The Act of Political Correctness Undone
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the great clown Media, and his sordid but educated baboons, twist the truth to

the point of breaking/ they expose themselves by exposing you, me, and all the

other sorry-ass, deadbeat, loser ex movie star, axe murdering beauty queens

there are running loose these days/ it's not reality they're concerned about/ it's

entertainment value/ when not spying on the dirt in someone's backyard the great

clown Media constructs pedestals/ then he invites his groupie no-good friends to

go out and round up any would-be, wanna-be, i-used-to-be they can find to

hammer their nails into/ Media sells reverance/ Media sells image/ give him

someone photogenic with a skeleton or two or three and BANG! they're

celebrities/ they become institutions/ we know them/ we've always known them/

damn the truth of the matter/ even the sordid but educated baboons know

that noone gives a shit about the truth/ this, of course, only serves to wear me

down/ to make me not want to resist the conjured sleep/ not to mention, just the

least bit scumy/ Media knows exactly how i feel/ he feeds on it/ he banks on it...

the great instigator Media uses headlines to subjugate/ to illustrate his corrupted

point of view of being the only one capable of informing me of what you are

doing/ and you, of me/ his gaggle of pumped up reporters have carpeted the

countryside like so many jehovah's witnesses/ so, if you have anything to say to

the press, say it/ they'll make something up if you don't/ and don't give a second's

thought to how you'll be perceived/ they won't/ so what if they take something

you say out of context/ don't you get it yet? nobody gives a shit about the truth...

the conquering hero Media has come to brain-dead america's rescue/ again/ he

has taken the mundane laundry mat mentality and legitimized it/ MAN KILLS 400


FORMER WIFE'S EX-HUSBAND...the two are happy and healthy and expected

to live long and productive lives...WOMAN LOSES 265 POUNDS TO REVEAL


SHE WAS...gobbledy-gook and hogwash/ bullshit to the nth degree/ nothing -

and i mean nothing - is too far fetched anymore/ not the way it used to be, when

the world was young and people could still be shocked/ when denial wasn't so

hip and people didn't so readily accept things as being "just the way it is"/ Media's

mindless converts consider nothing sacred and breed like flies/ they permeate

the subways and bus stations, their noses buried in newspapers and magazines/

staring at their smart phones and computers/ standing in check out lanes, their

impulse buying further enhancing Media's expeditions into the absurd/ and on

and on it goes all across this great country of ours/ people with a stiff drink in one

hand and their remote in the other, believing everything their tv tells them/ and

when the pretty girl with the perfect haircut stops talking, any concern about

whether or not she was telling the truth isn't even an issue/ not only did she look

good when she said whatever it was she said, but (and i know you've heard this

before) nobody gave a shit one way or another...

the charlatan priest Media is auctioning off his porno films and reruns of starsky

and hutch to finance his next foray into the land of the Big Bucks - mass murder/

he's betting it all and praying like hell for the next timothy mcveigh/ the next

waco/ the next 9/11/ the spectacle itself should rake in millions in ad revenue

alone/ and then there's the book sales and tee-shirts and made-for-tv movies/ the

commercializing opportunities are endless/ Media could care less about the

potential victims/ he cares as much about them as he does an impartial jury/ and

it goes without saying that he doesn't give a shit about the truth/ circumstantial

evidence has put men to death/ kept them locked in jails 'til they rot/ Media

knows how the game is played/ a rumor here/ an innuendo there/ anonymous

tips/ anonymous phone calls/ off-the-record interviews/ unidentified sources/

receipts found in garbage cans/ it all adds up/ and when Media's doing the

counting the answer always comes out the same/ he wins/ no matter what

happens to you...

the always bored Media has grown tired of some of the sorry-ass, dead-beat,

loser ex-movie star, axe murdering beauty queens he's nailed to pedestals/ it's

time, once again, to pull some skeletons out of the closet/ to plant some ideas/ to

set in motion a little controlled information/ a sprinkle of truth, a smidgeon of

hearsay/ a dash of uncollaborated quotes/ and just a pinch of lies/ everyone

knows, and none better then Media, that the only thing americans love more than

placing people up on pedestals is knocking them back off/ it's the 'ol "idolized

today, crucified tomorrow" syndrome/ it's a disease/ Media has the worst case in

history and is spreading it like wild fire/ there is only one preventative method i

am aware of: eat a lot of vitamin C and never, and i do mean never, expect

Media to be your caretaker of the truth/ you've got to do that yourself...

my dearest cosmo,

i was counting my millions the other day and boy! did it give me an appetite.

so, I made my usual breakfast/lunch/dinner of tranquilizers and laxatives. usually

i can eat that day in and day out with no ill-effect. but for some reason this time

was different. oh, i fell asleep while taking a shit, for sure. but that's par for the

course. what was different was i awoke with a strange feeling of compassion for

the comatose, and for those who can't afford to eat all they want and then just

shit it all out before gorging themselves again. it was like a revelation! i realized i

needed to change my diet. now i'm strictly ingesting high fiber cereals and

amphetemines. i haven't slept for days (which helps when you have to count as

much money as i have) and couldn't shit if my life depended on it. where does it

all go? the big upside: i have again lost any compassion for those less fortunate

than myself. i itch a lot though. but that's a fair exchange i think. i'll see you at the

republican convention if not sooner. i'll be the one masquerading as a social


agonizingly yours,

Lush Rimbaugh

Of Empires, Anarchy, and the Hopelessly Numb

in Babble On...everything is incoherent, not just the language/ dialectic tones

confuse/ strange faces rotate in a myriad of kaleidescopic imagery/ roadways are

labyrinths in which the citizenry grope along in a constant state of semiconsciousness/

being lost is only natural/ feeling lost is the order of the day...

in Babble On...time is irrelevant/ there's nowhere to go/ nowhere to be/

punctuality, alas, is a lost art/ the hands of the clocks have all been removed and

sold as scrap to the tower builders/ parking meters lay bent to the ground like so

many wilted flowers/ cars decay in abandonment/ dinosaurs of an ever-promised,

always coming age of anti-materialism/ people just clutter the streets in flocks of

helplessness/ moving about, as it were, like lemmings marching to the sea...

in Babble On...politicians revel in the quagmire of their own double-talk/ rhetoric

is their bread and butter, and mudslinging is all the rage/ the ability to mix fact

and fiction is a noble talent taught in the finest universities/ a major in character

assassination is a must if one truly aspires to greatness...

in Babble On...the largest employer, by far, are the tower builders/ they build

ivory towers, glass towers, steel towers, and concrete towers/ and every tower is

built higher than the last/ every tower is a testament to self-righteous indignation/

of the search for god through construction/ of the utilization of mathematics in an

age when it has no other practical application/ workers slave away oblivious to

their tasks/ in ignorance of the truth about what's really going on/ their employers

are quite mad and in complete control of the city treasury/ they mask their

religious lunacy in the guise of progress/ and poison the minds of the workers

with generous wages and a benefits package second to none...

in Babble one recognizes their own children/ their own parents/ their

own brothers and sisters/ they devote, to a person, an inordinate amount of

time to staring into mirrors and failing to even recognize themselves...

