...just clearing out the October folder...next week will be better
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
shoedoom
From afar it could be seen. Flames licked the sky over New Old Brumpton.
She decided it then, when the house burned down, then blew over, and her neighbor's dog came out of nowhere and bit her. She was standing in the street, random bits of newspaper piling up at her bare feet, her cold bare feet. Cars were whizzing by and she almost got hit, even as the flames reached out from her sunken living room and tickled her naked toes. Enough is enough, thought Marjorie. All of her stuff was on fire, including her mother's asbestos orthopedic pumps. Enough, she wept, again. And this, which she said aloud to no one in particular, but the dog may have heard it and used the defiant tones as an attack cue: “I am going to destroy this world!”
It was a new dawn for Marjorie. All her life she had been stepped on and used. Her family only called when they needed a car to haul dirt in. Her coworkers used her desk, which was really just a shelf, to store the coffee maker and supplies on. And her boyfriend, who moved all his junk into her living room but lived with his secretary because she was one block closer to the subway. He was really going to be upset when he learned his 70's album collection had melted. Marjorie was not going to take any more shit from anyone, especially not this fire thing. “Fuck you fire. I'm going to find out the source of all your power, and I will take you out!” Then with her new found power of rage, Marjorie smote down her neighbor's dog. They watched, horrified, from the kitchen window as Marjorie walked down the middle of the street, their pet pekinese turned inside out and spewing internal gunk onto the fire warmed sidewalk.
The morning news told the story from several eyewitnesses. Calls went out late, as the neighbors didn't bother to phone emergency services until they realized her burning house might effect their ability to collect Marjorie's morning paper. The firetruck didn't come down the street until the fire had thoroughly done its job, and Marjorie met it at the corner. The driver saw her at the last instant and swerved, took out a telephone pole then came to a shuddering halt. Marjorie stomped up to the door and ripped it off the hinges. She pulled the captain down from his seat and consumed him in one gulp. Then she slammed her hands down on the truck, sending it rolling up the hill where it bowled down a large estate and came to rest in the garden fountain. The butler and several ornamental carp were instantly killed.
Marjorie was not a particularly pretty woman, but she did have a normal human human body with all the usual lady parts. Damnation, she was sick and tired of sitting alone on weekends wondering if Hank would come by to put a needle in her record player. A reporter from the Daily Flop got the scoop from Gentleman Erv's Bar and Swill: 'We heard this ruckus from out the door, you know. It was a kaboom, like some big ole cannon, and then the door is stoved in and this lady glowing with righteous indignation comes a'barrelin' in and she screws every guy in the place.' Apparently Marjorie then drank a keg of the best stuff and proceeded to dismantle the building with her breasts. 'When she left we cried. She was the best **** I ever had.'
Helicopters and army reserve tanks followed Marjorie for two days as she walked around the town swearing at sign posts and looking under hills for the source of fire. She entered the local Family Grockery and Condom Hut to pick up a six pack of Dr. Pepper, and when they refused to give her a rain check, because they were out, Marjorie poked holes in all the shrink wrapped hamburger and wove 200 shopping carts into a sculpture of Wink Martindale. She ate the brains of the stock crew for a snack, and found them wanting. So she drank from the tear ducts of the teenage cashiers and found them remorseless. “What kind of world is this?” Marjorie lamented.
Finally, on the third day, the president came to the town in Air Force One to survey the damage, and to appeal to Marjorie's better senses. He flew in with a full retinue of congressmen as well as a family of lookalike stand-ins. By that time Marjorie had dug a deep hole into the side of Mount Receding Hairline and was piling boulders onto Main Street. “I am a glacier!” she shouted to the blackbirds. Everyone else had run away.
The president protected by a force field neared her, and then he spoke these words that he himself had written just moments early, “Marjorie. We wish you would stop being such a bitch.”
Marjorie heard these words and she thought about the words carefully. The president was elected by the people, and he was wise. Marjorie thought very hard, then she reached up into the sky and pulled down every blackbird. She tied all of the bird feet together making them into a conglomeration of winged fury that could transcend the universe, then she attached them to the president's force field with a piece of ire-fused hosiery and lifted the entire mass into the atmosphere, where to this day they circle the cosmos.
But the words struck a chord in her, and she wondered about the fire, and how it had destroyed her home, and how it burned to the ground, leaving nothing but a charred shoe. A shoe.
