A Field Trip

“Hey kids, see that dickless wonder over there? Yeah, the one that just shoved that women into the purple Escalade? Well, according to my field guide: A Country Bumpkin's Guide to the City, which denotes the various species of city dwellers and their behaviors, he is a pimp. Pimp is derived from the Latin word leno. As in Impudens es leno which means You shameless pimp.”

“Sir, how do you get pimp from leno?”

“I don’t know Sally. Why don’t we go ask the pimp?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the children cry.

“But we must be careful when observing the pimp. Especially the girls, it says here in my guide that they are a violent and unpredictable breed, that at any opportunity they will recruit and enslave young girls and whore them out to make money.”

“Mr. Vancouver, what’s a whore?”

“Let me consult my guide, Amber…hmm, it says here that a whore is a woman that spreads her legs for money.”

“Can a man be a whore?” Billy asks.

“It says in my guide that men can indeed be whores. They are commonly called man whores. Now, lets go over and observe the pimp before he runs away.”

“He probably can’t run anywheres in those big shoes,” Jasper says.

“It says in my guide that the pimp is surprisingly agile despite his footwear. Now, come on lets observe a real live pimp.”

The children follow me up the Escalade and surround it in a half circle. I’m really hoping this is an actual pimp specimen. How embarrassing would it be if this guy was just a drug dealer? The children would never let me live it down. I’m supposed to be an expert in these areas.

“Uh, excuse me sir are you (I must consult my guide) a playa?”

The man I presume to be a pimp strokes his goatee. “Fo’ shizzle .”

I consult my guide. Hmm, it seems this means : for sure.

The whore the pimp is with becomes agitated, which in the field guide is said to be a likely scenario. “Hey what are you punk asses doing comin’ up in here. Botherin my man!”

“Peter, the tranquilizer gun,” I say.

Peter takes the tranquilizer gun from his backpack, loads it methodically and then BAM! BAM! He nails the pimp and the whore and they slump to the ground.

The children gasp due to the excitement.

“Excellent, shot, Peter…Ginny, don’t poke the pimp with a stick. He might not be fully unconscious yet. Okay, let’s load them up and take them back to the school where we can examine them,” I say.

“Mr. Vancouver, can I have the whore’s shoes? Ginny asks.

“Ginny, the whore’s shoes may look shiny and nice but they will only lead you down a path of destruction.”

“Are you speaking metaphorically, Mr. Vancouver?” Ginny asks.

“Chuuuch,” I say.

“What does that mean?” Ginny asks.

“According to my guide it means, absolutely. So, yes, absolutely I am speaking metaphorically. Now let’s load the pimp and the whore up on the luggage rack of the bus. We have many more specimens to collect before we go back to school,” I say.

Catholic School girl gone bad

I saw her; blond hair with pink highlights, checkered skirt, white shirt, black patent leather shoe. Yes, only one shoe, for on her left leg she wore a giant cast. A cast tattooed with silly drawings and illegible signatures. An elderly priest held her waist, as if he were trying to help her across the parking lot of the Catholic school. Wink. Wink. I watched this while sitting at a stoplight across from the school and little did I know that there was a party about to break out right there in the parking lot.

The school girl stopped. The priest stopped too and sat down on the pavement Indian style. The girl pushed on the top of her cast and it split in two. She removed the cast and straightened the folding legs that had been hiding inside. The cast formed a perfect little table and she set it right in front of the priest who by now was licking his leathery lips.

There was something I should have noticed right away but I didn’t because I was focused further up on the school girl's leg. You see wrapped around the school girl’s calf where the cast had been was a little bearded man. He clung to her calf like a Koala bear clinging to the trunk of a eucalyptus tree. He was slimy like a snail and his eyes were pale blue like those of the fish that live in t he deepest darkest depths of the ocean.

I was so intrigued that I got out of my car and left it at the stop light. Cars honked their horns. I reached behind my back and gave them the finger. "Fuck off, cocksuckers," I yelled.

