What follows is complete horrifying vulgar idiocy brainvomit I just felt like writing because I think words are funny, and using way too goddamn many of 'em is even funnier. Your mileage may vary, but rest assured that, terrible as it is, there are much worse things being published exclusively to Kindles.
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Meanwhile, as we sit complacent and allow it to happen, somewhere two men (or perhaps they are handpuppets -- I have a condition which sometimes makes me confused) calling themselves "Shitskull" and "Prevert" (though these are assuredly not their names because what monstrous parents would name a child such things? It makes me angry to even think of such a thing happening! And damn you for even bringing it up!) are reviewing movies that may not even exist. We cannot stop it, because it's probably not even happening. I tell a lot of fucking lies. And everybody hates me for it. Or do they?
"A hilarious cavalcade of dung!" cries Shitskull as he introduces the first film, Adolph Hitler: Bicycle Champion. "This film entertained me more than watching a fat baby try to lick his way through a plexiglas box to get to stack of doughnuts! Comparing Hitler -- who also only had one testicle -- to Lance Armstrong based on this one thing they have in common (besides, of course, a shared genocidal hatred of gypsies) -- is sheer dimwit genius! I hope the writer will compose a sequel sometime when he's not too busy building little cities out of his own poo-poo and then stomping on them while roaring that he‘s Godzilla! Which is something I bet he does, I just get that impression."
"I disagree!" cried Prevert, waving his cutlass. "This film is nothing more than a marketing ploy to sell Lego sets of its locations, such as the ice-skating rink, the abortion clinic, the sewage treatment plant, the registrar's office, and Wyoming! I haven't seen such an atrocity since Daniel Day Lewis was fleeing town because he thought he got Linda Ronstadt pregnant and accidentally shoved all his clothes up Rosie O'Donal's ass because he thought it was his suitcase! I thought this film would never end! It seemed longer than Nancy Pfotenhauer's grotesque horror wrist-neck! By the end, I was actually rooting against Hitler, which is something I thought I would never do!"
In response, Shitskull thundered, "By God I hate you, there, bouncing in your chair in your excitement of being an idiot! This is the most wonderful movie that is still a piece of shit since last Tuesday's Billy Finds a Lollipop And Then Murders The Guy With The Hot-Dog Cart, which I STILL maintain is a work of art and not 'a wading pool filled with old-man pee in which Stanley Kubrick could bob for potatoes,' which no one even knows what that MEANS yet we have to suppose it's meant as a negative review... although coming from you we can't be sure, as you are a twisted, perverted homunculus who delights in the filthy things of this world.”
“You are so stupid, I feel sorry for your pants,” snipped Prevert cattily, “for it’s only a matter of time before you perform some wretched act in them.”
“Which would no doubt set you off into a clapping fit since defiling pants is your jam, dawg!”
“Obviously, you are the product of sodomy among clowns.”
“And you, sir, are the product of digestion. I wish I could tear out my liver and shake it in your face like a pom-pom as I cheered for your demise by termites.”
“And you should never have been born. God damn your mother and the vagabond spastic who was fool enough to mount her. But I’ll tell you this much, I will -- if you did shake your liver in my face, it would be much more entertaining than your stupid Hitler-bicycle movie which you love and want to marry.” At this point Prevert made kissy faces to illustrate Shitskull’s enamoration for this movie that’s not even real.
“Well, your shabby shitdom aside, it’s time for our next film, Indiana Garden-Rake Massacre, staring Tatum O’Neil, who I’ve never been able to take seriously because the hell kind of name is ‘Tatum’? It sounds like a command I don’t know how to carry out! Anyway, I would rather stare into the diseased cunt of Wilford Brimley for ninety-three minutes than watch this exercise in tedium that appears to have been financed with quarters the producer got for showing strangers his tee-tee. I‘d rather watch wombats fuck for two hours. Even if I weren‘t a guy who likes watching wombats fuck, I mean.”
“For once, I agree with you: this is a horrible film! It’s like watching a murdered child rot, but without the glee. John Travolta is absolutely terrible in it, although I did enjoy seeing him get his penis stuck in that toaster, which is easily the highlight of the film.”
“Yes! It’s the only part I liked, watching him shrieking and flailing about, yelling ‘Oh, my penis!’ In fact, the movie should have been titled Oh, My Penis! because as far as I’m concerned you can cram the rest of this film up director Nathan Borigmi’s urethra and then set it on fire! I would like to murder him and his entire family with an axe and then masturbate over their corpses.”
“I’d love to rent a hot air balloon and ride it into the stratosphere and then shit over the side into the bassinet of his sleeping child, that’s how much I hate him for making this movie!”
“I want to chop off his hands so he can never hold a camera again, then I would go down the street clapping with the severed hands over my head while I danced a jig in the shower of blood! I‘m pounding down steroids to try to develop enough strength to fling him into the heart of the sun so we can be shed of him!”
“When I saw this film I renounced Christ for fear that I might have to spend eternity in Heaven with Nathan Borigmi! Who, if I may say, is a wall-eyed fudpuck of the first magnitude, and probably an alcoholic who treats his wife abominably. It’s ironic that he made a film about a rake massacre because that’s just what I wanted to do with him as I watched it -- murder him with a rake!” Clenching his teeth, Prevert furiously hacked at the air with an invisible rake. It was disturbing to watch.
“Oh, how I wish I could live in outer space so I didn’t have to share an atmosphere with him!” Shitskull shook his fists and howled as hatred took him to a place beyond articulateness.
“Would that I could burn this world to a cinder and eradicate all life to ensure that no alien civilization would have a chance of knowing such a movie had ever happened!”
“I’m totally sneaking into his house and farting on his toothbrush, I am.”
“I despise the entire eastern seaboard he was born in, and plan to travel up and down it, slapping greasy dick-prints onto the cars of everyone who lives there, shrieking like a displeased monkey all the while.”
“I really dislike him.”
“As do I.”
“Anyway, our next film is a sci-fi epic, Silly String Theory, set in an alternate universe where Pomeranians in black leather uniforms are the ruling race. They oppress the hapless humans, who find it hard to fight back because their oppressors are so cute. This movie was trite and derivative and I found myself wishing that the film was someone smaller and weaker than me so I could kick it in the stomach and taunt it with threats of further and more depraved violence as it lay writhing in the gutter.”
“How can you say that?” Prevert cried, bouncing in his chair. “I thought this was a WONDERFUL film! I became so excited whenever a leather-clad Pomeranian appeared on the screen that I had to be restrained and sedated with seconal enemas! My delight was such that I fired off many squirts of incontinent happiness-pee. This was the greatest film since that all-spastic-cast Western that Walt Disney made when he went insane from decades of injecting bourbon into his vans deferens! I was literally beside myself before the end of this movie, meaning that I was so full of glee that my body had to divide itself into twins like a planarian to contain all my happiness! If you didn’t like this movie, why, you should be butchered with a series of gardening tools. Mostly a hoe, like your mother, the unsavory sow.”
“You liked this shitfeast? Seriously? You should murder yourself by wrenching off one of your toadlike little legs and stabbing yourself with the splintered end of the bone!” roared Shitskull. “I hated this movie so much that I, too, split into twins just to contain all of my hate! And both of us were flinging our own feces at the screen as we screamed oaths until our lips were foamed with blood from our torn vocal chords! I will fight you, by God! I will fight you in the street if you say you liked this film!”
“I was charmed, delighted, enchanted, and overwhelmed with wonder!”
“You are a nothing! I wish I could go back in time to the scene of your birth and shit in your crib until my bones came out!”
“Delighted, I say! I watched the whole film like this.” Prevert clasped his hands under his chin and beamed, fluttering his eyelashes.
Shitskull pounded on his own knees and fidgeted in anger. “I could just set you on fire right now. Oh. Oh, how I hate you. Oh. You pitiful onion of a man. I would rape you but I couldn’t possibly get an erection while you live.”
“I can’t wait until it comes out on DVD so I can put it on repeat, staple myself to the couch, and watch it for the remainder of my lifespan, which I hope is incredibly long.”
“I curse the day your mother’s uterus hawked you forth like a cunt-loogie. That’s what you were, instead of a baby. You were not born, you were sharted.”
“I want to give this movie a great big hug and a kiss and a reacharound!”
“Well, I want to cram a print of it up my ass so that I can shit it all over a picture of you being eaten by possums! THAT you can hug! Hug THAT!”
“Perhaps I will!”
“You upset me so much. I don’t know how I can bear it.”