“Marjorie?” It was the tiny voice of a girl, the dwarf daughter of the President of the United States, the first reluctant astronaut president. She was by a newly enacted 28th amendment to the Constitution now the President of the United States, being the first born of a reigning President who somehow begins orbiting the Earth. “Marjorie, I know how you are hurting,” said Queen President Agnes, “and I would gladly give all of my newly bestowed powers to right this wrong, this horrible deed that has befallen you.”
Marjorie sat on the lawn with her splayed legs pointing east and northeast. She thought about being six, and her doll. And sandwiches.
“But Marjorie,” continued Agnes in a strong voice, “I won't do that, because I want you to be my vice president!” Agnes held up Marjorie's smoldering shoe and fell to one knee, presenting the charred pump to the fury of New Old Brumpton.
She belched as she received the shoe, then smeared the entire retinue over the blacktop with a solid backhand. And with her one shoe and a limp, Marjorie proclaimed for all to hear, “To hell with that, I'm going to eat the world.”
She decided it then, when the house burned down, then blew over, and her neighbor's dog came out of nowhere and bit her. She was standing in the street, random bits of newspaper piling up at her bare feet, her cold bare feet. Cars were whizzing by and she almost got hit, even as the flames reached out from her sunken living room and tickled her naked toes. Enough is enough, thought Marjorie. All of her stuff was on fire, including her mother's asbestos orthopedic pumps. Enough, she wept, again. And this, which she said aloud to no one in particular, but the dog may have heard it and used the defiant tones as an attack cue: “I am going to destroy this world!”
It was a new dawn for Marjorie. All her life she had been stepped on and used. Her family only called when they needed a car to haul dirt in. Her coworkers used her desk, which was really just a shelf, to store the coffee maker and supplies on. And her boyfriend, who moved all his junk into her living room but lived with his secretary because she was one block closer to the subway. He was really going to be upset when he learned his 70's album collection had melted. Marjorie was not going to take any more shit from anyone, especially not this fire thing. “Fuck you fire. I'm going to find out the source of all your power, and I will take you out!” Then with her new found power of rage, Marjorie smote down her neighbor's dog. They watched, horrified, from the kitchen window as Marjorie walked down the middle of the street, their pet pekinese turned inside out and spewing internal gunk onto the fire warmed sidewalk.
The morning news told the story from several eyewitnesses. Calls went out late, as the neighbors didn't bother to phone emergency services until they realized her burning house might effect their ability to collect Marjorie's morning paper. The firetruck didn't come down the street until the fire had thoroughly done its job, and Marjorie met it at the corner. The driver saw her at the last instant and swerved, took out a telephone pole then came to a shuddering halt. Marjorie stomped up to the door and ripped it off the hinges. She pulled the captain down from his seat and consumed him in one gulp. Then she slammed her hands down on the truck, sending it rolling up the hill where it bowled down a large estate and came to rest in the garden fountain. The butler and several ornamental carp were instantly killed.
Marjorie was not a particularly pretty woman, but she did have a normal human human body with all the usual lady parts. Damnation, she was sick and tired of sitting alone on weekends wondering if Hank would come by to put a needle in her record player. A reporter from the Daily Flop got the scoop from Gentleman Erv's Bar and Swill: 'We heard this ruckus from out the door, you know. It was a kaboom, like some big ole cannon, and then the door is stoved in and this lady glowing with righteous indignation comes a'barrelin' in and she screws every guy in the place.' Apparently Marjorie then drank a keg of the best stuff and proceeded to dismantle the building with her breasts. 'When she left we cried. She was the best **** I ever had.'
Helicopters and army reserve tanks followed Marjorie for two days as she walked around the town swearing at sign posts and looking under hills for the source of fire. She entered the local Family Grockery and Condom Hut to pick up a six pack of Dr. Pepper, and when they refused to give her a rain check, because they were out, Marjorie poked holes in all the shrink wrapped hamburger and wove 200 shopping carts into a sculpture of Wink Martindale. She ate the brains of the stock crew for a snack, and found them wanting. So she drank from the tear ducts of the teenage cashiers and found them remorseless. “What kind of world is this?” Marjorie lamented.
Finally, on the third day, the president came to the town in Air Force One to survey the damage, and to appeal to Marjorie's better senses. He flew in with a full retinue of congressmen as well as a family of lookalike stand-ins. By that time Marjorie had dug a deep hole into the side of Mount Receding Hairline and was piling boulders onto Main Street. “I am a glacier!” she shouted to the blackbirds. Everyone else had run away.
