wr_post32:subj_fict

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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