“Maybe you won’t. Perhaps you will flop around in convulsions of unable-to-bear-it-ness until your death is a blessing to us all. Then maybe we can relax our sphincters without fearing you’ll crawl up in there and make some kind of nest, you foul little caricature of a being. In any case, our next film stars Rob Schneider and Chuck Norris, and it’s a romantic comedy called Help! I’m a Stupid Asshole! Because it’s a romantic comedy, Jennifer Anniston is in it. Jennifer Anniston is every romantic comedy's default setting. And you finally get to see her butt, which is almost as pretty as her face! I loved this movie so much I had to change my pants three times!”
“I loved this movie, too! I had to take out my car keys and use them to gouge my flesh so I wouldn’t become so happy that I would die!”
“I liked Jennifer Anniston and I liked her butt!”
“Her butt has personality! It looks like an aerial view of two bald mongoloids sharing an Oreo, and that’s something I never realized I wanted to see until I saw it!”
“Even Chuck Norris is good in this movie, because he spends the whole film drinking gutter water and vomiting. It’s finally a role he can manage. I’m glad they put him in the film just so I could watch him heave until his diaphragm folded in half. I also liked the part where the children dropped cinderblocks on his hands over and over again for thirty minutes.”
“I could have watched an hour of that! His screaming made me laugh like a little girl who’s seen a boy’s tinkle-thang. I hope he gets a posthumous Oscar.”
“He’s not dead.”
“I know, but Oscar time’s still a way off. I’m wishing, here!”
“I also clapped when his pants fell down and you could see that he has a miserable little penis that looks almost exactly like a circus peanut. And I liked the way he screamed like a provoked inebriate when those ladies laughed and threw nickels at it.”
“I also like Rob Schneider’s acting. He reacts to everything like it’s just hurt him and he’s mad at it. Doesn’t matter if Jennifer Anniston’s kissing him or a spaniel’s peeing in his face, there’s Rob, cringing away like my maiden aunt being confronted with a ziploc full of pubic hair!”
“His acting is genius. He reminds me of a moth flinging itself against a window, persistent and idiotic, trying to break through and convey something. And then the end credits roll and you realize that there is no moth. There’s not even a window.”
“Huh?”
“I know, right? My point exactly! And he always seems so happy with his pathetic performances, with the misplaced pride of a lunatic gloating over a bucket of dung. You don’t watch his performances so much as just sit there and let them wash over you like a pestilential rain. We are the children, and he’s the schoolyard creep handing out the peyote-powder Pixie Stix. He’s like a gun that shoots stupid, aimed at the audience.”
“My favorite movie of his has gone overlooked. Death To The Lollipop Guild. Remember the one where he played a guy named Bathtowel Brown, who collected walrus poop? And - outside of the Walrus Doodoo Museum in Trenton, New Jersey -- he had the finest single collection of walrus waste in the country? His strange little acting quirks really made that film. Like the bit where whenever he was talking to anyone in the street, he’d tuck his penis into one of their front pockets? And when they asked him why, he’d say things like ‘it’s cold out here,’ or ‘We’re on the street so I don’t want people to see my penis.’ And by the end of the movie, everyone was telling each other, ‘I wish he’d never even grown that penis. God damn stem cell research, anyway.’ That had a poignancy that we had no right to expect from a film about walrus droppings. And we have Rob Schneider to thank for it! It‘s his Slingblade II: Electric Boogaloo, I think.”
“Wasn’t that the film where he had the ponytail? That’s a good look for him. It pulled his face back a bit, made it look like a sack of trash someone’s carrying to the curb. Bewildered, unpleasantly-damp trash, at that.”
“Yep! It was almost as funny as Kathy Griffin isn’t!”
“Finally, something we can agree on!”
“Yes. It’s a magical day. I’d still love to sack you up and fling you into a pond like a puppy with a potato-shaped head, but, at least we’ll always have this magical moment.”
“Yes. I‘ll treasure it forever, hopefully after your legendary belt-sander accident that enables them to bury you in a cigar box like some unloved hamster.”
Then they both farted until they ascended into Heaven, and Jesus turned in his two-week’s notice.
Showing posts with label absurdity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label absurdity. Show all posts
12.28.2012
9.10.2012
3.21.2012
8.21.2011
Like following a retarded donkey around...
...cuz there's always some new shit to marvel at coming from that stupid ass...
Which brings us to this story.
USA Today reports that, during a recent radio talk-show interview, GOP presidential hopeful, mostly-successful gay-beard + special-needs adult Michele Bachmann said that, among other things, Americans currently "fear the rise of the Soviet Union."
I know we should just laugh + move on, but the GOP has a remarkable track record of getting the stupid, callous, evil, + even the prob'ly-retarded elected in recent decades, so start sharpening those voter ID cards...
USA Today reports that, during a recent radio talk-show interview, GOP presidential hopeful, mostly-successful gay-beard + special-needs adult Michele Bachmann said that, among other things, Americans currently "fear the rise of the Soviet Union."
I know we should just laugh + move on, but the GOP has a remarkable track record of getting the stupid, callous, evil, + even the prob'ly-retarded elected in recent decades, so start sharpening those voter ID cards...
7.11.2011
In Crazy News This Week...
[from icv2.com] (click for full story)
Archie Comics Files Suit Against Co-CEO
Archie Comics Publications has filed suit against Co-CEO Nancy Silberkleit accusing her of storming into a meeting and yelling “Penis, penis, penis, penis.” She supposedly repeated the “penis” outburst again, adding pertinently, “My balls hurt.”
...WTF?!?
5.20.2011
Rednexx & Th' Sweatin' Man: ... And Make Tombs of Your Cities!
This probably needs kind of a warning, just to spare myself an "intervention" or something.
Occasionally I like to just spout terrible, absurd wordplay that probably only I think is funny, and one of those times has arrived.
What follows are a few chapters from a never-ending, plotless, damnably stupid novel I sometimes work on, and which everyone who's ever been subjected to it seems to absolutely hate, even if they love my other stuff. I think it makes 'em uncomfortable, which makes it seem even funnier to me. I hope ya'll will like it, but if you don't it won't surprise me or hurt my feelings. I'll probably do it again even without encouragement, because it cracks me up.
The basic premise is a redneck couple in Buttdimple, Mississippi is visited by a large, miserable, inarticulate Sweatin' Man, presumably forever. George-Bob is very stupid but busy; he likes to do things. Sally-Lou is perhaps slightly smarter and very pretty, if you really want to believe what you're told, which isn't a thing I ever advise ye do. You can arrange the chapters in any order you want, it makes no difference. The titles are unrelated to the content; if they are, then it's only because I fucked up. If it confuses you, fear not, that's exactly what insanity is supposed to do. Don't try to make sense of it, there is none. I'm just trying to write a Rorschach blot. Find the butterfly, or find the puppies fuckin' the chipmunk, it's all in what ya bring wit'cha.
It's not literature, it's tequila. And you should slam it and then eat the worm if you mess with it at all.
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CHAPTER 47: IT'S BETTER TO GET THE KIND OF DOG THAT HAS A MOUTH.
When the phone rang this time it was crazy ol' Mr. Babyshark from down 'cross the way there, in that house with the lean to it and the babydolls in the trees. Who knew that ol’ rattleskulled ol’ cuss even had a phone? We do, now, I suppose. Congratulations, us!
"WELL HOWDY-DO!" screamed George-Bob into the phone, thinking it was deaf ol' Mr. Picklecheese instead.
"Who makin' that ol' dookiesmell, yew whore-eyed whapdookus?" replied Mr. Babyshark, who was as crazy as Sally-Lou was pretty. He grumbled when he talked, like a dead man's belly digesting itself.
"What's that you say?" said George-Bob, said he.
"I'm Delbert Simpkin's mama if I'm a day old!" declared Mr. Babyshark. "Comin' round there later to kick myself a fine doghouse out of yer wizened ol’ windhole! That’s my aim, bank on it, Melvin!”
“Perhaps you have the wrong number,” said George-Bob, as his mama always said when he called her.
“Jezebel! I shall fricassee up a breakfast of your descendents, none of whom could bear to wear a pair o’ britches for longer time than it takes to boil an owl! You think I ain’t aware of the ceremonies takin’ place at yore farm? Yew an’ that unholy chocolate-hot-dog-cult yew been presidin‘ o‘er? I seen it with mah own three testiculars! The wind tells me of abominations and a choir of sores! By the fat of mah taint I’ll see the end of this or mah name ain’t whateverthehell!”
“Mr. Babyshark,” said George-Bob helpfully. Or it would have been helpful had he been dealing with a sane man.