in Babble in trenches and numb from isolation, the army camps on

the outskirts of town/ conquest falls into the category of former pipe dreams/

and stagnation has been in place longer than anyone can recall/ the fear of

attack by outside forces has been regulated down to the occasional joke in

the trenches/ no one wants Babble On/ no one who doesn't already live there

ever even visits/ the vast majority of the army's munitions have been sold as

scrap to the tower builders, along with the hands of the clocks/ and what little

remains is in a state of disrepair equalled only by the condition of the

soldiers themselves...

in Babble On...artistic expression reflects both the bizarre and the sublime/

some paint lavish canvasses of abstract surrealism, while others just scrawl on

concrete/ the artists themselves argue constantly on the value of fantasy versus

reality but are all secretly jealous of the others' opinions/ at a typical auction

it is not uncommon for the bidding to begin at a price no one can afford/ thus,

the artists are guaranteed lives of poverty and obscurity/ which, in turn, provides

the atmosphere so conducive to their chosen profession/ the music scene is

no different/ the blues bands all sport purple mohawks and sing song after

song about the same anti-social love triangle/ the punk rockers wear three

piece suits and sing mainly about conforming to whatever the

establishment deems appropriate/ the rock and roll bands are all very

boring and predictable, and are so obsessed with cleanliness that it's hard

to get them out of the shower long enough to perform/ at festivals and

concerts nobody - and i mean nobody - dares leave their equipment

unattended/ this is due, in large part, to the fact that the country-western

bands have an affinity for destroying everything within 50 feet of them

during their usual pyro-technic displays of wild and utter abandonment/

the most popular band in all of Babble On is the Psychedelic Orchestra/

if you can imagine lawrence welk on acid you're about as close to

imagining the sounds these guys lay down as you're going to get/ their

closing number is always "Babble On Oh Babble On, How Can God

Destroy Thee"/ it always brings the house down/ literally...

in Babble On...the dogs meow and the cats crow at the break of day/

pigeons attack in swarms and carry away the weak and defenseless

to live amongst the gargoyles...

in Babble On...people are free to worship as they see fit/ the most popular

sect is The Church of the Spiraling Towers, of course/ other popular cults

are: The Temple of the Divine Riddle, and The Holy Order of Tattooed

Women and Subjugated Men/ schools teach nothing of any substance so

that everyone is just as illiterate and ignorant as everyone else/ it is taught

from kindergarten on that if you can't answer a question with the line "all's

well that ends well, and if not, it's just as well" then there probably is no


in Babble On...anarchy isn't a threat, it's way of life/ not giving a shit is a

virtue/ thinking you might actually make something of your life is reason

enough to be locked away/ in Babble On oh Babble On...

dear carmen,

i've been in iraq for a week now. when they told us they were sending us

where we'd get plenty of sunshine they weren't shitting. i've consumed at least a

hundred gallons of water and have to pis constantly. i don't know how they

expect us to defend ourselves when we have one hand on our dicks 23 hours

a day. anyway, i'm out here in the middle of the desert, it's hotter than hell, and

the sand fleas are as big as your father's buick. we're all supposed to keep our

eyes peeled for suspicious looking trucks, but i haven't seen one yet. my c.o.

says to just keep right on a-lookin', so that's what i'm doing. i'll write again if i

ever see one. mean time, give all the guys down at the pool hall a nudge for me.

just don't use my pool stick to do it...

your duped friend,

Marshal Ampstein

Hedonism For The Common Man

Dracula, up from the lower east side, slits my throat and hands me my adam's

apple/ "don't spend it all in one place" he says/ three merchant marines, with their

mother's features and red lipstick, happen by/ one is dressed in black with a skull

and cross-bones on his shirt/ another wears a dog collar around his neck and

brass knuckles on his fists/ the third is in drag/ they've been out drinking and

beating up foreigners/ Dracula commends them on their choice of wardrobe, rips

out their hearts, and throws them in my lap/ "never put all your hearts in one

basket" he says...

i must have passed out/ i began dreaming i was awake, sitting with my back

against a wall, my adam's apple in one hand, and the hearts of three merchant

marines in my lap/ a man with one glass eye and a patch over the other wants

my adam's apple/ "for my collection" he says/ "what good is it to you now" he

says/ it's hard for me to focus on him/ he keeps fading in and out/ a woman

dressed in scarves approaches/ she offers me her body in return for the three

merchant marines' hearts/ "what could you want with them?" she says/ Dracula is

lurking in the shadows, smoking opium with peter lorre, and scraping his

fingernails across a blackboard/ so i tell the man with one glass eye and a patch

over the other "thanks, but no thanks"/ i do, however, take the woman dressed in

scarves up on her offer/ she's right: what could i possibly do with the hearts of

three merchant marines???

the mortician who makes his wife bathe in ice before he'll fuck her has finally lost

what little professionalism he had left/ one too many cadavers staring back at him

has proven counter productive to his chosen trade/ he smiles too much and can't

seem to stop giggling/ his make-overs on the parade of carcasses that go

through his morturary are becoming more and more outlandish with each passing

day/ there was the banker he made up to look just like alice cooper/ and the 94

year old grandmother he put in a bikini/ when an apprentice quit after refusing to

sever the head of a car wreck victim and then sew it back on sideways, all the

mortician could think to say was "you don't think that'd be funny?"/ Dracula used

to drop by on friday's to stock up on fresh roadkill, but has taken his business

elsewhere/ he can't stand all that smiling and giggling...

i'm still sitting with my back against a wall, dreaming that i am awake/ the woman

dressed in scarves is gone, along with the hearts of the three merchant marines/

i still have my adam's apple in one hand, but can't think of a thing to do with it...

Dracula has a plane to catch/ he's off to the middle east to soak up some of the

blood being spilled/ "better get while the gettin's good" he tells me/ before

leaving he smokes another bowl of opium with peter lorre, then sucks the late

actor's eyeballs out of his head/ he spits them on the ground and starts playing

a game of marbles with them/ a common thief with a heavy limp comes out of

nowhere, grabs one of the eyeballs, and heads for the nearest pawn shop/

Dracula throws the other eye to me/ "here" he says, "give him this when he

comes back. no pawn store owner in their right mind would pay for just one

of a matched set..."

the tourists just don't come around like they used to/ and generalisimo fanatico

needs tourist dollars to finance his dictatorship/ without them he can't pay his

soldiers/ and if he can't pay his soldiers...well, then they sure as hell don't need

him!/ he longs for the reign of terror his dictatorship once was/ before the damn

insurgency/ who would ever guess the oppressed might fight back?/ rapings

and pillagings are a sad remnant of what they once were/ kidnappings have held

fairly steady, but one can't kidnap everyone/ someone has to be left behind to

pay the ransom!/ the generalisimo is surrounded by the most easily frightened

men he could find/ within his palace walls he's still the terror of his youth/

unbeknownst to the generalisimo, the insurgents are going to launch a major

offensive first thing tomorrow morning/ and again, unbeknownst to the

generalisimo, he will be captured, dragged to the center of town, and summarily

executed/ his old pal Dracula will read about it in a newspaper in his hotel room

in kabul/ he will sigh and shake his head, and remember the generalisimo for the

barbarian he once was...

