Sorry, starving kids
This million is set aside
for nude Bea Arthur.

I’m having a little trouble catching “Friday Fever” or “Friday Hepatic Encephalopathy” or whatever those asshole kids call it these days. Maybe I’m just bummed out because I didn’t win the auction for that naked Bea Arthur painting. It would have looked so fucking classy next to my nude Polaroid of Robert Zemekis.

Some might say, “What kind of submental jackass would blow seven figures on an ironic painting of Maude’s tits?” Granted, there is an argument to be made there. But I would then have to retort, “At least I didn’t donate money to the son of a bitch that made Garden State so he could make a follow-up.”

I confess, I saw that piece of shit. I’m not entirely without blame. I went of my own volition, handing over real, actual money to sit in a darkened room and watch Zach Braff stand there making that Zach Braff face in front of a wallpaper with the same ugly pattern as his ugly shirt, and I accept whatever unimaginable agony awaits me as punishment in the next life. But for what it’s worth, man I sure hated the hell out of that movie. It was kind of a “creeper hate.” I left the theater with a sense of unease, but I wasn’t yet ready to admit I’d wasted my seven bucks (or however much tickets costback in those olden times). I just attributed that rotten feeling in my gut to a bad batch of Sno-Caps. I’d write the Sno-Caps Corporation a stern letter when I got home, then sit back and reflect on the wonderfully poignant work of art I’d– aw hell, that movie fucking sucked a mile of cock. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Angry at every person involved in every stage of creating that godawful pile of self-indulgent tripe, but also at myself for being suckered into sitting through it. I mean, the wallpaper bit was in the trailer, for fuck’s sake!

I can honestly say, however, that of all the thoughts that passed through my wounded mind during those traumatic post-Garden State days, not one was “More of that, please!” Tragically, the same cannot be said for the rest of this doomed society, as evidenced by the fact that Braffhole successfully passed the hat around on Kickstarter for two million dollars to fund his next unbearably twee project whose title is so damn stupid I can’t bring myself to include it here. Of course, it later turned out that he didn’t technically “need” the two mil ha ha but thanks for being such awesome fans anyway ha ha luv Zach. Ain’t he a stinker?

So, I guess when you think about it, there are dumber things to waste a couple million dollars on than a tasteful nude portrait of the third-hottest Golden Girl. Yeah, that just cheers me right the fuck up.

I know it’s Thursday, because those damned Christians are out again. Periwinkle ties, freshly ironed smiles and a parasol to shade them from the apathetic gaze of the Creator. Always on Thursdays. Here, anyway. I can only assume they’re wheeling that proselytizing shitshow around different parts of the greater Los Angeles area throughout the rest of the week, possibly even moving other mediocre wannabe writers to bitch about it on their own blogs that receive up to a whopping ten page views on a good day. Or maybe they’re just on a different wavelength than most, causing them to warble back and forth between existence and non-existence on a weekly basis. Someday soon, I will walk by them and they won’t have heads. Or was that today? I was only on my fourth cup of coffee at the time.

WHAT DOES THE BIBLE REALLY TEACH?

A rhetorical question, of course. You know, like “Where’s the beef?” or “Why are you in my closet, Jeffrey Beaumont?”

Hey, Mr. Bible Man, Bible me bananas. I am touching your face, Bible Man. It has the pliability of cookie dough. No resistance. Going to make delicious oatmeal raisin cookies with your face. No, an ashtray. I just got a new kiln and I’ve been dying to… no. Kneading what was your Bible-face, squishy, squashy. You hate it but you can’t complain without a mouth.

Oops! I forgot to add water. The remains of your pasty visage crumble and flake through my atheist fingers and cascade in slow motion to the concrete below your stompy feet. A squadron of ants emerges from the cracks and makes off with every last crumb, a display of efficiency and teamwork both adorable and terrifying. You try in vain to crush them but only manage to amuse the occupants of a passing (doomed) tour bus–

Skids on a Moebius banana peel, rolls once, twice, bounces, glides gracefully into a Panda Express. No survivors. Another Yelp score ruined.

