April 12, 2014

The Shirt Off My Back

Or: “Upon Seeing a Man Wearing My Shirt.”

I was told there was just one; that it was forged by the hands of a blind seamstress with a cursed needle made from the bones foraged from the rubbish bins of a concentration camp and from a thread spun by spiders who feed exclusively off of the bodies of lame orphans. I was told all of this, Eeba, and I was told the seamstress perished in a quite explainable fire, where once she completed her terrible work, she doused herself with kerosene and set the candle, which lit her room, not for her sake or the sake of the snow white, useless orbs that sat in her sockets, but for the sake of the shadows, who still need the light, though they despise it so, to haunt, at her feet. The candle is what she placed at her feet, that is, to set herself ablaze. And this is why- or so I was told- there was only one. When I pulled the shirt from the skelequin- that’s a skeleton playing the role as mannequin, as I am sure you surmised- I was disgusted by the garment. I nearly threw it to the side, to the dogs that guarded the dressing rooms to insure only those who paid the quarter were allowed to peep on the nude bodies within. I nearly did that, but some diminutive elf-like creature stopped me and she said, “oh, but would you do that to a one-and-only?” I certainly couldn’t, so I bought it from that wretched store- Kohl’s, I believe it was; such a demonic name- and so you can imagine, that seeing that shirt again, on the back of another man, that I bristle. I feel lied to. I feel cheated. At the very least, I feel indignant that, if indeed my shirt was a one-and-only, that this man would pass himself off as something he is not with a forgery. Or perhaps it is pity that I should feel, that he was taken in by such a forgery- a fine forgery, no doubt- but a forgery nonetheless.

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April 11, 2014

Do You Know Who I Am?

As the nurse entered the hospital room, the patient turned to her and asked, “do you know who I am?” The nurse shook her head and to the other nurse already in the room, she said, “so the mystery patient still has amnesia, eh?”

The other nurse answered her, “no, he just remembered he was rich.”

And then…and then…

And then the two nurses pulled out cleavers and slaughtered him, chanting, “Class war, class war, class war” as the lights flickered and the howls of the workers echoed down the hospital hall and rang in the ears of the man.

And the man’s head, now sitting in a bedpan, held his lifeless eyes, but still chattering teeth. “Do you know who I am,” the head continued as it was carried down to hell on the back of a massive worm. And then…

And then…and there it sat, stuck on a fence post- one of many fence posts, each with its own head fitted atop it- and it was turned away from the other heads, its nose pressed against a brick wall, its teeth still chattering, the head still asking the brick wall, “do you know who I am?” And for eternity, the brick wall will say nothing. 

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April 3, 2014
I don’t think I’d mind living forever. In fact, I think I’d relish resenting it.
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March 19, 2014

My music

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March 18, 2014

Hey I’m going to Seattle for a few days!

Murder City Devils - Press Gang

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March 8, 2014

Unholy Macaroni

The pews were rather empty this beautiful Spring day and the pastor thought it unlikely they were all just outside enjoying His gift of sunshine and butterflies. So he placed the Bible under his arm and he marched down the aisle and pushed open the heavy wooden door and the saw his flock, all of them- men, women, children- laying in the grass, face down, the earth smothering their tears.

"What’s going on out here," he boomed. Then the smacking noise began once more and he witnessed to his left, sitting at the small picnic table on the church lawn, a slightly chubby, but not especially large man eating a tub of macaroni salad with a small plastic fork. His lips smacked and he glared into the pastor’s face, his eyes burrowing deep into the chubby red cheeks. The pastor was aghast.

He bent at the knee and he lifted the head of a weeping, cowardly war veteran and he asked him, “what’s going on out here?” The man urinated in his Sunday best. The pastor dropped the trembling heap in disgust and immediately felt the shame in this un-Christlike act.

"Is there nobody here who can answer me," he asked his parishioners. But there was nothing. He pointed at the man sitting at the picnic table, who had now moved onto another tub of macaroni salad and he said, "explain yourself!" But the man just stared blankly into the pastor’s face as he consumed the lukewarm macaroni salad.

Infuriated, the pastor approached the man, but felt some demonic force begin to overtake him when he saw the pile of emptied macaroni salad tubs sitting at the man’s feet underneath the picnic table. He stumbled back and fell onto the grass and he felt compelled to weep, but the strength of Christ and the Holy Bible underneath his arm righted him. He rose again and the Bible held out like a shield, he approached the man at the picnic table and he said, “be gone, demon.” But the man just smacked his lips and chewed his macaroni salad.