the common thief with a heavy limp is back, just like Dracula said he'd be/

"back for the other eyeball?" i ask/ "no, not exactly" says the thief/ "the pawn

shop owner told me peter lorre's eyeballs aren't worth a rat's ass. he did,

however, give me a list of things that are: a lock of victor mature's hair, a cop

worth his weight in salt, an autographed picture of jesus christ, and any

bullet, so long as it has the pawn shop owner's name on it"/ "i wish i could

help you" i said/ "but as you can see, my alter-ego, the guy writing all this stuff,

wants me to just sit here, with my adam's apple in one hand, and slowly

bleeding to death"/ "must be a strange guy, that alter-ego of yours" said the

thief with a heavy limp/ "a really warped son of a bitch..."

the party lasted 'til 5 am/ somebody's son lost what little control he had/

somebody's daughter got drunk and wound up in the pool with 4 guys

she'd never seen before/ somebody's brother took too much and just

went berserk/ somebody's sister decided her best friend's friend

deserved to be treated like shit and made damn sure she was/ all

were casualties of their own indulgences/ all were volunteers for

their own destruction/ none thought of anything but themselves/ and

none saw the writing on the wall/ if they had, this is what they would

have read: YOU ARE YOUR OWN WORST ENEMY/ after all of them

were finished fucking, and loathing, and getting stoned/ after they had

all lost what little sense god gave them/ when they had all passed out,

passed on, or been passed by/ when nothing but the mess remained/

the demolition crew moved in and blew the whole scene sky high...

i hear something/ i am still sitting with my back against a wall, my

adam's apple in one hand/ Dracula is back from the middle east/ he

tells me there was nothing he could do to scare anyone over there/

that they'd seen far worse than him already/ he's on his way to

hollywood and just dropped by to see how i was doing/ he'll be

back in a thousand years or so to check on me again/ he has the

thief with the heavy limp's head in his right hand and his coffin

stuck under his left arm/ looking at him, i realize for the first time

that i'm not afraid of him anymore/ in fact, i feel kinda sorry for

him/ no one pays any attention to him like they used to/ there's

so much evil in the world today that it's put a monster like

Dracula pretty much out of business/ a fog rolls in and Dracula

disappears/ if he thought the people in the middle east had

already seen worse than him, wait until he gets to hollwood...

my dearest drac,

how's it going out there in hollywood? anybody worth scaring?

if you ever get lonely or bored, you know you're always welcome back

here. things are pretty dead right now. no one even notices that i'm

sitting here with my adam's apple in my hand...

one satisfied customer,


Coffee, Donuts, and a Side Order of Oblivion

on wednesday's train the commuters just sit and stare/ off in one world or

another/ oblivious/desperate people/ not the wild-eyed, pistol waving sort, mind

you/ their's is a quiet desperation/ born from riding this god damned train to jobs

they hate/ the kind of desperation born when a person takes stock of their life

and comes up short...

the porter is an old black guy everyone lovingly refers to as "the old black guy"/

he greets everyone with a smile and a "and how are you today?"/ when they

leave he says "watch your step..."

the engineer is a middle-aged czech named, bruno/ bruno has a christ complex/

his wife just thinks he's stupid/ his superiors think he's a royal fuck up/ and the

train riders are afraid of him/ bruno, for his part, sees himself as a fulfiller of

destinies / after all, he stops and starts the train/ his cab is his sanctuary/ his

shrine to his own madness/ there are candles and incense, a picture of the virgin

mary, and prayer pillows strewn everywhere/ bruno has a is

becoming increasingly difficult for him to function when no one takes his claim of

godliness seriously/ for quite some time now he has been devising a way to

convince them, and is confident his plan will reach fruition in the very near


trudy serves coffee and donuts on the morning train/she has sweetness on her

lips/ she is an out of work angel of mercy and simply oozes concern/ everyday

she reels her cart full of goodies on board knowing exactly who takes what in

their coffee and with each individuals favorite pastry/ mrs. glass, seat 3, aisle 12,

a pecan roll and a splash of french vanilla/ mr. firm, seat 2, aisle 33, chocolate

candy sprinkles and extra cream/ even the most jaded of the riders agree, trudy

is the best idea the train line has ever had/ what the passengers don't realize is

that the train line doesn't sell coffee and donuts on their trains/ something else

they don't realize - trudy is nuttier than a fruitcake/ she serves coffee and donuts

on the train for reasons that have her armada of shrinks mystified/ one doctor

suggested it's from a lack of maternal nurturing/ trudy looked him right in the eye

and said "are you telling me you DON'T want the eclair and hazelnut coffee i

bring you every week?"/ trudy used to pose for a mannequin maker/ the

mannequin maker, mr. piccadillo, liked sugar twists and his coffee black...

no one knows this, but bruno's engineer's cap is on fire/ the train is going faster

and faster/ bruno's up there in his cab slash shrine running around with smoking

hair and panic stricken eyes, oblivious to the mile markers flying by/ feeling just

a bit crucified, and his smoldering head beginning to become quite painful, bruno

jumps out the side window and directly into the path of another train going in the

opposite direction/ oddly enough, the other train was being engineered by his

brother, norman/ norman never wears an engineer's cap and warned bruno not

to/ of course, that's one warning he won't have to repeat, what with bruno being

splattered over a five mile area of track and all...

g. angus con, banker, cocaine financier, and child pornographer finishes his rum

roll and vanilla coffee and returns to the pages of his beloved fall street urinal/ he

sits up straight as a razor and never crosses his legs/ he's the first to notice the

smoke eminating from the train cab and goes off to find the porter/ just then, one

morton flyswatter, a peddler of illegal bug larvae, and lover of apple torts and

heavily sugared coffee comes running down the aisle screaming "the train's on

fire, and the engineer just jumped out the window!"/ panic ensues/ a collage of

flailing arms and legs fills the air/ coffee and donuts everywhere/ and the train

it won't stop going - no it wouldn't slow down/ the landscape is a blur/ trudy is

petrified and stands frozen behind her cart - just like a mannequin/ mrs. glass

is sobbing uncontrollably/ an interesting side note: after id'ing of all the bodies

an autopsy revealed that mrs. glass wasn't the obese woman everyone thought

she was - she had an 87 pound tumor growing in her intestines/ it was the

largest tumor the coroner had ever seen/ mr. firm refused to join the melee and

sat glued to his seat/ his life was over anyway/ his wife had recently discovered

he was having an affair with her ex brother-in-law/ she'd end up with everything

he had regardless of whether he was alive or dead/ the porter - the old black

guy - was spending his last few moments on earth telling everyone on the train

what he really thought of them..."yeah, i'm talkin' t' you, can

kiss my black ass...stop leanin' on me you white honky son of a bitch..."/ he

fell quiet as a sensation of flying came over him/ it came over everyone else

too/ the train had left the track/ for a few golden moments everyone on the

train relived their entire lives/ and the blink of an eye...eternity...

mr. quimby,

sir: it has come to my attention that you are unhappy with your new

assignment. i know you have been with the company for 35 years. i also know of

your disdain for working for someone who is younger than your own failure of a

son. regardless, the company is neither seeking your approval nor your buy in to

your stated assignment. you have been given your orders and we expect them

to be carried out to the letter. please let mr. sumners know when you have

arrived in Bumfuck, Egypt. he will make certain a camel is put at your disposal.

do a good job or else...

your boss whether you like it or not,

marvin hamlash

The As Yet To Be Forgiven Ridiculous Doctor

wild animal savagery dances a jig and kicks up dust that blinds the senses and

dulls the conscience/ rivers filled with bodies turn red and prove that carnage

does indeed speak louder than words/ ambition, as it turns out, is nothing more

than a knife in the back/ and the killers of tomorrow are the ambitious of today/

they sharpen their knives and await their turn...


