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.