Turn slowly and walk away

So, I’m out with this young lady and we’re at this bar/restaurant that is known for serving about ten thousand different kinds of beer. The bartender that waits on us is Mr. Full-of-Himself. Blathering on and on about his expertise in Belgian beer and his past experiences as an out of body experience or some shit that really doesn’t make any sense. So, after about five minutes he finally comes down to our end of the bar and waits on us only he doesn’t address me at all except when I order my beer. The whole time he is talking to the woman I’m with, only he’s not just being polite, he’s hitting on her. Smiling, and touching her hand and trying to impress her with his Belgian beer knowledge and inner nice guy. I don’t want to be rude but I wonder if this cocksucker notices me, yeah 190 pounds of lean muscle and growing anger sitting beside her because I’m about to grab him by the collar, pull him over the bar and beat the fucking shit out of him.

“Hey, cocksucker,” I say. “There’s people at the other end of the bar that look like they have a real thirst for a Belgian Beer.”

His mouth drops open. “What?”

“You heard me fruit cup, the two single (emphasis on the word single) ones at the end of the bar.

“Right,” he says angrily.

“Hey, and another thing just remember that the only thing separating me from you is air.”

He turns and walks away.

“What an asshole,” the woman I was with said. “Couldn’t he see I was with you?”

“I think he can now,” I say and slam my first beer.

Beautiful Corpse

It will be tragic seeing you lying there in a fur lined casket as big as a Coupe DeVille with a can of Old E 800 clenched in your cadaverous hands; the blood sucked out of you, your veins filled with lighter fluid, putty and lies filling in the cracks.

Your parents will lament. Old women will tear up and silk hankies will come fluttering out of purses like spooked doves. Your snake charming preacher will offer words while behind the podium he is manipulating himself as he looks up your dress. I will remember fucking you on your parent’s coffee table and having your father walk in and turn on the TV. I will ask if you remember how I said, “Halftime show!” No of course not you will be dead.

When I stop at your casket to pay my respects—twenty dollars?--I will lick the crook of your elbow to see if it still tastes like Raspberry body spray and then I will say say, “I was never obsessed with you. I just couldn’t let go.” They will drag me back to my seat and then ask me to leave. “Let me go,” I will say.

It will have been seven years since we broke up prior to your death and I will have marked this time with razor blade cuts up and down my arm. I will show the preacher and he will move two seats away. Your parents will yell and scream at me and I will sit there smiling at you, oblivious to everything but the grayness of your skin.

I will ask to be alone with you. Your parents will crazily shake their heads side to side behind my back, indicating NO! but the preacher will acquiesce. “I will be waiting right outside the door,” he will say. “For my turn,” he will say under his breath.

Finally it will just be just me and you my love. With a super industrial adhesive and love I will seal us in your casket. When we are comfortable I will turn on the Barry White in the CD player I have brought and open a magnum of champagne. Ah, bliss. When the mood is right I will remove you dress like I did so many times before and then I will remove my kilt.

They will scream and yell and pound on the casket but I will know this is how it should be. Me and you forever. It will be because I love you baby.

“That’s it,” I will say, “lie there like you mean it.”

The Fat Man and the Poisonous Chicken Breast

I’m driving to work and I think I’m going puke…no, I know I’m going to puke. Wave of nausea. Stomach tightening. Eyes watering…spasm subsiding. I feel awful. I ate a chicken breast for breakfast and I don’t think it was cooked enough. No, I know it wasn’t cooked enough. Chicken Sushi anyone? I’m pretty sure I’m going to die…some day. Then again…

I roll down my window and lean my head out sucking in big gulps of car exhaust and tiny bits of oxygen. This isn’t helping. It feels like there is a weasel with cleats on in my stomach and he is—cutting, burrowing, waltzing…

Focus on something else, I tell myself and so I watch the traffic coming at me. A garbage truck. A mini-van mom and five rug rats. A police cruiser and a donut inspector inside. STOP. What I see next is startling enough for me to forget the poisonous chicken breast eating away at my gut. In a tiny SUV, with no clothing on, I see a morbidly obese man; French fries in his chest hair. He is in fact so large that he his fat has been pressed into the square shape of the driver’s side compartment. Pressing up against the glass, it looks as if some mad scientist has grown a skin culture in an aquarium and it has been mixed with some super growing agent and it is pressing, threatening to crash through.

I wonder why this man is driving naked and it occurs to me that they don’t make clothes big enough to accommodate his sizeable bulk. That he has outgrown his pants, his shirts and his underwear. He can now only wear his SUV and soon he will outgrow that. Where does a human being this big go when he dies, I wonder. And the answer came rather quickly: to those big Golden Arches in the sky. Yes, McDonalds.

