Krismis, the after-shock

Lazy zig zag wispy flake crystals float past it on the sill. Glazed, drunk eyes enveloped in ennui track their progress. Bejeweled, bespeckled, beturkey-jizzumed, the formerly white mat of cloth rests like a dead cat atop the wooded, ancient table. Lynn dozes on the maroon leather couch. She clutches a frosty Yuengling in her mighty paws as the dogs attempt to rouse the ursine madre in our den. A trickle of the amber juice slides out of the corner of her mouth as a chuckle escapes from mine.
"Fuck!" I scream.
Lynn immediately and emphatically proclaims her consciousness. I walk away. Dumb found Id.

Krismis

-Clothes
-Boots
-I feel it in my fingers, feel it in my toes...
-Coffee card
-iTunes card
-Beer
-Sweaters
-Chitchat
-Foodfam
-Wax
-Race
-Gnarl Backnug
-Jingle
-Frack
-Boot
-Whistle mank
-Ruck
-Tankars
-March on the horizon, January and February too.

Thanks

Two wild boars reported rising stock rat(capital)es from three suspected men

At the station:

I’ve dangled my boots upside down every day before I’ve walked into my house this week. It has been quite windy out. Danger: we’re fucking finally here at finals so what do you have? Orgo, chem, bio, french? What, Perry? (Aside?: Make it quick, you're not welcome here.) You have two boots of mine stuck to your face. Thief? Nope, because after dinner my professor said we live in “a schizophrenic world.” She’s a real piece of work that one(in the most neutral way). Yeah, I would say nine times out of ten someone is going to work, but heck that’s no business of mine.
On to the news:

Today we Snowshot. Snowshooting is a new activity I made, consisting of punching snowballs and then immediately shooting them with lead bullets. Four candles have been accidentally punched in the process. Mmmmmm, oh yes, the practice is quite outdated by now.

What are they reporting in the orchards?

Yes, good morning everyone. I’ll remember this week for at least 3 days after this week. I’m living a life, I guess. The fruits don’t yet exist, but we’re expecting them to come in the next millennium. Yep, what a sight that'll be. O golly...

Now to the aquarium?(Aside: Did we give him something to report on?)

Oh, am I on? Uh, does that means yes? Uh yeah, there was a pretty good whale watch a couple of miles from here today. I'm not sure why i've been sent to the aquarium, but i'm told there will be copious amounts of donuts after I finish up. My mom never seems to buy me donuts because I keep losing these news jobs, but i'm just like "Fuck you mom!" and she's like "Yeah...no". Our relationship is strained. Well, hey guys my friend Mike is having people over tonight if any of you guys in Scarsdale wanna come over (insert embarrassed muffled laugh from aquarium goers). The addy is 33 Beingaudited. Just pass the sign we're gonna put up, it's down stairs in the basement. Seriously guys, no one came last time.



Thanks everyone for joining us. This has been Disorder(?) news station reporting to you for 350 wonderful seconds. Kisses.

The Fan

idly, it sits. Lodged beneath its flimsy base is a thick book on European politics--something I took from a brother at a frat house last year. Books are the leaves of the tree of a semester. If a semester's a season, all the books must be shed. Seekers of homes for the bound bastards are like sexing rabbits. fruitful. And the shedding of a season's syllabi is what lead to the awkward angle at which my fan sits. the fan is in disuse. dormant. directed toward my face though. a crooked pentagram of wings sprouts from the dusty nucleus of oil and molten synthetic material. When the fuck will this fan be turned on again. I have no clue. How the fuck does it feel. A coiled, silver-buckled cinturón rests on a bed of books near the white, caged frame. I fear its asphyxiating powers. Wrap it around a lung, however and you get air. Unbuckle, rinse, repeat. This synthetic pump. I gaze at the arterial chords and the house is alive. It'll be gone before I fin

Spaghetti Night

Spaghetti Night.
Few things better than a Spaghetti night.
starry night?
Nah, that's every night.
Much more ubiquitous than Spaghetti heaped mounds of Spaghetti on the plate.
Covered in slathered with sauce. Heaping golden strands, golden garbage plate landfill strands.
So many calories.
The Spaghetti plate, it nourishes. It nourishes and keeps the body moving.
So much attributed to the Spaghetti night. My grades, my wellbeing, my hours of productivity!
Thanks be to Spaghetti.
give me spaghetti

The Academy of Stripes

A miniature notebook in the back pocket. Stole it from Patrick. Prevents theft of thoughts from Hawk holes, the thrifty folk who attempt to siphon fecundity through the porous pocket in the abyss in the blackness in the entropy of mine mind.

Pea yard, junk selling, Literature new. Ferlinghetti.

Ha my computer blew up. The flames flew high, caressing the ceiling, tickling my nose. I tried to pry into it and save a screw or two, you know, something to remember it by, but the firemen stopped men. Dragon breathing. Since my town doesn't have a courthouse anymore, the lawyers are trying to figure out the best way to sue me for damages. I told em my dad was a lawyer for a prestigious firm and they backed away holding their hands out, open palmed, sweat appearing out of no where, stains casting their shadows on the fuckin peayard's pants. My dad isn't a lawyer, he's a junk man. I'm taking over the family business. Junk for sale! When they came, those men in the white junpsuits, I told em, hell I told em good. Junk for sale! Get it while it's hot. Then the junk, which makes up my house, collapsed and I was the only one to get hurt. I'm writing this from a coma. Junk.

Gloria

“Yea, I’m a government girl, there’s no question about it” Gloria said as she searched my feet and inspected my torso.

I, a man of 20 years, gazed upon her poverty with utter fascination. Her world of babble and confusion was so utterly different, yet never pretended to be inaccessible to me. I looked her in the eyes and said

“Oh?”

My face was void of emotion not because I’m particularly skilled in veiling my emotions—although that I am—but because I had none.

“Have you ever heard of Carnival Inc?” Gloria asked as she stared once again at my “cool shoes.”

“I have not,” I mentioned, one tone, tilted head, would appreciate tad elucidation.

“They provide work for the disabled and the mentally ill. I make minimum wage. I’m insane. I tried to go to college 8 different times. Are you a Cornell student?”

“I am,” I admitted.

“I was once interested in plants and plant science they have a good program there I used to want to go there but I couldn’t do it,” Gloria said, finally meeting my eyes.

The bus pulled up and I asked her name, she said Gloria. She asked mine and I said Francis.

“That’s a really nice name,” she said, mesmerized.

“It was good to meet you,” I said.

I think I walked by Gloria today on campus. I met her in the commons yesterday.

Waking up in the graveyard.

The trees are swaying as I am woken from a night of bliss and jack, slightly on the rocks. The decaying arbre above sways and appears to metamorphose into an array of colors and things. For a moment, my perception tells me it’s a person. For a moment, I lose consciousness and arise again, only to realize that I stand in the convening place of the dead person’s society. The graveyard is endless and somewhat intimidating. I slept the night there, but I’m not so sure I would want such an unfriendly spot for a permanent resting place. I guess I'd rather a sunny spot with rainbows and ponies. Meh, who knows. The tree is a tree again, spiders scurry up intt its dark crevices. C’mon. Is this serious? How ridiculously cliche! Spiders creeping about in a graveyard on a huge tree. Spiders which guard the tree, as I guard the gates of hell. Yes, that’s right. I guard the gate(GATES depending on the day)of hell nowadays. How? Well, that's a useless question, but, a position opened up 2 months ago and I applied with an admittedly shitty resume, and I got the gig. I started a month ago, so my job was somewhat difficult after a month’s worth of corpses piled up just waiting for the idiot willing to take this job. Why do they even want to get in the gates anyway?

The spiders are the most annoying part of this job. When I fall asleep, I can feel them crawling closer to me, as if I’m some fucking prisoner, but I’m not a fucking prisoner! Those stupid things spend their days tearing the dead to pieces over and over again, and yea, I guess that’s cool, but I’m not a fucking prisoner! I’m thinking of filing a formal complaint, but my boss isn’t the most welcoming man in the world and I don’t want to make things difficult for myself when I’m here in a few years.

One of the perks of the job is that you get to find out whether or not you’ll be going to heaven or coming to hell when you perish. You also find out how you’ll die. What they don’t tell you in the interview or before you accept the job, is that by accepting the job you agree to spend eternity there and immediately die a pain free death. The perks of the job aren’t so great. The terms of the job aren't initially clear. I'm thinking about filing a formal complaint.

A spider just ripped into my leg.

Dirt Clods

I. Dirt clods are cool—you just have to know what to do. When it rains, they become mud. Everyone likes to fling mud, unless you are afraid to get dirty. When you slide around in the mud, it is guaranteed that laughter will ensue. When it rains, you will have fun with the conglomeration of mass formerly known as a dirt clod.

II. It’s fun to rip dirt clods out of the earth. It doesn’t hurt the earth necessarily, although we can’t really say for sure. It feels as if you are pulling a potato up from the ground. Or, a mandrake from Harry Potter.

III. When the dirt clod is very dry, and you throw it, if it hits the sidewalk, lots of specks of dirt scatter about and the sound that’s created is very soothing. The initial impact itself is very nice, just to hear a body smacking the pavement. Like a squirrel falling from a tree. It’s a very comforting and definite plop that sets the soul at ease. The scattering of dirt that follows the plop is sort of similar to icing on a cake. It also reminds me of hair. The singular trajectories of dirt that fly every which way streak brown lines that add beautiful contrast—depending on the juxtaposition—to the blank, solid slab of rock beneath.

IV. Take away the rain, and just have a dirt clod fight. It’s harmless.

V. Pretend each individual dirt clod is a grenade, and as you hurl them over your neighbor’s fence, imagine they are causing irreparable damage to an enemy whose core beliefs are diametrically opposed to yours to such an extent that you are desirous of obliterating his/her flesh.

VI. I have said five things about dirt clods.

VII. If you’re of athletic stock, pretend that a dirt clod is a baseball. Pluck a clod from the sod and chuck it against your house. It will leave a small mark on the side of the house that will likely not go away. It’s a good way to rid your life of frustration, and fun to watch the marks amass.

VIII. Throw a dirt clod up in the air and let it rain down on you. If you’re brave, look up while it’s coming down. It may get in your eyes, but if you’re trying to kill time, you should have no qualms about spending a few minutes trying to get specks of dirt out of your eye sockets. It will get in your hair undoubtedly, but that’ll make a shower more interesting. It’s sort of like when there’s sand in your hair, and you’re washing it, you can feel the grainy scalp that provides the foundation for your hair; it’s a very enjoyable contrast, and always a fun task to rid your scalp of it.

IX. Throw a dirt clod at a moving car. They’ll wonder why you did it.

Glimpse into the Life of a Young Corporate Recruiter, day 17

I travel from college to college to help kids move their careers further and shit. I work at the FDIC, and I’ve been here for about 2 years. Apparently I have a real congenial personality, or whatever. I’m also very attractive. I’m a good person to have as the face of your company. Kids in suits buzz around, “piss off,” I wanna say.

“Hello, my name is Kwame Eriksson, and I am a junior Economics major. I am interested in corporate finance- or, rather, the regulation of big banks, what with the recent spat of white collar crimes and whatnot. *chuckles* *blinks*”

Look at this fuckin’ guy, I think to myself.
Developing a product. He packages and pitches. Tent like backpack fingerlakes? I miss Laura, what a goddam good person. “Wha?”

