Hidden in the Bushes

I was in Somalia last week doing the medical version of meals on wheels - assisting doctors who go to underdeveloped countries (doctors without borders). My job is basically to make sure we get through customs, passing as Jews, Muslims, Frenchies - mostly non-Americans, all depending on the country. Then, we set up shop in an abandoned building or open area that probably won't get bombed or set on fire and help out some freaks.

Anyways, I meet this Ethiopian in lucid nomadic cloth named Adelee. She winks at me and I imagine her fellating me immediately. Before I act on impulse, experience comes to surface and I check her medical records for disease. Unfortunately, finding Somalian medical records usually takes a few days and I do not have that kind of patience. And though her sister lies on our table with a crushed peritoneum, Adelee's innocent tears delude my standard cynosure.

I comfort the Sister Who is About to Die (her last name is Mwakikigale, but I called her that because she didn't understand anyway and it was relevant at the moment) until the stricken is finally former. I massage her calves, whipe her cheeks with my hair and hug her waist. She speaks to me in Somali and then Arabic, which I know of neither, trying to explain to me some important aspect of our love, or perhaps her sister. As the kin heartbeat fails, I lift Adelee over my right shoulder. She kicks and screams as I help her dispatch. I place her on an abandoned rocking chair and feed her burnt azuki beans from my palm.

I rock her incessantly until she diffuses her last discharge. I get down on my knees in front of her and impulsivley say, "Adelee, your neck is a bridge of intoxication, your family is a curse, and your teeth are the color of amber. Angelo!! Angelo, come quick! Stop flossing and get over here, I mean it!"

Dr. Angelo Bagelini - once a boy genius - cured a tomato virus in his spare time at age 16, graduated Malta at 24, but got fired at 52 from Bonafacio Hospicitiani for using tax money to install a piece of furniture made of marble . It was found by the hospital that they funded what would equal to about $5,000 for a beautiful island countertop, in which Dr. Bagelini's patient table was jettisoned. A most seemly countertop for dicing tomatoes and making his famous La Panna di Pomodoro Orgasmica. Bagelini was a doctor of humans and a doctor of cooking, for his mother was not fancied with torpescence, yet was spiteful of young Angelo's desire to both use parsley and parcel users.

Dr. Bagelini disposed of his dental floss and waddled in the couples direction.

"Angelo! Adelee seems to be depressed about something and I do not understand why she is not as gay as I about our inevitable encounter this day. Is she sick?"

"It seems as though her wink is not a wink of romance but a blink of affliction," the doctor brashfully explained.

My mind was made up, however - there would be no more courting; no more weeping; no more befuddlement. Adelee was inescapable to my desires. I told Angelo to fix us a supper that only Henry Armetta could handle.

We feasted for what seemed like minutes, but was surely hours upon hours long. Adelee had the most beautiful chewing motion, the kind that assured me that my temporary inhabitance was a wave of felicity for the peacock.

Then, amongst a fruitless civil war, pirates raided our tent, murdered everyone but me, and ran away with 23 jars of the world's best tomato sauce.

How did I subsist the ambush? I was under the dining table.

Dangled

I had a purple paw; dark and injured.  It dragged along the road, up the steps on the bus.  Kids hit it with their bikes.  Strangers commented on it loudly.  I don't even know where I was going, but it felt like all I did was walk a circle around the town, allowing everyone to gawk, giving them more opportunities to harass my neglected limb.

I had a purple paw, that was dark not because it was injured, but because God made it that way.  There wasn't much to say about it; I tried to ignore it, but the leers kept coming.  The audience never faded.  I shifted my gait by several degrees, to no avail.

Now everyone knows me.  Everyone has something to say.

So I had this purple paw removed, and placed it under glass, and used it as a table.  I make fun of it, I taunt it, I let it know how much misery it caused the rest of me.

So this purple paw rests there.  It has no where else to go.

I let the years go bye.

It never moved an inch.

I had supper real late one morning, and perhaps had too much else taken in, so I let out that paw and smashed it with a crowbar.  Then I got close to the edge, looked back and shot a flame, then jumped into the cliff.

So I set my paw on fire.