I pulled over next to a bus stop, got out and puked--the poisonous chicken breast mocking me. I haven’t eaten since.

Instructions for me coming to you; written on my palm

You will be in the nice guy business but find yourself bankrupt in the friend category. It will be time to start over, to start a new venture, to wrangle a new deal. You will rent a U-haul and pack up your life in moldy liquor boxes, your dogs in crates stuffed with pepperoni--only their noses will be visible. There will be doubt and a tad of guilt because you are after all “the nice guy.” Let this pass. You were never that nice anyway. You were just putting on a show to get into their pants.

On the morning of your departure you will unroll the scroll you keep behind your ear. Yes! The one with HER phone number on it. You will phone and let her know in uncertain terms that you are on your way. She will express surprise and claim that leaving her husband isn’t possible. You will laugh like you’re mad because well, you are. You will not be mad at the world though just at yourself when you remember in Pittsburgh that you left the coffee maker on. You will not turn around and your home will burn. You will not go back and will drive straight through to North Carolina and in the bathroom of an all night gas and fried chicken emporium you will meet the ghost of John Ross after having smoked a peace pipe packed with funny tobacco. You will offer the great Indian chief a ride and he will cling to your luggage rack, the feathers of his headdress pulling out and creating a trail that will replace the one constructed of tears many years earlier. He will get off in Oklahoma at a Wal-Mart where he will take a job working at minimum wage.

Your trip will be filled with adventure and heart ache--too many things to list. Fast forward. When you finally arrive at her doorstep her husband will answer the door. He will swing and punch at your teeth but you will be agile enough to hop onto the lattice and avoid his hand. You will scale the side of the house and on the third floor she will be waiting. Her head will be sticking out of the window and your first thought will be that it is a float that has escaped the Macy’s Day Parade. Something is awry. You will pull a scale from your backpack and ask her to step aboard. She does so and the needle sticks at 110 lbs. A light bulb goes on. Somewhere a crow is electrocuted on a power line and falls into the bed of a passing truck in which the ghost of John Ross, having quit his job, is sitting. He catches the crow. He kisses the crow. The crow comes to life and tap dance like Fred Astaire on the cab of the truck.

You remove a needle from your travel sewing kit, and poke her in her melon like cheek. The escaping hot air blinds you and you fall back off the lattice and into the arms of John Ross who is standing in the front yard. Hot air, he will say, she was full of it. We both got screwed, you will say. He will nod and you will eat crow in a tangy lemon sauce that night over a campfire on a west coast beach.

A Guide to the Galaxy in your underpants

You will find yourself in the cesspool of life, the hacks paddling madly to stay afloat, their underpants filled with gold bullion, and they will grab onto your vitals, knee you in the groin so they might save themselves. I recommend a sharp elbow to the bridge of the nose, an uppercut placed squarely on the chin, a gouge with index finger extended--yes, directly in their hollow eyes. When enough of them have sunk to their precious metal hastened depths they will in fact have formed a platform of bodies and you will every so gracefully step up onto dry land, leaving them in the shit water. You will turn and look at all of them--some still twitching--and for a moment you will feel sorry for them but then you will hear the song of the ice-cream truck and will turn and run, knocking down all the kids that have already begun chase. You won’t feel sorry because after all, you’re still a kid at heart.

The first date: the last date

You will find yourself sitting across from her at a trendy luncheon bistro with gay waiters and alcoholic waitresses flitting madly about you; the lines on their faces speak for themselves. You will say something that you think is witty like life is better taken in small doses and she will burp and say, “excuse me Caesar salad always does that to me,” and you will then wonder why in the Hell she ordered the Caesar salad but you won’t say anything. She will take out a photo of her daughter and you will nod politely and say, “she’s a beauty,” when deep inside you’re wondering if it would be rude to say you are going to the restroom and sneak out the back exit. But you don’t because they have branded you a nice guy. You will instead order your third beer underneath her disconcerting gaze, her thinking--oh great another alcoholic. Exactly, you think back and hope she is into ESP but of course she isn’t and orders another raspberry iced-tea. And you know you can never love a woman that orders raspberry iced-tea because it lacks anything intoxicating and displays a lack of vices which of course ads depth, of which your beginning to suspect she has none. You won’t want to be too hard on her because she is trying but your eyes keep drifting to the waitress with the hard fuck me face and the dandelion tattoo on her shapely thigh.