As I drew closer I saw the tiny man was giving the Catholic school girl a hicky. She was up on her toes now writhing in ecstasy.

“That is so fucked up,” I said.

“Please don’t swear on church grounds,” the priest said. He had stripped down to his boxer briefs and was licking his thumb like a lollipop.

The tiny man unlocked his lips from the school girl's calf and then swung around the calf like a stripper doing a pole dance.

“He’s my little Jesus,” the girl said.

“That’s not Jesus,” I said.

The girl shrugged and took off her backpack. She removed a bottle of Grey Goose from the leather satchel, a martini shaker, olives, vermouth, and a baby bottle.

“What the Hell?” I said, sitting beside the priest.

The school girl mixed the Grey Goose and vermouth in the shaker and then poured the mixture into the baby bottle with four olives. The little Jesus or whoever he was had stopped spinning around her calf and clung now to the copious field of hair there like a baby opossum on its mother’s stomach. I wondered why she only shaved one calf but then I realized it must be to keep the little Jesus warm.

She handed the little Jesus the bottle and as he drank she stroked his tiny beard.

I stood and dusted off my suit. “I’ve got to get to work,” I said.

The little Jesus stopped drinking from his bottle. “Wait my son,” he said. I stopped and he removed a ticket from his loin cloth. “This is a free ticket to watch the Catholic school girl at the titty bar down the road.”

“Thanks but won’t I go to Hell?” I asked.

“You’re going anyway,” he said.

“Right,” I said, and took the ticket.

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:
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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... 

NEW BOOK

Here is a taste of my new book. It's not quite there yet but it will give you an idea of where I'm going and introduce the main character.

Trailer Trash

“Hurry up, come on Max, you have to get up,” Anna said, tugging at the collar of Max’s Hooters T-shirt. Yes, the same Hooters T-shirt he wore under his light blue Polo shirt when he won the Masters. He hadn’t washed the T-shirt since--for superstitious reasons of luck--and when he took it off and threw it on the floor next to his bed it would stand up on its own for a moment before it collapsed into a dirty heap like an old building.

“Get up now, Max,” Anna said more forcefully this time

Maxwell felt like Alice in Wonderland falling down that deep dark rabbit hole when her voice hit him first thing in the morning. In this black void he felt as if his soul had been sucked out his ear hole and deposited in a surreal world where unfortunately all was as it seemed; no dreams only the desolate dissimilarity of his life now and that of which he lived as a professional golfer.

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t how a superstar is supposed to wake up. Where’s the smell of freshly brewed coffee and frying bacon? Where’s the foot massage and--”

“Now!” Anna screamed

“Redrum, redrum,” Max said, trying in vane to roll over and hide under his leopard print comforter. His speech was still slightly slurred, as if he were speaking with a soggy washcloth in his cheek. It was difficult for anyone other than Anna to understand him and even she couldn’t make out everything he said, especially when he was agitated and began to speak more rapidly.

“That’s the worst imitation I’ve ever heard of that kid from the Shining movie,” Anna said.

“I doubt it’s the worst. I’ve studied that film extensively. Redrum, redrum.”

There was a violent flash of white light as Anna jerked the curtain open. Max felt like Dracula in a tanning bed; his severely white skin illuminated like the aluminum wing of a DC-47 under the fire of the morning sun.

“Redrum that you thankless lily white shit,” Anna said.

“Aren’t personal assistants supposed to listen to their bosses?” Max groaned.

“I work for you. You don’t own me.”

“I liked you better when you were just my caddie.”

“And I liked you better when you were a drunken druggy and winning every damn tournament you played in.”

“Yes…those were better times weren’t they?”

“Much better,” Ann said, “now come on.”

Anna hefted Max out of bed in one big scoop; his semi-functional erection was poking out of his pajamas like a tired prairie dog. He tried to hide this um…indiscretion behind his withered left hand but alas, since the stroke his central nervous system had been as uncooperative as a goat standing in a recycling bin full of tin cans, especially on the left side.

“What are you doing?” Anna demanded.

“Move damn it move,” Max yelled at his hand.