Baseball on the Rise

I had a rather incredulous experience yesternight. I was amidst a dream, a shitting dream, though the focus had little to do with the action of shitting. No, it had more to do with the clean up, THE WIPE. But what was most troublesome, or incredible, depending on your intrigue, was I never seemed to get it all. So there I am, dreaming I'm done shitting, and each wipe has more sticky, smeared shit upon it than the last. I must've wiped about five times, which may not be all that crazy to some shitters. They may suppose I'm either not special, or too special. But those images were on my mind for the rest of the REAL morning, so while I could say I had a rather shitty morning, it wasn't all that bad. It was amusing and interesting.

Honoring the Dead Script

There was a girl walking through the city, crying. Not bawling, but obviously distraught-faced with eyes trying to keep her cheeks up. Her jaw drags down, and it ruins her business attire. Now, I love all women, probably the sad ones most. Maybe I feel I can offer them more. But I didn't feel that need to grip her. Instead, I felt proud of our culture, as if this sight of seeing a girl walk crying through the city was not a sign of detachment, abandonment, but of liberation.

It was a fine near-evening, with limitless clouds and pastries wafting in the air. My only complaint was my belt, which had to be pulled and latched a bit more since the fit of my pants were "slimmer." Normally, I hated days like this, when the clouds kept my eyes low, the sounds of the square were uncheerful, and the people's faces left me intoxicated with indifference. But then there's this girl.

Sexually raging, sure. Desperate for a desperate hole, always. Yet as I stated, and I know I'm repeating myself, those feelings never weighed on my concern. If concern is what you'd call it. No, I was caught in the glance and stuck in the afterthought, maybe because I was proud of her. I know I couldn't cry, out in the open, nevertheless in front of these city buildings. Who is the victim here? Who is the one starving for attention?

When I reached the bus stop, and sat down upon the cold, stained cloth, my mind kept with her. Not necessarily her face, her look, but of her action, her status. I want to be with her, walking a few paces behind, listening to her meek furrows and waiting for some description. Now I know I'll never have it, and the day goes back to meaningless.

A Rip Off of Something You Don't Know

I fell for it. I knew I would but wasn't too bothered by it beforehand.

The two of them were in the back, behind the line of sycamores close to the thorn patch. The elder had his shoes unlaced and was waving about his elbows frantically. The young one preened his jacket while his earbuds blasted.

"When will you want to?" one of them said.

"About the time you quit, 'spose," said the other, in a much too hushed voice, as if to disregard his own countenance.

I began to mock them, in my mind. Refusing to move, even my keel, I took short breaths and kept my chin upon the damp flooring. Somehow...damn it I knew it!...somehow they each had an eye on me. But for that time being I was relaxed, and ever so discontent in the solace.

"Well, I guess," one of them stammered,"I guess we could flip at any moment."

"True. I know," said the other. "But what would be the value of that?"

And while my relaxation wandered, off into a place I no longer cared for it's survival, my pickpockets disarmed themselves, leaving me craving.

I drew back. I counted to three as quickly as I could.

Then the upstairs lights went off, and I fell. I feel deep deep deep down into the abyss, with them above squelching and pawing my remains without apathy.

Why must it always come to this, Grandma?

Bottles and Cans

Katherine had a bad toothache in the morning. She had eaten many Sour Patch Kids the night before and passed out watching Frasier before she could brush her teeth. Moments of weakness like this is really what made me want to twist her tit and chin her left kidney. I was awakened with the complaining sound of an Egyptian caterpillar.

"Flakeshire, I feel like I've been chewing the heavy duty aluminum foil in the draw-orrr," she said sleepily.

"That sucks," I say as I turn my head from my pillow at an ever so acute angle.

"But don't you want to make me feel better?"

I had tuned out the slithery woman and fallen asleep. Then, I proceeded to dream about the woods and calm rivers. It was dark out and friends were in random places along the way as I traveled in the wilderness. Calling out for them to say hello to me, they spit their tobacco my way and walked off, backwards, staring at me until they were out of sight.

Meanwhile, Katherine brushed her teeth for five minutes and got ready for work.

When I awoke, she was already gone; and she had left a note. It said:

Dearest Flakeshire,

I'm afraid I haven't been completely honest with you. You see, I am not English and I am not a waitress. I've been hired by The Perverted Veterinarians Journal to write a story about the man with a penis shaped like a giraffe's neck and head. They figured they could give an amateur writer like me a fair salary to date you for a year to really get into the story the way they wanted.