There will be a lull in the conversation largely because you aren’t paying attention and you nod and gaze deeply into her teeth because her eyes are crooked. “Hros,” you say which is Old High German for horse because her teeth are like the mighty yellow choppers of some deranged circus animal. She will stare at you sideways and then drop her hand on yours. “Uh, excuse me,” you will say and bolt for the restroom.

Locked inside you take out a cigarette and put a good sized gob of hash on it and smoke it down, waiting a few minutes for the buzz to come on. When you exit the bathroom a gay waiter will be standing outside with a hand on his hip, the smoke from the bathroom engulfing him. “You can’t smoke in there,” he’ll say. “I didn’t know,” you’ll say under the blinking red glare of the DO NOT SMOKE sign. You shrug and start back to your table hoping the waiter will tell his manager what you've done and kick you the fuck out but he won’t, your destiny has been sealed in a sandwich bag and wedged between the thighs of lady luck who is now out back in the alley blowing a busboy.

Back at the table small talk will devolve into smaller talk until the only voice is the one deep inside your head echoing off the loneliness you are feeling in the middle of a room full of people. You order your fourth beer. “You drink a lot,” she will say and you will nod. The waitress with the dandelion tattoo on thigh will bend over to pick up a napkin and sex will be the next best thing on your mind. You will take a long drowning pull from your beer and turn back to her. The beer will talk to you and say, “she ain’t that bad.” You’ll agree and adjust your goggles. “Bone machines, we are all bone machines according to Tom Waits,” you’ll say because now the drugs and the booze are kicking in and you think if you two were really meant to be that she will get your esoteric jabber. “What?” she will say and you will say, “Nothing, it was nothing. You aren’t getting me.” “That’s because you’re not making sense,” she will say and you will agree on the outside but on the inside the only thing you're thinking about is how to get that waitress’s phone number. “Do me a favor,” you’ll say to her, “ask the waitress over there for her phone number.” “What?” she will say and you realize that you’ve just made a horrible mistake, that you only meant to think what you just said. She will angrily gather the pictures of her daughter and stuff them in her giant handbag and jump up from the table. “Good-bye,” she will say and her and her crooked eyes will go out the door. Memories will be hazy now as you are drunk and high but you’ll think that you offer to buy the waitress a drink after work and the next thing you will know you will be in her loft with her nylons between your teeth. The next morning you will wonder why you do the things you do as the sun rips through the blinds and pierces your corneas. You will challenge the sun and its light with your eyes, staring it down and it will be a war of attrition. She will stir next to you and put you in her mouth and you will continue to stare into the sunlight but more and more you will be drawn to her working mouth. You will blink and the battle with the sun will be over as you cum in her hair…

Thompson's Ashes Blasted Into Denver Sky

By ROBERT WELLER, AP

Article

've been tagged with a dreaded meme, a blogger's term that I'm not even sure the meaning of... however, Dave says I need to tell everyone the five songs I'm currently digging hard.

1 - The Flaming Lips - Do you realize
2 - Shout Out Louds - The comeback
3 - Bright Eyes - Arc of time
4 - Frank Black - Atom in my heart
5 - Wilco - Let me come home

And now I'll "tag" 5 people, who will (as I understand it) have to post their 5 fav's on THEIR blogs.
Cindy-Lou
Nicky
Cuke
Ty
Bez

Shut the F up

Okay, this could be one for the Observation in Miniature series that I’ve done in the past but I think in its bizarreness this topic deserves a separate forum. What am I talking about? Follow me into my gym Wednesday night.

So, I walk into the gym and head over to the benches where I plan to start my bench presses. I put my headphones on, turn up my Ipod and lie down on the bench. Just as I’m about to press the bar up I hear an elongated and what seems like sexually perverse caterwauling. I bolt upright ready to fend off a horny rhinoceros or a charging drag queen but when my eyes focus I realize the sound is coming from a 140 pound man in a tank top doing triceps pushdowns. Now, first of all it sounds like this guy is screwing the weight machine rather than working out on it. Second of all triceps pushdowns are not a hard exercise that would elicit such a painful response. On a scale of difficulty and discomfort as far as weight lifting exercise go they are about a three on a scale of ten.

So, I sit on the bench and watch this guy and his “workout” partner. During each repetition the guy doing the pushdowns lets out a tremendous fucking like a deranged warthog sound. If this isn’t bad enough his “workout” partner is assisting him by pushing down slightly on the bar to help him get the weight. If you don’t know this is ridiculous! Both these guys together probably tip the scales at 250 pounds. And I want to ask the guy how something so little (his arms) can hurt so damn much but I don’t. I just turn up my Ipod until the point where it is as loud as Who concert and try to workout while these two extremely feminine and pasty white screamers continue on like they’re strapped to Marquis De Sade’s garage door wall and he’s testing out his new series of DeWalt power tools on their genitals.