wild animal savagery dances the waltz and turns destruction into an art form/

corruption is performed flawlessly by the chorus line of scavengers and carpet

baggers who descend from on high to pillage the world of it's morals/ greed is

the insatiable hunger that drives sane men insane and rational thought

irrational/ the lust for more swells, and the humble drown...


the kingdoms of yesterday are dust/ the people who inhabited them are dust/

knowledge is lost and mistakes repeated/ history is a lesson never learned and

experience has taught us nothing/ we have eyes that can not see/ hearts that

can not feel/ nothing ever changes and nothing ever improves/ life has become

one drawn out disintegration into nothingness/ and oblivion is just around the



pharmacists proliferate across the land, setting up shop in grocery stores and

convenience marts/ prostituting themselves to the drugging of america/ the users

and abusers line up for miles as their physicians busy themselves buying stock

in grocery store chains and convenience marts/ the clientele is as varied as it

is helpless/ some suffer from reoccuring nightmares/ some are too happy for

their own good/ the search for a chemical cure goes on unabated/ they will

tolerate anything and refuse to pay attention to their own decline/ they are

parents and pta members/ bankers and lawyers and teachers/ they live in

the city. they live on farms/ they are black and white and yellow and red/ they

are rich and poor/ housewives and jetsetters/ they are invisible to one another

and painfully unsure of themselves/ the pills they gobble down cause them to

lose weight and to smile a lot/ to work like army ants and pass out on command/

they like the fact that the pharmaceutical prostitutes not only have stores full

of drugs, but of booze too/ how convenient!/ this is, of course, a government

regulated industry/ good thing too/ we wouldn't want any dissatisfied customers...


all the body piercing in the world will not save you/ neither will freud, the i-ching,

or becoming a vegetarian/ you can follow who you will, they will not lead you

to where you want to go/ if you're looking for truth, lock yourself in a closet/ you

stand as much chance of finding it there as you would anywhere/ never listen

to people who demand to be heard/ never look into the eyes of people who

demand attention/ chances are, those people are already more fucked up

than you'll ever be...


there were no hamburgers being served on hamburger hill/ no pork chops on

pork chop hill/ the only meat being fed into the grinder at those god-forsaken

places was human/ and not just any old humans/ young humans/ virile humans/

humans in the best shape of their lives/ they were human sacrifices to appease

our hunger for war/ people have a love-hate relationship with war/ they love it

when they win and hate it when they lose/ it's not so much the killing as it is

the being killed/ if it were just a matter of killing others without fear of reprisal

people would be lining up for the opportunity/ and it goes without saying that

when people do go into battle, they go with god on their side/ they don't even

give him the choice to opt out...


dear phil,

well, i had to go see that ridiculous doctor today. my left foot swelled

up to the size of a football over the weekend. i thought that maybe it was the

same thing that happened to my left testicle last year. remember that? well, he

said it was something entirely different and gave me a prescription. at the

pharmacy i grabbed a bottle of tequila on the way out. the combination of the pills

and booze seems to be doing the trick. my left foot has shrunk to the size of a

softball and i can't feel a thing. have you ever questioned the sanity in selling

alcohol in the same place people get barbituates? something else i noticed: they

sell the no doz right next to the sleepinol. and the nicotine patches are right next

to the cigarettes. do these guys got all the bases covered, or what? signing off

now. the pills and booze are starting to kick my ass. oh, it says on the bottle not

to mix the two. or to operate heavy machinery. i wonder what machinery they're

talking about. oh, well. will i ever learn? before i forget: contrary to what i know

my ex has told you about me, i am not insane. nor am I anti-scocial. i am as you

remember, only slightly at odds with the world around me.

your far off friend,


Seperation of Church and State???

politicians stand on the steps of city hall and decry the use of illegal drugs, the

high crime rate, the gangs, and the violence that so permeate their jurisdictions/

people need to take care of themselves, they say/ the government can't fix

everything, they say/ they offer no solutions/ but still they need more and more

money to help finance the governments good work...

preachers stand on the steps of their local church and decry the use of illegal

drugs, the high crime rate, the gangs, and the violence that so permeate their

congregations/ people need to take care of themselves, they say/ the church

can't fix everything, they say/ they offer no solutions/ but still they need more

and more money to help finance the lords good work...

dear professor,

i've been up all night reading about the civil war. help me here: is it

true the north fought on the side AGAINST slavery? for what? so they could just

build warehouses to store us in??? am i missing something??? inquiring minds

want to know. your student, luther

p.s. i'm the black kid who sits behind bonnie, 3rd hour...

The Nuts and Bolts of a Social Divide

picture this:

the anti-abortionists march down one side of the street/ pro-choicers, the other/

the anti-abortionist's carry signs that read "STOP THE KILLING"/ perhaps what

their signs should say is "STOP THE FUCKING" or "IF YOU MUST FUCK AT

LEAST USE PRECAUTIONS"/ that's really what they mean, isn't it?/ the prochoicer's

signs say "KEEP ABORTION LEGAL"/ but why not carry signs that


"SPREAD YOUR LEGS WITH IMPUNITY,LADIES"/ that's really where they're

coming from, right?/ how about a sign to get the guys more involved, like


calling a spade a spade...

here's a proposal:

make all the abortion clinics and fertility clinics share the same office lounges/

that way, all the people who can conceive but don't want to, and all the people

who can't conceive but want to, will have to sit side-by-side whilst awaiting

their respective procedures/ now, wouldn't you like to be a fly on THAT wall???

a story:

mr. and mrs. andbabymakesthree sip sherry in the moonlight and discuss

interest rates and under achieving co-workers/ the mrs. is as barren as the

mohave desert and for good reason/ she needs a baby like she needs another

bmw/ she and her husband are on top of the list at the soyouthinkyouwantababy

adoption agency and paid damn good money to be there/ their anticipation of the

blessed event is eclipsed only by their own shallowness/ names for the little

bundle of joy have already been calculated to maximize other's perceptions of

them/ the nanny has been contracted, and a consulting firm hired that specializes

in maximizing intelligence in children below the age of one month/ they've filled

their book cases with books about what babies eat, why babies shit, when babies

sleep, and how babies cry/ they've filled out enrollment papers at a prestigious

boarding school, and put down the down payment at their alma mater/ they've

thought of everything, and done everything imaginable to prepare themselves/

now, they just need the actual baby to make it all come together/ assuming they

like the baby, of course...

dear mom and pop,

jack and i just got home from the new fertility clinic they opened

in the mall. it would appear that jack's soldier's have run out of bullets.