“Sir?” asks the legitimately clad one asks

“Yea, right. Uh, we are an organization that deals in the regulations of banks. We are not federally funded, which means our money doesn’t come from the taxpayers. We’ve had to shut a lot of banks down as of late unfortunately, but that’s all part of the business.” I say, rote, regurgitate, Wikipedia memorization, as my eyeballs scan the room for cute ass chicks. We in Ivy League territory bitch I like dem motivated chicas…

“Very interesting! I’m actually somewhat current on the activity, whereabouts and mission of the FDIC. What I was actually sort of interested in *shuffles paper* *crinkles* is what you have in the way of internships?” Broadly smiles, this one. Little fucker. Has resume. Life on paper. Ink could be anything, assembles to form accomplishments.

“Yea, well Kwame, I heard you say you were a junior…”

“Yes.”

“Well, our internships are reserved for seniors. Those about to fuckin’ graduate this coming spring.” Says I, deadpan.

Kwame serious. I wanna ask im why. Heath Ledge rip. Fuck he gonna say?

“Uh…” crinkly paper forehead.

“You got some shit to say Kwam? I told you. You ain’t our fuckin’ type. You. Aren’t. Old. Enough.” Each word step closer to suity Kwame. Nose to nose like tet a tet what next little bag of shit?

*hearty chuckle* I have, watch Kwame shuffle away, eyes dart like me search chickie.

He run. Jesus *hah* I yawp.

I decide venture into career fair. Not standing there anymore. Rip Ledge off nametag and start the wander.

17th campus, 3 more 2 go. I’m missin’ Memphis.

Err,uh, being?

I was bored, really, really bored, but is it better to be bored?

I decided to do an experiment, which I will now detail. So in the beginning, I made some planets and the universe. To further my research, I also made trees, and some other things which were different, but similar. It took me a day to do the universe(which was really a lot more than a day),a day to do some other things and still a few days to do more things. I say "other things" because the "things" are unimportant in this context. I speak not to tell you of these "things," but rather to speak of the things I made on the last metaphorical day of creation. Clear?(I'm moving on). I made humans. But you see, as a good scientist(and God, but don't flatter me to much right now), I decided to make each thing a bit different. So i'll first tell you my hypothesis(although I realize this isn't actually a hypothesis). First, and I have deviated quite a bit from the scientific method and the format of a typical lab report. My hypothesis, well err actually there wasn't really a "hypothesis" per se, but, uh, I guess I, uh, sort of, just decided to see if I could make something make itself stop existing via consciousness. Consciousness!An amazing idea, I had... Yeah, so that was the jist, but back to this more interesting matter of the "hypothesis." Well you see, I run into this really tough spot when I try to make hypotheses, because, err, well, how can I(a pretty good God you would normally think, if I hadn't asked you not to flatter me) create an educated guess? I already know everything that has happened and will happen, right? This basic fact has made "existence" obtrusively mundane.

So, I made humans and they eventually could create and destroy. I became intrigued with what happened(although I already, of course, err uh, knew what would happen). So the humans developed and they gradually became more efficient and useful. They came closer to knowing everything and being perfectly god-like. Their lives got more boring, but they had technology(should I be using the present tense? I should make a personalized tense just for the existences above existence). The technology becomes life, it will homogonize, as that is the most effiecient way of movement. The other things I made, just reproduced what I created and destroyed the things that weren't the things mentioned at the beginning of this now lengthy sentence(THINGS, THINGS, THINGS). The humans destroyed themselves with the creation of something... something... something, HA. Something I did not create. But wait, wait, wait, I'll take credit for this technology, because well the consciousness which directly created the crap, is something I made. I make all.

Unfortunately, as the societies of the humans progresses, they begin to create and destroy more things. I myself have come into their grips. They have created other gods, which they use to trade the technology, and they have invented some admittedly uh bett--err, different gods.Well, with this, I was, am, will be something other than existing and not existing, I guess.

Okay. Okay! I forsee my own non-existence,and well, I am a bit puzzled, because I don't know how I know that I will be non-existent, because I can't exist then(the point of nonexistence) to know it, and a God knows all so shouldn't be puzzled and the ----------------(infinity here).

Dejected Patty Poo: A conversion

Climb walls and escape.
I'm sitting at a table with two folk singers and neither wants to sing. We just sit, staring at each other, until the narcoleptic folksinger falls asleep. The remaining singer and I make eye contact, then we make out, but I am no good, so we stop mid way. Oh what a dejected patty poo I am.

The tables, the audience, the eyes.

This is quite a turn of events. The tables have turned. But you see this is the second time they have turned, so they now stand, rather unremarkably, in the same position in which they began. As a member of the audience, I am uncertain as to whether or not I should be shocked or uninterested. I'm intrigued, so my eyes stay locked on the perfectly still tables which have been moved by an untold force, which appears to be nonexistent. As my eyes begin to water, I begrudgingly close them, and reopen them as quickly as possible, only to find the other members of the audience gone and the tables, which are round, in a position that may or may not be the original positions. Hmmm

Only in Llandyrnog

Oh Llandyrnog! What a terrible place for a young boy like me to be sired! Wales is such a bore. Oh how I long for the ivory coast of England... All day long on weekends, I watch rugby matches on the tele with my father. All we fucking do here is admire. It's a shame and a sin, the fact that we can't have our own fuckin' identities. If I tried in earnest to create something new, the first thing I'd have to do is strip away the hundreds of fucking years of damn influence... It's like stripping the enamel off of your teeth- easy to do with some high-tech equipment, but years to implement by means of soda, gatorade, etc... Anyways, I digress... The most fucking important person to come out of this damn fucking sad excuse for a country, this sad plot of sod, this shitty little absence of water, was Princess Diana. The only reason she ever emerged from indentured servitude was because she was striking, aesthetically pleasing and all that shit. She wasn't brilliant, she wasn't fuckin' prodigious at anything! All she did was be born. Here I am, Adam Van Loewenboorgeor, an ugly fuck. A supreme Cock, in every sense of the word. I have no reason to strive to be anything. So it goes, eh....

2.
I don't know why I rode bus 53. I usually took the 76, but that day I was feeling adventurous. She walked on the bus, holding a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. Fuckin' slut. Her name was Virginia, possibly the least apt name for this particular wench. Just like a dresser that one, some bloke always runnin' through her drawers. But after she walked on, the most beautiful girl in the world followed. (In this case, the phrase most beautiful is a relative superlative, because in Llandyrnog there are no absolutely beautiful women, only conditional ones.) She sat next to me, as there were no other seats. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Virginia licking the bejeesus out of that spoon, probably trying to prove to some bloke she knew a few things. Fuckin' slut. So as I was talking to this relatively attractive girl, I must have let my hate for Virginia slip a few times, contrasting this new nice girl to that slut Virginia, because the girl sitting next to me reprimanded me. Apparently I spent more time talking about Virginia than she would have liked. I guess she's right. What's so great about Virginia? Nothing. Virginia. Fuckin' slut. I love her. Why did she leave me? Why? It may have been the infidelity issue. Don't get me wrong, Virginia bless her heart, was faithful. I slept with another woman during our marriage. She was a girl I'd met at St. Tyrnog's. Fuckin' slut.

3.
Being a member of the Llandyrnog Binge Drinking Society was tough! We practiced thrice a week and honestly, conditions were never great. The rickety, dilapidated, shitty pieces of crap we called "our buildings" seemed to be irreversibly fucked. The beer mugs would break tables as the other members of the LBDS plopped them down. All my life i've wanted to take pride in something. Anything really. This was my last hope. The society was the only thing this town really had going for it. We've won the Denbighshire Cup twice in the last 300 years. Believe it or not, those are the best stats anyone can boast in this town. The society had really been losing its "umph" these last few centuries. How was I to put up with the grueling workouts if I didn't have the same faith my father and my father's father had? Tradition wasn't enough and ultimately i decided to have a kid so I wouldn't have to continue. In Llandyrnog it is tradition to retire from the society and pass its traditions onto the new generation. I'm milking this loophole as much I can now.

Our story

It is as if this is a page. One of many, not in the life of Me or anything corny like that, but instead in the life of Ludvig, a Kundera character. It follows the traditional order, the letter, the response, the internal dispute, the collapse, and incredible gap in time. So here we are, just like Ludvig, singing songs of Optimism and Opium, hanging flags from windows and writing poetry about idealized women. Being completely apart from reality, but swearing reality is all. So here we are, at the end of the story. Not a memorable story, not a great story, some good moments. Ludvig the naive. Bacchus the naive. What a story.

Superstar to the stars

Ashley kelly, superstar to the stars. Crashed a car at age 4 and went on vacation for 2 years. While chillaxing, she met a boy named Tom. Tom and she climbed two mountains in the foothills. They hit it off and had sex. Yes, sex. Sex in the bed. Not on the mountains though. They just went like to his house or something. The details aren't important, what is important is her foot. Herr foot now has herpes on it. She can't have babies now. Tom and she got married in Nevada, the most boring place in the world, and then had dinner. The dinner was mediocre at best. After dinner that got a divorce because the dinner was mediocre at best. This is Ashley Kelly, superstar to the stars.

Euler's Identity

I am an Oil Man, like Daniel Plainview.

Symbols and Signifiers

Who are you!
Gosh, you shouldn’t know
And why should I?
You might not be wearing a mask
But everyone else is.
How can I know it is real?

Mine is glued to my face
Sweat dripping from my forehead
Covering my body
Loosens it a bit,
But enough, I wonder

See I can’t tell
Do you have your glasses on?
Is the heat from my body blurring your shields?
If so, excuse me.
I can’t help it, but
Could you help me?

The floor is somewhat slippery now,
The droplets are pools
Leading me astray it seems
Everything seems
Seamlessly put together
Was it made in one piece?

I can’t tell.
I’m hoping you can,
Because I don’t want
Stuttering words as I grip around for your sympathy
Treading harsh currents of humiliation
Why does it have to be like that?

When I speak,
Liquid flows into my mouth
The words turn to nonsense
Words are symbols
How justly they convey, sometimes

Is your throat itchy?
It just appeared as if you wanted to say something
But you cleared it,
Maybe that was all I saw.
Was it? Wasn’t it?

The water is to my hip now,
Furiously rocking my body,
I’m fumbling, thrashing,
struggling to rage against, but
Should i?

I don’t want to go,
But, I’m shouting nonsense
Between the waves
Shouting after symbols
Were there signs?
Tell me the signifier.
Help me tell.