WHAT DOES THE BIBLE REALLY TEACH?

Bible A leaves the station at 3:35 p.m. traveling east at 8,520 mph. Bible B leaves the station at 10:10 a.m. traveling west at 4 mph. Why is the station on fire?

Sally drops a Bible from the top of the Eiffel tower. Five seconds later, Jorge drops a canteloupe from halfway down.
How many seconds will it take for this to become a hot new trend? How many more seconds will elapse before the backlash? Show all work.

Put that shit in a bold PowerPoint presentation and take it to your grave. Nobody would understand. They’re only interested in short ribs and American Idol.

Fuck Thursdays.

Dearest Ronald,

PEACE,
RONNY

—

This here is exactly why I need to stop poking around in the attic. Well, that and the spiders. And the wormhole to Dallas. I don’t even have an attic, to be honest. But if I did, it would be hot and very empty, just like Ronald.

Nurses always have tea. Did you know that? For real. Ask any nurse if he/she/it is presently in possession of tea and the response will invariably be “Green or hibiscus, you creepy fuck?” It’s never failed me in my time of need (9:47 a.m., Tuesdays). I’m a simple man.

Hibiscus is a fun word to say, isn’t it? Someday I want to say it eight hundred times consecutively. Maybe even shout it at a nun once or twice. Could you say it after a few shots of novacaine? We should hang out. In a well-lit public place, obviously. We’ll take turns mutilating our respective consciousnesses and saying “hibiscus.” Hey, if we each bring a friend, we could form a terrible, atonal barbershop quartet and never speak to each other again. But you don’t really care for music, do you?

Okay. I usually bring my own tea. I don’t know where it comes from and that’s just how I like it. No sugar, no cream, no identifiable point of origin. Just sediment in a porous bag. That’s the American dream, is it not? Don’t mean to get all political on you, but…

Well, just for a moment. Aren’t you glad we never had to see Nixon in HD? He died in 1994. I was in high school. That morning, my right contact lens rolled back into my eye and I had to be excused to go to the restroom so I could fish it out. I’m not saying I killed Nixon, just that there wasn’t high-definition television yet. Don’t get any ideas.

Nixonian. Clintonian. Klingonian. You know you’ve made it when someone can tack the -ian suffix onto you and you don’t even feel it. You just smile, nod and walk on down the hall. Past the copy machine, past the utility closet, past the other copy machine. Into the ether. Bill Clinton, everyone.

[clappingseal.gif]

Meatheadian. No, that’ll never fly. Maybe a sarcastic -esque someday, if I’m lucky. Then again, at least I’m not Scott Ian of Anthrax. Ianian? Good luck!

—

My sweet, sweet Ronald,

PARTY HARDY,
STEVE I MEAN RONNY

I heard that the earth’s core is spinning in the opposite direction. I like to think it’s a huge frothy eyeball that never looks at me. The iris, if you can call it that, spins even faster, oscillating from red to white to colors that would devour Crayola’s nightmares like a starving Rottweiler. The pupil is constantly screaming Jesus’ name, address and Social Security number.

There’s no rhythm to any of it. Sure, a chunk of driftwood can be the contorted face of your favorite pope if that’s what you’re into, but it won’t cease to be driftwood to those of us with better shit to do. Therefore, it doesn’t matter who or what the Eye isn’t staring at. But when it blinks…

There’s a reality where James Cameron is still at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, just waiting. Every so often a glowing thing will float into view, illuminating the creases in Cameron’s sad face. He extends his middle finger, and the darkness envelops him all over again.

-blink-

The Queen is playing Wii Tennis with an unnamed dignitary from a distant land. Steady streams of blood run down her face. The pudding cups on the silver tray remain untouched, and the palace emits a deep groan audible only to the disaffected kitchen staff.