fortunately, there's nothing wrong with me, so all we have to do is select the

sperm we want and away we go! it's going to cost us an arm and a leg but jack

says it's worth it. i kind of regret, now, getting that abortion a few years back. but

how could i have known jack was going to run out of ammo? as for adopting,

which we did discuss: jack and I both feel that taking in a baby someone else

already discarded is just too big a risk. i remember how often the two of you used

to tell me how much you regretted adopting me. lesson learned. well, i have to

go. jack is compiling a list of traits we want the baby to have. i've already

compiled mine. when he's done we're going to compare. isn't it all so exciting? i

just know we're going to wind up with the perfect baby! luv yu,


Greek God Undone

Play-doh, psuedo philosopher and cyber sex junkie, plays hopscotch with his pal,

slinky/ neither of them understand the concept of the game, and neither of them

understand even the most basic concepts of human behaviour/ Play-doh lives

with his on-again-off-again wife, lola, and his two here-today-gone-tomorrow

children, cain and mabel/ lola is a slut and a whore - and that's what Play-doh

likes about her/ the fact that she has a college degree, and makes far more

money in one night giving blow jobs than he can in a week at the silly putty

factory, is what he hates about her/ slinky, Play-doh's pal, lives in a garbage can

on the neighbor's front lawn/ he has every sexually transmitted disease known to

man and really bad acne/ Play-doh likes him because he never butts in when

Play-doh's philosophizing/ Play-doh thinks this is because slinky is so impressed

by his ideas/ the fact of the matter is, slinky doesn't have the foggiest idea what

he's talking about...

cain leads a troubled life/ he believes in triangles and suicidal love/ he bangs his

head against the wall and bows towards seattle three times a day/ when he isn't

killing ants on the sidewalk in front of the house he's in his room getting stoned/

Play-doh and lola haven't the vaguest idea what to do with him, so they pretend

he's really wally cleaver and avoid his room as if it were condemned/ which it is/

which it is...

mabel is manic-depressive, self-destructive, and a straight A student/ slinky has

been molesting her since she was 5 years old/ it has left her scarred and twisted

on the inside and shy and reclusive on the outside/ Play-doh and lola, being the

idiots that they are, think she is the epitomy of a sweet young girl/ they have no


lola comes home from a hard day's work/ her knees and jaw ache, but she's

used to it/ Play-doh is passed out on the couch, a victim of beer and baseball,

both of which act as tranquilizers/ cain is in his room painting the walls with

airplane glue/ his head is swimming in a fog of nauseus fumes and methaamphetamines/

mabel is in her bed curled up in a fetal position/ she had a date

with the class president, but he stood her up so he could stay home and

masturbate/ so she wound up spending most of the night with, slinky/ now she

just wants to die/ her feelings of hopelessness mingle with her despair/ she can't

talk to her father/ he's either drunk or talking about the silly putty factory/ her

mother is an educated whore, infected with a high degree of intelligence and god

knows what else/ her brother is clearly insane, and despises her anyway/ she

can't talk to, slinky/ he's her dad's best friend, and the cause of most of her

misery/ though...compared to her family, he's her knight in shining armor...

lola is in her room, exhausted from performing oral sex on men with no names,

and smoking a cigarette/ "thank god" she thinks "Play-doh is passed out"/

mabel walks into the room/ BANG!/ mabel walks down the hall to cain's room

and steps inside/ he's somehow glued his head to the wall/ he's made himself

a sitting duck/ mabel looks him right in the eye/ BANG!/ Play-doh is still

passed out on the couch/ mabel doesn't want to wake him/ BANG!

mabel goes next door to slinky's garbage can/ "i heard shots" he says/ "i

killed my family" says mabel/ "why in god's name did you do that?" slinky

asks, and quickly hops inside his garbage can/ "well, first of all" says

mabel "god had nothing to do with it/ i asked him to help me but he never

showed up/ i killed them because i hate myself/ i hate them/ and i hate you

for what you've done to me/ they could have stopped it if they weren't all

so caught up in their own pathetic little lives that they'd paid even the

least bit of attention to me/ but, it's too late for that now/ now it doesn't

matter what you do to me/ there's no one left to care/ i know i certainly

don't"/ "so, i suppose you've come to kill me" slinky says, his eyes, as

always, on the ground/ "no" says mabel/ "actually i was wondering if you

had room for two in that garbage can of yours/ i hate the attention you

give me, but it's the only attention i've ever known/ of course, i'll have to

start charging you for the sex/ mother, i'm sure, would have wanted it

that way..."

believe it or not, mabel and slinky lived happily ever after/ slinky had no

self-esteem, he lived in a garbage can after all/ and, after being

molested for years, mabel didn't have any either/ they were like two

peas in a pod...

dear sherman,

by the time you read this i will be a million miles away. marrying you

wasn't the worst thing i ever did, but it's pretty damn close! did you really think

that giving me everything i ever wanted would satisfy me? or make me happy?

you idiot! all it did was convince me what a spineless jelly fish you are. i'm just

glad I didn't breed with you. i suppose it would be the right thing to do, to get

together at some point to discuss divorce proceedings. but, hey, let's not and say

we did! see you in court you son of a bitch...

the love of your life,


p.s. don't forget to feed the cat. and not that canned crap you always buy!

Horseshoes and Handgrenades

slot machines on the high seas have proven economically lucrative to less than

one half of one percent of the human population/ and that's probably stretching it

a bit/ still, they float on the rivers and creeks of america morning, noon, and

night/ people who would have spent their money on clothing and food now have

a choice/ many, invariably, choose the floating crap games and video poker

machines/ Gumball, would be one of these people/ he hasn't held a steady job in

20 years, and has no intention of doing so now/ before the glorious ships laid

dock in his sleepy little town he spent most of his time foraging in dumpsters and

finding an out of the way hole to sleep in/ sure, he drank a lot, but who doesn't

these days?/ to Gumball, just having the opportunity to parlay whatever nickles

and dimes he manages to scrounge up into a small fortune is like a new lease on

life/ he never has, of course/ parlayed his nickles and dimes into a small fortune,

that is/ but it's the dream that keeps him going/ that ONE chance in a million/ so

he has no place to sleep?/ so he eats out of dumpsters?/ to Gumball, it's worth

every nickle/ and every dime...

gracie is on a losing streak/ the same run of bad luck her mother started before

she was even born, continues/ she's strung out big time on speed and

quaaludes, which she alternates taking, using the odd or even day method of

self-destruction/ gracie isn't just down on her luck, she's down period/ between

the pills, the all-nighters, and the stress of watching every penny she's ever had

slide through her fingers she's about as whacko as one can get/ she's been

talking to god a lot lately about a deal, wherein, she would stop taking all the pills

if HE would let her win the jackpot on the quarter slots/ if HE could see his way to

letting her win the jackpot on the dollar slots she would, in turn, agree to not only

ceasing the consumption of pills, but of turning tricks in the men's bathroom/ and,

if the GOOD LORD ABOVE would see it clear to let her win the jackpot on the

five dollar slots she would agree to change her life completely/ to surrender her

soul into HIS capable hands/ she'd even stop robbing the newspaper boy of his

collection money/ unknown to gracie, but not to GOD, the paperboy actually

looked forward to gracie robbing him/ it was the closest thing to sex he'd ever

had/ and, unknown to him, but not to GOD, it'd be as close as he'd get until his

last year of college/ for reasons beyond gracie's ability to comprehend GOD

wasn't biting/ so her forays into the world of drugs and prostitution and petty theft

continued unabated/ right along with her run of bad luck, started by her mother,

oh so many moons ago...