Writing Competition part 2

The bells in the courtyard are chiming as the winds assault the little house. The windows open and shut repeatedly acting as the percussionists for the evening’s performance. The leaves rustling with perfect harmony complete the quartet, while the silence between notes bring the realization that the audience is entranced and calm. The thunder and lightening pound away and break the quartet, ushering in a period of pure silence. The eye of the storm is overhead. Sinners sin under god’s watchful eye, but when he is close by, when he makes his presence known, the lay wherever they can and play dead. The hide from his gaze, as do all the animals, plants, and windows. A crash ruins the wonderful silence. Now not even god exists and we may focus on that man. The gigantic hole in the ceiling of the 2 story apartment guides us to the exact location of the vagrant: First floor, living room, right next to the television. Sitting there with a beard as his only cover for his repulsive nudity, he unveils his scarred back and buttocks and hands. He looks as if he’d been whipped by the gods themselves, on the receiving end Poseidon’s wrath, Zeus’ fury, Einstein’s wit.
The six students living in the apartment-house tip-toe down the creaky stairs, each meeting th e gaze of the others cautiously, painfully, until the final stair came and they descended unto the living room floor and before them lay their plight: A now turned over (exposing his dangler), early 20’s, man. They looked at him and he looked back at them. He appeared uninterested, while they appeared concerned. Simultaneously they all thought the same things: “Is he okay?” “Should I call an ambulance?” “How’d he get naked?” “When will the ceiling be fixed?” The storm outside disappeared from their thoughts and they all began to huddle around him, throwing questions at him, searching for cell phones to call an ambulance. He lay motionless looking each one in the eye with insouciant delight. Slowly, they all put some distance between themselves and the body that lay on their living room floor and when the ambulance came, they all made their ways, slowly, back up the creaky stairs and lay their heads on their comfy pillows and drifted back into the dream world.
Morning came and the sun shone through the tired windows and a pleasant heat bounced off of the sex faces of the residents. A knock at the door sings a simple song to the sleepers…WAKE UP! They all arise and march down as if military soldiers eager to avoid punishment by their superior. Mike is first in line and he sees that guy, that bearded guy, standing there, smiling.
“Hey, uh, how are you?” asks Mike.
“I’m doing okay.” Answers that Guy.
“Good, good…” says Mike, searching for some reason for that Guy’s return.
“…” is all the Guy offers.
Greg becomes uneasy, and impatient and blurts out “Why are you here?”
“I’m going to take a nap. The couch looks like a comfortable spot, so you guys don’t have to give up any rooms.” That Guy says as he shuffles along to the living room, smiling and unleashes his weight upon the sofa. The rest of the group gather around the sofa, observing the 165 pound man fall into a deep sleep. The snoring is so loud, the group is almost positive he is faking. Greg, begins to touch the Guy in hopes of waking him up, when Sasha, a 21 year old Bio major stops him, and says, “No, it’s fine. He’ll probably leave when he wakes up. If he doesn’t we can just tell him about how this renting situation usually works.”
“Whatever.” Utters Tim, who has been, until now, lurking in the back, silently. He moves up the stairs first and the rest soon follow, each casting glances backward as they depart the naked invader. “Why doesn’t he have any clothes on yet?” asks Mike as he too makes his way up the stairs.

It’s now 11am and the house has been quiet for 3 hours now. Yawns from the living room begin to echo repeatedly, until finally Gerald, the youngest resident at 18 years, decides to explore the area of unrest. Gerald has completely forgotten that there is a Guy in his living room, and gasps as he sees the naked statue with arms outstretched in the air and his face jumbled up in what can only be called ecstasy.
“HEY BUDDY!” says that Guy.
“Hi, uh, what’s your name anyway?” answers Gerald.
“Where the fuck is the remote man? I’ve been looking! But, I haven’t been finding! Hey do me a favor and get me some bread.”
“My bread? Well I kind of paid for it, so—“
Yeah, I figured as much. Go ahead and get it out here. Hurry up too man, I’m starving.”
Gerald, in his typical submissive fashion, fetches the bread and decides to get some peanutbutter as well. “Here you go, uh, wait, what’s your name?”
“Ha, thanks, buddy. Wait. What the fuck is this? Peanut Butter? Did I ask for peanut butter? Did I want Peanut Butter?” That Guy implores as he pitches the jar of Gerald’s favorite peanut butter at Gerald.
“um, I, HEY, I… I didn’t even have to—“ Gerald begins
“Yeah, you didn’t have to. I’m allergic to peanut butter. You’re trying to kill me bud? Well, let’s see who wins first. HA! I’m kidding bud. Don’t do that again. I’m gonna just gobble this down in here. I kind of like to eat alone, so would you, scram man?” That Guy says. Gerald is easily manipulated and is quite afraid of this man standing and 6’1, shamelessly thrusting his nakedness around with every gesture. Gerald leaves, hoping to wait for someone else to deal with this.
The weather is beautiful today, but every now and then, it behaves childishly, raining for only a few drops and then going back to a cloudless wonderland. Thunder appears, only to be replaced by an hour of nothing and then a few pieces of hail. That Guy is responsible. He likes this little town and he likes the weather here, because the weather is whatever he would like it to be. He is That Guy, god(so-to-speak) of the weather, fondler of the clouds. He is here for a reason: He was bored. He has never been on land so he decided to do it while he could, before he got wrapped up in the family business, making drops fall on occasion, stroking the Californian egos with sunshine, making deals with the other guys for favorable or disastrous skies. “Who gives a fuck?” was That Guy’s main thought throughout the day.
Throughout the day each resident passed through the living room to exit. Each resident avoided eyesight, avoided the life in the living room. That Guy reached out with all his soul to the residents. Notice. Just notice. A simple hello would do. Anything would do. He just wanted the life of a person, living with a bunch of other people. Living.
Gerald inched in from a day at the park with his friends. Once again he forgot that someone foreign would be in his living room. “I picked up some lettuce at the grocery store earlier today.It’s in the fridge but don’t touch, okay chief?” These were the first words to rain on him when he entered the hallway with the living room directly next to it. “He’s buying food for the house now?” He thought as he began to briskly walk by and make his way up the stairs.
“Hey! Get down here. I wanna show you something.” That Guy remarked. “Please don’t be youyr weiner” was all Gerald could think.
“HA! You see this scar on my finger? You know how I got that? HA, it doesn’t matter, because I just wanted you to see it. Enough with the questions now, what the heck have you been doing all day, PAL?”
“Uh,um, well, not much. Listen, have you talked to anyone about staying here, because I don’t think you can just buy lettuce and expect to stay here as long as you want. Do you even go to this school? Which year are you?” Gerald quickly and nervously asked.
“I thought we discussed this. I said ENOUGH WITH THE QUESTIONS. Buddy, you’re ruining my buzz.” Heavy drops of rain rapidly fell on the house and the skies turned a depressing tone of grey. Gerald glances outside and realizes it wouldn’t be very nice to put him out in the rain, so becomes quiet. “Well, let’s see what’s on television.” Gerald mumbles, but the remote he has gripped from the dining room table is snatched out of his hands with an explanation coming simply in the forming of “Ump.” Gerald goes up to his room.



Gerald’s escape leaves That Guy feeling small and exasperated. Having no idea what is going on here, he is becoming quickly disillusioned. People aren’t as nice as you would think. Why does no one spend time with him? He has observed and applied everything he ahs learned from his years of observation to these few fleeting moments of social interaction. Slowly, he is beginning to think he has been lied to. People aren’t what he imagined them to be.
Henry enters the house and breaks That Guy’s train of thought. “Hey...guy. What are you doing?” He says. The question annoys That Guy because he is pretty sure that what he is doing (sitting on the sofa) is fairly obvious. He resigns himself to the fact that he will simply have to explain everything to everyone all the time. “I’m sitting on the sofa and thinking.” He replies after several seconds go by.
“Yeah, I know that douchebag!” That Guy doesn’t understand the name and simply replies “Yea. Hey, buddy would you mind getting out of here? I’m trying to think.” Flabergasted, Henry stumbles backward, and happens to trip on a carelessly placed object on the floor. Falling through the air he looks like a swan and just as quickly as his fall began, it ends, leaving him strewn across the floor, pain drawn clearly across his face, limps haplessly placed on the ground. As Henry lay on the ground That Guy looks over for a few seconds, and then says “Well are you gonna get out of here or not?” In the distance, the sky rumbles and it clouds momentarily dim the sun’s lighting of the building. The commotion reaches the ears of Gerald in his room up the stairs. He hurries down the steps and upon seeing Henry in pain on the ground and Gerald sitting on the sofa in strained thought, he is completely confused. “Should I call the police?” “Am I in danger.” “Oh my god.”
He rushes up to his room and bolts the door. Out of breath he rests in his room, on his bed, and begins to cry. His weakness is like a slap across his face. Like a baby after a proper reprimand from its mother, he is asleep within minutes and the two figures downstairs cease to exist again.
“Ahhehaeh.” Henry groans as Sasha enters the house. “O my god1 What’s Going ON!” Sasha exclaims. Dialing 911, her phone nearly slips out of her hands. In minutes the young man is wheeled out of the house and into an ambulance. That Guy remains seated on the sofa and as Sasha and the now present Mike begin to barrage him with questions, That Guy falls asleep, smiling, confused. The weather outside is calm, the clouds floating through the sky, the birds enjoying a slight breeze which caresses the sticks of their nests.
“We have to have a house meeting. That guy beat up Henry and now he is in the hospital. He’s a tyrant and we can’t let him run our lives! I tried to call the landlord but he is on vacation or some bull like that. This is ridiculous.” Sasha rambles in a high pitched voice that is known far and wide for slicing eardrums.
“I don’t really care as long as he doesn’t touch my stash. Seriously, just chill.” Tim says in between yawns. “This is serious! Our lives are in danger…” Sasha pleads.
From behind them, they hear “Speak a little more quietly, guys.” That Guy is standing behind them, rubbing his eyes, smiling slightly.
“You need to leave.” Sasha says, just before the sky rumbles a bit.
“Oh, yea, no thanks guys. Wanna play some cards tonight? Hey Sasha I’m feeling a little hungry, could you order a pizza or something?”
“Everyone meet me in the next room except for you” says Sasha, signaling That Guy as the exception. That Guy, doesn’t seem to hear them and withdraws back into the living room. In the next room the roommates meet. “Guys, I don’t know who the fuck this guy is but we need to call the cops.” says Sasha. “Fuck no. I’ve got kush lining this entire building. If you want him gone, tell him or just push his fuckin ass out. I’m going up to my room, squares. Don’t bother me.” Tim says as he exits in a very slow fashion. The roommates reach an agreement that Tim is an asshole pothead and then agree that they should remove That Guy by force, and if possible Tim as well. They hatch a plan and wait. The sun goes down and the night is quiet, the roommates are all waiting in their rooms for a signal, That Guy lay asleep on the living room sofa with a slight smile on his face. He is dreaming of snow storms. The roommates are imagining a bad night ahead. A whistle sounds on the second floor and the doors open at almost the same time. Sasha leads the group down the stairs and they surround the sofa. They grasp That Guy’s limbs in hand and he doesn’t move a bit. Gerald is disturbed by the lack of reaction and says loudly “What the fuck?” That Guy awakens and says “Hey Buddy, that peanut butter was on the counter and not the pantry when I walked into the kitchen. Put your SHIT UP!” Gerald gets his wits about him and the group proceeds to lead him out of the house and he remains silent. They throw him on the ground outside and walk back inside, but fail to notice he has walked back in with them. Sasha says “Well, that was really easy. This has been pretty weird, let’s just—“ “Can you guys get out of here? I’m trying to sleep, but we can hang out tomorrow. By the way, this has been really nice. You guys are the best!”
The group is shocked and as That Guy lays his beard and head on sofa pillow, the residents give each other a look that says “Back to work, again…” They repeat the action of griping his limbs, raising that Guy’s body, as he silently is carried away. This time as they dump the body they ensure he doesn’t reenter, and he blankly looks at them as a child does when something terrible but incomprehensible happens. The storm clouds gather round the house and the wind blows. The windows clank against the house, the house rocks, and “Hey guys, get something to drink later?” blares out at them and is all they can hear. Hail and rain and snow drop into the house via the hole That Guy left when he fell into the house. Standing outside, That Guy is twiddling his thumbs and wondering what is going on. He still can’t understand why they picked him up, why they threw him and out and did it all again even as he did them the favor of reentering. All the roommates are back in their rooms, scared, cold, and unsure. Tim comes down the stairs and opens the door, blunt in hand and says “Get out of here, man.” That Guy walks under Tim’s arms and back into the house and plops down on the couch. He falls asleep and the storm dissipates. Tim is left standing, arm still hanging from the ajar door.
In the morning, the house is empty. Everyone is gone, everything is gone, even Thawt Guy’s best friend Gerald.
Despair washes over That Guy and he thinks about home. Over the clouds, guarding the heavens and the rainbows, regulating people’s lives. His newfound helpless state has made him weak. He cries as he sits on the sofa. He cries under the hole where he fell in. He cries on the stairs. The sky though seemingly cloudless, lets heavy drops fall unto the ground, until puddles emerge. The puddles become deeper and wider and more ominous until the house begins to become immersed in water. Oblivious to the chaos around him, That Guy weeps uncontrollably until he is completely under water. Unable to breath, unable to think, he is dying, but still crying. That Guy dies. The water stops flowing, the sun is unrestrained, the winds don’t exist. The door opens and the water flows out, carrying his body out, mimicking the ease with which the residents ushered his body out.
From that day on, things weren’t the same. People died. Suicide rates soared as people endured the unrelieved heat of the summer, cloudless winters, the disappearing flowers and trees. The ocean ran dry, the rivers ran dry, humanity ran dry and there was death. That Guy left them with death all because those assholes didn’t want to play cards with him. I’m writing as the last man in existence, the last bearer of the bad news, the last suffering man. After the story of That Guy became known, the 6 roommates were executed. Their bellies split and guts hung for people to rejoice in. In times of pain, even this small concession made a difference to the people. The people came from far and wide to see the carcasses and upon seeing them many died from exhaustion in the heat. Eventually, no one could tell which bodies were those of the 6 residents and which were of passersby, and which ones were tourists.