The president protected by a force field neared her, and then he spoke these words that he himself had written just moments early, “Marjorie. We wish you would stop being such a bitch.”
Marjorie heard these words and she thought about the words carefully. The president was elected by the people, and he was wise. Marjorie thought very hard, then she reached up into the sky and pulled down every blackbird. She tied all of the bird feet together making them into a conglomeration of winged fury that could transcend the universe, then she attached them to the president's force field with a piece of ire-fused hosiery and lifted the entire mass into the atmosphere, where to this day they circle the cosmos.
But the words struck a chord in her, and she wondered about the fire, and how it had destroyed her home, and how it burned to the ground, leaving nothing but a charred shoe. A shoe.
“Marjorie?” It was the tiny voice of a girl, the dwarf daughter of the President of the United States, the first reluctant astronaut president. She was by a newly enacted 28th amendment to the Constitution now the President of the United States, being the first born of a reigning President who somehow begins orbiting the Earth. “Marjorie, I know how you are hurting,” said Queen President Agnes, “and I would gladly give all of my newly bestowed powers to right this wrong, this horrible deed that has befallen you.”
Marjorie sat on the lawn with her splayed legs pointing east and northeast. She thought about being six, and her doll. And sandwiches.
“But Marjorie,” continued Agnes in a strong voice, “I won't do that, because I want you to be my vice president!” Agnes held up Marjorie's smoldering shoe and fell to one knee, presenting the charred pump to the fury of New Old Brumpton.
She belched as she received the shoe, then smeared the entire retinue over the blacktop with a solid backhand. And with her one shoe and a limp, Marjorie proclaimed for all to hear, “To hell with that, I'm going to eat the world.”
Sunday, November 13, 2011
election day
There are no Stragglers on the moon. Yes, I know. Everyone has seen the hundred foot view screens across the facade of their local EZ Shoppe. I myself have witnessed the gritty footage shot with hand held wrist cams. I've seen oxygen hoodies ripped from the innocent heads of nuns and orphans. But listen – I am here to tell you it's a hoax. All you have seen is staged to propagate inherent fears of moon invasions. Remember the 50's and your great grandparent's fear of UFO's? Or the the Y2K bug? Did your mentors not program into your Flixon Roll-ups the Martian pebble virus of twenty ten? Well, did any of that come to fruition? No, that is not an artificial snack made of colored beet paste! How many casualties have you heard of in the war against UFO's? Did anyone actually get even a head cold or throat tickle from that Y2K bug? No! And the Martian virus, just like the current Straggler Invasion, was a farce. Has your sister ever seen a Straggler? Do you really fear that she will fall to their smarmy come ons and bear toothy big heads? Grow your own cerebral cortex, people. Come out of your illuminated tunnel towers, put down those vegetable cake forks and realize that carrots do not naturally taste like chocolate. For heaven's sake, vote down proposition 99/3. All the 99s are crap designed to keep you and your children under the thumb of Moon State Tech. Maybe everyone you know works for MST. That doesn't mean you have to allow them to tell you what to think. You sir, you can hold your own dick while you pee! Ma'am, you have the right to choose your own brand of spermatozoa! Go for natural instead of prepackaged. Kids, you're old enough to vote – stay out of the pleasure tents on election day. Don't you know that they're only open on Tuesday because that is where your leaders want you to spend all your eligible electing hours? I repeat: vote against proposition 99/3. There is not one shred of evidence that a straggler community even exists on our moon, let alone the idiotic thought that they would have any inkling or ability to invade Earth. Look at our defenses, the stars are so diffused by the curvature of the deflection tiles that we can barely see them anymore. For crying quietly in a hat, how would an invasion force even navigate the criss-cross beams from orbital solar disks? When was the last time any of you even saw a worm or common black ant? Our soil is bankrupt, who would want to invade a sterile planet? The moon has more oxygen and water than we do. The dust there has been converted to loam where pork chops grow, polar ice caps circulate frozen water through self serve tubes that can be heated in a pot and served chilled, or mixed into powder bags for easy nutrition. The Moonies have everything we used to have, and they hold the record for most consecutive flips during free fall. Their government is doled out via vending machines! Put your hand into your pocket. You sir, what is in your pocket? A dime? Remember when your government printed paper money and you didn't have to weigh yourself down with a roll of dimes? Isn't gravity hard enough without plastic coins? A dollar used to buy enough beansteak to feed you and your issued child for an entire day, now it takes twenty dimes to buy crustless boodle. And the defective stitching in your trousers, those same pants bought with your dimes from Moon Tech, causes such an enormous loss in civilian coinage that any ground hugging weasel on Main Street can become a hundredaire in a week. They collect your fallen dimes and flip them into Klantien fiber for their space needles to the sky. Ha! It's the moon that should fear an alien invasion, not the other way around. So what will you do on Tuesday? Dip your feet in a suspect pond and wiggle your toes at the minnows that your leaders manufactured for your so called “good”? Come on men, take off those helmets, the fog isn't really tainted with germs like you're told. And that murmur pumping through the speakers might boost your self esteem, but from the outside you look like blundering mushrooms with twitchy fingers. Everyone, all you women and children, all of you transplants in wheelie terrariums, don't let the authorities steer you toward a fake voting capsule. Do your homework, every organism on this planet is entitled a vote. Bring your cats! Even that pill bug family at the bottom of your nano-compactor is eligible; see amendment 2564. The DNA skirmish at the turn of the century wasn't for nothing. Look up, if you can move your necks. Are those orbiting tombs of the fallen nothing to you? They fought for us all, for you and all your ecosystem. We live on this planet, you and you. And you! Do not fall for any shenanigans, put down proposition 99/3 and tell Moon State where to stick it.