“My name is Cum!” insisted Mr. Babyshark or whateverthehell. “Don’t wear it out ‘less you got a coupon what says you can do such, you fuzzy tit-eyed malfeasant!”
“Certainly so,” replied George-Bob, who had no idea what a malfeasant was, and only a vague notion of a coupon, either. You have to remember, George-Bob was a fellow who’d never even been to Shreveport.
“Yew got that ol’ Sweatin’ Man visitin’ with ye! Him who ravished mah woodshed of Thursday last! Semen and hairy poo-chunks hung from the ceiling like the chandeliers of Midian’s ballroom! Looked ‘n’ smelt like Axl Rose his damnself had thrown a pantsless frolic for ol’ Beelzebub! My chicken don’t walk right and mah Ebbie-Sue still ain’t speakin’ German like I distinctly remember she used to though she denies it in her obstinance, the cess-fattened cheese-cuttin’ tornado-jockey!”
(Ebbie-Sue was Mr. Babyshark’s wife, although their marriage ceremony had been a long and incredibly frustrating chore that had left three dead. Mr. Babyshark’s previous wife had been a portable radio.)
“I don’t give a goddamn-hell, ah mean to have mah crackers, and I don’t care if I have to take all the screws out of your tractor and replace them with ones what I carved from the wood of a lynchin’ tree, are you hearin’ me, junior?”
“I’m hearin’ ya,” said George-Bob. The ol’ Sweatin’ Man and Sally-Lou looked askance at him, and he looked askance back, so they shrugged. Sally-Lou went back to gift-wrapping individual butterbeans.
“Speckled bedsheet unfurled in the wind, there came ol’ Grandpa Fuckyou, come to pay his disrespects right on mah porchswing! The gingerbread armies were on the march soon thereafter, and that is how the Battle of Steamboat Hill took place way back in 2017,” grumbled Mr. Babyshark. There was a wet smacking in the background, like a toothless man struggling with a corn-on-the-cob, but you can put that out of your mind, for it is of no consequence; I just thought you might like to know. “The devil’s just as happy shittin’ in yer pants as he is his own, and he don’t give three toots for the speed limit! You remember that if you don’t wanna be put in some sort of little metal box and I don’t know what happens to you after that, ‘cuz nobody does! That‘s devil-business, that is!”
“I’ll keep that at the foreskin of my mind,” promised George-Bob, meaning “forefront,” but isn’t it just as good? I’ll say! Let’s agree!
“The lawnmower! O Christ! I’ve told ol’ Festrunk Jones that walkin’ ‘round with a backpack full of cole slaw was a bad idea, but did he listen to me, NO, and was he eat-up by rats, YES! So just Martha Stewart the hell out of some of that with your sweet goody-hole, baby blue! Sit down, shut up, and fight fight fight!”
“I do believe it’s Tuesday,” said George-Bob, struggling to hold up his end.
“The reason you can’t get a decent two-by-four to fit anymore is because east is a whole lot more far-off than all the other directions. My pajamas ain’t got no zing to ‘em now, not since the muskrat was enthroned on the pinnacle of the Colossus!”
“Well I’ll be dipped in Minwax and damned for a so-and-so,” said George-Bob. His hair lay lank atop his head, like a pat from the hand of an affectionate dead man.
“The pissteats are back and swollen with want of milking! I can’t abide my wardrobe no longer, so I’ll make a mask from the skin of a chicken and do me a greasy kind of dance on the grave of a murdered clown. I declare I will!”
“You will, I betcha,” quoth George-Bob.
“Ah’m storin’ my shits in pickle jars on the shelves of WinnDixies all across this land and nobody’s none the wiser. All of ‘em sleepin’, them with their telephones and their spoons and yarn. My eyebrows are real interesting to think about, how salty they are.”
“I’ve found that to be true,” said George-Bob, rubbing at his own eyebrows and then licking his fingertips. Why, that was tripe, wasn’t it? With a hint of marmalade?
“Late at night I hear the needle scratchin’ at the end of the record in mah head, and I know I done run out of thinkin’. You got your work cut out for you if you plan to rape a porcupine, that’s what the man in the TV says. Not that I trust him. His skin is made out of French fries cleverly interwoven.”
“I never watch him,” said George-Bob, damned liar, he.
“There’s six germs in mah stomach and they don’t agree with each other. They were placed there by a possum-nurse under orders of the Illuminati. One day long before we’re ready they’ll emerge from my hindermost in the form of a butt-Cheeto that will rule the world and we’ll all be the sorrier!”
“That so?” George-Bob challenged.
“Yeah, so I just wanted to call to apologize. Bye!”
“Bye,” said George-Bob, hanging up.
“Who was that on the phone?” asked Sally-Lou.
“Oh, that was me,” said George-Bob.
CHAPTER 572: LEGENDS OF SOME OF THE LESSER COWBOYS
The clown had appeared on the horizon about noon and had come sailing in about thirty feet off the ground, floppy shoes a-floppin’ and ah-oo-gah horn a-ah-oo-gah-in’, a marvel to witness until the flak cannons brought him down. Smoking, fishtailing more than spiraling, he had smacked into the trailer’s front yard face-first, bounced once, and then landed on his back where he lay like a mangled sunbather who hadn’t found the beach. And there he lay, dead as Rudy Guiliani’s chances.
George-Bob, Sally-Lou, and th’ ol’ Sweatin’ Man himself all went out and gathered around the corpse and gazed upon it with a kind of wonder, for it wasn’t every day that a flying clown crashed into one’s yard. Indeed, sometimes a whole month would pass without this happening, fuckbuddy.
“He’s still kind of funny,” said Sally-Lou, pointing at the baggy pants, the wide orange polka-dot tie, the made-up ruin of a face behind a plastering of blood, gravel, loam, and abraded bone. One eye slipped from its socket and dangled next to the ear like a novelty Ipod ear-bud. It didn’t make a sound, but you can overdub “boy-yoy-yoing-g-g!” over it in your mind to soften the tragedy. Isn’t imagination kind to us when the lights are on?
“He makes me laugh,” said George-Bob offhandedly, hands in his pockets.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man merely watched, lost in thoughts of the bacon for which he had a hankerin’.
“Once I had a pet clown,” said Sally-Lou. “But I forgot to feed him, so he died. Not from starvation, though. He bled to death while trying to eat his other leg. I loved him a great deal, but apparently not enough to awaken any sense of responsibility in me. His name was called Mr. Funnybunny. Stephen Daniel Funnybunny. He was an ol’ shit when he was drunk. We left his moldy corpse in grandsister’s bed as a prank.”
“That makes me laugh,” said George-Bob listlessly as he leaned a bit to port.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man desired two eggs, no, three. Four, then.
“I like dancin’ dogs,” said Sally-Lou. “Charmin’, they is.”
“You can train a possum to suck on things,” announced George-Bob even though he probably shouldn’t’ve. “Only thing is, only certain possums will do it. Others will bite and hang on like the dickens. So, it ain’t worth the risk if you ask me.”
Th’ Sweatin’ Man decided if he could sharpen his elbows somehow, it might prove an aid in bringing down his prey, the might caribou.
The dead clown gave a twitch, then decay set in. Clowns go pretty quickly in this environment, as you well know, you with your Uncle Monty. Maggots began to swarm like spilled popcorn at the circus of the insipid. A buzzard swooped down and made off the clown’s liver, and George-Bob shook his fist at it, more for dramatic effect than anything else, as George-Bob had no real use for a clown-liver, anyway, if we’re too be at all honest, and in any case this one had been burst by the deadly aim of the Wehrmacht’s thundering 88’s.
“Well, I suppose we’ll need to have a funeral,” sighed Sally-Lou.
“Yes, I suppose that I suppose that as well,” George-Bob supposed.
And so they did have a funeral of sorts, except for th’ ol’ Sweatin’ Man, who went back inside because Hogan’s Heroes was on TV, and Hogan’s Heroes is some funny shit, boy.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: DRUNK-SLAPPIN’ IT OLD-SCHOOL THERE, CORNBREAD
“So I made a chocolate cake, and I iced it with deviled ham,” said George-Bob, wielding a spatula for emphasis. “Then there was a marvelous cheesecake, topped with asparagus spears.”
“Cheesecake gives me the wind,” said Sally-Lou. The very fussy Sally-Lou.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man thought how nice it’d be to have a bit of breeze, no matter how brief and foul and colon-born.
“I have a recipe for blueberry muffins, but with olives,” said George-Bob, then kissed his fingers and flicked them out in a gesture that said “magnifique” or something else suitably French. “And I could make us some moose-piss floats, but I don’t have any ice cream.”