Gumball is broke and at his wits end/ he goes into the bathroom where gracie

is working/ "got any money mister?" gracie asks/ "no" says Gumball "but i have

enough bad luck that i wouldn't mind sharing some"/ "no thanks" says gracie,

"i've got more of that than i know what to do with. how's 'bout something for the

head?"/ "no" says Gumball "but i have enough frustration to keep us both wired

for a week"/ "really" says gracie, "we have a lot in common, you n me/ care to

take a gamble on getting together after the boat docks?"/ "why not" says

Gumball, "what've i got to lose..."

my dearest gracie,

how long has it been? 3...4 years? i haven't struck it rich yet,

but not due to a lack of effort on my part. i still forage for food everyday and

panhandle for gambling money. that much hasn't changed. one thing i have

come to learn about myself though is this: i am a land lubber. no more boats for

me, thank you very much. out here in las vegas they consider riverboat gambling

the wicked step-child of the gambling family. if i'd have brought you with me you'd

know what i mean. i hope business in the men's bathroom is being good to you.

i know how much you depend on it. believe it or not, i really do wish things had

worked out between us. but let's face it, gracie, that losing streak you inherited

from your mother was destroying both of us. i'm a man with a vision! i just

couldn't settle for a life with you. what with me on the way up, and you on the way

down. still, i hope you hit that jackpot one of these days. i wish I hit the jackpot

one of these days! got to go now. they empty the dumpster's behind denny's in

half an hour and i haven't eaten all day...

being your own man ain't easy,


gumball, you worthless bastard,

3 or 4 years? try 12! i can't begin to tell you how

much i enjoyed reading your letter and learning that you're still flat broke and

eating out of dumpsters. serves you right! you leaving me was the best thing that

ever happened to me. remember that deal with GOD i was trying to shenaggle?

well, HE came through! i hit the 5 dollar jackpot 2 days after you left me stranded

in that alley way behind the bob evans'. in return, as i had promised, i quit

gambling, quit the drugs, quit turning tricks in the men's bathroom, and stopped

robbing the paperboy. speaking of the paperboy, he's not a paperboy anymore.

he's my husband. he owns a disposal company that owns the dumpsters you

probably eat out of. ironic, don't you think? well, i have a 3 o'clock appointment to

count my money, so i won't take up any more of your valuable time. have fun

playing the nickle slots you low life piece of shit...


p.s. you say it ain't easy being your own man. let me tell you something, it IS

easy when you're filthy rich! i couldn't help adding this. i just hate you so much...

Rasputin Delivers

Dungaree Jones and Cabin Boy remove the ice sculptures from the court house

lawn/ the attempt by the mayor, the honorable Ovis Thumbuckle, to bring modern

art to his fair city has been a complete and total disaster/ the shapes of animals

copulating as they were melting only served to bring out the worst in people/ over

the course of the week long event, the numbers for rape, teen-age pregnancy,

and first time marijuana users all sky-rocketed...

a riot has broken out in front of the mayor's house/ several church groups and

other assorted lunatics are picketing the poor man's very existence/ but they

seem to have difficulty getting on the same page/ a methodist punches a catholic

priest sending holy water flying all over the place/ a jew lands a well aimed knee

into the back of a praying muslim/ two hindus are mauled by a band of roving

baptists/ when some pentecostals start speaking in tongues, a greek orthodox

nun shouts " what did you call me?" and all hell breaks loose...

the mayor, meanwhile, is holed up in his office with the artists whose sculptures

are either melting, or being thrown into the river by Dungaree Jones and Cabin

Boy/ "you never said anything about giraffes fucking when we decided to go

ahead with this thing, fribble!"/ he refers, of course, to Dr. Samuel Fribble,

professor emeritus, at the university of the absurd/ "i assure you mr. mayor,

giraffes fuck all the time" says the professor, "it's perfectly natural"/ "yes, i

suppose it is" says the mayor, "but on national geographic the giraffes aren't

giving each other blow jobs!"/ an artist, known only as raven, throws an ice pick

at a portrait of the mayor, whirls around and says "you can't judge art by it's

content, you have to look for the deeper meaning"/ "i can appreciate that"

says the mayor, "but explain the deeper meaning of 3 penguins gang raping

an albatross to me!"

the riot in front of the mayor's house has moved to in front of city hall/ the newly

named Army of God have agreed to leave God out of it for right now, and just

kill the mayor all by themselves/ they can always get back into contact with

HIM later/ they further agreed the best man for the job was the methodist who

so thoroughly cold-cocked the catholic priest as to make the poor man a


Dungaree Jones and Cabin Boy finish hauling the last of the ice sculptures

off the court house lawn/ they all end up floating in the river except for one

Cabin Boy took home with him and put into his freezer/ it is the sculpture

of a monkey eating the face of a man/ "my mom's really gonna like this

one" he tells Dungaree Jones/ "she was always tellin' me that someday

we'd figure out that it ain't us that evolved from them, but them that

evolved from us..."

dear mayor thumbuckle,

i hope you're getting better. it's a miracle you even survived

that pummeling those church folk gave you. do you need any reading material

while you recuperate? some national geographics? well, i just wanted you to

know I’m thinking about you. get well, we need you...

your dedicated janitor,

Cabin Boy

p.s. will there be any more ice sculptures on the court house lawn any time

soon? the reason i ask is because the city lawn mower is in the shop and i'd have

to cut the grass with a pair of scissors. not that i'd mind...

Untitled Claptrap

now let me see if i got this straight...

does MANipulation only apply if i ipulate a man?

what about a woman or a dog?

can you ipulate a situation?

situational ipulation?

i kinda like the sound of that.

situational ipulation!

i'm doing it right now...

A Day at the Temple of the Ever Fleeing Dollar

down at the race track, where the horses run, people are swearing off their bad

habits, cleansing their hearts and minds of nasty vices, and promising GOD

just about anything as the four legged money machines enter the final turn/

Mooch,and his deaf seeing-eye dog, Lucy, are in their customary seats,

binoculars dangling from their necks, and praying like mad/ in fact, everyone

around them is praying fervently/ eyes closed/ hands folded piously, or arms

reaching towards the heavens/ some have crucifixes around their necks/ some

have rosary beads slipping in and out through their fingers/ anything to get an

edge/ there are a few atheists scattered in the crowd/ with their rabbit's feet, and

troll dolls, and crystals in hand/ nothing pisses Mooch and Lucy off more than to

see an atheist win/ they're pretty sure it pisses GOD off too...

so with all these people asking GOD ALMIGHTY to intercede and make them

winners, just how does GOD decide whose prayer to answer?/ Mooch and

Lucy have contemplated that very question many, many times/ and over a long,

long time/ they have a theory, and this is it: GOD chooses certain people to act

as receptacles/ they use their own money, of course/ but the GOOD LORD

ABOVE provides the horse/ Mooch wishes he was one of GOD's receptacles/

so does, Lucy/ of course, either way it's not going to stop him from coming to

the race track everyday/ that's in stone/ and, not if, but when he loses he'll

simply pick a few more pockets and be right back betting it all/ GOD, of

course, will be there too/ way up high in HIS sky box, dispensing favor as HE

sees fit...

dear frank,

remember me telling you about me and Lucy's theory about how GOD

uses certain people as receptacles for laying down HIS bets? well, we think we

may have found one. this guy has won seven long shots in a row! i've been

trailing him all day but haven't seen him talking to anyone that looks like the

ALMIGHTY. not that i know what the ALMIGHTY looks like. anyhooz, i'm

starting to think that maybe THE LORD is speaking to him inside his mind. or

possibly in his dreams. i haven't figured out a way into his head yet, but i'm

working on it. soon as we know more i'll get back to you. in the meantime, i'm

still picking pockets, betting it all, and losing. but then you know what dad

always said about money - easy come, easy go...

your under-acheiving sibling,


p.s. Lucy says to tell you she's sorry for biting you last month. she thought

you were yelling at me when you were singing happy birthday...