It has only been four months, but I've been getting stomach cramps from your odd-shaped dick, and can honestly say that it is time for me to move on and write my story. If I stay any longer, I will only fall more in love with you, and it.

Once Yours,

Janelle Jackson

I can't say I'm completely surprised. My penis is pretty fucked up. So are my dreams. Better go brush my teeth.

Family Ties

I had made a habit, since the age of eight, out of invading the kitchen of every house my Aunt took me to. I found myself at yet another gathering, and as soon as the time was right, when the adults were busy, I headed for the fridge. I was confused why so many of these cocktail parties, or fundraisers, or whatever the hell I was being summoned to, never had anything but alcohol and cheese.

“Christ!” I said aloud – a three story house with nothing but condiments and mango juice. I opened the cupboards and drawers and found nothing but the basics – uncooked pasta, baking ingredients, peanut butter, a hand gun, and an abnormally large amount of mouse crap. The most exciting time I intended to have all night just ruined my posture. This had to be the second or third lousiest place I’d ever been to with my Aunt. I ate a couple spoonfuls of peanut butter and drank the juice straight from the container. The decision was quickly made to leave a sip at the bottom, just out of spite, just to annoy someone, because I was definitely annoyed.

As soon as the refrigerator closed, the kitchen door opened. “What are you doing in here?” a voice said. Surprised and calm, I wiped my mouth over my left sleeve, turned around and looked at the first person to talk to me all night. She had a sweet voice, but an ever sweeter face. She was a foot taller than me and was probably in high school, but I tried anyway. “I’m looking for a beer. All that’s out there is cheap wine and bitter champagne,” I said very smoothly. “No you’re not,” she replied with confidence. I quickly chimed in, “You’re right. I saw a beautiful girl and wanted to bring her something good, something besides brie and bleu cheese.” She lowered her eyebrows and tilted her head like I was talking in another language.
It was silent for at least five seconds. My smile slowly faded in that time, what seemed to be enough time for me to leave the room without embarrassing myself any more. “Kid,” she eventually said, “I’ve gotta be five years older than you. Now I’m not gonna make fun of you for eating, because from the looks of it, you love to eat. That’s some belly you got there. And you got some charm too – a little creepy, but I’ve seen worse.” I thought she said she wasn’t going to make fun of me. Oh well, that was a compliment, right? This is what I was thinking as there was yet another awkward pause.

“Listen honey…I’m twelve, and from the size of your bust line, I’d guess yer only fourteen. That’s two years, and I’m mature for my age. I’ve been to hundreds of these parties and the question isn’t whether I can handle you, it’s if you can handle me.” Damn, not bad for having peanut butter in my gums and on my breath. She responded without a pause or a stern look this time – “Grow up,” she said as she walked over and kissed me on the cheek, then went back to the adults at the party.

It turned out that she lived in that crummy house with her parents. My Aunt had taken me to a religious meeting, something about believing in ghosts and vampires. The girls name, I would find out, was Illiana and she was fifteen. That was how most of my encounters went at that age. I was aggressive and didn’t hesitate, with girls or food. The food couldn’t walk away though. I was chubby, but never disgustingly obese throughout my childhood. I suppose I was a little forward or too young for her, but for some reason, I’ll never forget the taste of mango and peanut butter in my mouth as I talked so rudely to her.


I came to live with my Aunt Suzy in 1983. I was six years old when my parents drove me five hours north and dropped me off in St. Paul, Minnesota; they told me they were going to a place called Victoria for a month’s vacation. That month turned into an eternity, and my Aunt took the needed, but unwanted duty of taking care of me. It wasn’t until 1986 that I stopped sleeping on a couch in the den and she got me a bed. She always said in some form, “I guess I’m gonna have to make time to care for you.” I always felt like I was holding her back. She loved me, but didn’t want to have to deal with me.

She was single and worked as a secretary for the governor. She didn’t make much money, but she was always at parties, whether they were political, religious, book clubs, card games, or whatever reason she could make to socialize. My job was to ride in the back seat and follow her in and find a nice spot to be quiet.

The very last social gathering she took me to was in August of 1988. Wayne Gretzky had just been traded to the Kings and I was depressed. The North Stars went 19-48-13 the previous year and I was daydreaming about a Gretzky, Bellows, Ciccarelli power play. So there I was, a 15-year-old in Minnesota; it’s summer and it’s barely 40 degrees and Suzy said I couldn’t play hockey because my feet got too big for my skates.