“Once I almost ate a compact disc, because I forgot,” said Sally-Lou, phrasing it in the form of a complaint. Moody was she.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man fanned his face, thinking of Hades, of the desert, of a fat whore’s armpit gone unweeded.
“Around the end of May I always make my special sardine bread,” said George-Bob, gesturing with his spatula like a culinary semaphore. “Spread thick with my special pickle-strawberry frosting, it’s a thing to put in your mouth and challenge yourself with!”
“My father doesn’t understand the concept of TV dinners,” Sally-Lou griped, itching herself with vigor. “Once he ate most of a Zenith.”
Th’ Sweatin’ Man shifted, trying to ease his rash-filled buttcrack, without avail. It reminded him of an umbrella filled with fireants.
“Then there’s my cranberry potato salad, topped with rich cabbage gravy. With sticks of cinnamon pork-cheese for dipping, mmm-mmm! The only drawback is that it’ll give you the shits such that you’ll leave yellow spots on the moon!”
“The moon is my enemy,” Sally-Lou groused. She wanted enemies, it seemed, acting as she did. Spiteful thing, brazen stepchild!
Th’ Sweatin’ Man wished to be on the moon, enemy planet or not. There it would be cool, an atmosphere of frost that would act as balm to his tortured hide. The heat-bumps on his taint would resemble a Christless Sierra Madre.
“Housepaint can be a condiment,” said George-Bob, accidentally slapping his own face with the spatula, with startling force. “And cigar ashes make a fine seasoning. A chicken, stuffed with cigarettes, can be wrung out for a magnificent gravy, just like grandpa used to make when unattended. Also I am fond of my special San Jose peanut butter and jelly sandwich, where one uses slices of Spam instead of bread.”
“If I had a revolver, I’d use it,” snapped Sally-Lou. Her scowl was unbecoming on a face that was usually so pretty, damn her. It’d make you mad to see it.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man thought that if he had a revolver he’d fan himself with it. Maybe shoot a few holes in the walls, let a little breeze in. He waited for an opportunity to take off his pants.
“You can cover macaroni with pudding of your choice, though I recommend butterscotch,” said your best friend George-Bob, he of the spatula. “Pour over a mix of sirloin and trout, and, why, you’ll have something!”
“That’s what I’d like, something,” said Sally-Lou, though she said it with such venom that you’d have to doubt if she’d really like something, or anything else. Anger was her lot, and discontent besides. An attitude like hers you’d best toss in a wastebasket.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man wiped at his face with hands too sweaty to wipe away the sweat of his face; it was like trying to scrub a pond with a river. Under his man-teats you could bake a pie which none would have the fortitude to, subsequently, eat.
“Speaking of pie, you grease a pan with Turtle Wax, lay out your dough, pour in the corned beef and the apricots, top with a glaze of stewed ham in buttermilk, then cover with meringue and bake, and, mmm boy, you betcha!” said George-Bob, wild of eye. “Then you can go American-style and shovel on the cheese. Wash it down with high fructose corn syrup, deal with the aftermath by taking various pills, and die before our time. That’s how we roll, dawg! Woof woof!”
“Shit,” said Sally-Lou, the grump. Why was she being like this? Her demeanor was the sound of jackboots marching on gay Pairee, the Hell’s Angels crashing Altamont, the Ku Klux Klan throwing a bris.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man despaired of ever finding relief on this side of the grave. He whimpered. The environment was his dominatrix and he wasn’t into that.
“Did I ever tell you of my potatoes a’la Ex Lax?” asked George-Bob, and it was agreed that he had not and would not.
===============================
More someday, probably. That's a threat!
Follow my somewhat-about-the-same on Twitter, purtyplease.
Occasionally I like to just spout terrible, absurd wordplay that probably only I think is funny, and one of those times has arrived.
What follows are a few chapters from a never-ending, plotless, damnably stupid novel I sometimes work on, and which everyone who's ever been subjected to it seems to absolutely hate, even if they love my other stuff. I think it makes 'em uncomfortable, which makes it seem even funnier to me. I hope ya'll will like it, but if you don't it won't surprise me or hurt my feelings. I'll probably do it again even without encouragement, because it cracks me up.
The basic premise is a redneck couple in Buttdimple, Mississippi is visited by a large, miserable, inarticulate Sweatin' Man, presumably forever. George-Bob is very stupid but busy; he likes to do things. Sally-Lou is perhaps slightly smarter and very pretty, if you really want to believe what you're told, which isn't a thing I ever advise ye do. You can arrange the chapters in any order you want, it makes no difference. The titles are unrelated to the content; if they are, then it's only because I fucked up. If it confuses you, fear not, that's exactly what insanity is supposed to do. Don't try to make sense of it, there is none. I'm just trying to write a Rorschach blot. Find the butterfly, or find the puppies fuckin' the chipmunk, it's all in what ya bring wit'cha.
It's not literature, it's tequila. And you should slam it and then eat the worm if you mess with it at all.
==============================
CHAPTER 47: IT'S BETTER TO GET THE KIND OF DOG THAT HAS A MOUTH.
When the phone rang this time it was crazy ol' Mr. Babyshark from down 'cross the way there, in that house with the lean to it and the babydolls in the trees. Who knew that ol’ rattleskulled ol’ cuss even had a phone? We do, now, I suppose. Congratulations, us!
"WELL HOWDY-DO!" screamed George-Bob into the phone, thinking it was deaf ol' Mr. Picklecheese instead.
"Who makin' that ol' dookiesmell, yew whore-eyed whapdookus?" replied Mr. Babyshark, who was as crazy as Sally-Lou was pretty. He grumbled when he talked, like a dead man's belly digesting itself.
"What's that you say?" said George-Bob, said he.
"I'm Delbert Simpkin's mama if I'm a day old!" declared Mr. Babyshark. "Comin' round there later to kick myself a fine doghouse out of yer wizened ol’ windhole! That’s my aim, bank on it, Melvin!”
“Perhaps you have the wrong number,” said George-Bob, as his mama always said when he called her.
“Jezebel! I shall fricassee up a breakfast of your descendents, none of whom could bear to wear a pair o’ britches for longer time than it takes to boil an owl! You think I ain’t aware of the ceremonies takin’ place at yore farm? Yew an’ that unholy chocolate-hot-dog-cult yew been presidin‘ o‘er? I seen it with mah own three testiculars! The wind tells me of abominations and a choir of sores! By the fat of mah taint I’ll see the end of this or mah name ain’t whateverthehell!”
“Mr. Babyshark,” said George-Bob helpfully. Or it would have been helpful had he been dealing with a sane man.
“My name is Cum!” insisted Mr. Babyshark or whateverthehell. “Don’t wear it out ‘less you got a coupon what says you can do such, you fuzzy tit-eyed malfeasant!”
“Certainly so,” replied George-Bob, who had no idea what a malfeasant was, and only a vague notion of a coupon, either. You have to remember, George-Bob was a fellow who’d never even been to Shreveport.
“Yew got that ol’ Sweatin’ Man visitin’ with ye! Him who ravished mah woodshed of Thursday last! Semen and hairy poo-chunks hung from the ceiling like the chandeliers of Midian’s ballroom! Looked ‘n’ smelt like Axl Rose his damnself had thrown a pantsless frolic for ol’ Beelzebub! My chicken don’t walk right and mah Ebbie-Sue still ain’t speakin’ German like I distinctly remember she used to though she denies it in her obstinance, the cess-fattened cheese-cuttin’ tornado-jockey!”
(Ebbie-Sue was Mr. Babyshark’s wife, although their marriage ceremony had been a long and incredibly frustrating chore that had left three dead. Mr. Babyshark’s previous wife had been a portable radio.)
“I don’t give a goddamn-hell, ah mean to have mah crackers, and I don’t care if I have to take all the screws out of your tractor and replace them with ones what I carved from the wood of a lynchin’ tree, are you hearin’ me, junior?”
“I’m hearin’ ya,” said George-Bob. The ol’ Sweatin’ Man and Sally-Lou looked askance at him, and he looked askance back, so they shrugged. Sally-Lou went back to gift-wrapping individual butterbeans.
“Speckled bedsheet unfurled in the wind, there came ol’ Grandpa Fuckyou, come to pay his disrespects right on mah porchswing! The gingerbread armies were on the march soon thereafter, and that is how the Battle of Steamboat Hill took place way back in 2017,” grumbled Mr. Babyshark. There was a wet smacking in the background, like a toothless man struggling with a corn-on-the-cob, but you can put that out of your mind, for it is of no consequence; I just thought you might like to know. “The devil’s just as happy shittin’ in yer pants as he is his own, and he don’t give three toots for the speed limit! You remember that if you don’t wanna be put in some sort of little metal box and I don’t know what happens to you after that, ‘cuz nobody does! That‘s devil-business, that is!”