I only have one thing to say to these guys. “Shut the fuck up.”

I am the bear

Uh, yeah, right, no hard feelings. I mean when people treat me like shit I always reciprocate with kindness and understanding. Can I please clean the bird shit off your windshield? Did you say your house needs painted? Let me get my brush. Oh, there’s a mud puddle. Let me throw myself over it so you don’t soak your dainty toes. That’s okay, I don’t mind your heel in the small of my back or the sting of your syphilic spit in my eyes. Screech….wait, hold it. I’m only bullshitting you. I am the bear. See my teeth glisten like polished railroad spikes. Hear my roar tear through your ear drums and pierce the epicenter of your withering brain. Touch me and feel the rage vibrate up through my fur. You didn’t know I was the bear did you? That’s okay, you couldn’t have known. What you should know though is that you were an unwilling participant in an experiment. No, no, not an experiment with beakers and Bunsen burners and a lab, an experiment of words. A collection of thoughts and people pressed together between two covers. You in all your unflattering glory, naked in your emotion, you as antagonist. Who's wearing the claws now? Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.........

Uhm, pimp my bike yo?

I was helping my sister and her fiancee Chris move to there new home several weeks ago and Chris and were in a 40 foot long U-Haul cruising through New Cumberland, Pennsylvania. I was taking in the normal scenery one expects on such a jaunt--passing cars, stores, trailer homes, etc-- when I noticed a sight that I can only describe as surreal. There on the side of the road was a teenager riding a bike that looked as if it had fallen out of one of Tim Burton's dreams. The seat post of this monstrosity was five feet above the frame as were the elongated handle bars. The gearing and pedals were located where the seat usually sits just above the frame. So picture this now. A kid sitting ten feet up in the air on this pimped out bike, cruising down the side of the road. I rubbed my eyes and declined the next hit off the joint we'd been passing back and forth. Was what I seeing real and if it was how in the Hell had this kid got on and off his bike? Had he leaned it up against a tree, scaled the tree and then hopped on? And guys, you've all slid off your seat and cracked your nuts on the frame. It's an understatement to say it hurts. What if this mislead lad fell from his ten feet roost and hit the frame? I don't think he'd be having any kids and might sing soprano in the choir if he could dislodge his nuts from his throat. Can anyone say unic?

What's up with that?

There are hybrid cars being developed that can get 250 miles per gallon? And those in government tell us we are decades away from such technology. Shame on them. How much is the oil industry paying them to perpetuate this lie? It's time to stop our oil dependency and free ourselves from the turmoil in the Middle East.

Check out the story here:
http://www.cnn.com/2005/TECH/08/15/hybrid.tinkerers.ap/index.html

You see I’m not so very highly evolved

You see I’m not so very highly evolved. Please excuse my knuckles as they scrape across your linoleum. You see you if you graph my head, pinch it with calipers,and kneed the contours and ridges you will conclude from the phrenological data that I am an inferior human being. Upon cutting my head open and turning the top over like a soup bowl you will find that there is nothing worthwhile going on inside, that in fact there is only whipped cream where my brain should be. When I am completely documented, when you have plotted every inch of my hopes and dreams, when you report to your superiors over wine and cheese and have a good laugh at the data know that I have just turned in my report on you and my findings will be quite disturbing. Sit back in your leather desk chair and moisten your brow with a cool pina colada soaked washcloth. That’s it. According to the data I’ve collected you’re not even human. DNA test results and urine samples will back up my find. Yes, it appears you are an imposter. No, don’t cry. It’s okay, really. I can fix it. Open your mouth. That’s it. Now, I want you to take this all in, every inch. Don’t gag. What is it you ask? It’s called empathy. I know it’s foreign to you but believe me in the end it will make you human.

Still Falling

It was in the cross hairs of my most concentrated subconscious, during a bout of fitful and drunken sleep that I happened upon her. A fair maiden. She licked her lips and I pulled on my armor, releasing the Velcro straps and it crashed to the bottom of the bathtub. She kicked the armor aside, cutting her big toe. I bent down and cleaned the blood off her toe with my silk handkerchief and then I poured Diet Coke on it to cleanse the wound.

She pulled her toe away from me. “You are the most fucked up knight I’ve ever seen.”

“That I am mam but my heart is in the right place,” I said rising.

“And where is that?”

“If you must know it is just below my ideology and a hair above my constitution. Now, what is your name fair maiden?”