Writing Competition

“Good Morning America. It is with a mixture of sadness and pride that I deliver this morning’s State of the Union address. As you all know, we are at war in the Middle East. The enemy is gaining strength every day. Not a minute goes by that I don’t give a sigh of grief over our fallen brethren. Those of you that have been keeping tabs on your nation in foreign publications such as BBC news and The Economist are well aware that things aren’t going so well for lady liberty. We simply haven’t the heart to inform you via Fox News, or NBC the extent to which our failure and losses are truly apparent.”

(The camera pans outward, revealing two masked men on either side of Barack Obama, holding AK-47s)

“Call it misinformation, call it deception, either way, I assure you it wasn’t out of malice. It was in your best interest. I have gained nothing in the way of capital gains in this yearlong endeavor to conceal the truth from the American people. Frankly, I saw no alternative. To inform my proud citizens that the most powerful country in the world was somehow under siege by guerilla attackers and that we were in constant danger, would not only incite fear in your breast and create widespread panic, but would also instill a nationwide sense of hopelessness completely uncharacteristic of the American psyche. I apologize if I’ve failed you as a president. All I ever wanted was for each and every one of you to realize your dreams- the American dream. I now hand the country over to Mazaar Al-Zarqawi and Mabudeen Sheekzaki. FUCK AL QUAEDA! LONG LIVE AMERICA!”

(President Barack Obama is then shot in the head. His white shirt is now smattered with blood, and he slumps back in his chair in the Oval office, mouth ajar with a trickle of blood slowly meandering toward his chin).

I sat in Mooney’s, mouth agape completely, as did the rest of my friends as we watched the traumatic end to President Obama’s first State of the Union address.

“Shit… How the fuck did they get in the White House?” I said

“No fucking idea.” said my friend Konrad

So much silence I never would have thought this was the way that people reacted to these sorts of things I never actually imagined (John Lennon) this type of thing could happen in America. I’m not really that shaken up about the Obama thing, but what does this mean you know? Where do we go next?

“What do we do?” I asked

No answer. I don’t think I’ve ever seen people legitimately speechless this is definitely the first time I must say.

(the screen went blank, but not before the masked AK-47 men walked toward the camera and shut it off, fumbling around with the switches for a minute).

Stupid terrorists, well I shouldn’t say that I’d probably fumble with it also, I’m not exactly a technology whiz but everyone always thinks they will be when put in that position I take it back they’re not stupid terrorists, they got in to the White House for chrissakes.

“So….” I say in an attempt to break the silence “Should we go somewhere? See what other people are doing maybe? Gauge what the national reaction to this is?”

No response again. Are people really this shook up? I know they heard my words I’m sure they’re just over reacting for the sake of looking human I mean at least show some panic and curiosity.

“All right, well I’m going to head outside and check out what’s going on guys. Give me a call if you wanna catch up. Sound cool Konrad? Joe? I know you probably won’t say anything back but I trust you will call me if you want to meet up later- unspoken agreement. Well, now it’s spoken so I guess it’s just an agreement... Sort of.” I headed out the door.

We usually meet at Mooney’s and have lunch together on Mondays. I hate the fact that there’s a TV in there, but I agreed to watch today because it was the State of the Union address- Oh shit no more of those! They usually watch stupid ESPN and I try to get a word in during commercials, otherwise it’s just blank expressions consuming dozens of chicken wings.

On the street, everyone seems to have heard the news already, like during September 11th, everyone already knew and didn’t have to rush in and say “oh my god did you hear?” As if it was a piece of gossip, sullen faces asked and answered the question without verbal communication and stuff. Where should I go? Hmm I don’t really know what to do right now. Will we all go to work tomorrow? Will I go back this afternoon? Do I have to? I guess I’ll see for myself and head to the office I have my bike so I can get there quickly.

Riding feels weird why is everyone giving me a look like I’m doing something wrong?

“Hey Janice” I said as I strolled into the office

“Michael.” She said

“Yea?”

“Our nation’s under attack” she said, crinkled brow and hopeless expression.

“Well, yea. I mean, are we going to be working the rest of the afternoon, or…” I said, both hands out in front of me

“Michael. Our nation is under attack.” She said again, as if it clears up everything.

Why is she making it seem like an obvious answer? The president’s in Washington D.C, we are in New York City. It’s so far away and there are so many of us, first of all how the hell did they infiltrate our country, but second of all how are they going to deal with the rest of us?

“I can’t deal with this right now” Janice said to my blank expression. She stormed off, immensely stressed

I guess I have the day off. Probably more than a day. I’m hungry I didn’t actually eat anything at Mooney’s, I just got there when I heard the news I think I’ll go to Pasquale’s deli. Oh god 12 inch Turkey and provolone sub sauce and a coke oh my god.

“12 inch turkey, provolone cheese and sub sauce. On sesame bread. And a coke please.” I said

“Yea, sure” said the guy behind the counter.

Why is he eyeing me funny? I have to eat! Does everyone stop eating when a crisis happens? Where in our DNA is it hardwired that when the president is killed brutally murdered in his office after giving the state of the union address telling all of us that our country is doomed do we all stop eating and doing everything? I want to yell this to all of you that are eyeing me and telling me telekinetically that I need to stop where I am and panic and talk and ask what are we going to do? What are we going to do?

“Here you go sir. It’s on the house.” Said the Pasquale man

“Nonsense, how much?” I demand

“Really, it’s on the house.” Said the man, all sad now

“If you insist. Thank you much and I hope that we can all make it through this tragic event” I said, and based on his look I appear to have redeemed myself because he nodded gravely and respectfully.

As I take a bite in to the sub, there’s bliss I forgot for a second how amazing it was oh my god. I take a seat on the curb, the perfect seat I think to witness the end of the world because lots of people were doing the same. People were crying and saying “OBAMA! OBAMA! WHY?” I didn’t even know the guy and his policies and things didn’t even affect me just yet it’s a shame I guess. No president, I think has ever affected me I can’t tell the difference between a good one and a bad one but I guess I’m too young to have a valid opinion. I wonder if Great Britain’s gonna help us. Everyone should get together and help us we did so much for all of Europe- think of the Marshall plan jesus we bailed all of them out when they were in ruins after World War 2. We’re not even in ruins I wonder if there was a lot of gunfire I’m really curious how this happened. Is there still news coverage?

I walked over to a sports bar across the street that had a TV in it.

“Is there any news coverage?” I ask inside

“No. It all went out after the State of the Union address.” Said the barman

Jesus we don’t even know what’s going on this is so weird I wonder what the cops are doing should they all drive to Washington D.C and find out what’s up?

“What are all the cops doing?” I asked

“I have no idea, sir. No idea whatsoever. It’s a sad day for America.” He said, looking down.

“Sad day indeed” I said as I turned toward the door and took another bite out of my sub jesus Christ I wish this sub would last forever it’s so goddamn motherfucking good ahhhhh

Well I guess there’s nothing to do. What if I broke my leg right now, are ambulances still running? Hospitals open? I wouldn’t be surprised if all the sick people just stood there with doctors and asked what was going to happen next and forget that they’re sick.

I’m going to go swimming. In the Hudson River. I saw an episode of Seinfeld once in which Kramer swam in the Hudson but he got really smelly for a while and stank up Elaine’s mattress. I think I’ll do it too I don’t want to be like all the rest of these people, jesus all the cabs have stopped and everyone’s out in the street just standing around looking sad. Yea, I’ll go swimming.

A bike is actually a really, really great idea in these situations. All the traffic’s stopped but I can still get through. Jesus, if all I had was a car, forget it I wouldn’t get anywhere I would just have to stand around or walk wherever I wanted to go but that would take so damn long.

The Hudson. The Mighty Hudson. The Hudson river. Torrents, torrents, currents, strong, good idea? Why not, there are no bad Ideas now I guess. I jump it’s cold already but of course I’ll get over it we can adapt to anything, but maybe that’s not true actually.

“Hey you!”

“Yea?” I say whilst treading water and see it’s a man yelling from the pier I just jumped off of.

“Are you committing suicide?”

“No, why?” I ask

“Cause you’re swimming in the Hudson. Nobody swims in the Hudson!” He yells, one arm stretched out

“Oh, well Kramer did it on Seinfeld. What else should I be doing?”

“Touché.” He said, and walked away.

I swam, I took big strokes, long strokes. Should I ask myself Where am I going? I guess I just did but I’d rather not preoccupy myself with that. Just swim for now. When I was in High school I was much better, that was a few years ago. I bet I would come in last place in a national high school race with all high schools kids of all skill levels no I’m being harsh I’m sure I would do just fine. There are lots of kids on teams that join because their parents make them and have no interest in the sport and no incentive to do well or even try.

How the fuck did guerilla warriors take over the White House and the American Army? We’re so powerful, like the most powerful army on the face of the earth. I bet it’s sort of simple. Like a Trojan horse sort of thing. That’s the way to bring down a giant. Or like run lines in between trees and make some sort of invisible trip wire for them to tumble over because they were stomping too much to look down and see what’s in their way. Either way I bet it’s brilliant. Simplicity is key because the U.S army, I’m sure has been planning for attacks that are so complex and inconceivable and specific that they would look over the easy to find answers. Like school kids who are dumbfounded when asked their opinion but don’t hesitate to memorize a textbook.

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V’,GK.AE

RPB’L0]]]]]]]]]]]][][][///////…..;

0000000000000000000/////

What was that? Damn tired. What do next? Swim back like give up? NO, NO, NO. All is back there so swim back. Swim back then, slow, slow strides. See smoke, hear loud noises war, sure. Thought would be standing forever. Now people run, good make them do something jesus stand there like sheep. Swim back finally, long swim it’s good to be out good workout haven’t done so much in a long, long while. Climb up difficult, was not expected. I get above and on shore and what do I see?

/,/,/,/,/,/,/;.’.;/;[].[/’.[.[.[/’/’/]][;/[];/]’/’././][‘;,.’;,.]./[.//

How did this happen?