Friday night and full of testosterone, Aunt Suzy burns me with a surprise gathering about the women’s “gender gap”. She first feeds me a shit-for-show dinner featuring brussel sprouts. We converse about the night and she tells me all about women’s rights like that should be my main priority too. In the car, I blast George Michael (now old enough to sit in the front seat). She puts on Miami Sound Machine. Michael. Estefan. Michael. Estefan. Michael. Slap in the face.

I get to the house of Fran Chambers. She’s a single, successful businesswoman. I shake her hand and stare at her breasts. I can see she is repulsed by the fat on my neck and crooked teeth. Regardless, I make myself useful and find the basement. After two hours of silence and TV, I don’t know if I should feel happy or left out. There are no other men or uninterested people at the meeting for me to annoy. The Rangers were shutting out the Twins so I started to snoop around.

Holy shitballs....the pantry has Doritos and Little Debbie’s: in my stomach in less than five minutes. I move to some small cabinets by the furnace. What the fuck? Playboys?! Am I being videotaped by these feminist cunts upstairs? I masturbate on to Fran’s couch to pictures of Kimberley Conrad and turn the cushion over. Feeling just about as good as a 15-year-old can, full of snacks and released of sperm, I get the idea that anything is possible in this house. Pants still down, I take off my shirt, shoes, and rest of my jeans, leaving only my high socks with two red stripes. I take all the Playboys from the drawer and head upstairs. The first person to see me was a really old wrinkle. She must have been seventy. I swear her dentures dropped to the ground with her sag bags. Quickly, through screams and panic attacks, everyone saw my wrinkled penis, chocolate, cheesy face, with my Playboys in hand. I decided to walk home, freezing. It was only a couple of miles. My Aunt was too busy apologizing to her newfound friends to watch me leave. I made it about a half a mile before enough talk led to the cops picking me up.

State Trooper Legume started with, “Boy! What the hell are you doing without any clothes in this weather? Do you know the law?”
“Yes. I’m sorry sir. They made me do it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I was supposed to be a sacrifice for some women’s group. Please help me!”

After a smooth story, like I used with Illiana, my Aunt and her friends were charged with child abuse and they weren’t allowed to have their meetings anymore. Fran was looked into and it was found she used to be a Frank. The cops even let me keep a few magazines. My Aunt lost her job and let me move in with my best friend Kenny. Everyone felt sorry for me, but I was the happiest I had ever been. I got to play hockey that winter and planned on leaving semen under many more couches.