Flapping Haplessly at the Wind

it doesn't really matter which side of the equation you're on/ there are so many

sides they basically cancel each other out anyway/ the liberals have a side/ the

conservatives have a side/ the constantly under-acheiving have a side/ the

accused, but never guilty have a side/ the poor have a side/ the middle class

has a side/ the disenfranchised and the dysfunctional always talk about

changing sides, but rarely do/ the upper class, who live in gated

communities, and send their kids to private schools never talk about

changing sides/ why would they???

we speak only amongst ourselves/ we speak AT everybody else/ we're all

talking, all the time/ any good any of this talking could do is negated by the

fact that the only people listening are people who already agree with us/ but

we keep on talking anyway/ and everyone else, on every side of the equation,

keeps right on talking too/ seems rather pointless, doesn't it...

dear pedro,

i miss the old days. remember when we used to drive our herds from

one end of the state to the other and never meet a soul? well, those days are

gone. i got neighbors, pedro - neighbors for christ's sake! they built a house not a

hundred miles from here. that's too close for me. i don't know what i'm going to

do. and now that the rich folk are moving into jackson hole there's those damn

iron birds flying over my spread all hours of the day. every time one of them

critters flies over my horses go plumb loco! i don't know, pedro. it's getting to a

point where a man can't be alone anywhere. i've been thinking of selling the

ranch and moving to new york city. i heard everyone's alone there...

i've had enough,

saddle-bag sam

(alias, sam tombstone)

Plastic Bags for Jesus

the Holy Order of the Solar Flares have left their bodies and joined their buddies

in the ufo's/ they are, even as you read this, racing through space in the tail of a

comet/ the members of the order were, for the most part, young, in the peak of

health, coincidentally in possession of large amounts of money, and desperate

and naive enough to abandon all sense of reason in order to believe in the

largest helping of cockamamie bullshit ever served up/ it was just such beliefs

that convinced them to eat poison and wrap plastic bags around their heads...

if the members of the Holy Order of the Solar flares believed anything, it was

this: solar flares are really jesus christ himself, relaying messages to the planet

earth/ the trick, of course, is in the interpretation/ that's where the Right Reverand

Theodore Orangeblack came in/ only he could find meaning in a bunch of

unrelated and random acts of nature/ only he possessed the will, and

sheer audacity, to knowingly manipulate a gaggle of obviously emotional

cripples/ to grasp just how all-encompassing the words of the Right Reverand

were to his followers, consider what it says on the plaque one passes as

you walk into the Temple of the Sunny Disposition: ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT



according to the Right Reverand, the solar flares of last march 17, saint patty's

day, were really a message from jesus/ interpreted correctly the message was




no one doubted that jesus actually said this to the Right Reverand/ in fact,

they were overjoyed/ and immedietly set themselves to the task of locating

the plastic bags of purity, which they found in a kitchen drawer/ after finding

the bags, as we all know, they ate poison, wrapped the bags around their

heads, and died/ the head loony toon himself, the Right Reverand

Theodore Orangeblack, was found naked in a tub with a particularly

obese woman/ apparently he died of a heart attack somewhere between

the appearance of the particularly obese woman and his attempt to eat

his poison...

if the members and the Right Reverand of the Holy Order of the Solar

Flares had lived just a little longer, they would have received this

message from jesus: FORGET WHAT I SAID! IT WAS ALL A JOKE!



dear reverand orangeblack,

i know you're not reading this, being as you're dead. but, for

the sake of my own sanity, i've written you this letter anyway. you see, your

passing has left a void in my life. i applied for membership in the Order several

months ago. i guess you never got to my application. i couldn't live if i knew you

had, and i'd been rejected. i followed your pamphlet's advice to the letter. i quit

my job, emptied my bank account, killed my husband and children, and ditched

my car, careful to leave traces of my own blood behind. i wanted so badly to be

a part of your church. now i'm just rotting away in this prison cell. oh, if only you

could send me some kind of sign! anything! i believe, i truly, truly believe! the

guard just told me it's lights out. i feel better. i feel we connected somehow. we

can't have plastic bags in prison or i'd be saying these things to your face right

now. if it's ok with you, i'll consider myself a member in good standing unless i

hear otherwise. thank you for being born Right Reverand Orangeblack!

yours in christ,

katy kutter

If I Were President

we need another 4 years of speeches, hand-wringing, back-door meetings,

political posturing, flag-waving, and endless debating like we need a hole in our

collective head/ it seems to me that no matter what the president of these united

states does or does not do he/she can only satisfy half the population while

estranging the other half/ so we're a nation divided/ permanently/ if i were

president i'd launch a 4 year program of national healing/ how? i'd throw parties

at the white house every single day of my administration/ that's it/ that's the

whole idea in a nut-shell/ there are 1,460 days in one presidency/ based on the

number of voting age people in the country, i would invite 86,000 people,

everyday, to party with me and my cabinet at the white house/ admittedly, i

probably wouldn't get a lot of laws passed, but i bet i'd make a lot of new

friends/ so would everyone else/ and that would be my legacy/ everyone who

showed up would leave with a smile on their face and a few new friends in tow/ i

would forever be known as the "friendly" president, and the president "who knew

how to have a good time"/ then i would retire with my hefty government pension

and my secret service detail, and write my memoirs/ i'm thinking about calling it

"my daze in the white house..."

Flabbergasted in Mid-Stride

i can't remember now/ surf boards were planted in the sand like tombstones/ the

waves were silent/ i couldn't move because of forgotten land mines, and this

strange overwhelming feeling that the clouds were following me/ a child of

indiscriminate poverty was approaching me/ a land mine made him disappear/

and i disappeared too/ back into the mad frenzy of whatchamacallits and placebo

gadgetry/ whirling invisible hard drives and cyber connections/ i was adrift in the

open sky/ alone/ except for the occasional fighter bomber and a one winged bird

that circled endlessly, endlessly/ i descended into the eye of a hurricane/ people

were being blown down the streets and off the rooftops/ newspapers, with all

their pertinent information deemed useless, were scattered about the doorways

and alleyways of an unrecognizable landscape/ right along with the homeless,

and helpless, and lovelorn that were deemed useless long ago/ i grabbed a hold

of a parking meter but the time had expired/ i let go and got sucked into a black

hole of despair i often visit, but seldom spend any significant time in/ all the

people who were starving yesterday were still starving/ society's throw aways

were being piled in parking lots while the rich and powerful danced with torches

in their bloodied hands/ i looked away/ the eyes of a girl, no more than 10,

grabbed a hold of mine and wouldn't let go/ i was convicted on the spot/ of only

visiting, and never getting involved/ i wanted to cry, but she wouldn't let me/ i

wanted to run, but had nowhere to go/ i woke up inside a dream, then woke

up in my bed/ i was unstuck in time/ a babbling idiot who never so much as took

a breath on his own/ the sun was rising/ i had a choice to make/ to go back to

bed, or to get up and actually DO something with my life...