“I’ll keep that at the foreskin of my mind,” promised George-Bob, meaning “forefront,” but isn’t it just as good? I’ll say! Let’s agree!
“The lawnmower! O Christ! I’ve told ol’ Festrunk Jones that walkin’ ‘round with a backpack full of cole slaw was a bad idea, but did he listen to me, NO, and was he eat-up by rats, YES! So just Martha Stewart the hell out of some of that with your sweet goody-hole, baby blue! Sit down, shut up, and fight fight fight!”
“I do believe it’s Tuesday,” said George-Bob, struggling to hold up his end.
“The reason you can’t get a decent two-by-four to fit anymore is because east is a whole lot more far-off than all the other directions. My pajamas ain’t got no zing to ‘em now, not since the muskrat was enthroned on the pinnacle of the Colossus!”
“Well I’ll be dipped in Minwax and damned for a so-and-so,” said George-Bob. His hair lay lank atop his head, like a pat from the hand of an affectionate dead man.
“The pissteats are back and swollen with want of milking! I can’t abide my wardrobe no longer, so I’ll make a mask from the skin of a chicken and do me a greasy kind of dance on the grave of a murdered clown. I declare I will!”
“You will, I betcha,” quoth George-Bob.
“Ah’m storin’ my shits in pickle jars on the shelves of WinnDixies all across this land and nobody’s none the wiser. All of ‘em sleepin’, them with their telephones and their spoons and yarn. My eyebrows are real interesting to think about, how salty they are.”
“I’ve found that to be true,” said George-Bob, rubbing at his own eyebrows and then licking his fingertips. Why, that was tripe, wasn’t it? With a hint of marmalade?
“Late at night I hear the needle scratchin’ at the end of the record in mah head, and I know I done run out of thinkin’. You got your work cut out for you if you plan to rape a porcupine, that’s what the man in the TV says. Not that I trust him. His skin is made out of French fries cleverly interwoven.”
“I never watch him,” said George-Bob, damned liar, he.
“There’s six germs in mah stomach and they don’t agree with each other. They were placed there by a possum-nurse under orders of the Illuminati. One day long before we’re ready they’ll emerge from my hindermost in the form of a butt-Cheeto that will rule the world and we’ll all be the sorrier!”
“That so?” George-Bob challenged.
“Yeah, so I just wanted to call to apologize. Bye!”
“Bye,” said George-Bob, hanging up.
“Who was that on the phone?” asked Sally-Lou.
“Oh, that was me,” said George-Bob.
CHAPTER 572: LEGENDS OF SOME OF THE LESSER COWBOYS
The clown had appeared on the horizon about noon and had come sailing in about thirty feet off the ground, floppy shoes a-floppin’ and ah-oo-gah horn a-ah-oo-gah-in’, a marvel to witness until the flak cannons brought him down. Smoking, fishtailing more than spiraling, he had smacked into the trailer’s front yard face-first, bounced once, and then landed on his back where he lay like a mangled sunbather who hadn’t found the beach. And there he lay, dead as Rudy Guiliani’s chances.
George-Bob, Sally-Lou, and th’ ol’ Sweatin’ Man himself all went out and gathered around the corpse and gazed upon it with a kind of wonder, for it wasn’t every day that a flying clown crashed into one’s yard. Indeed, sometimes a whole month would pass without this happening, fuckbuddy.
“He’s still kind of funny,” said Sally-Lou, pointing at the baggy pants, the wide orange polka-dot tie, the made-up ruin of a face behind a plastering of blood, gravel, loam, and abraded bone. One eye slipped from its socket and dangled next to the ear like a novelty Ipod ear-bud. It didn’t make a sound, but you can overdub “boy-yoy-yoing-g-g!” over it in your mind to soften the tragedy. Isn’t imagination kind to us when the lights are on?
“He makes me laugh,” said George-Bob offhandedly, hands in his pockets.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man merely watched, lost in thoughts of the bacon for which he had a hankerin’.
“Once I had a pet clown,” said Sally-Lou. “But I forgot to feed him, so he died. Not from starvation, though. He bled to death while trying to eat his other leg. I loved him a great deal, but apparently not enough to awaken any sense of responsibility in me. His name was called Mr. Funnybunny. Stephen Daniel Funnybunny. He was an ol’ shit when he was drunk. We left his moldy corpse in grandsister’s bed as a prank.”
“That makes me laugh,” said George-Bob listlessly as he leaned a bit to port.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man desired two eggs, no, three. Four, then.
“I like dancin’ dogs,” said Sally-Lou. “Charmin’, they is.”
“You can train a possum to suck on things,” announced George-Bob even though he probably shouldn’t’ve. “Only thing is, only certain possums will do it. Others will bite and hang on like the dickens. So, it ain’t worth the risk if you ask me.”
Th’ Sweatin’ Man decided if he could sharpen his elbows somehow, it might prove an aid in bringing down his prey, the might caribou.
The dead clown gave a twitch, then decay set in. Clowns go pretty quickly in this environment, as you well know, you with your Uncle Monty. Maggots began to swarm like spilled popcorn at the circus of the insipid. A buzzard swooped down and made off the clown’s liver, and George-Bob shook his fist at it, more for dramatic effect than anything else, as George-Bob had no real use for a clown-liver, anyway, if we’re too be at all honest, and in any case this one had been burst by the deadly aim of the Wehrmacht’s thundering 88’s.
“Well, I suppose we’ll need to have a funeral,” sighed Sally-Lou.
“Yes, I suppose that I suppose that as well,” George-Bob supposed.
And so they did have a funeral of sorts, except for th’ ol’ Sweatin’ Man, who went back inside because Hogan’s Heroes was on TV, and Hogan’s Heroes is some funny shit, boy.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: DRUNK-SLAPPIN’ IT OLD-SCHOOL THERE, CORNBREAD
“So I made a chocolate cake, and I iced it with deviled ham,” said George-Bob, wielding a spatula for emphasis. “Then there was a marvelous cheesecake, topped with asparagus spears.”
“Cheesecake gives me the wind,” said Sally-Lou. The very fussy Sally-Lou.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man thought how nice it’d be to have a bit of breeze, no matter how brief and foul and colon-born.
“I have a recipe for blueberry muffins, but with olives,” said George-Bob, then kissed his fingers and flicked them out in a gesture that said “magnifique” or something else suitably French. “And I could make us some moose-piss floats, but I don’t have any ice cream.”
“Once I almost ate a compact disc, because I forgot,” said Sally-Lou, phrasing it in the form of a complaint. Moody was she.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man fanned his face, thinking of Hades, of the desert, of a fat whore’s armpit gone unweeded.
“Around the end of May I always make my special sardine bread,” said George-Bob, gesturing with his spatula like a culinary semaphore. “Spread thick with my special pickle-strawberry frosting, it’s a thing to put in your mouth and challenge yourself with!”
“My father doesn’t understand the concept of TV dinners,” Sally-Lou griped, itching herself with vigor. “Once he ate most of a Zenith.”
Th’ Sweatin’ Man shifted, trying to ease his rash-filled buttcrack, without avail. It reminded him of an umbrella filled with fireants.
“Then there’s my cranberry potato salad, topped with rich cabbage gravy. With sticks of cinnamon pork-cheese for dipping, mmm-mmm! The only drawback is that it’ll give you the shits such that you’ll leave yellow spots on the moon!”
“The moon is my enemy,” Sally-Lou groused. She wanted enemies, it seemed, acting as she did. Spiteful thing, brazen stepchild!
Th’ Sweatin’ Man wished to be on the moon, enemy planet or not. There it would be cool, an atmosphere of frost that would act as balm to his tortured hide. The heat-bumps on his taint would resemble a Christless Sierra Madre.
“Housepaint can be a condiment,” said George-Bob, accidentally slapping his own face with the spatula, with startling force. “And cigar ashes make a fine seasoning. A chicken, stuffed with cigarettes, can be wrung out for a magnificent gravy, just like grandpa used to make when unattended. Also I am fond of my special San Jose peanut butter and jelly sandwich, where one uses slices of Spam instead of bread.”
“If I had a revolver, I’d use it,” snapped Sally-Lou. Her scowl was unbecoming on a face that was usually so pretty, damn her. It’d make you mad to see it.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man thought that if he had a revolver he’d fan himself with it. Maybe shoot a few holes in the walls, let a little breeze in. He waited for an opportunity to take off his pants.