“Are you trying to masturbate while I’m carrying you?”

“No! For God’s sake I was just trying to cover—“

But it was too late. Anna dropped Max on the hard trailer floor and when he landed the reverberation echoed throughout the aluminum shell of their white trash home and up through the shrunken husk that was his body. He lay with his nose buried in the foul orange shag carpet, twisted and filthy strands of the artificial fiber half an inch deep in each of his nostrils. The carpet was seasoned with the varying personal odors of its previous tenants and Max was pretty sure he could distinguish several of these odors which included; cigar, old shoe, luncheon meat, dog dirt, and sauerkraut.

“Pahhh,” was the sound that came out of Max’s mouth as he jerked his head from the carpet gasping for breath. He was pretty sure that he had contracted some illness, that some latent germ--lying in waiting like a special forces soldier--in the forest of carpet fibers had hopped into his nose and had made his way straight to his brain.

“You’re a pervert,” Anna said, standing over Max with her arms folded over her chest.

Max laid pathetically on the floor twitching like a gunshot pigeon. Silently he cursed his existence and hers. He hated his life, the walls of their aluminum abode served only as a sinister reminder of the life that he’d lost. The Windstorm 3000 was their seventh “home” in eight months. They had stayed one step ahead of Botis Dorjan but he knew they couldn’t outrun him forever and just then he didn’t give a rat’s ass.

“Well, are you going to pick me up or do you want to watch me struggle for a half hour trying to get up in the mini-Ferrari?”

“I want to watch you struggle.”

“Come on love lips, help me up.”

“Max, one of these days I’m just going to walk out on you,” she said, hoisting him up.

Max could feel her biceps, as big as avocados poking into my back. She propped him up in the plush hand tooled leather seat of his electric wheelchair which he had affectionately named the mini-Ferrari. A golf mechanic friend of Max’s had modified the clunky Panther X71, replacing the standard electric motor with a Kawasaki Prairie 650 Twin-V engine, the wimpy utilitarian wheels with thick knobby radials and tricked out rims and had installed a satellite radio and MP3 player. His buddy figured he needed the power of an ATV engine and the slick turning radius of the Panther and knew with Max’s money that he’d enjoy the other pimping he’d done to the wheelchair. He was right. It saved Max’s ass more than once and looked damn slick for a wheelchair but he had his share of spills on it and almost killed himself when he drove it into the bathroom one time to brush his teeth, the engine still running. He had shut the door and was inhaling carbon monoxide from the engine. Luckily, Anna found him slumped over the sink and gave me CPR. Anna thought it was a suicide attempt, a cry for help.

“Thank-you for being human. Now how about a sambuca and coffee sweet thing?” Max said

“The doctor said no caffeine. Do you want to die in this skuzzy trailer home?”

“I’ve been chatting with the Grim Reaper a lot lately. He seems to have a good retirement plan. It includes full dental and health…not that you’d need either one of those in his company but it’s good to have the peace of mind when the big Styrofoam hammer comes down.”

“Styrofoam hammer?”

“It’s a clown’s world my dear.”

“Yeah, and you’re the ring leader.”

The top of Anna’s Polo shirt was gapped open and being in addition to an invalid a full time pervert Max couldn’t resist a lascivious gander. Bingo. Silicone valley and not a bad job at that but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was Tupperware under her shirt, they were too perfect, too perky and so hard they didn’t jiggle not even when she ran. He was sure she bought them with the money from one of her tour victories but he hadn’t worked up the guts to ask her yet. He’d made it one of his goals in life to one day hang from them like a spider monkey and suckle them in a fit of sexual fury. She would be his. Oh, yes she would. He felt it like one feels icy pool water on their testicles when they slowly wade in the shallow end.

“Max, you need a haircut,” Anna said, as she cracked eggs and dumped them onto a frying pan.

“You stay away from my hair,” Max said, running a gnarled hand through his mullet.