I look to my left and see:

][][;][;][;]/]/]/][/][/][/][/][/][/][/][//;/.’’;

And my right as well:

][-=-]-[-‘;-]-\-\-]’-.-;-]-;[]-;

I see some people but some are less than people. I hear them:

000000000000

And they zig zag. Beheaded chicken, hah! That’s the sort of chaos it is perfectly describing the situation. I see orange. Like Pac Man hah! If it slowed down it could eat for a while and actually enjoy it, but noooo someone’s greedy! So I sat and watched it, like always. What a twisted imagination our creator has. He has the power to do anything with space. Anything, yet he chose this? This display of fireworks just for me to see? Out of all the unimaginable possibilities, he does this just for me? I love it. What a generous, generous person he is. I hear him. He’s up there. He’s making lots of noise and pounding and pounding. He’s probably smiling widely thinking of no one but me I’m special. His own world, I wonder what’s happening there.

Meanwhile, I walk through the /.,/.,’;, and see someone. It’s a woman. She’s laying and it’s so amazing that so many buildings fell while I was gone. How do you explain this, creator? You’re lucky I was out to sea and didn’t see what happened. Otherwise I would say, this? This is the weapon you bring against humanity? Yea right, that can’t cause this much destruction, there’s something wrong with your logic! But no, no, no I was gone and it all happened and I am only left to imagine what it was, like a Trojan horse.

So, woman is crying. What am I supposed to do, save her, creator? Is that why I stumbled across her? It was supposed to incite some feeling in me, otherwise I would have not come across anyone.

“How are you, miss?” I asked, crouching above her.

00000000000

“Can you speak?” I asked

00000000000

What the fuck do I do? I’m pretty sure she’s dying. Will this be on my conscious if I just go? Yea I bet it will. Damn. I asked the question, it was planted in me like the emotion. Damn you creator. DAMN YOU CREATOR I WANTED TO ROAM FREELY BUT YOU MADE ME DO THIS! Not a good creator after all. Not a good one, not in it for the happiness of his creations. What is he in it for? To torture me? You want to torture me don’t you??? Don’t you???

On knees now, I never pray. Why am I praying, so uncharacteristic of me (American psyche) I can’t help it!!! Everything is not my idea. You instilled all of these ideas in me!! Hudson river, big turkey sub, nothing was mine, was it!?! Was it?? The bicycle? Can I have credit for anything? This gigantic circle it’s so confusing please please please.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000

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Yes, it’s coming nearer. Thank you! Thank you!

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Yes! This is great creator, this is great!!!

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Tears of joy in torrents (Hudson River), torrents they pour down, down, down thank you so much thank you thank you yes I said yes I said thank you yes!

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

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And the wise and great thing ascends upon me I finally see it I see it thank you you’re not so bad after all, thank you. No torture, no torture.

-./p;=-.;-;..-;,-,.;-.,;;.[;,.,’/’/.’.[.-.0.-=.=.=-.-,.][;.,[;,.][;

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0

THE END

Status update!

Woke up at 7 this morning to run, and now I get to announce it on Facebook. While on my run, my only motivation was the status update I was promised. An unspoken promise!

I'm finally back at my computer, covered in sweat, feeling the sweet endorphins already rushing between synapses. What should I put? Omg, i'm as giddy as a school girl, and i'm not ashamed. No one can see me, but in a moment, everyone will see me. They won't know that I didn't make it very far, or that I heart my arm on the run, or that I lay on the ground for a half an hour after the 5 minute run, awaiting this moment.

Typing,typing,typing. Words have been typed. Words are on the screen, but none are right! Why are none of the words right? This is my moment goddamit!

"Went for a run today. What a good start to a beautiful day!"

"Exhausted from an early morning run." NO NO NO NO NO!

None will do! 56 people will see this status update. I'm on stage for all 56 of my friends and 2 of them are online now!

Deep breaths,deep breaths for the words typed on the screen. Deep breaths for the words smeared upon my laptop, like poop on monkeys in a goddamn monkey fight!

Facebook is making a monkey of me. I won't be made a monkey. The only redemption from this insult is rat poison. My status is "Rat Poison". Take that facebook.

The Ballad of the Screeching Loon of Scarsdale

“Rat Poison!” He cried out at the top of his lungs.
But his cry was left unheard.
He climbed up the ladder, two or three rungs
Not a soul could belittle his words.

Buy a candy, mister.

A ring at the doorbell.

Rising off of my shitty 10 dollar sofa, i'm taking long, slow strides toward the door. My favorite show "Three's Company" is on the boob tube, so you know i'm just hanging out on this beautiful summer afternoon. I don't get many unexpected visitors-- Wait, check that, I don't get any unexpected visitors. I'm going to the door in sweats, thinking this aint a goodamn broad coming to give me some relief. Prolly some of them fuckin Jehovah's or some shit. O you already know this lad's gonna peer through the door before he answers it.

So that's exactly what I do. I get on my tippy toes and lean forward, putting my eye directly at the germ infested looking glass on my door.

Boom!

Before I get a good look at the FUCK! who just rammed my door, i'm holding my eye, praying to the eye god's i'm not going to be blind.

This is utter bull shit. There is a frigging school girl at my door with a box of chocolates. I open the door, quickly, ready to give this brat a piece of my mind. She opens the conversation first, with a "Good morninggggggg, mister. Wanna buy some of my candiessss?"

I reply with a curt "Fuck no." and proceed to shut the door.
Her foot stops my attempt and in an even more innocent voice, says "Misterrrrrrrrr, wanna buy some candiessss?"

My response is the same.

She goes on to say "But mister, my grandma bought some and she says Good People Buy Some."

I kick her foot out of the door and shut it quickly. The little girl begins to ram my door repeatedly.

Laughing, I say "Go away you little fuck. I'm not interested in your crappy diabetes gems." I have never used the term "diabetes gem," but it felt appropriate, so I gave it a whirl. The ramming didn't stop. I sat down and continued to distractedly watch my good ol show as the little pain rammed my door. But, oddly, instead of dying out, the rams get stronger and then stronger more. I sneak over to the door and the violent ramming stops abruptly. I peak out, again and before being smacked in the eye again, see 2 little girls outside this time. I stay there and the rams steadily become more and more violent and, as I get smacked in the face, I notice more and more little girls who seem to be clones of the one who originally stood there. The hinges creak after a while and the living room quakes under their might. One girl cries out, "No police, misterrrrrrr. Buy a canddddyy."

The door comes down. The girls pile into my little abode one by one in a kind of scattering military formation, hinting at the serious and severe nature of the situation. The leader and the original girl walks slowly over to the television and turns off my dear Three's Company. She then repeats "Buy a candy, mister." This time in a very serious and ominous tone. My gaze settles on each of the 4 foot something girls, all standing erect and shooting harsh looks into my rapidly winking eyes. I begin to weep, unable to speak. The other girls start to take everything in my home, claiming it for what I can only assume is the state. Everything! The television, the desk, the sofa, the stamp collection i'd had since the third grade. Meanwhile, I lay on the ground, curled up in a ball.

They begin to leave and the leader slowly turns around and for the final time says in a resigned tone, "Buy a candy, mister."

Midnight Manifesto Nugget

12 O'clock. It's 12 O'clock. The fan is blowing air around the room and making me cold. I stare up at the blue wall and focus in on the cracks. "This house is comin' down," I told myself. I smiled. "This house is comin' down." I sat up. I stared straight ahead and furrowed my brow. I slapped the mattress with my right hand. "This house is comin' down!" I said, a little bit louder. This time I sported a quasi-maniacal grin.

In the next room lay my mother. I knew that she heard what I was saying, because I heard her stirring.

I ran to the basement and got the chainsaw. "THIS HOUSE IS COMIN' DOWN!" I started it up.

Reeer-REEEER-RERERERERERERER

I cackled as my mother ran into the kitchen, hands aflutter. Protesting.

"THIS HOUSE IS COMIN' DOWN!!!!! I'M HELPING OUT MOTHER NATURE!"

On her face were lines of terror,
t'was a shame I was the bearer,
the one to rouse her from her slumber
All I could do was yell the number:
3
2
1

From that moment on, wood was cut. The saw snored on through the night and left the entire neighborhood in a frenzy. Bathrobes were donned, phone numbers dialed, a group was gathered, and questions were asked.

Every support beam was left in half. All the floorboards were torn up. My mother's face was indescribable. She ran out of the house long before the deed was done. She was the one who wanted me committed.

By 12:24 the house was uninhabitable because it was a pile of wood.

I gaze upon a sea of kindling,
for all I know it's the beginning
I'll create a hell for me to rule
so I won't have to go to school.

I grabbed some newspaper from under a pile in a basket that was by the fireplace. I struck a match on the concrete driveway and lit the newspaper on fire. I held it under a plank for about a minute until the thing caught on fire. I laughed giddily.

In 5 minutes, the flames were substantial. I danced in front of the not-house and shoved my ancient neighbors around until they were all horrified. I wanted to let them all know I wasn't one of them anymore.

Hockey Balls

I play hockey with balls, slap-shit. How many times do I gotta say it?

Not because I slap old folks, or even just fella' players, in the ballsers with my department store sticks (I am a child capitalist). I am a fool un-fooled by rules, you see. When the used-car dealerships close at dusk, for a fine-ish instance, I call upon my gang, my team of rivals (NO allusion intended; I hate history), to swarm around me in the cracked parking lots for an unfair game (I am a child capitalist). This game be deemed hockey balls, you know? You listening?

Fuck you if ya want me to explain how to play, because you must have an ugly jaundiced foot if you say that to me. I know it's true. Well, let me explain anyways, my foul footed un-friend, because maybe it'll persuade you to play. And I need players.

So here we go. You take a ball. Not a bouncy ball. Not a Playland ball. Fuck that; that shit's for softies like you. Just imagine a puck that bounces so it's got a higher percentage of knocking your teeth out, slap-shit-face. That's what the games all about. We (my team of rivals and I) be bouncing like basketballs with loopy sticks, trying to knock each other's teeth out.

Have I gotten my teeth knocked out? You dummy. This is the last bit of secret I'm gonna explain.

If I had got a tooth splatted by some stray ball, I'da be silent as a lil' Timmy over there. You see'm? With the big boob eyes and the black mouth? That's because there's nothing in it and because when I hit the ass-wipe his eyes nearly popped out of them sockets. If that happened to me, I'da not be able to put up with all your shit and explain this game. If you want to play, I'mma win because I'm a child capitalist. I told you this! Listen next time!

A Chosen Path (From Sook to Scarsdale). Part I

My name is Lanschwing Jeronico. I come from Vienna, where I spent many days of childhood of mine. My parents, Lantlon and Bantley, were circus leaders. Big belly harnessed with a fiery Oriental sash, my father swallowed blades and made fire with his boozy coughs. He was a bearded man and funny, wobbly and bubbly. My mother pretended to be a contortionist of a lioness, thin as an American.

My journey, which I would be pleased to relate, and which has taken me thus far, to this odd and careless place--deemed a so-called "Scarsdale" by its scarce inhabitants--begins at the traveling Jeronico circus. I was shoveling shit like a good little boy, looking forward to my cappuccino, or perhaps a childlike blunt of cannabis (since we were in Amsterdam at the time), when I saw an Indian lad by around the Elephant cages.

"I needs this, Jeronico." He told me, adjusting his nerdy spectacles.

"Need what, my good sir. Are you lost?" I replied, my youthful eyes shaded in my Oliver Twist hat.

"I am Sooky. You should know me."

"Aye, me sir, I know not of who you be."

"I needs you for my purposes."

"What purposes be those, sir? You a new bossy?"

"Lol. Fuck you."

"What kind of language is that, sir? I don't understand. Who are you?"

"I'm done, Jeronico."

"Why, all right then, sir. I'mma go back to me shoveling now."

And the red shirted, tanned skin boy disappeared into the torch flames of the tent. I didn't see him again until ten years later, when he encroached upon me and my beloved, Brackanela Wiggles.

