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!

Psycho Killlaaaah, Norman Bates

I wrote a song the other day in my sleep. It was awesome. I was rhyming and beatin and moving the tempo and skediddlin and skedattlin. The song was in my head when I woke up, and even though I knew it was musical genius, I took it to the shower with me only to forget it.

If everything was optional, I'd work as a dreamer who wakes up and has a studio in the next room. It would help if there was a device to record audio in dreams too. Why are we wasting money on feeding the hungry and not stepping it up with this sort of technology?

You know how there's those special, special kids who are like blind and are on breast milk their entire lives, but can play Beethoven after listening to the song once? I'm the guy who combines the RHCP, The Who, MGMT, and Willie Nelson, but then asks himself a thousand questions until he forgets it. Why am I tarded? Me want cake! Me want pie! Me stick hand out the window and catch big bee!!

Taking Time For Daily Cheese

I awoke late in the day with the word sardonic in my head. I wasn't sure what it meant, but I wanted to use it properly in a sentence by the end of the day.

I had to ride the train down to the city. My iPod had just died, and the train was surprisingly noisy. More people were talking then usual; more cell phones and loud walking. I spent the ride staring at an old man. By his movements he appeared blind, yet he was shuffling a deck of cards. I got off the train feeling irritated.

Downtown was usual—windy. People and cars rush as quickly as the wind. What I despise most about the city is the fact you can go from smelling a fine restaurant to moldy trash in seconds. But I do enjoy the energy, like concentrated life. The scene makes me feel like I'm doing something.

I always walk by dancers from the university, and every time I expect them to spontaneously dance. Sometimes I worry the guys will see me checking them out, which inevitably happens while checking out the girls. I'm confused why they never have jackets on when it's so cold. They must really work up a sweat in class.

I finished up my downtown business and went home. I was trying to remember this kid from high school's name. Then I thought of his nickname, and blurted it out, “Bloody Tamponce.” I laughed out loud and some lady glared at me. She had a mustache.

Kidnapping Some Really Nice Kids

I raise eskimo children in my basement. We pour water in the sink and pretend to ice fish. Sometimes, they want to go outside, but I don't think it's such a good idea, not in April at least.

Last week one of the girls asked me if any polar bears were around. I told her not to ask questions because it made me angry. She knew I was kidding because I was grinning, and we laughed for a few minutes before I told her there weren't any here in the city. By then I think she already knew the answer though.

My goal is to see if the eskimos survive. It's refridgerated down there so I'm optomistic.

Hankering for some Chocolate

Man, did I want some chocolate! I wasn't sure how I was going to get it, but I knew it would happen.

First I had to go to Powell Street. That's where the balloon-shaping clowns are. My friend Ronald Frisky was one of them, and he usually had the best balloons. Once, I saw him shape a 19-tentacled kangaroo, which didn't make sense, but it was sweet nonetheless.

Down on Powell Street, Ronald (or Rummy Peaches, as we called him) was hitting on milfs and smoking meth. The double activity wasn't working too much for him, so ol' Rummy Peaches decided to shit in the corner alley. The strong wind wafted something terrible our way, and it made a young blonde girl cry while she was waiting for her Sharktopus to be made by Grimmy CuntFingaz. The crying made Grimmy angry, and he stabbed the balloon with a knife and told the girl to go to hell.

Well, damn it if that girl didn't go to hell, no less than five hours later. She was robbing a cancer care center with aborted fetuses (or feti, as idiots call them). She also threatened to piss on the adorable little puppies the center had for the patients to pet. One of those puppies came to bit the young girl in the ass. Schmuggles was from a long line of rightious dog-owners, including the 15th pope and Marisa Tomei. And so while the girl was lining up a tasty spraying upon the poodles cranium, Schmuggles bit her in the ass, with his foaming, rabid, rotting teeth. You see, most rightious people, and their pets, have such teeth, except for Marisa Tomei, who is just really, really hot.

What sent the girl to hell was the fact that she had homosexuals fuck her in the bite marks. For some reason, gods look down on that. Oh yeah, she was also eating Saint Pie, which is a terribly wonderful pastry made of nun vagina. You mix that with some graham crackers and caramel rum raisin ice cream and mmmmmm, you got some good eating. But, it sends you to hell.

Well, before the girl went to hell, she begged Satan (St. Luci) for one last Earthly treat: Twix bars stuffed in a pocket pussy. While the dark prince obliged, he kicked the little girl into the depths of his kingdom as she was about to take her first bite. After he laughed for twenty minutes, he took the pocket pussy over to Rummy Peaches, who shit in it, and gave me the Twix. Hooray! I got my chocalate. And a high five from Satan!

Humpin' the Bed and Shit

Halloween, 2005. Lily was a pumpkin, Igby was a sailor, Flipper was a person in a mask, and I was a shoe horn. I felt like a chess champion among checker players though, because I carried my Uncle Gallagher's pillow case while the rest had fucking Jacko-lantern buckets and what not.

Luckily, cousin Mush came along with a bottle of vodka and some garbage bags. We filled the bags with leaves, climbed the trees along the sidewalk, and dumped them on people's heads. That got old once we finished the bottle.

All the while, I'd been having an okay time, but was a little pissed I walked to the middle of nowhere to Uncle Gallagher's the night before(when I could have been humping the springs loose on my bed) to wind up with an empty and enlarged dried up saliva case.