This has been a counter message from the Society to Quell Nonexistent Threats Division of Moon State Tech. It is our duty to air our lies, and your obligation to be informed of these lies. This message will be displayed for an average time of twelve minutes every day starting today until tonight until every organism on the rotating planet of Earth has had the opportunity to view it. And so it goes, amendment 2465: There, you had your chance (you probably blew it).
Message over. Thank you. Vote for proposition 99/3.
This has been a counter message from the Society to Quell Nonexistent Threats Division of Moon State Tech. It is our duty to air our lies, and your obligation to be informed of these lies. This message will be displayed for an average time of twelve minutes every day starting today until tonight until every organism on the rotating planet of Earth has had the opportunity to view it. And so it goes, amendment 2465: There, you had your chance (you probably blew it).
Message over. Thank you. Vote for proposition 99/3.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
#5: Of the Treason of Hastius X.
Now, emerging from a delicate spurge
Thronging the disquiet
So dispassionately dismissed an age beyond
From the union of said disquiet
And mossy stump,
Forthwith emerges the bane of Hastius X
He, X, who then did doth his cap to Aardvark
Once glorious king to Pestilence.
Then he did dispatch of Him
To the disquiet what then did hatch an egg
From the conglobation of the Three
Presented thusly to their liege
In a letter writ and sealed
The disposed King of Pestilence -
Measure for Measure - who haunted He, X
And closeted Miffla with regret of her daughter
Unnamed, the witch.
~
While it then ravaged the land of Pestilence,
The colossus of X, his surly spawn the witch
Who hath taken on a name upon herself
Fatalya
And to her breast this loathsome, winsome wretch
Gathered to her the maid of another house
Crocus, whosoever looked upon her
Shuddered, befallen in perpetuity with a kind of lust
A wild kneed reproach to life
Sated solely by a kiss from the flower.
And Fatalya stroked her hair and whispered spells
Into the golden braids, then set her, Crocus
Upon a dais of the Chaotic Wellsprings
The view from which his Castle, X, aspired
And He who did burn the fields of Pestilence
Under the great toe of the maladroit
Pined from a window for the lustrous Crocus
As did many
And the battle was begun.
~
Not to be outdone, Torquemala, orphan son of Pasty -
He who lay quiet, inflicted morbidly by betrayal, nether dirt
By X - stirred his spleen for revenge.
Marsha Queen of the Pie Plates who unbeknownst to herself
Or others, the exception being the witch, Fatalya
Arranged travel for Crocus who had an eye on Torquemala
Unto the witch, who said to she, Marsha
I will cast on this flower a spell to quiet her hungry eye
Which the witch then did, but heaped upon the spell
A plethora of incantations that could lead only to
Passionate treason in the Pestilent realm.
here be more, the history of Pestilence, one to four.
Thronging the disquiet
So dispassionately dismissed an age beyond
From the union of said disquiet
And mossy stump,
Forthwith emerges the bane of Hastius X
He, X, who then did doth his cap to Aardvark
Once glorious king to Pestilence.
Then he did dispatch of Him
To the disquiet what then did hatch an egg
From the conglobation of the Three
Presented thusly to their liege
In a letter writ and sealed
The disposed King of Pestilence -
Measure for Measure - who haunted He, X
And closeted Miffla with regret of her daughter
Unnamed, the witch.