He had to watch Anna around his locks. She’d wanted to cut his mullet ever since she’d signed on as his caddy. Her claim was that the mullet had gone the way of other 1980’s fads like the Swatch, jelly shoes, and parachute pants. Max only half joked that he was gaining momentum for the new mullet movement that he was sure would take over the land one day and he, being a founding father would control the course of hair history and his name would be spoken synonymously with the mullet and remembered as such famous hairdo duos as the Afro and Jimi Hendrix, Vince Lombardi and the flattop, and the Elvis and the pompadour. Anna felt the out of style mullet made him look like a redneck. Max told her, “I look like Jon Daily in the mid nineties when he won the US Open.” It was true John Daily still had a mullet and had kept the

“Max that hair is so passé. I mean the only guys that have hair like that anymore look like eighties rejects. You’d look a lot better if you just shaved your head,” Anna said.

“Better? I’d look like a wet baby bald eagle.”

Anna smiled and Max was transported to the gap between her two front teeth where he happily wedged himself, losing himself in the beauty of her happiness. Drool spilled out of the side of my mouth.

“The UPS man stopped. There’s a package in the dining room for you,” Anna said.

A coldness like a wet horse blanket covered Max and he shivered.

“Wow, they’re really starting to deliver early,” I said.

“It’s almost noon.”

“Uh, right I meant early for a trailer park,” Max said.

“For a trailer park?”

Max didn’t answer he had started the mini-Ferrari and driven into the dinning room to retrieve the package.

“I told you not to start that thing in the house,” Anna yelled.

“How do you want me to get around?” Max shouted back.

“How about wheeling yourself around like a normal person in a wheelchair?”

Exhaust spewed out of the mini-Ferraris exhaust pipe quickly filling the tiny trailer home so Max cut the engine. He started to hack unmercifully and nearly fell out of the mini-Ferrari.

“I told you not to turn that thing on in here,” Anna said.

She had a washcloth over her mouth and tried with one arm to push the window open over the kitchen sink.

He gazed at the package fearful of what laid inside. It was a nondescript brown paper job like all the others, about the size of an unabridged dictionary with no return address. Each on he was sure held the message he’d been fearing ever since he’d signed on with Botis Dorjan and Pravus golf.

“Fuck it,” Max said.

With great effort--for his body was still extremely weak from the stroke--he cut away at the packaging tape with the scissors attachment of his Leatherman and a few minutes later was able to peel the flaps back.

“Oh, my God,” Max said.

“What is it?” Anna asked.

“Nothing,” he said, pushing the flaps of the box shut.

“Is that another pair of underwear from one of your groupies?”

“Uh, yeah underwear,” Max said.

“These women are ridiculous,” Anna said.

“Who said they were from a woman,” Max said and smiled like he meant it.

Anna couldn’t help herself she giggled. Max made her feel good and he knew this. She wouldn’t hurt a hair on his mullet.

In his mind Max saw a physical showdown, two nude bodies charging at each other from across the landscape of freshly made bed, the flicker of candlelight in the background as their flesh clapped together, their tongues like great pink serpents met. Something stirred in Max’s shorts.

“What’s wrong with you?” Anna asked.

“Wrong?” Max said.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing. It’s the exhaust from the mini-Ferrari.”

“Whatever. I have to go to the grocery store. Can you behave yourself while I’m gone?” Anna asked.

“Yes mother,” Max said.

He enjoyed the alone time when Anna went to the store. It allowed him to get into things he knew she would disapprove of including his stash of high end titty magazines.

I don’t have full motion on my left side yet. The doctor said I should recover a good portion of mobility on my left side and one day I might be able to speak so someone other than Anna can understand me. Even she still has trouble sometimes when I get agitated or too excited. I still wear a notepad around my neck to scribble notes on.

I don't need you. I found Jesus

I’m on the golf course. No this isn’t an opening line it is the truth. There is the sun and the ripple lines caused by the heat of the day shimmering across the macadam of the golf cart path. I take a pull from my bottle of Gatorade and in the distance I hear the hiss of brakes of the trucks hauling rock from the nearby quarry. It is so fucking hot that I’m sure in the next instant Satan will rise from the brown flower bed by the first green but he doesn’t and for this at least I am relieved.