How Mice Must Seam to be Gentle

There came a revelation that what was happening was the opposite of what was intended. I had never wanted energy, and went to lengths to ensure I wouldn't t have it. I believed I thought too much, and wanted to get rid of that habitual nuisance. Energy was deviated at any chance: jerked off constantly to prevent any arousal; pot so that I wouldn't try to do anything or think too much on something; slept in and stayed up late to avoid contact, interaction, energy...and in the reversal came a sudden desire to act, something so rare and unfounded in my existence, to the sense that there was a real need to act, it was a strange sense to me, something that was even harder to cope with as I realized that my inherent energy was vastly diminishing, probably even more so as I spent so much time trying to get rid of all that power. Yet, there is also an annoying paradox: while I spent all that time wasting energy, not trying to do anything, I also wasted good time and opportunity to waste energy on more pleasurable things. HA! Oh well, another day another life. How interesting and how important could it really be? I still even have my doubts, not any more, or less, seriously...its hard to truly care to act when there seems to be nothing useful in the sky, nothing inherently wonderful about the killings down the street or in the other avenue. Whatever, it seemed. And there yet lies another twist, when I consider the fact that all along, throughout all of it, I had this insatiable and curious belief that I would sustain, that somehow this body would permeate throughout entire lifespans, regardless of the abuse or the refinement, and so yet again, it didn't matter. Whatever would come, it would stay or pass or just linger in my mind, like everything else, and the sun would keep coming up. AND HOW WONDERFUL A THOUGHT IS that, THOSE PLACES OF THE WORLD WHERE THE SUN DOESNT EVEN SHINE...HOW I WANT TO MAKE LOVE TO A DAY LIKE THAT, HOW I WOULD BURY MY FACE IN ITS BREASTS AND FUCK MY MIND OUT OF CONTROL, AND WHEN I WAS DILAPITATED AND TIRED AROUND THE THREE O'LOCK HOURS, IT WOULDNT' MATTER WHICH .m. IT WAS BeCAUSE NO ONE ELSE WOULD CARE EITHER, A CUP OF MILK OR some CEREAL OR SOME YAHTZEE OR HARDCORE FUCKING WHEVNER YOU FELT LIKE IT , HIDDEN BEHIND THAT MYSTERIOUS BLACK AND YET ENLIVENED TO REALLY EXPREIENCE...WHAT A WONDERFUL BLISS, but instead we have these days...”living off borrowed time the clock ticks faster” and nothing more said could be any more true, my life has accelerated in the past several years, and even more so in this year of congruent months and solipositing incubating weeks, what a fucking drag it all is, and thinking that one day one of these days will have to matter, that one of these days will become a Monday of October, or a third of july, fuck and damn it all, I want neither, I want something close to what I will describe as tranquility, which some may take to me some pacifier vacation, something other worldly in the sense that it doesn't really correlate with this progressive worker world mentality, but it isn't...my tranquility resides in a notion that behind the clock, and the veil of “matters” and morals, there is a guideline to rational and sophisticated debouched living that encompasses a real striving for nothingness, no nomenclature or effulgence or symbolic hedonism, instead what would have is a speculation to the divine it self, that out of this misery and awkward awakening in a disillusioned program called “reality” by the business men and saleswomen, is somehow more prevalent only because we appease to it, that we don't avoid the fact that none of this really matters, certainly not to ourselves and maybe to some of those sick packs of worshipers...but behind this illustration, this veil of anonymity forced into out psyche as antisocial and ill, is actually a real feeling of exuberance, and a joy that we have readmitted ourselves into the primordial, outside the limitations of christs and ecology. We are no where near what we are, however true it all may seem.

Call a Locksmith

The spirits of the sinners and the relentless become the air that I breathe as they follow me like soldiers in march. I gasp at the thought of who controls my mind and why they've taken me on. No matter how strong my will is, I cannot conquer the undead soul. I am my own colony. My last breath will only be a partial death. Then, we will haunt someone else.

my weekly routine

The cord is connecting the result to the thought.

I don't move backwards, but I can when rethinking the past.

Nostalgia sets in and I daydream for days.

In my trance I fall. My knees buckle, my feet go numb and my blood goes cold.

When I wake, my sight is deluded. I lie in bed and I swear I sense you smelling my breath.

It could be anyone, but I'm always hoping it's you.

Why the Evening Didn't End (the start)

I awoke with an absolute void in my chest. It felt as if my chest had been pulled and removed; my ribs jutting outwards, some tissue rippage into the core of my stomach. It didn't exactly hurt. I felt immobilized; stunned, thinking that by no means was movement possible and so I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, recollecting every thought in my life, reliving all the moment I couldn't forget no matter how hard I tried. I wanted pain, it would make more sense . Perhaps some lingering, incinerating pain would get me to try. But instead, I just lay there, for about fifteen of the longest minutes in existence, believing the whole time I'd end up dissolving around that void.

Then I got up. It was simple, as simple as one might expect. And there was still no pain, and no further consequences rather than the realization of that void. I still had my wits about me, and my balance. One of my first beliefs was not to look into the mirror. For some reason that terrified me. To feel that I have this absolute void in and on me, but not see it in the mirror? That'd damage me more than anything else. Or to think that there would be something reflecting from that mirror? I wanted none of it.

So I continued my normal routine; grabbed the keys from my basket, along with my wallet and gum, and took to walking downtown. When I got outside, I instantly got this notion that I hadn't been out in a long time, like everything looked eerily similar to the way things used to be. Even the cars looked odd, or out of place. I couldn't quite put it all together, so I just kept walking.

But then it hit me: the dizziness, the feeling that I would topple over any minute. Strange thing was, I knew I wouldn't fall over, as if I couldn't, so instead I meandered down the street like a wave; the crest of my head breaking along with the tides before billowing up again to start the whole process over. I was dizzy, and completely nauseous, but for some reason, the entire time, I had this insatiable certainty that I was okay. That somehow, within the next span of my life, things would turn out fine.