“You can cover macaroni with pudding of your choice, though I recommend butterscotch,” said your best friend George-Bob, he of the spatula. “Pour over a mix of sirloin and trout, and, why, you’ll have something!”
“That’s what I’d like, something,” said Sally-Lou, though she said it with such venom that you’d have to doubt if she’d really like something, or anything else. Anger was her lot, and discontent besides. An attitude like hers you’d best toss in a wastebasket.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man wiped at his face with hands too sweaty to wipe away the sweat of his face; it was like trying to scrub a pond with a river. Under his man-teats you could bake a pie which none would have the fortitude to, subsequently, eat.
“Speaking of pie, you grease a pan with Turtle Wax, lay out your dough, pour in the corned beef and the apricots, top with a glaze of stewed ham in buttermilk, then cover with meringue and bake, and, mmm boy, you betcha!” said George-Bob, wild of eye. “Then you can go American-style and shovel on the cheese. Wash it down with high fructose corn syrup, deal with the aftermath by taking various pills, and die before our time. That’s how we roll, dawg! Woof woof!”
“Shit,” said Sally-Lou, the grump. Why was she being like this? Her demeanor was the sound of jackboots marching on gay Pairee, the Hell’s Angels crashing Altamont, the Ku Klux Klan throwing a bris.
Th’ Sweatin’ Man despaired of ever finding relief on this side of the grave. He whimpered. The environment was his dominatrix and he wasn’t into that.
“Did I ever tell you of my potatoes a’la Ex Lax?” asked George-Bob, and it was agreed that he had not and would not.
===============================
More someday, probably. That's a threat!
Follow my somewhat-about-the-same on Twitter, purtyplease.
10.15.2010
Water You Willing to Recycle? (Happy Blog Action Day!)
The topic of the day for Blog Action Day is WATER.
So, being that we're assholes here - or at least, I am - here's a nifty recycling tip, inspired by the ever-brilliant David Yow...
You can distill fresh drinking water from your own urine, simply by using this simple solar still. It's the same way that rain is made. From your urine, I mean. Oh, and the distillation process is the same.
So, being that we're assholes here - or at least, I am - here's a nifty recycling tip, inspired by the ever-brilliant David Yow...
5.03.2010
Seth McFarlane: King of Prime-Time Blasphemy!
So, Family Guy last night featured some new footage, including an unheard song (excised from the "Fat Guy Strangler" episode) that really ups the blasphemy-ante something fierce... I remember being completely blown away at blasphemy in prime time when Homer Simpson proclaimed, "I don't even BELIEVE in Jeebus!" Well, this song of Peter's certainly puts Homer J.'s take on religion into a new perspective...
The Anthem of the National Association for the Advancement of Fat People
...Wow. Don't think there's much left to say after that...
The Anthem of the National Association for the Advancement of Fat People"Stand up, all fat men, stand up straight;
Stand up because no chair can hold your weight.
If God created us to be so big,
That's proof He must be a big, fat pig.
God's so flabby with an ass so wide,
His arms look like pillows with cake mix inside.
God's man-boobs are flabby and they hurt when He jogs,
And the back of God's neck looks like a pack of hot dogs."
...Wow. Don't think there's much left to say after that...
3.13.2010
We Were Out of Syrup, So I Used Dishwashing Liquid
The day I tried to cook waffles for the lovely Naomi Shatbritches could best be described as fateful. I knew that waffles were her favorite (she’d certainly screamed so in my face enough times, and never for any reason) and I desperately wanted to impress her, due to my fascination with clowns and the deformed, and so far the only thing I’d seen that impressed her was the Zippo lighter that she was always playing with. Clack, clack, it would say, like a pyromaniacal chromium puppet. It was a Richard Simmons signature series, a very limited run and rarer than a John Lennon commemorative pistol.
Alas, I no longer had a waffle iron. I’d loaned it to my neighbor, Chet, who used it as a tennis racket; he’d been drinking Clorox again, or else he’d never have done it, because he has no business playing tennis. For one thing, one of his legs is a foot shorter than the other so if he starts running he whirls in circles until dizziness takes him to the special place. And for another, his good leg has strep knee, so when he walks he looks like he’s being picked on by invisible dwarf-bullies. He drifts to and fro (mostly fro) like a schizophrenic trying to macarena. Complete (and sometimes incomplete, in the case of that guy with the flipper arm) strangers sometimes stop him, asking what the hell he’s listening to on his IPOD. And he doesn’t even have an IPOD. Frankly, he disapproves of them. In fact, he disapproves of the word “frankly,” because he knows a guy named Frank who’s the most duplicitous, evasive liar in the world. Ironically, Frank’s middle name is Earnest (or so he says; I‘m not sure we’re to believe him), which leaves Chet without a leg to stand on. Or, at least, not a good one. In any case, Chet can’t afford an IPOD (or a tennis racket) to begin with; it’s hard to make ends meet when you’re a door-to-door Sea Monkey salesman.
Anyway, without a waffle iron, I had to improvise (something which I am not good at at all since the unfortunate escapade with the trombone; in fact, improvisation is a parole violation for me, just like pointy scissors). I tried to put a pattern on the Bisquik batter with the sole of an old Ked sneaker. That had worked kind of well, in reverse. But that’s where my luck ran thin and my ingenuity surpassed my common sense, and so Naomi was not impressed. Fortunately, she also wasn’t aware, distracted by an azalea bush she thought was trying to impart something to her, so I escaped incarceration.
(As this is an impoverished county (our main cash crop is decorative gourds), we don’t have a jailhouse, but there are old cardboard boxes to put you into, and a convincing man there to talk you into staying in them.)
Anyway, as the Naomi waffle-adventure was a wash, I went on down the road, feeling bad. Several famous songs were written about it, and perhaps you’ve heard a few as you desperately lunged for the dial, cursing. Naomi eventually grew very enchanted with an ornamental fern, and carried on an unhealthy and inappropriate relationship with it for a time, which scandalized the community and led her to be labeled such things as “demented” and “scatological.” I, however, still carried a torch, because she had the funniest teeth I’d ever seen. The word “goofus” probably describes them as well as any, and I have, I’ve been diagnosed, a fetish for goofus. Her awkward, toddling walk and her habit of loudly interrupting others to express her needs (“Wipe!”) also endeared her to me in a way that makes me shudder.
She is, however, hard to have a conversation with, as she tends to yell “NO!” at you over and over as soon as you start talking. The only person around here who likes that kind of talk is old Ezeriah Kudd, and he’s a wizened old weirdling who’s built sentry stations in his yard where he keeps a constant watch for garden gnomes. They could invade us at any time, he says, and enslave us and have their little way with our women. Most of us dismiss him (or, if you’re Septimus Toole, you chase him around with a hedge trimmer because you think he’s after your sort-of girlfriend, Steve), and the few who don’t need tending to. They just can’t be left to wander around, touching themselves and then other things, befouling random surfaces with their taint-grimed hands and turning this world into a hamper.
Twice a week the ladies’ auxiliary (with honorary member Harold Witherfork) attack this town with scrubbing brushes and good strong borax, going at everything -- curbs, parking meters, street, rooftops -- with a furious vigor, ensuring that the germs that spread insanity have no chance to take root. If an object is so much as gazed upon by an icky person, it is ruthlessly scoured. Once Mayor Naise’s nephew, Hiram, farted in the cathedral, and the ladies’ auxiliary burned it to the ground just to be safe. They used Naomi’s Zippo to start the fire, in fact, and it was that day that Naomi first uttered her famous catchphrase: “Arson, ha ha!”
This is why a picture of Naomi hangs at City Hall, and why a mysterious figure in a shimmering green robe like that of a monk sometimes steals in and leaves before it offerings of marshmallows and absinthe. Once a horse was sacrificed, but that was going too far, and was an action attributed to a case of February Fever (one of the early stages of March Madness).