dear sir,

this letter is to inform you of my decision to leave the company. as you

have undoubtedly noticed, my nose has been missing for about a month now

from the cavalcade of noses stuck up your ass every morning. i have finally rid

myself of the noxious odor associated with said behavior and have no intention of

reinstating it. despite the financial strain it will put on my family, i must, in all good

consceince, take leave of my position with the firm before i take leave of my

senses. enclosed is a self-addressed stamped envelope to the Home for Exyuppie

Brown Nosers. it is they who gave me the courage and support to do what

i am now prepared to do. please forward my severance pay to them. i will have

my cubicle cleared of personal affects asap.

your ex-mongrel subordinate,

peter piper

If We Came from the Sea, We Shall Return to the Sea

the lavender sky hangs suspended over the the dull waters, teeming with life

down below, yet lifeless in appearance/ a ship can be seen in the distance/ white

dressed and silk scarved girls are on the shore waving/ they look with

anticipation to the return of their boyfriends and husbands from many months at

sea/ some just look forward to fucking again/ some look forward to serving

divorce papers/ some are happy and sad all at the same time for reasons they

can't quite comprehend/ some are wondering why they're so willing to wait so

long for so little/ some have no idea why they've shown up/ it's a tired ritual

they've repeated more times than they can remember/ and yet, here they are


there are seemingly insane sand pipers on the beach/ they run away from the

waves and then chase them back to the sea/ people who could be mistaken for

beached whales lie in the sand/ they are as red as ripe tomatoes/ their children

have buckets and shovels and dig for buried treasure/ they live in cities that

choke the breath out of them and cause their heart rates to skyrocket/ this is life

as far as they are capable of taking it/ the chances of any of them finding true

happiness are about the same as any of their children finding buried treasure...

captain ruddlebum sits in his cabin upon the ship that sails beneath the lavender

sky, and upon the dull waters/ he can sense the anxiousness of the men on deck

as they catch sight of the girls in white dresses and silk scarves/ personally, he

has no use for land/ he has no use for the people who inhabit it/ of his days on

land he does not speak/ as far as his men know, he's been at sea all his

miserable days/ once, when asked where he came from he replied " i was spit

out of a warm watery womb by a woman who obviously hated me"/ he did not

interact with people very well, and pretty much left that to his underlings/ he

stalked the ship like a ghost and disappeared in his cabin for days at a time/ each

man was expected to know their job/ when someone failed at their duties in any

way, shape, or form he would order one of his underlings to whip them

mercilessly and then feed them to the sharks/ they never did, of course/ but they

would always respond "aye, aye sir" which is what he wanted to hear/ he truly

missed hunting and killing whales, and found hunting and killing scrod

demeaning/ still, he was the undisputed ruler of all he purveyed and cared not to

see any further/ when the men would disembark upon laying anchor he would

remain on board, as unchanged and hard to fathom as the very seven seas


upon docking, the men disembark and partner up with whichever girl in white

dresses and silk scarves they had parted from all those months ago/ some

kiss and run off to fuck/ some stand with their jaws in the sand as divorce

papers are handed to them/ some run without stopping to the nearest bar

where they will drink themselves into oblivion/ some wander aimlessly with

the slow, but steady realization that no one in a white dress or silk scarves

has shown up to greet them/ meanwhile, captain ruddlebum remains in his

cabin, smoking his pipe and ruing the day he was born/ the red-ripened

city dwellers and their children continue their mindless vacation/ eventually,

they'll pack up their buckets and shovels, their blankets and umbrellas, and

make their way back to where ever it is they come from/ to their unhealthy

diets and their exhaust filled air/ and eventually, after fucking or being

served divorce papers, or recovering from an endless bender, the men

of the ship will get back on said ship, to hunt and kill, once again, the

dreaded scrod/ captain ruddlebum will be there waiting, crying out for

more lashings, and for another poor soul to be fed to the sharks/ and,

eventually, the girls in white dresses and silk scarves will return to the

shore/ a few less looking to fuck, and a few more with divorce papers

in hand/ there will, of course, still be a good many of them that have no

idea why they keep returning/ to stand beneath the lavender sky, or to

look out upon the dull waters/ and, god willing, and assuming bad health

doesn't prevent it, the city dwelling sunbathers will return as well/ once

again escaping the madness of the city, and hoping beyond hope that

their children will finally find that buried treasure...

dear captain ruddlebum,

just a quick note to let you know what a sorry son of

a bitch i think you truly are. my legs are finally getting used to being on land and

i'm not swaying nearly as much as i was at first. i swear to god, if i ever see

another scrod's dead soulless eyes i'll kill myself! as it turns out, there is an

abundant supply of men's wives and ex-wives to keep me housed and busy until

that damned ship of yours docks again. being the only man around has it's

advantages. all in all i think I’ve finally cleansed myself of that foul smelling sea

you call home and am on the road to total recovery. i hope you die a slow and

terrible death. it's just a shame i can't be there to help throw your lifeless body to

the sharks.

your bastard son,


Consider This

he considered himself quite ordinary/ it never dawned on him that he was

ignoring his wife and kids/ or that the guys he worked with were NOT his friends/

he called his parents often enough/ and he was genuinely fond of the family dog,

despite that thanksgiving day incident a few years back/ and it wasn't that he had

anything against blacks, or gays, or liberals as much as it was just a general lack

of interest...

he considered himself quite middle of the road/ he didn't dream much so it

never occurred to him just how short he had landed/ or how everyday his

everyday's had become/ he bowled, and drank beer, cooked out, watched ball

games, and went fishing/ occassionally he'd ask himself, why?/ why am i

here?/ why are any of us here?/ inevitably the only answer he could come up

with was that there was no answer/ and he was happy to leave it at that...

he considered himself a believer/ it was just hard for him to actually believe/

he prayed when it seemed like the thing to do/ but usually he just mumbled/

he pondered the enormity of the universe once, but it made him feel puny

and insignificant/ so, instead, he ponders puniness, and it makes him feel

quite enormous...

he considered himself a patriot/ he put a flag out every fourth of july, and

got goose pimples every time he heard the star spangled banner/ he voted

every election though he rarely knew anything about any of the people he

was voting for/ he served his country, if you consider guarding a warehouse

full of thousand dollar toilet seats serving your country/ he's not sure if he

trusts the government, but does realize it's the only government he has...

he considered himself as well off as he could be/ no one was calling him up

to ask him why he hadn't paid this bill, or that/ no one was knocking on his

door/ his car wasn't new, but it got him to where he was going/ his house

needed work, but it wasn't falling down around him/ he couldn't explain why

he felt there should be more, he just knew there was/ but, for the life of him,

he couldn't figure it out/ so, he thought about other things/ like changing

the oil, or watering his grass...

dear colonel dynamite,

just writing to let you know my son's body arrived home

safely. the train was late, and it was hotter than hell, but when all was said and

done, i think everyone that showed up had a pretty good time. i was a soldier

once myself, you know. korea. colder than a witches tit in the winter, let me tell

you. i lost three fingers to frost bite and a prostitute bit off my left earlobe. other

than that, it was the best years of my life. i loved it. i still do. i'm just glad my son

got the chance to serve his country, like i did. he spoke very highly of you. he

said you believed america had a duty to kick the shit out of anyone who didn't

believe in jesus and democracy. i couldn't agree more. if you're ever in boise,

stop in for a beer. we can swap horror stories. until then, keep up the good work!

yours in the blood and mud,

max hanger