Eventually, I would come to thing it was all just pride.

Speak to Me/Breathe

It once held the flesh of a man who sold his body for war; and carried the needs of his pulse. But now they lie with pictures - and a flag.
It stopped moving thousands of miles away. Yet here it is, resting and coming to life.
Though no one will see it, the existence soon melts to explosion like a lighter in a fire. The mourners have no idea to think about his bones.
The skull has an impression. His is of fear.

Peanut Butter Jelly Time

I really enjoy listening to songs when I think I know the words, but really don't. Once I realize all the words to an entertaining song, I lose a mystique about it that let's me know, that to some degree, the song has absolution; but when I was singing it before, it was my opinion, my version of the song that I wanted to hear.

There are so many magnetic feelings toward anything that sticks in your head, but is still open for interpretation.

Damn the Ease

If she were ever to walk
I'd give her fingers and lanterns to taste

Yet this is not time to bathe
I seize the day by preaching danger

by giving entrails their due contortions

Heavens arise
let the dreams figure their own apprentices
give the clarinet-voiced whips more pleasure

Musings
prayers multiplied, copied
en masse

formal appeasals, satisfy my breathren
satisfy my explorations

And if the Eastern mud ever becomes intolerable
shoots about plays
of eager dismissals

she will abide to hand back my wrenches

No cause for affirmation
the actions remain detrimental

Satisfy me, for fuck sake

How the Cream Reached A Frenzy

I enjoy hearing people. Give me someone to listen to, and I'll pay attention sympathetically as long as they remain entertaining. In that sense, the first five minutes or so tend to be the best from strangers, or a group of people. The problem is they run out of things to say.

That's where I like to interject. I may not be the best talker, but I can listen fairly well, and I include questions to be a part of the listening process. Yet, simply, people don't have much to say, and thus questions must become more random and direct.

When boredom sets in, but the desire to communicate remains, that is when the best conversational pieces emerge. Maybe it's the surprise of the question, like following up a baseball conversation with a question about a person's stance on abortion. Comforting dialogue followed by harsh, real communication leaves a person without the serenity of thought, leading to a true voice. However, it's easy to lose a person with this technique.

You see, I don't really much care about what you are saying, just that you are saying something, and trying to find a topic that a person doesn't want to talk about is usually the best way to find out the spirit of someone. Refusing to comment will only increase my intrigue, and sure, I'll be a bastard if I need to.

Humans are entertainment, not much else, and it is their fear of being the entertaining focus that makes people hesitate. “Oh no,” they must think, “I might be offensive or dull, or find myself caught in an argument I'm ill-prepared for.” And so it must be that most people avoid this position to avoid being themselves, to further the characters they have created of themselves to perpetuate their own fiction.

“I must not have my opinions. I must be the tolerant complier interlocutors expect of me.”

But I'll let you in a tip: your thoughts don't matter, as chances are they are extremely flawed. God, politics, drugs, children—your views on these situations are nothing more than spectacle, fickle adaptations of a mind and world you know nothing about.

But everyone has their absolutes, those aspirations and ideals they cling to in order to have an identity, not for others, but for themselves. That is how we address our beings, basically. Our absolutes give us something to retrieve when we need thoughts. And it's comical.

The unawareness of this comedy is why talking can be so satisfying. A person will likely have more to say about their stance on the Olympics than their stance on death. While I hope this is avoidance at its best, it could boil down to the fact that we have no real concern about the lives we experience.

How do we combat this mentality? By being true and honest to our voices. By refusing to not subject ourselves to our own insecurities and doubts regarding the path verbal intercourse take. While in this mode, we must remind ourselves to be cognizant of the fact that are words are mere pleasure, entertainment for the sake of interaction, not some sort of moment where our identities are put on trial.

Ask the questions you'd like to hear answers to, and don't be shy to be confident in your reaction. Take away a few layers of skin, and it may hurt, but you will actually feel more.

Free T-Shirt

Got robbed again last week.

Try to turn the other cheek.

My face is bruised and red.

I can't wait til' I'm dead.

Doin' speed, crack, and cocaine.

It's fuckin' up my brain.

No silver lining in my cloud;

But I'm working and I'm proud.

At the Student Alumni Association,

The Student Alumni Association.