My ball lies ten or twelve feet away from the hole. I have an awkward right to left putt on my hands and there is probably a measly one in five chance I will sink the little bastard but this doesn’t rile me in the slightest. I’ve always spit in the face of odds when he’s laying my bet, chose the last place horse after he’s already lost, picked the woman with the far away eyes and someone else’s name tattooed on her back.

Negative thoughts out. Good thoughts in. Negative thoughts out. Good thoughts in. Tick tock. Tick Tock. That’s the rhythm of my putter going back and then forward. I hit the ball and the little white sphere grudgingly starts off its journey towards the hole.

Hmm, nice I think as the ball peels towards the hole. Could it be? Yes, I believe it is. Plunk. The ball drops.

“Ouch!”

I drop my putter. Did someone just say “Ouch!”? I could swear it is so.

The ball pops out of the hole and now I am really freaked out. I fear the hole is possessed with some demon, some soul sucking leech from the netherworld. If I were religious I would take out my holy water and douse the hole accordingly but alas I have but my putter, my wallet, and a pocket full of change. We these crude implements I make for the hole, putter in hand, ready to bash whatever has possessed the golf hole.

“Show your face,” I say.

“I can’t,” the voice says.

“Do you not have a face?” I say poking my putter at the hole.

“Yes, of course I have a face but I’m not tall enough to get out of the hole.”

“A likely answer. How do I know you won’t throw acid in my eyes? Stab at me with some sort of pungi-stick tipped with wasp and hornet killer and render my eyes useless balls of salty liquid.”

“You have an overactive imagination. I only want to get out of this hole.”

“Is this hole a metaphor for life?”

“No you idiot it is a place where I have fallen and can’t get out of.”

“Okay, sounds reasonable,” I say.

Ever so cautiously I lean over the hole and look inside. There stands a miniature man not five inches high. He is bearded and wears a long flowing robe. I reach in with the grip of my putter, hook the little man’s robe with the end and gently lift him up, out and onto the green.

“Thank-you my son,” he says as he dusts himself off.

“Right,” I say. “What were you doing in that hole?”

“I fell in and couldn’t get out.”

He's wearing very high platform shoes--glittery red ones--that look as if he hijacked them from a pimp.

“Right, you said that. Are you going to grant me any wishes?” I ask.

“No wishes.”

“No wishes! A pot of gold?”

“No pot of gold.”

“Well then maybe I should throw you back in,” I say and poke at the little man with my putter, coaxing him back towards the hole.

“Stop that,” he cries. “In me you have something more important than wishes.”

I stop poking.

“Yeah, what’s that? Money?”

“Salvation.”

“Salvation?”

“Yes, you’ve found Jesus.”

“Jesus was in a golf hole?”

“He is wherever you go. Or rather I am wherever you go and so is the old man.”

“Metaphor?”

“Yeah, but I did sacrifice myself for your sins.”

“So you say but you’re still here.”

“Sometimes I make appearances,” he says and for some reason does a cartwheel which I think is really fucking weird but impressive in the red platform shoes.

“Well, why didn’t you come around in a normal size,” I ask.

“I needed you to find me.”

A shadow cuts through the sunlight overhead. There is a squawk and before I can react a hawk soars down across the green, grabs the little man in his talons and soars off.

“That is so fucked up,” I say.

I stand on the first green for a moment.

“Hey buddy what the hell are you doing up there?” A portly man in pastel blue shorts yells.

It’s a group of golfers behind me growing impatient.

“I found Jesus,” I say.

“Where is he now?” the guy asks and laughs as do his friends.

“A hawk got him.”

“Did you hear that boys? A hawk got him. He found Jesus and then he lost him.”

“It’s not funny. I think we ought to go look for him.”

“You go look for him. We want to play golf,” he says.

I give him the finger and then make for the brambles where I last saw the hawk fly. I think that maybe if I hurry I can save Jesus.

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

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