They’re trying to cure that, by the way. To all the schools they send around a doctor or nurse dressed as a silent clown to give the children shots. He frolics in with his hypodermics and pantomime, but the children are just terrified by all the theatrics. I’m fascinated with clowns, as I may have mentioned, and so I keep a scrapbook on all our county’s shot-needle clowns, of which there have been many. Each is buried in a special section of the cemetery (after they die, of course, except for the unfortunate Boppo incident), and everyone has their favorite. Mine is a rather unpopular choice, Charlie Barrett, who was shot-needle-clown from 1958-1964, up until his murder-suicide in the House of the Bent Weathervane. There’s a famous picture of Charlie Barrett in his clown gear, taken for the newspaper. In it, he’s crouching next to a hysterical little girl, gripping her arm with one hand so she can’t run away, brandishing his hypodermic with the other. The girl is screaming and crying and Charlie is leaning into her face, trying to amuse her by making crying faces of his own, mocking her terror. I find it charming and wish that Norman Rockwell had survived his attack by that Ecuadorian rapist squad, so he could paint it. Others, however, hold a grudge against Charlie for his alcoholism (he drank until he became a hepatitic), and for the bludgeoning murders of those seven people (eight if you count the infant). I thought he redeemed himself with his suicide (one has to be sincere and determined to beat oneself to death with a steam-iron) but others are less generous, and there are fewer balloons left on his grave than the others.
Ah well, c’est le pontaire, I always say, although I don’t know what that means and so often wonder why I always say it. It may be a compulsion, a Eurofetishistic twitch that’s manifesting itself. I’m not sure but perhaps I ought to be concerned, as such things can be a warning sign of a greater malady developing, like Earmuffism or Mrs. Butterworth’s Syndrome, or even a case of the Creeping Schwarzeneggers. More tangelos in my diet can’t hurt, I think, perhaps more time spent squatting and staring into the distance. America doesn’t do nearly enough squatting. Our readily-available chairs are killing us.
We ought to be out afrolic in the meadows, leaping about through the weeds, the whore’s hair and parson’s bonnet, the sweet-scented babyscrote and bitter preacher’s clap, the bristly warlock’s taint and fragrant spinster’s beard. We ought be chasing rabbits through the chicken-nip bushes, and poking sticks into the dens of the corpse-nibbler gophers so we can set fire to them when they emerge, so they won’t raise their babies in a nest in our mouths when God’s let us down and mortality’s laid us low. We spend too much of our time doing nothing, when we’d never spend our money that way, and money -- all the money there is -- won’t buy you more time when yours has run out. Time is a non-renewable resource; you’re born with your gas tank full and you drive a road without stations, until you finally sputter, stop, and become someone’s sanitation problem. So while you’re here, you ought to have a delicious pot pie now and then, and a cola, then a brisk trot across the glen, where you can watch the little animals trying to climb atop one another and thrust each other full of genetic gland-water. Where their seed is spilled there grows the rank skeet-weed and the stunted spoogemuffin, called “nature’s clown” by botanists.
I believe that previously I have mentioned my fascination with clowns. I like to go to their funerals, especially. Once the circus came to town and late at night after a show the clowns got drunk and went out driving and ran their car under a freight train, mangled them all, thirty-two clowns dead, no survivors. Someone apparently made off with one of the decapitated heads as a souvenir. People think it was me, but they should know that if I had it I’d hang it over my bed so I could admire it in the moonlight during my long sleepless nights. How wonderful it would be to have the severed head of a clown, to drag through the streets on a string! That, my friend, is glory. To everything else we simply reconcile ourselves.
(sorry, I just felt a weird urge to turn in crazyshit this week... hope somebody thinks it's funny besides me... :) )
Alas, I no longer had a waffle iron. I’d loaned it to my neighbor, Chet, who used it as a tennis racket; he’d been drinking Clorox again, or else he’d never have done it, because he has no business playing tennis. For one thing, one of his legs is a foot shorter than the other so if he starts running he whirls in circles until dizziness takes him to the special place. And for another, his good leg has strep knee, so when he walks he looks like he’s being picked on by invisible dwarf-bullies. He drifts to and fro (mostly fro) like a schizophrenic trying to macarena. Complete (and sometimes incomplete, in the case of that guy with the flipper arm) strangers sometimes stop him, asking what the hell he’s listening to on his IPOD. And he doesn’t even have an IPOD. Frankly, he disapproves of them. In fact, he disapproves of the word “frankly,” because he knows a guy named Frank who’s the most duplicitous, evasive liar in the world. Ironically, Frank’s middle name is Earnest (or so he says; I‘m not sure we’re to believe him), which leaves Chet without a leg to stand on. Or, at least, not a good one. In any case, Chet can’t afford an IPOD (or a tennis racket) to begin with; it’s hard to make ends meet when you’re a door-to-door Sea Monkey salesman.
Anyway, without a waffle iron, I had to improvise (something which I am not good at at all since the unfortunate escapade with the trombone; in fact, improvisation is a parole violation for me, just like pointy scissors). I tried to put a pattern on the Bisquik batter with the sole of an old Ked sneaker. That had worked kind of well, in reverse. But that’s where my luck ran thin and my ingenuity surpassed my common sense, and so Naomi was not impressed. Fortunately, she also wasn’t aware, distracted by an azalea bush she thought was trying to impart something to her, so I escaped incarceration.
(As this is an impoverished county (our main cash crop is decorative gourds), we don’t have a jailhouse, but there are old cardboard boxes to put you into, and a convincing man there to talk you into staying in them.)
Anyway, as the Naomi waffle-adventure was a wash, I went on down the road, feeling bad. Several famous songs were written about it, and perhaps you’ve heard a few as you desperately lunged for the dial, cursing. Naomi eventually grew very enchanted with an ornamental fern, and carried on an unhealthy and inappropriate relationship with it for a time, which scandalized the community and led her to be labeled such things as “demented” and “scatological.” I, however, still carried a torch, because she had the funniest teeth I’d ever seen. The word “goofus” probably describes them as well as any, and I have, I’ve been diagnosed, a fetish for goofus. Her awkward, toddling walk and her habit of loudly interrupting others to express her needs (“Wipe!”) also endeared her to me in a way that makes me shudder.
She is, however, hard to have a conversation with, as she tends to yell “NO!” at you over and over as soon as you start talking. The only person around here who likes that kind of talk is old Ezeriah Kudd, and he’s a wizened old weirdling who’s built sentry stations in his yard where he keeps a constant watch for garden gnomes. They could invade us at any time, he says, and enslave us and have their little way with our women. Most of us dismiss him (or, if you’re Septimus Toole, you chase him around with a hedge trimmer because you think he’s after your sort-of girlfriend, Steve), and the few who don’t need tending to. They just can’t be left to wander around, touching themselves and then other things, befouling random surfaces with their taint-grimed hands and turning this world into a hamper.
Twice a week the ladies’ auxiliary (with honorary member Harold Witherfork) attack this town with scrubbing brushes and good strong borax, going at everything -- curbs, parking meters, street, rooftops -- with a furious vigor, ensuring that the germs that spread insanity have no chance to take root. If an object is so much as gazed upon by an icky person, it is ruthlessly scoured. Once Mayor Naise’s nephew, Hiram, farted in the cathedral, and the ladies’ auxiliary burned it to the ground just to be safe. They used Naomi’s Zippo to start the fire, in fact, and it was that day that Naomi first uttered her famous catchphrase: “Arson, ha ha!”
This is why a picture of Naomi hangs at City Hall, and why a mysterious figure in a shimmering green robe like that of a monk sometimes steals in and leaves before it offerings of marshmallows and absinthe. Once a horse was sacrificed, but that was going too far, and was an action attributed to a case of February Fever (one of the early stages of March Madness).
They’re trying to cure that, by the way. To all the schools they send around a doctor or nurse dressed as a silent clown to give the children shots. He frolics in with his hypodermics and pantomime, but the children are just terrified by all the theatrics. I’m fascinated with clowns, as I may have mentioned, and so I keep a scrapbook on all our county’s shot-needle clowns, of which there have been many. Each is buried in a special section of the cemetery (after they die, of course, except for the unfortunate Boppo incident), and everyone has their favorite. Mine is a rather unpopular choice, Charlie Barrett, who was shot-needle-clown from 1958-1964, up until his murder-suicide in the House of the Bent Weathervane. There’s a famous picture of Charlie Barrett in his clown gear, taken for the newspaper. In it, he’s crouching next to a hysterical little girl, gripping her arm with one hand so she can’t run away, brandishing his hypodermic with the other. The girl is screaming and crying and Charlie is leaning into her face, trying to amuse her by making crying faces of his own, mocking her terror. I find it charming and wish that Norman Rockwell had survived his attack by that Ecuadorian rapist squad, so he could paint it. Others, however, hold a grudge against Charlie for his alcoholism (he drank until he became a hepatitic), and for the bludgeoning murders of those seven people (eight if you count the infant). I thought he redeemed himself with his suicide (one has to be sincere and determined to beat oneself to death with a steam-iron) but others are less generous, and there are fewer balloons left on his grave than the others.