They took him off to the looney bin

The humidity made me awake several times today. It's 4pm and I hear banging and screams. Needless to say, i'm annoyed. I sit up and stare for about 2 minutes before texting a friend.

More screams. Sounds like construction or some sort of home repair. I lay down and stare at the wall.

Police sirens.

Is someone beating on the backdoor? I think I should answer it, but i'm too annoyed to care. I need a cigarette and I would smoke, but I don't have any left. Today fucking sucks. It couldn't get any worse.

I stand up and open the door to my room. The two story house is completely quiet. It sounds like everyone has been murdered and i'm upset with myself for not joining them. It will be humiliating to be the kid who slept as his family was murdered. I lay down again and try to fall asleep, but the footsteps of policemen halt my slumber. My mother walks up the stairs to my room and says "Don't leave this room."
I'm instantly annoyed again. I'm 19 and my mother (outside the room) is telling me to stay in my room as if I were a child. I consider leaving the room, until I think of how predictable my death could be after such an act.

There is man outside, underneath my window, talking to the police. I can't see his face or make out exactly what they're talking about. My mother returns to mmy room and tells me that I may go downstairs now. "There are police everywhere."

The room downstairs looks normal. Everything is where it should be. The sofa is in front of the television, the computer is on but not in use, the dozens of police are drinking the lemonade...

Apparently a man with a machete cut off the door knob to get into the house, after my mother complained about him taking food without permission. He wanted to kill us all he said. He wanted to kill me. Obviously this is most annoying to me.

What a douche my brother can be.

Today I returned to New Orleans. Today I remained in Binghamton. We are legion. One and two, but mostly one.

more eyes?

She was literally tearing out my heart! When her hands began to shake and her nostrils began to flare, I knew I would see my end, but I thought an insult might somehow reverse the reaction I had created. I was wrong. Lilly was my pal for 4 years and I really thought we had a great thing. When I asked her out a few minutes ago, I truly didn't realize that I would turn into an asshole shortly after "yes" was uttered. Well the past is the past and things happen as they will. The obscene and misogynist comments rang out like never before seen. I had never felt better. I screamed these things not because I meant them but because this is the way of the masochist. I had to do bad for bad to come to me.
Well, as her hand dug into my chest and spilled blood all over the new rug of my San Diego home, I couldn't helop but smile. A smile for one and all. I had my dream girl and she possessed my heart completely. "No" would never escape my throat again. Although this wasn't completely because I was with my dream girl and feeling as if the world were completely free and true, this fact was a contributing reason. My sight blurred and all I could see was her, with tears of rage in her eyes and me standing looking back at her in those same wonderfully gorgeous eyes. I couldn't see my sofa anymore, nor could I see the door. The memories were no where but in those eyes. No more sleeping on life or kicking loved ones out of my life. I would be crystallized for the remainder of time in those green crystalline eyes. Then, as black enshrouded her body's outline, I looked down and saw in her hand my heart and I said "What horrible thing" to which she responded "Most certainly" and all went out of existence except for eyes, except for the image of me.

eyes

The situation has been bleak. I've taken on the heavy burden of relief and I suppose that is my fault. To confess one's sins is to give them life. To destroy the lie that silence breeds and to create "responsibility" and consequence. It is a selfish thing to be free sometimes. I have been so selfish. The nonchalant reply to my confessions have only made the punishment begin. The punishment of knowing that your sins aren't important and that you are, in fact, not at all important. The relief takes on a suffocating essence. The absence of matter now turns into an abyss of doubt. What was there and what is there now? My sin's realization has, instead of taking away the pain provided by the secretive sin, has merely taken away the secretive sin's affect on the mind and put into action the known sin which ravages the mind in society. The doubt!! The intensity of the public eyes invades the intensity of the private eye.

Meh

I get really interested in these cool girls I meet, but they all seem to be already involved with way cooler guys. Nice guys don't always finish last, I guess.

the Banality of Evil

I don't wanna get up! I would very much so like to enthusiastically sit perfectly still in my bedroom everyday. It's because life is full of regret for me. I haven't yet moved to enact any of the numerous things that would have me appalled but the thoughts are there and in my world it is as if I have done all those things and more. I've daydreamed of convincing widows to sleep with me on their late husband's graves. I've kicked the leaders of Peru in the shin so hard that they just looked over at me and said "Why?" I've publicly challenged the greatest runners to their signature events and lost, only to endure the humiliation for eternity. I've defaced beautiful art in rage and jealousy after an admirer who I in turn admired, made statements in awe. I have stolen girls from dear friends, spit on the grandmother's of war victims, cut of the pink toes of dogs, swindled the blind and most atrociously purposefully conveyed unrequited love for an ego boost. I'm the swine of my own earth and I dare not cast that upon the world. The world has done nothing to me, given nothing to me, and taken only age. All the things I regret, I regret because given the chance, I would have everyone do them. I would live in a world where my regret dissipated under the banality of the order. I would have the Banality of Evil.

Got this game. Bored of this game.

Sooooo bored. Okay, so I made this game a couple of years ago. It was fun at first, but to be honest most things are when they're first starrted. Sewing my little monstrosities together and making them interact was literally the definition of fun. But hear me out, every little part of this game is just boring now. The players do the same things, i'm expected to do the same things. Dammit. I don't wanna do the same things and when I don't do the same things my play things claim that i'm not playing.
The little fucks say "God!Why were you so vicious in the old testament" and I just get sort of quite until someone defends me. I used to like to play the game a certain way, but now I just like to pick it up every now and then and do something without so much zeal and clamorous dominance. I just don't really care that much any more. The game goes on without me and i'm completely okay with that. I'm thinking about making another game, but I don't want those characters to turn into douchebags too. Fuck it i'm getting rid of this game. I'm fucking God after all, right?
t

Rat Babies

"Rat Babies" was the only thing he'd ever say to anyone online. He was a weird fucking guy. He's the type of guy that would Facebook chat his ex-girlfriend from 4 year's ago's best friend at 2:34 A.M and just write "RAT BABIES!"

I have no idea what he's up to these days.

spare tire?

Okay so I admit it! I'm flirting with her. For christ' sake, how can you crucify a man who has done no wrong? I can't help this. This isn't necessaarily my normal behavior but i'm not normally this attracted to anyone.
Maybe the interest has always been there.If that were the case would my actions be any less wrong? I just need to know because the last thing I need is a lecture, a discourse, a talking to on the evil of deeds. The evil isn't even there!
Heck maybe i've assumed to much. I mean maybe i'm just assuming that you're judging me. But by this point you have to be wagging your goddamn finger. I can't escape my own judgment right now. At least spare me yours.

There was some Rat Poison in the East Wing. Wabash.

Cadillac King

What would you do if you woke up and were in the trunk of a car? I hope you wouldn't do what I do. When I wake up in the trunk of a car, i feel at ease. It's a place for rest. There's no sense in struggling, Cornell's 'College of Engineering' really knows what it's doin'. I like Cadillacs– but I especially love their owners. The trunk of a cadillac is so spacious, I can't help but believe they did it just for me. I am in every Mafia movie ever made, and I was born to be a wise guy. I was made to be cheap– to never pay up. It's all for you, i did it for you. Otherwise, I wouldn't be the Cadillac King.

The birthday boy (Infinity Boy)

There he was, sitting alone in his room, playing with a few toys he got a couple of years ago from the neighbors during Christmas. It was his birthday today. Teladon celebrated it every year. As usual, Teladon sat with his toy truck going back and forth and his plane a few feet away lying on the ground, yearning to be played with. The start to a good,although typical, evening. The room was dimly lit, so as he spoke to his figurines he had to strain to follow their still and cold blue and brown eyes. They watched him clearly. Whispering phantasmal delights into the ears of the willing still borns, he launched into his night of bliss. This was his debauchery. Though it may seem tame and it may seem boring, this was what he did. This was his night, not only on this night, but every night and better yet on every day. He was perpetually staring into the eyes of his figurines in a dimly lit room, alone, with all those who cared. Alone with the cold shiny plastic of friends and foes, here he was living a life of adventure. Living.


Everyone had long since forgotten today was a day. Everyone else forgot today was a day for Teladon. Teladon was turning infinity this year and it was an especially important day. Being such an important day, he needed to live it as best he could.
He did so alone. He did so without imposing his existence’s idea onto the living, who glossily continued life. It would be unfair to expect them to remember. Teladon was infinity now. No one would ever need to remember his birthday again. The 7 inch figurine’s plastic gaze, transfixed, was enough to satisfy his wants. The airplane a few feet away sat ever motionless, waiting to be played with.

Costa Rican Holiday

Here I am- a 26 year old man in a bar in Cahuita, Costa Rica. I don´t know what the holiday is, but all the locals are running around like they just won their independence. I´m just sitting at the bar, talking to my only friend in the world, Tomas, the bartender. I ask for another Imperial and he languidly pulls a bottle out of the fridge and pops the top off with impeccable finesse and ease. An ease that simply screams ¨Bar Tender for Life.¨ I love it here. I can´t speak spanish, but to hell with it- despite the language barrier, I sense no difference in human interaction these days. Nobody says nothin´to nobody anymore. I tell Tomas I´m here to get away from no life at home. He smiles and nods his head like he understands or something. I know he does. His slicked back hair and his toothy grin know everything I could ever say. I smile on, and know that I am home. Home in Central America. Where the cahuita con leche pours in a constant flow only rivaled by the Nile River. Where the locals know not your name and may not even have noticed your skin color, but still greet you with an arm over your shoulder before they say one word. A place where they have a nice, cool Pilsen at the ready for a man in need. A place for someone like me. Home in Central America. During a Costa Rican Holiday.

Happy bday

Tipping roosters isn't my usual hobby. I push two or three every month or so. No big deal. Tin doves are placed in four corners of a room and the game begins. I tiptoe over to one. It runs. I stumble over to another and it greets me. The beasts are sporadic. One minute they hug you, the next they flee! Jim is joining me this week. We're going to compete to see who can knock a hen on the head and then tip it over. We have to steal the roosters, but we'll drop by later to pick you up for the game. Happy bday!!

kicking jesters

A thousand kings roam my prairie side. They pick little leaves off of my cherry trees and I shoo them away of course. The jesters sit in the background, bored. Nothing to laugh at today, little fuckers. They know me. I am ruler. I need no divine right because I am divine. The chimes ring and we all gather for tea time. It is my favorite time of day. I get to hand out the goods while the kings discuss prussian transgression and the need for forestry development. Every now and then, I add a little "quiet down" in and the crowd becomes quiet. A jester moves and the discussion begins again. I kick a jester and the crowd goes wild. A million happy birthdays Brooke Shad.

Bill's Used Car Lot

What is society? Bill’s Used Car Lot.

I wake up at 6 a.m every morning and put on my sports coat (always the same one). I proceed to buzz about the house until my middle aged wife's complaints become too overwhelming. My cologne of choice is Chrome. It makes me feel...empowered. Vitalized I prepare to barrage customers at my used car lot.

Ahhh! Their pleas for peace give me a reason to wake up in the morning. I'll never leave them alone, you see. It just isn't the natural order of things. "I've got a 1980 Pento for sale! It's a good 'un!" Yes, this is what I do. My name is Bill, and I'm 34 years old. I've been doing this job for about 12 years now. Twelve glorious years that I wouldn't trade for the world, swear. Though sort of a funny story, and more so a showing of a divine presence, the way I got this job is unimportant (dropped out of Community College, tried to steal a car, long story), though it may inform some of my behavior. My behavior is, of course, very typical of a man of my position. I lunge at folks who waltz into my domain. Every hour a new piece of meat comes in thinking he or she has a regular day ahead of them. No way. Watch them, khaki shorts and Hawaii shirted. Watch them writhe in utter confusion and disdain for themselves (they chose to enter). the sight is so joyous I can nearly taste it. I would love to eat these moments. It goes something like this: I make a pitch, loudly. They make an attempt to escape, meekly.