We like to get high and go on vacation

At the Student Alumni Association.

It gives me reason to live.

No longer live in sin.

Gets better every day

In every fuckin' way.

At the Student Alumni Association,

The Student Alumni Association.

We like to get high and go on vacation

At the Student Alumni Association.

Below the Subjective Arsenal of Ardent Quality

The first time I experienced cumin I was roughly 20-years-old, half inebriated, soaking in the horrible deluge of my brother’s charmed Miller Lite. I never had a tongue for the stuff, but when I was younger I could forgive myself of such disagreements.

So there we were, playing games the way people play them, and my brother fancied an oven baked treat, and perhaps the greatest oven-made treat created by drunken men: the frozen pizza. Every man has his pizza folly that he frequents, and my brother was no exception. Yet, he was able to strike a chord in me, which ran deep into the bowels of my stomach-loins.

He took out a delectable Totinos Mexican pizza and applied the brown spice of Indian sages, the powerfully aromatic seed that was used to wet the snatches of many young Arabic whore-muses centuries ago. That first taste unloaded a plethora of fond newfound blisses; must’ve had me about six or seven slices of pIZza, Jenny.

When I returned to my own land, hundreds of minutes away, on the crisp, glass laden streets of Mo’town (My town, Yo town, Mo’Town!) I knew I had to obtain a prepackaged fix of the spice.

When my mother went grocerying, I politely inquired, “Um, mom, can you, uh, get me some cumin? Please?” She said, “Sure Tommy,” and even though I was quite disappointed that my mother couldn’t remember my name, still after two decades, I waited and jacked off about four times, anxiously anticipating my little bottle of cumin.

As I reached my own kitchen, there it was, in my bag alongside my jammies and pictures of Linda Ronstadt. And then I opened the jar, took a big whiff, and hurriedly moaned out, “HOLY FUCK! This shit smells like concentrated Mexican taints.”

And I’ve added cumin to everything since.

Scenery without solace is unnecessary.

In one of the most awe inspiring days of my life, I met a man who has brought art, creation, and the ability watch perfection to the world. He was trying on shoes at The Shoe Department when it happened. I grabbed a pair of Asics, he a pair of Keds. Our hands went for the same shoe size thingy and we struck up a conversation from there.

"I haven't used one of these things for years," he said.

"Me neither, why...I don't think my feet have grown since I was 17," was my reply.

"Well you go ahead and see what size you are. I think there's another one on the next bench."

"NAHHHH...shucks mister. I was always taught to respect my elders. You put your dirty feet on it first."

"You sir, just earned yourself a free lunch at the food court."

For the next three hours we sat at the food court eating corn dogs and talking. I felt like an 7-year old talking to He-Man in 1983, like this guy was a superhero who could fuck any bitch he wanted to, even though he wore Keds.

What really held the conversation was the fact that he invented the transparent toaster oven. I had loved Eggo waffles since I had teeth. I began making them when I was 4 on my own. At age 7 I was making over-easy eggs and dipping them in toast. However, it wasn't until my 15th birthday that I got a transparent toaster oven. From this moment on, my toast, waffles, bagels, and mice were never under or overcooked. I could watch my toast toast! My fascination made my newly grown asshairs straight and curly second by second. It felt good.

The very coolest thing I can say about my life is that I developed a secret handshake with the guy who invented the transparent toaster oven. The second coolest thing I can say? I won a years supply of creamy corn when I entered the county fair's 50/50 two summers ago, God Damnit anyway!

on Why We Write Like Idiots

The discussion arose out of much timid laughter and brazen apologies. Too many people had insulted too many shipwrecked homophobes, only to end up with this scantily applied "worth saver" called Democracy. To wade in this newly formed government, amusing in theory to some, I decided to go on a lofty tanget about how Mildred's asshole reminded me much of New Jersey: full of shit.

See, back in the 1670s, they had these things called "jokes," named after Douche Earl the Duke of Jokes. He became wildly popular with his legendary scurvy impersonations. He actually just really hated vitamins, and was trying to make the trend of avoiding fruit popular. So anyway, I tried to match the Duke's clever attitude towards "laughter," at least that's what we used to call it. I think today's youth refer to it as "anal leakage," thus explaining Dane Cook's notoriety. Oh boy, is he boisterous!