-blink-

MUSSOLINI NAMED INTERIM CEO OF KODAK

-blink-

But where’s the brain? Greenland? This, too, doesn’t matter. You’re going to find it. You’re going to make a boat and churn the oceans into butter. Maybe it’ll be in a safe deposit box, or buried beneath a filthy swingset where the other you was humiliated one time too many. You’ll hold it in your big dumb hands and when you flip it over for the expiration date, you’ll find a hot pink Post-It note with the hastily scrawled message: “I WAS TRYING 2 ANNOY U.”

Worry not, friend. In this reality, it’s just steak sauce and the Queen is sleeping. Shhhhh…

I thought it was going to be a tomato plant, but it turned out to be one of those man-eating plants instead. It was just a baby but I kept my distance anyway. The stupid thing seemed right at home in that sunlit corner of the bathroom nobody ever uses. Now it has a reality TV show. Now it doesn’t. Now it’s dead. Now it’s stinking up the parallelogram of life.

Sometimes these dreams come in neat slices, as if prepared by a master chef at a restaurant I’d never be allowed in. It’s nice to have a clean break sometimes when you’re running through waist-deep ethereal sludge to escape from your leathery ninth grade gym teacher. Maybe you slash open a 40-pound bag of rice and 40 pounds of wasps emerge instead. It’s nice.

You know, for a moment I’m pretty sure it actually was a tomato. I bought it from this guy who looked like he belonged in the end credits of Super Mario Bros. 2. You know the type. We were sipping hot Tecate by his disgusting pool when he said he once snuck a peek at God’s Golden Rolodex. It was slick and greasy, he said. In hindsight, perhaps I should have looked for an alternative source for fresh produce.

Most of the time it’s just a mess. It’s the Arby’s of rapid eye movement. And don’t even glance at the Horsey Sauce if you know what’s best for you.

Amen.

President Rand Paul
slumped at his desk, dry heaving;
red phone off the hook.

Don’t talk to the waiter. Don’t even make eye contact. Frankly, I don’t know why you insist on coming here every Friday. Do you remember what you said to me that morning in the melatonin tent? Allow me to paraphrase:

OBFUSCATIONS AND SAUSAGES ARE MADE IN THE SAME FACTORY.

The President pressed his face against the cool window pane as velvety tendrils of otherworldly maroon light curled around his weak frame. He stared longingly out at the sloppy heaps of rotting fruit that cluttered the White House lawn.

“Don’t do that, you’ll ruin your makeup!”

An enormous Samoan man in an impossibly tight cardigan lunged across the Oval Office, grabbed the President by the biceps and flung him like a soggy beach towel onto the threadbare carpet. Lyndon Johnson’s piss stains.

Is that a smoke machine or is this real? Oh, man. Turn the light off for a minute. Do you hear that harmony? It’s like three different colored snakes. There’s a turquoise snake, a violet one that’s kind of irridescent, and a mustard colored one with a smooth matte finish. Listen closely. Eventually there will only be one, and you’ll be far better off if you can figure out which.

“The green one!” giggled the President. There were flecks of dried blood on his Winnie the Pooh bib.

Shit, the waiter’s coming by again. Look down. Pretend you’re crying. No, we’re not ordering an appetizer! You hate fajitas anyway.

“Mr. President, there is no green one,”

Is he right?

I don’t remember if I watched the final episode of Cheers or not. I do remember how that old TV would always leak static out of the bottom-right corner and form a puddle next to the trash can. One night I stared into it for too long, watching the snow bubble and contort. For an instant I saw an eyeless Dennis Miller doing his monologue on his old talk show, then he fizzled like Alka-Seltzer into a scene from Fat Albert involving Communism, which then smoothly melted into a 40-something Portuguese man slicing his own throat on one of those idiotic dating game shows. Just then I got a terrible idea.