There is no exit here at Bill's Used Car Lot. How could there be? My minions guard the "exit" with voracious zeal. I am not alone. I am typical, and there are many of me, but I love me. Who wouldn't? Our steaks usually buy after about a half hour of torture.

You might ask why a guy like me exists; why I do this. I don’t do this for money. What is money on a used car lot? Fodder. Fodder to run for the real prize. The money means nothing, the process everything. It's an added bonus, at best. But I suppose it does give me something to remember the chase by. As i'm buying a sofa, I see those dollar bills in my hand, and I relish the sweat on Mr. Gallon's brow, the slight tremble in Mr. Mahoney's voice, the excitement is there too though, deep in the belly somewhere. When I think back I can feel that too, the rush they must be feeling but are too afraid to show. On my part, the nostalgic elation cannot be matched. You give it a try. You'll see why I do what I do. You'll see why I must do what I do.

There is no exit from this trend of mine. Were I to be born in a world without cars, I would have no purpose and my terror would reign in nihilistic glee throughout the world. When this alternative is presented, I suppose I don't look so bad. (Burning city, or new Jeep?) Well if you want to keep the world safe, the children free, the countries not on fire, you'll buy a used car. I can sell you one for cheap, it's a beaut! O (!) I’ve just got a new Pontiac on the lot. The owner was an idiot, but I swear he never had an accident in his life. You can trust me Betty, Don, Rick, Jimmy, John, Lou. My happiness is your happiness and my happiness is your pain. BUY A USED CAR. BUY ONE NOW. BUY ONE QUICK! No pressure. I am your society, embodied in a little way, so trust me.

Rat Poison (A Manifesto)

All right, so this one is called “Rat Poison” as you can see. What I plan to eloquently and epically portray is what exactly Rat Poison means to me: What you say is that Rat Poison is a flight from life, an extinguishing of life correct? Well, I would argue that yes, it may in some circles be considered an extinguishing of life, however, it is also (more importantly) a proliferation of life and happiness. With excess rodents (more specifically, rats) on earth, we are likely to be greeted with a few vile outcomes: 1. An abundance of (excuse my onomatopoeia. Hey, the writers of Bat Man did it, right? This is rodent-related as well, so I am going to kindly ask you to overlook this lack of tact, or plentitude of colloquial English if you will) the exclamation “BLEH” -In order to eradicate the excess use of this exclamation, I am face-to-face with no better alternative than to implement the usage of Rodenticides (Rat Poison) from the golden gates of California, to the Smoky mountains of Tennessee, and of course the mysterious, cavernous, winding catacombs of New York City. I personally am not fanatical about the prospect of hearing this proclamation of disgust any longer. It pollutes my ears and erodes my being. This is a new generation. A generation that will not cease complaining. It began with the Industrial Revolution, with that wretched supposed “seminal work” of Upton Sinclair by the name of “The Jungle.” In this pathetic excuse for an exposé, the “author” proclaims, in no brief or concise language (the damn thing is 475 pages for Christ’s sake) that the desultory and decrepit conditions in which humans laboriously constructed vessels of importance for our fine country were “inhumane.” Those are precisely the conditions in which rats feel accustomed! Along with the sludge and slander that this loquacious upstart, Sinclair spewed, came an onslaught of reform. Reform! No more rats, no more dirt, no more vile anything. All because a few negligent ivory tower social scientists felt that the conditions were a little too much for humans… So, in a similar vein, I would like to go out on a limb and conclude in this sector of my argument, that with an abundance of rat poison, there will be no more complaining (The heinous flapping of lips that so un-innocuously follow an “inhumane” setting). It is only because this incessant complaining is such a hot button issue for me that I campaign and lobby for Rat Poison everywhere and anywhere. 2. The second (which comes after the first) vile outcome one is likely to observe when an abundance of rodents is present, is more diseases. - Do you remember the bubonic plague? I do not, however, there are likely millions of souls floating in and out of your lungs every second that can attest to the fact that rats helped spread it. Actor Christopher Waltz eloquently hit the nail right on the proverbial head in the 2009 Quentin Tarantino classic, “Inglorious Basterds” when he was speaking with Perrier LaPadite and said: “well yes, rats were the cause of the bubonic plague, but that was some time ago.” It may have been “some time ago” to actor Christopher Waltz, but in my scholarly and un-humble opinion, that is no reason to feel content or complacent. Rats spread diseases. Plain and simple. If you are willing to argue against this conjecture, then I am willing to place you in the same category as Rush Limbaugh (stupid). You simply can’t argue it and still maintain that you are a sane and rational human being. The two entities: 1. being a human being, and 2. Believing rats don’t spread diseases are so diametrically opposed, I liken the argument to that of Yin and Yang hanging out and having coffee. It’s impossible, and from my scholarly room of immeasurable time constraints, I feel that there is simply no need to belabor this point any further. My apologies, I digress. As I was saying, we all know that rats spread diseases. As a part of my campaign, I ensure that everyone that falls inside of the border of the United States will be safe from Bubonic Plague part deux. It’s simply unacceptable, and an argument clear enough to convince anyone to immediately and swiftly join the company of the illustrious “Pro-Rodenticides” (For rat poison) camp. 3. The third vile outcome of excess rats on our planet is one that should hit slightly closer to home. If you’re reading this, I am going to go out on a limb and say that you’re most likely American. Being American, you are a natural born pioneer; it’s an innate quality all of us north of the Mexican border can proudly say we are endowed with. Also, being an American, and having gone through years and years of magnificent pedagogy (The American Schooling System) in American history (8th Grade), I am going to assume that you understand the concept of “Manifest Destiny.” -Being American, and owning your pioneer-like, adventurous spirit that you do, you surely understand the importance of Manifest Destiny. On the off chance that you’re German, we’ll go ahead and call this “lebensraum,” although I’m unsure if it translates the same. Getting back on topic; when America truly began taking over this great land, our forefathers embarked on a courageous quest fueled by the fury of New England, and the prospect of gold and desire somewhere buried out west. We eventually captured all that dust and beauty in between the formerly snake-like, premature colony that we previously called home, and the mystery, the smoky glory of that ever-dynamic Golden Coast of the west. Like I said, no stone was left un-turned, no cave left un-spelunkered, and of course no road left un-paved. We finally owned it. It took quite some time and sweat, but we owned it. If rats continue to populate this planet, it is our territory that they are fucking up and tramping on and smudging up. I will not stand by and let them besmirch my gold. I will not sit up here in my dormitory and let that vile fucking creature lay eggs and shit all over our destiny. If we have Rat poison at the ready, then we better use it. FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT! Tiocfaidh ár lá! Farrell Lucas McKenna Staunch Proponent of Rodenticides

Two Front War

Thinking about his mother even brings tears to my eyes. The memories swirling all about give me the feeling that I know and knew everyone that he knows and knew. My life merges with his and it is just textbook. It is just textbook. All the books say this is exactly the type of thing that should happen. The books also offer up some not so pleasant explanations for why I might feel bad. What form should I take to rebel against the books? An automaton? The ripping pain tortures my soul as i'm degraded to a mere idea in texts everywhere. The very texts I rely on to give me perspective and piece of mind betray me by explaining that which can't be explained. The misery, the anguish, fatigue. They launch a two front war. One side coming from that which gives me pain and the other side coming from that which explains that pain. I have been forsaken twice over. These tears run because I can not.

Less than a product but continuing productivity

I think I can, I think I can, but can I? Junior was a product of his environment and like any good product, he had been prepared for use by society until he was suitable for distribution and participation. Though everyone was sure he was prepared for his role, when he got into Oxford in 2007, he still had some reservations and confusion lingering from what remained of his individual mind.
Junior was in a frenzy and didn’t know why. He would go to his top-notch school, but he would go separated from his peers, still questioning the world and its orders, its possibilities. Junior was preparing to do this, but what he didn’t realize was that he couldn’t do just what he planned on doing. He could never be free to think. Why? Because he was tainted from birth. He saw what was allowed, accepted, appropriate, and no matter how much he might try, he couldn’t rebel completely against these notions. These ideas represented his worlds of good and evil, his notions of right and wrong. Dissolving these would be like instating the Cult of Reason in Catholic France, destined to hit disaster. So Junior parted ways with his family for college, living in a world of false rebellion, impossible rebellion. Oblivious little piece of---
Okay, so this isn’t an oddity in our day or any day. The false rebellion has been pursued for years. The liberal hippie phase that would overcome him would be an illusory one. He wouldn’t like the same music or things as those he tried to reproduce, but indeed he liked their clothes and the way people greeted them in society, warily. Who can say his ailment was really an ailment? Why is this confusion a bad thing? After all, the life he led made him feel unique, untouchable, a thing separate and above all others. It allowed him to live in a pseudo-world. Now why might it be bad to live in a false realm of self importance and hedonism? Well his evolution as a person is surely stunted one could argue, but because he is a product living in a world in which normally he would merely proceed to distribution and non-life anyway, Junior may not be missing much by being in this confused state anyway. He is delusional, there is not even the slightest chance of breaking out of the cycle of “productivity.” He is a slave to his own self-congratulation, pawn in his own game of chess, sad piece of ----
What should Junior do? Where should he go? How should he think and how can he begin to think like that? Junior is nothing and never will be anything. He is the opposite of a human being. He is less human than the products that surround him in society. They are delusional too but they are something, economic tools. He is a self tool. He’s a nice guy though.

Got Book? I do.

No,no,no, you don't understand. I steal books for fun. I'm just like anyone else. I get a thrill out of mischief really. I think in crime, when looking at whether or not something is bad or a subject is guilty, intent is a necessary factor to evaluate. My intent is light-hearted, innocent really. I" seek liberation from a life of normality while hiding the deviant behavior so as to conceal this internal disdain.
My books don't collect dust after I nab 'em. No, no,no. I hide them in different places. I've hidden them in the Whitehouse, My mother's house, this guy named Chris' House, a funeral home, Mount Rushmore and even at the Harvard Library (though I don't have an ID card to enter).
Which book I take depends on my mood. If i'm feeling jolly, I steal Vonnegut. If I feel sad, I steal Kristeva. If I feel bored, I steal Piaget. Of course I don't only steal these authors when i'm in the aforementioned mood. I steal lots of books at a time. The count is somewhere around about 200,000 dollars worth of books. It's an adventure to find a new place to hide each book. Euphoric liberation.

Swiss Banks

I don't have much money... But I do have this compulsion... this need... this desire to LIE. I just sent the following message to the illustrious Swiss Bank, Credit Suisse:

"I was interested in moving a little cash over to Switzerland for a bit, because we all know the economy's crumbling. I was just curious as to what the minimum deposit required is for account activation. I don't plan on funneling all of my assets over to Europe, just a tidy little sum.
Much Appreciated,
Farrell L. McKenna"

I don't know what's wrong with me...
Hopefully the FBI doesn't knock my door down tonight for fraud. Jesus.

