stagnant marraige. Derek Fleenor, the first mistake, was good with his hands, or so went the testimony of the five eyewitnesses to his first aggrivated assault. He'd made it through six states before the stolen Chevy he was driving into oncoming traffic siezed up and went into a skid. When he awoke in the prison hospital, he was no longer a biped. It was the subject of much ridicule in the infrequent letters to "ol' one leg." Betty, the only Fleenor who had ever shown promise outside of the world of organized crime, died of Leukemia during a protracted legal battle for the rights to her first novel, "Please God! Kill Me Now." Eventually, the royalties were awarded to Gary and Tina who spent them on huckster balding cures and crack cocaine, respectively. The baby, Vernon, four-and-a-half, had no real concept of the hell he was being raised in. He also knew very little of his older siblings. To him the world consisted of blaring sirens which, when he was lucky, were from the "Real Police Drama" programs his mother watched and the slow, sour smell of unwashed clothing, which made up the bulk of the house's furniture. Eventually he probably grew up to do something undesirable for shit pay, but nobody cares about stories like that, so let's just say he became an astronaut. Vernon Fleenor, the first man on Mars!