Using a bucket and a cat litter scoop from the hall closet, I collected as much of the unholy sludge as I could without losing any more of my mind. After all, it was a school night. Bucket in hand, I slithered out the window, across the wet, blue-black grass (keeping a wary eye out for sudden pyramids, of course) and made astronaut-like contact with the asphalt in perfect sync with a tsunami of tinny squeals of delight from a Chex commercial that never had a chance.

Across the street there lived a man who had a deep, unrelenting passion for his lawn. His backyard made the Hanging Gardens of Babylon look like a monotone photograph of John Travolta’s left armpit (enlarged to show texture). Sometimes I’d think about what it must be like to be a sparrow discovering that staggering assortment of tacky birdbaths for the first time. Which one should I drink from? Which should I shit on? But then the ice blue laser melting my beak makes it painfully clear: No filthy avians allowed in Mr. Lawnman’s Escape-From-My-Nagging-Harpy-Wife Sacred Sanctuary. It’s all for show. What would the neighbors who also aren’t allowed in think if they saw a fleck of bird feces in this otherwise pristine paradise? Other times I imagine I’m a bluejay.

I stood staring at those awful birdbaths shadowed in the silent darkness, the only light coming from that bucket of broadcast hell in my left hand. A few drops spilled over the edge and onto the street. The local weatherman grew a giraffe’s head and sputtered reluctantly into a test pattern.

“Hey Lawn Man!” I hollered into the night. “This is everything! Domino formica spiritu sanctu!”

With every milligram of strength I could summon st 2:18 in the a.m., I swung my trusty bucket up and over my head, launching a viscous, flickering blob of whatever in the general direction of everything that Miracle Gro junkie held dear to his mossy little heart.

The shapeless mass became a Javelin of Virtue as–

[we SMASH CUT to THE SURVIVING BEACH BOYS, wearing identical Beach Boys t-shirts, standing in line at the DMV. A MOUNTAIN GOAT meanders by, out of focus, in the foreground. America sighs with satisfaction. America is warm. America is happy.]

[We FADE SLOWLY into a cheap stock photo of a ruggedly handsome Norwegian gentleman grimacing as he urinates into a--]

If you have gills, please form a separate line over there by the spacetime corrugator. We want everyone at _________ to have the best possible experience, so bear with us while we disappear into the hot jungles of the good old days…

Hey, feel this: Terry’s new tie is awful. Ready? On three. One… two… three… Terry’s new– oh, nevermind. I thought we were on the same wavelength here. I thought you were me. I thought the valet was me too until he pocketed the $83 in buffalo nickels I was storing in my ashtray. Sign of the times, I guess.

Thankfully, I keep the most exquisite records. Millions of years from today, archaeologists will gasp in tedium as they read the transcripts of our conversations and learn of my irrational fear of Billy Corgan. I also drew some bears and no, you may not see them.

Sorry, Terry. Your tie is nice. Please put the hand grenade back in your desk. Slowly. Thanks.

Now let’s start wrestling.

One of the flight crew escaped. Yeah, the new guy. How did you know that? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. We believe he may have insinuated himself into the New Orleans strawberry scene somehow. If you know what I’m talking about, smash that flower pot over there. No- Jesus Christ, not that one. All right. Forget it. This meeting is adjourned.

Debbie, start the car.

Debbie?

—

IN LOVING MEMORY
DEBRA R. DEBBRUBRABRISEN-NG
MAR. 55, 1944 – MAY 6, 2015
IN LIEU OF FLOWERS PLEASE DESTROY ALL VHS TAPES WITH THE RED “R” ON THEM AND GO FUCKING NUTS WITH THE ONION DIP

“It was literally breathtaking.” Trying not to gag on the late afternoon sunshine in the third-floor stairwell. Then I realized I have no idea who you are. Breathtaking.

[clock wipe]

“Did you know [unintelligible] is my real dad?”

“No, I did not.”

This is the part where the tape always gets stuck. But if you just make a little hash mark right there, nobody will be able to tell the difference. I learned that from some analyst on MSNBC. I forget what her name is. Anyway, clean that up so we can go to Ikea and push over the cardboard televisions.