Ah well, c’est le pontaire, I always say, although I don’t know what that means and so often wonder why I always say it. It may be a compulsion, a Eurofetishistic twitch that’s manifesting itself. I’m not sure but perhaps I ought to be concerned, as such things can be a warning sign of a greater malady developing, like Earmuffism or Mrs. Butterworth’s Syndrome, or even a case of the Creeping Schwarzeneggers. More tangelos in my diet can’t hurt, I think, perhaps more time spent squatting and staring into the distance. America doesn’t do nearly enough squatting. Our readily-available chairs are killing us.
We ought to be out afrolic in the meadows, leaping about through the weeds, the whore’s hair and parson’s bonnet, the sweet-scented babyscrote and bitter preacher’s clap, the bristly warlock’s taint and fragrant spinster’s beard. We ought be chasing rabbits through the chicken-nip bushes, and poking sticks into the dens of the corpse-nibbler gophers so we can set fire to them when they emerge, so they won’t raise their babies in a nest in our mouths when God’s let us down and mortality’s laid us low. We spend too much of our time doing nothing, when we’d never spend our money that way, and money -- all the money there is -- won’t buy you more time when yours has run out. Time is a non-renewable resource; you’re born with your gas tank full and you drive a road without stations, until you finally sputter, stop, and become someone’s sanitation problem. So while you’re here, you ought to have a delicious pot pie now and then, and a cola, then a brisk trot across the glen, where you can watch the little animals trying to climb atop one another and thrust each other full of genetic gland-water. Where their seed is spilled there grows the rank skeet-weed and the stunted spoogemuffin, called “nature’s clown” by botanists.
I believe that previously I have mentioned my fascination with clowns. I like to go to their funerals, especially. Once the circus came to town and late at night after a show the clowns got drunk and went out driving and ran their car under a freight train, mangled them all, thirty-two clowns dead, no survivors. Someone apparently made off with one of the decapitated heads as a souvenir. People think it was me, but they should know that if I had it I’d hang it over my bed so I could admire it in the moonlight during my long sleepless nights. How wonderful it would be to have the severed head of a clown, to drag through the streets on a string! That, my friend, is glory. To everything else we simply reconcile ourselves.
(sorry, I just felt a weird urge to turn in crazyshit this week... hope somebody thinks it's funny besides me... :) )
1.10.2010
Dateline: Racism, U.S.A....
WASHINGTON - U.S. President Barack Obama apologized on Saturday for saying that Senate Democratic leader Harry Reid could seek and win office because Reid was "light skinned" and speaks "with no Negro dialect."
Reid is pictured here showing the number of close black friends he has...
(Oh, wait... my wife's telling me that I've somehow got all of this mixtup... I'll be back...)
6.27.2009
Last One from Me on This Topic... I promise!
Much has been made of the heavy amounts of plastic surgery that Michael Jackson had done in his lifetime, and the consensus seems to be that - at least at first - MJ was trying (consciously or not) to remake himself to look more like Diana Ross. Yep, Ms. Ross was the Motown diva to make all of the fellas a little nutty; both Michael and Marvin Gaye were deeply influenced by her during the time they each spent around her...
Well, consensus be damned! I have found an alternate theory + I am gonna share it with you now:
Michael was going through all of his plastic surgeries to look more like...
(...and yes, I know that I am an asshole. Whatcha gonna do about it? Wanna fight? I'll meet you behind the gym after school!)
Well, consensus be damned! I have found an alternate theory + I am gonna share it with you now:
Michael was going through all of his plastic surgeries to look more like...
MORBIUS, THE LIVING VAMPIRE!!!
(...and yes, I know that I am an asshole. Whatcha gonna do about it? Wanna fight? I'll meet you behind the gym after school!)
6.26.2009
Fulfilling the Prophecies of THRILLER...
So... Michael Jackson died of a massive heart attack this Thursday, which means that his reanimated corpse should be ungraving itself + beginning the hunt for braaaaainnsssss by no later than the July 4th weekend, hopefully making for a truly spectacular Independence Day celebration... Thriller, indeed!An established pop superstar and self-designated King of Pop, the last years of his life were mired in controversies surrounding his finances, the actual nature of his relationships with his wives + children, and the actual nature of his relationships with a whole bunch of other people's children. Ah... Days of Settlements and Accusations...
Sadly, Jackson never seemed to come to grips with the death of his career in the 1990s, instead flailing madly into a couple of disturbing marriages with some truly skoojy women + dangling his children precariously from balconies... A far fall from duets with Paul McCartney ("Oi... I'll trade you a one-legged woman for my song rights...") and guest solos by Eddie Van Halen ("Valerie Who???")
He is survived by a bunch of fans who seem to have just been thawed from late-1980s cryogenic sleeptanks, his family, and a duofold legacy as established pop icon and suspected pedophile that will elevate + haunt him in the world's consciousness.
(That is, at least 'til the next celebrity dies... The media-driven mourning for Ed McMahon was preempted rather abruptly + poor Farrah Fawcett never even had a chance at the newscycle... and you know that's lame, cuz if you are a straight guy age 35-50, you - or yr older brother - owned this poster!!)
6.23.2009
Loads of Lies at Lowe's... (or Slimming Down with The Carpenters)
"Summertime... and the living is easy."
Right... except that the Hottest Week So Far This Year happened to align perfectly with Refinish the Deck Week here at the Haus. Stripping, sanding, painting... lots of fun in the sun for everyone, I s'pose.
...Anyway, so I had to go to Lowe's to pick up some caps for the posts on the deck. First trip, I quickly find some 4"x4" post caps + get the hell out of the Wal-Mart of hardware stores, joking to the cashier that I'd be back in a few minutes. And, of course, I would be.
The 4"x4" post caps were too large for the 4"x4" posts... so I measured the posts + discovered that they are actually 3.5"x3.5". Flash-forward to me, back at Lowe's, asking a sales associate in the lumber dept about 3.5"x3.5" post caps. After I explain the situation, including the part where I measured the posts, he tells me there's no such thing as a 3.5"x3.5" post... Of course, my blood begins to boil at this point, my vision starts to go a hazy red; the last thing I need is some young whippersnapper insinuating that I don't know how to use a ruler. Whatever; I am about to Hulk-out on this unsuspecting wage-slave.
Maybe it was my body language. Maybe it was his own experience with schmoes like me doing home projects... either way, another sales staffer strolled up at that moment +, once he heard the whole tale, he droppt this wack-ass bomb on me:
- 4"x4" posts are actually only 3.5"x3.5"
Same type of thing on all measured boards, posts, etc..., due to cost-cutting policies that yield more lumber per tree by lying about measurements. Which is why that bookshelf project you tried ended up all oversized + freaky-looking + wouldn't fit together properly.
And why carpenters can overcharge and overcharge. They use some fuctup "new math"... and we're not talking about anything I got to study in school.
We covered Euclidean + non-Euclidean geometry, but 4=3.5?
That's some Orwellian geometry, there!
5.19.2009
The Girls Who Occasionally Kill People Comics, Issue #1
Well, my internet connectivity still isn't fixed, but I think I've managed to fake it enough to get this put up real quick-like from work. Finally, after almost two freakin' weeks. It's nothing great, but I've been curious to see if it'll even fit on the web. I shall probably rant about AT&T, the worst company in the entire world, later.
The art's not very good, and the story's even worse, but that's kinda why it's funny to me, in an absurdist sort of way. If nothing else, you can laugh at the way the tits change size from panel to panel, the hair changes length, and there are all kinds of out-of-proportion limbs and wonky eyes 'n' such. (I will claim the wonky eyes are "Jack Kirby's influence" ;) ). About the kindest thing anybody's said about my art is "Well, I can tell which girl is which..." If you notice there's not much of a background for any picture, that's because I can't get interested in drawing anything but girls. So, they inhabit a strange void-world.
Hmm, postin' 'em didn't work, so I'll try it with links instead... (but just for experimentation I'm gonna try to load the cover in... the whole thing might take up too much space, anyway).
cover
page 1
page 2
page 3
page 4
page 5
page 6
page 7
=======
Hey, I said they occasionally kill people... I didn't say they'd do it every issue. (I guess I think this is funny because of the "Jess Franco factor." See, Jess Franco - who is an absolutely horrible director -- occasionally does bizarre things in movies, like... in one war movie, he introduced this character everybody called "The Acrobat." He had everybody talk about the amazing feats this guy could perform on the battlefield, all the backflips, etc. Then he has the guy get shot in the legs in the first fight scene so, after all that buildup, you never get to see any acrobatics. To me, that shit is funny... and hence my big buildup to nothin'. Yay!
If this ends up too big or something, I may delete it pronto...
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