~
While it then ravaged the land of Pestilence,
The colossus of X, his surly spawn the witch
Who hath taken on a name upon herself
Fatalya
And to her breast this loathsome, winsome wretch
Gathered to her the maid of another house
Crocus, whosoever looked upon her
Shuddered, befallen in perpetuity with a kind of lust
A wild kneed reproach to life
Sated solely by a kiss from the flower.
And Fatalya stroked her hair and whispered spells
Into the golden braids, then set her, Crocus
Upon a dais of the Chaotic Wellsprings
The view from which his Castle, X, aspired
And He who did burn the fields of Pestilence
Under the great toe of the maladroit
Pined from a window for the lustrous Crocus
As did many
And the battle was begun.
~
Not to be outdone, Torquemala, orphan son of Pasty -
He who lay quiet, inflicted morbidly by betrayal, nether dirt
By X - stirred his spleen for revenge.
Marsha Queen of the Pie Plates who unbeknownst to herself
Or others, the exception being the witch, Fatalya
Arranged travel for Crocus who had an eye on Torquemala
Unto the witch, who said to she, Marsha
I will cast on this flower a spell to quiet her hungry eye
Which the witch then did, but heaped upon the spell
A plethora of incantations that could lead only to
Passionate treason in the Pestilent realm.
here be more, the history of Pestilence, one to four.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
titanic lethargy
it means that the howling is unending
the plaintive rush of icy air
a flow of tentative fingers filling our pockets
wrapping tendrils of muted light over pursed lips.
Now it bulges, grows completely filling every space
even the obscure creases where we hid secrets,
but they're safe,
blemished, warped with age and depraved silence.
Chromium steel, tinged with radiant orange
builds from pitted woes, awed by a new sun.
The old lies rust in effigy while ancient laws reborn
defy gravity
hurl concentrically amid wagon wheel spokes
and burrow into the fruited lives of our elders.
Bestill, only the dust lives forever
even it swirls on an axis
of an others design.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Cheap thrills, cool cat
Tun-dun...dun dun dun...(and cue the typewriters clacking).
Today's Top News Story, by Mrs. Cleaver's brown Cat, on the Ten O'clock nightly news, with Sirrahn Rap.
“First, Meow!”
“Second, we have been led to believe that only on Blueberry Hill is there to be this thing, and we shall name it 'The Thrill', but this is perfectly insane.” editors note: this particular cat cannot say “preposterous”.
“Next” this cat it can also be said will not, because she is a cat, count higher than two. A dog, of course, can count to at least three, or sometimes four by mistake. Cat counting is unlimited, especially in multiples of mice. “There are thrills to be found in droves, by swatting flies.”
“After that, one must lick constantly. We in the supreme being world call this preening, and it is all everything, after snacks.”
“Thrills are overrated. Calm is to be expected and is the greatest joy in life. Blueberries are blue, and horrible, and hills are just too vertical.” This cat prefers carpeted scratching posts and feathers.
Tonight's editorial has been brought to you by Trixie Cat Bites and The Sun. Remember, The Sun will be going black for an hour tomorrow for technical upgrades to its Chromosphere. Plan accordingly and please dress in layers. This has been Sirrahn Rap with the Channel Ocho-Cinco Nightly News, have a bueno nacho.
Today's Top News Story, by Mrs. Cleaver's brown Cat, on the Ten O'clock nightly news, with Sirrahn Rap.
“First, Meow!”
“Second, we have been led to believe that only on Blueberry Hill is there to be this thing, and we shall name it 'The Thrill', but this is perfectly insane.” editors note: this particular cat cannot say “preposterous”.
“Next” this cat it can also be said will not, because she is a cat, count higher than two. A dog, of course, can count to at least three, or sometimes four by mistake. Cat counting is unlimited, especially in multiples of mice. “There are thrills to be found in droves, by swatting flies.”
“After that, one must lick constantly. We in the supreme being world call this preening, and it is all everything, after snacks.”
“Thrills are overrated. Calm is to be expected and is the greatest joy in life. Blueberries are blue, and horrible, and hills are just too vertical.” This cat prefers carpeted scratching posts and feathers.
Tonight's editorial has been brought to you by Trixie Cat Bites and The Sun. Remember, The Sun will be going black for an hour tomorrow for technical upgrades to its Chromosphere. Plan accordingly and please dress in layers. This has been Sirrahn Rap with the Channel Ocho-Cinco Nightly News, have a bueno nacho.
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