She blushed, and turned slightly as if avoiding a harsh light. “It is Cindy Lou.”

I took a Sharpie out of my tube sock and on the white tiled wall of the bathtub wrote: Cindy Lou plays marbles with shellacked angle eyes.

“That’s uh, very interesting,” she said.

“You haven’t seen anything yet my dear.”

I turned on the shower and warm coffee streamed down on us. “I’m sure I haven’t.” She opened her mouth and drank and I pulled her close to me.

“Aren’t you glad I rescued you?” I asked.

She choked on the coffee and spit it in my face. “You didn’t save me. I saved you.”

“Right,” I said. From behind the tiled wall I heard a strange rustling sound. “Stand back.”

With great concentrated effort I heaved against the wall with my shoulder and it crumbled away. There amongst the fiberglass insulation and wiring was a politician with a Gucci bag filled with stock certificates.

He pulled nervously at his collar, the pink flesh of his fat neck engulfing his finger. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt is what I do best,” I cried.

Cindy Lou grabbed me around the waist, I turned and the politician fled through a rat hole.

She put her finger to my lips. “Forget about him,” she said.

I put my arms around her waist and we both tumbled backwards. We fell but strangely never hit bottom. We’re still falling as I write this on my laptop which I was wearing on a chain around my neck. Maybe someday we will find our way back but until then I beg of you to remember to polish my armor regularly for it is still sitting in the bottom of that bathtub.

Hate me or love me don’t like me

I adjusted my binoculars and the far bank came into view. It was smeared in lies and the blood of the trendy, the brand new hanging from their ancestral trees by their umbilical cords so they wouldn’t stray too far into reality and the outside world. The stacks of Bibles underneath their tiny feet; just inches from touching their dangling toes and saving their stagnated lives. The oxygen cut to their brains, no thoughts, only the sweet intoxication of oxygen depravation and the fumes of ignorance sifting through their gaping nose holes.

“Ahoy, you cocksuckers,” I cried and waved my free arm madly.

There of course was no response and so I turned my attention to the bridge I’d crossed, yes the one that connected this side to that side, the past to future, love to hate. I could still see my foot prints wet with the mucus of my new birth on the rotted planks that along with rope woven from hope formed the rickety structure.

I unscrewed the left lens of my binoculars which was really a hollow compartment filled with a quite potent accelerant known to cause tumors in lab monkeys. I doused the bridge at my end with the noxious fluid and lit it with the Bic I carried in my tube sock. The bridge disappeared in a wave of golden flames.

The ones on the other side cursed and screeched hideously at me, saying I’d done them wrong. Perhaps I had. Perhaps I hand’t. The how’s and why’s no longer concerned me. There was no longer a way for them to get to me.

I tossed my binoculars in the river and watched them float away. I was no longer who they said I was but who I wanted to be. I smiled, like cannibals do, when a rump roast is set on their bamboo place mat. There was something waiting out there for me on this side of the river and now it was time to rent a rickshaw and a willing Igor type to pull me into my new life.

The deterioration of a comedian

You’re coming undone. Aren’t you? I remember when you wheeled me out on that clothesline and I dropped into the mud puddle. It was a laugh, a joke, but this isn’t. We’re losing you to someone else’s dream, to the image of the sports star, to the storm kicked up by the greedy business world, to the lonely wind whistling through your $250 dollar rims.

I don’t know what to say because I’ve never been good with words from my mouth. They get choked behind images of you and me; me on my spring loaded horse, us on the porch, your hand rested on my little head. I’m still as clueless to the ways of the world as I was then because people aren’t always real, most of the time they’re just one dimensional cut outs that you can have your picture taken with at the carnival of life. All I can say is don't be angry. Come back in off the stoop. It is icy and covered with snow and you will fall. I don’t want to see you fall…

While many things are too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened.
-Thomas Hardy

What do you feed a baby lobster?

This was one of the keyword searches that landed someone on my blog. Anyone? What do baby lobsters eat?

There were also people that landed on my blog with these keywords:
Potato titties - WTF?
excessive masturbator
abercrombe & fitch nude pictures
nudist blog
boparai
bloomington knockers youth football
kevlar trench coats
betty weider 18 waist
oscar mayer bacon printable grocery coupons

I would like to personally thank all the freaks out there for searching out their perversions and landing on my blog. You have entertained me once again and it is a well known fact that I am perhaps your biggest fan. Carry on oh searchers of smut and oddity. You will forever have a home on my blog...

Tired, dirty, need beer... 

Hold on to people they're slipping away.
-Moby

Sweet Lou,
Thank-you so much for last night. I won't forget your kindness.