The Boodastic Dimension

Ajax went to parties on the weekends, and he went to Cornell University. Ajax studied Applied Economics and Management, and he did real well. Ajax was ambitious.
Fuck Ajax, I say. Fuck Ajax. My name is Raboodie. I went to Cornell too. I wasn’t ambitious, but I did scream real loud. I screamed real loud and I danced in the streets. I caused a ruckus. This is the last you’ll hear from me– get out of my brain. Get into Ajax’s.
…
Whether it was the second or third week in January, I am unsure. It was, however, the second semester of my sophomore year at Cornell University. Cornell University, believe it or not, is in the Ivy League. I’ll tell it to you like it happened, I’ll tell it to you straight. So, as it were, I was a studious and loquacious young upstart at a prestigious school. I got straight A’s the majority of my time on “The Hill”, and I didn’t complain much.

Everyone likes to talk about how terrible the weather is in Ithaca, but to hell with it, my senses didn’t mind. I would even sport shorts and T-shirts in snowstorms just to collect surprised looks in my vault. Did I tell you I possess an eidetic memory? Well, I do. I like to call it the wall of “Sir-Prize”. It’s pretty interesting, and I’m quite certain I couldn’t explain it to you, because you’ve never seen anything like it. Just like a lot of the things that happen in my brain. I’ll spare you the details, and allow your feeble imagination to try its darndest.

If you hadn’t guessed by now, I’m quite smart. Real fuckin’ smart. I don’t try to hide it– it’s just a possession. Like your hammer toe. Like I was saying, it was the second or third week in the second semester of my sophomore year. This was around the time that my Sympsarian Awakening happened. You don’t know enough about me yet to understand what that means, but be patient.

I joined a fraternity my sophomore year. People usually do it their freshman year, but I decided to do it my sophomore year. It was called Delta Upsilon, the same fraternity that Kurt Vonnegut belonged to when he went to Cornell University. It was everything I expected it to be, that’s why I searched for other modes of entertainment. Most of the girls I met at “mixers” were so orthodox– they laughed and smiled. The guys told safe jokes, and the girls laughed and smiled. It was so easy.

The first time I did it I walked up to a girl and said, “How come you’re ignoring me?” To which she replied with a laugh and a look of utmost intrigue saying “What do you mean?” I laughed internally, but maintained my deadpan exterior. “I mean, you’ve been walking around the house and you never even looked at me once.” She laughed,  tilted her head and asked, “What’s your name?” What a delightful game! I told her my name was Ajax, and I told the truth, mainly. I slept with her that night. Believe it or not, this did get tiring. You get sick of a lack of creativity. That’s why I was so susceptible to Sympsiarianism. I was a born Sympsarian, but I never even realized it because no one had ever put a name to it.

I’ll stop fucking with you. Sympsarianism is a religious sect that believes in disorder and the abandonment of the ordained, normative social order. In place of cordiality, we inserted randomosity and chaos, because it meant just as much to us. From the moon, or the crab nebula, it makes no difference whether a person is engaging in meaningful conversation, or screaming “Rock 75! Cobbler On top! Whooper? Whooper?” I just couldn’t understand why we were all on this big rock whizzing around the sun at some ridiculous velocity in an infinite expanse of blackness, and all we did was look at each other, smile and talk about ourselves. I had always thought everything was absurd, but it wasn’t until I met the screaming prophet that I outwardly expressed my internal struggle.

So, like I said, now this is the third time I’ve said it, and I’m pointing it out because it needs to be mentioned: It was around the second or third week of January. I was coming back from a “mixer” at my fraternity with a girl named Diane. She was taking me back to her apartment because I said everything right that night. We were about to get on a bus when I heard something incredible. I heard the distinct sound of insanity. Insanity! Right in my backyard! Never had I experienced it first hand, except maybe in New York City to see a Broadway show with my parents when I was younger. This wasn’t a dirty man hugging himself, rocking back and forth saying “dirt clods” over and over. This was a teenage male, in the middle of the hub of social activity at Cornell University (known as college town) on the weekends, running down the street by himself yelling “SPOONS! It all makes sense!” and stopping passersby in a very brusque manner, only to look deep into their eyes and furiously inquire, “Tomato? There must be a tomato in there! PLEASE TELL ME THERE IS A TOMATO!”

I was in awe…

Diane tugged at my arm while I was frozen on a frozen street in the dead of winter. “Ajax? Hurry up, that freak is coming our way…” I don’t know what I said, but I do know that it did not make sense. I needed to meet him. He was a black male, about 5’8. He was sort of jacked, and he looked insane. I knew that he wasn’t really insane though—the kind that needed to be locked up—for numerous reasons:

1.) I had seen his face before on campus(remember my eidetic memory?)
2.) They don’t let crazy people go to school at Cornell University
3.) It was just my intuition

He ran up to me with the same desperate question, “There must be a tomato in there. Is there?” I said “Yes, you have found a tomato indeed, sir”, but not in the manner that a sarcastic individual would. He looked positively ecstatic. He was elated. He began shouting “I FOUND MY TOMATO! I FOUND MY TOMATO!” I was ear-to-ear at this point, but that bitch Diana was tugging at my coat. At this point, all I wanted to do was search for imaginary tomatoes and possums and riddles in college town, but instead went to Diana’s apartment to fuck. As she dragged me away, the screaming prophet laughed hysterically to Zeus, or Aphrodite, or whomever and just pointed at me. He continued laughing until he blended in with college town and I was two blocks away. As I was half-heartedly inserting my penis into Diana’s vagina I wondered about that prophet.

After a steady five minute crescendo and subsequent climactic squeak of Diana’s voice, I decided it was time to remove my penis. I had not enjoyed a second of it, but she had no clue. I put on my clothes and began walking out, and just said “Bye.” She continued to pant, and emitted a breathy “see you soon, Ajax.” I ran from the apartment to the place where I had last seen him. I didn’t see him, but I did hear the faint echo of a tomato, and at least four quizzical expressions. I was hot on his trail, but tired. I decided to go back to my apartment and just keep on the lookout for him in the meantime.

After another full week of problem sets and strangeness, I went to another “mixer.” I picked up another girl, said few words, but still left her truly amazed. I don’t mean to give girls a bad rap, but these ones deserve it. I saw the prophet again, but this time he was right near my apartment. I was bringing Suzie there and he was running around in a Viking hat screaming “WHERE AM I?” and “TAKE ME HOME!” I dropped Suzie immediately. I ran up to him and he stopped stumbling. He looked at me and said “Go for it.” I grinned and ripped off my shirt and tie. I rubbed all the gel out of my hair and got down on my knees. I wrenched my head toward the sky, screeched an almighty screech, and the prophet laughed, and I was officially baptized.

I got off of my knees and began zig-zagging in the street. I was yelling something close to, but not exactly, “LEAVE THE PAPER-CLIP IN THE TUB! SCARECROWS MAKE DELIGHTFUL PLAY-THINGS!” It was nirvana.
I don’t know if it was the presence of an accomplice that finally did it, but the Cornell University campus police pulled up next to us as we ran wildly. We did not stop. We danced insanely like members of an African tribe praising the gods for our very souls, and the presence of two more figures—on top of the twenty or so watching—did little to disrupt the ritual. We were both tackled to the ground in fewer than ten seconds. Cuffs were slapped on our wrists, and we were thrown in the back of the car. We were definitely being mistaken for a case of drunken disorderliness. Much to the stupefaction of the cops, the prophet and I responded to their questions with utmost clarity and eloquence.

“Have you boys been drinking tonight?” One stern cop asked
“Not a drop, sir.” I responded
“What exactly were you two doing out there?” He asked
“Well, I suppose we were just moving around.” Replied the prophet
“You were causing quite the scene I bet you realize. Are you sure you had nothing to drink this evening?” He asked
“As positive as I am alive, sir.” I responded immediately
“Well, uh… I guess, just stop being weird please.” The stern one said
“Wag-bert.” Said the prophet unflinchingly
“Come again?” The cop asked, with his finger to his ear
“I said… WAG-BERT.” Said the prophet, as seriously as possible.
“Uh…Right. Well, get goin’ I guess. Don’t cause any more trouble, alright?” He asked
“Woobies.” Retorted the prophet

As we got out of the cop car, I turned to smile at the prophet, but he began running–no, sprinting. “Wait!” I yelled, then chased, but to no avail. That mother fucker dipped.

II

I couldn’t really think about anything else the whole next week. I did, however, spend large amounts of time contemplating the implications of what the prophet and I had done. It was phenomenal. What happened was phenomenal, and what to come, I was sure, was to be phenomenal. All I could entertain myself with was where and when he would strike next, and I would strike with him. I even passed up a weekend of debauchery, and inserted a search for the prophet. The weird thing is that he wasn’t out that weekend.

The next weekend, however, I did find him. I was with a gaggle of my fraternity brothers. We were going to College Town Bagels for a late night snack. The screaming prophet was across the street on a ledge shouting dulcet lines of sagacity. He was dressed like a professor. He had a thick pair of spectacles on, a blue sweater and dress pants. By his neck, a collar and tie protruded and revealed his legitimacy. He carefully and delicately maneuvered his hands as if he was conducting a symphony. He would gently allow his hands to flutter as he teased a semi-comical point, then drive them down and stab through the air as he emphatically presented an opposing viewpoint. If memory serves correctly, the snippet of speech I caught went something like this:

“Swoo-wompit caler. Too Varny pookswater. Swabbi riler pock niffits bon-javitt. Sweek wollie, pook ramble rock spark. Noof, Libby panchy bock. Rikky swan. RICKY SWAN. POM BEEVIT BO LANGER-POSH. Noof, weezie wamble paggy barns-boosh. Sweet lee pore radden. Swatch! Swatch!”

“I heard about this guy. He’s fuckin’ crazy!” said Dan, a member of my group.
“Why is he doing that?” asked another with me
I thought about these comments for a second, then turned and said “Why not?”
“What do you mean, Ajax?” Asked Alex
“Well, Barn-pop. Wiggy loober. SHEVITZ!” I smiled insanely
The group I was with backed up, raised both hands in unison as if to protect themselves and one of them said “Woah, dude calm down.”
I couldn’t control myself. I laughed. I cackled. “SHOUTS! SHOUTS! RAGGIT? RAGGIT?”

Their eyes widened and I saw real terror for the first time in my life. I laughed infinitely harder.
“You can’t see how this makes sense?” I demanded of them. “You can’t see how I am acting rationally? How he is acting rationally?”

Their eyes darted in every direction, I saw their teeth more and more as uneasy smiles became bountiful. I laughed harder than ever. It was at this moment that I shed my skin. I jumped up on the ledge with the prophet, who had momentarily paused and witnessed the exchange. We glanced at each other, and I began to lecture where he left off:

“Woozits. Pack de parch mook shinny pooz. Wabber parf fen der bak en daal. Rally. RALLY! Wig, gerf lik pam pam riz poor nagget.”

I wagged my pointer finger at all of them and spoke truth. I shed light. They were more confused than ever. I saw that, so I retorted with a soft and calming,

“Wibby. Wibby lik vooshin bar-tsoonits.”

They still did not react, and just shook their heads. I almost cried I was so frustrated. Upon seeing that I could not break through to the nervous and drunk passersby, the prophet tried a different angle:

“Wagner pies. They envelop our being. We circle and circle and find nothing! If you take a ratchet off a hook, what do you find? You find nothing. Use eyes! You will feel so good when you use eyes for first time!”

Nothing worked– these people weren’t hearing it. I ran this time. The prophet did not.

The next day, my mother called. She asked me how school was, and I hung up on her. Not only did I hang up on her, I threw my phone into the gorge, then ran back to my room to write this. I don’t know where to turn now. The prophet has done all that he can for me. I only hope that in some distant century, in some distant land someone will read this and understand what life was like on Earth. And that I was unbiased. And they will begin practicing a religion called Sympsarianism, because that name came to my head first. You can call it what you like, it does not matter. Weebits.