In a thoughtless act of desperation, I ran to the Lancelotion mansion to get my king-sized. I passed through the gate, rang the doorbell, and threw up all over the welcome mat. When Mrs. Lancelotion opened the door, she saw the remains of a mixture of semi-digested beef-a-roni, milk, and liquor. She went upstairs to call my mother, but wouldn't let me in because I hadn't been wearing shoes; and she was a bitch.

Long story short, I took the three remaining bags of king-sized from the foyer and passed out in the woods covered in chocolate and my vomit, only to wake up to see Uncle Gallagher trying to use me to take his shoes off. Man was I embarrassed.

(Picture: Slutty Girls on Halloween at the gas station.)

Mundane; It Figures

Baby changing bugaboo, crawling to the top of the highest cave bed, pick-a-licking boysenberries and pretending they are Aztec heads. Which witch will warrant wealth? Stoned killers secretly kayaking, singing Kristofferson, and blending an enigma of fanciful calla lilies, rummaging into past offices, demise and replicate, cross-over to the cross-hairs, pontificate the pageantry and buy them popsicles afterwards.

My mellow cousin's mildew, elongating like moss, shelves the corner of every imaginary shuffleboard diagram, and my weaker attempts to garner atrophy are still pleasing.

Happenstance brings us closer to residence and god-like angles.
Strangling the hope and breathing into it Fibonacci patterns.
I'll glue the idols together and decorate their chests with a laughable garland.

Perhaps them we'll win a visitor.

Jon Likes Metaphors

The blood ran down my arm like melting wax on a candle.
I watched it like a cat spotting an insect.
The wind swirled around me like a star being formed.
I looked up at the sky like a future pilot.
My blood then hit the dirt like a leaking faucet.
I was breathing like a dog out in the hot sun.
The snake disappeared like a mundane memory.
I dropped to the ground with the berries I was picking.

Sex Review: Ashley Contoga, Last Night's "Date"

Finally, someone has proved that being wild in bed doesn't mean being good. Though hyped-up by behavior and a perfectly revealing slut-suit, Ashley Contoga's sexual activity lead to much boredom and dry-taint.

Nothing could enliven the cheap attitude Contoga brought to the dip stick, with her awkward finger motions and look of genuine fright near eruption. On more than one occasion, I had to ask if she was alright.

Her fellating was likewise tiresome. While not overbearing with teeth, Contoga's accelerated demeanor for “finishing the job” didn't effectively work, but delayed the process for quite some time.

Though equipped with large funbags, Contoga's frame was less then stellar in warranting love explosions. Her below average stature was instantly appealing—the thought of swinging her around like a sparkler occurred more than once—but the lack of size hindered Contoga from thrusting into the crevices. And as RuPaul always said, “The crevices are where the battles are won."

Contoga did have some redeeming qualities. The most anticipating and exciting moments were the random statements she made during the slam-dance. During a dull, and particularly smelly, doggy turnabout, she practically whined, “I wanna feel your dick in my knee.” The convulsions caused by trying not to laugh were taken as signs of enjoyment, making her respond, “Hurt my baby tosies.”

She was well lubricated, and was incredibly easy to coerce. Not once was a suggestion rejected (obviously including the fuck-suggestion) thus escalating into more bizarre ideas. Giving her a peace sign afterwards was an appreciated salutation, as well.

Yet, Contoga lacked a closer; something that brought things to the brim, and fired them out at a hundred miles per hour. Instead, most of the maneuvering was as exciting as the LPGA, and the money shot was more of an excuse then a celebration. While seductively garbed in bonerfying attire, sex with Contoga is like a really promising sound-check followed by the worst show ever.

Killing Me Softly

We had monkeys for pets in the 30s, but sometimes they would kill a child by throwing rocks at them. A lot of times you'd hear of parents buying monkeys when they hated their child; once the monkey did its deed, they'd get traded for some fabric now that the mothers had more free time to quilt and there were other parents out there who wanted a dead kid.

Nobody suspected the monkeys were hitmen. Everyone just assumed it was the cool fad, having a monkey as a pet.

I think we do the same thing today with our watch boxes, or what the kids nowadays call tv's or td's I believe. Instead of the children actually dying, they just spend 18 years in a portalled coma until they don't have to care for them anymore. The National Karaoke contest show on td is basically today's version of your 1930s monkey.

Call me old fashioned and out of touch with the times, but I don't see the point in spending money on food to feed your kids if you're going to kill their soul. (Do you know what I had to do during the depression for a loaf of stale bread? I beat up homeless people.) Just buy a monkey and do everyone a favor.

In the Withered Winter Coquetry

"Never fuck yourself with cold palms."

I can still hear those words of motherly wisdom, echoing in my brain everytime titillation is on the rise. What's worse is, even though the slogan still runs true, I never remember my mittens.

We were on the run from LEO when Pauly Shore decided to start chucking things out the window. We called him that because he had an abnormal amount of comedic potential, but tended to just annoy us. Anyway, we were going down 518 when suddenly Pauly told me to shove off to the left. Now, where I come from, shoving off to the left meant buttering the little brain boy, whereas shoving off to the right meant prickling the pubic proprietor. So, I preceeded to shove off to the left, which made Pauly disgusted and appauled.

"It's not my fault," I tried to tell him. "I always respond instantly to the things people tell me to do."

So when Bobby Sue Mulligan told me to suck an egg in 7th grade, I pulled off her dandelion skirt and tried to suck me an egg. I didn't know, at the time, that such things were frowned upon. This caused my mother to give me more advise:

"Rick's a quick lick away from getting his nick shpricked."

Unfortunately, savage incontinents carried off mother before she could explain what shpricking was.