The pastor shook with rage as he raised his Bible and yelled, “be gone, you wretched demon. This is a church!” The unholy defiance, the blasphemous, revolting smacking of the lips, and the wanton gluttony all mocked the pastor. And the eyes of the man at the picnic table just burrowed deeper into his fleshy face.

The grotesque horror was too much. The pastor collapsed to his knees, the compulsion to weep and curse God’s name overcame him and he buried his face into the green grass. The smacking stopped and the man at the picnic table rose. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and he left the church grounds.

When his body was but a mere black spot on the horizon, the church members and their pastor rose from their prone positions and wiped the tears from their eyes and the snot from their upper lips and they begin to clear away the empty tubs of macaroni salad. They wiped the table clean of the goo and they tossed his plastic fork into a storm drain. They entered the church and one by one, they renounced their faiths and resolved to live as solitary animals in the woods, sustaining themselves on insects, flowers, barks, and whatever garbage washed up in the creek. When they were done, they exited the church and headed separate ways, all of them- men, women, and children. The pastor stood alone in his church and dousing himself in kerosene, he set his robes ablaze. He burned and then after his body, the church.

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March 2, 2014

Me Pants: What’s All This Then?

So I sat there by the window observing the gaping hole between the legs of me pants and I wondered aloud to the speckled bird who spat a slew of slimy worm guts into her little chirpers’ mouths: “what’s all this then?” ‘Twas then I remembered the night before!

And so I ran from the coppers, bounding over brooding bums and brilliantly sparkling broken bottles and I happened upon a corner from where no escape was possible, save for up by way of magical flight, or more reasonably, up and over the razorwire fence which guarded, presumably a pot o’ gold. Resigned to nothing but victory and escape, I made my sausage fingers into sausage claws and climbed up the fence and that is what must have happened! I evaded the police, yes, but at the cost of a cotton crotch. A small price to pay to stay out of the clink, I’d say.

But examining the hole in me pants I couldn’t help but feel this re-telling was incomplete or maybe incorrect altogether. So I pounded a pint and then the memories swelled— all of them. I punched away the face of warty Mathilde, my old love and I kicked back the bilious ghost face of my abusive, alcoholic father, whose accursed affliction, by way of genes and education, now afflicts me, and stared into to the dripping wet snout of a mean mutt. Ah-ha! So it was the case that I had climbed that razorwire fence, but indeed, had done it so well I came out unscathed; that is, until the dog approached me, presumably guarding that pot o’ gold. ‘Twas no rainbow leading there, I’d say, but only a murky gray, spotted black. But the memory of this dog now comes back entirely and I see his foaming mouth at my crotch and no, this wasn’t Mathilde sneaking her way back into my mind, no, this happened last night. My god, this was it then. This dog went to tear the genitals from my body but only got me pants! Guess I was lucky then.

So I sat by the edge of my bed mourning the loss of me pants to the vicious bite of that beast, but thanking God it was just the pants when I took another sip and yet more memories flooded back, all of which I battled; swatted away Gregor the Holy Bugman, who I met that painful afternoon in the park, playing hooky and since then, never missing a class on anything or for any reason and there’re those nuns, who took to swatting me away when I had a grievance to air. Oh, but what’s this— yes, me pants once again. Now it’s clearer and my goodness, these pants, I hadn’t been wearing at all last night. Ah, there in the corner of my room, I see now me pants from last night. Yes, torn up by razorwire and dog teeth, but what about these ones? Where did this hole come from?

Ah, life’s little mysteries! Ah, me pants!

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February 17, 2014

Ask Me…

About the Bible

"Hey, what would it have been like to sail on the Ark?"

What would it have been like to have sailed on the Ark? Well, I imagine- I’d like to imagine, at least- that like any vessel out to sea for a long while, there’d be a lot of homosexuality. Of course, there’d be bestiality; how could there not? I imagine- I’d like to imagine, at least- that the origins of the cryptozoological wonder we affectionately call “Big Foot” (or “Sasquatch,” if you can even pronounce that), spawned from an inter-species sexual encounter between a beautiful female ape and one of Noah’s strapping sons. I don’t think you’ll find that in the Bible though. At least not any I didn’t write.

Thanks for your time, Readers.

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February 11, 2014

Happy Birthday to My Blog

Apparently today is the sixth year of my Tumblr’s existence. 

I have nothing to mark this occasion with. I assure you though, that the funeral will be quite memorable.

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February 9, 2014
Talk shit, slam forties. I know that life. I used to roll like that. Roll hard. But the problem with rolling is gravity; that is to say: high gravity. And when you roll in high gravity, you go downhill— and fast!
Carlos Segundo
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